Hiii!! Could you write an angst/fluff eddie fic based on a bad habit of mine? 😬 I have this habit of using things like using the bathroom or eating as a reward for finishing a task 🥴 I won’t use the bathroom even if I have to go bad until I finish an assignment or something. I’d love to know how he would react to reader doing that 🫶
this is such an adorable thought. i wish i could’ve done this better but i have a shit ton of work to do so i had to smash this out in 10 minutes 😭 so sorry for the lack of quality here but hope it’s up to standard ❤️
you’re scribbling away at your desk, filling out an important stack of sheets for mr. higgins to review tomorrow. your wrist aches from writing and your stomach is growling at you for not feeding it.
you look over at your alarm clock on your bedside table. 1 PM. shit. you haven’t eaten anything since yesterday night’s dinner. you look back at the incomplete papers miserably and continue jotting.
“hey, sweets!” eddie bursts through your bedroom door. he flashes you a smile and stands in front of you, rocking excitedly back and forth on his feet, hiding something behind his back.
you giggle at him, “what have u got hidden back there?”
“well, y’know that vinyl at camelot that you were obsessing about?”
“appetite for destruction?” you ask, “yeah, i remember. why?”
he pulls the shiny new vinyl from behind him, waving it in both hands, “i brought it!”
“eddie! i told you not to!” you laugh as he hands it over, “it was expensive!”
“hm, well i may or may not have done a massive deal with one of the tiger’s basketball players and earned a fuck-ton of cash,” he smiles, “so how ‘bout we get up and dance…” he wiggles his brows, “and relax for a bit, yeah?” he holds out his hands to lift u up from the seat at your desk.
“yeah, that sounds good,” you wave his hands away, “but i’ve gotta get this done. maybe later, ‘kay?”
“later?” he frowns, “you’ve never said later to music before, babe. what’s up? have you miraculously decided that music isn’t good enough for you anymore?” he crosses his arms.
“no, music is life, and as much as i love the idea of jamming out, i have to get this done. shoo, shoo,” you wave a hand at him, but of course he doesn’t plan on going anywhere.
“what are you doing that so important, huh?” he questions, leaning over your shoulder to take a look at the important work in question. “wait, wait, wait,” he says confused, “weren’t you doing this this morning, like, before i left?”
you nod timidly, and his mouth opens to protest, but you speak quickly, “yes, but it’s really important! it needs to be done, eds!”
“okay! okay!” he puts his hands up, mock surrendering, “well have you taken a break since you started?”
“have you eaten?” he asks, concerned. you don’t say anything. “right, that’s it,” he claps his hands together and hauls you up from your seat, “i’m going to make you a signature gourmet eddie munson special. extra special for an extra special lady, yeah?” he smiles as he drags you down the hallway to the living area.
“now sit,” he says, promptly pushing your shoulders down so you sit on the springy sofa in front of the tv. he turns it on. “watch,” he points to the tv, “relax,” he pulls your feet up to rest on the coffee table, “got it?”
you nod, closing your eyes and lolling your head back on the couch, finally relaxing. “mhmm… i can’t feel my butt.”
“probably because you’ve been sitting on that same fucking chair all day,” he chuckles from the kitchen. you can hear food bubbling.
after a couple minutes he comes back with a bowl, setting it down beside your feet, “there ya go, babe.”
you pick it up and giggle, “is your ‘signature gourmet eddie munson special’ really spaghetti?”
“ah, ah, ah,” he tuts, “canned spaghetti,” he says, as if it makes it even more special.
you’re about to eat it before you stop the forkful of spaghetti from entering your mouth. “hang on. since when did we have canned spaghetti?”
“dunno,” he shrugs, “found it at the back of the cupboard.”
“at the back of the cupboard?” you repeat, “pass me the can.” he gives you a confused look before darting to the kitchen to grab the empty can from the counter.
he passes it to you and you read it aloud, “use by the fifteenth of april, 1984… eddie your supposedly ‘gourmet food’ is expired by three years.”
theartofmadeline
blakekathryn
amandla
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