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reysdriver · 3 days ago

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I don't know if this counts as perv!Eddie, but... roadtrip. Eddie isn't driving for whatever reason, and also! There's not enough sits for everybody, so his best girl friend has to sit on his lap. The road is rocky and bumpy, she's kinda bouncing right on it. My poor boy, lol.

Perverted

Perv!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Eddie takes a mini road trip with the gang to pick fruits and vegetables at a farm outside of town. Easy day. Except there aren’t enough open seats in the car, and you have to sit on his lap. Hard day. Very…hard…day.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, perv!eddie obvi, boners, almost dry-humping tbh, mention of cumming in pants, Eddie's suffering, mention of masturbation, reader is none the wiser

Word Count: 1.6k, this was literally supposed to be a blurb wtf

A/N: One moment this was 500 words, the next it was 1,600. I can’t do this for all the perv!eddie blurbs lmao. This is just simply not sustainable, I don’t have enough words. Very quickly written. Also, go read this fic.

Masterlist

Eddie’s biting down on his strained, white knuckles as Steve’s stupid station wagon hits another bump, jolting you on his lap. He’s trying everything to will away his erection—doing algebra in his head, pinching himself hard, even conjuring up the image of Mrs. O’Donnell and her gingivitis breath leaning over his shoulder to correct his work. Nothing is working.

He feels like Icarus flying too close to the sun. One more bump in the road and he’s going to melt at the way your hips jostle with the car. It felt like a dream come true when Steve suggested you sit on Eddie's lap—what with the car being too full, and you obviously not able to sit on one of the girls or Jonathan. Robin and Nancy’s laps didn’t exactly offer a sturdy seat for the 30-minute ride out of town, and Jonathan was up front, in clear view of any law enforcement waiting to speed-trap people. Hence, Steve’s suggestion: Eddie’s wider, more comfortable lap in the back of the car.

Dream come true, right? Eddie's been perving on you for a while now—stealing underwear on every visit to your place, standing far too close behind you when you're in a low-cut top, inching his creeping hands down your body during every hug.

He’s hoping to train you into accepting his groping touches with the incremental movements he makes, eventually landing on your ass. That’ll take a while, though—but he’s been working on it for over a year. He’s closer than he was when he started at your mid-back. Now he’s at the dip of your lower back, closing in on the home stretch of his goal.

So dream come true, right? Wrong. The main point of perving on someone is they don't know you're doing it. Because if they did, if you did—he shudders to think the talking-to he'd get. God forbid you tell anyone else about his actions. Robin and Nancy would rip him a new one, Steve would give him that disappointed dad look, and he prays the kids would never catch wind of how utterly lame and repulsive their leader is.

You practically grinding your ass on the tip of his hard cock is not exactly stealthy perving. So far, you haven't made any indication that you can feel him under you, you've just continued your idle chit-chat with the girls, sitting mostly on his lower thighs. He's not sure what you're talking about, but he knows it's very funny with the way you keep throwing your head back, giving him little whiffs of your delicious smelling hair. Your scent doesn’t help with his current predicament. In fact, it has the opposite effect.

He's struggling to hear anything, all the blood in his brain is rushing past his ears like the Grand Rapids, traveling all the way down to his cock. Another deep pothole sends the back of the car dipping sharply, jostling everyone inside— including you—side to side.

With his knuckles in his mouth and his refusal to look anywhere but out the window, Eddie bites back a groan. He's pretty sure he's leaking at this point. After all, he's basically inadvertently dry-humping your ass with every bump and jolt that comes along. He’s a weak man. If the smallest whiff of your perfume can get him hard, he has no chance of making it out of this car dry.

Peeking between the driver-side headrest and the door, Eddie watches the road. "Hey, Steve, quick question."

"What's up, dude?"

"Are you trying to hit every goddamn pothole in this road or is it just luck? Because usually when one sees a giant, gaping-fucking-hole in the road, one swerves to avoid it," he stiltedly bites out.

Eddie's heart feels weightless in his chest when you giggle at his sass; your soft hand rubs a consoling circle against his chest, just below his collarbone—a silent apology for his circumstances. That small interaction almost makes everything worth it, but then he remembers you won’t be so consoling if you find out just how much he’s getting out of your innocent need for a seat. So he continues to force himself to think about Mrs. Gingivitis Breath while questioning Steve’s less-than fantastic driving skills.

Steve's shoulders are up to his ears in a cringing apology—he's felt the rickety rollercoaster-esque feel of the back of a station wagon before. "I'm sorry! It's just these damn back roads, man."

A huge thump and a harsh jerking motion make you squeal, scrambling for something to hold onto since you can’t wear a seatbelt. Robin chuckles at the sound, reaching out to steady you, but before you can grab her forearm, Eddie wraps both arms around your abdomen, pulling you flush against him. His jaw clenches as he mentally kicks himself for accidentally dragging your ass closer to his hard length. You were at just the right distance before, where you probably couldn’t make out the shape of what you were feeling. Now he’s pushing his luck.

You’re leaning back against the wide, warm expanse of his chest, his arms still wrapped around you, holding you securely to him. There’s a triangle of space between where your upper back meets his chest, where his lap remains mostly empty, and where your ass stays firmly planted on his lower thighs. More like the triangle of death where his aching cock is just twitching with need for you, desperate without weighted relief.

His chin is hovering over your shoulder, and you’re acutely aware of how close he is to your face. Turning your head slightly, you give him a weak, embarrassed smile. “Thanks for saving me.”

Eddie tries to hide it, but his voice comes out strained. “Anytime.”

Being held by him puts you in an odd, uncomfortable, slanted position, so you plant your feet on the car floor, using the sturdy base to shimmy yourself higher onto his lap, where you’ll feel more secure. Unfortunately, your readjustment happens at the same time as another huge bump, causing you to land higher on his lap than you meant to—now almost fully on his throbbing cock.

Eddie’s eyes widen at the new, heavy pressure on his needy length. His stomach is twitching and he’s trying not to keel over your shoulder and pant desperate breaths into your ear—that would surely give him away. Although, if he doesn’t do that and you keep squirming on his lap, the precum seeping through his boxers will eventually give him away, soaking through his jeans. He needs this car ride from hell to be over now. “What the fuck is the government doing with our taxes in this country,” he cries, struggling to withhold a groan.

His dramatic shout elicits chuckles throughout the car, with nobody knowing the real reason behind his beef with the dilapidated rural roads.

“We’re almost there, I swear. It’s right at the end of this dirt road.”

Steve’s attempt at consoling him only makes him drop his head back in defeat, staring up at the roof of the car. A dirt road? He’s got to be joking. That’s like, a million times worse than potholes.

“Oh, fuck me,” he mutters, resigned to his fate of being banished from the friend group for getting an erection during a roadtrip, with you innocently perched on top of him. It’s not his fault you’re so hot! But that kind of argument stops working at a certain point—probably when you inevitably catch onto all the other things he’s been doing.

By the time the ride is over, Eddie’s almost creamed his jeans at about seven different points. And he was right, the dirt road was worse. He almost thought you knew at that point, but you continued not to say anything, so he started second-guessing himself.

Once everyone files out of the car, he lets the door fall nearly shut, giving himself a bit of privacy for his lower half. Quickly, he adjusts himself, hissing pitifully at the relief he gets just from his own hand, moving his cock to be snug in his waistband.

When he’s done, he realizes you seem to be waiting for him a few paces from the car. Thankfully, your back is to him as you take in the rolling fields of crops. Steve, Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan have walked off, eagerly obtaining baskets for harvesting. Fixing his shirt over the front of his pants, he catches up to you, knocking his shoulder with yours.

You shoot him a bright smile when you feel him beside you, starting your trek to follow the rest of the group. “Hey! Bumpy ride, huh?”

Shuffling next to you, anxiety thrums through Eddie’s body as he worries this might be it—this might be where you expose him and start the lecture. He reaches up, scratching the back of his neck nervously, but when he glances down, he sees his shirt riding up. He quickly drops his arm, tugging the fabric back over the front of his jeans.

“Yeah. Was pretty harsh.”

“It wasn’t too uncomfortable to have me on your lap, was it?”

God, yes. It was the worst. And the best. The best, worst experience he’s ever had. He’s going to fuck his fist to the thought of it later. Then probably feel guilty about that. Then do it some more. He can already tell, the memory of your supple ass is going to keep his mental spank-bank full for months to come.

“Uh…no, no, it was fine.” Eddie wishes there were a wall he could bang his head against right about now. His voice betrays him, jumping an octave on the lie, but you don’t seem to have noticed. “What about you? Was it okay?”

He waits for your answer with bated breath as you pick up a woven basket, handing him one as well. “Oh, it was fine,” you shrug. “Although, you should probably take out whatever’s in your pockets for the car ride home. It was a little uncomfortable at times.”

Fuck.

A/N: Like, comment, and reblog to help a writer out! Also, I cherish y'all's reactions so please feed me. Also, Jonathan can't say shit about Eddie being a perv lmao.

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#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things

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reysdriver · 5 days ago

Text

THE TROUBLE WITH YOU

based on this goofy idea! Mattheo has a tendency to create trouble whether he wants it or not which doesn’t bother him until he accidentally drags his temperamental girlfriend in. warn: fem!reader, bit of swearing + wc 3.7k

Mattheo had a talent for attracting trouble, or more, it had a way of finding him. A frequent problem that followed him all his life like a shadow, clinging to his soul, unable to escape the labels that tainted him; troublemaker, scoundrel, hellion or a vermin pest, he only seemed to add to problems when he was around.

It sniffed him out like a dog detecting a buried bone. It didn't seem to matter what he did, for it always caught up in the end, the blame easily latching onto him.

Mattheo, by nature, thrived off adrenaline and the rush of rebellious acts, and so he didn’t take offense to it, learning to embrace it as just a part of him. He started wearing the title of Slytherins delinquent, hot-tempered bad boy as a badge of pride, an honorary medal that earned him a fearsome rep amongst the halls of Hogwarts.

He made himself comfortable around a similar pack of friends that only aided in fueling his need for mischief by scheming in all sorts of shenanigans, usually in targeting Peeves.

Detentions were an easy breeze, having done every form of punishment under the sun. Depending on the nature of his “crime” he’d done all from writing lines, a total snooze fest, to cleaning out bedpans in the infirmary with the absence of magic making him nearly have to clean his own vomit to missing out on trips to Hogsmede which he didn’t care for too much enjoying the extra solitude.

He took each penalty like a walk in the park, each lesson he was supposed to learn going in one ear and out the other, never cowering from disappointed looks he received or scoldings. That is until he met you.

It didn’t take Mattheo long to realize you and trouble weren’t exactly acquainted. You weren’t even on a first name basis, which left him completely dumbfounded because he’d never met someone who matched his temper level, even topping over on the scale past him, who hadn’t ended up in trouble.

People with attitudes and uncontrollable tempers don’t bypass discipline. They’re like magnets, the first kid to be provoked for a reaction from the class. He knew all too well the inner turmoil of trying to control himself from snapping, before the rage would just take over and he’s being dragged away back to the cell of detention.

You grabbed his attention instantly, completely intriguing him, a mystery that made him excited to unravel, but he knew you had your doubts, hesitations that originally held you back from agreeing to that first date.

You weren’t wrong to keep your distance. Mattheo, of course, wasn’t oblivious to his difficult personality, disorder and predictions that clung to him like a deathly plague, as if being tied to the Riddle name wasn’t bad enough. Cursed, he liked to think. He recalls how you had shot him down, the way your eyes had rolled so ethereally with an amused smile and the simple but clear words; you’re pretty to look at, but your trouble.

But with Mattheo’s stubborn nature, your comment hadn’t affected his efforts, only pushing him harder, making him resilient for he was far too smitten and prideful to shove his ever-growing crush back down and well you hadn’t completely rejected him after all.

Naturally you came around, and he remembers watching how you smiled, eyes softening, illuminating with bright gleams of sunshine, and he swore his whole body exploded as if someone had set off fireworks inside his stomach. His face stretched, his lips widening to impossible limitations, his heart taking on the beat of a fast-paced drum solo, and he knew he wouldn’t let his doomed and darkened life impede him from your inviting warmth.

For two powerful forces of intense energy, the two of you didn’t butt heads nearly as often as one would suspect a couple of hotheads would do. Because finally, one lesson had knocked some sense into Mattheo, that making you mad was something he wished on avoiding at all costs.

A pissed girlfriend was not a task many boyfriends wanted to achieve, but for Mattheo, it tangoed between life and death. Already needing shades just to roam the levels of hotness you radiated from head to toe. One wrong comment and he could be obliterated with a single glare consumed by a thousand suns.

His first encounter he had handled oh-to-naively, enchanted by your sweet way, often made him forget about your temper. For how could someone so lovely and precious even produce the levels of anger you conjured upon him. As if the god of Ares himself had possessed you, and for once he felt ready to run as if he had a tail dragging between his legs. Since then, he promised to do all he could to exclude you from trouble, and keep you happy, very happy.

Unfortunately, trouble had a way of finding him even before he could spot it. It all had happened so fast, what had started as a fun little challenge; Enzo pestering him like usual with an opportunity too good to resist. An easy target of Longbottom's drooping mouth, a boring ol lesson stuck with skittish Porlucks and a few slimy slugs as ammunition, the perfect recipe for a harmless prank.

He wasn’t sitting with you, not unusual, for you often stayed with your friends during lessons, wanting to actually learn something. He’s not sure what you’re able to understand with old rambles Grubbly-Plank practically spitting the information at you. He preferred to keep his distance, but he didn't mind. He enjoys observing you from afar, taking the time to study and admire the treasure that is his.

To watch the cute little crease crinkle between your brows as you lean closer squinting, the obvious reasoning Mattheo had continued to point out that you definitely needed glasses. To the way your eyes brighten with awe and fascination, examining the small creature nervously trotting around before you.

You loved to learn, wanting to absorb as much knowledge, commonly spending hours in the library till Mattheo would wake you snickering at the ink stained on your face. Your commitment to academia had always left him anxious about his life and personality. He never wanted to dim your spark by spreading his problems onto the weight of you. It's why he tried to keep his antics to his friends, promising you he’d keep you out of the playing field.

He studied your eyes again. They were certainly a feature he could lose himself in for hours, a true piece of art. Except for now, when he had to watch the not intended for-you-slug land right on the pretty apple of your cheek, the way it slid slowly dragging a disgusting trail of goo. Fuck. FUCK. His eyes widened with pure shock, flicking his gaze back between you and his now empty-handed slingshot. That wasn’t supposed to happen. How could that have happened?

Another loud sneeze rings out beside him and firm fingers dig into his shoulder as Blaise clings to stabilise himself. “Argh!” Blaise’s grip tightens, practically leaning his full weight onto Mattheo, as he exhales what might just be a full on exorcism. “Fuck I hate spring.” Blaise grumbles, wiping under his nose, scrunching it as the specs of hay left out for the Porlucks continue to leave an irritated itch.

Mattheo can hardly contain his temper, realizing that Blaise had startled him with his bloody allergies and in doing so made him lose his balance and his target. There's a collective shriek of screams when the slug comes whizzing back, narrowly missing him, before it smashes flat into a tree. He dodges, ducking his head, his hands flinging up reflexively, whipping his head over to catch the smug grin you’re shooting his way.

His brows raise with amusement, happy to see you’re finding the humour of the situation, though his attention is quickly grabbed as the anxious Porluck’s neigh disturbed. Startled by the screams, they turn aggressive towards the class, already uncertain around humans.

The entire class explodes into stressed energy, trying to save themselves from the new threat of an ankle bite, submerging back to the stair banks as Grubbly-Plank attempts to calm the creatures.

He almost wants to laugh at the scene, join in with his buddies who are pissing themselves beside him at the chaotic commotion unfolding, soak in the joy of the period ending early at the call of Grubbly-Plank's aggressive dismissal.

Smile with smug satisfaction at the fact he’s evaded any penalty from his immature antics, till he hears her mention your name, serving the detention to you instead of him. Desecration of a creature, Merlin, what a fucking joke. He snickers at the idea, hardly agreeing a slug's life is worth crying about, but clamps his mouth shut, catching the loathing glare you shoot him.

Eyes narrowed into two thin slits of pure anger and he gulps, offering a sheepish smile, knowing he’s fucked up. He watches your expression for a further reaction, for you to blow your top at him and explode into your usual fiery rage, but it never comes.

Instead, he’s left staring at the back of your head, your hair flicking like a crack of a whip before your storming off up the stairs, the force of your steps strong enough he’s just waiting for the earth to split and swallow him up.

Enzo, who's trying not to laugh, comments, “She seemed to take that quite well, don’t you think?”

Mattheo’s face stiffens, shooting a grave side eye at his mate snapping, “Shut the fuck up.”

“What? Come on mate, I didn’t know all that was gonna happen!” Enzo defends himself, finally spluttering out a laugh.

The others follow behind the rest of the class. They chatter between themselves, finding amusement in the drama that just took place and how they look forward to the lash out waiting for him. He grumbles childishly, ambling in thought behind them, his stubbornness fighting with himself whether to follow you, conjuring up any and every single way he can apologise for getting you in trouble.

He hates apologising, he’s. He's never been good at it. Opening up vulnerably to someone, having to swallow his pride and admit to a fault, he’d much rather get torched by a dragon than face that kind of confrontation.

Not to mention it's your rage he’d be coming face to face with. His stomach churns, the strings of his fear tightening, and he considers giving you all the bloody space you could ever need. But he knows that would only make things worse, leaving it to fester and create a deadly divide between you two.

When the group reaches the top of the castle grounds, he splits from them, ignoring their not-so-helpful yells of encouragement. His eyes scan the area for your distinct features, wiping his hands on his trousers, reaching into his back pocket to fish out his lighter and cigarettes. He lights one, inhaling deeply the rich hit of nicotine, shaking his hair to try to at least appear aloof as he finally spots you. She loves me. She loves me. She loves me.

His thoughts do little to calm him, his legs hesitantly taking shorter steps to prolong closing the gap between the two of you. It’s then he overhears your friends gossiping about him, with judging whispers;

“how do you put up with him?” “yeah. like he’s so immature.” “If he was my boyfriend, I wouldn’t stand for that level of embarrassment.”

He feels the usual spark of irritation creeping up. He’s never liked your friends constantly nagging to you about it. The way they stick their snooty little noses into his business, your business, if only you’d let him, he’d give them a piece of his mind.

Their words irk him, digging into his insecurities as his steps slow before he ducks behind a column. He takes a long inhale to soothe his shaky heart, each beat rattling in his ribcage as the ringing of sudden doubt and anticipation grows louder.

His ears stay tuned, listening for your response, his eyes sharpened on your body language and how you stop walking. He can’t recall you ever claiming to be embarrassed or ashamed of him, despite all the chaos and destruction that swells around him, like dust kicking up in a storm. Always turning the cheek whenever trouble ventured into the conversation, he knew your view on the subject wasn’t always in agreement, but you never scolded him.

It's something that's always made his heart swell with pride, glowing a little warmer with happiness and love, tucked in the safety of your accepting nature. Though his promise to keep you excluded had stayed true till today, he suddenly begins questioning his whole relationship and the foundation of your trust.

Feeling as if he had taken you for granted your acceptance and love, and the undeserving pill starts bubbling back up. He takes another inhale of his cigarette, needing to calm himself and wait to see your response before he spirals into a black hole of anxiety.

Your brows arch offended, stopping mid walk. “Excuse me?” Your tone is anything but polite, as they slice through the air, making the rest of your friends pause their chatter gazing at you.

“What? Just stating the obvious, babe.”

Mattheo peeks his head further around to catch the awaiting fury from earlier seep out, steam evaporating off your body.

“Did I fucking ask for an opinion?”

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, overcome with pure pride and delight at you having his back. His cheeks burn from the wide smile that's brimming his face, unable to take his eyes off you, feeling the need to just walk over and kiss the shit out of you. If he wasn’t still scared of the anger radiating off you, he would, but he leans back instead, not eager to be spotted spying.

“Why don’t you keep that piggy nose out of the muck you're trying to create and close your fucking trap? Nothing useful is coming out of a dirty trout like that.”

The insult leaves your mouth with little remorse, not appreciating your friends trying to trash talk Mattheo. He may have his moments you don’t exactly approve of, but at the heart of him, he’s a misunderstood boy just trying to have fun, and you have no intentions of being the one to dampen his cheeky spirit.

He lets out a laugh, coughing on the smoke, unable to contain his amusement at your feisty defence at shutting down their remarks. Your head turns, catching the peak of unruly brown curls behind the stone and you excuse yourself, done with the conversation anyway.

His eyes meet yours and he pulls back at the speed of light, banging his fist against his chest to ease his coughing fit. He opts for a charming, relaxed smile when you appear around the column, scratching the back of his neck to appear natural. “Baby! hey just wondering where you wandered off to.”

His eyes roam the agitated and dry look you're throwing back at him, arms tightly crossed, pushing your chest upwards, which only makes it harder for him to behave. For despite the terror, you hold over him, you look way too tempting when you're pissed.

It's a dangerous combination, wanting to ravish you while you look ready to cut his head off. He stubs his cigarette out on the stone before dropping it and reaching out to embrace you, hands sliding around your stiff waist.

Your expression only deepens to one of repugnant as if you couldn’t stand his touch and it pangs at his heart a little. He doesn’t show it and leans in to kiss your cheek, trying to suck up to the obvious sign that you're still mad at him. “Did I tell you how pretty you look today?” Another delicate kiss closer to your ear before his back slams against the wall and he groans, shooting you an unappreciated glance. “Got it. Not in the mood for flattery, huh?”

Your eyes narrow at his resort to sarcasm. “Why are you spying on me?”

He places a hand on top of yours flat against his chest, his thumb caressing your skin and suddenly he lights up, smiling. “What? You mean…overhearing you defend me?” His smile curves, unable to contain his smug pride. He knows he's dancing with the devil, but if you're talking to him, that's one step closer to forgiveness and Mattheo’s all about taking bold moves.

“Don’t get all cocky. That doesn’t mean you're off the hook.” You start, sliding your hand up to tangle into his hair, holding onto him with a tight grip that has him eliciting a small grunt. “You got me fucking detention, Mattheo. I swear to Merlin I'm beyond pissed. That's the one thing I asked- to keep me out of your bloody trouble, but no! You're like-.”

You halt the nearing destructive rant, noting his eyes, the vulnerable look he’s expressing back to you. Spotting the remorse, his brown eyes lidded with a softness that makes him look like a wounded puppy. His curls slip loosening in your hold as you relax your hand, taking a deep breath counting to ten in your head, to contain yourself from saying something you’d regret.

“I should really slap you.” You mutter with little hate, exhaling a huff, leaning your forehead to his. His presence, warm and inviting, brings comfort and you close your eyes, instinctively massaging his scalp lovingly.

A small habit between the two of you, allowing your focus to shift to the way his curls feel between your fingers. Soft and thick, you coil a finger repeatedly around a strand as he hums, appreciating the calming and wholesome moment.

His hand rubs gentle caresses on your hip, his lips pressing another light kiss to your forehead. He releases a deep sigh, relishing in the sweet hold you have him in. Like a mother scolding their favourite child, he relaxes into your touch. He chuckles, “You could if it makes you feel better.”

Lifting your eyes to give him an incredulous look, before you roll them playfully, glad he’s lightened the mood. “Don’t be ridiculous.” A smile slips past your lips in amusement, always stubbornly fighting how easily he breaks your tough barrier. “You’d probably like it knowing you.”

He reaches down, cupping your cheeks as the last remaining anger melts, flashing you a cheeky grin, “Mm, only if it's you causing the pain. I'd gladly be your sexual punching box.”

His lips are on yours in an instant, passionate, apologetic and full of love. He adores kissing you, the softness and curve of them sliding with him so perfectly. He enjoys moulding your burning energy to a sweet, almost pliant demeanour as he devours you.

His tongue flicks, pushing greedily for entrance and he protests when you don’t grant it instantly, clearly playing hard to get. He groans, wrapping his arms around you fully, suffocating you in his need and desire, his hands tangling into your hair. Tugging for a redo and grinning wickedly at the delightful gasp you utter, his tongue sliding dominantly inwards to clash with yours.

Only to groan as you bite it and he pulls back. “Fuck! Woman.”

You grin with gratification, “Told you not to get cocky, baby.”

He rolls his eyes with feigned irritation. “Leave the decapitating to the slug, ye-ow!” He groans again as you whack the side of his head before he laughs. “Okay! Okay, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” He drags out the word dramatically before he cups your cheeks again. He licks his lips, gazing more sincerely at you. “I am sorry, though. I wasn’t even aiming for you. Truly!"

You snort, rolling your eyes playfully at his defensiveness. “Uh huh, sure it's not throw-a-slug at your girl's day?”

“Ha ha, no. You know I'd never throw a slug purposefully at you.” He grins, finding pure amusement in the conversation. “I'd throw a bucket of water to cool your crazy ass down-okay! I get it ow stop whacking me.” He laughs, loving your angry reactions. “Save it for the bedroom, baby.”

Another eye roll slips out naturally. “You’re such a menace.” The words are sweet like a compliment, and a glimmer of a smile slips out. “Yet, somehow, I still love you.”

Mattheo’s eyes brighten, spotting the tension easing between the two of you, his heart flushing at your words, strengthening the security between the two of you. “A fuckin miracle is what it is.” He jokes as he pulls you to his side, planting a loving kiss on your head. “I love you too, sweetheart, though not sure how I ended up with a girl who can give me a heart attack by being sweet and deadly.” He teases before rubbing your side tenderly, “but I feel damn lucky to be loved by you.”

He walks, guiding the two of you around the column further down the vacant corridor. He sighs troubledly, his fingers drumming on your skin, anxiously preparing his next words. “I know I can be a bit much sometimes, cause nothing but trouble-"

You cut him off quickly. “You're not.” His eyes flicker down upon your face, instantly listening in, his ears tuned in like a dog. He doesn’t exactly want to spill off into a massive vent about how he’s a wreck, a mess of a man who can’t help that trouble follows him.

That he loves you with every fibre of his body, every vein pumping blood to his thriving heart that seems to beat faster just at the thought of you. How his soul feels completely entangled with yours and how he’d rather deal with a thousand howlers from you than be with anyone else.

“Yeah, so what? You're a bit of trouble. But you’re more than that, Mattheo..” There’s a pause as you look up to him, finding that there’s never a real reason to get mad at him. For if someone can accept the uncontrollable temper that pumps through your veins that you must be the luckiest girl.

You don’t care what anyone thinks, whether he’ll care about the titles that have followed him his whole life. They don’t own him, and he continues to push past the boundaries of a meaningless label. With eyes shining brightly, you smile lovingly, expressing affection for the man who makes trouble look too damn good. “Besides, it's starting to grow on me.”

ty to my bestie @acourtofchaos for reading and letting me nag her <3 and tagging the pookies who encouraged me to write it: @thatdammchickennugget @papercorgiworld @weirdowithnobeardo dividers from here! ty for reading lovelies!!!!

navigation. masterlist. mattheo masterlist. ©️pizzaapeteer 2025

#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle x reader

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reysdriver · 17 days ago

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the way this is still one of the funniest things I've ever said

I cannot stop sneezing omfg

If I was one of the seven dwarves, I'd be grumpy cus I'm so mad about how much I'm sneezing tf

#xena's rambles #random #nonsense

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reysdriver · 27 days ago

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Dear Elle, I think you write humour and romance together so well! So, I have a request for you: Remus x female reader pairing. Idiots in love. Sirius wants to celebrate his birthday at a comedy club with his best friends, and he makes sure Reader and Remus are seated at the front and center table - because he knows the comedian is famous for his crowd work. And the night goes exactly like he planned: the comedian is reading them to filth all night, teasing them relentlessly until they are forced to admit their feelings for each other - and then FINALLY, FINALLY act on said feelings after the show. Thank you so much, you are amazing. ♥️🐺♥️

hahaha I think you might have a bit too much faith in me, but I decided to give it a go! don't worry though, I will not be quitting my day job to take up stand up comedy 🫡 thanks for your request - I hope I didn't completely botch it! [also switched it to James' bday since it's coming up soon <3]

Remus Lupin x fem!reader who get read to filth at a comedy show [1.4k words]

CW: jokes and references to sex, talking about dick size, Remus and reader are horribly uncomfortable but much better sports about it than I would have been, conniving friends

Remus is going to kill his best friends.

“So, what’s your situation?” The comedian asks as he points between you and Remus, pacing before the two of you on stage not unlike one of those fiersome lionesses on an African savannah watching her prey cower in the grass.

Remus hadn’t thought all that much about James wanting to go to a stand-up comedy show to celebrate his birthday, but he should have recognized the red flag that was Sirius insisting on a table right in front of the stage and that you and Remus sit up front and beside each other.

“We’re friends.” You reply, bashfulness colouring your tone that has Remus’ elbow making contact with your own in silent support even though his own cheeks are burning something fierce.

“Oh nice, nice.” The comedian says, grimacing out at the crowd as if saying are you hearing this? “Do you want to be just friends?”

What Remus wants is to melt into the floor, but there’s a protective ire that blooms in his chest at the thought of leaving you to the wolves all alone. “I love being her friend.”

“Awe, that’s sweet.” The comedian continues, making himself appear busy adjusting the mic stand. “So you don’t want to fuck her?”

The crowd roars. Remus’ stomach threatens to migrate to his throat.

“I’m only asking!” The comedian laughs, holding his hands up in faux surrender. “She’s quite fit, no? Wait, sorry, okay. Are you into birds? I should have started with that. You like birds?”

“Sure. Yeah.”

“Sure, yeah he says.” He translates for the wider audience. “So you are into birds, but not this one?”

Remus shifts in his seat, not missing the snickering coming from a soon-to-be-terminal Sirius, James, and Peter.

“She’s a lovely girl.”

“But not lovely enough to fuck?”

“I didn’t say that.” Remus counters, hardly able to hear the resulting laughter from the pounding in his ears.

“What about you, doll? You into blokes?” The comedian moves onto you, and Remus finds himself stuck in a ceaseless cycle of being grateful that the attention is off of him, horrified that the attention is on you, jealous that you have someone else's attention, and jealous that your attention is directed elsewhere.

Fuck, he’s pathetic.

“I am.”

“You into this bloke?”

“I-”

“Why are you so red, mate?” The comedian laughs, interrupting you to poke more fun at Remus. He pinches his lips between his teeth and shakes his head, looking up at the exposed pipes of the pub hoping for either the patience of a saint or to be struck by lightning, either would suffice.

“Christ the two of you are hopeless. Did you come together?”

“They’re part of a group!” James hollers; the rest of your (traitorous) friends waving their hands in response.

“Thank god, maybe you lot can explain to me what the fuck this is all about here?”

“They’ve been dancing around each other forever.” Sirius explains, hardly flinching when Remus lands a kick directly to his shin under the table.

“Don’t look at him like that.” The comedian chides Remus excitedly. “You’re the one who had the audacity to show up to a comedy show with an absolute ten and have done nothing about it.”

“This was his idea!” Remus tries to defend himself, but the comedian doesn’t buy it.

“Sorry mate; maybe if the two of you weren’t so hopeless, they wouldn’t have had to resort to such drastic measures, yeah?” He pauses for some laughs. “Change starts from within.”

“Preferably within her.” Peter jokes, earning him a round of laughter from the crowd that quickly has the comedian levelling him with a glare.

“Oi! Shut the fuck up, yeah?” He barks. “Who’s the one with the mic? Taking the piss is my job tonight.”

It garners more laughter – finding Peter almost as red as Remus is – though the comedian’s serious facade falls as he winks at Peter good naturedly.

“So, tell me, friends, why has nothing happened here yet?” He asks the group, pointing at you and Remus though he now seems wholly uninterested in what either of you might have to say on the matter.

“He’s shy.” James coos patronisingly, slapping Remus on the shoulder as he does.

“Oh he’s shy.” The comedian scoffs with a theatrical eye roll. “Please. Oh, poor me; I’m seven feet tall and have lovely hair and eyes and a massive cock.”

Remus throws his face into his hands and fights against the urge to cross his legs lest anyone start trying to decipher the size of his cock through his trousers.

“See! Look at the size of those hands! Fuck me, mate.” The comedian laughs. “You know what they say about big hands, hey doll?”

The question is clearly directed at you; Remus can’t even bring himself to remove his hands from his face to see how you might respond.

“That’s right. Massive hands means massive imposter syndrome. Apparently.”

Remus sinks lower in his chair and crosses his arm, pretending he isn’t watching you in his periphery.

“Can you all imagine being seven feet tall, fit, and clearly clever enough to make as pretty a friend as this, and then not feel confident enough to go for it?”

The laughter from the crowd seems to be answer enough for the man with the mic.

“Christ, if he doesn’t have a chance, what hope do the rest of us have?” He asks no one in particular before he pauses in front of you again.

“What about you? What’s your problem, hm? Why’ve you not climbed him like a tree yet?”

You simply laugh, and Remus can only imagine how hot your cheeks must feel as you wring your hands together in your lap. The sight has Remus smiling to himself.

“No, no, you know what? You guys are right, the elephant really ties the rest of the room together.” He jokes at your lack of response. “Come on! Don’t tell me you’re shy too!”

Your silence on the matter has him throwing his head back in exasperation; the crowd hollers behind you.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell. This is awful; alright gorgeous look here – look me in the eyes. I’m gonna ask you a question, and I need you to answer me, okay?” He states solemnly, bending at the knee to level with you like one might with a fussy toddler who has decided the world has ended because they dropped their lolly. “Would you, or would you not, like to go to pound town with Mr. Massive Cock here?”

A slightly hysterical and nervous laugh bubbles out of you but you nod your head yes, and Remus wonders if it’s possible for his blush to have travelled from his ears, to his cheeks, to his chest, and right down to his arse.

“Great! Oh my god, we’re getting somewhere folks. Alright, you.” He moves onto Remus, shifting over a few steps so he’s crouched in front of him in much the same way. “Would you, or would you not, like to horizontal tango with the hottie with a body?”

Remus makes a show of reluctantly admitting that yes, he would, hoping that it isn’t terribly obvious that he is completely and utterly in love with you as well.

“Brilliant!” The comedian cheers, garnering cheers from the other audience members. “Finally! Now was that so hard?”

Remus loses track of what (or who) the comedian moves onto when he feels your ankle meet his; your leg bouncing nervously under the table as you refuse to make eye contact with him.

Though Remus’ stomach is still in his throat, he braves himself to place his hand on your knee – cautious at first when the shaking halts, not knowing if it’s due to you falling tense or relaxing – and smiling when your hand gently settles on top of his.

Remus steals a glance across the table at a rather smug looking Sirius, James, and Peter.

Remus is going to kill his best friends.

Right after he thanks them for the pretty girl’s hand he’s currently holding underneath the table of a comedy club.

#marauders era #remus lupin #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin fluff

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reysdriver · 28 days ago

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yes and??

#the beatles #harris dickinson #paul mescal #barry keoghan #joseph quinn

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reysdriver · 1 month ago

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THE BEATLES ARE COMING AGHHHH

#harris dickinson #paul mescal #barry keoghan #joseph quinn #the beatles

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reysdriver · 1 month ago

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It's extremely obvious that there's a massive Zionist on the Jeopardy writing team and it's pissing me off

#xena's rambles #jeopardy #free palestine

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reysdriver · 1 month ago

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it’s insane for icallhimjoey to cry ‘invasion of privacy’ on one hand, but happily post photos of the invasion of privacy because she thinks joe looks hot in the gym.

which is it? a gross invasion or privacy or a source of photos for the man you fancy? you can’t have it both ways:

girl why drag me into this?? if your problem is with icallhimjoey then go talk to her!! tf??

#xena's asks #joseph quinn

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reysdriver · 1 month ago

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yall...joseph got stalked again

I mean, Joseph and I are in the same boat fr 🤷‍♀️

but seriously, like this is what we're talking about when we say so many of his "fans" are toxic and honestly just bad people

#xena's asks #joseph quinn

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reysdriver · 1 month ago

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TUMBLR NO ONE WANTS A TIKTOK FEATURE ON HERE!!!

#tumblr nonsense #tumblr update #like seriously

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reysdriver · 1 month ago

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⋆⁺₊❅ meet the parents

single dad Eddie Munson x single mom Reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Summary: For my fourth and final fic of @littlexdeaths The Twelve Days of Promptmas, I bring you a romcom-worthy meet cute! A one-night stand in a small town is always a dangerous game.

Content: Eddie and Reader are both single parents. Modern AU. P in V and oral sex. Too many feelings for a one-night stand. Reader’s shitty ex mention. Small town dynamics. Light on Christmas, heavy on Eddie being a sexy menace. If you see any typos/messy sentences lmk!!

Just an extra little note to say the biggest THANK YOU to @littlexdeaths for putting together these wonderful Promptmas ideas, and for just being completely lovely and amazing too. I have had such a fun few weeks working on writing again, it’s been a crazy few months for me personally so this has been the best way to get back into writing and feeling creative again!! I’ve loved every minute ❤️

✨bang average festive fics✨ Eddie Munson fics ✨Dividers by @strangergraphics✨

It has been quite a few years since you woke up in a stranger’s bed.

More used to the morning time routine of trying to get a sleepy six-year-old up and ready for the day, or the heartwarming feeling of said six-year-old making her way into your bed to cuddle on sleepy Sundays, you feel a little out of your depth this morning.

And some degree of hungover.

But it could be worse, you supposed. The stranger’s bed was comfy and he had plenty of pillows for you to sleep on. His sheets were clean and he had not totally smothered you like a limpet all night, nor had he expected you to get up and leave while you were still catching your breath. He was a fairer bedmate than your daughter, and it was pleasant to wake up with the warm weight of his inked arm around you rather than a kid’s-size-twelve foot digging into your ribs, or her hair in your mouth.

You sink into the comfort of it all, relishing that long-forgotten post-great-sex ache all over and the feeling of waking after a deep and dreamless sleep. You had not been this well-rested in almost seven years.

Next to you, he is asleep on his stomach with his arm across your middle. The room is dusky dark, but you can still make out the tattoos along his pale bare body and the glint of his nose ring, the spill of long dark hair piled up on his head. He is much softer now than when you met in the bar last night, no coy smirk or wolfish grin, no deep dimples on his cheeks. His whiskey eyes are still shut, and you feel warm all over when you remember how he had looked at you like you were the only woman in the bar, in the world, last night. How he had taken you home and taken you apart right here in his navy sheets.

Carefully, trying not to wake the man next to you, you ease yourself up to check your phone. It’s far too early to worry about picking Hazel up yet.

Not for the first time, you say a silent thanks to the universe for your neighbour for agreeing to babysit Hazel so that you could have a well-deserved Christmas night out with the friends you had made at work. You will bring her a nice hand-tied bouquet from the shop next week, just because. Without Claudia and her kindness to lean on, you know that going it alone in this small new town would so be much harder. It had been serendipitous really, moving in next door to an older and wiser woman who had been in the very same position as you when her son was not much older than Hazel. You begin piecing together the perfect bouquet for her, eucalyptus and rose and red ribbon, distracting yourself briefly from the dull ache in your head and the dry feeling on your tongue.

He brought you a glass of water before you fell asleep together. It’s cool in your throat, though it barely touches the sides of the discomfort pressing behind your brows. When the glass is mostly empty, you settle back next to him and let yourself doze for a little longer.

Eddie instinctively pulls you closer in his sleep, his warm morning breath tickling your shoulder and neck. You know it is just temporary, he is still a stranger, but let yourself enjoy the fleeting comfort while it lasts.

“Morning.”

His voice is rough and smoky, and there’s a tired smile waiting for you when you open your eyes a while later. You are struck by how pretty he is, handsome and hot but pretty with it; long dark lashes and doe-eyes, cheekbones to die for.

“Hi,” you whisper back. You feel yourself smiling back at him, feeling dreamy and oh-so-comfortable. You stretch your body out, relishing the rush of blood and oxygen to your muscles and your eyes drop closed again at that so-good feeling.

“Sleeping Beauty.”

When Eddie kisses your hair, you miss how he closes his eyes and savours the moment; you are too busy basking in the unexpected tenderness of this one-night stand, the easiness of waking up slow with a man you met less than twelve hours ago. Even if it is just for this morning, you soak it up.

“Mhmm. You have a comfy bed,” you whisper, looking up at him again.

You brush your fingertips along his silver chain before tracing up to his jaw, past the tendrils of hair escaping his scrunchie. You know the feeling of that dark grown-out and nicely-maintained stubble, how it brushed and burned so good on the inside of your thighs, how it feels against your lips.

Tentatively, bravely, you press your mouth against his and feel his smile. It’s sweet, slow. Intimate and lovely.

“Yeah? M’glad you think so,” he murmurs and steals one more kiss before pulling you against his body.

Last night as you basked in the afterglow, Eddie asked so quietly if he could hold you and you almost teared up about it. It had been a long time since anyone had held you like that, like he is holding you again this morning. It has been a long time since anyone has been sweet to you, shared closeness and intimacy like this. Not since the man you loved upped and left, leaving you and one-year-old Hazel with only each other to love.

You feel the strength of his arms and the softness of his belly. There’s a stirring, hardening interest against your thigh and yet he’s not being too forward or pushy. He’s just holding you, just ‘coz.

“I don’t… S’a while since I had a sleepover,” he admits, running his blunt nails over the small of your back. “You didn’t hog the covers, and you didn’t sneak off without saying bye…”

Eddie pulls back a little, wearing that small flirty smile that made you swoon last night. His voice is so playful, even though it is deep with morning huskiness.

“Still here,” you whisper back, “I… It’s been a while for me too. I don’t usually… Yeah.” You shrug, you know he gets it.

There is a glint of something in his eyes before he looks up at the ceiling. “I’m glad we did. I had fun.”

The dimple in his cheek is beautiful and bashful, and when he looks at you again his eyes go right to your lips.

“Me too.” You touch his chain again and tug gently to bring your lips together again, putting you both out of your misery.

No one has ever kissed you like Eddie did last night, with all-consuming lust that made you feel electric. He is a blend of rough and smooth, a firm guiding hand followed by a gentle caress. You have never felt so wanted, so craved.

The way he kisses you this morning pushes aside the thoughts of all you need to do today. All you know is want, the cloying feeling of wanting to touch and be touched, craving pleasure. With his hands to guide, you straddle his lap and lean into the feeling of his fingertips wandering past the hem of the t-shirt he loaned you last night.

Eddie looks up at you like you’re some sort of deity, his eyes and lips shining as you peel off the t-shirt and throw it behind you, leaving yourself bare in his lap. He was not put off by the stretch marks, or the Mom Body you felt so self-conscious about sometimes. Nor was he put off by the fact that you are a Mom. Eddie had simply smiled when you briefly mentioned your daughter, told you he had his own little girl without giving too much away. With that fresh layer of yourselves on show, you could understand each other just a little bit more without going full gushing-parent mode, sharing pictures of your little angels or ranting about who loved Bluey and loathed Peppa more.

His fingers run over the stretch marks on your hips, starting up a slow grind as he kisses your neck (remembering your ‘no marks’ rule). There is a slight chill in the air to remind you that beyond this liminal bliss, it is a frosty December morning, but Eddie warms you up and distracts you without second thought.

In the gauzy light, you see touches of fatherhood around his room, easily missed in the passion of last night - a framed drawing on his bedside table, a kiddie hair clip in his ring dish. You smile to yourself and shiver when his warm breath skates over the damp trail of kisses.

“Pretty smile,” he murmurs, needing to taste and feel it again.

Hands wander and squeeze and you get drunk on each other all over again in the cocoon of Eddie’s bed. You blindly follow his dark treasure trail before taking him in hand, hot and diamond-hard, and savour the taste and sound of his moan. Your aching need for him is tempered and satiated by his fingers and you flush hot all over when he encourages you to scoot up and let him taste you, almost begging for it. Dazed with want, you find yourself clinging to the headboard with white knuckles and his name spilling from your lips.

Eddie could die a happy man with your thighs bracketing his head. The taste of you makes him feel drunk as you take your pleasure from him; the needy roll of your hips is encouraged by his greedy hands in contrast to how cautious and careful you had been not to trap and tug his hair beneath your knees.

When you are sufficiently dumb with pleasure, he lays you back against the pillows and lays out his desire for you in between messy kisses, losing his train of thought when you get your hand back on him and whisper back your need for him to fuck you now. Eddie reaches blindly for the (blessedly still-in-date) box of foil-wrapped packets in his drawer, not wanting to look away from you for even a moment.

He holds your hand as he makes love to you and you have to remind yourself not to get too caught up in how sweet Eddie is, even when he his making you feel like you have never been so full; sweetness and filthy words wound together so sweetly. It’s overwhelming and he catches you fighting tears when you feel too good.

“Hey,” he whispers, wearing too much worry between his brows. “Do you want to stop, sweetheart? Am I hurting you?”

A guy being decent should not make your heart swell like this, and yet it does. You shake your head, tears spill over and he brushes them away with care.

“No, no. You’re not hurting me,” you promise. “I feel really good. S’just a lot.”

Your voice wobbles and he smiles fondly against your mouth, relieved and happy to be wanted in return.

Eddie has this magnetism, warm and cloying and a little mysterious; it makes you feel comfortable even when he’s teasing you and making you flush hot all over.

“Yeah, baby? That’s what I’m here for,” he whispers, and kisses you slowly, sweetly. “Let me make you feel good.” You feel like your heart could beat out of your chest. He can feel it hammering against him as he starts up a slow roll of his hips that fills you completely.

Your fingers clutch at the sheets as Eddie fucks you into his mattress. Nothing else matters in those moments, only pleasure. You fight the urge to sink your teeth into the meat and muscle of his arm, lick the drip of sweat from his neck. Instead, you taste the way he moans your name and cling to him when you come just moments apart - you first, then him.

He shares his water with you afterwards when he sees your empty glass; you are both damp with sweat and lying side by side with your heartbeats pounding in your ears, the lingering taste of each other on your tongues.

When he kisses you again, his lips are water-cooled and tender.

“Can I make you some coffee? I have to pick up my little terror in a bit…” he says, already cringing at himself. “She’s great, I swear. I promised her diner pancakes for brunch.”

Reality trickles back in, a not-unpleasant cooling off of your morning together.

“Yeah, I should probably not show up in last night’s clothes to pick my kid up. Coffee sounds good.”

There was always an expiry date on this; the boundaries of a one-night stand were set and familiar, despite how long it has been and despite how easy and intimate this morning has been. You’re both adults, both okay with it.

“Cool.” He smiles and hauls himself out of bed, stepping into his lost and found again boxers before he doubles back to kiss your cheek.

When your legs are steady enough he shows you how the shower works, leaving you to it with a new toothbrush, fresh towels and a familiar squeeze to your bare hip. There’s a little part of you that wants him to join you, waste hot water and let him press you against the cold tiles. Eddie wants that too, to delay your inevitable parting of ways and return to reality.

When you look in the mirror, you see a well-fucked woman; kiss-bitten lips and that long-lost post-sex glow.

“What the fuck,” you murmur to yourself, giggling a little when you think over the last twelve hours.

You had not gone out looking for a hookup last night, but you made the most of the festive excuse to go for drinks with the few friends you had made since moving to Hawkins six months ago. Catching Eddie’s eye at the bar had been a happy accident. A happy accident that lead to letting him buy you a drink, and then buying him one back. Your friends had wholeheartedly encouraged it, knew him to see around town and vouched for him as a mechanic. Good with his hands, they had teased. Oh, how right they had been.

The water is hot and Eddie’s shower gel is the typical ‘for men’ scented sort of thing. You feel fresh and clean when you step back into the bedroom, finding sweats and an Iron Maiden hoodie on the bed for you, alongside your clothes from last night (which Eddie has attempted to fold neatly, instead of leaving you to pick them up from the floor).

It should not make you smile so much, but your cheeks ache pleasantly as you dress yourself, opting for last night’s jeans with Eddie’s sweater. It’s washed-soft and smells like the detergent you have at home with a hint of his cologne.

You follow the scent of coffee and the sound of music downstairs, finding more traces of parenthood on your way - a purple fairy door on the baseboard, a washing basket full of clean kids' clothes outside a closed bedroom door, light-up Skechers and silver glitter rain boots in the hall. There is something familiar about them, but brush it aside as something Hazel probably asked for in Target.

Eddie’s unbuttoned jeans hang low on his hips as he makes coffee in mismatched mugs, his hair is down tickling against his bare shoulders and back. There are drawings on the fridge and a Christmas tree peeking out from the living room. It feels like a happy home.

His eyes light up when he sees you, looking as hungry and enamoured by you in his hoodie as he had been when you were wearing nothing at all.

“Do you take sugar, or are you sweet enough?” he asks, wearing a softer version of that panty-dropper smile from last night. He smells clean, minty and masculine, after a quick whore’s bath in the other bathroom.

“Just one,” you say, resting your hip against the kitchen island while you watch him fix up your coffee. “You’re smooth, huh?”

“You tell me.” He slides the mug across to you before blowing on his coffee, taking a still-too-hot sip that he tries and fails to cover. For a moment, you think he might be doing a bit, alas he is simply endearingly clumsy.

You feel bad laughing, but Eddie only pouts a little bit before grinning at you. There’s a faint blush on his cheeks and he ducks his head to hide behind his hair.

“Real smooth.”

Exercising patience, you decide to let your coffee cool a little.

“I’ll give you a ride home if you like?” he says, hoping it’s not too forward.

He wants to be more forward, ask for your number and ask you out. He likes how his clothes fit your body, and how you looked blissed-out in his bed. While Eddie’s trying not to come off too strong, you appreciate his sweetness and fight your own internal battle of trying not to fall for your one-night stand.

“Yeah, that would be great. Thanks, Eddie. I’m over on Cornwallis, is that out of your way?”

He smiles a little, “I don’t mind a little detour, sweetheart.”

You pointedly blow on your coffee, learning from his mistake, and savour the made-just-right coffee in a Snoopy & Woodstock mug.

Over his shoulder, you spot a photo of a familiar man on the fridge, bookended by two heads of dark curly hair. There’s a handpainted fridge magnet with ‘Fae’ written in childishly charming pink writing, and you feel your cheeks flame.

He watches your face change, looks over his shoulder to see what you’re looking at.

“Ah. That’s my Uncle Wayne, and Fae. My daughter. she’s six.” He unpins the picture and thumbs over it gently before turning it around to you.

You know exactly who they are, but take it anyway.

When you moved your life to Hawkins, Indiana six months ago, you would never have believed that you would make friends with a grandfather in his sixties outside of Curtain Call Dance Studio while you waited for Hazel. Making friends as a single Mom in a new town was not easy, you had little time outside of work and parenting for yourself, let alone socialising (and god forbid, dating). And then you parked next to Wayne one Thursday. He was a little quiet but had warmed up more each week; now he smiled when he saw you, asked how your job at the florists was and how Hazel was doing in school.

Even though they were in different First Grade class groups at Hawkins Elementary, Hazel and Fae had become almost inseparable in their dance classes and on the playground.

You knew Fae’s dad worked late some evenings, so Wayne helped him out. Hazel had told you that she had seen Fae’s dad once when he picked her up early to go to the dentist, and that he had hair just like her friend.

“She looks just like me, it’s crazy - poor kid. I can’t believe she’s six. She’s supposed to be three, max. Y’know what I mean?” He says, showing you more of his proud Dad side before realising that your confusion is not because you’re looking at a picture of two clones. “You okay?”

“You’re Fae’s Dad? Fae Munson?” you ask, watching his shoulders tense a little as he nods. “Eddie. Our kids know each other. I’ve met Wayne.”

He scowls slightly beneath his bangs, confused and a little worried that he hooked up with the mother of one of the kids who was mean to Fae in school, who told the teacher when she was ‘too chatty’ or when she stood up for herself.

The words spill from you untempered, unrestrained to clear it all up. “They’re at dance class together. They’re in the same grade. Hazel and Fae are friends, Eddie…”

He visibly softens, drops his shoulders, and even though he still looks confused he melts even more when an involuntary nervous laugh bubbles from your chest.

“Seriously? No… You’re Hazel’s mom?” His eyes blow wide. “Fuck.”

Eddie puts his head on the counter with a thunk, and you’re left with the photo of three smiling Munsons. Fae has her Dad’s eyes and hair, his impish mischief that had endeared you to the little girl. They really are alike.

“Wayne was right,” he says, muffled beneath his hair before peeking at you, “You are cute.”

It makes you laugh more, though your cheeks feel like the surface of the sun.

“Wayne thinks I’m cute? Huh…”

“No. Nope,” he yelps, head flying up like a wild thing. “Oh my goddd.”

You feel a little spacey as the pieces fall into place. Wayne’s nephew Ed worked at Thatcher Tyre as a mechanic, and Fae had told Hazel her Dad looked like a rockstar. She wasn’t wrong…

“He was totally going to try and set us up or somethin’.”

“He did say I’d finally get to meet you at the Winter Performance…” you say, feeling fizzy-all-over as you come to terms with the shock of it all. “Guess we bet him to it.”

“Told me you were real sweet too.” Eddie smiles, his cheeks are pinker than ever.

Part of your brain berates you for hooking up with a stranger in a small town - a small town where everyone knows everyone else. But when Eddie reaches his hand out across the island and says, “Good to finally meet you, Hazel’s Mom,” with that flirty smile and his whiskey eyes, it melts away and you’re not really that sorry at all.

You take his hand, mug-warmed and adorned with silver rings.

“Nice to meet you at last, Fae’s Dad.”

Neither of you is too embarrassed by the revelation, though you both circle back to how fucking crazy it is at least twice. Even though you still feel gooey-warm under his attention, you don’t want anything to get in the way of your daughter’s friendship, of your new start in Hawkins, and feel selfish for wanting more than the taste you have already had of Eddie Munson. You both know your time together is drawing to an end, the bubble is about to burst, and a little part of you wishes that the illusion of being strangers could have lasted a little longer.

With your coffee consumed and your coats and boots on, Eddie takes your hand and pulls you against his body before you step outside of the door together.

“Hey, gorgeous. One more kiss?” he asks, head tilted to the side.

You don’t need to think about it, and take his stubbled jaw with both hands as he holds your hips. Kissing him makes all the tension roll away once more, and you hope it is enough to help him remember you as more than just some other Mom in the First Grade Parents Group Chat (which you both have muted). You have to savour it, remember his taste and touch.

Eddie is not shy about kissing you, he slides his tongue against yours and moans ever so quietly when you push your chest against his. He is also the one to slow it down, makes it sweet and tender and you would dare say romantic, even with his hands on your ass.

“Can I ask for one more thing?” he whispers, nudging his nose against yours.

Right now, you would consider giving him a kidney or a blow job if he asked nicely.

“Mhm,” you whisper, giving nothing away just yet.

“Can I get your number? I wanna take you out properly,” he says, his thumbs play with the belt loop at the back of your jeans. “Like a date.”

Feeling hot all over, you try to play it cool and not nod so eagerly lest you headbutt him and leave him bloody-nosed.

“Yeah. That would be nice, Eddie.”

He watches how your teeth sink into your lip and has to kiss you once more, just because. You take his phone and add your number and name, adding a little sparkle emoji before deleting it. Then you add it again and hand it back before you can change your mind.

“Cool. And, um maybe the girls could have a play date sometime? I was gonna ask for your number anyway, so y’know. Two birds, one stone and all that. Silver linings?” Eddie does a jazz-hand-flourish thing before he shakes his head at himself and tucks his phone away. “I had a good time with you. A great time. And I know what you might be thinking, I don’t want this to get between the girls either. But I’d love to see you again.”

You are even more endeared by these glimpses of how sensible he is as well as his goofy awkwardness beneath the leather jacket and bad boy stare.

He is as gentlemanly as he had been last night, opening doors for you, though he is less handsy in the bright morning light (he does give your knee a squeeze at the stoplight). You feel safe with him as he navigates the frosty roads of Hawkins, talking about music, what concerts you had been to before becoming parents, and where to get the sparkly tutus for the Winter Performance.

All too soon he pulls up outside your house, spotting the red door with the handmade wreath that you had described.

“Next to Henderson’s?” he asks, brow raised.

“Yep. Do you know Claudia, or is this town just too small?”

He laughs, tilts his head against the headrest. “It’s way too small. Her son, Dustin? One of my best friends.”

You tip your head forward, smiling even as your head shakes. “I’ve heard so much about Dustin. We’re having Christmas dinner with them.”

Eddie's dimpled cheeks crease even more. “Damn. Well, I can’t wait to hear why you picked Hawkins of all places to move to. You can tell me on our date.”

Proud of how that flusters you, he presses a kiss to your hand and winks, “I’ll text you later, sweetheart.”

You want to kiss him again, but you manage to restrain yourself, remembering the nosy neighbours on Cornwallis. Instead, you let the flickering fire inside you flirt back, hoping to fluster him too.

You place your hand high on his thigh and squeeze. “You better, Eddie. Drive safe.”

You can feel him checking you out all over again, the weight and warmth of his gaze, as you make your way up the path to your door. Once your key is in the lock, you part ways with a wave and a wink, lingering just a moment more to watch his car peel away from the curb.

Left with a fluttering feeling in your tummy and warm cheeks that ache from smiling, you take a moment for yourself in your hallway.

It is time to go back to being Hazel’s mom. You can’t wait to hear about her sleepover with Ms. Claudia and the cats, bask in her brilliance and take every hug and smooch she will offer you (or let you take for yourself). Inspired by Eddie and Fae’s breakfast date, you think of taking your girl to the diner for dinner later on, maybe watching a Christmas movie before bed.

In the mirror above your sideboard, hanging above the key dish and the thrifted lamp and a photo of you and Hazel in matching sunglasses, you catch sight of your smiling reflection once more, enveloped in a dreamy daze and borrowed hoodie. Your phone buzzes in your pocket and your smile becomes bigger, brighter, brimming with hope.

What did you think? Do we want more of these two? 👀 Thank you so very very much for reading! Your comments, reblogs and likes are incredibly appreciated and adored!

Whether you're celebrating or not, I am wishing you the cosiest and most wonderful holiday season filled with peace and love and every good thing you deserve ✨

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #dad!eddie munson

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