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pullhisteeth · 6 days ago

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OH HEYYYY IT'S HAPPENING

ARE YOU BORED YET? - part three

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: you're steve's "bitchy" step-sister and are spending the summer in hawkins; eddie is steve's annoying best friend who you can't seem to shake, but things take a sharp turn when you find yourself sneaking around and ultimately falling for him

contains: slightly enemies to lovers trope, food/eating, drug use and mentions of alcohol, smoking, secret relationship vibes, lots of tension, tons of kissing, flirting, oral (f receiving), mentions of virginity, a hint of blasphemy, a sprinkle of angst, and eddie being an obsessed loverboy <3

word count: 16.3k (i sincerely apologize)

chapter song: hold me x fleetwood mac

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I series masterlist | their mixtape | -main masterlist- I

Cigarettes, artificial sugar, smoky cinnamon, light on your tongue and heavy on your knees— Eddie Munson tastes like a cool summer night on melted ice.

His lips are soft, pillowy, warm, and addictive. You get lost in them quickly, falling down an endless spiral of Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

Truthfully, you had been the one to jump.

And now you’re falling, quicker and longer than you had thought you would.

And nothing below you looks soft. Nothing is there to break your fall.

But Eddie feels good.

He feels good against your tongue, wet and hot and greedy— beneath your fingertips, warm, soft, and firm.

Kissing Eddie feels like walking through a vortex tunnel.

There are colors exploding around you, shaky grounds beneath your feet, the promising end glimmering ahead of you— and you know your dizziness will end once you step out of it, but you don’t want it to end. The uncertainty of steady knees forces you to hold onto what’s there, hope, and pray you don’t fall on your ass. Blink and watch the world spin around you— Eddie takes every breath you give, hungry and needy.

He presses you against his van, cool metal against the slivers of bare skin, watery whimpers splashing onto his tongue.

God, you can’t breathe.

Your heart is thrumming in your chest, hot and heavy, fingers swelling up with blood as they curl into Eddie’s shirt. His fingers press against your waist, firm, grounding and steady, but you’re anything but steady.

What are you doing?

Your breath catches. The warmth, the weight, the sheer intensity of what’s happening slams into you all at once.

Eddie licks into you, tilts his head and kisses you deeper. You let him. You feed him back, kiss him harder, pull him closer. The thrumming noise of a summer night is drowned by the rushing of blood in your ears. You can feel his breath on your lip and hear your bated breathing.

His fingers trail over your sides, shivers splintering up your back as he cups your face. You lean into it, just a little, and let yourself melt into him for a moment before reality grasps you tight and mercilessly.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

What are you doing?

It settles in your gut like hot stones, thick coats of wool wrapping around your tongue as you make a pathetic noise.

How did you end up here? Alone? With him?

Your grip on him loosens. The blood turns murky in your veins. The storm of uncertainty and confusion crashes over you like a tidal wave.

Eddie feels it before you can even pull back, you know he can. Your body stiffens, a sharp inhale between kisses, and you’re gone.

Nothing to break your fall.

You pull away from him, wet mouth already tainted with him, tongue already familiar with his taste— too late to go back.

There’s barely a whisper of space between you, but it feels like miles. Your world pans out, and you’re staring at Eddie, watching him witness your descent.

Your hands fall from his body, trembling and clenching once, twice.

Eddie doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Watches you like he’s studying you, trying to pick you apart.

Horror.

It drags through you like a snake.

What did you do? What door has just opened, and how do you close it before it’s too late?

His eyes shift, something dark behind the curtain of golden earth you’ve started to dream about.

It’s brief, a flicker, a small flash across your face, but he sees it. That wide-eyed, gut-punched, what have I done? look. His face settles with a look that makes your insides churn.

The air shifts. The warmth drains. And the moment is over.

Eddie swallows, your breaths still uneven, his lips wet as he drags his tongue over them, tasting you.

Fuck, you can taste him too. So clearly. Like you’ve split an orange over your mouth, drained it of its juice, let the acid burn you from the inside out.

You take a breath, shifting, memorizing the feeling of his hands on your waist when you speak, “Can you—” you clear your throat, “—I need to get home…”

Silence. Heavy. Overwhelming— It settles over you, the sound of cicadas in the trees plays like a symphony to the wind of thoughts in your mind.

Eddie stares for a long beat, like he’s waiting for you to take it back. Like he can see right through you. Like he’s hoping. But you don’t.

He nods. Sniffs, wipes a thumb across your nose to distract himself from the storm, eyes glancing away as he kicks at the dirt.

“Yeah… yeah, okay,” his jaw flexes, and he steps back, rings clinking against the metal door when he holds it open for you again.

This time, you don’t look at him, and you don’t dare to touch him.

The van is deadly silent.

A sharp contrast to the vibrant atmosphere you had carefully curated throughout the night. Most times you have been around Eddie, he’s a fountain of nonstop noise. He’s constantly saying or doing something— and the times that he’s not, it’s usually because he’s just being an ass.

But Eddie’s silence tonight isn’t a part of some joke he has. No, Eddie’s silence is just that. Silence. And it’s unnerving.

You don’t know what to say.

And this time, it’s not because you’re scared or have nothing to say to Eddie. This time, it’s because nothing you say or do can erase what you didn’t say or do.

You did the complete opposite of what you know, truly, deep down in your chest, you wanted to do. Instead of pulling Eddie closer, pressing your lips to his again and telling him he tasted like shitty cotton candy and smoke, you pulled away and acted like he’d spit poison in your mouth.

You curled away from him, retreated into whatever stupid little hole you’d dug for yourself, and resumed your facade of ‘don’t speak, never happened’.

But this happened.

You kissed Eddie.

And no amount of silence can deafen the buzzing ghost of his lips on yours.

Your hands rest in your lap, fingers picking at the skin around your nails as you avoid looking over at Eddie, scared he’ll be looking. But of course he isn’t. Because he’s driving, eyes locked on the road ahead, one hand gripping the wheel, the other clenched against his thigh.

His rings catch an occasional flash beneath passing streetlights. Just minutes ago, they had cooled your hot skin and played like an anchor to your dizzying mind. You’d thought they were cool, so incredibly and undeniably him. Now, they just look like armor.

The weight of the night fogs the air like smoke that won’t clear.

You wish there were noise. A cracked window to hear the wheels or Eddie’s usual loud music— but there’s nothing but the silent hum of the van beneath you.

You debate asking for a song— anything to kill the silence. But you think it’d do more damage than good. Like cheating. Like throwing a rug over the bloodstain.

You glance at Eddie again, dragging in a breath, words dancing on your tongue before you exhale, silent, letting it go unsaid.

You wish he’d say something. Anything. You wish he would just… be Eddie.

Call you some stupid pet name, say you’re dumb, make fun of you for running from a kiss. You nearly want to beg for it.

But he’s done being Eddie tonight.

He gave you Eddie, and you took it, chewed it to bits, and spat it right back in his face.

Now, he’s just a boy, driving you back home, holding pieces of something you almost gave him. And you feel it in the way he won’t look at you.

He’s close to your neighborhood, worn-out tires pulling you closer and closer to the end of what could’ve been a perfect night.

You hate to break the silence, hate that you have even to say the words bubbling in you, but you know it’s for your own good— both you and Eddie’s.

“Could you maybe… drop me off a block away?…”

You glance at him, notice the clench in his jaw, the way he rolls a shoulder, seemingly decompressing himself. “Sure.”

It’s short. Clipped. Not the usual teasing lilt Eddie carries when he addresses you.

You take it anyway— grovel with it.

You don’t try again. You’re not one to beg, and you have no reason to plead for his forgiveness— your hesitation about whatever this is was not ill-natured. He knows that. You know that.

You think he knew it before you did.

He turns into your neighborhood, takes a few turns, and gets you as close as possible before he rolls to a stop, just below a streetlight.

He doesn’t turn the car off, the soft hum of the van filling in the silence. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a sound or do anything to indicate the end of the night. But you know it is either way.

You don’t unbuckle right away. Your fingers fidget with the strap, teeth chewing at the fleshy part of your lip. Your heart is loud in your chest, begging you just to open your mouth and say something, but all the words taste like cotton.

You look at him.

He still won’t look at you.

And when you think he won’t speak, he swipes a thumb across his nose and clears his throat, voice low and hoarse, “Uh… get home safe.”

Not what you wanted to hear, but better than nothing.

You nod. A ghost of a movement, a thank you caught in your throat.

And then the belt clicks when you unbuckle, your fingers curling around the handle to gently open the door as if anything more will shatter you into something worse.

You step into the cool breeze, the silent summer wrapping around you again, this time not as comforting as before.

You hesitate for a moment. Hope he’ll say something, your name, anything. But he doesn’t.

So, you take his silence, close the door, and turn around. Back to your home, back to your room where you’ll toss around in bed and think about tonight until it eats you alive.

You walk, silent sounds of nature enveloping you with each step you take. You can still feel him everywhere around you. Your lips still tingle, your hips still burn.

God, what did you do?

You don’t dare to glance back because you can hear Eddie’s van still running. Sitting there, watching as you walk down the street, his protection being the loudest thing he’s said since that kiss.

Finally, when you reach the end of the block, the van rumbles back into motion and disappears down the street, taking with it a version of the night that could’ve ended differently.

The house is quiet when you eventually slip inside.

The lights are off, a soft glow of the moon peeking through the windows as you sneak your way up to your room. You pass by Steve’s room, wonder if he’s awake, wonder if he could sense his friend’s presence practically drenched over you. Your stomach twists at the thought.

He’d chew you to bits if he ever found out. Tell you that you’re being selfish. That you know summer will come to an end.

You walk past his door, straight to your room, not bothering to turn the lights on.

Your clothes feel like an echo of the night, a reminder of what you’d tasted. What you’d felt. Who you tasted. Who you felt.

You peel them off slowly, tired from your day, but hoping that, maybe, if you move gently enough, the regret won’t sting as much.

You drop onto your bed, the spin of the ceiling fan painting a vivid image of what your stomach feels like.

You kissed him.

And then you left him.

Your fingers dance across your stomach and ribs, clasping around the small necklace on your chest. You twirl the small pendant between your fingers, replaying the night over and over in your mind, trying to figure out how it could’ve gone differently.

But it never changes.

It ends the same, with him driving away and you walking in the dark.

Eddie makes it halfway home before he pulls over.

The road is empty, the van ticks and cools as it idles under a broken billboard, and Eddie’s mind is a whirlwind.

His body is still buzzing, still high from the good parts of the night, but the way it’s clashing with his mind as it plummets to that dark space he’s uncomfortably familiar with— it makes him feel like an exposed nerve.

You kissed him.

And then you ran.

And Eddie doesn’t know what the hell to make of that. Doesn’t know if that means something, or if it meant too much, and that’s why you shut down. Maybe he pushed too hard, too quickly— it wouldn’t be the first time he’s done that. Because it’s not like he hasn’t been here before— people pulling back once they realize he’s not worth the mess.

Still, it felt different. You felt different.

Until you didn’t.

No. She still does. She is different.

He wrestles with his thoughts for a moment. Hates that he’s always quick to want a final word, a solution, something. He’s not patient. Never has been. And his mind spins like a fucking metal sphere in a pinball machine— Eddie’s not cut out for this. He gives and gives and gives, and when he’s inevitably left wondering why no one will take it, he spins out.

“Get home safe.”

The most pathetic thing he could come up with. He should’ve said more. Should’ve said, Hey, I liked that. I wanted more of that. I wanted you.

But he didn’t.

Because you didn’t.

And because he’s a coward.

He leans back against his seat and sparks up a cigarette before peeling back onto the road.

It doesn’t matter. You made your choice, and Eddie will respect it, even though he thinks it is stupid.

No matter how badly he wants to turn around and go back to you. No matter how badly he wants to shake you and yell out, This is okay. This is good— we’re good.

Kiss me again and stop fighting this.

Be good with me.

A week passes with a long stretch of silence between you and Eddie.

Not the comfortable kind. Not the lazy, late-summer kind that curls around you like a cozy blanket. Not the kind that’s mutual in a sense where you both know once you’re face-to-face again, it’ll be like zero time has passed. No, this one crackles. Burns. It hums, like static, loud and noisy in your ears, itchy beneath your skin— because all you can do is relive that kiss— over and over— like it’s stuck on a loop. Trapped behind your ribs like a lingering cold, refusing to let go.

And it’s not the good part that clings. Not the taste of cotton candy and cigarettes, or the warm, roughened fingertips on your skin. No, what clings is what you did after— you ran.

No explanation, no call, nothing. And every day that passes just makes you feel worse.

That plummeting look in Eddie’s eyes when you caved into yourself— it follows you in every dream. It’s worse than guilt. It’s a tether— a burn.

The silence sticks to you in every room— on your skin, behind your eyes, between every thought— and in the quiet moments you find, it grows deafeningly loud.

You do things to distract yourself. Rearrange your room. Color-code your closet. Plan for the next school semester, even though your schedule is already solidified. Run useless errands with your stepmother, feign interest in countertop samples and paint swatches, just to keep your mind busy.

But none of it works.

Because Eddie’s there.

In every passing car with loud music, in every corner of a room that feels too hot, too still.

He’s folded into the silence and the noise, in the little breath you take between words and the way your stomach clenches when you let your mind drift.

Eddie’s thoroughly infiltrated your system whether you like it or not— and fuck, you’re a fool to say he didn’t.

He’s bright. Searing like the summer sun at its zenith, the kind of heat that saps your strength and leaves you dizzy, thirsty for more.

But he’s cold, too— ice in the root of your chest when you remember how his face shifted the second you shifted. How quickly his warmth cooled when you didn’t stay.

Eddie is everything you’ve ever run from— loud, frayed, rough, unpredictable in a way that makes your skin buzz.

Guys like him were never an option. Too much, too raw, too real. You don’t touch things that burn like that. You weren’t supposed to.

But now you’ve touched him. And it’s already too late.

You’re singed. Marked in ways you can’t see but you feel.

You should be thinking about how to let it go— how to shake it loose, bury it, re-stitch the part of yourself that unraveled in his hands.

But instead, you keep remembering. His hands. The way he looked at you, like he couldn’t believe you were real. The way he tasted— cigarettes, artificial sugar, smokey cinnamon— a summer storm, and the brightest crack of light— Eddie Munson is out to ruin you.

His eyes wanted more. His hands wanted more.

And the worst part was, you do too. You don’t know what exactly you want from him.

But it’s him.

It’s his crooked grin, his smoke-rough laugh, the way he touches you like he knows you better than you know yourself.

It’s the pull— that stupid, reckless pull— and the part of you that craves chaos a little more than you ever admitted.

You don’t know why, you just know you want it. And maybe, deep down, you’re terrified of what that says about you. What it says about the lack of control you thought you had, so carefully crafted all your life.

One kiss from a leather-bound boy and it shattered.

It feels like a beginning. One you slammed the door on way too fast.

And now? You have no idea if it’s too late to open it again.

You want to think he’s fine, that this wasn’t some huge thing for him. That he’s used to girls coming and going. That maybe you’re making a bigger deal of it than it was.

But then you remember the way he looked at you afterward. Like you’d given him the goddamn moon and snatched it back before he could get a grip on it.

It feels rotten in your gut. A spinning wheel of regret, slow like molasses, scraping at your insides with each turn. You don’t know if you crushed something good before it had a chance, and you really don’t know how to clarify that.

You could just ask him. Call. Show up at the bar on one of the nights he performs. What would you say? Would he even want to talk to you? Or is your cowardly rejection still simmering in his chest the way it is in yours?

Fortunately, and maybe unluckily, you’re not left wondering for long.

The answer comes in the form of your father's car. Eddie spent the week fixing it, and now you’ve been tasked with picking it up from Eddie’s place.

You let it sit for two days. You can’t even bring yourself to slip on a pair of shoes to head over to Eddie’s place, because once you’re there, you can’t hide anymore.

Because what happens when you step into Eddie’s home and you’re slapped with the truth of what your week-long spiral was really all about? What happens if it destroys what was left in your satchel of perseverance? What happens when Eddie looks at you and there’s no longer that stupid glint dancing in his eyes?

You’d live on. Obviously. But not without a bruised ego. And maybe a little bit of a growing distaste for cinnamon and sugar.

And you think you hate that.

Steve forces you to go on the third day. If he notices your reluctance, he doesn’t mention it— just impatiently waits in the driveway and curls his nose when you slip into his passenger seat— “…Are you wearing perfume?”

“Shut up, Steve, just drive.”

And you try to focus on the drive or the music, anything but Eddie, but your mind lands on him every time you try to flip it. So you give up. Two minutes left anyway. And then you’ll be forced to face the man who’s been haunting your mouth for the past week.

It’s the peak of the day when you find yourself in front of Eddie’s door— the time when the sun turns the distance into rippling waves of heat. Steve didn’t waste a second to drive off, leaving you behind in a cloud of dust and nerves.

The trailer park is a different kind of solace. Not soft, not serene— just stretched. There’s a hum beneath your skin, something slow and buzzing, itchy like you’d just walked through a field of tall grass. Everything feels slowed down here, strung out, like the air itself is holding its breath. Or maybe that’s just you.

The gravel crunches beneath your shoes like it’s daring you to keep going. The road twists and curves around sun-bleached trailers; a box fan lowly hums in the window of one, a dog barking before settling down in the shade of another.

You should’ve worn something else. Sweat beads at the back of your neck, slipping down your spine, and your heart’s beating faster than it should be for a simple car pickup. You tell yourself it’s just the heat, but you know better. You’re two steps away from the door that makes you want to bolt back to California.

You climb the creaky but sturdy steps, like they’ve been there for years of time and weather. There are scuffs along the door, worn and loved, a sense of a thoroughly used home that oddly stirs your insides. You hesitate for only a second, bite the bullet before you raise a fist and knock twice on the door, sharp and quick.

Cicadas hum in the distance, the dog barks, the fan hums. You debate stealing the bike off to the side and high-tailing it home.

You stare at it long enough to imagine it before the door swings open.

Eddie. Barefoot. Wet hair with sweats hung low on his hips like he wasn’t expecting anybody for the rest of the day. His skin is still dewy from a shower, ink dark and slithering across the expanse of his skin. You swear you don’t watch the bead of water that drips from his hair and rolls down the side of his neck but you can damn near feel it.

Eddie’s eyes slightly widen when he sees you, shifting and opening the door more so he can fully see you.

“Hey.” He plainly says.

You draw in a breath and hold his eyes, “Hey.”

A silence simmers, not loud, but there. For a moment, neither of you moves. And now that you’re looking at Eddie again, face-to-face, if you think hard enough, you can remember how his lips feel.

Eddie blinks like he remembers why you’re here, “Car’s out back. Keys are here somewhere.”

He lets you in, holds the door, and lets it swing shut behind you as you enter his home. The air is cool inside, tinged with whatever soap he used and the sharp note of twine from the fan spinning on the ceiling.

Eddie walks a few steps ahead, taking a hand through his damp curls as he heads for the kitchen counter. “You know, uh…” he says without looking back, digging into a catch-all bowl full of keys, change, and mismatched guitar picks, “it’s nice to see you’re, like, alive. Didn’t die on the walk home, or something.”

You glance around his trailer—guitar leaning in the corner, a record sleeve half-tucked under the couch, light bleeding golden through the dusty blinds, a shit ton of mugs lined on the shelves with baseball caps lined above them.

“You watched me.” You remind him.

As you watch him, he pauses for a beat before he shrugs, “I did. And then I drove home thinking, ‘should I have popped a mint before I kissed her?’”

When he turns around, keys in hand, he’s grinning—eyes soft, a little nervous under all that casual. And there he is. Eddie peeking out from behind the boy you left beneath the streetlamp.

The tiny voice in your head sings as if he’s risen from the dead.

You take the keys from him, slowly. “You tasted like cotton candy,” you say, fingers brushing his, “and cigarettes.”

And cinnamon. Sugar-coated wet dreams and the end of summer— you won’t tell him, you’ll let it toss around in your brain like a mantra until you’re sick of it.

Eddie quirks an eyebrow, eyes slightly narrowing in question, “Bad combo?”

You hum, clutching the keys as you pull your hand back, “For some, maybe…” You tip your head, holding his gaze.

Something grows in Eddie’s eyes. Something small yet true.

It’s quiet, then, where nothing really needs to be said, but you’re both aching to say something anyway.

You take a silent breath, a calm settling over you that hadn’t been there all week— something that clarifies you know what you should say.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I didn’t… I didn't handle it well.”

Eddie straightens with a deep breath and makes a face, playful and easy. “No worries, princess. Had plenty of hit-and-runs before. I’m a connoisseur.”

You roll your eyes, even as something in your chest tugs, “I’m trying to be sincere, Eddie.” You deadpan.

The grin on Eddie’s face makes your hands hot. “I know,” he leans in, voice a little lower, like the moment has shifted. “It’s cute.”

He steps back, nods towards the back door with a gaze dancing in his eyes, making your chest thrum, “C’mon, I’ll walk you out. Gotta show off my mechanical skills.”

You follow him out. Try not to eye the expanse of his back through the shirt he’s wearing, try not to remember the way his arms felt beneath your fingers, even though you’d been remembering it since then. His scent wafts behind him like a taunting train of ‘remember this? Remember how close you were to that?’.

It puts you in a daze.

The screen door snaps shut behind you when you step out, the light’s softened, everything golden, and long shadows.

Eddie runs a hand along the hood of your father's car and taps it, “Changed the oil. Transmission put you out on the road, so I fixed that, too. And I tightened your brake line— it was loose enough to make me nervous, and I’m already high-strung as it is.”

“You’re so modest.” You hum as you walk up to the car.

He smirks and shrugs, watching as you approach the driver’s side, “I try.”

You open the door, gazing at him as he props it open for you. A callback to memory, vivid and true.

“Thanks…” You softly say.

Eddie nods, “Don’t mention it.” He glances away, squints at the setting sun, and shifts in his spot, “You uh…” he pauses and scratches the back of his neck, you tilt your head, “You ever been to the drive-in? The one out past the fairgrounds?”

You crack a smile, gazing at him as he turns back to you. You tilt your head, the sun gleaming over him. Somewhere in his eyes, there’s a fairy, swirling the pools of brown and making magic under the sun.

It’s working. Annoyingly so.

“The one that shut down like four years ago?” You huff out a laugh.

Eddie smiles, “Did it?”

“Definitely. Yeah.”

Eddie quirks a brow like he’s questioning your knowledge. You could’ve sworn you saw them breaking the screen down last time you passed it all those years ago. You shift in your spot, leaning against the door, “This your way of asking me out?”

Eddie grins then, sun peeking out in his cheeks, deep enough to make the beast in your chest purr like she’s been asleep for years. Whether she hates the sun or craves it, you’re not sure.

Eddie shrugs, “Just asking if you wanna sit in a car with me for three hours and make fun of bad dialogue.” he gazes at you for a moment before leaning in, voice low and convincing, “Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

You look at him, rolling the idea in your mind, tasting it behind your teeth. You hum, fingers twitching against the car door before you speak, “No. And you said that at the fair.”

Eddie’s smug demeanor falters, disbelief in his voice when he responds, “No?”

“No.”

“You wound me,” he groans, dragging a hand over his face, “I’m a wounded soldier here, honeybee. Bleeding out. Throw me a bone at least.” He dramatically pleads.

You roll your eyes, already turning to get in the car. “I’m romantic as hell, by the way. I’ll bring you flowers and kiss you at the door, the whole nine.”

It’s cute— his marketing skills— and maybe if you stayed a little longer, you’ll cave. You glance at him, strapping the belt across your torso and holding back the smile in your cheeks as he gazes down at you. You reach for the door and shake your head, “Goodbye, Eddie.”

Eddie looks at you like he always does, with stars in his eyes and his heart on his sleeve, “Bye, Malibu.”

You don’t ask why he’s still smiling at you like that, and you don’t let yourself wonder what it means. You just shut the door and let the warmth in your cheeks settle on the drive home.

He doesn’t let up for nearly two weeks.

Eddie’s on a running campaign to get you to agree to this magical drive-in movie date he’s proposed, and he’s relentless about it, too. He keeps his appearances up at the house, wasting away in Steve’s room until he finds a moment to slip away and find you.

The first time he finds you in the kitchen, cutting a bowl of fruit for yourself when he rounds the corner. He’s got a lovesick grin on his face and a mouth full of smug, flirtatious words waiting to come out at a moment's notice.

“Movie’s still on the table.” He hums, walking around you like an animal taunting its prey.

You don’t bother looking at him, slicing through thick blocks of pineapple as you hum, “No.”

“Free drinks.” He offers.

“Still no.”

The second time he asks comes a day later while you’re lying by the pool, sunglasses perched on your face, a book in your lap. Eddie leans over you, wet hair dripping chlorine and sun, dampening your pages, “Name the candy, I’ll get it.”

“Eddie—” You grimace, pressing a hand to his chest and shaking your book off with the other. You ignore the warmth beneath your fingertips, glaring up at him through the dark shades as he continues to ramble.

“Popcorn? Gummy worms? Licorice? Gross, but I’ll look the other way. I’ll even let you hold the remote.”

You look at him, deadpanned as he wiggles his eyebrows at you.

“There is no remote.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and waves a hand, “You’re missing the point.”

You lift your glasses just enough to give him a look, “Goodnight, Eddie.”

Eddie’s face twists in mild confusion. “It’s three in the afternoon.”

“Exactly.”

You lose count of how many times he asks. He gets creative with it, though. Will pass by your room and slip an index card under your door with a single Dum-Dum taped to it and the words— MOVIE’S THIS WEEKEND?— scribbled in shitty handwriting with two check boxes beneath it. Both of the boxes say yes.

You draw a third box, write ‘no’ beside it, and check the box before sliding it back under the door.

The Dum-Dum was strawberry flavored and painted your tongue red.

You now have a stash of Dum-Dums piling up on your dresser.

Nothing is holding you back from saying yes to Eddie. Aside from the fact that he’s Eddie, and every time you’re left alone with him for a prolonged amount of time, your brain starts glitching out like a jumbled tape until you start thinking stupid things. Stupid things that land you pressed against his van with his tongue down your throat— not like you’re still thinking about it or anything.

By the start of the second week, Eddie’s purely asking for the bit. He likes the chase, says it all in his grin and the twinkle in his eye every time you shut him down, and he throws a hand over his chest like a lovesick dog.

So by the time he leans against the doorframe of your room and asks again on a random Wednesday night, he’s moving off muscle memory.

“Drive-in’s still on the table. So are the snacks. And the cuddles. Just say the word, I’ll heat up the van and cue up the mood lighting.”

You’re perched in front of your vanity, smoothing cool moisturizer beneath your eyes, not bothering to look back when you respond, “You got mood lighting in your van now?”

“Princess, please,” Eddie scoffs, waltzing in like he knows his way around the place. “I’ve had mood lighting. That lava lamp has been through everything with me.”

You snort, and he plops on your bed, splaying out like a cat that’s getting comfortable, his feet still planted on the ground as he talks to your ceiling, “Anyway, no pressure. Just sayin’ I can get ready in five. Six if you want me to shave.”

You glance at him through the mirror, blink once, and consider that he’s still there, draped over your sheets like a lovelorn teenage boy.

“Okay.”

Eddie doesn’t move. And honestly, if you looked close enough, you might think he might have stopped breathing.

“Uh…” He clears his throat, sitting up with a fist over his mouth as he coughs a few times. “Was that— sorry— that was a yes?”

You suppress the grin that threatens to split across your lips. You close the containers on your vanity and stand, pushing the chair in, “Yes. Now get out. Before I change my mind.”

“Oh shit, you’re serious? Like— like this Saturday?” He asks with wide eyes.

“Friday. And I need to be home by midnight, no later.” You demand.

Eddie nods, like a child getting scolded and trying to regain trust. “Midnight, no later, got it.”

You nod, standing before him, arms crossed over your chest. A silence falls over the room for a moment. You blink once, eyeing Eddie as he sits on your bed, a slow grin spreading across his lips.

“I totally cracked you—”

“Get out.”

“Got it. See you Saturday, Malibu.”

You don’t care to wipe off the smile on your face when the door shuts behind him.

You don’t tell anyone.

Not Mia, not Steve— not even the bathroom mirror you’ve been avoiding all day.

You spun a lie at dinner, something short and simple about having a movie night, and when your dad asked who with, you shrugged and said “Mia,” like it wasn’t a sin. Technically true. Mia exists. You could be with Mia. You’re just… not.

Instead, you’re going to be with Eddie. Steve’s friend.

Eight o’clock. That’s when you’re meeting him. A block away, under the streetlamp, just like you’d agreed.

The house simmers to a quiet state as you get ready. You pace a little, change your outfit twice before going back to the original skirt and top you’d picked out. You apply your lip gloss once, hate the shade, and wipe it off before applying a clear one. You smell an array of perfumes until they all smell the same, and you’re forced to just spray something random, biting your tongue as you repeat to yourself, it’s just a movie. Not a date. Stop acting like this is something because it’s not.

It’s getting dark when you slip out the back gate, your purse in one hand with your pride in the other, perfume clinging to your skin like a secret. And maybe that’s what this is. A secret mission. Something stolen and sweet. Something reckless.

Or maybe it’s a mistake.

Somewhere along the way, between the gate and the driveway, your pride slips and falls to the pavement.

Just a movie. Not a date. This is nothing.

You tell yourself that once more as you walk down the block, holding onto your purse like a lifeline. The air is cooling with leftover heat from the day, a slight breeze that instantly cools it, and reminds you of the season. The sky has dimmed to a navy, the kind of dusk that makes the street lights flicker like they’re nervous too. You should be nervous.

You are.

But you don’t let it show. Because you don’t get nervous over boys. Not even boys that kiss you like you’re not breakable. Not even boys that hold your gaze like they’re daring you to run.

But the closer you get to the street corner, the more your stomach knots. The more you start to second-guess whether this is a good idea, which it’s definitely not. But you keep walking anyway. Like your common sense has just magically disappeared, and you’re moving on a whim.

Because this isn’t just a drive-in movie. It’s another step into a story you didn’t plan to write. And planning is how you survive. Lipstick, posture, perfectly-timed smiles, perfectly aligned future— armor. That's always been enough.

And then Eddie came. And you don’t typically feel sorry for turning away from a boy; you never had to feel sorry. Because none of them has been him. And now you can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at you when you said sorry. Like he didn’t want to hear it, but needed it anyway. Like he’d been waiting for you to say something real, and now that you had, he didn’t know what to do with it.

And it didn’t feel like a game.

That’s the part that’s unraveling you. It didn’t feel like a win. It felt like a surrender.

You pause before you turn the corner, allow yourself one more moment of quiet nerves as you breathe, smooth your sweaty hands over your skirt, and crack a smirk that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

And then you walk.

You can already hear Eddie’s music booming from the radio of his van, and it does little to ease your nerves. Because, of course. Of course, Eddie Munson announces his arrival to the entire neighborhood.

As you get closer, you spot him near the van, leaning against the passenger door like he’s posed for some photo he doesn’t know about. His jeans are cuffed, scuffed boots toeing the gravel with a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The faintest smirk tugs at his lips when he sees you. Something in you settles.

“Hey, runaway,” he calls out, flicking the cigarette to the curb and grinding it beneath his heel, “Nice of you to show.”

“I had to slip out past Steve and a dad who breathes like a dragon,” you say, lifting a brow as you approach, arms crossed. “You, meanwhile, are trying to alert the entire neighborhood with this volume. Jesus, Munson.”

Eddie grins, wide and unapologetic, as he swings the passenger door open with a dramatic flourish. “Apologies, princess. Good habit. Makes for a great entrance.”

You hum as you climb into the passenger seat, the scent of smoke and old leather filling your nose, “I’ll give it a five out of ten.”

Eddie makes a wounded expression, “Harsh— and rude— rough way to start the night, honeybee.”

You halfheartedly shrug as he closes the door and jogs to the driver's seat. Another moment of quiet nerves. And then he slips in, “I’ll change it for you. Just say the word. I don’t change it for many people, so take that shit seriously.”

You smirk, watching as he turns the key in the ignition, “A sacred honor?”

“An elite one,” he solemnly nods, “Most people? They get Motörhead or nothing. But for you, honeybee?” He looks at you and cracks a stupid, heartfelt look, “I’d play Madonna for you.”

You glare at him, fighting the smile on your lips as you roll your eyes, “Alright, loverboy,” you nod towards the road, “start driving. You’re burning up your cool points every time you talk.”

Eddie scoffs and waves you off, peeling the van onto the road with a shake of his head, “Rude. Again. Shouldn’t have fixed your car.”

You can’t help the laugh that rolls off your lips.

You drive in silence for a moment. The city is asleep, everyone home with their families, tucking their kids in for a night’s sleep. Every light is green, the sun still dropping, flickering through the line of trees along the winding backroads. Fields roll out beside them like a running scene to match the radio as it swiftly shifts into the next song. This one is slower. Something you doubt Eddie listens to in his free time.

You glance at him, the way the light hits his jaw, his fingers tapping to the rhythm. You crack, “Fine. You get, like… maybe a point for the mixtape.”

Eddie smirks without looking, like he knew it was coming, “A point? Out of?”

“Five.”

Eddie scoffs out a laugh, “Tough grader.”

You shrug, shifting in your seat, eyes drifting back to the road, “Earn the rest.”

Eddie glances at you, tilts his head back and forth like he’s thinking before he speaks, “What if I bought you gummy worms?”

You turn back to him, “Do you have gummy worms?” You ask in a faux uninterested tone.

Eddie’s teeth dig into his bottom lip as he reaches blindly toward the backseat. He shuffles around momentarily, eyes never leaving the road, one hand on the wheel. You watch in amusement as he pulls out a crinkled gas station bag, holding it up like a trophy. “I come prepared.”

You pause, eyes narrowing in suspicion, “How long have those been back there?”

“Like a day.” He shrugs. You raise a brow, and he rolls his eyes. “Maybe three. They’re still good. Little stiff. Builds jaw strength— y’know artificial sugar never rots, inspector.”

“Rots your teeth.”

Eddie smiles, “So do you. Sweet as honey. I’m still diggin’ in.”

You shake your head, glancing away as a smile cracks across your lips, so wide you nearly feel embarrassed. You sigh, leaning back into the seat, “I’m not chewing stale gummy worms just to impress you.”

“Fine,” he rips the bag open with his teeth, “More for me.” He pops one into his mouth and chews dramatically, loudly, and obnoxiously. He hums as if it’s the best candy he’s ever tasted, “Best ones in the state, baby. Sure, you don’t want me to momma bird you?” He asks, popping another one in as he glances at you.

You grimace, looking at him, tone drenched in all seriousness and play, “You better not spit that at me,” you warn.

Eddie turns to you slowly, lips full of threat, chewed-up sugar bullets ready to fire. “I could. I’ve got perfect aim.”

You gape in disgust, blinking in disbelief, “You’re disgusting.” You exclaim. His lips purse, and your hand clamps over his mouth, startled but still smiling. “Chew, Munson. And swallow. I’ll sit here all night.”

His eyes sparkle, darting between the road and you, lips pressed into a smile against your palm. One brow lifts, smug, like he’s silently saying that’s not as much of a threat as you think it is.

You tap your finger against his cheek, unrelenting in your demand. He laughs, swallows, then nips at your palm, smiling when you squeal and pull away with a curse of his name. You roll your eyes, dragging your hand against the material of your skirt as you glare at him, though your glare does nothing to extinguish the pure joy on his face.

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“It’s my best quality.”

The tension in your shoulders has unraveled, just a little. Enough to let you enjoy the rest of the ride and not freeze when Eddie reaches out and flicks his fingers softly against your knee when he says something else—something dumb and playful.

It makes you feel warm and fuzzy around the edges, like the last time you’ve smiled this much for this long was in a dream.

The drive-in is past the fairgrounds, just like Eddie had said, but it’s not the one you remember. This one is a lot more… handmade. It’s behind an old, rusted warehouse surrounded by a field and a gravel parking lot where cars are lined up— some parked like they’ve been here all day, and others parked without a care in the world, crooked and taking up space.

It looks like something out of a dream, if the dream were hazardous and a little bit illegal. There are fraying extension cords snaking on the gravel, and dented trucks are parked parallel to hold up a white sheet that sways in the wind. The projector flickers every so often on the sheet, casting a light against it like it’s fighting to stay alive. Warm lights are lit across the lot, lawn chairs are scattered around cracked open coolers, and a faint hum of music from a van that looks just as run-down as Eddie’s. It’s the kind of scene that looks warm and feels exactly so.

Eddie parks the van with the back facing the movie. He greets a guy when he steps out, someone named Mickey with rowdy hair, stoned eyes, and a blunt. Mickey supposedly makes the best gas station nachos, and for some reason, you absolutely believe that.

You both climb in, Eddie first because he swears he’s a gentleman that’s not grabbing for a chance to look at your ass even though you caught him doing so just moments before. Inside, Eddie has tossed in a nest of mismatched pillows and blankets, thrown around in a cozy manner yet somehow chaotically organized. Snacks and drinks are stashed in a bag, snuggled into the blankets like it’ll keep them cool.

You fail to suppress a smirk as you settle with your back resting against the seats, raising a brow as you glance at him, “So, this is your thing? Lure unsuspecting girls into your van with snacks, blankets, and a movie?”

Eddie scoffs, feigning a wounded expression as he crashes in next to you, already grabbing a drink and passing one to you, “You think I do this for just anyone?”

You take the canned drink, cracking it open with a hiss and sipping with a hum, “Absolutely.”

Eddie gasps dramatically, clutching the drink to his chest. “I’m wounded, princess. Truly. I fought hard for this, by the way. And I thought we had something special.”

You shoot him a dry look over the rim of your can. “You said that after I let you steal one of my fries.”

“Because we do,” he says, matter-of-factly. “You just don’t recognize the depth of our cosmic bond yet. I mean, remember that kiss? Knocked the wind outta me. Could’ve sworn I saw your eyes roll.”

Your face warms. It’s faint, but unmistakable, like a match sparking beneath your skin. You try to hide it with a scoff, nudging his shin with your foot as he giggles.

“My eyes didn’t roll. How would you even know? Your eyes were supposed to be closed.”

Eddie hums, unbothered, ripping a bag of sour candies open. “I’ve got a third eye. The bangs aren’t just an accessory.” He digs a piece of candy out, popping it in his mouth before offering the bag to you. You pick one, toss it in, and immediately regret it. The taste is sharp and mean, catching in your throat and pulling a wince from your chest.

You cough through it, taking a sip of your drink to ease the stress, “Jesus. Is that candy or chemical warfare?” You cringe.

Eddie grins around his chew, popping another in like it’s nothing, “Little from column A, little from column B.”

You swallow the candy, shaking your head as you lean back on your hands, stretching your legs out, “Your taste in candy is criminal.”

“Funny. That’s what they said about my music, too.” He drums his fingers against his drink like it’s a snare, mock-riffing. “I’m a menace across multiple industries.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips tug upward despite yourself. The movie flickers on the sheet in front of you, voices murmuring from the speaker someone set up between the trucks. The air smells like weed and sunscreen, someone’s smoking close enough to catch the faint buzz of it.

Eddie shifts beside you, closer without fully touching, like he’s testing the air between you. You don’t move away; somehow, the closeness relaxes you more than you’d imagined. Your laughs become loose around the edges, Eddie’s limbs soften, and your eyes meet more.

The van warms in a summery haze with quiet laughter, hushed jokes behind mouthfuls of candy, and the occasional moment when either of you pretends to care about the movie. And somewhere between that, your ankle passes Eddie’s, like a ghost, a memory of the diner, and a nudge into something more.

Eddie is warm beside you, and his thigh presses against yours each time he shifts, which, unfairly, seems to happen more often than not. Your bodies are pressed close, your arms touching, a film of sugar forming over your tongues.

“So,” He speaks softly, warm breath dusting over your temple, a smile trickling around the edges, a nervous undertone so quiet you almost miss it. “Give me the verdict. What’s my rating now?”

You glance at him. His eyes are on you, not the movie. Your eyes dart back to the movie, a small smirk easing across your lips.

“Four stars.”

Eddie scoffs, dramatically offended, “Four?! Out of five?”

“Mhm.” You nod your head, still pretending to watch the movie.

“Why? What did I do?” He stresses.

You shrug, “You forgot my flowers.”

Eddie pauses, only the hum of the movie filtering through the van. He sits up a little, “Who said I forgot ‘em?”

You glance at him, just in time to see him turn around and reach over the middle console, rummaging through bags and the empty soda cans he keeps tossing back. You watch, listen to him mutter to himself, toss aside a hoodie before— “Aha!”

He plops back beside you, triumphantly smiling as he extends a hand to you, clutching something, “I’m a man of my word.”

A single rose.

Well— it was a rose. At one point. Now it’s a little mangled, missing a few leaves, petals slightly crushed, stem bent in the middle like it gave up halfway through standing tall.

Your hand flies to your mouth.

“You let it die before it got to me?”

“I was freaking the fuck out!” Eddie exclaims, absolutley not ashamed, “I got it two hours before I picked you up. And then I forgot it. But then I remembered during the drive and panicked and tried to hide it in the snack bag—”

You burst out with laughter. The sad, wilted rose hangs between you as a testament to Eddie’s story. It makes your ribs ache with lack of air, and your cheeks warm as Eddie tries to explain why his gift is now fit for a compost pile. And then— to your horror— your breath hitches and you snort. A real, startled, uncontrolled snort, right from your lips. And you immediately clap a hand over your mouth like you can shove it back in.

Eddie goes stock still, eyes wide as he looks at you.

“...Oh my god,” he whispers, “Did you just—”

“Shut up,” you groan, face burning as you shove the rose against his chest,

Eddie places a hand over yours, grasping it like a lifeline as he laughs in awestruck disbelief. “No, no— jesus christ. What was that? Do that again.”

“Eddie—”

“Please,” he begs around a laugh, clutching the rose like a microphone, “Do it again. I think I hear angels.”

You groan again, laughing harder now as you collapse sideways, not even thinking when you bury your face in Eddie’s shoulder to hide your embarrassment. His body shakes with laughter, both you warm and full of it. His free arm wraps around you instinctively, pulling you close, and when he glances down at you—your nose tucked against his shirt, his rose wilting between you—he softens.

Warmth radiates from him like a furnace, and for a second, you just stay there, trying to catch your breath, your cheeks aching from smiling. And in the quiet stretch of time, you feel it shift.

The buzzing, the teasing, the fizzy high laughter— it all slows, softens. His thumb rubs an absent-minded circle over your side. You tilt your head, nose brushing over his collarbone, and when you glance up, he’s already looking at you.

There’s a crease between his brows, like he’s trying to memorize something. Like he’s caught off guard by how much he likes you in this moment. And you can’t exactly laugh about it because, well, you feel it too. You feel how good this is, how real it feels, tangible and soft and bright.

He shifts, eyes flickering over your face. “Hey,” He softly says, voice low, reverent.

You blink up at him. “Hey.”

His fingers, rough and calloused, dust across your jaw.

And then, quieter: “You gonna let me kiss you again?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He kisses exactly how you’d been dreaming of since the first kiss. This time, he tastes like the night's warmth, laughter sprinkled over his tongue, and sugar behind his teeth. You fall into it like muscle memory. Like your body had been prepping for it all this time.

You pull away first. Barely. Just enough to breathe. Though you can’t breathe much when your bodies are still pressed so close like this— Eddie’s arm holding you, you practically draped over him.

Your eyes flicker to the side, a nearly unbearable heat creeping up your chest, lips tingling like they’re still pressed to his. You feel him watching you, still, drafting the aftermath— quietly smug, fond in that boyish way that makes you want to kiss him all over again just to shut him up.

He lifts the rose—pathetic, crushed thing—and sniffs it theatrically before murmuring, “Still smells like a rose.”

You laugh— can’t help it— and the softest little snort escapes. You don’t care to hide it this time. And Eddie lights up like a kid on Christmas.

“Again!” He whispers, scandalized and delighted. You roll your eyes as he tugs you closer, “I’m two for two!”

“You’re annoying.” You weakly push at him as he grins.

“How many people have gotten you to laugh like that, hm? Come on.” He leans in, nuzzles your cheek like it’s muscle memory, smiling when you squirm away from him. “Tell me I’m the one and only. Say it. Say, ‘Eddie Munson is my laughter lord and chaos prince.’”

You bat away at him, trying and failing to suppress your smile. “You’re so stupid.”

“And you snort when you laugh. Which means I win.”

You roll your eyes, settled against his shoulder, snuggled like you belong there. “I’m regretting kissing you.” You halfheartedly murmur.

“No, you’re not,” he grins. He twists the rose between his fingers, eyes gently flickering over your face. Then, gently, he runs the soft rose petals over the bridge of your nose. The brittle petals whisper across your skin, light and teasing, until they dust the tip of your nose. Your nose crinkles on instinct.

Eddie freezes, dragging in a breath. “Don’t move.” He whispers like he’s trying not to spook a deer. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire fucking life.”

You laugh, batting the rose away as you giggle, “You’re a sap.”

“And you’re a shitfaced liar,” he mumbles lowly, leaning forward, eyes dancing across your face. His eyes flicker to your lips like magnets pulled to steel. Your breath stutters, eyes stuck on his. “You totally wanna kiss me again.”

You fight the smile on your lips as you shake your head, “No.”

Eddie’s already leaning closer, eyes flickering to your smile as one approaches his lips, “Yeah, you do.”

Your false protest dies on his lips. It’s softer this time. Slower. Deeper. More curious, like he’s trying to memorize you from the inside out.

The rose falls to the ground somewhere, wilted and pathetic. Eddie pulls you close, lips twitching against yours like he’s quietly reminding you that he won. His fingers splay wide across your back, knuckles curling into your top as you press against him, his other hand coming up to cup your face.

Your fingers curl against his chest, holding on like you need it to anchor yourself. Your legs shift between his, and you’re nearly draped over him when you tilt your head, lips parting in an invitation that he takes like it’s sacred.

His tongue slides against yours— slow, careful, sweet— and your body reacts before your mind catches up.

Heat licks up your spine, curling in your belly, and you melt into him. Everything else fades— the movie, the night air, the mess of candy wrappers and pillows around you. It all collapses beneath his lips, the sinful flick of his tongue against yours, his fingers curling around your waist, the tremble in your thighs.

You make a sound you don’t mean to. A soft, involuntary moan caught between a hitch in your breath, featherlight and aching.

Eddie pulls away. Quick and abrupt. Like he’s just touched something electric.

His breathing’s uneven, lips pink and bruised, pupils blown wide in disbelief. “Yeah,” he shakily breathes, eyes darting like he can’t afford to look at you. He peels his body from yours, “Yeah. Okay. That’s enough. No more.”

You blink, wide-eyed and dazed, “What—?”

“I’m gonna jizz my pants.” He says, completely deadpan. He presses a palm to his crotch as he sits up, eyes blown as they dart around the floor of the van, like somewhere in the rubble, he’ll find his dignity. “Like. Seriously. I’m gonna blow a load in my pants— you can’t just… you can’t make sounds like that.”

You laugh, sharp and bright, your face flushing all over again. Eddie looks at you like you’re insane and groans, “Unbelievable. You’re laughing? At a time like this?”

“I didn’t mean to,” you say, halfheartedly and amused.

“You moaned, babe. Into my mouth. Like we’re in some kind of fucked up romance novel.”

“I barely did.” You argue.

“I felt it vibrate in my soul.”

You drop your face into your hands, hiding your warm cheeks, ignoring your mind as it replays the scene over and over again, but Eddie’s already tugging your wrists down, grinning like a menace, one thumb brushing over your pulse as the other brushes your cheek.

“Don’t hide,” he says, a little gentler this time, “It was hot. You’re hot. That’s the whole problem.”

You groan, rolling your eyes as Eddie grins. “I’m never kissing you again.”

Eddie flops beside you with a contented sigh, stretching out like a happy cat, folding one arm behind his head. “In your dreams, honeybee.” He grins, crossing one ankle over the other.

“You’ve kissed me— thrice now. Nearly killed me with that last one, too, so,” he shrugs, “I know your secrets. I own your laugh. It’s mine.”

You narrow your eyes, glaring at him, fighting to keep your gaze from wandering back to his lips. “You don’t own anything.”

“Wrong,” Eddie loudly claims. He cracks a can of soda open, taking a sip before speaking, “I own your laugh. That snort? That’s legally binding.”

And for some reason, you decide not to fight him on that.

Eddie starts the van back up exactly fifteen minutes before midnight.

You both climb out, dusting off crumbs and straightening your clothes to at least try and look like you didn’t spend the last twenty minutes of the movie chasing each other's lips. You can barely pay any mind to the commotion of other cars around you as you waltz to the passenger side because you’re still buzzing with the feeling of Eddie’s body pressed to yours.

The drive is quiet, but much different than the last time you’d spent in the silence of his van. This time, there’s a content lull in the air. Your head leans against the window, your skin warm and flushed in the places his hands had been. Your lips still tingle. Eddie hums to an old cassette, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel like he’s trying to burn off the leftover energy.

Familiar trees pass in a blur, softer this time, like the night has smudged a yellow glow over your eyes. You feel it in your chest. In the way your fingers twist in your lap, thrumming with a need to touch something. You don’t look at Eddie, too afraid of what you’ll do if you catch a glimpse of him.

The streetlight buzzes overhead when he stops below it, the same one he picked you up from. Somewhere in your purse, the crushed-up rose sits, folded up and full of the night. Later, you’ll pull it out and stare at it like it might summon the curly-headed boy into your room. You think you might already miss this night, as if you’re not still sitting in it. And that shakes something loose behind your ribs. Fear, hope, dread. It all mixes together and pumps through you like a drug.

Eddie drags in a dramatic breath, tapping the wheel a few times, “Five minutes to midnight, Cinderella.”

You glance at him, fingers curling around the strap of your purse. “So,” he hums, glancing away for a moment, “You gonna kiss me goodbye?”

You lift a brow, watching as pearly white canines peek out from Eddie’s smile. “Do you know how dramatic you are?”

Eddie scoffs, “Of course I do.”

“And you watch way too many romance films.”

Eddie presses a hand over his heart, “I’m a hopeless romantic. Sue me for having a hobby— you know what I’m not hearing though?”

You press your lips together, fighting a smile as you hum.

“I’m not hearing a no.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for the door handle, your smile finally cracking when Eddie leans across the console and tugs at your arm. “C’mon, baby,” he purrs, “One for the road.”

You turn to him, looking at him draped over the console like some stupid, dramatic Renaissance painting. He looks up at you, a glimmer in his eyes, and something soft and warm. His thumb drags over your elbow, gentle and kind.

You turn more to him, lean down, and kiss him. It’s light. Slow and sure, like something you’d tuck in your pocket and keep.

You pull away, your nose dusting over his, not quite fully pulling away just yet, when your eyes dance for a moment. Eddie’s lips twitch into a smirk, his voice gentle when he speaks, “Maybe you watch too many romance films.”

You roll your eyes, pulling back and turning to open the door.

“Same time tomorrow?” Eddie pathetically calls as you step down from his van.

“Goodnight, Eddie.” You shut the door before he can say anything else, but not quickly enough to hide the smile that lingers on your lips.

And you don’t look back, but you know Eddie doesn’t start the van back up until you disappear behind the next block.

Eddie weasels his way in like a professional con artist.

It’s not much different from before— Eddie was always somewhere lounging around your house from the beginning, but now, it’s different. Now, it’s loud. Big. Because now you know what his hands feel like on your skin. You know how he sounds when he’s breathless. You know his laugh, his smile, and the way he downs a can of soda like he’s just crawled out of the desert.

You know his favorite color is blood red. He likes sour candies even though they make his entire body shiver “like he’s dying”. He names inanimate objects and talks about them like they’re real people. He hates window shopping, but he doesn’t mind that you enjoy it.

You don’t know all of him, but the parts that you do? It feels like everything. And it suffocates your days like wet heat.

And it makes your insides churn whenever you see him, relaxed on your couch, bickering with Steve about something you don’t even care to listen to because you’re stuck thinking about how you were under him. Just two days ago.

You busy yourself, like before, only this time, it doesn’t work at all. The last time you tried to occupy yourself to forget about whatever is unfolding between you and Eddie, it at least worked until the silence crept in. But now, Eddie runs through your mind as if he were made to be there. And again, it doesn’t help that he’s constantly in front of you, cracking sly grins like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. Like he can tell you’ve been pacing holes into the carpet of your room and clenching your thighs every time you get a whiff of him.

It’s mental and physical torture.

And now, you’re fidgeting in your room, listening to the low rumble of his voice through the walls like some yearning lunatic.

You shift against the cool comforter of your bed, tapping your fingers against your stomach as the fan whirs above you. You swallow and shift your gaze to the wall, attempting to fool yourself into believing you’re not phased by any of this. That you’re not listening to the music humming from Steve’s stereo, and remembering the way Eddie had played that same song and sang off-key to it, stealing kisses between each purposely cracked high note. You shouldn’t remember the way his tongue moved. You shouldn’t still feel it.

You rise from your bed with a huff, padding your way out and down the stairs, on a mission to grab a drink you don’t need. You open the fridge and stare at it for some time, letting the cool breeze drip over you like a breath of fresh air.

You don’t hear his steps until he’s beside you, arm brushing against yours when he speaks, “You’re gonna get cold standing there like that.”

You don’t bother looking away from the fridge's contents when you respond, “I’m hot.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “You are.”

You grab a bottle of water and shut the fridge with a roll of your eyes, “Do you usually haunt every house in Hawkins, or is this just the lucky one?”

Eddie snorts, leaning against the counter as he grabs an orange from the bowl of fruits on the island. He shrugs, “I make my rounds. Got a thing for the houses with cute girls that walk around in tiny shorts.” His eyes glance down at your bare thighs.

You ignore the warmth that spreads up your neck and don’t bother tugging down your shorts. You shift in your spot, tilting your head, “You sound like a creep, you realize that, right?”

Eddie grins, leaning into your space, orange forgotten on the counter, “Kiss me again. Before I forget what it feels like.”

You don’t bother moving away from his proximity. Or maybe you just don’t want to. Either way, you stay put, breathing in his air like it’s not fogging up the senses in your brain. “It’s not healthy to be this clingy.”

“God, tell me about it. I cry myself to sleep. Kiss me— give me somethin’ new to sob about tonight.”

You look at him, deadpanned, trying—and failing— to suppress that fond look spreading across your face.

Upstairs, Steve calls out for Eddie and tells him to hurry the fuck up.

Eddie lifts a brow, tilting his head, “Time’s a tickin’, honeybee.”

So you kiss him. There, in the kitchen, with Steve just upstairs, not knowing that his best friend has his tongue shoved down your throat. And… you don’t care. At least not at the moment.

You let him kiss you breathless, one hand on your face, the other squeezing your hip, spilling a whispered moan on your lips like a prayer.

He groans low in his throat, hand sliding down until his fingers dance across the hem of your shirt, fingers slipping beneath the thin cotton to brush at the bare skin of your hip. The counter digs into your spine, but you barely notice it. You’re too busy chasing the heat of his mouth, too dazed by the way he kisses you like he’s starving.

Your fingers thread into his hair, his tongue licking across the ridges of your teeth. One of your legs lifts, hooking around his hip like it’s instinct, and you swear he gasps into your mouth, like he wasn’t expecting that.

“Jesus,” he mumbles against your lips, kissing you between each word like he can’t afford to spend a second without tasting you, “You keep doing that, and I’m gonna—”

“EDDIE!” Steve yells again, angrier this time, “We’re fucking losing, man, hurry up!”

Eddie breaks the kiss with a groan, one last squeeze to your waist, “Shit,” he grumbles. One last kiss, and then he pulls away. He looks pained. A little guilty. Hair roused, cheeks flushed. “Gotta jet, sweetfang. Duty calls.”

“Sweetfa—?”

“Good stuff, by the way. Almost tops when you moaned my name.” He winks. You blink, dazed and confused, watching as he grabs the orange and backs away towards the stairs.

“I never moaned your name.” You argue.

“Really?” He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with that usual glint that says he’s definitely being annoying on purpose, “Could’ve sworn you did.”

He disappears up the stairs with a grin and a bounce in his step, leaving you flushed and spinning in the middle of the kitchen.

You stay there a moment longer than necessary, still clutching the unopened bottle of water, still trying to catch your breath. The fridge hums behind you. The fan in the living room clicks softly. And Eddie’s voice echoes somewhere in your skull — really? Could’ve sworn you did.

He’s infuriating. He’s relentless. He’s everywhere.

And god help you, he’s starting to taste like a habit.

It festers slowly and thick at first.

One morning, you’re telling yourself that this is careless and you should stop whatever thing is going on between you and Eddie. Then, by the afternoon, you’re sitting on top of Steve’s car in the garage, eyeing Eddie as he lights a cigarette and says— “You ever think about how your left eye sparkles more than your right?”

And it’s so stupid. He’s stupid. And it makes you smile as you shove him away like you don’t want him to be closer, like he’s not already crawling under your skin and carving out a space between the grooves of your brain.

And then it’s like a flicker in your periphery. Like a dream where you had been in one place and then you blinked and you’re suddenly in a completely different setting with entirely different people.

Eddie finds his way to you like he’s a dog with a keen nose for your scent. He slips into your room like a man on a mission, spreads a palm over your mouth, and smiles when he feels your mistaken giggle against his skin, pressing you into your bed with hot, slow kisses that make your insides twist. He’s reckless and aware, always pulling away when the clock ticks, and he remembers where you are and whose house you’re in.

He takes you to the lake one night and drags you in despite your protests— and that little Eddie-shaped hole in your brain quivers to life when he grins at you, wet hair plastered across his cheeks, droplets of water melting beneath your lips when you kiss them away.

He pulls you into his favorite record store— two towns over, an elderly man at the counter, and a thin fog of dust hanging between each shelf— and Eddie’s waltzing through like it’s his home. He shows you his favorite albums, which records he’s yet to put on his shelf, which ones he thinks you’d like, and he loops a finger through the belt loop of your shorts like touching you is second nature— and by then your body is fully tethered to the drug that goes by the name of Eddie Munson.

And when you think about it— when you really sit down and think about it— between Eddie’s loud way of attracting and your quiet way of obsessing, you never stood a chance.

“You nervous?”

Eddie’s fingertips are warm against the skin of your temple, gentle as they poke like he can pluck the thoughts straight from your mind and see them for himself.

His home is warm and humming with that summer afternoon daze that seeps through when you part the blinds to let the sun drip in like a hazy memory. You’re perched on his couch, legs tucked beneath your body, a cozy sweater loose around your arms.

Eddie’s beside you, dressed in sweats and a wrinkled shirt, curls pulled into an abomination of a bun. He’s got a record spinning— Black Sabbath: Master of Reality— which he claimed to be the best way to feel the high and be high. You didn’t know what he meant by that, but you don’t exactly know what he means a lot of the time because Eddie just kind of spits out the first things that come to his mind until they make a complete sentence.

He pokes at you again, his other hand hovering over the coffee table, a blunt curled between his fingers, waiting to be sealed. You bat at him, pulling a face when he jabs a gentle finger at your lips.

“No.”

“You totally are.” He grins, turning back to his task. You watch as he twists and turns the paper around crushed nuggets of weed, expertly moving around like it’s a mindless craft. He licks the edge, smoothing it beneath his thumb before grabbing the lighter and settling back into the couch.

He lifts the blunt, glancing at you with a lazy smirk tugging at his lips, “This right here,” he broadly gestures to the room, the music, the muted TV flickering forgotten images, the glow of the setting sun, and you perched next to him, watching him like gospel, “This is God’s gift, baby.”

You raise a brow, and his grin widens, thumb flicking the lighter to life once.

“This,” he continues, lowering his voice to something just above a whisper, reverent and teasing, “is how we get closer to God.”

You snort, rolling your eyes when you respond, “You’re making it sound like a ritual.”

He sighs, satisfied in his dramatics as he wriggles against the couch and sticks the blunt between his lips, “It is,” he pauses, flickering the lighter once again, burning the end of the thick paper. He sucks it in like second nature, the burnt smell already dancing up your nose when he exhales, slow and dreamy, speaking through a cloud of smoke, “Holy communion, but with way better music.”

He offers it to you, holding it delicately between his fingers, the end burns soft and orange. You hesitate, just for a beat, eyeing it like it might bite you. His eyes are already on you, half-lidded and slow and warm.

“You don’t have to,” he softly reminds you. “I can snuff it out. We can get high on sugar, and you can kiss me until my head blows… Both heads.”

You grimace, taking the blunt, knuckles brushing against his, and he doesn’t look away. Neither do you.

“You’re gross.” You mumble, ignoring Eddie’s snickers as you bring the blunt to your lips. You take your time to inhale, let it drip down the sides of your body, and lick the sticky spots of your brain. You cough, once, then twice, and Eddie’s chuckling before you say anything.

“Oh yeah,” he grins, watching as you cough a few more times, “That’s the good shit. Your soul’s already half-floatin' outta your body.”

You glare, but it’s weak. Your lungs sting a bit, and your chest feels a tinge warmer than before. “Again,” he encourages, “Let it sit, get your brain fuzzy.”

So you do. You trust him with it.

You take another hit, eyes dancing with his as you drag it slowly, holding it in longer. It burns sweet and low and slips down your throat like a secret. Somewhere beneath the layers of your skin, the pink hollows out to a nice, warm buzz.

Eddie watches as the cloud of smoke drifts from your mouth, slipping his knuckles next to yours when you hand him the blunt, “Shit, that’s fuckin’ hot. You’re a goddamn pro. Lay it on me, baby.”

You don’t think twice, leaning forward and meeting him halfway into a kiss. It’s short and sweet, like it’s muscle memory now, and you both just want it like a deep breath.

Eddie kisses you again, deeper this time, slow and sultry, until he’s forced to pull away from the burn in his lungs. He blinks, low and lazy, a loose grin on his lips when he looks at you.

“How’s your brain?”

You smile, leaning back into the couch, closer to him, goosebumps rising over your knee when he touches it. “Fuzzy. Like I’m… dreaming but awake.”

He smiles something devious, twisting the blunt between his knuckles as he lifts it back to his mouth, “That’s good weed. That’s Master of Reality weed. Straight from the stars.”

You snort, leaning back further as the music hums around you, thick and dark, like the room itself is humming in tune. You pass the blunt a few more times, careful not to inhale too deeply. You’re already floating. You feel it in your spine, in the heavy, molten drag of your limbs.

You wave your hand in surrender on the fifth offer, melting down into his couch as you groan, “No more. I’ll become smoke myself if I take any more.”

Eddie smokes it down to an inch, rambling on about this and that and getting distracted when his favorite verse from “Lord of This World” plays from the stereo.

“Oh— oh, shh. This part is—this part is holy.”

He closes his eyes, socked feet planted in the carpet, knees spread as he drops his head back, throat bared and soft like he’s in the middle of a sermon, and air-guitars the bassline with a reverence that borders on offensive. You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh, and he throws his head around, curls bouncing with every exaggerated nod.

He opens one eye and peeks at you, throwing one thumb your way when he speaks, “That’s gonna be me in hell, by the way.”

You huff a laugh, and he grins, “Like, you think it’s gonna be flames and pitchforks, but no— I’m just down there rockin’ out with Satan, doing solos while he adjusts the EQ.”

You finally lose it. You wheeze out a laugh so hard your body curls and your head hits the pillow in your lap, uncontrollable giggles slipping from your lips. The weed makes the room feel light, more vivid, more real, and less timed.

“You think I’d look good in little red horns?” Eddie asks. He gazes off in front of him, squinting to find the picture. “I feel like I could make it work. Add some flair. Punk rock prince of darkness.”

You lift your head, gasping around a fit of laughter, “You sound ridiculous.”

Eddie scoffs, “Get real, babe,” he starts, “You meet me in a club and I’ve got tiny horns and glitter eyeliner? I’m like a haunted cupid— don’t act like you wouldn’t make a mistake.”

You’re nearly crying at the image, Eddie joining in on the laughter until you’re left breathless and aching, your legs draped over his, leaning into his shoulder like it’s natural for you.

Eddie’s tracing lazy patterns on your knee by the time the record shifts into the next song, slower and thick with a steady bass, layered with occasional drops of naked strings and a haunting flute.

You’re reminded then, with Eddie’s warmth sticking to you and his scent filling your lungs, that this—whatever this is—is getting harder and harder to dance around. You’re reminded that it’s getting difficult to keep pretending this doesn’t mean something.

Eddie’s hand drifts toward yours, his fingers brushing over your knuckles. “Tell me something real.”

You blink. Then hum, soft and sticky, “Like what?”

Eddie shrugs, his chest rumbles beneath your cheek when he speaks, “I dunno,” he lifts your pointer finger and drops it, playful, accepting when you curl it around his thumb, cool silver kissing your skin. “First thing that comes to mind.”

You hum again, watching as your fingers dance. Your heart races. You shove away the voice of reason in your head, hesitating momentarily before you reply, “I wanted to hold your hand at that stupid bonfire.”

Eddie huffs a sharp laugh, “I fuckin’ knew it.”

You groan with a roll of your eyes, shifting to move away, only to be caught by his hold. He kisses you. Cups your face and hums like you’re a sweet drink.

“I did too,” he says, as if you didn’t already know. “But I thought I’d get punched.”

You snort, not bothering to deny yourself another kiss before you mumble, “You would’ve.”

He smiles, his mouth still pressed against yours, his fingers spreading and wandering over your thighs, waist, dipping beneath your sweater. You get tangled, shifting over him until your knees are pressed into the couch on either side of him, and he’s letting out a low groan in the back of his throat, fingers squeezing at your lower back like he needs to remind himself where he is in the space of reality.

You don’t know how you stray down the path; things move slowly and fast simultaneously, and his touch is warm and greedy. Rough hands anywhere he can freely reach, lips losing composure against yours before they drag over your jaw and down your neck.

You gasp a wet breath, every pass of his mouth over your skin sends shivers ricocheting down your spine. You tilt your head, hungry for more, chasing the sensation.

Eddie groans, nuzzles against you, and drags in a breath like you can cure him from the inside out. He mumbles something— your name or maybe a curse— and lets his hands drag up against your bare sides and back down to the base of your spine. He pulls you close, moaning when you shift over him, nipping at the skin of your neck when your breath hitches.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers, “You keep doing that, and I’m gonna explode.”

You smile, sinking a hand into his hair, gently directing his mouth back to yours. You shift against him again, tasting his moan just as you’d planned, drinking it down like wine. He kisses you breathless, open-mouthed and slow, dragging his tongue through your mouth until you’re gasping. It’s easy to drown in him. Easy not to think.

He shifts, holds you against him, and places you beneath him on the couch, holding himself up with a hand beside your head. You follow each of his kisses, chasing him when he threatens to wander, fingers curled against his shirt.

His kisses are sloppy and greedy, trailing down your jaw and neck, hands pushing up your sweater to mouth at your tummy as he slinks his way down your body. His hair is messy, barely held with a hair tie, spilling around his face in soft, dark waves. It’s soft beneath your fingertips as you glance down at him, goosebumps rising over your skin when he kisses just below your navel.

You want to look away, the heat crawling up your neck wants you to look away— laugh it off, pretend it’s not serious. But you can’t. You’re caught in it. In him.

Your mind is floaty and warm, neurons misfiring when his rough hands drag over your bare hips, knuckles leaving sparks behind when they curl over the waistband of your shorts to pull them down your thighs.

They’re dropped somewhere off to the side, useless and out of mind, when he smears his lips over the inside of your knee.

He spreads you out, gazing over your clothed core like it holds the answers to life, death, and everything in between.

You’ve never been looked at like this.

Not like you’re just pretty—not like you’re some girl a guy wants to mess around with and forget about. No, Eddie looks at you like you’re his first and last sin, like he’s been wandering through the world with a hunger and only just now figured out what it was for.

And it’s you. You, spread out on his couch, still flushed and buzzing from the slow burn of weed, and his fingers tracing over your thighs like a prelude. You, half naked in panties and a sweater, and nervous beneath the low lamp glow of his bedroom, heart thrumming so hard it makes your breath catch.

His gaze flickers up to yours, brown eyes gleaming with something soft and lustful. He kisses somewhere on your inner thigh, fingers giving you a gentle squeeze.

“You okay?” He asks, voice lower now. Gravely, quieter. Like it’d be a sin to break the hush of the room.

You nod too fast, then slow yourself. “Yeah…” You breathe. Your fingers curl against the couch, elbows digging into the velvet material. “Just… you're looking at me like that.”

His lips twitch into a grin, eyes dropping to your stomach where his hand splays out, anchoring you to the moment. “Can’t help it,” he says, “You’re looking at me like no one’s ever touched you before.”

“Because no one has.”

You don’t realize what you’ve said until the words are already out, barely louder than the low hum of Sabbath still playing in the background.

It’s not like you weren’t planning to tell him. Honestly, you were sure it'd never even get this far. And you’re not ashamed about it. Especially not when all Eddie does is pause, eyes flickering between yours, like he’s tasting the truth of your words.

And then he softens.

His lips curl against your knee, a hand dragging over your other thigh as he murmurs, “Thanks for telling me, honeybee.”

It’s the name— the way it drips from his mouth with a different thickness than all those other times he calls you that— it tugs something loose in your chest.

He drags a finger over your cotton-covered center, just one, barely even applying pressure over the softest part of you. You clench around nothing, throbbing like a heartbeat. And Eddie feels it beneath his thumb.

“Already?” He murmurs, amused, voice a little wicked, a little worshipful. You let out something like a strangled whine hidden in a shaky breath. “That’s cute.”

You shift, lips parted like you want to say something but can’t quite find the words. Eddie leans down and noses at the seam of your thigh, letting his curls tickle your skin.

“Open up for me, baby.”

And you do. Just like that. Without hesitation. Like your brains completely gone and all that’s left thinking for you is your pussy.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and drags them down slowly, like unwrapping a gift. They join your shorts in a forgotten land somewhere.

Eddie settles between your thighs with a look of wonder. “Oh, fuck,” he breathes. “Look at you.”

You’re squirming now. Cheeks burning, legs wanting to close like you can hide your arousal as if it’s not dripping onto his couch, but he holds your thighs open with steady hands.

“Nuh-uh,” he gently says, “C’mon, let me look at you. You’re so fuckin’ pretty.”

Eddie doesn’t look the least bit ashamed of how he’s ogling you. In fact, he seems quite pleased with himself when he dusts a thumb over your clit just to make you clench again, like he wanted to see it for himself this time.

He slides a finger down your pussy, all the way down to the stream of wet, sticky arousal leaking from you. He drags it back up to your clit and introduces a second finger to part your folds, exposing you for all your worth. You squirm, heart racing, something devious and hot settling in your gut.

He hums, hooking a hand around your thigh and pressing a kiss to the inside of it. His lips trail wet kisses along the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed and unhurried. Your breath snags when he lingers, a thumb caressing your hip, eyes flicking up to meet yours again. He looks like he’s waiting for something— permission maybe. Your tongue is heavy in your mouth.

You tilt your hips in invitation.

Eddie moves like a man on a mission.

His mouth brushes over you so gently at first, more thought than touch. His breath is warm against you, cooling the heat of your cunt like ice on hot skin. You gasp, your hips twitching, and he pulls back slightly, murmuring something you can’t quite catch— something that sounds like so sensitive, laced with laughter and awe. He kisses you, lips pursed over your clit like something holy.

Then his tongue moves— slow, deliberate. Laving through your folds, dipping lower to catch the wetness dripping from your hole, tasting it—tasting you. You can feel him learning you. Not fumbling or nervous, but curious— measured. Every flick, every kiss, every drag of his mouth is purposeful, like he’s sorting the puzzle pieces out before placing them down, twisting them this way and that to figure out what makes your legs shake.

And it’s new. So new. You’ve touched yourself before, obviously. But this— Eddie— his tongue, his mouth, his hands? It’s something else entirely. It’s like being rewritten.

“God, you’re sweet,” he groans, voice low and rough against your skin. One hand is firm on your thigh, holding you open, his thumb tracing over the quiver in your muscle. The other drags slowly up your belly, fingers spreading wide, feeling your breath stutter under your palm. A needy breath slips from your lips. You can no longer hold yourself up, the back of your head hitting the couch with a soft thud when your eyes flutter shut, a shaky hand finding his on your tummy, fingers lacing together.

His lips close around your clit, suckling soft and pointed with intention. You moan— unfiltered and raw— and that’s all he needs.

Eddie doubles down, patience out the window, full throttle greed and lust— firm, hungry, focused. The kind of pressure that makes your hips lift, your fingers tight around his, a litany of oh fuck ohfuckohfuck spinning through your mind so fast it barely registers.

You feel full of sensation. The heat curls in you tighter and tighter, unbearable, blinding— and he won’t stop humming and moaning like every drop of you fills him with pleasure too— it makes your toes curl and the coil in your belly tenses.

“C’mon, let go for me,” he mumbles, lips dragging against your center. He licks your clit, suckles, hums. “Don’t hold back on me, baby, just— fuck, give it to me.”

Your eyes fly open. You don’t even remember them squeezing shut. He looks up at you from between your thighs like he’s found religion. Like you’re god and he’s your loyal disciple. And the way you’re unraveling, crying out, legs trembling, stomach contracting under his hand, you think maybe you have to.

Another pass of his tongue, another suck at your clit, and you’re done. You come with a sharp, choked sound, thighs closing around his head as the pleasure bursts white-hot behind your eyes.

And he doesn’t stop. He keeps drinking you in, licking and nuzzling into your wet heat like a man starved. He doesn’t even seem like he has intentions to ever stop— not until your hips twitch away from overstimulation, not until you’re whining out his name in a voice you’ve never heard yourself use before.

He parts from you with a gasp, wet sticky strings of arousal bowing and snapping against his lips. He drags his mouth over the inside of your thigh, sticky pleasure smearing over your skin. His lips are pink and shiny, his grin wicked and proud. He looks wrecked. Happy.

He kisses the fold between your core and your thigh. Mouths his way up over your hip, breathes you in like a drug. “Shit, honeybee,” he pants, nips at your rising tummy before he crawls up your body. “Best meal to date.”

You blink at him, dazed.

He taps your hip when you squirm. You mirror the lazy smile on his face. “Twenty out of ten,” he adds, smug. “Can’t wait for the next visit.”

You laugh, breathless, shy, and boneless. You can’t even be embarrassed.

Eddie kisses you with raw need, humming as he presses his body over you. “I saw heaven. She had your mouth. And your thighs.”

You huff out a laugh, lazy and spent, “You’re gross.”

Eddie doesn’t disagree.

Somewhere between the start of the night and 4 AM, you realize you have to go home.

It’s with a dramatic groan from Eddie and the shameful event of grabbing your panties off his floor that you finally find enough life in your limbs to shove your feet into your shoes and make him grab his keys.

Eddie’s got a shit eating grin on his face the entire drive to your place. He’s humming to the radio like a drunk idiot, drumming made-up rhythms against the skin of your thigh and acting like he can’t tell how often you’re shifting in your seat like you’re sitting on hot rocks. The hot rocks being the constant flicker of mental images of Eddie between your thighs.

You don’t want to leave.

You decided to admit that when he turns the corner onto your street. You wanted to stay there, in the Munson trailer, curled against Eddie and feeling weightless.

But you know you have to. It’s late, and the world is waking up soon, and you’re supposed to be in your room by the time your father passes by your room to say goodbye for the day.

Eddie pulls up just far enough down the street to avoid the headlights hitting your windows. He puts the van in park but doesn’t let go of your hand. When did you even start holding hands?

“Same time tomorrow?”

You glare at him, fingers twisting between his. “That gonna be your signature line all summer?”

Eddie grins, “You love it. Gets you giddy and smiley inside.”

You roll your eyes, failing to suppress the smile on your lips. You lean over to kiss him, just once, quick, before he can make another dumb joke, and you can think too hard about what it means now that you’ve started to kiss him goodbye.

He kisses you back like he means it. Like he always does.

“Go,” he whispers against your lips, one thumb nudging your chin, “Before I change my mind and lock the doors.”

One last kiss through a smile, and you hop out.

You walk the short distance, same as always, cringing at the soft creak of the front door when you open it. The house is still asleep. The faint hum of the fridge, the ticking of a clock. You move up the stairs like a ghost, slow and careful.

You pass Steve’s room, but the echoes of hesitation are nearly gone this time. You’re too happy to stress over the implications. And not at this hour. Not after the night you’ve had.

But then— “…Where the fuck have you been?”

Steve is standing in the bathroom doorway, looking like he’s just stumbled out of a bar fight. His shirt is all twisted, his hair is mussed, and you think you see a bit of dried drool on the corner of his mouth.

Your heart skips a beat, but you’re quick— too quick, maybe, “I was with Mia.”

He stares, eyes squinted in that sleepy glare people get when they barely notice they exist. His jaw ticks once, he blinks, and he nods like he’s decided he’s not awake enough to interrogate that.

You nod, let the tension slide just a little before you move on.

You make it two steps past him— “Since when do you smoke weed?”

You stop. A ghost of Eddie’s fingers pressed against your sides ripples across your skin. “Huh?”

“…You reek.”

You blink and debate whether or not to respond. You glance at Steve, consider the fact that he’s barely standing straight, and then you realize— he probably won’t know if this was real or a dream by the time he wakes up again.

“Goodnight, Steve.”

Your heart is pounding in your ears by the time you shut your bedroom door. You press your back against it, hold your breath, listen for footsteps. Nothing.

Just the hum of your fan, the buzz of leftover weed, the phantom feeling of Eddie all around you, and the one thought left spinning in your head—

You can’t wait to see him again.

There's nobody in the future

So baby let me hand you my love

Oh, there's no step for you to dance to

So slip your hand inside of my glove

- hold me x fleetwood mac

part four.

cutie lil taglist: @kellsck @your-nightmaredoll @hereforshmut @emxxblog @mdurdenpitt @glassbxttless @peculiarwren @aactuaaltraash @daveythorntonslocker @bl1ssfulbaby @strangereads @wdsara48 @cowboylikemunson @mrsjellymunson

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a/n: WOWOWOW GUYS IM SO SORRY FOR SUCH A LONG CHAPPY OMG!!! i also formerly apologize for how LONG this took me to put out, but i hope i did it justice and you'll forgive me hehe

anyway, as always, thank you for riding along, i hope ur enjoying their gross lovesick era, ily and appreciate any and all forms of feedback <3

#soooo excited to read this tomorrow #yay yay yay #woohoooo #eddie munson

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pullhisteeth · 7 days ago

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the secret to organising any kind of trip with your friends is to become the benevolent dictator. do NOT wait for everyone to provide a consensus on things before you book anything. do it and then ask for feedback after. do not ask people what they would like to do just tell them what is happening and let them all nod along like the sheep they are. this is the ONLY way to coordinate a group of adults in their 20s/30s

#this is true I've done it many times #if you have the financial ability to just make the decisions yourself you have to do it #it's for the good of the community #ask them for the cash later #personal

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pullhisteeth · 7 days ago

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#eddie munson core

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pullhisteeth · 9 days ago

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three years later… and i’m still obsessed with him

#🥰#eddie munson

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pullhisteeth · 10 days ago

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ofc eddie munson would drink mountain dew out of a fucking goblet

#off topic but his knees.....#and his thighs.......#can you tell I'm ovulating LMAO #eddie munson

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pullhisteeth · 10 days ago

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It's been three whole calendar years and my brain still resolutely refuses to believe that I'm looking at Joe Quinn when I see pics of him as Eddie. Every makeup and costuming award under the sun should've gone to that team because it literally IS NOT HIM

#it's crazy #i refuse to believe it is joe quinn in a wig #it's two entirely separate independent entities #eddie munson #stranger things

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pullhisteeth · 10 days ago

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boyfriend reveal

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pullhisteeth · 10 days ago

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I miss Eddie Munson

#:(#every day

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pullhisteeth · 23 days ago

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you find a magazine of a certain genre under your boyfriend's bed. eddie munson x reader, 1.1k, fluff, hurt/comfort, suggestive themes

For a moment, it throws you.

The glossy pages are shiny. New. The magazine a recent purchase, thrown hastily under the bed, perhaps out of shame or embarrassment. Or because he thinks you'd be upset. Maybe he thinks you'd hate him.

You're apart more than you're together. This is, surely, entirely normal. After a few minutes and some reassuring hugs, you know that this is the rational conclusion you'd draw. But he's not here, and you haven't really seen him in weeks, and the cherry red spine caught your eye when you let yourself into his room.

Your curious fingers, too curious for your own good, flick through the pages while the black pit in your stomach deepens. They're all so beautiful. Soft skin wrapped in varying shades of lace and elastic, garters and frills. In some shots they're partially clothed in luxurious shirts or dresses. In others, they're adorned in intimidating black lingerie, holding things like whips or putting their fingers in their mouths.

The smell of this room, of him and his laundry detergent and his cologne, is normally the most comforting thing on earth. Right now it's making you a bit queasy.

Nausea caused by a dizzying combination of shame and hurt. Hurt, naturally, because your boyfriend, whom you love endlessly, has a dirty mag - a new dirty mag - under his bed. And shame, because you shouldn't feel so hurt at all.

Eddie joins you in that sick feeling when he sees you, relatively small, knees up, heels of your feet on the edge of the mattress, white-knuckled grip on that fucking magazine. It was so stupid - he bought it a week ago, a bit high and really, really horny, too ashamed to text you for a photo. What a loser he'd look like, sending some variation of a slimy you up? text at one in the morning, asking for nudes. He bought it at the 24/7 gas station on the other side of town. Brought it home, took one look at the centrefold, and tossed it under the bed, too ashamed to feel horny anymore and missing you too much to really care.

Your heart does an ugly flip when you realise he's standing in the doorway. You throw the mag on the ground like it's suddenly scorching hot. You hear him say sorry, I can explain, please, but none of it sticks. You start crying before you can think to be embarrassed.

With your clammy palms over your eyes you do not see him drop to the floor. Instead, you are surprised when you feel his own hands on your ankles.

"Please don't cry."

"I'm sorry," you hiccup.

"Please don't apologise either."

You wipe your face on the sleeves of your sweatshirt. Looking down, you find him with his eyes wide and concerned, looking back up at you.

"I'm sorry," you say again regardless, "for looking- looking through your stuff."

"It was under the bed," he reassures you. "I know you didn't have to go looking for it."

His touch on your ankle turns to a firm grip. You let him pull your feet down, backs of your knees hitting the edge of the bed. He lays his cheek on your knee and holds your calves, fingers moving up and down as he watches you from the floor.

"I'm sorry," he echoes. "You won't believe me but I promise you, swear on mom's grave, I wish I never bought it. I looked at it once, and I- I used to like them, I guess, but I didn't care, it was nothing, I-"

You hiccup again and hear him gasp softly.

"Please," he begs. His own eyes are getting watery and his hands have become nervous. "I'm sorry. I hate seeing you cry. Look at me."

You do, ever obedient to his word. You love him so much and you know it to be true because with any other boyfriend, you're sure you'd never have cared so much.

"It's okay," you tell him, words watery and thick. "I don't mind- really, I don't mind you having it, I just-"

"You don't have to be nice to me."

"No, really, I don't mind, I just don't look like them and I-"

At this he moves, sits upright between your spread knees, his now firm hands on your hips.

"Look at me," he says again.

Your eyes meet his.

"I don't care that you don't look like them. I'm serious."

"But-"

"No, really. I'm glad you don't look like them."

"But the lingerie, all of it- It's scary but is it something you want?"

The air in the room feels suffocatingly close. You're not catching full breaths and your skin itches, nose burning.

"No," he says firmly. "Unless you do."

You close your eyes and breathe slowly. Relief lifts like a heavy cloud.

You feel him move up, his face level with your own. His breath is warm and familiar. He kisses you softly at the left corner of your mouth.

"I promise you," he says, with another kiss to the space between your brows, "that there is nothing on earth sexier to me than you in your old pants."

A laugh bursts forth, uncontrollable but welcome. He smiles, you feel it in the kiss he gives your temple.

"I'm serious. I love your tennis socks when they're different shades of white. Or that bra that you turned green in the wash. Really."

You can't bear it anymore, too dizzy to keep your eyes closed. When you open them, he's out of view, his mouth at your jaw. You're giggling and squirming and his arms are around you.

"Hug me," you tell him quietly. He tightens his grip and you exhale.

"I'm sorry I made you cry," he says after a moment. He's still on his knees, and your back is aching after too long leaning into him, so you slip off the edge of the bed and onto his lap.

"I'm sorry for snooping."

"I told you to stop that," he says, smiling. "Stop apologising. I should've chucked it- Should never have bought it at all."

Words sit hesitant at the base of your throat. "Why did you?"

"I was horny," he whispers, "and missing you."

"Why didn't you just call me?"

"Felt like a player." He's smiling, only one half of his mouth curling, coy and shy. You smooth your hands over his arms. "Didn't wanna text you for dirty photos in the middle of the night."

"You can have as many as you want," you tell him in a whisper, kissing his jaw softly, like it's your secret to keep. "I can't take them as well as you can, though."

He chuckles. "I'm sure that's not true."

"Really," you say, stretching, back arching, legs pressing into his lap. "If you miss me that much, maybe you need to take some more before I go back home."

#HEYYYY I found this in my drafts #I was underwear shopping and remembered it like a war vet having flashbacks #anyway enjoy #it's barely edited so SOZ #I'm not back this is just quite cute #love you all #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #fanfic #eddie stranger things #stranger things #st4

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pullhisteeth · 1 month ago

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#eddie munson

#lol #am I wrong!#also hey still here #btw #eddie munson

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pullhisteeth · 2 months ago

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This is soooo saturn return

Oh how silly of me Ser knight to grant you entry into my chambers while I’m in nothing but my sheer night dress. Please have a seat while I get dressed behind the changing screen while the lamp conveniently illuminates my naked silhouette.

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pullhisteeth · 2 months ago

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Heyyyy reblogging this again cos I have literally thought abt it every day since I read it I fear I'm going to be RUINED by whatever comes next

ARE YOU BORED YET? - part two

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

contains: slightly enemies to lovers trope, food/eating, mentions of drug use, smoking, secret relationship vibes, lots of tension, kissing, flirting, and eddie being a pain in the ass <3

word count: 10.5k (sorry)

chapter song: magnet and steel x walter egan

| previous part I next part |

I series masterlist | their mixtape | -main masterlist- I

Dry heat, a sputtering engine, and the overwhelming stench of burning asphalt is how you spend the hottest day of the summer.

This wasn’t part of the plan. You just wanted to get out—needed to escape the stifling air of the house, where no amount of fanning yourself or pressing ice cubes to your neck made a difference.

So you took your father’s keys, hopped into the car, and now?

Now, you’re stranded.

Suffocating heat spills through the half-opened windows of the car, sticking to your skin and pressing against your lungs. You turn the key over once again, nothing.

You groan, slapping your hand against the wheel, cursing as you realize— of course, this would happen to you on the hottest day on the goddamn earth.

And just for good measure, you turn the key one last time, jamming your foot into the gas as if it’ll encourage the piece of shit. It sputters. Makes a weird noise. And then— silence. Pathetic silence.

“Oh, fuck you!” You drag your hands over your face, and your frustration bubbles over.

Great. It’s great, really.

Defeated— and overheating— you gaze at the useless wheel and consider your options— which are none. The heat is unbearable, and you’re miles out from Hawkins— because why is the closest mall two towns over?

You need help. Clearly. And luckily, there’s a gas station across the street with a payphone, and if you’re lucky, Steve will pick up.

Annoyed and maybe with a little too much anger in your movements, you dig out a few coins from your purse before opening the car door.

You step out, immediately regretting it when you’re smacked with the heat. The pavement is scorching, waves of heat rippling off in the distance as you match your way across the street, and by the time you reach the pay phone, you feel like you’ve been walking through an oven.

You shove a quarter in, angrily punching in numbers before picking up the phone and listening to it ring.

Three rings pass. You swear under your breath, impatiently tapping your nail against the payphone as you wait. And then, finally, someone picks up.

“Harrington residence.”

And that’s… not Steve. It’s Eddie.

Your stomach drops.

Your teeth grind together, your eyes shutting momentarily as you reel in your composure.

Your voice comes out irritated, “Where’s Steve?”

“Ah!” Eddie exclaims in a happy tone, “Am I speaking with Malibu Barbie?” He teases.

Your nerves fray, the summer heat singeing them clean off. “Shove it, Eddie; where’s Steve?” You snip.

“Love it when you get mean, princess,” Eddie talks through a mouth of food from what you gather, making your nose crinkle in disgust. He sighs, “Steve’s not here, went to do some rich people shit for your dad.”

You roll your eyes, your hopes depleting by the second.

If Steve isn’t home, you’ll be left waiting for god knows how long before he can get you. You glance over your shoulder, hesitating, knowing that the only option to escape this debilitating heat is through the man on the other side of the phone.

This is humiliating. You don’t think you’ll ever come back here again, honestly.

You swallow your pride.

“My car broke down.” You flatly say. “I need him to pick me up.”

There’s a pause. Not long, but enough to acknowledge. You almost think the call may have dropped. But then, in the most sincere tone you’ve ever heard come from Eddie’s lips—

“Where are you?”

You huff, shifting in your spot as you roll your eyes, “I just said I need Steve.” You stubbornly reply.

“Yeah, well, he’s not here,” Eddie says obviously. “So, unless you wanna sit there and melt, tell me where you are.”

Your grip tightens on the phone, annoyed with how right he is.

This is the worst-case scenario.

You could just hang up. You should hang up— figure out some other way home. Because god forbid you have to rely on Eddie right now. Anyone but him.

You’d been avoiding Eddie since the bonfire— not because whatever that was had done a number on you or anything, but because… well, it was just fucking awkward. You didn’t know what to say to him, and you sure as hell didn’t want to address whatever that weird moment was. But Eddie didn’t cease to indoctrinate your household, so you did your best to stay away. However, it seems the universe has other plans.

So, after a long moment, your teeth digging into the soft skin of your lip, you give in and mumble the details of your location. And annoyingly, you feel a sense of relief rolling over you when Eddie says he knows exactly where you are. The feeling is quickly gone when he adds, “Now, was that so hard, grumpy?”

You roll your eyes, grimacing even though he can’t see you, “Just hurry up.” You snap before hanging up.

And when you step away from the payphone, the heat seems even more intense, especially considering the realization that you’re now waiting on Eddie Munson to pick you up.

And you already know he’s never going to let you live this down.

It feels like hours beneath the summer heat as you wait for Eddie, until finally, you hear the familiar rumble of a rusted-out van. You’re against your car; arms crossed over your chest as you watch him pull in next to you, his music blaring for a moment before he kills the engine.

And you hate the smug grin he has on his face when he hops down from his van— like he’s enjoying this.

Your expression doesn’t falter from the annoyed look you’ve had for the past hour as he walks over to you.

“Good afternoon, princess.” He happily greets as he gets closer.

“Told you to stop calling me that.” You remind him.

“Did you?” He asks, brows lifting in faux surprise. He hums, face twisting in a look of wonder as he tugs a cigarette from behind his ear to stick between his lips. He clicks his tongue once and shrugs as he fishes out a lighter, “Can’t seem to remember.”

Yeah. You should’ve hung up.

“You know,” he pauses to burn the end of the cigarette, flipping the zippo shut and shoving it back in his pocket, “Considering I’m your handsome knight in shining armor,” he teases, casually gesturing towards your situation with the burning stick in hand, “I assumed you’d be happier to see me.”

You shortly hum then, “Keep dreaming, Munson.”

He grins then, lazy and lopsided. You watch his mouth for a moment, stuck on the way it wraps around the cigarette— no. Not this. Not him.

Smoke billows from his mouth when he responds, “Always do, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes, a snarky remark dying on your tongue when he nods behind you and asks, “What’d you do?”

Your face twists in defense, “I did nothing— it just… died.” You shrug.

Eddie hums like he doesn’t believe you, pulling in a drag as he walks around to the front of your dad's car and rolls his sleeves up. You can’t help how your eyes linger on his arms for a moment, eyeing the dark ink and intricate veins, muscles flexing with every movement. You quickly glance away as he pops the hood open.

“Sounds to me like you ignored the warning signs.” He calls out from behind the hood.

You roll your eyes, shifting against the side of the car as you distract yourself with the boring scenery around you— seriously, this town has nothing to offer.

“Can you just figure out what’s wrong and fix it.” You snap as Eddie tinkers with the car.

He’s lost behind the hood for a few minutes, leaving you to try and distract your thoughts by boredly eyeing shapes into the ground until he slams the hood down, causing you to slightly jump.

The cigarette hangs from his lips, a few streaks of grease smeared on his hands. You’re annoyed, but you’re not blind. He looks good. Annoyingly so, even if you can’t stand him.

You shrug, “So?” You press.

He pulls the bandana hanging from his pants pocket, using it to wipe away the dirt on his hands, “Hate to break it to you, Barbie, but I can’t fix this here— gonna have to take it to the shop.”

You exhale sharply, resisting the urge to kick the stupid car. “That’s fuckin’ great.” You sarcastically mumble.

Eddie’s got a sly grin as he looks at you, honey-dewed beneath the sun, slick with the summer heat and his usual confidence. He tilts his head, eyeing you momentarily like he’s piecing you together before nodding towards his van, “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

You stare at him, summer heat boiling your blood and every last piece of sense you have— god, you just need to get into some AC. And Eddie’s looking at you like he already knows your answer, with a sly grin on his lips, brown eyes looking at you as if he could see every thought running through your head.

And you wonder if he’s lying. Would he lie about the state of your car just so he can be your saving grace? With the way he’s smirking, you wouldn’t put it past him.

Any other day had the temperatures been cooler, you would’ve gladly told Eddie to fuck off, and you’ll find another way home… But it’s hot. Ungodly hot.

So, you yank the car door open and grab your purse, slamming the door shut and locking it. Eddie smiles, taking one last drag before tossing the bud on the ground, “Your place or mine, honey?” He teases as he eyes your body. You feel his gaze more than you’d care to admit.

You grimace, fingers tight on the leather handle of your purse as you stomp past him towards his van, “Just drop me off, Eddie.” You snap.

“Copy that, Malibu.”

He’s hot on your trail, following after you like a pathetic hound as you walk to the passenger side. You reach over to open the door, only for Eddie to reach over you and open it for you. He pulls it open all the way, an annoyingly charming and teasing smile on his face as he politely gestures for you to get in.

You know what he’s doing.

He knows what he’s doing. And he’s so fucking smug about it.

You can barely hold the huff of annoyance that spills from you as you climb into his stupid van. But he’s not expecting you to buy into his little party trick— he’s surely not expecting you to climb into the passenger seat and slightly arch your back, your tiny skirt riding up your thighs as you slide into a comfortable position.

He quietly but surely clears his throat, glancing away as you wriggle your skirt back down your thighs, his fingers tightening over the handle for some seconds.

“Thanks, Eds.” You forcefully give a sweet smile, a tiny glimmer of joy sparking in you when he avoids your gaze and nods, “Yep. No problem.” He mumbles before slamming the door shut. You can barely hide the satisfied smile on your lips, basking in the glory of flustering Eddie as you settle into your seat.

Eddie takes his time to walk to the driver's side, the sound of his boots crunching over against the gravel with each of his steps. The driver's door creaks open— and for a moment, you think he’s going to say something, almost anticipating it, but—

He says nothing.

No. Eddie climbs into the driver's seat in complete, utter silence. He doesn’t say anything as he settles in, shifting the car out of park and peeling off back onto the road without a word.

It’s silent. Unbearably so. The most silence you think you’ve ever endured around Eddie— and you’re not sure if you should be thankful for it. You should be. But it feels weird, knowing Eddie’s true nature of constant noise.

Because Eddie Munson never shuts up.

But a quick glance to your left tells you exactly why.

There’s a smirk tugging at his lips, a glint in his eyes.

He’s enjoying this— just as you’d suspected.

Your face twists with something like annoyance, your eyes narrowing as you break the silence, “What?” You snap.

Eddie hums, ringed fingers tapping against the steering wheel, “Nothin’.” He shrugs, lips turning in a momentary frown, “Just enjoying the peace and quiet for once. Really nice. Crisp. You should try it, princess.” He teases.

You roll your eyes, huffing as you cross your arms over your chest in annoyance. A quick response dances on your tongue, but then—

Your stomach rumbles.

Painfully loud.

And Eddie hears it perfectly clear.

You tense.

His smirk opens, lips splitting into more of a grin, something downright giddy before he snaps his fingers— like he just won some stupid bet.

“Oh, that is beautiful,” he muses, eyes trained on the road. His face turns in amusement, “Could’ve sworn you were just sitting there all high and mighty, angel, but nope— even the mighty fall.” He shakes his head with a grin.

You glare, arms tightening over yourself as if that’ll silence the sound of your hunger, “Shut up.”

“Not a chance.” He quickly responds before glancing at you, “That was— Jesus, that was ace,” he huffs out a laugh as you groan in irritation, “When’s the last time you ate? Yesterday?” He teases

“None of your business, Munson.” You grumble, glaring outside the window.

“Ah, so yesterday. Got it.” He snickers to himself.

You’re still glaring out the window when Eddie says, “Well, now we have to get a bite to eat.” He says as if it’s obvious. Technically, it is.

Your head snaps his way, eyebrows furrowed with a pout on your lips, “What?”

Eddie’s grin widens, pure joy dancing in his eyes. “No. Take me home.” You demand.

The curly-headed boy shakes his head, “Can’t. Not when you’re out here starving, babe. That’s dangerous— you could, like, pass out or something. Scrape your knee in those little heels— and while I am in excellent shape—“

You groan, rolling your head and pressing your temple against the window, “Jesus Christ, Munson—“

“—I would rather not have to fight Harrington because I let his sister die of starvation, you get my gist? So, really, we have no choice but to go eat.” He shrugs. He glances at you and drops a wink your way, “For my sake.”

You stare at him, disbelief of your situation settling in your mind. He’s torturing you. That’s what this is— torture.

“Take me home.” You repeat.

But Eddie says nothing. He’s got a gleam in his eyes, the type that lets you know he’s already put his stupid little plan into action as he flips his turn signal on.

And before you can protest again, he’s turning into the tiny parking lot of a very conveniently placed diner.

“Eddie—“

“Relax,” He purrs, shifting the van into park, “You don’t have to thank me… but I do accept tips in the form of cash and kisses.”

You gawk at him, stomach flipping at his stupid fucking words because— seriously, who does this guy think he is?

“You are so fucking irritating, do you know that?” You stress.

Eddie shrugs, “So I’ve heard,” he opens his door, grabbing the keys from the ignition, “C’mon, I’ll even let you sit on my side of the booth.”

And before you can argue anymore, before you can fight it, he’s already climbing out and swinging the door shut. You sit in your seat, fingers curled into a fist as you watch Eddie waltz into the diner.

You shouldn’t follow him.

You shouldn’t reward his insufferable behavior.

And you really shouldn’t want to spend a second longer enduring his annoying presence.

But your stomach grumbles again. And there’s something fun about this back-and-forth you have with Eddie, something you’re not entirely sure of but couldn’t care less to figure out.

You drop your head against the headrest, a frustrated groan ripping from your chest. You pause for a moment, reeling yourself in before dragging in a deep breath and opening the door.

Whatever.

You’re hungry, and you’ve had a long day.

And Eddie?

Well, he’s got a shit-eating grin, already seated in a booth with a perfect view of you stomping across the parking lot.

You swing the door open, the bell above it ringing in some mocking little victory chime for Eddie— and you really hate the way he’s stretched over the back of the booth, arms splayed out in his usual, infuriating, cocky manner.

You should turn around.

You should flip him off, try and call home again, figure out a way to get away from his annoying and handsome smirk.

But you slide into the booth, an irritated pout on your lips as you cross your arms.

His smirk widens, his knee bouncing beneath the table as he tilts his head, “There she is,” he muses, leaning forward to grab a menu on the table and sliding it towards you, “In all her angry glory. Let’s get some food in that talkin’ tummy, yeah?”

“I hate you.” You grumble, begrudgingly grabbing the menu.

“Fair,” he hums, opening his own menu and grazing over the options, “Doesn’t change the fact that I saved your ass twice in one day. You’re 0-2, pixie— you kinda owe me.”

“I do not.” You quickly reply.

“Sure you do. Didn’t I just save you from incinerating off the side of the road? And haven’t I just saved you from dying of starvation? Seriously, you owe me, like, a dozen strawberry-milkshake-sugar-sweet kisses.”

You grimace at him from across the table for a moment, fingers tightening on the edges of the menu, “I’m not kissing you.”

Eddie grins, winking at you, “We’ll see about that.”

Before you can send a quick remark his way, a lady is stepping up to your table, boredly clicking her pen as she asks, “What can I getcha?”

Eddie’s grin never falters, but you don’t care to stare any longer, turning your focus to the lady, “A burger and fries, please. And a coke.” You order.

Eddie hums, eyes never having left you.

“For you, sir?”

Eddie smiles at the lady before looking back at the menu, “I’ll have a burger too— double stacked— extra pickles, onion, and cheese. Fries, make ‘em crispy, and a side of your special sauce, please… I’ll take some nugs too actually,” he lists off as the lady takes note, “Aaaand, two milkshakes. One chocolate, one strawberry— extra whipped cream with a cherry on top.” He finishes with a satisfied smile, closing the menu and handing it to the lady.

The lady walks off to put your order in, and you stare at Eddie as he leans back in the booth, “You realize you just ordered a meal for an entire nation, right?” You ask. “You’d snap with a strong breeze; where are you putting that?”

Eddie hums, tilting his head and thinking, “You ever ran from the cops before?”

Your face twists in confusion, “What? No?”

Eddie hums, “Burns the calories quicker than a line of coke.”

You pause for a moment, blinking at him as he gazes at you, fingers fiddling with a napkin as if his words are something normal to say— coming from him and his chaotic nature, though, you suppose they are.

You blink, “Why are you running from cops, Eddie?”

“The first, second, or third time?” He muses.

You stare.

He watches you, no indication of a joke on his face— and you begin to slightly worry.

But then he slowly grins, flicking a piece of ripped napkin paper at you, which you bat away with a grimace, “That’s called a joke, princess,” he teases, a devilish smirk on his face when he adds, “I’m a saint… only ran once.”

You nod, eyeing him, “Right.” you mutter, shaking your head.

The conversation naturally dies down then, and for a moment, there’s just the soft hum of the diner—plates clinking, low conversations murmuring around you. You tap your fingers lightly against the table, eyes drifting to the neon glow of the jukebox in the corner, wondering if you should say something.

A flash of that moment some nights ago passed by the forefront of your mind.

But before you can think too long about it, the food arrives.

Plates of hot food are placed before you— and Jesus Christ, you hadn’t realized how hungry you were until the scent of a fresh burger and fries wafts in the air, making your stomach clench. You eye the food for half a second before reaching for your burger, fully ready to demolish it—

Only to pause when Eddie immediately grabs his own and takes a massive bite, nearly inhaling it all.

You take a bite of your own, taking your time to thoroughly chew as you watch Eddie scarf down three bites worth in one. You raise an eyebrow, “You’re gonna choke.” You warn him.

Eddie hums, talking through a mouthful, “Worse ways to go.”

And you smile, taking another bite of your meal as you think— this kind of isn’t bad.

Eddie groans in satisfaction, slumping back into the booth with a dramatic sigh, a full stomach, and an empty plate. He spreads his arms wide across the top, stretching out like he’s just finished running a marathon. The chains and pendants hanging from his neck glimmer beneath the dim glow of the diner as he tilts his head, and you do your best to look anywhere else.

“So,” he looks at you, a look of amusement dancing in his eyes, “Care to tell me what you were doing all the way in sketchy-middle-of-bum-fuck-nowhere Indiana?”

You drag in a breath, twirling a fry between your fingertips as you shrug, “Mall.”

Eddie’s grin drops, face paling into a deadpan expression, ”That’s it?”

You pop the fry in your mouth, humming with a nod as you swallow before answering, “That’s it.”

Eddie blinks, face twisting in something like disgusted confusion, “You drove that far just to shop?”

You roll your eyes, glancing out the window as you cross your arms over your chest, “No, Eddie, I drove that far to practice my backflips off the escalator.”

Eddie snorts, leaning forward to snag a fry from your plate— he’d been stealing bites from you the whole time, sneaking around your hands to steal a dip in your ketchup or sip on your milkshake— and each time, he ignored your protests, so you’ve given up.

“Now that,” he snickers, pointing the fry at you, “I’d pay to see.” He eats the fry, a glimmer in his eye.

He shrugs, “Well? Get anything nice?”

You shrug, pulling your milkshake towards you and taking a long sip.

Eddie gasps, dramatized horror seeping around the edges. “Oh my god,” he muses, “You’re one of those people.”

You narrow your eyes in confusion, “Huh?”

Eddie grimaces, “The ones who just walk around and look for shits and giggles.”

You shrug, “What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, it’s a waste of a trip, doll.” Eddie points out, which is arguably true in your situation.

Still, you roll your eyes, “I bought stuff, asshole.”

Eddie grins, unbothered, swirling the straw in his nearly empty cup as he looks at you, “Oh? Something good, or does Indiana have nothin’ on California stock?”

You sigh, leaning back into the booth and crossing your arms, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I bought a pair of sunglasses. And a dress.” You say matter-of-factly.

Eddie’s lips twitch, “Wow. Life-changing. Try it on for me.”

You grimace, “In your dreams, Munson.”

“Name the color so I can get an accurate image.” He teases.

You stare at him, a devious look in his eyes and that stupid smirk that won’t wipe off his lips.

“Blue.” You casually say. Eddie groans. “Baby blue. Mid-thigh length.”

“Fuck.” Eddie mumbles, glancing out the window as he rubs a hand over his mouth. He looks back at you, playful lust in his eyes, “You’re an evil woman.”

You innocently shrug, taking another long sip of your milkshake.

And beneath the table, you shift your leg, not thinking much when you do it before—

Your foot nudges Eddie’s.

It’s not much, could easily be ignored and passed as an accident— which it is.

But Eddie doesn’t let it pass as so.

He nudges you back.

You pause, heart skipping a beat when your gaze flickers to him. He’s completely normal. Popping a fry in his mouth and chewing way too casually like he hasn’t just done that on purpose.

Like he isn’t waiting to see what you’ll do next. Like you’re too chicken to play this little game he’s started.

And because you’re not thinking, the sun having gone to your head or something, and maybe because you’re a little tired of thinking, you take the bait.

You nudge him again.

His lips twitch, brown eyes dancing across your face. He props his chin in his hand, lips twisting in thought as his foot presses against the side of yours, the toe of his boot scratching against your ankle.

“Favorite color?”

You hum, shrugging as you dance below the table, “Not my favorite, but I like it. You?” You respond casually, but your heart is thrumming in your chest, nearly flopping out onto the table because— Jesus Christ, what are you doing?

Your foot scratches against the lower back of Eddie’s calf, and he stirs, tossing another fry into his mouth in distraction.

“Blood red,” he easily says, “But— I doubt it’ll still be number one once I see that dress.”

And your game goes on.

Eddie stays casual, steady gaze settled on you as he snacks on the rest of your fries— like this is easy for him. Like this isn’t the first time you’re allowing yourself to play this— whatever this is— with him.

You’re very much aware of how your foot is still pressed against his. You’re very aware of this little cat-and-mouse game— your foot will brush his, he will nudge back, you will wander off, and he will find you.

And neither of you mention it.

Because Eddie isn’t, and you refuse to do it.

You let it build. The shock of warmth that shoots up your leg each time he finds you, the lousy waltz your eyes are in— you let it inch forward more and more.

Your milkshake is finished, and the sun is gone, but you’re still so fucking hot, and your neck burns, and just when you think to call it quits and pull away for good— Eddie traps you.

His foot sneaks in behind yours, and he loops around your ankle.

Not forcefully— you could definitely move away if you wanted to.

And you do. You think.

But he’s saying something, and you’re watching his lips move, his ringed fingers glimmer beneath the light, and his skin is pressed against yours beneath the table— and you don’t want to move. Can’t. Not even if you tried.

Not when he’s warm and gentle, and all of your defense is benched.

And goddamn him— he’s so fucking annoying, he doesn’t even look bothered, and he clearly isn’t when he flicks a soggy fry at your forehead.

“Ow, what the hell?” You frown, dusting the salt from your head.

“You weren’t paying attention.” He plainly says, though there’s a glint in his eyes.

You scowl, flinging the fry back at him only for him to dodge it, “You’re a child.”

“Yet you’re still here.”

He slinks his foot away from you, a cheeky grin tugging at his lips as you drag in a silent breath.

“What’s my favorite color?” He asks.

You gaze at him, subconsciously committing this view of him to memory as you boredly reply, “I was listening, you idiot.”

He turns his head, offering his ear as he gestures his fingers in a ‘speak up’ motion. You roll your eyes before responding, “Blood red.”

He hums, tapping the table as he exits the booth, “And don’t forget it next time you’re at the mall.” He winks.

The drive home is mostly quiet.

It’s not awkward, more so just… charged. Like neither of you wants to speak and shatter what you’d started beneath the diner table. Like you’re too afraid to speak of it and call it something.

A game. That’s all it was.

And your ankle is still buzzing.

You can almost feel the scratch of his boot against your skin.

Eddie’s fingers drum against the steering wheel, his rings clinking softly. The radio hums softly beneath the rumble of the van, something lazy and bluesy that sounds nearly historic crackling through the old speakers.

He pulls into your house, the van slowing to a stop— and you kind of had hoped the drive would never stop. Because maybe then, you wouldn’t be forced to finally say something.

What do you say?

The headlights wash over the white picket fence and pristine lawn— a sharp contrast to the dim, cramped diner where your foot had been tangled with his just an hour ago.

You shift in your seat, stalling, hand on the door handle but not moving. You try to convince yourself it’s because you’re tired— summer heat.

But you know better. And Eddie knows better, too.

“So,” he drawls, twisting one of his rings. He glances at you, curly hair rolling over his shoulders, a suppressed grin cracking at his lips, “Good date?”

You scoff, finally looking at him, “That wasn’t a date.”

Eddie smirks, huffing out a laugh as he briefly looks out his window like he’s trying to stop from bursting into a full-blown fit of laughter. “Right. My mistake.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing your bag, before opening the door to get out. Your feet hit the pavement, your fingers curling around the door, preparing to shut it when Eddie speaks again. His face is unreadable in the dim light, but his voice is… softer. Less teasing.

“You had fun, though, right?”

And you hesitate, gripping the handle of your bag— because yeah. You did. Too much.

You tilt your head, flashing a look his way before you shrug and respond, “I survived.”

Eddie laughs, craters of sun carving out in his cheeks as he looks away. And you can’t stop the mirror of a slight smile on your lips as you close the door and turn around.

He watches you walk to the door, and you only know not because you turn back around to catch it, but because you can feel his gaze burning with each step you take.

And because Eddie is a thorough chauffeur, he waits until you get the door open before driving away. And you don’t look back.

Not until the red glow of his taillights disappears down the street.

Eddie doesn’t leave your mind easily.

Granted, it’s been less than a day, but that doesn’t make your restlessness any less frustrating. After Eddie dropped you off, you spent the better half of your night batting away flashes of your afternoon with him.

His stupid grin when he picked you up. His teasing comments. His clunky rings. The way his lips curled around a cigarette, the brush of his skin against yours. It plays in your mind like a shitty looped movie, running on repeat from the moment you closed the car door to when you stepped into the shower to when your head hit the pillow.

Admittedly, it’s annoying as hell.

Like an itch. An intrusive thought that won’t quit no matter how hard you try to ignore it. If lobotomies were still legal, you might’ve scheduled one by now—because nothing, absolutely nothing, seems to get that stupid metalhead idiot out of your head.

Which is why you’re here now, lounging by your friend’s pool, still reeling, when the words slip out before you can stop them—

"Do you know Eddie Munson?"

Mia, one of the true friends you’ve made in the years of visiting Hawkins, sits on the lounge chair beside you, focused as she paints her toenails and hums. She doesn’t look up as she responds, “Eddie?” She pauses to blow on the wet paint and shrugs, “Yeah, of course. Why?”

You lean back against your chair, sunglasses dipping as you look at your friend, “He’s always at my house— friends with Steve,” you mutter, “Weird, right?”

Mia huffs a laugh, shifting as she focuses on her task, “Yeah, kinda. Don’t remember Steve having a resident bad boy in his little high school clique.”

“Exactly.” You muse, “That’s what makes it weird.” And honestly, you’re glad you’re not the only one who sees it. How Steve and Eddie even crossed paths will always be a myth to you.

And because your mind is a whirlwind of questions and you seem to have lost your dignity, you move on, voice neutral like your prodding is coming from a place of gossip— “Did you talk in school?”

Thankfully, Mia doesn’t seem to catch your curiosity— Eddie is an interesting guy compared to most people in Hawkins. She hums, still focused on her nails, “Not much. He was a grade above me, so we never really crossed paths, but y’know,” she shrugs, “People talk.”

That piques your interest, your brow raising as you ask, “Talk about what?”

Mia sighs as she shifts her attention to the next set of nails, “That he’s a troublemaker, for one. He was kind of just… always doing his own thing,” she mindlessly rambles, “Skipped class half the time, played in his band, sold drugs in the parking lot.” She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head, “Honestly, I don’t even think he tried to graduate.”

You scoff with a playful roll of your eyes, “Shocking.”

“He was kind of nuts. He was, like… crazy, but in a fun way,” she explains, “Loud, dramatic— he walked across the lunch table once, so, definitely not boring.”

Your face twists in confusion, imagining Eddie walking across a lunch table, but before you can ask, Mia shrugs and speaks again, “I don’t know, he’s kinda hot.”

You nearly freeze.

You glance over at Mia, playing it cool, when you hum in an uninterested tone, “Not my style.”

Mia shrugs, completely unfazed, “Fair. He’s not a lot of people’s style.” She pauses, tilting her head before a small smirk dances along her lips, “But, y’know, I did hear he’s good with his fingers.”

You blink, heart skipping a beat for a moment. “What?”

Mia grins, finishing her task and twisting the nail polish lid back onto the bottle as she shrugs, “You know… he’s in a band. Plays guitar. And allegedly, that skill transfers.”

You scoff, pushing your sunglasses higher up your nose as if the plastic frame will hide whatever the hell your face is doing, “Jesus Christ, Mia.” You mumble.

Mia laughs, stretching out her legs on the chair as she leans back and wriggles in her spot, “Hey, I’m just repeating what I heard,” she defends, “Some girl at a party a while back was very detailed about it.”

And you don’t want to think about it.

You really don't want to imagine whatever hell Eddie Munson’s fingers could release upon your body because that is the last thing you need, and god— you should’ve never asked.

You grab the magazine next to you, desperate to distract your hands from nervous fidgeting. You shrug, playing a facade of boredom, “Yeah, well. Still not my type.”

Mia snickers, gliding a pair of shades over her eyes and relaxing into her chair, “Sure, babe. Whatever you say.”

And you hate that you know she’s right.

The days pass uneventfully.

Or, at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

The heatwave has passed, so you keep yourself busy— lounging by the pool, flipping through magazines and books, running forced errands with your stepmother, and meeting up with Mia when you can. It’s enough to keep your mind occupied but not enough to stop Eddie’s presence from creeping in during the quiet moments.

It’s frustrating.

It was just one day. One stupid, random, impulsive day. And yet, his voice, his smirk, the way he looked at you before you left his car— it lingers. Just as much as your newfound information about his magical fingers.

It’s like trying to scrub off a marker stain that refuses to fade.

And it doesn’t help that Steve has been acting annoyingly weird. Smirking and snickering. Amused. Like he knows something.

And you shouldn’t feel bothered by it— because it was nothing— but you do.

You’re sitting at the dining table, absently pushing the grilled asparagus around your plate, hardly listening to whatever your stepmother is saying until your dad says your name.

“Did you go out today?” He asks, cutting into his steak.

You shrug, “Not really. Just hung out here. Swam for a bit.”

Steve snorts, barely looking up from his plate as he spears a bite of chicken. Your brows knit together, face twisting in subtle annoyance before you decide to ignore him.

”What about the rest of the week? Been keeping busy, right? You’ve got another two months left; can’t spend it locked up inside.”

You refrain from rolling your eyes and shrug again, “I guess. Nothing exciting. There’s, like, nothing to do here anyway.”

Steve huffs a laugh, chewing his chicken as he shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. You barely have a chance to shoot a glare his way before he mutters, “Don’t lie. She’s been hanging with Eddie.”

His words crash over you like a bucket of ice water.

Because, what the fuck?

Your head snaps toward him, stomach twisting, pulse skipping a beat, “I have not been hanging with Eddie,” you snap. “We hung out once. By accident.”

Your dad hums, sipping his drink, “When you broke my car.”

You glare at him next— that conversation didn’t go over well— “Yes, when your car broke down, which was, again, an accident.” You stress.

Steve huffs, sending an unconvinced glare your way, “Yeah? Well, quit throwing yourself at him then, ‘cause I’m tired of hearing him ramble about you.”

“Steve.” Your stepmother warns.

And you… you’re not quite sure if you’re breathing right.

What?

Your body runs so hot you could nearly burn a hole through the table. Your father smirks around the rim of his glass, eyes holding an amused glimmer like this is the most entertaining thing he’s heard all week.

You, however, are not entertained.

“I’m not throwing myself at anyone, you absolute moron.” You grit out, face burning despite your best efforts.

Steve shrugs, “Could’ve fooled me.”

You glare, turning back to pushing at the food on your plate, “You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

Steve just leans back in his chair, his mother shaking her head as her son continues to spew out nonsense, “Oh, I don’t? Well, I guess Eddie’s been hallucinating then, huh?”

You scoff in disbelief, “Probably. The drugs probably finally got to him, I don’t fucking know!” You stress.

“Language.” Your father warns, earning an eye roll from you.

Steve's mom gasps, turning to her son, “Steve!” She exclaims, “Drugs?”

Steve waves her off with an annoyed glance, “All I’m saying is there’s no way Eddie is the only one buying into whatever you two have going on— gross.”

Your heart kicks up a speed, but you fight to keep your expression neutral.

“Well, it’s not my fault your weird friends never spent more than two minutes around a girl.” You bite back.

Steve’s mother finally waves her hands about the table, “Okay, you two, that’s enough. We’re not here to discuss sibling politics; we’re here to eat.”

Steve shrugs, taking another bite into his chicken— which you hope is poisoned. You roll your eyes, returning your attention to your plate, trying to act like your pulse isn’t pounding in your ears.

But it is.

And as much as you don’t want to, you can’t stop wondering about Eddie’s supposed “ramblings.”

And you tell yourself it doesn’t matter.

That maybe he’s just rambling about how he thinks you’re annoying or something stupid— but from how Steve put it, and from the way Eddie acts towards you—

You know it’s the complete opposite.

And you hate that it makes your insides twist.

The past few days have been… weird.

Eddie doesn’t know exactly why, but something’s been sitting in his chest, subtle yet loud.

Maybe it’s because he’s been trying not to think about you.

Which, by the way, isn’t working.

Because he can’t stop thinking about you.

Admittedly, Eddie is a flirt at heart. He likes playing with shiny things, and you’re a fucking beam of light. That being said, sure, Eddie initially started this little cat-and-mouse game as a fun little summer activity, but shit Eddie’s never been this dedicated to a game other than D&D.

He knew his chances with you were slim— because what’s a guy like him doing poking his nose around a girl like you? But the other night, sitting across from you in that shitty diner, hearing your laugh and seeing your smile, feeling you against him— shit, Eddie’s done for.

Sugar-sweet, honeycomb, crisp sunshine— Eddie feels this sticky, gooey substance oozing down the sides of his insides every time you pass by.

He’s kept himself busy, helping Wayne with the truck, jamming with the guys, and doing extra shifts at the shop. He’s been a busy guy for a guy that isn’t usually busy.

And you’d think it’d tire his brain out enough to not be able to think about you, but nope.

You’re still there, at the forefront of his mind, bright as ever, Malibu sun in all her glory.

If Eddie’s being honest, he gave up trying after the second day.

Lets you run rampant in his cluttered mind, sprinkling stardust on everything and throwing up glitter. God, Eddie’s fucked. And he knows it, not only because he feels it when he sees you and his body gets this surge of adrenaline, but also because— Steve sees it.

Eddie doesn’t know; maybe he said something offhanded— his mouth runs a lot; he stopped paying attention to it back in middle school— so he was kind of thrown when Steve just casually looked at him and went, “If you’re gonna have a crush on my sister, at least do it silently, man.”

Eddie… did nothing.

Couldn’t.

Not even if the weed allowed him to.

He thinks he just laughed, said something witty, and told Steve to fuck off, but he doesn’t quite remember— why? Because he was busy thinking about you.

He’d been waiting for a chance to get alone with you again, whisk you away like he did the other night, make you fall disgustingly hard for him— shit, get a ring, make it official or something, jump every last one of the hoops— but you’ve done an excellent job at making yourself scarce.

Until now.

Now, Eddie’s at the town's yearly carnival, and you’re right fucking there.

Eddie barely processes it at first— he’s walking through the loud park with the guys, laughing at something dumb Jeff said, and that’s when he feels it— the weight of your gaze.

He glances up, and sure enough, there you are.

And you’re already looking at him.

And Eddie has you caught.

You’re standing near the ticket booth, arms crossed, expression unreadable beneath your sunglasses. The neon lights drip over you in shifting colors— blue, then pink, then gold.

Malibu sun in all her beautiful, stubborn glory.

You don’t look away. Or maybe you do. Eddie can’t tell past the lights bursting across your shades, but he takes it upon himself to grab the invitation either way.

A slow, wicked, and hungry grin tugs at his lips. He alters his course, peeling off from his group of friends without so much as a word. They don’t notice— he doubts they’d question it if they did.

He weaves through the crowd, sugar-high kids dashing past him, hands in his pockets and eyes loose on you until he’s standing right before you.

The smell of your perfume drifts in the wind, whizzing up his nose and licking the grooves of his brain. His stomach churns.

“Fancy seeing you here, princess.”

You lift an unimpressed brow, still unreadable beneath your glasses. “Mm. Lucky me.”

Stubborn as ever.

Eddie inhales it like freshly washed sheets.

Eddie smirks, leaning against the ticket booth, “Careful. Almost sound happy to see me.”

You scoff, shifting your weight and glancing away, “In your dreams.”

“You’d be surprised how often you show up there, honey.”

You hum, your nose wrinkling— Eddie’s insides burn.

“Surprised? Not really. Grossed out? Maybe.”

Eddie raises a brow, “You know what… I’ll take a maybe.”

His gaze flickers towards a ride across the park, and he looks back at you as you retrieve your tickets from the man in the booth. And before you can walk away, Eddie speaks again, “Take a ride with me?”

You look at him momentarily, seemingly thinking it over before shrugging, “No thanks.”

You turn around, taking a few steps before Eddie jogs up to you, turning and walking backward as he paces before you, “Come on babe,” he drawls, “I’m offering you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here.”

You raise an eyebrow, fingers tight around your string of carnival tickets, “Well, I heard you’ve got a reputation with girls and your fingers, so, can’t be much of a missed opportunity.”

Eddie physically malfunctions.

His smirk falters, just for a second, his pace slowing.

And you pause, and Eddie sees it on your face— you fucked up.

Your lips part for a moment, about to say something, something to debunk what the hell you just said— but Eddie beats you to it.

He laughs, eyes widening in disbelief, “Oh-ho-ho,” Eddie delights, “Look at you, princess. Fishing for details.” He drawls. You groan, attempting to walk around him only for Eddie to follow after you.

He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head as if it’ll help him digest your words easier, “Hold on— did you just slut shame me?” He exclaims with a grin.

“Yes. And no, I wasn’t fishing for details.” You hiss.

“No, no, no,” Eddie places a hand on your shoulder and turns you to him, “You can’t just drop that in casual conversation and expect me to let it go.” He pauses, eyes narrowing at you before he leans in, a devilish smirk on his lips as his voice lowers, “You wanna try ‘em out, huh?”

You grimace, “Excuse me—”

Eddie wriggles his decorated fingers in your face, “Right here, ready to go for you, honeybee.”

You smack your hand against Eddie’s, batting him away as your face twists with an annoyed expression, “And what about you?” You press.

Eddie looks at you, amusement woven with confusion, “What about me?” His fingers dance across your wrist, licks of fire kissing his fingertips, “I’m not the one accusing you of sleeping with the entire town, sugartits.” He points out.

You hum, crossing your arms and straightening your back, “Well, you’re the one rambling to Steve about me. That’s cute, Munson.” You lean in, “You’ve got a crush on me.”

Eddie’s brain short-circuits.

Because what the fuck is he supposed to say to that?

He blinks.

“The hell are you talking about?”

You tilt your head, a smirk tugging at your lips, “Steve told me.”

Eddie scoffs, looking away as if unfazed, shifting in his spot as he shrugs, “Steve’s full of shit.”

You hum, “If you say so.”

Eddie shrugs, “So we’re both in love— knew that already.”

“We are not—“

Eddie waves you off, trying and failing to suppress a smile, “Yeah, yeah— getting on the ride or what?”

You look at Eddie, arms crossed, cute and disgruntled.

Oh, he’s definitely got you stuck.

“One ride.”

Eddie smirks, slinging an arm over your shoulders and forcing you to walk with him, “Just what I like to hear.”

He takes you across the park, a shit-eating grin on his face and you under his arm. Eddie glances at you, smirking at your forced look of annoyance. He snags your sunglasses, perching them on his face and grinning when you grumble and try to take them back, “Come on, princess. Gotta save my eyes; your smiles just too bright.” He teasingly complains, poking at the side of your lips.

You roll your eyes, giving up on retrieving your glasses when he bats you away. “You’re so annoying,” you grumble, but Eddie sees your lips twitch.

“You love me.” He squeezes your arm.

And because Eddie’s a total shithead, he stops at the scariest-looking ride in the park, smirking when you gaze up at it, arms crossed.

“Nope.”

Eddie tilts his head, grinning. “Nope?”

You turn to Eddie, a stern look on your face, “Nope,” you repeat, “I’m not getting on that thing.” You point towards the ride of screaming victims.

Eddie clutches his chest dramatically, “Wow,” he muses, “Can’t believe this. Little miss indestructible, afraid of a little carnival ride.”

You glare at him, “It’s not fear; it’s common sense. I like my feet on the ground.”

“Oh?” Eddie hums, lips mockingly turning into a pout, “Sounds like fear, baby.”

You huff, shifting your weight, “Pick something else.”

Eddie looks at the ride for a second before looking back at you. “Nah.”

“Eddie—”

“Just so we’re clear,” Eddie holds up a finger, leaning in when he speaks, “If you pick another ride, I’m never letting you live this down. Every time I see you, I’ll greet you with a, ‘Hey, remember when you chickened out at the carnival?’”

Your jaw clenches. A pause of silence. A glance at the ride.

Caught.

So fucking caught.

“So fucking stupid.” You mutter with a shake of your head. “Fine.”

The metal bar slams over your laps with a heavy clunk, ringing in Eddie’s ears like a winning chime.

And beside him, you shift in your seat, hands gripping the bar, jaw tight as you glare straight ahead. Eddie grins, lounging back like he’s in a recliner, one arm draped over the side.

“You look tense, princess.”

“I wonder why,” you deadpan.

Eddie snickers, impulsively reaching out and giving your bar a heavy shake just to mess with you. You flinch, snapping your head towards him and gripping his hands, “Stop that.” you stress, peeling his fingers from your seat.

“What?” Eddie drawls, “Just making sure it’s secure.” He hums innocently, a shit-eating grin on his face to ruin the act. “Wouldn’t want you flying off, now, would we?”

You exhale sharply, a frown on your face as you turn forward again, “I hate you.”

“You keep saying that, but you’re still risking your life for me.” He teases.

You roll your eyes, fingers still tight around the bar. Eddie leans in a little, voice dropping when he asks, “You nervous?”

You scoff, knuckles nearly popping from your skin, “No.”

“You sure?” Eddie grins, “You’re holding onto that thing like it’s your last hope.”

You release the bar immediately, crossing your arms instead, “I just— I don’t trust these things, alright.” You grumble.

Eddie hums, glancing around, “Yeah, I mean… I did see a loose bolt on the track earlier— but I’m sure it’s fine.”

You turn, eyes wide, as you look at Eddie, and it takes Eddie everything in his body not to burst into a fit of laughter.

“Are you serious?” You stress.

Eddie pauses. Thinks you’re the prettiest sight when you’re about to fling yourself off the ride and probably murder him.

Then he grins. “Nah.”

You elbow him— quite hard, actually— and Eddie barks out a laugh just as the ride jerks to life, gears whirring as you begin your slow ascent.

Eddie glances at you again, sees the way you shift, the way you press your lips together as the ground sinks further and further beneath you.

And Eddie can’t help himself.

“You can hold my hand if you want,” he offers, wriggling his fingers in your direction.

You glance at his fingers. Eddie thinks you consider it, but you huff and look away, adjusting your grip on the bars, “I’d rather die.”

Eddie just laughs, the wind whipping through his hair as the ride reaches the top, “Suit yourself, princess.”

And then—

The ride drops.

Eddie’s head throws back in laughter, and the wind roars, whipping through his curls and pressing his shirt to his chest as gravity yanks you both down. The weightlessness sends a rush through his veins, fire licking hot through his veins. He fucking loves this.

A scream rips through the air beside him.

Eddie glances over and— oh, shit, this is better than the ride itself.

You look miserable.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, your mouth open in a blood-curdling scream that gets stolen by the wind and stirring gears, drowned out by the deafening carnival sounds. You’re gripping the safety bar like your life depends on it— which it does— and your body is stiff as you get thrown into a loop.

Eddie laughs even harder then, because— god, she’s adorable.

The ride twists, flips you upside down, and snaps you back into another soul-snatching drop. You let out another breathless scream, like you’ll never come out of this alive, cursing at Eddie like he’s this is his fault— and Eddie soaks up every second, grinning wide, weightless, and free.

And then something grabs him.

Eddie falters for a moment and blinks, head snapping down, and— oh.

Your hand. Wrapped tight around his. Like it’s instinct— like you reached for him without thinking.

The ride whips sideways, but Eddie’s hardly paying attention to that anymore.

His hand is on fire.

Sweet, sizzling, hot fire.

You don’t let go. Not even when the ride is tossed through another loop, not when your breath stutters from the sheer force of another drop— your hand stays steady planted around Eddie’s.

He feels the tremble in your fingers, how hard you’re clutching— like he’s steadier than the metal bar bolted to the seat, solely there to protect you.

Eddie’s stomach flips, and it’s not because of the ride.

He’s grinning wide, fingers curling around your hand, allowing himself to greedily take your mindless opening.

By the time the ride slows to a stop, Eddie’s still smiling, riding high on a sunny-bliss wave.

You rip your hand from his, and Eddie watches as you unbuckle yourself, your face twisted in utter betrayal.

“That was awful.” You pant, shaking out your hands like they’ve fallen asleep, “I fucking hate you.”

Eddie cocks his head, beaming. “You held my hand.”

You pause, still breathing shakily, as you look at Eddie for a second. Your gaze flickers down, fingers flexing like they remember how Eddie felt just moments ago.

Eddie’s grin stretches as your expression shifts from realization to horror, and before you can say something, Eddie wiggles his fingers, “Still feelin’ ‘em, too. Strong grip, princess. You sure you don’t wanna hold ‘em again?”

You shove Eddie so hard he nearly topples over.

Eddie laughs, honest and deep in his chest— god, he’s having fun.

Eddie unbuckles his seat, lifting the bar above your heads, careful not to hit you. You step down from the seat, wobbling for a moment, but Eddie catches your elbow before you take out an entire family of children.

“Woah there,” he muses, holding you steady, “You okay? Need me to carry you?”

You glare at him, letting Eddie gently guide you out of the way for other passengers, “Pick something else before I kill you.”

Eddie grins.

God, he so fucking won.

“Don’t have to tell me twice, honeybee.”

And just like that, you’re off again, moving through the park like it’s just the two of you.

And you don’t bring up your friends.

Neither does Eddie.

You just keep going, slipping from one ride to the next, getting caught up in the rush, the lights, the sheer gravity of just being together. Eddie’s never felt this high.

By the time Eddie does think about your groups of friends, it’s already too late. They’re gone.

Not that he gives a single shit.

Mostly everyone is slowly leaving the park because they’re about to close, but one last ride catches Eddie’s eye.

“One more?”

You look at Eddie, a glow on your face that Eddie can’t stop admiring. “I think I’ve had enough of feeling my heart drop out of my ass, Munson.”

Eddie smiles, already tugging you towards the ride he has in mind. “This one's slow.”

You look at him, eyes narrowing in suspicion of the devilish grin on his face. You follow his gaze, groaning when you land on his target, “That’s for couples.” You point out, “And it’s cheesy.”

Eddie shrugs, “We’re a couple, babe. Madly in love, you and I.”

You roll your eyes, barely fighting back as Eddie pulls you into the Tunnel of Love.

There’s no one in line, so Eddie slips the guy two tickets and leads you straight to the awaiting boat. He lends you a hand into the boat because he’s a gentleman before he’s a menace, before taking a seat next to you.

You sit quietly, looking everywhere but Eddie— because here in this tiny little shitty boat, you’re practically sharing the same breath. And Eddie loves it.

“This is stupid.” You mutter.

“As stupid as the first, second, third, or fourth ride you said was stupid?” Eddie teases, draping an arm across the back of the boat, not touching you but just there.

You glare at Eddie, and the boat drifts forward, slipping into the tunnel’s shadow. The warm glow of the carnival lights disappears behind you, swallowed by the dim flicker of fake candles and twinkling stars overhead. It’s quiet in here— just the soft hum of old music and the gentle rush of the water beneath the boat.

You shift beside Eddie, arms crossed as your eyes dance around, “This is kind of creepy.”

Eddie smirks. He leans in, voice low like he’s telling a secret, “It’s haunted, actually.”

You huff through your nose, unimpressed, though your knee bounces momentarily, “Yeah, okay.”

”No, really,” Eddie insists, biting back a grin. You glance at him, your faces close. “Couple got stuck in here. Died. Now they haunt anyone who makes out in these things.”

You huff out a laugh, eyes glancing away as you turn back to the ride, “Wow. So tragic. Guess we should definitely avoid that, then.”

Eddie shrugs, all casual and smug, turning back to the ride as well, “I mean… unless you’re feeling brave— ever been ghost hunting?”

You scoff, shoving at Eddie, your stifled smile peeking out beneath the dim lights. Eddie’s fast— catches your elbow and grins when you glare at him.

He doesn’t let go.

His grip isn't hard, easy enough that you could pull away if you wanted to, but you don’t.

So, Eddie distracts you, spinning this stupid lie about a dead couple as his fingertips drag along the inside of your wrist, featherlight. You shift slightly, eyes taking in the twinkling lights and windows of displays.

And Eddie takes a chance.

Silky smooth, he slides his palm over yours— slow and easy— linking your hands together before you can think too hard about it.

There’s a roaring fire in his chest. Breathing and so fucking alive, and his Malibu sun is feeding it dry wood.

“I don’t believe your story.”

Eddie grins, squeezes your hand once, playful, like it’s just part of the joke, “Don’t come crying to me later tonight when an old woman comes knockin’ shit around in your room.”

You raise a brow, “I’m willing to bet it’d just be you sneaking in like a creep.”

Eddie hums, calloused fingertips dragging over your knuckles. “Wouldn’t be books and makeup knocking around then.”

You groan, pink and red lights casting over your grimace, “Gross. Might be the worst one tonight.” But the corner of your mouth twitches, betraying you.

And Eddie grins, then.

And because Eddie wants to revel in what’s left of being on this ride with you, he says nothing more. He sits there, pressed against you, letting his hand burn in yours.

The carnival hums in the distance, fading into nothing as you and Eddie cross the gravel lot.

Your hand isn’t in Eddie’s anymore.

Eddie misses it, but he doesn’t push it.

There’s a silence between you, not awkward or bad, just… silence.

It’s warm, a slight breeze drifting by that cools the hot bones in Eddie’s body.

Eddie’s hands are shoved in his pockets, scared to let them out because his fingers keep twitching, buzzing with this need to touch you. You’re walking beside him, watching your shoes pace in the gravel, arms wrapped around yourself.

Eddie kind of hates the sight of his van when you walk up to it.

He says nothing, walking over to the passenger side, swinging the door open, and stepping back to let you climb in.

You swallow, stepping forward to get in.

And you make the biggest fucking mistake of looking at Eddie.

Eddie doesn’t know; he’s skyrocketed in the sky, looking down at the earth and weightless in the air— because your lips are on his

He’s not sure who leaned in; maybe it was him— it was probably him— perhaps it was you, but it doesn't matter because he’s kissing you.

And you’re kissing him.

He startles for a moment— just for a second— before instinct takes over. His greedy hands creep out of his pockets to find your waist, dragging you closer as he kisses you, hard and sure.

It’s impulsive. A little messy. Like something that’s been aching to happen all night just snapped loose all at once.

You exhale sharply against his mouth— like you can’t believe what’s happening. Like you might know, this is toeing the line, but Eddie doesn’t let you think too long.

He tilts his head, deepens it— just a little. Just enough to make you forget whatever had been rolling around in your mind.

And fuck, he feels it too. The heat. The weight of it. The fact that this is the first time you’re face to face with this dance you’ve been dancing these last weeks.

You’re pressed against the side of his van, fingers curled into his shirt and kissing him to his death.

He cups your face— can’t get enough of you— and you whimper before pulling away, breathing heavily, hands still clutching his shirt.

Eddie looks at you, your wide eyes, your wet lips, and he licks his own— and he can taste you.

Sugar, cherry, honeydew, Malibu fucking sun— dancing on his tongue, heavy and soft.

And when he looks in your eyes, Eddie realizes he’s entirely, irrevocably, and immensely done for.

Now I told you, so you ought to know

It takes some time for a feeling to grow

But you're so close now, I can't let you go

And I can't let go

- magnet and steel x walter egan

part three.

cutie teeny taglist: @kellsck @your-nightmaredoll @hereforshmut @emxxblog @mdurdenpitt @glassbxttless @peculiarwren @aactuaaltraash @daveythorntonslocker @bl1ssfulbaby @strangereads @wdsara48 @cowboylikemunson

————

a/n: THEY SMOOCHED !!! AHHH !!! lmaoo okay guys we're smooth (ish) sailing from here on out ;) I can guarantee there will be some smutty action next chappy hehe. anyways, I hope u enjoyed lovesick eddie this chap. as always, thank you for riding along, ily and appreciate any and all forms of feedback <3

#ended me #omfg #eddie munson #fic rec

598 notes · View notes

pullhisteeth · 3 months ago

Text

I love when he's written like this!!! Kind and calm and strong :) and when his life is so easy and slow...... inject it

𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐥𝐝 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

This piece contains 18+ content

pairing Eddie Munson x Female Reader

summary After stumbling across Eddie’s intimate drawings of you, you’re left reeling, but what unfolds that night is less about the pictures and more about the honesty, trust, and closeness they force to the surface. [contains fluff, artsy eddie who's a little rough around the edges, nude drawings, smut | wc 5.8k]

a/n based on this request by the lovely @valinherfantasyworld

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

Under the hum of fluorescent lights, you stand waiting as a small fan rotates to blow air your way. The gas pumps outside had been empty, but the open sign held enough promise for you to mosey on in. With a sigh, you reach out to hit the top of the dainty silver call bell for the second time. The checkout counter is dotted with planetary and extra-terrestrial figurines. Old, peeling stickers are stuck to the wood as well.

It isn’t lost on you that you could bypass paying for the trail mix and jerky and walk out the door. The intrusive thought comes just as Nelson bursts from the break room with his famously grizzled beard. His shoes squeak against the sticky floor as he hobbles to his place behind the counter with considerable reliance on his scuffed, wooden cane. When he sits on the stool, air expels from the cushion in a low, high-pitched whine.

“My apologies,” he tilts his head to look at you from over the top of his chunky glasses. The prescription is so high that it makes his hazel eyes look larger than they are.

You shake your head in dismissal as you push Wayne’s snacks towards him with a polite smile. He punches the prices into the cash register with practiced ease. His fingers move quickly and precisely like a starved bird pecking the ground for food.

“No help today?” you ask.

Nelson puffs an exasperated breath. “That Henderson kid’s supposed to be here,” he says. “Runnin’ late ‘cause of math club.”

You hum, trying not to smile when he mutters something about priorities and the youth these days.

“Need a bag?” He puts the snacks in one before you can answer. “Say, aren’t you dating the Munson boy?”

“Only for the past six months,” you lightheartedly quip.

Nelson seldom asked a question he didn’t know the answer to. Everybody in Hawkins shopped at Boone’s Quick Mart, whether they wanted to or not. Convenience trumps luxury any day, and there’s nothing quite like Southern hospitality wrapped in a Midwestern package.

As a pillar in the community for the past thirty years, Nelson Boone knows who’s who and what’s what—Tina Johnson’s divorce from her wandering-eyed husband, Jaden Rockwell’s C+ on his report card, the McNulty family’s move to Boise. This is a man who sees and hears all.

He meets your gaze with his googly eyes. “So you heard about what happened to him last night?”

A small stone of worry drops into your gut. “Something happened?”

Nelson looks at you from over his glasses again, a thrilled smirk playing on his lips. “Something? Hell, I reckon he saved my ass from getting killed.”

The spark of excitement that curls in his tone reminds you of his tendency to stretch the truth just enough to make eyes widen and jaws drop a little faster. You bar yourself against the bait in hopes he’ll be more stripped and forthcoming. It works, if the way his shoulders relax is any clue.

“Guy from outta town comes in all big and bad, demanding I empty the register,” he starts. “Meanwhile, Munson’s in the back near the pop. All I’m thinking at this point is, I should’ve gone ahead and made those revisions to my will like I was planning to—”

“What did Eddie do?” you cut in.

Nelson clears his throat. “Long story short, the guy whips out some kind of folding knife, they scuffle for a bit, then Munson knocks the rest of buddy’s screws loose.”

“What?” Your eyebrows shoot up your forehead.

“Scout’s honor,” Nelson says, holding up three fingers. “He didn’t mention it?”

You blink a few quick times as worry swirls within you. “Haven’t seen him in a few days.”

Nelson shifts on the stool and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a meaty finger. “Well, that kid’s got the biggest pair in all of Hawkins, I tell you what.” He laughs a quick bark of a sound that sends him into a brief coughing fit. “Imagine that, though. Me dying in ‘88, the year of our Lord.”

“Imagine that,” you murmur.

You place the money on the counter with buzzing fingers and blood rushing in your ears.

•••

Wayne’s truck is the only vehicle parked out front when you arrive at the trailer. The grass is greener, and the small flower bed Eddie helped you plant is vibrant and thriving. Before Spring settled, you’d told both Munsons that nurturing their slice of Hawkins could give them something to feel proud of. They’d taken it to heart.

Though neither would ever admit it to your face, you’d come into their life and transformed it from grayscale to technicolor.

As a breeze rustles through the surrounding trees, the early evening sun ventures closer towards the horizon.

When the front door pushes open with a dull creak, Wayne looks up from where he’s wiping crumbs off the small kitchen table nestled beside the window. He’s in jeans and an old tee that’s loose around the collar. A smile pulls at his lips as you pad inside.

“Thought that was you,” he says. “What’s this?” Wayne peeks into the bag as you set it on the table.

“Special delivery.”

“Told ya you ain’t gotta go outta your way for me like this.” He shakes his head with a sigh, but you know he’s grateful.

“Saves you an extra stop before work, right?” You gently nudge his shoulder.

“Thanks, darlin.’” After walking the towel back over to the sink, he catches the hint of concern in your eyes as you linger near the table.

“Everything alright?”

You open your mouth a couple of times. “Is Eddie okay?”

Wayne’s gray eyebrows furrow. “Yeah. I mean, he’s Eddie.” He chuckles. “You just missed him. Called about five minutes ago and said something about getting off a little later than usual.”

You frown. “So that’s why he hasn’t made it in.”

Wayne hums a sound of confirmation. “Said he could meet you at Benny’s at six, though,” he says. “Also mentioned something about the lake. Asked you to bring his camera.”

At the very least, the man’s words assure you that the events of last night hadn’t been as bad as you made them out to be in your mind.

•••

The next hour passes with a slow, Hawkins kind of ease. When you push into Eddie’s bedroom in search of his camera, the air smells like him: pinewood with a faint, smokey undertone. All things considered, the space is tidier than it’s been over the past couple of weeks.

The open surfaces are no longer strewn with random receipts and wrappers. All his fantasy figurines are organized with a greater sense of intentionality. Even the Iron Maiden poster, whose corner once slouched off the wall, has now been readhered.

Leave it up to Eddie to make order out of chaos again and again.

You locate the Nikon on his dresser in seconds. The frame counter rests a few notches before 1, and after a brief pause of debate, you pop the film door open to see if there’s any film inside. Relief washes over you when you realize the chamber is empty, and you haven’t just exposed a brand-new roll to the light. In search of a fresh canister, you squat at his nightstand and pull open the top drawer. Nothing. Mainly guitar accessories: picks, sheets of music, old bridge pins—along with a couple of stray condoms.

You move to the drawer beneath it, where journals, sketchbooks, and art supply pouches. However, a small cylindrical container tucked in the back corner catches your attention. The top of your hand pinches against the drawer when you attempt to reach the new roll of film without disturbing the other contents. That’s when you make the executive decision to pull out the first couple of sketchbooks.

In doing so, three pictures slip out: you on a park bench smiling, you sitting on his bed attempting to play his guitar, you taking too big of a bite off an ice cream cone.

A smile buds on your face as you flip the sketchbook open to tuck the photos back inside. Time stops. On the page is a beautiful portrait of you. It's not a mere sketch; this is much too involved. You were under the impression that he only ever drew the characters for his campaigns this intricately—dragons, celestials, faye.

As far as you knew, your likeness was only ever confined to his quicker sketches because you were always around. It was easy to capture you in the moment with no pressure. Can’t replicate perfection, sweetheart.

It isn’t until you’ve turned a few pages ahead that a different type of surprise prickles through you. Blooming and warm like the beginning of spring, but with a more rogue intensity. One that feels borderline forbidden because this next drawing itself ought to have remained tucked away in a secret place.

Your lips aren’t wrapped around ice cream but Eddie’s index and middle fingers. A line of saliva runs down your chin as your eyes sparkle.

You flip to the next drawing. In this one, you’re topless and kneeling, legs spread in an unabashed V. One of your hands plays between your thighs as you look up through your lashes. It’s drawn from memory, no doubt. Eddie had yet to capture you on film in such a vulnerable light.

Another page. Eddie’s hand is wrapped around your neck. You recognize the skeleton tattoo that constitutes the back of his right hand to give the illusion that his bones are bared.

Another. Your backside is drawn from the perspective of whoever stands behind you. There’s an abstractness to it, in a way. The shading suggests slight irritation or bruising from impact against your delicate skin.

The last drawing you gleam features you lying face down with your bottom up, wrists tied with rope. Indents on your skin suggest that you’ve tried to pull free—

Something flips low in your gut. White noise fills your ears as you snap the sketchbook closed and put it back where it belongs. You move on autopilot as you toss Eddie’s camera and film into your tote bag and scramble out of his room.

•••

The water is calm as it laps at the bank of the lake. Gnats flutter around while tree leaves rustle. On a summer evening such as this, Lover’s Lake is a wonder. Above, the sky stretches like the handiwork of a master artist. Blue fades to burnt orange to rustic lavender in a seamless ombre. Your eyes remain on the water below as you kick your feet off the edge of the dock.

Eddie nudges your knee with his after a while. The upper portion of his coveralls is tied around his waist, exposing his white T-shirt and lean tattooed arms. The sleeve on his right arm is fuller and extends all the way to his hand.

Despite the intricate designs inked across his skin, you can make out the thin, red scratches on his forearms and the few cuts that pepper his knuckles. None of them override the dark ink of his tattoos, but you can see them since you’re sitting so close. The ones on his neck are visible all the more because they have little to camouflage with. Some are old, but most of them are undeniably fresher. You’ve been cataloguing them all evening.

You peer over at him with a pensive smile. His camera rests on the opposite side of him. He’d captured a few shots of you and the scenery when there was a little more light.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

“Just enjoying the view.”

Eddie briefly wrinkles his nose and looks out at the lake. Touché.

The silence returns, but Eddie can’t settle into it for the life of him. He shifts, one knee propping up. “You gotta give me something to work with here.” He tries to meet your adverted gaze. “Did I say something to piss you off?”

All you can do is manage a swallow. There were enough distractions to carry you through dinner at Benny’s, but the world seems much smaller and stripped out here. No music, chatter, or waitress checking in to refill your drinks. It’s just you, Eddie, and the unmatched stillness of nature. All of which are fertile ground for your thoughts to wander and unavoidably return to the fact he hadn’t said a word about what happened at Boone’s—or the contents of his sketchbook. Especially now that he won’t look away from you.

Worry intensifies Eddie’s gaze. The same gaze that you now know has studied and considered you more intimately than you ever imagined. You can’t help but feel bare and exposed now. It was yet another brick to lay on top of the fact that he’d refrained from telling you about the events at Quick Mart.

You finally look over at him.

“Please talk to me,” he says.

You take his larger hand in yours. He remains quiet, hopeful. You study his palm, then turn it over to assess the back of his hand, the cuts just barely visible over the skeleton tattoo covering it. You wish he could be a fraction as open and forthcoming as the illusion his tattoo presents.

“Did something happen last night?” you ask.

A defensive edge slips into his voice. “What do you mean?”

“At Quick Mart,” you say.

In the time that Eddie combs through his mind in search of the right approach, you say it yourself, “You were in a fight.” It’s not fair to state it so clinically, but you do it anyway.

Eddie looks more betrayed than surprised. “No, I wasn’t,” he says. “Not like that.”

You feel a pang of guilt over the earnest way he expresses it, like a kid trying to prove their innocence.

Over the years, he’d gotten better about his temper. About how quick he was to handle certain situations with the scrappier instincts of his youth. He knew now, more than ever, that words alone could get him much further than his fists. Throughout the latter half of his overstayed run in the public school system, he’d been forced to prove himself physically time after time, so he had no choice but to get good at it. Sometimes, he jumped the gun, but that wasn’t him. Not anymore.

“It wasn’t over nothing,” he explains. “Asshole was trying to—”

“I know, Teddy,” you’re quick to assure, voice soft. “Wasn’t pointing fingers. I’m just glad everybody’s okay.” You squeeze his hand.

His gaze flickers down. “Sorry,” he murmurs, exhaling. He speaks up after a while. “Was it Nelson who told you?”

The thought of Nelson—endearing, googly-eyed Nelson—makes your lips twitch upwards. Eddie almost doesn’t believe it, but he’s grateful. A fraction of the tension melts from his shoulders as levity creeps in. He presses closer to feel the shake of your shoulders as you chuckle despite yourself. If you don’t laugh, you’ll mess around and find a reason to cry.

Your amusement eventually subsides into something stiller. “Wish it’d been you, though.”

Eddie takes the blow. “Swear I was gonna tell you.” He dips his head to kiss the bulb of your shoulder. “Just wanted to give everything some breathing room. Didn’t want you to get all worked up and worried. Hate making you worry.”

“Forget worry,” you say lightly. “If something involves you, I’ll always wanna know. I care about you.” Those words stir a gratefulness in his chest. “I want you to tell me things even when they’re scary or hard.”

Eddie sees the sincerity in your gaze. A hint of confliction seems to reside there as well.

“No more secrets,” he promises.

He holds out his pinkie, and just when he thinks you’re going to ignore it, you hook yours around his. It’s no surprise that he squeezes. As playful as he is, you should’ve seen it coming. You yelp and attempt to pull your hand away, but he leans in to steal a kiss that you allow him to take. A satisfied smile lingers on his face afterward.

With a proud sigh, he lays back on the wooden planks of the dock, hair splaying like mane. With your eyes you map the faint freckles on his face when he closes his eyes, then trace his eyebrows, the slope of his nose, the relaxed pout of his lips.

Eddie’s eyes soon flutter open to meet yours.

He offers a smile. “Hmm?”

You shrug, chuckling in a mix of nerves and relief. “Just thinking of something Nelson said about you,” you say. “‘That kid’s got the biggest pair in all of Hawkins.’”

A surprised laugh bubbles out of him that makes his eyes crinkle and his chest shake. You join in. When the moment settles into something tamer but still a bit charged, Eddie holds your gaze as he reaches down between his legs to rest a hand over his crotch.

“You’ve seen ‘em first hand,” he drawls, palming himself through the fabric of his coveralls. “Whaddya think?”

Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of leaving you speechless. “Jury’s still out.”

Another laugh rumbles through him and ends with a snort. His eyes shimmer when he calms down. You’re there to twirl your finger around one of his curls and give it an affectionate tug.

A gentle breeze rolls through and makes a part of you wish it could carry the memory of his drawings away with it. At least so you could settle into the serenity of the moment in an unadulterated way. Those thoughts don’t leave you, however. His face alone is a reminder of his secret envisionings of you.

•••

Later that night, in the dim lamplight of Eddie’s room, you lie face up on his bed, eyes glued to the ceiling. It’s as if the act will still your nerves, but it doesn’t.

Eddie emerges from the bathroom whistling, a gray towel wrapped around his slender waist. You loll your head to look at him just long enough to catalogue his damp curls, his myriad of tattoos, the light dusting of hair between his pecs, and the even darker trail that descends from his belly button. His back turns to you as he saunters to his dresser. There’s a dagger tattooed between his shoulder blades.

“Miss me?” he asks as he digs pajamas out of his drawer.

When you don’t respond, he peeks over his shoulder. Your gaze is directed towards the ceiling.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”

He hums. Your silence takes root beneath his skin and yields a certain self-consciousness. It wasn’t like you to be so disengaged. Not when it came to him. There was no denying his magnetism, even when he wasn’t actively trying to work the room.

“Okay, what’s really going on?” Eddie walks to the side of the bed and stares down at you. “You’ve been acting funny all evening.”

You push yourself upright, swinging your legs off the side of the bed. To buy yourself some time, you rub your eyes with your fists as if tiredness truly is to blame. There’s nowhere to hide when your hands inevitably drop back down to rest in your lap. Still, Eddie fails to get a read.

“Talk to me, Goose.” He taps your chin with a gentle knuckle. “Is that gas station shit really bothering you that bad?” Eddie winces at his own irritation. “That came out wrong. Shit.”

He takes a deep breath. “I honestly didn’t think it was that big of a deal. The guy had what was coming to him.”

“I care about you, is all,” you say. “Am I allowed to do that?”

His eyes are apologetic as he looks down at you. “You’re allowed.”

“No more secrets, right?” you say. “That’s what you promised.”

Eddie nods slowly, unsure of where this conversation is headed.

“That means we let each other in,” you continue.

“You’re in, baby.”

You bite your lower lip.

“I saw something earlier. Drawings of me that you’ve done.”

“I sketch you all the time.”

A few seconds pass before you bring yourself to speak again. “Not the sketches. The actual drawings. The detailed ones.”

Eddie stills as if turned to alabaster. He looks away from you, but you don’t look away from him as silence permeates the air like a slow rising fog. Color rises in his cheeks, then the tips of his ears. If he doesn’t move, maybe he’ll wake up. Maybe he’ll disappear. A few seconds pass like an hour. The world begins turning again when you take his hand in yours, gently brushing over the back with your thumb.

Reality fades back in slowly. His breaths, your breaths, his thick swallow.

“They caught me off guard,” you admit.

Like a severed branch, his hand falls away from yours. His Adam’s apple bobs as he considers what to say in the wake of embarrassment that toes the line of frustration.

Eddie’s eyes find their way back to yours. “We’re going through each other’s things now?”

“I was looking for film for your camera,” you explain. “Pictures fell out of the sketchbook, and when I went to put them back—”

“They don’t mean anything.” His words are void of any conviction.

You hold his gaze until his shoulders sag with the weight of the truth. “I’ve never had this, alright?” He makes a weak motion between the two of you. “Someone who makes me feel the way you do.”

You nod for him to continue.

“I think about you all the fucking time.” His voice comes out shy and gruff. “You’re beautiful.”

“So they do mean something.”

“But now you probably just think they’re perverted when it’s not like that at all,” he accuses with a slight waver in his voice. You’ve never seen him quite like this. Frazzled in a raw, open way. “It’s the trust aspect—fuck, I’m not making any sense.”

He runs his hands through his hair and paces a few steps away. You study the tattoos on his torso. Audentes Fortuna Iuvat is scripted just beneath his collarbones with a slight upwards curve; Latin for fortune favors the bold. A symmetrical, abstract pair of angel wings span beneath it. There’s also the small inverted crucifix on his sternum. The snake curled on the right side of his ribcage beneath his pecs. A considerable host of others have made a canvas out of his skin as well.

“So help me understand,” you insist.

You’re messing with him now. You have to be. This is his punishment for ever daring to put his pencil to the paper in that way. A few beats of silence pass.

“Are those things you wanna try?” you coax.

He finally musters the courage to look at you again. “There’s so much I wanna try with you.” There’s a weighted look in his gaze, like the sentiments it bears stretch beyond this moment. “I wanna do life with you.”

Warmth kindles in your chest at his words. “Well, here I am,” you say. “Gonna have to try harder to scare me away.”

A humorless laugh escapes him, but it’s true. Here you are.

“None of this was ever about the fight or the drawings, E,” you start. “It’s about you. I don’t want you to think you have to keep things from me.”

You nearly fall into the depths of his eyes as they bore into yours.

“I can’t mess this up too.” His voice comes out smaller than you’ve heard it. He wouldn’t make it to the other side of losing you.

“It’s gonna take something terrible for that.” You think for a moment. “Like you cutting off all that gorgeous hair.”

Eddie laughs. The sound coaxes you to your feet and over to him, where he cups your cheeks and presses his lips to yours. His breath catches in his throat when he feels your fingertips ghost along his waistline where the towel is secured.

•••

Just relax.

Those were the words you’d uttered to him a few short moments ago before you tugged his towel down and stripped yourself of your clothes. If anything, it was more like a purr. Something about that low, melodic tone always worked with him. Even when he was the one desperate to get his mouth and hands on you. He listened because you always handled him with care. Always made it good for him.

The sound that leaves him now seems broken, but Eddie’s never felt more whole. His arms shake where they’re braced behind him on the bed, and his spread thighs tremble. You look up at him from your kneeling position on the carpet before him without pulling away from mouthing at the warm, velvety weight between his thighs that hang like two joint fruits. They draw up when you pay keen attention to one side, making a suctioning motion with your mouth that makes him curse beneath his breath.

He curls forward with a pleasured groan when you take the entirety of his length into your mouth. The sweet drag of your lips, paired with the encompassing warmth, makes his head spin. You venture down halfway before drawing back up to suckle on the tip with a glimmer in your eyes. Eddie doesn’t get through his next shudder before your lips are descending again, this time all the way to where curly dark hair rests at his base.

You can feel every vein and pulse along the way. His stomach quivers at the sight as something hot stirs low in his gut.

One of his hands settles at the back of your head, but he doesn’t push or pull. It’s a grounding gesture. Tears prick the corners of your eyes as you pull back up, taking your time. At the top, you lap over his slit, where another pearly bead has formed. He huffs out a ragged breath when you begin to place lingering kisses over the head, then allow your tongue to gently trace along the slightly raised edge that separates it from the rest of his shaft.

A selfish part of him wants more.

“Angel…” he sighs.

You hum around him curiously when he’s back in your mouth. Eddie knows you’re trying to make him cave and guide you into what he wants. His fingers twitch with hesitance at first, but then he applies just enough pressure to encourage you back down. You’re gracious enough to fall into your own bobbing rhythm thereafter.

His breath stutters when one of your hands dip between your thighs to begin rubbing easy circles over your bud as your mouth continues to work him like a dream. You clench around nothing as warmth and pleasure pool between your thighs.

“That’s so hot,” he grouses.

You pull off of him, saliva slinking between your lips and his arousal. “Is it?” you murmur coyly.

He nods earnestly, eyes dark and cheeks flushed. What he’s not expecting is for you to sit back on your knees and redirect all your attention to yourself, bringing one hand up to cup your breast. Your cheeks warm at your own boldness. He’d seen you like this in his mind and on the page, but only you could bring the vision to life. There’s a pleasant rush to that sort of power.

He kicks up towards his stomach when you release an airy hum as your middle finger drifts down to run along your entrance and collect the thick moisture gathered there. He scoots closer to the nightstand and grabs a condom from the drawer. Eddie strokes himself a few careful times, stopping before the tide can rise. You watch with shining eyes as he rips the foil open and slides the rubber down himself.

“C’mere,” he rasps, repositioning fully onto the bed. “Wanna make you feel good.”

You bite your lip as you gently probe your entrance, maintaining eye contact even as your face burns. “Think you do it better?”

“You already know the answer.” There’s no overt cockiness in his tone. Just a steady sort of confidence that makes your stomach flutter.

An invisible flip switches. No doubt, because he finally feels as though it’s allowed to. You can’t pinpoint the exact moment, but you feel the aftermath. It’s in the way he becomes firmer; he isn’t rough, but you can feel the strength behind his movements more than you usually do. It’s also in the way he lifts his head from your center when you’re mere seconds away from falling into thralls of something your entire body craves.

You plead with your eyes as you meet his gaze, frustrated and desperate all the same. His lips upturn in a small smile that’s barely there. Your thighs fall open as he leans back down, and the fan of his breath makes you shiver. His mouth and fingers have already made you slick with arousal, only to leave you right on the edge.

“Eddie, please.”

He gently parts you open and presses a gentle kiss to your clit before suckling it into his mouth. You whimper and cant your hips upwards into his face, but he moves away.

“Easy,” he coos.

You breathe an apology as he presses his middle finger to your swollen bud and circles it nice and slow. A whimper escapes you as you squirm, trying your best to keep your hips down. As maddening as it is, you like this little game. The challenge. If he maintains this same pressure and speeds up just so, you know it’d be enough to get you there. He knows that too.

Everything hinges on his call. Eddie’s been at the helm even though he let you think you were for a time.

“Who does it better?” he asks.

Your stomach flips. “You, Eddie—c’mon.” You huff an exasperated chuckle in spite of yourself. Eddie bites back a smile. Then your voice dips into a tone that’s impossibly sweet. It reminds him just how much he burns with desire himself. “Keep showing me how much better.”

Eddie braces himself overtop of you and notches at your slick warmth. It takes a moment for him to gather himself, but when he does, he slips into you with ease. Each inch is welcomed with the same steady pressure, all the way until he’s buried entirely.

While you hum at the fullness, he moans from being welcomed in so wholly. Even though you’re the one stretched to accommodate him, it’s him who needs a moment to get acclimated. It feels like he’s seconds away from falling apart, and he sure as hell isn’t ready to test the theory.

When you circle your hips in a silent encouragement for him to move, he stills you with a steady hand. You make another attempt.

“Angel, wait,” he weakly complains. It’s half desperate, half amused.

“But I need you,” you murmur.

That’s enough to spur him into an easy rhythm. Your mouth falls open, and he can’t help but run his thumb over your bottom lip. You surprise yourself when you poke your tongue out. Eddie takes a leap of faith and pushes it just past your lips. You close your mouth around it and give it a weak suck before he pulls it back out.

As it turns out, life imitates art too.

“You feel so good,” Eddie pants. “Taking me so well, aren’t you?”

“Mhmm.”

His thrusts reach deeper when you hook your legs around him, eyes briefly scrunching closed as he meets that tender spot within you that threatens to make everything wound tight inside of you unravel.

Your hands move to scratch down his back, and his hips stutter at the steady pressure of your nails. So you do it again, a little harder, and it sends a strong shiver through him that feels unfairly good. When your hands smooth back around to his chest, fingers grazing his nipples, he manages to gather your wrists in his hands and pin them above your head. Your chest pushes into his.

“I’m close,” you breathe. “So full.”

A groan rises in his throat. “Not until I say, alright?”

Your whine borders on petulant, but you nod anyway. Eddie kisses you for it. First, on your lips, then he trails a few more sloppy, lazy kisses down your chin. When he pulls away, he lets go of your wrists and braces that forearm beside your head, breaths heavy. He’s so close, you can see the faint sun freckles dotted over the bridge of his nose. The grind of his pelvis against your clit makes you clench around him.

Your breath hitches. “I’m gonna—”

“Not yet, angel,” he says, even as he lowers a hand between your bodies to rub that pulsing part of you with just the right amount of pressure as he continues his deep thrusts. It’s the furthest thing from fair, and he knows it.

Your mind grows fuzzy with a sudden swell of pleasure that borders on panic. “Eddie, baby, I can’t,” you whimper. “You’re gonna make me come. Please—”

“Go on, angel,” he soothes. The wave crashes. “That’s it, there you go.”

You close your mouth to stifle the helpless sound that rises up your throat as you arch beneath him. Immediately, you’re thrown into a suspended place where all you can feel is yourself fluttering around him in strong pulses as warmth floods your entire being, pulling him in. He guides you through it with gentle praises that barely register to your ears.

With a guttural sound Eddie buries himself within your warmth and lets go, his abdomen flexing with each wave that shoots through him. As the radiating pleasure dwindles, he touches his forehead to yours, and your lips just barely brush as you catch your breaths. You raise your hands to his neck to play with the hair at the nape of his neck. He shivers, then jolts with sensitivity as you shift beneath him.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

Eddie shakes his head. “You’re fine,” he breathes. “You’re perfect. Don’t deserve you.”

“You’re gonna give me a complex,” you murmur.

Eddie chuckles and grasps the base of himself to slowly pull out. The loss draws shuttering exhales out of both of you. He’s overcome by a surge of fondness and gratitude.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod as he dots a few kisses to your neck. “Hey, Eddie.” You cup his cheek to get his attention and he nearly melts at the content way you look up at him with slow, sleepy blinks. “Maybe next time you can tie me up.” A small smile plays on your lips, but you mean it. Even though the thought alone gives you wild butterflies.

Eddie’s swallow doesn’t let on how dizzy the thought makes him. “Yeah?”

You offer a tired hum. “I trust you.” That alone means everything.

And with him, you wanted it all.

Thanks for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I promise I see them all!

EDDIE MASTERLIST

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#eddie munson #fic rec #nsfw

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pullhisteeth · 3 months ago

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Oh my god