Please read before you interact at all in this space.
Who I write for
I will write for Male or x Gender Neutral Y/n based fics. There are enough writers who create content for fem readers and not enough about male and gender-neutral insert fics. All readers are very much welcome, and I will gladly take request for you guys as long as they aren’t fem y/n requests.
My works are also usually meant for 18+ audiences so if you are a minor please remove yourself from my page.I know I can’t fully control it however this is me asking nicely and if you interact with my works on a blog with no age or it says you are under the age of 18 you will be removed.
That is that and I will not be arguing about it again! Like I said all are welcome to read and interact however if anyone starts trying to harass me like in the past I will just go on another long hiatus.
ANOTHER IMPORTANT NOTE
If I find out people are taking my works and feeding them to ai I will block you! Writing takes time and a lot of my energy as I try to make something satisfactory. Ai is also very harming to the environment and to everyone’s creativity. Being creative is so important or else we would all be miserable beings.
What I write
I write angst, fluff, smut, hurt/comfort, and gore. When requesting I do I ask that you specify what kind of genre you wish for as it makes it easier on my writing flow, so I am aware of how to write a scenario.
I will absolutely never write anything that would involve romanticizing or sexualizing mental illness. I also don't write for OC's or at least not for requests and my commissions are not open yet, nor do I write character x character I only write for other readers and myself.
Another big no is any requests including 'dark fic' content including but not limited to dub con, non con, sominophilia, pedophilia, yandere content, or detailed r@pe scenarios.
It is also very obvious but just to clarify Eddie Munson fics are what I write. And though in the past I have written things for other characters I just wanna focus on one character! I will gladly talk about other media besides Stranger Things but I just don’t want to write anything else on this blog.
Im not liking this new trend of using AI to create new character photos for fics. Im not naming names but the Eddie Munson fic writers are definitely doing it. Either that or they’re using someone else’s AI generated work.
Can we not? Please? Seeing AI immediately turns me off to your fic.
Keep AI out of creative spaces.
Additionally, if you see me reblog something AI, call me out. I WILL delete it. I don’t want that shit on my blog
summary: Eddie wasn’t used to people actually talking to him like a real human person, so it stumped him when you asked him one simple question.
contents: goth/unconventional!reader (considered weird by other people); paranoid/insomniac!Eddie; r works at a 24 hour diner; mutual black cat energy; mentions of devil worship; high school age characters; historical inaccuracies probably; Eddie gets the slightest bit of attention and his brain turns off; i tried to keep the reader descriptions to a minimum.
a/n: 70% buildup, 30% story… not proofread 😪😪
Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson.
Eddie ‘the devil worshiper’ Munson.
Eddie ‘the high school failure’ Munson.
Ever since Eddie was a little kid he knew that he would one day make a name for himself. This, unfortunately, was not the way he imagined it.
Everywhere he went, a rumour followed him. At this rate, he might be the most talked about person in the world. From old ladies clutching their pearls in the streets when he walked by, to little kids crying and dropping their ice cream cones whenever he tried to smile at them (little twerps…) everyone knew who Eddie ‘the …whatever-the-fuck-it-was-this-week’ Munson was.
Even though the rumour mill would come to a stop some time around summer break, it was never truly quiet. A cruel look, a snappy remark, a drink “accidentally” spilled on his shoes: Eddie knew that these people never saw him as an equal.
Subconsciously, he started to avoid it all. He started dreading going outside in the summertime, started making excuses of working on his van all day to his uncle, and it worked, he felt more comfortable, until he didn’t. He started to feel paranoid to go into the city, fearing angry people with pitchforks and torches (it seemed silly until he had a hyper-realistic nightmare about it, suddenly nothing was funny). His sleep schedule got so messed up he would stay up until the early hours of the morning high off his mind before dozing off for a few hours at the kitchen table, only waking up when Wayne shut the door loudly enough.
It was becoming a problem, he was a walking corpse, he felt like one too. He needed to do something before his brain started to atrophy and became all smooth and he lost all his taste and started listening to some yucky mainstream music… eugh….
That’s why he started going on walks at night, just outside the trailer park to try to coax himself back into leaving the trailer like the brave functioning member of society he was.
It started small, he thought of it one oddly warm night in the end of june. He was sitting on the steps of the trailer, quietly enjoying his private romantic time with his joint and letting the calm and accepting high overtake him. He didn’t know how long he was sitting there before he decided to get up and stretch his legs a little, a little walk never hurt anyone.
Eddie didn’t even notice that he was walking along the quiet road, drawn to an unusual smell: something close to food grease and stale coffee, yum.
When he finally made it to what happened to be a roadside 24 hour diner he felt like he was in heaven. The inside of it looked heavenly: the lights dim, but not too dim, only one worker, and no patrons inside. God bless 2:30 am.
The smell inside was almost overwhelming: coffee, pie, grease. Everything a high man could want.
He plopped down into one of the booths, almost sliding off the leather bench. Eddie wasn’t sure how long he was sitting there, but it felt like the greatest eternity of his life. Only the approaching sound of boots against tile brought him out of his trance.
“-So are you going to get anything or just sit there and look pretty?” The girl in uniform asked as she tapped her pen against her notepad.
His mouth suddenly felt too dry, it didn’t help that his jaw was almost on the floor.
-
You weren’t exactly excited when your parents announced that you would be staying with your aunt and uncle in Hawkins for the summer. They tried to excite you with the news that you would have a job at their diner and that it was truly a cozy town if you overlooked it’s flaws.
“-just don’t try any strange pills and stuff that strangers try to give you, alright? You’re under our care, got it?” Hour two of a long long summer and your uncle was already reinventing the bicycle.
“Yes.” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes.
“Hey- I’m serious, we have our own drug dealer in town, he’s about your age, long hair, crazy eyes… That Eddie Munson fella is no good… No good I tell you!” You weren’t sure if uncle Martin was talking to you or just ranting to himself anymore.
“Honey, he worships the Devil… you have to come to church with us… just to be safe.” Your aunt turned to face you from the passenger seat, deeply serious.
“…Devil..?” You repeated. If it wasn’t for your love for the occult you would’ve filtered that whole conversation out and continued to stare out of the window, watching the trees pass by.
…what was his name again?
-
You were still looking at him, not even expecting an answer from the red and droopy eyed individual who decided to show up just before spooky hour. You were in uniform, even though barely any people came in at this time (the average amount of customers reached a whopping 0,7 per hour!), your hair was put up into a ponytail and your uneven bangs were pinned back with Bobby pins, your nail polish was chipped and nothing about you was perfect or arranged, especially at this hour.
But Eddie was still looking at you like you were an Angel sent down from the skies. He has never ever seen you in the god forsaken town by the name of Hawkins, Indiana.
“I’m Eddie” he finally managed to say, to which you almost laughed, it was wayyyy too late for this.
Eddie…Ed… Edward…… where have you heard that name before?
“Thats amazing bud.” You tapped your name tag twice, bringing his attention to your name, he muttered it under his nose before you continued. “Anything you’d like? Worst coffee in town, but I’m sure you’d like it.”
He swallowed before answering
“Sounds great, yeah… how about a piece of pie with that?” you nodded, marking it down on your notepad.
Eddie… long hair… where have you heard something about that…
It only dawned on you when you were plating the pie for him.
Eddie Munson. Drug dealer, devil worshiper.
Maybe God was real, he even seemed to be on your side today.
“…sooo… Do you really worship the devil? …Like actually?” You placed his plate down of the table with a loud clang, effectively bringing his head out of the clouds.
“what? Huh? No- I- never! Never even heard of- what??” Eddie was stumped. He had never seen you before in his life, yet, you knew at least one of the many rumours about him.
“…bummer.” You mumbled before turning around on your heel to go back to the counter.
Of course it was too good to be true! No man you’ve ever met has actually been into the same things you’ve been into. Every time you try to explain your interests to guys you’re met with weird looks like you’re in the wrong for having hobbies. Geez… can’t a girl dwell on some casual spirituality once in a while?
“Wait- bummer? You’re disappointed that I’m not a devil worshiper..?” Well that was a first for Eddie… No girl has ever been evidently disappointed that he didn’t worship the devil.
“…well yeah… it’s boring, everyone’s a bunch a posers always acting like they know what satanism is while they think that it’s all sacrificing goats and demon possessions… It’s so much more than that…” You came back and sat down in front of him.
“Oh you’re really not from around here, if you shared some of those thoughts here sweet grandma Betty would have an aneurysm and call up a priest.” That got a laugh from you, he suddenly didn’t mind becoming a devil worshiper if that’s what you wanted him to be.
“Trust me, I know, three people wrote ‘Jesus loves you’ on napkins and left it for me, and that was just tonight.” He scoffed, shaking his head.
Talking came easy after that. You shared how you were just here for the summer, he told you he was in a band and invited you to come see one of his shows. You accepted and offered to drive him home after your shift was over, he declined as it was a shorter distance to walk.
He left shortly after, what a short lived friendship…
…Is what you thought until you started cleaning up and found a napkin on the table he was sitting at.
‘Jesus the devil loves you :) -Eddie’
His number was scribbled down below. God bless Hawkins, Indiana
a/n: hope you enjoyed :)) remember, reblogs are a girl’s best friend
This is a story about how it only takes one moment for life to flip itself on its head.
A/n: here is a lil somethin’ somethin’ for the series I have started writing. I plan to post two chapters a month at the very least so please be patient as I navigate this and my job. I wanted to write a story based off a conversation I had with a friend about how the likelyhood of nobody else witnessing the horrors of Hawkins is so unlikely especially cause all groups involved aren’t very secretive. This is also a story that will touch on topics about grief, depression, friendship, the importance of connection, and the very sad and real dangers of being a gay couple in the 80s.
I know many others were disappointed about how Stranger Things ended and the weird turns it took to get there. I am also sad about the usage of ai when so many fantastic writers were at their disposal and the insensitive messages portrayed to younger audiences about how to handle feeling like a burden. The characters deserved better so I will do my best to give them that and so you will see a few changes to the canon story to achieve it.
And as I am heavily influenced by music there will be a few playlists coming out soon for Eddie and the reader and the story itself. <3 the first chapter will be out by 8pm(EDT) tomorrow, so be on the lookout! You will also be able to find this story on AO3(will be linked in the story masterlist along with the playlists).
You have seen it all or at least heard it all. As a record store manager in downtown Hawkins you tend to witness a-lot of small town drama. Every strange encounter people rant about or the weird moments that keep happening. Things from a girl with odd powers to seeing what really happened at the Star Court mall. You knew Hawkins was in danger but to not seem insane or get in trouble you have kept quiet.
When one thing comes to another will you be the help the group needs to take on the upside down, and clear the name of a metalhead who has been slowly stealing your heart? Will all your knowledge from the sidelines be the missing piece to this never ending puzzle? Or is your involvement going to throw your life for a loop and put you in more danger than it will bring good to others?
Im so sorry its taking longer to get this chapter out guys!!!! My job has been taking up basically all of my time and my days off have been spent sleeping but I swear there is a chapter on its way soon! <3
it’s always Reader sitting in Eddie’s lap, what about Eddie sitting in Reader’s lap, huh???? sometimes i like to hold my little boyfriends, make them feel like my baby girl. sluts.
i know he’d play into it too, sitting sideways so he can sling an arm around your shoulders, his butt bones rubbing into your thighs, wiggling around and being like
“Is that a roll of life savers in your pocket or are you just happy to see me, baby?”
This is a story about how it only takes one moment for life to flip itself on its head.
A/n: here is a lil somethin’ somethin’ for the series I have started writing. I plan to post two chapters a month at the very least so please be patient as I navigate this and my job. I wanted to write a story based off a conversation I had with a friend about how the likelyhood of nobody else witnessing the horrors of Hawkins is so unlikely especially cause all groups involved aren’t very secretive. This is also a story that will touch on topics about grief, depression, friendship, the importance of connection, and the very sad and real dangers of being a gay couple in the 80s.
I know many others were disappointed about how Stranger Things ended and the weird turns it took to get there. I am also sad about the usage of ai when so many fantastic writers were at their disposal and the insensitive messages portrayed to younger audiences about how to handle feeling like a burden. The characters deserved better so I will do my best to give them that and so you will see a few changes to the canon story to achieve it.
And as I am heavily influenced by music there will be a few playlists coming out soon for Eddie and the reader and the story itself. <3 the first chapter will be out by 8pm(EDT) tomorrow, so be on the lookout! You will also be able to find this story on AO3(will be linked in the story masterlist along with the playlists).
You have seen it all or at least heard it all. As a record store manager in downtown Hawkins you tend to witness a-lot of small town drama. Every strange encounter people rant about or the weird moments that keep happening. Things from a girl with odd powers to seeing what really happened at the Star Court mall. You knew Hawkins was in danger but to not seem insane or get in trouble you have kept quiet.
When one thing comes to another will you be the help the group needs to take on the upside down, and clear the name of a metalhead who has been slowly stealing your heart? Will all your knowledge from the sidelines be the missing piece to this never ending puzzle? Or is your involvement going to throw your life for a loop and put you in more danger than it will bring good to others?
This is a story about family, pain, grief, love, and home. It’s a story about music. It’s a story about Eddie Munson, and you, and all the ways things can go wrong and right. A sometimes-fun and sometimes-heartbreaking record store AU.
This chapter 6345 words
This is a story about family.
The Chicago skyline was but twinkling lights as you approached. The drive had been long and mostly quiet. The music had done most of the talking, as it always had.
The even rumble of the road had lulled you into a state of near-sleep, zoning in and out, while Eddie seemed to relax and come back to himself the closer he got to the city.
“Wakey, wakey,” he called, nudging you. Even his voice sounded different from how it did in Hawkins. “Do ya want me to take you home? Or are you still on babysitting duty?”
“I wasn’t babysitting you!”
Eddie snorted a laughing sound, pleased to have gotten a rise out of you so easily. “Call it what you want, sweetheart. Either way, you’re free now. Where to?” He waited while you thought.
It wasn’t how you saw it. Being apart from Eddie wouldn’t feel like freedom.
There were two options.
Option A: Tell Eddie not to drop you home, instead you’d go with him to his apartment. You’d stay, at least, the night. Help him acclimatise back into his life. But, did he need you now? Was he already back to normal?
Option B: Go home. Let Eddie do what he wanted. Dustin would be there tomorrow. He wouldn’t be alone for long. It hurt to think about separating from Eddie, but that voice in the back of your head was still whining that maybe you’d overstepped, maybe you were unwanted, maybe you were annoying. It took all the good psychology in the world to talk yourself out of listening to that.
You were chewing on the decision as Eddie weaved through the nighttime traffic. Cinemas announced midnight showings of The Nightmare Before Christmas, and lines to bars and clubs were already looping blocks. Despite the late November cold, the city was alive.
It was such a busy, pretty distraction that you hadn’t noticed the direction Eddie was driving. Option A and Option B were rendered moot as he slowed down through the streets of Ukrainian Village.
“You’re coming with me,” Eddie told you with a shrug when you looked over at him. “Objections?”
You shook your head and tried to smile a normal amount and in a normal way.
Eddie pulled into the alleyway behind his six-flat.
“Are you allowed to park here?” you asked dubiously, looking at the closed garage doors and ‘no parking’ sign.
“Someone’s always threatening to get the van towed, but it hasn’t happened yet,” he answered.
You smiled. He was so… Eddie. “Um… Do you wanna take everything up now? Get it done?”
He shook his head. “It’s, uhhh, yeah, no, it’s fine where it is.”
Maybe since he was back in Chicago, he was locking down that part of himself. No Wayne. So, no Hawkins. No history. No boxes.
You glanced behind you, the van full. If Eddie planned on using it for anything but getting himself to and from work, he was going to have a problem. He was tired, you thought. You both were. If he wanted to ignore the boxes, you’d let him.
You got out of the van and followed Eddie into the building. You’d been to his place in Ukrainian Village only once before. Sometime in August, he’d so graciously allowed the gang to assemble at his apartment before heading to a nearby show. Hiding down the block, you waited and watched Steve and Robin go in. There was no way in hell you were going to show up first. Jonathan and Nancy would have caught you hiding if Argyle hadn’t sneaked up behind you. He dragged you along, laughing but promising to keep his mouth shut.
Eddie was a contradiction. Mostly, he was an open book. But the apartment you were climbing the stairs to, his home… it was private. Even back in August, you all had only seen the main living area – a combined living room and kitchen space. No tour. No ‘make yourself at home.’
You’d heard about the place Eddie used to share in Little Italy with some guy who loved Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. Eddie wasn’t private about that place. It wasn’t his though, not entirely.
It took Eddie a beat longer than normal to unlock the door. He put it down to the cold, rather than nerves. Inside, he dumped his bag and yours by the door and moved about to switch on the lights. You hovered by the kitchen bench, not sure what to do.
Eddie’s apartment was bigger than the Munson Trailer. The living/kitchen was almost the same size as the lounge, kitchen, hall, and bathroom of the trailer collectively. Then, there was a short hall with three doors. A bathroom and bedroom, you assumed. Door number three was a mystery. Likely, it was a second bedroom, but you doubted Eddie had used it as one.
The place was frozen in time. You could smell the trash can from the cupboard it was in, left to rot while Eddie was in Hawkins. A clothes horse sat on the far side of the room, t-shirts and socks dried for days. Empty cans of Mountain Dew littered the coffee table, and a fine layer of dust covered the stacks of books and rows of vinyl.
“I, uh…”
The sound of Eddie’s voice pulled your attention away from the refrigerator, from the photo of Eddie and Wayne stuck to it.
“I mean… It’s usually a bit cleaner,” Eddie joked. “Normally doesn’t smell like this… Not that bong water is much better, but…”
“It’s okay,” you replied. The ‘I’ve seen worse – I’ve seen you worse’ left unsaid.
“Alright… So, uh, since I have basically kidnapped you here, I don’t want you doing anything. No cleaning or… babysitting,”
“What do you want me to do?”
Eddie’s face lit up in a toothy grin. The tops of his cheeks were tinged pink. “For now, just sit. Here-” He cleared the couch of clothes and patted the pillows, then hunted for the television remote between the cans of Dew. Once located, he handed it over. “I’m just gonna clean up a bit, then I’ll throw our clothes in the wash downstairs. Get the Hawkins off it all.”
And that is what he did. A window was left open for less than five minutes before the cold made it unbearable; the smell faded once the bin was emptied anyway. Eddie cleared surfaces and took the trash out, while you watched The X-Files. It was a new show, and you’d missed some episodes since it started in September, but you’d already decided to buy the series on VHS if it was released.
“That’s it?” Eddie asked when you presented clothes for washing. It wasn’t everything you’d worn in Hawkins. You were not about to let Eddie go off with your dirty underwear.
“How long am I kidnapped for?” you counted.
Eddie grinned. “Fair… ‘Kay, I’ll be back.”
It wouldn’t take long for him to throw a load of washing on, but while Eddie was busy in the basement, you snooped.
The living space only consolidated all the things you knew about Eddie. It was filled with records, VHS tapes, and books. On the shelves were small trinkets and figurines, and on the walls were two framed film posters, The Lost Boys and Excalibur. There was also a canvas banner tacked up. It looked very D.I.Y., and you couldn’t remember it being there in August.
The kitchen cupboards and drawers were chaotic. If there were a system in place, you couldn’t identify it. At the sink, you wrestled with the urge to wash dishes.
Down the hall, evidence of a very quick clean gave Eddie away. He’d wiped down the vanity and the air smelled like lemon toilet cleaner.
You left the other two doors closed.
Eddie returned to you sitting where he had left you, though he had expected you to give yourself a little tour. He didn’t mind; boundaries were blurring.
“On the menu for tonight is,” Eddie began, “Pizza. I’ll order while you shower; you can go first. Heat will’ve kicked in properly by the time you get out. You can then pick a film from my excellently curated library here while I shower. I promise to wash my hair, which will immediately improve the general…” He waved a hand around, rolling his wrist. “Aura… We can pack a pipe, relax. Pizza will come. I will not forget to move the washing to the dryer. And I’ll not forget to get it out of there either. You’ll have warm, clean clothes, pyjamas, whatever… Aaaaaaand that’s it. A perfect plan,”
“Well, almost perfect,”
“Almost?!”
“Yeah. There’s a flaw, oh wise one. A plot hole in your brilliance,”
“Enlighten me, fair maiden,”
“Am I just… sitting around in a towel that whole time?”
There was something in Eddie’s expression. Hunter and hunted. You’d stepped into his trap. “I don’t know if you’ve heard much about him, but Joe – the owner of Raconteur before me – was a really good dude. One year, he took me with him to this music store convention thing in L.A. We stayed at the poshest hotel I’d ever seen. Like, the entrance part, the receptionist and shit, that room was huge. Roof just in there was three stories tall, I swear. Obviously, I took home all the tiny soaps and shampoos. And the slippers… which didn’t last long. Turned out to be pretty cheaply made. But the real prize was the robe. One of those fuzzy bathrobes like in the movies. And I don’t. Know. Why. But I’ve kept it all these years. Never worn it. Never even taken it out of the Record Surplus bag I brought it home in. Maybe, just maybe, it was destined for you. For this moment.”
You had held it in while he was telling his story, but as soon as it was done, ending with the usual Eddie flourish, you lost it laughing. The story might have been part of the trap, though, the way he looked pleased as punch that he’d made you laugh.
“Sounds like a ‘yes, Eddie, I’d love to borrow the very fancy robe,’ to me,” he said as he stood, then walked down the hall.
The robe was exactly as described – picture perfect. He handed it over with all the reverence of a queen knighting a man. You giggled, you couldn’t help yourself, then went to shower.
Eddie stayed where he was, kneeling on the ground. He looked around and recognised he probably needed to borrow a vacuum. Mostly, he just swept, but once a month, Eddie would either bring home Raconteur’s vacuum or go for a little visit with Mrs Shevchenko across the hall.
He stood, rifled through the second kitchen drawer down for the pizza place’s menu. He knew what he wanted and probably had muscle memory in his fingertips for the number, but he wanted to make sure they had your favourite.
After the call, Eddie sat on the couch and tried to focus on The X-Files, but the sound of the water running through the old pipes kept pulling him back to the image of you. Showering. In his bathroom. The poetry of the robe, which, though he joked about, felt truly important to him.
Eyes closed, head leaned back against the couch, Eddie took a deep breath in and held it. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. And out. His lung capacity wasn’t great.
He could hear the city too, outside his building, beyond his street. It reminded him of, well, his life. Of his everyday existence. Of Raconteur. How had Steve and Robin been going? Probably fine; they were capable. Did Will’s campaign end in a blaze of glory? What had Joyce assigned him to bring to Thanksgiving dinner? Who was topping the Billboard charts?
Eddie’s spiralling thoughts only slowed when the shower went quiet. A few minutes later, you emerged dewy and bright. The robe made you look like some bougie princess, and it made Eddie feel weak.
You dropped down next to him on the couch and smiled. The robe was soft and warm, and it was so easy to sit in Eddie’s apartment like that.
“Looks good on you,”
“Yeah?”
“Real good, sweetheart… My turn.”
Eddie stood in the bathroom looking at his reflection. “Fuck…” He had about ten days' worth of stubble, he’d never seen the colour under his eyes so dark, and there were pimples along the side of his nose. He was seriously concerned that washing and conditioning his hair might not be enough and that some of the knots might need to be cut out. He ran a finger across his lips; they felt dry and tight.
Even after the good people of Chicago schooled him on the fact that he was attractive, and that Hawkins had been blind not to see it, Eddie never really felt all that beautiful. He was just a guy. It was the hair, he thought, that people really liked. And maybe his style. Looking into that mirror, he was dead sure he was nothing special. How could someone like you be into someone like him?
“Fuck.”
Eddie began the process of returning to himself, turning the shower on.
You were looking through the VHS collection when Eddie emerged from the bathroom wearing only a towel slung low on his hips. Sanitised and clean-shaven.
“You took longer than me,” you said with a grin. You looked over at him properly when he didn’t have a snappy comeback. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m… I’m good. Pizza hasn’t called up?”
“Not yet.”
He nodded, leaving to get dressed. He returned in red plaid flannelette pyjama pants and a W.A.S.P. shirt that looked like it had been through hundreds of wash cycles. There was a weariness in the way Eddie moved that wasn’t there before his shower. You watched him flop down on the couch.
“Can I brush your hair?”
Eddie smiled, but even it was laced with sadness. “It gets really frizzy if I brush it too much,”
“I’ll be careful. Pleeeeease?”
“Well, how could I say no to that? …You picked something?”
“Yeah, what about this?” You held up your choice.
“Sounds good,” he nodded, leaning forward and pulling an ornamental wooden box out from under the couch. It was a touch smaller than a cereal box.
You slotted The Abyss into the tape player while Eddie ground the last of his stash, making a mental note to call Argyle the next day.
The film began, and you had Eddie sitting on the floor, you behind him on the couch with a brush in one hand and a few scrunchies on the wrist of the other. You sectioned his hair off and were methodically working through it. A gentle brush, twirl the curls, then leave them be.
The Deep Core underwater drilling platform was being briefed on the sinking of submarine USS Montana when the pizza guy buzzed through. Eddie went downstairs to meet him, returning with way too much food for two people. Three pepperoni slices were gone before Eddie remembered the washing.
When he got back from that trip, you’d finished eating and had gotten a little too comfortable, close to dozing off.
“You want to sleep?” Eddie whispered, squatting next to the couch to be eye level with you.
You shook your head.
“You sure?”
“Mmmmhmmm,”
“Alright, then scoot.”
With your head lying in his lap, you were fighting to keep your eyes open. At some point after not-drowned rat, but before the face in the water tube thing, you fell asleep.
When Eddie shook you awake, he’d brought the clothes up from the dryer and turned the television off. “You wanna sleep in the robe, or get changed?”
“Changed,” you squeaked.
Unable to fully shake the heavy combination of sleepiness and weed, you shuffled off to his bedroom with your still-warm pjs in hand. Once dressed, you laid back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “Eddie! What’s it mean?”
Suddenly, as it seemed to you, Eddie was there, leaning against the doorframe. “What does what mean?”
“The… the thing… on the wall out there,”
“The flag? I caught up with an old friend and he thought I might want it,”
“But… what is it?”
“Oh, you know, only the best high school metal band of all time… Corroded Coffin!” Then he made a sound like a crowd of people cheering.
“Thought you didn’t wanna think about Hawkins.”
Eddie sighed. “I said that?”
You shrugged. “Just what it seemed like,”
“Right, well… Not all of Hawkins sucked. Besides, I haven’t decided if it stays up,”
“Would look gooooooood in the store.”
He laughed. “I didn’t notice you getting this high out there,”
“What’s the friend’s name?”
“Jeff. He lives in Portland,”
“So much about you is secret,”
“I’m not keeping anything from you.” Eddie crawled onto the bed and propped himself up on his side. “I’d tell you anything you want to know,”
“Are you just saying that because I’m high? ‘Cause it’s not like being drunk. I’ll remember,”
“No, I know. It’s not ‘cause you’re high as a kite. It’s because you’re cute.”
You frowned. “I don’t wanna be cute,”
“Shit, I forgot,” he replied sarcastically. “No Babychino.”
A fake scowl and a boop to Eddie’s nose were delivered in sync. “I don’t know what I want to know. But I do know what I do know.”
He laughed again. “Oh, yeah? What do you know?”
“I know… you have big, brown, puppy dog eyes.”
Eddie snorted. “Alright,”
“Aaaaannndddd that you are-”
“Noooooo, I don’t need you to tell me things about me,”
“But, I wanna,”
“If you do, I get to tell you stuff about you,” he threatened.
“What if I want you to?”
“Babygirl, don’t start with me.”
You laughed. “Did you just call me ‘babygirl?’ That’s so dumb.”
The rest of the night bubbled away with sleepy jokes and poking at each other from across the bed. At some point, you were close enough to hold hands, fall asleep, and dream of each other.
…
The sunrise felt different in the city, the harshness tempered by all the buildings between it and you. Eddie’s bed was a little too comfortable. He was a little too lovely in his calm, sleeping form. He was lying on his stomach, his face squished into his pillow.
Eddie started to mumble something. You caught the word ‘apple.’
“Apple?” you asked him.
“Wan’ an apple,”
“You want an apple? Are you awake? Or dreaming about apples?”
“Both,” he grunted. His eyes remained closed. “Sometimes, in th’ mornin’, I feel like an apple,”
“I guess that’s not that weird. Banana would make more sense,”
“It’s ‘cause the apple man,”
“The apple man?”
Eddie just nodded and smiled, then seemed to go back to sleep.
Sleep came back for you, too.
Mid-morning, the buzzing was impatient and insistent. You whined as Eddie growled, rolling out of bed and leaving the bedroom. Staying put, you listened to the arrival of Dustin, his voice booming through the apartment.
“Parking, man!? Had to walk here from God knows where!”
“Yeah, welcome to the city, man. There’s people here. Wait until it starts to snow and dibs rules apply.”
That’s when the music started, and the day began.
Around Dustin, you and Eddie resumed your pre-Hawkins personas. You were friends and everything was normal. Still, you watched Eddie like a hawk.
After finding your car parked terribly on a side street, you drove to Wicker Park. The street home to Coffee Clash and Raconteur Records was busy. You parked in the staff car park behind the store, where Eddie’s van normally lived.
Inside, Robin had been playing Flashback, the Joan Jett and the Blackhearts’ compilation album. Track thirteen, a cover of Bowie’s Rebel Rebel was spinning as she looked up at the sound of the back door opening.
“Oh my god!” she squealed in happiness, running and almost bowling you over.
After introductions, Eddie gave Dustin a tour of the shop. You hung back at the counter with Robin and Steve.
“How is he?” Steve asked, voice low and gaze tracking his friend across the store.
“Uh… Today? Good. But when I got there… Not good,”
“Joyce told us not to mention anything,” he said.
“No, she didn’t. She told us not to be weird,” Robin clarified.
“Yeah? That’s the same thing. For us, at least,”
“I think, just… I mean, I don’t know. You could say something if you wanted to. But he’ll probably just brush it off,” you said with a shrug.
Across the road, it was Nancy who first mentioned Eddie’s abrupt absence. She stopped pouring steamed milk mid-stream to jump the counter and pull him into a tight hug.
“I’m so sorry, Eddie,”
“Uh, yeah. Thanks, Nance,”
“Is there anything we can do?”
Eddie felt hot and uneasy under Nancy’s sincere stare. “No. I’m good. I’m…” What was he meant to say?
“I’ve got him,” you said suddenly, unplanned. The words just slipped out.
Everyone looked at you with various faces of amusement and reassurance. Eddie smiled and nodded. “There you have it. Everyone can stop worrying now. Babychino’s got me.”
You rolled your eyes at the way he said it.
Dustin fit in as if he had always been there, like he was part of the furniture. He was also a natural at selling records, starting a competition with Steve to see who could make the most money for Raconteur by close of business.
In the afternoon, Joyce came to visit. She pulled Eddie aside, the only person brave enough to speak to him in private. You watched them go into his office and close the door. When they returned to the front of house, Eddie’s eyes were a little bloodshot, and he hugged Joyce warmly.
At the end of the day, the math was calculated, and Dustin had won the competition by a landslide.
“The thing is, Steve,”
“Why did you say it like that? Why’s he saying my name like that?”
“You gotta give people an out. Nobody wants to walk into a store like this and ask for Bonnie Tyler and Celine Dion… But it’s right there. On the shelf. So you let them pick up the Grateful Dead and the Velvet Underground and then pretend like Bonnie and Celine are for someone else. You go, ‘Oh, did you need to pick up something for your mother maybe?’ or ‘It’s Christmas soon; do you have a friend that loves that Rick Astley album you were looking at?’ and BAM!”
“Jesus…” Eddie said. “You sure you don’t want to move now? You got a job if you want one.”
The afternoon tasted like jugs of beer, and the night like cheap Chinese food. Close to midnight, everyone went their separate ways, Eddie receiving lingering hugs and kisses to the cheek.
You drove back to Eddie’s, parked behind his van.
“Here,” Eddie handed his apartment keys over to Dustin. “I’m right behind you.”
Dustin nodded knowingly and got out of the car.
“Who’s the apple man?” you asked, afraid to say anything else. Afraid of letting Eddie leave.
“Oh, shit, yeah. I said something about him this morning, right?”
You nodded.
“At my old place, at the bus stop, there was always this old Italian man. He’d have a little paring knife and an apple every single time I saw him. Like, every time. Never understood each other, but he’d share his apples,”
“That’s… that’s insanely cute,”
“Yeah. I was bummed to leave him. I got him a bag of apples to say, like, thanks. I think he thought it was weird… which, it probably was…”
“That’s so sweet. And now apples remind you of him?”
“Yeah,” Eddie nodded. “And sometimes when I wake up, I want apples.”
Silence wasn’t usually uncomfortable between the two of you, but in the moment, you both felt uneasy.
“Are you gonna be okay?” you asked, the words coming out in a whisper.
Eddie was afraid to look at you, afraid to see your beautiful, worried face. He started to nod, then stopped. “I don’t know… Have to be…”
“You don’t. Not for me.”
You turned to him just in time to see him crack. He squeezed his eyes shut, turned to the window, and rapped his knuckles against the glass.
Eddie cleared his throat. “For Dustin,”
“I don’t think you have to for him either,”
“Maybe. But I want to,”
“Okay… I’ve gotta go home, but I can come back after.” Desperately, you wanted him to say yes. You wanted him to give you a reason to stay with him, look after him, never let him go. It was unrealistic, you knew. It wasn’t how it was going to play out.
Eddie had already begun shaking his head. “No, sweetheart. You gotta, you know, live your life.” He opened the door and stepped into the cold Chicago night.
You got out of the car too, following him around to stand face-to-face. Each breath you took was visible, the chill hurting your lungs.
Eddie could feel the tears stinging his eyes; he pictured them turning to ice. Still, he carried on. “I… I don’t know what to say,” he started. “About… any… thing… really,”
“Me either.”
He nodded, then pulled you into a crushing hug.
You couldn’t help it; you started to cry.
“No, no, no. Hey, no. It’s alright. I’m alright.” Eddie let you go only to hold your face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away the tears. “Don’t cry, you’ll make me cry.”
You tried to smile.
“Uh-ohhhhh,” he sang, smiling when you looked up at him, confused. “I think my hands got tear-glued to your face.”
Despite how your heart ached, you laughed.
Eddie started to make sound effects, pretending to try to rip himself away from you.
You put your hands over his. “Okay! Okay! You win! I’m laughing, okay?”
“Oh, sorry, no, this isn’t a joke. I am genuinely stuck to you… There’s only one known cure to tear-glue,”
“It better not be your saliva… You’re very prone to licking,”
“You’re close. But no. It’s… kisses!” Eddie peppered your face with kisses, letting his hands fall to your waist so he could kiss your cheeks.
Giggling and squirming, you gave in to the assault entirely. When it ended, Eddie’s forehead was pressed against yours, the tip of is nose brushing against yours.
At an agonisingly slow speed, Eddie closed the space and kissed his lips to yours.
There was no music, hardly any sound at all. The city was quietly asleep. There were no witnesses, nobody there to see the love. Just a conclave of you, Eddie, and the ruinously perfect way you fitted together.
…
After the kiss, it was both harder and easier to tear yourselves apart. A contradiction made by the promise the kiss gave and the immediate knowledge that there would be no further kisses that night.
Eddie bundled you back into your car and watched you drive away. For him, there was a strange peace that came from the kiss. Relief. Yeah, that was it. Finally. Finally, he wasn’t wasting time. Finally, he knew what you tasted like. Just… finally.
He went upstairs to Dustin, who was waiting for him with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Sooooo… I know you said she’s not your girlfriend… But…”
At home, your housemate, Clarke, was not there, leaving the apartment cold and quiet. You sat on your bed and looked around. The room was a mess, evidence of your late-night escape to Hawkins scattered everywhere. The obvious thing to do was sleep. If not that, then tidy. Do a load of washing. Start a Christmas gift list. Something productive, your brain told you.
Instead, you pulled out Radiohead’s Pablo Honey, one of the best debuts of the year in your opinion, and laid on the floor.
You are the sun, and moon, and stars, are you,
And I could never run away from you.
…
Ringing.
Silence.
Ringing.
Silence.
Ringing.
“Clarke! Can you get that?! … Clarke!”
The phone kept ringing, Clarke was still not home, and you couldn’t shut the noise out. Stomping into the kitchen, you pulled the receiver off the hook. “What?!”
“Jesus. That is no way to greet a friend.”
It took you a moment to recognise the voice. “Dustin?”
There was an echo. Another, “Dustin,” but yelled from somewhere in Eddie’s apartment. “You better be calling home!”
“Nah, I just dialled this number you’ve got stuck up here. You know, the ones with all the little hearts around it,”
“There’s no hearts. Gimme that!”
The sound of a struggle, the phone being dropped, then, “Sorry! I’m sorry!”
You laughed. “It’s fine, Eddie,”
“Did he wake you?”
“Yeah. What’s the time?” Your kitchen clock said 7 am. “God, why are you guys up so early?”
“I wasn’t. Dustin fucking ‘night shift at the gas station, day shift at Big Buy’ Henderson apparently runs on very little sleep.”
Dustin roared in the background, “Entertain me!” like a Roman emperor.
“Dude!” Eddie yelled back at him.
“Who’s the babysitter now?” you quipped.
“Funny, that’s so funny… But, ah… while I’ve got you… Are you busy today? Probably, right? Probably got things to do, since you’ve been… you know…”
“I’m free. Joyce covered my shifts for the week, so I don’t start back until Monday… which is… tomorrow.”
Dustin yelling again, “She’s coming?!”
“Tell him I’ll be there soon.”
‘Soon’ was apparently not soon enough; Dustin met you at the apartment door, taking the coffee you offered like he was a lifelong addict. One night in the city and he seemed at home.
“You’re welcome,” you said as he took the entire bag of bagels and sat on the couch. He waved over his shoulder at you as he flipped through television channels.
Eddie walked down the hall, coming from his bedroom. He glanced over at Dustin, then back to you.
“You didn’t have to feed him,”
“I was feeding all of us… Is he an only child?”
Eddie snorted and nodded. You put the coffee tray down on the kitchen bench, then stepped into the hug Eddie was offering.
“Hi,”
“Hi,” you replied. You could feel him look back over at Dustin, and could almost hear the cogs turning in his brain. “Come on,” you whispered, taking Eddie’s hand and gently pulling him through to his room. Closing the door, you beamed at him. “Hi,”
“Hi.”
The collision was immediate. With one hand on your hip and the other cradling the back of your neck, Eddie’s lips were on yours.
There was a neediness in the kiss that the previous night’s didn’t have. That one was tentative, and in some ways, an appeasement. It was to tide you both over. It had felt like everything and nothing. It wasn’t enough. Just a ghost of a kiss.
This was different. He tasted like toothpaste, like he was ready and had been waiting. He had been. Eddie medicated himself to sleep, yearning and restless.
Your mind wasn’t focused, a buzzing brrrrrrr brrrrrrr slowly giving way to the awareness of a lack of thoughts. Then, you laughed. You couldn’t help it.
Panic flashed across Eddie’s face for a split second before he was grinning at you while you tried to rein in the giggles.
“That’s not, like, a performance review, is it?”
“No! No. It’s just… Nothing. No, it wasn’t.”
Eddie gave you a sceptical look as he sat on the edge of his bed.
The bed was made in the sense that the top sheet and blankets had been shaken out and neatly thrown on top. No hospital corners. This approach was uniform across the room. You looked around properly.
Eddie’s office at Raconteur was so jam-packed with things that it could never be properly tidy. His bedroom, though, was far more sparse. One bedside table was stacked with books, a gator-mouthed journal, and a Shedd Aquarium souvenir mug filled with pens.
With no built-in wardrobe, Eddie had two large tallboys and a coat rack instead. The rack was home to jackets you didn’t recognise, and the few usual denim and leather ones you did. On top of the tallboys were more books, trinkets, and jewellery. You wandered over, picked up a ring, and put it on.
“Everything has a place,” you thought out loud.
“You were here yesterday,”
“Yeah, but I didn’t… I don’t know. Look around. It’s different to how I pictured it,”
“The room?”
“Yeah,”
“You pictured it?” he asked with, of course, a smirk.
You put the ring back and turned to him. “I thought your whole place would be like the shop.”
He shrugged, then thought for a moment. “It takes a lot of… stuff, to run a store. There’s always so much stuff everywhere. Guess it’s nice to have a break from it,”
“Clarke hates mess, so we don’t have a lot of random things. But my room is filled with… It’s not stuff…”
“Treasure?”
Sitting next to him, you nodded. “Yeah. And maybe things that might become treasure. I might need it one day,”
“Ahhhh, yeah, okay. I started off like that. Before I lived with Wayne, when I was with my dad, he kept everything. Said the same thing, that you never know what might come in handy. Living paycheck to paycheck, to no paycheck, back to paycheck does that. When you can’t afford shit, you keep it all.”
You nodded again. “Yeah, it’s something like that. The first place I lived when I moved was with three other people. It made it cheaper, but I hated all the noise, and there was just always people around. It’s better now with just me and Clarke, and she pays a bit more because it’s the room with the closet and view, but I probably should get a second job if I ever wanna throw out some of the stuff,”
“It’s not stuff. It’s future-treasure,” Eddie said kindly.
Before a smile could fully bloom on your face, Eddie was kissing you again. You wanted it to last forever. You could feel the brrrrrrrrr coming on.
“Stop,” you half-moaned into his mouth. “You can’t do that to me here.”
Eddie had to bite down on his bottom lip to stop himself from combusting. “I can’t do what to you where now?”
“Shut up.” You stood and headed for the door.
“Noooooo, wait, wait.” He chased you, had your hips back between his palms.
Pressing your forehead to his chest, you answered, “You can’t kiss me like that in here,”
“Well, if you want an audience,”
“Shut up!”
“Sweetheart,” he cooed like an asshole.
You shook your head, and he kissed the top of it in return.
“Come on, we got a kid to entertain,” you said, leaving the room.
Eddie followed you. “You say that like he’s ours. Are we gonna play mommy and daddy?”
“Wish I didn’t hear that!” Dustin yelled.
The city called, though the temperature was dropping. Dustin didn’t want to see the sights; he’d been to Chicago a few times before. The day was spent touring the best comic book stores, then an afternoon at Raconteur.
As the sun melted away behind brewing storm clouds, you had arrived back at Eddie’s apartment. Much to his dismay, it was with Steve and Argyle. While Eddie walked you to your car, they were calling Jonathan and Will.
“How you feeling?” you asked.
“Liiiiiike… We’ve gone this long without a… boy’s night…” He said the phrase like it was an infection. “Don’t know why it’s happening now.”
Thinking for a second, you concluded, “I think it’s how boys do… feelings. They don’t know what to say or do, so, you know,”
“Couldn’t they just make me a pasta bake like everyone else?”
“Come on, Eddie. You love it. You’ll sit around and drink beer and watch something dumb and… burp… and talk about girls. You’re allowed to have fun.”
Having arrived at your car, you leaned back on it and smiled at Eddie. He stepped forward and pressed his body to yours.
“You know what would be fun?”
You wanted to say something funny or cute. Instead, you could feel the heat of a blush on your face. It was disarming how his personality switched back into the Eddie you knew once back in Chicago. It was like having whiplash, going from looking after him and worrying about him, to having his hands on you and gaze settling on your lips.
“Stop. I have to go home to my empty apartment. Don’t be cruel,” you warned. Any actual warning was mitigated by all the pouting.
Eddie grinned, nodded. “Fair. ‘Kay.” He kissed your forehead, then your lips gently. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yep.”
You slunk into your car like your spine was made of wet spaghetti.
End note I appreciate the support this story has received thus far. If the theme of grief/death has fucked you up a bit, please know my DMs are open. I'm a friend, but I also have a psych degree. You're not alone. xo Rhi
YES!!!! I always love your fics and have been checking basically every day for this one to update!!! Honestly your writing is what inspired me to start up again.
I went looking through my drive and found so many finished one shots that I never posted and requests that I wrote…I feel bad about it but I just hated everything I did a few years ago. But truly this time I am working on something that I will actually post!! Boy oh boy you reader-insert lovers better strap in tight cause ‘y/n’ is going on a true adventure soon! And like every other thing I have written (with a few exceptions) the best boy Eddie Munson is at the center of it all! I will post more about it after Easter and my work schedule clears up a bit!
Feed your dashboard by answering my question, blogger.
My first video game was Silent Hill: Homecoming on the ps3. And when I tell you I fell in love with horror right then and there I mean it. That game means so much to me especially since I played it with my dad.
as much as I love Eddie being protective I think it’s time for a witch to show her true colors <3 <3 more of greenwitch!Reader here but not necessary to be caught up for this one!
cw: greenwitch!Reader, mechanic Eddie, R is referred to once as ‘girl’, R wears a skirt, pet names, injury detailed, mention of unsafe tattoo practices (it’s the 80s lol), possessiveness, spellcasting (sort of), dry humping, fade-to-black sex, MDNI
wc: 2.7k
___
As kind and good-natured as you often are, Eddie is scared of you sometimes.
In a delightfully thrilling way, but still fear nonetheless-
Your anger, when flexed, was like a kerchief tossed in a hurricane. Snapped up by mighty winds of rage and vitriol, an emotion with a chilling amount of power to support it.
All fury and no brakes- especially when the occasion is given to rise to Eddie’s defense.
So knowing the facts, Eddie’s taking the long way home from the mechanic’s shop tonight. Meandering the van on the backroads, going slow enough to warrant an irritated honk from a Volkswagen driven by a lady about as old as the Crypt Keeper.
At the last stoplight before the Forest Hills turnoff, Eddie clunks his visor mirror into place and assesses the damage.
The gash bisecting his right eyebrow has luckily stopped oozing blood, dark stain pressing ominous against the tilted bandage; under his brow bone, a deep red blooms, wine-purple at the edges, like he fell face-first into one of your flower beds.
The light turns green. Eddie breathes a ragged sigh and bats the visor back into place. He’s already put off coming home long enough, sparing you an hour of grief- the swelling hasn’t gone down and he’s gonna have to face the music eventually.
By the time Eddie pulls into the gravel driveway, his stomach’s in knots.
Through the trailer window, soft light illuminates your silhouette, hands plunged into the unseen sink. You look so pretty, so peaceful, a distant, relaxed smile on your face. Looks like you’re having a nice night- which Eddie’s about to majorly fuck up.
He shuffles across the porch, really taking his time with the key in the front lock, fiddling before hanging them on the wall hook. It smells delicious in the trailer, like roast chicken and spices.
Even better than the smell is the sound of your voice, calling to him from around the hall corner- “Hi, honey- you’re back late tonight. Was gettin’ worried.”
“All good, sugar. I’m home to bug ya now.” Eddie toes off his boots, then peels the outer layer of his coat from the black t-shirt underneath, and with all the reluctance of a man walking to the gallows, rounds the corner into the kitchen.
Your back is turned, still washing dishes, and Eddie takes a brief reprieve in seeing how cozy and familiar you’re dressed- oversized knit sweater pushed up to the elbows, drapey skirt the color of burnt pumpkin swishing around the ankles of a chunky pair of socks (his, to be precise).
“I’ve got a plate of supper in the fridge for you, if-”
The smile in your voice and face fall as soon as you turn and see him, bent arms frozen in midair and tap water dripping from your fingers onto the tile.
Your gaze is fixed on the bruising, the wound over his right eye, brimming with worry as you reach behind yourself blindly for a hand towel- “What. What happened. Who did this to you?”
“No one,” Eddie says- too quickly- then winces, knowing exactly what this looks like, and that his one biggest weakness in this world is lying to you. “It’s okay, I’m good, I promise.”
He crosses to the dining table, sinking into one of the chairs, feeling the burn of your stare as he rubs a nervous, grease-stained thumb across the edge of the bandage keeping his brow together. “It was a minor work accident. But I’m all good, honey, promise- the boys patched it up.”
“Which boys?” The towel snaps as you toss it back to the counter, eyes never leaving Eddie’s face, voice steady but with the type of churning ferocity that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention. “And did they wash their hands before ‘patching you up’?”
Eddie grins, going for charming and disarming, holding his own dirty palms face-up in surrender- “Nah. Kind of metal, though, right?”
Wrong move. You’re like a lion on the prowl, prey locked as you step effortlessly across the kitchen to where Eddie sits- he manages to not visibly gulp when you take his chin between thumb and forefinger, forcing him to look up into the storm of your expression.
“You’re going to tell me now, or tell me later, but trust me when I say now is the time that’ll cause you the least amount of grief.”
Eddie doesn’t bother fighting it anymore, just gives into the wave of your emotion like a little boat in a storm, hands digging into either side of the chair as he confesses- “Emerson. But it was an accident, just a stupid one-”
“What kind of stupid?”
There’s no room for softening the blow of the event in the way he’d rehearsed on the drive over, not with the full scope of your intensity boring into his pupils like a hot knife to butter.
“The kind where the kid tried to toss me a wrench when I wasn’t looking.”
Eddie watches this land, expressions flickering across your face like an open fire pit, grip around his chin tightening- until you release him completely, drawing in a deep breath, eyes slipping closed, one word falling from your lips like an incantation.
“Gareth.”
The muscle in Eddie’s jaw ticks as he works his teeth into speech, remembering the horrified flash of Emerson’s eyes through the sheen of blood in Eddie’s own- oh, shit, man, please don’t tell your girl it was me-
Gareth was right to be afraid. The way you chew on his name sounds mighty close to damnation.
Eddie doesn’t really believe you’d cause any harm to a friend, but he’s not certain that you wouldn’t terrorize someone on his behalf, especially if they caused him any pain- your warning system where Eddie is concerned is loud.
Not that he’s any better about you.
With a live wire of alarm zinging down his spine, Eddie reaches for your hips, but you twist away, turning on your heel and ducking into the bathroom with weighted footsteps, raising your voice to be heard the whole time.
“I should be driving you to the hospital right now. Frontal lobe damage isn’t anything to laugh at- you could be concussed. Have a brain bleed. This is serious shit, Eddie, I can’t believe Gareth did that-”
“Accident,” Eddie calls out again, sounding weak even to himself as you stomp back into the room, anger making your movements jerky as you rip the metal lid from a first aid kit and begin unpacking the items you need onto the table. “It looks worse than it actually is, I promise-”
“Let me be the judge of that.” Fresh gauze, antiseptic wipes, a clean butterfly bandage- they lay in obedient wait as you budge up in a chair in front of Eddie’s, your knees bumping to the insides of his as you scoot in close.
With less distance now, Eddie breathes you in as your fingers tenderly pick a corner of the shoddily-applied bandaid at his temple. Faint traces of garlic, probably from cooking, and the sharp-bright of rosemary that usually perfumes your scalp.
You smell like home. Eddie stares shamelessly, hands steadying on your upper thighs as you free the sticky corners and tsk.
“This probably needs stitches.” Your pointer finger gently traces the edges of the wound, falling back to the tail end of his brow, then his hairline, tucking the right side of curls behind his ear to give yourself more room to work with.
“S’okay,” Eddie says, pointlessly, because he knows it isn’t where it matters.
There’s this pinched, concentrated line above the bridge of your nose as you work, dried blood flaking off with multiple alcohol pads, your fingers deft and sure as you clean the area.
“I’ll fix you up with an herb compress later, for the bruising. We’ll just let it rest for now.” You’re speaking to him so tenderly, softer than Eddie feels he deserves in this current moment.
His hands move to cup behind your elbows, leaning into your touch a bit further than necessary, pleased when you allow it- “Fix me up pretty, doc.”
“You’re always pretty.” It’s just above a murmur.
Eddie closes his eyes and lets you work your magic. There’s the rustle of a wrapper being opened, the smoothing of a fresh bandage across the injury, and then your fingers leave his skin to ask-
“How bad does it hurt?”
His temple has been throbbing steadily for the last few hours, but Eddie swears your touch alone has made it nearly disappear. “Three out of ten. Honest. It’s nothing.”
Your eyebrow arches, and you pull from his grasp to twist the lid off the kit’s bottle of Tylenol. Two white pills get pressed into his palm before you’re up again, filling a glass with water then standing over him like some angel of light that’s doling out cosmic instructions.
“Take them.”
Eddie obeys, swallows the oblong pills with a gulp of water, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand before reaching for you again.
There’s still a tremor in your hands as he takes them, excess adrenaline and anger which Eddie attempts to soothe with a kiss to the backs of each. “Aw, honey. Much better, thank you. No need for curses this time around.”
“You’re the air I breathe.”
It knocks the wind out of him, the simple and obvious nature with which you say this- eyes bright as a flint striker, dancing around his face, licking his skin with low flames.
“Sun and moon, too. If someone lays a finger on you- if you get so much as a paper cut, I feel it. Means I’m not doing my job correctly.”
“It’s not your fault.” Eddie pleads with you to see it his way, even with the ghostly feeling of Sisyphus’ boulder at his shoulder. “Sweetheart, it’s not on you if I get beat up at work, hazard of the job-”
“Maybe not.” You cut in smoothly, moving closer, wafting the intoxicating scent of lilac and hormones Eddie swears up and down call to him and only him- “Sounds like it’s on Gareth this time.”
“Oh, jesus.” It’s half a swear and half a resignation as Eddie desperately tries to hold onto the promise he made his good buddy a few hours previous, the care he provided to protect Emerson from your wrath slowly but surely unraveling the second your thighs drape over his.
You’re seated right where you want to be, in Eddie’s lap, hands twisting in the curls at the nape of his neck to keep his focus on you. As if it could be anywhere else right now.
“And I’m not going to curse him.” You say this reproachfully, as if Eddie’s crazy for thinking so.
His heart pounds, blood rushing both to his head and zipping south of the border where the warmth between your legs can be felt through the layer of his denim jeans.
“Just gonna have a little chat with him. And maybe collect some blood for an unrelated ritual.”
Eddie opens his mouth to protest but your fingers are tugging at his hair just right enough to cause a warbling noise instead; he’s in the unfortunate position of being way too into this moving train to make a move for the emergency brake.
“What if- and I’m just spitballing here- I give you something instead?”
This catches your interest, thumb smoothing down the line of his neck, eyes following the movement like you’re deciding where best to sink your teeth into. “What’ll you give me?”
“Anything,” Eddie croaks- it’s the truth.
The first real smile of the evening tugs at the corner of your mouth, which you promptly place at the base of his throat, a light graze of your canines making Eddie’s hips jolt upwards despite his best efforts.
“I want some of your hair.” At the base of his skull, your fingers wind around a lock of it, as if you’ve already set your sights on the curl you’re going to take. “I’ll give you some of mine, too. Gonna make us both something pretty and useful to wear. For protection.”
Eddie nods as best he can with your claws hooked in him. “Sure, my little witch. Whatever you want.”
When you draw back, your left hand comes too, settling against Eddie’s jaw. There’s no trace of fury anymore, just raw wanting and intention, as you tell him-
“I think about you all the time. But it’s not the same as a protection spell. I don’t want you getting hurt again. Ever.”
Eddie’s not sure how realistic that dream of yours is, as his imminent safety depends on the day-to-day foolishness of the crew he gets stuck with.
But he feels the words like a magnet at his heart, drawing you closer to himself, arms locking underneath you and keeping your bodies grounded to the other.
He dips forward to kiss behind your ear, whispering comforts, wanting to soothe as best he can. “I know, baby, I know. Think about you too, every second I’m not within sight and sound. You’re in my bones, sweetheart.”
He feels your lashes flutter against his cheek, the rhythm of your chest stuttering into his even as your hold at his face and hair squeeze with desperation, words trembling with the force of your possession-
“You’re in mine. Can’t scrub me out if you tried.”
“And trust me, I ain’t trying.” Eddie laughs into the hollow of your neck, lifts off only to nudge his nose into yours, begging for a kiss and groaning into your mouth when you give it to him.
The wet muscle of your tongue drags on the roof of his mouth, twines with his own as you reach down to fist the fabric of his shirt for something to hold onto- Eddie knows what you want, intuitively.
You want to see him. To run your touch along his bare skin and take him apart, then build him up again with nothing but your hands and lips and voice. He’s seen it- felt it- happen before.
Eddie considers this penance, taking the heat off a friend who probably deserves it more- a price he’s willing to pay, though. More than willing.
He’s loyal, under your spell. The secret parts of his heart, his desires, clicked on like a neon sign under your attention.
You tug the fabric of his shirt, and Eddie melts forward, helping you strip it off and away; predictably, your lips hone in on the little inked star above his left pec, the perfect size for your kiss.
It’s your tattoo, technically- Eddie paid a buddy of his to mix some charcoal you’d sourced from your favorite backyard elm tree into the ink.
He got it for you, his star, the gravity of the gesture not even close to the amount of feeling he has where you’re concerned.
You press a kiss to every minute point of the ink, lathing your tongue over the entirety before coming back to Eddie’s mouth, like you’re feeding both from and to the energy he’s giving in some sort of dizzying feedback loop.
“No more getting hurt,” you order, hands leaving pink streaks with the pressure of your sweeps up and down his chest, settling more heavily into his lap, hips wiggling and grinding against the stiff bulge of his cock.
Eddie groans, head going loose and tipping backwards, looking at you through eyes with one half-lidded and the other half-swollen. “Noted. Does this, ah- protection ritual of yours- involve any sex, mayhaps? Seal it with a kiss?”
You chuckle. It sends something else crawling through Eddie’s spine, a confusing but no less welcome mix of arousal and apprehension.
Pairing: dad!Eddie Munson x mom!Reader
Word Count: 2.5k words
Warnings: Baby trouble, overstimulation (not the good kind), reader is having some trouble :/, fluff, light hurt/comfort...
A/N: I've had this in my wips for so so so long but I finally finished it. Enjoy the baby fic!
Having a baby was a challenge. You knew that, and were aware of that fact when you got yourself into this. The messes, the crying, the screaming, the food flinging around rooms, the late nights and early mornings, the smells. So many smells. You've had support from Eddie and Uncle Wayne and his friends the whole way through, and it's been amazing.
There was one thing, however, that you didn't account for. And that was getting touched out.
It catches you completely by surprise.
It's just been you and Charlie all day. Eddie is off running errands, taking over all your chores while he has the free time to do it. She's been especially fussy today, and refuses to settle down unless she's wrapped in your arms or sat in your lap or held at your hip. You love your baby, and you love to hold her, but it's becoming very hard to do so without feeling heat forming in your throat or behind your eyes.
You're trying to give her a fresh bottle. It's warm in your hand, the perfect temperature for your little girl, but she's not taking it.
She shakes her head and swats the bottle away as you try to press it to her lips. With a sigh, you rock her little seat again, hoping it will calm her enough to make her accept the bottle. As you try to lift it to her lips again, she lets out a loud scream that stirs the pain throbbing behind your eyes.
“Charlie, baby, you need to eat. Please? Can you do that for me?” You're all but pleading, rocking her chair some more. You're met with nothing but a scrunched face screaming bloody murder.
You drop your face into your hands, sucking in a long breath as you prepare yourself. You scoop her up into your arms, sitting on the couch and cradling her like she wants to be cradled.
Immediately, she calms. Her face is dry, and her sounds are little murmurs of satisfaction. You sigh when she accepts her bottle immediately.
Her skin is warm against yours, and she looks into your eyes as she swallows loudly. Her feet are circling around themselves, and she reaches a hand out to grab at your necklace. Her little fingers wrap around it, not pulling but bumping gently against your chest like your jewelry is a door knocker.
She does it the whole time, the arrhythmic beating of her fist driving you to madness as you try to breathe through the lump clawing its way up your throat.
After she's fed and burped, you try to get her to go to sleep—anything to be able to put her down and take a break from the constant touching. You're nursing a migraine and every inch of your skin feels like it's being rubbed off raw.
She refuses to sleep. Held in your arms, her hands grab at your jacket over your shoulder—one you'd put on in an attempt to quell the fatigue—and every time you try to guide her hand away, she yells and puts it back. When you finally relent, she pulls it off and starts feeling all over your skin like it's made of pure marble.
You sit with a huff. Charlie climbs onto your lap, her tiny feet digging into your thighs. Her hands reach up for your shoulders, gripping them to keep herself upright before she's reaching for your ear and pulling at it. You'd had the foresight to take your earrings out a long time ago.
“Charlotte,” you say gently, your hands braced at her sides as you hold her up. She grabs at your face, trying to hold your cheeks. The lump in your throat gets hard to swallow. “Hey, baby. Can you do Momma a huge favor?”
She coos, but her hands are still kneading your cheeks.
“Can we please have some tummy time? Half an hour. Give Momma a break?”
She looks at you inquisitively, and for a moment you think you might actually get away with putting her on her mat so you can breathe for a moment.
But then she's leaning forward to gnaw on your cheek, her gums closing around the skin and offering the strangest sensations, squishy but strong.
You feel like you can't breathe. The constant smothering, the warmth, the constricting feeling closing around your throat—it's too much.
You give up and resign to the bile that won't go away. You're sweaty and covered in her spit, and you just want a nap. You'll just have to endure until Eddie comes home.
~
Eddie comes struggling through the door within the next couple of hours. His keys jingle in the lock as he holds plastic bags on one arm and laundry in the other. He's got a white paper bag between his teeth as he manages to kick the door closed behind him with his foot.
“How are my girls?” he asks as he slides everything clumsily onto the counter. With a big huff and freed hands, he puts them on his hips and smiles brightly. “Did you miss me?”
You stand with Charlie on your hip, and she's grasping at the middle of your shirt in an attempt to be held against your chest.
“Hi,” you say quietly, drained and wanting to lie down by yourself for a little while.
As soon as you're close, Eddie's scooping your baby from your arms and onto his side. He holds her little hand, wrapped around his thumb, and smiles happily. “Hey, baby,” he coos in a voice sweet as honey. “Were you good for Momma?”
You aren't necessarily listening. Your arms are free, and you feel like you can breathe after being smothered all day. The only thing that would make this better is a bed and a fan.
“Hey, baby,” he says again, except this time his voice isn't as thick with childish sweetness. His head is tilted to his shoulder and his eyes crease so much at the corners from his happiness that his lashes kiss gently. You feel guilty at the irritation crawling its way up your neck at the simple fact that you're still here and not resting.
You're caught off-guard when he slides his hand around your waist and pulls you close to him. His warm skin sets you on fire, and it claws at your throat until it's set free.
“No, please just…don't touch me. I just—I can't do it right now.” The more you talk, the stronger the need, and the louder you get until you're nearly crossing the line between speaking and shouting.
Your tone is firm, and your hands push him away from you with a poorly veiled desperation. Though they have no force, your voice is enough to feel like it. Eddie looks so taken aback, his eyes wide and his face shocked to see you so flustered.
You see this, and it makes you feel horrible. “I'm sorry,” you insist, but it comes out wrong. “I'm sorry, I just—Fuck, I really can't. I'm—She just–” You give a hefty huff. “I can't. I'm sorry.”
You turn heel and disappear into the bedroom, shutting the door behind you with an accidental slam. You collapse into the bed, shoving blankets away until you're laying on the mattress and nothing else. It's a little chilly outside, and the trailer’s heater is no match for its thin walls as you enjoy the coolness against your warm, sweaty skin. You're too exhausted to cry.
~
When you wake later in the evening, it's to the smell of what you assume to be dinner. You shuffle out into the living room, feeling a lot better than you did before but not without the weighing reminder that you blew up on Eddie—Eddie who only ever wants to help, to show you how much he cares.
You hear the sound of Charlie's laughter chiming from the kitchen. Pulling your robe tightly around you, you peer over to see Eddie stirring meat sauce on the stove, making silly voices that have Charlie giggling with a kind of joy that makes your heart clench.
“And so I said,” he sighs, his hair bouncing with every movement he makes, “‘I don't know, Uncle Stevie. If my little princess wants a unicorn, I don't think it'd be fair not to give it to her.”
Charlie is reaching for him, wanting to be picked up like before. He dips down to kiss her forehead a million times until she's laughing so hard that she doesn't fuss when he pulls away. “He said,” he drops his voice down like he's mimicking Santa Claus instead of Steve Harrington, “‘Alright, alright. I'll give Charlotte the unicorn, but only if she makes me a prince.’ And when I told him you said no deal, he thought I was lying!”
There's a large part of you that is absolutely certain she has no idea what he's saying and just enjoys the way he says it because she's laughing with her full chest, her little body bouncing with each giddy sound. He pinches her sides, and she squeals before falling into another fit. You find yourself smiling, comforted by the sound somewhere deeper in your chest.
“Hey.”
You look up at Eddie. He's looking at you with a gentle smile, though you can sense the concerned tone in his voice and that knot in your gut twists again like a knife.
“Hi.”
“You feel better?” He wonders, stirring the pot before making his way toward you. He takes his time, and when he's standing in front of you, he does so without reaching for you.
You close the gap, reaching a hand down to catch his. When you squeeze, he squeezes back. “Yeah, I feel better.”
You tug very lightly, catching his lips in a really soft kiss. The moment is still, even as Charlie peers over with a pout, clearly not happy to be left out of all the sweetness being shared between the two of you.
“Sorry about earlier.” It comes out as a whisper, shy and regretful. “Just got so…tired. I just–”
“Why are you apologizing?” He raises a hand to brush your cheek, and he lets you lean into his palm before he strokes the soft skin with his thumb. You're warmed by his touch in a good way. Your anxiety is already melting away, and he's only said one thing to you.
“I shouldn't have blown up on you like that,” you murmur. “I was just…feeling too much, and I needed a break.”
Before he says a word, Eddie leans in and presses the softest, most fond kiss to your forehead. “I get it, sweetheart,” he says. “I mean, she doesn't cling to me the way she clings to you, but I can only imagine how frustrating it is to deal with that for so long.”
You duck your head, feeling a little bashful. Eddie just smiles, tilts your chin back up with his finger. “Nobody's mad at you. Promise.” He kisses your cheek. “The only thing I ask of you in the future? Let me know when you need a break—the moment you need a break. She's our responsibility, not yours. Okay?”
You nod and feel a little too nice. He's too good to you. You feel it in the softness of his kiss. You feel it in the tender way he holds your hands and strokes them in the gentlest way. “Thanks, honey.”
He leans his head down just enough to catch your eyes, giving you a gooey smile and even gooier eyes. “Do you want a kiss?”
You chuckle giddily, offering him an amused brow. “You mean, can you have a kiss?”
His smile grows, a wonderful mix of mischief and fondness. “Two things can be true.”
You're laughing as you wrap your hand around the back of his neck and pull him down for a proper kiss, something sweet and loving but still as eager as the first. His teeth nip at your bottom lip, just to hear you laugh. He smiles triumphantly when it works.
Your baby is still very unhappy at being left out. She starts to fuss again, squirming in her seat like it's killing her to be in it. “Ah. Ah!”
Eddie turns on his heel, pinning her with a playfully serious look that already has her giggling again. He points a finger at her, dramatic and terribly over the top. She squeals.
“And you.” He walks over to her with you in tow. “Charlotte Azalea Munson. What is the matter with you, tormenting your mother like that? You're supposed to be nice to her, especially when I'm gone.”
She makes grabby hands at him, demanding to be picked up (because she's spoiled rotten). You make your way to the pan on the stove, stirring the sauce before it gets stuck to the bottom and burns. Eddie scoops your baby into his arms with a grand sweep, beams up at her as she continues to scream her excitement. “Such a silly girl. We should throw a huge tea party without you just for payback.” Another scream, except her cackling laughs don't indicate any actual offense.
Charlie grabs a fistful of his hair, tugs on his wild curls excitedly. He makes a huge deal out of it, reacting like she'd ripped it from his head as he groans and says “owie-owie-owie”. Then he's taking a wild curl of her own and pulling it with the world's least amount of strength. She's making an abundance of happy noises, covering her head with her tiny hands like she's mimicking his earlier upset.
You find yourself at Eddie's side, leaning against the back of her high chair with a smile. “Hey, you. Quit it and be nice.” She shifts her attention to you, chubby hands reaching once again. You kiss her forehead with a big, wet smack. She is delighted to be kissed. “I love you, Azzy,” you coo against her soft hair.
Just as you're pulling back, a bush of dark curls tickles every inch of your face as Eddie leans down to join in the affection. She giggles happily, grabs his hair too suddenly and yanks a bit too hard. Eddie winces, hisses through his teeth as he unravels her little fingers. Charlie just laughs, cackles like a witch.
Eddie levels her with a completely serious look, faces barely a foot apart as he stares intensely into her eyes. She stares back, his sudden humorlessness sobering as she waits for something to happen. Then, in the most serious tone you have ever heard from him, “I'm gonna eat your hands.”
He snatches said hands and starts trying to shove them in his mouth while she screams with all the glee in the world. You can't help but laugh in response, watching the two scramble around each other.
Yeah…you're going to have your hands full with these two.
Stranger Things taglist: @activebliss @queermaxwooo @life-on-needs @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen @emmalee-01 @sw34ter-w34ther @gublur @allofmaris @redwineandnicotine @the-cryptid @katsukis1wife @chaoticcancer @papichulo120627 @emistrash @jjmaybankswifes-blog @thegr8estpuff @lover-of-books-and-tea @xxhanililoxx @quickslvxrr @joonbread
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eddie with clingy!reader who likes to poke and prod at him, basically just touch him everywhere, cup his cheeks, and be all over him like a koala, even when hes smelly, sad, or upset, she sticks to him like glue
Not just physically clingy, but also wanting to do everything with him🙂↕️
And he loves it. Always makes room for you.
You're not used to being met with total acceptance.
That's a new experience only Eddie has managed to bring you. And anytime you mention that, he's baffled that someone could possibly say no to you.
He genuinely can't imagine it.
You even had him try one time.
"You do know, you don't have to say yes to me every time. It's okay if you're not up to do something with me or—"
"Sweetheart, I say yes because I want to," he shrugs easily.
You raise a brow at how quickly he dismissed the idea. "Okay, but you are capable of saying no, right?"
Leisurely sinking lower in his seat, he snorts. "Of course."
The word drags out and the longer each letter sounds, the more suspicious you get.
"Alright, let's see it, then."
His eyes widen, head cocking to the side. "Hm?"
"Say no to me."
"No."
Your glare has him straightening up. "I didn't ask the question yet."
He motions for you to continue. You think for a moment, then, "Eddie, can we get ice cream—"
"Sure."
"No!" He jumps at your outburst. "That was the question; practice saying no!"
“Right, right, okay, hit me again.” He steels himself, looking entirely motivated to reject you.
You pause, making sure he’s ready, then, “Can we go to the movies later?”
His lips curl like he’s trying his best to hold the word in, but it looks like he’s two seconds from bursting when—
“Si!”
“What? What the hell was that?”
He lets out a breath of relief as if he completed the impossible. “I didn’t say yes. Phew, that was hard. Good game, everyone, good game," he calls, waving around the empty room.
“That doesn’t count,” you laugh.
He shifts in his seat. “What do you mean it ‘doesn’t count’? I didn’t say yes!”
“Yes, you did. Just because it was in Spanish doesn’t mean it doesn’t count. Again!”
He groans. “Ugh, God, you’re probably the first girlfriend in existence to want to be told no. You’re sick. Sick, sick, sick. Just an ill-minded individual,” he mutters, turning his nose up at your incredulous look.
You cross your arms. “It’s one syllable! Two letters! Come on, man! Get yourself together!”
“Alright, alright, go.”
“Here I’ll give you an easy one: Can I rip a page from your monster manual, I need some scrap paper.”
Surprisingly, it’s actually a struggle, but he manages a small, “Nnn—“
You perk up, leaning in. “What was that?”
“N-No,” he chokes out.
You erupt in thunderous applause, watching his face light up. “Yes! Yeah, there you go!”
“Okay, this is pretty fun, gimme another,” he grins, eagerly waiting.
“Can I borrow the van?”
The question seems to have thrown him off, but then he squares his shoulders. “No.”
“Nice! Okay, um,” you think of another, this time harder. “Can I braid your hair—“
“Yes. Fuck!”
The agreement came out like it cost nothing, and you throw your hands up.
“What the hell, Eddie? You were doing so good!”
His shoulders are up to his ears as he hurries, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! But also you can’t possibly expect me to say no to that! A hot chick running her fingers through my hair? Sign me the fuck up!”
You shake your head, muttering a defeated, “You’re impossible.”
“Oh my God, sorry I love my girlfriend so much,” he grumbles, catching your eye roll. “No, you’re right— I should be put to death. Hell is not hot enough.”
Gonna say it once and only once to all fanfic writers (mostly stranger things since that is what I read most of the time!!!)
If I see even an inkling of ai in the writing or even the cover for the fic, you will be BLOCKED!!!! Ai is not only absolutely terrible for the environment but it also buys up ram making things like pc builds more expensive. It is also taking jobs from many people in some industries. AND on top of that it steals work from all types of artists and creators who just want to share their work with other people without having to worry about their hard work being fed to a bullshit system.
So yea if I see any ai your ass is getting blocked cause there is just no excuse for it. I would rather read a fic that has human errors that just need to be corrected and learned from than poorly generated garbage that has so many plot holes or a cover that turns me away before I even read the plot. Maybe people wont agree and that is unfortunate cause it just unnecessary to use ai. It is already disappointing ai is used to write for shows and movies recently…and we all saw how that went for some more recent show seasons. So learn from that if anything that ai is not a step up but a huge jump down from someone dedicating time to writing on their own works.
And for Eddie munson fans who use ai just remember he, if in this day and age, would most definitely despise ai and the effect it has on art and artist’s spaces.
SUMMARY: When Eddie gets attacked by the jocks late at night, he chooses to come to you of all people. This is not something that you take for granted, even if he does drive you mildly insane by trying to brush off what has happened to him. You try your best to sooth his worries as you tend to his injuries.
NOTES: Aftermath of violence, physical injury (bleeding + bruising), mildly self-deprecating Eddie, hurt/comfort, mild profanity, relationship is not established but mutual pining is THERE!
NAVIGATION | S.T MASTERLIST | KO-FI
You almost don’t hear the knock.
It’s quiet. Careful. A sound that makes you think you imagined it, like a branch against glass or the house settling in the cold.
You’re halfway through deciding it was nothing when it comes again. Three soft taps. Your stomach sinks before your brain catches up, because only one person in Hawkins knocks on your window like that.
The walk across your room feels longer than it should. Every step carries a strange heaviness, dread curling in your chest for reasons you can’t quite name yet. The curtains shift when you pull them aside and the porch light from next door spills across the glass.
He’s there.
Eddie Munson stands on the narrow strip of grass beneath your window, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket like he’s trying to disappear inside it. His shoulders are slightly hunched. The usual restless energy that lives in him seems muted.
He tilts his head up when the curtain moves. Your relief at seeing him lasts exactly half a second. Moonlight catches his face. Your stomach twists.
The bruise across his cheek is already darkening, spreading beneath his skin like spilled ink. His lip looks split. There’s something wrong with the way he’s holding himself too, one arm tight against his side.
You open the window before you’ve consciously decided to.
“Hey,” he says. The word lands lightly, casual, like he’s just stopped by to say hello.
Your chest tightens. “What happened?”
Eddie lifts one shoulder in a shrug that looks uncomfortable. His mouth attempts a grin. It comes out crooked. “Nothing exciting. Just thought I’d drop by, y’know. See what you’re up to.”
The ridiculousness of that almost makes you laugh. Almost. You lean out slightly, the cool air brushing your face, and get a better look at him. The bruise is worse up close. Dirt clings to the shoulder of his jacket. His hair looks like someone grabbed it.
A sharp ache settles behind your ribs. “You’re hurt.”
“Nah.”
Your expression doesn’t change. Eddie’s gaze flickers away from yours, drifting somewhere over your shoulder into the dimness of your room.
“Okay, little bit,” he admits. “Occupational hazard of being Hawkins’ favourite local freak.”
Your throat feels tight.
The words shouldn’t hurt as much as they do. He says things like that all the time, tossing them out with a laugh before anyone else can. Tonight they land wrong. Too flat. Too tired.
“Come inside.”
You expect an argument. A joke. Something dramatic. Instead he hesitates. That’s worse.
A strange unease creeps through you, spreading slowly under your skin. Eddie normally climbs through your window like he owns the place, boots thudding onto the floor while he launches straight into whatever chaotic story he’s brought with him.
Now he just stands there.
“It’s late,” he says after a moment.
The concern in your chest sharpens. “So?”
“You should probably sleep.”
You stare at him.
“You climbed across half of Hawkins to knock on my window at midnight while bleeding and you think I’m sending you away?”
The corner of his mouth lifts faintly.
“Romantic when you say it like that.”
Your patience snaps. “Eddie.”
Something in your voice finally shifts the moment. He sighs, long and reluctant, before hauling himself up onto the ledge. The movement looks awkward. Pain flashes across his face for a split second before he hides it again.
The sight makes your stomach twist harder.
He drops into your room with less grace than usual. His boots land quietly on the carpet. The faint smell of outside air follows him in, mixed with something metallic.
You close the window behind him and turn back.
The silence stretches.
Eddie stands in the middle of your room like he isn’t sure what to do with himself. His hands hover near his pockets before settling there again. His shoulders remain tense.
He looks smaller somehow. Not physically. The space he takes up in the room feels different. Dimmer. Your chest aches with it.
“Sit down,” you say quietly.
He glances at the bed. “Your royal command?”
“Sit down.”
Eddie obeys. The mattress dips beneath his weight. He exhales slowly once he’s settled, like he didn’t realise how much standing hurt until he stopped.
You hover in front of him, suddenly unsure where to start. Anger flickers through you first, not at him, but at whoever did this.
“What happened?” you ask again.
He scratches lightly at the back of his neck.
“Just a misunderstanding with some upstanding members of the Hawkins High athletic department.”
Your stomach drops. “Jason?”
Eddie snorts softly. “Gold star for the detective.”
The anger inside you sharpens into something hot and shaky. “They jumped you?”
“Nah, nah.” He waves a hand dismissively. “That makes it sound way cooler than it was. More like… a disagreement.”
Your eyes drift back to his lip. Blood has dried there in a thin line. “You’re bleeding.”
“Yeah, that happens when someone punches you in the face.”
The casual tone makes something in your chest twist painfully. “You think this is funny?”
His gaze lifts to yours again. For a moment neither of you speak.
You realise suddenly that your hands are shaking. A thin tremor runs through your fingers, impossible to hide when you rummage through your desk drawer for the small first aid tin.
Embarrassment creeps in alongside the fear. You hate that he can see it. Eddie notices it, he always does.
“Hey,” he says gently. “It’s not that bad.”
You set the tin down on the bed beside him a little harder than necessary. “It is to me.” The words come out before you can soften them. Silence settles again.
Your chest feels tight in a way that’s difficult to explain. A strange mix of anger and worry presses behind your ribs. Seeing him like this feels wrong. Eddie usually moves through the world like he refuses to let it touch him.
Tonight the damage is visible, and it scares you more than you want to admit.
You sit beside him, close enough that your knee brushes his. His body goes very still. The reaction catches your attention immediately. Your stomach sinks.
“Does it hurt?” you ask quietly.
Eddie hesitates. “Little bit.”
“Where?”
He gestures vaguely at himself. “General area.” You stare at him. He exhales through his nose. “Ribs, mostly.”
Your hand moves before you think about it, hovering near his side. Eddie flinches, not dramatically. Just enough just enough for the motion to hit you like a punch to the chest.
You pull your hand back instantly, guilt rushing in.
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s…” He stops, searching for the right words. “It’s fine. It just surprised me.”
You nod slowly. The uneasy feeling inside you grows stronger.
Eddie’s jokes aren’t landing the way they usually do. The rhythm between you feels off, like something fragile is sitting beneath the conversation.
You open the tin and take out a cloth.
“Look at me.” He doesn’t. Your chest tightens. “Eddie.”
When he finally lifts his head, the expression on your face makes him freeze. Concern sits there too plainly. His mouth tightens slightly.
“Hey,” he says quietly. Your hand reaches for his face. He catches your wrist halfway there. “Don’t.”
The word lands softly. Your heart sinks. “Why not?”
Eddie studies your expression for a moment. Something uncertain flickers across his face. His grip on your wrist loosens slightly. “Just… don’t look at me like that.”
You frown. “Like what?”
He swallows. “Like I’m something that needs fixing.”
The words settle heavily between you. Your chest aches in a way that feels difficult to name.
“I’m not,” you say quietly.
His gaze drops to your wrist still resting in his hand.
“Yeah,” Eddie murmurs. “That’s the problem.”
Eddie doesn’t let go of your wrist straight away.
His grip isn’t tight. No pressure that could hurt you. Still enough to stop your hand from reaching his face again. The restraint feels strange coming from him. Eddie usually fills space with motion, gestures, restless energy that spills everywhere.
Tonight he holds still. You feel it in the quiet between you.
Your pulse beats awkwardly against his fingers. The awareness makes your chest feel unsteady, as though something delicate inside you has been nudged out of place.
“I’m not trying to fix you,” you say after a moment.
Your voice comes out softer than you expect.
Eddie exhales slowly, eyes dropping to the carpet.
“Feels like it.”
“That’s not fair.”
The words slip out before you can temper them. A flicker of guilt follows immediately. You weren’t trying to start an argument.
He doesn’t look offended. Mostly tired. “Didn’t say it was,” he replies.
Your hand remains trapped between his palms. You realise he’s turning your wrist slightly, studying the faint marks on your skin where his rings press. Something thoughtful sits behind his expression.
The quiet stretches.
Your chest feels crowded with too many emotions to sort through properly. Worry sits at the top, heavy and sharp. Anger lingers just beneath it, directed somewhere far outside this room. The idea of someone hurting him makes your stomach twist in a way that feels dangerously close to panic.
Eddie eventually releases your wrist. The loss of contact leaves a strange emptiness in its place.
You pick up the cloth again, dipping it into the glass of water from your bedside table. The movement gives you something to focus on, something steady.
“Look at me,” you say again. He hesitates. Your chest tightens. “You came here for a reason,” you add quietly. “So let me help.”
A flicker of uncertainty crosses his face. Then he lifts his chin. The bruise looks worse now that you’re closer, much darker than it had seemed through the window. His lip has split properly along the edge, the dried blood cracking slightly when he moves.
Your throat feels tight again.
The cloth touches his mouth gently.
Eddie sucks in a small breath through his teeth.
“Sorry,” you murmur immediately.
“It’s alright.”
The reassurance comes automatically. You recognise the tone; he uses it all the time, smoothing things over before anyone can feel bad for him.
That instinct irritates you tonight.
“You’re allowed to say it hurts,” you say quietly.
He huffs a faint laugh. “Where’s the fun in that?”
The cloth moves carefully along the cut. Your hands remain steady despite the way your chest feels. Each small mark on his face seems to land somewhere inside you as well, leaving behind a dull ache.
You hate how familiar this feeling is becoming. The awareness that Eddie gets hurt more often than he lets people see. The awareness that he rarely lets anyone close enough to do something about it.
“You should’ve told someone,” you say.
“About a couple of jocks throwing punches?” His eyebrow lifts slightly. “That’s practically a Hawkins pastime.”
“You should’ve told me.”
The words slip out without hesitation. Eddie goes quiet. Your hand pauses mid-movement, cloth resting lightly against his cheek. His eyes have shifted again, studying you in that careful way he does when something unexpected appears in a conversation.
The attention makes heat creep into your chest.
“You’ve got enough to deal with,” he says after a moment.
“That’s not your decision.”
“Pretty sure it is when I’m the one showing up looking like this.”
Your jaw tightens slightly. “I don’t remember saying you weren’t allowed to.”
“Didn’t say you did.”
“Then why are you acting like you did something wrong by coming here?”
He opens his mouth. Stops. The hesitation lands harder than any answer could have.
A heavy feeling settles in your stomach. Your voice softens without you meaning it to. “Eddie.”
He looks tired again. Not physically, exactly. Something deeper than that. A sort of weariness that sits behind his eyes like he’s been carrying it around for years.
“People don’t usually react well when I turn up bleeding,” he says quietly.
Your chest aches. “That’s because people worry.”
“Yeah.” He gives a small shrug. “Exactly.”
The cloth returns to his lip. You clean the remaining blood slowly, careful not to press too hard. His gaze drifts away from your face while you work, settling somewhere near your shoulder.
You notice the moment his breathing evens out slightly. The calm in the room feels fragile. Like if either of you moves too quickly it might disappear.
“Jason did this?” you ask eventually.
“Mostly.”
Your stomach twists. “Mostly?”
“His friends helped.”
A flash of anger sparks beneath your ribs. You picture them in the dark somewhere, throwing punches like it’s entertainment. The thought makes your hands tremble again. Eddie notices the shift immediately.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
You pretend not to hear him.
“They could’ve seriously hurt you.”
“They tried.”
Your head lifts sharply. The casual delivery makes the words worse. “They what?”
Eddie sighs. “Relax. I’m still in one piece.”
“That doesn’t make it alright.”
“Never said it did.”
The frustration building in your chest feels difficult to contain. The way he keeps brushing everything off makes your stomach knot tighter.
You set the cloth aside. “Why didn’t you fight back?”
His expression changes slightly. Something guarded slips into place behind his eyes. “I did.”
“Then why do you look like —”
You stop yourself before the sentence finishes. Before you say something cruel.
Eddie watches you carefully. “Like what?”
Your chest feels too tight to answer properly. “Like someone hurt you and you let them?”
Silence settles over the room. The words hang between you heavier than you intended. Regret creeps in immediately.
Eddie’s gaze drifts down to his hands. “There was more of them,” he says after a moment.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” His voice stays calm.
Your stomach twists harder. You didn’t mean to make him feel worse. The frustration came from somewhere else entirely, somewhere tangled up with the fear that arrived the second you saw him outside your window.
The idea of losing him sits quietly at the edge of your thoughts. You hate it.
“I just…” Your voice falters slightly. “I don’t like seeing you like this.”
Eddie lifts his head again. “Like what?”
“Hurt.”
The word feels too small for the feeling behind it. Something shifts in his expression. Your chest tightens again under the weight of it.
“You should see the other guys,” he mutters.
The joke lands weakly. You don’t smile. Your fingers hover near his face again before settling carefully along his jaw, gentler this time. Eddie tenses for half a second, then allows the contact.
His skin feels warm beneath your hand.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay,” you say quietly.
The room falls still. Eddie’s breathing slows. Your heart pounds strangely in your chest, as though you’ve said something much bigger than the words themselves. For a moment you think he’s going to brush it off again.
Instead he laughs. The sound is quiet. Tired.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. His eyes close briefly. “That’s kinda the problem.”
Eddie’s eyes stay closed for a moment longer than necessary. Your hand remains along his jaw, uncertain whether you should pull away. The warmth of his skin presses against your palm. His breathing feels slower now, steadier than it was when he first climbed through the window.
Still something fragile in it. You become painfully aware of the quiet. Not uncomfortable exactly. Just heavy with things neither of you have said yet.
Your chest feels strange. The earlier anger has faded into something softer, something that sits low in your ribs and refuses to leave. Concern, mostly. A deep, persistent worry that you’re suddenly tired of pretending doesn’t exist.
Eddie eventually opens his eyes. They settle on your face immediately.
Your stomach flips in a way that makes you wish you had something clever to say. Something that might lighten the moment before it sinks too deep.
Nothing arrives.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs.
“You’re injured.”
“Those two things aren’t always related.”
You almost smile. Almost.
Your thumb moves slightly without thinking, brushing near the edge of the bruise along his cheekbone. The motion is careful, barely there.
Eddie inhales sharply.
“Sorry,” you say again.
“It’s fine.” The words sound quieter this time.
Your hand doesn’t move away.
A strange vulnerability sits in the space between you. Eddie usually fills silence with noise, jokes, dramatic stories that spiral in three directions at once. Tonight he seems content to sit there and let the quiet stretch.
That alone makes your chest ache.
“You scared me,” you admit. The confession slips out before you can reconsider it.
Eddie’s expression shifts. “I knocked.”
“That’s not the part that scared me.”
Understanding creeps slowly across his face. His shoulders sink slightly, like the tension he’s been holding finally loosens a fraction.
Your throat feels tight.
“When I saw you outside,” you continue quietly, “I thought something worse had happened.”
“Worse than getting my face rearranged?”
“Much worse.”
The room falls silent again. Eddie studies you with that same thoughtful look he had earlier, the one that seems to peel past the surface of things. Your chest grows uncomfortable under the attention.
“You really were worried,” he says softly.
The way he phrases it makes something twist painfully inside you. “Of course I was.”
“Why?”
The question catches you off guard. You stare at him. “Why?”
He shrugs faintly. “People don’t usually get that worked up when I turn up looking rough.”
Your stomach drops.
The casual way he says it carries something heavier underneath, something years old and worn smooth by repetition.
You swallow slowly. “I’m not people.”
“No,” Eddie agrees. His gaze drifts across your face again, lingering there in quiet consideration. “You’re not.”
The acknowledgement leaves a strange warmth in your chest.
You shift slightly on the mattress, suddenly aware of how close the two of you are sitting. Your knee presses against his thigh now. Neither of you moves away.
“Does it hurt when you breathe?” you ask.
Eddie takes a careful breath like he’s testing the question, and the wince doesn’t fill you with any hope for a good answer. “Little bit.”
“Your ribs might be bruised.”
“Fantastic. Always wanted a dramatic injury.”
Your mouth presses into a thin line. “This isn’t funny.”
“Humour is a coping mechanism.”
“You’re coping very loudly.”
He chuckles softly at that. The sound feels like a small victory. You reach for the first aid tin again, pulling out a small strip of gauze and antiseptic. Eddie watches with mild suspicion.
“That stuff stings.”
“I know.”
“You’re smiling.”
“Only a little.”
He sighs dramatically. “This is betrayal.”
Your fingers move carefully along his lip again, cleaning the cut properly this time. Eddie winces when the antiseptic touches it. His hand grips the edge of the mattress automatically.
Guilt flickers through you.
“Sorry.”
“You keep saying that.”
“You keep getting hurt.”
“Fair point.”
The tension in the room eases slightly. Still something delicate beneath it. Your attention drifts briefly to the bruise along his cheek again. The colour will probably darken overnight. Tomorrow it might look worse.
The thought leaves a sour feeling in your stomach.
“Are they going to leave you alone now?” you ask.
Eddie shrugs. “Hard to say. Jason’s got a flair for grudges.”
“I hate him.”
“That makes two of us.”
Silence settles again.
You finish securing the small strip of gauze against his lip and sit back slightly to examine your work. Eddie watches you with faint amusement.
“You missed your calling as a battlefield medic.”
“I’d settle for people not needing one.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Your expression doesn’t change. He sighs again.
“Alright, fair.”
The quiet stretches once more. Your emotions feel calmer now, the earlier panic fading into something steadier. A lingering concern remains though, curling softly in your chest.
You realise suddenly that Eddie hasn’t tried to leave. Normally he would’ve made a dramatic exit by now, claiming he needed to vanish before the authorities arrived or some other ridiculous excuse.
Instead he’s still sitting there. Looking at you.
“Why did you come here?” you ask gently.
The question hangs in the air.
Eddie shifts slightly, adjusting his position on the mattress. The movement looks careful again, protective of his ribs.
“Didn’t really think about it,” he admits.
“You walked halfway across town without thinking about it?”
“Pretty much.”
Your eyebrow lifts. He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little sheepish.
“Okay. Maybe I thought about it a bit.”
“And?”
Eddie glances at the window, then back at you. Something vulnerable flickers across his expression, gone almost as quickly as it appears.
“I didn’t want to go home,” he says quietly.
Your chest tightens. “Why?”
He hesitates. The answer seems to sit somewhere behind his teeth for a moment before he lets it out.
“Didn’t feel like being alone tonight.”
The honesty in the statement lands heavily. Your heart squeezes painfully. “You wouldn’t have been,” you say softly.
His gaze lifts again. “Yeah,” Eddie murmurs. “I figured.”
The room feels warmer suddenly.
Your earlier worry shifts into something gentler, something that settles low in your chest like a quiet promise. You study his face for a moment longer before speaking again.
“You can stay,” you say.
Eddie tilts his head slightly. “Stay?”
“Until you feel better.”
“You’re offering me medical supervision now?”
“I’m offering you somewhere safe to sit without getting punched.”
He considers that. “Tempting offer.”
“You’re not in any condition to walk back across town anyway.”
He gives a small laugh. “You just want to keep an eye on me.”
“Yes.”
The honesty makes him pause. For a moment he simply looks at you, expression softening in a way you don’t see very often. Then he leans back slightly against the wall beside your bed.
“Alright,” Eddie says quietly. His shoulder brushes yours as he settles there. “Guess I’ll stay.”
The contact feels surprisingly natural. Your chest loosens for the first time all night.
Outside, the town remains quiet. Inside your room, Eddie breathes a little easier. So do you.
TAGLISTS COMING BACK SOON — IN THE PROCESS OF MAKING A NEW FORM FOR IT!
“Minors DNI” doesn’t mean “kids and teenagers don’t belong in fandom.” It means “I am an adult who discusses adult topics and I do not want to discuss them with children.”
Look, I understand that there are worse things minors can do besides read smutty fanfic. And curiosity is normal. But I am a stranger, not a sex ed teacher.
I’m not babysitting the Internet. I am protecting myself. But I will give a word of advice: an internet adult stranger who knowingly has sexual/sex-oriented conversations with minors is not an adult with your best interests in mind.
Summary: You work as a barmaid at the raunchiest booth at the Renaissance Faire, and Eddie purchases a beer from you. He gets a little more than a "huzzah for the tipper" when he throws a fiver in the jar labeled "Thank you, Mistress". (Read: you talk dirty to Eddie while you pour beer down his throat) Based on this Tik Tok posted by @joyful_aura: https://www.tiktok.com/@joyful_aura/video/7244964514561543470
Word Count: 4.7k
Content Warnings: light degradation, dirty talk, sexual themes
Working the faire circuit was in one word… an experience.
Just last week you had been in Texas at Scarborough Faire, where it had been hot as balls underneath your layers of linen, lace and leather. The earlier months hadn’t been too bad, but there was one thing you’d learned about the southern states in your years of renaissance faire experience- when summer hits in the south, it hits hard. The moment you’d driven your van past the Indiana state line, you could have sworn the temperature dropped ten degrees on the spot.
Now here you were- all trussed up in your wench getup, tits pushed up high enough that they rested like two fleshy pillows right below your collarbones. The corset you’d chosen today wasn’t your most comfortable, but you looked damn good in it- milk chocolate brown with pale gold ribbons that laced up the front. The straps that ran over your shoulders provided some extra support, which you were grateful for with all of the movement your job required. Your skirts today were a warm shade of mustard yellow with a few mismatched patches sewn over holes and stains that had refused to come out over the years. Short sleeved blouses were a must, unless you wanted to pass out from heat stroke or have beer-soaked sleeves clinging to your forearms. Today yours was a pale cream color, with little puffed cap sleeves to cover your shoulders and a neckline that plunged below your corset, so the girls were front and center, ready to earn plenty of “huzzah for the tipper!”s.
Today was Sunday, and since this faire was weekends only, Sundays were basically Fridays as far as faire folk were concerned. As was tradition, you would all be going out for libations once the day was done, followed by a blissful night of sleeping late in your Volkswagen Westfalia.
You hadn’t known what to expect when you’d quit your job and joined the faire circuit, but every day you got to meet new people, play dress-up, and speak in a funny accent- which accent? You switched it up day to day. And the fact that you got paid to do that made it even better.
You loved your little renfaire life.
You stood with your hands on your hips inside the little wooden booth that served as your place of work for the next month’s worth of weekends. Every plastic cup was stacked in place, you had a fresh cleaning rag stuck into your apron, and patrons were already beginning to file into the fairgrounds. A pleasant breeze brought a smile to your face.
“Morning, love!” You turned to see your fellow barmaid, Ingrid, wiping her hands on her own apron after wringing out her own rag into a small bucket of soapy water. Her outfit today was- like most days- the polar opposite of yours. She looked more like a pirate wench while your color palette was more akin to what one might picture in a countryside tavern. Burgundy skirts and off-white petticoats swished around her black lace-up boots, and her black leather waist cincher showcased the smallest part of Ingrid’s middle. You gasped, acting scandalized by the bits of black lace from her bra that peeked over the neckline of her red blouse.
“Ingrid, what kind of place do you think we’re running here?” you tutted, smiling cheekily all the while. “This is a respectable establishment! People might start thinking we sell more than just the drinks here, you know.”
Ingrid cackled, hopping up to sit on the wooden counter behind her. “My dear, I have absolutely no clue what you could be talking about.” She shrugged, smirking behind a shared secret. “We do sell more than just the drinks.” You both giggled knowingly, continuing to complete all of the morning to-do’s around the bar.
Ingrid was right- drinks weren’t the only thing your bar was known for.
There were plenty of booths around the faire where patrons could purchase a drink, but only one where the barmaids would pour beer directly into their mouths while talking dirty to them- and The Naughty Wench just happened to be that booth.
Originally, the idea had been Ingrid’s- the two of you had been friends for a year now, meeting last year in this exact same spot at Indie Faire and working at what was then a run-of-the-mill beer booth. It was customary at any renaissance faire for bar wenches to proclaim “Huzzah for the tipper!” when presented with a tip of any kind, so neither of you was a stranger to putting on the theatrics when money was dropped into your tip jar. One day, however, Ingrid had put out not one, but two tip jars- one labeled ‘Thank You’, the other labeled ‘Thank You Mistress’. You had laughed at it at first. Then Ingrid started…changing the script.
A patron would chuckle to themselves, throwing a dollar into the Mistress jar, eyes going wide and cheeks flushing when Ingrid would smile and tell them they were “such a good boy.”
After a few more, she’d gotten even more creative. “Oh, you thought I only wanted money?” she would croon, holding the beer tauntingly out of their reach. “I want to hear you beg for it, say ‘please, mistress’,” When you’d heard it you’d been appalled, mouth opened wide in shock. You had already prepared yourself for the patron to yell in her face and demand their money back when you’d heard a shy, stuttering “P-please, mistress, can I have my beer?”
Throughout the day, Ingrid’s “Mistress” character only continued to amp up with every hour. At some point, you had joined in, repeating the sultry tones you’d been listening to Ingrid spout easily to strangers and even making up a few responses of your own.
“Only good boys get to drink at the faire, have you been a good boy?”
“You need to say please before you drink- good girl, you’re so very welcome.”
“Hands behind your back and open wide.”
Word about Ingrid’s sultry tipping strategy circulated quickly. Soon, more and more patrons were lining up at your booth ready to be degraded by pretty girls in tight corsets, and when you started pouring the beer into their mouths, tits pressed up higher on your chest while you leaned seductively over the bartop? People couldn’t get enough.
The success you’d both had with Ingrid’s brilliant idea had now landed you here- a booth that was dedicated to serving delicious beverages garnished with a splash of degradation.
Your first patron of the day- a young woman who looked ready to play a fairy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream- stepped up to Ingrid, gazing up at her with a flutter of eyelashes as she ordered a can of beer and shyly dropped a one dollar bill into the jar labeled ‘Thank You, Mistress’. Ingrid smiled, asking “Do you know what that jar is for?” to which the fairy blushed and nodded, giggling.
“Mm-hm.”
Ingrid grinned flirtatiously, popped open the beer, and addressed the fairy, “Such tiny little hands you have, they’ll make my can look so huge…”
***
Eddie Munson was vibrating.
At least, he felt like he was. He could barely contain his enthusiasm as he looked around at every sword, every pair of elf ears, every corset- to his left, there was a booth selling handmade leather journals. To his right, a stage where a crowd had begun to gather to watch a group of bagpipe players. In front of him and behind him, a seemingly endless number of nerds who, like him, had found a place where being a weirdo was not mocked, not simply tolerated- but celebrated.
“I fucking love it here.” Eddie sighed.
Steve Harrington, whom Eddie was still a little astounded had been convinced to actually go to a renaissance faire, looked overwhelmed already. “I can’t believe there are this many grown adults who wanted to spend the last day of their weekend playing dress-up.”
“Playing dress-up and getting drunk.” Robin corrected. Unlike Harrington, she had thrown herself into the renfaire spirit completely, showing up in a tasteful pirate outfit that Eddie had a feeling was comprised mostly of oversized pieces she’d found in the men’s section of the thrift store, but she pulled it off. All she was missing were some real swords, which she had already announced she was on the hunt for today.
“I feel bad for people who are so out of touch with their inner child that they have to get drunk just to put on a costume.” Dustin said matter-of-factly, shooting Steve a judgemental look. Steve balked when he caught it, yapping at Dustin about growing up or the ridiculousness of how much quality costumes cost- something along those lines. Eddie wasn’t listening, he was too busy taking mental note of which booths he needed to come back to before they left; he knew if he ducked inside them now, he would blow all of his money on the first stall they saw, and he was determined to stretch his budget for the day as far as he could.
“Well I for one think we all look amazing, costume or no.” Robin said decisively. Eddie had to agree. He had spent weeks working on his own costume, digging through his and his friends’ closets to create an ensemble fit for a tiefling bard such as himself. He had fashioned himself a pair of red horns using one of Erica’s old headbands, toilet paper rolls, tin foil, paper mache and black paint. Now, they sat nestled securely among his brown mane of curls. The rest of his outfit had been easy- a blousy-looking shirt from Nancy’s closet that he’d rolled up around the elbows, one of Wayne’s old waistcoats from a suit that hadn’t seen the light of day since Eddie’s parents’ wedding, apparently, a pair of black pants that he’d tucked into his combat boots, and a plethora of accessories. Rings on every finger, every belt he owned slung over his waist or across his torso, one even looped twice around his thigh. Eddie had even gone the extra mile this morning and smudged some of Robin’s red lipstick (he was still amazed that Buckley owned lipstick) around his eyes as a nod to the fact that tieflings’ skin is normally red or blue. To finish off the look, he had even brought along his old acoustic guitar, which was slung over his back to mark him undeniably as a bard.
Eddie thought he looked pretty damn cool.
The rest of their party had also decked themselves out for the day, Robin with her pirate outfit, Dustin, Mike, Lucas and Will had done a fantastic job of transforming themselves into hobbits for the day. Max, Erica and El hadn’t been able to decide whether they wanted to dress as pirates or fairies- so they’d all chosen both. Now they looked happy as could be, skipping down the dirt path with fairy wings on their backs and plastic swords on their hips. That left Steve as the only normal-looking person in a sea of geeks.
Eddie chuckled to himself- for once in his life, Steve Harrington was the odd one out while Eddie Munson was effortlessly fitting in.
“First order of business is turkey legs.” Robin announced, eyes already darting in every direction in search of lunch as she wandered ahead.
Steve mumbled in agreement, along with something about finding something to drink so that he’ll survive the day. Just then, a trio of pretty young women in corsets caught his eye, immediately brightening his mood. He ran a hand through his hair, ready to say something undoubtedly Steve-y to them, when they beat him to the punch.
“Hi! Um, would you mind taking our picture?” One of them said, shoving a camera in his direction.
Steve, surprised but not altogether deterred, smiled and took the camera. “I’d be happy to, ladies.” However, he couldn’t hold back his shock when the girls all turned to the four teenage boys.
“You guys look like you came straight out of Lord of the Rings!” one of them exclaimed. “Best costumes I’ve seen all weekend, honestly.” The girls situated themselves between the blushing boys as they muttered different ‘thank you’s and complimented the girls’ outfits in turn.
Steve snapped the picture begrudgingly while Eddie slung an arm around his shoulders. “Looks like you’re losing your charm there, Harrington.” he smirked, earning an eye roll from Steve in turn.
“Yeah, yeah, piss off, Dante’s Inferno.”
“How have you read Dante but not Tolkien?”
Their bickering was cut short by corset girl retrieving the camera from Steve, then giving Eddie a shy, “I like your horns.”
Eddie turned his full attention to her with a toothy grin. “‘Preciate it, sweetheart.”
The girls waved goodbye with a thank you, erupting into giggles as they walked away. Steve shook his head in disbelief. “What world did I accidentally cross into where Munson has game and I have none?”
Eddie cackled maniacally, hopping onto a nearby picnic table and swinging his guitar to his front, strumming it a couple of times with a flourish of his hand.
“You’re in my kingdom now, King Steve!” Eddie plucked the strings of his instrument jauntily, unable to contain his glee. “Here, it pays to be a freak.”
Strum-strum-strum.
Eddie threw a fist in the air. “Huzzah!”
To his surprise, his call was echoed by several patrons and vendors, erupting in a hearty “Huzzah!” from all around him.
Accepted. Celebrated. Eddie felt at home.
That’s when Robin came bounding up from behind him, two turkey legs in hand. “Okay, I know where we’re going next.” She sounded excited.
Steve took one of the turkey legs from her hand, eager to get something in his stomach. “And where is that, Robin?”
She grinned largely, immediately launching into a retelling of a conversation she had had with another patron while waiting in line for the turkey legs, going on several tangents about how surprised she was that the line was short, how the patron had been dressed like a viking and actually had viking tattoos all up and down his arm, how she wasn’t sure how accurate they were but they sure looked cool-
“Robin!” Steve interjected impatiently.
“Right! Sorry! Basically one of the bars has wenches that talk dirty if you give them a tip, and I want to see that in action.”
Steve and Eddie’s eyes grew wide. Steve, hilariously, started to check behind him for the kids as if they were still too young and innocent to be talking about such things even though they were all about to graduate high school already. To his relief, they had all wandered into a booth selling leather goods.
Eddie responded before Steve could. His lips had curled into a mischievous smile, “Buckley,” he crooned, gesturing for her to lead the way. “I’m gonna need you to tell me more about these wenches.”
***
By noon, the line for your booth was easily at least ten people long and stayed that way no matter how many beers you’d poured. Luckily for the two of you, not every patron at the faire was seeking you out just for the bonus content. Most of them just wanted a drink, which you couldn’t fault them for. After all, nothing went with a summer day quite like a cold, bubbly beverage.
“Hey,” Ingrid’s voice caught your attention as you took a brief moment to wipe down the drain under the tap while the line had gone briefly shorter. “Remember that conversation we had where I called you out on having a type?”
You laughed, nodding your head. “Yes, I think I do. Why?”
“Tell me what that type was again?”
You sighed, tucking your rag back into your apron and patting your hands dry at your sides. “Let’s see, I think I remember you said long hair was involved-”
“Long dark hair, specifically.”
“-long dark hair, right.” you remedied. You busied yourself with fixing the next patrons’ drink orders as the discussion proceeded. “Tattoos were mentioned, and I think you said something about makeup?”
“You always get all swoony around men wearing eyeliner or some kind of eye makeup. Always. Without fail.”
“Yeah, yeah okay…” you rolled your eyes. She was right, but you hated that you were apparently so obvious about it.
“I would like to make an educated guess about another thing I think belongs on that list.” Finally turning to face Ingrid, you cocked your head, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Okay, I’ll bite- what else do you think belongs on that list?”
Ingrid grinned, looking pointedly at something over your shoulder. “I think you’re into guys who play guitar.”
You blanched- damn. That had been true since high school, how did she-
You spun around to see whatever Ingrid was focused on behind you, and felt your knees get weak when you found it. There was a man- in his twenties, from the looks of it- dressed as a tiefling bard with a guitar slung over his shoulder. It was true, from looks alone he checked all of your boxes. The long curly hair, the red makeup around his eyes, the tattoos that showed on his forearms…
“You okay over there, or did my business partner go brain dead for a second?” You heard Ingrid’s smirk before you saw it. She laughed at you good-naturedly when you faintly swatted at her with your cleaning rag. “It looks like they’re headed this way, you take him and I’ll take his blonde pirate friend.”
You took another look at the man- trying not to be obvious about the fact that you were looking- and noticed this time that he was traveling with two others: the aforementioned blonde pirate and a normal-looking guy who, admittedly, had very nice hair. They did seem to be headed your way; you quickly took a moment to turn around and top off the canteen that hung from the leather belt at your waist with some cold water. You quickly took a sip before turning around to face the counter, and when you did, there he was.
“Hi, uh-” his eyes were downcast, hands digging into his pockets for cash. “-can you break a twenty?” Pulling a crumpled bill from a money clip, his gaze met yours under an apologetic brow. Big brown eyes, framed with blood-red smudges- he pulled it off. Tremendously.
You didn’t have to force your service industry smile- it came naturally for him. “With pleasure, noble bard.” You propped your forearms on the wooden bartop, hoping your cleavage was looking particularly stunning at the angle from which he was gazing up at you. “And what sort of beverage might you be craving on this fine day?”
“That’s right, wrap your lips around my tip and drink me down, beautiful-”
Before he could answer, the two of you were both more than a little distracted by Ingrid’s filthy monologue. She held a freshly opened can of beer to the blonde pirate girl’s lips, and you were very impressed with how easily the girl was able to obey the instructions that Ingrid gave every customer who tossed a tip into the Mistress jar- hands behind your back, mouth open, chin up, eyes on me. You and the dark-haired tiefling were both entranced by the sight before you: Ingrid, with the endless stream of dirty words that tumbled from her mouth as she poured bubbly, golden brew down the throat of the tall blonde pirate.
“-keep that pretty mouth open you little minx, and look up at me as i finish down your throat. Yes, that’s a good girl, and swallow.” Ingrid pulled the can away from her lips with a smile, gazing proudly down at the pirate who sputtered out a soft cough after breathing down some much-needed oxygen. “Good job, darling.” Ingrid crooned.
The regularly-dressed guy standing behind her stared with wide eyes, and you couldn’t quite tell if he was appalled or impressed. “Oh…my god, Robin!” he guffawed.
“I’ll.. aha, um-” You refocused your attention to the bard standing before you, a natural blush now creeping into his cheeks beneath the red makeup on his temples. “-I’ll have what she’s having, please.” He nodded to his friend- Robin, apparently.
You smiled knowingly, taking the twenty from his hands and ignoring the rush you felt when your fingertips brushed his. You made his change, handing him a few fives and ones before giving the Mistress jar a gentle tap. You finished opening his beer just in time to see him toss a five into the jar- a generous tip, since the beer only cost $3.
You raised an eyebrow, smiling at him appreciatively. “Huzzah for the tipper.” you purred, opting to make the phrase just for him instead of yelling it obnoxiously for all to hear. After all, you were about to be plenty obnoxious already.
You nodded flirtatiously to direct his attention above you. “See those shackles up there, love?”
His eyes, shining with anticipation and the best kind of nerves, flicked up to what you were referring to- dangling from the wood above the bartop were a pair of metal handles that hung by black-painted chains. They were similar to an actual shackle, but it was obvious that they were there to hold, not imprison. The bard looked back down to you, returning your flirting gaze.
“I do.” he smirked.
You narrowed your eyes on him playfully. “I’m going to need you to reach up and take hold of them-” He did as he was told, and you admired how his blousy sleeves fell further down to his biceps, showcasing the way his ink stretched over lean muscles. “-oh good boy, you look so good stretched out for me like that. Hold tight now, darling.”
You had to hold back a chuckle at how quickly his flirty eye contact and smirk turned to a pure deer-in-the-headlights expression when you’d called him a good boy. You had an inkling that this guy wasn’t used to being told what to do in this particular way.
Leaning forward until your cleavage was practically up against his nose, you nodded at him sweetly. “Open that pretty pink mouth for me darling- yes, that’s right, lips around my hole and suck-” Once the can was to his lips, you began pouring a steady stream down his throat. His big doe eyes didn’t know where to look, torn between your eyes and your tits that looked just about ready to pop out of your corset. The rest of the words that tumbled from your mouth were less spoken and more so moaned while you gazed down at this gorgeous little tiefling who- for the next few moments- was completely at your mercy.
“-take it, yes, good boy, take me deep into your throat as you look up at me with those pretty brown eyes. Oh my goodness, you’re so obedient! I love it when a big strong man lets himself be this pretty and stretched out for me as he suckles on my little hole. No, don’t look away, my eyes are up here you wretched little thing- yes, that’s right, oh I only wish I could hear all the pretty noises you make when you take me down deep like this. Yes, you’re going to finish me, aren’t you? Oh yes, you’re going to finish me using that dirty little mouth-” Nearing the end of the can, you poured the last drop down his throat. “-yes, oh that’s a good boy, swallow every drop of me, good job love.”
He sputtered a final swallow, red-faced and breathing deep after chugging an entire can of beer. His eyes were still wide, but now there was also the way he looked at you- like he would do pretty much anything you ever told him to do at the drop of a hat.
Letting go of the shackles above your head, he managed to catch his breath before checking behind him to make sure he didn’t have a long line of waiting customers. No line had formed, but his blush had deepened when he saw his friends both watching him with smirks that said they were never going to let him live this down.
“Shit,” he chuckled looking up at you, his personality taking on a slightly more devil-may-care sort of attitude now. “I-uh- I think I blacked out, you might have to say all that again, I didn’t catch it the first time.”
You laughed, easily shirking the domineering attitude that you exuded for the job and relaxing into what felt natural- soft, sweet, and flirty- with this guy, at least. “Tell you what,” you said, coyly. You weren’t normally one to invite strangers out for drinks, but Ingrid had been right about one thing- this guy was definitely your type. “When the faire closes today, I’ll be at a bar called The Honeybee about ten minutes from here. If I happen to see you there,” you shrugged, and you didn’t miss how his eyes immediately flicked down to your cleavage as the motion made you bounce. “-then we can say all kinds of things to each other.”
The facial expression on the bard changed in an instant, his expression shifting from innocent and eager to knowing and darkly tempting. “Tell me, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, “Are you always as demanding as you were just now, or was that just an act?”
You knew what he was asking, and part of you wanted to tell him that he’ll have to show up at The Honeybee if he wants to find out, but something in you also wanted him to know the answer to that question- wanted him to know so many things about you it made your head spin.
“I can go either way and have a great time regardless.” you replied, smiling sweet as a spoonful of honey, and the devilish grin that he gave you in return took the breath from your lungs.
“Perfect.” he practically growled, “What’s your name?”
You told him, and the way he repeated it on his lips had you pressing your thighs tightly together. “And your name is?”
“Eddie.” he smiled.
You grinned in return. “Eddie.” you repeated. His name tasted like whiskey and cinnamon on your tongue. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”
To your surprise, Eddie laughed raucously, hopping back a few paces. “Oh, on the contrary, fair barmaid!” With a flourish, he swung his guitar from his back to his front, strumming a few chords in rapid succession and plucking them in a melody that showed a level of skill that you hadn’t been expecting. After a moment of music, he stopped short and looked up at you with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Mark my words, my love- you’ll see me again before tonight and you will- without a doubt- hear me before you see me.”
You let out a surprised laugh, fingers flying up to your mouth to block an obnoxious guffaw from escaping your lips. That only spurred Eddie on more. He made a sort of swatting motion with his hand, gesturing toward your own hand at your mouth. “Away, thou evil hand! How dare ye venture to hide the sweetest of smiles that does bloom on a flower such as this?” He plucked away at his instrument dramatically, as if doing so were a declaration of war. You couldn’t help but humor him, grabbing the offending hand with your other one and firmly clasping both in your lap.
Eddie smiled, still strumming his guitar. “Aye, and stay away! For there are far better things for pretty hands to do than hide even prettier faces.” He waggled his eyebrows up and down as he began to walk away with his friends.
Your jaw dropped as you let out a good natured scoff. “And what would the noble bard suggest I do with my pretty hands?” you knew that you practically yelled it, and it caused a few other guests to glance your way questioningly; you didn’t care, it certainly wasn’t the strangest thing you’d said today.
Eddie’s cackle rang out through the air like electricity during a storm, and your heart did a little backflip when he spun around once before facing you one last time before he was out of your line of sight. “Oh, my lady-” he called, smiling unabashedly, “-I humbly suggest you find the biggest can you have, think of me-” and then the motherfucker winked, “-and use your imagination.”
