#or i shall say eddie... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vingtetunmars · 11 days ago

Text

Teenage Dirtbags

Pairing: Eddie Munson X F!Reader

Summary: Childhood friends turned rebellious teens, you and Eddie Munson have always been thick as thieves — sneaking out, breaking into abandoned diners, and laughing at the world that doesn’t get them. Her parents disapprove, the school calls him a freak, but none of it matters when they’re together.

Tags: NSFW, smut (18+), fluff, friends to lovers, childhood friends, coming of age, mutual pining, rebellious teenagers, "us against the world", parents disapproval, impulsive getaways, eddie munson is a sweetheart, p-in-v, confessionnal sex. No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: Save to say most of my fic inspiration for Eddie is from songs. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 9.4k (oh wow)

masterlist

1979

You were going to snap.

The plastic spork bounced off your tray and skidded across the table. You didn’t even need to look to know who threw it—same kid who’d been messing with you all week. Earlier, it was a balled-up napkin. Yesterday, it was a grape. Today, it was everything short of a full-on food fight.

You kept your head down, picking at the sad excuse for macaroni on your tray, hoping he’d get bored. He didn’t.

“Hey,” the boy behind you whispered, yanking a lock of your hair just hard enough to make your eyes sting. “You put glue in it or something? Why’s it so crunchy?”

Your jaw clenched. You bit your cheek to keep from turning around and launching your milk carton at his face. The din of the lunchroom made it easy for teachers to ignore—unless someone got loud.

Which someone did.

“Cease your torment, cretin! Or I shall summon the Lord of the Underworld himself!”

Your head whipped up. The boy behind you froze.

Standing at the end of your lunch table was a skinny kid with a buzz cut, a tattered Black Sabbath patch safety-pinned to his denim vest, and a tray of untouched lunch balanced on one hand like a waiter. His other hand pointed accusingly, finger straight and eyes wide like a televangelist on TV.

“What the hell, Munson?” the boy behind you asked.

The new kid didn’t answer. Instead, he dropped to one knee in the middle of the cafeteria floor and raised both hands to the ceiling.

“Dominos. Ravioli. Infernum-malarkey!” he bellowed, deepening his voice into a theatrical growl. “Oh great horned one, curse this mortal with itchy skin and uncontrollable gas!”

Laughter burst out from nearby tables.

You blinked.

Then—you laughed too.

It started as a confused giggle and turned into a real, actual laugh. Loud enough to startle the kid behind you into silence. He slunk away without a word, disappearing into the crowd.

When you turned back around, the buzz cut boy had taken a dramatic bow.

“Eddie Munson,” he announced. “At your service.”

You stared at him for a beat, then smiled, “You’re weird.”

He beamed like you’d just handed him a trophy.

“Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself.”

And just like that, the empty seat across from you wasn’t empty anymore.

1984

The hallway erupted like someone had hit “play” on a fast-forward button—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, voices rising as students flooded toward freedom. But right in the middle of the chaos, you took your time.

Your locker was stuck again. You wiggled the handle with practiced irritation, muttering a quiet curse under your breath.

And then—

Slam!

A hand hit the locker next to yours with dramatic flair.

“Need a spell, m’lady?”

You didn’t even have to look. The smug tone, the scent of cheap cologne and cigarette smoke—it was unmistakable.

“You’re gonna bruise the metal if you keep doing that,” you said, lips tugging into a smile despite yourself.

Eddie Munson leaned against the lockers like he owned the hallway, grinning at you through his mess of curls. His denim vest was half-unbuttoned over his Hellfire Club tee, and he had a binder stuffed with loose papers under one arm. Somehow, he made chaos look cool.

“Maybe it’ll bruise back,” he quipped, giving your locker a gentle kick. It creaked open instantly. “See? You just have to speak its language.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping back so you could grab your books, “you keep me around. Which says so much more about you than it does about me.”

You bumped his shoulder as you closed your locker, and he didn’t move an inch.

“Plans tonight?” he asked, falling into step beside you like he always did.

“Not unless you’re planning something.”

He grinned wider. “I may or may not have found a way into the old diner by the train tracks.”

You arched a brow. “Eddie.”

“It’s abandoned! Kinda. Mostly. Anyway, I hear the power still works.”

You stopped walking and turned to him, arms crossed. “If we get caught again—”

“We won’t.” He leaned in with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “We’re ghosts, remember? Shadows. Teenage legends.”

You stared at him for a beat, then let out a quiet laugh. “You’re full of shit.”

“And yet,” he echoed with a smirk, “you keep me around.”

You rolled your eyes again, but there was no hiding the fondness in it. You always rolled your eyes around Eddie. And he always stayed close anyway.

Like he had since the cafeteria, five years ago.

Later that night, the lock was rusted, the side door warped just enough to slip a crowbar through. Eddie grunted as he wedged it in, muscles tense, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. With one good shove and a metallic clank, the door creaked open.

“After you, partner in crime,” he whispered, bowing with a flourish.

You stepped inside, the soles of your sneakers crunching on old tile dust. The air smelled like mildew and grease that had long since congealed into memory.

A few rays of moonlight filtered through cracked windows, casting long, silvery shadows across the booths and checkered floor. The whole place looked like someone had locked up in ’64 and never came back. A half-burned “Daily Special” board still hung above the counter. A stack of chipped coffee cups waited behind the bar like someone might show up to pour a round.

“Holy shit,” you breathed. “This is so cool.”

“Told you.” Eddie’s voice was soft, reverent even. “Place is like a time capsule. All it needs is a jukebox and someone to roll by on skates.”

You wandered past the booths, running your fingers over the cracked vinyl cushions. The red had faded to dull maroon. He followed a few steps behind, glancing around with wide eyes like a kid in a haunted house—excited, cautious, thrilled.

“Bet there’s still silverware somewhere,” he said, hopping over the counter with a thud. He pulled open a drawer, rattling around. “Bingo.”

He held up a rusted spoon like it was buried treasure.

You chuckled, ducking behind the counter with him. “I’m stealing a salt shaker. This is too good not to commemorate.”

“Here,” he said, digging deeper into the drawer. “Comet-brand bottle opener. Still shiny.”

You pocketed it with a grin. “We should open a museum.”

Eddie stood up on the counter, arms spread wide. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Hall of Bad Decisions. Featuring cigarette burns, petty theft, and a distinct lack of adult supervision.”

You laughed louder this time, the sound echoing off the walls.

The truth was, no matter how dusty or broken the place, it always felt electric with Eddie around. Every forgotten building was a playground. Every half-dumb idea felt like genius. With him, even rusted cutlery felt like gold.

You leaned against the counter, smiling up at him.

“This place is gonna be ours for a while, huh?”

He looked down at you and nodded, his grin softening.

“Yeah,” he said. “Until the next one.”

Eddie’s van purred softly in the driveway, headlights off. The glow from the porch light was enough to see the curve of his grin as he leaned across the driver’s seat to look at you.

“You sure you don’t want me to summon Satan again?” he teased, voice low. “Might scare your mom into going easy on you.”

You laughed quietly, hand already on the door handle. “Pretty sure she’s more terrifying than Satan.”

He tilted his head, mock serious. “Valid.”

A beat of silence passed. You looked at him. He looked at you.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said. “That diner was… weirdly magical.”

He smirked. “Like I said—teenage legends.”

You leaned over and bumped his shoulder gently. “Call me when you get home.”

Eddie saluted you, then added, “I’ll keep an eye out for demon cops. You never know.”

You rolled your eyes, but it made you smile as you slipped out of the van and jogged up the front steps. You gave him one last wave before unlocking the door and slipping inside.

The smile dropped as soon as the door clicked shut.

The hallway was dim, the only light coming from the kitchen. Your mom was sitting at the table, elbows resting on a half-folded newspaper, her fingers pressed against her temple. She didn’t even look up when she spoke.

“You know what time it is?”

Her voice wasn’t angry—just tired. Drained in that way that made your chest twist a little.

“Yeah,” you said softly, stepping out of your shoes. “I lost track.”

Your mom finally looked up. Her eyes flicked to your jacket, your tangled hair, the faint whiff of dust and old grease you carried back from the diner.

“You were with him again.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

She sighed and sat back in her chair, eyes heavy. “You can’t keep doing this, sweetheart.”

You stayed by the doorway, hands in your pockets, chewing the inside of your cheek.

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” you mumbled.

“Not yet,” she said. “But trouble follows that boy like a shadow.”

You didn’t say it aloud, but you thought it anyway.

Good. So do I.

Without another word, you walked down the hall and shut your bedroom door behind you.

The only light in your room came from the moon outside your window. You crossed the floor, dropped your jacket on the bed, and fished into your pocket.

The bottle opener from the diner caught the moonlight just right as you turned it over in your hand.

You smiled again—just a little this time.

The smell of questionable pizza and overcooked green beans lingered thick in the air, but it didn’t matter. You were already weaving through the tables with your tray in hand, heading toward your table—the one where noise, weirdness, and near-constant laughter were part of the deal.

“Okay, but we cannot open with ‘War Pigs’ again,” Gareth was saying, waving half a sandwich like it was a conductor’s baton. “We’re becoming predictable.”

Jeff leaned across the table, chewing thoughtfully. “People like predictable. It’s crowd control.”

Doug piped up with a mouthful of tater tots. “Predictable gets you heckled.”

“And heckled means notoriety,” Eddie added from the center of the chaos, his boots kicked up on an empty chair, half a Twinkie in hand. “Notoriety builds legacy.”

You dropped your tray across from him and plopped into your seat, arching an eyebrow. “You guys planning a set list or starting a revolution?”

Eddie pointed the Twinkie at you like a preacher. “Both, sweetheart. Both.”

“You’re late,” Doug said, nudging his tray your way. “We almost gave your seat to a freshman.”

“You touch my seat, I take your soul,” you deadpanned, snatching a tater tot off his tray.

He shrugged. “Fair.”

“Anyway,” Eddie said, pulling a notebook from beneath his jacket like it was classified intel, “we’re down to two opening tracks—‘The Trooper’ or ‘Symptom of the Universe.’”

You bit into your apple. “You’re seriously debating this like it’s the damn Super Bowl.”

“Because it is,” Gareth said, dead serious. “Thursday night. The Hideout. Four people in the audience max. Maybe five if Jeff’s mom shows up.”

Jeff raised his soda can. “She always does.”

“I’m just saying,” you said, setting your apple down, “no one in that bar cares what song you start with. They just want something loud, something angry, and maybe to get a free beer if they flirt with the bartender.”

Eddie beamed at you. “And that’s why you’re an honorary member of this band of degenerates.”

“Honorary?” Doug asked. “She literally helped us roll for loot two weeks ago.”

“I fell asleep halfway through,” you reminded him.

“And still somehow survived the ogre ambush,” Gareth muttered.

“Yeah, ‘cause Eddie kept rerolling behind the screen.”

Eddie gasped, hand on his chest. “Are you accusing your fearless Dungeon Master of cheating?”

You grinned. “Not accusing. Just observing.”

He tossed a crust of bread at you. You ducked. The others laughed.

The table was loud, obnoxious, and borderline unbearable to anyone sitting within a ten-foot radius. But to you? It was home. You didn’t care about the campaign schedule or the band drama half as much as they did, but it didn’t matter. You were part of it anyway.

Here, no one tried to change you. Or warn you away from being yourself. Or away from Eddie.

Which, judging by the way he was still looking at you over the rim of his soda can—with that crooked smile that always spelled trouble—you’d have to deal with later.

But for now, you kicked your feet up beside his, stole another tot from Doug’s tray, and settled into the noise.

Later that day, you were walking toward Eddie’s locker, planning to meet up before heading to the parking lot. But you knew something was wrong before you even saw it.

The crowd gave it away.

A couple of underclassmen lingered nearby, whispering and pretending not to look. A few seniors passed, snickering behind their hands. That knot in your stomach twisted tighter with every step.

And then you saw it.

FREAK

Spray-painted in jagged red letters across Eddie’s locker door. The paint still dripped, fresh and bold and proud.

Eddie was already there, standing in front of it like it wasn’t even his. He had one hand in his pocket, the other gripping the strap of his bag, eyes scanning the word like it was graffiti on a bathroom wall and not a personal attack.

You approached slowly. “Jesus…”

He looked over at you, then back at the locker. “Creative, huh?”

“Are you okay?”

He snorted. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

But you didn’t buy it. Not from the way his mouth pressed into a thin line. Not from the way he wouldn’t touch the door.

“It’s bullshit,” you said, voice low, sharp. “We should tell—”

“Don’t,” he cut in gently. “It’s not worth it.”

“Eddie—”

“It’s just a word.” He finally reached forward and popped the locker open like the paint wasn’t even there. “I’ve been called worse. Hell, I am worse. Freak’s kind of a promotion.”

You stared at him. He looked tired. Not angry. Not even hurt. Just used to it—like he’d seen this coming the day he first wore a Dio shirt to school and never looked back.

He pulled out a book, slammed the locker shut, and slung his arm around your shoulder like nothing happened.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go do something illegal.”

You tried to smile. Tried to match his energy.

But you kept glancing back at that word. And the way he didn’t even flinch.

You weren’t even in a bad mood until you heard the voice.

“…yeah, I did it. Told you I would,” some guy was bragging just outside the door. “Spray-painted it right on his locker. FREAK—like billboard size.”

A snort of laughter followed. “No way.”

“Swear to God. My cousin had that red paint in his garage. Took like three seconds. Guy’s a loser anyway—no one’s gonna do shit.”

Your jaw clenched. You peeked out through the cracked door just enough to see who was talking.

Ryan Garrison.

Smug. Stupid. Already walking away with two other guys, all of them laughing like they’d just pulled off a harmless prank and not openly vandalized someone else’s property.

Your hands curled into fists inside your sleeves.

You didn’t say anything then. Not yet.

But you had a name now.

And something about the way Eddie had looked at his locker yesterday—like it was a fact of life, not something he deserved to fight back against—stuck to your ribs like ash.

This wasn’t going to slide.

Not this time.

Behind the bleachers, Eddie was sitting on the concrete, knees pulled up, lazily plucking at the strings of his guitar. The smoke from his cigarette curled lazily into the air. He didn’t look up when you approached—he never had to.

You dropped beside him, legs stretched out, pulling your sleeves over your hands.

“I know who did it.”

He paused, just long enough to let the words settle. “Did what?”

You gave him a look.

He sighed through his nose, set the guitar down gently beside him. “Doesn’t matter. I already told you—”

“It was Ryan Garrison.”

Now he looked at you.

You could see it then—how his jaw tensed for just a second. Not surprised. Just… disappointed in the predictability of it all.

“He was bragging about it in the hallway,” you went on. “Didn’t even bother to whisper. Just loud and proud with his dumbass buddies like it was a joke.”

Eddie leaned back against the wall, looking up at the sky. “God, I’d love to be that stupid. You think life’s easier when you’re that full of yourself?”

“Probably,” you muttered, then nudged his knee with yours. “But also… I have an idea.”

Eddie turned to you slowly, brow arched, curiosity piqued. “Oh no.”

You grinned. “Oh yes.”

“What level of felony are we talking here?”

“No felonies,” you said sweetly. “Just… maybe some light vandalism. Minor property damage, at worst.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I say we skip last period,” you continued, “grab a carton of eggs from the corner store, and redecorate Ryan Garrison’s shiny little Camaro.”

Eddie blinked. “You want to egg his car?”

“Don’t you?”

There was a long pause. Then:

“I do love performance art.”

You bumped shoulders. “Thought so.”

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head like he was trying to be the voice of reason, but couldn’t quite resist. “You’re gonna get detention.”

“You’ll be right there with me.”

“Oh, I’m definitely not letting you do it alone,” he said. “If you go down, I’m going down with you.”

“Us against the world,” you said, holding out a pinky.

Eddie linked his pinky with yours. “Always.”

The lot was mostly empty, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the faded lines and scattered cigarette butts. Ryan Garrison’s Camaro—sleek, waxed, obnoxiously red—sat like a trophy near the back row.

You crouched behind a scraggly bush with Eddie, both of you gripping your smuggled plastic bag of ammo: a dozen slightly-warm eggs from the corner store fridge. You could barely contain your grin as you peered around the shrub like war criminals on a covert op.

Eddie whispered, “Okay, listen. We do this fast, like guerrilla warfare. You take the driver’s side, I’ll take the back. We launch, we leg it. Got it?”

“Got it,” you said, cracking your knuckles dramatically.

“One… two… go!”

You darted out from cover, pulling an egg from the carton mid-run. The first one hit the windshield with a glorious splat. The second one smacked the driver’s side door, dripping yolk down the shiny paint.

Eddie whooped from the rear bumper. “Eat poultry, you shiny bastard!”

He chucked two in rapid fire—one hitting the trunk, the other bouncing off the rearview mirror with a satisfying crack.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, breathless with laughter. “We’re going to hell.”

“We were already going to hell!” he shouted gleefully, winding up and letting one rip straight at the hood.

Then, “HEY! WHAT THE HELL?!”

You didn’t even turn around to confirm. You knew that voice.

“Run!” you yelled, grabbing Eddie by the sleeve.

You both took off, legs pumping, laughter bubbling out of your chests as Ryan’s furious footsteps pounded behind you.

Eddie tossed the empty bag over his shoulder as you rounded the edge of the lot, diving into the passenger seat of his van while he jumped behind the wheel.

He jammed the key into the ignition. “Come on, come on, come on—YES!”

The engine roared to life just as Ryan came into view, red-faced and livid, streaks of yolk still dripping down his car in the distance.

Eddie peeled out of the lot with a screech of tires, flipping him the bird out the open window. You slammed the door shut just in time and nearly doubled over with laughter.

“Holy shit!” you gasped, clutching your stomach. “We’re actually gonna die!”

Eddie was howling, one hand pounding the steering wheel. “Did you see his face?! He looked like his soul left his body!”

You were breathless, wild with adrenaline and glee, wind whipping through the open window as the town blurred past you.

“That felt so good.”

Eddie glanced at you as the wind whipped through the cracked windows, hair tousled, eyes gleaming.

And in that moment—in Eddie’s van, hair messy, heart racing—you felt more alive than you had in weeks.

Just two teenage dirtbags with egg-stained hands and nowhere else to be.

The van was parked at the edge of the woods, a spot you both stumbled on years ago—your unofficial hideout from everything. The trees opened into a clearing that caught the last light just right, turning everything gold and soft and quiet.

You and Eddie were lying side by side on the grass, backs pressed into the earth, heads tilted to the sky where the clouds burned orange and pink.

The adrenaline had long since faded, leaving a slow, syrupy warmth in your chest. One of your shoes was off. Eddie’s jacket was draped over both of you like a shared blanket.

He was playing with a blade of grass between his fingers, eyes half-lidded. “Do you think the eggs did any actual damage? Like, cosmetic damage. Paint-eating level.”

“I hope so,” you said softly.

He chuckled. “You’re terrifying.”

You turned your head toward him. “You’re just now realizing that?”

He gave you a lazy grin, and the world shifted just a little.

It was quiet for a moment. Not awkward. Not tense. Just quiet.

Then Eddie spoke again, voice lower. “You ever think about how long we’ve been doing this?”

You blinked. “Breaking and entering? Vandalism? Petty crimes in general?”

He snorted. “No—well, yes—but I meant… this. You and me.”

You swallowed, heart thudding. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

He plucked another blade of grass. “It’s weird, right? Everyone else seems to… grow out of their people. Switch friends like seasons. But you stuck.”

You smiled, looking up at the sky again. “Maybe I just like weirdos.”

“Lucky for me,” he muttered.

You didn’t say anything for a moment. You were too busy trying to memorize this version of Eddie: eyes soft, voice gentle, golden light kissing his cheekbones.

You could feel it again—that fluttery thing in your chest that always showed up when he got quiet like this. You’d buried it for years under jokes and reckless nights and pretending you were just partners in crime.

But it never really left.

And now, lying beside him like this, it itched behind your ribs.

You turned your head slightly, your voice barely above a whisper. “You know… if you ever decide to grow out of me, I’m locking you in that abandoned diner.”

He tilted his head toward you, smirking. “You’d have to catch me first.”

“Oh, I’d catch you.”

He chuckled, and the sound felt like home. Then, more seriously, “Not gonna happen. You’re stuck with me.”

Your chest ached in that soft, good way.

“Good,” you said, almost too quiet to hear. “I don’t really want anyone else.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was full of something unspoken.

And you let it hang there, golden and quiet, in the space between your shoulders and his.

You should’ve known something was off the second you walked through the door.

Your mom was in the kitchen, humming. Humming. She hadn’t done that since... since she took your journal and called it "worrisome." And your dad was pretending to read the paper, though he hadn’t turned a page in five minutes.

Your stomach dropped.

“Sweetheart,” your mom called, too brightly. “We’re having dinner with the Darrows tonight. Come change, would you? Put on something… nicer.”

You blinked at her, halfway out of your shoes. “The Darrows?”

She smiled, the kind that never reached her eyes. “You remember their son, Nathan? He goes to the youth group at Trinity.”

There it was.

“You invited someone from church?” you asked flatly, incredulous. “Why?”

Your dad folded the paper like he’d been waiting to jump in. “He’s a good kid. Polite. Plays varsity basketball.”

“He wore loafers to gym class,” you muttered, arms crossing tightly. “He said Dungeons & Dragons was ‘satanic.’”

Your mom’s smile faltered just slightly. “Maybe it’s time you spent time with people who could be a good influence on you.”

You stared at her, chest slowly filling with heat. “This is about Eddie.”

“No,” your dad said—too quickly. “This is about your future.”

You laughed. A cold, stunned little sound. “You think I’m gonna marry Nathan Darrow?”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“You’re trying to fix me,” you snapped. “Like I’m broken. Like Eddie broke me.”

“He’s not—” Your mom stepped forward, her voice soft but sharp, “—the kind of person you should be around.”

That did it.

You didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. You just turned around, walked calmly to your room, grabbed your bag, and climbed out the window like you had a hundred times before.

You didn’t knock.

You didn’t have to.

Eddie opened the door the second you reached the top step, like he already knew it was you.

He took one look at your face and stepped aside, wordless.

You dropped your bag on the floor with a dull thud, toeing off your shoes.

Then you just stood there, in the soft yellow light of his living room, swallowing back the lump in your throat.

Eddie watched you quietly. “They tried again, huh?”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. “Tried to sell me off to a Bible boy.”

He didn’t laugh. He just opened his arms.

You stepped into them without hesitation.

He held you tightly, chin resting on the crown of your head.

The trailer was quiet now. Wayne was working the night shift, and the TV buzzed low in the background, playing some late-night rerun no one was really watching.

You were both at the tiny kitchen table, a half-eaten bowl of cereal between you, cold by now. Eddie was lazily flipping through a tattered Hit Parader magazine while you stared at your hands, still a little wrung out from earlier.

Then, suddenly:

“Let’s get outta here.”

You blinked. “What?”

Eddie looked up, grinning like a spark had just caught in his brain. “Like—out. Just for a night. Let’s go somewhere.”

“Where?”

He shrugged, leaned back in his chair. “Chicago. Why not? It’s what, three, four hours from here?”

You stared at him.

He was serious. And maybe a little sleep-deprived. But also serious.

“You want to drive to Chicago tonight?”

He grinned. “Yeah.”

“Eddie, we don’t have money.”

“I have ten bucks and half a tank of gas.”

“I have eight,” you said slowly. “And a granola bar.”

“See? That’s a feast,” he said, mock offended. “We’ll live like kings.”

You snorted. “What would we even do there?”

He shrugged again, that boyish, chaotic light in his eyes. “Get lost. Walk around the city. Maybe sneak into a punk show. Or sit on a rooftop and scream at the skyline. Doesn’t matter.”

And the thing was… it didn’t.

Because he was looking at you like you were the point of it all. Not Chicago. Not the getaway. Just the idea of being free with you.

You looked at him for a long moment, then said softly, “Okay.”

His smile grew, slow and wide. “Yeah?”

“Let’s be stupid.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

You threw your bag into the back. He brought a couple of tapes, a hoodie, a few crumpled bills, and his lucky lighter. You didn’t even ask why.

As the van pulled out of the trailer park, the town faded behind you like static. Streetlights blurring. The stars overhead flickering faintly, and the open road stretching out in front of you like a promise.

“Freedom tastes like exhaust fumes and bad decisions,” Eddie declared, one hand out the window like he could catch the wind.

You laughed, head resting on the seat. “We’re gonna regret this.”

“Maybe,” he said, glancing at you with a crooked smile. “But not tonight.”

And for once, it felt like you could breathe.

Like running wasn’t running away—it was just running toward something.

Something that looked a lot like him.

They didn’t even check IDs.

Maybe it was the smeared eyeliner and scuffed boots. Maybe it was Eddie’s jacket with all the safety pins or the way you both walked in like you belonged.

Either way, you were in—bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, the ceiling dripping with condensation, someone screaming into a mic like the world was ending and it needed to be loud.

You and Eddie lost yourselves in it. No one from Hawkins here. No judgmental stares. Just noise and lights and sweat and freedom.

He grabbed your hand during a guitar solo and spun you in the crowd, his hair sticking to his forehead, laughing like he was seventeen and unstoppable. You grinned wide, your voice raw from yelling, from singing along even when you didn’t know the words.

Later, after the band finished their set and you’d slipped out a side door that led into an alleyway full of graffiti and old posters peeling off the bricks, Eddie fished out a joint from his pocket like it was treasure.

“You carried that through state lines?” you asked, eyes wide.

He just smirked. “You’re welcome.”

You both leaned against the alley wall, the buzz of leftover adrenaline in your chest, sharing slow, quiet puffs between bursts of laughter.

The world softened.

The city was asleep, or pretending to be. Traffic lights blinked for no one. Steam rose from the grates in the sidewalk. You and Eddie walked side by side, dazed and giddy, your fingertips tangled together without thinking about it too hard.

You were both too high to be cold, too happy to care.

You kicked a stray can down the street. He tried to hop on a newspaper box and nearly fell off. Everything was hilarious.

And then, in a lull between laughs, he said, “Y’know, this feels like a movie.”

You glanced at him, lips parted in a smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Like… the part right before the world gets all complicated again.”

You were quiet for a moment. The good kind of quiet.

Your hand tightened around his.

“I don’t care if it gets complicated,” you said softly, watching your steps on the sidewalk. “As long as you’re in it.”

He looked over at you—really looked—and for once, didn’t deflect with a joke.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. No dramatic tone, no grand promise. Just fact.

You nodded, a little dizzy. From the weed. From the night. From the boy beside you who made this whole goddamn city feel like home.

“I’m glad I have you,” you murmured, barely audible.

He squeezed your hand.

“Right back at you, trouble.”

The world was pale and still when you woke up.

Your head rested on Eddie’s chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing gently rocking you awake. One of his arms was curled around you, his other hand half-asleep against your hip. The old blanket he kept in the back was tangled around your legs, and the van windows were fogged from the inside.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

There were no words.

Just the soft hum of morning settling in, the birds starting their songs, the ache in your limbs from a night lived hard and full.

Eventually, Eddie blinked awake, eyes squinting at the light filtering through the windshield. His gaze flicked down at you. He didn’t look surprised. Just… calm.

You gave him a sleepy smile.

He smiled back.

Nothing was said. Nothing had to be.

Eddie parked a few houses down from yours like usual. The sun had fully risen now, casting golden light over the familiar neighborhood. Lawn sprinklers clicked on. A dog barked somewhere nearby. Everything felt painfully normal.

You sat in the passenger seat for a moment, your bag in your lap, neither of you ready to break the spell completely.

“Well,” you sighed, hand on the door handle. “Back to pretending.”

Eddie leaned forward, resting his arms on the steering wheel. “We’ll make it out again. Next time—maybe even with money.”

You smiled, heart pinched in the best way.

You opened the door, swung one leg out—then paused.

Leaning back in, you reached across the console and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Thanks for running away with me,” you whispered.

His eyes widened just a little—but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. He just smiled, slow and warm.

“Anytime, trouble.”

And with that, you slipped out of the van, hugging your bag close, and vanished up the side of your house just before the neighborhood fully woke up.

Eddie watched the spot you disappeared into for a few seconds longer, his fingers brushing the spot on his cheek where your lips had been.

School was out, and the Hellfire boys were all grouped near the back of the lot like always. Gareth leaned against Jeff’s car, drumsticks tapping lightly against his thigh. Doug was halfway through a story about a kid who fell asleep in math and drooled on his own worksheet. You were only half-listening, the zipper of your backpack clenched between your fingers.

Eddie was off to the side, scrawling something into his well-worn campaign binder, crouched on the curb. The sun caught in his hair. His chain hung loose. He looked ridiculous and perfect.

You smiled without meaning to.

“Alright, nerds, same time Thursday?” Eddie called out, shutting the binder with a dramatic snap.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Jeff grinned, already sliding into the front seat.

The group started peeling away, shouting jokes and farewells, backpacks slung over shoulders.

You waved at Doug and Jeff as they piled into the car. “Later, losers.”

“Bye, honorary loser,” Doug called.

You turned back just in time to catch Eddie’s eyes. He grinned, and you shot him a mock salute.

“Drive safe, Munson.”

“I always do,” he lied, winking as he slid into the van.

You didn’t look away immediately.

And he didn’t either.

Then, with a little wave, he backed out and rolled off toward the main road.

You were still watching the van disappear when Gareth stepped up beside you, arms crossed.

“So,” he said casually. “When are you gonna tell him?”

You blinked. “Tell who what?”

He gave you a knowing side-eye. “C’mon.”

You tried to laugh it off. “You’re imagining things.”

“Sure,” he said, drawing the word out. “Totally. You just happened to stare at him like he personally invented sunlight.”

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”

Gareth just smirked. “I’m just saying. The rest of us already know. It’s just you and Eddie who haven’t figured it out yet.”

You turned away before he could see the color rising to your cheeks.

“See you Thursday, Gareth.”

“You owe me five bucks when you finally kiss,” he called after you.

You flipped him off over your shoulder—but you were smiling.

His room was a mess of posters, records, and the distinct scent of weed curling through the air. The window was cracked just enough to let the smoke drift lazily outside, and the two of you were stretched out on the floor, backs propped against the edge of his bed.

Eddie held the joint between his fingers, gesturing with it as he recounted the latest Hellfire session like he was reading from a holy text.

“And then—this is the best part—Doug’s bard tries to seduce the necromancer’s skeleton minion, like full-on charisma roll, flowers, everything—”

You choked on a laugh, nearly dropping the soda can in your hand. “What did you do?”

“I made him roll with disadvantage for being a creep,” Eddie said proudly, eyes alight with glee. “And the skeleton punched him in the face.”

You snorted, nudging your socked foot against his leg. “God, you’re so mean to them.”

“I’m fair,” he corrected, passing you the joint with a grin. “It’s not my fault their stupidity knows no bounds.”

You took a hit and leaned your head back against the mattress, exhaling toward the ceiling, warm and light and a little dizzy in the best way.

Eddie kept talking, something about a cursed dagger and Jeff accidentally summoning a demonic goat, but you weren’t really listening anymore. Not fully.

You were watching him.

The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The way he moved his hands too much when he got excited. The little scratch in his voice when he’d smoked just enough.

Something in your face must’ve changed—softened, maybe—because he stopped mid-sentence and tilted his head at you.

“…Am I that interesting,” he asked, smirking slightly, “for you to stare at me like that?”

You blinked, startled.

Heat crept up your neck.

“Maybe,” you said, too slow, too honest.

He blinked, the smirk faltering for just a second—then he looked away with a quiet chuckle, scratching the back of his neck like he didn’t know what to do with the silence that followed.

You passed the joint back to him, your fingers brushing his. Neither of you commented on how long that touch lingered.

He cleared his throat, eyes flicking toward the window.

“You’re weird,” he said finally, voice a little softer now.

“You’re weirder,” you murmured back, your cheek tilted toward your shoulder as you watched him.

Then, after a beat, you blinked and looked away.

“…Sorry,” you said softly, the word slipping out like it was pulled from somewhere deeper than you expected. “For staring.”

Eddie didn’t answer right away.

You figured maybe he was trying to think of something funny to deflect with, like he always did. But then you heard the creak of the mattress as he shifted closer, and when you glanced back at him, he was already looking at you again.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. No smirk. No teasing.

You opened your mouth, but no words came.

Eddie leaned in just slightly, one elbow resting on the floor, hand curling near your knee but not touching.

“I like it,” he added, voice low.

Your breath caught.

“Like what?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

“The way you look at me,” he said. “Like I’m… something.”

You blinked. The joint burned slowly between his fingers. You didn’t even notice the smoke anymore.

“You are,” you said before you could stop yourself. “You’ve always been something.”

Eddie let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like a laugh, like he didn’t know what to do with the truth of that. “You’re really gonna kill me, aren’t you.”

You tilted your head. “What do you mean?”

He looked at you, his eyes tracing yours like he was trying to memorize the way you looked when you were this close. When the light was soft and low and you weren’t looking away.

“Because I’ve wanted to kiss you for, like, ever, and if you keep looking at me like that…”

You didn’t give him a chance to finish.

You leaned forward, slow but sure, giving him time to stop it—he didn’t.

Your lips brushed his in the softest, smallest movement, and then again, fuller this time, your hands finding the fabric of his shirt to hold onto.

Eddie let the joint fall into the ashtray. He kissed you back with both hands cradling your face, warm and a little clumsy like every nerve in him was firing at once. His thumb brushed your cheekbone as he pulled you closer, tasting like weed and soda and every shared laugh you’d ever had.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate.

It just was.

Something about kissing Eddie felt inevitable now — like you’d already been halfway doing it for years in every shared secret, every getaway, every “you okay?” and “come with me.”

The weed buzzed warm through your limbs, making everything feel hazy at the edges. Soft. Slower.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed against your lips, eyes flickering over your face like he wasn’t sure you were real. “You’re really doing this to me, huh?”

You smiled, fingertips tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Just shut up and keep kissing me, Munson.”

That got a breathless laugh from him, the kind that disappeared into your mouth as you pulled him into another kiss. Deeper this time. Messier. Less careful. His hands slid up under your hoodie, thumbs tracing the skin of your waist like he couldn’t believe you were letting him.

You rocked into him just slightly — enough to make his breath catch, enough to let him feel you weren’t playing around.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, mouth trailing down to your jaw, then under your ear. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“You’ve been ruining me since seventh grade,” you whispered back, tilting your head to let him in.

You felt him smile against your neck, his hands tightening on your hips like he couldn’t help himself.

“Take me to your bed.”

Eddie’s eyes widened — pupils already blown out from the joint you shared earlier, but now they were all you could see. “You sure?” he asked, voice rough with restraint.

You nodded. “I’ve never been more sure.”

For a second, he didn’t move — just looked at you like he was trying to etch this moment into his soul. Then, carefully, he lifted you off his lap and helped you to your feet, tugging you gently by the hand toward the bed.

Once you were sitting at the edge, Eddie stepped between your knees, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Still with me?”

You answered by kissing him again, pulling him down with you until your back hit the mattress and he was leaning over you. You could feel him — his cock, hard and pressing into you through layers of clothes — and your cunt clenched in response.

Hands fumbled with zippers and fabric, laughter slipping between kisses as you both struggled with nerves and anticipation. You helped him pull off your hoodie and toss it somewhere on the floor, followed by your shorts. His shirt went next, then your bra, then your underwear — and suddenly you were bare beneath him, flushed and glowing.

Eddie’s eyes roamed every inch of you like he’d never seen anything so sacred.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “Like… shit, I don’t even have words for you.”

Your face flushed deeper. “Then maybe just kiss me.”

And he did — from your lips to your neck, down your collarbone, teeth grazing gently as his hands explored you. When his fingers found your folds, he paused at how soaked you were.

“You’re really like this for me?” he murmured, running soft, slow circles that made your thighs twitch. “Goddamn…”

Your back arched, head falling back with a gasp. “Eddie…”

He took his time, working you open with gentle touches, one finger inside you, then two, curling and coaxing until you were clinging to his arm.

Only when you were writhing, panting, nearly coming undone from just his fingers, did he reach for a condom from the drawer.

You watched as he pulled his pants and boxers down, revealing his cock — flushed, thick, and hard. You swallowed at the sight, nerves and need colliding in your gut.

Eddie noticed. “Hey,” he whispered, leaning over you again. “We go slow, alright? You say the word, and I’ll stop.”

You nodded, hands trembling slightly as he rolled on the condom and settled between your legs, guiding himself to your entrance.

The stretch was slow — deeper than anything you’d felt, and you gasped, eyes fluttering shut. Eddie stilled, brushing your hair from your face.

“You okay?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “Yeah… just full.”

He kissed your temple. “I got you, sweetheart.”

When he started moving, it was careful — slow thrusts, each one deeper than the last, his hands bracing on either side of your head. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, wanting more.

Every drag of his cock against the walls of your cunt made heat bloom low in your belly. His name left your lips like a chant, and in return he whispered yours with quiet reverence.

“Feels so good… you’re so perfect,” he breathed, voice cracking slightly as his thrusts got a little faster, a little harder. “I’ve wanted this—God, I’ve wanted you for so long.”

Your fingers clawed into his back as the tension built in your core — a tight, spiraling burn. And when his hand slid down to circle your clit just right, it tipped you over.

You came with a cry, clenching around him, and that was all it took.

Eddie moaned your name as he buried himself deep one last time, spilling into the condom with a quiet, shuddering gasp. His body collapsed over yours, forehead pressed to your shoulder as your breaths mingled in the thick silence.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

Just breathing.

Just there.

Eventually, Eddie rolled to the side and pulled you with him, your limbs tangling as you lay together in the warmth of it all.

You stared at each other in the dim light, faces flushed, lips swollen. Then, shyly, you leaned in and kissed him — soft and slow.

“Still high?” he murmured.

You smiled. “Maybe. But also just… happy.”

He brushed his thumb over your cheek and grinned. “Me too.”

Your head rested on Eddie’s chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart as your fingers absentmindedly traced circles on his skin. The room had gone quiet except for the hum of the amp in the corner and the soft rustling of sheets every time either of you shifted.

His arm was wrapped around your shoulders, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

“You good?” he asked eventually, voice a little raspy from smoke and breathless moans.

You nodded against his skin. “Yeah. Really good.”

A beat.

Then his voice dropped quieter, more uncertain. “So… that wasn’t just a high thing, right?”

You tilted your head to look at him. His eyes met yours, softer than you'd ever seen them. There was no teasing in his face, no cocky smirk. Just Eddie — wide-eyed, open, vulnerable.

You shook your head. “No. It wasn’t.”

A long breath left him, like he’d been holding it since the second your lips first touched. “Good. ‘Cause I’ve had feelings for you since, like… forever. And if I just ruined everything by being a horny idiot, I’d probably walk into traffic.”

You laughed quietly, scooting up to kiss the corner of his mouth. “You didn’t ruin anything. I like you too. You know I do.”

He let that sink in, blinking up at the ceiling for a second. Then he turned back to you, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “So what does that mean for us?”

You hesitated — not out of doubt, but the weight of saying it out loud.

Then you smiled, heart full. “I think it means you’re my boyfriend now.”

He blinked, a beat of silence… then lit up like someone plugged him straight into the power grid.

“Yeah?” he grinned. “Like officially? I get to tell people you’re mine and everything?”

You smirked, tucking your face into his neck. “Only if I get to tell people you’re mine too.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling you impossibly closer. “You’ve always had me.”

There wasn’t a formal declaration, no big gesture. Just the two of you tangled up in each other, whispering and laughing and exchanging quiet kisses until you both dozed off.

And when Eddie drifted to sleep with his arms still around you, he had the softest, dumbest smile on his face — like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

The cafeteria buzzed with noise, same as any other day — clattering trays, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, the occasional yell from the jocks’ table. But none of that mattered as you made your way toward your usual spot.

You slid onto the chair beside Eddie with a lazy grin, and without saying a word, you reached into your pocket and handed Gareth a crumpled five-dollar bill.

He blinked, then slowly smirked as he took it. “Knew it. Knew it.”

Eddie glanced between the two of you, confused. “Wait, what the hell is this?”

“She owed me five bucks,” Gareth said casually, tucking the bill into his jacket. “Told her the day you two finally kissed, she’d owe me.”

Eddie’s brows shot up. “There was a bet?”

You shrugged innocently, picking at your lunch. “It wasn’t a bet. It was a prediction.”

Gareth snorted. “Same difference.”

Doug leaned forward, frowning. “Wait, kissed?”

Jeff narrowed his eyes. “Are you two—?”

Gareth grinned smugly. “Oh yeah. They’re a thing now.”

Doug blinked. “Since when?!”

You leaned back with a smile. “Since Friday.”

Then, just to twist the knife, you added casually, “Might’ve been more than just a kiss.”

There was a beat of silence before all three of them — Gareth included — let out overlapping groans of “Ew!” and “Dude!” and “We did not need to know that!”

Eddie was laughing, head thrown back, clearly loving every second of it. “God, I love this table.”

Doug covered his ears. “There are things you keep to yourself, man!”

“I did!” you said through laughter. “I was just being honest!”

Jeff shook his head. “There’s honest, and then there’s traumatizing your friends at lunch.”

Eddie leaned in, dropping his arm behind you on the chair. “They’ll live. Let them suffer.”

You grinned and rested your head against his shoulder for a second, completely unbothered by the dramatic reactions surrounding you.

Gareth muttered, “If you guys start making out at the table, I swear I’m transferring schools.”

You winked at him. “Noted.”

In the weeks since that night, everything had shifted — but in the best way. You and Eddie were still you — still sneaking off, still laughing until your stomachs hurt, still thick as thieves — but now there were kisses between conversations and fingers laced under the lunch table. He left scribbled notes in your locker. You stole his flannels. Everyone in school knew, and honestly, neither of you cared.

Being with Eddie was easy, loud, chaotic, and soft in all the right places.

But even with how bold you both were, one line remained uncrossed: your parents.

Until one afternoon, completely unannounced, Eddie Munson showed up at your front door.

You were in your room when the knock came. Then the second knock. Then your mom calling your name, a note of confusion in her voice.

When you came down and rounded the corner into the living room, you nearly choked on your own breath.

Eddie was standing in front of your parents, hands folded politely in front of him, hair surprisingly tamed, black jeans swapped for clean, hole-free ones, and his usual graphic tee replaced with a collared shirt. A button-up, no less.

He looked like someone had dressed him for a church bake sale.

"Good afternoon, Ma'am. Sir," he said, with the most forced, dramatic smile you'd ever seen. “I hope I’m not intruding. I just wanted to formally introduce myself.”

Your mom was too stunned to speak. Your dad just blinked.

You, on the other hand, stood frozen behind them, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. You could practically see the effort Eddie was putting into this performance — the polite tone, the slightly bowed head, the complete absence of any skull rings or visible chains.

He even brought a Tupperware of cookies. Store-bought. But he tried.

Your mom finally said, “Well… that’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Oh, I do my best,” Eddie replied with a small chuckle, glancing briefly at you behind their backs — and the look he gave you was pure mischief.

You were going to lose it.

Your dad finally broke the silence with a gruff, “Well, we weren’t expecting visitors.”

Eddie nodded solemnly. “Understandable, sir. I wouldn’t want to barge in, but I figured—” he held up the Tupperware like it was an offering to a god, “—it’d be rude not to say hello properly. Y’know, now that I’m… dating your daughter.”

Your mom gave you a sharp look. You stared back, eyes wide like I didn’t know he was coming either! And then you looked at Eddie, who just stood there, proudly holding his plastic box of cookies like it was a peace treaty.

“Anyway,” he continued, his voice syrupy sweet, “I just wanted to assure you both that I have the utmost respect for your daughter. She’s brilliant. And funny. And kind. Also, she's terrifying when she’s mad, so I know better than to screw it up.”

Your dad raised an eyebrow. Your mom tried to hide a smirk.

You were going to explode.

“I cleaned out my van this morning,” Eddie added helpfully. “Even vacuumed.”

Your mom blinked. “…Oh?”

“Just thought it might help my case,” he grinned.

And somehow, some way, it did.

Your parents weren’t charmed exactly — not yet — but Eddie’s sincerity was hard to deny. He wasn’t pretending to be someone else. He was just turning the volume down. Being presentable. Being brave.

After a few more awkward exchanges and a polite invitation to sit (which he accepted with way too much formality), you ended up next to him on the couch while your parents asked him safe, small-talk questions.

He answered everything — enthusiastically, but just shy of theatrical — and even managed to win a chuckle out of your dad with a well-timed joke about shop class.

When your mom stood to go grab drinks, Eddie leaned toward you slightly and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “I feel like I’m in an episode of Leave It to Beaver.”

You snorted.

“Don’t laugh, you’ll blow my cover.”

You stifled your smile behind your hand.

And when your mom returned with a tray of iced tea and Eddie accepted his glass with a “thank you kindly, ma’am,” you realized just how far he was willing to go — not to change who he was, but to show the people you lived with that he cared. That he wasn’t just your bad influence. That he was something steadier, something that could be good for you.

He caught your gaze while sipping politely from his glass, and his pinky stuck out just a little — just for you. Just to make you laugh.

God, you were in trouble.

You walked him out with the front door clicking shut behind you, silence stretching over the porch like a blanket. The evening air was warm, a slow breeze rustling the trees above as you both stepped down the driveway toward his van.

Eddie was quiet for once, hands in his pockets, still wearing that ridiculous button-up. His curls had started to frizz a little from the heat, and the edges of his nerves were just starting to show again.

You didn’t say anything until you reached the passenger side.

“That was stupid,” you said, arms crossed, but your mouth was tugging into a smile.

Eddie turned to you, playing innocent. “Define stupid.”

“Showing up like that. The shirt, the cookies, the ‘yes ma’am, no sir’ routine—”

“Hey, that was sincere performance art,” he shot back with mock pride. “Do you know how hard it was not to swear for twenty minutes straight?”

You laughed, stepping closer until you were right in front of him, your fingers brushing the fabric of his cleaned-up façade. “It was so stupid.”

He gave you a crooked grin. “But did it work?”

You looked up at him, letting your eyes soften just enough to let the truth slip through. “Yeah.”

Eddie exhaled, just a little. “Good.”

You leaned in, pressing a hand to his chest, fingers curling against the collar of his shirt. “You didn’t have to prove anything to them.”

“I know,” he said softly, resting his forehead briefly against yours. “Wasn’t for them.”

Your heart fluttered.

You let that hang between you for a second before pulling back, smirking. “Still stupid.”

“Yeah,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “But you like stupid.”

You nodded. “I like you.”

He kissed you gently — not rushed, not greedy, just warm and sure and a little amused. When he pulled back, he whispered, “Same.”

Then he opened the driver’s door with a dramatic bow. “Until our next ridiculous adventure, m’lady.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed him lightly toward the seat. “Go before my dad changes his mind.”

He blew you a kiss and climbed in. As the van rumbled to life and pulled away, you stood there barefoot on the driveway, grinning like an idiot.

Yeah, you liked stupid.

Especially when stupid came with a heart like his.

Things didn’t change overnight.

Your parents didn’t suddenly love Eddie — they weren’t inviting him over for Sunday dinners or quoting Iron Maiden lyrics at the table — but they were trying. The edge in their voice softened when they said his name. The disapproving glances turned into skeptical ones. Your mom even smiled at him once, unprompted.

That was a big day.

Eddie kept being Eddie. He didn’t start tucking in his shirts or going to church — he just showed up with a little more patience and a lot less noise when it came to your parents. He didn’t mock the rules anymore (at least not out loud), and you made sure not to push every boundary just to prove a point.

You were figuring it out. Together.

And as for the two of you?

It was good. Stupidly good.

The dynamic hadn’t shifted much — you were still sneaking off in his van, still laughing until they wheezed, still lying side by side under open skies talking about nothing and everything — but the label gave it something extra. Something real.

Calling each other “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” didn’t change who you were. It just put a word to what you'd already been feeling for a long time. Like a puzzle that had been finished for months but was missing that one last piece.

Now, it was all there. In place. Whole.

Sometimes, you’d look over at him while he ranted about guitar solos or rolled a joint with theatrical flair and think — God, how did I ever live without this?

And sometimes, he’d catch you staring and smirk. “You’re doing it again,” he’d tease.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”

You'd smile, lean in, and say, “That’s because you are.”

And Eddie — blushing, grinning, stupid, hopeless Eddie — would mumble something like “Damn right,” and kiss you like he meant it.

Because he did.

And you never stopped letting him know you meant it, too.

#kar's fics ☆#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fics #eddie munson #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you #stranger things

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mad-hunts · 10 months ago

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barton grasped the ankle of the leg edward had once put atop his shoulder since he'd moved it back to its original position on himself. leaning down, barton then began to dust kisses up the other's neck; an almost intoxicated feeling blossoming within him. ❝ good. good, because i thought i'd take it just a bit slower this time around than last. and you're still so tight... can you feel how hard i am for you, edward? ❞

it seemed like barton kept his thrusts at a slow pace at that moment. this was because he decided he wanted to draw out as many moans as possible out of edward — nipping at the other's neck, as he ran his free hand down edward's body all the way down to his hip.

upon seeing he'd opened his eyes, barton successfully left a hickey on his skin in that spot. he lightly brushed his lips down edward's skin and was about to do the same treatment to his shoulder — though he stopped in the middle of it. there was this look in edward's eyes, and it made barton think that something might be wrong.

it took a moment for him to realize his phrasing probably wasn't the best as edward highlighted. the smile that spread across barton's lips was meant to be reassuring, ❝ oh, i just meant i want to leave a bunch of lovebites on you, that's all. sorry. sometimes i might say things, and they don't sound nearly as good as they did in my head. ❞ a slightly awkward chuckle crept through his lips.

now, after barton fully processed what edward had told him, multiple splotches of pink appeared on his face. warmth had completely enveloped his chest as all he could do was stare down at him for a few seconds. ❝ oh, wow... uhh — who knew you could be so romantic? i'm yours too, you know. for as long as you'll have me. ❞

Edward let out a slight moan as Barton slowly pushed his cock inside of him, it was an understatement to say that he was enjoying this. “Aah…thank you. This feels so damn good,” He whispered as Barton thrusted into his ass.

For a while he closed his eyes and smiled, enjoying all the feelings and sensations that were on his body. He then moaned a bit louder as Barton repeated his deep thrusting.

After Barton asked his question, Edward opened his eyes back up. He didn’t know what he meant by marking him up everywhere and was a bit wary of what that meant. His first thought was that Barton was going to cut him up physically, which kind of scared him.

“What do you mean by marking me up? If it’s what I think it is, you don’t need to do that. I already know that I’m yours, and I always want to be yours my love.”

#question-marked #tw: suggestive.#tw: usfw.#AWW well then they are probably going to have a good time together then 👍#but ooh... okay okay. honestly barton ain't a big lunch person so like probably half of the time he'll just opt to have a big dinner haha #and thus that is totally cool with him TRUST lolll but yes absolutely - barton would love to go on cute lunch dates with him #oh my gosh really? ): the poor guy. he Shall be like the living embodiment of a teddy bear for eddie then 🧸#like he may be an overall kind of... WACK person but he at least treats his partners with respect and would do most anything for them SO #that's something i suppose lmao. however he really does do the most kind of in a bad way sometimes ahahhh like if someone harasses-#eddie? they are officially having their head slammed into a door JSJSJ so he's got some ahh... it's probably safe to say he's got-#some issues he needs to work out 💀 but in other more positive news i LOVE that for eddie omggg. barton loves to cuddle too and he'll-#absolutely do that with his partners after sex so <33 yeahhh

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sugxto · 3 days ago

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brutalizer(s) - eddie/volt/reader

⋆syn: You decide to "challengers" your new boyfriends. It, uh, doesn't go as planned.

⋆wc: 3.3k

⋆cw: m/m/f threesome, light dom/sub undertones, erotic electrostimulation, some very very minor dacryphilia, spit sharing, choking.

⋆notes: takes place immediately after the love route, but can be read independently. g/n pronouns for reader, called "good girl" and afab genitalia. other e/v one shots.

⋆snippet:

“Thought you did something there, huh?” Eddie’s voice is low, it hits you somewhere deeper in your belly than it has before. The whiskey sours earlier certainly aren’t helping. “It’s cute, but, come on.”

Volt chuckles, his lips against Eddie’s cheek, and his white hot stare locks on to you too. “Very cute, indeed. Really, spark,” his lips curl into what you can only describe as something dastardly, “did you honestly think I don’t already know his lips better than my own?”

“We could do a Volt and Eddie sandwich.”

The corner of Volt’s smile twitches, and he turns to Eddie with raised brows, hands nonchalantly in his pockets. Eddie’s face is uncharacteristically pink, and he casts a knowing glance at Volt, and pushes himself off the bar.

“Well, seeing as how we’re… closed for the evening,” Volt starts, his eyes traveling back to yours, “I think, something to that effect, can be arranged. Eddie?”

The ice that you’ve come to know in Eddie’s stare is gone, the new spark glittering in it instead. He looks more lively, more excited, more… confident?

“I… wouldn’t be opposed.” His eyes rake over your body, as if finally allowing himself to fully drink you in the same way he drinks his whiskey sours. “It’s been a while since I’ve been up to… enjoying myself.”

Oh, they’re serious.

I mean, you were serious too, but, right now? Right after they’ve just, essentially, come back to life?

But, who were you to turn down a good time?

You clear your throat. “Uh, here? In the club?”

Eddie scoffs, because you already knew the answer. “Absolutely not. No sex in the bar, that’s the one rule.”

“It’s not really a rule -”

“Volt.”

“Fine, fine, not here. Not tonight, at least.”

“Volt -”

“We live upstairs, a flat sort of thing.” Volt holds out his hand to you, want apparent in his gaze. “Shall I lead us there?”

You take his hand, that same spark from the first night surging up your arm, and you feel a second hand, strong and rough, at the small of your back as you head up the stairs.

You realize, when you get to the bedroom, that you’ve… never done this before. Two. At once? Separately? How… exactly does this work.

A thought sparks in your memory, of a movie you watched with Sam, where a girl swindled the two boys interested in her to kiss each other, and ya know, that’s something you might be interested in seeing.

You’re all in the bedroom now, both of them eyeing you, expectantly, though not hurriedly. You giggle nervously, holding your hands to your heart.

“I’ve uh, never done this before,” you admit. “Maybe, can I kiss you? And we can go from there?”

“Of course, darling. Whatever you want,” Volt cocks his head in Eddie’s direction. “I’ve already had the pleasure, so why not give Eddie a taste, hm?”

Eddie rolls his eyes and sighs. “Ignore him, he can’t help it.” He holds out his hand, and pulls you closer when you take it. “But, I wouldn’t say no.”

Eddie’s lips are different from Volt’s, more hesitant, but soft, and gentle as he learns your pace and the shape of your mouth. He tastes like a whiskey sour, and you just want to drink him down.

Volt’s lips find your neck, and you notice he’s slipped off his shirt, and the air hums with the charge emanating off him. You lean into him, his strong arms, and Eddie pulls away to take off his own shirt as Volt smoothly whips off your dress. Eddie takes his turn at your neck, and the double dose of pleasure pulses like a current under your skin.

You raise your hands, find their cheeks, and gently, oh so gently, you bring their lips towards each other, hoping they don’t notice it’s no longer you. You’ll only watch for a moment, you tell yourself, before you insert yourself back in. No one will be the wiser. As their lips touch, their eyes stay closed, and you step back to quietly sit on the edge of the bed.

You watch their lips met with rapt attention, the ends of Volt’s hair sparking with each swipe of tongue you catch. Eddie’s teeth find the softness of Volt’s bottom lip, and a small sound escapes the back of your throat at the sight.

You expected them to pull apart at the unexpected sound, to open their eyes and realize what they’d done (and, not a small part of you hoped, punish you for it).

So it’s a bit odd, you think, when their kiss deepens. When Volt’s large hand, his silver nails, find Eddie’s jaw, and swipe acros his stubble. When Eddie, in turn, half opens his eye, and a titanium stare finds you past Volt’s cheekbone.

Your heart hammers in your chest. This is either going to go better than you expected, or much, much worse for you.

You’re not sure which you’re hoping for more.

Volt’s lips move to Eddie’s cheek, his jaw, exposing more of Eddie’s face to you - both his eyes, boring into yours. He’s barely hiding a smirk.

Oh.

Oh for amps sake.

Because, actually, no. That thought hadn’t occurred to you. Why hadn’t that thought occurred to you? I mean, come on, there’s only one bed!

Your mouth goes dry, your jaw goes slack, your eyes zinging back and forth between pure white and pure steel. You’re caught. You’re so caught.

“I, uh,” you start, but you’ve lost that bravado. “I never want to assume.”

Eddie huffs out a laugh, Volt’s thumb rubbing over his bottom lip. He pecks it softly. “Right. How thoughtful.”

“This is what you were wanting, though, was it not, live wire?” Volt purrs as he extricates himself from Eddie’s side, taking a step towards you in a way that reminds of that tiger feeding you once saw at the zoo. Like a predator. Stalking. Possessive.

Oh fuck, you think. You’ve just fed yourself to the tigers.

Volt’s hands are on either side of the bed next to your hips. Caging you. You can feel the sparks from his hair, the charge in his skin. “You wanted all three of us to enjoy ourselves, yes?”

You nod, and you see a flash of his canine teeth as he smiles.

“Exactly. And we most certainly will. But,” his jagged eyebrows lift, “you thought you could have an upper hand. And, it absolutely delights me to say, you won’t be having that.”

Rough hands are on your shoulders, and you’re shoved down onto the bed, Eddie’s unruly coils dangling over you.

“Eddie, where did you -” you breathe, but one of those calloused hands is on your throat, squeezing just enough to silence you. Eddie’s grey eyes have darkened. Hunger, you think, he’s hungry.

Familiar sparks singe your inner thighs, but you can't lift your head to see what else Volt is doing - you can only feel the currents under your skin as his fingers find the crotch of your panties, pulling them only a little. Eddie only watches your face, how your brows furrow at the teasing, your eyes pleading for something he can’t give. Your hand comes to his wrist, not pushing him away, but needing to touch him more.

“Eddie,” you breathe, feeling the weight of his hand on your neck. “Eddie please -”

“Do I look like the one you should be talkin to?” His brows lift, his stare curious. “Ya know, I don’t even really think you’re in a position to be talkin, period. Volt?”

You feel the man in question hum over the cloth of your panties, already hot, and the literal electricity isn’t helping. “I think I can occupy them, if you can keep them quiet.”

Keep them quiet?? Your eyes widen, but Eddie only chuckles. “My pleasure.”

With limited movement, you’re only acutely aware of what Eddie does with his other hand, until you hear the zip of his fly, the rustle of fabric, and -

Oh, fuck.

Eddie’s cock is gorgeous, veiny in a way that reminds you of the wires he adorns, the head already leaking with pre. You lick your lips, staring at just a few inches over your face, and god, Eddie’s not the only hungry one.

“Fuuuck, Eddie,” you moan, bringing your hand up to try and touch it, but the hand around your throat moves faster, leaving its mark to grab at your wrist this time.

Eddie tsks his tongue. “Not so fast, live wire. Volt wants me to keep you quiet.” His other hand finds your cheek, stroking softly. “So, open your mouth, hm?”

The heat between your legs is getting unbearable, and you whimper when you feel Volt move the scrap of fabric to the side. “Yes, Eddie,” you manage, opening wide and offering your tongue.

His cock is so hot as it finds your mouth, the soft tip and drops of pre languishing over your tongue, you can’t stop your lips from wrapping around his length as he presses in further, further -

A zap to your clitoris makes your hips buck in surprise, and your eyes shoot open - you see nothing save Eddie’s balls above your nose, and another zap elicits a squeak from your full mouth.

Volt’s laugh is feral, his breath burning on your thighs. “Liked that, my little spark? Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of charge for us.” His thumb presses almost delicately to your bud, making the smallest of circles, testing, learning. “Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.” His thumb dips lower, finding your entrance already wet, waiting. “I simply must have a taste.”

His tongue is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before - Ben-Hwa’s vibrations are incomparable to the literal electricity that is swiping over your lips, your hole, your clit - it’s mind-blowing. It’s explosive. Volt works you almost too expertly to be believed, and your brain short circuits when a finger slips inside.

Eddie groans as he feels you moan around him, your hips wanting to buck, but one of Volt’s forearms keeps your hips pressed to the bed. You’re pinned, caged, at the whims of these two men, and it’s making you ache.

Faster than you can remember happening before, your belly coils with tension, your climax growing completely outside your control. Volt feels it too, he must, because he devours you with fervor, two fingers moving at an impossible pace inside you. It builds and builds and -

You see sparks as you cum, as your hips fight against Volt’s hold, as you struggle for something solid to hold to. Your skin tingles, you’re absolutely buzzing, you’re a -

“Mm, live wire,” you hear Volt’s smile as he says it, and he presses a kiss to your clit - it makes your leg shake unconsciously. “You are just too fun.”

You whimper, your body jello, your focus on keeping Eddie’s cock inside your mouth, but you feel him retreat, and whimper again at the loss.

Eddie strokes your cheek again, and you feel Volt climb onto the bed, sitting by your side. His touch slinks up your torso, the side of your breast, your bicep, trailing sparks the whole way.

He hums contentedly. “Good girl for taking Eddie so well, he says, and you flush, and watch him glance up at Eddie, who's sitting back on his knees. “And good boy keeping them quiet, Eddie.”

Eddie’s sigh sounds a bit amused. “You haven’t said that shit in a while.”

“Well, I mean it.”

“Uh huh.” Eddie’s hands reach for the back of Volt’s neck, pulling him closer. “Lemme taste, yeah?”

Volt’s chuckle is cut off by Eddie’s tongue swiping over his lips before pushing inside his mouth, and god, what a sight for sore eyes. The men pull at each other, teeth clashing, and in your blissed out state, you can’t stop the moan that leaves your lips.

Two sets of eyes stare down at you, two sets of lips curling into grins. “Oh, darling,” Volt purrs, “you want a taste too?”

You can only nod, and you will your body to lift yourself onto your elbows to meet them halfway. You watch them share a look, and your arms tremble.

“Open, then.”

You cock your head. “What?”

“Open. Your mouth,” Volt repeats, and you do, tentatively.

“Very good.” Volt turns back to Eddie, pulling his jaw with his thumb, and Eddie’s mouth drops for him. Volt positions his lips above him, and a line of spit trails from his lips onto Eddie’s waiting tongue.

These men. These men were going to kill you.

Eddie hums, and as he bends down to you, his hand trails down Volt’s stomach. You press your legs together, the anticipation sparking back inside you. Your nails claw at the sheets when Eddie hovers a few inches above your head, and you press your tongue even further out. The spit travels from his lips and lands, cold, on your tongue, and your legs twitch, your fists clench.

“Swallow,” Eddie says, voice thick and gruff with lust.

You do.

And they pounce.

You’re dragged up the bed, two sets of hands pulling and pawing. Somehow your bra is off, your panties are gone, you hear their pants hit the floor, and the temperature raises as more skin is exposed. You find yourself propped against the pillows, your back against Eddie’s stomach, Volt stomachs against yours, utterly pressed between them.

“Feel good, spark?” Volt says, his hand at your waist. “Your sandwich living up to expectations?”

You giggle, realizing this was, in fact, exactly what you’d asked for. “Absolutely.”

“Good,” Eddie grunts, his lips on your earlobe.

“We do aim to please.” Volt squeezes your side, grinding his hips against you, his length hard, pressing insistently at where your thighs press together.

“I’ll make sure to leave a -“ you gasp when Eddie’s teeth graze your neck, “a, fuck, glowing Breaker Box review.”

Volt’s grin is back to dastardly, and he grinds his hips harder against you. “Let’s ensure five stars, shall we?”

His hand moves from your hip to your thigh, a spark running down your leg as he lifts it and throws it over his thigh. His cock is pressed against your stomach, and another pair of hands reach around to cup your breasts, and now Eddie’s cock slots between your cheeks.

“Now, spark,” Volt’s voice is low, honeyed, and Eddie’s bites to your neck aren’t helping the buzz in your head. “Who do you want first?”

Best sandwich you’ve ever had.

“I, I have to choose?” You mumble out, barely able to form a sentence as Volt’s eyes study your face. Eddie groans, pinching your nipple to elicit a gasp from your lips.

“Mm, darling, we’ll work our way to not having to.” His fingers dance along your thigh, and Eddie’s cock slides along your skin. “Patience, for now, however. We wouldn’t want to break you on our first outing.”

Oh, but maybe you did.

You swallow, the wires of your mind completely disconnected. “Volt, I, I can’t. I can’t choose.” How could you? Between two perfect, adoring, electrifying men, that wanted you more than the currents in their bodies? It wasn’t fair, surely. They were one, they were yours, but you couldn’t choose.

Volt’s lips turn to a pout, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “Oh, poor wire. Feeling frayed?” He tsks his tongue when you nod. “Alright, no more choosing tonight. Let us take care of you, hm? Just close your eyes.”

You do, and he again lifts your leg, granting full access to anyone wanting your hole. You ache, the air charged and your lips dripping with want. You feel both of them pull away from you slightly, no longer able to feel their lengths, and you whimper from the loss of -

An intrusion of your entrance makes you cry out in surprise, and slowly, terribly, intensely, you’re being filled, and it’s like a fire has been lit inside your cunt, under your skin, in your heart. It burns, deliciously, beautifully. You eyelids flutter when the cock bottoms out, and a familiar, rough hand is suddenly covering your eyes.

“You,” Eddie groans in your ear, “you, fuck me, feel perfect, spark.” His breath is ragged, and you curse when he thrusts, once, twice. “Oh fuck, oh, baby.” He says it reverently, lovingly. Your heart is going to burst out of your chest.

A new hand finds your nipple, a zap bringing it to attention. “How does he feel, our spark? Doesn't his cock feel like it’s going to split you in two?”

In another state of mind, you might want to linger on the implications of that question. But yes, in fact, as Eddie’s thrusts became more frantic, the possibility of you splitting at the center did seem more likely. If Volt holding up your leg was the only thing centering yourself.

Just as soon as you feel your climax building inside you, you’re empty, Eddie sliding out of you, and you grip around nothing, moaning at the emptiness.

“No, no, Eddie, please!” You manage out before the hand on your eyes slips down to cover your mouth. The callouses on his hands are harsh against your lips, and you barely manage out a moan of protest before something new slips inside you, long and hot and slipping in so nicely. Moans of protest quickly turn to acceptance, and Volt’s cock is just so easy to accept.

“Oh sweet amp.” Volt’s usually collected voice is shaky as he works his way inside you, taking his time much to your distress. “Live wire, I - we -”

“You,” Eddie breathes in your ear, “you might’ve been made for us.”

Ah.

That’ll do it, then.

You hardly even feel the build up, the spiringing coil, all you know if you’re cumming, you’re gushing without abandon on Volt’s cock, and tears spring to your eyes when they both curse, and Volt’s pace quickens. Eddie’s hand leaves your mouth, finding your neck again, controlling your air like he controls the very power of your home. Your body is slack, offering neither of them resistance, given over to the fire inside your belly, the weight of their hands, their control of your cunt.

You feel Volt slip out, and now Eddie is back inside you. The tears spill over your cheeks, and an electric tongue licks them up. Almost as quickly as you adjust to Eddie, he’s gone, and Volt is back, then Eddie, then Volt, until you’re no longer cognizant of the difference.

Eddie’s breath is erratic. “I’m, fuck, I -”

“Me too, darling,” Volt huffs. “Where -”

“S, stomach,” you moan. “Both, both, please.”

You’re on your back, your body liquid, but you open your eyes enough to watch their hands find each other’s lengths, pump once, twice, and then groan together as their cum lands on your skin, singeing like the flame of a candle.

It’s a haze, what comes after. They’re kissing your cheeks, tucking your hair, singing what you guess are your praises in your ear. Volt’s voice is distant, but you hear how he calls you a good girl, while Eddie wipes away their spend with a towel from his discarded pants.

You’re between them again when you return to earth, kisses peppered on your shoulder, tingles along your arms. It’s better than any dream, but somehow, you know it won’t disappear.

“Back with us, spark?” Eddie whispers when your eyes flutter open.

You smile softly, hum contentedly. “Always.”

“Very good,” Volt’s lips press to your collarbone. “You took everything beautifully, live wire. Our good girl. Our spark.”

You sigh, rolling onto your back, and find their cheeks with your hands. “You boys,” you smile, gaze flicking between them. “I love you.”

Steel meets white, then both meet you. “We love you too, little wire.”

#date everything #eddie and volt #volt date everything #date everything x reader #date everything smut #eddie date everything #sugxtode #eddie x volt #eddie x volt x reader

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msgexymunson · 2 years ago

Text

Soft Touches

Description: you and your dealer Eddie get a little closer than anticipated.

Warnings: acquaintances to lovers, reader is AFAB, weed smoking (both parties so no real dub con), fem oral receiving, praise kink, p in v unprotected sex.

A/N: It's my birthday! And I'm high, and horny, so happy birthday! If you've read my work you KNOW I'm a sucker for the first time y/n fucks Eddie. When I'm a benevolent dictator it shall be a universal holiday ;)

4k words

Masterlist

“Eddie, what the hell was in that?”

Floating in a cloud of your high, the entire room seemed to glow in pink and orange, senses tinged in a sunset glow. You were definitely stoned out of your tree if you were comparing Eddie's stuffy, cramped room to a breath-taking sunset.

“It's a new strain I got from Rick. You feeling it?”

“Oh, I'm feeling it alright. I can hear colours.”

Eddie's rich laugh echoed off the walls of his trailer. He laid on the bed casually, one arm slung beneath his head making his tight t-shirt ride up slightly. Just a peek of his happy trail was on display, which you tried, and failed, not to stare at.

It was proving difficult, especially since you sat criss-cross apple sauce on his floor. His body was eye level, handcuff belt shining softly in the low light. The glint of that drew your eyes even lower, concentrating on the bulge you could see in his jeans.

You thought you were being sneaky. You absolutely were not.

“Hey, sweetheart, you gonna answer me or just stare at my dick?”

“Huh?”

Shaking your head as if to clear it, you finally met his gaze.

“I said, you can come lay up here if you want.”

Halfway between getting up and still in a weird little crouch his words finally filtered through your addled brain.

“I wasn't staring at your dick!”

“Whatever you say, baby girl.”

Frozen, mind empty of comebacks, you clambered out of your goblin stance and stood up, when the blood decided to rush to your head.

“Oh Holy shit.”

Your knees buckled, and you would have ended up face first on Eddie's carpet if he hadn't caught you.

“Easy there, I've got you.”

Eddie's firm hands held your upper arms tightly as he manoeuvred you to sit on his bed. The room was spinning, everything was drifting out of focus.

“I need to lie down.”

Eddie pulled you towards his pillows and laid you down gently, picking your legs up and settling them on the bed with you. Staring up at his off white ceiling, things began to drift back in. Once the room finally stopped swooping around in your vision, you started to come to your senses.

You are on Eddie Munson's bed. You knew him, sure, only in a ‘can I come round so you can smoke us out and listen to music’ kind of way. You'd hardly call him a friend. This though, feeling the heat of his body next to you, him leaning on his side staring at you worriedly seemed entirely outside of your current arrangement.

Suddenly the air was stifling, Eddie's warmth only exacerbating the matter.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, just really warm. And fucking high.”

Eddie laughed, relieved.

“Thank fuck, I was scared for a minute.”

You fumbled at the hem of your oversized sweater, attempting to wriggle it up your body but all motor skills were beyond you right now.

“Eddie.” You pouted at him, flapping the edge of your sweater with frustrated hands.

“You want this off?”

“Please.”

He flashed you a mischievous grin and pulled up upright, beginning to draw the offensive sweater up and over your form.

“Didn't think you'd be begging me to undress you sweetheart.”

Rolling your eyes in response, you held your arms over your head like a petulant toddler. Sweater removed and tossed to the foot of the bed, you risked a glance at Eddie. He was entirely preoccupied, staring at your bare midriff that was now on display.

“It's a crop top Eddie, get over it.”

Flinging yourself back down on the pillow, Eddie coughed, looking a little flustered, and settled in next to you.

“Sorry, I didn't expect it. You always wear baggy shit.”

“Comfortable shit, thank you. I come here to smoke, it's not New York fashion week.”

Eddie ran a finger across you, just below your belly button. The barely there touch blazed across your skin.

“I didn't know you had your belly button pierced.”

Looking down, you watch as his fingers circle it, then flick the little jewel dangling off the end. Thighs clamping together out of sheer necessity, you attempt to ignore it.

“Yeah, got it done when I was like 15, two towns over. Probably my least painful piercing. Apart from ears, of course.”

Apparently, Rick's new strain also makes you run your mouth, as well as being insanely warm and horny. It seemed you had captured Eddie's attention. He turned further towards you, one hand holding his head up. The other, much to your relief, stayed on your stomach. You're not sure he was even aware he was still stroking your skin.

“Least painful? What other piercings do you have?”

You seriously considered dodging the question, but it's difficult to be devious directly to those big wet eyes of his. It's like trying to lie to a baby cow.

“Well, I got my nose done, but the piercing fell out and I didn't bother to get a new one. That one stung. But the worst had to be my… my nipples.”

The whole bed lurched as Eddie jumped up and sat cross legged facing you. He practically flew into action, grabbing his cigarettes and a lighter as if you were about to tell him some epic tale.

“Right, tell me everything.”

Whilst laughing at his wide eyed expression, you realise he's being completely serious.

“Well, they er, they like, sanitise the… area, draw a dot where they're going to pierce you and tell you to take a deep breath in and it's done. It's super quick actually. It's more the after part that hurts. Why are you interested?”

Eddie pushes his hair behind one ear, the tip of it is glowing scarlet, you notice.

“I was thinking about getting it done my last birthday but I didn't have the cash.”

He's staring at you, nervously chewing on a hang nail. You can practically see the unasked question dancing on his tongue. You weren't going to offer, hell no. If he wants to see he has to ask. The thing is, the way your tummy is bubbling right now, you don't think you could say no to those eyes of his.

The question remains unsaid. He merely offers you a drag on his cigarette which you take gratefully, before he's stubbing it out and laying back down next to you.

“How you feeling now? Bit less baked?”

“Oh I'm still fucked, but I can see straight and I don't feel sick.”

His fingers begin their dance again, skating over your exposed flesh, stroking down your side to your hip, across your stomach, and back again. You want to mention it. He's never touched you like this before, but you also don't want him to stop.

“Good. Not inviting you over again if you hurl on my bed.”

Giggling, you turn and face him. You're both on your sides now, knees close to knocking. His shirts ridden up again and before you can even register what you're doing you've placed a delicate hand on his hip. His eyes widened briefly, but that's it. Both of you are touching the others bare flesh, whispers of touches. Little, tentative things, like the bursting of soap bubbles on skin.

“I wouldn't hurl on your bed. I'm sure I'd at least make it to the bathroom. I'm not an animal.”

Eddie just grins in response, and you look at each other, really look. His dopey smile is the same as yours, and it seems neither of you want to mention how this seems to be rolling into very unfamiliar territory.

“Eddie?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you touching me?”

He pushes infinitesimally closer, his knee now slotting between yours. It's a small gesture, but suddenly the situation feels even more intimate than before.

“Because. Because it feels good. You're soft, and warm. And you keep making little noises.”

“I do?”

He smooths his hand higher, thumb dragging along the underside of your breast, and you let out a tiny, quivering whimper.

“See? Like that.”

Opening your legs slightly wider, Eddie's knee pushes naturally further forward, his thigh now wedged between yours. His breath is fanning your nose; cigarettes, weed, and sweet snacks.

“So sweetheart, why are you touching me?”

Your hand presses a little more firmly, snaking underneath the hem of his shirt. With no complaint forthcoming, you reach further up, stroking his side, up over his ribs, and back down again. He responds in kind. Every kiss of fingers is electrifying, filling the room with a soft, dense tension.

“Because it feels good. Because I saw a bit of skin and I couldn't resist.”

“Yeah?” He's smirking as he says it, but you're beyond playing games at this point.

“Yeah.”

“I didn't know I was irresistible.”

You pinch his skin a little and he stares at you like you just betrayed him.

“I didn't say that, you're twisting my words.”

“Pretty sure I heard-”

Cutting him off with a tickle to the ribs, he grabs your hand to stop you.

“OK, OK! You were right, I was wrong. Nice touches again please.”

His hand swiftly makes its way back to your skin and you continue to stroke him.

“Nice touches?”

“Yeah, it feels really good.”

Running your hand up, you graze his nipple, and then bring it back down, down, until you reach the top of his jeans. You graze a finger, just one, under them, sweeping across his tensing abs. Then, you move up to more innocent flesh.

“Jesus Christ.”

Eddie's chest is heaving, fingers pressing indents into your flesh.

“Nice enough?” you're the one smirking this time, pleased at the effect you're having on him.

“Yeah.”

It's barely a word, more of a breath. You scoot closer toward him, just a couple of inches, but it's close enough to feel his thigh start to press against your heat. Gasping at the pressure, you rub subtly against his thigh to try and relieve your mounting feelings, no matter how slightly.

Eddie's hand starts making a trembling journey up your form, fingers twisting underneath your top. Feeling the underside of your bare breast, you both gasp. Eddie undoubtedly because you weren't wearing a bra, you because, well, the obvious. The slightest graze had your nipple hardening instantly, hips rocking forward without your control.

“Is this OK?”

“Yeah. Please.”

Fingers stretching further, Eddie finally brushes your nipple. The feeling is magnified by your piercing; they've felt more sensitive since you got them done.

The moan that escapes is louder than you meant but it couldn't be helped. This simple touch is igniting through your nerves and rushing to your high brain.

“Shit, they are pierced.”

It seems to be a thought that Eddie said out loud by accident as he rubs his fingers over your ruddy nipple, slowly circling the silver balls of the jewellery.

Another moan breaks from you, even louder this time.

“Fuuuuck Eddie.”

“Yeah?”

His touches become firmer, rubbing your nipple between thumb and forefinger, mapping the way your face scrunches up with his eyes.

“Yeah, jeez. They're really sensitive.”

Practically panting in each other's mouths, your noses rub together.

“Can- can I kiss you?”

His words are so hesitant that it makes you giggle. Pressing your lips in a swift kiss to his full bottom lip, you respond.

“I'd be mad if you didn't.”

Eddie wastes no more time, pressing a hot open mouthed kiss to you that you reciprocate in kind. You keep it slow, leisurely traversing new territory with soft, exploring tongues. Naturally your arms encircle him, pulling him closer, closer. His arm snakes around your back as your bodies press together, like puzzle pieces slotting together and finding their perfect match. Eventually you break away to take a gasping breath as Eddie presses kisses to your collarbone.

“I don't know why we waited so long to do that.”

“We? I thought you just wanted me for free drugs!”

You giggled loudly at that, so loud it came out as a snort, but it didn't matter. The moment was so honest that being cool had nothing to do with it. You were bare, in a way, and so was he.

Eddie chuckled with you as he slowly but surely pushed you onto your back, slipping both of his legs between yours. Pushing your hips up, you feel his hardness graze your pubic bone.

“Eddie?”

He hums a response, lips and tongue busy loving on your neck. You tug at the hem of your top and pull upwards. Eddie gets the message, moving out of the way briefly so you can strip it off.

There you are, bare chested in front of him. You'd be nervous, if you hadn't seen the longing in his eyes. He's kneeling, one arm leaning on the mattress whilst the other compulsively strokes your side.

“Jesus Christ your tits are perfect.”

The moment stretches just a little too long for comfort; you're a hair's breadth away from crossing your arms over your chest when Eddie leans down and runs his tongue around and around one nipple. Mewling pathetically, you lace your fingers in Eddie's soft waves and tug. In response his teeth graze you as he sucks softly; then he gives the other just as much attention.

Shuddering and wriggling under him, you can't do anything but whine, your hips undulating upwards to chase some friction, some release, anything.

“Eddie, please, I need you.”

“Umph,” He responds, muffled by your chest, “I need you to say that again.”

“Eddie I swear to God if you don't- ”

He laughs, cutting off your sentence.

“Alright baby girl, I got you.”

Working his way down your front, he takes his time planting soft kisses, making you writhe at each touch of his lips, until he reaches your shorts.

Flicking the button open, he slowly drags the zip down and finds the little sliver of red panties poking out.

“Hearts? Cute.”

Thick fingers plunge into your clothes and pull them away, flinging your shorts and panties across the room into the void that was Eddie's carpet.

Insecurity finally gripped its claws into you. What if he didn't like what you looked like down there, smelled like, tasted like?

A moment of unadulterated panic, and then Eddie licked his tongue, slowly yet firmly, between your lips and all the way up. Barging your thighs further apart with his shoulders, he rooted your clit out with his tongue, running dizzying circles and sucking at it desperately.

Eddie's moans rivalled your own, such neediness etched in you swear his fingerprints will be left on the outside of your thighs like tattoos, simply from the force he held you with. Barely able to shake, you compensated by pulling his hair and guiding his tongue exactly where you needed it.

He pushed a thick calloused finger into you slowly, looking up at you as he did so. You back arched off the bed. He felt around, staring at you with such intensity you that you were seconds away from telling him to quit staring when-

“Oh God, oh fuck!”

Eddie smirked, sliding another finger in gently to join the first, and worked your clit between his lips. He incessantly stroked a spot inside that you'd never reach on your own, a firm, beckoning gesture as if he were willing your orgasm to come hither.

It was working. Your insides tingle, a tightness pulling straight from your gut and shooting out to your fingers and toes. Beyond control by this point, your hand pulls his hair tightly. To your amazement, his other hand reaches out to you, seeking, and you lace your fingers in his own.

As soon as your digits touched, you were gone. Your release plummets out of you, shaking through every bone you have, leaving you a twitching puddle of a woman. His fingers chase after it, dragging every inch of squelching pleasure out of your insides until you're tugging him away and begging for it to stop.

As he moved back up your body, licking and sucking as he did so, you tried to think of an answer to the smug grin he was just about to flash at you.

There was none. Brain unravelled, threads wound into your nerves instead of your thoughts, you laid there, ruminating on how he'd made you come faster than any other man.

Eddie hovered over you, nose nudging your own. He must have wiped his mouth at some point whilst you were in la la land.

“Hey pretty girl.”

“Eddie, you're really fuckin’ good at that.”

“I know.”

You laugh, tapping his side.

“Cocky.”

“Confident.”

Before you can retort his mouth is back on you, peppering kisses to your jaw, as his solid member presses into your naked heat.

“Fuck Eddie, please, please please-”

“Please what baby girl?” He asks, then sucks a hickey on your neck.

Pulling him towards you by his shirt collar, you bite down sharply on his earlobe, pulling a little groan from his chest.

“I want you to stuff me full Eddie. I'm- I'm on birth control. Fill me up.”

You can practically feel Eddie's eyes roll to the back of his head.

“Fuck, you can't just say that, I nearly busted in my pants!”

Pulling himself off you for the shortest time he could, he peels his t-shirt over his head and flops back on top of you. Desperate kisses and urgent gropes spill from you both; grinding, needy things that tore at clothes and grasped at flesh.

After fiddling and failing with his belt, you huff and tug harshly at his waistband. He chuckles, biting at your bottom lip as he unlatches it with ease and then wriggles his pants and boxers down his legs with urgency.

More desperate grasps, teeth and tongues clashing violently, your hand reaching down to clutch at his-

“Holy hell!”

His eyes widen, hands coming to a halt, waiting for the rest of your sentence. You're too busy trying to glance down his front as he hovers over you, your fist firmly stroking his hardened cock.

“You're huge Eddie!”

He smirks and thrusts into your hand, the velvet smoothness of his dick massaged by your palm.

“Bet you say that to all the guys.”

“Er, no, Rick's made some truth serum or some shit because that's the biggest I've ever felt.”

You guide him firmly towards your entrance, dragging the tip of his enlarged cock through your slickened folds. He quivers over you, arms thick with tension.

“Baby girl just, just slip it inside, please-”

“Now who's begging?”

Grinning mischievously, you wait for him to start forming an answer with his mouth when you slip the head inside your sopping opening. His open mouth turns into a long drawn out moan.

You would tease him if the feeling of him splitting you open wasn't all consuming. Which it fucking is. He just keeps pushing, and pushing, until his chest is flush with yours and he's mumbling platitudes in your ear.

“Doing so good for me. Such a naughty, naughty girl. Getting filled up by her drug dealer? Baby girls a little dirty, isn't she?”

You're trying not to let him know how much his words affect you, but the fluttering of your satin like walls tells a different story.

“You're not my dealer.”

“Oh really? I'm not?”

Pulling out nearly all the way and pushing back in, you bite your lip at the drag against your insides.

“Dealer implies I buy shit. You just give it to me, like a little simp.”

Eddie's mouth drops open in mock outrage.

“You want me to give it to you now? I'll fucking give it to you baby.”

Hooking an arm under your thigh, Eddie thrusts into you hard and devastatingly deep. And again, and again, until you start moaning wantonly right in his face, all bravado forgotten.

“Yeah? Atta girl. That good baby? Wanna feel me right here?”

His other hand pushes against your lower stomach, the pressure deepening the pleasure he's giving you tenfold.

“Oh Eddie, oh fuckfuckfuck!!”

Your release explodes out of your cunt with a gush, liquid spurting out of you so hard you nearly force his impressive length out. It waves drastically, like the sea against the shore, washing and washing over you until it's hard to breathe.

“Baby, baby! Holy shit, I think you squirted.”

“Ya think? My God, that was… mind blowing.”

“Yeah?”

Looking up at him, you expect that arrogant grin, but he just looks pleased and innocent. Like a kid at Christmas.

“Yeah, fuck yeah.”

Rolling him over with all the power left in your thighs, you pin him down and move firmly into him, ferality taking over your actions.

“Jesus Christ, you are a dirty girl, aren't you?”

“Maybe just a little.”

Smirking, you hump against him, your swollen clit bumping against his pubic bone on each delicious pass.

“Holy shit, I'm not complaining- fuck, what the- what are you doing? Jesus Christ!”

You bounce hard on him. Seeing him writhe under you is a special kind of power, one you aren't willing to let go of. Ever.

“Fuck, b-baby girl, you're gonna make me come!”

His intense moans spur you on further. Unable to bounce so much on shaky knees you snuggle down close to him, arms clutching his shoulders, as you grind into him. It's massaging sensations into your clit, as well as teasing your g spot with his imposing length.

“I can't, I’m- baby girl-”

“I'm gonna come, Eddie please, fill me up, I wanna feel it, I wanna feel your cum inside me, please, fuckin’ breed me Eddie. Oh fuck!”

Quivering against him uncontrollably, your legs give out, collapsing on his body as he tenses and releases inside of you. It spurs your own orgasm, snaking up your spine and gripping on your system like a fly caught in honey. An open mouthed scream is all you give him, silent but chock full of feeling, as your back arches in its own tension.

As it curls out of you, your back gives up, and you flop forward, bones turned to pudding.

“Well.” is all that comes out, a puff of a word, just air escaping from a collapsing chest.

“Well.” Eddie responds, waiting for what you're about to say.

You're sure he doesn't expect it. A laugh bubbles out; a weird, inside laugh, that you probably should never share with anyone. But it keeps coming. And coming. Laughing uncontrollably, you roll off of him and try to get your stomach muscles in check.

You'd be worried about his reaction, if he wasn't laughing with you. It was this odd mixture of tension and relief that was bursting in the air, a barrier broken and left crumbling at your feet.

“Eddie. Fuck, Eddie.”

“Yeah?”

‘Yeah.”

His heated hand found yours, and squeezed your fingers hard. For some reason, it felt more intimate than all of this combined.

Giggling again, you lean into his chest, fingers dipping up to weave into his hair.

“Baby girl, you can't just-”

“What? Pull your hair? Because you like it?”

Tugging on his hair dramatically, Eddie tosses his head back and groans.

“Knew it.”

“Yeah, yeah, certified genius. It's like you don't wanna be railed again.”

Huffing, you pull yourself on top of him again, hardened nipples brushing softly against his flesh.

“Oh, I think I'll be the one railing you. You wanna make a bet, for next time?”

Smug grin forgotten, Eddie stares at you in disbelief.

“Next time?”

“Well, I hope so. Got to be the best I've ever had.”

Stupid Rick and his stupid strain.

“Best you've ever had?”

“Fuck you.”

“Only if you wanna.”

The teasing stopped. At least for now. It was pretty clear, your need for each other was outranking any goading you'd been sharing.

At least for now…

Taglist (Some permanents, some likely candidates, if you want to be added, jus say the word sweetheart)

@eddiesprincess86 @zestychili @eddiemunsons-missingnipple @roanniom @usedtobecooler @josephquinnsfreckles @mrsjellymunson

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quintessenceofdust88 · 1 month ago

Text

(idk what this is yall. It just came to me and I had to write it. Not particularly Eddie Diaz friendly, but he's not even here, so)

It's a Tuesday night and Tommy can't sleep.

For once, it's not because he misses Evan. No, this time Evan is where he belongs, right in his arms. He is sleeping soundly, more relaxed in slumber than Tommy has seen him awake for weeks now.

That's, partly, what's taking Tommy's sleep away, if he's honest with himself.

Doing his best not to wake Evan up, Tommy untangles himself from his boyfriend (God, it feels so right to be calling Evan that again in his mind), grabs his phone and slips away to his porch, the cool air of the night a welcome sensation.

He stares at his phone. It's 12AM, but he knows it doesn't matter. It never mattered to them. He dials Sal's number and hits the call button.

It doesn't take even ten seconds before he hears his best friend's voice on the other side.

"Everything okay?" He asks right away, cause sure, Tommy knows Sal won't be mad at a midnight call, but he'll worry.

"Yeah, everything's fine", Tommy reassures him, and he hears Sal relaying the message to Gina immediately. Gina is practically Tommy's sister in law, he knows she worries too. "I just... I needed to ask you a question. We're best friends, right?"

"Tommy", Sal says, and by his tone Tommy can tell he's baffled. "Twenty years, man. I think we're past the point of this question"

"I know, just humor me, will you?"

"Fine. Thomas Kinard, you're my best friend. Shall we write it on our diaries too in glitter pens?" He says, and Tommy chuckles lightly, but he does have a point to this.

"Okay, so. If you're very angry at me for some reason, what would you do?" Tommy asks, and then decides to go ahead and just ask what's looping through his mind. "What would it take for you to push me against a wall and threaten to punch me?"

At first, Tommy can hear Sal laugh at the other end of the line, but when Tommy doesn't laugh back, he falls silent. Even though he's not seeing him, Tommy knows there's a thunderous expression in Sal's face right now.

"What's this about?" He asks shrewdly, but Tommy's not ready to tell him yet.

"Just answer the question, please" He says, and Sal sighs.

"I don't know, Tommy, the most likely scenario of that happening would be you being replaced by an alien and I'm trying to figure out if you're the real one. Other than that? Nothing, Tommy. What the hell? We're friends. That's not how friends solve stuff."

"So... Not even if I did something to Gina or the girls?" Tommy pushes.

"Well, first of all that's more unlikely than the alien thing. I know you would never intentionally hurt my family, Tommy. So, no. I'd be pissed, but I'd talk to you. Now tell me what's this about before I send a unit of LAPD to your house to find out who punched you."

Tommy feels a wave of affection for his best friend. He always knew that would be Sal's answer, and hearing it feels good for him, but it makes him feel even worse for Evan.

"It's... Not about me. It's about Ev..." He cuts himself off, but knows it's already too late. "...a hypothetical"

"Hm", Sal offers, and Tommy knows he's not buying it. "Would hypothetical happen to have a birthmark and legs the size of a small country?"

"And happens to be sleeping in my bed right now" Tommy admits, and Sal sighs.

"Fuck, Tommy. Do you know what you're doing? You know I'll support you even when you're an idiot, but I don't wanna see you hurt again, man, that's all"

"I... I know, Sal" Tommy says, and he can't resent his best friend for looking out for him. "But we talked properly this time. We know what to expect from each other. And I love him"

"Yeah, I know you do, you sap" Sal says, but there's no real heat to it. "How's he holding up? He and Nash were real close, weren't they?"

The irony of Sal asking that question before any of the 118 doesn't go unnoticed by Tommy, but he doesn't want to share too much without Evan's permission.

"He's... Not great", Tommy admits that much. "It doesn't help that, unlike me, he has a very shitty best friend"

"Yeah, well, lucky for him, he has a great boyfriend who also has a very great and handsome best friend" Sal says, and Tommy rolls his eyes fondly. "You should bring him over this weekend. The girls miss you and Gina will want to interrogate him again because the first time doesn't count anymore"

'Damn right!', Tommy hears Gina add on the background, and he laughs.

"I'll check when he's free and text you, sounds good? We'll bring dessert"

"You better. Tell Buckley he'll have five Delucas to impress all over again. Chocolate is the way to go"

"Will do." Tommy promises. "And Sal? I love you, man"

"Yeah, yeah, don't go all mushy on me", Sal grumbles, but then his voice softens. "Love you too, Tommy. Take care"

They hang up, but Tommy doesn't go straight to bed. The story Evan told him, about how Diaz told him he was making Bobby's death about himself, had left a bitter taste in his mouth that has only gotten worse now that he was reassured that, no, in fact, there are no circumstances where it's okay for a best friend to physically assault the other.

Now how to give Evan the message?

#bucktommy #tommy kinard #evan buckley #sal deluca #anti eddie diaz #gabby writes #ficlet

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urdreamydoodles · 3 months ago

Note

Hi! If it’s not too much, could you do spider-man villains responding to an underling hitting reader like you did for the bat-villains? (Idk if you do the spider-man villains or just marvel villains in general so feel free to do that if you’d prefer) You’re really good at getting into characters’ heads it’s really fun to read!

MARVEL COMICS VILLAINS X FEM!READER

One of the underlings hit you and your partner finds out

Characters: Dr. Doom, Bullseye, Taskmaster, Loki, Crossbones, Zemo, Muse, Hela, Green Goblin, Eddie/Venom, Doctor Octopus, Kraven, The Lizard, Carnage, Electro, Kingpin, Scorpion, Hobgoblin, Mysterio, Sandman, Shocker, Chameleon, Mister Negative & Boomerang

Reply to anon: FINALLY some love for Spider-Man villains. The Spider-Man and Batman villain gallery are my favorites. I've done (almost) all of Spider-Boy's most popular villains, I really hope I did the ones you wanted.

Victor von Doom | Doctor Doom

- Doom is not a man prone to outbursts. He does not rage blindly, does not allow emotions to dictate his actions. No, his fury is measured, calculated—and when he sees the mark left on your perfect skin, he does not waste words. He simply turns, his cloak billowing as he leaves. You know better than to stop him. Whatever is about to happen is inevitable. Doom does not tolerate offenses. And this—this was the gravest of all.

- The punishment is not merely death. Death is merciful, death is quick. Doom does not grant mercy to those who defile what is his. The offender is stripped of their name, their purpose, their very existence. Doom ensures they are erased, their presence scoured from the annals of time, their life reduced to a whisper of agony. He does not need to sully his own hands—no, the world itself bends to his will, and his will is retribution.

- When he returns to you, his mask betrays nothing, but you can feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity that lingers. He reaches for you—not to inspect the wound, not to seek forgiveness, but to claim you once more, to remind you that you belong to him, and he to you. "None shall harm you and live," he states, as if it is a fundamental truth of the universe. And perhaps, under his rule, it is.

- His gauntleted fingers ghost over your skin, a contradiction of metal and reverence, of cold steel and burning devotion. "You are under my protection," he murmurs, "and my protection is absolute.” His lips brush against your temple, the touch fleeting, possessive. "They will remember what happens to those who forget."

Lester | Bullseye

- He doesn't get angry. Not at first. He just stares at you, head tilting slightly, the way a predator assesses a kill. And then—he laughs. Not the usual, cocky, self-satisfied kind. No, this one is sharper, colder, something that sends a chill down your spine. "They really put their hands on you?" he asks, his voice edged with something deadly, something thrilled. Because now? Now he gets to play.

- He finds them fast. He doesn’t rush—no, he takes his time. He enjoys watching the moment of realization dawn, the way fear blooms when they understand exactly who they’ve pissed off. And when he strikes, it isn’t just a kill. It’s an art form. He breaks bones with pinpoint accuracy, flays skin with nothing but the flick of a blade. Every hit is personal, every wound a lesson. By the time he’s finished, there’s nothing left but ruin.

- When he comes back, he’s still grinning, like he’s high off the violence. He leans in close, voice dripping with amusement. "Y’know, I was gonna kill ‘em quick, but then I thought—nah, let’s make it memorable." His fingers trace the bruise on your skin, eyes dark with something almost hungry. "Bet they won’t be hittin’ anyone ever again. Hell, they won’t even be breathing."

- Then, just as suddenly, the danger flickers, shifts into something else. His hand curls around the back of your neck, pulling you in, his lips brushing against yours, slow and deliberate. "Next time, babe? Just say the word. I'll tear the whole damn world apart for you."

Tony Masters | Taskmaster

- Tony doesn't ask what happened—he sees it. The way you shift your weight, the slight tension in your jaw, the way your hand lingers over the injury just a second too long. He catches every detail, every weakness, because that’s what he does. And right now? Right now, someone’s weakness is about to become their death sentence.

- He doesn't just kill the bastard. No, that would be easy. He studies them first. Watches their movements, their stance, every tell in their body. And then? Then he dismantles them. Uses their own techniques against them, mirrors their every move just to show them how outmatched they are. By the time he’s done, they don’t just lose. They know they never stood a chance.

- When he returns, there’s no grand declaration, no need for theatrics. He just sits beside you, arms crossed, gaze sharp and assessing. "You alright?" he asks, and it’s almost casual—almost. But there’s a weight to it, an unspoken promise beneath the words. You nod, and he exhales, rolling his shoulders. "Good." A beat. Then, "Don’t let it happen again."

- But later, when the lights are low and his guard is down, his hand drifts to your hip, his thumb brushing slow, idle circles against your skin. "Ain't nobody touches you but me," he mutters, voice rough, possessive. "And I don't do soft." His lips ghost over yours, teasing, taunting. "But for you? Maybe I’ll make an exception."

Loki Laufeyson

- He does not react at first. He simply observes. Fingers steepled, expression unreadable, eyes too calm. And that? That is far more terrifying than rage. Because Loki is not a creature of impulse. He is a creature of calculated destruction. And this? This offense against you? It will be answered with something far worse than death.

- The punishment is poetic. He does not simply kill the offender—he undoes them. Twists their mind until they are unmade, until they do not know their own name, their own face. They become a whisper, a tragedy, a thing lost to the very fabric of reality itself. And Loki? Loki watches, amused, as they break. "Oh, dear," he muses. "It seems you have forgotten yourself. Allow me to help." And with a flick of his fingers, they are gone.

- When he returns to you, there is a smirk curling at his lips, something self-satisfied in his gaze. "It is done," he says simply, as if he has merely handled a small inconvenience. And perhaps, to him, that’s all it was. But then, his expression shifts—just slightly. His fingers ghost over your wrist, featherlight, careful, as if you are something fragile, something to be preserved. "They will not bother you again," he murmurs, "nor will anyone else."

- His arms encircle you, drawing you against him, and for a moment, there is no trickery, no illusion—just him, real and solid. His lips graze your ear, a whisper of silk and steel. "You are mine," he breathes, and there is something almost reverent in the way he says it. "And I do not share."

Brock Rumlow | Crossbones

- The moment he sees the bruise on your skin, something inside him snaps. There’s no slow burn, no measured response—just instant, blistering rage. Brock doesn’t ask who did it. He already knows. He doesn’t ask why. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the fact that someone was stupid enough to lay a hand on you, and now? Now they have to pay.

- He doesn’t just kill them—he annihilates them. There’s no finesse, no mercy, just raw, unfiltered violence. The crack of bone, the wet sound of flesh giving way—he takes his time, makes it hurt. He wants them to understand what they’ve done. Wants them to feel every ounce of pain they dared to bring upon you. By the time he’s done, they’re nothing more than a broken, unrecognizable mess on the floor.

- When he comes back to you, his knuckles are split, his breathing heavy, his hands still trembling with the aftershock of violence. But when his eyes meet yours, the fury melts into something else. Something dark, something possessive. He reaches for you, fingers rough as they trace over your injury, his touch lingering, slow. "Ain't nobody touches what’s mine," he mutters, voice like gravel, low and sharp with promise. "Nobody."

- And then his grip tightens, just enough to remind you, just enough to claim. His lips brush against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Next time?" His voice drops to a whisper, deadly and sweet. "I won’t just kill ‘em. I’ll make sure they beg for it first."

Helmut Zemo

- Zemo is silent when he sees the mark on you. Too silent. The kind of quiet that is far more dangerous than any outburst, far more lethal than raised voices or shattered glass. His fingers ghost over the injury with a gentleness that feels almost deceptive, his expression unreadable, his mind already working, already planning.

- His revenge is not messy. It is not violent. It is precise. He does not grant them the dignity of an immediate death—no, he dismantles them. Strips them of their status, their power, their very identity. He orchestrates their downfall with the patience of a man who thrives on the long game, ensuring they lose everything before he grants them the release of death. By the time he is finished, they are nothing more than a ghost.

- When he returns to you, his movements are slow, deliberate. He cups your face, tilting it up so you can see the satisfaction glinting in his eyes. "It is done," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your cheek with something almost reverent. "They will never so much as whisper your name again."

- Then, his lips graze your temple, lingering there, soft but unshakable. "No one lays a hand on you and lives," he breathes against your skin. "Not while I still draw breath."

Muse

- He doesn’t react at first. No flicker of emotion, no shift in expression—just a slow, almost languid turn of his head as he processes the fact that someone dared to harm you. And then, after a moment of silence, he smiles. It’s not warm, not reassuring—it’s something else. Something wrong. Something that should send chills down your spine.

- The underling doesn’t just die. No, Muse creates with them. He turns them into something grotesque, something artful. He strips them of their humanity in the most literal sense, carving into their flesh with the same care a sculptor takes to marble. When he’s finished, they are unrecognizable, their body a message, a masterpiece. Something for the world to witness.

- When he returns, his hands are still wet with blood, his smile still stretching a little too wide. He steps closer, tilting his head as he looks at you, as if seeing you for the first time. "You make me feel things I do not understand," he murmurs, his voice lilting, almost dreamlike. "And yet, I do not mind."

- His fingers trail over your bruised skin, slow, thoughtful. "You are mine," he hums, as if tasting the words. "And I do not take kindly to those who ruin my muse."

Hela

- Her rage is not loud. It does not explode. It devours. A slow, insidious thing that coils around her like smoke, seething just beneath the surface. She does not speak when she sees the mark on your skin. She does not need to. The air itself seems to grow heavy, the very shadows bending toward her as if they fear what is to come.

- She does not simply kill the one responsible—she eradicates them. Their soul is hers now, ripped from their body, condemned to an eternity of suffering in her grasp. She ensures their torment is endless, their agony woven into the very fabric of Hel itself. They will know true despair. They will beg for release, and she will deny them.

- When she returns to you, she does not ask if you are alright. She knows you are. You are strong. But still, her touch is almost gentle as she brushes a gloved hand over your bruised skin, as if assessing the damage, as if reminding herself that you are here. "They are nothing now," she murmurs, voice like velvet over steel. "They will never touch you again."

- Then, she cups your chin, tilting your face up to meet her gaze. Her lips curve into a smirk, dark, knowing. "You are mine," she breathes, her voice a silken promise. "And what is mine is untouchable."

Norman Osborn | The Green Goblin

- He is not a man known for softness. The world has felt the wrath of his intellect, his madness, his power—but never his kindness. Yet, in his own way, you are an exception. An obsession that burrowed into his mind and refused to leave. You were his, a claim as absolute as the empire he built with blood and fire. And when one of his men struck you, something terrible and ruinous cracked open within him. Norman does not react with immediate fury. No, his rage is patient, a slow-moving thing with sharpened teeth, and it festers in silence as he watches you, as his gloved hand ghosts over the mark left behind. His voice is eerily calm. "Who?" is all he asks, and though you know what will come, you do not stop him.

- He does not waste time. The moment the name is given, the air shifts, heavy with the weight of his impending vengeance. He could kill the man outright—could rip him apart with his hands and laugh as he did it—but Norman is nothing if not poetic. There is no need for theatrics, no need for a Goblin’s grin. He strips away his mask and handles the matter as Osborn, the man, the king, the ruthless god in a businessman’s skin. His underlings learn a lesson that night: a punishment that stretches long, a display of control so profound that even those loyal to him shudder at the sight. Norman does not simply kill; he dismantles.

- He returns to you in the aftermath, his fingers still stained with evidence of his wrath. There is no apology, no soft words meant to soothe. He does not think you need them. He takes your face in his hands, holds you as if committing the shape of you to memory, and leans in, his forehead resting against yours. "You are not to be touched," he murmurs, his voice laced with something dark, something final. "Not by them. Not by anyone. Only me." His mouth finds yours, claiming and bruising, a reminder of who you belong to, of who would set the world ablaze before letting another lay a hand on you.

- In the days that follow, his men become more careful, their eyes lowering whenever you pass. He revels in it, in their fear, in the knowledge that you are untouchable. But more than that, Norman basks in the way you still stand at his side, still allow his hands on your skin, still whisper his name in the quiet of night. He does not say it aloud, but he knows it in the marrow of his bones: he would burn everything for you.

Eddie Brock | Venom

- The moment Venom senses it, the moment the bruising scent of pain clings to you, Eddie is already moving. His body tenses like a predator scenting blood, fists curling, jaw tightening, and before you can say anything, a voice darker than night slithers out, a guttural growl vibrating in his chest. "Who hurt you?" The question is not for you to answer. Venom already knows.

- There is no reasoning with Eddie when his rage is ignited, no space for rational thought. He is a man of fury, of primal justice, and there is no justice more absolute than the one he will deliver. Venom is delighted, saliva dripping from his fanged mouth as he urges Eddie forward. "We eat them." But Eddie is not in the mood for quick endings. No, this calls for something more intimate. He corners the man, fists colliding with flesh, with bone, and with each hit, his breath comes harsher, his mind consumed by the vision of you hurt, of someone daring to lay a hand on what is his.

- When he returns to you, his knuckles are bloody, his breathing uneven, but his eyes—his eyes are the most dangerous part of him. "It won’t happen again," he says, and Venom’s voice purrs in agreement, curling around the words like a promise. You reach for him, fingers tracing over the remnants of his anger, and for a moment, his fury falters. His grip tightens around you, desperate, possessive, as if anchoring himself in your warmth. "I don’t share," he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your skin, the rough scrape of his stubble sending a shiver down your spine. "I don’t forgive, either."

- The city speaks in whispers after that. The man who struck you is nowhere to be found, his existence erased with the efficiency of something monstrous. Eddie doesn’t care. Venom doesn’t care. They are satisfied only in the way you still let them near, in the way your fingers tangle in Eddie’s hair as he presses against you, breathing in your scent like a man who has only ever known hunger.

Otto Octavius | Doctor Octopus

- He is a man of brilliance, of intellect, of control. But all of it fractures when he sees the mark on your skin. His metal limbs twitch, their claws clicking in restless anticipation, and his grip on his own restraint becomes tenuous. He prides himself on logic, on the ability to calculate his moves, but rage has always been an old friend, and tonight, it whispers to him with venomous sweetness. He cups your chin, his touch unexpectedly gentle despite the storm brewing in his gaze. "Tell me," he says, his voice like silk stretched over steel.

- When you do, he does not explode. Otto Octavius is not a man of reckless outbursts—he is a man of consequences. The one who hurt you does not suffer immediately. No, Otto drags it out, makes it a lesson, makes it art. His tentacles wrap around the man like a vice, lifting him effortlessly, squeezing just enough to let terror sink in. "Do you know what you’ve done?" he muses, tilting his head in that calculating way of his. "Do you understand the depths of your mistake?" There is no mercy in his eyes, only the cold brilliance of a scientist dissecting his latest subject.

- When he returns, his hands are clean, his composure intact. But there is something different in the way he looks at you, something almost reverent. "No one will touch you again," he says, a quiet promise that rings louder than any scream. His arms coil around you, steel and flesh alike, pressing you into him as if ensuring your safety through sheer proximity. He is not an affectionate man, not in the traditional sense, but this—this is devotion in its truest form.

- The world shifts after that. His subordinates tread carefully, their fear evident, their respect unwavering. Otto does not care for their opinions, only for the knowledge that you are untouchable, that the universe itself would have to shatter before he allowed harm to reach you again. And when he holds you at night, when he feels the warmth of your body against his own, he knows with absolute certainty—he would burn every last one of them for you.

Sergei Kravinoff | Kraven the Hunter

- The air is thick with tension when he finds out. There is no great display of fury, no immediate act of violence—but the shift in him is undeniable. His gaze darkens, his jaw sets, and his muscles coil like a beast moments before the kill. He does not ask you to name the culprit. He does not need to. The hunt is already beginning in his mind, the scent of blood calling to him. "They have wronged you," he murmurs, his accent curling around the words like a snare. "That is all I need to know."

- He does not go after them as a man. He goes as a predator. There is no chance for escape, no hope for mercy. The one who hurt you does not simply die; they are hunted, chased, reduced to nothing more than prey beneath the weight of Sergei’s wrath. And when he returns, there is blood beneath his nails, a satisfied smirk on his lips, and something primal burning in his eyes as they settle on you.

- He takes your face in his hands, his fingers rough yet reverent. "You are mine," he tells you, his voice low, possessive, unshaken. "And no man touches what is mine." There is no hesitation when he kisses you, no gentleness—only the raw, unfiltered hunger of a man who has conquered and claimed.

- After that, there is silence. No one dares cross you, no one even dares look too long. And Sergei—Sergei watches you like the wild thing he is, his need for you carved into his very soul.

Dr. Curt Connors | The Lizard

- There are two versions of the man you love, and both are dangerous in their own ways. Dr. Connors—the brilliant, fractured scientist—sees you as something fragile, something to be protected. The Lizard—the monstrous, primal force—sees you as his, an undeniable part of his territory, a possession no one else is permitted to touch. When he smells the injury, when his reptilian senses detect the slightest irregularity in your scent, his pupils slit into thin lines, and his talons twitch. He does not ask what happened. He does not need to. You can see the change in him, the slow, deliberate way his muscles coil, the predator awakening beneath the man.

- Curt tries to hold back at first, tries to reason with himself, to suppress the darker part of him that howls for blood. But then he sees the mark—small, insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but a wound on you—and all his restraint shatters. His skin ripples, the transformation taking hold, scales pushing through flesh, bones shifting as something cold-blooded and relentless takes over. The man who hurt you does not get the mercy of a warning. He does not get the chance to run. The Lizard hunts him down with terrifying precision, dragging him into the depths of the sewers, where screams do not reach the surface world.

- He does not return to you as Curt, not yet. The Lizard comes first, his body tense with the aftermath of his fury, his eyes glowing in the dim light. He circles you like an animal, sniffing the air, ensuring no scent of your attacker lingers. When his clawed hands cup your face, they are gentle despite their lethal potential, his rough thumb tracing over the bruise with something close to reverence. "Mine," he hisses, low and guttural, his tail twitching behind him. "No one hurts what belongs to me." His forked tongue flicks out, tasting the air around you, confirming you are safe. Only then does he allow himself to shift back, bones snapping, scales melting away, until it is Curt again—shaken, horrified by his own lack of control, but unrepentant.

- After that night, no one in his employ ever touches you again. They don’t even stand too close. The fear lingers, thick and suffocating, but you do not fear him. Not truly. Not when he presses his forehead against yours in the quiet of your shared sanctuary, his breath still uneven from the monster within him. "I won’t let it happen again," he murmurs, half a promise, half a warning to the world. And you believe him.

Cletus Kasady | Carnage

- Violence has always been Cletus’s language, and love—if he can even call what he feels for you that—is simply an extension of it. His affection is red, dripping, chaotic, something sharp-edged and all-consuming. So when he finds out someone has dared to touch you, to lay their filthy hands on what he claimed, he does not fly into a rage. No, no, no. Rage is too simple. Rage is what lesser men feel. What he feels is a different kind of thrill—something euphoric, something electric. The knowledge that he now has an excuse to indulge himself, to play.

- He finds the man easily. Carnage is not subtle, never has been, and there is no need for stealth when the hunt is half the fun. He takes his time with it, drags it out, makes sure the bastard understands the mistake he made. There are screams, of course. Begging. Pleading. But Cletus only laughs, red tendrils writhing around him like something alive, his grin wide and wicked. He does not just kill. He desecrates. When it is over, he leaves what remains in a place everyone will see, a message written in blood and viscera: SHE’S MINE.

- When he returns to you, he is still drenched in his work, red creeping up his neck like war paint. His fingers are slick when they cup your chin, tilting your head so he can drink in the sight of you, the only thing in this world he won’t destroy. "Ain’t nobody stupid enough to touch you now, doll," he purrs, his grip tightening just enough to make you gasp. "But if they do… well, you know me. I love an excuse to get messy." His lips crash against yours, feverish, unhinged, tasting of copper and chaos, as if marking you from the inside out.

- The city whispers after that. Everyone knows. Everyone fears. No one dares even breathe in your direction without permission. And Cletus—Cletus is delighted. He keeps you close, always touching, always claiming, because you are the only thing in this world worth keeping, worth loving in his own sick, twisted way.

Max Dillon | Electro

- The moment Max finds out, the air around him changes. The temperature rises, the hum of electricity vibrating beneath his skin, flickering in his veins. He does not speak at first. He just stands there, his entire body coiled with tension, eyes burning with a glow that promises something catastrophic. His hands twitch, sparks crackling between his fingers, and when he finally breathes, it comes out ragged, barely contained. "Who?" The question is not a request. It is a demand, static lacing his voice like a storm on the verge of breaking.

- He doesn’t wait for you to answer. He already knows. The circuits in the building whisper their secrets to him, security cameras playing back every movement, every offense. And once he sees it—once he witnesses the insult—there is no saving the man responsible. Max does not go after him in silence. He wants people to see. He wants them to understand. When he finds his target, he doesn’t touch him at first—just lets the lights flicker, lets the air taste of ozone and danger. The fear in the man’s eyes is intoxicating. And then—then—he strikes.

- He does not just kill. He erupts. A violent surge of electricity courses through his victim’s body, lighting up the night in a gruesome spectacle. It is over in seconds, but the aftermath lingers—charred flesh, the stench of burnt skin, a warning that echoes in the city’s power lines. No one touches what belongs to Max Dillon. No one.

- When he returns, his pulse is still thrumming with energy, his hands still tingling with remnants of power. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t need to. He simply cups your face, his touch still buzzing, his breath warm against your lips. "Nobody hurts you," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours, letting the electricity between you crackle softly. "Not while I’m around."

Wilson Fisk | The Kingpin

- There is no explosion of rage when Wilson finds out. No immediate outburst, no reckless display of violence. Instead, there is silence. A heavy, suffocating quiet that settles over the room as he absorbs the information, as he lets the weight of it sink into his bones. He does not ask questions. He does not need to. His mind has already moved past the why and straight into the how.

- The man who struck you is dead before the sun rises. Wilson does not delegate this task. He handles it himself, in the cold, calculated way that only he can. The punishment is not just a beating. It is an education. He ensures that every broken bone, every gasping breath, is a lesson. That by the time it is over, the man understands—truly understands—who you belong to.

- When he returns to you, his suit is pristine, his composure unshaken, but there is something in his eyes—something dark, something possessive. He takes your hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles. "You are mine," he states, as if it is law, as if it is the only truth that matters. "And I will never allow harm to come to what is mine."

- The city learns quickly. No one touches you. No one dares. Because to harm you is to invoke the wrath of a king, and there is no place in this world where his reach does not extend.

Mac Gargan | The Scorpion

- Mac has always been a creature of violence. It sits in his bones, coils in his muscles, waiting for an excuse to strike. But this—this—is different. This is not a bar fight, not some petty vendetta. This is you. His girl. His one good thing in a world that never gave him anything but rage. And someone thought they could lay a hand on you? His fingers curl into fists so tight his knuckles crack, his breath coming out in short, harsh bursts. The suit hums around him, reacting to his anger, tail twitching like a serpent poised to strike.

- He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask. He hunts. The city is a labyrinth of shadows, but Mac is a predator who knows every back alley, every bolt hole. And when he finds the bastard, there’s no warning. No time for apologies, for begging, for mercy that never existed in the first place. He slams the man against a wall hard enough to rattle bones, his tail curling around his throat, lifting him off the ground with slow, deliberate cruelty. "You think you're tough?" His voice is low, venomous, dripping with the promise of pain. "Think you can put your hands on her and walk away?"

- The fight is short, brutal. Mac doesn’t just beat him—he breaks him. Leaves him gasping in the filth of the streets, bruised, bloodied, and barely breathing. He could end it. Should end it. But no, he wants this bastard to live. Wants him to wake up every day knowing he made the worst mistake of his life. That if he so much as breathes in your direction again, Mac will be the last thing he ever sees.

- When he returns to you, his hands are still shaking, but his grip is gentle when he cups your face, tilting your chin up so he can look at you. His expression is dark, possessive, fierce. "Ain’t nobody touching you again," he mutters, his thumb tracing over your skin, as if reassuring himself that you’re real, that you’re his. "Ever."

Roderick Kingsley | The Hobgoblin

- The first time he sees the mark on your skin, something inside him snaps. Roderick has always been meticulous, always prided himself on being in control, but this—this—is unacceptable. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching for violence, but his face remains eerily composed, the kind of stillness that only comes before a storm. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "Who?" he asks, voice soft, deadly. It’s not a question. It’s a promise.

- Roderick does not make a spectacle of his revenge. He is not like the others—messy, impulsive, obvious. No, he is calculated. He plays the long game, luring the fool into a false sense of security. Then, when the time is right, he strikes. The underling who dared touch you disappears, and for days, no one hears from him. Then, suddenly, his body turns up—dismembered, displayed with sickening artistry, a message written in his own blood. A warning.

- When he returns to you, there is not a single speck of blood on him. He is as immaculate as always, his movements smooth and practiced as he approaches you. His gloved fingers brush over your shoulder, over the place where the injury once was, his touch lingering. "No one will ever lay a hand on you again," he murmurs, voice silken but laced with something darker, something dangerous. "Not unless they have a death wish."

- He tilts your chin up with two fingers, studying you with that sharp, analytical gaze, and then he smiles—slow, lazy, possessive. "You belong to me, darling," he whispers against your lips, a ghost of a threat, a vow wrapped in silk. "And I always take care of what’s mine."

Quentin Beck | Mysterio

- Quentin is a master of illusions, a man who bends reality to his will. But this—this is no illusion. The sight of your injury is real. And that, more than anything, enrages him. He stands utterly still, his fingers twitching at his sides, his mind already spinning through a thousand different ways to fix this. "Someone put their hands on you?" His voice is eerily calm, too calm, like the surface of still water before something drags you under.

- He doesn’t just want revenge—he wants a show. Wants to make an example of the fool who thought they could harm his masterpiece. The man who hurt you wakes up in a nightmare. Shadows twist unnaturally around him, voices whisper from the darkness, and the air itself becomes suffocating. He cannot see. He cannot escape. Quentin lets him feel true fear, lets his mind break apart at the seams. And when he finally steps into the illusion, bathed in eerie green light, his voice is cold, theatrical. "You touched something that belongs to me. Now, let’s see how you like being toyed with."

- By the time the illusion fades, the man is reduced to a shaking, incoherent wreck, his mind so shattered that he will never be the same. Quentin does not need to dirty his hands with blood. He has already won. Fear is the best weapon, after all. And now? Now, no one will ever dare lay a hand on you again.

- When he returns, his touch is gentle, almost reverent, as he cups your face, tracing the curve of your jaw. "I’ve taken care of it," he murmurs, his voice carrying that ever-present theatrical flair, as if this was simply another act in a grand performance. "No one will ever hurt you again. Not while I’m around." And when he presses his lips to yours, it is possessive, a silent claim. You are mine. And I will burn the world before I let it take you from me.

Flint Marko | The Sandman

- Flint has never claimed to be a good man, but there are rules. Lines that even criminals don’t cross. And someone crossing you? That is unforgivable. When he sees the mark on you, the wound left by some lowlife under his command, something dark passes over his expression. His jaw tightens, his fists clench, and for a long moment, he just stares. Then, in a voice too quiet, too steady, he asks, "Who did it?"

- He doesn’t wait for the answer. He already knows. He finds him. And when he does, he doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t make threats. He just acts. His body twists and warps, arms elongating, fists turning into massive clubs of hardened sand. The first hit is brutal, sending the man crashing through a wall. The second is worse. By the time he’s done, the bastard is barely breathing, half-buried in the debris, coughing up blood and dust. Flint leans down, voice low, gravelly, dangerous. "You ever even look at her again, I’ll make sure there ain’t enough of you left to bury."

- When he returns to you, his hands are still rough, still calloused, but they are infinitely careful when they touch you. His fingers ghost over the mark, his brows furrowed in something like guilt, like regret that he wasn’t there when it happened. "I shoulda stopped it before it happened," he mutters, frustration lacing his tone. "Ain’t nobody layin’ a hand on you again. I promise you that."

- He presses his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your skin, his presence solid, steady, safe. And when he speaks again, his voice is softer, rough with something that sounds almost like devotion. "You’re the only thing in this world I ain’t gonna lose." And somehow, you know he means it.

Herman Schultz | The Shocker

- Violence has always been a means to an end for Herman, never something he enjoyed. He’s not one of those lunatics who relish brutality—he’s just a man trying to make a living. But when he sees the bruise marring your skin, the way you flinch ever so slightly when you move, something inside him curdles. His stomach twists, his fingers flex, and there’s a slow, creeping heat behind his eyes. Somebody hurt you. And that? That’s something he can’t let slide.

- He doesn’t go in guns blazing. He’s smarter than that. He finds out who did it first, who was stupid enough to lay hands on his girl. And when he does? He makes sure the message is clear. The vibrations from his gauntlets don’t just break bones—they shatter them. There’s no warning, no grand speech, just a quick, brutal demonstration of what happens when you cross him. The air trembles with every hit, and by the time he’s finished, there’s nothing left but wreckage and regret.

- When he comes back to you, he’s quieter than usual. There’s no bravado, no cocky grin—just a lingering tension in his shoulders, a ghost of something dark in his eyes. He hesitates before reaching for you, before brushing his knuckles ever so gently over the bruise. "Didn’t mean for you to get caught up in this," he mutters, voice low, rough with something close to guilt. "But I swear—it ain’t happenin’ again."

- And then, finally, his hands settle on your waist, pulling you against him, grounding himself in you. He presses his forehead to yours, exhales slow, deliberate. "You’re my girl," he murmurs, his voice softer now, steadier. "And I protect what’s mine."

Dmitri Smerdyakov | The Chameleon

- Dmitri is a man of masks, of deception, of control. And yet, when he sees the mark on your skin, all of that precision shatters. His breath slows, his body stills, and for the first time in a long time, something genuine flickers behind his ever-changing eyes. Fury. Not the theatrical kind, not the controlled, manufactured type—this is something raw, something visceral. Someone thought they could touch you and get away with it.

- He does not act in haste. No, he is patient, methodical. He waits. He studies his prey, slipping into their world, wearing faces they trust, whispering secrets that lead them straight to their downfall. By the time they realize what’s happening, it’s far, far too late. One night, they close their eyes—and when they wake, they are not where they were before. A cold, dimly lit room. A voice, smooth as silk, drips from the darkness. "Did you think I would not find you?"

- By the time he returns to you, there is not a single trace of blood on him. No evidence, no mess—only the ghost of a smirk, the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He steps close, fingers trailing over your wrist, up your arm, as if ensuring you are whole, untouched. "No one will ever hurt you again," he whispers, and it is not just a promise. It is fact.

- His lips brush against the shell of your ear, his voice a soft murmur, intimate, possessive. "You are mine, моя любовь. And I do not share what is mine."

Martin Li | Mister Negative

- There are two sides to Martin—light and shadow, kindness and wrath. But when he sees the evidence of someone else's violence on you, there is no kindness left. His breath catches, his fingers tighten into fists, and something in his expression shifts—something dangerous. He touches the injury gently, as if the very act of acknowledging it might taint you further. And then, quietly, almost too softly, he asks, "Who did this to you?"

- When he finds them, there is no shouting, no theatrics—only inevitability. The underling barely has time to register their mistake before Martin unleashes the darkness within. The corruption devours them, twisting their very essence, making them feel every ounce of pain they have inflicted—tenfold. They scream, but there is no one to save them. And Martin watches, calm, composed, as their own sins consume them from the inside out.

- When he returns to you, his hands are cool when they cup your face, his expression eerily serene. There is no need to speak of what he has done—you already know. Instead, his thumb brushes over your cheek, his touch reverent, careful. "I will not allow harm to come to you again," he says simply, as if it is law, as if the very world itself bends to his decree.

- And then, softly, with all the tenderness in the world, he presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering, his breath warm against your skin. "You are precious to me," he whispers, and beneath the gentleness, there is an edge of something darker, something absolute. "And I do not lose what is mine."

Fred Myers | Boomerang

- Fred has never been the serious type. Always laughing, always running his mouth, always playing things off like nothing really matters. But when he sees what happened to you? When he sees the proof that someone put their hands on you? The easygoing grin vanishes. His whole body goes still. And then, with a quiet, almost chilling sort of calm, he says, "Tell me who did it."

- He tracks the bastard down himself, no hired muscle, no goons—just him. And when he finds them, all the jokes, all the charm, all the bullshit he usually hides behind is gone. He’s fast, brutal, efficient—sharp knuckles, steel-toed boots, the snap of a ribcage giving way under pressure. He doesn’t need his boomerangs for this. No, this? This is personal.

- When he comes back, there’s blood on his hands—his own, maybe, but mostly theirs. And for the first time in a long time, he actually looks serious. No jokes, no smug quips—just that sharp, assessing gaze as he steps closer, fingers brushing over your wrist. "They won’t bother you again," he says, and his voice is rougher than usual, lower. "Nobody’s gonna touch you. Not while I’m around."

- And then, as if realizing how intense he sounds, he exhales, shakes his head, lets that familiar smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. "Damn," he murmurs, tilting your chin up, eyes dark with something dangerous. "Didn’t know I had it in me to get all protective." His grin widens, teasing, but his grip on you is firm, steady. "Guess you bring out the worst in me, sweetheart. Or maybe the best.”

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