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mrsjellymunson · 4 months

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Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!reader

Summary: Eddie helps you generate a new D&D character, but that’s not the only thing that gets started that day

WC: ~2.5k

C/W: 18+, MDNI! NSFW? Physical flirting and teasing, heavy petting, sort of in public (nobody notices). Smut-adjacent? Thigh riding. Swearing. Nothing overly explicit, but it does get heated. Eddie and reader are both over 18. Trope: oh no, there aren’t enough seats, where will you sit? No y/n, one pet name. No physical descriptions of reader other than she wears a skirt (of unspecified appearance).

A/N: Should I be working on parts for my outstanding series? Yes. Would this not leave me alone until I wrote it down? Also yes. I had fun creating a new character in a different RPG and I have no idea whether this is how D&D works, so if it’s not, let’s just pretend, okay? 😆 Text dividers by @strangergraphics Dice dividers by me 🫣☺️

I have a general taglist now, let me know if you’d like to be on it 🖤

My masterlist

Eddie can’t believe his luck. You’re pretty (gorgeous, actually), insanely intelligent and have, for some as yet indecipherable reason, decided that you want to play D&D. With a load of nerdy teens. And him.

You’ve joined in with a couple of short campaigns at school, seeming to enjoy them immensely and fitting in well with the group, bantering with the boys and bonding with Erica over your shared ‘take no shit’ attitudes. At first Eddie wasn't sure how that dynamic would work, but you slipped easily into letting the younger girl show you the ropes, and Erica is clearly enjoying having more female energy around.

Eddie knows that creating a new character is one of your favourite things to do. He’d never admit it, but it’s one of his favourite things to watch, too. He adores the sparkle in your eyes, your creative brain and how excited and animated you get when you come up with new ideas. Sometimes they’re sketchy, or even impossible, which he finds hugely endearing. He also loves how you’ll always check in with him, asking his advice and respecting his opinion.

This weekend he’s running a oneshot at his trailer for the younger members and you. New characters, novel plot, the works. The plan is to create new characters in the morning, and play the game in the afternoon.

This’ll be the first time you’ve been to his home, or seen him anywhere outside of school, and Eddie’s nervous as all fuck.

He couched it as ‘a good opportunity to develop a greater understanding of the game’, but he definitely has an ulterior motive for inviting you here.

So far, he’s taken every opportunity he can to make you laugh, sit near you, even touch you. Creating scenarios where a subtle hug, or even a playful tickle is somehow appropriate. He covers it quickly by immediately doing it to someone else, hoping you won’t spot the bulge in his pants and the fact that he can’t stop looking at you.

He’s not sure for how long he can keep it up. He wants so much more, and it won’t be long before he either loses it, takes it too far, or, worst case scenario, you notice he’s being a total creep and ditch the group because of it.

He’s been trying to muster the balls to ask you out for weeks, practicing lines and imagining scenarios, but he’s found it more difficult to plan than even the most complex of his campaigns.

And although it’s unlikely given the crowd of nerds that’ll be around, he couldn’t miss an opportunity to be in your company. He thought that maybe, just maybe, he’d manage to get you somewhat alone and do it today.

He’s tidied up the trailer as subtly as he can, doing all the dishes and straightening Wayne’s caps, hoping the others won’t notice and ask him awkward questions. But he’s jittery and anxious, terrified that you’ll take one look at where and how he lives and decide you want nothing more to do with him…

Eddie has no idea that you’re just as nervous as he is.

You’ve enjoyed the Hellfire campaigns so far, but haven’t really managed to get all that close to the Dungeon Master, much to your chagrin. Sure, the game is enormous fun and you love all the members and how welcoming they’ve been. But the DM? Holy hell, he’s hot as sin, and being able to spend time around the larger-than-life metal-lover only adds to your enjoyment of the sessions. But you can’t imagine it’ll ever go any further than that. You doubt that a geeky D&D novice who he’s hardly spoken to is his idea of the perfect girlfriend…

But god, the physical touches? Christ. It’s as much as you can do to hold it together. You’ve shared a few celebratory hugs, and he’s even tickled you a couple of times, all of which you’ve enjoyed far more than you’d let on, and filed away in your memory for retrieval when you’re alone at night in your bed. But you know that he’s like this with everyone, and are under no illusions that you’re special. So you relish each and every contact, wishing there could be more.

What if he looks at you for too long with those gorgeous, huge, chocolate-brown eyes? And what if you forget how to speak? It’s already happened an embarrassing amount of times, but you’ve managed to pass it off as being stumped because you’re a beginner. You don’t know for how much longer that excuse is gonna fly.

And, if all that wasn’t already enough to send your anxiety levels skyrocketing, you’re also acutely aware that you haven't spent time with any of the group outside of school as yet. You’re worried that you’re going to ruin their social dynamic, or mess up the game. Or embarrass yourself with no easy way to exit, having to wallow in your shame until the mums come back later to pick you all up. Your spiralling makes you realise that although it was really kind of Mrs Wheeler to offer you a lift, you’re now really wishing you’d brought your own car…

All kinds of anxious thoughts are running through your mind, from what if your ideas are stupid, to what if everyone (okay, specifically Eddie) dislikes the cookies you’ve baked??

Neither of you should’ve worried.

As you enter his trailer, Eddie seems a little flustered, running a ringed hand through his gorgeous chestnut waves and unnecessarily straightening a pile of magazines on the coffee table. He smooths down his (new) black tee (that he totally didn’t buy especially for this occasion), and you pay it no mind, assuming he’s just always like this with visitors, and is excited for the campaign.

You barely glance around Eddie’s home, smiling softly at the trinkets you spot, and offering to help plate up the snacks in the kitchen area. You don’t look uncomfortable, and you certainly don’t pass judgment. Eddie eyes you as indirectly as he can, noticing the unusual skirt you’ve got on (that you totally totally didn’t choose specifically for today). He likes it.

Just like at school, you slot easily into the melee of pencils, paper, dice and snacks. Everyone loves your home baked cookies, including Eddie, and Erica even badgers you for the recipe.

Eddie thinks you couldn’t be any more perfect.

You think this isn’t so bad after all, and relax a little.

The morning’s character building is going well, the fact that it’s a oneshot not diminishing anyone’s efforts or attention to detail.

You still haven’t quite got the hang of the dice and numbers parts, always asking for Eddie’s help with that. His help, not any of the others, he muses with a certain amount of pride and delight. (Selfishly, part of him secretly hopes you never get the hang of it, and will always need to seek his input.)

With you now added to the group, there aren’t enough seats at Eddie’s modest dining table. Nobody notices. Initially Dustin and Will are deep in a discussion on Eddie’s battered sofa, and Mike and Lucas are rifling through the fridge, both at that ‘hollow legs’ stage of teen development and constantly ravenous.

Your character’s almost done, and you just want to clarify a few things, so you ask across the table,

“Eddie? Can I bring this over for you to check please?”

He waves you over, putting on a fake English accent and saying,

“Of course you may, my dear. You know I’m always happy to assist my flock.”

You chuckle lightly at his endearing foolishness as you get up from your place next to Erica, taking your character sheet over to Eddie for his perusal. Behind you, the younger players all convene at the table to share their progress, and all the seats become filled.

With no free spots near him, and assuming you won’t be here for long, Eddie pats his leg absentmindedly and says, “Sit here, lemme see.”

You end up on his lap, facing sideways at ninety degrees.

You initially turn towards him and bring your sheet between you, but there’s not enough room for him to properly examine it, so you turn the other way and lay it on the table in front of him, turning so your back is to him, your legs straddling one of his knees. He leans forward and begins to check it over, confirming some details and asking for more particulars on others.

Eddie’s been admiring your enthusiasm and level of engagement all morning, and he’s impressed by the depth of information you’ve already managed to accumulate.

You’re absorbed with your new character, getting excited and gesticulating wildly. Ideas bounce easily between you and Eddie, his face smiling softly and his dimples popping as he gets to see you like this.

It doesn’t escape him, however, that you’re also bouncing on… him. He flushes a little, and hopes you don’t perceive it.

As you gesture at a particularly thorny issue on your paper, it dawns on Eddie exactly what parts of you are in contact with him, albeit through multiple layers of fabric. The softness of your thighs and the heat from your core against his leg fully absorb him for a moment, and he has to ask you to repeat yourself. You don’t seem to mind, assuming it was the general clamour in the room that meant he couldn’t hear you. That same clamour covers the sound of him awkwardly clearing his throat and gulping loudly.

It occurs to him that he’s never experienced anything… like this. Occasional hookups in the woods or after gigs at The Hideout are great and everything, but he’s never before felt like he has a literal, real-life angel sitting on his lap.

And you? You are slowly realising how nice Eddie’s lap feels beneath you. It’s warm and solid, and the denim of his dark jeans feels pleasantly rough on the skin of your legs where your skirt’s ridden up. There’s a pressure against your most intimate areas that’s generating a warm feeling of pleasure in your core. You’re trying to concentrate, but it’s not easy.

It takes a few more moments for you to catch up to where Eddie is, and you register that you’re essentially riding Eddie’s thigh each time you move.

Your lips roll inwards and you swallow deeply, closing your eyes for a moment, trying to compose yourself. It doesn’t help, and only serves to focus your attention even more fully on the delicious sensations beneath your legs. This is the closest you’ve ever been to your Dungeon Master, and for the longest time. And you can’t help how flustered it’s making you.

Embarrassed, you cough and go to stand, but quickly see that there’s nowhere for you to go. Eddie scans the room and notices your predicament, and, in a broken voice that’s almost unbearably soft, tells you, “It’s okay, Princess. You can stay here.”

Fuck. A pet name? You enjoyed that, perhaps a little too much. If you were being rational you could put it down to Eddie referencing your new character, who happens to be an aristocratic mage. But right now? Right now, you’re not feeling particularly rational.

You slowly sit back down, but as you do so Eddie shifts his position, causing you to spread your knees a bit wider than they were and land further up his leg, giving you even more contact with his thigh. You hope he didn’t hear the broken little hum that escaped you.

Eddie leans forward and in a voice that’s far too quiet, and far too close to your ear, he asks, “Are you… okay?”

You can barely breathe, and all you can manage in response is a tiny, squeaked, “Mhm.”

Behind you, Eddie takes a stuttering breath in, letting it out slowly before he resumes discussions with everyone else at the table.

You each become more unfettered as the morning progresses. Further not-so-accidental encounters only serve to increase the tension between you both.

At one point, you lean forwards over the table to get one of the manuals, lifting your butt from his leg. For a moment you hope there won’t be a visible wet patch on your skirt, or on his jeans. But then you wonder whether it would actually be so terrible if there was, and whether it would actually be so terrible if Eddie saw…

Eddie saw. He hums slightly, but it sounds more like a whimper, and he attempts to cover it by clearing his throat for the umpteenth time today.

He wonders whether you’re doing this on purpose, whether you have any idea what you’re doing to him.

As you settle back onto his thigh, one of Eddie’s hands travels to your hip, holding it lightly, just resting it there. A fire travels up that entire side of your body.

You wonder whether he’s doing this on purpose, whether he has any idea what he’s doing to you.

He leans forward to reach for something on the table, and this time brushes his chest against your back for far longer than is necessary. You feel his breathing against your neck speeding up, hot gasps coming from between his lips instead of controlled outbreaths through his nose.

You reach for a die, and as you sit back you half-intentionally push your core down onto Eddie’s leg just a little bit harder. God, he feels so good. And so what if you’ve moved backwards slightly, so your thigh is even further between his legs, and your butt nudges his crotch?

You definitely feel something hard pressing against your ass. The grip on your hip tightens, and Eddie dips his head forward to hide his face and stifle a moan. Christ.

You think you hear him mumble a quiet and stilted, “Sh-it.”

Eddie can barely contain himself, this morning not going at all how he could’ve even dreamed. He had no idea whether you even liked him, and was planning to sound you out and maybe manage to ask if you wanted to do something cheesy like grab milkshakes sometime.

Having you hot and wet on his lap wasn’t even on the edges of the outside of the periphery of his radar. He’s really trying to keep it together, but he’s barely maintaining a grip on his actions.

Attempting to focus, he leans forward again to explain a character point. You turn your head and look into his eyes attentively, whilst simultaneously rocking your hips ever so subtly and chewing on the inside of your bottom lip.

All at once, something shifts. Something big.

Eddie holds your gaze for way too long. Or maybe you hold his.

Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore, as you both silently acknowledge that there’s way more going on here than simple D&D advice.

Simultaneously, you both come to realise that your affections are most definitely reciprocated.

Shit, he likes me.

Fuck, she likes me back.

And then, as your eyes are locked and he sees your pupils blow wide, Eddie loses that tenuous grip.

Suddenly, both of his hands come to your hips, and he presses his forehead against one of your shoulder blades. He grips you tightly and moves you back and forth against him, squeezing, pulling, pushing, dragging. He’s keeping his movements as tiny as possible so as not to rouse the attention of the group, but what he lacks in expansiveness he more than makes up for with strength and intensity.

You think this might genuinely be the most erotic thing you’ve ever done with your clothes on. You’re hot and wet, and you barely care that you’re in a room full of people, supposedly playing a nerdy game.

Eddie keeps moving you. One exquisite movement spreads your sopping folds in your underwear, and your mouth drops open in a gasp, hand gripping the edge of the rickety table. You try to disguise your movements by shoving the end of a pencil into your mouth and hunching over your paperwork.

Eddie totally notices, and stills you. His warm palms continue to press against your hips, his strong fingertips digging into your flesh. Instead of continuing the back and forth movements, he pulls you down as hard as he can onto his lap whilst outwardly retaining his composure, turning the garbled sounds coming from his throat into encouraging noises for the group.

The two of you can barely focus anymore. Eddie hasn’t let his hands travel anywhere above the tabletop, lest his actions be seen by the others, but if your expression is even half as flustered as Eddie’s is red, somebody is going to notice something. And soon.

You take a couple of deep, steadying breaths.

You’ve already completed your character, so you decide to do a faux check in with Eddie, asking, not entirely innocently,

“Eddie? Is there anything else you’d want me to… take off?”

Turning, you add, even less subtly,

“What should I do now, Master?”

Eddie’s face screws up and his jaw clenches, and you feel the rock of his hips as he bucks his hips up underneath you, pressing his hardness into your flesh and muffling a grunt into your shoulder.

His head snaps back up suddenly and his voice becomes clear and piercing, as he inhales quickly and declares to the room, waving a hand,

“Okay, lunchtime! Everybody out!! You guys need some fresh air and I need a break. I don’t wanna see you for at least an hour, and you’d better come back with pizza! Goddit?”

The teens comply, bustling out the door, a few of them eye-rolling and grumbling something about how this is almost like being at home with their parents.

They’re still leaving as Eddie moves his face so close to you that you can feel his breath in your hairline, and his soft, pink lips tickle the edge of your ear.

In a low, velvety voice, he murmurs, in a tone that’s somehow both challenging and pleading,

“Please Princess, turn around and say that to my face...”

You smirk, and reach behind you to pick up a D12.

With all the sultriness you can muster, you raise your eyebrows and indicate for him to take it. He opens his hand, and you place it down, the tips of your fingers lightly skimming the hot, damp skin of his palm.

Looking into his eyes again, you’re relieved to discover that your power of speech remains entirely intact, as you murmur, with more confidence than you thought you possessed,

“Okay, Master. How about this? You roll, and the result is how many kisses you have to give me...”

Eddie swallows and almost chokes, sitting up straight and gently lobbing the die across the mess of paper and writing implements. His chocolate eyes don’t leave yours as it rolls and comes to a stop in the centre crease of one of his manuals. He struggles with the internal conflict of never wanting to break your gaze and a deep desire to check the number.

He has no idea where the rest of today, let alone this, is going, and he’s grateful he has at least the next hour in which to find out. But he does know one thing:

He’s never been so desperate to roll a 12 in his entire fucking life.

Thanks so much for reading!

(This might become part of an anthology of D&D-related adventures - let me know if you’d like to see more!)

Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed this, it’s honestly like throwing breadcrumbs and roses for your writers 😃🥰

My masterlist

I have a general taglist now, let me know if you’d like to be on it 😃

Tags: @joejoequinnquinn @jamdoughnutmagician @curlyjoequinn @madaboutmunson @airen256 @sunshinepeachx @the-unforgivenn @skrzydlak @comeonatmebruh @jamiecb66 @80s-addict @abellmunsonmovie @definitionwanderlust @wonderlanddreamer

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myosotisa · 2 years

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i'm starvin, darlin - e.m.

Eddie Munson x Reader

ǁ summary: Since coming back from the Upside Down, Eddie has slowly been changing. Each week seems to bring something different and he finds himself doing things he never thought he would.

ǁ tags: gender neutral reader, no pronouns, no y/n. nickname used (sweetheart). mentions of season 4 final episode and what occurred. canon divergent (every one lived). it's not smut, but smut adjacent. it's sexy

ǁ word count: 2k

ǁ notes: i sat down and wrote an entire one shot in one sitting again. and i am also not going to edit this one. and i do not feel bad for lowercase hozier title, so don't even try me like that. if y'all really like it, i can add a part 2 with smut, but this is it for now

There are still a lot of things Eddie is having to come to terms with since the night his heart stopped.

That night in the Upside Down, laying in Dustin’s arms, he had died. Without a doubt. Dustin had felt his pulse and there was nothing there. And though he didn’t know CPR, had no idea what he was doing, Dustin had laid him down on the ground and started to beat against his chest. Like maybe if he hit hard enough and in the right place, his friend would come back to life.

Somehow it worked. No one bothered to ask why.

But they all knew something was wrong two days later. Eddie, barely breathing and with a weak heartbeat, had been dragged back to the surface and hidden away in the RV they had stolen. Someone watched him round the clock as they debated what to do. If they should try to get him to a hospital, how they’d be able to explain it. But then something miraculous began to happen:

Eddie started healing. All on his own. Way faster than any person should have been able to.

His skin stitched itself back together faster than should be possible, leaving less scar tissue than it should have behind. His chest began to rise and fall in more steady breaths, his heart beat getting stronger, bones resetting themselves with slow and quiet creaks as he laid in that RV bed and slept. He’d been asleep since they brought him back.

The day he woke up, his body had almost entirely healed itself. From the brink of death, having even stepped over to the other side, and now he was almost back to before it ever happened. It had only been a week.

Everyone rejoiced, refusing to question anything weird that may have happened in the Upside Down and just thinking they finally won for once. Max had casts on both her arms but was otherwise unharmed, Steve had recovered from his own injuries at the rate of a normal human and now sported a scar around his throat that he sometimes felt self conscious about. Dustin was on crutches with his broken leg for another month at least. Eddie was alive and whole and back to himself. They’d made it, everyone had made it.

He began to notice more and more things that were different as the days went on.

The first thing he caught on to was that he had the capability to be strong. Way stronger than someone who had recently been bed ridden should be. It was like in the comic books with the Hulk – if he wasn’t paying attention or if he got too emotional, he could easily break anything. A walkman destroyed, a ceramic bowl reduced to shards, a metal pipe bent beyond fixing, the wooden handle of a hammer shattered in his grip. The boys were all present for the hammer incident and sighted it as one of the coolest things they had ever seen. They swarmed him, asking him how he did it, what else he could do, how strong he really was.

Only the other teens, Steve, Nancy, Robin, you, started to look a little bit closer.

When the next few changes became apparent, it was clear something unnatural had happened to Eddie that night in the Upside Down. He could feel other people's feelings. They brushed against his consciousness like ghosts whenever he looked at someone. Happiness like warm rays of sunshine, fear like a shuddering gust of wind, anger like hot coals pressed to his skin. It wasn’t a conscious effort – in fact, there were a lot of times he wished he could turn it off. Whenever he looked too hard at someone, it’s like his brain adjusted to a different frequency and their emotions reached out to him, no matter what they were. And he didn’t struggle to make sense of the sensations like he thought he might, his brain completed the dots easily at first, but then he began to recognize them consciously. It was certainly useful sometimes, especially when it came to you, but it still felt a bit invasive. When he’d explained it to a few people, he assured he tried to ignore it whenever he could, but sometimes he couldn’t help but react. The icey spike of terror he felt when you woke up next to him from a nightmare. The velvet comfort that enveloped you and him when he held you after.

The first time he spoke into someone’s mind it was an accident. Steve had whipped toward him, breath catching in his chest, eyes wide and mouth open in a gasp. Eddie felt it like ice down his spine. “Did you… You did that?” He’d asked breathlessly. It had been so shocking, Eddie wasn’t even sure what’d he said, or projected, or whatever it was.

“I - I don’t know.”

Steve stepped closer, suddenly looking determined. “Try to do it again.”

It was a slithering feeling when he dipped back into Steve’s mind. Like sliding his way in between cracks to a place he didn’t belong, seeping into the forefront of his thoughts to plant one of his own. It made him feel dirty, uncomfortable, and wrong. But it worked. Steve explained it as having a thought like his own but it came out in Eddie’s voice instead. An intrusive thought but not an uncomfortable one.

As with all of the other discoveries, a meeting was called. Dustin, Mike, Lucas, Max, Will, El, Robin, Jonathan, Nancy, Steve, and you. Steve did most of the talking while Eddie sat and looked at his hands. These meetings, while he acknowledged were important for everyone to keep track of his progression into… something, it still made him feel a bit like a zoo animal in a cage. A magician with a magic trick. All the boys immediately begged him to do it to them, they wanted to see what it felt like, wanted to see how easy it was for him to do it.

Nancy and Jonathan had shooed them, catching on to how overwhelmed Eddie was, their excitement and curiosity battering against him like a whipping wind of too much. Once it was just the older people in the room, you crossed over to where he was, kneeled down in front of him, reached out to hold his hand.

Pity felt like someone was pissing in his pants.

“Are you okay?”

How could he say no? How could he admit that he was scared, confused, and feeling more and more like a monster with the passing days? “It’s just a lot. To deal with.”

Your smile was pained as you pushed yourself up onto your calves and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. His came around your waist on instinct, the breath feeling like a wheeze in his lungs as he held tight. Face pressed into your hair with his eyes squeezed shut, he inhaled deep in relief.

That was when the next thing changed.

It was a desire. A need. One he couldn’t place a name to. Like he was desperately missing something, desperately craving something and he didn’t know it was. It crawled under his skin like ants and sent him scratching for a feeling that couldn’t be satiated. No matter what he tried: eating, drinking, masturbating, exercising. The feeling wouldn’t go away. It got stronger day after day, his mind focusing more and more on the void it left behind until it was all he could think about.

Steve threw a little get together at his house once a month or so. Just time for everyone to get together, eat some food, listen to music, play board games, maybe watch a movie. This was the first get together since his hunger began.

He was sitting on the couch on his own, decompressing. While normally he was right in the middle of everything, today it was a lot to handle when he was hyperfocused on the crawling beneath his skin. He had his legs spread wide, hands resting on them, leaning deep into the cushions of the couch in Steve’s basement. While he had initially tried to close his eyes, hang his head back, maybe stare at the ceiling – he couldn’t stop his attention from drifting back to you.

You and Eddie had been friends for a long time. Understandably, you’d gotten much closer after the events in March. The two of you had helped each other through hard nights of nightmares, panic attacks in parking lots, flashbacks in public. You’d been a great comfort to him since he came back. But today your laugh sounded like music. The smell of your perfume hit him even across the room. Each emotion crashed over him in waves, pushing and receding like the tide as he tried to get off your frequency, unentangle himself from you before he did something he didn’t mean to do.

I’m starving.

Your back stiffened, the grip on your plastic cup getting just a bit tighter. A moment of fear quickly shifted to mellowed surprise, curiosity. He’d never spoken into your mind before, hadn’t meant to do so now. But you still shifted, your eyes slowly coasting across the room until you caught sight of him on the couch.

A shock of electricity shot down his spine as you made eye contact, his hands tightening over his thighs in reaction. Unsure exactly what to do, he settled for projecting again. Slithered his way into your ears and settled a respectful distance from the area he’d never been brave enough to venture. Sorry, he offered with a wince, didn’t mean to.

What he didn’t expect was the utter flood of feeling that hit him next. Like a drip of warm honey settling into the space between his hips, pooling there in a subtle swirl as the warmth from it started to diffuse outward. You realized you’d been staring and your eyes flit away, but the feeling didn’t cease. In fact, it only got stronger. Your lower lip caught on your teeth as you shifted between your feet. Things that would be completely normal to see, wouldn’t have anyone looking twice, but Eddie could. Your desire. The want that poured from you like water when your eyes first met his.

Was this the first time? Had something changed between you and him? Or had he just never caught on before?

The ants beneath his skin began to vibrate as he narrowed in on the feeling, on you. Like the part of him that had slithered into your thoughts was now bearing down, digging in for purchase, wanting to stay awhile and feed on this new feeling, what you were offering. It didn’t even occur to him what he was doing, how invasive it might be, how wrong he normally would have felt. All he knew is that it felt like licking at the thing he’d been craving for so long and he was helpless to chase after it.

Sweetheart. It came easy as breathing now, teeth sunk into your consciousness from where you stood across the room. You whirled on him again, another flood of warmth hitting him deep as you leaned your hip against the counter you were standing next to and focused on him. What’s got you so worked up?

He couldn’t even consider how bold he was suddenly being, the fear that he might ruin this friendship well out of his grasp. Especially when your embarrassment spiked along with the want, the pool of warmth now suddenly coming to life to have a heartbeat of its own. Your eyes widened, shifting on your feet again as you broke eye contact. It only took a few moments before you couldn’t help but look back at him again. The buzzing settled further, now like a purr beneath his skin. It was bearable as long as you kept your eyes on him.

You wanna do something about it?

thanks for reading, please reblog and leave a comment if you liked it!

#eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson hurt/comfort #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson blurbs #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #myos ideas #vampire!Eddie munson #kas!eddie munson #myo4munson

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bettyfrommars · 10 months

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perv!eddie x fem!reader

thank you to my darlings @onegirlmanytales and @mrsjellymunson for requesting some perv Eddie from me, since I was begging for it. Decided to go with biker!eddie. I wrote this really fast, it is so silly. Just to clarify, I do not consider "perv" to be a negative thing, especially not in this instance. I think it's very adorable behavior.

18+only, masturbation, smut fantasies, dirty talk, ejaculation, armpit kink, reader owns a cardigan

wc: 784

The first time you met Eddie and rode in his tow truck, you left something behind, and it wasn't until a week later that you realized it was missing. It was a lightweight cardigan that seemed to go with every outfit, but after a while, you gave up looking, and figured you must’ve left it at the library, or at the park, perhaps.

Eddie noticed it that same night on his way home; it was slumped down between the passenger seat and the door.

The material was dark and soft, and the first thing he did was smell it. A tentative, quick sniff at first, but then he closed his eyes and pushed a handful of the material against his mouth and nose as if it were a breathing apparatus, sucking in deep.

He remembered the way the swing of the door shutting you in the cab earlier that day sent a shockwave of your smell over to him, catching in his throat, making his mouth water.

That sweater was his excuse to see you again, and he clutched it close, making his way up to his apartment above Munson’s Garage.

The next night, he took a shower, sat down in the comfy chair adjacent to the TV to have a beer, and your cardigan just so happened to be on the arm rest---so he decided to smell it again.

There were subtle notes of whatever perfume or lotion you wore embedded in the fabric, as well has hints of laundry soap, but then, there was something else. The natural pheromones released from the pores in your skin, but also…

He lifted up the sleeve of the garment to follow the shoulder seam down to the curve of the spot he wanted, and then he breathed in a few greedy pulls.

Oh, fuck, right there.

That bit of sweat, and twinge of body odor after a long day at work and being stranded by the side of the road in the sun. The way he imagined the crease of your inner thigh might taste after a long night of fucking.

Shirtless, with wet hair hanging down his shoulders, he took hold of his growing length inside his boxers, pumping himself a few times.

One-handed, he flipped your cardigan inside out to get closer to the scent, to get closer to you.

He imagined licking the sweat from between your breasts after you rode him good and hard, and then letting his tongue work deep inside your pussy, spreading your legs further.

“Just like that, baby? You want to cum on my tongue? You’re so good for me,” his voice was muffled as he spoke into the material, imagining his face buried in your sweetness.

Fist moving faster on his uncircumcised foreskin, his hips bucked up, precum dribbled out, and he groaned your name.

“I want to be inside you too, baby, fuck, so bad,” he said aloud, answering your imaginary plead, giving his hard shaft a few long strokes. “But not until you cum for me. I want to taste you.”

In his mind, he imagined feeling that tight bud at the top of your slit getting taunt under his sucks, and then you are pleading with him that you were close. You’d be clutching onto his hair, saying his name over and over, until you eventually lost control, arching up of the bed, heels kicking on the mattress.

His hips shot up off the chair and they vibrated there, frozen, his hand jerking at the tip, imagining working you through your orgasm.

He dropped the sweater from his face and then, breathlessly, he imagined plunging his cock inside of you, diving down into your eager arms as you kissed him, burying himself in your still fluttering walls.

“OH fuckkk you feel so good,” he hissed, throwing his head back as his warm release leaked over his hand and onto his belly. “That’s my girl, that’s my fucking girl. Take every last drop.” He huffed, stroking the wetness as long as he could before it got too sticky, squirming in his seat, pretending to linger inside you.

In the aftershock of it all, he pulled his boxers up and felt almost embarrassed. What would you think of him if you knew?

Regardless, he had every intention of returning the sweater to you, but time went on and he forgot.

No, that’s a lie. He consciously decided to keep it.

About a year later, while helping him pack up his place, you’d find it tucked in the far corner of his closet.

“Baby,” you ask, holding it up by the shoulders so that it unfolds slowly in its crinkled state. “Why do you have this?”

#perv!eddie #biker!eddie #I'm on fire #Eddie Munson smut #Eddie munson request

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baddiewiththebook · 1 month

Text

Over the Years | e.m x reader | p. 7

-> The origin story of Eddie Munson, and how he fell in love with the worst person he possibly could - his best friend.

-> eddie munson x you (she/her)

-> friends to lovers, slow burn, angst

-> warnings - strong language, suggestive themes, smut [18+]

-> <-

June 1983

You awake with an ache near your temple. Dragging yourself onto your right side, a dull pain presses into your lower back until you hear a stiff pop. You take in a breath of hot air, and you suddenly remember the fan on your desk isn’t facing you and it isn’t even turned on.

It comes back to you in a haze of clouded thought. You were awake late last night waiting for your mother to come home from a night of bar hopping, and flirting with men for their money.

It happens like this;

In the night, your mother will come home by blasting through the front door in a spell. Booze leaks from her pores. As she stumbles to bed, she will flick on the light adjacent to your room. Light shines underneath your door. You can see this from where you lay your head at night. It is then, when she’s tucked away in her cave that you would get out of bed. You’ll open the bedroom door, and take a peek down the hallway. Her bedroom light is now on, and you can shut off the light that she’s forgotten. Finally, you feel your way back through the dark and twist the fan on your desk to face just below your chin and you flick on the fan to the lowest setting. It’s quiet enough to not disturb her oncoming hangover, and yet cool enough to keep you from sweating throughout the night.

Last night was the first night that she never came home.

When you open up your eyes, you are flashed with hot sun pouring through your broken blinds. You groan to think that you could have had another moment of slumber. Really, you’re unsure when you fell asleep. You began to breathe slower when you thought that maybe she would be too drunk to even find the light switch. That maybe you could hear the soft clicking of her bare feet tip-toeing through the house, since she always took off her high heels before stepping through the threshold.

There are a few times you could recall that she’s been mad at you for being up when she got home. You would like to imagine her not wanting you to see her in a state of drunkenness, however you also know she’s embarrassed. She won’t tell you out loud, but she’s facing critical debt that you won’t even be able to claw out of when she’s passed away.

You climb out of bed that morning, and you first use the restroom. It’s on the way to your mother’s bedroom. When you knock on the door, there is no answer. Upon opening the door, you’re met with an empty bed that hasn’t been slept in recently. Her sheets are tossed sloppily, but they’re also cold.

Turning on your heel, you double time to the front room. There are emergency numbers to call on the fridge in the kitchen. Someone around town must have seen her. Your worry is for nothing. As you run through the numbers written across many sticky notes, one in particular stands out among the rest. You pull down the envelope stuck to the fridge by a thick magnet shaped like a bear. He wears a Chef hat and holds a rolling pin at his side.

Inside the envelope, you see a hand written note from your mom that says she won’t be back for a few days because she will be at the ocean with Frank. You have no idea who Frank is, but you have no choice but to believe her. She also asks for you to go to the grocery store with the money that she has left. It’s less than one-hundred dollars.

You sigh.

As you tap the money back into the envelope with your fingers held flat, you hear a soft knocking at your front door. It’s so soft you would miss the person on the other side if you weren’t already in the kitchen. The mounted clock on your kitchen wall says that the time is just after nine-thirty in the morning. Not only have you slept horribly warm and you slept on your back, which you never do; you’ve also slept in past your usual hour even for the summer time.

That knocking could only mean one thing. Robin Buckley has biked across town to meet you at your door. She’s very aware, by now, that your mother is in a different place in her life. Your mom comes home late, and she uses the mornings and the afternoons to sleep. Since it is summer, Robin worries that you’ll get cooped up in your house. It’s dark, and there aren’t many decorations anymore since your mom began selling your shared possessions for grocery money. You can only hope that’s what she is doing with the cash anyway.

“Hi, Rob,” you stand in front of her in your old t-shirt and your socks. With the door propped open by your toes, you can feel that the air outside is much cooler than the air in your trailer. Whoever made these tin boxes wanted you to cook like sardines. Yuck!

Robin bounces with a quiet step. She’s always been a morning person, even when she doesn’t have to be. That’s usually because she has something she has to tell you like a secret around school, or there is a question she has that can only be answered in person so she can see you react.

“Let’s go shopping,” she pokes her head around your shoulder, and keeps her voice low enough so that she doesn’t wake the beast.

You invite her inside your home, “it’s nice to see you too, Robin. My mom’s not here.”

Robin knows you well-enough throughout the years that there is worry behind your eyes.

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know,” you give her the same letter your mom has written you, so that she can read it over.

Robin rolls her eyes at your mom’s flakiness, and for the lack of letting you know where she’s gone off too. Your mom has become quite vague in her stories, so much so that it’s curious if any of them are true.

Despite her quirks, your mom is the only parent you have. If she’s really gone, would they ship you off to your dad that you’ve never met? Your mom has given you so many tall-tales, and so many excuses that you don’t bother asking anymore questions.

You’ve grown to like Hawkins- er- the people that are in the tiny town. That doesn’t mean you’ve cut off your adventurous side that begs you to break free of your chains and to follow your dreams of going to a huge university in the city, then traveling across the world. Your journals would be filled with pages among pages of your adventures. A true dream that can only be imagined.

You float back to earth when the door you just shut is tapped on again. This time your neighbor has stopped by with a gift wrapped in old newspaper.

“Good morning, Eddie,” you prop the door again. “My mom’s not here.”

The warning becomes tiresome. You’ve never met another person, who must apologize for their mom’s behavior. She’s just in a funk, you would excuse her. It’s a sorry sight to see the people she once knew daily, and they ask how she is with the same somber expression. She’s just in a funk.

Lately, Eddie hasn’t been coming by your house. He waits for you to get an opportunity to slip away to visit him. Your mom would spill harsh lies about the intentions he has with you. She will spit venom into his eye about a fantasy where you’ve become bare-footed and pregnant. Soon, Eddie will have no job and no prospects, so that you’re stuck in Hawkins. It’ll be Eddie’s fault that he ruins you.

Your friendship with Eddie has hit rocky waters in the past year. There’s a tension set there because Eddie can’t get past that you’re growing up beside him. You’re not a little girl that needs someone to hold your hand anymore. Whenever a boy shows the slightest interest in you, Eddie’s claws come out. According to Eddie’s standards, no one is good enough for you and you won’t be settling for anyone less than perfect. But, who is he to decide that for you?

It’s gotten to the point where you avoid Eddie at school sometimes. You have to sneak about in the long routes to your classes. Luckily for you, Eddie will graduate next year. It sounds harsh, but maybe without him there scaring all the boys off you’ll get a chance to meet somebody half decent. You know that Eddie means well, after all. He just doesn’t know when to quit firing at nothing.

“Happy birthday!” Eddie holds the gift out to you with a smile that could melt a dentist. That’s saying something because Eddie’s teeth are shockingly straight and white for never going to see a real dentist past his thirteenth year of life (because he can’t afford the dentist and it’s NOT because he’s is afraid of them).

Soon, you’ll be fifteen. It’s nothing different than fourteen. You can imagine few life changes this year. It’s just there to taunt you about your future. And for that, fifteen can eat rotten eggs.

Then again, as you tear the wrapping off of your gift and you reveal a shiny new black leather bound jornal, maybe fifteen won’t be so forgotten about. You wouldn’t have the money to afford such a thing, but Eddie could never see you put away your writing.

It’s silly to say, but Eddie adores the face you make while you journal your life away. You get real focused and you zone out, while talking to yourself. There’s no world around you, while you journal. It’s just you and that pen- pen!

Eddie puts his hand in his back pocket, and rummages around to feel for the second part of your gift. A brand new set of writing pens that are inscribed with your name. He had to get these in the city, but that two hour drive to get there and to get back is worth seeing your eyes light up with your dream becoming reality. Not to pat himself on the back or anything.

“Eddie!” You knock the wind out of him a bit when you rush to hug him around the chest. His large hands stroke your spine.

“Anything for you,” and he means it.

Robin waits for your embrace to finish, and for the both of you to return to earth to try to insert herself in the conversation. It’s all background noise because Eddie pulls out his car keys to his van.

“I figure,” he jangles the keys in front of your face, “you might want a lesson or two?”

The day that Eddie Munson offers to let you take control of his van you thought pigs would be flying all over this place. Yet, he’s is completely deadpan serious.

As much as you want to take up his offer, you tilt your head over to your friend, Robin.

“Actually, Robin and I are going shopping this morning. Can we reschedule for this afternoon?” You propose.

Eddie’s face falls, “I’ve got practice with the band, sweetheart.”

You click your teeth, “when are you free?”

“Maybe sometime this weekend?”

“Okay, yeah,” you bounce with joy. “I’ll see you!”

“It’s nice to see you, Robin,” Eddie knows when he’s overstayed his welcome between you two.

Still, Robin is polite enough to wave to him. They don’t hang out enough to really get to know each other. Again, your mother has been making your life a bit more complicated. You would love to have your friends over for a sleepover, but she would say that the Devil has you by His toe.

This is odd because she’s never terribly been religious in the years prior.

“Let me change, and we can go,” you tell Robin.

-> <-

You cannot wait to learn how to drive. Peddling your bike around town has earned you some calf muscles like an athlete, but you’ll still tire out before you even get to your destination. Not to mention that it is also very difficult to bring home groceries and other goodies you find, while you’re in town.

Since your birthday is coming up, Robin thought that a day of shopping would suit you. Both of you like to go to the stores just to try on clothes and to feel pretty for a couple of hours, before you put them all back on the rack. You’ll head down the street for a bite at the cafe, and then you’ll go home.

Today, Robin is really insistent that you buy a dress for your birthday party. You’re not so sure that the party will happen this year because your mom has made no mention of the day you were born all month. Traditionally, she begins the month of June by wishing you a “happy birthday month.” This year, however, has been quiet as a mouse.

When you do see your mother, she’s usually intoxicated by booze or by other means that you’ve suspected for a while now. She has a tendency to lock herself in her bedroom for hours at a time, and when she finally emerges, she will appear more exhausted than when she first went inside of her room. Her eyes have sunken. They’re redder than a ripened tomato. And, her skin is ghastly pale and she has gone gray in color. You miss the days she was young and she was full of bright life with a red lipstick smile. You’re lucky now if she even draws on her eyebrows evenly without smudges these days.

Enough thinking about her, you’ve decided. Robin and yourself have entered the first dress shop you see on the Main Street. It’s not so crowded, but it is still quite early - around ten thirty. A woman examines the stitching around the neckline of a shorter length dress. She blows air through her lips like a horse, before pointing her nose in a different direction. There is a man with broad shoulders in his thirties, hovering over a jewelry stand. Perhaps he is buying something for his wife. You do recall seeing a wedding band across his finger.

Robin links your arm with hers, which is something she usually will do. Together you will search through what feels like hundreds of fabrics. Some of them will be stretchy. Others will cling to your body.

You want something subtle in color, but you like the thought of a more modest appearance. Most of the options in front of you are far too dressy. Until, you come across the most beautiful dress with a skirt that would touch the middle of your calves. It’s pink. Your fingers melt at the touch of cotton.

“You have to try this dress on,” Robin watches your eyes sparkle.

Checking the price tag is a mistake because the cost is scary. You’ve never touched something with value over fifty bucks. This?!

You tuck the dress back into the rack, “No.”

“What?!” Robin exclaims. “Come on! It’s for your birthday!”

“That price?” You scoff. “Robin, I have to buy groceries.”

“You don’t have to buy it,” she coaxes and she nudges you to try on the dress. “Try it on!”

Robin hops up and down when you reach forward to land your hand on the dress in question. And, with her by your side, the two of you head to the dressing rooms. You want to ask her why she doesn’t join you today, but the words fall flat against the grain of your tongue.

When you get to the dressing rooms, you’re shocked to see Gareth Emerson amongst the skirts and the blouses hanging on the rack to be put back on the shelves. There’s a tiny waiting room where he sits. Another seat is empty for Robin to take her place, as she will wait impatiently for you to try on the dress.

You stop in your tracks feeling the blood rush to your cheeks. It’s as though someone has trapped you in the spot where you stand with the heaviest weights known to man. Gareth hasn’t seen you yet because he’s too busy brushing off some feathers that came from the dress hanging on his right. Sitting between his legs is a woman’s purse overflowing with all sorts of things. You wonder why he’s here today, rather than preparing for the boys to come over to practice in his mom’s garage. As you contemplate asking him that very question, your answer bursts through a door of the changing room.

“Gary!”

Gareth’s head whips at the sound of that terrible nickname being announced to the entire store. Heat rises to his face and settles in his cheeks. You’ve met his mom only in passing, but you’ve forgotten how enthusiastic she can be. It’s all in good fun . . . for her.

Alice Emerson is the type of mom to make sure everyone knows, who her kid is. To the other people in the room, she’s loving her son. While Gareth reeks of embarrassment.

You only wish your mom was more like her. But, that’s the luck of the draw.

As soon as Gareth looks up, he sees his mom trying on a bright blue blouse. This would be the third top she’s tried on. And, boy, do they all look the same. Gareth could never imagine getting this worked up over clothes. But, his mom really wanted that promotion from work. She’s got to look the part if she wants the job that bad.

“You look great, mom,” he tries to sound less bored.

The compliment falls flat.

“Just ‘great’?” She tugs at the loose fabric on the front of her blouse.

Robin pipes up behind you, before you shoot her that warning glare not too;

“I think you look beautiful,” she compliments, “you look like a flower.”

“A flower?” Gareth’s mom faces Robin with a thoughtful stare. She still picks at the loose fabric, then checks herself in the tall standing mirror that’s just beyond where Gareth sits.

Robin decides to follow her around.

Gareth’s gaze finally falls upon you, although it doesn’t last long because he stares curiously at the dress hooked between your fingers.

You answer, “it’s my birthday next week.”

“Oh, right,” like he would forget.

Even though he’s never invited, you throw a small get together each year. Your mom buys a cheap cake from the store with some candles and a lighter. Wayne, Eddie, Robin and your mom will all sing you happy birthday over the dining table after making you slap on a silly party hat.

Eddie would tell him why he couldn’t hang out the next day, and Gareth would be left with a recap. No, he’s not jealous by any means. It just sucks to not have Eddie around for practice.

Never mind.

“Big plans?” Gareth grinds his teeth. A dirty habit he must have picked up when he was younger. It’s just to distract him from the tight grip that someone has on his belly whenever he speaks to anyone.

You shrug, “actually, I’m not so sure. I’m waiting to see if my mom comes back from wherever she is.”

You don’t mean to dump your problems on Gareth, especially Gareth. Still, as you find yourself drawn away from Eddie - you find that Gareth has a place somewhere in your life. Even at school, he seems to find you more often than Eddie would.

Gareth’s face falls in the moment as if contemplating what you’ve said, and how to go about the next sentence. Your humor falls flat, but mostly because of the way your own face shakes when you joke about your mom ‘coming back.’

“Well,” he points to the dress in your hand. “Are you going to try it on?”

“Yes,” Robin answers for you, over her shoulder and while she’s busy with Gareth’s mom. As awkward as Robin could be sometimes, when she’s among the right crowd she could be very extroverted.

You don’t take a second look towards Gareth, but instead you find the first empty changing room and you shimmy inside. It’s quite small. There’s enough room for a hanger for the dress, and a bench for your clothes.

When you twist the handle to lock the door, the metal hook lays limp in your hand. It’s supposed to stiffen when locked, but someone has broken the handle.

“Hey, Robs?!” You call for back-up. “Robin?!”

Gareth clears his throat. “Robin went to get another shirt with my mom.”

“Oh,” you chew the side of your mouth. “The lock is broken in here. Er- could you hold it shut?”

There’s a bit of noise from the other side of the door. It sounds like shuffling. The door handle clinks, but it doesn’t twist.

“Okay, just tell me when you want out,” you can see Gareth’s shadow under the door.

Suddenly feeling a bit insecure, you have to tell yourself that Gareth can’t see through the closed door. That awkward shimmy out of your jeans would never catch his eye. Your ugly bra isn’t for him anyway. And, neither is the dress.

The way your curves are hugged like a babe wrapped in a blanket. There’s no hiding your growing figure in here. It’s soft as a blanket fresh from the wash. The color sits against your skin as to compliment you, and not to wash you out.

“Don’t laugh,” you love the dress, but you still imagine you do look a bit ridiculous in something as nice as this.

Gareth let’s go of the door handle, then takes a few steps back, “I won’t.”

After taking in a breath of bravery, you twist the door handle and you step out with your eyes on your socks. Time feels frozen. The air is thick. Your heart pumps blood through your body, yet all of your extremities have gone numb. You’re tortured in wait for Gareth to say anything, but he hardly has a response. Lifting your chin, you’re met with Gareth staring at you funny. You can’t read his expression, and so you race to the mirror behind him.

“Is it bad?” You run your hands across your hips. “Ugh, I told Robin this was a bad idea!”

Gareth comes into view behind you with that unreadable expression. Glossy eyes trail over your figure, then finally meet yours only in the middle. Maybe that’s why he could tell you;

“You’re beautiful.”

You turn ever so slightly, “really?”

Now, your heart works overtime. There’s a song and a dance inside your belly that you haven’t practiced yet. You don’t even know the words.

The dance ends abruptly with tears in your eyes as you wait for the encore that would never come. There isn’t enough time because Robin comes back with Gareth’s mother. She’s got another blouse to try on, and Robin’s swept you away in the process.

“You have got to buy this dress!” Robin insists.

You stare over your shoulder at what could have been, but Gareth must not have felt the earth rattle as you did. This places your heart back into your pocket in a safe tucked in space.

Wrestling yourself out of your daze, you blink a number of times at Robin until you catch a few words that spill from your lips like water.

“I- I can’t,” you fumble.

Robin misses the arrow in front of her nose, and insists once again, “oh, come on! You know your mom is going to throw you a party like she does every year. You deserve something special to wear!”

“I need groceries,” your decision is final. “Can you hold the door for me please? The lock is broken.”

Robin holds the lock on the changing room door this time, and you quickly change back into your day clothes. Without many words, you say goodbye to Gareth and his mother. You don’t see his gaze lingering as you leave.

A few doors down is an ice cream shop, and Robin offers to pay for you to get a treat. You’ve been a bit down since the dress shop, and perhaps she regrets insisting you try on the dress of your dreams when she knows you’re short for cash. If she could, she would buy the dress for you. It would be the best birthday gift.

Even your favorite ice cream couldn’t cheer you up. You swirl the chocolate around with your spoon until the ice cream becomes smooth like a milkshake. That’s the best way to eat ice cream. You take a scoop into your mouth, while Robin holds the door open for you to leave.

“It’s just a dress,” you mutter around the soft serve. “I’m sure I’ll find another someday.”

“Yeah,” Robin walks beside you. “In a few years, you’ll be the greatest journalist. You’ll be worth millions. You’re still buying me a mansion, right?”

You snort. “Let’s start by me getting discovered first, right?”

Robin laps around her vanilla cone as the ice cream drips onto her hand. You come in clutch with an extra napkin for her, just as your name is called from down the street.

Gareth catches up to you completely out of breath. In a moment, he holds out a dress box with a giant pink bow wrapped on top.

“Happy birthday,” he huffs.

Robin grabs hold of your ice cream before you drop the container to the floor. Your jaw would fall with it.

“Oh, my god,” Robin gawks.

You stumble over a few words, before you get too, “you did not.”

“I saved up some money from mowing my neighbors’ lawn,” he explains to you. “You really liked that dress.”

“Gareth-,”

“You’re welcome,” he stops you, before you dare tell him to take the dress back. Even if you told him too, he wouldn’t do it. You know that.

Tears well in your eyes. Maybe you’ve had a bad morning, or maybe the prospect of not getting a birthday at all has got you turning soft. You toss your arms over his shoulders.

“Hey!” his arms melt at your waist. “It’s okay.”

“Thank you,” your voice wobbles into his shoulder.

-> <-

[June 1983 . . . again]

tags -> @leelei1980 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @jesuisbuginette @starrywhitenight @meetmeatyourworst @munsonburn3r @5tud10-54r4h @pvdulmol

#eddie munson #stranger things #eddie munson x reader #stranger things imagine #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x you #eddie munson preference #stranger things fic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic

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powderblueblood · 9 months

Text

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc! as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER EIGHT — SEWN UP

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: you'd need a hacksaw to cut the tension between you and eddie, but that's not your weapon of choice this time around. a newspaper pitch, a patchwork girl and a tasteless prank all work together to make things ever more awkward between you and the boy you keep senselessly calling your friend. content warnings: MINORS DNI, THIS IS NOT SAFE FOR YOUR PURITAN EYES - reader is an ex-bitch on a journey of self-discovery through being an even more specific kind of bitch, angst in the form of an elizabeth munson mention, miscommunication, lacy engaging non-platonically with someone other than eddie, mention of lacy's surname and dad's name, REEFER RICK CAMEO, billy hargrove slander as per, violence, a humiliating prank, smut in the form of public hand stuff (f!receiving), me feeling insane about this chapter word count: 14.3k

Dear Mom,

She hasn’t got warm hands. She hasn’t got the kind of smile that draws people to her. She hasn’t got a kind word for everyone, no matter where they come from. She hasn’t got a lot of patience. She hasn’t got a fixed sense of herself–well, she does kinda. But, not totally. Not yet.

She’s not like you.

Other cheerleaders wore ponytails and they’d bounce. But when she wore a ponytail, it swung like a sword. She used to be cruel and exacting, but now she’s just exacting. She’s honest and observant to a degree that’s, like, almost psycho. She’s a cold front, but she laughs like a lightning strike. I feel like thunder, powerless to do anything but roll after her. Can’t help myself.

She knows what she wants, she thinks. Other days she doesn’t. I keep trying to tell her that’s okay, in ways where I don’t actually have to use the words. My words wouldn’t be as good as her words. Her words burn clean through me like a lit tip of a cigarette.

But she does have your book.

Y’know, I always thought it was kind of creepy the way some guys would try and look for their mom in other girls.

So this might be a good thing. Less Oedipus-y, more ea–…

Shit. I was gonna say something I’m so sure you’d smack me around the head for. But you’re not here to do that. I might be in better shape with this girl if you were.

Anyway. I miss you.

Eddie Munson stands in the midst of an incredibly awkward aftermath.

See, for two people so purportedly self-assured, he in his freakshow roguishness and you in your prim-perfect knife-edge sharpness, you’re both entirely dogshit at acknowledging… well… anything.

You both tried to snap back to normal so quickly, with Wheeler and her science experiment pregnancy scare smashing through the ice. But the water underneath that ice is still freezing cold– and you’re both pretending you’re not gasping for air, pretending like you don’t remember gasping for each other’s lips.

This is totally cool. This is totally fine.

And then Eddie comes to see you at The Bookstore, which has become just as routine as nearly never brushing his hair, and sees you fixing your seller’s tag to your pick of the week. Your face in that arresting, self-conscious smile that he wants to melt off with the blowtorch of his mouth.

It’s The Patchwork Girl of Oz by L. Frank Baum.

Now, he noticed that you would habitually drop writers’ names into conversation like they were your lit professors– Didion said this, Bukowski said that, Bronte yadda, Burroughs yadda. Always some genius-adjacent, formative-thinking, socio-politico-boffo brainwad, more often than not with a substance abuse kick that you romanticized from a safe distance.

But then you unearth this book, a green clothback cover yellowing with age and roughness, red and yellow inlaid titling blasting out a name he ought to know. It makes his visual memory brrrrrrring! like a bright red tomato shaped kitchen timer.

The Patchwork Girl of Oz was with Elizabeth Munson wherever she went. Her records were her plane tickets, her escape to another world, but you couldn’t take your records with you to the hospital. Escaping to Oz was a decent substitute. She must have read it a bajillion times; she even took to calling Wayne Unc Nunkie after the elderly munchkin who only ever had one word for anybody. And whenever Eddie would drop an egg when they were baking or come running through the house with his knees all cut up, she’d coo, “Oh, my li’l Ojo the Unlucky!”

The book lingered everywhere– on the kitchen counter of the house on Pennsylvania,on the vinyl seat of the booth at the now-shuttered Benny’s when she could afford to take Eddie for a treat, on her bedside table.

Up until the end.

It knocks the wind out of Eddie when he sees it on the display shelf. He does a bad job of hiding that.

“What, too shocked to make fun of me?” you say, perching yourself on the rickety stool behind the counter, and your voice betrays a little embarrassment. “That’s a first.”

“I–... huh?” He tears his eyes away from the book long enough to catch the specks of blush high on your cheeks.

“It’s not my usual flavor, I know, but I’m capable of whimsy too.”

“Why that one?” His limbs feel stony like Unc Nunkie’s, as much as he wants to languidly lean over the counter and bother you like he always does.

You shrug, but you tilt the opposite shoulder. A reverse, a peek behind the looking glass. He notices that about you, which goddamn shoulder is your shrugging preference.

“I think it was one of the first books I kept checking out of the library when I was little,” you say, glancing back at the display, “It’s about this poor little kid who has to find a way to reverse a spell on his uncle who’s been turned to stone, and the eponymous patchwork girl is–”

“I know the story.” It comes out a little blunter than Eddie was intending it to. So much so that it knocks you back a beat.

“Oh,” you say shortly, eyes flaring down at the counter. “No need to cut me off mid-stream about it.”

Eddie winces, knowing he’s coming across as weird and stilted but with no idea how to safely climb down. “No, just– I know the story, yeah. My mom…” That is not a safe dismount, dummy! “...she… liked it a lot.”

“Yeah?” your tone stays even, yanked back from him a little. He wants to be like, sorrysorrysorry. “She ever read it to you?”

“A bunch, actually.”

“No shit.” The corners of your mouth tick up. “Wanna hear something super dorky?”

Just the mere invitation of your little smile loosens him up a bit. Eddie twists a ring around his finger, head kicking to his shoulder as his foot kicks to the counter. “Always,” he says, squinting.

You straighten your spine up on your stool and clear your throat. Hand goes over your heart, like you’re about to recite the damn declaration. Your eyes shutter closed.

“Here’s a job for a boy of brains– a drop of oil from a live man’s veins; a six-leaved clover; three nice hairs, from a Woozy’s tail, the book declares; are needed for a magic spell, and water from a pitch-dark well– the yellow wing from a butterfly to find must Ojo also try; and if he gets them without harm, Doc Pipt will make the magic charm; but if he doesn’t get ‘em, Unc…” your crack one eye open. “...will always stand a marble chunk.”

Eddie is silent for… for a while. For a good handful of heartbeats, for a beat so long that makes you knit your brow up, your eyes needling into him. Eddie’s looking at you with rose-colored soft focus. His elbows are eagerly pitched on the counter now, chin in his hands. The last person to recite those words to him was his mom, her voice raspy and tired but still willing to read to him. She hadn’t smelled like herself. It was sad.

And now, your voice, with all its snippy chainmail thrown off, gone all soft and lyrical and dedicated.

He thinks about a littler you, one he could vaguely pick out of a lineup if he really, really tried, criss-cross applesauce and pouring over that book so often that that little spell jams itself into your brain.

The mage before she donned the mink coat.

Eddie is looking at you and can’t force his heart out of his throat.

Well, until he can.

“Ew,” he cringes.

“What?!” you exclaim, your eyes getting all incredulous and kind of mad.

“And they call me a fuckin’ nerd, what the hell was that?” Eddie’s laughing, mocking, not with his whole heart. But it’s enough to make you scoff, irritated with him again.

See, you thought you were being cute and he knows you thought you were being cute. He needs to put you back in a place where you’re marginally unlikeable enough to just be a friend.

Restore the natural order. Don’t think about how he wants to recite that same verse back to you in front of an ordained Elvis in Vegas. Because he would, in a heartbeat. If he wasn’t committed to not being stupid.

Christ, you’re pretty. Christ, he’s gonna do something stupid.

“You are… completely undateable, you know that?” he nods ferociously, eyes trailing you as you cross out from behind the counter and head for a box of books that need to be shelved. All uh-huhs and sure, Eddies. The bell on the front door jangles and a customer passes behind him.

He yells after you, voice traveling down whatever winding path you’ve taken through the stacks. “You with your black and white movies and your twat rock and your Wizard of Oz… baby, what crowd are you even playing to?”

“What crowd am I playing to? What crowd are you playing to?!” you seethe, shuffling the ten-tonne box of books down the aisle with your feet. “Fucking baggie-pushing, guitar-brutalizing, board-game-...maker-...upper!”

“Woah. Wit’s unmatched as usual, Lace.”

This fucking guy. This fucking guy. You try and do one darling little thing, you just recite a little piece of a book his dead mom used to read to him or whatever, and you get verbally bashed! God forbid, god forbid you let the fucking drawbridge down for half a second! This blows!

You’re trying to be less of a bitch, in case you idiots didn’t notice!

It’s kind of inexplicable, how sensitive you’re feeling about this. Could be that since you kissed and since you pinkie-swore with Nancy Wheeler in the bombed-out boys bathroom, you kind of felt as if you were standing on a blade’s edge with Eddie. Not knowing where to put your hands, not knowing how much or how little to joke around. Not entirely happy with your moment of madness at the Ecker trailer. Not entirely happy that it hadn’t happened again.

But you’re not about to apologize. Not to him. Don Rickles in a battle vest over there. Must he always just poke you like that?!

“You’re undateable!” You shove a bunch of books aside on the shelf. “Me, I’m cu–...”

Right through the shelf, a customer stares at you. Your voice dies in your throat because, unfortunately, he’s looking right at you in your flurry of annoyance toward Eddie. And unfortunately, this stranger, he’s a little…

“What were you gonna say?” he asks, closing Gravity’s Rainbow.

“Cute.”

Guy smiles, doesn’t break eye contact with you for a second. He’s wearing a sweater. He looks fresh out of somewhere stone walled with crawling ivy. “I’d attest to that.”

You forget about Eddie– just for a second. Gesturing to Gravity’s Rainbow, you say, “Gonna attempt to finish that?”

“What’s that mean?” His grin is infectious, or maybe you’re just starved for this kind of attention.

“Nothing,” you say, with a little more tongue than you need to, “Just, I don’t know of anyone that’s ever finished that behemoth.”

Well, you don’t know of a lot of people that read the way you do either. But, digression. He raps a knuckle against the cover of the book and for some reason, you feel it in your belly.

“I always finish,” he tells you.

“Do you now?”

That’s the longest you’ve been quiet in a hot minute, and that’s the kind of thing that gets under Eddie’s skin. Chain on his jeans jangling, he starts off into the creaking labyrinth of lined-up bookcases.

“What, did you expire back here or something…” he mutters, a little whine in his tone– play with me, play with me, even though I’m being kind of a dick to you–

He sees you, a book lying lax in your arms, your body swaying to and fro and you’re–

“--talkin’ to yourself, Lacy? Great look. Real honeytrap, if you’re lookin’ to catch some imaginary di–”

“Eddie,” you grit at him, and he spots the whole other human male you’re talking to through the stacks. Well, not just talking to. Not with that body language.

This dude tilts his chin to Eddie. “Hey, man. I remember you. Didn’t you used to sell dimebags in the woods outside school?”

Fire flares in Eddie’s gut. He vaguely recognizes this guy– class of ‘83 or ‘82, not remarkable enough to be hateable but now, he’s certainly collegiate looking enough to be… distracting to you. So, annoying to him.

“Why, man? You lookin’ to buy? Or just cruise some high schooler tail?”

“Eddie!” you hiss again and he scoffs like, really?! You turn back to this… whoever the fuck. “C’mon, I’ll check you out.”

“You’ll check him out, huh?” Eddie sneers, bearing over you as you pass him in the aisle. Body heat breezing right by, face a mask of sheer disgust. Impulse talks; it totally wants to just grab you and throw you behind him and– well, he hasn’t thought that far ahead yet. But he’s creative. Who the fuck even is this guy? Where did he come from?

“That you?” this guy says, jerking his head toward the staff display, toward The Patchwork Girl of Oz. “Lacy?”

“To my friends and co-conspirators,” you say, ringing up that godawful Pynchon book.

“Which one was that guy?” he asks, watching you jot out his receipt on the carbon copy pad because for whatever reason, Ivana’s cash register is from the fucking 1800s and she refuses to upgrade to anything with a thermal printer. “Friend? Co-conspirator? … boyfriend?”

You wrinkle your nose. And don’t exactly answer, but it’s enough confirmation for him.

“Good. Say, why don’t you jot down your number on this thing?” He pushes the receipt back to you. “I can keep you updated on my Pynchon progress. You can… see if I’m good enough to co-conspire with.”

You like this approach. In fact, you love this approach, because you hadn’t been earnestly picked up in… forever. And he has this certain je ne sais quoi about him, something that screams moved out of state for college. You stay grinning, biting your lip for a good breath or two after he leaves the store.

Then Eddie appears in your peripheral, like some terrible harbinger of embarrassment.

“Undateable, huh?” you say, fully aware that he was earwigging on that whole exchange because he’s a nosy bitch and he can’t help himself. Glutton for gossip.

“You don’t have to throw yourself at the first person who walks in the store just to prove a point, baby,” Eddie tells you, this big face of condescension. You want to smack it off him so bad your palms are itching.

You huff and backtrack to where that box of unshelved books sits. “Maybe I’m tired of waiting around.”

—

Ronnie Ecker and Robin Buckley are looking each other in the eye, wolf-whistling furtively when you elbow open the door of the gym.

“You’re flat. I’m telling you you’re flat,” Ronnie’s insisting, an adorable three inches away from Robin’s face.

“I can’t be flat! A mouth whistle cannot be flat!”

It’s marching band practice. You don’t know what the hell goes on in here and you know better than to ask.

“Would you two get a room already?” you call, heels clicking across the glossed wood of the gym. These dorks have all got their feathered hats and bibs on, a kind of half-assed dress rehearsal for some pep rally they’re having on Friday. You missed the bulletin– kind of stopped paying attention, actually. Extracurricular distraction is a hell of a drug.

“Excuse me, this is a closed–” that’s the voice of Miss Genovese, the band teacher, stomping down from the bleachers in these tragic little loafers with the pleather peeling off. She makes it about halfway toward you, then this exasperated look washes right over her. The teacher dashes for the double doors and you point after her with a freshly painted red index finger. New lease on looking good.

“And that is?”

“Like, the third time in the last hour,” Ronnie shakes her head, taking her flamboyant little hat off. “Biggest running theory is morning sickness.”

What, is pregnancy like, catching or something? you’re about to muse.

“It’s almost contagious, right?” Robin says, tugging at her clip-on collar, “I mean, first your whole thing and now–”

Ronnie doesn't even have a chance to gesture for her to ixnay! before she slams pause on herself, eyes wide and all shit, did I say that out loud?! Your eyes narrow in return. That’s suspicious.

“What whole thing? My whole what?”

Ever and eternally knowing when to call it, Ronnie holds a hand up before Robin can even start to scramble an apology and serve it to you. Panther versus a precious little puppy dog– the fight ain’t even fair.

“Nothing. Scuttlebutt bullshit, the usual,” she rolls her eyes, throws a sympathetic glance to Robin who winces and retreats. Huh.

“What’s going on with you two?” you ask, crossing your legs over the bottom rung of the bleachers.

This actually makes Ronnie’s expression soften a little– her eyes race back in Robin’s direction and you swear you catch a blush. “Also nothing! Compound nothing. Why, does it look like…”

Lips purse into a little satisfied grin. Knew it. Toldja. Point to Lacy. “Looks like whatever you want it to look like.”

Ronnie reaches forward and waves her feathered hat in your face– stop being so observant! You cough in protest– ew, I don’t know where that thing has been!

“Whatever! What brings you to geek church?”

“That’s what they’re calling it now?”

“Stick around, we’ll start speaking in tongues.”

“Satanic Panic bringing about a fun new turn for the pep rally! Put some God back into that wind instrument,” you croon. “No, I actually wanted your thoughts on something.”

Ronnie raises her eyebrows and you feel like you oughta mirror her. You’re not usually one to seek out a second opinion, but the more you’ve gotten to know Ronnie, the more you see that she’ll tell you how it is. Especially now that you’ve dispersed with the whole intimidating it-girl cloud and she’s stopped pretending to be shy.

“I know. I’m shocked too.”

“I’m honored,” she swings her shoulders in girlish delight, “Dish it up, Doevski.”

“Okay, so,” you clap, hiking forward on your creaking bleacher, “I’ve been seeing this guy–”

“--this is the bookstore guy?”

A blink and a beat. “How’d you know about that?”

A face that has Eddie told me with footnotes of and he was kind of jealous scrawled all over it stares back at you. “I ‘unno, maybe I overheard…”

“Doesn’t matter.” You slice a hand through the air, no time for this right now. “Facts are facts, I’ve been hanging out with this guy,” interesting change of phraseology, considering, “and he’s a college guy–”

“If they could see you now.” The royal court of Hawkins, obviously. Older guys are generally an accomplishment. But Ronnie’s half-jesting.

“--I know, shut up. But, he mentioned something that would absolutely rock my college applications is a really, really great–”

“--feature in the Streak?” you’d gasped out in the back of his Ford Cortina (how very European!). College guy’s mouth was on your neck and his hand was inching into your shirt, playing at a faux placket of pearl buttons. Boys can never tell a real button from a fake one, apparently, even if they go to an East Coast school. I mean, shit! You’d gleaned enough information from him over a shake at the diner; relatively well-to-do family that lived near the Wheelers on Maple and kind of underwhelming taste in lit for an English major.

But he maintained eye contact and listened to your witty little bon mots, even if he didn’t… laugh at them. One thing led to another and thus, the backseat college advisory-slash-makeout session.

“Yeah, yeah, they love that shit…” he’d said, moving to your mouth in order to swallow any forthcoming words. But his words had piqued your interest more than his fingers had.

“What about an underdog story?” you said, eyes kind of hazing over in the middle distance.

“Sure, underdog, great…” college guy grabbed ahold of your leg and tugged you into him, “We can talk more about it later, okay?”

“Okay–”

“–okay?”

Ronnie grimaces. “I didn’t need that much detail.”

“Yes, you did.” You stare at her. “I’m a storyteller.”

Ronnie chews the proposal over a little, cheeks kind of bunched up in confusion. Behind her, band geeks badly hide their hickeys and exhibit too-gangly, too-obvious body language. No inspiration to be tapped from there.

“An underdog story… on the society pages? Like, who could you possibly–”

You smile that awful, conniving smile, because you came in here armed. “Ye of little faith.”

“Oh, no,” Ronnie says, and honestly, you’re a little taken aback by that reaction, “Hellfire?”

A shrug pulls your shoulders right up, rapidly on the defense. “Why not, right?”

“Why not– Lacy, you almost guillotined Jeff that one time he asked you.”

True that you hadn’t had the inches of article to spare for Hellfire Club in not-too-ancient history, but, “That was then, this is now! World’s changing– and it’s topical!”

The whole Satanic panic thing really did tickle your funny bone; and you saw yourself having a little fun with that by turning the focus on Hellfire. Subverting Eddie’s cult-leader mythos to show that he is just a kid who might have a propensity for telling a good story, surrounded by other kids who want to get a word in. You’re not looking to turn the tide on his reputation or anything but maybe… y’know. You could do the admirable journalistic thing and scratch the surface a bit. Show what you’ve learned.

It’s a challenge. You love a challenge.

“And it’s a good excuse to get in Eddie’s face,” Ronnie’s voice breaks through.

There is a lonnng beat, one you hold like the last shoes in your size at a sample sale. Your mouth keeps going to make the words yeah, right or it’s not about him! or y’know, something to exonerate you from the notion.

“I know he isn’t…” Ronnie trails off, coming to sit next to you. “that he’s kind of being weird to you right now.”

Go ahead and feign that ignoramus, girl. Shoulders quirking and all.

“Oh. Is he?”

And then Ronnie says maybe the dumbest thing on the planet, regarding the abominable sitch between you and Eddie Munson.

“You should just talk to him.”

“Ecker, there’s fruitless efforts and then there’s barren wasteland,” you scoff, “Guess which category proposing this to Eddie falls into.”

“That’s not what I–”

J’excuse, Ronnie, but you don’t care! Because this isn’t actually about anything other than getting all of those dice-throwing dorks, including Miss Ecker herself, into your damn paper. Okay?

“We have to ambush him! Element of surprise, that’s it,” you smile primly and hop off the bleachers. “I’m just going to show up at Hellfire, photographer in hand and– he won’t have a choice, will he?”

Ronnie’s expression is a mask of reproachfulness. You don’t let it shake you. You’re a cat playing with a now-endless ball of yarn, and you’re unshakeable.

“He’s such a sucker for attention,” you say, tossing your hair, and it sounds a lot more like you’re convincing yourself than anyone else in this echoey gym, “He won’t be able to resist.”

—

Reefer Rick doesn’t call, unless it’s an emergency. All of his communication is inbound, or passed through a shoulder check and a goofy smile at Melvald’s, or a nod of the head across the pool table at The Hideout. He doesn’t frequent there so much, because Bev knows he’s a pool shark and ever since ‘Nam, his ears are a little too sensitive to all that metal racket, man! By all means, rock on, but by then I gotta go rock-a-bye myself to sleep, alright? Anyway, that’s how Eddie knows to ride over to his place, if it’s not through a call he’s placed himself.

You need me, kid, you come and find me.

So when Eddie gets a call that says, “We gotta pow-wow, ese,” his nerves are set on edge. Not that he wasn’t feeling bad enough, what with the fact that some douchebag in a Cortina had picked you up and dropped you off to school the last couple of days. What with the fact he had actively dogged the car down a little bit of the road from the trailer park with his van, resisting every temptation to just run it all the way off into a ditch. And what with the fact he didn’t know what to say to you about that without it coming out in an anti-missive of jealousy! jealousy! jealousy! so what he did say to you was… nothing.

You two can’t maintain a consistent line of communication to save your lives, he realizes. There’s too much left unsaid, and the both of you are too stubborn or too scared to say any of it. Or even think it, in his case! The amount of times he’d had to slap himself sober, his brain going into overdrive thinking, if I had just told her… It’s a ‘friendship’, if you can even call it that, based on barbs and bad behavior and doing things because you know you shouldn’t. For the thrill. Right?

Like. Whatever. It’s not like he’d made tapes of a half dozen Black Sabbath albums because you mentioned you wanted to ‘study up’ on that ‘monster music’ he’s making. It’s not like you’d given him an annotated copy of Still Life with Woodpecker because he wanted to throw some ‘nonsensical curveball shit’ into a later Hellfire campaign.

It’s not like Eddie missed you– he just… should have seen this coming, is all. He’s used to getting left in the dust while people move onto better things, or whatever.

God, Munson, your voice taunts him from somewhere in his hippocampus, need some help nailing yourself to that crucifix?

Anyway, fuck, Rick called him.

Rick had gotten out of lockup about a month ago– some truncated charge or another that Eddie didn’t bother asking too much about, mostly because… well, Rick hadn’t really been himself. Larger and brighter than the sun itself, the great and powerful lion of a man that oozed life ain’t shit if you ain’t havin’ fun energy, Rick had kind of dimmed. Lost a lot of weight while he was inside. Came back a little bit twitchy and fluent in Spanglish, for some reason.

Eddie was worried, because of all the adult figures in his life, Rick was meant to be the one with levity. He’d lost out on a fun uncle when Wayne stepped into his father-figure role. Al was nothing but a dangerous bit player. Rick, he could rely on.

Thinking back to that infamous day when he had gotten loaded at Lipton Landing, before he picked up you and Ronnie, before he… well, you know the rest but, Eddie had sensed that Rick could use the company. He kind of tried to poke it out of him, whatever was wrong. Didn’t work. They had just watched The Godfather in a tense-ish silence and doofed a lot of joints. Sorta freaked him out.

Eddie’s crushing gravel on the descent to the infamously slanted Lipton Landing for his summons. There’s a hum that seems to traverse the window panes, a fond plucking work that could only belong to Link Wray. He puts the van in park and jogs up the steps to the front door, bracing himself for the pungent plume of skunk smoke that always greets him.

“Eduardo,” Rick’s voice curls around the greeting like smoke curls out of his mouth and he yanks Eddie over the threshold. Door slams, arm tightens around his shoulders. “You’re here.”

Rick’s always a handsy sorta guy–not like that!–but this grab makes him seize a little.

“You rang,” Eddie says, voice lilting, “Everything okay?”

Rick clutches him by the shoulders and looks at him for a long, long time. Uncomfortably long. How has he managed to puff on that joint for this long without choking long.

“No.”

And Rick begins a shuffle toward the kitchen. Eddie follows in an awkward half-step, headache threatening to bloom someplace in the back of his skull because he does not know how much more of this vagueness he can take!

“Does it have anything to do with why you called me down here? Because, shit, I would love to get a straight answer out of someone for once!” A mirthless chuckle follows, trying to soften his desperation.

A flick of the refrigerator door and Rick places two beers on his kitchen counter, hands bracing against the surface. “Then let’s sit crooked and talk straight. It’s about your…”

Hss. Eddie takes a notoriously mis-timed sip.

“...neighbor girl.”

Ffflp– Eddie wishes, just one day of his goddamned life, he could act cool at the mention of you. Even the suggestion of the mention of you. But no, he’s got PBR streaming from his nose like a moron and a look on his face that says uh-oh, spaghettio!

“That’s what I was afraid of,” says Rick, taking a knowingly smooth drink from his beer.

With the heel of his hand, Eddie wipes away his spluttering mess and fumbles around for a crumb of nonchalance.

“I don’t know–”

“Eddie,” Rick levels. God, Eddie hates it when adults are adults, and Rick hates having to act the adult even more.

His shoulders drop. “What about her?”

“Well, when I was in the pen–local, I’ll have you know–I got approached by a very interesting man with a proposition I was powerless to refuse.”

With some trepidation, Eddie mumbles, “Oh, yeah?”

“Someone– well, let’s say me and this someone have a friend in common…”

“Rick–” Eddie’s attempting the leveling thing, but he’s not as good at it as Rick is. Or as you are, for that matter. And you’re who he’s attempting to imitate here, even if he won’t admit it.

“--a certain mutual business partner, if you will–”

“Rick.” Eddie tries to punch through the tension with the big man’s name. “It was Lacy’s dad. Right? You can just say it was her dad.”

Rick’s brow sinks into a wrinkle. “...Lacy? The fuck kind of a dumb name is that?”

“It’s a nickname.” Why does Eddie feel defensive.

“The fuck kind of a dumb nickname is that?”

“They call you Reefer Rick.”

“That is a calculated business decision, a calling card if you w–”

“Rick. Can we close in on the point, here?” Ooh! Seems to actually work this time, much to Eddie’s relief. “I only got so many if you wills left in me.”

“Si, pronto,” Rick nods with apologetic understanding; he’s such an empath, this guy, “Long and short of it is, her pops offered me a little bit of cash and some assistance, iffin’ I promised to keep an eye on her.”

“Assistance…?” Eddie murmured out of the side of his mouth. It’s all in the way Rick says it! “Like…” Hand a loose fist. Jerky-jerk.

“Eddie,” Rick chides, “Assistance gettin’ out. In prison, that is just called bein’ sociable. –anyway, I have this conflict of interest, with the whole surveillance thing.”

“And what is that?”

“You.” The way Rick drops it is obviously meant to cause some kinda ripple effect of realization, but Eddie’s still confused.

“So you… didn’t take the money?”

“Huh?” Now Rick’s all confused. “Of course I took the fuckin’ money! What kind of a chump do I look like, man? What I’m getting at is, I knew that rattin’ on her also meant rattin’ on you.”

“Wh– why would it…”

“I got eyes everywhere, man. Dig? I’ve seen what’s been happening.”

Eddie’s heart leaps into his larynx. Eyes everywhere. And the truth was, you two had been stupid enough to be a lot of everywhere, thinking your respective trailers were the only hot zones. The Bookstore, the Hawk, Main Street Vinyl, Family Video, the diner, you name a Hawkins establishment and it has probably seen Eddie Munson and Lacy Doevski good-naturedly bickering in its aisles.

He wonders if Rick even had eyes in the Ecker trailer. Ronnie could be a Lipton informant. That girl can hold a secret about as well as Wayne Munson can hold his liquor, which is gracefully.

“Nothing’s been happening, we’re just–”

“Eddie.” Like a bulldozer, this guy. “I know Ivana pretty well. You ain’t hangin’ around that bookstore for the good of your health.”

“So what, you’re gonna–,” Eddie can feel himself starting to scramble, starting to sweat, backed into a corner like a hunted animal, “...tell her dad that we went to the movies a couple of times? That I go to her job, that I– that we’re–”

“What are you?” The way Rick puts it to him– rock, meet hard place. Should this really feel like such a tough question to answer?

“Friends.”

Rick draws up to his full height (tall, mountain man) and looks at him like he just shoved a cream pie into his face.

“It doesn’t matter, okay!” Eddie froths over, like a snapping dog, “We’re barely hanging out– anymore– so you can… you’re not gonna tell him anything, are you?”

Rick’s hands slowly, slowly rise, urging him to calm the yapping. No need to get into such a tizzy. Which Eddie wishes he could believe.

“‘course not, man,” he shakes his head, “Ray Doevski only needs to know what Ray Doevski absolutely needs to know.” Eddie can feel a little more weight behind that sentence than he’d like. “No reason you need to figure into this story.”

“That– that’s it? You’re not gonna tell him about u– about me?”

“You’re in enough of a shitheap as it is, is how I see it.” A beat. Rick takes him in; really takes him in. Feels like an embrace, his stare. Concern uncrinkles the ever-present smile in Rick’s eyes.

“Eddie, you care about this girl?”

Eddie’s mouth attempts to form around an answer, but he’s just blinking into nothing. Does he care about you? Does he care about you? He wants, needs to say no, to pfft you off, but every molecule is screaming otherwise. And Rick can sense it, operating on the extraterrestrial level that he does.

“Then I’m real sorry.”

“For what?”

As if on cue, car wheels on gravel shuck Rick’s attention away from him. His eyeballs jitter in his head, heading for the door– Eddie close behind him. “Sorry for what, Rick–?!”

“Little bit for that, little bit for… this.”

Standing in the window of Rick’s living room, these two watch an offensively red muscle car skew into the driveway, making a mockery of Eddie’s beat up van. The driver’s door pops open and the first thing Eddie clocks is a blinding glint off some brand new aviator sunglasses.

The second is that trademark Munson smile.

—

“This is exciting!” Nancy Wheeler says, kind of flatly but with a conviction buried deep under her curled bangs.

On the table sits two piles of playing cards, one steadily growing and one steadily decreasing.

You two had taken to playing gin rummy when staring at paper layouts became a little too much. Technically, she actually had a say in layout and you were just nosy, but it’s a decent excuse to hang out. Though, both you and Nancy had this incredible tendency to hyperfocus on detail so hard that neither of you could pull the other out far enough to look at the big picture, so one day she tossed a deck of cards your way and said, “Deal!”

“I know,” you say, trying to focus on these melds of suits you’re making– that discard pile is looking poor, “Fresh turn for me, y’know? Less fluffy, more Didion.”

Nancy snorts softly, swapping out a card from her hand. “Who does that make Eddie? Charlie? Or Linda Kasabian?”

A smile dances across your lips and you shrug, reaching for a cigarette before you go for another card. Usually, smoking in the newsroom was prohibited, as it was prohibited on most of Hawkins High grounds, but whenever that deck came out, you felt it was appropriate for at least one of you to be smoking. Gave a kind of Torchy Blane feel to the whole scenario which fit you and Wheeler pret-ty keenly, if you did say so yourself.

“That’s not what I was talking about, though,” Nancy says, poking Fred Benson’s empty mug toward you to use as an ashtray.

Your eyes narrow; this could be a play to distract you from a winning hand.

“It’s not?”

“No…” she puffs out another soft scoff, meeting your eyes over her fan of cards, “I mean the college guy.”

“Why is it exciting?” and you do want to know why Nancy thinks so. She’s a mile wiser beyond her years, even precocious enough to keep in step with you most of the time. You’d like her take.

“Well, it’s what you wanted, right?” she tells you, watching you puff your cigarette and dig into the stock pile. “Somebody older, decidedly not a grabby high school boy– but someone with more experience, both with girls and with being outside of Hawkins. And the fact he goes to Vassar means–”

“He probably eats kitty like a maniac.”

Nancy lets out this full-bodied Merlot of a laugh, only a little color dashing over her cheeks. She’s gotten used to you being provocative on purpose because it gets a laugh out of her. So far grown out of the prude shoes you were sure she was still sporting. You’re proud of her.

“Not exactly what I was getting at but– more sensitive to the female perspective, sure.” But then she registers what you forgot you’d even dropped. “Hold on, probably? You mean you haven’t–...”

You shrug. It’s a little withdrawn on your part.

“Oh,” Nancy says, and seems to be leaning a degree or two towards unsurprised. That ruffles your feathers a little bit. Again, with the frigid thing. You couldn’t shake it.

“No,” you emphasize, shucking your pitiful melds back again. “It's not as if we haven't–done things. I've copped a handful. Time is of the essence, and I take, y'know, a little more time to get there.”

“So no return on investment...?”

"Not... yet."

Nancy almost tosses her cards at you, the way she jabs them through the air. “You? You, the one who’s been preaching Betty Friedman to me, you haven't been getting–”

“Yes, me! Did you not hear me about time and the essence?”

“I know, it’s just– a little surprising.”

There have been exactly three instances of almost you tying your panties to the rearview mirror of college boy’s Ford Cortina, so to speak, and you’ve come out of each one with this desperate echo of oh well! Maybe next time! careening around your skull. Like you’re trying to convince yourself that by virtue of him not being in your grade, this has been a worthwhile way to spend your time. And listen, no misunderstandings here, it has! At least, part of it. It usually starts like this– the two of you grab some shitty diner coffee or some shitty diner food and then he takes you around in his car for a turn or two, admiring that famous Hawkins scenery (see: shuttered businesses and if you’re really lucky, that one mangy fox that feasts on the overflowing trash can near the Big Buy). You talk (you mostly talk) books and movies and say something that should be a hook of conversation but usually ends up with him screwing his face up in amusement and saying something along the lines of, “God, you’re so beyond this place.”

Which, duh. You’ve been saying this. This is the raft upon which your whole identity floats.

The exchange dies in the air and he puts his hand on your leg and that is just… wonderful. He’s a solid B on the kissing GPA, and he’s cute and sort of funny, even if he doesn’t rally back jokes the way you’d… sort of gotten used to. Sometimes he makes a halfway-interesting observation about like, Philip Roth or somebody. But when it comes down to the minute of it, it still feels like going through the motions. Fumble bra strap, catch nail on his zipper, crank back passenger seat to climb in the back. Hey presto, you’ve distractedly jerked off a boy once again.

You are not entirely sold on the fit of his hands on your body, even if he doesn’t look at you like he’s just solved a Rubik’s cube.

In fact, he kind of looks at you like you’re precious. Virginal precious. Innocent precious. Which you’re not totally sold on either.

Nothing about him that makes you fantasize about what his mouth might feel like on you. What your fingers might feel like wound around his curls. His hair doesn’t even curl. There’s just nothing about him that calls for your full attention.

“Think there might be a reason for that?” Nancy, your annoyingly perceptive Nancy, presses. Goddamn intrepid girl reporter. She hasn’t stopped staring at you with that smug little look. You haven’t answered the question. “And it might be… living across the way from you?”

“Tch. What?” you snip. “I’m… having fun. What?”

“Nothing,” she smiles. “Just… gin.”

She lays out her dazzling melds, complete with a measly goddamned three in deadwood cards and you toss your own bullshit hand to the side. A dumb amount of spades that add up to nothing scatter across the desk. An accusatory finger jams in her direction.

“You are a fucking card shark.”

“Nope!” Nancy says, popping her ‘p’, “I just know a really great set when I see one.”

Reaching into Fred’s mug, you crush your cigarette with a little too much force. Now, how would Nancy have a read on that? you think, oblivious to your own obviousness. (Like a neon sign. Like a circus tent.)

You hadn’t even reminded her of the catastrophic events of her thirteenth birthday which led to a whole lot of this awkwardness, which, now that you thought about it, actually implicated her in the crime of you kissing Eddie Munson ‘til you were breathless in Granny Ecker’s closet.

If you hadn’t been born and had a birthday, I wouldn’t be in a spiral over some boy with a curl pattern like a fucking backwoods libertine.

“You’re not clever,” you tell her, but she’s looking at you all cleverly, “Like. You’re clever, but I need you to know that you’re not clever.”

With flicking fingernails, Nancy picks up your discarded cards and folds them neatly back in the deck.

“I’m just saying,” and the tone she takes is a little gentler now, “don’t… let yourself miss out on something just because, I don’t know, the thing you’re currently having fun with is what you think you want. What you feel you want and what you think you want are two very different–”

“This isn’t entirely about me, is it?” you realize, defenses peeling down a little bit. The Nancy and Steve of it all had been looming since your (admittedly triumphant!) visit to the war memorial that was the boy’s bathroom. Still no sign of that place getting fixed, by the by. And ever still, Nancy hadn’t told Steve about their little mission. Many a reason for that, you were led to believe. Not a lot she wanted to dissect, though.

Nancy’s face scrunches up and she stops packing the cards.

“No. But let’s pretend like it is.”

A groan escapes you as you sink back into your chair, a twinge of pain running along your shoulders.

“Nance. This is all so much more complicated than you realize.”

“Try me.”

You toss a hand through your hair, slapping your palm down on the desk.

“Fine. But if I tell you this–”

A hand rises out between the two of you– yours, pinkie extended.

“Not a word,” you press.

Nancy clamps her finger around yours in a way that enforces how super-serious she is about this. The reason your usual reserve doesn’t hold up under that x-ray stare of hers is because you can tell she actually gives a shit. She’s not looking for gossip. She cares. Which is still an entirely alien feeling to you.

So the whole thing spills out. Steve’s party, the record store, getting locked up in Eddie’s trailer and getting locked up in feelings, Roane County Quarry’s incredible acoustics, the friendship that made you fold all the neatly arranged origami parts of yourself out toward him only to realize you had no idea how to fold them back. The kiss. The subsequent awkwardness of said kiss. The college guy. The relative radio silence. The fact that…

“...I don’t feel like myself when he’s not around,” you say, lighting a fourth cigarette off your third. “Isn’t that silly? I spent all this time painting this like, fabulous eggshell of myself then this wild-eyed, smart-mouthed, catastrophic ass smashes it clean open and now–”

“All the college boys couldn’t put you together again,” Nancy nods. “You’re a very beautiful Humpty Dumpty.”

“... does Humpty Dumpty die in the end?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be teaching it to kids.”

“No. They should know. The fall comes for us all.”

There’s a suspended silence. You get this feeling like you’ve emptied your purse on the table and you still can’t find that thing you’re looking for, despite sifting through everything.

“How does that even happen?” you question, biting at the skin on your little finger. Not Humpty Dumpty, the Eddie thing. It comes out idle, but you pray that Nancy, with her feelings scalpel and surgical precision, doesn't decide to answer it.

Instead, she says, “You need a photographer for that piece.”

Thatta girl. Your dimmer switch turns up. “Fred hasn’t even okayed it yet.”

“I’ll deal with William Randolph Hearst, okay?” Nancy says derisively and tosses her eyes to heaven. She pushes her chair back. “Ask Jonathan Byers.”

“He hasn’t taken photos for us in a while,” you remark, eyes searching Nancy. She’s readying herself to leave, so totally dodging this line of questioning before you can even cast it. Clever.

“No, he has not,” she sighs, winding her scarf around her neck, “But he’d be good for this. He knows how to capture action. And his kid brother plays DnD with mine, so this’d be, like… nice for them.”

And this is just as much me making amends with Jonathan Byers as it is you, backwards as it may seem, you nearly hear her say. Or you’re making that up.

Shame Nancy is so dead set on becoming the next Nellie Bly. Under the right circumstances, she’d make a hell of a normal person.

Good thing you prefer freaks.

—

Jonathan Byers is a notoriously hard boy to get a hold of, it turns out. Nancy passed along his number (which, you actually already had but you didn’t bring that little detail up) and when you finally punched it in on the yellowing phone nailed to the wall of your trailer, it rang and rang and rang.

Which, after the fourth time, was just rude. Do the Byers have a thing about not answering the phone, or something?

“Jonathan!” you holler across the parking lot, emerging from the passenger side of Nancy’s car this time.

College guy was decidedly busy and despite the hanging tension, you’d toyed with the idea of asking Eddie for a ride. Alas, the boy in the Dio patched battle vest was nowhere to be seen. His van hadn’t been there since the weekend and he had been MIA from school the last couple of days, actually, which was itching at you.

It also made you miss when you had a goddamn set of wheels at your disposal.

Anyway, Jonathan looks at you with flaring eyes, kind of like you’ve just stuck a shotgun to his snout and there’s no hope of him making a getaway. “Um…”

Now, keep in mind that these are the first words you’ve spoken to him in a measurable high school forever, so his surprise is entirely justified. It’s just not within the beam of your patience right now.

“Hi. Can we chat?” you say, falling in step with him as you head towards the front door. You don’t bother asking for permission, and forgiveness won’t be necessary. “I was hoping you could help me out with a piece for the Streak.”

Blink, blink. Jonathan’s grasping for words– seems to be a lot of that going around lately.

You strike your hand through the air. “Let me put it to you like this– you are going to help me out with a piece for the Streak.”

“Why?” he asks, and it’s prickly.

“Becauuuse,” you draw out, “I need a photographer. And god knows whenever Nicole attempted to work a lens, those snapshots were so out-of-focus they looked like an optical illusion.”

“And, you’re not talking to Nicole right now,” Jonathan nails you, but not totally. In your mind, you revisit flashes of Nicole recounting, in gloriously erroneous detail, those photos Jonathan had taken of Nancy. You had pretended to be scandalized and rolled your eyes, thinking what’s a little peep show among losers.

“Even if I was,” you say, dogging Jonathan all the way to his locker, “I still wouldn’t ask her. This is important to me.”

That avoidant Byers reserve stands strong, with Jonathan grabbing books in hurried succession. He is trying to get away from you, but that’s not happening without an emphatic yes!

“I don’t even really–”

“Take pictures anymore?” you pfft, pointing to his messenger bag, “Twenty bucks says your camera is in there and the film’s half shot.”

“I don’t have twenty bucks.”

“Me neither,” you shrug, “Spent it on that new Echo & the Bunnymen.”

Jonathan hesitates a bit, fingers strumming against his biology textbook. A thread of something long forgotten by the listening booths of Main Street Vinyl tugs between you both, but it’s not weighed down by the prospect of will we kiss about it. He kind of smiles.

“What did you think? I haven’t gotten down to hear it yet.”

You thought it made you want a flowing dress and a place to prance. Like if the more whimsical end of Fleetwood Mac didn’t exhaust you. Those last four tracks snapped your heartstrings like suspenders, with comical aplomb.

“Grandiose! That ‘Killing Moon’ song? It’s got Jonathan Byers written all over it,” you chirp, and mean it. “I’ll make you a copy if you put that camera to work for me.”

He shrugs, but you can see you’re wearing him down. “I’m not much for shooting pep rallies.”

“Liar. Wheeler says you’re top banana in the action shots department,” you counter, “But how about players? I think I want some portraits, too. Non-corny ones.”

“What team?” Jonathan screws up his nose. The distaste for jockery runs deep, and rightfully so.

But you shake your head, face curving into an expression of near excitement.

“No team. Better, and worse, depending on what side of the cafeteria you’re sitting,” your hands splay out, and for god’s sake, you feel like Munson himself, “Hellfire Club.”

Jonathan looks like his record’s skipped. Eyeballs sort of jiggle in his skull and he mouths, oh, like the association of you between Hellfire should mean something. Suspiciously like Nancy, and just suspicious period. Your eyebrows start to inch towards one another.

“What’s that look? Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“Um,” he dillies, then dallies, “Sure. Yeah. You know, my kid brother loves DnD.”

Ah, yes. The other Byers boy, the one who’d gone missing all that time ago. You remembered. Actually, you remembered not being able to figure out how you should feel about it– how you should act, other than falling in line with the majority of people who were giving Jonathan shit at the time. You regret that now, with a chill that runs right down to your toes.

“Could be cool for him to see, no?” you try, corner of your mouth lifting, “A little niche in the midst the high school horrors. To look forward to, y’know.”

The look on Jonathan’s face is more than a little bit screaming, that’s rich, coming from you, you were the high school horror. But he shakes it off, because he’s nicer than you are, even though he doesn’t need to be.

“Yeah… whatever you say, Lacy. When do you need me?”

You tell him Friday and he agrees, much to your satisfaction. You’re just about to punch him on the shoulder like teamwork, buddy! before he saves you such a wildly out-of-character display by dodging toward his homeroom.

You sail toward your locker like the bastard that’s risen alongside the cream, only to be greeted by something… strange. Scratches, all around the maudlin gray paintwork of your combination lock. Like it’d been tampered with, or something. A blaze of paranoia burns at the base of your skull, and you instinctively try to recount where your journal is… in your bag. Phew. Fine. This could be… anything.

Fingers reach forward to twist your lock, and with the slightest touch, the door is forced open by a push from the other side. A flash of bright red, then SPLAT. Yellow, SPLAT, blue, SPLAT, SPLAT, SPLAT! You shriek a real ear-piercing shriek as at least a dozen water balloons spill out of your locker, hitting the floor with an obscene smack. Water dashes everywhere, and you’re barely able to move out of the splash zone in time.

“What the fuck!’

Within seconds, there’s a hubbub and a crowd’s gathering, trading sickening snickers with one another as you peer into the dark of your locker. You gingerly step through the puddle, suede boots irreparably spattered, and yank the door the whole way open. There, sat atop your schoolbooks and a stray water balloon that hadn’t made the fall, is a horribly familiar set of test tubes.

In one of them sits a squirt of blue liquid and that offensive strip of plastic. And scrawled across it in clumsy black marker?

IT’S A FREAK!

Realization hits you like Carol did, making your head swim among all the murmurs of oh my god… and gross! and told you–trailer trash and unconcealed cackles. A voice sparks up like a sizzling ember in a swathe of darkness.

“Where’s your baby daddy at, Lacy? Get tossed in the slammer with your old man?”

The languid tones of none other than Billy All-Balls-No-Brains Hargrove drift by you, sailing right past the back of your head as you stare a hole through the innards of your locker. Then, your stupid hippocampus gears up– Robin, mentioning ‘your whole thing’ while Genovese baby-barfed her guts up, Ronnie urging her to shut the fuck up, even Jonathan Byers was privy to this hot little piece of gossip.

This theory that you were up the spout with Munson Junior Junior.

How many people had seen you, stupid little you, coming out of that drugstore hiking that Advance box over your head like the championship cup? Seen you hopping into Eddie’s van– and out of it, and back in again on what now seemed like countless occasions?

Nobody could have suspected it was Nancy’s test, because nobody saw her. They saw you. That was the whole idea. You just didn’t consider the blowback.

“What’s going on out here?” the softly-coated concern of Ms Kelley rings out in the hallway, doing absolutely nothing to disperse the peanut gallery that’s set up around your locker.

“Lacy?” her voice points to you. Even the goddamn guidance counselor uses your beloved nickname.

You don’t react. You don’t even know what you’re doing until you come to a couple of paces down the hallway, feeling the thin, straining rubber in the palm of your hand. Your footsteps make heavy, wet, slapping noises against the linoleum as you follow the half-slouched shouldered swagger of Billy Hargrove down the hall.

Down, and down, and down towards the boy’s locker room and he doesn’t even register it, and you don’t even register that Ms Kelley is still calling your name–your full name, now–until she’s two dozen paces behind you, losing you in the throng of students making their way to class and you shove past half-dressed seniors in the locker room who guffaw at you in a way that feels like a knife in your gut and you yell, voice shaking–

“Hey Billy!”

And launch the water balloon, making square contact with his smug face.

“Cute fucking prank!”

His reaction, predictably, is way too slowww moooootion for your fucking liking, so you don’t even give him a shot to fully wipe his face off and mumble, “What the fuuuuck is yourrrr probbbblemmm, ssssllluuuutttt…”

You just go for him with the ferocity of a jumping jackal. Hands ball in his stupid sleeveless flannel (it’s winter in Indiana, you West Coast jackass!) and you shove him against the lockers with– well, with the strength only an ex-cheerleader brimming with suffocated rage would have.

Metal clatters and one empty unit even careens over like a big tin domino and you say, “Come up with that idea all by yourself, you fucking nimrod?”

Billy just smirks at you in half-speed, mullet sopping, as if this is a come-on. “I had a little help.”

It occurs to you that right here, right now, you could sell Nancy Wheeler down the river. You could be the you you once were, and you could say, well, primo observation skills, that pregnancy test wasn’t even for me!

But you don’t, because a pinky promise is a fucking pinky promise.

You let go of Billy’s shirt. Step off. “You’re pathetic,” you spit, but it feels more pathetic coming from you. All that molten blood in your veins makes you want to eviscerate him and whoever else was involved in orchestrating this stupid, stupid, stupid prank. But you come up lacking. Fuck!

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes and you start to rush out of the locker room– but you’ve given Billy a reason now, and he’s gonna follow you.

“Shit, are you crying? Those hormones must have you really messed up, huh?” he faux-croons, the thunk-thunk of his poseur motorcycle boots following you to the back entrance, by the sports equipment. Your eyes are streaming freely now, lashes frantically blinking a path to vision.

But Billy isn’t letting up. And like the Pied Piper of slimeballs, he’s drawing followers– not least of which include Tommy Hagan.

“What about that college dropout you’re banging, Lacy?” his nasally tone slices through Billy’s tarry taunting. “He know you’re knocked up yet?”

“Jesus Christ, Doevski! I’m impressed,” Billy laughs, “Just how many loads are you taking?”

An abandoned baseball bat lies on the ground, having rolled out of the sports closet; instinct behind the wheel of your personal van, you stoop to pick it up and shove through the doors. You can nearly feel the breath of Hargrove and Hagan and all of these horrific, horrific boys with nothing better to do than to torture you hot on the back of your neck.

“Not yours, that’s for fucking sure,” you manage, your voice thick. The bat, at least, feels solid in your hand.

“It’s fun not being frigid, ain’t it, Lacy?” Billy goes on, and you squint against the sunlight as you round the building. “Tell me this, Munson teach you how to suck cock yet? ‘cause if not, I got a little time on my hands.”

Forging ahead, you cross the tarmac of the parking lot. The soft frost hasn’t even totally thawed out yet, sparkling atop the paintwork of Billy’s blue Camaro.

“That a fact, Billy?” you say, tears drying in quick streaks in that brisk morning air, leaving rivets in your made-up face.

You use your momentum to launch one foot onto the hood of Billy’s car, then the other. You nearly slip against the icy exterior, but steady yourself fast. Bat dangling at your side. Stomp. Stomp. You stand on the roof, and turn to face this congregation of assholes. You do not let sense set in, despite it threatening to inch through the white hot flame of your rage.

“What the fuck are you doing,” Billy outright cackles and Hagan and company guffaw along with him.

“Billy,” you sigh, a little breathless from the speed at which you’d booked it from the locker room to the parking lot, and the sheer vigor of your shock, awe and rancor, and everything else, “What the hell am I supposed to do with your limp dick in my mouth? Chew on the fuckin’ thing?”

Billy repeats himself, a touch darker now. “What the fuck are you doing.”

“I’m serious!” you say, a little shrill, a little stomp to punctuate that last word, “One thing you can say for Eddie Munson, is at least the motherfucker can get hard!”

Motorcycle boots advance towards you, and you point the bat at him like a broadsword.

“Do not. Come any closer. Or I’m gonna start doing some serious damage to this ugly piece of overcompensation.”

“She’s bluffing,” Hagan crows, and you turn your flaming glare on him. You wish you had a mirror– you wonder if crazy becomes you. Billy takes a pointed step forward and you raise the bat above your, head bracing for action– that’s enough movement for him.

“Gimme that bat, you stupid fucking cunt–!” But Billy’s cut short by a body barrelling into the side of him, knocking him askew. A jangle of denim and leather. The bat slips a little in your grasp.

“Get the fuck off of me Munson–”

“No way to talk to a lady, Billy!” Eddie gasps, tossing Billy back and letting his limbs hang. “You kiss Karen Wheeler with that mouth?”

Billy rounds on him like a triggered animal, spittle flying.

“Some fucking lady!” he snarls, “Got downgraded to that trailer park and now her snooty ass is spreading it for half of Hawkins! Desperate! Stringin’ you along like the dumb piece of shortbus shit you a–”

Activated, you throw that bat to the fucking wayside and scramble off the fucking car– nobody talks to him like that!

But you’re not fast enough, nobody’s fast enough, nobody can compete with how huge and booming and definite Eddie’s voice sounds when he says, smile glimmering, sun breaking through the bleak midwinter…

“You know what I like about you, Hargrove?”

THKUNCK. Bone to bone, fist meet fucking flesh–

“Nothin’.”

A scuffle goes up, and Eddie can’t even feel the hits of Hargrove’s hands connecting with his face, chest, ribs, wherever– all he can feel are your arms locking in vice around his waist, putting yourself in the eye of the storm in order to yank him back.

—

You got an elbow to the crown of the head, which isn’t too bad, even if you feel like a cartoonish lump should be rising there. But look at these other guys.

Billy with a black eye that’s bulging up rapidly, Eddie with a split lip and more than a couple of scratches on his knuckles. In that fray, he hadn’t exactly considered the implications of punching a guy with all his goddamned rings on. The implications being that shit hurt like hell. There is this radiating pain in his hand, not letting him unfurl his fingers completely.

There’s also this radiating feeling of dread cloaking his entire upper half as you sit three-to-the-wall outside Higgins’ office. You had, in Eddie’s estimation, incredibly bad timing.

See, considering the events of his past week, he was slowly making peace with the fact that he should probably be avoiding you entirely, even if that meant he died a little inside. He should have been doing that from the jump– but you, unbuttoned and reckless now apparently, kept requiring interventions so you didn’t get killed, or worse.

And Eddie couldn’t help himself when it came to you. Especially not when you were standing on top of Billy Hargrove’s sick Camaro, swinging a baseball bat and getting called some shit that no one should ever be calling you.

You’re out of control. Totally unsheathed. End of your rope. Unlaced.

And he’d do just about anything to keep you safe.

Even fuck up his guitar-playing hand. Which is also his…

“I can’t believe you fucking suckerpunched me,” Hargrove mumbles from your left. “With those ugly fucking rings on.”

Eddie can’t help himself, the last shred of propriety knocked out round about the time a knee to the ribs had winded him. “Aw. Billy. Don’t be so hard on yourself–”

“Eddie…,” you start, tone warning in a way that makes him want to pinch you, kind of. He leans towards Hargrove, meaning he’s leaning over you. Hair brushing across your shoulder. You notice that it smells distinctively skunkier than usual. Camping out at Lipton Landing?

“--honestly! You’re no sucker!” he implores, eyes shining in jest, “You totally had that coming!”

You hear Billy seething from his end, Eddie snickering from his and launch a well-timed arm in front of both of them before they can snap at it again.

“Cut it out, assholes! This is becoming increasingly more pigheaded.”

“And you’re the voice of perfect reason now, huh?” Eddie sneers, not giving you much breathing room. “Where’s the bat at, Babe Ruth?”

“In the parking lot, waiting to finish you off,” you grit back, nearly nose-to-nose with him, because you don’t know how to digest the guilt of his aching fingers.

“What are you mad at me for?” Eddie hisses, a smirk threatening to break his scowl, because he doesn’t know how not to provoke you.

“Knocking her up, probably,” Billy mumbles from the side.

“Shut up, Hargrove!” you both snap, eyes never leaving one another.

Higgins’ door creaks open and a quietly livid Ms Kelley says, “Lacy.” She jerks her head, motioning for you to up and at ‘em. You do, but not without one last look at Eddie, cradling his hand. Round, bottomless irises meet yours for a moment, then dart away with an impact that thickens your throat.

His poor hand, you find yourself thinking.

“He needs an ice pack…” you find yourself mumbling, Kelley shuffling you into Higgins’ office. The principal sits behind his beat-up desk, fingers steepled. You absently wonder if he’s been campaigning for a new, shinier, possibly more oaken desk because this doesn’t paint the picture of threatening figurehead that he so clearly wants you to tremble under.

You accidentally kick the thing, crossing your legs as you sit. “Sorry.”

“You should be,” Higgins declares. Here we fucking go.

“Permission to state my case?” you attempt. This hadn’t been your first time in the principal’s office; minor classroom infractions, a saccharine we’ll do everything to help that we can after your dad’s arraignment, but this time was certainly the worst.

“Denied,” he shoots you down.

“Permission to submit a plea of temporary insanity, then,” you try, patting at the sore spot on the crown of your head. “You know this doesn’t bode with my track record. You think I climbed on top of Billy Hargrove’s car completely compos mentis? Please.”

A tense silence from Higgins’ and Kelley’s end.

“You saw what Hargrove did, didn’t you? That disgusting prank?”

Again, nada.

“I’m a honor student, for Chrissake!” you exclaim, and Kelley plucks herself from the windowsill behind Higgins’ desk.

“Were an honor student, Ms Doevski,” she corrects. “Your grades have been slipping since– the events of the last couple of months. You’ve dropped cheerleading, you’ve made really puzzling false claims about peer tutoring, you…”

“Yes! Yes, the events of the last couple of months, if by which you mean familial imprisonment, then yes, I’ve been a little distracted!”

Higgins kicks back in his seat just as you hitch forward in yours, too angry to be pleading but too desperate to defy. His turn to mutter here we fucking go.

“I can turn this around,” redirected to Ms Kelley and her ever-sympathetic expression, “I can turn this around.”

“College applications deadlines are within touching distance, Lacy.” She of little faith.

“I know that!” As if your hands aren’t itching every time college guy mentions Ithaca or… wherever the fuck it is he goes. As if that isn’t a crack in the assuredness that you were going to take flight out of this town in a spectacular fashion.

“Ladies– can we dispense with the hysteria and deal with the here and now?” Higgins insists and you and Kelley, despite your opposition, share a look.

World class, this guy. Top of his field, asshole-wise.

“Two week suspension should do it,” he says, jotting something down.

You open your mouth in protest and Kelley quells you– you’re in no position to start bargaining down.

“Technically, she didn’t do anything,” and for good measure, but pressed, “Sir.”

“She climbed on top of that boy’s car with a baseball bat!” Higgins barks; now who’s hysteric?! “She had intent to do harm!”

“It was justified.” You can’t help yourself.

Kelley stares him down, and that woman’s charm is something that should be studied in a fucking lab, because he relents right away.

“Two weeks of Saturday detention, then. Christ. Am I going soft?”

You shake your head, all the knots in your body releasing just a little bit. You try to dig out what’s left of your once-famously refined charm, while simultaneously dashing towards the door before he can change his mind.

“Au contraire. You’re a paragon of masculinity, sir. Regan could take a hint. Door open or closed?”

Higgins grimaces. “Send in Hargrove. Tell Munson he’s suspended. I don’t have time for both of those pricks today.”

Eddie’s voice travels through the crack in the door. “I heard that, sir.” A beat. “I miss you, sir.”

You bite back a deeply reluctant laugh and jerk your head toward Billy. You’re up, champ.

Then, it’s the two of you. You and Eddie, Eddie and you. Alone, save for the ever watchful jam jar eyes of Janice the secretary. Eddie is still nestling one hand in the other like it’s a baby bird with a broken wing. Shit, you really hope it isn’t broken.

“You’re suspended. They told me to tell you.” It’s a statement made to turkey-stuff the silence more than anything.

The way Eddie lolls his head back makes you want to reach out and push it in the opposite direction. You don’t know why.

“You’re a regular town crier, ain’t ya.”

“Hear ye, hear ye.”

A leaden pause. Your hearts might have thumped both in time just now.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks.

“No leaving school grounds,” Janice unhelpfully squawks.

Eddie gets up, drawing himself to his full height. Your eyelids flutter. There’s a little purple around that cut on his lip, which you bet is starting to throb something awful. You feel dwarfed beside him, and he uses his good hand to turn you by the shoulder and shuffle you past the nosy secretary’s post.

“I meant the sick bay, Janice,” Eddie pelts, giving each vowel sound a hard flick. “I’m wounded. And she’s apparently pregnant. Or didn’t you hear?”

—

The nurse’s office is tiny and cramped, smelling of bleach with a glaring fluorescent overhead. Eddie has a hard time figuring out why anyone would come here to feel better. Especially given that Nurse Lydia is barely ever present.

Eddie carpes the opportunity to slam himself down on her rolling saddle chair, gliding into your path as you try and snoop around for first aid materials.

“I don’t think you should be driving that thing,” you remark, “You could be concussed. You’re acting concussed.”

“It’s keeping me awake!”

Eddie watches you, digging through drawers and pulling out tongue depressors, your teeth making an indent into your bottom lip. Your eyes are doing that darty thing, quietly frantic in place of an apology. You don’t know how to say sorry you got wailed on by Hargrove for me. Instead, you’re acting like he’s bleeding out.

“Lace, just wait for the professional.”

The clip of your nickname makes you toss your stare over your shoulder, hardness framing your eyes like mascaraed lashes. Eddie stops rolling around at once.

“I am the goddamn professional, as far as you’re concerned.” Your little chin jerks towards the exam table that’s beat into the corner of the room. “Get on the bed.”

Whack-a-mole. Woodpecker. Other euphemisms for his cock developing a pulse. Eddie has to physically restrain his jaw from dropping.

“Yes, Nurse Ratched.”

Scoffing out a little fuck you!, you go about scrambling together supplies and Eddie obediently launches himself onto the bed, the ancient thing creaking beneath him. When you finally approach him, you seem to be holding a lot of alcohol pads.

The look before you admit to a shortcoming is one he wants framed. You always flick your eyes around like a guilty cartoon character, like Betty Boop on her way to gaining a doctorate in the pretentiousness of the English language, and pout. Lean your neck in, like you’re swearing him to secrecy.

“I actually don’t know anything about first aid. Beyond the rudimentaries.”

Eddie chuckles. “You were a cheerleader. You were getting thrown in the air a whole bunch, if I recall. Feels like you should know how to like, resuscitate.”

“Rudimentaries, I said!” and you grab his injured hand a little roughly, alcohol pad torn out and ready, “Like, I obviously know alcohol disinfects a wound, ice for a bruise… I don’t know how to, like, reset a bone. Besides…”

You inch closer to him now, wiping at his torn and tender knuckles a little too carefully. They’re just stupid cuts, Eddie thinks, his breath beginning to shallow.

“...that Cat People remake was premiering at the Hawk the day we had first aid training. Like I was going to miss that.”

He can feel heat radiating off your body, a core change for cold little you. Feel the fabric of your skirt brush the rip in his jeans. A little choked, he mumbles, “Cat People is a remake?”

“Based on the 1942 original,” you nod, flicking the tiny used pad in the nearby trash can. “I like it. But I like that David Bowie song more.”

“That song sucks.”

“You’re injured and wrong. What a shame.” Your fingers close around Eddie’s wrist and slowly, slowly press his forearm to his chest. “Keep that elevated.”

“It’s not broken,” and he’s staring at the quiet tremble in your bottom lip.

“Could be sprained,” head cast down again, tearing open another pad, and he can smell your hair, “Does it hurt?”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away, because he’s waiting for you to look back up. Because he thinks he’s going to carpe something else.

You fall for it, and your eyes sucker him in. He feels weak in the joints. You repeat yourself. “Does it hurt, Eddie?”

He just nods, boyishly. Nearly passes out when your fingertips tilt his face towards the light. Skin buzzing underneath them, you peering at his mouth like you know what you’re doing. The slit in his lip feels raw and strained.

“This’ll hurt, too,” you murmur, and he feels your breath against his jaw. A sharp prick from the alcohol against his cut doesn’t make him wince– worse. As you swipe the cotton against his bottom lip, he whimpers. Unh.

Oxygen stops short in your throat, hearing that. That noise. It sends a wave of motion through your lower body. You’re leaning awfully close to him, closer than you need to be. In fact, his knees are settled either side of your hips. How did that happen. When did that happen. How did you allow this.

How are you allowing your fingertip to trace against his lip, alcohol evaporating without a hope or a prayer. How are you allowing yourself to look at him through the fan of your lashes, his injured hand still obediently propped against his chest. His good hand pressing into your lower back.

You taste the vagueness of the disinfectant on his lips as he presses them into yours.

Jerking back, you’re not far enough away from him to create a distance that matters. All you see are Eddie’s eyes, flickering open, apologetic in themselves. About to tell you he’s sorry.

No.

Hands fly, one woven in the curls at the base of his skull as you kiss up into him, tongue an impolite peak. This is not the closet; this is arguably far more dangerous, with the nurse’s door still open a courteous gap. This is the harsh light of day. This is Eddie’s hand moving your skirt further up the curve of your ass.

He’s grabbing onto you as best a one-armed man can, and your hand travels in turn. A jagged, fevered path drawing up his thigh until, under your palm, is the hard outline of him. The pressure of your hand over the denim-bound curvature of his cock makes him groan sharply, the sound pressed against your cheek.

Face angles back for a look at him. Because this is bad, mindless, reckless, stupid. And he’s always worth a look.

You spot a tiny speck of blood on the pink of his lip from where his cut had split.

And your curious tongue flicks at it.

Eddie’s eyes flare. You, unable to unglue your stare from his, suck his lightly bleeding lip between yours. Fragile. Crushable.

He did this for you.

No one’s ever cared, or known you enough, to do something like that for you.

Desire moves you like a shockwave and your hand leaves his crotch to help you clamber onto the exam table, clamber into Eddie’s lap.

Downright idiotic.

You cast a glance to the door, Eddie’s fraught breath puffing against your neck.

Thought you were a smart girl.

You look right into his face, the poster boy for sheer distraction, pre-occupation, skin-searing annoyance, nervous charm, surprising wit, magnetism, oh my… and feel his fingers edging far past the hem of your skirt, past the binding top of the thigh-highs you’re wearing because it’s fucking laundry day and stopping at the gusset of your panties.

He can feel how wet you are.

Lips a breath away from each other, one set bleeding, one set housing a gasp. Eddie nudges his forehead against yours, the both of you blind to consequence.

“Just friends, right?” His breath is jagged and unconvinced, and your hips kick toward his hand.

You do not answer.

Unbruised fingers push the fabric covering your radiating heat aside and you have to tighten your grip around the back of his neck so as not to tumble over. Eddie is not deft, because this isn’t the moment to be deft. He plunges two fingers into the plush of your pussy and looks to you with pleading eyes. Eyes that say, is this good, eyes that say, don’t make a sound.

You nod in the affirmative to both and he drags his digits out slowly. Rhythm picks up and you’re clenching around Eddie’s hand in a matter of minutes, lower muscles seizing and het-up moans being gratefully swallowed by him. Pad of his thumb moves to create rough, clumsy friction against your clit that elicits a sharp, high, wanton ah! from you, grinding against him in an unquenchable search for more.

“Does he do this? Does anyone do this for you, Lacy?”

Eddie’s eyes keep searching you for approval and you’ve lost the ability to appease or deny him– all you know is the blind, nonsensical want that’s pouring out of you is being lapped up. Lapped up. His tongue, you want his tongue everywhere, but it’s working at your earlobe, your neck, sucking, whispering, “Just friends? Lacy?”

And when you cum, it’s fast and hard and suffocating, an achievement you’re close to angry at him for– because no one has ever been able to break you apart that fast.

Or at all.

He can never know. He’d be so insufferable about it… some bare fragment of a thought passes through your brain, synapses busy firing elsewhere.

You’re rocking against him through the crest, pressing your forehead to his with such a force that you’re frightened it’ll splinter, you’re murmuring, “Eddie… Eddie, d–hmn, fuck…”

And you can tell by the way he’s attempting to press his body against you that he wishes he hadn’t bust that stupid fucking hand of his, so he could hold you properly– and you’re right. You’re right, you’re always fucking right, but you told him to keep it elevated and he’s going to do what you say.

He’s got no choice when it comes to you.

He needs you safe. Needs you happy. No matter what.

Which is why he’s got to pull this bullshit move.

Eddie is patient and watches you regain a little consciousness, faster than he’s sure you’d like. He extracts his hand and, sticky with you still, wipes it on the thigh of his jeans. Heart thundering in his ears, he tugs you into one more breathless kiss and wonders if you can still taste the rust sharpness of his cut in between your lips. He’s strangled himself against cumming up till this point, and this doesn’t help matters. An imperceptible spot of pre-fun lies in his lap but the thing is, the really fucked thing is–

Eddie gently shoves you away, mind silently babbling for the right thing to say. I’m sorry is something you’d see right through, get off is too harsh, oopsie is too fucking whimsical–

But you, ever-perceptive you, you realize your place. Knock yourself back into reality so fiercely that he’s afraid it’ll bruise you, lovely, awe-inspiring you that just softened into his hands like that. You clumsily clamber off the exam table in a hot flash of rejection, which– no, god, no, he doesn’t mean that…

“I–”

“No, I know,” you grit, prickly all over. Thumbing at the edge of your blurred lipstick. “I know. I certainly know.”

Eddie dares to look at you and you dare to look back at him. His lips looking worse off from you, but at the very least kissed. At the very least kissed, but you could cry with the empty feeling inside you. A cavern of a girl. You nod curtly, like this is the conclusion of a particularly charged run-in of acquaintances, not like you wanted him to swallow you whole moments ago.

Slipping out of the nurse’s office, you run right into the myth that is Nurse Lydia.

She looks tan.

“He’s,” you struggle, “He’s waiting for you.”

—

Cheating out sick from school and taking a shift at The Bookstore following the latest in a series of apparently neverending aftershocks was probably not the smartest call– but hell, you’re fresh out of smart calls.

Ivana smells a rat, and she doesn’t take to rats lightly, so she gives you your space.

The morning ticks on at a pace that feels supernatural; like you’re witnessing outside of your body, like you can’t orient yourself in the right direction. You attempt to arrange and rearrange poets from alcoholic to puritan. You sell someone a copy of The Fountainhead without giving them their free blistering evisceration of Ayn Rand.

You’re at a loss. A shameful, dangling loss that almost makes you feel pious. Like you should go to confession.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned… I let my one-time best friend, current-cloudy object of my affection get beat up for me then bring me to climax in the nurses’ office.

You retread the same sentence in your over-thumbed copy of Save Me the Waltz like a table corner you keep stubbing your toe on.

We couldn’t go on indefinitely being swept off our feet.

You said it, Alabama. Something’s got to land.

And, because someone down there wants you dead, land it does.

The bell of the store’s door clashes upon opening, and all of the energy draws toward one magnetic point. A shock of silver hair, standing on end catches the lamplight, glowing almost eerily.

You feel a zzzzip of static. The air feels charged.

He doesn’t face you right away. Kind of slinks into the place, edging along the shelves.

“Say, Lacy. Ballpark me somethin’,” his Southern drawl is barely contained within the Midwestern flatlands of his accent, bursting through the baseline like a corpse that hasn’t been buried deep enough. “How long… do you think…” His fingers tap along the worn spines of the display, creeping closer to the counter, “...it would take… to read all these books?”

The lilt of his voice is so familiar that you recognize it instantly. Even the way your name falls out of his mouth. Like a funhouse mirror, a distortion of a voice you’d come to…

Well. Let’s not get into that. Let’s get into this.

A roguish smile with a couple decades of road wear on it and a tacky Hawkins High class ring on his finger. You could’ve sworn Eddie told you he dropped out.

“How many years in the big house with nothin’ better to do?” He finally stops and pivots on his heel. The way he looks you over makes you nauseous and lightheaded, like he took a long, long sip out of you. Jammed a straw in your jugular and sucked.

Lot of blood play happening ‘round these parts.

“Hello, Al.”

“Hello, sweetheart. You filled out.”

author's notes: christ alive. i mean WELCOME BACK! i really missed you guys. happy new year, thank you for keeping me on the level with writing this chapter, it was so much FUCKING harder than i anticipated! was it too much warped angst? are the feelings complicated? does the pope shit in the woods?!!!!! you betcha. anyway, be seated for today's lesson - "less oedipus-y, more ea--..." there is an ending to that joke that i felt was too crass for the moment but if you can guess it you win a prize - the patchwork girl of oz is the seventh book in the wizard of oz series by l. frank baum! obviously. it's actually a laugh riot, you should check it out. scraps, the eponymous patchwork girl, is a full tilt lunatic who's kind of a bit of me. but theoretically, the patchwork girl made out of a thousand different scraps of everything else... bit of lacy innit - the mage in the mink coat is self referential lmao we've gotten to THAT point in the story - gravity's rainbow is a book that guys i dated used to recommend to me constantly which is like infinite jest for people who are ran through - i'm really fucking with college guy at this point, making him drive a ford cortina. because i think it is ugly - the plot of the annotated book that lacy gives eddie, still life with woodpecker by tom robbins, is... interesting eye emoji eye emoji. tom robbins also wrote even cowgirls get the blues which was adapted into a feature film starring, say it with me, robin's mom - the link wray song that soundtracked the lipton landing visit in question - "charlie? or linda kasabian?" go ahead and read the white album by joan didion for me wouldja buddyroo, just like lacy and nancy already have - fun fact, i played a two person game of gin rummy with myself to get into the mindset for this chapter. i suck at it - torchy blane is another one of my pre-code wonders-- glenda farrell plays an intrepid newspaperwoman, and this character actually went on to inspire lois lane from superman - and I KNOW some of you are going to be mad at lacy for fucking college guy, but... shit happens when you're a booksmart lovedumb eighteen year old that can't face up to her feelings! i don't wanna hear it! - fred benson i love you baby! i'm almost sorry i called you william randolph hearst, newspaper magnate and all around lunatic and the inspo behind the diss track citizen kane, but i'm not! - nancy wheeler has a photo of nellie bly in her locker where a photo of her beau should be - so echo & the bunnymen's 1984 album ocean rain is obviously most famous for the killing moon (jonathan byers you ARE my donnie darko) but may i point your attention to motherfucking seven seas - OH YOU KNOW I (EDDIE) HAD TO DO IT TO 'EM. this was shameless but i've had this in my heart for over ten years babe - for the purposes of this timeline, you know eddie is keeping higgins in pills. which is why he hasn't been kicked out of hawkins high so fast his lunchbox would combust - nurse ratched, obviously from one flew over the cuckoo's nest and that ill-fated ryan murphy series....tf was that...but also from this fucking sick tune! - save me the waltz is by zelda fitzgerald! my loves, thanks for hanging in for this chapter. i know it was a wait, but i hope you enjoyed! i also know it was a little more angsty pants than my usual fare-- but look baby. we need grist for the mill, okay? as always, reblogs, comments and likes are FIERCELY appreciated! love u all so much. my little hellcats. to die by your side etc

#e. munson by powder #published by powder #in progress #hellfire & ice #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x oc #rmr when i used to write 4k chapters.... god be with the days #anyway i love these fuckheads

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 2 years

Note

number 2!!

So the reader is ftm, and Eddie is obsessed with his voice (he's a singer) his voice is like a destroy boys / destructo disk type.

And Eddie is head over heals when he sings. and even more when he gets m/n to moan.

and if you're comfortable, can you do a kinda heavy make out?

Thanks! (Drink water or I will make you :) )

Hi! Thanks for your patience while I worked on this! Hope you enjoy!

Eddie Munson x Trans Male Reader

CW: Smut adjacent, nothing explicit.

Send me request here! Currently writing for Eddie Munson. I write for a variety of reader inserts (male, female, gender neutral, POC too).

The more details you had to your request, the better it is for me. EX: “What about some fluff for Eddie after he’s had a long day?”

Feel free to look through my masterlist here!

_______________________________________________________________

It’s not that Eddie’s angry if what he’s heard is true. In fact, he’d be fucking glad that there is another band in town. But it is nerve wracking. Will these newcomers somehow get faster traction than Corroded Coffin? Will they have to struggle just like they did? Part of Eddie hopes this band is not struggling as much as they did, but something like jealousy that Eddie wishes he doesn’t feel is the hardest part to get rid of.

So on Wednesday, during the evening when Eddie normally would be trying to bury the woes, he travels to The Hideout. The trip is truly speared by the necessity of making sure the band gets paid. After the Tuesday gig, the manager asked if Eddie could come tomorrow to get the cash considering they’d done a bank drop earlier than they normally did but had to after a pretty hefty weekend of festivities. Eddie’s not sure what could’ve caused in a town like Hawkins but he wasn’t going to argue with the one revenue stream that was legal.

Thus landing Eddie here, leaning into the corner of the bar, watching the band play. It’s not metal--decidedly not, but Eddie still finds his head bobbing along to the hefty and heavy hats of the drums as the singer screams into the microphone, “Is this all I’ve ever known?”

It’s punk, a music genre Eddie knew of and listened to occasionally even if it wasn’t what he gravitated too. He’d hoped for this band's sake that soon the genre would have its moment. It felt timely, a reflection of the shit state of the world and demanding change. Where Eddie’s genre of choice was all about escaping and finding some fantastical way out of the misery, this bank charged the misery head on.

“Now I’m crying in a bathroom stall,” the singer croons, a layered haircut bouncing along the side of their face. The ends are flipped out, framing the round face in a way that reads like a warning but also lures Eddie in. All he wants to do is to know the way the rosy cheeks feel under his palm. The voice is definitely singing, but it’s almost mocking as they speak sing some of the lyrics. Eddie’s spine shivers.

Instantaneous as the thought of the sweaty cheeks comes Eddie shakes his head, trying to keep in mind that he is here to get paid from yesterday. But the lead singer’s voice invades Eddie’s brain. He has a feeling as the manager hands over bills and Eddie stuffs it into his pocket, that he’s going to be hanging around The Hideout a lot more often in the middle of the week.

After three weeks straight of attending the Wednesday shows, the lead singer seems to approach Eddie head on, though Eddie’s been one to always linger at the bar. “You play on Tuesdays right?”

Eddie nods. “Yeah. You all sound amazing by the way. Like really good.” It should come out with a bit more shame and a bit more reservation. But the praise is all to easy to give because each time Eddie hears the band, the more he falls in love with them.

“Th-thanks. You and your band sound great too.”

“Would-would you like to go out sometime?” Eddie asks. “I’d like to get you know you more.” He’s being way more suave about this than he’d ever imagine himself to be. But maybe it’s the setting. It’s not school and he’s not dealing with someone that might even have some pre-conceived notion about him, or be trying to get a story to tell a friend about how they kissed, slept with, or even hung out with The Freak. It’s a bar--two social outcasts who are doing everything they can to let the world know the wrongs it’s committed. It’s just easier because here, there’s no real judgment.

“I’d like that. What did you have in mind?”

It’s a simple question. And the response is less simple, less smooth, because if Eddie’s is honest he anticipated not getting this far. But even though he fumbles through his response, it lands him here, listening through the closed bathroom door as you hum from the otherside. You’d been working on some lyrics for a new song for a week now, singing the chorus of it ever and over throughout the trailer. Washing dishes--you were singing. Taking a quick smoke break--singing.

The sink runs for almost a minute before the door handle creaks with the twist and it opens to reveal a goofy smile on Eddie’s face. “Were you listening to me piss?” you ask.

“Listening to you sing, more specifically. The pee was just a byproduct.”

“Weirdo,” you laugh and step around him to head to his room.

“It’s not my fault that you have a voice that calls out to me like a siren. Really it’s your fault.”

He follows behind you to his room. You settle at his desk and Eddie falls onto the bed behind you. Where you’d normally have a response, your focus zeros in on the notebook in front of you. Eddie watches the way the line of your shoulders tense up. He pushes up, hands taking the meat of your shoulders into his palms. He wastes no time in kneading at them.

“You’re thinking too hard about it.” Eddie trails his lips closer to your ear. They brush a kiss to shell and then down your neck. “Let me help you relax.”

You sigh into the feeling of Eddie’s hands and lips at your neck and shoulders. The song did need to be done by the weekend for rehearsals. But you’d managed to get more done than you thought you would consider the difficulty that it was giving you earlier. Maybe it wouldn’t at all be a bad idea. “You’re lucky I like you,” you tease.

Eddie’s hands slide down from your shoulders to your back, pressing right above your hips firmly. The action makes you groan--mostly involuntarily, as you hadn’t even noticed how much tension you’d been putting on your lower back. His fingers knead at your body and every moan that you let slip through your lips makes Eddie purr into your skin.

If it weren’t for the back of the chair, you’re sure Eddie’s crotch would be pressed into your spine and you’d inevitably feel the growing erection. You only let it go for another minute or two before you reach back for his hands. He pauses at the light hold of your wrist. “Something wrong?”

You shake your head before pushing up from the chair. “No, just want you closer,” you whisper as you press into his chest.

Eddie dips his head, capturing your lips in a kiss. His hold is gentle around your waist, fingers hardly pressing into the hot flesh under the sweatshirt. Your head grows a little dizzy with the feeling of his tender trace. The parting of your lips echoes in the room before you two meet again for another kiss. A grunt falls from Eddie as you push him down onto the bed and you land squarely on his lap, not hiding the sigh at the feeling of his erection pressing up into you.

Though you two hadn’t gone as far to have sex just yet, only being a few months total into the relationship, it still pleased you to know you had this kind of effect on Eddie. He laughs as you rock your hips against his. “Don’t,” he hums. “I know you’re sick and demented and you get pleasure from making me puddy.”

You grin. “Which is why I do it.”

Eddie squeezes at your sides, his hands never go higher than your stomach and you’re thankful that he seems to be aware of how at times your chest causes you discomfort, but right now, you don’t mind his searing touch, so you guide Eddie’s hands up and when his fingers brush over your chest and nipples, your throat loses the battle of suppressing the moan.

Eddie drops his head a little, listening to the sound of your pleasure rolling around his brain. “God I love that sound,” he whispers into your throat. His lips kiss square in the middle, tongue falling the pressing of his kiss. “I love it so fucking much.”

You release another one, fingers gripping at Eddie’s shoulders to keep you steady. “Please.”

It’s a plea, Eddie knows that. For what? Not even you can tell, but Eddie drops his hands to your thighs getting a tight grip and then tosses you into the pillows. His crawl up your body is slow and tortuous but when his hands finally settle against, holding your waist and his lips seal around yours, you hum at the weight of him pressing you into the mattress.

“Thank you,” you exhale as Eddie moves his kisses down your jaw.

“Any time, baby,” he whispers back. His teeth trace the bone of your chin before he trails his tongue back down over your throat. Your moan comes out shaky. “Any fucking time.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #eddie munson smut adjacent #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x male reader #eddie munson x trans male reader #eddie munson x trans reader #h writes #stranger things

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doomsdaybby · 11 months

Note

Hey, sweet!

I had an idea like, eddie x gf!reader has a fight, it's not one of those super huge fights, but it's still a fight, so eddie leaves his trailer super angry, but when he comes back, he sees reader humping his pillow 🫣

eeee!!!! thankyou so so much for this request 😭 i’m so sorry for it taking this long. I got a little carried away, but I hope that it was worth the wait <3

I don’t proofread so if there’s any mistakes i’m sorrryyyy </3

cw: smut 18+ MDNI!!! oral (f receiving), weed mention

something sweet | eddie munson x gf!reader (2.7k words)

Eddie’s reeboks scuff against the dusty gravel path that led between the trailer park and the adjacent forest. The cool fall wind threatened to bite, just the tiniest amount, as he was blanketed by twinkling stars and one of the brightest moons that shone so brilliantly over the trailer park.

He had missed the fading hazes of plums, violets and roses bleed into the inky black sky above him of the late October evening. A view you both enjoyed together, the days coming to a close, on almost a nightly basis over chaste kisses and lazy comfortable conversation of how your days had gone.

It was just cool enough where the gentle breeze that rustled the changing fall leaves didn’t turn his fingers to ice, whilst still providing the welcome chill to Eddie’s blazing cheeks.

Opting to neglect his signature denim jacket that hung by the doorway back at the trailer, maybe it was for the best. His body was on fire, forehead a hot sticky mess despite the soft bite of looming colder nights.

It was rare that the two of you fought, even rarer to drive Eddie out of the trailer for an hour or two. The pair of you could never ‘agree to disagree’; someone had to be right, and the other had to be sorry.

Eddie had come home rather late post his regular weekly Corroded Coffin gig at The Hideout, a whole three hours late.

He had stumbled through the door still riding high on the lingering adrenaline from a particularly crowded gig, a little buzzed and far too cheery, the greeting of a cold laid out dinner and a seething girlfriend awaiting at his doorstep.

The unwelcome picture of you sat criss-crossed on the couch, arms tightly folded and a series of deep lines crumpling your forehead and brows, spoiling your pretty face, was one he feared to expect.

He had simply lost track of time, that was all.

Thus ensued raised voices and spitefully pointed fingers. Name-calling and an array of curses that had no meaning, ones only meant to hurt in that particular moment hurtled between you.

It wasn't a complete eruption though, both pent up with mix-matched emotions and clashing heads. You were just worn out and lonely.

He hadn't called to tell you. Did he even care that much to let you know he would be late?

Whereas Eddie felt somewhat disregarded, unsupported, walking through the door to such a buzzkill.

Were you even happy that they had a successful show? There would be so many more dinners, and countless future evenings to spend together. Could you not let him off just this once?

So both perceived that they were right, entitled to their titular emotions, and that an apology was owed. The problem lay that neither believed they needed to be sorry.

Of course this led to you petulantly slamming the bedroom door shut to shout a stream of profanity into the pillow, whilst Eddie kicked the front door closed with a heavy thud, pre-rolled blunt hanging loosely from his lips and hands busy tying his hair up in a messy bun.

So when Eddie’s wristwatch read 1:30am and his forehead didn’t pulse as wildly with pent up frustration, he decided it was about time to kiss and make up. Literally, if he was lucky. You were pretty pissed.

But what he wasn’t expecting was creaking open the bedroom door to find you with your thighs straddling his pillow, grinding down embarrassingly helpless against it.

Guess you weren’t that pissed after all.

He should have been hurt, surely? He leaves amidst an argument and he comes back to catch you pleasuring yourself? But fucking hell weren’t you just delicious.

The most beautiful little sounds were escaping your parted lips, faint moans muffled by the sheets beneath you. His name etched onto your tongue like quill ink to fresh parchment, gyrating your hips with fevered purpose, and all was forgotten.

You obviously hadn’t heard him come home, not with the Iron Maiden cassette filling your ears from across the room to set your mood, that and the flooding memories of Eddie’s low wines and breathy grunts. It was almost too much to bear.

Maybe you purposefully wanted him to catch you in the act? Vulnerable and pathetic. His head spun dizzy at the mere thought.

Eddie’s cheeks flushed rouge, the swift swelling of his cock against the material of his jeans becoming too uncomfortable to ignore.

The funniest part of it all is that Eddie knew far too well that solo masturbation wasn’t enough for you, either of you, for that matter.

The orgasm you could give yourself never compared to his touch; rough large palms knowing exactly how to strum you like a fine-tuned guitar, pillowed lips marking every inch of skin they could find, deft fingers tangled in your hair and pushing your thighs up to your chest to fold you in half.

So he watched for a minute or two, unable to deny the throbbing strain of his cock against the zipper.

His whole body was ablaze, absentmindedly rocking his groin along the doorframe for any sort of relieving friction.

He knew that you were getting close. That boy recited your body like his own personal bible, intimately acquainted with every stutter of your hips, every caught breath he had listened to as a hymn song.

He let out a barely held together sigh, lost in his own personal euphoria, teeth biting down on the inside of his bottom lip.

“Eds? You home, baby?” you called from the bedroom, stalling for a moment with your boyfriend's pillow still remaining perfectly placed between your thighs, before continuing a faint see-saw motion for some form of pleasure to linger within reach.

‘Baby’. You definitely weren’t mad anymore.

Eddie stood up straight from the doorway, knocking open the door with a breathy laugh. It was cocky, a hint of even disappointment clouding his tone.

More of a ‘you are in very big trouble’ sort of disappointment, and you had grown very accustomed to that laugh. Just as you recognised that exact arrogant grin he pulled as he entered the room.

“Are you having fun there, my sweetheart?” he pointed to the pillow still prisoned within your thighs.

I mean, could he blame you? It smelt too much like him, in too many glorious ways - the smoky amber of his cheap cologne, the faint remnants of cigarettes and weed, sticky scents of sweat-sheened skin during summer nights.

It encompassed him completely, and it was downright intoxicating.

“Mhm… missed you” your eyes rounded, peering up at him from the bed with big doll eyes and fluttering pretty lashes, giving the pillow another drawn out grind. Eddie sighed something filthy again at the vulgar sight, his hand snaking down to palm at his painful erection.

“I can see that,” another smug chuckle, shaded sinister in its undertone. “Lay on your back for me, baby. You really thought you would be able to cum without me?”.

Of course you obliged, it was close to humiliating how quickly you discarded the pillow and spread out all sweetly on the bed for him.

Ready and waiting, always at his beckon call.

Eddie relished every moment of it, and holy fuck, he nearly unravelled at the sight of your slick sticking to his pillow, glossy and sweet. Just the same as it pooled to the center of your panties.

The mattress dips where Eddie begins his climb onto the bed, warms hands wandering and anything but chaste, spread fingers mapping the exposed skin of your legs and thighs like new land amongst an uncharted ocean.

Then came the kisses, cupping your trembling flesh, smoothing and squeezing with every loving peck. They were sweet, filled with unbridled affection and pouring with many ‘I love you’s’.

“So pretty,” he murmured with charm, hot breath fanning further and further up to exactly where you needed him, walls clamping down and cunt fluttering with want.

Eddie was never shy with his fondness, ever so syrupy sweet and dripping with candy-covered charisma.

He was tender, nosing at the delicate skin of your upper thigh.

You huff out a shaky laugh when his lips reach the cotton of your underwear, barely exposed teeth grazing the elastic of your waistband.

“Are you mad at me?” The words came out overstrung, considering you were wound tight from your earlier near release and assorted with the anxiety you had upset him, your beating heart had been sent into complete overdrive.

Eddie paused, peering up at you through thick lashes, eyes foggy and filled with a gaze as rosy-colored as cloud nine.

“Not anymore,” he was soothing with it, still very matter of fact, “Are you mad at me?”.

Another kiss, yet this one was loaded with more heat and open-mouthed, sloppy in its delivery, therefore focusing on an answer went out the window in an instant.

Squeezing the warmed dough of your inner thighs, Eddie suckles with purpose, a little mean with his technique but the attentiveness remained nonetheless.

“Not anymore,” you managed in a faltering exhale, hissing a little through your teeth at the feeling of teeth to tender skin.

Eddie hummed, all fingers and thumbs sliding under elastic and cotton, settling his palms beneath your panty line right atop the plush of your hips.

Deft fingertips nursed the hills of flesh there, and Eddie’s attention abandoned your thighs now in favor of that inviting puddle between your legs.

You inhaled hard, the contact of his nose swiping along your clothed bud eliciting a sharp pitched moan, probably one a tad too dramatic for the mere ounce of connection, but Eddie’s mouth pulled into a grin and suddenly you didn't feel conscious about it.

“Pent up, aren't we?” Eddie teased with a pant, hot breath washing up along your exposed abdomen.

You wiggled in response under a hidden giggle, palms shielding your face as you nodded, Eddie’s large hands keeping you spread open for him.

He pressed down to open you up a little more, straightened out farther enough for a peak of that building wetness at your entrance to escape past your panty line.

“Promise you’re not mad?’ Eddie mumbles, more serious and genuine, plush lips tickling the now bruised spot on your thigh to keep you sweet, catching some of your slick with the tip of his tongue, a creeping hand stroking the mound of your naked pussy.

You hiss in a sharp breath through your teeth, rolling your hips into his palm the faintest amount that you can considering his weight.

“Promise,” You bit back a moan, determined to hang on to at least a shred of dignity, hands covering your thrumming cheeks when Eddie finally pulled your underwear to the side, rapid inhaling and exhaling creating erotic movement of your chest.

His eyebrows raise in unison for a moment, a ‘thought so’ sort of gesture. Smug fucker. You could have mentioned it, but the feeling of his wet tongue dipping into the dripping well of your entrance had a breath catching in your throat.

You were sick with it; the already building pressure at the base of your tummy, his searching tongue lapping at your slick folds, crude sopping sounds eliciting from the dip and drag of Eddie’s mouth up and down, up and down.

Finally he finds your clit, taking it kindly between his lips and sucking with true intention. Another moan slips free, shaking beneath his heated touch. It was too much yet not enough.

Completely giddy and nerve endings alight, Eddie’s fingers dig cruelly into the swell of your hips when they begin to lift up off the mattress, escaping his motions whilst never wanting them to end.

Fat melts and molds under Eddie’s touch, yanking a little rough to pull your cunt closer into his waiting mouth.

He suckles and licks, prods and flicks, flattening his tongue every so often to drag from your weeping hole to your clit, collecting every smear of wetness in his path.

“Eddie” you dragged out in a whine, fingers smoothing the loose strands of his hair from his face to see him clearly.

Your boy looked so so pretty. All glass-eyed and heavy lidded, his cheeks dusted baby pink. You could clearly see his tongue lapping at your clit, panting open-mouthed and head bobbing with every stroke.

He looked even prettier with his locks of hair coming loose from the hair tie he’d messily strewn it up in, your fingers aching to delve into every nook, nails seeking scalp.

Though the building release came hurtling quicker when Eddie focused his attention to the very tip of your bud, flicking with precision, pressing the perfect amount.

Eddie groans wicked when you begin to roll your hips, a sheen of spittle and arousal coating around his lips. His chin must be a mess, Eddie knows this for sure as the mixture begins to dribble down the column of his throat.

“Please” you beg, eyes squeezed shut, chasing the building orgasm. “Don’t stop, Eddie, please”.

Eddie mumbles a ‘nuh uh’ against your swollen bud, the added vibrations bringing you closer to the edge, not once changing his pace or rhythm.

He would never, he wouldn’t dare stop. One of Eddie’s favorite things was to watch you completely unravel because of him. His touch, his tongue, his cock.

He knows you’re close, having intricately mesmerized every crease at the corner of your eyes when you were tasting that peak, how your mouth hangs open in concentrated silence.

You almost looked pained, desperate. If he stopped now he wouldn’t see the sunrise. So Eddie instead uses two thumbs to spread your pussy wider, soft clit jutting out and easier to zone in on.

What he really wanted to do was lean back and admire how puffy and wet you were, but you were closing your thighs around his head and pulling him closer by the roots of his hair.

You chanted his name in an ever growing pitch, higher and higher until you were crashing down.

Eddie anchored you to the bed, moaning alongside you as you came in tidal waves onto his tongue. He almost busted in his jeans at the prettiest sounds he’s ever heard you fucking make.

Your aching legs shook around him, that pained expression on your face morphing into agony. But everything was pure bliss.

Eddie slowed his lapping, guiding you back down to earth, eventually transitioning into the smallest kitten licks until you were pushing him away with enclosed fists.

He grinned, a throbbing tent in his pants and a little too pleased with himself. Some overstim every now and then never hurt anyone.

Through bleary half-lidded eyes, you watched as Eddie crawled back into view. Long brunette curls tickled your cheeks, his soaked fingers teasing the edge of your lips.

One by one, Eddie pressed the pads of his fingertips against your wet tongue that was already waiting for him at the part of your mouth, gradually edging the digits in.

Without him needing to ask, you sucked, and you sucked well. A groan of appreciation rumbling in his chest, eyes glued heavy-lidded to the swirl of your tongue and hollow of your cheeks. He reveled in your submission.

You granted him purchase there, settling his plush wet lips just behind your earlobe, against that one particular soft spot to suck hazes of blue and purple similar to that of the midnight sky out the window.

He was a whisper in your ear, gooseflesh rising on your arms and the fire reigniting in your abdomen. “Now get on your knees for me”.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #stranger things #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things 4 #eddie munson reader insert #eddie munson request #my fics #doomsdaybby

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katyawriteswhump · 4 months

Text

Closer–a stranger summer/steddie microfic

For @astrangersummer wk 4 prompts, outdoors/camping and @steddiemicrofic May prompt, ‘top.’ Thank you also to @bananahoneycomb and yesdanger for inspiration on discord :) All my stranger things fic are also here on AO3

Rating: M CW: sex Words: 510 Tags: established steddie, hurt/comfort, smut, nightmares, cute, fluff, post s4 eddie lives, top eddie, bottom steve.

...

Eddie rolled into another excruciatingly uncomfortable position on the lumpy earth.

“The great outdoors sucks,” he informed the Milky Way, which swept above him. “It's a one-way-ticket to insomnia-ville.”

In the adjacent sleeping bag, Steve snored softly.

This had been Steve’s idea: “We saved the world. It totally owes us good times.”

Nonsensically to Eddie, 'good times’ included sleeping on a hilltop under the stars.

Now, Eddie rested his chin in his hand and watched Steve sleep. Steve looked pretty, bathed in moonlight. Eddie’s heart swelled with love. Christ, if he told Steve how cute his sleepy snufflings were, Steve would chew his head off.

Wouldn’t change my bitchy darling for a sell-out gig at the Garden…

Steve gasped, began fighting his sleeping bag. “No! Robin!”

“Sssssh, Babe.” Eddie leaned over Steve, whose arm escaped his cocoon, flailing wildly. “Ow!”

Steve sat up. “Wha—?”

“Bad dream?” Eddie rubbed his nose, not exactly stunned. The nightmares usually started when they both slept, and Steve rolled out of Eddie’s arms. “Bats or creepy vines, honey?”

“Both.” Steve blinked. “Shit, did I..?”

“You’re no demo-bat. See? No blood.”

Steve buried his fingers in his messy hair. “Jesus, I’m sorry. This idea was dumb. Thank Christ the kids ditched us, Robin cycled home, and—"

“Shhh.” Eddie pressed his forefinger to Steve’s lips. “I got to watch your ass go as you raced to the summit. Totally worth it.” Steve’s mouth quirked toward a smile. “Besides, it’s my turn to look after you. In hospital, you sat with me so long, Wayne complained he couldn’t get a front-row seat. Cuddle?”

Steve nodded, squeezed into Eddie’s sleeping bag. Spooning Steve from behind, Eddie rubbed circles on Steve’s belly, till Steve stopped trembling.

Eddie might’ve dozed off then. However, his dick nestled against Steve’s ass…

“Seriously?” Steve scrubbed against Eddie’s semi.

“Up for it, honey?”

“Totally. But the kids—"

“—lit a campfire miles away.”

“Fine. I wanna feel something other than my skin crawling with horror.”

Eddie wrapped his hand around Steve’s dick.

“Not that,” Steve mumbled. “Want to feel you in me, dipshit.”

“Your wish is my command, Princess.”

“Shut the fu—Gnng!”

Eddie hand-jobbed Steve into a frenzy anyhow, then worked his fingers into Steve, slicked with lube and mingled juices. When Eddie finally eased inside, Steve clenched super-hard about him, which was super-sweet.

Nearly pushed Eddie over the edge waaaaay too soon. He paused, relishing Steve’s growling gasps.

“You finally snoozing, Munson?”

“Nope. Finally waking up.”

He fucked Steve hard. Steve finally quit complaining: “Yes. Th-there. Pleeease… Christ!”

They both came hard—Steve yelling and messily—before snuggling in Steve’s fresh sleeping bag.

Seven hours later, Steve flipped over in the circle of Eddie’s arms.

“Good sleep, Stevie?”

“Best in forever. Love being so close. You?”

“Pretty shitty. I crave my soft mattress. Buuuut… I've a theory what might stop the nightmares.” Steve started apologising. Eddie kissed Steve’s nose: “I reckon we should try sharing my sleeping-bag every night, home-sweet-home in bed.”

“Okay,” mumbled Steve. “Jesus, I came all over the thing! Let’s launder it first, right?”

#a stranger summer #steddiemicroficmay #steddie smut #steddie #steddiemicrofic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fanfic #steddie microfic may #steddie microfic #steve x eddie #steddie fluff #top eddie munson #bottom steve harrington

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uselesssomebody · 1 year

Text

𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲'𝐬 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑 (18+)

the do's (rules & information):

readers must be over 18 reading these drabbles

all works will be under or roughly a thousand words

thirty-one days of smut drabbles

ten days are open to requests for the kinks

ten days will include dark content (will be properly tagged)

five will include a dominant reader

the don'ts (what i am not interested in writing):

i only write fem!readers, with all involved characters being over 18

the kinks i'd appreciate you don't request are anything to do with anal penetration, bodily fluids (besides blood and cum), and certain dom/sub dynamics like age play or ddlg

otherwise, ask away, and i'll see if i'm comfortable writing your request!

the kinks and the characters

october 1: shower sex w/ frankie morales

october 2: ball worship (dom!reader) w/ eddie munson

october 3: sex pollen (dark) w/ din djarin

october 4: consensual non-consent (dark) w/ miguel o'hara

october 5: threesome (ffm) w/ marc spector & layla el-faouly

october 6: requested kink & character

october 7: breeding kink (dark) w/ duke leto

october 8: somnophilia (dark) w/ eddie munson

october 9: mutual masturbation (dom!reader) w/ steven grant

october 10: threesome (mmf) + double penetration (in one hole) w/ frankie morales and santiago garcia

october 11: titfucking w/ javier peña

october 12: requested kink & character

october 13: exhibitionism w/ poe dameron

october 14: dacryphilia (dark) w/ joel miller

october 15: temperature play (dom!reader) w/ din djarin

october 16: phone sex w/ jack daniels

october 17: corruption kink (dark) w/ dio morrissey

october 18: requested kink & character

october 19: edging (dark!dom!reader) w/ basil stitt

october 20: recording/blackmail (dark) w/ jonathan levy

october 21: mask + glove kink w/ jake lockley

october 22: hate + mirror sex w/ javier peña

october 23: cockwarming (dom!reader) w/ steven grant

october 24: requested kink & character

october 25: overstimulation w/ jake lockley

october 26: size difference w/ miguel o'hara

october 27: knife kink (dark) w/ bucky barnes

october 28: free use (dark) w/ joel miller

october 29: sex toys w/ natasha romanoff

october 30: requested kink & character

october 31: period sex/blood kink w/ santiago garcia

the characters (you guys can request)

from stranger things, i write for eddie munson, robin buckley, billy hargrove or steve harrington

from marvel, i write for bucky barnes, steve rogers, natasha romanoff, jake lockley, marc spector, steven grant, layla el-faouly and miguel o'hara

from star wars, i write for poe dameron, or din djarin (the mandalorian)

from triple frontier, i write for frankie morales and santiago garcia

miscellaneous oscar isaac characters i write for include basil stitt, jonathan levy, duke leto, kane and orestes (agora)

miscellaneous pedro pascal characters i write for include joel miller, javier peña, jack daniels (agent whiskey), dio morrissey

if you want to request another character, don't hesitate! i will see what i can do.

notes

guys i know i haven't written in like 1200 months but i wanna get back into the mood with the short smutty stuff

besides, i've never done kinktober and every other one i've seen bangs so hard i simply couldn't resist

side note - dark fics will be only available on my adjacent dark blog: @darkuselesssomebody, but will be linked on this masterlist. if you wanna read the dark drabbles and future dark work, give it a follow!

i am also willing to take non-kinky & halloween themed requests, so if you have any, let me know!

𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲!

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juniperskye · 10 months

Text

Masterlist

My blog is 18+ Minors DNI. Requests are currently OPEN. I currently write for Criminal Minds, Stranger Things, The Rookie, The Last of Us, Supernatural and Marvel - I am open to other fandoms (don't be afraid to ask)!

I do not consent to having my work translated, copied or posted elsewhere. If you should see my work on another site, or being claimed by another individual, please inform me.

** Indicates Smut/Smut adjacent. Strikethrough Indicates coming soon Blue Indicates Request Red Indicates potentially triggering content

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Passenger Princess - GN Reader

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Too Sweet. - innocent/sunshine! GN Reader

Remember That Night? - GN Reader

Begin Again - Fem Reader

Eddie Munson x Reader

Chewing Gum - Hair Stylist! Fem Reader

Bangin' - Hair Stylist! Fem Reader

Dean Winchester x Reader

Letters to Dean - a series of letters combined with fic chapters. (Discontinued) Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

The Story of Us - Secret Relationship Fem Reader

I Almost Do - Song Fic - “I Almost Do” by Taylor Swift (Complete) Part 1 Part 2

Without You - BAU Fem Reader Secret Relationship

I never do this ** - Stranger! Fem Reader

What are the Chances? ** - Teacher! Fem Reader

Stick to What You Know. - BAU (kinda) Fem Reader

Who Are You Again? - BAU Fem Reader

The Set Up. - BAU Fem Reader Secret Relationship

I Choose You - BAU Fem Reader

Let's Start Over - Agent! Fem Reader

She's Definitely Guilty.** - Unsub! (not) Fem Reader

That'll Show Them - Single Mom! Reader

Joel Miller X Reader

Silence is Louder Than Words - Fem Reader

Bucky Barnes x Reader

I’ll do things right this time. ** - Avenger! Fem Reader

John Nolan x Reader

Until I Found You - Fem Reader - Meet Cute

Eddie Munson x Reader

Why Are You In My Head? - Soulmate AU (Complete) Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4** Part 5

Expectations - Single mom Henderson! Reader (Unplanned Pregnancy)

I Can't Be Your Friend. - Fem Reader (friends to lovers)

Like I Talk To Myself. - Fem Reader

It Had to be You. - Fem Reader (lovers to enemies to lovers)

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blueywrites · 2 years

Text

Where you and Steve swing with Eddie and Chrissy, and it gets complicated.

TO KNOW YOU'RE MINE (modern!swingers!au) (18+ only)

eddie munson x chrissy cunningham x steve harrington x you

fem!reader, chubby!reader, minimal use of y/n, body insecurity, swingers, smut, fingering (v), oral (f & m receiving), p in v, praise kink, emotional sex, aftercare, infidelity

chapter eight : just pretend (13k) | playlist | AO3 | next

🎵 in this au, deftones=corroded coffin. the playlist is a combination of R's sad girl music vibes and some foreshadowing. the songs for this chapter are #25-27. The middle song is not mentioned by name.

Weigh down on me, stay 'til morning

Way down, would you say I'm worthy?

Just Pretend — Bad Omens

The entrance ramp to the freeway is less than a quarter of a mile away. You've been inching towards it for the past fifteen minutes, fingers tapping restlessly on the steering wheel. The sunlight streams like a piercing veil through the windshield, forcing you to squint despite your sunglasses as you stare dully straight ahead, eyes fixed on the little bumper sticker family on the minivan in front of you. You've barely budged; the mile marker to your right is still winking at you mockingly, and you avoid its gaze. Damn summer rush hour traffic. Shouldn't you all be heading to the beach?

It's crazy to think that exactly one week ago, you were boarding a plane on your way to a tropical vacation in Miami. Now, not only are you back to the daily grind, driving home from the pediatrician's office in a reverse commute back into the city— a direction that usually serves you well in terms of traffic— but you're also in the midst of a major heat wave, with temperatures still close to ninety degrees at six in the evening. Hotter than it'd been in paradise, even. You'd be groaning aloud in frustration if the air conditioning wasn't blasting you in the face with a sweet, blissful chill and the radio wasn't playing Miley Cyrus' new song Flowers, which is surprisingly catchy and equally as cathartic.

'Can love me better, I can love me better, baby….' You've already caught on to some of the lyrics and are singing softly along, head bobbing as your eyes go a little unfocused, staring straight ahead. All in all, this week back to work wasn't bad. Monday was rough because you'd gotten very little sleep Sunday night, but by Tuesday, you'd thrown yourself back into your weekday routine, taking solace in its familiarity. Your head bobs a little more emphatically as Miley belts, 'I can love me better than you can—!' A delighted smile spreads across your lips as you hear the raspy strength of her voice, a smile of mutual appreciation from one singer to another. Okay, Miley, I see you—

The little bumper sticker family your eyes have been resting on is partially obscured by a wafting plume of gray.

Mind blank with confusion, you blink as another waft of gray quickly follows, streaming up from the blue hood of your old Honda Civic. Your eyes dart to the dash, and that's when you see it: the needle of your temperature gauge is now slanted up near the top of that alarming red band. The blaring orange check-engine light is just the icing on the cake.

The spike of panicked adrenaline that pierces your chest is accompanied by only one thought:

Oh, fuck.

Thankfully, fate has dealt you two small miracles this day. First, you're already in the right lane, ready to take the entrance ramp onto the freeway and thus directly adjacent to the shoulder. And second, during your Miley jam session, the minivan in front of you had moved up a few feet, leaving a sizeable gap where previously your bumpers had been nearly kissing. It's surprisingly simple to wordlessly cut your wheel to the right, pull up and over onto the wide stretch of asphalt, and turn your key to kill the engine.

You sit in your panic for the briefest moment before you're scrambling for the door handle, snatching your phone from the cupholder as you stagger from your vehicle. Thankfully, the shoulder is sizeable, and the traffic is still moving at a crawl, so you don't have to fear being hit as you put some distance between yourself and your lightly smoking vehicle. Your heart is still hammering as you unlock your phone, blood rushing in your ears as you pull up your contacts. Your finger hovers over Steve's contact picture: the two of you at the basketball game he'd taken you to for your anniversary last year.

You gaze at Steve's white smile, and you hesitate.

It's almost twenty after six, and you know Steve is on his way to happy hour with his colleague visiting from California. Part of you feels a little pang of selfishness at the thought of interrupting him, though you know he'll be more than understanding when he hears why you're calling. Another part of you whispers that there's someone better to call— someone who knows much more about cars than Steve. Someone who works with them every day, someone who can diagnose your problem and tell you, in no uncertain terms, exactly what you should do in this situation.

No picture accompanies Eddie Munson's contact card, just a little purple circle with a black 'E' in the middle. Your finger hovers there as you hesitate again. Because Eddie's text— his song— is still sitting lonely in your messages app, read but unanswered. Though it's only been five days since you'd seen or spoken to him, it's longer than you've gone without some form of contact in months. And it had felt strange, an absence you couldn't stop noticing, like the gap where a tooth had been. But you also couldn't bring yourself to fill it.

You'd tried to answer Eddie on Monday and then again on Tuesday. But every time you'd pulled it up, staring at the message he'd written and hearing the echo of his smoky voice crooning in your head, you'd been filled with a tangle of difficult emotions, woven so impossibly tight there was no unraveling them.

In the end, the reason you didn't answer Eddie was simple. You just didn't know what to say.

It weighs on you now, your conspicuous silence for the last five days. You're afraid to call him. Afraid to hear that smoke voice come through the phone sounding flat and quiet, bitten curt and short, or edged with irritation. Afraid because this week is the first week in five months that your normal group play plans haven’t been made. Albeit, it’s because Steve had another obligation, but you can’t deny that you were relieved to have an excuse not to see Eddie after your extended silence, or to see Chrissy’s lithe porcelain body, a reminder of what she is and what you are not.

But one last glance at the lingering stream of smoke still floating from underneath your hood, much thinner and weaker now but still present, has you pushing past your hesitance and tapping on the call icon. Because above all else— despite the little read receipt beneath the MP3 file, despite the dove gray paint now chipping on your nails— you know that Eddie is kind. You know he'll help you.

Eddie answers after the first ring. "Hello?"

He doesn't sound annoyed like you'd feared; instead, he sounds mostly surprised, if not confused. His voice makes that poignant yearning bloom behind your sternum, an utterly unhelpful feeling in this situation, especially since you're already on edge because of your car. You try to keep your voice from wobbling as you respond. "Hi, Eddie."

"...Hi, y/n. Ah, what's—" You hear a bit of shuffling, some noise in the background like he's somewhere out in public. "What's up?"

You're already nervous and unsure, fiddling unconsciously with the ID badge still clipped to the pocket of your scrubs. Your voice goes high, words coming quick as if your mouth is stumbling over itself to explain. "I'm sorry to call you out of the blue; I just— I didn't know—"

You cut yourself off with a quick huff of frustration, dropping the badge and forcibly stilling your fingers at your side. You take a quick breath to start again. "My car started smoking from the hood, so I had to pull over on the highway—"

"Shit—" Eddie hisses, and then his voice is suddenly louder, clearer, like he's taken you off Bluetooth or brought the phone closer to his mouth. His voice has an edge of panicked urgency as he demands, "Are you safe? Is the car still smoking?"

Your lips pinch, a flutter blooming low at the sound of his concern; you glance toward the car, watching for a moment for more wisps of gray. "No, it's not really smoking anymore. I'm okay. I'm standing on the shoulder. It's a wide shoulder, and there's a lot of traffic, so the cars are moving slow. It does look like it's clearing up, though." Are you over-explaining? Probably. "I'm right outside the city," you add as if he'd asked. "I was driving home from work."

"Okay. Okay." A heavy sigh of relief distorts on the other end of the phone, and, Eddie continues much more evenly, "Then, uh… start from the beginning and tell me what happened."

You describe what you remember happening— sitting in traffic, seeing the smoke, then noticing the spike in the temperature gauge. Brow crumpled, voice a little small, you ask Eddie, "So… what should I do?"

"Well, definitely do not drive," he says through a wry chuckle, and before you can help it, you're retorting sarcastically.

"No, really?"

You hear him husk a chuckle, warm and throaty and genuine, and the sound makes your belly flip. “Is it an old car?”

"Yeah, it's my sister's old Civic. I think it's, like, a twenty-ten."

"Right, makes sense. Doesn't usually happen in newer cars, but it's definitely your radiator. Probably overheated sitting there in traffic since it's a hundred fuckin' degrees out today." There's a pause, and Eddie sighs— not beleaguered, just a little light huff before his tone turns business-like. "Look, I'm gonna call my buddy from the shop. He'll come with a tow. It'll be after hours by the time it gets there, but tomorrow we can take a look at it. I had the early shift today, and I'm at the gym now, so it'll be a few, but I'll come give you a ride home."

Instantly you prickle with regret upon hearing that you're disrupting his plans. "Oh, Eddie, you don't have to do that. I can just call an Uber—"

"No," he interrupts you, voice still kind but firm. "I'm coming to get you, y/n. I'm not leaving you on the side of the highway." His tone brokers no argument, and you can't help but feel a flutter of moth's wings at how resolved he is. Like he would never be satisfied leaving you in anyone else's hands but his own. Your throat goes thick.

"Okay?" Eddie prompts when you don't respond.

You clear your throat to keep your voice from wobbling. "Yeah. Okay. Thank you, Eddie. I'm sorry I ruined your gym plans."

"What'd I tell you about being sorry?"

You can hear the smile in his voice even as he chides you lightly; you chuckle a little, unable to help the smile that blooms warmly on your face. "Right. Just thanks, then."

"You're welcome. Ping me your location, and I'll be there soon." You bask in the answering warmth of his smoke before he hangs up.

In the silence that follows, the first emotion that trickles in is relief. Relief that Eddie isn't upset at you, that he hadn't rejected you. Though you didn't really think he would, a tiny part of you still feared he might, so to hear it confirmed has tension melting from your frame. The relief is short-lived, however, when you look down at the front of your navy scrubs, which are wrinkled both from working a full day's shift and from the oppressive heat that is still beating down on your head, heating your hair and making sweat spring at your temples and on your upper lip. After sending your location to Eddie, you quickly pull up your front-facing camera on your phone, feeling a little ridiculous when it occurs to you that every car that passes can see you checking yourself out on the side of the road. The self-consciousness is still nothing compared to the spike of nervous anticipation that flutters within at the thought of seeing Eddie soon, so you push the thought aside in favor of examining yourself closely. And it's just as you feared: your hair is limp, lifeless, and a little tangled, and your skin is dewy from the heat but lacking the charm of mascara, blush, or lip color. Of course, I would choose today to sleep in a little and skip putting on makeup.

You stuff your phone back in your scrubs pocket, working your fingers hastily through the tangles in your hair before flipping your head upside down and shaking it out, seeking some semblance of volume. You swipe at the wrinkles on your scrub shirt next, giving up quickly when your efforts do nothing to smooth out the fabric. Do I have a spare shirt in the backseat? You stare at the iridescent blue shimmer of your Civic, now radiant in the ever-deepening light, wracking your brain for what may be back there and whether it's worth it to try approaching your car considering the smoke. Probably just some empty paper Dunkin' bags, you figure, but you also need your purse, and the smoke seems to be gone, so you venture over anyway.

Sure enough, the backseat search turns up no spare shirts. You collect your bag and detach your car key from the ring, slipping it into your pocket before you pull out your phone again to shoot off a quick text to Steve. 'Car's busted. Have to have it towed.'

He answers quickly. 'God babe, you okay??'

'Yeah, I'm fine. Radiator went because of the heat, Eddie said. He's having a tow truck pick up my car to take it to the shop.'

A longer pause to accommodate the longer response. 'Do you want me to come pick you up? I can be out of here in fifteen minutes.' Your stomach swoops, and you type your reply quickly to head him off.

'No, it's okay, no need to leave. He said he'd give me a ride home.' Before sending, you add, 'Have fun at happy hour!! I'll see you when you get back!'

There's an even longer pause before Steve's final reply. 'Okay babe, see you tonight,' he says, ending with a smiley face. Your stomach settles, and you lean against the back bumper to wait for Eddie. Despite the heat and humidity, you're better off there than sitting inside the car with the engine off. You mourn the lack of air-conditioning as a bead of sweat trickles down the center of your back.

It doesn't take too long for you to spot Eddie's van angling from the left lane to the right. If you didn't recognize his car, the recklessness of the driving would've been a dead giveaway that it's Eddie behind the wheel; still, as he cuts over onto the shoulder, his breaks nearly squeal as he slams them excessively, slowing to a crawl as he approaches you. You huff a little breath through your nose, amusement briefly cutting your nerves. Sweet of him not to run me over.

Eddie's out of the van almost as soon as it rolls to a stop, and you wipe your sweaty palms against your scrub pants as he hops down. The sight of him like this— dressed in sneakers, joggers, and a loose muscle tank, hair scraped back off his neck, striding toward you with purpose— makes your wings flutter so wildly that your head feels suddenly fuzzy and your throat goes dry. You swallow to wet it, gaze darting around his face, catching on those wide honey-brown eyes before they flit away again when your heart thumps.

You manage to compose yourself enough to say, voice smaller than you'd like, "Thanks for coming."

The quick flash of his grin makes you both melt and seize up. "'Course," Eddie replies easily, pausing before you. "I'm gonna check it out real quick," he tells you, eyes sliding away just as yours return his stare. Even that brief flash of contact has you chewing on your lip as you trail after him.

You watch Eddie from a short distance as he feels around the edge of the hood for the catch. As your eyes run over those dextrous hands, those ruddy knuckles absent his usual silver, you can't help but remember the feeling of his callouses rasping against your bare waist, so slow and tender. You feel a thrill of heat bloom low at the memory, though you squash the impulse almost immediately. This is not, in any way, the appropriate time to think about that. Pointedly, you avert your eyes from his flexing biceps as he lifts the hood.

After a brief perusal, Eddie lets it fall with a decisive thunk. "Yup," he says, "definitely the radiator." You hear his footsteps crunch on gravel as they approach, stopping a brief distance from you. You glance up to see that his expression is neutral, but those brown eyes are unnervingly unreadable. "Wanna sit in my van while we wait for the tow? It's hot as balls out here."

The promise of relief from this oppressive heat has you nodding immediately. "Please," you sigh, genuinely grateful, and Eddie rewards you with another flash of his eyeteeth in a broad grin.

"C'mon." He leads you to the passenger seat, opening the door for you in an unnecessarily chivalrous gesture that strikes you as dangerously charming. Dangerous because, as you watch Eddie lope around to the driver's side through the windshield, that impossible tangle of emotions rises within you again, conjuring memories. Memories of broad hands holding you close, of tender kisses pressed to your wet cheeks. Memories of bow lips spilling sweet words about boys and girls, of butterfly-wing whispers during backseat conversations. A war wages inside you, a war between hope and despair, like two hounds with their muzzles locked tight, neither willing to release.

When Eddie pulls himself into the driver's seat, it stirs the air in the van, which is musty with stale cigarettes but blessedly cooler than outside. Silently, he turns the key, and with a cheery chime, the vents sputter and begin pumping air into the cabin. You shoot him a tiny smile, one hand resting in your lap, the index of your other hand running back and forth along the plastic edge of your ID badge. Now that there's nothing to do but wait, you're beginning to feel awkward. And it seems Eddie might feel that way too because, though he's lounging casually back in his seat, his thumb automatically seeks a knuckle before he glances down and notices he's not wearing his rings. He splays his fingers against his thighs instead, and you glance away.

He's the first to break the silence between you. "So, uh…" You look up, catching the quick glance he tosses at you. "Haven't talked to you lately. How are you?"

The question is stilted, anything but smooth, ringing like a sour note between two people who shared an incredibly intimate moment less than a week ago. You appreciate the gesture, even though it doesn't do much to quell your tense emotions. You find yourself babbling in your nervousness. "I'm okay, besides my car, obviously." A little awkward chuckle, and then you're plowing on. "Work's been normal. The same. I spend my days sticking thermometers under tongues and brandishing lollipops to ease the sting of immunizations. You know. The daily grind." It suddenly seems extremely important to explain to Eddie why this Friday is the first in nearly five months plans weren't made for group play. You dart a look at his face before turning your eyes back down to stare at his fingers, voice tight with frenetic energy. "Steve's been working like a fiend since we got back. Just, like, so busy. There's a new project he's heading. He said they're making sure their systems are ready for the student loan relief bill that just got passed. It's all really technical, and he tried explaining the details, but that kind of stuff is just in one ear, out the other for me." Another glance up, and Eddie's watching you with those dark eyes, face inscrutable. You explain, "He's at happy hour with his coworker who's visiting from California tonight, so…" that's why we didn't make plans, is how the sentence would probably end, but you let it trail off into implication.

Eddie nods; you suppose it's to show he was listening, and you rush to continue. "Um, anyway. How's Chrissy? I've texted her a little this week, but not much."

The most minute twitch of Eddie's brow follows; if you hadn't been watching him so closely, you would've missed it. "She's fine," he says simply.

You nod, head bobbing more enthusiastically than necessary. "And, um, how are you—?"

"How come you left me on read?"

You fall instantly silent as Eddie interjects. Just gonna come right out and ask, huh? You suppose it's never been Eddie's style to be subtle. It's not accusatory, his tone, but nevertheless, it makes your chest squeeze tight. Your eyes dart down to your lap as you mumble your excuse. "I dunno. Just… getting back into the swing of things after vacation. I've been busy." It sounds lame as you say it, and you can feel yourself wince as the words come out of your mouth.

Eddie's voice is even quieter when, after a beat, he replies. "Too busy to listen to my song?"

The edge of hurt in his voice has your eyes wide and stuck to his in an instant. Your brow crumples, expression earnest as you rush to say, "I did listen to it, Eddie. I listened to it a lot, actually. I just…" A little oozing guilt seeps up at the bottom of you, regret that you know he can probably read in your face. "I just didn't text you back."

Eddie looks at you with those dark eyes, examining your face silently for a moment. And then the corners of his mouth soften just slightly. "And what did you think?" he asks, brow pinching.

You want to reach out, smooth the wrinkle between his dark brows, bury your nose in the crook of his neck and hold him, or let him hold you.

'I think Eddie's gonna propose!' Chrissy squeals, blue eyes wide and sparkling with uninhibited joy.

Your fingers twitch with the impulse to reach for him, but you twist them together in your lap. Still, you can't help but be honest, and your answer comes out soft, unable to be wholly scrubbed of the tender poignancy you feel. "It was beautiful: the music, the lyrics. Your voice. Your voice is always beautiful," you say, speaking slowly, "and I don't really know why, exactly, but… something about it made me sad."

Eddie's eyes dart between yours— honey brown deepening as the sun shifts, bathing him in a shaft of deepening gold, turning his dark curls richer. The wrinkle eases on his forehead, and your gaze drops to his plush lips, pink and pillowy-soft in the pale quartz of his face. You watch his tongue dart out to wet them before he responds.

But as they part, the rumbling sputter of a truck interrupts. It draws Eddie's gaze to the side window, and you both watch the truck pull off onto the shoulder, skirting around your car to park in front. You meet his eyes when he looks back at you, a moment of hesitation lingering before you exit the car. The loud thunk of a door slamming outside breaks the moment, and mutually, wordlessly, you both open the van doors.

Eddie and his coworker meet by your front bumper, clasping each other in one of those manly, complicated handshakes guys do. You pull the car key from your pocket and pass it to Eddie, cheeks heating at the brush of his hot fingertips against your palm when he plucks it from your grasp. You hope he doesn't notice and step back to let them work on hooking your car up to the tow.

Once they're done, his coworker hoists himself back into his truck. When you call out a thank you through his rolled-down window, he jerks his chin in acknowledgment. Eddie leans an elbow on the doorframe, and after they exchange some brief parting words, you watch your old blue Civic finally roll onto the freeway entrance ramp you'd been staring at nearly an hour ago now.

A nudge at your elbow and your eyes dart to Eddie, who withdraws his hand quickly but motions with his head back towards his van in a silent prompt. You follow him, sliding again into the passenger seat and clicking your belt into place as Eddie falls into the driver's seat, long legs stretched comfortably beneath the wheel.

You're suddenly overly aware of your own body in this space that so clearly belongs to Eddie. The scent of the air you’re breathing— stale cigarettes atop soapy, artificial pine— is conspicuously foreign, and the scratch of the fabric seat under your palms is unfamiliar, too. Though you've ridden in the back of Eddie's van before with Steve, this is the first time you've been privy to the passenger seat. The van is scattered with debris of Eddie’s daily life: gas station receipts and half-full boxes of cigarettes littering the center console, empty fast food wrappers stuffed in the door pocket, the odd guitar pick stuck along the seam of the floor mat under your feet. A life you’re now witnessing up close, inserting yourself into as you ask for his help. Selfish. You press your thighs together, folding your arms in your lap as Eddie turns the key and the van rumbles to life beneath you. Despite the tinge of discomfort, you’ve already accepted his help, so there’s no point dwelling on that now. You let out a slow breath from your nose, squinting as it occurs to you, when Eddie makes no moves to pull out onto the road, that he probably doesn't know how to get to your apartment from here.

"Hey—" Your voice isn't loud, but it still seems to startle him. Eddie's wide eyes dart to you, and you bite back the apology at the tip of your tongue, unable to keep your lips from curling in the tiniest smile as you think about his warm voice over the phone. 'What'd I tell you about being sorry?' "I can put my address in Google Maps if you want," you offer, and Eddie doesn't hesitate to tilt his hips and pull his phone from his pocket, swiping it open before passing it over.

You blink as you take it, the weight of his phone familiar— the same model as yours— but also so conspicuously foreign, just like the smell of his van and the sight of all his personal items scattered around the cabin. Little bits and pieces of Eddie that you can't help but savor. Crumbs that burst with flavor on your tongue. And you can't stop yourself from collecting another morsel: you stare at his phone background for a moment before you open up the apps.

It's a photo of Eddie and three other guys, faces all squashed together to fit in the frame. It’s slightly blurred and grainy like it’d been taken at night, and the handle of a shopping cart peeks from the bottom edge. Eddie looks younger than he is now, and the unmistakable joy on Eddie's youthful face— the brightness of those brown eyes, the smile lines at the corners of his mouth, those full lips stretched in a manic, delighted grin— makes your leaves quiver. That poignant yearning rises to the surface, untangling from the rest of your emotions to settle behind your ribs. It comes out in a soft smile as you think about Eddie's eyes while you set your address.

You pass the phone back, and Eddie scans the directions before fitting the phone into the closest cupholder, pressing it up against an open packet of cherry-red Twizzlers. "Don't forget to rate me five stars at the end of your trip," he quips, shooting you a brief grin. Only once you return his smile does he glance out the side window, looking for an opening before pulling off the shoulder in a controlled squeal of rubber. You take a steadying breath, reminding yourself to be grateful for Eddie's help even though his driving makes your heart leap into your throat.

You think back to the conversation the tow truck's arrival had interrupted. 'Your voice is always beautiful,' you'd said, and that emotion that had wrinkled his brow— nervousness, maybe self-consciousness?— had eased. You want to know what he was going to say in reply, but you sense that the moment has passed as you peek at him. Eddie's eyes are focused on the road; one hand lightly grips the steering wheel while the other taps an erratic beat against his thigh.

Eddie's constant motion makes the lack of music suddenly obvious. Before the silence can get awkward again, you ask, "Can we put the radio on?"

"Never gonna say no to that." Eddie's lips quirk in a crooked grin as distorted guitars and haunting vocals suddenly blare from the speakers. No chance of hearing Miley Cyrus on this station, you think dryly. He cranks the volume, settling higher than you find comfortable, but you don't really mind. He starts headbanging lightly, dark curls swaying until the song breaks down into a soft melodic interlude as the singer croons, 'Can't you see that you're lost? Can't you see that you're lost without me?' When the beat drops back in, you bite back a giggle as he resumes more emphatically, both palms now tapping against the steering wheel as he bites his bottom lip, movements frenetic and exaggerated but also oddly endearing. Your giggle breaks free, barely audible above the music; Eddie glances at you, brown eyes glinting as his smile widens through that bitten lip.

"What is this?" you ask, nearly shouting to be heard over the music.

Cheekily, he replies, "Metal, sweetheart."

You huff, shaking your head fondly as he resumes tapping on the wheel. But when his hands leave it entirely, beating on his thighs as he gets hectic, you intervene. "I know you're the craziest driver to ever exist and all, but if you kill me before I get home, I can't rate you five stars." Your voice is lightly dry though tight with genuine anxiety, considering how you're currently cruising down the highway and Eddie has no hands on the wheel.

He huffs lightly but quickly complies, and you flash him some playful side-eye. "Thanks," you say, still dry, though not so dry that he would think you're really upset.

You make it into the city without incident, and Eddie's steady speed is significantly reduced once you hit the gridlines, that labyrinth of red and green lights that stretches on perpetually into the distance. You're about fifteen minutes away from home when a song comes on that you actually recognize: Just Pretend by Bad Omens. You find your head bobbing as you watch the setting sun glint off the tall glass buildings that cage you in, towering over the cars crawling block by block toward their destinations just like you and Eddie are. At that first emphatic chorus, when the singer croons, ' I can wait for you at the bottom, I can stay away if you want me to,' you glance at Eddie, expecting to see that emphatic headbanging again. But Eddie's head is still, and his brown eyes are deep and dark as he stares out the windshield. You frown slightly, concern rising at the whiteness of his knuckles where his hands grip the steering wheel. He doesn't return your stare, tongue working the inside of his cheek, eyes pensive and far away. Consumed by the blaring metal and Eddie’s headbanging, you'd briefly forgotten the tangle of your emotions, the war of hope and despair waging within you. But Eddie's shift in mood brings it back. The hounds are still locked in a bitter feud, neither yielding, both equally matched. You turn your eyes to your lap, worrying at the hem of your navy scrub shirt to keep your fingers occupied.

The next time the chorus refrains, the words ' heaven knows I ain't getting over you' grow gradually quieter, and you glance up to see Eddie nudging down the volume. The gesture is simple, but coupled with his shifted mood, it feels meaningful. There's a spike of nervous trepidation in your chest mixed with a tiny shiver of anticipation, and then he's speaking.

"Look, I need to say something."

"...Okay," you reply cautiously, nerves spiking again as you wait for him to continue. Your eyes lock on his face, and you watch Eddie's jaw twitch before he continues speaking slowly and seriously.

"What happened on the way back from the airport… what Chrissy did… It wasn't right."

That hot rush similar to mortification needles down the back of your neck as he glances at you, brow lightly furrowed. You avert automatically from the flash of his brown eyes, not wanting to read the look there. You find yourself wanting to avert from the conversation entirely, to protect yourself from what might come. Regret. Reluctance. Pity. All would be painful, and you don't want any of it.

Quickly, you reply, trying to keep your voice even and pleasant as you head off his concerns. "What do you mean? We've literally all had sex together, so what's the big deal? It's not like we don’t know you’re having sex with each other."

Eddie's frowning now, brow knit tight, full lips pressed into a line. Bothered, but not angry. Despite your attempts, he pushes back. "Sure, but… she didn't need to talk about it like that in front of…."

Your eyes dip back to your lap when he trails off, and you can feel his gaze on the side of your face. You feel exposed, vulnerable; the hounds growl, teeth gritted tight. Hope and despair warring fiercely within you.

Eddie's waiting for your response. And you try; you really, really try to maintain that pleasant evenness you'd achieved before. But it wavers as you remember Chrissy's bright red acrylics, her happy chattering in the salon chair, talking about her future with Eddie. "In front of me?" you ask, predicting the end of his unfinished sentence. Your voice is dull, nearly impassive. "Why would that matter?"

It would sound nearly impassive to someone who doesn't know you well.

But Eddie knows you well.

You aren't looking, but you hear him huff a humorless chuckle. You tense immediately, heart dropping in that brief pause before he says tightly, "Dammit, y/n. Fuck it."

Eddie turns into a narrow alley between blocks, swerving quickly to the right to pull along the curb. The van skids and rocks as he throws it into park. You're reeling from the abrupt change, eyes wide as Eddie turns to you, looking so serious. Before he speaks, he jams his thumb against the radio dial to cut the music entirely. "It killed me to hear her saying all that. I didn't wanna go along with it; I just didn't know what else to do." His brow creases, brown eyes imploring as they stare into yours. "I'm sorry."

Your heart begins pounding as Eddie stares at you. His obvious earnestness isn't lost on you, and you hadn't realized how much you yearned to hear him say that— to feed your hope— until you heard it. Still, the despair hasn't released you. Its grip has loosened with his words, but it still clings stubbornly, prompting your quiet reply. "Don't be sorry, Eddie." You nearly smile because you won't stop telling each other that, but you can't quite bring yourself to. You swallow, throat thick as you push out the words. Acknowledge the truth. "She's your girlfriend."

Poignant yearning aches within you, rising to the surface as you voice it. Your gaze draws across Eddie’s face, caressing the darkness of his curls; the pale quartz of his cheeks; his brown eyes, wide and framed by long lashes. It lingers there, and you see when those eyes go so soft. Eddie wets his lips, and they fall slightly open. And then his smoke fills the space between you.

"But I don't want to hurt you." Hoarse, quiet. Sincere. "I really care about you."

The smoke settles within, fluttering your wings. It sinks into the peat at the bottom of you, turning to charcoal that nourishes your roots. You feel wobbly, head fuzzing, blood rushing in your ears, but as your green reawakens, the despair releases its teeth.

Hope wins.

Your admission isn't more than a whisper, but it's enough. "I really care about you, too."

Something shifts behind Eddie's eyes, then. They dart between yours, honey deepening to amber as he rasps, "And…" He breaks off, brow furrowed, nostrils flared. His internal struggle is obvious, and the seconds tick by— loaded, motionless seconds that hang heavy in the waning light as evening approaches. You wait, fingers fisting in your lap, for the resolution of that tension inside Eddie, for whatever that will mean for you. Your eyes want to flit away as you wait, but they can't. They're stuck on amber brown, drawn inescapably in, helpless to the pull of its brightness.

You see the moment Eddie reaches his decision. It's written all over his face the instant before he speaks.

"And all I can think about is how much I wanna kiss you right now."

Your breath catches in your throat, but the smoke sinks straight through your scrubs and into your chest. Your reply is inevitable; it was written long ago. As you stare into the light of Eddie Munson's eyes, it comes as a tremulous whisper. "Then kiss me, Eddie."

The flash of those brown eyes and the instant heat on Eddie's face hit you so hard you're left trembling, fingers fumbling the buckle of your seatbelt. You're leaning toward him, straining against the strap, brow furrowed in frustration as it holds you back— and then Eddie's hand is there, fingers brushing hot against yours as he unclips you, and you're free.

You lunge for him at the same time he grabs for you. The center console digs painfully into your hip as you tilt awkwardly over it, hand fisting for purchase in the shoulder of his tank; Eddie's fingers on your face are pressing hard into your cheeks, molding your flesh in a grasp rougher than he's ever been.

But when he finally mashes his mouth to yours, nothing else matters.

The press of Eddie's full lips is ecstasy. They're warm and supple despite the fervor of his kiss, offering sweet comfort and sweltering heat alike. He moans into your mouth— a deep sound of utter relief as your mouth opens unhesitantly, allowing him access to you. His tongue seeks yours, and he tastes like smoke and spice, like cigarettes and cinnamon gum, that flavor so uniquely him. Your desire is a wild thing, more frenzied than you've ever experienced before. Just the feeling of Eddie's hands on your face and his tongue in your mouth has your pussy throbbing already.

The kiss is careless in your mutual haste, borne of desperate need that propels you together without finesse. After a moment, Eddie tilts his face, slotting his lips more ideally against yours, soft nose brushing as he works into your mouth. And it was affecting before, but Eddie's kiss now is utterly delicious— deep and thorough and oh, so sensual. His fingers soften on your face, rasping back to cup your neck, dragging up to palm your skull, unconcerned about the mess he's making of your hair. That low heat catches to embers in your belly, flaring as he licks along your bottom lip. And then he bites down on it, tugging gently in a move that has your mouth falling open in an involuntary gasp and your pussy pulsing hard.

Fuck, you want him. You want him more than you've ever wanted anything in your life.

The sounds of the city filter through the walls of Eddie's van— horns honking, tires crunching gravel, thunks and clanks of cars rolling over sewer grates. You're in a side alley off the main road, but anyone who pulls down this tiny street would see you through that wide glass windshield: cheeks flushed, eyes closed, lips locked as you release the fabric at Eddie's shoulder from your fist to drag your hand up the length of his thigh, feeling around blindly until you cup the hard bulge in his joggers.

You feel Eddie exhale sharply as you touch him; his fingers tighten against your scalp as you press down with the heel of your palm, rubbing along his length. Eddie's hips jerk up into your touch, and your blood sings in your veins, yet he breaks the kiss almost instantly. Your eyes pop open in surprise, though you flush hotter as you see him: eyes burnished with deep need, cheeks stained high, plush lips dark and swollen, chest heaving as he pants. His hand gently cradles your face, fingers splaying against your neck. When his thumb presses underneath your jaw to angle your head up, you can't bite back a little whimper of need.

Eddie's eyes flash, and his voice is gritty as he rasps, "Are you sure about this?" He pauses before adding quietly, "We can still stop."

You consider his words: We can still stop. We haven't yet crossed that line. On this side, rule upheld; step over, rule broken. But it's not just that, not anymore. Not here in Eddie's van.

On this side, faithfulness; step over, infidelity.

The hounds of hope and despair have released you, but this is a beast of a different kind. You know Eddie is right to pause, to take a moment to think before you both do something you can never take back. You search inside yourself— search for that ooze, for that green.

For what feels right.

In your silence, Eddie examines you, and his hand slackens on your neck. "Maybe we should stop," he says finally. And the look in Eddie's eyes— the concern, the gentleness that shines in beautiful brown— resolves you.

Your words come from the bottom of you, from the roots that could never be choked by the ooze of shame and guilt. You cover Eddie's hand on your neck, weaving your fingers together. "Eddie, I want to," you admit, and your voice nearly cracks with the force of your longing. "I really want to."

He shudders a sigh, a full-bodied thing that tremors through him. A sigh of relief. "So do I, sweet girl." The rumble of his smoke voice is so tender, and you drag his hand from your neck to your cheek, listing into his touch as you flutter and bloom. His lips tilt with a gentle smile. "C'mere."

The back of Eddie's van is dark inside; there are no windows back there. The third row of seats has been removed, and you suppose it's to make room for his band gear. The empty space is wide and relatively clear aside from a random assortment of loose cords. It’s lined with fabric rougher than the seats when you press your palms to it and hoist yourself in.

You turn and watch as Eddie hops up after you, one hand wrapped around a handle on the ceiling as he crouches. There's a bundle of fabric stuffed underneath his other arm. He kneels beside you, and wordlessly, you help him clear the cords and spread the flannel blanket as a buffer between your bodies and the scratchy floor. When the back doors thunk closed, you're plunged into darkness until Eddie flicks a switch above him, filling the space with warm light that casts his black and white in a soft glow. The back of Eddie's van affords enough privacy that the sounds of the city recede from your mind.

Nothing is stopping you now.

He's kneeling before you, the lines of his body stretched as he reaches for the ceiling light. You don't know what to reach for first— there are so many different places you could kiss or caress that you're overwhelmed with the possibilities. Eddie is a feast spread out before you, and you're burning to devour him. And it seems that Eddie may be thinking the same thing because his eyes are dark and molten as they drag slowly over you as if he’s savoring the sight. And it's a peculiar thing. So often, the presence of others' eyes on you makes self-consciousness squirm uncomfortably in your gut. But when Eddie consumes you with his heated gaze, you don’t feel self-conscious. Instead, as his eyes linger on your face bare of makeup, your hair limp from the heat and mussed from his fingers, and the formless, wrinkled shape of your scrubs, you feel nothing but desirable.

You're already melting before Eddie tells you, "It's just you and me, sweetheart. Don't hold back."

You can’t.

You won’t.

"Touch me, Eddie," you moan, "please—"

Hearing you beg has Eddie reaching for you instantly, hands pushing up your scrub shirt to expose your soft belly. You help him, pulling it over your head as he shoves your pants down your hips, and you fall back on your butt as he yanks them down to your ankles. You laugh as he grumbles when they get stuck on your sneakers. "Hold on, fuckin'... stupid shoes…" he mumbles to himself, and you sit up to untie the other pair of laces while he works on the first. Your shoes and socks end up flung heedlessly aside, and then you're tearing at Eddie's clothes next. Your arms wrap around each other as he gropes at the clasp of your bra and you drag his shirt up his back, your hastiness more of a hindrance than anything as you mash together, fumbling until you're both down to underwear.

His brown eyes lock eagerly on the generous swell of your bare breasts and the dusk of your soft nipples. "Tits really are so fuckin' perfect." Eddie grins, and you glow with pleasure, smiling broadly back as you playfully tighten your arms to push your breasts together. His brow tugs up as his grin turns wolfish, and without warning, Eddie shoves his face into your ample cleavage.

You squeak a surprised giggle as his curls tickle. "Smother me." His words muffle hot against your skin. "I'd die happy like this."

You laugh harder, breasts shaking as he emerges for air. "You're such a weirdo," you say through chuckles, eyes bright and fond as he tugs you against him in a tight embrace.

"You like it," he hums cheekily, smile charmingly crooked, brown eyes honeyed and warm. You soften, leaning in to bring your faces closer.

"I do like it," you confirm, and the playfulness on Eddie's face fades, smoldering into heat as he drops kisses down the side of your throat— slow and light and delicate at first, then deeper, more insistent as your head tilts to give him access. The press of his fingers splayed against your back, the warmth of his skin against your chest, the sensual caress of his plush lips and tongue; they all settle low in your belly, stoking the embers of your desire. You hum your pleasure as his lips trail slowly back up, teasing until you're throbbing insistently again, body hot and flushed.

Eddie's smoke voice rumbles against your throat as he murmurs, "Been thinking about makin' you cum on my tongue."

"Mmm." You drag your teeth against your lower lip; your voice is hoarse and soft with feminine heat as you reply, "Yeah? You've been thinkin' about me, Eddie?"

He nips and sucks at that sensitive spot beneath your ear, making you shiver with pleasure. "Always thinkin' about you," he mumbles, and you flutter as you wrap your arms around his shoulders in a tender embrace. Eddie sighs as you hold him, hands rasping slowly up your bare back. These words don't just feed your desire— they nourish you deep inside, perking your growth until your flowers quiver and awaken.

Softly, you tuck your face against his curls; your voice is barely more than a whisper as you admit, "I missed you."

I'm sorry I never answered. I thought about you every day.

"I missed you, too," Eddie murmurs back, warm and gentle, and you cup his jaw, kissing him tenderly. He sighs through his nose, relaxing into your hold as your thumbs stroke lightly against his cheeks.

Slowly, your languid kisses heat, turning more fervent. When you feel Eddie's hand dip beneath your panties, you press your hips forward to encourage him. He parts your folds, seeking the honey at the center of you, and the burn in your belly flares as his fingertips graze your clit.

He breaks the kiss but stays close, and his brows jerk in surprised pleasure. "Holy— you're soaked, sweetheart."

You flick his lips playfully with your tongue, pussy pulsing when you see his eyes darken and heat further. "All for you, Eddie," you murmur. He groans and grins crookedly, an eager, manic flash of eyeteeth.

"Is that right?" he husks, and when you nod, he pulls you into a firm kiss that steals your breath.

And once Eddie starts to kiss you again, he doesn't stop. Those kisses travel down your body, trailing heat in their wake as you lay back against the flannel blanket. He presses his face to your covered pussy, and you buck into the tease of his touch over fabric, grinding yourself against his nose as he groans at your eagerness. That wild desire resurges as he bares you, prying your puffy lips apart with his thumbs so he can finally bury his tongue in your wet heat.

Your fire catches instantly as Eddie's broad tongue drags like a slick blaze from your entrance to your clit. There's no reason to muffle your sounds as his fingers quickly circle your entrance before plunging inside. And with nothing to distract you, nothing to inhibit you— with your focus entirely on Eddie and the pleasure he's giving you— you feel that fire lick high up to your navel, tightening so quickly that your mouth falls open in a loud whine.

Eddie moans into your heat, and your hand shoots down to grasp his curls as the vibrations rumble deliciously against you. "Fuck, Eddie," you whimper, hips rolling as he works the flat of his tongue against your clit, fingers moving insistently inside as he pants against your heated flesh. His eyes flick up to watch you intently, brown deep and hazy as his gaze remains locked on yours while he pleasures you, and the sight of his pale face between your plush thighs makes you writhe.

When Eddie curls his fingers, rutting against that soft spot on your front wall as he rests his chin on the soft curls covering your mound, you throw your head back, moaning unabashedly. You feel him press a kiss to your mound, and the tenderness of it makes you whimper; your petals quiver, opening their faces. "Taste so fuckin' sweet," Eddie husks, arm wrapping around your thigh to hold you securely with a hand on your hip. "Could eat you every day and never have enough." And then he dives back in, lips suckling at your clit as he works you with his fingers.

Your chest heaves with your breath, a flush spreading down your neck as his words and his mouth and his hand drive you relentlessly toward your completion. "Oh, Eddie, oh—" His name is all you can say as that tingle spreads low between your hips, licking like fire up to your navel. He hums against your pussy, a little sound of reassurance as if he's trying to tell you he understands. You imagine the cadence of his words, can nearly hear them as if he's murmuring them low in your ear. 'I know, sweet girl. It feels good, doesn't it? I'm gonna make you cum, aren't I?'

Your fist tightens in his hair, holding on desperately as Eddie propels you straight to the brink. "Yes—!" you gasp as if in answer, and then the tension snaps, flooding you with sweet release.

Eddie's fingers slow, working you evenly as your orgasm rushes through your body, washing you with waves of tingling pleasure. You whine and whimper, muscles flexed, hips pushing up into his mouth as he swipes at you with the flat of his tongue. Eddie pulls out his fingers as your hips fall, replacing them with a lapping tongue that greedily gathers your slick until you twitch away, heated flesh oversensitive. He contents himself with kissing your thighs instead as you sigh, stretching luxuriously against the flannel beneath you.

But your orgasm hasn't left you sated; instead, as Eddie's head pops up from between your legs, curls adorably disheveled and pink lips glistening from his attentions, you're even more ravenous for him.

Eddie starts to travel up your body again, but he's moving too slowly for your taste; you haul him closer by the arms, and he grunts and chuckles as your mouth clings to his when he lands at your side. You kiss him hungrily, tasting smoke and spice and musk until you've licked your own taste from his tongue— and then you shimmy down, nose brushing the softness of his belly as you fix eager eyes on the waistband of his boxers.

It's unceremonious how you expose Eddie: not dainty, not coy, just a quick tug of plaid to his knees, rushed in your need. He pops out stiff and flushed, bobbing with his own weight, sticking proudly from that thick snatch of dark curls. You pull his boxers off entirely, hasty to taste the bead of precum weeping from the deep, mouthwatering pink of his tip. You don't have the patience to tease; he looks too delicious, too tempting. You take him into your mouth, humming in relief as you feel him hot and heavy, taste him briny on your tongue.

Your enthusiasm hits Eddie hard. As you quickly engulf him, lips stretching over his length til he's sunk halfway into your mouth, his groaning cry sounds like it was pulled from deep in his belly in desperate surprise. It hits you low, leaving you already tingling with renewed pleasure as you draw your head back, only to take him deep into your mouth again just as quickly. Eddie props himself on an elbow to watch you as you set a brisk pace, and you're gratified when his palm settles on the crown of your head, a heavy weight that doesn't inhibit your motions. You suction your lips around his head as you maneuver your arm to cup his balls, pulsing as you hear Eddie whimper when you knead them lightly. The vein on the underside of his cock becomes your focus; you trace it with your tongue as you start to bob again, savoring every twitch of his legs under your arms, every sound that spills from his plush lips. That smoke voice is tight, pitched higher than normal, and you burn with the knowledge of how you're affecting Eddie. You want to make him feel good; you want to make him feel so, so good.

"Holy fuck, your mouth is like— like f-fuckin’ heaven—" Eddie chuckles breathlessly before breaking off in a sudden sharp moan, hips jerking as you take him even deeper, motivated by his praise. He's always so composed, and your thighs squeeze, pleasure pulsing low as you realize you've reduced him to a stuttering mess. "Oh, fuck, y/n… oh, fuck—" Eddie sounds like me now. The thought is delightfully thrilling, and as you hum in satisfaction, Eddie's fingers suddenly tighten on your head, voice now breathless and urgent, not heated like before. "Wait—wait—wait, hold on—!"

Instantly, you pop off him, eyes wide; you pant through swollen lips, brow creasing with concern. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

He chuckles again, though it's a bit sheepish this time. "Yeah, no, sweet girl, it's— it's really fuckin' good. Just, if you keep doin' that, I'm gonna blow way too fast."

Oh. Your concern melts back into pleasure, and you glow with a smile as you drape your arms over his hips. Eddie's cheeks are flushed; his inked chest rises and falls quickly as you rub your cheek against his stiff length. You pout playfully as you say, "Don't do that."

He laughs again, husky and genuine this time, and your smile widens as you crawl up his body. You straddle his waist, pushing his shoulders down flat to the blanket as you capture his mouth. He presses up into your kiss, returning it eagerly, and when you pull away, Eddie stares up at you with brown eyes bright with awed delight. "Look at you," he murmurs, hoarse and smoky. "Takin' what you want. So fuckin' sexy."

You inhale his words, smoke settling rich and heady in your belly. "Yeah?" You're almost surprised to hear the lowness of your voice, the feminine husk that deepens it to a sultry hum. You sit up straight, reaching back to run your hand over the length of his cock slick with your spit. "You gonna give me what I want, Eddie?"

You feel powerful when Eddie's wide eyes darken, pupils blown wide. "Fuck yes," he groans keenly as you bite your lip and hover above him, notching him between your swollen lips. His hands settle automatically on your hips, holding you steady as you begin to lower down onto him.

Eddie is thick, and he stretches you tight, but you moan in nothing but relief as you slide down onto him, taking him all the way as your hips fall flush with his. The grit of his hair against your clit isn't overstimulating anymore; it just makes you spark with pleasure as you begin to rock on him.

And you don't rock with tentative little movements like the first time. No, this time, you ride him, chasing your pleasure from the first moment you feel him hot and thick and unyielding inside you. You writhe, abdomen rolling as you lean forward, hands bracing on Eddie's strong biceps for leverage as you fuck yourself on his cock. And all the while, Eddie watches you, eyes glittering with satisfaction as you take what you need from him. He lets you do it freely, happy to give you what you want.

The embers reignite, hot and heady, as Eddie's cock presses against your front wall and his hair grinds against your clit, still swollen from the orgasm he'd given you. "That's it," he encourages you. "Just like that. Good girl—"

You moan, head lolling as his words coax your fire. "Oh, Eddie—" Your voice is breathy and delicate as you sigh with bliss.

Eddie's fingers press into your hips, kneading your soft flesh. His eyes capture yours, holding fast as he says, "Show me how much you love my cock, sweetheart."

Your breath hitches as you flutter wildly, blooming verdant and green. Because it's a daring thing to say, daring words that play at the edge of what's forbidden. Bold. Thrilling.

You feel another thrill race through you as you anticipate the words you'll reply with. Soft, hoarse, delicate, you tell him, "I do love your cock, Eddie. I love it."

Eddie groans in response, and you feel raw, charged like a livewire as you rock harder on his length, lifting higher and falling back down with loud, fleshy smacks. And Eddie's hands are everywhere: rubbing over your wide hips, squeezing the heft of your ass, pressing into your soft stomach, fingers molding into your flesh. Your hips are shaking, your body is swaying, and all the while, Eddie is watching you intently. You're exposed, fully visible, on display— and you don't care. You don't care at all.

Eddie watches you, and you feel beautiful.

And you watch him, too. Your eyes run over his face as if you're gazing at something treasured, something precious. You savor the way his bangs feather against his forehead, damp with sweat; the way his curls fan against the plaid flannel beneath you; the way his soft nose and cheeks are flushed from heat and pleasure, pink spreading down over the pale cords of his neck to the inky armor of his chest. Black, strong, masculine and sharp; but also white, gentle, tender, and kind. Eddie is captivating, all light and charcoal, ink and smoke that feeds your soul. Suddenly, it's not enough to be on top of him, to have his thick cock inside you. You want him as close as he can be. You want him to enclose you in his strong arms, to sink inside you and never, ever leave.

Abruptly, you stop moving on top of him, and Eddie's hands still on your waist as his brow tugs up. "What is it, sweet girl?"

He sounds so soft, so concerned that your plea comes out nearly choked. "Hold me," you beg him. "Hold me close, Eddie; I need you close—"

His hands tighten on your waist, pressing up so you'll lift off him. Quickly, he maneuvers to his knees, widening his stance as he hauls you onto his lap. With your thighs spread wide, you cling to his shoulders as he cups under your ass and presses his length back into you, warm breath puffing against your cheek. This. This is what you'd wanted— for your breasts to squish tight to Eddie's chest, for his lips to seek yours, warm and soft and wet as you writhe against him and he thrusts up into your tight heat.

You pull from the kiss, noses brushing as you whine against his mouth, "Fuck me, Eddie, please—"

Eddie sucks in a sharp breath and exhales an eager groan, breath puffing warm against your lips. Your brow pinches as you stare into beautiful brown, arms tightening around his neck, fingers sinking into soft curls. You inhale that smoke voice up close as he fucks into you, splitting you open so deliciously. "Makin' me feel so good, sweetheart," he pants out. "So needy for me."

It's not particularly daring, not as it is, but you can make it so. Turn it bold. "I do need you, Eddie," you admit, soft and whiny, hoping he understands. "I need you—"

Eddie presses his face close, and as he whines against your lips, you bloom. You thrill and pulse with pleasure, licking with tingling fire that tightens in your belly. Arms and legs quivering, you rest your sweaty forehead against his. He jostles you in his grip, readjusting his hands as he grunts, "Tell me when it feels good, okay? Tell me—"

He hikes you up a little higher, hips seeking as best he can in this limiting position, angling until you gasp and your fingers tighten in his hair when he ruts against that soft spot inside you that sparks bright. "Right there," you breathe, "right there, Ed, right there—"

Eddie kisses you, humming desperately as you whimper. You can feel his arms trembling as he holds you steady while the tingle spreads again between your hips, tightening up to your navel as he drives against that spot over and over and over. But this time, you're not afraid. You feel nothing but bliss as you press a tender kiss to Eddie's lips, breaking away with a little panting mewl. "You're gonna m-make me cum again, Eddie," you wobble, voice airy and soft as you communicate your pleasure.

Eddie exhales sharply again, a desperate sigh as he pulls his face back to look into your eyes. His brow is pinched, skin damp with sweat, wide eyes dark and deep. "Cum for me, y/n," he rasps, arms tightening, "It's okay. I've got you— I'll never let you go."

And Eddie's voice is so tender, so soft, and his gaze is so gentle… you think these might be more of those daring words wrapped up in the guise of sweet talk, but you have no time to dwell on them as your pleasure overtakes you and your mind goes blank.

You keen as your orgasm rips through you, white-hot and more intense than the first, as Eddie keeps moving inside you. You blossom with wondrous feeling, tingling pleasure rushing through your tense limbs as you gasp and writhe in his grip; Eddie grunts, working hard to hold you as you squirm on him while you whimper out the depth of your feeling. But Eddie doesn't let you go, just like he promised. He holds tight until you relax, arms shaking as you cling to his shoulders. "Eddie," you gasp a dry sob, and he peppers your cheek with kisses, moving gently inside you. Your want spills out from your lips in trembling words, fingers shaking where they cup the nape of his neck. "Please, fill me up, Eddie. Cum inside me. I want you, I want all of you, please, give me everything—"

Caught up in the heat of the moment, it's more daring than you intend. You feel suddenly that you've peeled your own layers back, exposing the green at the center of you, the white of your flowers, the tiny fruit that has sprouted on your growth. Fear, sharp and acrid, pierces your chest as you realize what you may have revealed. It freezes out from your sternum, frosting along your ribs—

But then Eddie moans, smoke voice tight and high and so achingly sincere. "Anything for you—"

And when his hips stutter, pressing up into yours, and Eddie digs his nose into your neck, you gasp, nearly overwhelmed at the feeling of his seed spilling warm inside you. Your eyes prick with tears as you hold Eddie close, cradling his head as his length jerks and twitches until it finally falls still. Your chin trembles as you rest your cheek against Eddie's hair, reeling with emotion as he holds you for a long moment.

That fear that pierced you— it wanes, soothed as Eddie pulls out and lays you down flat, draping himself over you as quickly as he can as if he doesn't want to leave you for a second. Your thighs are sore and burning, and his cum is leaking thick between them, but it doesn't matter once Eddie presses his weight down on you, enveloping you in black and white. He's still panting, deep, gasping breaths of exertion, skin damp and hot as it sticks to you. You brush back the curls clinging to his cheeks as your emotion wells up, and you're struck with the desire to say more. Shakily, you stare into the light of Eddie's brown eyes and manage a whisper: "Eddie, I—"

But the words choke, sticking in your chest as you gaze at him. Your eyes begin to dart; your thumb traces his jaw, stroking quickly as frustration builds in your chest. Eddie must see your rising distress because he softens, shushing you quietly before he presses his lips to your brow, lingering there. Your breath shudders; bitter and wanting, you're desperate to fight against the blockage and tell him. But when Eddie presses tender kisses to your lips, slow and gentle, you finally give in to his patient coaxing. You release, easing your effort as you wrap your arms around him, drawing your fingertips over the planes of his back.

You cuddle naked in the back of Eddie's van for a long time, smelling of sex and smoke. Cleaning up, getting dressed, checking the time— none of these are your concern, and neither are they Eddie's as he works his fingers gently through the tangles of your hair, and you drag your nails lightly along the ink of his arm, tracing patterns into his wrist and then up to his shoulder. Your legs are woven with his as you lay side-by-side, Eddie propped on an elbow, your head pillowed by the plush material of his folded joggers.

As you draw your finger up a vein in his neck, the sight of Eddie's tank strewn nearby has you musing absently, "I didn't know you work out at the gym."

Eddie eyes you with a slanted smirk. "What," he snaps playfully, "you callin' me a weakling?"

You flush, heat flooding your cheeks as he calls you out. "No! Clearly not!" you defend, withdrawing your finger. "I just—" you cut off, no excuse readily, and he chuckles huskily while you pout.

"Between working at the shop and carrying gear, it pays to keep in shape." Eddie lifts his arm and flexes his bicep, waggling his eyebrows at you wolfishly.

You pretend to roll your eyes, but a smile breaks free. "So, was this gonna be leg day?" You tease, eyeing his pale thighs pointedly.

He laughs again, and you savor the sound and the bright flash of his eyes as he murmurs, "Still got a full-body workout, after all." He ducks close, hand cupping your cheek and stroking back your hair as he kisses you slowly, languidly, like you have all the time in the world.

You hum fondly, contentedly, hand settling again on his shoulder and drawing lightly across his chest. You've been close to Eddie many times over the last five months, but you've never been able to take your time examining the dark body armor he wears— the ink that scrawls across his arms and chest, which you've been captivated by since the first time you saw him on stage. "I love your tattoos," you tell him, and the bright smile that stretches his cheeks makes you warm with fondness. You trace the bats at the crook of his elbow, adding, "I feel like I've never really looked at them. I mean, I've seen them a bunch of times, but…." Your gaze drops to the strange dice on his wrist, thumb stroking the tendons there. You know what you're really trying to say— that even though you've seen them, you don't know them. Don't know why Eddie has them; don't know what they mean to him. And you want to know more about Eddie— to see inside him, down to whatever grows at his core.

"Ask me 'bout 'em," Eddie offers, and your wide eyes dart to his. His face is calm, brown eyes clear, mouth crooked with an easy smile.

"Okay," you say shyly, peering down at his arm. You start with an easy one— the ink on the wrist you'd been stroking. "What are these?"

"Those are dice," he replies, gentle and free of judgment despite the obviousness of the answer. "Used in several different contexts, but I have 'em because of a game called Dungeons and Dragons. I was really big into it in high school. Ran a club and everything."

A tentative smile blooms bright on your face, and Eddie's eyes soften as he sees your enthusiasm. "Really?"

"Yeah," he says. "It's a role-playing fantasy game, kind of like League of Legends. Have you ever played that?" You shake your head, and he seems to settle in, head resting more comfortably against his palm. "Well, you basically—"

Patiently, thoroughly, Eddie shares himself with you as you examine the tapestry of his ink. He walks you through the weaving of old and new alike— explaining the fuzzy blow-out of that demon head on his chest, done by a kitchen-scratcher when he was seventeen, and the crisp lines of the hobbit door along the curve of his shoulder to bridge the gap between two other pieces, completed last year. A clear pattern emerges— dark imagery, chaotic and unruly in its skulls and snakes and knives, scrawls of metal lyrics, and anti-conformist sayings proclaiming individuality and rebellion. But his collection is not without outliers. You spot a small raccoon, shaded softly and nestled in the crook of his left elbow. "'Cause I always fed the ones around the trailer park," Eddie tells you, smile manic as he adds, "Used to drive the neighbors nuts when they started hanging on their porches looking for more scraps." You grin at his boyishness, head settling in that crook to cover the raccoon as you snuggle closer. And that's when you see it— innocuous, just below his clavicle, small compared to the black widow spider nearby. A simple outline, a stamp of white quartz skin in the heavy black surrounding it, one you've never noticed before. You raise your head to peer at it, brow crinkling confusedly.

"Is that a…" you squint, head tilting. "...a mug?"

Eddie turns his face down, chin wrinkling into folds as he pushes his shoulder forward to see what you're looking at. When a corner of his lips tugs up into a gentle smile, and he looks back at you, his eyes tell you it isn't because he'd forgotten about it. "Kind of different from everything else, right?" You nod wordlessly, and he lays back flat against the blanket, eyes scanning the ceiling, plush lips slack as he goes quiet. You nestle against the plush of his joggers, eyes locked on the side of his face. He looks suddenly pensive and wistful. The dip in Eddie's mood is obvious, and you're about to tell him he doesn't need to talk about it, but then his smoke voice is filling up the back of the van— hushed, low, but unwavering.

"I told you I grew up in a trailer park," he says, brown eyes fixed on the soft glow of the ceiling light. "But I didn't always live there."

Eddie tells you about Indianapolis. About his mother, how the house had smelled of shea butter and burned plastic until she skipped out when he was seven, track marks sunk in her arms. About his father, how Eddie spent evenings in the backseat of a dark car parked outside rundown stash houses until he was old enough to come inside. "He didn't teach me how to fish," he tells you, "but he made sure I knew how to hotwire." He tells you about the drunken rants, the acerbic insults he weathered once his mother left father and son trapped together. About the bruises on his stomach and his arms, but never on his face. Never where they couldn't be hidden.

And once your chest is heavy with the weight of your sorrow, Eddie's lips quirk in a tiny grin. "And then there was Wayne." His uncle, his father's gruff older brother, who plucked him from that house and gave him the only bedroom in his tiny trailer without a word of complaint. He slept on a fold-up in the living room, pulling doubles to put food in Eddie's stomach, a roof over his head. Providing a refuge Eddie could hide in until he healed and emerged, blinking in the sunlight, finally able to be himself at fourteen years old. "He has this gigantic mug collection, and every Christmas, I get him a new one. The most ridiculous one I can find. Used to hide stuff in them, too, to see if he'd ever find them." He chuckles, a husky sound of fondness. "He never did."

Eddie settles, brown eyes sliding to yours as he says quietly, "Wayne's more of a dad to me than my father ever was." You marvel at him— how Eddie could be broken into something rugged and sharp but still remain gentle at his core. Your heart aches for the boy he was, but it yearns, it longs, for the man he is.

"I'm so sorry, Eddie," you whisper, voice thick with emotion. "You didn't deserve any of that. But I'm so glad you had him." When that little wrinkle forms on his forehead, you smooth it with your thumb. Your touch is gentle as you draw it over his brow, stroking slowly. "To go through that and still be as kind, as good as you are…." You swallow thickly. "It's something rare, I think."

Eddie stares at you for a moment, and you hold his gaze until he shifts, rolling over.

Rolling towards you.

Rolling onto his side, head landing on your shoulder as your arms wrap around him. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, pressing himself to the length of your body. One hand strokes his hair while the other presses flat to the warmth of his back, and your chin rests against the top of his head.

And there you both lay— still, quiet, breathing one another in. And as you hold Eddie, as he bares himself to you, your roots stretch. Your leaves quiver and your white flowers spread their petals, blossoming soft and full. And the fruit that sprouted abundantly along your green begins to grow plump. It ripens until it hangs heavily from the vine: succulently red, deeply sweet.

Latent and ready to provide nourishment; just waiting for the right moment to burst from your tongue.

–

Eventually, the evening must end. No longer can you just pretend that the back of Eddie's van is all that exists.

It's nearly nine-thirty by the time he pulls onto your street, and when the van rolls to a stop against the curb outside your building, you take a moment to shoulder your purse and check that your phone is inside. You pat down the length of your hair, smoothing the wrinkles from your scrubs, anything to delay the moment you'll leave the smoke and artificial pine of the van's cabin. Anything to keep the tangle of your emotions quelled by the light of Eddie's brown eyes and the rasp of his callouses on your cheek.

As it's fluttering around your thigh, Eddie gently snatches your hand, and you bite your lip as he slowly weaves his fingers between yours. Your eyes catch beautiful brown as Eddie stares at you mutely, gaze all melty soft, the same way you feel inside. Deliberately, you squeeze his fingers; deliberately, he squeezes back.

There are no parting words from either of you. Instead, your hand slips from his, and when you finally step outside, the sweltering heat has waned. Now, the air is balmy like turquoise sea water.

You spend the elevator ride up to your floor chewing on your thumbnail, mind racing to decide how you'll justify the length of your absence. But when you finally turn the doorknob, the interior of your apartment is dark and still. Steve is not yet home. You check your phone; there's a text from ten minutes ago. It's Steve telling you he should be home in about twenty minutes.

This stolen time without your boyfriend is welcomed, and you shed your disheveled scrubs immediately, heading straight for the shower. The spray washes the sweat from your skin. Conditioner smoothes the tangles in your hair. Soap washes the seed from between your thighs. You take your time in the steam, letting it loosen the tangle of your emotions until you can lay them out flat, uncoiling each strand to examine its meaning.

When you emerge, swiping your hand across the condensation on your mirror, you gaze at your reflection. At the brightness of your eyes. The healthy flush of your cheeks. The soft sheen of your hair. The radiance of your skin, a radiance that glistens from the swollen red flesh of fruit now fully grown at the center of you. You acknowledge the truth, calling back to the surface that realization you'd just begun to fathom sleeping next to Steve in the hotel room, watching Eddie's back rise and fall in the next bed over:

Steve Harrington is your boyfriend, but you aren't in love with him anymore. And your feelings for Eddie are stronger than what you felt for Steve, even at the beginning. Because Steve never shone a light on the deep earth concealed at the bottom of you. He never planted a seed, tended your roots, or encouraged your growth. And you aren't angry at him for it. You think he would have if he could. He simply hadn't known how to.

Words don't come easy to you, and you know these won't, either. But you're going to do it anyway.

Tomorrow, you're going to break up with him.

#tkym #blueywrites #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fic #steve harrington

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justmeinadaze · 1 year

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I Have Nothing (If I Don't Have You) Part 2 (Steddie X You)

Warnings with some notes: Soft Dom Steddie and Singer Reader, Smut and angst, reader has flashbacks of her fight with Simon from the last chapter (Domestic violence trigger!), her need to numb with alcohol and drugs is touched on briefly, Eddie alludes to his past with his dad.

This chapter does deal with some darker themes of Y/N feeling like she's nothing because toxic people have made her believe that. Please never forget that you matter and your feelings ARE valid <3.

Word Count: 4305

Your eyes snapped open to darkness as the images from your nightmare were slowly beginning to fade away. Nightmares weren’t new for you but this one involving Simon trying to hurt you was. It took you moment as you sat up to catch your breath to remember you weren’t alone in your guest bedroom tonight.

Ever the gentlemen, even though you asked them to sleep in bed with you, both men had fallen asleep as close to the edge that they could and on top of your covers. Eddie was facing you, his arms folded against his chest as he slept. Steve’s chest gently rose and fell as his head remained angled towards the bedroom door.

Without jostling the bed too much, you crawled out from under your blanket and headed for the kitchen to grab a glass of water. You stared at the whiskey bottle on the counter, frozen in place as the night’s events played through your mind.

Simon was already irritable when you came back from having lunch with the guys but after telling him where you were he had gotten extremely jealous.

“They are security, not your fucking friends. Why are you having lunch with them?!”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe cause they earned it. They did protect your girlfriend from a mob last night.”

“A mob? Seriously? You’re so fucking dramatic.”

“You wouldn’t know because you weren’t fucking there even though you said you would be!”

“Are you fucking them?”

“I’m not even going to entertain that with an answer.”, you scoff.

Simon’s arm shoots out, gripping your biceps tightly as you whine in pain. “You will fucking entertain it. Tell me now or I swear to God, Y/N…”

“Let. Me. Go.”

“Answer me.”

“Yes, Simon. Oh my god. You caught me.”, you respond sarcastically as you widen your eyes in jest. “I just met them last week and I swear…I couldn’t get them inside me fast enough. Even though I’ve been planning an album, tour, and singing at the concert I had, I still had enough time to just blow their minds. It only takes 2 minutes, right, baby? ‘In and out’ At least that’s how I refer to our sex life.”

His palm collided with your cheek hard, knocking your back into the adjacent wall.

“I have never once heard you or any other fucking woman complain. You think you’re so smart and perfect. Let me tell you, sweetie, you’re not. You’re just like every other fucking small-town whore who comes to the city to become ‘something’. There is absolutely nothing special about you, babe, and deep down you know that. That’s why you ply yourself with drugs and fucking liters of vodka. You. Are. Nothing.”

A tear escapes down your eye and you scold yourself internally for letting him see how much his words were hurting you. Abruptly, you lift you knee, hitting his stomach, and running to your bedroom as he howls in pain.

“Sweetheart?”

“Jesus!” You jump as the glass in your hand falls to the ground.

“Hey. Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you alright?”, Eddie asked, hands held up in surrender as he slowly moves towards you.

“Yeah, I…shit. I didn’t hear you come in.” As you start to step forward, his hand reaches out to lightly grab your forearm.

“No. Don’t move. You aren’t wearing any shoes or slippers. Let me clean this up for you.”

You couldn’t help but softly giggle as he bent down to get the big pieces of glass with his hands. “Neither are you.”

“True but my feet aren’t as pretty as yours. I mean with the…”, he gestures towards your pedicured toes.

“Are you…security guarding my feet, Mr. Munson?”

A small smirk slides across his face as he rises and throws the pieces into the trash before reaching into a nearby closet to grab a broom.

“You could say that. They are a part of you and I’m supposed to protect you so… plus I like the pastel purple color thing you got going on there.”

“It’s my favorite color. Usually my nails have to match the outfit but depending on my shoes I can have that be any color really so I always choose purple.” Eddie’s grin grows as he nods his head, finishing his task and putting everything away. “Thank you…again…for tonight.”

“Of course. Probably a silly question but how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”, you lie.

He nods again, his fingers tracing your arm where Simon had grabbed you. You tried not to flinch but it hurt too much. The metalhead opens your freezer and takes the first frozen, bagged item he sees before waving you to follow him as he heads for your couch.

Carefully, he places the cold object on your bruises making you wince.

“Growing up, when I had bruises like these, my mom would put peas or steak on my wound and tell me that it had healing powers. For a while I believed her because the next day the cuts and bruises didn’t hurt as bad.”

“Were you just a rough and tumble kid? Why did you get hurt so much?”

“My father would probably tell you it’s because I deserved it.” His beautiful brown eyes met yours, telling a story that he couldn’t just yet.

“Oh…”

“Is everyone ok?” Steve sleepily sauntered into the living room and tossed himself onto one of your comfy chairs.

“Took you long enough, Stevie. She’s been up for…”, Eddie glances at his watch. “…15 minutes. Give or take.” He chuckles at your shocked expression. “You were mumbling in your sleep and then kind of groaned when you woke up. That fully woke me up. I thought you were getting something to drink and then coming back. When you didn’t, I went searching till I found you staring into the void of the kitchen counter.”

“Yeah. I kind of got lost in thought for a moment.”

“Can we ask what you were thinking about?”

You turned towards the other boy, unsure if you should be honest.

“I was going over the fight Simon and I had.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really. I’d rather talk about you guys.”

“I have an idea. Why don’t we make some breakfast, get some coffee, and then you can ask us anything you want to.”

“Ok. I don’t have many foods in here but…” Your eyes follow Steve as he stands up and heads for your kitchen.

“Hm. I see eggs and bacon.” He starts pulling ingredients out and placing them on the counter, pausing to look at you. “Are you going to come help me or not?”

You giggle as you head his way, not noticing when Eddie smiles after you before getting up himself and disappearing down the hallway.

“I have zero idea how to cook anything.”

“Well, thankfully, eggs are one of the easiest things to make.” Your eyes focus as you watch him work, listening to every tip he gives you. “Here, take this and I’m going to start the coffee.”

Panicking internally, you take the spatula from his hand, coping everything you had seen him do. After a couple of minutes, you felt his palm tenderly press against your lower back.

“There you go. Pfft Miss I have no idea how to cook.” Steve grins down at you as your eyes light up at his compliment, proud that you were able to do something with the added bonus of making him happy. “Alright, let me plate this here. Ed! Food!”

Your eyes swing around the room, not realizing he had left it at all.

“I’m comin’! Geez. I cleaned up the mess on your bedroom floor, Y/N. Later today, we’ll see about getting your door hooked back up, okay?”

“I…thank you. I could have helped you.”

Eddie takes a seat at your table as you plop down beside him and begin digging into your food. Steve brings you a cup filled to the brim with caffeine and sits across from his friend.

“It’s no problem. He did more damage to the door and you…” You glance down at your plate as you take another small bite. Ringed fingers slide into your peripherals and tap your hand. “What did you want to ask us?”

“Are you from California?”

“Indiana actually.”, Steve answers. “Small town hidden away.”

“You said you were good at protecting people. Did you do that in Indiana?”

“At the bar in town, yeah. I used to play there with my band and on the weekends it would get a bit…rough. Steve saved my ass when some big, muscle-bound guy tried to punch me because he thought I was flirting with his girlfriend while we were playing.”

“He was but that’s beside the point.”, the other boy jokingly whispers making you laugh.

“We also had some kids we grew up with that were bullied a lot so we protected them.”, Eddie smiled. “About two years ago, Harrington suggested we move out here to get more clients and make more money. For a while we were with this indie band but then they broke up.”

“Oof. I don’t have a band so no worries about that here. So, what’s your end goal? Do you want your own security company or…?”

“I mean technically we do have our own security company. Eddie and I are freelance so we don’t answer to anyone.” You nod your head at his answer as you take a sip from your cup. “What about you? Where are you from?”

“Haven’t goggled me yet, I see.”

“No fun in that especially when I’m sure whatever we would read would have some glaring plot holes.”

“True. I’m from a city down south. Definitely not a small town up bringing but very much a hardheaded one. My family always wanted me to be ‘something’ like a doctor or a teacher. I knew that wasn’t for me.”

“They don’t like that you sing?”

“My parents don’t get it. They see ‘real music’ as something like Johnny Cash or Dolly Parton. Since I’m not on that level I haven’t officially made it to them. I’m just fucking around on stage with a microphone.”, you roll your eyes.

“I know Johnny Cash. I don’t think I’ve ever listened to Dolly Parton.” Your jaw drops open as you stare at Steve.

“He’s a bit sheltered, sweetheart.”, Eddie teases.

Quickly getting to your feet, you run to the bedroom to grab your phone, scrolling through it as you sit back down. “9 to 5” by Dolly Parton begins to play through the little speaker as you hold It out towards him.

“On Saturday mornings, I remember waking up to my mom blaring this song with the windows open as she cleaned. The sun always seemed to shine through the windows perfectly and she seemed so happy. We would sing together while I helped her.” You smiled as your got lost in the memory.

“I like it.”, Steve grinned as he bobbed his head. The music cut off as a phone call came through and you sighed, recognizing the ID. “Who is it this early?”

“Simon. He’s calling from the police station for me to bail him out.”

“Is that something you normally do?”, Eddie asked, huffing under his breath when you nod your head. “Y/N, he’s never going to stop taking advantage of you if you keep letting him and bailing him out.”

Anger suddenly flooded your expression as you turned on him. “Look, you don’t get it. I’m really sick and fucking tired of you two constantly pointing out how ‘weak’ I am by letting people ‘take advantage’ of me!”

“Did we say she was weak?” The metalhead turned towards his friend who promptly shook his head in response.

“She’s definitely not weak. Scared maybe.”

“Pfft, please! What do I have to be scared of?!”

“Being alone, I imagine. Going back to being that southern little girl who was nothing.”, Steve shrugs as he leans back in his chair.

“I’m not nothing! Why do people keep saying that!?” You rise from your chair and stomp towards the kitchen, reaching for the bottle of vodka, popping the top, and chugging some of it back.

You yelp as the bottle is yanked from your grasp and you watch as Eddie pours the liquid down the drain. “We didn’t say you were nothing. He’s saying YOU feel that way. Why is that, Y/N? Does Simon keep telling you that? Because if anyone here is nothing it’s that asshole.”

“You are not my father. You can’t just throw out my stuff like that!”

“Stop acting like a child and we’ll stop treating you like one.”

In defiance, you reach in your cabinet to grab another bottle of the hard liquor but Steve blind sides you as he comes up from behind and takes it from your hands. You stomp your feet as Eddie pours its contents down the sink as well.

As you bend down to grab another, he blocks the area with his body.

“Move, Steve.”

He matches your glare with one of his one. “Make me. Hell, I’ll even make you deal. If you can move me, you can have what’s inside and we won’t stop you.”

Growling, you try and shove at his body with your small frame but it’s no use, he’s too strong.

“Stop it, Steve! Move!”

“Oh, come on, little girl. You’re giving up that easy?”

You continue to throw a tantrum as you fold your arms over your chest. For moment you pause as you become slightly aware that you are being more of a brat than normal. Is it because they were pushing you? As your eyes shifted between theirs you noticed that dominate air return that you had only seen in them.

They see it to within your demeanor as you partially descended into the headspace. They knew this was a professional boundary they shouldn’t cross but it was hard to be levelheaded when your big, beautiful eyes continued to penetrate theirs with need. A need to be protected and feel loved; to feel safe.

“You don’t need alcohol to make you feel better, honey.”

“Yeah? And what do I need, Steve?”

He took one confident step forward, backing you into the island behind you. “Personally, I think you need to be reminded how important you are and how much you matter. You need to be shown how fucking gorgeous you are and deserve to be treated right.”

Eddie’s lower belly grazed your hand as he came to your side. “You deserve to be up on a pedestal, Y/N.” Your eyes flutter shut as his lips graze the shell of your ear. “That way we can pull you off of it and make you cum till you’re begging us to stop.”

Your fingers tangle in the fabric of his shirt as you pull his lips to yours. Fuck he tastes so good…

You’re both panting once you’re finally able to pull away.

“Th-this is…we shouldn’t be doing this.”, you whisper.

“No, we shouldn’t.” Steve’s palms grip your thighs as he lifts you onto the counter, kissing you passionately as you cling to his neck.

You growl as your phone rings again but pause when their phones ping from different places in the house. Taking your device from Eddie’s grasp, you thank him as he hands it over to you. Resting your forehead against the man’s chest, you whine as you answer.

“Hello Sarah.”

“You need to come down here now. We need to talk about the incident last night.”

“Can we do it tomorrow?”

“No, we can’t do it tomorrow! The morning news is already talking about this and we need to get ahead of it as much as possible. Get over here now, please.”, she commanded before disconnecting.

“Hm. Well that would be my publicist, Sarah. I should go shower.” You flash them a soft smile as you slide down from the counter. “I’m sure you noticed but I have a shower in the guest room if you guys want to freshen up or anything.”

“Yeah, looks like your agent wants us there to.”, Eddie sighs as he shows Steve the text.

“Our morning just got very exciting, gentlemen.”

###########

“Ok, let me ask this out right because depending on how you answer is where we go from here. Are you going to bail him out?”

Your eyes shifted towards the boys as they leaned against the wall to the side of you. You did every single time something happened with Simon. No matter what it was, you were always there to bail him out but after what happened and what the guys told you about deserving better…

“Um, no. Not this time.”

Sarah makes an amused face as she nods her head. “Good for you, Y/N. Fuck him. Are you considering that your way of dumping his ass?”

“I, um, yes. I think so… I’m sorry. Its just last night was a lot and I haven’t even really had time to process it.”

“I understand, Y/N. Now I have to ask just so I can be prepared for anything he might say… What exactly happened?”

“I came home and he was angry--”

“About what?”

Her question quickly followed your statement throwing you off guard. “Um, I had lunch with some…some friends and he got jealous.” You didn’t need to look their way again to know their eyes were penetrating your body. “He thought I was cheating on him.”

“Insecure fucker always thinks that with you. Ok, and then what?”

“I told him to fuck off and he hit me.”

“And then you called these two?”

Eddie clears his throat when you nod. “She said she needed help so we sped down there and handled the situation.”

“Ok. Ok, ok, ok.”, Sarah exhales as she leans against her desk. “I’m going to write a formal statement and give it to the press. Something along the lines of you’re safe and will no longer tolerate this kind of behavior. You…pray for him to heal and wish him all the best?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. “, you sigh as you nonchalantly wave your hand. “I feel like we could have done this over the phone.”

“We could have but we didn’t.”

***

“You didn’t say the fight you two had was about us.”

“You’re right, Mr. Harrington. I didn’t.” He and Eddie exchanged a look as the metalhead continued to drive back towards your house. “To be fair…he thinks I’m fucking everybody so…”

“Are you?”

“Excuse me?”, you ask angrily.

“We wouldn’t blame you, sweetheart. You put on that little display for us when you and Simon were fucking before you snuck out to the bar. You were in there for a while and I don’t think we heard you cum once.”

“Like men can tell when a woman climaxes.”

“We can…but that could just be because our girls are always screaming our names and begging for more.”, Steve chuckles as Eddie grins.

“Oh my god. So fucking cocky. Simon has made me cum.”

As they hit a hit a red light, Steve quickly gets out and switches to the backseat so he can be beside you.

“He has? I don’t believe it.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he throws his arm behind your head against the seat, allowing his body to scoot closer to yours.

“I mean… believe whatever you want…”

His fingers behind your head play with your hair as he moves it away from your face, his other palm coming to graze your thigh.

“You seem like the kinda girl that makes a lot of noise when you cum.”

“Especially with a beautiful voice like hers.”, Eddie adds.

Your eyes flutter closed as his nose glides along your cheek, the hand on your thigh gradually moving up your pant covered leg. You desperately wanted him to touch you more but refused to ask or even beg for it. Instead, you chose to ground yourself, placing your own hand on his knee as you clung to the fabric of his shorts.

Steve’s lips delicately traced along your neck as his palm finally found its way between your legs. “Your so warm already. I wonder how wet you are. Can I find out?” Licking your lips, you aggressively nod your head. “Say it, honey. Use your words.”, he whispers in your ear.

“You…you can touch me.”

His head tilts as he looks down at your body, moving your shirt to the side a bit so he can slide his massive hand under the waistband of your leggings and panties.

“Fuck me, Y/N. You are just dripping.”

You moan as his fingers glide through your sex as he plays with your pussy, your hand on his knee rising higher.

“Do you want to touch my cock, baby? You can.”, Steve murmurs against your skin, groaning when he feels your cunt flutter against the pads of digits.

He shuffles closer to you as you lift your leg and place it over his own allowing him more access as one of his fingers breaches your entrance. His lips find yours, humming against them as your palm rubs his groin.

“Jesus… Ed, she’s…she’s so fucking tight.” As he turns to talk to his friend, your mouth places feathery light kisses along his jawline to his neck. Your hooded eyes open when you feel his throat vibrate against you as he laughs. “You ok, man?”

“Yeah…f-fuck… we’re-we’re almost at her house. I need jerk off so fucking bad. Her moans are so fucking sexy.”

“You’re—mmm—you’re not gonna fuck me?”

Steve turns his attention back to you, his eyes meeting yours as he slips a second finger into your sex.

“No, pretty girl. Not today.”

Eddie parks the car in your shaded driveway, hastily unbuckling his seatbelt before turning around to face you both. You watched him with lust driven eyes as he unbuttoned his pants before licking his hand and stroking his length.

“You…you don’t want me?” You barely even recognize the voice that just left you, sounding like a little girl who was denied dessert. What was it about these men that had you behaving that way?

A heavy sigh escaped Steve at the sound and you felt his cock twitch against your hand as you made a mental note of his reaction.

“We do, honey. Fuck do we ever… you just went through a lot last night. Your body and mind need to rest.”

As his fingers thrust faster into you, your hand tries to match his pace. “Can…can I?”

He nods, lifting his hips as you pull his shorts down just enough to free his dick from its confinement. Leaning over his lap, you spit onto his tip, and he mewls as your tiny hand wraps around him. Steve curls his fingers inside of you as his elbow locks, straightening out his arm.

“Fuck, Steve. Please.”

“Steve…tell me more—mmm—about how she feels.”

The man tried to focus to do what his friend asked but it was hard with your hand alone bringing him close to the edge.

“Fuck, Eddie…so fucking tight. Her pussy is just gripping my fingers, man…feels…feels so good. I don’t know…how—fuck, baby. Faster—I don’t know how our…our cocks are going to fit.”

His filthy words shot straight to your core, clenching around Steve’s fingers as you came. Your free hand flew down to grab his wrist, trying to get him to stop as he continued to pump his digits inside of you. When your head collapsed on his shoulder, he held you tighter to him as his spend shot out and on his thigh.

Eddie panted as he soon followed after, throwing his head back as he cursed under his breath.

Steve carefully slid his hand out of your pants, bringing his fingers to his mouth as he tasted you.

“You taste so sweet, Y/N. Are you ok?”

You lazily nod your head as you tug yourself closer to his chest. This was new for you. Usually after anything sexual, you wanted to be left alone. Even with Simon, you would always recoil away when he would try to cuddle you after. Maybe it’s because you always felt like trash after he finished. Most of your sexual experience were done under an intoxicated haze or with a selfish lover who just wanted to use you to get off.

As you listened to this man’s heartbeat, you suddenly felt extremely clingy, fearful that as soon as you let him go he would be gone forever. Eddie was already too far for your liking and you could tell he saw the panic in your eyes as his own gorgeous orbs scanned your face.

“Hey.”, he cooed. “I’m right here, okay? We’re not going anywhere unless you want us to.”

At his friend’s words, Steve quickly craned his neck so he could look at you to. “Come on, honey. Let’s get you inside and back in bed. Do you think you can walk?”

What kind of question was that? Of course you could walk. The thing was…you didn’t want to. You wanted them to help you. You needed them to.

“Can Eddie carry me?”

The metalhead chuckles as he buttons his pants before getting out of the car and coming around to your side. “Whatever you need, princess.”

As he lifted you into his arms, you encircled your own limbs around his neck as you nuzzled his skin. After carefully placing you onto your mattress, he removed your shoes, socks, and pants so you could be more comfortable. You turned onto your side; eyes fully closed as you snuggled into your pillow.

“Please don’t leave me here alone.”, you mumbled.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. We aren’t going anywhere.”

###########

@rckstrbee @melodymishahiddlestan @alienthingstwo

@siriuslysmoking @micheledawn1975 @cositaslua

@unfocused81 @paleidiot @steddieloverrr @aol19

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