he's a goner
eddie munson x gn!best friend!reader
a/n: this is the first fic i'm ever posting on here i'm so nervous plz don't eat me guys
warnings: pining. yearning. longing, if you will. just eddie being totally whipped. swearing. weed use/vague descriptions of being high. d&d terminology. one line from gareth. no use of y/n or reader's pronouns. eddie's pov.
wc: 571
Eddie’s in way too fucking deep.
Maybe this is salvageable?
No, he’s a goner.
It’s not like this is a scene he hasn’t watched before–his best friend laughing, giggling, and smoking with the rest of the older Hellfire boys–hell, it happens every week. But there’s a certain point where the high starts to hit him just right, and he can’t help himself from staring at you. Despite his typical loudness, the usual brash and joking demeanor that overtakes him, he just sits in his chair, quieter than ever. It’s not unheard of for him to get quiet, so nobody thinks anything of it.
You’re the prettiest person to ever exist, he thinks. He finds himself thinking that a lot. The way one corner of your mouth lifts a little more than the other when you smile, the way your eyes crinkle, the way you sparkle as you giggle; he loves it all. He loves the way you look when you blow smoke through your lips. He’s never been more honored to roll in his life. He’d buy all the weed in Indiana if it meant he got to watch you smoke it.
Eddie often finds himself wanting to write about you or draw you, but he’s nervous he won’t capture you correctly. You’re the kind of beauty that only the Greeks could capture. He wishes he could sculpt like them, just to be able to sculpt you.
A nudge to his arm breaks him out of his trance. He sees you smiling up at him from the floor. It’s a sight he hopes he’ll get to see for the rest of time.
“Ed,” You say, voice soft and a little tired, “Can you back me up here? Can you please tell these nerds that fighter isn’t the best class?”
“What?” He mumbles, still out of it. “Guys, literally any class is as good as you make it. Except monks.”
“Fuck off.” Gareth responds, throwing a handful of chips in his mouth.
Eddie zones back out after that. Whatever B-horror movie Jeff brought continues to drone on in the background as you and the guys continue to argue, but he can’t be bothered to listen to any of the words he hears. By the time he zones back in, the guys are standing up and brushing themselves off, clearly ready to leave. They say their goodbyes and Eddie waves them off, leaving him alone with you.
“Is it cool if I sleep over tonight?” Your voice is his favorite thing to hear. Even better than Hetfield or Dio.
“‘Course.” He says, voice more grumbly than he expected. “You know you’re always welcome to.”
He watches you stand up, watches the way your shirt rides up as you stretch, admires the sleepiness in your eyes. He wants you in his bed, next to him, he wants to wake up to your face in the morning. He wants the smell of your shampoo to overwhelm him. He wants to kiss you, soft and sweet.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” He mumbles under his breath, running a hand over his face before standing back up. Your footsteps are already trailing down the hall to his room, and he quickly follows. You’re halfway through throwing one of his shirts on, which you do every time you sleep over. He’ll never get tired of the way his worn-out shirts hang off your body. He’ll never get tired of you.
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telepathy
“You never suspected?” Harry whispers into the curve of my shoulder. His skin is warm against my side, our legs tangled together in the cocoon of his sheets.
I know he’s thinking of the appointment I had earlier, of the diagrams I showed him that the healer drew for me, explaining that her scans showed my magic reaching out, touching her mind gently.
“That I’m a telepath? No. Legilimency always came easy to me, but I never suspected actual telepathy.” I close my eyes, lean closer so that his hair tickles my nose and I can smell the coconut scent of his shampoo, fresh and lovely. “Although … sometimes I did feel like I knew what you wanted, what you were thinking. In bed, specially”
He huffs a laugh against my skin, brushes his lips over a freckle on my neck that I only know is there because he mentions it all the time. “That actually explains a lot.”
A proud thrill shoots through my belly and I feel a smile threatening to spill into my face. It’s not that I didn’t know he wants me — he makes it so clear each time — but knowing for sure that he does and that I give him what he wants in turn makes me feel powerful in a way I’ve never experienced before. I reach out then, the path to his thoughts feeling easy now I know I’ve been treading it for years.
He’s running his fingers along my hip, the inside of my thigh, and his thoughts are simple, surrounded by lust and warmth.
All this beautiful milky skin.
I feel a blush rise to my cheeks hotly, and clear my throat. I’m helpless to the admission I want to make, feel it drawn out of me by the sheer glow of being in his presence. I say, “But sometimes I felt it after, too, whenever we finished. I just never thought … to tell you the truth, I just thought that’s how it is when you’re in —”
The embarrassment of saying it out loud feels unmanageable, but I would’ve pushed through if it weren’t for his green eyes widening, for the alarms blaring through my awareness of his thoughts. His lips cover mine swiftly in a pressing, achingly lovely kiss and he rests his forehead against mine.
He breathes out, “Shh. Don’t say it. Now we know why you always knew what I wanted.”
It stings for all of a minute, that he won’t let me, but then I realize that I can’t feel disgust or rejection in his thoughts, only fear. Simple, tangible fear. I huff, raise a hand up the back of his neck, tangling through his soft, beautiful curls. He relaxes once again, and I feel the soundless sigh against my lips before he kisses me again, close-mouthed and sweet.
He’s everything, nudges the edges of my consciousness. Then again, a golden thread of a helpless thought, Everything.
“Alright,” I whisper against his lips, and I can tell he loves that, loves the feel of my lips moving against his as I speak. I can tell he feels it all. So I venture, “That doesn’t mean it’s not true, alright?”
His guard has come back down as he occupies himself tracing my bottom lip with his tongue, following his own body down the path that will lead to desire very soon. Distractedly, he asks, “It doesn’t mean what isn’t true?”
“That I’m in love with you.”
Everything freezes, his arm where it was moving to embrace me, his breath, his mind. And in the center, red-hot fear once again. He pulls back a little, enough to run a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.
He’s wondering, Why is he doing this?
He’s picturing me running, turning away from us in fear of what it can become. I pull him closer again, cup a hand around his jaw and I know he can see it in my eyes: the truth. His eyes fall shut, his body in a vulnerable curl around mine.
“Jesus, Draco. You don’t even like me.”
“Of course I don’t like you,” I can barely recognize my voice, it’s gentler than I even knew I had in me. “But I am in love with you.”
God, me too. Me too, me too.
Our bodies are so close I can feel his heart pounding.
“Uh. I’m not sure I —,” he’s starting to say, but his mind keeps beating a stream of Me too, me too.
“You’re forgetting that I can quite literally read your mind, Harry.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.” There’s a laugh building up in my chest and I let it escape, catching what he feels when he hears it, the way his thoughts soften, the way he sees me aglow like this, in his arms, because of him.
A warm hand comes up to my chest, resting over my sternum. Where, even though he can’t read my mind, he can find beating proof that I feel this.
“Then you already know what I’m going to say.”
I love you.
I nod, basking in the way my heart races, in the way I know that his heart is racing too. It all felt so impossible only this morning. Years of sneaking around, years of sleeping together and not talking, not daring to hope. And it had always been as easy as me reaching out, trying to connect, without ever knowing I could. But there’s something else, and the lingering dregs of doubt rise up in me when I realize this only speaks for now, for this moment in time.
“I can read your mind, but … I can’t see the future. I don’t know what this means for us, or where it takes us.”
He pauses, and I can tell he’s giving it serious thought. I can see futures he’s picturing, trying on as though trying on new clothes, playing out the idea of making me central to the path he sees for his own life. I can tell the thought feels new and exciting. His green eyes meet mine, and it seems it only took him these few minutes, because the fear is gone, replaced by burgeoning joy. He’s always been the braver one. I pull my awareness back, overwhelmed by the strength of his sudden conviction, and I’m once again just me inside my own mind, looking into his eyes, not knowing what’s behind them.
“To tell you the truth, I never expected we’d come this far,” he says. The back of his fingers is tracing my cheek, and there’s an edge to his voice, a soft kind of adoration that only really comes out when we’re like this, bare to each other. “I mean, maybe that was daft of me, seeing as it’s been four years of … this, but it seemed to me you never wanted to talk about it, and so I didn’t think to consider we could be anything more than what we’ve been already.”
And it’s true. I didn’t think we could ever have more that we already had, so I never gave myself the space to want it. Now, knowing what I know, I discover that the want was always there, that I unknowingly let it build up behind closed doors in my head, and that now that I’ve inched it open, it’s all come barrelling out, a flood tearing the dam to bits.
I nod. “I understand. But now my cards are on the table, and … I already know your answer too, so why don’t we stop fooling ourselves?”
“It’s not that, it’s just … we’ve spent our entire lives driving each other insane.” Not reading his mind anymore, I can still read him with the knowledge of a lifetime. I know him, can tell that he means it, that this is something that’s been bothering him. “Last week you almost throttled me when I suggested we saw that Divination expert before you went actually insane.”
It’s true that I had felt something off in my own head for months, that I wasn’t able to hide it from him because at times it felt like the whole world was pushing its way into my brain and I couldn’t channel it back out. The notion that I might be going insane was not infrequent, and he worriedly suggested alternatives before I finally decided to visit the healer today. But him suggesting divination could nearly have been the last nail in the coffin. I’ve never been a pseudo-science kind of man.
“Oh, you know damn well I’ve never believed in those things.”
Frustration tinges his gaze, turns the corners of his lips downwards. “Well, now it turns out you’re a damn telepath, Draco, so you better fucking start believing.”
I’m so scandalized I lose the ability to speak for a few seconds, and he can tell. Which makes him double down, “I — Merlin, do you see? I drive you insane without even trying. You’re driving me insane too.”
“Okay, okay,” I force out, fighting down the annoyance that he can bring up in me quicker than anybody else. My eyes fall shut and I take a breath, letting myself feel his touch on my skin, the length of his body against mine, the night breeze sharing our bed, around our bodies where the sheets have slipped off. I open my eyes, feel the proud bubble of elation that courses through my veins when he looks at me. “I know we always drive each other insane, but we always end up here, don’t we? Curled up in your bedroom.”
His eyes soften. “That’s true. And in the end I — I mean I do really —“
He still can’t say it. But I know it. I’ve seen it, his doubts, his love.
So it’s easy to be the one to voice it. “I love you too. And I’m also terrified at the notion of being apart, and I’m also sometimes horrified and disgusted to realize I feel this way, and I wonder how I even ended up here when I genuinely despised you back in school.”
“Went both ways,” he huffs. I can’t help but smile.
“I know.”
“But then I’m just — God, Draco, if you’re reading my mind, then you know what I have in my drawer right now.”
Alarmed, I can’t help but let my magic reach out so hard I’m left reeling, and I get an image, front and center. His dresser, third drawer on the left, between a bottle of cologne and an inherited jacket: a black velvet box, no bigger than a snitch. I see him in his mind’s eye, stroking the box, thinking of me. Of us. I see him putting it back in. Taking it back out another time, another day, thinking of me. Months passing, him taking it out on sleepless nights after I slipped away following a tryst, see him stroking it, thinking of me. And I’m afraid. I am. But there’s a stronger, unnamable feeling overpowering the fear by the second, dusting it in a golden glow with the certainty and inevitability of a sunrise. I swallow.
“I do know. But I’m not sure I understand. Didn’t you just say you never expected we’d make it this far?”
“I think it’s more that I didn’t think you’d be willing to try. The thing is that … right here, together, when it’s just us? It just works, I feel like we get each other perfectly. I like that a lot. But none of our friends know we talk, much less that we see each other twice a week. When you see me in public you roll your eyes and look away, and Nev told me the other day that you told Pansy you still hate me.”
I’m still in his mind, and I feel how this hurts him. Has been hurting him. But it’s hypocritical as all hell, he’s never been the sole victim of this. Like everything else between us, it went both ways. My temper flares.
“Oh, don’t start. Nev always tells Pansy that you go on and on about how unbearable I am, and … and I saw you flirting with Hannah last week at The Brewery!”
“What?” His volume rises, and he startles himself. He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “I — Okay. Didn’t you read my mind then? All I wanted was for you to look at me, even though I knew you wouldn’t, because our friends were around. I’m tired of this, Draco, I’m tired of your walls coming up with me outside them whenever we’re not in bed.”
He’s thinking of that night, of me looking away when he tried to catch my eye, of me leaving early so he wouldn’t have the chance to ask if I wanted to go home with him. It’s too real, too revealing, I don’t know if I want to face having been part — or most — of the reason we didn’t have this earlier.
“I didn’t know I could read your mind back then, it was only last week. How was I supposed to know you felt any kind of serious way about me when —“
“What’s in my drawer, Draco?”
My heart pounds. “I know what’s in your fucking drawer.”
“And what are you going to answer? I can’t read your mind.”
I had been so calm, placing the ball in his side of the court at the beginning of the conversation, but he’s hit it right back at me, hard, and my heart is climbing up my throat. He’s asking, knowing I know everything inside his head, he’s asking because he doesn’t know anything inside mine, and he needs it out loud, needs it spelled out. I have to give it to him. It’s only fair. I swallow, try to force my heart back down.
“What do you think I’m going to answer, Harry? Look at me. You’ve ruined me completely, I’m — ”
“Is that a — ?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes”
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