20 | she/her | october libra | infp/enfp (it changes between the two, its never consistent sob) | I like writing, acting, reading, cooking, and painting | music & food are big parts of my life | english is not my first language, I speak tagalog and I'm currently learning italian! |
wow, making a masterlist makes me feel so profesh and like an actual tumblr writer (i've only done two works so far). i do plan on writing more, so this list will be important soon i promise!
love curls and other incriminating evidence — ( eddie munson )
eddie munson x fem!reader
your carefully hidden secret relationship unravels in the most humiliating way possible. but the undeniable fact through it all was that eddie munson is terrible at pretending he isn’t in love with you. by the time the whole group figures it out, eddie’s already lost his ring, his dignity, and any hope of acting normal around you. . . but at least he gets to stop pretending you aren’t his.
🏷️ 2.1k — fluff, secret relationship gone wrong ( right ), eddie munson yearns so hard it’s embarrassing, mutual pining even while dating, accidental coming out x4
request — [ by anonymous ] hii! i saw your cry for requests and im here to save the day 🦸♀️ can i req eddie and reader who are secretly dating and she's steve & robins friend so she's around the party a lot and they find out thru little things (wearing one of his rings, talking like him, love curls theory 🫣) if you end up doing this, thank you sm!
author's note — okay hi first of all thank you so much to the lovely who requested this. and also thank you to everyone who’s sent in requests lately because wow. . . there are a lot and i see you and i appreciate you more than i can explain. anyways, requests are open. enjoy <3
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Eddie Munson was exceptionally bad at secrets. Horrifically, painfully bad at them.
This was an objective truth, right up there with gravity and the fact that Wayne always knew when he was lying. Which made it deeply unfair that he was now in a secret relationship with you — someone who could kiss him breathless in a supply closet and then walk back out five minutes later like nothing had happened. Like your mouth hadn’t just been on his. Like his hands hadn’t still been shaking when you’d adjusted your shirt and told him to “act normal.”
Normal? Eddie Munson had never once acted normal in his entire life, and you expected him to start now?
The worst part in his opinion was that you were criminally good at pretending. At acting like Eddie was just. . . there. Someone you tolerated for Steve and Robin’s sake. Someone mildly annoying. Someone whose knee hadn’t been wedged between yours twenty minutes ago. Eddie, meanwhile, looked like a man actively resisting the urge to gnaw his own arm off.
Which was why Robin Buckley was currently psychoanalyzing him with narrowed eyes from behind the counter with the kind of look that made Eddie feel like confessing to crimes he hadn’t even committed yet. He slapped on a lopsided grin and gave her a little bow. “Buckley,” he said, hand to chest.
She rolled her eyes so hard he was pretty sure she saw her own brain, then turned back to the counter, organizing the stack of tapes you’d just dropped in her arms. Eddie sagged in relief and took a seat against the counter. Robin paused.
“. . . What do you need?” she asked without looking at him.
“Uh,” Eddie said, buying time. “Horror?”
She finally looked up. “You need horror?”
Eddie straightened, offended. “Wow. Love the confidence, Buckley.” He jerked his chin toward you. “Ask your coworker. I love horror.”
Robin’s brow arched. “Why would she know what you like?”
Words jammed up in Eddie's throat. “I— I mean—”
“Of course it’s because she’s the smartest and most emotionally evolved out of you three,” Dustin cut in at lightning speed, suddenly appearing at Eddie’s side and waving his hands vaguely between you, Steve, and Robin. “Like. Obviously.”
Robin gave Dustin a long, assessing look. “You and I have never really clicked, have we?”
“Uh,” Dustin drawled.
She stared at him another second, then huffed and disappeared into the storeroom.
Dustin leaned closer. “You owe me one,” he muttered.
Eddie exhaled and pointed at him. “I owe you several.”
Dustin grinned and wandered back to the rotating shelf.
Oh yes. Dustin Henderson was the only one who knew about you and Eddie. And it hadn’t been intentional. If Eddie had gotten to choose, he might’ve told Nancy — if only because he would have talked about you to her and she would just listen, not caring in the least. But the unfortunate incident had already occurred. You’d been over at the trailer. Dustin had, at that exact moment, decided to drop by unannounced. And well. He’d caught the two of you in a. . . compromising situation.
The secret had cost Eddie a science kit Dustin had been eyeing for weeks. Worth it, probably. Still unfortunate.
Eddie was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of your voice.
He turned just in time to see you leaning against the counter with Steve, who was pointing at the jacket slung comfortably over your shoulders. His jacket. The one Eddie distinctly remembered owning. The one that was very much not on his body anymore.
“Hey,” Steve said, squinting at you. “That’s not yours.”
You nervously laughed. “Wow. Gold stars for you, Steve.”
“No, I mean,” he laughed, scratching the back of his neck, “that’s not your style at all. Funny thing is,” He paused. “it is someone else’s style.”
And then, like the universe hated Eddie Munson personally, Steve turned to look at him like it was a genuine coincidence.
Steve’s smile faltered.
His eyes dropped to Eddie’s shoulders and to the absence of denim and patches. His eyes widened slowly, realization crashing in.
“Oh,” Steve said.
You and Eddie locked eyes. Yours went wide. Eddie’s probably fell out, he couldn't tell.
“Nope,” you said, clamping a hand over Steve’s mouth before he could finish that thought. You shook your head, your eyes begging, a little threatening, pleading all at once. Then you nodded sharply at Eddie like move, grabbed Steve by the arm, and hauled him toward the door.
Eddie scrambled after you, heart in his throat, while Dustin looked up from the rotating shelf just in time to see the three of you disappear outside.
“Wow,” Dustin muttered to himself. “Science kit paid for itself already.”
You dragged Steve far enough that the neon glow of Family Video buzzed behind you, then finally yanked your hand away from his mouth. He sucked in a breath like he’d been underwater.
His eyes bounced between you and Eddie. “You two?” he blurted, voice cracking like a kid going through puberty again.
You shook your head on instinct at the exact same time Eddie nodded, helpless and completely incapable of lying when it came to you. Steve stared at the contradictory answers.
“What? Okay, hold on,” Steve said, backing up a step and pointing between you. “So that’s why you’ve been acting weird. And you,” he pointed at Eddie, who waved weakly, “you’re always acting weird so I didn’t notice anything.”
Eddie perked up. “Hey.”
Steve laughed suddenly, then stopped just as fast. “Wait. How long? And does anyone else know?”
You hesitated. Eddie didn’t. “A while and yes, Henderson knows. He kind of walked in when we were uh. . .” he drawled and thankfully Steve put up a hand.
“Wow,” he breathed. “Okay. Okay!” He straightened, visibly puffing up. “First of all? I figured it out. Me. Not Robin. Not Henderson. Me.”
Eddie scoffed. “I told you Henderson knows.”
Steve waved that off immediately. “Yeah, but he didn’t figure it out. That doesn’t count. That’s like. . . accidental knowledge. I solved it. I’m a genius.” He pointed at his own head. “Brain like a steel trap.”
Before either of you could react, Steve stepped forward and wrapped both of you into a hug. You stiffened in surprise as Eddie froze entirely, arms hovering uselessly at his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.
“Oh,” Eddie muttered, patting Steve’s back awkwardly. “There there, Harrington.”
Steve pulled back just enough to give him a look. “This guy. Seriously?”
Something in Eddie’s chest suddenly unlocked as he had a quick realization. If Steve knew then that meant Eddie could finally. . . He leaned in without thinking, instinct dragging him forward, nose brushing yours, heart thudding loud enough he was pretty sure Steve could hear it too.
“Hey, dude,” Steve said immediately. “I’m standing right here.”
Eddie froze mid-lean, eyes snapping open. “But, you know,” he said, like that explained everything.
Steve stared at him. “Yeah. I know. That does not mean I want to watch you two suck each other’s faces off outside my place of work.”
Eddie groaned, tipping his head back. “This is oppression.”
You laughed and patted Eddie’s chest in a traitorous way, like you weren’t the reason his brain had short-circuited entirely. Steve shook his head, lips twitching despite himself, and gave you both a lopsided, fond smile. He turned and headed for the door. You followed for exactly three steps.
Then you pivoted on your heel, grabbed Eddie by the front of his shirt, and kissed him. Eddie made a noise that was somewhere between a gasp and a whimper and promptly melted, knees going weak.
When you pulled back, grinning, Eddie just stared at you, eyes blown wide, brain fully turned to static.
“Oh,” he breathed. “Yeah. I’m— I’m ruined.”
You squeezed his hand and slipped back toward the store before he could recover. Eddie stood there for a second longer, heart racing, smiling like an idiot, as he ticked off a second person off his list.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ────────
The third coming out came much faster than expected.
You had Nancy and Jonathan over for movie night from which Robin had bailed with a vague excuse about a headache that sounded suspiciously like people. You’d all piled onto the couch Somewhere around the halfway mark, you’d half-dozed off, cheek pressed into a pillow, brain blissfully empty.
You woke up to whisper-arguing.
Groggy and unconcerned, you brushed it off immediately. Nancy and Jonathan fought sometimes. You rolled over, eyes still closed when you heard Eddie’s voice.
“Oh shit,” you whispered, sitting bolt upright.
You scrambled off the couch, just in time to look toward the front door. Nancy stood with her hands planted on her hips. Jonathan stood beside her, looking sleepy. Eddie was trapped between them, glancing around, clearly assessing every possible exit — the door, the windows, maybe the floor could magically open up. Now would have been a great time for one of those demogorgons to come out.
“Hey,” you offered weakly.
“Hey? Hey?” Nancy repeated. “Would you care to explain this?” She pointed directly at Eddie.
You blinked. “That’s. . . Eddie.”
“Oh yes,” Nancy said flatly. “Thank you. That was exactly what I was asking.”
You winced. “There’s no way I’m getting out of this, is there?”
Jonathan shook his head. “Nope.”
What followed could only be described as an interrogation. Nancy was pacing the entire time as Jonathan offered Eddie some water who was answering far too honestly when directly addressed and clamming up the second she looked away. You tried to help. You really did. It did not help. At one point Nancy paused mid-lecture, eyes widening.
“Wait,” she said. “Steve figured it out before you me?”
Eddie groaned quietly. You covered your face.
Eventually, Jonathan managed to steer Nancy toward the door, hand on her shoulder, murmuring reassurances and promises of later discussion. She shot one last suspicious look over her shoulder before leaving.
The door shut.
Eddie exhaled deeply which told you he’d been holding his breath for ten minutes straight. “She scares me,” he said faintly.
You nodded immediately. “Me too.”
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The last coming out somehow managed to involve everyone.
It happened during one of the group’s meetings. Eddie was half-sprawled in a chair and you very pointedly sitting not next to him. Everything was fine.
Well, until you accidentally made a D&D reference.
Will’s head snapped up. “. . . Wait,” he said with narrowed eyes. “You hate D&D.”
You froze and shrugged, forcing a laugh. “I mean. I don’t hate it.”
Lucas squinted at you as he began assessing you and then his eyes dropped to your hand. “Is that a new ring?”
Your stomach dropped.
“I’ve actually seen that before,” he continued, leaning closer. “Eddie has the exact same one. Eddie, show her.”
All eyes turned to Eddie. He swallowed, then reluctantly held out his hand. The ring was gone.
Jonathan immediately tried to redirect the conversation so hard it almost qualified as cardio. Robin leaned forward, interest sparking.
“Hey, Munson,” she said. “Where’s your ring?”
Max’s eyes widened. “Holy shit.”
Everyone turned to her.
“They’re dating,” Max said, pointing wildly between you and Eddie. “They’re dating.”
“No!” You exclaimed before clearing your throat. “No. Eddie just. . . happened to give me his ring. Because I liked it.”
Max raised a brow at you which made you nervously twirl your hair.
Max gasped. “Oh my god—”
“Your hair is curly,” Mike cut in.
You deadpanned. “Yeah. I’ll tell you the secret later, Mikeala.”
Mike rolled his eyes as Max shot him a glare. “I was about to say that. Girls’ hair turns curly when they’re in love. See?” She gestured at her own hair. Lucas grinned proudly.
Across the room, Will and Jane exchanged a look.
“No,” Will said.
Everyone turned to them. “What now?” Dustin asked.
“Last week,” Will continued, “we saw her leaving Eddie’s trailer.”
Eddie spluttered. “Why are you snooping around my trailer, Byers?”
“We were going to Max’s house,” Jane said. “We thought we were hallucinating.”
Will nodded. “Because, well, she’s gorgeous. And you’re Eddie.”
Eddie paused. “. . . I’m not even gonna argue. That’s true.”
What followed was a long, exhausting debate with who almost caught them when. You exchanged a look with Eddie who had now been deemed the love coach by Max and Will for having to be able to get a girl like you while being like him.
Only Robin was quiet which was very unusual and mildly unsettled you. You nudged her when everyone got distracted by another argument. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
She sighed. “I just— I can’t believe the dingus figured it out before me.”
The most important writing lesson I ever learned was not in a screenwriting class, but a fiction class.
This was senior year of college. Most of us had already been accepted into grad school of some sort. We felt powerful, we felt talented, and most of all, we felt artistic.
It was the advanced fiction workshop, and we did an entire round of workshops with everyone’s best stories, their most advanced work, their most polished pieces. It was very technical and, most of all, very artistic.
IE: They were boring pieces of pretentious crap.
Now the teacher was either a genius OR was tired of our shit, and decided to give us a challenge. Flash fiction, he said. Write something as quickly as possible. Make it stupid. Make it not mean a thing, just be a quick little blast of words.
And, of course, we all got stupid. Little one and two pages of prose without the barriers that it must be good. Little flashes of characters, little bits of scenarios.
And they were electric. All of them. So interesting, so vivid, not held back by the need to write important things or artistic things.
One sticks in my mind even today. The guys original piece was a thinky, thoughtful piece relating the breaking up of threesomes to volcanoes and uncontrolled eruptions that was just annoying to read. But his flash fiction was this three page bit about a homeless man who stole a truck full of coca cola and had to bribe people to drink the soda so he could return the cans to recycling so he could afford one night with the prostitute he loved.
It was funny, it was heartfelt, and it was so, so, so well written.
And just that one little bit of advice, the write something short and stupid, changed a ton of people’s writing styles for the better.
It was amazing. So go. Go write something small. Go write something that’s not artistic. Go write something stupid. Go have fun.
gays, home of sexuals, lgbtqs, help me redesign my bedroom because i cant live like this anymore. make suggestions & i will move items accordingly (everything in purple is stuff i can move). only requirement is that my bed is in some corner bc if it doesn’t touch two walls ill die
you're watching my dead wife montage but I don't do anything aesthetic like run on the beach so it's just clips of me zoning out at work and playing the sims in my apartment
summary: “Can’t believe you’ll finally let me do dinner service,” you let out with a laugh, and guilt blooms in his chest. Over how selfish he’s been, over how unfair he is to you, that have committed no sin besides being what he can’t have. Fuck, the wine is making his head spin. “Have I been promoted to the good list?” You joke.
Maybe the best way to rid himself of how feverishly he wants you is to keep you around. Not avoid you.
“I think I just need to stop being selfish,” he mutters. And that’s it. That’s all it takes for Eddie to realize that all he wants at this moment is to put his goddamn cigarette out and hold you with both hands.
cw: no y/n, eddie calls reader 'kid', age gap (r is 26, e is 46), language, smoking, moral angst, dual pov (in the sense that you get to see what both eddie and r are thinking), yearning and pining on steroids, smut (minors DNI), oral (f receiving), eddie cums in his pants (what's new), food as a love language, fwb status achieved, the last dialogue is heavily influenced by heated rivalry because they've plagued my existence
word count: 6k
series masterlist | chef! eddie moodboard | pt. 1 | pt. 2| pt. 4 coming soon!
song inspo- hunger by florence + the machine
divider by @saradika-graphics
all my works are 18+ pls minors dni
The sound is deafening. It’s like watching a wine chalice fall from your tray, and being unable to do anything to stop it.
It’s the silence right before. The anticipation. Expecting the mess it will make on the floor. It all bubbles in your gut, right as you see him walk towards you. He’s holding a glass of Chablis full to the brim, accompanied by its half-finished bottle. “Figured I’d come out for a smoke, too,” he blurts out, muffled by the cigarette between his lips. The spark wheel makes its sound, and the cigarette between his lips rims with golden embers. The air feels trapped in Eddie’s lungs, a weak cough escapes him. What now?
“‘S cold out here for an old man like you,” you point out, chuckling at him, but your tone is uncertain. As you speak, you see him walk over, and lean on the banister. Right next to you. His suede-clad shoulder bumps into yours, and the proximity makes you shiver. He takes a sip of his wine and places the glass on the rickety metal table right next to him.
“Watch that tone,” he jests. “I’m a big boy, I can take a little snow,” his voice slightly charred by the alcohol, mirrors your amused tone. His spiritedness slices a sympathetic smile through your lips.
“I never got to thank you for the food,” you change the subject. Suddenly, the air around Eddie feels thick. He must be a real thick-brained motherfucker if he thought you wouldn’t have put two and two together. Maybe he did want you to figure it out, to know that he wasn’t avoiding you because of anything that you did– he just had to care from a distance.
“What food?”
“The one you’d leave in my locker. I figured it was you because of your handwriting on the notes. The same one as the note you left on the bacon, egg, and cheese after I got drunk,” you explain, taking another hit of your cigarette. Again, there’s no shame behind your admission of what happened that night. Yet, every mention of that night it’s like a gunshot wound to Eddie’s chest.
“You’re too fuckin’ smart, kid,” he grumbles, followed by a fat swig of wine, and the compliment makes you fluster. “After the eggs and fries I assumed you don’t eat a whole lot with all the runnin’ you do around the restaurant, so–” he trails off, shrugging like it’s not a big deal. Except it is.
“I really liked that brie and fig preserve sandwich. You used that good ham we have in the fridge, didn’t you?” you ask, a bit embarrassed that he’d use the good stuff on you. He emits an affirmative hum, and if possible, he sees your smile get bigger. Fuck. Stop looking at me like that. “Will you make it for me again some time?” You bat your eyes at him in a joking manner, but all Eddie can think about is how twinkly your eyes look reflecting the lights brightening your street.
“Tell ya what, kid– if you come after lunch and do dinner service with me, I will,” his tone is soft, as he turns around and nudges you with his shoulder. You look at the curve of his nose and lips pointing at the moon. At his fingers, tightly wrapped around his cigarette, while the smoke of it surrounds you like a wall. He’s looking at you, now. He keeps himself there, right against you, hoping you can’t feel how badly he wants to touch more than your shoulder. More than your arms. That he wants to wrap his arms around you, grip your waist, take off– no, not yet– as much as he would like to. He wants you to want it first, just so he won’t feel like a complete pervert.
Your eyes turn into half-moons, which make the real thing pale in comparison, squinted by a smile. Then his eyes travel down your lips, wrapping around the cigarette, which has turned into a stump, and he’s done for.
All he thinks about is to kiss you until you’re so dizzy you can’t stand, and he’ll be there to hold you up. To feel the taste of your smile against his lips. To cup your face, shield you from the cold. Fuck, he needs more wine.
“Can’t believe you’ll finally let me do dinner service,” you let out with a laugh, and guilt blooms in his chest. Over how selfish he’s been, over how unfair he is to you, that have committed no sin besides being what he can’t have. Fuck, the wine is making his head spin. “Have I been promoted to the good list?” You joke.
Maybe the best way to rid himself of how feverishly he wants you is to keep you around. Not avoid you.
“I think I just need to stop being selfish,” he mutters. And that’s it. That’s all it takes for Eddie to realize that all he wants at this moment is to put his goddamn cigarette out and hold you with both hands.
He looks at you with the eyes of a man who’s starving, hands inching up the length of your arms, he’s now a palm’s length away from you. “You’re so beautiful,” it comes out choked, like a breath he’s been holding underwater.
“Chef–”
“Just Eddie, please,” he corrects with a murmur right against your face. He’s pervaded by the tobacco smell of your mouth, the smell of your hair in which snowflakes have deposited themselves to become droplets. There’s no more restraint, no more control. “Let me kiss you,” he whispers, as he looks into your eyes. “I can’t do this anymore,” his voice is feeble. He’s begging. He’s so desperate with it, you see it in the flush of his cheeks.
“But– but you’re drunk?” You counter, pushing back the crawling feeling in your body. The one that wants to push you closer, until you’re basically inside his jacket.
“‘M sober enough to know I want to kiss you. That– that I’ve wanted to kiss you since that one night I gave you my cigarette,” he breathes, stutters, blubbers. The proximity to you, to your lips, makes his brain short circuit as his breath warms your face with the smell of wine and cigarettes.
You don’t answer, and in return, you just press your lips to his.
He sears with the heat of you despite your cold lips. Your hands on his cheeks, your body right against his, as you let the cigarette fall down the balcony. Feverish, dizzy. He can’t fucking think.
“Three months–” he mutters against the softness of your lips, “ever since that fucking interview, I’ve wanted you so much it made me stupid, selfish–” his hands travel up and down your arms, to your waist, to your back.
“Shut up and keep kissing me, Eddie,” and hearing his name begged out of your lips is enough for him to stop rambling his pleas for forgiveness. There’s a sheen of sweat that’s coating both of your foreheads, your upper lips, as you open his coat.
He’s offering himself to you in the barest way he can think of. It’s not love, no. Just a carnal need to show you his bones, blood, flesh. Not literally, but in the way that he ebbs and flows with the rhythm of your own body. He doesn’t force anything. He lets you part your mouth of your own volition, to caress his tongue over yours.
It’s all he’s been wanting. It’s everything he’s waited three months for. He’s not subtle with how hungry he is for you.
“Tell me you don’t want this, sweetheart. Please, stop me,” he says, another, final, attempt at a trace of goodness left in him. His breath ragged, tortured, because he can’t stop it himself. He can’t.
“I want– want it so much, Eddie,” you pant inside his mouth. You’re way past forming a rational thought, not when the fullness of his lips makes you dizzy enough to stumble where you stand.
He’s surprised with the eagerness of your own dormant hunger. The one that led you to sleepless nights, pushing away your duvet because of the heat that took over your body whenever you thought about him. Whenever your hands slipped ever so slightly under the waistband of your underwear, letting yourself indulge in the thought of him. Unlike him, you didn’t even make an attempt at goodness.
It was something private, something that you could keep a secret. You would’ve come apart at the seams otherwise.
His hand is placed behind your head, cushioning, as he holds you against the glass window. His mouth makes his way down your jaw, your ear, your neck. Like he wants to memorize all of you with his lips. Drawing outlines in the cold-pricked skin, like he’s keeping the image of your kiss-bitten lips for a rainy day.
“You smell so fucking good,” he almost growls against the softness of your skin. “It’s been making me crazy, to even– even be in the same room with you,” he stutters, and that’s all the explanation you need as to why he’s been avoiding you. Yet, you don’t say anything besides sighing against his hairline, smelling the pine scent of his shampoo.
“Can you say my name, please, sweetheart?” he sobs. Not chef, not anything else. He just wants to be himself. He bites at the column of your neck, and like he’s pushed a button, you comply.
“Eddie–” it’s a sigh, a plea, a prayer. It rings into his ears like a dog whistle. It makes him stupid. “In–side, please,” you grit out, pushing through the feeling of his hands sneaking their way under your coat and pyjama shirt. You grab the collar of his coat to drag him past the sliding door, back in the warmth of your home.
Your coats come off with heavy thuds against the hardwood floor, forgotten in a pool of brown and white. You’re immediately pushed over the couch, watching him kneel between your parted legs.
“I’ve wanted you so bad,” he whispers, nudging your nose with his, “I don’t know how– I don’t–” It makes him stupid, delirious. Drunk on your smell, and the little gasps that escape you whenever he places a kiss right down the sliver of skin the first button of your pyjamas makes available to him. His hands travel up and down your hips and stomach, like a gentle caress.
“It’s– it’s okay,” you pant against his ear. “Please, don’t make me wait,” you demand, grabbing the hem of his t-shirt, trying to get him to take it off. Clothes feel offending, oppressive. Not when you’ve both been so patient. Once his shirt is off and you can see him, he becomes a smatter of tattoos, spidery lines in black ink that litter his arms, his chest, his upper back. You hear him chuckle at your stunned pause, which makes you burn with embarrassment.
“I won’t make you wait, sweetheart, but please don’t stop staring at me like that,” he gives you a skewed smile, reaching for the buttons of your pyjama top. He could’ve easily lifted it over your head, he’s aware, but he likes this. This self torture, this proof that even at the eleventh hour, when you’re panting right under him, begging to undress you, he can still exercise restraint.
For someone who’s always running, always in a hurry, every second feels like an eternity as he peels every layer of you with careful attentiveness. Almost afraid to miss anything that’s laying dormant under the pink flannel.
He’s soft beneath your hands, with pearly scars that bump his skin close to his wrists and forearms. You measure the length of them with soft strokes of your hands, up and down. You want to make sure he’s real, that this is real. That every muscle, bump, and hair that you feel in the wake of your hands exists because he’s letting himself exist in front of you– naked, and beautiful.
When he takes off your pyjama top you can hear him suck a breath through his teeth. He’s so hungry for skin he’s yet to explore, smells he’s yet to sense, ones that make his dick twitch in his black sweatpants at the mere thought. His hands travel up your stomach, reaching up to your chest, squeezing the skin of your breasts with such gentleness, it makes you keen for more.
“You’re so, so pretty,” he exhales it like it’s a secret he doesn’t want you to find out. “Look at these–” he marvels with a firmer squeeze that elicits a squirm from you. “Can’t believe I made you wait this long, sweetheart, look at you,” he whines in return at the sight of you, arched into his touch, like you’re going to die without it.
He grabs your face with one hand, keeping your chin in place, as he trails kisses down your stomach, never breaking contact with your stunned eyes.
Your skin is stained with wet kisses, while you look at him press his free hand on your legs, inhale the smell that is pervading his nostrils in a way that’s making him dizzy.
“You been thinking about this, sweets?” And his smugness makes you want to scream from every pore. “Because I have, so many times,” he pants against the dampening crotch of your pyjamas. “I’ve thought about you like this, looking at me with your pretty eyes– God, your eyes–” he groans, “and I never did anything about it,” he confesses. “It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair to you, sweets. Because I didn’t know you wanted me just as bad as I wanted you.” His last confession comes out lamentful, strained. Like he can’t believe he tortured himself this much over you.
“You… you didn’t–”
“Did you?” he asks like it’s a challenge, staring straight into your waiting eyes. It makes you feel embarrassed of the many nights spent moaning his name into the void of your room. So you nod, quietly, and you can feel the wicked smile bloom on his lips, right against your inner thigh, “God, you’re sweet,” he chuckles, mirth dripping from his voice.
“I didn’t– didn’t know,” you correct in between gasps, while his tattooed fingers hook on the elastic of your Christmas pyjamas.
“How could you have known?” He whispers against the skin of your stomach, mouthing his own secret language like prayer, like he wants to inhale the scent of your skin and bottle it for him to keep. He looks at you– eyes twinkling in the dim orange light of your living room. Dark and wanting, but an underlying twinge of adoration he’ll never bring himself to admit.
His hand that’s holding your chin in place sneaks up to your lips, and there’s a silent pause. A moment where he looks into your eyes, a silent declaration that yes, this is okay. It’s barely perceptible when you nod around his hand, and he wastes no time pushing his way past your lips with his thumb, eliciting a moan from you, while his other hand pushes your legs back, and he inhales.
“This okay?” he mumbles, out loud this time, against the smooth skin of your thigh, followed by a nip of his teeth that makes you cry out around his finger. You nod again. “Rest your legs on my shoulders, sweets, it’s okay,” he invites, and you comply. There’s nothing he could ask of you you wouldn’t do at this moment. If anything, it only adds more matches to the pool of flaming gasoline at the bottom of your stomach.
Another deep inhale, a hitching breath. He can’t believe he’s there. Right between your legs, as his hand is about to push your panties to the side, and his heart is beating so hard right against his chest, that he thinks it might poke out of him. You smell so good it makes him feel stupid.
He looks at you again, eyes glazed over, impatiently waiting for him to do something, anything. Yet you wait. You don’t push, or press, or demand. You’re just there.
You who are always so composed, so polite, so witty. Rendered wordless by his hovering mouth and ragged breath right where you need him most. And yet you just wait.
So he goes in, and the sound that comes out of you is like music ringing in his ears. A sacred collapse of resolve.
“Fuck– shit– Ed–” like you’re trying to begin new sentences, and the thread snaps right then and there, rendering you useless under his ministrations.
“Don’t have to speak,” he mouths right against the wet skin of your pussy. He explores, he takes his time. It’s the sweet torture he’s been wanting to inflict on himself all along. “You’re doing good,” he affirms before going in again. Lapping at as much surface he can cover with his tongue. He slurps and sucks like he’s never eaten a meal in his life. His free hand, the one that’s holding you open for him, moves down the length of your thigh, so close to where his chin is resting, waterfalled by the blissful pooling of your arousal. He crooks one of his fingers inside you, and you’re so responsive it makes his cock twitch in his sweats at every noise and whine that escapes your lips.
And he groans. At the smell of you, the taste, the way you clench around his finger like you’re trying to keep him there forever. The vibrations make you shiver.
“You always this messy, or just for me?” He murmurs amused, watching your eyes roll back at the additional stimulation.“Another one? Or are you good?” He asks, in a teasing whisper. He curls his finger deeper, and watches with resolute satisfaction at the way you arch your back off the couch, blubbering around his thumb.
“‘Nother one, please,” you mumble, and he obediently obliges, coaxing another whine out of you.
“Woulda done this sooner if I knew how– fuck, how wet you got for me,” he stands up and curls over you like a cat, while he pumps his fingers inside you. You can feel him grind on your thigh, heavy breathing in your ear. He’s embarrassed at the knowledge that he’s not going to last, but at this moment, he really doesn’t care about anything except coaxing more sweet sounds out of you. “Gimme kiss,” he mumbles against your swollen lips, as he takes his thumb out of your mouth, and replaces it with his searing tongue. You can smell yourself all over his mouth, chin, and nose, and you want nothing more than to lick it off of him. To take back the proof of how much you wanted it.
“Go on,” he says, like he can read it in your mind. “Lick me clean,” and so you do. The flat of your tongue swirls on his chin, under his nose, the side of his lips, and each roll of his hips against your soft thigh elicits more groans, more whines, right inside your mouth.
He can feel it. The way your breath is hitching, the pitch of your whines becoming higher, more desperate. The unabashed moaning, right in his mouth, the sweat that pools at your hairline, the way you’re squeezing his fingers like they’re keeping you alive.
“Eddie I’m g– please, please let me–” he shushes you, hot hair fanning your face.
“I got it, baby, don’t worry,” he soothes your desperate plea. He keeps his pace, he doesn’t speed up, or change the way his fingers are pumping inside you. Rather, his mouth leaves a trail of kisses down your jaw, to the soft lobe of your ear, and bites. “You gonna cum for me, sweets? Please lemme hear you cum in my ear,” he begs through broken huffs and labored breaths.
“The– there, plea–” you ramble, and with a final curl of his fingers, you come undone. There’s a silent scream, a whine, a jolt, as you bite down on his shoulder, and ride out your high. He feels it, you don’t want him to let go just yet, so he cups your head, placing another searing kiss on your lips.
“Shh, I got you,” he whispers, following the whine that comes out of you once he takes out his fingers, and the sight that’s in front of him is past any of his wildest fantasies of you. His hips twitch in turn, and a groaned-out sound that seems similar to your name escapes him, but you can barely hear it. You’re spent, head hung back on the headrest of your couch. Eyes half-lidded, sleepy.
“Holy shit,” you slur, still trying to steady your breath, looking at him. His thumb draws invisible straight lines against your thigh, soothing you through the aftershocks that still shoot through you.
“So much for being good,” he chuckles at himself, placing a kiss on your temple, and you’re not totally sure what it means. There’s a sourness in his expression that you can’t quite decipher. Like he’s disappointed in himself.
Maybe he wants you to return the favor? A weak hand reaching for the waistband of his sweats. He stops you.
“No more for tonight,” he soothes, soft, yet firm.
His reaction confuses you. You thought he wanted this, all of it. Did you make him feel forced to do this?
He sees the disappointment in your eyes “You don’t need to return the favor,” he intimates, his tone weak and cold. Then you look down. The stain that darkens his sweats, the one that he’s trying to cover with his hand as much as possible while he slips his shirt back on. It makes him feel pathetic, embarrassed, and if possible, even more of a pervert.
“Eddie, it’s fine. If anything’s kind of endearing–”
“It’s late. I should go home.”
And the wall’s erected in between you once again.
As confused as you are, you sit up and follow him with your eyes. “There’s no more trains, it’s like four in the morning. You can sleep on the cou–” you try to intervene, but he stops you.
“I’ll walk,” he grunts, walking off to grab his coat from the floor. He feels disgusted with himself. “‘M not far.”
“Stay, please,” you extend his hand towards him, voice thin, and you see him stop in his tracks.
There’s an uncomfortable sense of hurt that spreads through your chest, but you’re too tired to entertain it.
You sound so hurt, and it feels like a stake through his chest. He was about to be that asshole that walks away without giving any type of aftercare. The thought of it makes him sick.
Instead, he walks back to the couch, sighing a pained “Alright,” standing behind the headrest, his hand caressing the crown of your head. Only then you realize how heavy your lids feel. You’re not sure whether he’ll leave once you’re asleep, and it concerns you– how much you care about whether he’ll be there in the morning.
“I’ll stay,” he whispers, while his heart sinks.
He walks around the couch, reaching for your discarded clothes on the floor. You’re quiet, looking at him through your lashes as let yourself be dressed by him– sleeve by sleeve, button by button, while his mind steeps into an uncomfortable place, a scary place. Your silence deafens him. Now what?
“Don’t be gone when I wake up,” you slur, fully laying down.
“I won’t, promise,” he whispers.
“Mhh– thanks, Eddie,” you whisper in a sleep-daze, closing your eyes for good.
He thinks about the talk he’s gonna need to have with you when you’ll wake up in the morning. You’ll expect a continuation of what happened. Breakfast, getting to know each other, all that morning-after bullshit. Expecting things he won’t be able to give to you. He can’t be a boyfriend. He’s too tainted for something so beautiful.
Guilt suffocates him as he picks up your limp body off the couch to take you to bed, and he feels the weight of it against his arms. Yet, it’s not the weight of you. Just the weight of what he did.
The feeling of deja-vu that overtakes him makes him dizzy. He’s awake, in your apartment, and it’s five in the morning. Head in his hands, he sits right where you did, in his wet spot of shame.
Maybe he should have asked you for a spare pair of sweats. And a shower.
When you wake up, he’s asleep, mouth breathing on your couch. It makes you chuckle.
The wine bottle’s finished, and the Chinese food leftover has been put in the fridge. Dishes still piled up in the sink. You sigh.
You walk over to the sink trying to keep as quiet as possible as you soap up the pans and utensils, washing them one by one. Eddie’s awoken by an especially loud clank from a soapy pan that slips out of your hands.
“Jee-sus,” he curses, heart thumping. He rubs his eyes, heavy with sleep. Fuck, you’re awake.
“‘Morning,” you greet. Your tone is flat, and Eddie can’t tell if it’s whether you’re mad or just focused on the task at hand.
“Hey, kid,” he yawns. He’s back to ‘kid’. Like his head wasn’t between your legs last night. The thought makes your stomach sink for a second. There’s a glimpse of his mouth, of his drawled-out words against your skin, it muffles your ears for a second.
“Sleep good?” You try to make your tone as detached as possible, while you scrub another dish and put it away on the drying rack. Eddie stands up to walk over to the kitchen island, sitting on one of the stools.
“Yeah, your couch is comfy,” he lies, the small talk making him feel uneasy. “Sorry for leaving all those dishes in your sink and hittin’ the road last time, kid. Should’ve woken up earlier, I could’ve had the time, but–” he lets the sentence hang in an exhausted sigh. It’s like he’s trying to scold himself. Like he let his steely control slip for just a moment, and because of it, his resolve crumbles once more. Another bout of silence.
“Never had a man apologize for not doing the dishes,” you emit a dry laugh that makes Eddie’s stomach twist. “Guess you’re not used to it when you have a line of dishwashers to do it for you, chef,” you shrug, marking the end of your last word with a sibilated sound. If he’s putting up walls, you can do the same.
“I started as a dishwasher, kid. At Salt, just like you,” he mutters the end of that sentence like he’s afraid of it.
“You didn’t tell me you worked at Salt,” you point out, a scheptical smile on your face.
“I was a scrawny kid getting yelled at by one of the nation’s top chefs because I broke a plate. Not exactly one of my proudest moments,” he sniffs, while you stare attentively at him. He’s playing with a hangnail on his finger, like he’s trying to avoid your gaze.
“Hey, I followed a piece of shit ex here,” you chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “If there’s anyone who should be ashamed is me,” you shrug, putting down the last of the dishes.
The air turns thick for a second. Like you keep dancing around the elephant in the room. You exhale, Eddie’s still looking at his hands.
You turn away from him, grabbing two mugs– a silly snowman-shaped mug, and one shaped like a stack of cookies– and pour some coffee from a keurig. “Coffee?” You ask without looking at him.
“Please,” he answers, lifting his eyes from the offending hangnail to watch you pour milk into both mugs, and beeline to the chair right in front of him.
He gets the silly snowman mug, which is a bit inconvenient to drink from, but after the night he’s had, he’ll drink coffee out of a shoe if he needs to.
After a few sips of coffee, he stands up off his chair and heads towards your cabinet.
“What are you doing, chef?” Every reaction from you is deliberate, calculated. You want to coax what you want out of him.
“Pancakes? Go shower in the meantime.”
You just can’t help but oblige.
The shower is scalding, but it doesn’t cleanse you of any sin. You can still feel Eddie’s head burrowed in between your thighs, and his firm grip on your chin. When you woke up, you weren’t even too sure if what happened the night before was a sick and twisted dream your mind had thought up.
Yet, with every memory of his words, drawls, commands, you seem to keen into your own touch as you lather yourself with as much soap as you can to clean up your mess. Both physical and mental, that is.
If there’s one thing that Eddie can bury his own emotions in, it’s cooking. He can be angry or frustrated and make a mean carbonara– the Italian way, with the whipped yolk and cheese, relaxed, happy, stressed, he can make dessert.
The issue is, that it feels unnatural now, like he’s forgotten how to.
His hands feel like two huge cutting boards as he ventures into your cabinets for flour, sugar, baking powder, while he debates on the topping. It can’t be normal pancakes, no. Only when he reaches into your fridge for the butter, he nudges a white container that reads ‘ricotta’, and he’s got it: Whipped ricotta and lemon pancakes. A smile slices through his face as he gets to work.
His struggle is short-lived. When it comes to pancakes, it feels like muscle memory at that point. It reminds him of slow Sunday mornings after Wayne came back from church. He’ll find a little Eddie running around the kitchen with a scalding mug of coffee in one hand, a stack of maple butter blueberry pancakes and bacon in the other.
The stain in his sweats is long forgotten, even though he curses himself for not asking for a change of clothes and a shower before he got to work on breakfast. He warms the butter on the stove, slightly charring it, letting it turn a warm shade of brown, dividing it between the dough and the whipped lemon ricotta. What comes out of it is something almost visually sinful– stacked high, four warm, spongy pancakes, topped with chilled sweet lemon ricotta and chopped mint at which he makes a mental note to make them again for Wayne when he goes back to visit.
When you come out of your shower, hair wet, in an old t-shirt and sweats, you’re enamored by the sweet-acidic smell that surrounds your kitchen. Two stacks of pancakes at the table, accompanied by fresh mugs of coffee, your stomach betrays you before words do.
“Sit down and eat, kid, sounds like you’re starving,” he snickers, pulling your chair back.
“What–uh, what are these?” You were expecting regular pancakes, maybe even the frozen ones sitting in the back of your freezer, or something. Not whatever this masterpiece is.
“Well, they’re pancakes,” he explains with an amused smile, coaxing one out of you in turn.
“Yeah, no shit. I mean the flavor.”
“Lemon and sweet ricotta, and mint, and… other bullshit,” he points at each ingredient with a voice full of pride as you sit down and take a bite. Needless to say the flavors– so delicate, yet so specific to each ingredient– makes this the best stack of pancakes you’ve ever had.
“I don’t even like pancakes that much, but these–” he’s ashamed to admit that he prepared himself for this moment. For the way your mouth curls in a smile, and your eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Wait, back up. You don’t like pancakes?”
“Well– maybe I don’t dislike them, but there’s better breakfast food out there,” you shrug, chucking a mouthful of pancakes in your mouth. In the blink of an eye, Eddie reaches your side of the table and snatches the plate from under you. “Wha–”
“Maybe you don’t deserve my pancakes,” he says, holding your plate above his head. A wicked smile slices his face.
“Come on, I didn’t mean it like that. Your pancakes are lovely, I promise,” you whine at him, standing up and walking over to his side to make an attempt at recovering your plate.
“After everything we’ve shared,” he laments, mock-clutching his heart, dodging your grabby hands, “can’t believe you would betray me like this.” It makes a smile bloom on your face, despite how annoying Eddie’s being.
He’s laughing, and it’s a sound you didn’t know you needed to hear until now. It’s boyish, full of feeling, unlike his gruff appearance– higher-pitched than his own voice. It settles in your bones and rings, it makes you shiver.
You don’t want the pancakes anymore.
“What, you’re just going to admit defeat?” He snickers, putting down the plate, and sliding it over to where you were just sitting. Yet, you stand there, staring back at his face, watching the amusement wash off. It leaves room for expressions you can’t quite place. Confusion, apprehension, fear.
Upon further inspection, there’s a smudge of flour on Eddie’s face, which you quickly swipe without thinking. You can see his eyes close at the immediate contact with your thumb. Betrayed, again, by his own body.
“Are we not going to talk about last night?” You whisper it like a secret, reaching for your mug, taking a swig from it, and then cradling it with both hands.
“What do you want from me, kid?” He’s back to the gruff tone. Eddie hangs his head, staring into the circling bubbles of his coffee. Tired and maybe a bit scared, he sounds enticingly pathetic. It makes your skin burn.
You place your mug down and settle into his lap, letting his eyes inspect you. You can hear his breathing quicken, becoming heavier and dysregulated. The effect you have on him gives you a satisfying pleasure, you smirk at his reaction.
“I had fun,” you mumble against his skin.
“Sweetheart–” there it is again. One thing about him, he knows how to keep a boundary. He’s trying to decipher what you mean by that. Do you want to do it again? Is it a one-time thing? Do you want a relationship? He quivers at the latter.
“I’m saying that we could do this more often. Casually, of course,” you detach, looking at his blown-out eyes. Desperate for a kiss. “Say,” your tone is pointed, unlike anything he’s heard come out of your mouth. “I casually gave you my number for when, y’know, you, casually, feel lonely after dinner service, or on your day off,” you ghost your nose on his cheek, right by the shell of his ear. The slightest hitch of his breath that makes you smirk. “And say, I’m casually all by myself at home,” you continue.
“And I casually were to grab my phone and call you,” he exhales, mocking your tone. He notices the way your fingers play with the edge of one of his burn scars, how your pupils are wide, eyes full of mischief. He can see you through the curtain of his loose hair, making your way at the lobe of his ear. You mouth at it, and you can hear him whine, his hands conveniently finding a solid place to keep him aground on the curve of your hips. He feels your heart thrum against his chest as you press light kisses on his jawline.
“I casually might answer,” you breathe into his ear.
“... And I asked you to come over, casually.”
A smile creeps up your lips as you finally look at him: “I casually might come.”
a/n: suprise! as always, feedback is appreciated and thank you for reading! :)
His entire life, he’s made his own choices and he has made his own way in the world—for better or for worse. He’s never worried about some “plan” the universe had for him. He’s a dungeon master, for chrissake, the only plan he follows is his own.
The way he sees it, fate is a lot like Santa Claus.
It’s a nice story you tell yourself as you’re falling asleep: that all your choices are already made for you, that it’s only a matter of time and luck before you end up exactly where you’ve always been meant to be, that The One is out there.
What a total crock of shit.
A Serendipity-like fic told via glimpses of Eddie’s year and all the times you and he almost, almost met. Individual content warnings will be labeled on each chapter, but as a reminder my blog and this story are rated 18+, MDNI
Part I 🎃
Part II 🎄🥂💕
Part III 🦋🌞
Part IV 📖🧁
Part V 🍀
This was fully inspired by @superblysubpar’s amazing series We’ll Call it Love, and my attempt to be Tom Stoppard to her Hamlet. You don’t “need” to have read WCIL for this… but I don’t know why you wouldn’t? Unless you just don’t like to enjoy life…which is totally cool, you do you I guess…
they should make a version of socializing that doesn’t make you feel like you’re still the weird 12 year old kid that doesn’t know why she’s not normal like the other kids
