probablyin-bed

[probablyin-bed]

pretty :'(

you ever see a man so fine you just wanna bite him out of sheer survival instinct???

[probablyin-bed]

omg. the second I step outside I can't get a moment of peace from these bugs, IK IM SWEET BUT JEEZ ! Cut me a break !!!

[probablyin-bed]

this made me start sweating

if steve was real i’d be sucking that dick all damn day long, i don’t even need any favors back. just want that cock down my throat and make out with it

[probablyin-bed]

the yummiest

his hair has honestly never looked better wtf he looks like a luscious princess

[probablyin-bed]

A tale of heartbreak, love and hope told over the seasons.

This will be two parts 🫶 first up is winter and spring. ❄️ 🌼

Winter 1986

Eddie announces he has a girlfriend right after the Hellfire Club's last session before Christmas. It's a shock to everyone but most of all you, he never mentioned meeting anyone.

Turns out it's Chrissy, they trauma bonded over what happened during spring break in March and have recently gotten together. She's great, she's perfect he gushes to the rest of the group while you sit in the corner and plaster a smile on your face as he waxes lyrical about his new love.

Tonight was the night you would tell Eddie about your feelings for him, but that seemed impossible now, right? It was better to keep your mouth shut and bottle up these feelings once again. Hell, you'd been doing it for years, what was a little while longer right?

Nobody knew how you felt, so you grieved the loss of what might have been in private, you tell yourself Eddie isn't worth this pain, and you're better off without him. But that isn't true. He's still your best friend, his usual confident, dramatic self that makes you laugh until your stomach hurts and knows your favourite movies in alphabetical order.

So you tell yourself to suck it up and get over it.

That winter is full of heartbreak and pain, you don't see Eddie much, in fact he seems caught up in his new girlfriend but you guess that's what happens in the first flush of a new relationship; even if you would never do that to him.

It hurts but in the end, you feel stronger for it.

Spring 1987

You're not fully over Eddie by the season change but you're better than before. Eddie is hanging out more after a winter of rare visits, and things feel normal, even if you are mad he just up and ditched you when he got with Chrissy, and you tell him so and don't speak to him for nearly a week, he finds a way to squirrel back in your good books..

So your friendship is restored, and yeah, it hurts when he mentions Chrissy, but you ignore it and focus on the bright spots in your life.

You're working at Family Video with Steve and Robin who you've become super close to. Being with them helps ease your heartache bit by bit.

Steve found a copy of The Lord of the Rings that you didn't have in a bookstore just outside of Hawkins and it takes pride of place on your shelf.

Eddie takes you on a day trip to a local comic convention, it's just the two of you and you nerd out more than once over your various interests, spend a little too much on fantasy books and knick-knacks but your heart only skips a beat once in Eddie's presence... Okay twice but that's it.

Maybe you're finally healing.

Summer is on the horizon and even though you're more of an autumn lover at heart, you can't deny the pull of lazy picnics with friends, summer movie nights at the new drive-in theatre and eating a ton of ice cream until you're sick of it.

Just before the start of summer, you meet Matt. He's a surfer from Cali and he's on holiday in Hawkins of all places. He's cute and is all blonde hair, blue eyes, the opposite of Eddie and your usual type, but you don't mind. Your usual type just brings heartache and unrequited feelings so change is good.

There's a thunderstorm on the horizon on the day Matt meets Eddie, and you bring him to Hellfire because Matt seemed interested in it. The guys are cool, Erica couldn't care less but it's Eddie whose reaction made you furious.

He's snappy and irritable, barely talks to you, and there's this whole tension between Matt and him. Frankly you're not interested in a pissing contest and find yourself glad when the meeting is over because after it you confront Eddie.

The two of you argue, and Eddie says Matt isn't good enough for you, he's a player, he's a Jason Carver clone "Really? This guy?" He scoffs. It's so rude and mean because you could ask him, really, Chrissy? But you don't because she's actually quite sweet and she's been nothing but nice to you on the rare occasions you have seen her.

The argument ends when you leave frustrated and teary because what the heck is his problem? Okay, Matt was a little bit touchy-feely, but he was super into the game too. Eddie is just... Ugh.

The two of you don't talk for the rest of the month.

✨

[probablyin-bed]

don't even fucking tell me he stage dove

[probablyin-bed]

Eddie Munson is a touchy boyfriend...

A/N: Have a draft while I study for an exam. Can't write until after Thursday, must satisfy my "pleasure to have in class" itch by getting a good grade. Lil update.

He always grabs your hand when crossing the street. Or if you’re walking up to the crosswalk, he’ll grab your hand as if you’re about to run into oncoming traffic. 

You used to get annoyed because you thought that’s what he was thinking. As if you weren’t aware you should stop and look both ways. But then you quickly realized he does it because he wants to feel in control in times of stress—even if it’s something as mundane as crossing the street. It could still be dangerous and he needs to be touching you at all times—just to be sure that you’re with him. 

He’s the type of boyfriend to guide you in a crowd. He’ll cup his hand possessively on the back of your neck, gently guiding you in front of him to, walking you through the crowd. This is his preferred method so he knows where you are at all times and he can make sure you two don’t get separated. 

If he can’t push you to the front, he’ll take your hand and pull you behind him as he leads the way, dodging people and sweaty bodies. He doesn’t prefer just dragging you behind him because he doesn’t like not being able to see you or what may or may not be happening to you behind him. Like if some drunk guy gets in your way or somebody doesn’t see your connected hands and tries to cut through the two of you. 

He’s also not a fan of having you behind him because he misses you, as silly as that sounds. He’s always aware of you and your whereabouts when you share the same space, but he likes to see you. He likes to walk with you, or have you in front. He doesn’t like the optics of you behind him either. He’d much prefer people seeing you as equals or even as you leading the way. After all, you do run his show. He’ll do anything for you.

The other option he likes is to hold onto the hem of your shirt as you walk in front of him, almost like a little leash to keep you near him. Not because you’re his pet or less than, but because you get a little flighty when you have a few too many. He likes to make sure he’s got his girl within his grasp, and he doesn’t want you to feel suffocated by him. It also helps for when you’re feeling overwhelmed and don’t want to be touched—he can still hold onto you, and you can still feel free.  

He also loves to pat your butt. 

He does it at least 7 times a day. When you get up from the booth, making to purchase the next round of drinks for him, Steve, Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan, he’ll help you up before giving you his wallet and a soft double pat as you turn around to head to the bar. It’s like a silent ‘I love you’ or ‘I see you’. 

He does it in the kitchen too, when you’re putting together dinner and he’s standing about, freshly home from work and listening to you talk about your day. 

He slowly drags his quietly hungry gaze down your body as you mindlessly prattle on, stepping back and forth between the kitchen counters, preparing ingredients. 

When you sidle up next to where he’s leaning, your eyes on the cutting board, gathering chopped vegetables to throw into the pot, he can’t help himself. You look so pretty, just like a little housewife—all for him. He lets his arms drop from their semi-permanent position crossed over his chest as he turns toward you, his side now leaning into the counter. His large palm slips down your body until it lands on the curve of your ass, giving you a firm two taps, but he won’t stop there. 

You’re in the comfort of your own home—he doesn’t have to limit his affection. He lets his palm linger on your cheeks, kneading and giving a few harsh, groping squeezes, admiring your teasing smile and the way you don’t stop talking. He loves that he’s gotten you so used to his touch, his hands always wandering your body.

Masterlist

[probablyin-bed]

Walking home with Eddie at night, you’ve both got the sillies and suddenly a talkative kitty crosses your path. As you coo and awe over your new friend, eddie crouches down, leans his head in, and listens intently to the meows.

“Well hello! Hmmm? What’s that? Oh yes, you can have it.” As he dutifully hands the cat his wallet.

[probablyin-bed]

if there's 1 thing a bug has it's the fucking audacity

[probablyin-bed]

this was perfect

Tomato Soup Girl

Synopsis: Eddie is impulsive and touch-starved. You are shy and suffer from severe touching anxiety. You two are not meant to meet…BUT. You love tomato soup. Eddie does too. A fight for the last can ends up changing your life forever.

Where is it? Where is it?

Your shoes squeaked as you speed-walked down the narrow aisle in the convenience store, eyes scanning each shelf. Canned goods, canned goods, where—there. You spot it.

The last can of tomato soup.

You all but sprinted, your breath catching in a thrill of victory. Only a few more steps and it’d be yours. The red label glistened. Your hand reached forward—

Another hand touched it at the exact same time. You whipped your head to the side, your fingers tightening around the can. He was tall. Messy curls. Torn denim vest. Rings on his fingers. A smirk on his lips.

Eddie Munson.

You knew of him—most people in Hawkins did. He looked down at your hand on the can, then back at you.

“Well, well,” he said with a grin. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a standoff.” He mock-drew an imaginary pistol from his hip and clicked his tongue. “High noon, aisle three.”

You blinked at him. It didn’t make you laugh. Your grip tightened around the can.

He squinted theatrically, then leant in just slightly. “You look like a woman who takes her soup very seriously.”

“I do,” you confirmed a little too fast, too breathy. Panic flit in your chest like a moth. What’s gotten into you? Why are you talking? But more importantly, why is he still holding the can?

Eddie arched a quizzical brow at you. “Tomato soup. Excellent choice. Fit for the most delicate of palates.”

He wanted to sound funny. Maybe he was.

You weren’t sure what was funny anymore.

You tried to reach for the can once more, but he held it up. You gulped. Was this a fight? Were you seriously gonna fight over a can of tomato soup? You hadn’t fought anyone for anything since second grade—and that had only been a crayon. You had absolutely no combat training other than the occasional sales-attracted moms during price reductions periods…

“I just…” You glanced at the can, then back up at him, heartbeat starting to race. “I need it.”

He smiled. “Yeah. I see that. But see the problem here is…my hand was on it first.”

You didn’t want to abandon your precious. You unexpectedly grabbed the can, yanked it down and right out of his hands. He let go with a surprised chuckle, raising his hands in surrender. You cradled it against your chest, like it was a newborn baby and Eddie Munson was a raccoon who might try to take it away from you.

“Damn,” he exclaimed, tilting his head curiously. “You must really like soup.”

You gave a weak nod, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere behind his left shoulder. It was too much—his voice, the attention, the embarrassment heating your face like someone just lit a match behind your ears.

“I—I might have a problem.” You finally confessed.

He laughed—genuinely amused. “Right. Like…an addiction?”

You shrugged. He understood.

“I respect that. Tomato soup girl.” He stepped back with a theatrical bow. “I’ll let you have this one. Clearly—you need it more than me.”

You clutched the can tighter. “Thank you,” you mumbled.

He squinted again. “Didn’t catch that.”

“…Thank you,” you said louder, eyes finally flicking up to meet his.

Eddie laughed again. “Okay. You’re priceless. And I’m Eddie by the way. In case you were too focused on the soup to catch my name.”

He extended a hand. You didn’t take it. You only nodded slowly, unsure what to say, heart still thudding.

He backed away slowly with a wink and a lopsided grin. “Okay. I get it. No touching the soup girl. Welp. See you around.”

You watched him go. Then looked down at the can in your hands with a small smile.

Worth it.

…

A few days later

You shouldn’t have come to the store today.

But the craving hit again like it always did—warm, savory, nostalgic comfort in a can. Tomato soup wasn’t just a meal; it was a ritual. Something about it filled a space in you nothing else quite can. And you’d hoped, hoped, that today would be different. That he wouldn’t be here. That you’d just grab your can, pay, and disappear.

But fate has a sick sense of humor.

Because Eddie Munson was here again.

You spot him near the freezers. You ducked your head instinctively, pretending to study the side of a cereal box with the intensity of a nuclear physicist. Your fingers twitched around your basket and tried to reason with yourself. He’d probably forgotten about you.

Still, your entire body coiled tight like a spring. You kept your shoulders small, your steps quiet, movements cautious. You didn’t even go straight to the soup aisle. You stalled in baking goods. Pet food. Feminine hygiene. Anything to avoid—

“Hey there, Soup Girl.”

You froze. You didn’t even have to look to know it was him. You turned slowly, every cell in your body screaming to bolt. But it was too late. He was already beside you, holding a pack of microwave pizza and giving you that signature crooked grin.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.” He rocked back on his heels. “I was beginning to think you only appeared when the soup shelf was down to its last breath. Like a sorta soup leprechaun.”

You tried to force a smile, but it landed somewhere between a wince and a grimace. “Hi.”

He tilted his head slightly, smile faltering as his eyes narrowed. The way you were hunched slightly, shoulders pulled in like you were trying to disappear. The way your eyes flicked around the store, always moving, never landing. The way you were holding your basket with both hands like it was a shield. You could feel him watching you. It made your stomach twist. Great. Someone else to take you for a freak…

But then, he did something unexpected.

“…You alright?” he asked—genuine concern in his voice.

You nodded automatically. “Yeah. Just—tired.”

He didn’t push. Just nodded slowly. “Yeah. Been there.”

You didn’t know what to say. He didn’t either, apparently, because for a second he just stood there. Why were you finding yourself in another awkward situation?

“I gotta be honest,” he finally spoke up, scratching the back of his neck, “I wasn’t expecting to meet someone as intense about tomato soup. I’ve been thinking about that can battle all week.”

Your mouth twitched and some inner demon forced you to speak up. “I won.”

He blinked and you did too. Why did you say that? What evil spirit possessed you to sound like a bratty kid who had just won a game of marbles?

You were about to apologise when Eddie gasped in mock betrayal—one hand landing dramatically over his heart. “You stole it. Robbed me blind in broad daylight. I should’ve called the police. But they’d probably take your side, huh?”

You nodded, letting your lips curl just a little. “I have soup immunity.” Okay. You really should stop talking now. Nobody wanted to talk about soup. Nobody cared about soup.

Eddie smiled again, and it was different this time. He seemed to be enjoying the conversation immensely.

“Hey,” he continued after a moment, “I was actually thinking…maybe next time, you and me split a can. I’ll bring the paprika, you bring the grilled cheese.”

You blinked. That was unexpected. But what happened next was even more unexpected. Your laugh escaped before you could stop it. It surprised you greatly, the sound. You weren’t supposed to laugh. Not here. Not now. But something about the offer—ridiculous and small and oddly kind—settled in your ribs like warmth from a stove. Eddie’s face lit up like he had just unlocked a secret level in a video game. But he didn’t lean in, didn’t crowd you.

Then, after a beat, he stepped back and winked. “I’ll be around. Same aisle. Just in case you’d want to…I dunno. Talk for a bit.”

You didn’t say anything. But you still smiled a little when he turned around to leave. It seemed like Eddie Munson had infected you somehow…

A few minutes later

You told him you wanted to apologise for the tomato soup incident. He insisted that there was no problem, but you were hella stubborn when your wanted to be…So he ended up accompanying you back home.

Once inside, you realised that he was incapable of staying still for more than a few minutes. He looked and touched everything. He ran his fingers over a chipped lamp, picked up a crooked pen, flipped through a half-finished notebook, like he was reading your life in fragments. He wanted to say something nice but…your place was a junkyard.

And he lived in a trailer.

He opened your cupboard and huffed a laugh.

Soup. Sooo much soup.

He took one out and smiled. He then realised that you had dated all of them with the exact day of purchase. If he was a freak, then you should be given the crown. He shook his head and then saw one on the counter…

Well well well. What do we have here? Why did that one deserve special treatment from her sisters? He looked at it and his eyes widened slightly when he saw that there was no date on that one. Just a name. His.

You returned at that moment with two glasses of juice and found him with the can you had purchased the day you both met. You opened your mouth to say something but, you then realized that there was nothing to justify. You just wanted to remember that day. There was no shame in it. You had made a friend. You wanted to remember that.

Eddie looked back at you and smiled.

“Hey, Soup Girl. Wanna share that one?”

Your blinked before smiling back.

Yeah. He knew…

…

The soup bowls were warm between your palms, radiating a comforting heat that curled around your fingers. You sat at opposite ends of the couch, a shared can split evenly, steam rising between you like a peace treaty. Eddie didn’t talk much at first. Neither did you. But it wasn’t awkward. Just…quiet. He seemed to belong here, in a strange way. Sprawled out on your old secondhand couch like it was made for him, legs wide, shoulders loose. His spoon clinked gently against the ceramic bowl every so often.

Then it happened.

You both reached for the salt at the same time.

Fingers brushed. Just for a second.

But your body betrayed you. A small, instinctive flinch—shoulders twitching back, breath catching in your throat like a hiccup. You hadn’t meant to react. It wasn’t even a bad touch. It wasn’t bad at all. That was the worst part. Eddie noticed immediately. His hand froze, then withdrew slowly, carefully, as if he were pulling it back from the edge of a cliff.

“…You good?”

You stared down into your soup for a second, your spoon barely moving. Your pulse thumped in your ears. You hated this part—the freeze, the fear, the way your mind tugged in two directions like a fraying rope.

You took a breath.

“I just…” you started, voice low. “I don’t like being touched.”

You braced yourself for something—a laugh, a joke, a change in his face. But Eddie didn’t do any of those things. He just blinked. Absorbed it. Then he smiled.

“Cool,” he commented simply, with a little nod. “Then I won’t touch you unless you say I can.”

A beat passed. Then another. And then, with the kind of grin that made you suspicious of its owner’s brain-to-mouth filter, he added, “But I will say—you’re missing out. I give a mean hug. Like, award-winning. I was robbed of a title once. Rigged competition. Big scandal. Whole town talked about it.”

You let out a breath that might’ve been the beginning of a laugh. Your lips curved, just barely. Not ready. Not fully. But something inside you warmed. Not just from the soup.

“Mm,” you hummed, spoon hovering over your bowl. “I’ll add that to the list of things I’ve missed out on.”

Eddie didn’t press. Didn’t scoot closer. Just smiled, as if your smile was something rare and he didn’t want to scare it off. You ate the rest of your soup in silence. But this time, it felt like sharing something. Even if it wasn’t a hug.

Not yet. Maybe someday.

“Hey,” Eddie said and snapped you out of your thoughts, suddenly rubbing the back of his neck. “Would it be…weird if I came back sometime? You know. Just to hang. Talk. Share soup and stuff.”

You blinked at him. The question was casual, but something behind it wasn’t. You felt it. That tiny fear of being too much. Or not enough.

You nodded with a smile. “Anytime.”

He grinned like you’d handed him the moon. What you didn’t expect was for ‘anytime’ to mean literally every night after that…By the third evening, you opened the door to find him holding two grocery bags like he was ready to pitch a tent and declare squatter’s rights, you just stared.

And accepted your fate.

You couldn’t possibly throw him out when the squatter in question was beaming at you and greeting you at the door with a: “Soup challenge night, baby.”

You blinked. “…Soup what now?”

Eddie pushed past you and plopped the bags on the counter. “I hit every grocery store in a ten-mile radius. We are ranking every soup flavour and brand I could find. This one’s organic. This one’s not. This one says ‘homestyle’ and I think that’s a trap.”

You looked at the cans in disbelief. “How many did you buy?”

He grinned at you. “Enough to question my life choices, not enough to regret them.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself and began heating the first can. He handed you a notepad and four categories scrawled across the top in his messy, looping handwriting:

1. Vibe

2. Slurpability

3. Emotional Damage

4. Soup-to-Soul Ratio

You glanced at him sideways. “Emotional damage?”

He shrugged. “Some soups just hurt, man.”

And so began the nightly ritual. Each night, a new soup. A new score. A new round of Eddie’s ridiculous, heartfelt commentary (“This one tastes like getting stood up at prom but making friends with the janitor instead”), and your increasingly sarcastic but secretly delighted responses. It seemed he was rubbing off his confidence on you as you started being more and more comfortable around him. At first, he always sat on the opposite end of the couch. Always gave you space. But over time, the gap shrank by inches, then not at all. Still no touching. Never without permission. But the nearness wasn’t scary anymore. It was warm. Familiar.

Somewhere between can #8 and #12, you caught yourself laughing so hard you had to put the spoon down. You looked over and saw him watching you. And for the first time in a long time, you realized something:

You liked him. A lot. That man had just barged into your life unexpectedly and had little by little became a part of your daily life…

Even if he was Eddie Munson. Maybe especially because he was Eddie Munson…

…

It started as nothing.

Just a quick trip to the store. You and Eddie, as usual. He was still riding high off last night’s soup ranking—had made you watch him act out a dramatic Oscar speech for Best Supporting Broth. You’d laughed until your stomach hurt. You were now in the canned aisle again, when someone called out.

“Munson!”

Eddie turned, his arm brushing yours. A guy walked towards you—someone around your age, all smirk and swagger, holding a six-pack and dressed like he knew people would look. You didn’t recognize him, but the familiarity in his eyes when he looked at Eddie made your chest tighten.

“Didn’t know you got yourself a girlfriend, man,” the guy teased, eyeing you like you were part of the punchline. “She the reason you keep buying soup like it’s the apocalypse?”

You froze. Your palms began to sweat. You tried to keep your expression neutral, but it always betrayed you when it mattered most. Before you could answer—before Eddie could say a thing—the guy stepped forward and, in what he probably thought was good humor, slung an arm around your shoulders.

“What did you do to him, huh?” he said with a mock-pout before smirking. “What’s your secret, huh? Witchcraft? Now Eddie seems to be attached to your hip 24/7.”

It was like your whole body locked up. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

Too close. Too sudden. Too much.

The air left your lungs. Then, just as quickly, the weight lifted. Eddie had peeled the guy’s arm off you without raising his voice, but with a grip that said he absolutely could. His body was suddenly between you and the other guy.

“Hey,” Eddie started, tone casual but steel-laced. “Let’s not touch people who didn’t ask to be touched, yeah?”

The guy blinked. Laughed like he wasn’t sure whether it was still a joke. “Relax, man. I was just kidding—”

“Yeah,” Eddie interrupted, smile gone. “She’s not laughing.”

Eddie didn’t look back at you, didn’t make a show of checking on you. He just held his ground. The guy backed off with a shrug, mumbling something about people being too sensitive these days, and wandered off.

Eddie turned then and looked at you. His expression was soft with concern. “You okay?”

You managed a nod.

He let out a small breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Okay. Good. Because that guy? He can bite it.”

You smiled faintly, trying to shake off the tremor in your chest.

“Sorry,” you muttered.

Eddie tilted his head, frowning like you’d just said something in another language. “What are you apologizing for? Being uncomfortable when someone touches you without permission? That’s not a you problem, Soup Girl.”

You looked at him and for the first time, you didn’t feel embarrassed for needing space.

Because he’d protected it.

Without turning it into a scene.

Without turning you into a victim.

Just…stood up for you. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Eddie gave a sheepish little shrug. “No one messes with my soup girl. Besides me.”

And somehow, that made you laugh again—small, breathy, real. The trip ended with him insisting you pick out two cans today. The car ride home was quiet. Not awkward. Just filled with that kind of electric silence that buzzed under the skin. And then, your mouth worked before your mind could truly process it.

“You can stay the night, if you want.”

You didn’t even look at him when you said it. Just gripped the wheel a little tighter and tried to pretend you hadn’t felt your own heart skip. You expected hesitation. A polite no. A joke, maybe. But instead—

“Yeah,” Eddie replied, like it was obvious. “I’d like that.”

He was trying to play it cool—but his knee kept bouncing, bobbing up and down with restless joy. His fingers drummed against his thigh in rhythm, and every few seconds he snuck a glance at you.

You didn’t look back. But you felt it.

One corner of your mouth curled.

It was ridiculous, really. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t a date. It was just…dinner and maybe a movie. But you could tell, by the way he bounced like a restless kid, that this meant something to him.

And, okay, maybe it meant something to you too.

…

By the time you pulled up to your place, Eddie had tried to tone it down, smoothing his palms over his jeans and muttering to himself under his breath like he was giving himself a pep talk. You unlocked the door and he followed you in, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes immediately darting around like he was trying to take mental pictures of everything again. Like your weird soup-stocked home had become his favorite museum exhibit.

“You sure you’re cool with this? Like—me crashing here? I don’t snore, but I do occasionally sleep-talk about dragons. Fair warning.”

You raised a brow. “You sleep-talk?”

He chuckled awkwardly. “Only the important stuff. Soup recipes. Black Sabbath lyrics. Once I did a monologue from The Lord of the Rings in my sleep. My uncle taped it. He was disturbed.”

You snorted. “I’ve survived worse.”

He smiled—wide, a little crooked, a little stunned. “I can sleep on the couch. It looks amazing. Real comfy.”

You hesitated for half a beat as you looked at the couch which would obviously be too small for him to be truly comfortable. “You can sleep in my room if you want.”

Eddie blinked. “Wait. I get your room?”

You shrugged. “We can share. You’ve been nothing but respectful. I trust you.”

You went to grab extra blankets, and he wandered into your room like it was holy ground, careful not to touch anything for more than a second. He sat on the edge of your bed like it was made of glass. Then, a moment later, he flopped back with a groan and mumbled toward the ceiling:

“Sleeping at Soup Girl’s house. In her bed. With her.” He smiled. “Metal.”

A few minutes later

You hadn’t meant to walk in like that. You were just bringing him extra blankets and a spare shirt—something soft and oversized from the back of your drawer. But as you stepped in and looked up—

You stopped.

Eddie was standing near the bed, shirtless, backlit by the low glow of your bedside lamp. The room felt impossibly small, and he felt impossibly present in it. His skin was pale, scattered with freckles and ink, tattoos sprawled across his chest and arms. There was a mess of scribbles—flames, skulls, various creatures and a tiny dice—and lines of script you couldn’t read from here. His jeans rode low on his hips, exposing the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband.

Your breath caught.

You slapped a hand over your eyes on instinct. “Oh—shit. Sorry, I didn’t—”

Your voice died. Because his hand gently reached for yours. Eddie didn’t pull. He didn’t force. Just touched, asked, wordlessly, with the pads of his fingers against your knuckles. Light. Careful. You didn’t back away and slowly he removed your hand from your eyes. He was giving you permission to look. After a moment, you did. Your eyes danced over his chest and you held back a gasp. He knew that you were admiring. He could see it in your eyes. That small spark of light. He slowly interlaced his fingers with yours, and your breath hitched. Then, without a word, he lifted your joined hands—guiding yours to rest against his bare chest.

You felt the heat of him. The rhythm beneath your palm. A steady heartbeat. Real. Alive. And even then, he didn’t speak. He just covered your trembling hand with his own— anchoring, comforting—and let you stay there. Let you choose. You stared at the tattoos on his chest instead of his eyes. Your lashes fluttered, your breath uneven. His ink looked like stories carved into skin. There was so much of him. Too much. Too close. And yet—

You weren’t afraid of him. His thumb brushed yours gently. He did not urge you. If you wanted more, you could. If you didn’t, same thing really. He was already enjoying your curious gaze on him. It was like trying to reassure a timid fawn on the side of the road to come along. And then, he leaned forward. Close enough to press the lightest kiss against your cheek.

You stiffened. Froze. But you still didn’t pull away.

Eddie chuckled, voice soft and warm near your ear. “Hey. It’s okay,” he murmured, his lips just barely brushing your skin. “I promise I’m not gonna bite. Aaaand I got all my shots. Swear.”

You laughed. A shaky, breathy sound. You weren’t ready for more. And he didn’t ask for it. But you stayed. Hand to his heart. His hand over yours. Two people standing in the quiet, in the soft glow of lamp light, in a room that was starting to feel a little less yours, and a little more like both of yours.

…

An hour later…

Your back was to him. His was half-turned, one arm under the pillow, the other curled up near his chest. The tension of earlier had faded, replaced by something sleepier. Softer. Like exhaling after a long, hard day.

You thought he might’ve fallen asleep.

Until you heard his voice.

“…Y’know, I’ve never actually done this before.”

You blinked at the ceiling. “Done what?”

He hesitated. You could almost feel the sheepish grin before he said it. “A sleepover. With a girl.”

You smiled into your pillow. “Seriously?”

“Seriously seriously.” He shifted a little. “Like, not the kind where there’s kissing and making out and then everyone leaves before breakfast. I mean…this.”

You turned slightly, just enough to peek over your shoulder. He was staring up at the ceiling now, hair a messy halo, one leg half-kicked free from the blanket.

“I never stayed,” he murmured. “And no one ever asked me to.”

You swallowed. Something about that hit deeper than you expected. “You can stay as long as you want. I already made it clear that I do not mind your presence. You are like my…forever guest.”

He turned his head just enough to look at you. You couldn’t see much in the dark—just the shape of him, the curve of his nose, the glint of his eye. But you felt the weight of his gaze.

“Yeah,” he whispered with a smile. “Guess I am.”

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then his voice again, a little quieter. “Thanks. For letting me stay.”

Your voice cracked a little, soft with sincerity. “Thanks for staying.”

He smiled. And after a moment, he asked, “Can I like…scoot a little closer?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”

So he did. Just enough for his knee to lightly bump yours beneath the blanket. He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t try to make it more.

But you felt it. That warmth again. That silent comfort. And in the hush of the night, you fell asleep next to Eddie Munson—feeling, for once, like maybe letting someone in wouldn’t be so bad.

In the morning

You blinked a few times when the sun hit your eyes. The room was still. And then you noticed it. Eddie’s breathing. Slow. Even. Close. You turned your head and found him lying on his side, facing you. His mouth slightly open, lashes dark against his cheekbones, curls tangled over his forehead. One hand had snuck out from the blanket and rested near yours, close but not quite touching—like he’d reached out in his sleep, then stopped just short.

You didn’t want to move. But you must’ve shifted, because a moment later his nose twitched. His brow furrowed just a little—scrunching like he was confused about waking up. And then, his eyes cracked open.

Sleepy. Brown. Soft. Chocolate buttons…

“…Hey,” he rasped, voice low and hoarse with sleep. “Still here.”

You smiled, voice barely above a whisper as you replied. “I noticed.”

He gave a sleepy grin, slow and genuine, then stretched one arm above his head with a dramatic groan before flopping back down, half on his face. His curls puffed against the pillow.

“Your bed’s cursed,” he muttered. “Too cozy. I’ll never leave.”

You laughed quietly. He peeked at you again, through the tangle of his hair.

“…This okay?” he asked. And he meant the moment. The space. The proximity. The fact that you hadn’t woken him up and shoved him out the door the second the sun rose.

You nodded, feeling something soft unfurl in your chest. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding something in. Then rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling with a small smile. “I dreamed I turned into soup and you ate me. Spoon by spoon. Before giving me a D for lack of flavour.”

You blinked and laughed. “That tracks.”

His own mouth twitched into a smile. “You’re brutal in dreamland.”

You both lay in silence for a beat. And then, his voice again—warm, content, a little amused. “…Hey. You want me to do breakfast? I make amazing scrambled eggs.”

You smiled and nodded. He looked at you and answered you with a smile. His hand lifted…as if to touch your cheek. But he stopped himself and coughed before quickly getting out of bed. He then walked to the kitchen and looked at what he could cook without making a mess. He did not see the way you looked at him from behind and smiled…a smile that anyone would recognise. It was the kind of smile you gave when your eyes settled on the object of an affection deep and true.

He stood up with a couple of eggs in his hand and started making scrambled eggs. However, he cursed when he saw what time it was. He then turned around to tell you that he had band practice today and that he needed to leave—but that he would be back tonight.

Your eyes did hold a certain disappointment, but you quickly chased it away. You smiled again. “Sure. Have a great time.”

He nodded and quickly got dressed before leaving in a hurry. You then looked at the scrambled eggs and took a bite.

Not the most amazing scrambled eggs.

But still…pretty good.

That night

You’d made dinner. Well—tried to. It was mostly assembled stuff. Things that didn’t require too much time or effort. Pasta, some garlic bread, the good kind of cheap soda in glass bottles. You’d even set the table.

You weren’t sure why.

Maybe it was the new normal. Eddie coming over. Talking. Laughing. Ranking soup like wine snobs. Sleeping over. Waking up beside him and pretending it wasn’t the highlight of your week…You knew he would come back eventually.

You just didn’t expect later to be…this late.

The food had gone cold. You’d reheated it once. Then again. Eventually, you stopped checking the clock and just sat on the couch in your hoodie, legs tucked beneath you, trying not to admit you felt a little foolish.

And then the door opened.

You looked up just as Eddie stumbled in, wind-chilled and glowing from the rush of post-practice adrenaline. His eyes spotted the two plates and he smiled. “Sorry I’m late, sweetheart.”

He said it so easily. So casually. And in the same breath, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek. It was fast. Barely there. But it hit like a live wire. Your body didn’t move. But your brain? Fireworks. Sirens. Screaming goats. Something internally short-circuited.

Sweetheart. He said sweetheart.

He kissed you. On the cheek.

Which, yes, was technically innocent. A blip. But it was still something. Your throat tightened. You nodded stiffly, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way your entire soul had flinched. But Eddie wasn’t dense.

He stepped back slightly, his brow furrowing. “…Everything okay?”

You forced a smile. “Yeah. Just—tired.”

“Hmm.” His gaze searched your face for a beat longer, then softened. “I mean it, though. I’m really sorry. Practice ran long, and Gareth broke a string, and then we had to run back to get his amp because apparently some people forget half their gear when they’re in love with their own solos…” He trailed off, realizing you hadn’t really responded. So he changed tactics. “…Is that garlic bread?”

You nodded, still frozen.

“Jesus H. Christ, you’re a saint.” He gave a little bow of reverence, then sat down opposite you. You sat there. Still warm from where his lips touched your cheek. Still trembling from the word sweetheart. You had no idea what this meant.

But you knew it meant something.

You then both ate in silence…

…

You stood in the doorway of your bedroom, watching Eddie fuss with the blankets on the bed like he was trying to win a wrestling match against them.

You smiled—tired but genuine.

He looked up and caught your gaze. His hair was a mess, his band tee crooked from where he’d peeled off his jean jacket, and one sock was hanging halfway off his foot. And yet, he looked completely at home.

Which was…becoming a problem.

Because you couldn’t tell if this was just Eddie being Eddie—or if you were slowly falling off a cliff you weren’t ready to name. You lingered in the doorway for a second longer before getting under the blankets as well. Then, as lightly as you could muster you whispered: “Goodnight…darling.”

You turned to sleep. And he spun. A full, dramatic 180, like someone had slapped him with a metal album and told him to pay attention.

“What did you just call me?” he asked, voice halfway between scandalized and stunned.

You blinked. “I said goodnight.”

He squinted and scooted closer. “No, no, no, no. You definitely added a little spice at the end of that sentence.”

You shrugged, heat creeping up your neck. “I was just…being polite?”

“Oh no,” he said, now grinning. “You hit me with the d-word. That’s a loaded word. That’s old Hollywood. That’s flirtier-than-soup flirt, and you know it.”

You scoffed, trying to retreat. “I was being subtle.”

He chuckled and shook his head in disbelief. “Oh, it was subtle, alright. Like being hit with a brick or by a car. You can’t just casually call a man darling and then go to sleep. That’s not how things work. You can’t just do that to me.”

“Why not?” you challenged.

“Because,” he said, breaching into your personal space—“now I have to wonder what happens if I call you sweetheart again.”

Silence. Thick. Electric.

You both froze.

So…that was on purpose? The casual ‘sweetheart’. He knew what he was doing calling you that.

His voice softened. “You okay with me…calling you that, right?”

You swallowed. Then nodded. Slowly. He smiled. “Then I’m definitely not stopping. And I mean…if you want to keep calling me darling. Please. Do.”

He tried to reach for your hand, but you retreated. You couldn’t handle much more right now. He backed up, hands raised. “Okay. Message received. I will…keep to myself. Goodnight, sweetheart.”

He then decided to leave the bed and go to the couch. He understood the need for space.

You hid your face in your hands.

You were so screwed.

…

In the morning

You woke up to warmth. A lot of it.

And pressure. And…tangled limbs?

For a brief moment, your sleep-fogged brain tried to make sense of the situation. You could barely move. Something was wrapped around your waist. One of your legs wasn’t where you left it. And there was a knee suspiciously close to your ribs.

Then you blinked your eyes open.

Eddie. Asleep.

Practically wrapped around you like an overgrown, snoring octopus.

One arm thrown across your stomach, the other trapped under your neck like a pillow he’d claimed in the middle of the night. One leg hooked around yours. And his face—sweet God—his face was pressed into your shoulder, lips slightly parted as he breathed against your skin, dark curls everywhere.

Your first instinct? Panic.

You didn’t do this. This wasn’t normal. You weren’t even sure how it happened—he was on the couch last night. Right? You stared at the ceiling in stunned silence for a moment. Carefully, you moved your fingers.

“…Eddie?”

His grip tightened. You blinked again. He mumbled something. Then nuzzled closer. You felt his breath brush your collarbone and had to force yourself not to make a sound. It was terrifyingly sweet. Intimate. And so unexpected it made your brain short-circuit.

“…Eddie,” you tried again, a little firmer.

His eyes cracked open slowly, heavy with sleep. He looked at you, confused. Then down. Then back at you.

“…Shit.”

You both froze.

He didn’t move—just groaned into the pillow. “I swear I started on the couch.”

“I believe you,” you reassured him quickly.

“I have a history of unconscious bed invasion,” he mumbled. “Wayne’s been trying to cure me of it for years. Same with the sleep-talking. But he never found a solution.”

You laughed, half-nervous, half…surprised. Because this was new. But not scary. Not wrong. Not unwelcome.

He lifted his head, hair a complete mess. “Are you okay?”

You hesitated—then nodded. “Yeah. Just…surprised.”

He smiled sheepishly and began the slow, delicate process of detangling himself from you. “I can go back to the couch.”

You caught his arm gently. “You don’t have to.”

His eyes flicked to you.

You added, under your breath, “But maybe…fewer limbs.”

He grinned. “No promises.”

And when he settled back beside you—this time with a little more intentional space—you couldn’t help but smile to yourself.

Invaded? Maybe.

But it was the nicest invasion you’d ever known.

…

A few weeks later

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the old floorboards. You and Eddie were nestled under the blankets, the steady rhythm of his breathing next to you grounding every flutter in your chest. He reached out, fingers brushing your cheek gently, and leaned in, just like always—aiming for that familiar, safe spot on your cheek.

But this time, your head turned instinctively.

The moment your lips met, time did a little somersault.

Eddie’s eyes fluttered open, wide and a little startled, but there was something else in his gaze. You froze, cheeks flushed, heart thundering louder than a drumline.

He whispered, barely audible, “Well…didn’t see that coming.”

You laughed nervously, your voice barely above a breath, “Neither did I.”

But when he shifted closer, resting his forehead against yours, all the awkwardness melted away.

…

It didn’t happen all at once.

First, it was little things—his jacket over your chair, his band tee in your laundry, the scent of his shampoo faintly clinging to your pillow. Then came the louder signs: his boots by the door, his guitar leaning against the wall, that half-used can of hairspray in your bathroom that somehow multiplied instead of ran out.

You didn’t ask him to move in.

He just…kept showing up. More and more.

Until one day, he never really left. He invaded your space like a slow sunrise. Not with a bang, but with a steady warmth that filled all the cold corners. He made your mornings louder. Your evenings dumber. Your nights safer. He’d play riffs in the kitchen while you stirred soup. He’d leave scribbled “rate my performance” notes next to your toothbrush after humming into your hair while you brushed. He’d fall asleep tangled in your blanket, one sock missing, a comic book open on his chest.

And you—who once tiptoed through the world like a whisper—found yourself laughing in full volume now. The place still looked like a junkyard. But now it looked like your junkyard—to the both of you. And one quiet afternoon, while you folded laundry and he laid on the couch tossing a pillow at the ceiling like it was a game, he murmured without looking at you:

“I think I live here now.”

You didn’t even pause. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He finally looked at you—crooked smile and all. “You good with that?”

You smiled. Soft, sure. “I’ve never been better.”

He stood up and before you could comprehend what was going on, you were spun in the air. You screamed and laughed as Eddie kept spinning you around and laughing with you.

Nothing seemed wrong anymore. Only right.

…

A few days later

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet for a night Eddie was supposed to come back humming with leftover stage energy and smelling like smoke and adrenaline. You’d been waiting—half-worried, half-knowing. And when the door finally creaked open well past midnight, you didn’t need to ask. One look at him, at the slumped shoulders and uncharacteristic silence, told you everything.

He didn’t say a word. Just muttered something about being tired and disappeared into the bedroom.

You gave him space. For twenty minutes.

Then you grabbed the emergency cereal box—the one with the ridiculous cartoon mascot and way too much sugar—and crept quietly into the room. He was cocooned in your blankets, his hair a mess over your pillow, one leg sticking out like he’d given up halfway through sulking. You didn’t say anything. Just lifted the blankets and began to worm your way in beside him, dragging the box with you like it was a peace offering.

Eddie cracked one eye open. “…Is that the good kind?”

You nodded solemnly. “The forbidden marshmallow kind.”

He huffed, a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was something. You settled beside him, balancing the box between you both. You didn’t ask about the show. He didn’t offer. You believed he would tell you on his own eventually. You let the silence do the comforting, broken only by the soft crunch of cereal and the rustle of blankets. At one point, his shoulder brushed yours and this time—you didn’t flinch.

Eventually, he did tell you.

“…It was a stupid gig,” he finally muttered, still not looking at you. “Crowd was dead. Half the mics didn’t work. Gareth broke a string. Again. Some asshole yelled ‘Freebird.’”

You nodded solemnly, chewing beside him. “A classic tragedy.”

“Not even the good kind,” he grumbled. “Like, at least let me go down in a blaze of glory, not…defeat by shitty performance.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, gently.

“Well,” you said thoughtfully, “if it makes you feel better, most geniuses were misunderstood.”

He snorted, finally turning a little to glance at you—hair in his face, eyes tired, but the faintest tug of a smile playing at his lips.

“…Thanks, sweetheart.”

You held the box out to him again. “Cereal is love. Cereal is life.”

He grabbed another handful and sighed, letting his forehead knock lightly against yours. “I’m keeping you.”

You restrained a laugh. “A) I am the owner. B) You live here.”

He smiled. “Doesn’t make me keeping you any less true.”

You didn’t say anything after that. You didn’t need to. You just lay there, munching cereal in the quiet, sharing the warmth, letting him feel safe and seen again.

Bad show or not—he’d still end the night in bed, with you.

A month later

He didn’t know you were coming.

He was mid-rant backstage—about how the lighting sucked, and Jeff’s drum sticks had disappeared, and he couldn’t find his pick (it was in his pocket, it’s always in his pocket). He was anxious in that way he got before every gig, pacing and twitchy and talking too fast.

And then they called Corroded Coffin up.

He stomped on stage, full of bluster and sarcasm and eyeliner—like always. Grabbed the mic. Looked out at the crowd. Ready to put on a show for a room full of strangers who might or might not care.

And then he saw you.

Front row.

Wearing one of his band’s old t-shirts, one he didn’t even know you had. You didn’t wave. You didn’t shout. You just smiled—big, warm, eyes lit up like you were proud of him before he even strummed the first chord. He froze for half a second. Long enough for Gareth to glance sideways, confused. Long enough for Eddie’s heart to skip a full beat and crash land in his chest. You’d come. On your own. You didn’t have to. He hadn’t even offered you to come—knowing how you hated big crowds.

But you were still there. His Soup Girl.

For him.

He tried to recover quickly—cleared his throat and leaned into the mic, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“This one…” he said, voice a little rough, “is dedicated to someone in the front row who snuck in like a ninja and didn’t even tell me she had bought a ticket to one of our shows.”

You saw his eyes flicked to yours again. A flash of teeth in his smile. That little, stupid, boyish tilt of his head.

“This is for my Soup Girl. My sweetheart. She knows who she is.”

The crowd whooped like they knew a love story when they saw one. And as the first notes rang out, you watched Eddie light up the stage—loud and alive and utterly himself. But every time he looked your way, he played just a little harder. Smiled just a little wider. And when the show ended and he leapt off the stage straight into your arms, sweat-damp and breathless, he didn’t even wait before whispering in your ear:

“You came.”

You nodded, still smiling, and whispered back, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then buried his face in your neck like he’d explode otherwise. He never said it out loud—not that night, anyway—but that moment? That was the one where he realized something important.

He was gone for you. Completely. And so were you…

…

Later that night

“So…soup for dinner?”

The question had been casual—almost a reflex, the way he asked it. One hand on the wheel, the other draped over the gearstick, humming along to some half-forgotten tune on the radio as golden light spilled in through the windows.

You looked at him and smiled. “Not tonight.”

He blinked, then glanced over in full. “Wait—what?”

You nodded. “Tonight you get to choose.”

There was a beat of silence. The car kept moving, but Eddie had stopped. Not literally, but in that way people do when something settles too deep to ignore. He glanced at you. And something in his eyes changed. His smirk didn’t come, no teasing, no gasp of pure disbelief. Just…that expression. Like you’d slipped a hand inside his chest and placed something solid where he’d only had static before.

“You sure?” he asked quietly. “We might be violating some soup treaty.”

You smiled again. “I trust you.”

That was it. Just three words.

But it did something to him. He didn’t say much after that. Just nodded slowly and looked back at the road. You didn’t need to look at him to know. You felt it—the way his fingers tapped the wheel like they were holding in something big. The way he glanced at you again when he thought you weren’t looking. Like he couldn’t believe you were still sitting there—with him.

You’d told him you loved him, without saying the words. You’d given him the choice.

And when he pulled into that tiny, run-down diner he’d always been too embarrassed to suggest before—his favorite, the one that served greasy grilled cheese and chocolate milkshakes that came in metal cups—you didn’t ask any question.

You just unbuckled your seatbelt and smiled.

Eddie grinned. Wide. A little dazed. A little crooked.

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

You heard and looked back at him. And you smiled. The brightest smile he had ever seen and if he hadn’t been completely obsessed with you before, he sure as hell was now. He took your hand and you laced your fingers. The way you looked at him like he was made of something rare, like he was wanted and not just tolerated. The way your fingers fit between his like they’d been waiting for him this whole time. There was no big music swell. No flashing lights. Just the hum of the streetlamp outside the diner and the warmth of your hand in his.

Eddie stared at your joined fingers like he couldn’t believe it.

“You’re unreal, y’know that?” he asked, voice lower, gentler than usual before he grinned at you. “Like—someone should check if you actually exist.”

You chuckled. “You’re holding my hand.”

“Yeah, well,” he breathed, grinning again, “I’ve hallucinated worse.”

You tugged him towards the diner.

Inside, the place smelled like melted butter and old coffee. The waitress didn’t even blink at the sight of the two of you—just gave a tired smile and led you to a cracked booth by the window. Eddie ordered for both of you like he’d done it a hundred times in his dreams. You didn’t stop smiling. Not once.

That night, between bites of grilled cheese and the clink of milkshake cups, something settled between you. And neither of you needed soup to feel full anymore.

“You wanna know something funny?” You asked at the end of dinner.

Eddie blinked, half a strawful of chocolate milkshake still in his mouth. He slurped the rest of it up dramatically before leaning forward across the sticky table.

“Always,” he confirmed, eyes twinkling. “But only if it’s, like, ha-ha funny and not cry-in-the-shower funny.”

You smirked, playing with a napkin between your fingers.

“It’s about the soup,” you admitted.

Eddie gasped, clutching his heart. “My god. I knew this day would come. You’re leaving me for soup.”

You snorted, then rolled your eyes. “No, dork. Just…the day we met? That dumb fight over one stupid can of tomato soup?”

He grinned. “The beginning of our epic, soup-fueled saga. Yeah?”

You nodded before admitting. “I actually don’t even like that brand all that much.”

Eddie’s mouth dropped open like you’d confessed to arson.

“You’re joking. You mean I nearly sprained my wrist dueling a total stranger in a canned goods aisle over soup you didn’t even like?”

You shrugged, that playful gleam in your eyes. “It was the last can. You wanted it. I panicked. And…I dunno. Something about you made me want to get it before you did.”

Eddie stared at you, then burst out laughing. Loud, nose-crinkling, head-thrown-back laughing. A few patrons turned to look, but neither of you cared. When he finally calmed down, he reached across the table, curling his fingers lightly around yours.

“Well,” he said, voice still warm with laughter, “for the record…I’m really glad you were stubborn about that can of soup.”

You squeezed his hand. “Me too.”

The waitress came by to drop off the check, and Eddie reached for it without letting go of your hand.

“Next time,” he said, “we battle over waffles.”

“Loser does the dishes?” you offered.

Eddie’s grin went lopsided. “Deal.”

[probablyin-bed]

oh man :')

greetings from an undisclosed eddie x shy!reader doc...

He took your hand in his and carefully brought it up to the nape of his neck. He helped you thread your fingers into his hair and encouraged you to grasp his curls firmly at the root. Your breathing hitched as his touch trailed over your knuckles and down your forearm to your elbow.

“Don’t be scared to hold on tight,” he burred, low in your ear. “I like it when it hurts a little.”

Your fingers flexed shakily as his hands settled on your hips, squeezing gently as he backed you up to the brick wall. It felt gritty and cold on your back, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. 

Eddie’s hands squeezed again, sliding up a little higher to your waist.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he hummed, his gaze flitting anywhere it could at such close proximity. The curve of your cheeks, the edges of your jaw, the gentle and graceful lines of your neck.

His voice was so soft, so adoring, you felt your knees liquifying. You wanted nothing more than to believe him implicitly, but you couldn’t stop the little seed of doubt deep in your gut that quivered beneath the earth from peeking through the undergrowth until it had sprouted.

“Really?” you whispered, hating how mousey you sounded. How timid and unsure.

He brought up one of his hands to cradle the side of your face. Your eyes fluttered closed, leaning in to the warmth of his palm, interrupted only by the cool bite of his rings that dissipated quickly when they warmed to the temperature of your skin.

Still, you couldn’t help but shiver when your eyes opened to find Eddie’s gaze focused so intently on yours, squinting in a bemused sort of way.

“Do you honestly not know?” he asked you with a slow smile. “You really don’t see it?”

All you could do was shrug. You didn’t think you were, like, hideous or anything. But you had never been particularly impressed by your looks. And no one had ever looked at you or acted like you were some ethereal being who’d fallen to earth just to grace these mere mortals with your face.

Well, at least not until now.

[probablyin-bed]

hot. incredible. this got a standing ovation from me actually.

Angel or Devil? | E.M x Reader

Anonymous asked: Could i request a fic where reader comes home pissed off and angry fucks eddie and hes hooked on it so he keeps trying to annoy her or asks her how work was ect to get her riled up so she they can fuck each others brains out, her dirty talk gets filthy when shes mad and eddie realizes he likes it mean

wc: 2.7k

cw: f!reader/mean!reader, Sub/switch Eddie, dirty talk, sex toys, slight choking, female masturbation, pussy eating, p in v, cream pie. Slightly proofread… so if you see a spelling error no you didn’t… (ง •̀_•́)ง

Eddie’s head snapped up when the sound of the front door slamming shook him out of focus. You must have had a bad day because you never slam things.

Timidly, Eddie put his guitar down and walked out of the bedroom into your living room to see you slam your purse on the floor; you don’t bother to unzip your boots; you rip them off your feet and whip off your drenched coat. That’s also when he sees the crazed look in your eyes behind your soaked hair sticking to your face. Today was not your day.

“Sunshine-“

“Don’t,” you point a finger up at him; you don’t want to hear a word from your boyfriend right now.

“But-“

“No. Shut up.” You make your way to the bedroom to wash your rain-soaked clothes.

Eddie followed you apprehensively. His gut told him to give you space, but his heart needed to ensure his sunshine was okay.

“Eddie.” You huffed. He had followed you.

He wasn’t listening to you. That’s all you wanted was something to listen to you. Nobody had taken the time to hear you out at work, and to make matters worse, the barista messed up your order, causing you to be late for your team meeting. Then, to top it off, you missed your bus. Thinking that a walk might help clear your head, you set off, only to be interrupted by the ominous crack of thunder in the sky. Instead of tears, you felt a surge of rage building inside you. All you desired was some sense of control in a day that seemed spiralling out of your grasp.

“Baby,” Eddie cooed again, stocking the back of your soaked hair.

You huffed in annoyance again. He wasn’t listening, so you decided to push him down in the bed.

“Woah, baby, I’m sorry-“

You cut him off as you climbed on top of him and shut him up with a kiss. Maybe now you could be in control.

With eyes wide, Eddie didn’t know what to do, but as you gripped at his clothes, signalling to get naked, he soon realized.

Eddie didn’t understand where this came from, but who was he to question? His lady needs to take out her frustration on him and who was he to deny her? He was just but a humble servant.

“You’re taking too long,” you groan, sitting up and taking off your soaked clothes.

“It’s okay, baby, I got you. Don’t worry, Teddy will make it better.”

“God, do you always talk this much? Shut up and eat my pussy”

Eddie was stunned. His eyes were wide, yet your words went straight to his cock. You never spoke to him this way before, but he liked it. He liked you a little mean.

“Yes, ma’am,” he salutes, and you give him the biggest eye roll Eddie couldn’t miss; he moaned as he connected his lips with your pussy.

With a hand gripped tightly in his hair, he was determined to make you cum asap. He had to service his girl; you demanded it. It was the sexiest thing Eddie had ever been witness to… not that you weren’t sexy every other time, but something had been unlocked in Eddie’s brain, and he didn’t want to give it up.

A feral groan leaves your throat, and Eddie can’t help but moan once again into your pussy, knowing it drives you crazy.

Your hips are grinding into his face. Usually, he would have you pinned down, but having you use him solely for your pleasure was getting Eddie off just as much.

Within minutes, you were falling apart on Eddie’s tongue and fingers. Your body shook beneath him, and you finally felt some relief.

“There you go, baby. That's it, let it go.”

With a deep sigh, you get up and walk to the bathroom without a word.

Eddie was stunned. You used him …and he liked it.

When you got out of the shower, it was like you were a different person, like the rage demon was fucked right out of you, and you had forgotten how angry you were and also how you had just left Eddie to take care of himself.

You came out, giving Eddie a big hug and a kiss like nothing out of the ordinary just happened. You told him about your day while he cooked you dinner and spent the evening snuggling on the couch.

It’s been two weeks since you stormed home that evening, and Eddie was doing everything in his power to get you to retake control, but you were not biting.

He got excited when you would make a move first, but then you fell into old habits, and he would be the one to take charge. So Eddie was doing everything in his power to piss you off.

He didn’t want to, but he needed to trigger that inner dominatrix that was hidden deep inside.

Lately, you couldn't figure out what had come over Eddie, but his behavior was really starting to bother you. He seemed to be constantly leaving the cupboard doors wide open, choosing to immerse himself in video games instead of addressing household chores. Despite promising to tidy up, he never followed through. His socks and underwear were strewn across our shared bedroom floor, and on top of everything, he seemed to be avoiding any meaningful conversation during dinner.

“You’re not even listening to me, are you?” You glare at him, as he doesn’t even signal that he heard you.

You've had enough of this immature behavior. You don’t understand why you're being ignored, but you've reached your limit.

“Eddie!” You slam your fork down on the table, and finally, he looks at you.

You quickly stand up, and the chair screeches against the parquet flooring. Eddie’s big brown eyes grow wider and darker as you approach his side of the table.

This was it, he thought; he’d cracked the code.

“What is your problem?” Your hands were on your hips. He thought you looked so cute when you tried being all authoritative.

“Dont know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.” Eddie shrugged nonchalantly.

“Excuse me?”

“You have something to say, baby? Come on, tell me.” His tone was condescending and taunting.

“Eddie, I’m serious.”

“So. Am. I.” He stands, getting closer with each word. He towers over you, but you don’t care; you’re too pissed off to be intimidated.

“What is your problem!” You scream.

“I don’t have a problem, sweet thing.” He shrugs, his voice cool as a cucumber.

This only pissed you off further. He was so good at pushing your buttons, and you were falling for it unknowingly.

Your face was scrunched up and he thought it was the cutest thing he couldn’t help but hide a smirk and you caught it.

“You want to try that again?” you ask. Your faces were centimetres apart, and he could smell the fire brooding within you.

Hook, line, and sinker.

God, you were infuriated with him, but you never wanted him more badly than right now. You act on instinct and flung yourself at him. Wrapping your arms around him and kissing him harshly, so much so your lips would be bruised by the time you’re done with him.

“There she is”

“Shut up.” Your hands are all over one another, and Eddie is reeling from your actions. Finally, his little minx had come out to play.

You forced your way over to the living room, not ever breaking the kiss until you pushed Eddie off of you and down onto sofa.

“Tell what you want; I’m yours to use.” he smiles, and you can see the mischief in his eyes.

“Is that what this was all about?” you scan his body, his hard cock prominent in his sweatpants. “You like it when I’m mean?” You’re annoyed still but also turned on. Your Eddie likes it when you’re in control.

A wave of excitement washes through you at the realization that all of this was actually to get your attention.

“You like when I dom you, Teddy? Is that it?” Your voice sickly sweet as you run your hands up his thighs until you reach the crease of his hips but don’t go any further, only teasing him more.

“Yes,” he nodded his head rapidly.

A rush of arousal floods your panties.

“Good boy.”

Eddie throws his head back and reaches to palm his cock, but you swat his hand away.

“No,” you stay stern. “This is my cock”

Eddie’s head snapped back up, and you could see in his eyes that he liked your words.

“Who’s cock does this belong to?” You ask as your hand slinks down into his pants, gripping at the base.

“Me.” He smirks. He wants you to be meaner.

“Okay,” you say, standing up and walking away.

“Okay?” Eddie is dumbfounded as you leave him alone on the couch. It takes a few seconds before he gets up to follow you into the bedroom, where he sees you’re pulling out your dildo.

“What are you doing?” He asks, disappointed that you left him.

“Since you don’t think I own your cock, I’m going to use the one I bought to get me off instead.” You shrug before stripping down fully and spreading your legs open to play with yourself in front of Eddie.

“Fuuuuuuuuck, baby.” Eddie came crawling, but you stopped him with an outreached foot to his forehead.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You asked with a raised brow.

“Oh-I uh-“

“oh, you uh,” mocked back, and Eddie didn’t think he could get any harder.

“You are going to sit back over there and watch only, like a good little boy. If you touch yourself, I stop.”

“Baby! What? No, that’s so mean,” He pouts.

“You wanted to mean, baby; you’re getting mean.”

Eddie bit his fist and sat back obediently; never in his wildest dreams did he think you would be so confident in this newfound role.

You spread open your legs and work your fingers through your slick folds, not breaking eye contact. You can’t help but smirk when you bring the dildo to your lips, putting on a show by sucking and drowning the head with your saliva, showing exactly what you would have done to Eddie if he had complied earlier.

You hear a throaty moan from Eddie as you watch his face scrunch and his fists tighten into balls as if he were in physical pain from watching you. The way you pop the toy off your lips and slowly drag it down to your weeping hole had Eddie’s cock twitched.

You finally break eye contact when you watch yourself insert the dilo into your wet pussy before you let your head fall back into the pillow.

“Oh yes!” your hips gyrate into your thursts as you put in a show for Eddie.

You exaggerate, for Eddie’s sake. Of course, it would never feel as good as him, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“You evil woman”

You snap your eyes back to Eddie and smirk.

“Fuck it feels so good!” “God it’s just so big” “yes yes yes!”

Moan after moan of pleasure leaves your lips as your free hand explores your breast, squeezing it and playing with your nipple before moving down to your clit.

It doesn’t take long for your orgasm to run through your body; having Eddie watch you, at your mercy, was enough to fuel the orgasm, let alone the thick, veiny pink dildo that was spreading you wide open, hitting you just right with each pump.

Your pussy clamps down onto the dildo that’s deep inside of you, cuming all over it as you shake with pleasure. You don’t even hear Eddie moan as he bites his fist, trying so hard to behave and listen to your orders.

Your cum floods out of you as you slowly pull it out with a pop.

“Come here and clean it up,” You demand, and Eddie dives head first to your pussy, but you quickly close your legs, and Eddie pouts those beautiful full pink lips at you.

“This first,” You smirk, handing him the dildo you just used that’s coated in your cum.

Eddie’s eyes go wide in shock, but he takes the toy and places it in his mouth. His eyes roll back at the taste of you, and he licks and deep-throats it.

The thrill of watching Eddie place the used dildo in his mouth as he sucks it off only makes your pussy flood once again. Your hands play with your nipples as you slowly open your legs for him.

The second Eddie sees your knees parting, he tosses the dildo to the floor, and before you can command anything, his lips attach to your pussy in an instant.

“That’s right, you’re just a little cum slut aren’t you?” you can’t believe the words are leaving your lips, and neither can Eddie, but he ruts his hips against the mattress as the filthy words fill the room.

“I see you, baby. Can’t even wait five minutes without needing to pay attention to your cock” You try not to stutter as Eddie works his tongue inside your tight hole, cleaning up the remnants of cum. You watch as Eddie pops his ass up and down as he tries to get himself off, but you can’t have that, not yet.

“Stop,” You command, and Eddie doesn’t know what action you’re referring to, so he stops everything completely.

He looks up at you with those big doe eyes, mouth agape and shiny with your cum, and you almost crack a smile, but you keep your composure.

You shuffle to your knees and instruct Eddie to lie down in place of where you just were and lean over him.

“Now, baby, I’m going to ask you again. Who’s cock is this?” You slowly drag a single digit, hardly touching the soft skin of his shaft, from the base to tip and back down again. His cock was more than ready, he was so thick and long. The tip was red, and was leaking out so much precum. If you didn’t know any better, you maybe would have thought he had come already.

“Yours” He doesn’t hesitate; he needs to cum; he needs to feel your pussy around him.

“Good boy,” you say, taking your finger away so you can hook a leg over his hip and straddle him.

“I think I’ve learned my lesson.” Eddie swallows.

“Oh, is that right?” your hand slowly makes its way up Eddie’s thick throat and lands at the base of his jaw. You squeeze it ever so gently at first but slowly tighten your grip as you sink down onto his cock.

Your small hand doesn’t do anything to hurt Eddie, but the feeling of it there had Eddie pushing his hips up into you roughly.

You let out a maon of pleaser as he hits your G-spot and doesn’t stop. Thrust after thrust, Eddie has your eyes rolling into the back of your head, and he will not stop until he has his way with you.

“Think you’re in control now, baby? Got you so cock drunk you can’t even speak.”

No longer did you care about being in control. Eddie was making you see stars.

“Don’t think your little toy had you feeling this good, huh?” he gritted his teeth, his fingers digging into your hips so hard you know there will be a bunch of tiny bruises in the morning.

“Ohhhhh, Teddy!,” You scream as your second orgasm rips through you without warming. Eddie’s hips jackhammer up into you as you ride out your orgasm, and Eddie chases his. He flips you over and pushes your legs up into your chest so he can watch himself disappear into your tight little cunt.

“Fucking made f’me.” his hips snap once, twice, three times more until he spills himself inside of you.

You feel Eddie’s weight collapse on you, his heavy body limp.

“Holy shit” You breathe in the revelation of what just happened. “Was that our best sex ever, or am I dreaming?” You whisper.

“I think you broke me, baby,” Eddie moans as he doesn’t want to leave your warm wet pussy.

“That confirms it, best sex ever.” You raise his hand so you can give him a high five before his limp arm falls back down on the bed.

You can’t help but giggle, and Eddie shoots out of you, complaining it’s too sensitive to squeeze his cock anymore.

“Teddy?”

“mhm?”

“Next time you want me to take charge, just ask. I’m not keeping a messy home because you wanna get freaky.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he salutes before he rolls your body into his so you can fall asleep in his arms.

Tagging some moots who might be interested 🫣: @xxbimbobunnyxx @bimbotrashcan @usergeta @loserboysandlithium

[probablyin-bed]

When Steve and Eddie just start dating, Eddie finds out Steve is just as bad at the pda thing as he is, if not worse.

It helps ("helps") that they can't really hug or kiss or even hold hands in public or they'd be hanged in the town's square, but at home? With their friends? Steve has no problem pulling Eddie into his lap and planting a kiss on his mouth.

It might because he's used to dating girls, used to being able to be, freely be, whoever he wanted to be. But it might just be Steve, because he never tries anything like that in public.

In public, he'll knock his shoulder against Eddie's whenever nobody is looking. They'll share a secret smile, like an inside knowledge that once they're back inside they will not be seperated. Not by force of nature, not by anything.

Sometimes, in the back of a dark theatre, Steve slips his hand into Eddie's.

It's the bravest thing either of them do. Holding hands like teenagers in the back of the movie theatre, or during car rides, or (if they're being especially risky) under the table at the diner.

Eddie loves the way you couldn't beat Steve away from him with a nailbat. He loves his touches and kisses and anything Steve will give him.

Though he hopes that one day the secret handholding will be allowed more in the open. A secret revealed in five, ten, twenty years.

But for now, he's fine with it being their little secret. He's got Steve. That's all he needs.

[probablyin-bed]

help me find a fic please :') I am notorious for this after 3 years on this app. I was reading a one shot like a week ago and it just popped into my head and I don't think I got to finish reading it. It was eddie x reader and it was about how reader was having a really bad day and just kind of snapped when they came home and used eddie for their own pleasure (wink wink) and then was okay again. eddie being the horned up nerd that he is thought it was so hot bc that's not their usual behavior and kept doing everything to piss them off and make them snap again but I don't know anything else after that!!! thank you so much in advance to anyone who finds it :)<3 it was so hot & I need to see how it ends

update: it's been found !!!!!

[probablyin-bed]

Thank you!!!! I was having trouble finding who took the picture!!!!!

his hair has honestly never looked better wtf he looks like a luscious princess

[probablyin-bed]

Hiiii, I love your hc, could you do some Eddie x reader where Wayne (Eddie’s uncle) meets the reader for the first time???

Thank you!! I had a bit of a challenge with this one, but I hope you enjoy, Anon! :)

Warnings: Lots of nerves and awkwardness, Wayne is a tad abrasive,

The gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you followed Eddie up the path to the trailer, your heart hammering louder than the sound of your steps. You could see the flicker of a TV through the curtained window, and your grip on the Tupperware of cookies was starting to leave little indents in the plastic.

“You okay?” Eddie asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Mhm,” you hummed.

He stopped walking.

You didn’t, not in time—nearly bumped into his back. He turned and looked at you with a crooked smile and that look—the one that said he knew you way too well to buy the act.

“You’re freaking out,” he said softly.

“I mean, a little, yeah,” you admitted, exhaling hard. “I just—what if he hates me?”

Eddie blinked. “Wayne? Hate you? Babe, you’d have to, like… kick over his coffee or insult Merle Haggard to make that happen.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“He’s a man of simple rules.”

You gave him a flat look, and he softened immediately. His teasing grin faltered into something smaller, gentler. He reached for your free hand, threading his fingers through yours.

“Hey,” he said, voice dipping low in that way that made your stomach flip, “He's gonna like you. You’re smart, you’re sweet, you’re way too good for me—and you bake cookies. That’s like four out of five .”

“What’s the fifth?”

Eddie smirked. “Tolerating my shit.”

"So, I'm five for five," You laughed, and even though the nerves were still curling in your gut, it helped. He helped. Eddie always made things feel lighter. Tolerable.

“I just… I want him to think I’m good enough,” you mumbled after a beat.

Eddie tugged your hand until you were a little closer, resting your forehead against his. “You already are,” he said quietly.

For a moment, you stayed like that. His hand in yours, foreheads resting against each other, and his arm around your waist. The world felt quieter like this—like the cicadas had lowered their volume just for you, like even the looming front door didn’t matter as much.

His thumb brushed slowly over the back of your hand, grounding you, and you let your eyes flutter shut, focusing only on the warm press of his body against yours and the way his breath ghosted over your cheek.

“C’mon. Let’s go face the beast.” He said, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“You mean your very tired, overworked, probably-watching-M*A*S*H uncle?”

“That's the one.”

With one last breath, you nodded, and he gave your hand a reassuring squeeze before leading you up the steps to the front door. The metal creaked under your feet, and the familiar click of the knob turning sounded louder than it should have. Eddie pushed the door open with his usual easy swagger, but you could feel the tension in the way his fingers held yours just a little tighter.

The scent of coffee, old wood, and faint cigarette smoke met you first. The living room was dimly lit by the glow of the TV in the corner, casting shifting patterns across the cluttered furniture. And there, in his usual spot in the worn recliner, sat Wayne Munson.

Wayne wasn’t exactly the easiest man to read. His face carried a permanent expression of quiet exhaustion—the kind born from long nights, loud radios, and too much coffee—but Eddie swore that was just his neutral setting.

Still, as you stepped into the small trailer, clutching a plastic Tupperware full of homemade cookies like it was a shield, you couldn’t help but feel like you were under some kind of silent interrogation.

“Wayne, this is… uh—this is her,” Eddie said, scratching at the back of his neck. His voice had that usual edge of casual bravado, but there was something a little off.

You’d heard that tone before—half-joking, half-deflecting, like he was trying to disguise nerves as charm. But it was the way his fingers twitched near his thigh, like they wanted to drum against something but didn’t, that gave him away.

You looked back at Wayne, stepping forward with a tight smile, extending the cookies like a peace offering. “Hi, Mr. Munson. I, um… I brought these. For you. If you like chocolate chip. If not, I can—"

Wayne took the Tupperware from your hands with a slow, unbothered nod. “Chocolate chip’s fine.” He looked at you, not unkindly, just measuring. “And call me Wayne. You can sit, if you want. No need to stand like you’re waitin’ for a bus.”

You moved toward the couch, but not before catching the way Eddie mouthed you’re doing great behind Wayne’s back. Your heart was still pounding, though. Meeting your boyfriend’s family—even just one person—felt like walking a tightrope blindfolded.

Wayne sat down across from you with a creak of the old recliner, popping open the cookie container without ceremony. “So,” he said, cookie halfway to his mouth, “you the one who convinced my boy here to stop sneakin' beer into his guitar case?”

Eddie choked on air. “Dude—!”

You looked between them, unsure if this was a joke or some kind of test. “I, uh… I didn’t know he did that.”

Wayne just smirked, finally taking a bite. “Well. Someone got him to clean up, at least. Hasn’t smelled like a Metallica concert in two weeks.”

Eddie ran a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, Wayne—"

“Language.”

“You’re literally a war vet—!”

Wayne gave him a look, and Eddie shut his mouth like a switch had been flipped. You bit back a laugh, nerves giving way to something warm and strange in your chest.

There was a pause. Not really awkward. Just a moment of Wayne watching you, eyes a little softer now.

“He talks about you a lot,” Wayne said suddenly. “Thought he was makin’ you up at first. Like Bigfoot.”

You flushed. “Oh.”

Eddie groaned. “Uncle Wayne—"

Wayne kept talking. “But you’re real. Nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs, but real.”

“I’m just… I didn’t wanna make a bad impression,” you admitted, hands fidgeting in your lap.

Wayne leaned back in his recliner, folding his arms. “You showed up with cookies. You call me ‘sir’ and you didn’t run screaming when you saw the mess this place is in.” A beat. “You’re alright.”

Eddie let out a quiet sigh of relief next to you, and you reached over to squeeze his hand under the table. Wayne saw it. Didn’t comment. Just helped himself to another cookie and turned on the tiny TV in the corner.

“Dinner’s in the fridge if you two want somethin’. Fried chicken. Leftovers from last night.”

You nodded. “Thank you.”

Wayne didn’t look over, just muttered, “Don’t mention it.”

And somehow, that made you feel like you’d passed whatever unspoken test had been laid out in that tiny, cluttered trailer.

Taglist: @ajokeformur-ray @Cardinarose @ali-r3n @cowboylikemunson @mayo-nouns-blog @hiimjulie @joemamahehepoopoo @invadergir45 @quinny921 @ironmusictrash @highest-elf @syriouslysyri @luv444lay @spooneyes @liils-lu @clockworkvelvet-blog @princesssunderworld @lemonysweetheart @fi-chanwrites @vikki729255 @cassiecasluciluce @universallyneckhoagieshark @tiinkerbell @DeeSparticus @avengersz-biotch

[probablyin-bed]

The thing with the frog

Written for the June 2025 round of the @steddiemicrofic challenge Prompt: hot, 315 words Rated: T Tags: Eddie Munson has a crush on Steve Harrington; Eddie Munson is a horny shit; Eddie Munson is also high as balls; pools; partial nudity; sexual tension; recreational drug use; flirting

Eddie doesn’t understand why he's here. 

It started out normal, this thing with Steve. Two guys hanging out. Two dudes being pals, doing normal, straight bro stuff. And if one of the dudes was a little less straight? Nobody needed to know. 

It's his own fault. He got comfortable. Also probably had one hit of that blunt too many, but that's beside the point. 

Just like the frog. The one that you put in a pot of boiling water so it won’t- 

No, wait. Cold. You put the frog in cold water, then increase the temperature, so it won’t realize until it’s too late. 

That’s exactly what happened. He let Steve in, and he let his guard down, and now he's in Steve’s pool like the frog in the goddamn pot, feeling all the blood drain from his drug-addled pea brain as the man himself dives into the deep end. He glides through the water and emerges an arm's length from Eddie’s face in all his wet, sun-kissed, bare-chested glory. 

“God,” Steve gasps. “It's so long.” 

It takes Eddie a horrible moment to realize that he's talking about his own hair. He sweeps it out of his face, letting it cascade down his neck and to his shoulders like a glorious, chestnut waterfall, and oh shit, Eddie is both too high and too horny for this. 

“You think I should cut it? Not everyone can pull off long hair like you.”

“Nah,” Eddie breathes. “Leave it. It's frog.” 

Steve stares. His brow does the adorable scrunchy thing.

“I mean,” Eddie stutters. “I'm frog. You're hot.” 

And maybe Steve also smoked a little much, because the scrunchy brow is joined by the carefullest of smiles. 

“I don't get it,” he says. “But I'm sure you'll explain it to me.” 

The water is getting a whole lot hotter, but Eddie doesn’t think he wants to get out. 

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