i am so sorry but reader talking about robin right before making out with eddie is like absolutely the best thing i’ve ever read i’m obsessed i genuinely can’t wait for anything else in that universe that you do
THE CUSTOMER'S ALWAYS RIGHT | god help the girl
summary: in which you come to terms with the fact that you're hopelessly in love with eddie munson.
pairing: virgin!eddie munson x reader
word count: 13k
warning: phone sex, more discussions of shitty boyfriends, j*son c*rver name drop, talks of unhealthy eating practices, smut 18+ mdni!
a/n: this ask has been sitting in my inbox for ages now, but i wanted to save it until robin made an appearance in the series! thank you, anon, for being so sweet! and for the few of you who've been waiting on me to finally post <3 hope you enjoy! xoxo
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They only met once, but it changed their lives forever.
That’s what the movie cover reads at least, but the words have long blurred into a jumbled mess at your tunnel vision. John Bender stares you in the face, but all you see is Eddie — boyish and brazen and scowling because he thinks it makes him look intimidating, but nowhere near as cruel as he seems.
He’s certainly got the hair for it, much longer and curls far wilder than Judd Nelson’s measly set of brushed-back locks. He’s got the terribly animated personality down pat, too; the one that either makes you laugh uncontrollably or squirm in discomfort when it’s pointed your way. And the style’s a pretty fine match also, though you’d argue that no one sports a leather jacket quite like Eddie Munson does.
Wallowing in your boredom at the empty Family Video store on Main Street — where your best friends slave over mundane work with aching backs and a lingering sense of gratefulness that no customer has been in in well over an hour — you find yourself analyzing each character pictured on the front cover of The Breakfast Club.
Robin would surely be Allison, you conclude rather quickly, because their deadpanned glowers are eerily identical. They’ve also got this sort of atypical aura to them, too, like a dark storm cloud or the promise of a long night. But strangely it sparkles — strikes of lightning or a sky full of stars. It draws everyone’s attention to them; even when they’re desperately trying to hide in the very back of a room.
And Steve would be Andrew, not particularly because of his affections for this Allison-Reynolds-Robin-Buckley hybrid you’ve concocted, but because "popular guy with daddy issues" is a trope that fits him far too well. He’s way more likely to get detention for trying to look cool in front of his assholes friends than for anything actually malicious of heart. But that would’ve been years ago now. He’s not that kind of guy anymore.
He’s soft and sweet — a Brian Johnson sort of soft and sweet, if you will. If Brian wasn’t the brains, but the sweetest dumbass anyone’s ever met.
You realize then, that Jim Hopper would make a mean Richard Vernon. He’s impatient to a fault, almost too stern at times, but never enough to make you genuinely fearful of him. You’ve found that it’s virtually impossible for you to take him seriously when he’s so cartoonishly angry. It’s a match made in heaven, you find, though Jim might take offense to the comparison.
And if Eddie is Bender, then that’d make you the Claire Standish of the bunch.
She’s dreadfully stylish, a bit stuck-up at times, and perhaps a little bit more spoiled than the average person; but it’s not like she ever claimed to be perfect. And you wouldn’t either.
You’ll take more pride in your wardrobe filled with pretty pleated skirts and flouncy dresses than your somewhat glacial disposition. And you might not be drowning in daddy’s money, but you’re certainly spoiled in other ways — if only in the employee discount at Enzo’s that got you wine for cheap and your connections at Family Video that meant free movie nights whenever you wanted.
The bad boy and the princess was a tale as old as time itself. It’s a fairytale you wouldn’t mind living in if it ended how it did in the movies — with a kiss on the cheek and an exchanged diamond earring in the calloused palm of another. A soft pink smile and a celebratory fist in the air.
But you’ve met your fair share of John Bender’s and none of them had been particularly kind to you, let alone had fallen in love with you.
Maybe that’s because you were no Claire Standish. Never pretty enough, never mousy enough, never pure enough. You try and dissect why you’ve never been successfully loved, and all the signs point to you, you, you.
You hope Eddie’s different. You need Eddie to be different.
“Something’s wrong with me,” you blurt out of nowhere.
Well, it’s not totally out of the blue for you. You’d been stewing over that thought since you got there — since you left the woods with damp underwear and the scent of you on Eddie’s fingers.
But to Steve and Robin, who’d stayed relatively silent and locked eyes only once after they noticed how abnormally hushed you’d gone, it catches them quite off guard.
Steve lifts his heavy head from where he mans the counter. His tired eyes leave the computerized catalog for the first time in forty minutes, and he has to rub at them with the bottom of his palms to see you properly. Meanwhile, Robin crouches at your side, taking returned tapes from the bin sitting next to her and placing them back upon the shelf you lean against.
She blinks up at you, deep ocean eyes swimming with apprehension, like she can sense the spiral you’ve just about twisted yourself into.
“What do you mean?” she wonders, ever the supportive best friend, as she plucks Heather’s, Pretty in Pink, and Weird Science from the bin and sets them onto their assigned rows in the Teen Drama section.
“Eddie won’t fuck me.”
Neither of them is particularly stunned by the unabashed nature of your admission.
Not only have they both fucked you at one point or another, but they’re your best friends — no one’s ever going to know you quite the way they do. It leaves little left unsaid between the three of you, with secrets you’ve all sworn to take to your graves. Steve once stuck a finger in his ass to see if he liked it (he did) and Robin sometimes gets off on her childhood teddy bear (rather ironically named Mr. Snuggles).
So this? This was nothing. Especially in comparison to all the other shit you’ve confessed to them because god knows the whore of Hawkins has a plethora of stories to tell.
Steve is more shocked by the name that leaves your mouth than anything else. “Eddie Munson?” he repeats with furrowed brows, like he had to have heard you wrong.
You bring your chin to your right shoulder to look at him, then nod.
“Eddie… The Freak… Munson?”
You nod again, slower for him this time.
“You wanna fuck… Eddie Munson?” Steve reiterates once more, as though the idea was too appalling to be true. “Eddie Munson — The Freak?”
“Yes, Steve,” you huff in irritation.
His face contorts into a puppy-like confusion. A frown settles between his bushy brows and he cocks his head to the side, nose scrunching and his lip quirking slightly. He couldn’t look more disgusted if he tried.
“…Why?”
You groan and tilt your head back dramatically. “That’s not what’s important here, Steve. The better question is why won’t he fuck me?”
The boy’s lack of any actual assistance doesn’t surprise Robin in the slightest — his dumbfounded gaze and innate confusion are actually pretty on brand. It just puts all the burden on her, to help you wriggle out of the mess you’d tangled yourself into.
It’s not like she isn’t used to it, though, nor does she mind doing it for you. She walks you through your emotions like a professional, squashing out all the burning orange embers for you before they have the chance to burst into flames.
“Well, what do you mean he won’t fuck you? Like… did he actually say that or does he just wanna, you know, take things slow?”
The latter would’ve been way too easy. Eddie’s always been nice enough to you. It’d make sense for him to want to stay unhurried and gentle with you, but those words weren’t exactly in your vocabulary.
The first time you were alone with him, you were getting yourself off on his thigh after making him come in his jeans. The next time you saw him, after four days of him clinging to your consciousness, there wasn’t as much small talk so much as there were two of his fingers stuffed knuckle-deep inside of you.
You don’t know Eddie’s birthday, but you know how he likes to be touched — squeezed and not rubbed. You don’t know his middle name or how he likes his eggs in the morning or what his relationship with his mother is like, but he’s already made you come. Twice.
You are completely, utterly, and totally incapable of taking things slow. So it wasn’t that. It couldn’t be. So it had to be the other thing. The very scary, terrifying, boogeyman of a thing.
“I mean, I offered to give him a blowjob and he completely turned me down,” you lament in reply.
Robin and Steve wince. Like, physically wince. Their faces scrunch and their heads flinch from something invisible. Audible ooh’s fall from their mouths without them even realizing it, because you don’t get rejected. Ever. Especially not after offering to pleasure someone without much of anything in return.
They don’t mean to react the way they do. The visible shock that coats their features is involuntary more than it is anything, and it only adds to your fears.
“Exactly!” you exclaim.
“I hate to say it, but I think hell might be freezing over as we speak,” Steve half-jokes.
“Well, he was working, right?” Robin asks with raised brows. “Maybe he was just busy.”
“Sorry, Rob, but no guy’s too busy for a blowjob.”
“Real charming, Stevie.”
“Maybe he just has a small dick,” the boy concludes with a shrug.
“I felt his dick,” you shake your head almost immediately. The feeling of Eddie’s hard cock through his denim jeans, all rough and warm against your palm, hasn’t yet left you. “It’s not small.”
“Well, maybe he can’t get it up—”
“Yeah, that’s not a problem either.”
Eddie was rock hard when you left him, throbbing and aching and obviously needing some kind of relief. That’s partly why you’d been so ardent to return the favor, though the other half of it was purely selfish — you haven’t seen a more beautiful sight than Eddie Munson getting off. To deprive yourself of that masterpiece made you feel like you were starving.
You have a hard time imagining the raging hard-on just… dissipating after you’d left him. That means he probably jerked off in the back of his van and you missed it. And if he came, right after he promised everything was okay, that means he just didn’t want you to do it… right?
Steve seems to be caught in the same inner turmoil you’re currently stuck in; and for good reason. In all the years he’s known you, he can count on one hand how many times he’s had to turn you down. And every time, it was because he’d gotten back together with Nancy. It was never because of you. Not once. And sometimes he felt like it hurt him as much as it did you.
As far as Steve’s concerned, you’re so out of Eddie Munson’s league that you’re not even in his fucking orbit — so the freak show, turning you down, doesn’t make whole lot of sense to him.
“Huh…”
“It’s me. It’s definitely me,” you conclude with the shake of your head. A bitter, almost hysterical laugh spills from your lips. “He thinks I’m fucking ugly or disgusting or something. It’s totally fucking me—”
Robin completely abandons her basket of tapes then. She rises to stand in front of you, looking timid as she does so. Her raised brows form wrinkles on her freckled forehead and her blue eyes widen to reveal more of the whites of them. She looks like she’s approaching a wild animal. A bomb that’s about to explode.
“Okay… You’re starting to spiral, alright? So let’s just try and take a few deep breaths—”
You don’t listen to her.
Actually, you do quite the opposite, as you begin to blurt every fleeting thought that crosses your mind.
“I’ve made out with nearly everyone in this stupid town— I’m pretty sure I’ve fucked almost half— and you’d think Eddie would wanna take advantage of that, the way everyone makes him out to be some sort of freak, right? But he hasn’t and at this rate, he won’t, and I just don’t understand why,” you ramble without taking in a single breath. “Usually being a slut is a huge turn-on for guys, you know? But what if Eddie thinks it’s gross? I mean, it is gross— I’m gross—”
You only stop for air when Robin takes your shoulders in both hands. She looks less apprehensive and more stern, as she forces you to look at her.
“Look. I love you, but you need to get a hold of yourself, alright? I know you’re not used to being told no, and I know how much it sucks, but shit happens. I’m willing to bet all the money I’ve ever seen that whatever is going on with Eddie has nothing to do with you, okay? And if it’s making you this upset, maybe you should just talk to him.”
“But I don’t wanna seem like I’m too eager, that’s gross—”
“Then find someone else to fuck,” she offers with her signature Robin Buckley half-smile. “I’m sure it would take you less than five minutes to find a willing participant.”
“Yeah, right here,” Steve jokes from the counter with the pathetic wave of his hand and a dumb grin on his lips.
You don’t hear him over the voices in your head — half calling you crazy for letting a boy drive you this mad over nothing, and the other half bitterly affirming each of your deep-rooted insecurities.
Your face screws up, like the thought of being with anyone other than Eddie upsets you — it does upset you.
“I don’t want anyone else.”
“Then what do you want?” Robin yells in your face, shaking you by your shoulders.
“I want Eddie!” you shout back without thinking. The words seem to spill out of nowhere. It takes you of all people by surprise. No one in this rat trap town would ever expect the whore of Hawkins to want to settle down, least of all the harlot herself. It’s strange; it’s riveting; it’s really fucking scary. “…Fuck.”
The brunette smirks, proud of herself. “Well. There’s your answer.”
“I hate when you’re right,” you mumble to yourself, pouting as she crouches back down again.
“I know.”
It was a terrifying thought, to know that you were head over heels for someone else. You try to come to terms with what that means.
Sometimes you think you fall in love with a new person every day. A cute guy holds the door open for you, a pretty girl compliments your outfit — they never think about you again, but they’re on your mind for days. It was so easy to develop such meaningless infatuations, especially when you were bored.
But Eddie was different.
He was a nice guy. A nice guy that was sweet to you just for the sake of being sweet to you; not because he secretly wanted something in return. That made you fall for him at first, but then you just… kept on falling. Eddie Munson was an infinite void you couldn’t crawl your way out of even if you wanted to, even if you tried.
And that’s what frightened you the most.
Because if you really thought about it, you’ve only truly been in love a handful of times. And, sure, it didn’t work out — that was normal — but some of them fucking ruined you.
You’re still trying to figure out who you are without all of the people that have broken your heart. You’re still fighting like hell every day to recognize the person you see in the mirror, while Billy Hargrove fucks off with a new girl every other week like he didn’t totally destroy you.
But, even still, Eddie was completely different. No one’s ever made you feel the way he makes you feel. And it’s more than the stupid heavy petting — it’s more than anything. It’s never been like this before; not even with the blonde mulleted asshole who ripped your heart to shreds.
And you’re scared that if you get hurt again, you’ll never be able to come back from it.
“Steve, do you have another copy of Fast Times in the back?” you suddenly ask the boy, tossing him a look over your shoulder.
It’s your last ditch effort to rid yourself of the ponderous, gray doom and gloom surrounding you like some storm cloud. Your comfort movie solves all of your problems — or, at the very least, Phoebe Cates does — but it seems everyone else in town has developed a similar fondness for minute fifty-three of the film and got all the tapes off the shelf before you could get your hands on one.
“You know I keep on in stock for you,” he answers quietly.
He reaches below the counter to pull out a spare copy for you, and your heart swells with the rays of a thousand rising suns and the songs of every morning bird.
Steve told you some time ago that he could change. And back then, all it did was piss you off, because he didn’t want to change for the town slut — for the girl he put through the goddamn ringer. He wanted to change for Nancy. The princess bruised his brittle ego a little, and then he realized what an asshole he’d been to everyone, to you.
But as angry as it made you, you never believed him. “Once the King of Hawkins High, always the King of Hawkins High,” you remarked bitterly.
You wouldn’t say it to his face, for the sake of keeping his ego from inflating all over again, but you could tell he was really changing.
He was kinder, he was softer. He stopped caring about what everyone thought about him, about what not caring would do to his reputation, and started giving a fuck about the people worth giving a fuck about.
Apparently, you were one of them.
“…Really?”
He nods with a subtle shrug. Like it was no big deal. Like it wasn’t one of the sweetest things he’d ever done for you — keeping your favorite movie on hand so you’ll always have a spare, knowing that it’s the only thing that gets you out of a deep, dark funk sometimes.
“Stevie… You’re gonna make me blush,” you lilt with a grin as you saunter over to him, hands innocently laced behind your back. “You need to be careful, Harrington. I’m gonna start to think you actually like me.”
He scoffs. “I do like you.”
“Yeah, when it’s convenient.”
It’s obvious your joke hits him where it hurts. It serves as a bitter reminder of the asshole he used to be, the douchebag he’s trying like hell to grow out of. He looks up at you with a sheepish, honey-tinted gaze before ducking away again.
A year or more ago it would’ve made you feel good, to know that you hurt him just a fraction of the way he hurt you. But you know that that isn’t the same man standing in front of you now, that he’d rather die than make hurt your feelings, and it makes you feel like shit for saying it in the first place.
“Sorry,” you apologize with a scrunched nose. The palms of your hands dig into the edges of the counter as you lean against it. Your shrug. “It just kinda came out…”
The barcode scanner in his hand beeps as he passes the thing over the back of the tape — never charging you, just getting the movie out of the database.
“So, uh…” he starts before clearing his throat. He focuses his gaze on the computer and types on the bulky keyboard with the tip of his pointer finger. “You really like this Eddie guy, huh?”
“Maybe. I think so.”
“And he’s not, like… a total freak or anything?”
You can’t tell if he’s trying to look out for you or if he just wants intel on what it’s like trying (and failing) to bang the local weirdo. Either way, it makes a smile tug slow at your lips as you joke: “Not in the way everyone thinks.”
“Jesus,” he winces at the obscenity of your words.
“Sorry,” you apologize again, though the laugh that bubbles from your lips after cancels out any hint of actual sincerity. “You don’t need to give me the talk or anything, Steve. I can take care of myself.”
“…Can you?” he half-jokes.
It makes you falter. “Well… With you and Robin and Hopper constantly on my ass, then yeah.”
“Just don’t want you to get hurt,” Steve finally admits, soft and suddenly shy as he hands the VHS over to you.
“That’s rich coming from you—”
He jerks back the tape before you can take it from him, leaving your hand reaching for thin air. His cinnamon eyes glimmer with a foreign seriousness, not completely unkind, but lacking their usual blithe. “That’s why I’m saying it. I just… I want you to be okay.”
Steve is one of the rare ones, you conclude right then in there — in the liminal emptiness of Family Video, beneath fluorescent lights that cast sharp shadows upon his already chiseled features. He was a mythical creature of a man, one who breaks your heart and does everything in his power to mend it again.
He hasn’t forgotten about what he did to you, not like Billy did, and he won’t. Not ever. He saw what he did to you and he never moved on from it, just matured enough to make sure it never happened again. And he won’t let another unworthy douchebag hurt you like he did. Not if he can help it, at least.
And he did try to warn you about Hargrove, to be fair. You were just the dumbass that didn’t listen.
“Well, me and my Phoebe Cates wet dream are golden, Pony Boy,” you promise. He hands you the tape again and lets you snatch it from his grip this time. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, Stevie.”
Steve Harrington was right.
The fleeting thought flashes across your mind for half a second, and you quickly realize that those words have never been uttered in the same sentence before now. But he wasn’t wrong in what he’d said about you, just before you left — you were completely, totally, absolutely, and implicitly unable to take care of yourself.
You nearly passed out in the bathroom after taking the hottest shower of your life, feeling too woozy to slap on anything other than moisturizer because you failed to remember to actually eat something that day. It wasn’t totally your fault, though; if anything, it was because of Eddie and all the butterflies he’d given you that made food the very last thing on your mind.
You half-heartedly dry yourself off, keeping your hair in a towel, while you slip on a cotton set of underwear you’ve had for way longer than what's likely acceptable. Damp and half-naked, you prance into the kitchen to fix Bowie her bowl of dinner before you feed yourself.
You fork a can of wet food onto a flower-shaped plate and let her eat on the counter — because you’re an adult now, and you can do that sort of thing.
The calico purrs while she feasts, but your stomach thunders with negligence. You peek into your mostly bare refrigerator and make a mental note to go grocery shopping when you get paid next week.
With a lack of food and an even lesser will to cook something, you settle for the half-eaten chocolate bar you keep stashed in the very back of the fridge; kept only for the most special of occasions — when you’re reveling in your loneliness and trying to convince yourself that you can make it on your own.
It was practically the size of your forearm when you first bought the thing at some too expensive candy store in the city. Now it’s no bigger than your hand.
You eat the thing in bed, even though you know you’ll get crumbs everywhere and that it’ll make sleep agonizing for you — if you get any, that is. You’re bound to feel like a total zombie by the time the sun rises and the late-night sweet will likely make its appearance on your skin by then, in a red and raging blemish of a consequence.
You’ll feel empty and starved and surly, a snapping grouch instead of an actual person, until you get some actual food in your system.
And you’re more than aware of all of these things, but you don’t do a single damn thing about them.
You’re nothing but a sulking lump upon an unmade bed, lying in a pitch-black darkness that’s evaded only by the static-y television across your room, trying your best to pretend like you aren’t waiting for Eddie’s phone call. It’s hard to remember to forget him, though, when the movie you’re watching is practically a feature film of him and all the ways he makes you feel.
Spicoli and his terribly inebriated friends slur as they chorus “No shoes, no shirt, no diiiice” and you swear you can feel Eddie’s shoulder bump softly against yours as he laughs, hear every sound of his melodic chuckle in your ear that made you giggle right along with him. The low bass of Moving in Stereo plays in the otherwise empty silence of your bedroom, and every beat feels like the rhythm of your thrusts against his thigh.
Eddie Munson is all-consuming.
Even the thought of him feels physical.
Phoebe Cates all but undresses herself in front of you, but you’re stuck thinking about some guy who lives in a trailer park across town, deals drugs for a living, and can’t graduate high school. You’re a total fucking goner.
Your eyes flutter shut, and instead of the backs of your eyelids, you see Eddie’s trailer. Your lips start to tingle as they kiss his for the first time — hungry, yearning, needing. His thigh is pressed snugly into your cunt, denim jeans rough against your soft cotton panties, and you have to bite back a moan when he tenses every time you squeeze his hard, covered cock.
You can feel it, all of him, like he were here with you now.
You wish that he were.
His fingers would feel far better, leave far more sparks of electricity in your belly, than the ones as you sneak through the hem of your underwear.
You try and take things slow with yourself, to be as gentle as he had been with you earlier in the woods, but it feels strange to treat yourself with so much tenderness. To touch your pussy like it’s the first time it’s ever been touched. Like it’s a beautiful thing you need to be sweet to.
Maybe you find it so foreign to be careful with yourself because no one has ever been careful with you.
No one, except for Eddie.
Your touch doesn’t rival his. It doesn’t even come close.
No matter how tightly you squeeze your eyes shut or how hard you try to pretend that they’re his fingers inside of you, you can’t make yourself feel as good as he did.
Your fingers aren’t as rough as his guitar-string-scarred ones and they don’t caress your clit with the same methodical care. They don’t fill you quite the same either, nowhere near as satisfying as his much thicker ones.
And you’re no stranger to masturbation, not by any means. Sometimes it’s the only way you can guarantee an orgasm for yourself when you’ve got a partner who cares so little about your own pleasure. But Eddie was different. Eddie cared — so much so, that he’s gotten more orgasms out of you than you’ve gotten from him, which is something you’ve never said about anyone else you’ve been with.
It’s rare and unfamiliar, a bouquet of all things refreshing and terrifying and strange, tied together with a pretty little ribbon.
You know that you can make yourself come. It’ll just take way too long to actually be worthwhile and won’t be nearly as mind-blowing as you need it to be. You won’t be left with trembling thighs and nearly numb legs — just a pitiful excuse for an orgasm that you could get from any one of your exes with half as much work.
What you need is Eddie.
And you hate that. You hate how much you need him and you’re terrified of what that means.
As far as precedent goes, right when you start needing someone is usually when they start to leave. It’s like fucking clockwork most of the time — like everyone knows that you’re a ticking time bomb and eventually it gets too risky to stand too close to you.
You’ll just have to keep Eddie at arm's distance. So he won’t see the grenade that you are.
You pull your fingers out of your wanting cunt, still slick and throbbing with a need that you can’t give it, when the phone rings.
The high-pitched shrill in the quiet makes you tense like it’s the first time you’ve ever heard the damn thing. Your breath catches in your throat, first out of fright and then at the inclination of who waits for you on the other line.
Suddenly, you’re scrambling to collect yourself. As though there was any possibility that Eddie might be able to see you through the phone line.
You wipe your wet fingers haphazardly on the cotton of your underwear and sit up straighter from your ungracefully lazed position. Then you count to five — one mississippi… two mississippi… three — so Eddie won’t think you’re some kind of crazy person who doesn’t have anything better to do than wait for his call.
So he won’t know that’s exactly what you are.
You lift the ruby red rotary from its hook at your bedside table and stretch the corkscrew cord to press it to your ear. “…Hello?”
“Yeah, hi. I’d like to order a pizza. Half pepperoni, half hawaiian.”
You roll your eyes at his dumb joke, even though the familiarity of his voice makes you smile. It warms you like a home-cooked meal, like you were high-pitched and starving before and now you’re on the soothing comedown of finally being satiated.
“Yeah, sorry, we’re closed.”
“Then why’d you pick up the phone, huh?” he teases back. You swear you can hear the grin in his voice. You didn’t know a smile could be so audible. It makes you wonder if he can hear yours — if you’re doing a real shit job at pretending. You anxiously twirl the cord with the pointer finger of your free hand.
“Because I’ve been waiting for you to call me all night, dummy.”
Your answer is more honest than either of you were expecting.
Eddie’s sigh crackles through the shoddy reception. “Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that, sweetheart. I’ve been working all night. I only got home, like, five minutes ago.”
You can hear the heavy exhaustion in his voice. “Rough day?”
“Kinda,” he answers with a shrug. You can hear the grating squeak of his mattress as he plops down onto his bed. “I dealt to one of Jason’s goons today… They always give me a hard time.”
“I’m sorry,” is all you can think to answer.
Eddie’s been the brunt of every joke since seventh grade — people made fun of too big clothes, his too wild hair, his too loud music. But he took it all in stride, laughing with everyone else before volleying a harsher joke back in response. You almost started to think that he liked it. That, somewhere deep down, he was fond of all the attention he got from people who supposedly couldn’t stand him.
But it hurts to know that it hurts him.
“Don’t apologize. It’s not like you did anything,” he assures with a soft laugh. He makes the bold decision to be honest then, too. “You, uh… You made my day a whole lot better, actually.”
You don’t know if he’s talking about the brief fling in the woods or the phone call you’re sharing now or if you particularly care either way. Your heart flutters like it’s been kissed by the wings of a butterfly.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I mean… I don’t know— I couldn’t stop thinking about you, you know. And, knowing that I was gonna get to talk to you again kinda got me through the day, I guess… And, yes, I am fully aware of how lame that sounds, but—”
You don’t get to hear the rest of his excuse, of why what he just told you totally isn’t lame, because you’re covering the receiver with your palm and turning to squeal into your pillow. A far more pathetic sight, in your humble opinion.
There hasn’t been a more fulfilling feeling than this one, to know that he’s been feeling the same way you’ve been feeling about him this whole time. It’s better than all the orgasms he could give you combined, to be loved so wholly.
“…You okay?” you hear his muffled voice ask after you’ve gone suddenly AWOL.
You press the phone back to your ear and nod like he can see you. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. The phone… fell— you said you just got home?”
“Uh, yeah. I met with Hellfire for a bit at school. We’re almost at the end of the Cult of Vecna, so they’re kinda on my ass about it. The little shits are obsessed.”
“Well, they should be. It’s a really good campaign, Eds.”
“Thanks to you,” he mutters. You can almost picture the glimmer in his button eyes and the shaky half-smirk he always looks at you with when he gets all shy.
“That was all you, Eddie Spaghetti,” you retort. “I still have no idea how you did it.”
“Did what?” he wonders, chuckling a bit at the nickname.
“Make something so beautiful out of thin air.”
Lying in the depths of his bedroom, blanketed by the darkness and bathing in streams of moonlight, Eddie feels his breath catch in his throat.
For the first time in his life, he doesn’t have a joke to spew out on the spot. He’s speechless, just for a moment, a quick blink of a second, with nothing to say. Because, if he really thinks about it, that’s sort of what happened with you.
You were just his customer and he was just your dealer.
You were a loyal client and then a girl way out of his league that he developed a too big a crush on. Then you made him come in his underwear and washed the sticky stains out of the denim for him. Now you’re on the phone with him. You let him tell you all about his shitty day and apologize like you weren’t the only good thing about it — like you aren’t the only good thing, period.
It’s not the most cliche love story, nor is it the most beautiful, but it has his cynical little heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird.
Then, when all the mushy mess fades like fog, he finally thinks of something to say.
“It’s the witchcraft, sweetheart,” he shrugs to himself. “Didn’t you hear? I’m a devil-worshipping freak.”
“You know that’s not it, Eds,” you retort with the roll of your eyes.
You know that it’s hard, to be a metalhead from the wrong side of the tracks in the eighties — at the height of the Satanic Panic and all the delusional craze. That shit’s followed him since freshman year. Even still, it nips at his ankles like rabid dogs.
Maybe you were never naive or bored enough to believe all the rumors, but Eddie Munson was always more than that to you.
“No?”
“You can blame it on being a freak show all you want, but I know it’s because you’re one of the funniest, smartest, most creative guys I’ve ever met—”
“You must not know a ton of guys then, sweetheart,” he interjects playfully, like he couldn’t stand to hear you compliment him any longer. You’d give anything to see his blushing cheeks just now.
“…You’re kidding right?” you giggle in response.
“Sorry— that’s— I didn’t mean it like— It was— I was joking,” he stammers, frightened that he might’ve offended you in some way.
It only makes you laugh harder. Both of you know you lost count of all the guys you ‘know’ a long, long time ago. You do imagine it’s somewhere near ‘a ton’, though.
“I know, Eds,” you assure with a contented sigh. “I was just teasing.”
“Oh.”
“The slut and the freak… Who would’ve thought?” you wonder all dreamily, like it’s a fairytale as old as time itself. That’s what it feels like, sometimes.
Eddie isn’t sure what you mean — who would’ve thought you’d be friends? Two people caught in that in-between stage of platonic and romance that’s complete agony and total, total bliss? A couple of kids falling in love—
“It’s sort of kismet, huh?” he answers.
“I think so.”
“So, uh… What are you up to?” Eddie wonders then, equal parts curious and eager to keep the discussion going. He’s frightened any lapse in conversation is going to lead to saying goodbye.
He wants to stay on for hours, until both of you are fighting to stay awake, and then listen to the sound of your heavy breathing when you inevitably lose — like that isn’t the creepiest thing anyone’s ever wanted. He’ll fight Wayne about the bill if it comes to that, he doesn’t care, he just never wants to stop being this close to you.
“Do you want the real answer or the fake one?”
“Uh… Both?”
“Well, I’d say I was doing something super productive with my night, you know, catching up on all the boring adult shit, but then I’d be lying. And I don’t wanna lie to you, Eds,” you tell him with a teasing lilt playing at the edge of your voice.
Eddie swallows thickly, fearing he’d somehow been caught in his own lie — or rather, his half-truth. He moves on quickly, though not exactly full of grace. “Right. Yeah. Totally.”
“Honest answer is, that the only productive thing I’ve done tonight is shower, and now I’m in bed watching Fast Times and eating all the chocolate in my house, because I can’t cook for shit and I have nothing else better to do with my night,” you admit to him, picking at the thread of your comforter.
“Oh, don’t tell me I missed the ‘Moving in Stereo’ bit,” he agonizes.
“Just.”
“Well, correct me if I’m wrong, sweetheart, but it sounds like you’re having loads of fun tonight.”
“I’m having a lot more fun now,” you assure him.
“Glad I can be around to make you laugh,” he retorts like he’s not all too happy to do it.
“You’re a total comedian, Eddie Spaghetti.”
“If I’m the jester, you’re the queen, sweetheart,” he promises, a grin evident in his voice.
Your breath catches in your throat something fierce; you’re almost worried that he’s heard it. His words pierce your heart, a stroke of lightning or a blade of steel. He’s joking, but it’s so strangely profound, the kindest thing anyone’s ever said to you and it’s dripping in sarcasm.
It’s sort of Eddie’s love language, you’ve come to understand, to say something so sweet but coated in venom to make it sour again. It makes you feel special, loved, almost.
A fire builds behind your rib cage, sharp and distant and all-consuming.
“Are you alone, Eds?” you ask him suddenly.
The sudden curve ball in the conversation takes him by surprise. “Uh, yeah, Wayne’s at work right now… Why?”
“Because I want you to talk to me…”
“Oh?” is all he can say because isn’t that what he’s been doing this whole time?
“And I want you to say things that… maybe other people shouldn’t hear,” you explain slowly to him.
“…Oh.”
He’s heard about this only once before, the whole phone sex thing.
It was from Andy in the back of Ms. O’Donnell’s class a year or more ago, though Eddie never called him by that name. Andy, in all actuality, was Jason Carver’s right-hand man, and he meant that in every sense of the phrase. Eddie was more than convinced that the guy was so obsessed with the blonde haired, blue eyed douchebag that he was giving him handjobs on the regular.
But it seemed the dick brigade couldn’t function properly without their leader and Eddie had the misfortune of hearing all the mindless bullshit they were spewing behind him — basketball, parties, girls; in true white bread fashion.
His friends gathered around him like he was telling some sort of secret, though it was loud enough for anyone in a three foot radius to hear. Eddie, caught directly in the line of fire, heard all about Chrissy’s older sister, Wendy, who was two years older and off at college.
He’d gotten her number from some party he’d crashed. At least that’s how he told it, right before telling everyone that she swore like a sailor when she came and that she told him all the dirty things she wanted to do to him while she did.
“It was like her hand was on my dick, dude, I’m serious. That shit was crazy, bro,” he’d laughed after retelling the whole conversation in excruciating detail.
Eddie rolled his eyes to himself then, inwardly jealous that he’d never get to meet Wendy — or any other girl that would be willing to have phone sex with him, for that matter. His phone only ever rang for telemarketers or a rogue Dustin Henderson calling to annoy him.
But, here you are now, the most wanted girl in Hawkins, offering it to him on a silver platter. He wonders if you’ve done this before, surely you have — oh god, he thinks to himself, what if you’ve done this with Andy?
“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you assure him after his unusually long silence. “I know you’re probably busy and tired and everything—”
“No! No, yeah, I— I want to. I totally want to.”
“Okay,” you nod. Petals of a flower begin to bloom in your chest as you lie back in bed, settling further into the mattress. The movie, already long forgotten, serves only as light and background noise. “So… What are you wearing, Eds?”
“I feel like I should be asking you that,” he laughs.
On the other side of Hawkins, in a trailer in the middle of nowhere, Eddie rises from where he’d originally flopped back onto his bed with the notion that it was going to be a semi-normal night. He props himself against his headboard. His fingers twitch at his thigh.
“Beat ya to it, Munson.”
“Well, I’ll have you know that it is very sexy, sweetheart. I’m wearing the same Hellfire shirt you saw me in, I don’t know, five hours ago — except now it’s got a rip in it because I totally ate ass on the way back to the van.”
He tells you this to make you laugh — it works — but he prays you don’t ask any questions. Because he got it while hurrying back to his van mere minutes after you’d left him, so hard he thought he was going to burst, with no more than seven minutes until his next client arrived.
Thankfully, he only needed three.
“I love that shirt,” you respond in place of saying what you really want to — ‘I love how that shirt looks on you’ — how it clings to his lean torso and reveals his midriff whenever he stretches his arms over his head.
“She’s a lit-tle worse for wear now, sweetheart,” he lilts.
“I’ll stitch it up for you.”
“And I’ve got on a pair of boxers that are so old they’re practically see through because I’m pretty sure they used to be Wayne’s back in… I don’t know… the eighteen-hundreds.”
Eddie was right. It was sexy, though, for the exact reason they weren’t supposed to be.
There was something so domestic about it all. You can picture him lying in his bed, in the most comfortable clothes he owns, in the one place he can feel at peace. Like a renaissance painting, something familiar and comforting and beautiful — fuck, you’d give anything to be next to him.
“…I think that means it’s your turn now, sweetheart,” he teases.
“Is it?” you mock in return.
“C’mon. Don’t leave me hangin’ over here.”
“It’s nothing, special,” you assure. Your eye flits down to peer at your own body — nothing special, indeed, you think to yourself. The lilac cotton set came from the grocery store downtown on the clearance rack you so often frequent. “I just have my underwear on. It’s very boring, I’m afraid.”
It’s not boring. Not to Eddie — the boy who prides himself on his insanely active imagination. He might not be able to pass english with his brain, but he can certainly create worlds with it, and it’s too easy for him to picture you. He imagines you, freshly showered, and smelling of the warm lavender-vanilla scent you always smell like, mostly bare and lazing upon a fluffy comforter.
He swallows thickly. “Oh, that’s— that’s really, uh— that’s really sexy.”
His thankful that you don’t seem to mind his poor excuse for dirty talk.
“It’s only because I was too lazy to get into actual pajamas.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“Yeah?” you press, smiling to yourself and caging your bottom lip between your teeth.
“Yeah.”
“Can I tell you a secret, Eds?” you wonder, made brave enough by his own admission.
“‘Course you can.”
“Before you called…”
“…Uh-huh?” he eggs on, intrigued at the way you trailed off, sounding suddenly shy.
“I was…” The thought of telling him what you were doing mere seconds before he called makes you nervous. It wasn’t like you were ashamed of touching yourself or anything, nor is the art of dirty talking lost on you, but something about Eddie makes you timid.
“You were… what, sweetheart?” he wonders gently, with a too audible grin.
“I was touching myself.”
That’s all you tell him. The words linger and hang in the air of your separate bedrooms and you cling to the silence — almost mortified and anticipating his reply. Eddie, meanwhile, feels like his tongue has swelled in his mouth and all the air has been punched out of his lungs.
“Oh...” he tries to respond without the breath to accurately do so. “…Yeah?”
“You know what Phoebe Cates does to me,” you try to joke.
His laughter crackles through the receiver. “Yeah. I kinda have her to thank for the other night, don’t I?”
“Give yourself some credit, Eds. The hottest guy in Hawkins was sitting right next to me, what was I supposed to do?”
“No way you think I’m the hottest guy in town,” he scoffs. “Everyone knows you’ve got a thing for pretty boys.”
“Pretty boys?” you echo with a giggle.
“Uh-huh. The Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington type, you know?”
“Well, I think you’re a hundred times prettier than he is.”
“Really?” he scoffs cynically, obviously not believing you.
“He wasn’t the one I was thinking about with my hand shoved down my panties,” you admit, immediately quelling his self-doubt. “That’s gotta count for something, right?”
Eddie clears his throat and then stammers, “I— I guess so— yeah.”
“Are you hard, Eds?” you ask in a breathy whisper.
And he just nods to himself at first, too stupid to answer audibly. He can feel himself stiffening in his boxers, only halfway hard now, but getting firmer by the second. Soon, he’ll be aching.
“Yeah…”
“Can you touch yourself for me?”
Eddie would rather take a bullet to the chest than say no to you — at least, he figures that’d probably hurt less — so he slips his fidgeting fingers through the band of his boxers and takes his warm, stiffening cock in his hand. He squeezes himself just enough to make his stomach tighten.
“Want you to touch yourself, too,” he admits, neither asking or demanding it, just telling you.
“Yeah?” you tease.
“Well, I think it’s only fair, sweetheart.”
You can’t help but notice how breathy he’s gotten — how it shakes on the inhale and hitches on the out. He’s got his hand shoved down his underwear and you’re jealous of the fingers that get to wrap themselves around his cock. You wish they were yours. Both of you will have to settle, it seems.
“Whatever you want, Eds,” you answer playfully.
You obediently slide your hand back into the warmth of your panties. Your fingers slot between your lips and collect the slick that had gathered there since before you’d even answered the phone. You bring it up to your clit, circling the pads of your fingers there until you twitch, then dragging them down to press into your opening. They slip in with ease.
Both of you have turned into lovesick idiots, separated by so many miles, and missing the other most ardently. Lying in the depths of your bedrooms, basking in a velvet loneliness, building with a mutual pleasure with nothing but yearning hands and longing sighs.
Eddie’s eyes flutter shut at the sounds of your low moans and fragile whimpers that crackle through the static — beautiful still, but certainly no match to the ones you were breathing in his ear just hours ago.
His lashes dance across his cheeks as he tries to remember how you’d felt against his fingers, soft like velvet and delicate like silk, weeping and pulsating with need.
He drags his hand from his boxers and lets the band snap against his pelvis. He spits into his palm and wets his cock with it, sighing as he tugs at himself without much friction.
“Are you wet, sweetheart?” he asks, though the words threaten to get stuck in his throat.
“Yeah,” you whisper back like it’s some kind of secret.
You work yourself open with your middle finger and slip your pointer in next to it without much trouble. Your walls flutter around them while you fight to find the spot the makes you keen. You’re only able to tease it, fingers not quite long enough to caress it completely. Your thumb keeps working at your clit, though, to make up for the lost pleasure.
“I’ve been wet since I left you,” you admit through labored breaths. “Haven’t been able to… to stop thinking about you, Eds.”
“Glad I’m not the only one whipped over here, sweetheart,” he manages a laugh.
“No one’s ever made me come that hard before. Not just with their fingers,” you tell him mindlessly, dumb on pleasure, as you feel yourself climbing that peak.
“Really?”
“Never,” you promise, then whine. “Doesn’t even feel as good now… Can’t get as deep as you can—”
Eddie hangs on your every word as he works his palm up and down his stiff cock, squeezing at the base and swiping his thumb over the head with an expert hand. His face scrunches as his stomach starts to tighten, he’s close to coming — too close for his liking. He doesn’t want this to be over so quickly.
“You’ve ruined every other guy for me, Eddie Munson,” you confess, more than pleased to hear how it makes him whine. It sounds like it comes from the depths of his chest, the way it crackles low and needy through the receiver.
“Good,” he grumbles through his pants after he’s gathered himself all over again. “Don’t want anyone else to have you, sweetheart.”
This time you’re the one letting out the most pathetic of whines. It makes a smile flicker at the corners of his lips.
“You like that?”
It sounds so dirty, but you can tell by the sincerity of his tone that it’s genuine. So you answer with a longing truthfulness, a delicate “yes”entwined with a yearning moan.
“You just wanna belong to me, don’t ya?”
Now, this is dirty talk. The teasing lilt of his tone — it’s almost degrading — and makes you clench around your fingers. “Yes, please,” you whine, all but pleading for him now.
Eddie’s close, so dreadfully close, with a pleasure so tangible he could taste it. Your words make his cock twitch in his hold as the fire builds in his belly.
Through your whole-hearted promises and wanting moans, he can hear the sound of your slick through the receiver. The static reception doesn’t do it justice, but the wet click of your fingers working you open was unmistakable.
A moan grumbles in his throat as he digs the crown of his head back into his pillow. “Holy fuck— I can hear you, baby.”
“I’m so wet for you, Eds,” you tell him through fragile slurs, like it wasn’t inherently obvious.
You were wrong before, about wanting to hide from him. You couldn’t conceal your need for Eddie if you tried. The honey you drip, all sweet and just for him, wouldn’t let you keep it a secret.
“I know, baby, I know,” he nearly coos. “Are you— fuck, please tell me you’re close?”
“Yes,” you promise in a whine. Your thumb presses harder into your clit. It makes your thighs tense until they’re shaking.
“You rubbing your clit for me, sweetheart?” he asks like he knows. “I know that’s what you like.”
You whimper, working at the spongy spot within you as your hips buck off the bed. “Yeah.”
“Keep rubbing yourself like that for me, okay? Want you to keep going until you come for me.”
If he keeps talking to you like that, it’ll come a lot quicker than he’s prepared for.
It’s too soft to be much of a demand, but you listen obediently anyway, rubbing at yourself though your sensitivity keeps building. It grows like a morning tide, rising and flowing like white waves on an ocean, stirring something fierce in the depths of your stomach.
“Eddie,” you sigh out his name, broken through staggered pants.
You hear his stuttering breaths, too. “Y—Yeah?”
“I’m about to come,” you promise through a whine when the familiar crescendo sends a shock through your body.
“O… Okay,” he responds, pathetically, then whines, even more so.
“Want you to come with me… Please…”
“Fuck— okay. Shit, sweetheart, I’m almost there.”
“What are you thinking about?” you ask him.
“Your pussy,” he answers without thinking — he’s not doing a whole lot of that anymore. “Wish I’d gotten to taste you earlier. Wanna feel you… fuck… Wanna feel you come on my tongue.”
“Holy shit, Eds,” you moan at his words, at the vivid picture they paint in your head.
“And you get so… God, you get so fucking wet. Just want you to drench me, baby.”
It feels good, to be complimented for something boys used to make fun of you for, to realize for the first time that’s it’s sexy — that you’re sexy — and that Eddie is more than happy to drown in you. The feeling almost rivals the impending orgasm that’s bound to hit you like a tidal wave.
“I’m thinking about how I coulda took you on that bench… Just, fucking, get on my knees for you. Shove my head between your legs. Hold your— shit, baby— hold your thighs open, keep you exactly where I want you,” he rambles but then cuts himself off to moan at his own words. “Goddamn, sweetheart. Wanna taste you so fucking bad.”
The moan you let out is pitiful. It leaves your mouth in the most delicate cry.
No picture has ever been clearer than the one of Eddie between your thighs, your hands knotted in his hair to move him to exactly where you need him most and forcing him there. You can feel his fingers digging into your hips, his rings pressed against your burning skin, and the way your legs tremble on either side of his head.
“Yeah. Keep— Keep doing that. Keep moaning for me,” Eddie tells you. “I’m about to… holy fuck, I’m about to come.”
“Wanna feel your tongue in me so bad, Eds,” you whimper, egged on by the moan he lets out. “Want your cock even more.”
That’s what does him in, the assurance — the promise — that you want him just as bad as he wants you.
He tightens his fist around his cock, achingly hard and raging a crimson at the tip, trying to imitate the way you’d feel around him. It’s not all that close, not nearly as wet as the honey you’d be dripping for him, but his imagination does the rest of the work for him.
All at once, you’re on top of him, riding him for all he’s worth, your pussy threatening to swallow him whole. You’ve drenched him, just like he’d begged for, and that wet schlick noise still echoing from the receiver is the evidence of each of your assured thrusts over top of him.
You’re still pleading for him anyway — for more, for his tongue, for his cock — and he wants so desperately to give everything to you.
“Oh god, baby—” he sputters. He grips the phone in a white-knuckled, fist trembling. “Oh, fuck, I’m coming, baby.”
“Please, Eddie. Please come for me,” you plead over the low sounds of the forgotten film playing across the room and all the dirty wet sounds your pussy makes against your fingers. You sound like you need it, like you want his orgasm more than your own.
“Want you to come with me… Can you— Can you do that for me, sweetheart? Please?” It’s not dirty talk anymore. He’s actually fucking begging you and doesn’t feel the least bit ashamed to do so.
He wants to hear all the pretty noises you make when you come — that initial cry that stems from the depths of your soul, the high-pitched whimpers that come when the sensitivity builds, and the whines that leave you when it ebbs.
He wants to hear it over and over and over again, like a worn cassette, and play it until the tape spins out.
“Yes…” you promise through a set of stuttering breaths.
There’s no talking when either of you come. Eddie’s long forgotten to talk you through it, but you would barely hear him if he had. The phone slips out of your hand when your grip slackens and it falls to the pillow beside your head.
You chase your orgasm full throttle, working through the crescendo and the strikes of lightning, focusing only on his muffled moaning and the pretty sounds he makes as he comes.
The breath of your name whimpered through a tight throat is what does it for you. Your body has hardly any time to warn you before you’re gushing all over your fingers, twitching every time the pad of your thumb rubs over clit.
That cry, the one you always let out as you come — all wet and full of need — makes Eddie orgasm right alongside you.
He swipes his thumb over his head again, collecting the pearls of precum gathering there and sliding them down the base to squeeze himself there like he’d been doing this whole time. He clutches harder this time, imagines it's your cunt locking him in a vice-like grip, and whines in his throat when he comes.
Several loads of it spill onto his cotton boxers, most of it gathering along the side of his hand and dripping down his knuckles. His breath staggers as he works himself through his high, praising you through the phone like you’re the one who brought him to it.
“Fuck, baby… You’re so good… So fucking good.”
You’ve long settled from your own orgasm, still tingly and numb in some places, but not as gone as you had been just moments before. You still float on a cloud, getting lost as you stare through your window at the half-hidden stars sprinkling the night sky and feeling as though you could reach out and touch them.
You can feel the satin moonlight bathing you, and the jittery static of the neon of the television screen. You can feel everything and somehow nothing at all.
“I don’t know how you do it, Eds,” you confess, hardly thinking about the words spilling from your mouth when you lazily bring the phone to your ear again.
“Do what, sweetheart?”
“I don’t know… You always make me feel good. Even when you’re not here… Even when we’re not getting each other off.”
“I feel the same way,” he promises you, all mushy, even though he feels like a slob for wiping his hand off on his discarded jeans on his bed. “Just… wish you were here.”
“I wish I was there, too… Wish I could clean you up.”
Eddie’s eyes shut tight as his head tilts back to his pillow at the thought. “Fuck… You’re gonna make me hard again, sweetheart.”
You perk up suddenly as an idea sprouts like a flower in your head. A smile blooms on your lips, and you rise up onto your elbows, glowing with an unanticipated excitement. “How long would it take you to get ready?”
“…Get ready?” he echoes.
“Yeah,” is all you say.
“I mean, I— I don’t know. I figure if I put on some new underwear and a fresh pair of pants, I’ll be good as new... Why?”
“You wanna do something?”
“Yeah. Sure. Anything,” he answers clumsily in place of saying, ‘Anything to not have to be without you.’
“I wanna go to Skull Rock.”
“Skull Rock?” he repeats.
Legend has it, you and Steve made that place a local landmark. People have always said that Hopper caught the both of you one too many times up at Lover’s Lake and the Quarry, that you needed a more hidden place to fuck. So you’d stumbled around in the middle of the woods until you found a place the chief wouldn’t think to look for you.
You’d certainly found it. Then every other horny high schooler did too.
It’s the place you go to fuck, the most private place in all of Hawkins — hell, maybe even Indiana entirely for teenagers who can’t get the house to themselves. And as appealing as it sounds, to take you beneath a sky of twinkling stars, Eddie doesn’t want his first time with you to be on dirt or in the middle of the woods. That’s how all the horror movies start, don’t they?
So, needless to say, your answer takes him by surprise.
“Yeah! You can see all the stars really good from there. It’s too hard to see them so close to town.”
Eddie’s heart swells all at once at how sweet you are, like sugar poured directly onto his tongue. You’re not eager to be without him either, it seems, and that thought is as gratifying as it is thrilling.
You’re an adventure he’s about to go on, without a map or a way out, a journey he’s happy to go into blind as long as you’re holding his hand the entire way through it.
It breaks his heart to hang up the phone. He practically begs you to do it for him, and it makes you laugh — a kind giggle entwined with a tease ‘you’re such a baby.’ It rings in his ears long after the receiver clicks.
Most of all, he hates all the stoplights that separate your place from his. He hadn’t known where you lived before now, not until you uttered it over the phone. He makes a mental note to figure out a quicker way, somewhere through the winding back roads that his old van can speed through to make the distance less daunting.
He pulls into your apartment complex, a quaint two-story thing on the quieter side of town, where the woods are plentiful and the street lamps far fewer. He turns his radio down out of respect for all your neighbors that he’s sure he’ll never meet and spies you through the neon orange porch lights. You shut and lock your door in quick succession, then scurry across the way to meet him.
Eddie leans over to unlock the passenger side door for you, already beaming, and finds you’re smiling too when you climb in next to him. The grin you shoot his way outshines the night sky and makes a bright yellow sun of the girl sitting in his passenger seat.
“Hi,” you’d greeted him, all shy like you didn’t just make him come all over his hand thirty minutes ago.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he volleys back like he always does, with that big ol’ smirk and teasing lilt as he cock his head to the side — using his playfulness to cover up the bashful mess you so easily reduce him too.
Neither of you had gotten particularly dressed up to see each other. All he did was put on fresh under and pajama pants. You succumbed to a smilier laziness it seems, haphazardly brushing through your half-damp hair, throwing on a too big t-shirt, and calling it a day.
The cotton hangs low at your chest, stretched out and obviously well-loved. It falls well past your thigh, though you spend much of the drive anxiously tugging it down.
It makes him wonder what you’re wearing beneath it. If you’ve tugged on a pair of shorts or if you’re in the bra and (undoubtedly wet) underwear you’d told him you were wearing over the phone.
Eddie winds himself up all over again while you sift through the flimsy case of endless cassettes he keeps tucked in the glove compartment that never quite shuts all the way.
“How do you now have any ABBA tapes?” you wonder like it’s baffling, with an Iron Maiden tape in one hand and Cinderella in the other. Metallica plays lowly, nearly inaudibly, from the stereo.
Eddie laughs and darts his eyes from the darkened back roads to look at you, all smiley and bathed in moonlight, before turning back to the road again. “Uh, because I’m not a thirty-year-old woman. That’s the shit moms listen to.”
“Moms and hot girls,” you retort jokingly.
“Right, moms and hot girls listen to ABBA — of which, I am neither, sweetheart. Sorry to be the one to break it to you… Besides, it’s not like you walk around listening to, fucking, I don’t know— Van Halen or whatever.”
“Hey. I listen to Van Halen,” you shoot back.
He scoffs. “Yeah, right.”
“It’s got what it takes!” you sing suddenly, not quite catching the rhythm of the song, but smiling anyway as you reach for his forearm resting on the center console. “So tell me why can’t this be love!”
“Oh, my god— that’s literally their worst song,” Eddie chuckles through the widest grin you’ve ever seen from him.
It makes you smile big too, looking like an idiot who’s totally head over heels for the boy next to her. And of that, you’re happily guilty of.
“Not true,” you shake your head defiantly. “I love that song.”
“So that means it has to be good, right?” he retorts playfully, shooting you a teasing look, though his beam is more than sincere.
“Obviously,” you answer with a scoff that makes Eddie roll his eyes.
He knows he’s going to start to love it, though, if only because it’s the only Van Halen song you halfway know.
He’s going to hear that song on the radio and he’s going to want to turn it, but he’s going to remember this moment now — the one with you reaching for him while you sing the lyrics to a song he can’t stand, sitting pretty in his passenger seat, while the moonlight blanches your smile and the bare skin of your thighs.
Eddie Munson is going to love that goddamn song for the rest of his life.
He parks as close as he can to Skull Rock, knowing his van can’t work its way that far into the woods. The two of you are forced to walk the rest of the way, not exactly minding it, though Eddie’s incessantly worried you’re going to get cold.
He’s already forced his jacket upon you, which you took with little fight. It warmed you almost immediately — with his cozy heat and musky cologne.
You make mindless conversation the entire way there, about music and then about his band and then what animal you’d want to be in your band if that were the least bit possible. Eddie chooses a sheep without any hesitation, though you’re confident that a penguin would be far cooler.
You keep a careful distance between you, at first, like both of you are too scared to initiate the first move. That is, until you trip over a raised branch and nearly eat ass on the forest floor. Then Eddie’s holding your hand the entire way, keeping you close.
“If you wanted me to hold your hand, you coulda just said so, you know?” he jokes. “Didn’t have to go through all the dramatics, sweetheart.”
You try and yank your hand out of his grip in protest then, but he doesn’t let you. In fact, he pulls you closer and twirls you into a bear hug that you happily relax into.
He feels your sigh fan against his collarbone as you rest your head at the nape of his neck, his arms wrap around your shoulders as yours settle at his waist. He rocks you back in forth, in a moment that’s too almost sweet to make fun of.
Eddie finds a way, of course, “See?” he singsongs. “I’ll hug you like this all the time, if you want. You don’t have to almost kill yourself to get my attention, babe.”
“All I did was trip,” you laugh at his theatrics.
“Death by tree root… What a gnarly way to go.”
He holds your hand the entire way to Skull Rock.
He doesn’t let you go once, not until you’re ascending the large boulders to plant yourselves at the very peak of them. He’s grabbing you again once you settle, though, and the two of you just sit there, for several long moments, just gaping at the stars that dance with life above you. They sprinkle an infinite void with enough light that manages to touch you, trillions of miles away.
There’s a subtle beauty in that Eddie never would’ve appreciated before now.
“Shit, babe,” he breathes through a whimsical existential dread. “You were right. The stars are really fucking pretty out here.”
You love how much he loves this, to come to Skull Rock with you and count the stars. Any other guy would’ve had their tongue down your throat by now, stuffing your hand down their unbuttoned jeans.
But not Eddie.
He just holds your hand because he likes the feeling of his fingers entwined with yours, grasping tightly onto you while he gazes at an infinite universe — like you might float off right along with it.
His neck is stretched to gape at the night sky. You catch his adam’s apple bobbing every time he swallows. You want so desperately to kiss his milky white skin and sprinkle blotchy red bruises there.
His curly locks fall over his shoulders. He shakes his head to get his bangs out of his eyes while the chocolate buttons of them dart around the endless void.
He’s more beautiful than every star in the sky combined. You can’t be sure of how many that is, of course, but it’s a whole bunch if you had to guess. It makes sense, though, for the prettiest boy in the whole damn galaxy.
“Told ya,” you answer with a smile, leaning over to nudge his shoulder with yours. “You come out here often?”
You’re asking if he takes girls here and he knows it, but it’s not like you’re being inconspicuous about the whole thing. Eddie gauges it almost immediately, the subtle jealousy hinting at your tone — something no one else would’ve caught — and he squeezes your hand in reassurance.
He shakes his head. “No… Never.”
“Never?” you press with raised brows, like his answer shocks you.
“Ever. It’s not really my scene, I guess… But what about you, sweetheart? Never seen you around these parts before.”
You knock his shoulder again, harder this time. “Shut up. You already know the answer to that.”
“Yeah…” he nods to himself, eyes darting back and forth as he reminisces on something. “You and Harrington, you and Hargrove. Hell, I think I heard about you and Jason one time—”
“That was a long time ago,” you argue. “Before I even knew you, okay?”
“I’m just saying,” he shrugs in defense. “You totally have a thing for pretty boys, sweetheart.”
“I never said I didn’t, Eds. Just that you were pretty, too.”
“Whatever,” he scoffs and rolls his eyes like he isn’t glowing red beneath the moonlight.
“You’re better than all three of them, Eds,” you confess with a sudden softness that catches his attention almost immediately. He turns his attention from the sky to look at you properly again. His breath catches at you sad you look — all beautiful and coated in shades of blue.
“…Yeah?”
You nod and drag his hand into your lap to fidget with his fingers. You trace the skeleton heart on his middle finger, subverting all your attention there because it’s easier than having to look at him now. “Better than all of them combined— not even just them, you know? Out of everyone. No one’s ever been this nice to be before.”
“Me neither, sweetheart,” he confesses with a morose grin. “The freak of Hawkins High attracts a lot of assholes, believe it or not.”
“Is it bad?” you wonder cautiously, like you’re scared to hear the answer. In some ways, you are.
You hadn’t known him in high school, not really. For obvious reasons, you ran in very different circles. You never even had classes together. There was never any excuse to be close to each other before now, never a reason to become friends. So you didn’t.
You grew to know him as a freak, and he knew you as the town slut. Then somewhere down the line, he became your dealer and now… here you were.
But you’ve graduated now and he’s still army crawling towards a diploma. You couldn’t save him from the hell of Hawkins High even if you wanted to.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” he shrugs. “Jason and the dick brigade just wanna make my life hell, that’s all.”
“I hope they aren’t,” you respond shyly.
Eddie scoffs then shoots you a smile. “Oh, of course not. Look at me. I’m at Skull Rock with the most wanted girl in Hawkins. I’m living the dream, sweetheart.”
“So you don’t care?” you wonder, peering at him through your lashes, as you twist the silver cross around his finger.
“Care about what?”
“That I’m a slut,” you laugh like it’s obvious.
Eddie doesn’t think it’s all that funny. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s not like it isn’t true, Eds,” you retort with a trembling smile. “I mean, that’s literally what people call me — most people don’t even care to call me by my real name anymore.”
“I don’t care,” Eddie shakes his head. “I don’t care about that. I don’t give a shit about what people say about you. If everyone cared about what everyone said about everyone, neither of us would be here right now… Because you’d think I was some devil-worshipping freak and I’d think you were too busy getting it on with Chief Hopper.”
You screw your face up immediately at the thought. The mere idea was repulsive. The asshole was practically your father these days. Jim Hopper was in that small bunch of available people you would never fuck, and happily so.
“I’d never stoop that low,” you joke.
“I like you, how you are, right now,” Eddie promises. “Don’t want you to change a damn thing.”
His brown eyes twinkle with a sincerity that rivals the stars above you. All of a sudden, you don’t care about a bunch of heavenly bodies light years away from you — you care about this man, the one sitting beside you now, holding your hand even though your palms have gone all sweaty.
It’s too good to be true — the way you looks at you, the way he talks to you, the way he treats you. You’re scared that it’s a dream, that you’ll wake up and find that none of this was ever real. Or worse, that he was, and that he just didn’t care about you the way you cared about him.
It’s almost irrational. Almost.
But it’s happened before.
And it’s left you a scarred and mangled mess.
You shake your head to yourself and scrunch your face as you turn to look him. “Have you ever done this before, Eddie?”
“Don’t what?” he wonders with furrowed brows.
“I don’t know…” you shrug. “Any of this? With anyone else?”
He’s grateful he doesn’t have to lie. Or tell some clumsy half-truth for the sake of saving his own skin. He realizes tonight is perhaps the most honest he’s ever been with you, baring his pale soul beneath a silver moonlight.
“Never,” he answers, unwavering, with a firm shake of his head.
“Really?”
“Really,” he nods, then swallows thickly at a gut-wrenching realization. “I’ve never felt his way about anyone else before.’
“Me neither,” you promise.
It’s a tad more meaningful coming from you than from a boy who’s never had someone to love and to love him back.
You’re experienced, you’ve found what you like and what you don’t like. You’ve been with guys who have given you the world and guys that have ended yours altogether. And out of all of them — all of the assholes in Hawkins you could’ve picked — you’ve chosen the freak.
You want him.
You want Eddie.
The revelation makes him grin. “Promise?”
“Cross my heart, Eddie Spaghetti.”
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Lena thank you for the spanking bit, has to be one of fav kinks ever because it just... fits every single yan regardless of who they are??? Kinda like a "universal" thing, just top notch. Do you think we could ever get headcanons for it?
Thank you for this anon, you're absolutely correct it is a top-tier kink
Also I've been wanting to write more about god-era Morax so thank you for the opportunity to do so, I rambled way more about him than the others here sorry lol
As for those who fit the kink best imo I’m going with Childe, Diluc, Ayato and Morax
//major spanking kink material (obviously) but gets kinda bad in severity/intensity, also mentions of hair-pulling, biting, throat fucking, anal, two cocks for Morax again (as always 👌)
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Childe is probably the best one here to end up at the mercy of here for once, for the sake of your poor ass at least.
Not that it isn't still awful and painful — he’s a sadist at heart and just adores making you squeal and cry. What at least makes it comparatively at least bearable is that he tends to use his hand — although that does make it more personable, more humiliating.
He tells you, though, exactly what he intends to do. You're being such a little brat today… come over here…
He doesn't even seem angry, but rather excited. He's all smiley and cooing in a way that feels so utterly humiliating and degrading.
Oh, but please do run. Please, please make it so much more fun for him, run away and try to hide. There's virtually nothing in the world that turns him on as much as either a game of chasing you or hunting you down wherever you're hiding. The fact that you're that scared of getting your ass beaten is kind of cute, actually. Are you that sensitive to pain, or is it more protecting your pride that gives you so much resistance? Not that he's complaining or anything.
He'll even give you a very wide opportunity to run, make sure you have plenty of avenues to do so. His heart rate begins to go up seeing the look of realization in your eyes when you spot an opening to run off, and he'll give you a minute or two of a head start. It doesn't take him long to find you nonetheless, hauling you up over his shoulders and carrying you back to your room with obvious excitement, like a predator dragging squealing, still-living prey back to its den for its inevitable fate.
That being said, doing that will make it worse for you — at that point you probably do deserve a belt at least, you know? Regardless of the instrument of choice though, he keeps you bent over his knee — he can feel your squirming more that way, and he can grind his hard-on into your stomach as you thrash around and squeal. Each strike still lands on bare skin, but rather than having your lower half naked, he likes to sometimes move the hold on your back and grasp at the waistband of your panties instead, jerking them up to wedge between your cheeks, effectively holding you in place and baring your skin at the same time.
He's so mean about it, taunts you that same voice you hate so much—
Aw, are you actually crying? Maybe I'll stop if you beg for something else…
There's no set number or standard of how much you'll be punished for any particular offense, which can be more torturous than anything. At least if you were given a number, you'd know how much more you had to endure. Instead, you just lurch and squeal each time his hand or the leather comes down... you kick your legs and thrash about, to no avail. In fact, you're pretty sure it just makes him hornier, you feel his cock twitch and his breathing grow more ragged the louder you cry out, and his hand on your back forces you down harder.
He’s actually totally shameless about getting off to it, too, so you can’t use that against him.
God, you're so cute when you cry like that... squeal louder for me...
The only real upside is that it's usually abruptly cut off at some point once he's too aroused by it to continue, and needs to just bury himself into your holes. You get slid off his lap onto the couch or bed, barely getting any time to recover — still sniffling and whimpering— before being contorted to whatever position he wants and rammed into without warning… thus for once, him being perpetually horny and having virtually no self-control actually becomes a positive. It still doesn't help, though, that the sex makes his hips smack against your sore ass with each thrust, but crying out about that only makes him go harder.
You know it could be much much worse — he makes sure to remind you that he could easily keep going until you completely break down, but he's so nice and you should be grateful for that — but you're still sore, and it leaves a pinkish-reddish tint under your natural flesh tone — something he likes to point out to you later, groping at your ass and laughing when you jolt at the sting. Your nose wrinkled with your expression of disgust as you jerk your head away from him, and you mutter under your breath.
Bastard...
And then, you squeal and lurch forward as one more harsh smack lands on your backside. You try to ignore the chuckling that follows as your eyes well up with embarrassed tears, and you bury your face beneath the covers of the bed.
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Diluc’s punishments are awful in terms of pain, but thankfully they're over fairly quickly because it's largely an act of momentary fury and irritation, and once he gets that anger out of his system, the punishment will be over, too.
He's still very intimidating about it, and it doesn't help that it's always a sort of spontaneous thing he decides on in the heat of the moment — thus you see the exact moment you know you've crossed a line, but also know (or at least, quickly learn) that there's nothing you can say or do at that point that will get you out of being punished. His eyes narrow and his voice lowers and he tells you to get over here in a voice that makes you feel like your heart just stopped, and your stomach feels as if it twists into a knot when you see the confirmation of your dread when he takes his belt off.
Running is not advisable — it's not like you'll succeed, and you'll just make him more mad. He's rough with how he handles you, dragging you by your clothes and hair over to bed, counter, or the back of a couch, forcing your head down.
How bad any one particular spanking is varies a lot depending on how mad you've succeeded in making him. He's not merciful at all, so he hits with force based on the level of his frustration. Thus, your attitude is important — you can technically commit a lesser offense, but if you keep backtalking and being bratty and fighting it, you'll likely get a worse punishment than you would for a worse offense for which you were apologetic and submitted to punishment easily.
What does change with the severity of your offense is that if what you didn't isn't so bad, you can keep your clothes on, but for particularly egregious transgressions, even in spite of the heat of the moment, unfortunately, he doesn't forget to pull your clothes up or down and off to make sure you're bared first.
He virtually always uses a belt, much to your dismay, and prefers to bend you over various surfaces since he can strike harder that way. It’s painful, you always end up in tears quickly, begging and pleading and spilling apologies for whatever you did, but he never has any mercy on you.
Much like you can’t get out of it to begin with, there’s also nothing you can do that will make it end any sooner than he feels like it. Over and over, grumbling with each strike about how you’re such a brat, how you can’t just behave, how it’s your own fault, until your flesh is reddened and burning badly enough that even when it’s over, all you can do is slump forward and cry.
If he went really hard on you, he might feel a little bad afterwards, getting you a wet cloth to soothe the burn… but he’ll still remind you that you wouldn’t be lying there all shivering and sobbing if you just learned to behave yourself properly.
For him, it’s more of an actual punishment first and foremost and not really an intentionally erotic thing, at first he’s too mad to think much about the eroticism of it… but seeing you lying there sniffling with your butt so heavily marked and welting, admittedly he does quickly get hard… and he’ll get incredibly flustered and embarrassed if you accuse him of getting off to it.
But be careful — push him too much on that matter, and such antagonism might be grounds for a round two on your already-stinging ass.
-------
Ayato’s punishments are particularly unpleasant, but the thing is that if you're in that situation, you deliberately chose it. Because he's gracious enough that you get a lot of warnings before reaching that point.
If you're being bratty, temperamental, rude, or whatever other behavior he doesn't like, you get a certain look first. The standard half-lidded eyes, unpleased expression, the universal ‘stop that right now’ glare. Maybe a passive aggressive comment if he can slide one into conversation.
If that fails — in other words, if you keep being a brat regardless, deliberately ignoring his warnings — you then get a verbal warning. He'll address you directly if it's just the two of you, but gods forbid you’re digging your own grave by misbehaving in front of others, he waits for a moment where everyone else's attention is on something else before pulling you close in a faux gesture of affection (with a grip harsh enough to ensure you get the message but not enough to alert anyone else in the room to his quiet fury), lowering his voice, whispering directly into your ear.
We’re going to have a talk about your behavior when this is over. Do you understand?
You know by now what a "talk" actually means, and hearing the words makes you stiffen and swallow. Granted, by the time it reaches the point that you've been that bad, you won't escape without at least a few swats, but if you persist, you'll just make it much worse. All you can do is nod your head and wait in dreadful anticipation.
As soon as the company you had leaves, you try to slowly back away, looking for an opening to run, but he has you grabbed by your clothes or hair and is dragging you off before you can even try. The total silence on his end as he drags you over to your room only serves to amplify your dread, and thereby your little whimpering protests.
The primary thing that will make it that much worse is what he uses to punish you, because from the day he brought you home, he anticipated a need for discipline at some point, and thus had a whipping cane custom-made just for you. One of those thin wooden canes designed for no other purpose than infliction of pain and punishment, which he leaves sitting out in your bedroom at all times, making sure it's always within sight as a subtle threat, a reminder of his power over you and that your behaviors have consequences.
He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t get heated, yet somehow that makes it so much worse. He’s perfectly calm as he holds you down on his lap, a hand wrapped into and grasping your clothes on your back to ensure you’re not going anywhere with each sharp pain on your bare skin. He’s very disciplinarian about it, ensuring to emphasize the reason and intention of the punishment itself—
Remember that you had every option of avoiding this. This is only the consequence you deserve. Do you realize that?
You nod and whimper and try to apologize, but it doesn’t make each swat any lighter. He’s rather harsh about the severity too, the degree of pain, duration, number of swats and outright humiliation often feel disproportionate to what is in your opinion a mild offense, although you know better than to voice that thought.
You beg, sure, you cry and whimper and say you'll take any other punishment, but it goes in one ear and out the other, your words have no effect, and while his voice has that characteristic gentleness to it, he's still cold and firm in his reply, if he even gives you one.
You're not getting out of this. Hold still.
He does take care of you afterwards, so lovingly and gently it makes you angry. He reminds you again that it wouldn't have to happen if you behaved, that you have no one but yourself to blame, all while kissing your crying face, holding you close and gently massaging the newly formed welts.
He also likes to make you gauge how many lashes you deserve beforehand, often making the total number a certain multiple of how many times you mouthed off or did something against your rules. And of course, whenever there's a fixed number, he makes you count.
Listening to your voice grow more and more shaky and begin to crack, your speech becoming slurred with sobs and oh, how precious is the sudden panic in your voice when you realize you've lost count. The way you tense and start begging and whimpering when he replies—
I suppose we'll have to start over...
-------
Morax’s punishments are always by far the worst.
That's largely because there's a maddening element of psychological torment involved. It's slow, drawn out, the dread and anticipation are almost worse than the punishment itself. He actually employs a variety of corporeal punishments, each of which make your stomach churn just to think about, but unfortunately, putting you over his knee and beating your ass until there's a deep red hue to your skin is a personal favorite of his.
What makes his style of discipline so unbearable is that you’ll be punished for literally anything. There is no possible offense, no rule to be broken, that won’t earn corporeal punishment of some kind, most usually on your poor ass. You get a very clear set of rules, rules you’re expected to know and obey from day one. Countless little rules, so many of them meticulous and pointless. Things you must do, things you must not do, and rigid standards for your attitudes and behaviors.
Each and every violation is its own offense — not to mention, things like lying when asked about what you did, objecting to punishments, even talking back or trying to defend yourself when accused count as individual offenses too. Sometimes you don’t even realize you’ve broken a rule until he tells you you’re going to be punished for it, and any protest or whining counts as another offense.
Really, you’re lucky if you can go a few days in a row fully able to sit without any stinging pain, and it’s not uncommon for you to earn back-to-back punishments one day after another. You know for a fact that your record of days in a row without ending up laying in bed, whimpering and crying and clutching your backside in pain is a single digit number.
Sometimes, if it’s severe enough, you’ll get put over his knee right then and there, but he’ll also tally up the small offenses and, at the end of the day, punish you cumulatively for every small offense you’ve made, because he can’t allow even the slightest offense to go unpunished.
It’s not limited to things you do in his presence either, because he has ways of finding out everything you do.
Every day that you can't accompany him, he has an established routine for when he returns. Firstly, of course, you're supposed to greet him when he comes in (any attempts to be petulant by giving him silent treatment or hiding away will result in further punishments), but then, as he sits you down, holds you close, he asks you the same question.
Have you done anything you should not have today?
It's a torturous question.
On one hand, you could have very well been very well-behaved, in which case you can answer honestly with at least some confidence (although even then, part of you hesitates thinking maybe you committed some offense unintentionally).
But when you haven't been well-behaved and you know it — that's what's torturous.
It's a gamble. He asks every single day, so him asking itself is not a dead giveaway that he knows what you did. If he doesn't know — well, you might be able to lie and get away with it. Inversely, how unfortunate would it be if you told him, and it turned out he didn't know, and then you had to suffer when you could have gotten away with it?
On the flip side, if he does know — well, you'll soon be squealing like a stuck pig regardless, but things are much, much worse if you try to lie. You would know — you've taken that gamble a few times now and lost.
He seems to have ways of finding out everything — you only lied when you were absolutely confident, thinking there was no way anyone saw the thing you did, only for your stomach to lurch when you feel the soft stroking against your thigh stop, and are met with a low voice—
…Is that so?
And the tone, the way he says it, you immediately know you've messed up.
Of course, you could hypothetically keep denying it, but entrenching yourself further in a lie is, by that point, the worst decision you could make — you would know, you tried that once and you couldn't sit down normally for over a week. The best thing to do now is to confess… you won’t get any mercy or a lighter punishment, but you’ll avoid the additional punishment you’d get for doing anything else.
But even then, he can’t even give you the decency of forcing your body to bend and getting it over with. It has to be drawn out, torturing you to the greatest degree possible — sometimes, he does this by delaying it, telling you he has something else to do first, leaving you to sit around and wait in anticipation for an hour or more. If an offense is bad enough, one session might not even be enough, and you're told that you'll get another one tomorrow, adding to your dread.
But most of the time, the torment comes from forcing your own participation. He keeps you firmly in his lap, reaching down to grope at the flesh where your butt meets your thighs.
What do you think you deserve to have happen to you?
Another test, a question for which you’ll only receive something worse in addition to whatever will happen already if answered incorrectly. There’s only one right answer—
…Y-you should... punish me...
On the bright side, he’s genuinely pleased once you start learning well enough to know what the right answer is.
You’re stood up, guided over to the drawers, hands firmly on your shoulders to ensure you don’t get any ideas about running. You hate that one drawer, it makes your stomach churn just to look at. He has a damn collection for you— leather straps, whipping canes, paddles with holes in them just to hurt that much more. He tells you to pick one.
That, too, is a test— you know which ones hurt more. You're supposed to gauge what you deserve based on the severity of your offense, and he'll be that much more displeased if you go too lightly on yourself, and will consequently be more forceful, which you do not want. Eventually, you manage to make your choice, biting your lip, pointing with a shaky hand, tensing as his hand runs motions that would be soothing in any other context up and down your thigh, pausing to grasp at the fleshy part of your backside.
Then you're led back— sometimes to face the wall or bend over a counter, but most often he prefers to keep you over his lap. Not that you'll be forced down either— not unless you make that necessary, which of course, you do not want. Unless you want it to be that much worse, you follow the commands— pull your robes up, the waistband of any underwear down, bare your skin (always, no matter how mild the offense), lay down on your stomach, put your hands behind your back so he can grasp your wrists.
And even then, even then you have to be tormented further.
Now, what did you do to deserve this?
You recall to the best of your ability, hoping you didn't forget anything, lest you be accused of trying to be deceitful in hopes of escaping consequences, which will add another tally to the list.
It’s painful. It always is. You've reached a point where your resolve to not cry and squeal is defeated pretty early. You used to try your best not to for the sake of your pride, but you know by now that it will go on long enough that your tears and crying out are inevitable.
He manages to somehow be so stoic and calm and yet somehow so, so cruel about it.
Does it hurt?
Your shoulders quiver with little sobs, you go tense as he gropes and kneads at the raw flesh.
Y-yes, it hurts, it hurts so bad, please no more, please—
You cut off with a high-pitched cry as the stinging pain strikes again. And again. And again. It's always so much, so unfair compared to the weight of whatever you did. That slight pinkish undertone isn't quite satisfying enough either, he never stops until there's a deep, deep red tone to your flesh.
If you've been especially bad, you may have to count… but he actually tends to prefer not giving you a set number. You're more fearful that way, uncertain of how much more you have to endure.
You're certain he gets off on the pain for one thing, the sound of your cries and the way you jolt and squirm, but the humiliation is worse than the pain itself, for you. He knows that, revels in it. He's told you before—
You're such a prideful little thing… that will certainly need to be fixed.
Repetitive subjection to something so inherently humiliating and vulnerable, and being made to break down, any semblance of toughness and dignity being torn away at his hands, is a way of slowly breaking down your pride. You know that, it makes you so angry, but you can't help but let that vulnerability be exposed every time, to act in such a way that ensures he knows how badly it humiliates you.
Your go limp with exhaustion when it finally stops.
What have you learned?
You can barely speak, voice hoarse from the strain of your cries and speech muffled by sniffles and sobs.
I'm sorry… I won't do it again…
And then, he has the audacity to be so, so sweet to you. Looking down at your tear-streaked face, smiling— no, smirking, a belittling, amused expression— leaning down to kiss your forehead.
Poor thing.
Kneading at the sore flesh in spite of how the touch makes you wince. As if it isn't his fault, as if he had any mercy on you the whole time you were begging for it to stop.
It only makes you angrier. More than once now, you've earned a second round for how you reacted to his undeserved kindness. So ungrateful.
It's never a solitary punishment either, always coupled with something else, always something equally humiliating and discomforting, if not painful. You know he gets off to it, because the second punishment is almost always a direct sex act of some kind.
You'll take his cocks down your throat, grabbing your skull and fucking your face without any restraint, forcing you to swallow every last drop of seed, even forcing your head down to lick up whatever you spill off the floor. Your saliva just provides the lube to force you to bed and fuck you until you can't even stand, and all the while his hips bounce off your poor ass, each movement stinging against the sensitive flesh. He'll bite your flesh, unnaturally sharp teeth even piercing you skin, leaving you covered in marks. If he's feeling really, really mean, you don't even get the semblance of pleasure of it ramming into your poor sore, raw pussy— you'll take both cocks into your tight little ass instead, a stretch that makes you squeal and thrash and cry. Your legs kick and you lurch forward, desperate to pull yourself off, but you're jerked back with a growl as he slams into you, completely bottoming out. Eventually, you give in as the stretching pain ebbs away and trying to take whatever pleasure you can from the faint stimulation to spots of pleasure through the walls of flesh. But the act is utterly humiliating nonetheless, your hole left twitching and gaping for hours as cum leaks out and onto your skin. You can't even sit for days, both your poor asshole and backside sore and tender.
Your embarrassment and resentment builds. You loathe him for it, feel so humiliated and angry at yourself and how deeply you dread the punishments that it makes you nauseous.
And thus, in one particular incident, fed up and filled with spite, you made the greatest mistake of your entire time trapped with him— you decided to run, seeing that for once you had an opening to do so.
A stupid choice, really. You don't get far. Not even a full ten steps.
You know immediately that you have severely, sincerely fucked up. The sheer harshness with which you're grabbed, the back of your clothes grasped and twisted with unprecedented force, the draconic growl to his voice that makes your blood run cold.
Oh, dearest, you have no idea how badly you've just stepped out of line.
His other hand latches onto your throat.
You're going to be sleeping on your stomach for quite some time, won't you?
The statement alone makes tears well in your eyes, any bitter pride quickly crushed. You shake your head profusely, start begging for forgiveness, but you know in your heart that it's far too late for that… it still doesn't stop you from whimpering and apologizing as you're dragged back down the hall, no doubt to one of the worst punishments you've endured yet.
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tall fem reader?
tall fem reader!!! thanks for the request, anon :)))
hq ver.
pairing: college!tr x tall!fem!reader
warnings: mature language, MDI, suggestive language, reader mentioned in chifuyu’s but not present, mild mild mild cat-call in hanma’s - just crack overall, honestly lol feel free to let me know if i missed anything!
notes: planned to make this a whole x whoever you want type beat, BUT figured just doing a headcanon broken into different heights would be more efficient lol plus MORE CONTENT - gonna make a pt. 2 with some hq men, but for now — t.rev! :))) hope you enjoy <3 !!
tagged: @fantasycantasy , @illegalspacecow
small — ♡
When it came down to a relationship, MIKEY wasn’t shallow enough to let physical appearances stop him from pursuing someone he wanted—He liked what he liked, fuck what anybody else had to say about it. The blonde never had issue with your drastic height difference, seeing it as more of a perk than anything else. His best friend was tall, so why not his girlfriend? It just meant whenever he walked down the street, he’d look like a total badass with his two attractive beanpoles at his side.
However, a lot of the buzz on campus mostly centered around Mikey’s height rather than yours. It never bothered him, but it certainly got you tight anytime someone tried to uplift you whilst putting him down in the process.
“A shrimp like him wouldn’t know how to handle all that leg of yours, mama. Lemme take you out tonight, show you a good time with someone who’s more on your level, whaddya say?”
Barf.
Mikey would merely give them a dead-stare; unbothered king. You, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate to knock them down a size or two.
“First of all, your busted-looking ass could never be on the same level as me. Second of all, where my man lacks in height, he makes up for elsewhere, so he handles me very well, thank you. You’re probably the type to just shove it in without any sort of technique, thinking that’s enough to get a girl to finish. My man won’t bust once until I’ve came up to four times, the fuck can you offer me besides being six-foot? Hm? That’s right, not a damn thing. Remember that next time you talk shit, dirt-neck.”
Read him straight to filth. And God forbid Mikey had his gang with him anytime some scrub tried to spit game, best believe they’d dog the guy until he scurried away in humiliation. It always filled him with great adoration for you wherever you checked someone in his defense, your entire relationship giving off the same energy as that one meme with Kevin Hart’s character being protectively held by the lady. It’d been put in the groupchat a number of times just to tease the delinquent, but he’s unashamed at the fact you could easily pick his ass up. If anything, he was all for it, even requested piggy-back rides from you more often than his right-hand man—Draken’s back appreciates your sacrifice.
Now let someone try and spit game at him.
“Yeah, normally guys feel emasculated when their girlfriend’s taller than them, y’know? I’m surprised you don’t, though. No offense, [_____] just doesn’t seem like a good fit for you. I mean, must be tough to lay in the same bed, or even put her in your lap without feeling smothered or crushed. Wouldn’t it be much better to have someone a little smaller-”
“She could sit on me until my pelvis collapsed, and I would thank her. And, full offense, if I was single, still wouldn’t pick you even if you put a gun to my head. Keep my girl’s name out your mouth, you don’t deserve to breathe the same air let alone be on first name basis. Now, quit wasting my time—Do you have the notes from yesterday’s lecture or not?”
You don’t play about him. He don’t play about you. Period.
And as far as sharing a bed, cuddling or otherwise, Mikey was a sucker for being held like a damn squishmellow. Didn’t matter if you took up most of the leg space, dude would be wrapped around you like a python, so snug and warm you’d be lucky to even escape his grasp for food or the bathroom. Once he’s sleep, he’s SLEEP, and then you become the squishmellow.
“Mikey, I will be right back, turn me loose-”
“Zzzzzz…” out like a light. Drooling and everything, face smushed up against your boobs, just content. You’d think he’d been working the graveyard shift. And God forbid he ended up laying on top of you, sprawled out starfish style…you for sure weren’t going anywhere then.
Even if you expressed this dilemma after he woke up, the blonde merely yawned. “Just pick me up and carry me with you…”
“You’re smoking crack if you think I’m gonna haul your ass with me into the bathroom. I love you and all that, but we ain’t at the stage where I can comfortably use it with you in room.”
He shrugged. “Mm. Guess you don’t have to go that bad. G’night.”
“Mikey.”
“Shh, I’m sleeping…”
A gremlin. But, your gremlin. ♡
—
medium — ♡
CHIFUYU still can’t believe he bagged you, frfr.
There’d be moments where you’d catch him staring, as if he figured you’d disappear the second he took his eyes off you.
It’d get a little creepy sometimes, but it was endearing all the same. He wasn’t the shortest guy, though he wasn’t the tallest either, and standing next to you was a constant reminder of that. Not that he held any resentment toward you for it, he absolutely loved your height. However, there was always some form of insecurity that would resurface anytime someone called attention to it.
And today, his best friend and co-worker, Baji, would not only be the culprit, but an unlikely source of reassurance.
While they were stocking up inventory, the ravenette couldn’t help but notice the stool his friend was using to put a box in a particular high place. Wearing a mischievous grin, Baji pointed. “Oi. You should take that home with you. That way your girl won’t have to strain her neck when she kisses you.” He snorted, thinking he was the funniest man alive.
Normally, something that lame wouldn’t phase him, but guess today he was feeling a little more sensitive. With a grunt, the former blonde coolly spoke, “Maybe you should shut the hell up, and stock the damn shelves.”
“Whoa. What’s up your ass?” Baji furrowed his brows, walking over to lightly kick at the stool’s metal leg, making it jerk. Chifuyu sharply gasped, latching onto an empty shelf to steady himself. He exhaled, relieved, then shot a glare. But, Baji wasn’t perturbed.
Chifuyu sighed. “Nothing. I’m fine...”
“Fine my left nut. You don’t get short like that unless there’s something on your mind,” not the best way to phrase that, but at least he was genuine. Chifuyu rolled his eyes, coming down off the stool to brush past the ravenette.
“Not in the mood, alright?”
Baji was left standing there, dumbfounded.
The entire vibe had been thrown on its head, and he didn’t understand why. Awkwardly, he went back to assorting through the contents within the nearest box, bottom lip stuck out in thought as he briefly glanced at Chifuyu’s back mere feet away. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He knew not to pry, but curiosity always won gold in the end. Baji replayed the conversation in his head, using his impeccable deductive reasoning to draw his own conclusions.
And then suddenly, an epiphany.
Without a hint of warning, the ravenette quickly walked over and slapped his friend in the middle of his back. Chifuyu yelped, nearly dropping the box in his hands before whipping around to fix Baji with a wide, incredulous look. “T-The hell?!”
“So. She dumped ya, huh? [Sigh] Look man, don’t beat yourself up, a lot of guys fumble the bag from time to time. If ya need a shoulder to cry on…don’t use mine, but ‘tora might let you-”
“Hah?? What are you—[_____] didn’t dump me, dumbass!”
Baji blinked. “Oh. My bad, jus’ figured that’s why you’re in your feelings.”
“And you thought the best thing to do was to hit me, then tell me to cry on someone else?” Chifuyu squinted when the arsonist gave a shrug. He sighed again, carefully setting the box down. “It’s not about [______]. Well, technically. The other day we had lunch with a few of her friends. They apparently have been dying to meet me for some time. And things were going great until…”
Chifuyu trailed off, leaving Baji in suspense.
He grunted. “‘till what? Jus’ say it, bet it isn’t even that bad-”
“They were shocked to see her with someone who barely came up to her elbows.”
Silence filled the storage room. Chifuyu continued to keep his eyes trained elsewhere while his counterpart merely stared for what felt like hours, but only seconds. And then…
“Pfft.”
Chifuyu looked up and sneered, blushing furiously as he threw a chew toy from one of the boxes at the fiend. “Hey! Don’t laugh! Do you have any idea how humiliating that is??”
Baji, to his dismay, effortless caught the toy, even squeaking it a couple times just to annoy him more. Taking a moment to collect himself, the ravenette still wore his sharp grin as he spoke through airy giggles. “So? Who cares what they have to say?”
“I do! They’re [_____]’s friends, everyone knows their approval is just as crucial to the relationship as the parents…if not more.”
“Mm. Pretty sure you’re overthinking this.”
Chifuyu gave a sarcastic laugh, “Pretty sure I’m not.”
“Alright. Lemme school ya on how women operate when they get in their little cliques.” Baji dusted off his hands, missing the eye roll the former blonde gave once again. With his pointer held high, he declared, “If majority of the friend group is taken, they’re just being protective. No doubt they’ve been there for every heartbreak, every fight, ‘nd jus’ don’t think anyone’s good enough for [_____]. Jus’ gotta keep your head down, and don’t give ‘em any reason to be weary. Simple.”
With a slow, skeptical nod, Chifuyu pursed his lips at his fellow delinquent. It wasn’t unlikely, so at least he’s correct in that regard. However, the line between facts and feelings began to blur the further Baji continued.
“But, if majority of them are single, then you’re screwed either way —Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”
“Wow, that’s so helpful. You sure schooled me, Baji-san.”
“‘m serious. You gotta watch out for the single ones in the friend group. They’re all passive aggressive, try to get under your skin, push your buttons. Then, before you know it, they’re in your head, get you so worked up only for them to turn around and play victim, saying you can’t take a joke, and now you’re the fucking bad guy! Classic textbook emotional manipulation—Don’t fall for it. ‘cause they’ve got it down to a science, I’m telling ya.”
Chifuyu’s eyes widen at the sudden intensity that overtook the room, taking a small step back when Baji jabbed his finger at him, as if he were warning him of some conspiracy. “Uh…you good?”
Baji took a moment’s pause. Then, he cleared his throat.
“Sorry, got a little carried away. All’s I’m saying is, don’t sweat. Lotta chick’s pick on the best friend’s new fling, t’s like a war tactic—Poking at our fragile egos ‘nd all that. But, seems like you did fine, otherwise you’d be crying all over ‘tora right now.” Baji shrugged.
Chifuyu blinked, now his turn to be dumbfounded. “Huh.”
He frowned. “‘Huh’? I jus’ gave you some killer, black-pilled insight on cracking their code of conduct, and all I get is a dry-ass ‘huh’? Tsk. I’m charging you next time, goddamn freeloader.”
Chifuyu glared, but softened soon after. After taking his words into consideration, the former blonde couldn’t help but feel lighter. “It’s just... didn’t expect that to actually make me feel better.”
Baji scrunched his nose. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean? Oi, don’t ever doubt my knowledge. It may be selective, but I got it when it counts. Besides, thanks to me you won’t take that stool home after all.”
“I wasn’t planning to take it home in the first place.”
“Right. Keep telling yourself that, elbows.”
“Hey!”
—
large — ♡
“Hey, baby, those legs go all the way up?”
It was moments like this where you detested not being able to blend in with the average crowd. Attention always seemed to gravitate toward you no matter how hard you tried to avoid it, like being covered in honey while trying to walk in front of a herd of bears. And it didn’t help that you were currently wearing heels tonight, accentuating your legs even more in the little, black cocktail dress you sported. You were headed to a party a mutual friend of yours was throwing, and you wanted to surprise your man by wearing the new Jimmy Choos he bought you, knowing how much he loved how your legs with the extra height on them—Evidently, so did the prowling degenerate on the streets.
You had elected to ignore them. HANMA seemed to have other plans as he came to a complete stop in his tracks, slowly turning around to walk up on the moron who had the nerve to open his mouth. Low, golden eyes gazed down at the waste of space, face calm but a murderous aura oozed off him like pheromone, suffocating the slimy bastard into submission as he attempted to shrink away. But, he wasn’t about to let him get away so easily.
A wide, eerie grin spread across his face. “Could’ve sworn I just heard you cat-call my girl right in front of me. But, you wouldn’t be stupid enough to do that. Right?”
The guy nervously looked back for reinforcements but his buddies were already long gone. Hanma’s grin immediately dissolved from his face, kissing his teeth before grabbing the guy by the front of his collar and twisting. “Fuckin’ hate repeating myself.”
Hanma wound his arm back, dead set on knocking the guy into an early grave until you intervened at the last second. By grabbing onto the balled up fist, you brought it to your lips to place a tender kiss on the inked skin. You felt his muscles relax, but he still held the offender by his shirt, only slightly playing attention to you cooing in his ear.
“Baby, you promised no fighting tonight, remember?”
“I know, doll, but this fucker,” he shook the guy around in his tight grasp, unhinged grin making its appearance once more at the sound of him blubbering, “deserves to have his shit rocked for even looking at you. I’m just gonna teach ‘em a little lesson about manners, that’s all. I’ll be quick.”
You scoffed, “You and I both know you don’t do quick.”
Hanma snickered. “First time for everything, right?”
“Shuji.”
Tugging on his arm, you were able to redirect all of his focus onto you, sinister eyes melting into sweet caramel as his pupils dilated the second they locked on yours. It always did something to him whenever you came up to eye-level. Sure, you were already pretty tall but the heels nearly had you towering him. It gave him a weird sensation, one that made him want to drop everything and worship you like the deity you were. Especially in situations like this.
Hanma felt like the smaller one for once. It drove him insane.
You fixed him a stern look. “Drop him.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, he discarded the guy onto the pavement like an old can, wild eyes eagerly watching you and waiting for your next request. Taking his free hand into yours, interlacing your fingers, you led the rest of the way by pulling him from the nobody now cowering near a bush, no doubt rethinking his life choices while you kept onward to your destination. You didn’t get all spruced up to not be seen tonight, and you’ll be damned if any more time got wasted on some loser he’d put in a coma after one hit. After a short moment of silence, you expected Hanma to be mad at you for not letting him knock someone’s teeth loose. But when you glanced back at him, you should’ve known you’d be greeted with absolute smugness as you shook your head in mirth.
You elected to ignore the obvious tent in his pants…but he’d surely plan for you to do otherwise later on.
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