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feralwritings · 2 months ago

Text

troubled cure, for a troubled mind

pairing: eddie munson x reader

summary: “It’s called E.” He tilts the tin toward you. “MDMA, if you wanna get technical.”

He pauses, raising his brows.

“This is what you were asking about, right?”

warnings: first time drug use, underage substance use, slow burn, intense pining, first kiss, light angst, fluff

word count: 4.7k

A/N: spent the last week doing nothing but thinking and writing abt eddie munson b/c i finally got around to watching s4 of stranger things. so late to the party, i know.

The pizza bagels were burning.

Eddie swears under his breath, yanking the tray from the rickety oven and dropping it onto the stovetop with a loud clank.

From across the kitchen island, you flinch.

He winces, then apologizes, both sounds muffled as he crouches to shut the oven door. Peeks his head back up to see you perched on one edge of his couch, legs bouncing, hands fidgeting in your lap—the same restless energy you had earlier that day, at the forest bench behind the field.

That version of you who had toed the dirt with your shoe: I just… Chrissy said you could… Looked around all paranoid and jittery, like you were nervous to even be near him, let alone ask for something stronger than weed.

And still—you’d shown up.

Though now, in his trailer, you look like you might change your mind again.

He fills a glass at the sink and sets it on the coffee table in front of you. Your knee is nearly vibrating.

He wipes his hand on his jeans and stands back up, divot between his brows.

“You, uh… you sure you’re ok?”

Your fingers are clenched tight over your knees, knuckles pale like you’re bracing for impact—or escape.

But then, a breath. Slow.

And when you look up, something steadier settles behind your eyes.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Well,” he blinks, nudging the glass toward you with two fingers, “First step is this. Hydrate. Golden rule of every good night.”

You pick it up with both hands, barely casting him a glance, and take a careful sip.

“Thanks.”

Eddie nods, flopping into the armchair across from you, letting the cushions swallow him whole.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. Just… taut.

Like a wire pulled tight between two fence posts.

And maybe he should’ve said no the first time you asked. Maybe he should’ve said something different earlier, back at the bench, when you kicked at the dirt and couldn’t quite look at him.

His leg bounces once. Then stills.

That guilt—it never shouts. Just sits low in his gut, chewing at the lining.

Nope. Just can’t let it go.

“Listen, can I uh…” He frowns, rubbing at the bridge of his nose like it might knock loose the right words. “Can I ask why you wanna do this?”

Your fingers tighten around the glass, knuckles going pale again.

“I mean,” He’s leaned forward now, elbows to knees. “You don’t exactly seem like a…”

He trails off, the rest catching in his throat.

Junkie. Loser.

Freak.

The words hover—ugly, too easy—and he forces them back down, eyes locking on your mouth instead. It opens, then closes, like the answer’s caught somewhere between your teeth.

You glance up, eyes unreadable but not cold. Just distant in a way that makes him desperate to know what’s underneath. Beneath the gloss of mascara and lingering scent of floral hairspray.

Still, you don’t give it up.

“I just… wanna see what it’s like.” You shrug.

And he might’ve failed algebra twice before Ms. O’Donnell finally let him slide by with a mercy D, but—this?

This he’s good at.

This he’s been doing long before he ever started selling anything. Rich jocks. Burnouts. Townies.

Different stories. Same hollow-eyed ache.

He could read through them like water spots on a page.

But with you?

He’s got nothing.

Aside from Chrissy, you’re the first girl he couldn’t pin down at a glance.

You’re quieter, even more elusive than her.

Because Chrissy had that sparkle—that first-row cheerleader, homecoming queen kind of shine. Queen of Hawkins High. Everyone knows Chrissy Cunningham.

But you—you aren’t like the schoolyard royalty and laundry-basket-shooters you hang around.

Careful. Smart. Untouchable in a whole different way.

And that’s worse. That’s harder.

He nods, slowly. Stirs in his chair and tries to convince himself that he’s convinced.

Then:

Churn.

Nope.

“Yeah, see—” He lets out a sharp sigh, twisting in his seat. Rubs hard on that scar above his brow, left over from when he’d tried to give himself a piercing: “—I just can’t in good conscience give you this stuff without like… knowing? You know, like what it’s for?”

You’re silent for a while, and then:

“Do you ask everyone else why they want what they’re buying?”

There's something sharp in your voice, there. In your gaze.

And yeah. That hits. That cuts through the fog.

Eddie lets out a short breath. Finally—something. You’ve given him something.

“Well, no,” he quirks a smile, scratching the back of his neck—because, yeah, you might’ve gotten him a little with that. “But with other people, I usually don’t have to ask, so…”

You blink at him. Once. Then again.

Then you sigh—a slow, low rush of air that softens your whole posture. The mask slips a little with the sag of your shoulders.

“I just… I get in my head sometimes.” You twist the glass in your lap. “I thought it could help.”

It’s less than he hoped for. But enough.

“Okay.”

He turns, finally dipping into the space between the armrest and the cushion, where loose change and guitar picks go to die. Comes back with a small silver Altoids tin, scuffed at the corners, hinge a little crooked.

“I keep the good stuff close,” he grins, jiggling it, but you don’t smile.

He pops the lid with his thumb. Inside, a few round pills rest against the scratched metal—tiny, pale, each stamped with a heart.

“It’s called E.” He tilts the tin toward you. “MDMA, if you wanna get technical.”

He pauses, raising his brows.

“This is what you were asking about, right?”

Barely more than a rumor out here in hicktown Hawkins, but enough to make ears perk up in locker rooms and parking lots. The all-new party drug that makes you want to feel everything and touch everyone.

Your eyes land on the pills and they flicker—not quite fear, but something adjacent.

“Yeah… I think so.”

He knows that look. It’s the same one he wears in the mirror when he’d hold something in his palm and wonder if it’d make him feel better or worse.

“Got this fresh from an old buddy up in Chicago,” he sighs, flicking a pill gently with his nail.

You nod, slow. “And it’s… safe?”

He gasps—sudden, dramatic—snapping the tin closed and clutching it tight to his chest.

“Wow. You think I’d sell you something dangerous?” He flails backward, tongue out, flopped against the back of the armchair like he’s been mortally struck. “You wound me.”

“No, I just…” You blink, startled, then almost smile. “Sorry?”

He grins, easing upright again. Looks back down at the tin and sniffles quietly.

“Nah, it’s safe.” He murmurs, quieter. He’s only tried it twice, sure, but both times came up clean—no spiraling trips, no laced crap. Just warmth. Connection. The kind of high that softens edges instead of cutting them open.

“They call it the love drug,” he adds, picking one up to roll it between his thumb and forefinger. “I’s not like acid. Doesn’t mess with your head like that. Just… makes things feel good. Music sounds better. People, too.”

You grow still, but his level gaze finds your fingers twitching in your lap. Just once.

And that ache in his gut returns. Low. Uncomfortable.

A long pause, then:

“There’s a party, right?” His voice dropping, because he knows he’s toeing a thin line, “…that’s why you wanted to buy tonight?”

You look up, fast. And for a second, he thinks he’s screwed it, gone too far. That flicker in your eyes, like a match trying not to catch.

But then you nod. Press your lips together.

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” He dips his gaze, cracks the tin again with a little grin and pretends to count. “Well, I’ve only got enough for like… four, five people?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s, it’s just for me.”

Figured.

The tin is strangely loud when he snaps it closed.

He slides one pill across the table between you. Halfway.

“If you wanna try it,” he gestures, “I’d start with a half dose.”

A beat.

Then: “When’s the last time you ate?”

You blink cutely, then shake your head.

“I don’t know—lunch, maybe?”

Eddie grins, bouncing off the armchair with a dramatic exhale.

“Then you, my friend, have arrived just in time for the gourmet portion of the evening.”

Another twitch of a smile from you—small, but real.

He jogs to the kitchen and comes back with a plateful of burnt pizza bagels.

“I was nine, okay?”

Your laughter spills over the rim of the Shasta can, teeth clicking softly against the metal. You wave your hand like it’s nothing, like the story isn’t objectively ridiculous—but your eyes are bright now, and you’re actually laughing, so he’s calling it a win.

“And you faked rabies.”

You nod, completely serious. “Chewed up an Alka-Seltzer. Full commitment.”

He barks a laugh.

“You’re a menace,” he grins, biting down on the skull on his ring finger. “How’d I not know you back then?”

“I dunno,” you shrug, sly smile on your tongue. “Maybe you were too busy lighting things on fire behind the gym.”

He blinks, surprised. So you do remember him.

“Hey. Only twice.” He grins, pointing.

You roll your eyes, still smiling, and settle deeper into the couch. Shoulders dropped, legs tucked.

He’s busy observing the way the streetlamp light flickers across your hair through the slatted blinds, when your gaze slides to the broken clock on the VCR.

Your smile falters.

“Shoot, what time is it?”

He squints at his wristwatch. “Uh, 9:30.”

Only a half hour ’til your little party. Your boyfriend, Andy Reynold’s party, to be exact.

Well, you never actually use the word ‘boyfriend,’ but you also can’t hold eye contact when you talk about him, either.

Not like it matters, anyway. He’s pretty sure that whole group—Carver, Reynolds, the rest of Hawkins High’s Letterman mafia—are just dating each other in one endless ego-loop.

He looks over to find that you’ve gone still again. Back to perching, hands in your lap.

“Okay, so I should…” Your eyes flit to the white dot on the table. “I should take it now, right? Just so it’s… y’know. Working by then?”

He straightens a little, blinking slow. Wonders what he should say. His head tilts just off-center, hair slipping into his face.

“I just…” you add, voice a little smaller. “I want you here when—if anything feels weird.”

That look. Wide-eyed. Bare.

He swallows.

“Yeah, if you…” Nods once. Then again. “Sure, okay.”

A pause.

“How long?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“How long ‘til it… works?”

He scratches the back of his neck, shrugging.

“Half an hour. Hour tops, depending on your stomach.”

You nod, steady now. Inhale. Exhale.

Then you reach for the whole tablet.

“Whoa, hey—” He stops you gently, a smile ghosting his lips.

Presses his nail into the heart and snaps it clean in two.

“Start with this,” Drops one into your palm, the other half still balanced in his hand. “See how it sits.”

You blink up at him one last time, then slip the pill past your lips.

He watches, brows arched—at the way your face scrunches at the chemical taste, the way you desperately chase it with soda.

“Yeah,” he mutters, lips twitching, “they don’t exactly make ‘em in cherry.”

Then he leans back, drumming idly against the armrest.

Thinks about the joint in his vest pocket, burning a hole through the denim.

His fingers twitch.

“Hey,” He looks up with a loud grin, “You know how to play UNO?”

Eddie notices it long before you do.

He clocks it between turns, glancing sideways from where he’s migrated—no longer in the armchair but slouched on the other end of the couch, more than a cushion’s width and a sprawl of half-played cards between you.

You’re still in the same spot, but something’s changed.

One arm hooked loosely around a throw pillow. Sweater sleeve slipping down your shoulder. Your head tilted just so, resting against the back cushion.

Not fully surrendered, but close.

He tosses a yellow 4 onto the pile, watching the way your eyes drift around his living room, catching on the clutter—the mugs, the hats, the crooked posters, the tiny army of miniatures marching across every shelf.

“Do you live here alone?”

“With my uncle,” he mutters, scratching the side of his neck, rings glinting dull under the light. “He’s working nights lately, though, so it’s just me.”

A pause, then:

“Uno.”

“What? Aw, c’mon—again?”

You giggle, pupils dark and stretched like spilled ink. You drop a green 4 on the pile, fingers a little slower than before.

“Gotta keep up, Munson.”

He watches you—openly now. A little shameless.

Thinks about how many people must look at you all the time.

But no one watches.

“Hey, uh,” he murmurs after a beat, “If that stuff starts kicking in soon, you might feel warm. Floaty. Or, like… hyperaware of everything?”

He crinkles the flimsy card edges in his palm.

“That’s normal. But if anything feels bad, you tell me. Kay?”

You blink, pursing your lips, then nod.

“Okay.”

He nods back. Pulls a new card from the deck. Doesn’t even look at it.

“I’m glad it’s you.”

He freezes, feeling something shift behind his ribs.

He blinks at the stack of cards in front of him, then glances up at you.

“Alright,” he grins defeatedly. “Your turn. Finish me off, Ms. Rabies.”

You haven’t said anything in a while.

But when he looks over, he notices warmth rising up your neck, blooming across your cheeks. And the sheen in your eyes—bright, glassy.

Yep. The E had you riding high now. Soft, euphoric, buzzing gently beneath the skin.

You sigh quietly.

“It’s kinda warm in here.”

“Yeah, that’s the stuff kicking in,” he murmurs, getting up. “One sec.”

Flicks on the small fan next to the TV and cracks the window behind the couch, letting in the early sounds of night—crickets, the whispers of dry grass, distant music from a trailer window. A dog barks.

An easy draft slithers in, and the curtains flutter like breath.

When he turns back around, you’re watching him, pupils blown so big they almost swallow the pool of your eyes.

That open, wide-eyed look.

“You’re really nice.”

He huffs out a smile, caught off guard. “I—uh. Thanks?”

“No, like…” You purse your lips, “You didn’t judge. Didn’t try to convince me or make it a thing. Just… let me be.”

He exhales, scratching at the back of his neck as he eases back down beside you. “Well, I think I’m like, the last person in Hawkins who gets to judge anyone else, so…”

Your head tilts—curious, genuine.

“Why?”

He blinks slow, leaning back a touch.

“Uhh,” Brows knit as he studies your earnest expression—not a hint of sarcasm in sight.

A cursory glance at your surroundings would more than suffice as an answer, yet your eyes are only fixed on him.

“I mean,” he shrugs, smiling, “I live in a glorified tin can with like, 200 mugs and a broken microwave? Been held back from graduating twice, so—”

He laughs.

“Not exactly in a position to judge.”

Your jaw shifts, tongue tracing the edge of your bottom lip in a slow drag.

Then you mutter, voice low and sticky:

"That’s the thing, though. You don’t pretend. Everyone else does."

You let out a soft breath, shaking your head and looking out through the half-open window.

“You don’t… put on a show. Not like me. I’m like, ninety percent fake smiles at this point.”

A soft pause. The dog barks again somewhere outside. A voice shouts faintly in the distance.

This time, when you look back at him, your smile is different.

“Plus, I like your mugs.” You shrug, eyes flitting over to the collection on the far side of the wall.

You lick your lips again.

“Here.” He clears his throat, and reaches for the glass of water on the table, still nearly full.

He swallows thickly as he watches you drink, like he’s the one with dry mouth.

After that, you go quiet again for a while.

The couch had you now—your spine curved, head tipped against the cushion as it swallows you whole. Eyes studying the ceiling, like the stucco texture is some kind of holy map only you can read.

And your fingers.

The way they drag along the edge of your jeans, catching and skating over seams. Trailing along the hem of your sweater, pluck at a little loose thread.

You twirl it between your fingers like it’s a secret, like it’s talking back.

And your face—fuck. That slow-bloom softness, lips parted just slightly, a tiny crease between your brows that comes and goes like a tide.

Eddie doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

Then you let out a soft hum, the faintest sound in the back of your throat.

He smiles, soft and unseen.

“Hey,” He whispers, cheeks pressed to his fist, blinking through the curtain of his hair. “You still with me?”

You hum again—low, distracted. Head still tipped upward.

Then:

“Your ceiling’s moving.”

He grins, relieved.

“Yeah? What’s it saying?”

You tilt your head toward him, pupils blown wide, smile lazy and dream-slanted.

“Dunno yet. But I think it likes me.”

He laughs, leaning back, and you giggle—so easy, effortless, like you weren’t fighting it anymore. And god, he liked hearing that. Could’ve kept feeding you lines just to keep it going.

He watches you breathe in, slow and even.

“I keep thinking about the sky,” you murmur suddenly. “Is that weird?”

He blinks. “Nah. The sky’s a solid topic.”

“No, but like… I feel like I’m inside the sky.” Your head rolls back against the cushion. “Like it’s in here now.” Your finger slides over to a spot on your chest, right above your heart.

His throat tightens a little. Watches your finger for a second longer than he should.

Then he shifts, folding his own hands over his lap, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling like he might be able to see through it too.

Then, after a long pause:

“I don’t want to go to the party tonight.”

Eddie blinks.

“Don’t think I’m ready to, you know… go there, with him.”

Him?

He doesn’t ask. Just tilts his head toward you, cheek pressing into scratchy fabric.

You're rubbing over that spot on your chest, frowning.

“I keep telling myself I should. Like it’s… the thing I’m supposed to do. Like it’d make me feel normal. Or good. Or something.”

You lower lip twitches.

“But I just keep feeling sick.”

You blink. Eyes glossy but steady.

“I dunno, I thought this stuff would make all that easier. Heard it was s’posed to make you… want, or whatever.”

It hits him, then, like a slow punch to the chest.

And he wants to say, That’s not what this is for. Or, You don’t need to be brave for something that isn’t right.

But you already know.

So when your eyes meet his again—searching, unsure—he just smiles.

“Then fuck him,” he shrugs, “And I mean that in the anti-literal sense.”

And it anchors something deep in him, the way you laugh in response—sharp through your nose, soft at the edges. A real smile creeping in as you look back up at the ceiling.

A long pause. Heavy in a good way.

Then, just barely audible:

“K.”

“C’mon, gorgeous, where are you…”

Eddie croons into a dusty stack of cassettes, shoved into a sagging cardboard box next to the TV. He’s crouched on his knees, elbows planted, brows furrowed—a man on a mission. The kind of mission that only makes sense when your skin’s still buzzing and you’ve got just enough time to chase the perfect song before the comedown sets in.

He flips through the collection, cracked plastic cases clicking under his touch, until his index finger lands on the one he’s been looking for—old, label half-peeled, probably dubbed over a dozen times.

“Yes. Found it,” he calls over his shoulder, triumphant, and jams it into his uncle’s battered boombox, pressing play.

The soft whir of the tape rewinding. A second of static crackle.

Then it begins, the first few notes drifting out slow, warm, and low. Deep guitar, hushed vocals—something from his secret stash of ‘not metal but still fucking magical.’

When he turns around, you’ve already slid off the couch and onto the floor, limbs flopped out, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

He smiles, dropping down right beside you, body parallel to yours. Joins your gaze on the ceiling and lets himself drift in the same space.

The song starts to weave around you like fog. Soft, sticky-sweet, old tape hiss woven between each note. Your arm feels close. Closer than before. The backs of your hands just shy of brushing where they lay side by side on the floor.

He lies like that for a while.

Listening to the hush and haze of the tape—warped edges, gentle warble, every note stitched with the soft static of time—and wonders what it sounds like to you.

If the music brushes your ribs like it does his,

If it stirs the same ache in your blood,

If it's drawing maps he’ll never get to see.

Then—he feels it.

The slightest twitch in your fingers. Just once. Barely anything. But his senses are lit up, stretched thin in that dreamy in-between state despite the fact that he’s completely sober, and somehow he knows.

Doesn’t see it, just feels.

Like a pulse. Then still again.

He keeps his hand exactly where it is. Palm to the ceiling, not reaching. Just open.

And then—

You move again.

Slow, like you’re thinking through every inch, crawling closer and closer.

The side of your hand brushes his, barely there, and then your pinky moves—climbing onto his thumb, curling over it tentatively, like a cat settling into a warm lap. Testing weight. Seeking stillness.

And then the rest of your fingers follow, one by one, slow as breath, until your hand settles against his—

Palm to palm, not laced together. Just touching.

His throat goes dry. Not in the holy-shit-she’s-touching-me kind of way. No, this isn’t a move.

This is you anchoring.

He shifts, just enough to clasp his fingers between yours. Fills in the gaps and settles.

You exhale.

And it sounds like relief.

He’s pretty sure he blacks out for a good minute or two.

Silence so thick it swallows the music and the steady hammer of his heart.

Then, a whisper—something like his name—floats up from beneath him.

Your fingers squeeze his, curling around the back of his hand.

“Is this okay?”

He turns his head—slow, drawn—to find you watching him. He barely nods, the rough carpet scratching his right ear, your hair tickling warmly against his cheek.

You roll a little closer, breaths mingling—shoulders press, knees graze.

The scent of floral hairspray, cherry lip gloss—all pretty and done up for the party you missed.

Then he realizes you’re staring at his lips.

Not subtly. Not accidentally.

Intense enough to burn a hole through him.

And before he can make a sound, you lean in.

And he—

He just lets you.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Just closes his eyes the second he feels your breath against his lips.

The kiss is almost chaste—barely there, a whisper of a thing—yet it sears behind his eyes like the afterimage of the sun. Bright. Burning. Eternal.

And he thinks it has to be you. The way you glow.

With your flushed cheeks and trembling hands and the ridiculous way your soul still shines through all your careful armor.

You pull back a second later, though it feels like hours, and exhale a small, stunned laugh against his lips, a happy little sigh that makes him want to die.

Or melt.

Or explode.

Or sink straight through the floor and burn alive in eternal damnation, because that’s where he’s falling—straight down.

Down through the cheap floorboards, through the cracked linoleum and worn carpet of his piece-of-shit trailer, straight to the molten core. Down, down, all the way to Nessus—the ninth layer— where the fire burns clean and nothing escapes the pull of its lord.

Fuck—he’s so far gone and he’s not even high on anything.

That thing writhes low in his stomach again, curling in on itself, and twists.

Inviting a pretty girl over to his place, late at night, for drugs she’s never even seen before. Kissing her on the dirty floor of his trailer, like he’s some cliché with bad intentions.

But then—

You open your eyes.

Long after he’s opened his.

And your smile—that quiet, blissed-out curve of it—sends something crashing through him.

Your head tips back against the carpet, your hair spilling like light around your shoulders.

You mumble something about how much you love this song, letting your eyes slip shut as you turn your head toward the ceiling.

He stares up at the rusty-white overhead of his trailer, and thinks about the sky.

It hits in small shifts.

Still soft, still close—but quieter. Only the low whir of the tape spinning in silence, long after the B-side’s ended.

He swallows. Scratches at his jaw.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice low, trying not to spook it.

You give him a delayed nod.

“Yeah. Just…” You trail off. Sigh through your nose. “Feels weird now.”

He nods.

“Yeah. That’s normal. It fades out kinda slow.”

He shifts onto his side, props himself up on one elbow.

Glances at his wrist—past midnight.

“It’s late, I could, uh…” He stands slowly, bones cracking like he’s twice his age. Offers you a hand. “If you want, I could drive you home. Or… wherever you’re going.”

“Home’s fine,” you say eventually, slipping your hand in his. “If that’s okay.”

“Sure.”

“I’ve got gum if you want it,” he calls out, moving to the clutter near the sink while you stretch out your limbs. “Helps with the jaw thing.”

The clock on the microwave’s still frozen—3:17.

You blink. “Jaw thing?”

“Some people clench while coming down. Not always, but… y’know. Just in case.”

You take the gum—spearmint, probably stale. He shrugs his jacket off the hook, and tosses you your bag.

Neither of you talk much on the drive.

He keeps glancing over, just to make sure you’re still breathing easy.

You stare out the window as streetlights flicker past, gold stripes cutting through the dark.

When he pulls up at your curb—headlights painting lazy arcs across your front walk—neither of you move to open the door.

Something crinkles beside him and he turns to watch you fish out a handful of bills from your sweater pocket, pushing them awkwardly across the console.

“For the…” You trail off, unable to meet his eyes.

He gives you a look. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, folding the bills gently back in your fist. “Consider it a… friend discount.”

A protest starts, then dies. You close your hand around the money and hold it until your knuckles grow white.

With one hand on the doorframe, you look back:

“Hey, Eddie?”

“Yeah?” He glances over, rings cutting into his fingers where he clutches the wheel.

“Thanks for…” You step back, hand sliding down the chipped paint and returning to your side. “Y’know.”

He grins, shooting you a wink.

“Anytime, Rabies.”

Back outside his trailer, Eddie stands in the patchy yard, head tipped back, the air thick with cut grass and trailer-park gasoline.

Above him, the sky drapes over him like velvet—deep indigo, a thousand pinhole stars clinging in wild clusters.

He stays like that for a while, jaw tight, hands in his pockets.

He stares up at the endless stretch of night, and thinks about you.

A/N: I had fun writing eddie for the first time! also went down a rabbit hole researching ecstasy + the 80s lol. lmk ur thoughts! comments and reblogs are always appreciated :)

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feralwritings · 4 months ago

Text

dissonance

part six

2.4k she's a shorty i'm sorry :(

Denver passes by without incident, without much exchanged between them. She doesn’t even go on stage during their set, and she’s better for it, considering the way Eddie is singing, brooding, furrowed eyebrows, muscle tee hanging off his frame, showing off his toned arms, the tattooed skin of his torso makes her mouth go dry, and she has to leave the side of the stage and go into their green room and press a chilled mini water bottle against her chest.

masterpost

taglist: @cam-peggio @mewchiili

see end of post for content warnings

Denver, Colorado

Surprise sex with Eddie came with a few consequences.

One, being fifty-six dollars and forty-three cents spent at the nearest CVS on Plan B, Gatorade and a bag of watermelon sour patch kids.

Two, some oddly shaped bruises, ones on her mid thighs, the shadow of a bite mark on her trapezius, among others.

Three, and most lingering, a complete inability to stop thinking about it.

She’d wake up, sweaty and needy in her bunk, phantom presses of lips haunting her. She’d be on stage and see him in the wings, and her hands would slip on the neck of her guitar. She’d walk past him in the narrow hall of a venue and smell his cologne and her knees would go weak.

She tried to chalk it up to loneliness - which is easy to do since she’s the only single one in the band. Just yesterday, she’d walked into the back lounge on the tour bus to find Nancy and Robin feverishly making out, hopped up on newlywed bliss.

If she wasn’t so oblivious, and if she didn’t have so much on her plate and hanging over her head, she would have probably noticed that Eddie was suffering too.

So hell bent on avoiding him, she hadn’t noticed the way his eyes followed her when she’d walk off stage, all sweaty and out of breath and smiling with the girls. She hadn’t noticed the way his knuckles would turn white against a clenched fist when he’d see her loading gear onto Daisy Chain’s bus, in plain clothes with her hair back, toned, tattooed arms flexing as she lifted the heavy amp. Or, when she was quietly humming to herself before a show, tuning her guitar, sitting cross legged on a Pelican case, entirely in her own world.

Simply put, it was torture for both of them, yet neither of them had approached the other with the intent to talk about it. Sure, their limited interactions had gone too polite, causing the members of both bands to exchange dubious and curious looks.

It’s untenable, utterly insufferable and it’s only a matter of time before one of them breaks. It’s a game with absolutely no rewards, and a performance that neither of them are going to be able to keep up for long.

It’s when they cross the border into Nebraska that she resolves herself to it being a one time thing - something they needed to get out of their systems, something he now regrets. Which is - which she doesn’t really know how to feel about it, doesn’t actually know if that’s how he really feels about the whole thing, about her; how can she, they haven’t really spoken since.

The air gets colder the further North they travel. Stepping off the tour bus sends goosebumps careening up her arms, and by the time they’re checked into the hotel and heading to the venue, her nose and cheeks are irritated from the biting chill, but it’s easy, somewhat, to fall into the same routine.

Set up, soundcheck, go back to the dressing rooms to get ready, listening to the growing roar of the crowd singing along to the pre-show playlist. She’s alone in the green room for a change, Nancy and Robin had gone to shower and Chrissy had wanted to get ready on the bus so she could facetime with her boyfriend back home.

This affords Reader a great deal of privacy, which she uses to her advantage for a while, traipsing around in her bra and panties. She’s just pulled her dress up past her hips and over her shoulders when the door opens to reveal Eddie, who looks distinctly like a deer in headlights when he realizes that he’s walked into the wrong green room.

“Sorry,” he manages to choke out, and she shrugs, twisting her shoulders to try and zip up her dress.

“It’s fine,” She says, straining a little, “Actually, can you- can you help me?”

It doesn’t seem to immediately register what she’s asking him to do, but once it does he nods, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him with a soft click, and soon, the sound of the zipper is the only thing that fills the room, besides his slightly ragged breathing on the back of her neck.

She catches his eye in the mirror, slightly in shadow from standing behind her and smiles softly, “Thanks.”

She makes to move away, but stops when she feels his hand curl around her hip.

Warmth radiates from the spot, sending pins and needles shooting across her skin. Though her body is reacting like this is new, the quick breath, the quicker heartbeat, her brain seems to know that this is achingly familiar, and she takes a half step back against him, her hand coming to cover his.

He presses himself behind her, winding his arms around her waist and pressing his face into her neck, pressing a long kiss there.

He watches in the mirror as her eyes slip closed, and she tilts her head to the side to allow him room, sighing softly in relief.

“What took you so long?” She asks, turning her head to look into his face. He uses the opportunity to kiss her, one hand snaking up her body to grab hold of her chin, keeping her there while he kisses her rather thoroughly, tongue slipping against hers.

“I dunno, just been…been thinking a lot about,” he says, in between kisses, “Salt Lake.”

“Mmm,” she hums, accepting another searing kiss, “What about it?”

Eddie tsks at her teasing cadence, tracing his fingers down her neck and along the smooth line of cleavage, before abandoning all pretense and shoving his hand underneath the fabric of her dress, past the cup of her bra so he could grab a handful of her tit, groaning softly at the way her nipple hardens against his palm.

“Been thinking about,” he mutters as he’s pressing rough kisses to every bit of skin he can reach, “How I didn’t get to have my way with you nearly as much as I wanted to.”

The show is in an hour. There’s not a lot of time, she’s not quite done getting ready, all of which she tells him between soft groans as he gathers the hem of her dress in his hand, pulling the tight fabric up her thighs.

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, running his hand along her clothed cunt, which has already gone puffy and wet from the few minutes he’s been touching her.

She moans, deep and guttural, and catches his eye in the mirror, faces pressed together, “Promise?”

“Scout’s honor, sweetheart,” he whispers against the shell of her ear, pressing a kiss there before delving his hand underneath her panties.

She gasps, her head falling back on his shoulder, exposing the pretty column of her neck even more, and he fixes his mouth to it, pressing even closer.

She’s so wet, which pleases him beyond belief. It’s amazing that with a few touches, a few kisses and some words that he can get her like this - falling apart in his arms, completely at his mercy. It’s a sensation that he’s growing increasingly addicted to, parts of his brain lighting up that never had before.

He rubs her clit in circles, quick and calculated as he whispers dirty little nothings into her ear.

“We - holy shit - we can’t fuck,” she warns him, “I’m not spending fifty bucks on Plan B again.”

”Wasn’t planning on it,” Eddie says, pressing a kiss to her temple, “And I’ll Venmo you.”

Her protests are lost in a surprised gasp as he turns her around to face him, bending to lift her onto the vanity,

Her dress has slipped off her shoulder enough so that more of her breast is exposed, and as he mouths along the soft flesh there, he tugs it the rest of the way down, along with her bra, looking up into her face through his lashes as he darts out an experimental tongue, barely flicking the sensitive bud.

She groans her approval, fingers twisting in his curls, and soon, he’s got both tits out, switching sides every couple of minutes before her nipples are hard, slick with spit and kiss bruised. She sighs, the back of her head bumping against the mirror as she lets it fall back, expression soft and open.

He drops to his knees in front of her, earning a surprised look as she gazes down at him. It takes her half a second to realize what’s about to happen, but once she does, her expression falls into desperate lines of need, her eyebrows furrowing and her lip jutting out in a small pout as she nods eagerly, brushing his hair out of his face,

He can’t really help himself when she looks at him like that, so he grabs her hips and helps her scoot forward, draping her legs over his shoulders for stability. He can feel her shivering a little, so he presses a kiss to the side of her knee, tracing his hands up her lush thighs, taking the hem of her dress with it until it’s bunched up around her hips.

Her thighs are pressing in on the side of his head, and he can’t bring himself to lose that feeling to pull her panties off, even for a second, so he moves them to the side enough to allow him room, before diving in and wrapping his lips around her clit.

She covers her mouth to stifle the groan that falls from it, eyes fluttering shut as her heels dig into his back and as her free hand grazes through his hair, nails dragging bluntly across his scalp.

He keeps going, dragging the flat of his tongue through her folds over and over again, watching through his eyelashes as her chest heaves, a fine mist of sweat making her skin shine under the lights of the vanity as her eyelashes flutter against her cheek. She’s so pretty, so soft and warm in his arms that it feels a little overwhelming, sticking in his chest so he closes his eyes, gathering her hips in his hands and pulling her impossibly closer and doubling down on his efforts, one hand sliding from her hip, down the expanse of her thigh and working itself between her legs before he’s slipping a finger inside.

Her foot kicks in surprise at the feeling, but as he’s pulling away apologetically, she fusses, her hand darting between them to close around his wrist and pulling it back where she wants it, and he huffs out a laugh into her thigh before curling two fingers inside, biting his lip when her cunt flutters around his fingers in reactivity, bending back down to pulse his tongue against her clit.

The hour is waning to a close, and the lights above flicker rapidly a few times to indicate that they have ten minutes until curtain call, and she hisses out an expletive and urges him to go harder, faster, and so he does, the tendons in his forearms flexing with the effort, and just as an ache is blooming in his wrist she’s slamming her own hand over her mouth to stifle the near-scream that falls from it, her free hand digging into his shoulder and twisting in his shirt as she comes.

He stands on sore knees and tugs her dress back down her thighs and generally helps to put her somewhat right, and she’s giggling a little stupidly as he adjusts her bra strap for her, and he really can’t help but smile at the way she gets a little touch-drunk. It’s a way he’s not used to seeing her, vulnerable and unencumbered by insecurity, and he’s finding that he wants to see more and more of it, of her, as much as she’ll let him.

“You son of a bitch,” she croaks, tugging her hair off her neck and into a low bun at the base of her head, “I have to go sing now, and my voice is completely wrecked and it’s completely your fault-”

He shuts her up with a kiss, one that she melts into, and her fingers are skimming the buckle of his belt before the lights flash around them again and she sighs against his mouth, letting her forehead fall against his cheek.

“I have to go,” She whispers, slipping off of the vanity and standing on tiptoe to press a quick kiss to his mouth before rushing towards the door.

She glances over her shoulder, “Come find me later, yeah?”

And he does.

By midnight that night, he’s been inside her once more, and is dozing off with his head on her bare breast in the back lounge of his bus, the door locked even though the members of both bands went out drinking without really noticing that their lead singers weren’t there.

They have a few hours, at least, to rest but she only gets an hour or so of sleep in before her body, ridden with that old anxiety pulls her into wakefulness. Even in sleep he’s wrapped around her, and it takes a great deal of effort to extricate herself from him, easing him back down onto the couch and adjusting a pillow under his head and a blanket around his shoulders before she goes about finding her clothes.

He’s still asleep by the time she’s dressed, and she’s half tempted to wake him to say goodnight, but he looks so peaceful, and she knows that he would ask her not to go, that she could stay, that they wouldn’t know, or if they knew they wouldn’t care-

But she cares. So, she presses a kiss to his cheek and takes her leave, making the journey from his bus to hers, slinking into a shower and then into bed. Her bunk feels distinctly cold, and she does too, so she cuddles up to her pillow and closes her eyes, chasing down sleep once again.

warnings: nipple play, cunnilingus, implied unprotected sex (please wrap it y'all)

#my fic: dissonance #bandfic #Eddie Munson x reader #whatever there is more to come I've been working a full ass time job and buck and Eddie have been taking up every braincell that I possess #but this has been sitting somewhat finished forever so I'm just like. mmkay #I think im gonna hang up my autism on a shelf cause its preventing me from writing lol #jk #unless....

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