when in doubt, go to the library

Bec || 30's || here to read 🖤

[dathomireternal]

throwing it all away

eddie munson x/& reader

summary: confessing your feelings to eddie—your best friend and lifelong crush—just in time for valentine’s day doesn’t go quite how you hoped. maybe you aren’t actually as close as you always thought you were. 8.8k words.

warnings: FULL METAL ANGST. all hurt no comfort (ok maybe a little comfort, but not much). 100% unrequited love. eddie does not want you and, in fact, actively wants some other, very conventionally attractive girl. no upside down/vecna. no happy ending. this is a 15 year friendship imploding irreparably in less than a week. you have been warned. eddie is an asshole and says some mean things, maybe a little OOC but i don’t see it that way? i think everyone has the capacity to be a callous jerk in the way that he’s depicted here. reader is no saint either, jealousy and insecurity are nasty beasts. discussion of self-loathing, body image issues, unlovability, and other deep dark thoughts. reader can be read as plus size as well. this is a tale of boy-bestfriending too close to the sun. you can also read on my ao3!

a/n: based on an open request by @sheneedsrocknroll92. this one is wild cause i was lowkey in a similar (but much, much less dramatic) situation myself when i was younger, with a boy who, in retrospect, is probably a major contributing factor for why i fell so hard for eddie 😭😭 so writing this was both lowkey triggering and very cathartic. anyway. if y’all love tragedy and suffering as much as i do, lmk what you think! title comes from the genesis song btw.

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Eddie Munson is the prettiest boy in Indiana, but he must not know it.

He doesn’t carry himself like someone who knows he’s pretty. There’s a discernible obliviousness in his gait; confident and sure only for the habitual lead of his body over his mind, zipping and skidding around on restless autopilot like he always has while his brain cycles through thoughts like a reel of film. You can tell just from looking at him that he’s in twenty places all at once, and that not a single one of them has anything to do with how lovely he is to look at.  

You’ve tried to tell him before, awkward and pulse-pounding with the brittle honesty of it, but you’re always met with some form of careful roughhousing in retaliation, when he assumes as always that you’re poking fun at him—not at all unwelcome, but frustrating nonetheless. What the hell does he see when he looks in the mirror, if not the only diamond tucked away in the shittiest town in the midwest?

Across the room, Eddie clips his thigh against the corner of a table while speeding past it at about twenty miles per hour and curses like a sailor, pausing and scrunching his face up to let the ache subside before continuing to make the rounds, collecting empty glasses. He catches your eye before you can bite down a smile at his expense and inclines his head towards you in a comically miffed glare. Only smiling wider, you turn back around to face the bar as penance, resting your chin on your hand.

Lately, you’ve been thinking about telling him the truth.

Actually, it’s almost all that you’ve thought about since the new year rang in. Nineteen eighty-nine; the closing chapter of a decade that began with your first honest acknowledgement of the most obvious thing in the world. The realization of the gravity of it, that the sunflower in your chest would only ever point in his direction, and that you can’t imagine wanting it any other way.

It’s been a long time coming, to put it mildly. 

Loving Eddie was never difficult. He arrived in your life at a time when no one else particularly wanted to be there. You weren’t always shy, but being in the company of other kids your age taught you a swift and brutal lesson—that you were peculiar, an off-putting wallflower; nearly mute and woefully unpretty. Hardly anyone wanted to look at you, let alone to be your friend.

Until the year you shared a class with Eddie. You noticed immediately that he wasn’t liked much, either. In fact, while you were mostly ignored, deliberately or otherwise, Eddie found himself actively despised by teachers and students alike. He was loud and disruptive, bouncing off the walls, lashing out in grief or boredom, and prone to leaving casualties in his wake. But he talked to you when no one else would, and you never soured on him, even if he stepped on your toes or yanked too hard at your hair.

He was never too much for you, and you were always enough for him. It was the most beautiful thing that ever happened to you. Growing up beside him, watching him find himself, find his confidence; growing closer, spending endless days and nights together, and still getting to see that same gleaming, dimpled smile he gave you on the playground when you agreed to be his friend, like you were the only person in the entire world that mattered. You aren’t really sure how you couldn’t have fallen in love with him. 

A tap on your left shoulder pulls you from your thoughts. Your head twitches automatically in the same direction, then snaps to the other side with a click of your tongue to find Eddie sliding behind the bar.

“Christ, you’re off your game tonight,” he says, shaking his head in disappointment. A harsh, layered clink sounds out as he drops his bin into the sink with a little too much force. “That’s like, the third time that’s worked on you. It’s shameful.” 

“Why are you preying on the perpetually distracted in the first place?” you complain.

He gives you a smirk, pushing his fallen sleeves back above his elbows. “To keep you on your toes, obviously. I didn’t raise you to be a slacker.”

Your eyes linger along the contours of the puppet master on his forearm. Your snort comes out belatedly. “...Yeah, well I didn’t raise you to be a total dweeb, so I guess we’re both disappointed.”

“Why, you…” 

Jokingly incensed, he reaches over the bar to flick you right in the middle of the forehead. You let your head whip backwards with a grunt, and then drop it heavily into your arms on top of the bar.

“Sorry, I forgot you were a delicate waif,” he jokes. “I didn’t bust your skull open, did I?”

The splash of water crashing into the metal sink makes your head pop back up, shamefully eager to watch him work. He wets a bar rag, stuffs it into a glass and twists back and forth, tendons shifting in his forearm. Despite having barely started, he’s already splashed water up to elbows, soaking the dark sleeves of his KISS sweatshirt even darker. It takes your mind to places you’ve already imagined a hundred times before—two names on a property deed, wrapping your arms around his middle.

“You okay?” he asks. Your eyes snap up to the bemused little smile on his face. “...You’re totally zoning out on me.”

“I’m alright.” You rest your chin on top of your crossed arms. “Just tired.”

He cocks his head at you. “You don’t always have to wait for me to get off, y’know.”

“You know damn well you’re my ride.” A yawn distorts the latter half of your sentence.

“Yeah, I do,” he says around a laugh, “but Jeff would’ve taken you home. Just because I’m dying of boredom doesn’t mean you have to waste an entire weeknight in solidarity.”

“I’m not wasting it,” you argue, watching him shift from cleaning to drying. “I like hanging out with you.”

He gives you a big, cheesy smile, crinkling his eyes in the corners. “Well, aren’t you a sweetheart?”

Your heart always picks up a little when he calls you that, like it’s startled by how much you enjoy it. Even if he is making fun of you.

“...Can I sleep at your place tonight?” you ask, for no real reason other than stealing every chance you can to lay down beside him.

Eddie scoffs, amused by the question. “Why?”

“Your bed is comfier than mine.”

“You mean my lumpy sack of rocks and springs that we barely even fit on anymore?” he says, eyebrows raised skeptically.

“Yep.”

He gives you a squint. “...Don’t you have work in the morning? You’re gonna wake me up at like six a.m. trying to leave, and I’m gonna have to strangle you.”

Unbidden, your brain decides to linger on how his hands would feel cupping your neck, pulling you closer. “...No, you won’t. You sleep like a log. You’ll probably wake me up with your snoring.” 

“Then why do you wanna sleep over?”

With no other recourse, you poke your bottom lip out at him like a toddler. Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Fine, you spoiled brat. You’ll get your slumber party. But bedtime is at twelve o’clock flat, no ‘if’s ‘and’s or ‘but’s.”

“Okay, Dad,” you groan with teenage drama.

“Oh, you want ‘dad’? Cause I can give you ‘dad,’” he threatens with a frightening smile, tossing the towel over his shoulder. 

“Oh, God, no. I do not want dad.”

Eddie’s already sliding around the bar, stretching his arms out. “Come here, sport,” he says in his best suburban father voice.

You slide off of your stool to flee, but Eddie’s legs are longer than yours, and you’re never really trying to get away. He catches you easily, hooking his arm around the side of your neck, and you cry out in  whiny “nooo!” as he scrubs his knuckles into your head and giggles at your halfhearted struggle.

He lets you go with a gentle push on the back and you whine again, clutching your abused scalp as you turn back around to frown at him. He’s already making his way back behind the bar.

“You’re a fucking animal,” you accuse.

“Yeah, and you’re the sicko that sticks around.”

Your pout melts into a smile, and Eddie smiles back like the little devil he is, and you decide right then and there that you’re going to tell him. You have to tell him. He’s all you’ve ever dreamt about, and you’ve pushed your luck far enough by waiting this long in the first place.

Later, as you walk across the parking lot to his van, Eddie throws an obnoxious arm around your shoulders and drops enough weight on you to wreck your balance, laughing as both of you sway and stumble until you adjust to it. You groan like you always do, artificially annoyed, wishing on the inside that he’d take it even further. 

Once, in a dream, he’d spread out on top of you, squishing you into the carpet like a 170 pound blanket, and you’ve been longing for it ever since. It’d probably be the best sleep of your life.

…

It’s a Sunday, the twelfth of February when you’re finally prepared to go through with it. The one day of the week that neither of you typically work, it’s a frequent contender for lazing around and dozing off, smoking and stuffing your care-free faces until the sun goes down.

Eddie knows you’re coming. He just doesn’t know what you’re bringing with you.

The door is unlocked, as it usually is when you’re expected. Eddie, stretched all the way across the couch on his side, calls you by your last name in exuberant greeting. Just the sight of him makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

“You took your sweet time, didn’t you?” he gibes. “...I was starting to think I’d been stood up.”

“Hey,” you say, trying not to sound off, and probably sounding twice as off because of it. Eddie’s hand, rustling in a bag of chips, pauses as he watches you. “...Where’s Wayne?”

“Hardware store,” he says, but his eyes are too inquisitive. “We’ve got a leaky window emergency.” Thank fucking God. “…Are you good?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” But you’re still just standing there, barely one step into the living room, wondering how you ever could’ve thought this was a good idea.

When Eddie notices the envelope in your hands, his eyes get stuck on it. “Whatcha got there?”

A compulsive, airy laugh gusts between your dry lips. “Um… It’s for you, actually.”

“For me?” he asks, lips twitching into a smile as he pulls himself upright, then stands to his feet. “What’s the occasion?”

“I guess it’s sort of an…early Valentine’s Day gift.”

His brow furrows as he steps around the table, and he looks like he thinks you’re fucking with him. It’s not like you’ve ever bought each other anything for Valentine’s Day before. 

“Okay,” he says, drawn out with uncertainty. “...Why?”

Your face starts burning like a radiator. “Well, um…” 

The rushing currents of your blood are roaring in your ears, your heart squeezing so persistently that it feels a little concerning. You’ve never, ever felt so scared when you were with Eddie, and that in itself makes it all so much scarier.

He’s lost you, zoning out somewhere in the realm of his sternum. Eddie stoops down, waving one hand, trying to catch your eye with worry written all over him. He stretches his arms out, brushing against each of your shoulders as if prepared to steady you. “...Hey, sweetheart, are you sure you’re alright? Cause you look like you’re gonna blow chunks.”

He doesn’t mean to, of course, but he makes you smile. You blink yourself back to earth and, before you can seize up again in terror, you all but shove the envelope into his hands. 

Eddie’s concern recedes back into perplexed amusement as he examines the blank envelope, front and back, and then rips the corny heart-shaped sticker in half to open the flap, but as he goes instantly to tug the letter out, your arm whips out in a panic to stop him.

“No, it’s— Look inside first,” you explain urgently, almost breathless, startling his eyes wide open. “Then read the letter.”

“Whatever you say,” he assures you easily. “Just…keep breathing, alright? You wanna sit down?”

“No, I’m fine.”

He stares at you, but relents with a sigh. You take a deep, dizzy breath as he changes trajectory, fighting desperately to get your breathing back in rhythm. He thumbs the envelope open until he finds the two smaller pieces of paper slotted in front of the card, and when he digs them out for a closer look, he goes rigid. As soon as he processes the names written across them, his eyes snap back to yours and go wide as saucers.

“You’re fucking kidding,” he accuses lowly.

Jittery and bubbling with anxious energy, you smile ridiculously wide and nod. He reads them over a second time, awestruck down to his goddamn socks, then holds them up to you, gravely serious.

“How the hell did you get these?” 

Two tickets to see Poison and Tesla at Market Square Arena on February nineteenth. About three weeks back, you took a day off work and drove almost an hour to the nearest Karma Records at the asscrack of dawn to go wait in line for them in the freezing cold. Anything less than that, and you wouldn’t have had the guts to throw in the second part of your “gift.” 

You shrug, but you’re definitely too twitchy to seem authentically coy. “I’ll never tell.”

“No, for real. Tell me you didn’t do something crazy to get these.”

Your brow furrows in thought. “Define crazy.”

“Oh, Jesus,” he says, expression twisting even more dire. “Please tell me you didn’t blow someone for these tickets. The guilt will eat me alive.”

An incredulous laugh pops out of you a little too easy. “You’re the one that’s crazy. Don’t you know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth?”

“Oh my God,” he groans, face falling into his hands, and you laugh even louder.

“No, you geek. I acquired the tickets through legal and wholly non-blowjob-related means, so relax.”

You can see his smile growing before he even drops his hands. When he does, he surges into you like a bullet to wrap his arms around you in a huge, obnoxious hug, slightly awkward from the papers he still holds in his hands.

“You are the best fucking best friend ever. You’re a goddamn marvel. I could fucking kiss you right now. Scratch that, I’m going to, and you can’t stop me.”

He tilts his face to smack a noisy, extravagant kiss into the side of your head, and you giggle like you’re already high as a kite from the affection alone. Smothered into his chest like this, held tight and snug like something precious, you could probably die spontaneously from the heart attack you kind of feel like you’ve been having all day, and be totally and thoroughly at peace with it.

When he retreats, he shines a beaming smile at you, shaking his head in disbelief as he tucks the tickets back into the envelope.

As soon as his fingers grab onto the letter, your insides start wriggling like a pit of angry worms. If you weren’t manually ushering each breath, you wouldn’t be breathing at all. He looks at the cover first—hand-doodled, a clumsy collage of things he loves, very embarrassing. The way he smiles at it makes your already steaming face burn even hotter.

“You drew this?” he asks softly, and you try to stifle a pout as you nod. His pretty eyes crinkle at you. “Very cute.”

He opens it and starts reading. It’ll take him a minute to get through it—you poured an entire lifetime onto that paper; crumpled it up, tossed it away, and restarted it more times than you can count. You have to clasp your hands together, hold them tight to suppress the urge to just yank the thing out of his hands and rip it to shreds at his feet.

You watch in heart-aching terror as the easy smile on his face inches smaller and smaller, replaced first with confusion, brows pulling together like he isn’t quite fluent in the language it’s written in, and then entirely, nauseatingly blank. He must read it all two or more times for how long he keeps his eyes on it, dragging slowly from side to side, beginning to end to beginning again, stretching out the agonizing wait for all that it’s worth.

Finally, he glances up at you, back down to the confession, and then closes and lowers the card. 

“I, uh…” He puffs out a breathy laugh, awkward and stilted. “...I don’t know what to say.”

…That’s really all he says. When maybe ten seconds pass, a tense laugh of your own tumbles out. Squeezing your hands together isn’t enough to stop them trembling anymore.

“...Well, you have to say something, Eds.”

He swallows. “This is, um… This is serious?” he asks, cautiously scanning your face. “You aren’t, like…pulling my leg here, right?”

“No,” you say, sharper than you mean to. You don’t know how he could even consider that after reading what you wrote.

He nods a couple times, like he knew the answer anyway. His eyes flicker around, anywhere but on you, undoubtedly trying to wrangle a thousand different thought fragments into something he can actually voice. 

Eddie licks his lips, and his brows pull together again as he lands back on your face. “Sweetheart, I…”

The tone of his voice alone makes your abdomen clench up. Your teeth grind together, your galloping heart drops into the well of your stomach with an icy splash. If he felt the same as you do, even if only slightly, it wouldn’t be this hard to admit it. 

“I’m…really fucking flattered,” he continues. “I mean, shit, I— I don’t think anyone’s ever written something this…sweet for me, or—about me. I mean it. But…I think we should stay friends.”

You blink at him for a while, eyes flickering over his face while you process. Mind whirling, heart sinking even lower. Eddie’s brow furrows tighter. 

“...Why?” It sounds like a child’s voice, humiliatingly small. You only barely prevent it from getting distorted by your constricting throat.

Eddie takes a deep breath in and lets out a sigh. He transfers your gifts into one hand so the other can gently take up one of yours, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles.

“I don’t think…” He tilts his head as he thinks about it, sticks his tongue in his cheek, changes his mind. “I just…don’t wanna change anything. You’re my best friend and I…fucking love you, you know that, but…that’s exactly why I don’t want to risk it by trying to be anything…more than that, I guess. …Well, not more, but…you know what I mean. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

There’s nothing you can say to that. Every inch of you seems to be quaking, mortified and erupting with it, and you just hope it isn’t as obvious as it feels. 

Eddie stoops down again, trying to catch your downcast gaze. “...S’that okay?”

If you stop biting down on your lip, you’re probably going to cry. You nod, or at least you try to.

Eddie makes a low, sympathetic little noise that nearly pushes you over the edge, your brow wrinkling pitifully. “Can I give you a hug?”

Another nod, and Eddie holds you. Never completely still, he sways you lightly side to side, his free hand rubbing strong over your back. This close, he sort of smells like he needs a shower, and for some reason, a zap of guilt passes through you just for having noticed. When you sniffle, he crushes you in even tighter, almost bruising in strength, before pushing you back far enough to see your face.

“You alright?” he checks with a diagnostic look. “Still wanna hang out?”

“...Yeah,” you manage, thick and teary. It’s hard to look him in the face. “...Could you tell?”

His eyes flare wider in shock. “No,” he assures you. “...God, no, I…really had no idea.”

You believe him. Eddie’s cautious expression shifts into a quiet smile, and he gives your arm a consoling squeeze.

“...Now,” he begins, holding up the envelope, “I’m gonna put this away for safekeeping, and as soon as I get back, we’re gonna get baked out of our fucking minds, put on The Dark Crystal, and see which one of us shits our pants first, okay?”

Eddie gets what he wants—a soggy, feeble little laugh from you—and smiles even wider. As he turns and makes his way back to his room, you clear your throat, fighting to get some volume to your voice.

“Don’t lose it, Eddie.”

“I won’t, I swear,” he calls back. “Jeez. When have I ever lost something?”

He does a three-sixty just to show you his goofy smile. Once he disappears behind the door, it’s the loneliest you’ve ever felt inside the walls of the Munson trailer.

A question leaps gracelessly off of your tongue as he returns to the living room, weed paraphernalia in hand.

“Are you busy on Tuesday night?” you mutter as he goes to place it on the coffee table. “Just to— I thought we could hang out.”

Eddie freezes for a moment, caught between two expressions. “...Uh, shit. I…kinda have plans already.”

“...Okay.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “How about Wednesday or Thursday?”

“Aren’t you working?”

“Well—yeah, but you can still hang out.”

“...It’s okay,” you sigh, rubbing at your sinuses. “...Next weekend, then, for the show.”

He gives you a frown. “You sure?”

You are.

A couple hours later, you start to think it might be alright. That you haven’t changed anything for the worse, that your relationship is too deep-rooted to be thrown out of whack by the weight of your lopsided feelings. Eddie touches and teases and bothers you with typical shamelessness, says your name and all its stand-ins without unease or hesitation. He’s exactly the same as he always is.

…Well, mostly. Even spread loose and stoned, when you lean into his side to rest your head on his shoulder like you’ve done countless times before, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s gone stiff as a board beneath you.

…

On Valentine’s Day, you work from ten to six, and spend almost every moment of it trying not to feel sorry for yourself. 

You shouldn't have gotten your hopes up as much as you did, you know that. Dreaming for weeks about spending not just Sunday with him but today as well, and maybe a little bit of every other day leading up to the concert, changing what should change and leaving alone what shouldn’t, reteaching yourself how to love and hold each other. Kissing the rosy lips that have colored your daydreams for a decade. 

You spent most of your lunch break crying in the bathroom, quivering and choking and wishing you had never confessed to him at all, rather than feel like this, but you know that you’ll be alright. It could’ve gone much, much worse than it did, and you’ll only have to bear the brunt of this grief until Sunday. Then you’ll hit the road together, sing along to all his favorite tapes, and it’ll be like none of this ever happened. Maybe he’ll tease you for it once in a while, and maybe you’ll even be okay with that, but you’ve known each other for way too long for an embarrassing, unrequited confession to fuck things up between you. Even if you can’t have him the ways you’ve dreamt about, you’ll still have him the way you already do.

But in the meantime, no one can blame you for seeking out a little comfort. 

Harper’s Creamery in Downtown Hawkins is the best ice cream parlor for twenty miles. Its untouched 50’s decor and incurably jolly owner make it a reliably nostalgic comfort. Sometimes, as kids, you and Eddie would beg your mom with all you had to let you stop by after school before dropping him off at home, and more often than not, she would let you. Now, it’s more of a rare treat—a strategic consolation you deploy only for serious miseries, so as not to wear out its childhood magic.

All you can think about on the drive over is a hot fudge sundae with your name written all over it, but what you get when you arrive is an instant eyeful of your best friend in the world. 

Your heart stutters in your chest at first—a happy coincidence, maybe?—but swiftly freezes over as you realize that he isn’t alone. He’s sitting in a booth near the back, across from a girl. A blonde girl. 

You wish you could doubt that it’s really him, if only for one short moment of alleviating delusion, but you can’t. You’d recognize the back of his head from any distance, upside down and blindfolded. 

…At least he wasn’t lying when he said he had plans tonight.

You know what you’re seeing because you’re not an idiot, but you need to get a closer look anyway. To see who she is, to see the look on his face—if there’s even an ounce of shame in it. To make him look at yours. To show him that you know, and you doubt you’ll ever be able to forget it. 

Two days. Two short days, and you might as well not exist.

The bell chimes above your head as you open the door, but no one looks up. There’s already a pack of teens at the counter, excitedly relaying the most complicated and indulgent orders they can think of in a noisy clamor, so neither Harper himself nor the frantic teen on shift beside him have the wherewithal to notice your entrance. You drift by them all like a ghost.

About halfway to their booth, you recognize her, and your nails dig fiercely into your palms. Your heart starts pounding as you catch the sound of his voice, murmuring sweet and low for her ears only. The sight of his hand loosely holding hers over the table, fidgeting with her flamingo pink manicure, makes your body tense up almost painfully, everything inside you stretched beyond its limit. By the time you arrive, you feel like you’ve left yourself entirely—too battered and bloody to survive this awful moment, watching your vengeful, unwanted body confront them on its own.

“Hey, Eds,” you mutter as you come to a stop.

Eddie almost jumps out of his seat, and then freezes entirely as his wide eyes land on you properly. You might’ve found it cute if your heart hadn’t been punted to the next county.

Between them is a glass dish with a double serving of ice cream. Three heaping scoops of chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry, topped off with fudge, peanuts, whipped cream. About half of it, including the cherry on top, has already been eaten—a tongue-tied stem on the table between them, one of Eddie’s party tricks.

“Shit,” he breathes, trying to blink back his surprise, awkwardly retracting his hand from hers. “Uh, hi. What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?”

He blinks at you. You turn your head, shift your empty eyes to the girl.

“Who’s this?” you ask flatly.

“...Uh, this is Rachel,” Eddie explains stiffly. Rachel Webber. “...Y’know, from high school?”

Oh, you couldn’t forget her if you tried. Her and Eddie were lab partners in 10th grade Biology. She spent over a month pretending to be nice to him and eventually invited him to hang out at the bowling alley after school, just for the cruel pleasure of laughing at him with all of her friends when he was dumb enough to actually show up. She looks about half as alarmed as Eddie does, but twice as confused.

“It’s…good to see you again,” she says politely. Her pink lip gloss is worn out in the middle, swallowed down with spoonfuls of ice cream. Blonde hair cascading in perfect, artificial curls. She’s a thin little barbie doll with hazel eyes and a mole on her chin.

“Really?” you ask, falsely intrigued. “...What’s my name?”

She gapes at you, a pink-pleated deer in headlights, but Eddie calls it out immediately in her place, scolding and pleading all at once. It takes a long, resentful moment before you can flick your eyes back to him.

“Can we talk about this later, maybe?” he asks pointedly. One of his legs bounces like a jackhammer under the table. “Some other time?” 

“Talk?” You smile so hard your cheeks ache. “What’s there to talk about?”

His brow furrows at the look in your face, licking his lips like he’s about to say something else, but you aren’t done yet.

“I never would’ve guessed that this was your type,” you say, eyes dragging to the right again. You shake your head at her, your bitter smile going thin. “...I mean, wow, Eddie. Bitchy and boring. You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

Eddie spits your name again, this time in outrage. You’re still just looking at Rachel, scanning the face he apparently finds so preferable to your own. 

She looks straight back at you, so utterly, insultingly clueless that it makes you want to do something she probably doesn’t deserve. “What… What is this?” She looks to Eddie, and you roll your eyes to the stratosphere. “What’s going on?”

Eddie is standing now, tugging at your shoulder, turning you towards him until you’re forced to rip your eyes off of her.

“Hey,” he spits. You’ve never seen him this angry at you—not seriously. Lips pursed, face tense and turning red, brown eyes blazing like he doesn’t even recognize you. You aren’t completely sure who you’re looking at, either. “Are you out of your mind? Get pissed at me if you want, but she hasn’t done shit to you.” 

“No,” you agree sorely, “she’s done shit to you.”

He almost huffs; your grudge on his behalf evidently an inconvenience. “It was almost a fucking decade ago,” he whispers harshly, leaning further into your space. “People change, alright? I’m over it. So apologize.”

Your smile springs back in full force. “Apologize?” you cry out at full volume, making his face twitch.

“I’m serious,” he grits out. And then he stares at you, waiting, jaw clenched about as tight as your chest feels right now. You’ve had nightmares more rational and pleasant than this.

“...Sure, fine, I’ll apologize,” you relent, yanking your shoulder out of his grasp so you can turn back to the girl with a mockingly sympathetic look. “Rachel, I am…so sincerely sorry that your date tonight is a fucking jackass. I’d say you deserve better, but I’m not really sure if you do.”

Rachel purses her lips and gathers her things. “Okay, um—I think I should go.”

Eddie starts and pushes around you, trying to tend to her somehow—shield her from the vicious beast. “No, you don’t have to— Why don’t we both leave, yeah? We can go—”

“That’s alright, Eddie,” she says. Such a slap across the face that it turns your smile genuine. “...I’ll just…see you around, okay? Goodnight.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything as she turns and speeds away. He watches her go until the bell chimes and the door closes behind her (while everyone else in the parlor stares at the two of you) and then slowly turns back around to face you. 

Wide eyed and incredulous, he jerks his head in a shake, heaves his arms open; completely at a loss. “...What the hell is your problem?”

“What’s my problem?” You can’t even smile ironically anymore. It feels like a scene from a movie playing out in front of you, not your real life—not something that could ever happen to you, and definitely not because of Eddie. “I…spill my goddamn soul out to you, and in two fucking days, you’re on a date with some other girl?” 

His face scrunches up, irate and baffled. “What? It’s not my fault you decided to— I told you I had plans! And it wasn’t a date, we’re just…hanging out. We were.”

“Right,” you say. He must think you’re stupid. “You and Rachel fucking Webber. Just hanging out, sharing a sundae like friends do.”

“We have shared a million fucking sundaes,” he reminds you incredulously.

As if that isn’t half the insult. “On Valentine's Day.” 

Eddie shrugs, frustrated and overwrought. “She asked me,” he says. Like it’s really that simple.

“And you said yes.”

“Yeah, I said yes, Jesus Christ!” he hisses, dragging harsh fingers down his face, flaring his fiery eyes at you. “What, just because you have a crush on me, I’m not allowed to hang out with any girls that are prettier than you?”

It hits your crumbling remains at just the right angle to shatter every last part of you to dust. Eddie’s face tenses up belatedly, his brain, as always, moving slower than his tongue, and you can see the dread building up in his eyes, the angry blood draining from his face.

He’s already shaking his head before he opens his mouth again. “...No, shit, that’s not— I didn’t mean—”

“No, I got it,” you cut him off. Your voice is dim, quiet, trembling even worse than before you handed him your heart in a letter. “I know exactly what you mean, Eddie.”

When you turn to leave, he must panic—his hand wraps strong around your elbow, burning you like a brand.

“Let go,” you tell him. Your voice sounds thicker already, muffled by the grief in your throat. Everyone’s staring at you, you’re sure they are, but your vision has gone blurry from the water building up in your eyes.

“Wait a second,” he says, breathing your name like it finally matters to him again. “Let’s just— Can we talk? Please? Let’s just sit down, and—”

“Let go of me, Eddie!” you shout.

Eddie does what you ask, snatching his hand back out of shock more than anything. You can’t remember ever wanting him to take his hands off of you before; not even in school, when he’d tug on your braids to focus himself in class, pulling and twirling mindlessly until your scalp went sore. Even when it hurt, you could always take it, but you can’t take this.

You cut a path to the exit in long, sorrowful strides. Eddie calls your name weakly, somehow disbelieving. As if all he’d done was trample over your toes on the blacktop.

…

You’ve never been hurt like this before. It’s not a feeling you could ever have imagined without suffering it firsthand; a hollow, gushing, endless humiliation, bigger, wider, and nearer than the sky. Every piece of you is cold and petrified, failing to see the point in anything, the meaning in a present so cruel. The wild, vindictive fury of being doomed to such an unloveable form, and all your tender longing rendered less than useless because of it.

If Eddie can’t look past the surface to love you—Eddie, who knows you better and deeper than anyone on this planet—then who else ever could? And what does it even matter when it’s only him you’ve ever wanted, only his face you could picture clearly in the murky haze of your future?

Every thought and feeling you’ve ever had has been turned ruthlessly on its head. For years, for your entire goddamn life, Eddie was like a prince to you. Sweet and misunderstood, rough around the edges but kind to a fault, saving you from the sting of unwantedness. The restless and fidgety boy on the playground who would babble at you interminably during recess and make you laugh in the middle of class, the only other kid that ever truly wanted to be your friend, and was delighted that you wanted to be his, too. 

That boy would never have treated you like this—lying to you, avoiding you, shouting at you for the crime of being too homely to dream of having him—so maybe you were wrong from the beginning. Maybe you’ve been looking at him with a child’s eyes all along, too enamored by having been chosen and kept all those years ago to ever notice what he really thought of you. Too perpetually lost in his sweet and gentle eyes to ever notice the revulsion just beneath the surface.

Every day, throughout the day, he tries calling, and each time, you throw out some excuse to whichever parent answered the phone—you aren’t home, you’re asleep, you don’t want to talk to him, stop fucking calling. 

On Friday night, he gets lucky. You hear the commotion just before it approaches your bedroom, and you open the door just in time for Eddie to nearly run into it, bewildered and heaving, his hair damp and frizzy with rainwater. As soon as he sees you, he goes stock still.

Your mother blazes a trail right behind him, quiet outrage all over her face—he must have pushed his way past her. 

“You want me to go get your father?” she calls bitterly around him. It’s unsettling as much as it is comforting. Just one week ago, she loved Eddie almost as much as you did. 

Eddie’s giant, heartwrenching eyes pull into a pleading look. You’re too exhausted to hold any expression on your face as you suffer it, nor as you flick your stare back to your mom.

“...It’s alright,” you decide, and Eddie deflates in relief. His expressiveness is more of an irritant than a charm right now.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.” If he’s desperate enough to force his way into your home, he’d better have something to say worth hearing.

Your mom stomps off, undoubtedly to go inform your dad of the situation anyway and wait together on standby until it's time for Eddie to leave, so you drag your dead eyes back to him.

He glances behind you, into your room. “...Can I come in?”

The answer is no, but you step back to let him in anyway to prevent your parents from eavesdropping. Your lips pull into a sneer as you notice the muddy water he brings in with him, sullying the carpet under his boots.

“Don’t you have work?” you ask.

Eddie blinks at you, lightly disoriented, like that’s the furthest thing from his mind right now. “I called out.”

“How’s Rachel?”

Eddie’s face pulls taut, strained. “Can we please just talk about us?”

You don’t say anything. You could point out that you aren’t really sure what “us” means, if there really is an “us” and if there ever truly has been, but you’d rather he just spit out whatever it is he needs to say and then leave you alone.

“...I’m sorry,” he says. “I should never have said that to you, I can’t believe I would— I mean, fuck. That was…so shitty, and stupid, and I’m sorry. I wish I could take it back.”

You wish you were surprised that all he thinks he’s done wrong is call you unpretty. The only acknowledgement you give his apology is a shrug. “...Is that all?”

He purses his lips, dissatisfied. Then, he pulls something out of his coat and holds it up—a white envelope with a torn red heart in the middle. It feels like a curt strike against your cheek.

“...I still wanna go with you,” he says. “But if you don’t wanna take me anymore, I get it. You should have them, either way.”

As if you’d take anyone else but him. He tries to hold the envelope out to you, but all you do is stare at it. You want desperately to take it from him, to check to see if the letter you wrote is still in there, too, but if it is, you don’t think you’ll survive it. Your heart will probably fossilize in your chest.

“You want to go?” you ask.

He furrows his brow. “Of course I do.”

“Are you sure I’m not too hideous to be seen with you in public?”

It makes him cringe, but not as hard as you hoped. “I don't think you're ugly.”

“No, of course not,” you bite. “Just too ugly to date, right?”

He says your name, pleading; shrinking in the corner you’ve pushed him into. “That’s not— That isn’t what any of this is about.”

“What is it, Eds? Is it my nose?”

He recoils from the question. “What?”

“Or my chin? Maybe it’s just my whole face.”

“No, it’s not— Why are you—?”

“Am I too fat for you, then, is that it?” you ask even louder. “I didn’t think you were that shallow—”

He nearly yells your name, trying to make you stop, but you barrel right on through it.

“—but if you really do like little blonde bitches that you could snap like a fucking twig—”

“Stop it!” Eddie shouts, wide-eyed and agitated. His cold, wet hands land heavily on your shoulders and shake. “Jesus fucking Christ, what’s the matter with you? Why are you acting like this?”

The both of you heave a couple breaths to calm down, staring each other dead in the eye. Watching you warily, Eddie’s arms fall slowly back to his sides, one hand jumping back up to wrench through his wet hair in stress.

“...I just don’t understand what you see in her,” you mutter in a small voice, staring dimly at his mouth. “She’s so boring, I could puke. I figured you’d want someone who has more in common with you.”

His face settles, shoulders slumping. “You mean, you?”

Another red-hot pin through your ribcage. “...I don’t know. I just thought… I mean, we have…fucking everything in common, and—”

“Yeah, we do,” he says, a little harsher, “because you base your entire goddamn personality around me. Have you noticed that? Because I have.”

Your eyes whip back up to his, wide and unbelieving. A burst of frost ripples over your skin, raising hairs along your spine, down your arms. “...What?”

Eddie looks at you like your alarm must be fabricated. “Everything that I like, you like. You only ever wanna do what I wanna do, you act like— like a little kid, following me around. You barely even have any other friends. It’s not normal.”

You can hear it again, the blood rushing in your head, every other sound growing distant and unreal. “...I thought ‘not normal’ was kind of your whole thing.”

Eddie sighs. “It’s not healthy, I mean. It was fine when we were kids, maybe, but… Shit, you’re twenty-three years old, and it’s like you don’t even want to try to be your own person.”

You might be smiling, somehow—your face is numb. “I don’t know if you’ve ever…been in love with someone, Eddie, but…it sort of makes them your entire world.”

“Not like this, sweetheart.” That name makes you sick to your stomach. “...I’m not trying to be an asshole, alright? I’m saying this because I care about you.”

You blink and blink, waiting for the water that should surely be filling up your waterline to spill over, but it doesn’t come. You’ve been drained dry.

“...So, all this time,” you say, scratchy from the tightness of your throat, “you’ve thought I was…weird, and ‘unhealthy,’ and you wait until it gets between you and some other girl to say anything?” 

Eddie’s mouth drops open, stumbling over confused syllables. “...No, I mean, I was gonna—”

“It sounds like you were fine with me being…clingy, or obsessed with you before you found out why. When all it did was make you feel special and interesting, and didn’t cockblock you from girls that treated you like dirt in high school.” 

He hesitates—stunned, processing, just as insultingly clueless as Rachel had been at the creamery. Maybe vaguely offended.

You shake your head. “I don’t think you’d find it weird at all if I wasn’t ugly.”

Eddie snaps back into focus, groaning your name in desperation. “I don’t think you’re—!”

“Just grow up and be honest with me!” you shout over him. “Okay? Don’t fucking worry about…hurting my feelings, cause we’re well past that. Just tell me the truth, Eddie. Don’t I deserve that?”

He looks pained. Thoroughly, viscerally uncomfortable, reluctant down to his bones. “...I don’t think you’re ugly,” he repeats quietly. “...I promise you that I don’t, but… I just…don’t see you that way. I never really have, and I don’t think I ever will. I’m sorry. Is that what you wanna hear?”

It’s what you needed to hear. You nod to yourself, letting it wash over you and sink in; rewire your neurons towards a truth that repaints every scene in a friendship that has colored more than half of your life. As the pigment drains out, wrung dry by harsh reality, the lung-collapsing hurt in your chest slowly begins to numb.

“...I want you to leave,” you tell him.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. You aren’t looking at the expression on his face.

“I don’t wanna talk to you anymore,” you repeat lowly. “…Keep the fucking tickets, take Rachel for all I care. I didn’t wait out there for nothing. Have a nice life, Eddie.”

He startles down to his boots. “...Have a nice life? Is that a joke?”

Still refusing to look at him, you step aside to pick up another envelope from on top of your dresser. You figured he’d stop by at some point, that you wouldn’t be able to ice him out for very long. You’ve had it prepared since Tuesday night. Eddie knows it must be something damning—he’s very reluctant to take it from you, even slower to open it.

“No,” he spits as soon as he recognizes what it is, shaking his head profusely, eyes caught between horror and fury. “No! What the fuck is this? What are you doing to me?”

His head jerks around, scanning your room, finally realizing what’s missing. Countless pictures and polaroids taken down from your walls, pulled out of frames, tear stained and hidden away, too risky to dwell on any longer. When his eyes land back on your face, he looks shaken to his core.

“...So that’s it? Fifteen fucking years, and we’re just done? You’re not even gonna try to fix this?”

You shake your head. In time—a lot of time—you probably could, for the most part. You’ve hardly ever been mad at him in the past, and even when you were, all he had to do was flash his puppy dog eyes at you, and you couldn’t forgive him fast enough. But you realize now that it’s not going to work. 

Even if you forgave him like always, even if you managed to regain some semblance of how things were, it won't last. You’re always going to want him, and he’s never going to want you in the same way. Trying to live with that will just make both of you miserable. The end of this road seemed impossible, unbearable to think of, but when it rose quietly on the horizon, simple and undemanding in the middle of the night, it was the only thing that’d made any sense to you all week.

“Seriously?” Eddie’s voice is starting to shake. “You’re just— You’re letting a girl get between us?”

You almost have it in you to laugh. “Oh, so now it’s her fault? Anyone’s fault but your own, right?”

“I’m not the one trying to throw it all away!” 

“You’ve made it more than clear what you really think of me, Eddie. If I’m such a goddamn nuisance to you, then I’m probably doing us both a favor.”

He scoffs at you, and you can see the turmoil churning in his mind as he tries to make sense of this, contrasting emotions fighting to breach the surface. “...This is ridiculous. You know this is ridiculous. We can’t even be friends anymore cause— cause I don’t wanna sleep with you?” 

Your eyes fling wide open, well past appalled. “Who the hell said anything about sleeping with me?”

“That’s what we’re talking about, isn’t it?” he spits with a bitter smile. “You want me to be attracted to you, and you’re ready to blow up our entire friendship because I’m not. It’s fucking immature.”

“What friendship, Eddie?” you spit right back. “What fucking friendship? I’d rather gouge my own eyes out than say to you even half of the shit you’ve said to me in the last week, and you don't even care!”

He digs a finger into his chest. “I came here to apologize!”

“You came here to make yourself feel better,” you jeer, unimpressed. “To prove to me that you’re right, and I’m wrong, and it’s all some big misunderstanding, so you can wrap me back around your fucking finger and drag me to that stupid fucking concert. Not because you realize what you’ve done. You fucking gutted me, Eddie. You still are.”

Finally, he’s at a loss. Brown eyes burning, flitting around your face; chest heaving in anxiety, hands twitching helplessly. He doesn’t know what to say.

“...I could learn to deal with you not being attracted to me,” you tell him. “But I can’t deal with you being a complete, self-centered fucking asshole about it.” 

Eddie rubs his shaky hands over his face, back and forth, again and again. By the time they fall, he’s wilted. Limp and tender like a dying flower.

“...What do you want me to do, then?” he asks, barely louder than a whisper. “What can I do? Huh? How can I fix this?”

“You can’t.”

“You want me to lie?” he says, taking a step closer. “To— to pretend? Because…I can do that, if you really want me to.”

Your face twists, baffled and repulsed. How pathetic does he think you are? “I don’t, Eddie. I want you to leave.” 

“I could kiss you,” he goes on as if he didn’t hear you; not a shred of respect for you or himself, just rubbing salt in both of your wounds. “I could kiss you, right now.”

He reaches out as if to cup your face, or pull you in, and you have to shove his arm away.

“Stop,” you hiss, and bat away another attempt to grab you. “Jesus, stop it! Are you fucking crazy?”

He says your name again, desperate, but you don’t wanna hear it. “Seriously, just tell me—”

“Get out of my room.”

“Please, I just— Can we talk about it? I—”

“I’m done talking to you, Eddie! Just leave.”

He’s dragging himself upsettingly close to tears. “...You said you loved me. You said you’ve never loved anyone the way that—”

“I know,” you drop sharply. “And I meant it when I wrote it. But I guess I never knew you as well as I thought I did.”

It crushes him. Bleary eyed, pitiful, he opens his mouth again, but it’s your voice that calls out.

“Dad!”

His time is up. Frantic now, he shakes his head, tries to keep begging, to hold you, even, but your parents are there just as fast, your father bursting into the room to wrap a tight hand around Eddie’s arm, pulling him away with a gruff “it’s time to go, son.”

All the way to the front door, you can hear Eddie still calling for you, trying to bargain, to apologize, to lie to you. In the struggle that is removing him from your house, one single picture falls out of the still-open envelope, carving a bowed line to the carpet. You pick it up, give it one last look—both of you together on the night of Eddie’s graduation. As soon as he noticed Gareth preparing to take a picture, he’d slung his arm around your neck and dragged his tongue up the side of your face, much to your cartoonish dismay. As gross as it was, the thought of it—the vulgarity of it—had you blushing for days, swooning beneath your bedsheets. You take a breath, and with steady hands, you rip the picture in half. Once, twice, three times.

Eddie Munson is the prettiest boy you’ve ever seen, but he was never going to be yours. And for the first time in your life, you think you might be better off for it.

-

thanks for reading! feedback is always welcome 💞 likes, comments, + reblogs would be much appreciated!

[batkin028]

🖤🖤

[of-apollo]

₊⊹ THE KISS OF CERTAINTY !

PAIRING: Eddie Munson x GN!Reader.

SUMMARY: You’re the first real relationship that Eddie has had, and no matter what, he cannot shake the thought that you’re playing one huge trick on him. You endlessly reassure him that this is not the case.

NOTES: Eddie has major self-doubt issues, slight insecurity, awkward and clumsy first time relationship, getting together, hints at friends to lovers.

REQUESTED BY: @sh3nne

NAVIGATION | S.T MASTERLIST | KO-FI

Eddie Munson laughs like it’s armour. Loud, messy, a little too sharp at the edges. You notice it the first time you sit beside him on the cafeteria table instead of across from him. He laughs when he knocks his drink over, laughs when Gareth heckles him, laughs when you look at him like you’re trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

You don’t laugh. You hand him a napkin.

“Thanks,” he says, grin already back in place, eyes flicking to your face and then away again like he’s worried he’s stared too long.

This is how it starts. Not with fireworks or dramatic declarations. With shared lunches and awkward pauses. With you realising you look for him in rooms and him realising you don’t disappear when he gets too much.

Eddie’s never done this before. Not really. Crushes, sure. Passing things. Girls who liked the idea of him until the idea became reality. He’s learnt to expect the punchline. To wait for the trick. To assume there’s something he’s missing.

So when you keep showing up, he doesn’t trust it.

You sit on the floor of the Munson trailer one afternoon, back against the sofa, books spread around you. Eddie’s pacing, chewing on his thumb, tripping over his own words as he explains a new campaign idea he’s been working on. His hands move constantly, like if they stop he might unravel.

“You don’t have to pretend to care,” he says suddenly.

You look up. “I’m not pretending.”

He shrugs, too casual. “Right. Sure.”

There it is. That flicker. You set your book aside, give him your full attention. Eddie hates that. It feels like standing under a spotlight.

“Why would I be here if I didn’t?” you ask.

He opens his mouth, and then closes it. Runs a hand through his hair, tears it out when the tangles are too much. “People do stuff for reasons.”

“I know.”

He waits. You don’t fill the silence for him.

“What’s yours?” he asks finally.

You smile, small and honest. “I like you.”

He laughs. Of course he does. Too loud. Too quick. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I do,” you repeat.

Eddie stops pacing. Looks at you like you’ve just said something in another language. “Like me?”

“Yes.”

“As in Eddie Munson, resident freak?”

“Him. You,” you say simply.

His ears go red. He sits down hard on the arm of the sofa, like his legs have given up on him. “What’s the catch?”

There’s no malice in it. Just habit.

“No catch.”

Eddie frowns. “That’s not how it works.”

“Maybe not how it’s worked for you,” you say gently. “Doesn’t mean it can’t.”

Eddie stares at the floor. He picks at a thread on his jeans and blinks away tears. “You’re not messing with me?”

“No.”

“Not doing some dare thing?”

“No.”

“Not gonna wake up tomorrow and realise this was a terrible idea?”

You lean closer, close enough that he has to look at you. “I already know it’s a good one.”

Something shifts in his face. Fear, maybe. Hope. Both wrapped up together so tight it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.

“Okay,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

It doesn’t take you long to realise that dating Eddie Munson is not smooth. It’s elbows knocking and hands missing each other. It’s long conversations about nothing and then sudden silences where neither of you know what to do next. It’s Eddie offering you his jacket even though he’s cold and you pretending not to notice.

The first time he tries to hold your hand, he panics halfway through and pretends he was just stretching. You wait. The second time, he actually does it. His palm is warm. His grip is tentative, like you might vanish.

“You can let go if you want,” you tell him.

He tightens his fingers instead. “I don’t.”

You squeeze back.

He walks you home that night, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for impact. At your door, he rocks on his heels.

“So,” he says. “This was… nice.”

“It was,” you agree.

He nods, bites his lip. “Cool.”

You hesitate. Then lean in and kiss his cheek. It’s quick. Soft. Over before he can overthink it.

Eddie freezes. Completely. When you pull back, his eyes are wide.

“Was that okay?” you ask.

He swallows. “Yeah. Yeah. That was great.”

You smile, step back. “Goodnight, Eddie.”

“Night,” he says, still stunned. He stands there long after you’ve gone inside, touching his cheek like he’s checking it really happened.

Eddie doesn’t sleep much that night. He lies on his bed staring at the ceiling, fingers pressed to the spot on his cheek like it might fade if he lets go. His brain keeps replaying it, the warmth of your lips, the way you smiled like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Eddie waits for the embarrassment to kick in. For the dread. For the certainty that he’s misread everything. It doesn’t come. Instead there’s this quiet, terrifying hope.

The next few days are a careful dance. You sit closer than before. Your knees touch under the table during Hellfire and neither of you move away. Eddie talks too much, then worries he’s talked too much, then fills the silence anyway just in case. You listen like every word matters. It makes his chest feel tight in a way he’s not used to.

He keeps waiting for you to pull back. To get bored. To realise you could do better.

You don’t.

You ask him questions about his music. You let him ramble about campaigns and characters and stupid inside jokes that don’t make sense unless you’ve been there from the start. You remember things. That’s what gets him.

One afternoon, you catch him staring at you. Not in the joking, exaggerated way he usually does. Just looking. He snaps his gaze away the second you notice.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Wasn’t trying to be weird.”

“You can look at me,” you say.

He risks a glance back. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He smiles then, small and unsure. “Okay.”

You start spending more time at the trailer. Not always doing anything. Sometimes you sit on the floor and read while he tunes his guitar. Sometimes you lie side by side on the carpet, staring up at the ceiling fan. The quiet doesn’t scare him as much with you there.

The first time he realises he might actually be in a relationship, it’s over something stupid. He’s at the store and sees a pack of your favourite candy. He buys them without thinking. Stands in the aisle afterwards, heart racing, like he’s just committed a crime.

He brings them to you anyway.

“These are for you,” he says, holding them out awkwardly.

Your face lights up. “Eddie, you remembered.”

“Course I did,” he says, then immediately worries that sounded too confident. Too much.

You don’t tease him. You just thank him and share them with him, your shoulder pressed to his. He feels like he might float.

Still, the doubt creeps in. It always does. Late at night. In the quiet moments. He starts analysing everything. Your tone. Your smiles. Whether you text first or he does. He convinces himself he’s missing something obvious.

One evening, it spills over.

You’re sitting on the hood of his van, legs swinging, watching the sky darken. Eddie’s fiddling with a lighter, snapping it open and shut.

“Why do you like me?” he asks suddenly.

You turn to him. “What?”

“Why,” he repeats, voice tight, “me.”

You take a moment. He hates that. Feels like he’s waiting for a verdict.

“You’re kind,” you say. “You’re funny. You care more than you pretend to. You make space for people who don’t always have it.”

He scoffs softly. “You’re just listing nice things.”

“I’m listing true ones.”

He looks away. “Feels like there should be more.”

“There doesn’t have to be.”

He shakes his head. “People don’t just… pick me.”

“I did.”

“For how long,” he asks quietly.

You slide off the van, step into his space. He goes still, like a startled animal.

“As long as you’ll let me,” you say.

He searches your face, desperate for cracks. There are none. Just warmth. Steadiness. Choice.

“You’re not gonna get bored,” he says. Not a question. A fear.

“I won’t.”

“You’re not doing this to be nice.”

“No.”

“You actually want this.”

“Yes.”

Something in him gives. Not breaks. Gives way. He lets out a breath he’s been holding for years and laughs, a little shaky.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. I believe you.”

You reach for his hand. This time, he doesn’t hesitate. His fingers lace with yours like they’ve always known how.

He walks you home again. At your door, he doesn’t rock on his heels this time. He leans in first, slow and careful, giving you time to pull away. You don’t. The kiss is soft and clumsy, noses bumping, teeth almost knocking. He pulls back, mortified.

“Sorry, I—”

You laugh, gentle and warm, and kiss him again. Better this time. Still imperfect. Still yours. He grins like he’s won something impossible.

Later, lying in bed, he stares at the ceiling again. This time, he smiles.

Eddie gets used to the idea slowly. Not to you, never to you. To the idea that this is real. That you aren’t a borrowed thing or a temporary kindness. Some days it sits easy in his chest, warm and bright. Other days it rattles around like loose change, loud and unsettling.

You learn the signs. The way he jokes harder when he’s unsure. The way he gets quieter when he’s scared. You don’t call him out on it. You just stay.

It’s raining the first time he says it out loud. Not the big dramatic kind, just that steady Hawkins drizzle that soaks through everything if you let it. You’re in the trailer, curled up on the sofa with a blanket that smells like smoke and fabric softener. Eddie’s on the floor, back against the couch, guitar resting across his thighs. He’s not really playing. Just picking at strings, half lost in thought.

“You ever feel like this is gonna vanish if you look at it too hard?” he asks.

You tilt your head. “What, the rain?”

He snorts. “Cute. No. Us.”

You reach out, brushing your fingers through his hair. He leans into the touch without thinking. That still makes your heart ache in the best way.

“No,” you say. “I don’t.”

He hums, unconvinced. “Must be nice.”

You shift, sliding down beside him on the floor. Your shoulder presses into his arm. “Eddie.”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have to keep waiting for the trick.”

He looks at you then, really looks. His eyes are soft and tired and trying so hard. “Hard habit to break,” he says.

“I know,” you reply. “You can practice with me.”

He laughs quietly. “Practice what?”

“Believing me.”

Silence stretches. Comfortable this time.

“Okay,” he says finally. “I’ll try.”

Trying looks like this. Eddie calling you when his brain spirals instead of sitting alone with it. Eddie asking if you’re okay with holding his hand in public, then smiling like he’s won the lottery when you say yes. Eddie telling you when he’s scared instead of pretending he’s not.

You’re clumsy too. You trip over words. You worry about pushing too much or not enough. You overthink texts and then send them anyway. You’re not some perfect anchor. You’re just honest.

That’s what he trusts.

One evening, you’re sprawled across his bed, listening to records. Your head rests on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. He traces shapes on your arm, absent minded and gentle.

“Can I ask you something dumb?” he asks.

“You always can.”

He hesitates. “You promise you’ll tell me if this stops being what you want?”

“Yes.”

“Like, immediately?”

“Yes.”

“No ghosting?”

You laugh softly. “No ghosting.”

“No pretending you’re fine when you’re not?”

“I’ll tell you,” you say. “Will you do the same?”

He nods. “Yeah. I think I can do that.”

He sounds proud. You are too.

Later, he walks you home, rain having given way to cool night air. He keeps glancing at you like he’s checking you’re still there. At your door, he doesn’t stall. He cups your face with both hands, reverent.

“Thank you,” he says.

“For what.”

“For liking me,” he says, then grimaces. “That sounded weird.”

“It didn’t,” you tell him. “I like you too.”

He kisses you, slow and sure. Still a little clumsy. Still perfect.

Weeks pass. The world doesn’t end. You argue once, about something small and stupid. Eddie panics, convinced it’s over. You talk it through on the hood of his van, under a sky full of stars. He listens. You listen. You stay.

That’s when it really sinks in.

One afternoon, you find him at Family Video, leaning on the counter, watching you browse. He looks at you like you’re something precious and terrifying.

“What?” you ask.

He shakes his head, smiling. “Nothing. Just… I’m really glad it’s you.”

You step closer, lower your voice. “You know I’m not going anywhere, right?”

He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”

And he does. Not perfectly. Not all at once. Enough.

The first time he calls you his partner, it’s accidental. Slips out in conversation. He freezes afterwards, eyes wide, waiting for you to correct him. You don’t. You squeeze his hand instead.

Later that night, lying side by side, he turns to you, serious and soft. “I think,” he says slowly, “this might be my favourite thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You smile, press a kiss to his shoulder. “It’s my favourite too.”

He laughs, quiet and disbelieving. “We’re really doing this, huh?”

“Yes,” you say. “Literally love. No ulterior motive.”

He groans, burying his face in your neck. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You hold him closer. “Happy to.”

Outside, Hawkins stays small and strange and familiar. Inside, Eddie Munson learns what it feels like to be chosen.

— COME AND JOIN MY TAGLISTS !

ALL ST: @r6ven @gengen64 @elodiebeau @bookoffracturedescapes @sweettbepbo @lovelyy-moonlight @superlegend216

EDDIE MUNSON: @1-800-bxrnes @emxxblog @aly29a2001

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the storm (1) | eddie munson

pairing: eddie munson x reader summary: your car breaks down in a storm -- conveniently (not so conveniently) right down the road from your ex boyfriend's trailer. you're forced to wait the night out with him. a series!!themes & warnings: TENSION, ANGST, arguing, eddie being eddie, youre obv still in love w each other so its yearny

You could barely see. Your sight was never impeccable to begin with, but the mixture of snow and rain flying at your windshield in the 40 mile-per-hour winds definitely didn't help.

You tried not to push your car (which you'd named Daphne) too hard, just easing her through the slush at a gentle speed, trying to ignore what road you were on. You weren't on it for the reasons you used to be. You were just on it now because it was a short-cut from work to home, and you needed the fastest route possible to avoid the storm.

Obviously, that hadn't worked.

"Fucking shit." You muttered to yourself as you hit a particularly wet patch of slush, your tail end swerving just slightly. You corrected yourself with shaky, panicked hands, somehow managing to keep yourself on the road.

Daphne was an old girl, a fixer-upper. But you knew how to handle her wheel.

The headlights of your old sedan cut twin, wavering tunnels through the horizontal sleet. The wipers groaned on their highest setting, fighting a losing battle. You were gripping the steering wheel so hard your knuckles ached, every muscle in your body tensed against the skid and sway of the tires.

You knew this road, sadly. Every pothole, every leaning fence post, every mailbox with a dent from a long-ago baseball. You’d memorized it in sunshine, in twilight, in the deep, comfortable dark of summer nights. You’d ridden down it with your heart full and your hand in his, music blaring from his shitty speakers.

Now, you drove it with your heart in your throat and your eyes straining to see five feet ahead. You just had to get past it. Past him.

The familiar, ramshackle outline of the Munson trailer came into view, a darker smudge against the storm-grey sky. A single, yellow porch light was on, a lonely beacon in the maelstrom. Your foot instinctively eased off the gas, as if slowing down could make you less visible. You held your breath, a stupid, superstitious gesture, as you passed the driveway.

You’d made it maybe two hundred yards past when Daphne gave a violent, shuddering cough. The engine spluttered -- a wet, guttural sound of pure protest. The lights on the dashboard flickered crazily. Then, with a final, dying wheeze, the engine cut out completely. The headlights died, plunging you into near-total darkness, save for the sickly green glow of the radio display.

Silence, except for the hammering of ice and rain on the roof.

“No. No, no, no, come on,” you pleaded, turning the key in the ignition. The starter gave a weak, clicking whirr. Nothing. You tried again. Click-click-click. Despair, cold and sharp, joined the chill already seeping into the car.

You were stranded. In a storm. On this road. Approximately a one-minute walk from the one place in Hawkins you’d said you’d never set foot in again.

You laid your forehead against the freezing steering wheel. A hysterical laugh bubbled up, but it died in your throat. You were well and truly screwed.

Outside, the wind howled like it was laughing at you.

You would not be approaching his door. You knew Daphne was old and at times unreliable, so you kept emergency gear in the backseat. A blanket, a heavy winter jacket, a few bottles of water. A blunt and a lighter for stress. Huffing, you pushed your seat back just enough so that you could climb into the back.

You'd wait the storm out until the morning. Then, you'd walk down the road to the gas station, which opened at 5AM, and call your brother. Or your dad. Or a fucking tow truck. Whoever you thought of first.

The backseat was cramped and smelled of old vinyl and the faint, lingering scent of the pine tree air freshener you’d bought last winter. You wrestled the blanket around your shoulders, then pulled the puffy jacket on over it, creating a sad, bulky nest. The cold was insidious, creeping up through the floorboards, seeping in through the window seals. You could see your breath, little ghostly puffs in the greenish dark.

This was fine. This was manageable. You’d been through worse. A little cold, a little storm. You were tough.

You fumbled for the pre-rolled joint and the lighter in the side pocket of the door. Your fingers were stiff and clumsy with cold. It took three tries to get the flame to catch in the howling draft whistling through the window frame. Finally, the end glowed orange. You took a deep drag, holding the smoke in your lungs, willing it to burn away the panic, the humiliation, the sheer, cosmic unfairness of it all.

The familiar, earthy warmth spread through your chest, taking the sharpest edges off your anxiety. You slumped against the door, watching the sleet paint icy patterns on the window. You were a statue in a glass coffin, waiting for the storm to pass.

You lost track of time. The joint became a stub you carefully extinguished and tucked away. The cold deepened, becoming a tangible, aching presence. You pulled your knees to your chest, tucking your hands under your armpits. The blanket was thin. The jacket helped, but your legs were freezing in your jeans. You started to shiver, a fine, constant tremor you couldn’t control.

This is stupid. This is prideful and stupid. You’re going to get hypothermia over a boy.

But it wasn't just any boy. It was Eddie. And the wound of your ending was still too fresh, too raw, to face the possibility of his pity, or worse, his indifference.

You'd be fine. You weren't freezing to death, you were maintaining body heat. Just a few more hours and you would--

A sharp knock on the window made you yelp.

No. No, no no. It's not who I think it is.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, a trapped bird. Through the ice-fogged glass, distorted by the rivulets of sleet, a dark shape loomed. A familiar silhouette, backlit by the distant, buzzing porch light.

It is. It’s exactly who you think it is.

You stayed perfectly still, a rabbit hoping the predator will lose interest. Maybe if you didn’t move, he’d think you were asleep. Or dead. God, maybe dead is better.

The knock came again, sharper this time. Insistent. Accompanied by a voice, muffled but unmistakably his, cutting through the wind’s howl.

“Open the door, Y/N. I can see you shivering from here.”

The command, the use of your full name -- it brooked no argument. It was the same tone he’d used when you’d tried to walk home from a party in the rain two summers ago, when he’d scooped you up with an exasperated, “Don’t be an idiot,” and driven you home despite your protests.

Defeated, you unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The storm rushed in, but so did he. Eddie filled the cramped space of the open door, dressed in a thick flannel over his t-shirt, a beanie pulled low over his curls. He was holding a massive, industrial-looking flashlight. His eyes swept over your pathetic nest -- the blanket, the jacket, the discarded joint stub on the floor mat -- and a smirk bloomed onto his face.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his voice low, but it wasn't a question. It was an amused accusation.

“Waiting out the storm,” you said, your own voice thin and reedy from cold and disuse. “My car died.”

“I know she died. I heard Daphne cough her last breath. I’ve been watching your sorry ass freeze for the last twenty minutes from my window.” He shook his head, a mixture of disbelief and humor flashing in his eyes. “Get out of the car.”

The smirk. The absolute, insufferable smirk. It ignited a fire in your chest that had nothing to do with warmth. All the cold, all the fear, condensed into a single, white-hot point of pure indignation.

“I’m fine here,” you snapped, your voice gaining strength from the fury.

He leaned further into the car, the flashlight beam highlighting the amusement dancing in his eyes. “Oh, you’re more than fine. You’re a picture of survivalist elegance. The blanket really ties the ‘soon-to-be-icicle’ look together. But see, here’s the thing -- Wayne’s on night shift, and I have a strict policy against letting girls freeze to death within spitting distance of my home. Bad for my rep. So, for the last time: out.”

“My well-being is no longer your concern, Munson,” you shot back, wrapping the pathetic blanket tighter around your shoulders as if it were armor.

“It becomes my concern when you’re littering my view with your old ass car,” he countered, his tone light but his eyes holding yours with an unnerving intensity. “Now, I can do this the easy way, where you walk your proud, stubborn self into the warm trailer like a rational human being. Or I can do it the hard way, which involves me, this flashlight -- which is heavier than it looks -- and a very undignified extraction. Your choice, sweetheart.”

The old pet name, used now as a weapon, stole the breath from your lungs. You stared at him, this infuriating, beautiful, impossible man, standing in a storm offering you shelter you didn't want to need from him.

Another bone-deep shiver rattled through you, betraying your bravado. You saw his smirk soften, just for a second, into something that looked suspiciously like concern before the mask of amused detachment slid back into place.

With a sound of pure, exasperated defeat, you kicked the blanket off your legs. “Fine.”

You climbed out of the car, the wind immediately whipping your hair across your face. You didn't look at him as you slammed the door shut harder than necessary and started stomping through the slush toward the trailer. He fell into step beside you, his longer strides easily keeping pace with your furious march.

“You know,” he said conversationally, as if commenting on the weather, “most people, when their car breaks down in a storm, go to the nearest house. They don’t stage a one-woman Arctic expedition in their backseat.”

“Most people don’t have to worry about the emotional fallout of seeing their ex,” you muttered, staring straight ahead at the glowing porch light.

He snorted, as if it didn't mean much. As if you hadn't been the center of his life for three and a half years.

"I don't bite. Unless you ask me to. You've known me long enough to know that, haven't you?"

The casual, suggestive barb hit its mark, a different kind of chill skittering down your spine. You stopped on the bottom step, looking up to face him. The porch light cast harsh shadows on his face, but his eyes were bright, challenging.

“I know you,” you said, your voice low and steady despite the tremor in your limbs. “That’s the problem. I know exactly what your ‘not biting’ looks like. It looks like… this.” You gestured vaguely between you, at the storm, the trailer, the unbearable tension. “It’s never simple with you, Eddie. It’s a whole production.”

He leaned against the doorframe, blocking the entrance, his arms crossed over his chest. The flannel sleeves were pushed up, revealing the familiar tattoos on his forearms. “And sitting in your car until you got frostbite was the simpler option? Come on. Even you’re not that stupid.”

“It was the safer option!” The words burst out of you, raw and honest. “In there, the only thing I had to fight was the cold. Out here? With you?” You shook your head, a helpless gesture. “It’s much worse.”

The smirk finally vanished. His expression shifted into something unreadable, intense. He studied you -- your wet hair plastered to your forehead, your jacket soaked through, the defiant, fearful light in your eyes. The wind howled around you both, but on this small, lit porch, the world had narrowed to this standoff.

“You’re shaking,” he observed, his voice dropping, losing its edge.

“I’m cold.”

“Yeah.” He pushed off the doorframe and reached to open the door. Warm air, carrying the scent of him and home, rushed out to meet you. “Get inside. Before you really do turn into an icicle. We can argue about the meteorological properties of my personality when you’re not at risk of hypothermia.”

It wasn't an invitation. It was a command, but it was also a retreat. A concession. He was giving you the out, focusing on the practical, immediate danger instead of the emotional minefield.

You hesitated for one more second, then stepped across the threshold into the past. He followed, closing the door firmly on the roaring night, leaving the two of you in the sudden, overwhelming quiet of the trailer, with only the drumming of sleet on the roof and the heavy weight of everything left unsaid between you.

The smell of him was everywhere -- clean laundry, weed, curl product, and the delicious cologne you'd never figured out how he could afford. The memories you'd fought to avoid for about four months now closed in around you. You blinked in surprise at the photo of you two, from when Eddie finally graduated high school, still hung above the kitchen sink. He hadn't taken down the photos. The sight was a physical blow. It was a candid shot -- you were laughing, your head thrown back, and Eddie had his arm slung around your shoulders, grinning at the camera like he’d just won the lottery. It was perched right where it had always been, in the spot of honor where Wayne could see it while he washed dishes. The fact that it was still there felt more intimate, more revealing, than if he’d torn it down in a fit of rage.

You opted to pretend you didn't notice. Anything to avoid a tense conversation. You quickly averted your eyes, focusing on peeling off your soaked jacket. Your fingers were numb and clumsy. The zipper stuck.

“Here,” Eddie’s voice came from behind you, closer than you expected. Before you could protest, his hands were there, brushing yours aside. His touch was efficient, impersonal, as he worked the frozen zipper free. The back of his knuckles grazed the wet fabric of your sweater, and you stiffened.

The jacket came off. You were left standing there in your damp sweater and jeans, feeling more exposed than ever. The trailer’s heat was beginning to penetrate your clothes, a painful thaw that made your skin prickle.

“Bathroom’s the same,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s towels in the cupboard. You can wear something of mine for the night. It won't hurt you." He asserted, looking at you with an expression that left no room for argument. "You're not wearing the wet shit."

The command in his voice, the sharp practicality of it, was a lifeline in the sea of awkwardness. It gave you a directive, something to do instead of just standing there marinating in regret and residual attraction.

“Fine,” you muttered, not meeting his eyes. You snatched up your purse and made a beeline for the bathroom, needing the space.

The small room was exactly as you remembered. The same slightly-mildewy shower curtain, the same chipped tile, the same half-empty bottle of your shampoo on the edge of the tub. He hadn’t thrown it out. The observation sent a fresh, complicated pang through you. You ignored it, focusing on the task at hand.

Stripping off the wet, icy clothes was a relief. The hot water in the quick shower you took made you feel like you were falling off the bone. You towelled off quickly, the rough fabric bringing you back to reality. Wrapped in the towel, you hesitated. The idea of putting on his clothes… it felt like a surrender. An intimacy you’d forfeited.

A knock at the door made you jump. “It’s on the hook,” Eddie’s voice came through the wood, muffled but clear. “Don’t overthink it. They’re just clothes.” The teasing air to his tone infuriated you.

You unlocked the door and cracked it open. Hanging on the outside hook was a faded, soft-looking gray hoodie and a pair of plaid flannel pajama pants. They were clean. They smelled like his laundry detergent, not like him. It was a small, considerate distinction that somehow made it worse.

You pulled them on. The hoodie was huge, the sleeves swallowing your hands. The pants were too long, pooling around your ankles. You rolled the waistband and cuffed the legs. Looking in the foggy mirror, you saw a ghost -- a version of yourself from years ago, when you’d steal his clothes just because you could, because you loved being surrounded by him.

When you emerged from the bathroom, scrubbed clean and drowning in his clothes, you found him in the kitchenette. He’d put the kettle on and was leaning against the counter, a smirk already playing on his lips as he took you in.

“Well, look at that,” he drawled, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep from your rolled cuffs to the hood swallowing half your face. “The lost princess of Hawkins, slumming it in peasant garb. It’s a good look. A little… derelicte, but it works.”

You scowled, tugging at the too-long sleeve. “Shut up. You’re built like a scarecrow.”

“A scarecrow with impeccable taste in loungewear, thank you very much.” He gestured to the kettle with his chin. “Tea? Or I think Wayne might have some of that horrific instant cocoa you used to love. The kind that’s mostly sugar and artificial flavor.”

The mention of your old preference, the specific memory of you curling on this same couch with a mug of too-sweet cocoa, was a tiny landmine. You ignored it. “Tea’s fine.”

He busied himself with mugs, his back to you. “So,” he said, his voice deliberately light. “What’s the verdict? Is the storm outside still worse than the storm of my terrible personality in here?”

“It’s a tie,” you shot back, settling onto the far end of the couch, tucking your feet under you. “The sleet is less predictable, but you’re louder.”

He barked a laugh, a genuine sound that felt like a shockwave in the small space. “Fair. I’ll take it.” He brought over two mugs, handing you one. His fingers brushed yours. Neither of you flinched. He sat on the opposite end of the couch, leaving a respectable, cavernous gap between you. He took a sip, watching you over the rim. “You know, for a minute there, I thought you were really gonna try to wait it out. I had a whole running commentary planned. ‘Hour one: the princess develops a slight shiver. Hour two: regret sets in. Hour three: a single, frozen tear…’”

“You were watching me?” You tried to sound annoyed, but it came out strangely breathless.

“Entertainment’s slim during an ice apocalypse,” he shrugged, but his eyes were sharp on yours. “Besides, it was like a nature documentary. The Tragic Pride of the North American Ex-Girlfriend.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“And yet you’ve come right back to me.” He grinned, unrepentant. “Seems like we’re both dealing with unfortunate realities tonight. Daphne threw you to the dogs.”

You rolled your eyes, glaring at him.

"Don't talk shit about Daphne."

He snorted back, tilting his head back to glance out the window at said object.

"I knew as soon as I met Daphne that she'd screw you over one day. Wayne said he'd get you something new," he shrugged. "But nooo. You loved the death-trap too much."

The barb landed differently this time. It wasn't just about the car; it was about your stubbornness, your sentimentality, your refusal to let go of things -- people -- even when they were bad for you. It was a mirror held up to your own choices, and the reflection stung.

“I don’t just throw things away because they’re old or unreliable,” you shot back, your voice tight. “Some things are worth fixing.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you realized your mistake. The air in the trailer seemed to freeze solid, thicker than the ice on the windows.

Eddie’s grin vanished. His eyes, which had been sparkling with mischievous challenge, went flat and dark. He leaned forward slowly, placing his mug on the coffee table with exaggerated care. The click of ceramic on wood was deafening in the silence.

“Is that so?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet. All traces of teasing were gone, replaced by a cold, simmering anger. “Things worth fixing, huh? That’s a fascinating philosophy.” He tilted his head, his gaze boring into you. “Tell me, then. Where’s the line? At what point does something become so fucking broken it’s not worth the effort anymore? When it leaves you stranded in the cold? Or is it before that? Maybe when it makes you feel so shitty you have to lie to get away from it?”

Each question was a lash. He wasn't talking about Daphne anymore. He was talking about you. About him. About you and him.

You flinched, pulling the oversized hoodie tighter around yourself as if it could shield you. “Eddie, that’s not what I meant--”

“Isn’t it?” he interrupted, standing up in one fluid, angry motion. He began to pace the small length of the living room, his movements restless, charged. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds exactly like what you meant. You’ll nurse along a shitbox car because it’s familiar. You’ll fight for it. But a relationship? A person? Nah. That you just… walk away from. No repairs. No fixing. Just a clean break and a bullshit excuse about ‘different paths.’ Or 'going nowhere.'” He stopped pacing and turned to face you, his chest heaving. “So forgive me if I’m a little fucking confused about your automotive morals.”

The raw pain in his voice, the accusation that cut straight to the heart of your own guilt, was too much. The tears you’d been fighting since you arrived sprang to your eyes, hot and immediate.

“You think it was easy?” you choked out, surging to your feet to face him. The blanket pooled at your feet. “You think I just woke up one day and decided to ‘throw you away’? I was terrified! I loved you so much it felt like I was drowning, and everyone was telling me you were a lost cause! I didn’t know how to fix us because I didn’t even know what was broken!”

“You could have talked to me!” he roared, the sound raw and startling in the small space. He took a step toward you, his hands clenched at his sides. “You could have fought with me! Instead, you just… left. You handed me a note written in fucking platitudes and disappeared. That’s not fixing something, Y/N. That’s scrapping it for parts.”

You were both shouting now, four months of suppressed hurt and anger erupting in the warm, claustrophobic space. The storm outside was nothing compared to the tempest in the room.

“I was trying to save myself!” you cried, the confession ripped from you.

“FROM WHAT?” he yelled back, throwing his hands up. “FROM ME?”

The question echoed, brutal and final. You stared at each other, breathing heavily, the truth of his words hanging between you like a guillotine.

From me.

In your darkest moments, yes. From the chaos, from the uncertainty, from the sheer, overwhelming force of loving Eddie Munson. You’d been trying to save yourself from the very thing you’d missed every single day since.

The fight drained out of you as quickly as it had come, leaving you hollow and shaking. You looked at him -- really looked at him -- seeing not the infuriating, teasing boy from the porch, but the man whose heart you’d shattered with your fear. The man who still had your picture on his wall.

“Yeah,” you whispered, the admission a surrender. A single tear traced a path down your cheek. “From you.”

He recoiled as if you’d struck him physically. All the anger bled from his face, replaced by a wounded, devastating comprehension. He took a step back, then another, until his back hit the wall. He slid down it slowly until he was sitting on the floor, his head in his hands.

You stood frozen, the weight of what you’d just said crushing you. A moment passed.

You glanced at him, hearing movement. He was looking the other direction, his profile painful to see. The flickering light of the lamp caught the silver in his rings, the curve of his lower lip. He was still so beautiful it hurt.

The silence fell upon you. Tense. Pregnant with too many emotions to name. You looked away, but you could feel him turn to you, his gaze heating up your skin. His sight was always so perceptive, so thoughtful and warm. You were afraid of him watching you, afraid of his intelligent brown eyes deducing things that you didn't want deduced.

You fought the urge to get up and hide from his eyes. In the bathroom. The spare bedroom, hiding under the covers.

"You cut your hair."

The statement was simple, but heavy. You could hear the suppressed anger in his tone. The hurt. The ache. The holding back of tears, the holding back of a rage fit. His voice was a broken rasp, a quiet devastation that was worse than any shout. It wasn't just an observation. It was an accusation of a change he hadn't been part of, a loss he'd had to witness from a distance. You cut your hair. You changed. You moved on without me.

Your hand flew self-consciously to the ends, now resting just above your shoulders. "Yeah," you whispered, your own voice trembling. "A while ago."

He didn't look at you. He kept his gaze fixed on some distant point on the wall, his jaw working. "I liked it long."

Three words. They held a universe of grief. I liked it. I liked you. I liked us.

A sob caught in your throat. This was agony. This quiet, raw aftermath was worse than the screaming. It was the autopsy of your relationship, performed in the cold, clear light of shared pain.

"I did it after," you admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I thought... I thought if I looked different, I'd feel different. But I just felt... bald. And sad."

He hummed.

"Had to erase anything I touched, huh? I was that bad?"

You shuddered, looking up at the ceiling.

"Stop it, Eddie. Fucking stop it."

He laughed humorlessly, his eyes finally locking back onto yours. The predatory fire was back, the ruthless analyzing.

"Stop what? What part of this is what you didn't want? You chose it," he said, his voice raw.

"Stop, Eddie!" You cried out.

He was never a good listener. Especially not when he was hurt. Especially not when the armor of sarcasm had been stripped away, leaving only the raw, pulsing nerve of his own perceived worthlessness.

He surged to his feet, a sudden, violent motion that made you flinch back against the couch cushions. He loomed over you, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he didn't move closer. The threat wasn't physical; it was emotional, and it was crushing.

"You want me to stop?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous snarl. "You want me to pretend like you didn't look at our life together and decide it was a fucking prison sentence? Fine. Let's play pretend. Let's pretend you're just a girl whose car broke down. Let's pretend I'm just a guy being hospitable. Let's pretend the last three years never happened. Is that easier for you? Is that safer?"

He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. Every word was a jab, designed to hurt because he was hurting, and he wanted you to feel it, to own it. You couldn't take it anymore.

You stood, grabbing your wet jacket and clothes.

"What are you doing?" He snapped.

"Leaving," you said, your voice surprisingly steady as you shoved your arms into the damp, cold sleeves of your jacket. The fabric felt like a slab of ice against your skin, a shocking contrast to the warmth of the trailer. "You win, Eddie. Always."

He crossed the distance in three steps, grabbing ahold of the jacket. Quickly and efficiently, he yanked it off from you, tossing it to the floor.

"You're not."

His voice was final. It wasn't a plea this time; it was a decree, forged in the fire of his own panic. The sight of you actually leaving, of you choosing the literal storm over his emotional one, had short-circuited his anger, replacing it with something more primal: possession.

You stood frozen, the sudden absence of the jacket leaving you exposed in the thin, borrowed hoodie. You could see the wild, frantic beat of his pulse in his throat. His hands, which had just stripped the jacket from you, hovered in the air between you, as if he wanted to grab onto something else -- your arms, your shoulders, you -- but was holding himself back by a thread.

"You're not leaving," he repeated, quieter now, his eyes locked on yours. "You walk out that door, you'll freeze. And I… I can't…" He swallowed hard, the sentence dying in his throat.

The raw, unspoken terror in his eyes undid you. The proud, furious exit was forgotten. You were both trapped -- by the weather, by history, by this devastating, inescapable connection that neither rage nor distance could sever.

A shuddering breath escaped you. "Then what do you want from me, Eddie?" Your voice was a broken whisper. "You want me to stand here and let you flay me alive? Because I can't do that either."

The fight seemed to leave him in a rush. His shoulders slumped, and he took a step back, running both hands over his face. When he looked at you again, he just looked exhausted. Defeated.

"I don't know," he admitted, the confession hollow. "I don't know what I want. I just know I can't watch you walk into that."

The silence stretched, thick and painful. The wind howled a reminder of the impossible choice: stay in the emotional warzone, or flee into the physical one.

Finally, he gestured vaguely toward the couch. "Just… sit down. Please. I'll… I'll shut up. We don't have to talk. We don't have to do anything. Just… exist. Until morning."

It was the barest minimum. A ceasefire with no terms, no resolution. Just a mutual agreement not to destroy each other -- or yourselves -- for the next few hours.

Slowly, feeling numb, you walked back to the couch and sat on the very edge, as far from his side as possible. He didn't sit next to you. He sank into the armchair opposite, putting the width of the coffee table between you. He picked up his cold mug of tea, stared into it, and said nothing.

A/N: there IS a part 2 to this if you guys liked it. PLEASE lmk :)) i wanted some heartbreaking eddie angst bc i love hurting myself

[batkin028]

🖤🖤

[sexwithnocondom]

I COULDN’T HURT YOU but I did— Eddie Munson

SYNOPSIS— Best friends. One night that shouldn’t have happened. And the slow, brutal unraveling that followed.You were never just another night—but Eddie Munson treats you like one anyway, because loving you would mean admitting he wants something he doesn’t believe he deserves. When he decides he isn’t worthy of you, he pushes you away the only way he knows how.

CONTENT WARNING— heavy angst, heartbreak, self-sabotage, avoidance, unrequited feelings mutual but unspoken, guilt & self-worth issues, yelling PLUS emotional outbursts, abandonment anxiety and HEAVY emotional distress!!!!!!!!!!!

AUTHORS NOTE— hi 🖤this one hurt to write… that’s all.

By the third day, Eddie’s voice had started to sound wrong over the phone.

Not angry. Not upset. Just… thinner. Like he was holding it at arm’s length, careful not to let it spill into anything real. He still answered when you called—sometimes on the third ring, sometimes on the fifth—but his words came clipped, wrapped in jokes that didn’t land the way they used to. Yeah, yeah, I’m alive. Busy day. Shop’s a mess. Nothing you could point to. Nothing you could accuse him of.

So you told yourself you were imagining it.

Florida heat pressed down on you as you pushed open the door to the shop that afternoon, the familiar buzz of tattoo machines humming under classic rock bleeding softly through the speakers. The smell of ink and antiseptic settled into your lungs like it always did, grounding, familiar—his.

Eddie should’ve been at the front by now, leaning against the counter, boots kicked up where Marlyn always yelled at him not to. He was never subtle about being there.

But the chair at the station was empty.

Marlyn glanced up from her sketchpad when the bell chimed, brows lifting just slightly. “Hey,” she said, slow, curious. “You miss him?”

Something in the way she said it made your stomach dip, just a little. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged, spinning her pen between her fingers. “He left early. Said he had a headache or something. Didn’t really explain.”

That didn’t sound like Eddie. He lived at the shop—birthday hangover or not. You laughed it off anyway, too quick, too easy. “Probably still recovering. I’ll wait a bit.”

Marlyn watched you for a second longer than necessary, then went back to her drawing.

You took a seat on the worn leather couch by the window, the one you’d sat on a hundred times before. Time dragged in odd, uneven stretches. Every time the door opened, your head lifted automatically—hope without permission—only to settle again when it wasn’t him. You traced the faint cracks in the armrest with your thumb, listening to the low murmur of conversation, the steady rhythm of machines buzzing.

An hour passed. Then another.

Eddie never showed.

When you finally stood to leave, confusion sat heavier than disappointment, dull and unformed. You told yourself he’d probably call later, apologize in that crooked, self-deprecating way of his, say he’d just needed air. It wasn’t like him to disappear—but then again, it wasn’t like you to overthink things either.

Outside, the sun was starting to dip, the sky bleeding orange and pink across the pavement. You glanced back at the shop once, half-expecting him to be there suddenly, leaning in the doorway like he always did.

He wasn’t.

And still, as you walked to your car, you didn’t think to name the feeling curling quietly in your chest. Not yet.

THREE NIGHTS AGO

The apartment had gone quiet in that way it only does after midnight, when the noise lingers in the walls but the people are gone. Empty bottles crowded the coffee table, ashtray full, music still playing low and warbled from the speakers like it hadn’t realized the party was over yet. Eddie was sunk into the couch beside you, close enough that your knees brushed every time one of you shifted.

Neither of you moved to fix it.

He smelled like beer and clean laundry and the faint bite of ink that never really left him. His laughter came easy, loose, softer than it had been all night, and when he leaned back, his arm stretched out behind you, not touching—just there. The space between your bodies felt charged, humming, like something waiting to be acknowledged.

“You good?” he asked, voice low, eyes flicking to you for just a second too long.

You nodded, smiling, and the motion brought you closer without meaning to. Your knee pressed fully into his now, warm and solid.

The song changed—something slow, dragging—and the room felt smaller for it.

You looked at him then. Really looked. The way his hair fell into his eyes, the crooked line of his mouth, the softness that only ever showed when the world wasn’t watching. Eddie’s gaze lingered on you, unreadable, and for a moment neither of you spoke, the silence stretching thin.

“Hey,” he murmured, like he was testing the word.

You don’t remember who leaned in first. Only that suddenly he was close—too close—and the world narrowed to heat and breath and the way his hand hovered at your waist like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you. When he finally did, it was careful, almost reverent, like you might disappear if he held on too tight.

You didn’t stop him.

By the time you got home, the day had already slipped through your fingers.

You kicked your shoes off by the door, dropped your keys into the ceramic bowl on the counter, moved through your apartment on autopilot. The shop lingered in your mind only as an unfinished thought—Eddie not being there, Marlyn’s shrug, the way the door hadn’t opened for him even once while you waited—but it didn’t settle. Not yet. You weren’t looking for meaning. You weren’t pulling threads.

The shower steamed the day off you, hot water running against your shoulders until your skin tingled. You stood there longer than necessary, letting the noise fill your head, washing away the smell of ink and heat and the faint disappointment you didn’t have a name for. When you stepped out, you ordered Chinese from the place down the street—the one Eddie always complained about but ate anyway—and flipped the TV on while you waited.

Law & Order played in the background, voices bleeding together as you curled into the corner of the couch, damp hair clinging to your neck. The familiar rhythm of it all—takeout, television, the quiet hum of your apartment—made everything feel normal again. Like the day hadn’t been strange at all.

You reached for the phone without thinking.

Calling Eddie most nights had become habit sometime in the last two years. Easy. Automatic. A constant you didn’t examine too closely. The line rang twice before he picked up.

“Hey,” he said.

His voice was the same—rough around the edges, familiar—but there was something distant about it, like he wasn’t fully there.

“Hey,” you echoed, smiling despite yourself. “You left the shop early today.”

A pause. Not long. Just long enough to notice.

“Yeah,” Eddie replied. “Had some stuff to take care of.”

“Oh.” You shifted on the couch, eyes on the television though you weren’t watching it. “Marlyn said you had a headache or something.”

Another beat. “Something like that.”

You waited for him to fill the space. He didn’t.

“Well,” you said lightly, forcing brightness into your voice, “we were supposed to grab lunch, remember? Guess I owe you now.”

A quiet exhale on the other end of the line. When he spoke again, his tone had shifted—careful, casual, too controlled. “Yeah, about that. I don’t think I can tomorrow.”

That gave you pause. Eddie canceled plans sometimes, sure—but never without turning it into a whole dramatic production. There was no apology this time. No joke to soften it.

“Oh,” you said again, softer now. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Totally. Just—busy.” He laughed, short and hollow. “You know how it is.”

You frowned, thumb tracing the edge of your phone. The sound of your show filled the silence between you, some detective raising his voice, the laugh track nonexistent, the moment stretching thin.

“So,” you tried, “what’re you up to?”

“Not much,” Eddie replied. “Just… stuff.”

Three minutes passed like that—small talk that didn’t go anywhere, words skimming the surface instead of sinking in. Eddie didn’t ramble. Didn’t interrupt you. Didn’t tease. He sounded like someone trying not to say the wrong thing rather than someone saying the right ones.

Then, suddenly, “Hey, I gotta go.”

“What?” You sat up straighter. “Already?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Early day tomorrow.”

Before you could ask anything else, before the confusion could turn into a question, he added, “Come by the shop, though. Tomorrow. I’ll be there.”

There it was. An invitation, almost. Or maybe a reassurance.

“Okay,” you said, easy. “Yeah. I will.”

“Cool.” His voice softened for half a second—just enough to remind you of how it usually sounded. “Night.”

“Night, Eddie.”

The line went dead before you could say anything more.

You stared at your phone for a moment, then set it down as the doorbell rang, Chinese food arriving right on time. The smell filled your apartment as you paid the driver, normal and grounding and real.

Still, as you ate on the couch, the TV droning on, Eddie’s voice replayed in your head—not what he’d said, but everything he hadn’t.

And somewhere, just beneath the surface, something began to shift. Not hurt. Not yet.

Just distance—quiet and unfamiliar—stretching out between you, inch by careful inch.

EDDIE— After Call

“FUCK!.”

The word left Eddie’s mouth the second the line went dead, sharp and sudden, like he could still stop himself if he said it fast enough. He stared at the phone in his hand as if it might light back up, as if your name would reappear and undo the damage he’d just done by pulling away.

He dragged a hand down his face, pacing the length of his apartment, boots thudding against the floor of his apartment. The couch sat where it always did—innocent and damning all at once—and Eddie pointedly didn’t look at it.

Three minutes.

That’s all he’d managed.

Three minutes before his chest had tightened, before the familiar panic had set in, before he’d felt that awful, sinking certainty that if he stayed on the line any longer, he’d say something he wasn’t allowed to say. Something that would make it real.

He tossed the phone onto the bed like it burned and laughed under his breath, humorless. “Get it together, Munson,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. His skin still felt too warm, like the memory of you hadn’t quite left him yet.

That was the problem.

You’d sounded fine. Normal. Like the night hadn’t rearranged something inside him. Like waking up alone hadn’t split him open in ways he didn’t have language for. You hadn’t questioned him, hadn’t pushed, hadn’t asked why he’d left the shop early or why his voice kept catching every time you spoke.

And that made it worse.

Because it meant you didn’t know what he’d done.

Eddie sank down onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if it might offer absolution. His hands—these stupid, ink-stained hands—curled into fists. He flexed his fingers, remembering the way they’d rested on your waist, careful, reverent, like you were something fragile he’d somehow been trusted with.

I shouldn’t have touched you.

The thought hit hard, immediate, unforgiving.

It wasn’t about the sex. It never was. It was the way you’d fit against him like it made sense. The way you’d fallen asleep without hesitation, like his arms were a place you belonged. Eddie had spent years convincing himself he didn’t get to be that for someone like you.

Good people didn’t end up with guys like him. They didn’t deserve to carry the weight of someone who was still figuring out how not to ruin everything he touched.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, breathing out slow and shaky. You don’t get to want this, he told himself. You don’t get to keep her.

The phone stayed silent.

Eddie swallowed hard and stood, forcing himself to move, to do anything but think about the sound of your voice, easy and warm, like he hadn’t already broken something between you. He’d told you to come by the shop tomorrow—because he couldn’t stand the thought of you thinking he was gone for good.

But even that felt selfish.

Watching you leave was easier than letting you stay. Easier than admitting that if he let himself touch you again, he wouldn’t stop—and that scared him more than being alone ever had.

He turned the lights off without looking back at the couch.

Somewhere across town, you were eating dinner, watching TV, living your life like he hadn’t just redrawn the lines of it in his head.

Eddie Munson sat in the dark and wondered how someone so sweet could ever end up tangled with someone like him—and how he was supposed to let you go when every part of him already knew he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t.

THE NEXT DAY

You see him before you step inside.

Through the glass windows at the front of the shop, Eddie is bent over his station, shoulders relaxed, hair falling into his face as he works. He’s tattooing a girl’s calf—steady, focused—and he’s smiling. Laughing, actually, head tipped back slightly as the girl says something you can’t hear. It’s easy. Familiar. So him it almost makes you pause mid-step.

See? you tell yourself. He’s fine.

The bell above the door chimes as you push it open, the shop swallowing you whole—buzzing machines, the smell of ink and antiseptic, the low hum of conversation layered with music. Eddie looks up at the sound instinctively, like he always does.

His smile falters.

Not dramatically. Just enough.

“Hey,” he says, calling you by your first name, then corrects himself, using the name he gave you years ago—the one that stuck, the one only he ever used.

Marlyn’s head snaps up from her station at the sound of it.

Your eyes meet hers for half a second, something unspoken passing between you. A question. A pause. Then it’s gone.

“Hey,” you reply, easy, stepping closer like nothing has changed.

You lean in to give him a quick sit-hug, perching on the edge of his chair like you always do, arm sliding around his shoulders. Eddie stiffens just slightly—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that you feel it. He doesn’t lean into you this time. His shoulder brushes yours, nothing more, a careful inch of space held between you like a rule he’s made for himself.

You pull back, blinking, and laugh it off.

“Busy?” you ask, settling into the chair beside his booth, knees bouncing lightly.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, eyes already back on his work. “Always.”

The girl in the chair keeps talking, and Eddie laughs again—real this time, unguarded. He jokes with her, reassures her when she flinches, leans in close without thinking. His hand rests steady against her skin, fingers sure, practiced, comfortable.

The girl in the chair chuckles nervously. “You say that to everyone.”

Eddie grins at her, easy and bright. “That’s ‘cause it’s true”

She laughs, shoulders relaxing. “You’re the worst.”

“I know,” Eddie replies proudly. “But my lines are clean and my music taste is elite. Can’t have everything.”

From the booth beside him, one of the other artists—Jeff—snorts. “Elite? Man, you’ve been playing the same Metallica tape for two years.”

Eddie doesn’t even look up. “It’s called consistency. Look it up.”

Jeff tosses a paper towel at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Eddie says, smirking, “you love me.”

The shop laughs, the sound bouncing off the walls, easy and familiar. Eddie’s laugh joins in—full and unguarded, head tipping back just slightly. He leans closer to his client, steadying her calf with one hand as the machine hums back to life.

She winces, then exhales. “Alright,” he says gently, all focus now. “Deep breath. You’re doing great.”

“Don’t lie!” She chuckles.

Eddie murmurs. “I don’t lie to people who trust me with their skin.”

Your stomach twists at that, though you’re not sure why.

He keeps talking to her as he works—about the weather, about how Florida heat should be illegal, about the dumb banner someone hung crooked near the front window.

You watch him without meaning to.

He’s animated with everyone else—the clients, the artists, even the delivery guy who pops his head in to drop off supplies. He grins, gestures, throws his head back in laughter like the weight of the world hasn’t shifted at all.

But when you speak, he gives you half-answers.

“Yeah.”

“Probably.”

“Guess so.”

His attention never lingers. His eyes slid away too quickly, his body angled just slightly out of reach.

You fold your hands in your lap and try not to let it sink in. Okay, you think. That’s… noticeable.

Four days. That’s how long it’s been. Four days of dry phone calls, canceled plans, and now this—him right there, close enough to touch, and somehow miles away. You glance around the shop, half-expecting someone to look at you like they see it too.

Marlyn doesn’t.

She’s focused on her work, relaxed, unbothered. No raised brows. No pointed looks. No are you okay? whispered across the room. If Eddie was acting weird, surely she’d notice. Surely she’d say something.

So it must be you.

You shift in your seat, forcing yourself to relax, forcing a smile. You’re overthinking it. Projecting meaning onto something ordinary. People get weird sometimes. Eddie gets in moods. It doesn’t have to be about you.

Then you speak.

“So,” you say casually, “still coming by the beach this weekend? Marlyn was talking about it.”

Eddie doesn’t look up. “Probably.”

“Okayy.” You hesitate, then try again. “I was thinking of bringing that old radio we found? The one that still half-works.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Could.”

Silence stretches.

You shift in your seat, forcing a laugh. “real talkative today.”

That earns you a glance—brief, careful. “Just focused,” he says. “Big piece.”

And that’s it.

No follow-up. No teasing. No sideways smile meant just for you. His attention slides away again, locked back onto his work like you hadn’t been there at all.

Around you, the shop keeps moving—voices overlapping, laughter rising and falling, the hum of machines never stopping. Eddie is still Eddie to everyone else.

Just not to you. Still, you sit there longer than you meant to, listening to Eddie laugh with someone else, and wonder when the space between you got so loud.

You last maybe five more minutes.

Five minutes of watching Eddie laugh with someone else, of feeling like you’re sitting too close to something you’re not supposed to touch anymore. The chair beside his booth suddenly feels wrong—too exposed, too familiar, like a habit you don’t know how to break quietly.

“Alriiight,” you say, dragging the word out with forced ease as you push yourself up from the seat.

Eddie hums in acknowledgment but doesn’t look over.

You walk away before you can think about it.

Marlyn glances up from her sketchpad the second she hears your footsteps, eyes tracking you as you cross the shop and slide into the empty chair beside her station. She doesn’t say anything at first—just watches you out of the corner of her eye, pen paused mid-air.

You feel it. Her attention. The unasked question.

After a beat, she makes a face—brows knitting together.

You shrug, small and noncommittal. Like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t just relocate your entire body away from Eddie Munson.

“…What?” you murmur.

Marlyn tilts her head slightly, lowering her voice. “Nothing,” she says, then hesitates. “Just—did you two get into a fight or something?”

Your stomach dips. “Umm, no?”

She gestures vaguely with her pen toward Eddie’s booth, where his laughter rises again, easy and unrestrained. “He’s just being weird.”

You snort softly. “He’s always weird.”

“Yeah,” Marlyn says slowly, unconvinced. “But not like that.”

You glance over despite yourself. Eddie’s focused on his work, shoulders relaxed, expression open. He looks fine. Normal. Happy, even. You turn back to Marlyn, lowering your voice further.

“I think you’re reading into it.”

Marlyn studies you for a second, then sighs. “Okay, but hear me out—maybe he’s trying to avoid you.”

The words land heavier than they should. You shake your head immediately. “No.”

“Are you sure?” she presses gently.

“I’m sure,” you say, a little too quickly. “He’s the one who told me to come by today.”

Marlyn raises a brow. “Did he?”

“Yeah,” you insist. “We talked last night. He said to come in.”

She doesn’t argue right away, which somehow makes it worse. Instead, she taps her pen against the pad thoughtfully. “Okay. But did he make plans? Or did he just… say it?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

“Well,” you start, regrouping, “we were supposed to grab lunch yesterday, but he had to cancel—”

Marlyn hums. “Uh-huh.”

“But we talked,” you add quickly. “Like, actually talked. He picked up when I called. He wouldn’t do that if he was avoiding me.”

You say it like it’s logic. Like it settles the question.

Marlyn’s gaze softens. “Avoiding someone doesn’t always mean ignoring them.”

That gives you pause.

You glance back at Eddie again, watching the way he leans in close to his client, the way his hands are steady and sure, the way he laughs without hesitation when someone says something stupid. He doesn’t look like someone avoiding anything.

“I don’t know,” you say finally, quieter now. “I think he’s just… in his head. Or tired. Or I’m overthinking it.”

Marlyn watches you carefully. “If you say so.”

You force a smile. “I do.”

She lets it go, turning back to her sketchpad, but the thought doesn’t leave with her attention. It settles in your chest instead, small and insistent.

Avoiding you.

You shake your head again, more for yourself than for her. Eddie told you to come today. He answered your call. He’s right there.

Whatever this is, it can’t be that.

Still, as the shop buzzes on around you, you find yourself sitting a little farther away than you ever have before—trying not to look at Eddie, and failing anyway.

Eddie notices immediately.

He doesn’t mean to—doesn’t look up right away, doesn’t turn his head—but the space beside his booth feels wrong all of a sudden. Lighter. Empty in a way that pulls at his attention like a loose thread. He keeps his eyes trained on the line he’s pulling, steady and clean, but his awareness drifts anyway.

You’re not there.

His jaw tightens, barely perceptible. He risks a glance through the corner of his eye and sees you across the shop now, perched beside Marlyn’s station, shoulders angled away from him like a choice you’ve just made.

Fuck me.

His chest sinks with it, that same familiar ache blooming low and slow. He swallows and forces himself to focus, hand steady even as his thoughts scatter.

“Everything okay?” the girl in the chair asks softly, sensing the shift.

“Yeah,” Eddie says automatically. “All good.”

He wipes excess ink away, careful, controlled. The hum of the machine fills the space where he wants to say something—anything—but doesn’t let himself.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you laugh at something Marlyn says. It’s quieter than usual. Smaller. Eddie tells himself he deserves that.

“Your friend?” the girl murmurs, voice lowered, curious but kind.

Eddie doesn’t answer right away.

He exhales through his nose, then nods once. “Yeah.”

“She seems… nice,” the girl says, glancing over in your direction. “You two looked close.”

Eddie’s grip tightens just slightly before he corrects it.

“We are,” he says, then stops himself. Were. Are. The distinction feels dangerous. He clears his throat. “I mean. Yeah.”

The girl hesitates, then leans in just a fraction, lowering her voice like she’s sharing a secret. “Am I in the way?”

The question hits harder than it should.

Eddie forces a small smile he doesn’t feel. “No,” he says quickly. “She just gets bored easy.”

He doesn’t look at you again after that.

Because if he does—if he lets himself see the way you’re sitting farther away, the way you’re pretending not to notice him noticing—you might see it too. And if you see it, he might have to explain.

And Eddie Munson doesn’t trust himself to explain why the best thing he’s ever almost had feels like the one thing he’s not allowed to keep.

He finishes the line with precision, hands steady despite the war in his chest, and pretends that the distance between you is something he chose easily.

When really, it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.

THREE DAYS AGO

Eddie wakes up with a headache and the wrong kind of quiet.

Sunlight bleeds through the blinds in thin, unforgiving lines, cutting across the ceiling, the floor, the bed—and the empty space beside him. For a second, he doesn’t move. Just lies there, staring, chest tight, mind scrambling to catch up with his body.

The room smells like last night. Beer. Sweat. Something softer—you—still clinging to the sheets.

“Fuck,” Eddie groans, dragging a hand down his face.

He sits up too fast and immediately regrets it, the room tilting as his stomach churns. The couch across the apartment is untouched. The door is closed. No sign of you anywhere, except for the dent you left in the mattress and the warmth that’s already fading.

He laughs once, sharp and breathless. “Yeah. Of course.”

Memory comes rushing back in pieces—your laugh, low and tired. The way you’d fit against him like you’d done it before, like it was easy. The way he’d touched you like he was afraid you’d break, like if he held you too tight the whole thing would fall apart.

He presses his palms into his eyes, breathing hard.

What the hell did you do?

It wasn’t supposed to go there. He’d known that. Had felt it the second your knees touched on the couch, the second he realized how badly he wanted you and how wrong that felt all at once. Wanting you wasn’t the problem—it was what came after. The part where you wake up and realize who you were with.

Eddie swings his legs over the side of the bed and rubs at his temples, heart pounding. His skin still feels too sensitive, like your hands haven’t let go of him yet. The thought makes his chest ache in a way that borders on panic.

You’re good. Sweet. Untouched by the things that rot people like him from the inside out.

He stands and paces the room, muttering under his breath. “You don’t do this. You don’t get to do this.”

The idea of hurting you—of being the thing that stains something pure—turns his stomach. He’d wanted to feel wanted, wanted to feel good, wanted something that made him forget all the ways he falls short.

And for a moment, last night, he had.

That’s what scares him the most.

Eddie sinks down onto the edge of the bed again, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He doesn’t know how to be someone who gets to wake up next to you and feel proud of it. Doesn’t know how to want you without believing it’ll ruin you.

He stays there long after the sun climbs higher, staring at the floor, convincing himself that distance is the only way he knows how to keep you safe—even if it means rotting alone with the truth of how badly he wants you.

The hum of the tattoo machine pulls Eddie back.

He blinks, refocuses on the line he’s tracing, forces his hand steady even as his thoughts drift somewhere they have no business being.

Across the shop, you laugh again. Quieter this time, but still unmistakably yours.

His chest tightens.

The memory hits without warning—your mouth on his, soft at first, hesitant. The way the kiss had lingered, like neither of you knew how to stop once it started. He remembers the couch beneath you, the worn fabric against his fingers, the way you’d tilted your head like you trusted him to know what to do next.

He hadn’t.

That was the problem.

Eddie swallows and adjusts his grip, deliberately loosening his hand from the client’s skin for half a second before settling again.

He can still hear the way you’d breathed his name like it meant something.He doesn’t let himself look at you.

Because if he does, he’ll remember the way you’d leaned into him without fear, the way you hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t doubted. The way you’d kissed him like he was worth wanting.

And Eddie Munson doesn’t trust that version of himself.

“Almost done,” he tells the girl in the chair, voice steady despite the war in his chest. She nods, relaxed. Trusting.

That makes his stomach twist.

He doesn’t touch you because he knows how easily he would. Because he remembers the way his hands had learned you too quickly, like they’d been waiting for permission he didn’t deserve.

He wipes the ink clean, peels his gloves off, and stands, putting physical distance between himself and his booth. You’re still sitting by Marlyn’s station, posture closed off in a way that feels new. Eddie notices it like a bruise forming under the skin. He wonders if you remember the couch too. If the memory feels as heavy for you as it does for him.

Or if you’ve already moved on.

The thought shouldn’t hurt. It does anyway.

Eddie turns back to his work, jaw tight, reminding himself—again—that this is what keeping you safe looks like. Even if it means swallowing the urge to cross the room, to apologize, to pull you close and kiss you like he did that night.

Because wanting you isn’t the sin but believing he deserves you is.

You notice before he says anything.

The machine goes quiet, the familiar hum cutting out mid-thought, and your attention drifts toward Eddie without permission. From the corner of your eye, you watch him peel his gloves off, roll his shoulders like he’s shaking something loose. The client laughs at something he says, thanks him, stands.

Marlyn is still talking beside you—something about a stencil she can’t get right—but the words blur together.

“Give me a minute,” you murmur, already standing.

She pauses, watching you go.

The client passes you on her way out, calf wrapped carefully, the fresh tattoo dark and precise against her skin. You glance down as she walks by—clean lines, careful shading. Eddie’s work. Steady hands. Intentional.

You keep walking.

Eddie’s back is to you when you reach his booth. He’s wiping down the station, methodical, focused, movements a little too precise. You sit on the edge of the tattoo bed like you’ve done a hundred times before, the vinyl cool beneath your palms.

You don’t say anything at first.

You just watch him.

The way his shoulders move when he breathes. The way his jaw tightens as he concentrates. The space he’s put between you now feels deliberate, like he’s holding it in place with effort alone.

“Hey,” you murmur, then hesitate.

He doesn’t turn.

“What’s up with you?”

The words come out softer than you meant them to. Not an accusation. Just confusion. Curiosity edged with something deeper you’re still pretending not to feel.

Eddie keeps wiping the counter. The paper towel squeaks against the metal surface. One second stretches into two. Into three.

Your chest tightens.

Then he exhales and shakes his head once, like he’s brushing something away. When he finally turns, he forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Nothing,” he says. Short. Final.

Your stomach sinks—not sharply, not yet—but enough that you notice.

“Nothing?” you repeat lightly, brows lifting. You swing one leg idly, pretending ease. “Because it kinda feels like something.”

Eddie shrugs, eyes already sliding away. “You’re reading into it.”

There it is.

You’d said the same thing to Marlyn not five minutes ago.

You watch his hands instead of his face now, the way they move when he’s not sure what to do with them. He keeps busy—throws away gloves, wipes down the bed, avoids standing still long enough for the moment to settle.

So this is the test.

You’d told yourself he wasn’t avoiding you. That he wouldn’t tell you to come in if he didn’t want to see you. That he wouldn’t answer your calls, wouldn’t joke, wouldn’t look at you at all.

But now he’s right here—and somehow farther away than ever.

“Okay,” you say slowly, nodding once like you’ve come to a decision you don’t fully understand yet. “I’m gonna head out.”

You slide off the edge of the tattoo bed and turn away before he can see the shift in your face, the way something inside you has gone quiet. Your steps feel heavier than they should as you move toward the front of the shop, past the hum of machines and the low murmur of conversation that suddenly feels too loud.

Behind you, Eddie stills.

For half a second—just half—his mouth opens. His hand lifts, fingers flexing like he’s about to call your name, like he’s about to stop you. The instinct is there, sharp and desperate, lodged in his chest where it hurts the most.

Don’t let her walk away like this.

But he does.

“Alright,” Eddie says instead.

It’s soft. Neutral. Empty.

Not I’ll see you later.

Not Call me when you get home.

Not even your name.

You pause for a fraction of a second, the word settling in your spine like a weight. Then you nod once, even though he can’t see it, and keep walking.

Marlyn looks up as you pass her station, concern flickering across her face. You offer her a small shrug—it’s fine, really—and push the door open.

The bell chimes behind you, bright and oblivious.

Outside, the heat wraps around you again, thick and suffocating. You don’t look back.

Inside the shop, Eddie stands frozen, staring at the space you left behind, heart pounding like he’s just made the worst kind of mistake—the kind you don’t realize until it’s already done.

And for the first time, you don’t convince yourself you’re overthinking it.

Because this time, the distance answers back.

You make it a week.

Seven days of not calling.

Seven days of not driving past the shop “on accident.”

Seven days of not finding excuses to hear Eddie’s voice.

You tell yourself it’s a test. A fair one. If he wants to talk to you, he will. If he notices your absence, it’ll show. You repeat it like a rule, like something solid you can lean on.

By day three, it starts to itch.

By day five, it’s all you think about.

Your phone stays face-up on the table more than it should. You check it without realizing you’re doing it, thumb hovering, breath held, waiting for his name to appear like it used to—Eds or whatever stupid variation he’d saved himself as when he’d last stolen your phone.

Nothing.

You imagine him in the spaces you’ve left empty. Your chair by his booth. The late-night calls. The lunches that never happened. You picture him noticing, then dismissing it just as quickly. She’s busy. She’s fine. The idea settles wrong in your chest, sour and heavy.

You try to stay distracted. You don’t do a great job.

Every little thing brings him back—music you don’t skip because he liked it, the smell of ink when you pass a shop on the street, the way the heat sticks to your skin and makes you think of Florida summers spent sprawled on his couch. You replay moments you didn’t think mattered at the time, turning them over until they blur together.

Did you leave too early that morning?

Did you miss something in his voice?

Did you push too hard at the shop—or not enough?

Your thoughts don’t move in straight lines anymore. They loop. Spiral. Build and collapse and build again. One minute you’re convinced he’s fine without you—better, even. The next, you’re aching with the certainty that you’ve been quietly discarded and you don’t know why.

Some nights you draft messages you never send.

Did I do something?

Are you okay?

I miss you.

You delete them all.

You don’t want to be the one who wants more. You don’t want to chase someone who won’t even meet you halfway. But the silence stretches on, loud and unanswered, and you feel it pressing against your ribs, making it hard to breathe.

You miss him in ways that don’t make sense. The sound of his laugh. The way he’d lean too close when he was tired. The comfort of knowing he’d be there at the end of the day, no matter what.

You curl up on your couch one night, phone warm in your hand, staring at the ceiling and wondering how something that was never supposed to mean anything ended up carving such a deep, hollow space inside you.

You tell yourself—again—that if he wanted to, he would.

TWO NIGHTS LATER

You decide—very deliberately—that you’re done thinking about it.

That night, you take longer getting ready than usual. You shower, dry your hair, put on something that feels like armor—something that looks good without needing his opinion. You line your eyes just a little darker, spray perfume you haven’t worn around him before. Confidence in a bottle.

Marlyn whistles when you step out of your room. “Okay,” she says. “You look fucking amazing.”

“So do you!” you reply, grabbing your keys. “Can’t wait to drink.”

The bar is loud in that familiar way—sticky floors, neon signs humming, bass-heavy music vibrating through your chest as soon as you step inside. The air smells like alcohol and sweat and something fried. Normal. Distracting. Exactly what you want.

“Finally,” Marlyn says, weaving through the crowd beside you. “I was starting to think you’d never leave your apartment again.”

“I had things to… process,” you say, shrugging. “A lot of things.”

“Processing over cocktails, huh?” she teases, elbowing you gently. “Bold choice.”

And then you see him.

Eddie’s at the bar, half-turned toward a girl perched on a stool beside him. She’s leaning in close, laughing too loud, one hand resting on the counter. Eddie’s standing between her knees, relaxed, easy—his hand settled at the middle of her back like it belongs there.

He’s smiling.

Your heart drops so fast it almost makes you dizzy.

You don’t stop walking.

You don’t react. You don’t flinch. You don’t give yourself the satisfaction of staring. You keep your eyes forward, posture loose, expression blank—like you haven’t just been punched somewhere soft and unprotected.

Marlyn’s behind you, trying to squeeze through the crowd, and you don’t hear Eddie when he spots her.

“Hey, Mar—” he says, cutting himself off when she keeps moving, eyes on you instead.

You’re already slipping between two people at the bar, angling your body sideways to flag the bartender. You lean your elbows against the sticky counter, pretending the noise isn’t overwhelming, pretending your pulse isn’t loud enough to drown out the music.

“And this is why we are best friends,” Marlyn continues, her voice low so the music doesn’t carry it. “You just… barrel through. No hesitation.”

You give a small shrug. “Sometimes hesitation is not worth it.”

Marlyn hums, approving. “Good motto. I’ll borrow that.”

You glance at her, laugh softly. “Borrow it all you want. I’m not using it properly anyway.”

You feel it before you see it.

His stare.

It’s heavy—unsubtle in a way Eddie rarely is. You can almost feel the weight of it pressing between your shoulder blades. You keep your gaze fixed ahead, jaw set, fingers drumming lightly against the bar like you’re bored.

When you finally glance over, it’s quick. Controlled. A single second. Poker face. No reaction. Nothing.

You let your gaze slide away from Eddie, pretending nothing is wrong. Pretending you’re over it. Pretending like you don’t feel the pull of him across the room, the ache that tightens your chest every time he shifts his weight, every time the girl laughs too close to him.

Eddie’s smile is gone.

He noticed you the second you stepped inside. The music hums in the background, bass vibrating through the floor, but it doesn’t reach him. He only sees you.

The first thought hits like a punch: You’re here. Without me.

What the hell is she doing here?

He glances across the bar and catches Marlyn watching him. Her eyebrows are raised, lips pressed together, eyes narrowing slightly. She’s not saying anything—she doesn’t need to. The message travels through the space between them, across the din of music and chatter.

You did this, she seems to say, a tilt of her head, a shake of her hand.

Guilt coils in his chest. His jaw tightens. His chest burns. Every laugh you make pulls him closer to the edge of losing control, but he stands still. Silent. Helpless.

The girl beside him keeps talking, unaware, her voice animated as she leans closer, but Eddie doesn’t hear a word she’s saying. His attention is locked on you now—on the way you’re standing like you belong there, like you didn’t spend a week unraveling over his silence.

Like you’re over it.

His hand slips from the girl’s back without him realizing it.

You order your drink. Thank the bartender. Take a sip like your hands aren’t shaking just slightly. You laugh at something Marlyn says when she finally reaches your side, your voice steady, convincing.

From across the bar, Eddie watches you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

You don’t look back again.

The bartender slides your drink across the counter, condensation slick against your fingers. You take a sip—strong, sweet, grounding—and let the burn settle low in your chest.

“Okay,” Marlyn says, clinking her glass against yours. “Now that’s more like it.”

You laugh, genuine this time. “Come on.”

You grab her wrist and pull her through the crowd before she can say anything else. Bodies press in from every side as you weave your way toward the dance floor, bass thudding so loud it rattles your ribs. Someone bumps your shoulder; someone else apologizes too late. The air is thick and hot and alive.

You push through the last line of people and spill into the center of it all.

Lights flash overhead—red, blue, violet—cutting the room into pieces. Sweat, laughter, movement everywhere. You and Marlyn turn to face each other instinctively, like you’ve done this a hundred times before. The music drops into something familiar, something with a beat you can sink into.

“Thank God,” Marlyn shouts over the noise. “I needed this.”

You lift your glass in agreement and take another sip, then let the music take over.

Your body loosens before your mind does. Hips swaying, shoulders rolling, hair sticking to your neck. Marlyn laughs when you exaggerate a move just to make her laugh, and she responds in kind, dramatic and unbothered. You dance close, then pull back, mirroring each other’s energy, feeding off the rhythm and the noise.

For a moment, it works.

You forget the bar.

Forget the week.

Forget the way absence has been sitting heavy in your chest.

You sing along to lyrics you don’t fully know, pointing at Marlyn dramatically. She throws her head back laughing, nearly spilling her drink. You catch her elbow before she does.

“Careful!” you shout.

“I’m fine,” she says, grinning.

The music shifts—heavier bass, slower rhythm—and the crowd presses in closer, bodies moving in sync. You’re mid-laugh, shoulders loose, drink lifted in one hand, when you feel it.

Someone stepping into your space.

At first you think it’s just the crowd tightening, but then a hand lifts—hesitant, hovering near your waist without quite touching. You glance up.

He’s cute. In that familiar way.

Dark hair, leather jacket despite the heat. A band tee you recognize. Boots scuffed like they’ve seen some things. The resemblance hits you softly, unfairly.

Oh.

He leans in just enough for you to hear him. “Hey,” he says, voice easy, respectful. “You dancing with anyone?”

Marlyn notices immediately. Her eyebrows shoot up, then she looks at you, waiting. Giving you the choice.

You hesitate for half a second—just long enough to feel the ghost of something tug at your chest.

Then you nod.

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s fine.”

The guy smiles, relieved, and steps closer—not crowd-close, but intentional. He keeps his hands visible at first, moving to the beat, matching your rhythm instead of overtaking it. You appreciate that more than you expect to.

You dance together easily. Nothing rushed. Nothing heavy. Just movement and music and shared space.

His hand settles at your hip, light, tentative. You don’t pull away.

Marlyn grins and takes a step back, lifting her drink like she’s toasting you from a distance. You laugh, rolling your eyes, and let yourself relax into the moment.

The stranger leans in again. He says his name, but it doesn’t stick.

The stranger keeps pace with you, respectful, smooth. His hand stays light at your hip, never demanding more than you give.You nod when he leans in to say something you only half-hear.

He leans closer, voice warm against your ear. “You come here a lot?”

“Sometimes,” you answer automatically.

You take a sip of your drink, even though it’s nearly empty, just to give your hands something to do.

You should feel flattered. Comfortable. Present.

The stranger’s fingers curl a little more securely at your hip, testing. You don’t stop him.

Still, your body doesn’t lean in the way it should. Your gaze flicks to Marlyn across the floor. She’s watching you carefully now—not interrupting, not hovering. Just checking in. You give her a small smile that says I’m okay even though you’re not entirely sure that’s true.

Across the bar, Eddie watches.

At first he tells himself not to. Tells himself to look away, to finish his drink, to pretend he doesn’t feel every movement like it’s happening under his own skin. But then the guy’s hand settles on your waist and something sharp snaps loose in his chest.

Eddie’s jaw clenches. His fingers curl tight around his glass. He watches the way you hesitate—not enough to stop it, just enough to feel wrong—and it guts him. You don’t look happy. You look… detached. Like you’re trying to convince yourself.

The stranger leans in again. Eddie sees his mouth move, sees you answer.

The song changes again—something slower, dirtier—and the stranger shifts closer without asking, guided by the music. His hand slides more firmly to your waist, thumb brushing your side.

You tense, just barely.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, pulling back a fraction. “Tell me if I’m crowding you.”

You blink, caught off guard. “No—it’s fine.”

That’s when Eddie moves.

He doesn’t think it through. His body acts before his brain can catch up, pushing off the bar, cutting through the crowd with purpose written all over his face. Every step feels reckless, desperate.

Marlyn notices immediately.

She’s been watching you just as closely—your forced smile, the way you’re not really there. Then she follows your line of sight, just for a second, and sees Eddie moving.

Fast.

Determined.

Oh no.

She steps out of the crowd and intercepts him cleanly, planting herself directly in his path.

“Oh, no you don’t munson,” Marlyn says, pointing a finger straight into his chest.

Eddie stops short, nearly colliding with her.

He looks down at her—towering, tense, eyes wild. “Move.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You don’t get to do this,” he snaps, trying to step around her.

Marlyn shifts with him, blocking him again. “Do what? Suddenly care?”

That lands.

Eddie exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “She looks uncomfortable.”

“She looks confused,” Marlyn corrects. “Big difference.”

The guy studies your face for a moment, like he’s trying to read something you’re not saying.

“You okay?” he asks. “You kinda look like you’re… somewhere else.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I’m good.”

He hums, unconvinced. “Yeah. I get that look too.”

You glance up at him. “You do?”

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “When you want something but don’t think you’re supposed to have it.”

Your stomach tightens.

He looks away, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry—that sounded heavier than I meant.”

“No,” you say quickly. “It’s fine.”

He hesitates, then adds, quieter, “Sometimes I think I’m bad news. Like—if someone’s too good, I should stay the hell away.”

There it is.

Your breath catches—not because of him, but because you’ve heard those words before. Not exactly like that, but close enough to sting. Too close.

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “You’re not bad news.”

He snorts. “You don’t know me.”

You think of Eddie. The way he jokes instead of confessing. The way he pulls away when he wants to stay.

“Maybe,” you say. “But people aren’t usually as broken as they think.”

The stranger watches you for a second, then nods slowly. “Yeah. Maybe.”

He steps back, giving you space again, like he senses something’s shifted.

And you realize, with a strange clarity, that it was never about finding someone like Eddie.

It was about wanting him.

Eddie glares past Marlyn, eyes flicking toward you again. The stranger’s hand is still at your waist, but you’re stiff now, smile fading.

“I can’t just stand there,” Eddie says, voice low, cracking. “I can’t watch that.”

Marlyn tilts her head up at him, unimpressed. “You watched her walk away for a week.”

“That’s not the same.”

“It is exactly the same.”

Eddie swallows. His throat feels tight, burning. “I miss her.”

Marlyn’s expression softens—but only for a second. “Then stop punishing her for your own self-loathing.”

He flinches.

“She didn’t do anything wrong,” Marlyn continues. “And you didnt either.”

Marlyn steps closer, lowering her voice. “If she wants you, she’ll look for you. But you don’t get to swoop in now like you didn’t push her away first.”

Eddie exhales, heavy and shaky.

Across the dance floor, you pull back slightly from the stranger, discomfort finally winning out. Eddie sees it—and it nearly breaks him.

Marlyn follows his gaze. “See? She’s already choosing herself.”

Eddie closes his eyes for a beat, jaw tight, chest aching. When he opens them again, he doesn’t move.

Your body has gone still, the rhythm slipping out of sync, your smile softening into something polite instead of real. He eases back first, hands lifting in a quiet, respectful surrender.

“Hey,” he says gently, eyes dropping to yours for a brief moment. There’s no bitterness there—just understanding. “It was nice dancing with you.”

You smile, small but genuine. “Yeah. It was.”

He nods once, steps back into the crowd, and disappears just as easily as he arrived.

You turn away before you can overthink it.

As you start toward the edge of the dance floor, you spot Marlyn—standing directly in front of Eddie.

Your steps falter for half a second.

Eddie looks… wrecked. Shoulders tense, jaw tight, eyes fixed on Marlyn like she’s the only thing keeping him from doing something stupid. And then his gaze lifts.

He sees you.

Your heart stutters—but you don’t stop.

“I’m gonna go get another drink,” you say casually as you reach them, voice light, almost breezy.

You don’t look at Eddie when you say it. You don’t slow down. You don’t give him a chance to respond.

Marlyn glances between the two of you, then nods immediately. “Yeah. Me too.”

She falls into step beside you without hesitation.

Eddie stays where he is.

You feel his eyes on your back as you walk away, but he doesn’t follow. Doesn’t call out. Doesn’t touch you.

The bar feels quieter than the dance floor, the music muffled just enough to let your thoughts creep back in. You lean against the counter, exhaling slowly.

Marlyn orders first, then turns to you. “So?”

You shrug, resting your elbows on the bar. “It was good,” you say honestly. “I just… wasn’t feeling it.”

She hums, unsurprised.

“I mean,” you continue, rolling the glass between your fingers, “I came here with you. We should be dancing together. Having fun together. That’s kinda the point.”

Marlyn smiles softly at that. “I like that answer.”

You smile back, a little tired, a little relieved.

Behind you, somewhere in the noise and lights and missed chances, Eddie stays exactly where you left him—watching, wanting, and finally understanding that this time, you’re not waiting for him to catch up.

You lean forward slightly, lifting your hand to catch the bartender’s attention.

“Hey—can I get a—”

Movement in the corner of your eye pulls your focus away. You glance over your shoulder without really thinking.

And you see him.

Eddie is pushing through the crowd toward the exit, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing against something heavier than the noise. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t scan the room. Doesn’t hesitate.

He just leaves.

The door swings open, letting in a wash of humid night air and streetlight before it closes behind him.

Gone.

Your words trail off, unfinished.

The bartender waits, eyebrows raised. “You still want that?” You blink, throat tightening. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Marlyn follows your line of sight just in time to see the door settle shut. Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t say anything—not yet.

You face forward again, fixing your eyes on the bar like it’s the most important thing in the room. Like your chest isn’t suddenly hollow. Like you didn’t just watch someone you care about walk away without a word.

You hadn’t expected that. You’d braced yourself for awkwardness. For tension. Maybe even a conversation you weren’t ready to have.

But not this.

The bartender slides your drink across the counter. You take it automatically, fingers curling around the glass.

Behind you, the music swells again. Laughter rises. Life continues. You take a sip, the alcohol burning sharper than before, and stare straight ahead—trying not to wonder if this was Eddie choosing distance all over again.

Trying not to wonder why it hurts more now that you saw it happen. And trying, unsuccessfully, not to hope that he’ll come back through that door.

LATER THAT NIGHT

The music dies the second you step outside.

The night air hits you heavy and damp, wrapping around your skin like it’s trying to slow you down. The bass still thuds faintly through the walls behind you, but out here it’s quieter—too quiet.

You’re halfway across the sidewalk when you see him.

Eddie’s by his bike, not sitting on it—just leaning there like he’s forgotten what it’s for. Both feet planted on the ground, ankles crossed loosely, cigarette glowing between his fingers. His shoulders are slumped, head tilted down like he’s staring at nothing.

Then he looks up and your eyes lock.

The world narrows to that single moment—streetlight glare, the ember of his cigarette, the way his face tightens like he wasn’t prepared to see you again. Neither of you move.

You can feel your pulse in your throat. Marlyn slows beside you, senses it immediately, but she doesn’t interrupt. She just watches.

“Get home safe,” he says.

That’s it.

No name.

No apology.

No explanation.

He flicks the cigarette to the pavement and crushes it out with his boot, jaw clenched like that alone took effort. Then he swings onto the bike, helmet already in his hand, movements sharp and decisive—like if he hesitates even one more second, he’ll break.

The engine roars to life and then something in you snaps.

You huff out a breath so sharp it burns your throat and start marching toward your car, keys rattling wildly in your hand. “What the fuck is wrong with him?” you snap, voice already climbing.

Marlyn hurries after you. “Hey—hey, slow down—”

“No,” you cut in, yanking the car door open. “Absolutely not. He doesn’t get to do that. He doesn’t get to look at me like that and say get home safe like that’s enough.”

You slam the door harder than necessary and start the engine, hands shaking as you peel out of the lot.

Marlyn turns in her seat to face you. “I know you’re upset, but—”

“I’m not upset, I’m pissed,” you snap, “There’s a difference.”

Streetlights blur past as your words come faster, messier. “I hate him,” you say flatly. “I fucking hate him.”

Marlyn winces. “You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do!” you shout, slamming the wheel. “I hate that he thinks he can just disappear and come back whenever it suits him. I hate that he acts like he’s doing me some kind of favor by staying away.”

“You’re just angry,” Marlyn insists gently. “You’re hurt.”

“I don’t care,” you fire back, breath shallow. “He’s such a self-sabotaging asshole. Everything’s always about how broken he is. Boo-fucking-hoo.”

Marlyn reaches out like she might touch your arm, then thinks better of it. “Okay, but—”

You grip the steering wheel too tight, knuckles white, jaw aching from how hard you’re clenching it. The words keep coming—unchecked, unfiltered, spiraling faster the longer you’re alone with them.

“I hate that stupid bike. I hate his dumb fucking hair—why is it even long? He thinks he’s so cool, doesn’t he? Like—oh, look at me, tortured artist bullshit.”

You laugh bitterly, breath hitching. “And he’s not even that good at tattooing. Everyone acts like he’s a god, but I’ve seen his line work. Crooked as hell.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face, then smack the steering wheel again. “Okay, that’s definitely not true,” Marlyn says, trying to keep her voice calm.

Your breathing turns ragged, words tumbling over each other. “He makes me feel insane. Like I’m too much for wanting answers. Like I’m crazy for expecting him to just—just try.”

“Why did I ever meet him? Why did I let him into my life? He ruins everything and then just—just leaves like it’s nothing.”

Your chest feels tight. Too tight. Your thoughts crash into each other, overlapping, contradicting. “I don’t care,” you insist out loud, voice cracking with effort. “I don’t care. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone.”

The words come faster now, louder. “He thinks he’s so fucking broken, like that gives him a free pass to hurt people. Newsflash—everyone’s broken. He’s not special.”

Marlyn lets out a startled laugh despite herself. “That’s not fair.”

“I don’t care if it’s fair,” you snap.

Your breathing turns shallow. Too fast. Like you can’t quite get enough air no matter how hard you try. You slam your palm into the steering wheel—once, twice—each hit echoing too loudly in the quiet car, frustration burning through your arms, through your chest, through your bones.

Something snaps.

“FUUUUUUUUUCK—!”

It rips out of you, loud and raw and unfiltered, bouncing off the windshield, the dashboard, the closed windows. The sound shakes your chest on the way out, leaves your throat burning in its wake.

You don’t stop when your voice cracks.

You scream again, dragging it out until your lungs ache, until the sound dissolves into something hoarse and broken and ugly—and honest.

Marlyn flinches but doesn’t interrupt. She just sits there, hands folded in her lap, letting you get it out. The car slows as you pull into your driveway and the scream finally dies, the engine cuts off and you’re left panting,

Silence floods in.

You slump back against the seat, chest heaving, Your ears ring. Your chest rises and falls hard, uneven.anger still buzzing under your skin—but now there’s something else too. Something quieter. Heavier.

The kind of hurt anger can’t drown out forever.

You squeeze your eyes shut, jaw trembling, and mutter one last time, softer now—

“Fuck him.”

For a moment, you feel empty. Hollowed out. Like you’ve wrung yourself dry.

Then the ache creeps back in—quieter now, but heavier. Marlyn reaches over slowly and rests her hand on your arm.“That had to come out,” she says softly.

You swallow hard, eyes burning, and nod once.

Marlyn turns fully toward you now. “You don’t mean half of what you just said, do you?.”

You stare straight ahead, chest heaving, anger still buzzing under your skin like exposed wires.

“Maybe,” you mutter. Then, bitterly, “But it feels good to say it.”

Silence stretches.

Morning doesn’t fix anything.

It just dulls the sharpest edges.

Sunlight slips through the blinds in thin, pale lines, striping the kitchen floor and the counter like it’s unsure whether it belongs there. The apartment smells faintly like coffee and last night’s aftermath—stale, quiet, unresolved.

You stand at the counter, stirring your coffee long after the sugar’s dissolved. Marlyn’s beside you, hair pulled into a messy knot, already half in work mode even though her eyes are tired. Neither of you says much.

You carry your mugs to the couch and sit, curling slightly inward. The warmth of the ceramic seeps into your palms, grounding in a way nothing else has been since last night.

Marlyn studies you for a moment. “Are you okay?”

You nod.

It’s reflexive. Easier than finding the words for the hollow feeling pressing behind your ribs.

She exhales and leans back. “You know… you wouldn’t care this much if you didn’t care.”

Your jaw tightens.

“You care about Eddie,” she says gently. “And you wouldn’t be this upset about how he’s been acting if you didn’t.”

You stare down at your coffee, watching the surface ripple when your hands shift.

“When did he start acting weird?” Marlyn asks. “Like—really weird.”

“After his birthday,” you say. “I think.”

Marlyn blinks. “His birthday?” She frowns, genuinely confused. “But that night went so well. Everyone had fun. He seemed happy.”

You nod again. “Yeah That’s what makes it confusing, “It wasn’t obvious at first,” you continue. “Just… little things. He still answered my calls, but he was dry. Like he was only half there. Small talk instead of… us.”

Marlyn nods slowly.

“He stopped joking the same way,” you say. “Stopped asking about my day. Conversations would just… end. Like he was waiting for an excuse to hang up.”

“And then I went to the shop,” you add. “The third day after his birthday. He told me to come by.”

Marlyn’s eyes flick up. “Yeah, I remember.”

“He wasn’t there,” you say. “He’d left early. You said you didn’t know why.”

Marlyn frowns. “Yeah… I didn’t.”

“I stayed,” you continue. “Thought maybe he’d come back. He didn’t. And even after that, I still didn’t think anything of it.”

You laugh softly, bitter. “I kept telling myself I was overthinking.”

Marlyn doesn’t interrupt.

“And when I did see him the next day,” you say, voice quieter now, “he was different. With everyone else he was normal—laughing, joking, leaning in. But with me? Short answers.” You glance up briefly. “He wouldn’t even hug me”

Marlyn’s expression tightens.

“then when I left the shop,” you add, “I told him I was heading out all he said was ‘alright.’”

Silence settles between you.

Marlyn exhales slowly. “Okay,” she murmurs. “Yeah. That’s… not nothing.”

She pauses, then laughs softly, like she’s trying to puzzle it out. “What could have possibly happened that night? I mean—we all left around the same time. Nothing weird happened.”

The room goes very still.

Something stirs in your chest—not sharp, not loud. Just… present. A memory rising slowly to the surface, uninvited.

The apartment is quieter than it’s been all night.

The music is still playing—low now, muffled, like it’s embarrassed to still be there after everyone’s gone. Empty cups sit abandoned on the coffee table. The smell of cigarette smoke and cheap beer lingers in the air, mixed with something warmer—something familiar.

You sink back into Eddie’s couch with a tired laugh, the cushions dipping beneath your weight.

Eddie drops down beside you a second later. Too close.

You notice it immediately—the way your thigh presses against his, the heat of him bleeding through denim and cotton. You should scoot over. Say something. Joke about it.

Neither of you do.

Eddie says something stupid then—something sarcastic, half-slurred, just funny enough to pull a laugh out of you. You throw your head back, laughing freely, the sound ringing a little louder in the quiet apartment.

When you look back at him— You’re already facing each other.

The laughter dies between you, fading into something heavier. Your smile lingers a moment too long before slipping away entirely as you register the space—or lack of it—between you.

His knee is pressed to yours. His arm is stretched along the back of the couch, close enough that if you leaned back even an inch, you’d touch him.

You don’t, Your eyes drop without permission to his mouth.

Eddie notices.

You feel it the second his expression changes—something shifts behind his eyes, something careful and restrained finally cracking. He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t joke it off.

He just watches you.

Your gaze flickers back up, caught, breath stuttering just slightly. The room feels warmer suddenly. Smaller. Like the walls have leaned in to witness whatever this is becoming.

“Hey,” Eddie murmurs, softer than you’ve ever heard him.

You don’t answer.

He lifts his hand, his fingers brush your cheek—warm, tentative. His thumb rests just below your ear while his palm curves along your jaw, his fingers slipping lightly against the side of your neck.

It’s grounding, intimate and dangerous. Your breath catches. Eddie swallows, eyes flicking down to your lips and back up again. You lean in just enough for him to feel it and that’s all it takes.

He closes the distance, his lips meet yours in a kiss that’s soft at first, unsure, tasting faintly of alcohol and smoke and something achingly familiar.

The world tilts.

His hand tightens slightly against your cheek, thumb brushing your skin as if to make sure you’re real. You kiss him back without thinking, without planning, like this has been waiting quietly between you for far longer than either of you want to admit.

The kiss deepens—rushed, desperate—and full. Loaded. Heavy with everything neither of you have ever said out loud enough that you feel it settle low in your stomach, a slow burn spreading through your chest, your skin suddenly too warm for the room you’re in. Eddie feels it too; you know he does by the way his breath stutters, by the subtle shift of his hand at your cheek, fingers flexing like he’s grounding himself.

He exhales against your mouth, a quiet sound that almost breaks him.

You barely register the couch cushions beneath you as he shifts, guiding you back instinctively, like his body is already reacting before his mind can catch up. His hand slides from your cheek to your waist, tentative

You stop him.

Your hands press to his chest, not to push him away but to steady yourself as you move—slowly, deliberately—swinging a leg over his lap.

Then you’re there.

Straddling him. Close enough to feel the way his breath hitches beneath you, the way his hands hover at your hips like he’s afraid to touch without permission. The space between you disappears completely, replaced by heat and closeness and the weight of the moment pressing down on both of you.

“Hey,” he murmurs again, voice rougher now.

You don’t answer.

You lean back in, and this time the kiss is different—hungrier, deeper. Eddie responds instantly, hands settling at your waist, fingers gripping just enough to make your pulse spike. His thumbs brush along your sides like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s afraid this might disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

Your hands wander—through his hair, along his shoulders, anywhere you can reach—drawing a quiet sound from the back of his throat that makes your head spin. He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this.

The couch creaks softly beneath you as you shift closer, the world narrowing down to heat and breath and the way Eddie’s hands slide over your back, grounding and reverent all at once.

You lift your mug and take another sip, even though the coffee has gone lukewarm.

“I don’t know,” you say quietly.

Marlyn watches you closely now. Something in your tone must give you away, but she doesn’t push.

Instead, she nods slowly. “Yeah,” she says. “Me neither.” You sit there together in the quiet, the past hovering unspoken between you.

And for the first time, you understand— Whatever happened that night didn’t ruin things.

It changed them.

After finishing coffee with Marlyn she gets ready for work. Marlyn leaves early, keys jingling softly as she heads out the door for her shift at the shop.

The apartment feels emptier after that.

It’s Sunday and Sundays have been too quiet for the past weeks. They stretch.They give you time to think.

The apartment feels emptier after that.

You spend the afternoon drifting. You spent the afternoon doing things around the house. You cleaned up the kitchen, even cleaned out the fridge. You put a load of clothes to wash after finishing up your chores. After that it was from the couch to the kitchen. From the kitchen back to the couch. The TV stays on for noise, but you don’t register what’s playing. Your phone sits beside you like it weighs a hundred pounds.

You know Eddie doesn’t go into the shop on Sundays.

He never has.

Sundays are his—laundry days, ride-around-with-no-destination days, days he disappears into himself a little more than usual. Normally, you’d be part of that. You’d know where he was, what he was doing. Sometimes you’d be doing nothing together, which always felt like everything.

Now, you’re left guessing.

Your mind keeps circling back to the same place. The night of his birthday after everyone had left.

You hadn’t thought much of it at first. You’d woken up, left quietly, carried on like nothing had changed. You hadn’t questioned it because… why would you? It didn’t feel wrong. It didn’t feel like a mistake.

But maybe it did to him. The thought settles heavy in your chest.

Maybe he didn’t like it.

Maybe he regrets it.

Maybe you crossed a line he can’t uncross.

You pace the living room, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Or maybe it’s worse than that.

Maybe he thinks you’ll want more.

Maybe he thinks he ruined you somehow.

Maybe he thinks he’s the problem.

The whys stack on top of each other until you can’t tell which ones hurt the most. You check the clock. Then your phone. Then the clock again.

It’s already late afternoon.

You pick up your phone, then put it down. Pick it up again. Your thumb hovers over his name like it might burn you.

What if he doesn’t answer?

What if he does?

What do you even say?

Why are you avoiding me?

Did I do something wrong?

Do you regret it?

Your chest tightens. You sink back onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. You don’t need everything to make sense. Not yet. You just need to know why.

Finally, you sit up. You inhale And before you can talk yourself out of it, you hit call.

The phone rings once.

Twice.

Each second stretches, your heart pounding louder than the dial tone. You hold the phone to your ear, breath caught halfway between hope and dread.

Waiting.

The ringing stops.

No click. No voice. No hey.

Just silence.

You lower the phone slowly, staring at the screen like it might explain itself. Your name still sits there, untouched, as if nothing happened at all.

Heat crawls up your chest, up your neck, settling behind your eyes. Not embarrassment—not yet. Something closer to panic. Like your body realizes before your brain does.

You swallow and inhale through your nose.

“He’s a smart man,” you mutter, forcing out a small, humorless laugh. “Probably just busy.”

You shake your head once, like you’re clearing fog.

Then you hit call again.

You press the phone to your ear, leg bouncing, free hand digging into the couch cushion. The ring sounds louder this time, each one punching into your chest.

Once.

Twice.

Then—

It stops.

Call declined.

Your breath stutters.

For a moment, you don’t move. Don’t blink. Don’t breathe. The words feel unreal, like they belong to someone else’s life.

Then it hits.

You drop the phone onto the couch like it burned you.

“What the fuck?” you gasp.

You slam your hands down into the cushions—hard. The couch jolts beneath you.

“Oh my God,” you snap, pacing half a step forward before whipping back around. “Are you serious? Are you actually fucking serious right now?”

You grab your phone again, fingers shaking, clutching it tight as if Eddie might hear you through sheer force of will.

“Just answer the phone!” you yell at the screen. “I’m not asking for your soul, Eddie—I’m asking for one FUCKING conversation!”

Your voice cracks on the last word, anger tearing straight through your chest. You hit the couch again with the side of your fist. “You don’t get to do this,” you shout. “You don’t get to decide everything for me and then shut me out like I don’t exist!”

Your breathing turns wild, uneven. You drag a hand through your hair, pacing in a tight circle before dropping back onto the couch hard enough to bounce.

“Declining my call?” you laugh sharply, the sound breaking halfway through. “Wow. Okay. That’s—yeah. That’s real fucking mature.”

You stare at the phone like it betrayed you. “Just say you regret it,” you mutter, voice cracking now. “Just say you didn’t want me. That would be easier than this.”

Silence answers you.

The apartment feels too small. Too quiet. Like it’s pressing in, watching you unravel. You sink into the cushions, chest heaving, phone resting uselessly in your palm.And the thought that hurts the most isn’t that he didn’t answer.

It’s that he saw your name—

—and chose not to.

The anger doesn’t disappear all at once.

It just… gives up.

It drains out of you slowly, leaving your body heavy and hollow, like something vital leaked out while you weren’t paying attention. Your hands unclench. Your shoulders slump. The heat in your chest fades into a dull, aching pressure.

You stare at the phone in your lap. Your throat tightens.“I don’t want to lose him,” you whisper, the words barely making it past your lips.

Your voice sounds small. Too small.

You shake your head quickly, like you can undo the thought before it settles. “I can’t,” you murmur. “I can’t lose him.”

The room feels different now—too quiet, too empty. You suddenly notice all the spaces Eddie used to fill. The couch where he’d sprawl out like he belonged there. The kitchen counter he leaned against while talking too much. The way your life bent around his presence without you ever realizing it.

“He’s the only thing I have,” you say out loud, panic creeping into your voice.

The words scare you the second you say them. “No—no, that’s not true,” you rush to correct yourself, breath hitching. “That’s not true. I don’t need him. I don’t.”

But your chest tightens anyway. What would your life look like without Eddie?

No random calls at night.

No showing up at the shop just to sit with him.

No Sundays that feel like something instead of nothing.

Your breathing starts to speed up.

“I hate him,” you say suddenly, voice wavering. “I hate him so much. I’ll hate him forever.”

The sentence collapses in on itself before it’s finished. Your eyes burn. Your chest aches like it’s caving inward. “I don’t want to fucking hate him,” you choke. “I just—I don’t fucking want him gone.”

Your foot bounces uncontrollably against the floor. Your fingers dig into the fabric of the couch like it might steady you.

What if this is it?

What if this is how it ends—no explanation, no conversation, just distance until there’s nothing left to reach for?

Your heart starts racing. “No,” you whisper. “No, no, no.”

You grab your phone again, hands trembling now, thumb hovering over his name. “He’ll answer,” you tell yourself quickly, desperately. “He will. He wouldn’t do me like this. He wouldn’t.”

You hit call before you can think.

The phone rings.

Once.

Your knee bounces faster.

“He’s just busy,” you mutter. “He probably didn’t hear it. That’s all.”

Twice.

“He’s gonna answer,” you insist. “He always answers.”

Three times.

Then—

Silence.

The call drops.

No voicemail. No decline this time. Just unanswered.Your breath leaves you in a shaky exhale that turns into something broken halfway through.

You stare at the screen, waiting for it to light back up. Waiting for anything.

Nothing happens.

Your shoulders start to shake before you even realize you’re crying. Not loud sobs—just quiet, panicked breaths that come out wrong. “I can’t do this,” you murmur. You curl in on yourself on the couch, phone clutched tight to your chest like it might still connect you to him if you hold it hard enough.

The apartment stays silent.

And for the first time since this all started, the fear sinks in fully—

What if he’s already gone?

THAT Night settles in quietly.

The apartment is dark except for the glow of a lamp in the corner and the blue light from your phone. You’re curled on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, staring at nothing when your phone finally rings.

Marlyn’s name.

You answer on the first ring. “Hey,” you say, voice rough.

“Hey,” Marlyn replies softly. “I just got home.”

There’s a pause. You can hear her shifting, probably kicking off her shoes, probably already tired. You don’t ask. She doesn’t either. Then she exhales. “I saw Eddie today.”

Your stomach drops. “At the shop?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.

“Yeah,” she says. “He wasn’t tattooing. He just… sat there. Cleaned. Smoked. Left. Came back. Stayed all day.”

Your fingers curl tighter around the phone.

“All day?” you repeat. “All day,” Marlyn confirms. “Didn’t really talk. Didn’t joke. Just stared at nothing most of the time.”

Something inside you shifts.

He was there.

Present. Awake. Existing.

Just not answering you.

Your chest tightens, heat blooming behind your ribs. “So he can sit there all day,” you say slowly, “but he can’t pick up the phone.”

Marlyn hesitates. “I don’t think it’s like that.”

You close your eyes, swallowing hard. “I’m going to his apartment,” you say suddenly.

There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the line. “Is that what you want to do?” Marlyn asks carefully.

“Yes,” you answer immediately. No hesitation. No second-guessing. “I need to talk to him.”

“You don’t have to do this tonight,” she says gently. “You can wait.”

“I can’t,” you reply. “If I wait, I won’t go. And I need answers.”

Another pause.

“Okay,” Marlyn says finally. “Then go. But… be honest. With him. And with yourself.”

You nod, even though she can’t see it. “I will.”

You grab your keys, standing up so fast the room sways slightly. Your heart pounds harder with every step toward the door. “Call me after,” Marlyn adds. “No matter what happens.”

“I will,” you promise.

You hang up and step out into the night. The air is warm and heavy, wrapping around you as you walk to your car. Your hands shake as you unlock it, adrenaline buzzing through your veins.

You slide into the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead for a moment. You start the engine and as you pull onto the road toward Eddie’s apartment, one thought repeats over and over in your head— He doesn’t get to disappear without telling me why.

The parking lot feels too open, too exposed.

You kill the engine and practically jump out of the car, slamming the door shut behind you. Your keys jingle loudly in your hand as you rush toward the building, pulse thudding in your ears.

The elevator takes forever.

You mash the button again, foot tapping, chest rising too fast. When the doors finally slide open, you step inside and immediately stab at his floor, arms folded tight around yourself like you’re trying to keep everything in.

The ride up feels endless.

Your thoughts race ahead of you—everything you want to say, everything you’re afraid to hear. By the time the doors open, your palms are slick with sweat.

You don’t slow down.

You speed-walk down the hallway, sneakers scuffing against the carpet, breath uneven. His door is at the end, familiar in a way that twists something deep in your chest.

You don’t knock. You bang.

Your fist hits the wood once. Twice. Three times—hard enough to rattle the frame.

“Eddie,” you call. “Open the door.”

Nothing.

Your heart pounds louder. Anger flares, sharp and sudden. You knock again, harder this time, palm stinging.

There’s movement inside. Footsteps. A pause that feels deliberate.

Then the door opens—just a crack.

The chain is still latched.

Eddie stands there on the other side, His gaze flicks over your face, your clenched fists, your wild breathing. Guilt flashes across his expression before he schools it into something flatter.

“What are you doing here?” he asks quietly.

The words hit harder than if he’d shouted. You stare at him through the gap in the door, chest tight, emotions colliding all at once—relief, fury, fear, longing.

You let out a short, breathy laugh.

“You’re not gonna let me in?” you ask, voice light in a way that doesn’t match your eyes.

The chuckle that follows is brittle. Dangerous.

Eddie stiffens. He knows that sound.

He’s heard it before—heard it right before everything spills over. He can practically feel the moment ticking closer, the point where you stop trying to hold yourself together and start breaking loudly instead.

His jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t—”

“Eddie,” you cut in, still smiling faintly, still shaking. “Is this a joke?” You gesture vaguely at the door, the chain. The space between you.

“Because if it is, I’m not laughing.” The hallway feels too small. Too exposed. Your voice carries, even when you don’t raise it.

He exhales, long and heavy, eyes closing for just a second like he’s surrendering to something he’s been fighting all week. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

The chain slides free with a soft metallic sound. He opens the door.

You step inside immediately, brushing past him before he can second-guess himself. The air in his apartment hits you all at once—cigarettes, ink, something familiar that twists your chest.

As the door shuts behind you, you turn on him, arms folding tight across your chest. “So what?” you say, tone sharp, edged with sarcasm. “Now it’s a pain for you to let me in?”

Eddie rubs a hand down his face, already exhausted. “That’s not—”

“Because it kind of feels like it,” you continue, words tumbling out faster now. “Like everything involving me is just… inconvenient.”

He looks at you then—really looks at you—and something in his expression breaks. “This isn’t about that,” he says quietly.

“Then what is it about?” you fire back.

Eddie doesn’t answer right away.

He turns instead, walking deeper into the apartment like he needs the space to breathe. You follow him automatically, footsteps softer now, the adrenaline ebbing just enough to let the ache creep back in.

The living room is dim, lit only by a lamp in the corner. Everything looks the same—and completely different.

Eddie stops near the middle of the room, hands flexing at his sides. He doesn’t sit. He can’t. He paces a few short steps, back and forth, like he’s measuring the floor or counting down something invisible.

You sink onto the couch.

The cushions dip beneath you, familiar. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers lacing together tightly as you tilt your head up, eyes fixed on him. Waiting.

He drags a hand through his hair, lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest for days.

He stops pacing and stands right in front of you.

For the first time since this all started, you really look at each other. You take him in—the dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders are tense like he’s bracing for impact, the familiar shape of his mouth pulled into something closer to pain than anger.

And he takes you in too.

Really sees you.

Not just a passing glance at the shop. Not the ghost of you across a bar. You, sitting right there, eyes searching his face, heart still open despite everything.

Something in his expression flickers. Softens. Hurts. Eddie exhales slowly and closes his eyes. “We shouldn’t have done it,” he says.

Your chest tightens.

“I shouldn’t have let it get that far.”

He still doesn’t look at you.

His voice is low, steady in a way that feels practiced—like he’s been rehearsing this in his head for a week straight. “I crossed a line,” he continues quietly. “And I don’t get to pretend I didn’t.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and unfinished.

And suddenly, you realize— This isn’t him saying he didn’t want you.

It’s him saying he doesn’t think he deserves you.

You stare up at him for a long moment after he speaks.

We shouldn’t have done it.

Something in you stills.

Then you stand.

The movement is sudden enough that Eddie’s eyes flicker open, but his face stays neutral—too neutral. Like he’s bracing himself behind something solid.

“You don’t get to say that like it’s a fact,” you tell him evenly. Your voice is steady. That surprises even you.

Eddie exhales through his nose, jaw tightening. “It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”

There it is.

“It was just sex,” he continues, voice calm, almost dismissive. “A mistake. A drunk night that went too far.”

You let out a short laugh, sharp and humorless. “Wow,” you say. “That’s what you’re going with?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Why are you this worked up about it?”

The words sting—but something about them doesn’t land right.

You step closer.

“If it was just sex,” you say slowly, carefully, “then why did you disappear?”

Eddie’s eyes flick away for half a second. He recovers quickly. “I didn’t disappear.”

“You stopped talking to me for fuck sake,” you snap. “You couldn’t even hug me. You left the shop early. You cut conversations short. You declined my calls.”

He opens his mouth—closes it.

You don’t let him off the hook. “If it was nothing,” you continue, voice rising now, “then why are you treating it like it was the worst thing that ever happened to you?”

Silence.

Eddie folds his arms across his chest, defensive. “You’re reading into it.”

“No,” you say firmly. “You’re lying.”

“You don’t pull away like that over something meaningless,” you go on. “You don’t punish yourself—or me—over ‘just sex.’”

Eddie scoffs quietly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you,” you fire back. “And I know when you’re trying to talk yourself out of wanting something.”

His expression hardens. Controlled. Masked. “I didn’t want this,” he says.

The words hit—but you don’t flinch. “Then why do you look like it’s killing you?” you ask softly.

That lands.

Eddie’s jaw flexes. He looks past you, toward the wall, like meeting your eyes might crack something open he can’t afford to fix.

“I’m bad for you,” he says instead. “That’s the truth. Whatever that night was—it doesn’t change that.”

You shake your head slowly, incredulous.

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I do when I’m the one who fucks things up,” he replies, voice still level. Too level.

“You’re not protecting me,” you say. “You’re protecting yourself.”

That one slips through.

Eddie goes quiet.

“You’re pushing me away because it meant something,” you continue. “And that scares the hell out of you.”

He finally looks back at you. For a split second, something raw flashes across his face.

Then it’s gone.

“You should go,” he says.

The words are calm.

You stare at him.

Really stare—like if you look hard enough, long enough, you’ll find the truth hiding behind his eyes. Something familiar. Something that still belongs to you.

But Eddie just looks tired.

Worn down. Closed off. Like he’s already halfway gone and pretending that makes this easier. Something inside you gives. You let out a small, disbelieving chuckle, shaking your head.

“Out of all people,” you say quietly, voice trembling despite your effort to steady it, “I never thought it’d be you who’d hurt me the fucking worst.”

His jaw tightens.

“I hate you Eddie.”

The words land heavy, final.

You turn and start toward the door. That’s when he reaches for you. His fingers catch your wrist—gentle, instinctive. You yank your hand away like it burns. “Don’t,” you snap, spinning back around to face him. Your chest is heaving now, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Don’t touch me.”

He freezes.

“And it’s not just because we had sex,” you continue, voice breaking open now. “It’s everything you did after.”

Your words spill faster, sharper, like if you don’t say them now they’ll destroy you from the inside. “It’s how you ignored me. How you shut me out. How you looked right through me like I didn’t matter.”

Eddie swallows hard, but you don’t stop.

“You treated me exactly how you’ve treated every other girl that’s walked through this apartment,” you say, gesturing wildly around you. “Like I was just another one-night thing you needed to forget.”

Your voice cracks. “When I’m not that,” you choke. “I’m way more than that.” Your eyes finally spill over. Tears blur your vision, but you keep looking at him—memorizing him—because you can feel it happening. The exact moment something snaps.

It feels like a string pulling tight between your chest and his.

And then—It cuts.

The connection you didn’t even realize you were holding onto goes slack, gone in an instant. The air between you turns cold, empty.

This isn’t just a fight. It’s the end of something that used to feel unbreakable.

Eddie opens his mouth like he wants to say something—anything—but nothing comes out. His face finally betrays him then, guilt and regret bleeding through the cracks.

Too late.

You wipe at your face angrily, shaking your head.

“I hope it was worth it,” you whisper. “I hope not being able to talk to me about it was so fucking worth it”

You step back, hand reaching for the door. The words hang there, absolute. You open the door and for a moment, you think he might stop you again.

He doesn’t.

And as you step out into the hallway and let the door close behind you, you know—without a doubt—that whatever you and Eddie were…

It’s over.

And somehow, that hurts worse than losing him ever could.

[batkin028]

🖤🖤

[marvelstoriesepic]

We’re All Just a Little Haunted

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You don’t like haunted houses. You don’t like Bucky Barnes either. But one bad jump-scare later, both of those things start to feel complicated.

Word Count: 10k

Warnings: panic reaction; physical restraint; mild violence; anxiety; Halloween fair and haunted house setting; cocky!Bucky; protective!Bucky

Author’s Note: We’re finally here, oh my god. I’m posting this in a bit of a panicked rush, so I might still go back and tweak a few things, but I really wanted to get it out there right now. This piece is the second-place winner from the poll I ran back in September. Please forgive me for writing and posting this one first, it just came together more easily than the fic that actually won. I hope you’re still seeing this on Halloween! I know it’s coming out so late, and I’m really sorry about that. I’d hoped to have it finished a week ago, but it just didn’t happen. In the meantime, please enjoy this while I pull myself together and finish the other one!

Masterlist

“I just don’t get why they have to be part of everything we do,” you argue, louder than you mean to. You fold your arms across your chest, like you could barricade yourself behind them.

You’re standing in the middle of the Halloween fair, which should be something nice, something lighthearted and pumpkin-scented and sticky-fingered - but now you’re trying not to look like someone who’s about to stage a coup.

The air is full of sugar and something smoky - caramel apples, popcorn, fake fog. And the lights blink as though they’re trying to have a conversation with your anxiety. Somewhere nearby, a kid screams and you would like to scream back.

Natasha lifts her eyes from her phone and gives you that sideways look. The one that says you’re entertaining her, but only marginally - like a cat watching a bug crawl across the floor. Wanda’s on your other side, hiding a grin behind her mug of hot cider. The steam curls around her face like it’s trying to soften the laughter she’s swallowing.

“They’re fun to have around,” Natasha says, tone dry, unbothered. Her lips jerk into that smug little smirk you love and hate all the same.

“For you, Romanoff,” you fire back, a grumble in your tone. “Which doesn’t count. You’re literally sleeping with one of them.”

That earns you the full smirk, sharp and satisfied.

“Come on, they’re not that bad,” Wanda offers, all warm and useless. She nudges your arm trying to be helpful by not being helpful at all. Her optimism doesn’t reach you tonight.

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t tumble clean out of your head and into the funnel cake booth.

“They’re men, Wanda,” you declare, voice punctuated with a huff that carries over the carnival din. “Plural. That’s already two strikes.”

Natasha snorts, her face haloed by the string lights dangling over the fairground gate. Then she tilts her head, pretending to think it over. “He’s not that bad once you get used to him.”

You whip toward her, scandalized. “That’s what people say about wasps, Nat.” Your voice pitches up, caught between disbelief and despair. “And for the record? I’ve been trying to get used to him for months. It’s not working. If anything, it’s getting worse.”

Natasha just hums, noncommittal, eyes already back on her phone. Wanda’s trying - and failing - not to laugh.

“He’s just messing with you. He likes that you get all worked up,” Nat says, and she’s saying it with that sly tone you don’t like.

You sigh, loud enough for both of them to hear. “Yeah, well, I’d like for him to find a new hobby.” You scan the fairgrounds, half-expecting to see a flash of chrome in the parking lot already. “Don’t they have, like, engines to fix or tires to kick or whatever it is men do when they’re not ruining girl time?”

Wanda’s giggling now, eyes sparkling under the string lights. “This was supposed to be our night,” she sides with you, tugging her knit beanie lower over her ears.

“Exactly,” you agree. “We should be laughing at other people’s bad costume choices, not-” you wave wildly at the air, where somewhere out there, you can already hear the low thunder of engines, “-being third-wheeled by testosterone.”

You do realize Steve is Natasha’s boyfriend, and yeah, you genuinely love that for her. She does seem happier, lighter. She doesn’t flaunt it, but you know her. You know when she’s secretly smiling about something, even if she tries to act like she’s not.

What you don’t love is that her boyfriend comes with accessories. Steve being the main purchase. Sam being like the fun add-on pack. And Bucky is the extended warranty that no one asked for but keeps showing up in your email.

And right when you think maybe you’ve got a few more minutes of peace before the Motorcycle Trio arrives, the growl of engines grows louder. Too loud for your taste. The sound squirms up your spine and sets the fair’s neon skeletons rattling.

And there they are.

Steve first, predictably, all straight-backed and golden-boy-ish whatever that even means, but it’s what he looks like. The headlights cleave through the fairground fog as though he’s leading a parade of righteousness. Sam right behind him, and you imagine him grinning as though the whole night is his stage behind that helmet.

And then, of course, Bucky.

How unfortunate for you.

He’s last, because of course he’s last.

He pulls up slow and in a way that seems kind of deliberate. Their engines cut off in unison - a coordinated act of drama, clearly rehearsed.

Bucky knows every motion is being watched as he pulls off his helmet, and his hair - unfairly shiny, obnoxiously cinematic - falls into his face. And because he’s Bucky, he tosses a wink at the girl selling kettle corn just to prove he’s aware of the attention he’s getting.

You hate it here.

Steve takes off his helmet like it’s a scene from a romance movie he’s too humble to star in. His hair is doing that annoyingly perfect thing again. He waves when he spots Natasha, and the glow of the fair lights finds his boyish smile and makes it even brighter than a pumpkin lantern. Sam’s laughing, already shouting something you can’t hear but know is probably inappropriate.

You almost grimace at the way Natasha’s own face lights up at the sight of her boyfriend, but something in your heart has the audacity to soften for her happiness. It makes you both melt and gag at the same time. A part of you has to admit, it’s kind of nice.

“See?” She nudges you, but doesn’t take her gaze off of Steve. “Now it’s a party.”

You mutter something that sounds and tastes like funeral and take a sip from Wanda’s drink. It tastes pumpkin-y and warm but it’s no good distraction from the way Bucky catches your eye from across the fair entrance, so you give it back to Wanda.

That lopsided grin already plays with his mouth, and it has you wonder if he knows exactly what you were just saying about him.

And he mouths, miss me?

You don’t. You absolutely do not.

But your pulse, traitor that it is, does a small, stupid skip.

Bucky’s smirk grows as though he can hear it from fifty feet away.

Steve dismounts like a man straight out of an old movie, Sam hops off his bike like he’s dismounting a parade float, stretching his arms wide, and to Bucky, you don’t even look anymore. Out of reasons you’re not going to discuss with yourself.

They walk toward you three girls in slow motion. Or maybe it’s not slow motion, maybe it’s just the unfair way men seem to take up more space when they’re together. Three tall silhouettes under the amber glow of the lights. Leather jackets and that soft swagger that says we’ve arrived and we know it.

Steve is the first to reach you, smiling that golden retriever smile that could probably charm the moon out of orbit. He doesn’t even say hi to anyone else before wrapping his arms around your best friend. You look away because god forbid you witness another episode of people in love.

“Ladies,” Sam’s voice distracts you, and he stretches the word out. “Hope you didn’t have too much fun without us.”

“Define fun,” you muse, tilting your head, but letting a smile tug at your lips. “If you mean in peace? Then yeah. We did.”

Sam grins, hand over his heart like you’ve wounded him. “Look at y’all, already sampling everything without us. Unbelievable.”

Wanda smiles beside you, half-sheepish, half-pleased. “You guys were late.”

“Late?” Sam gasps dramatically. “We’re on biker time, sugar.”

Bucky hangs back a step, not seeming to be in a rush. His hair is a little too long, his jacket half-zipped as though he can’t decide between effort and apathy. There is a small cut on his knuckle, that faint sly smirk on his mouth, and that familiar glint in his eyes that says he knows exactly what he’s doing to your mood.

“Still hidin’ from the fun, doll?”

Irritation is an old friend and it comes knocking once more. “Still mistaking yourself for fun, Barnes?”

Bucky steps closer, not close enough to crowd you, but close enough that you can smell leather and motor oil and whatever cologne he probably stole from Steve. “You wound me, doll” he drawls, with zero evidence of actual pain.

“Promise?”

Steve clears his throat, heroically holding his hand up before the verbal sparring turns into something nuclear. “Alright, alright,” he starts, smiling that peacemaker smile. “What’ve you three been up to?”

Natasha answers for you. “Mostly browsing. Candy, cider, taking bets on which pumpkin Wanda would choose to mother.”

“I don’t mother pumpkins,” Wanda protests. “I just appreciate craftsmanship.”

“You took a photo with one,” you remind her.

“That’s called memory-making.”

Steve chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. “Alright, so you’ve been getting into the Halloween spirit. That’s good.”

Bucky leans in and you don’t want him to. “What about you, doll? Picked out any pumpkins or just glaring at them for sport?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs and it’s the worst kind - real and deep and infuriating.

Wanda hides her grin in her cup. Samuel nudges Bucky‘s shoulder with a *come on, man* look, but he’s already busy smirking at you as if you’re both in on a joke you absolutely didn’t agree to.

The fair is loud and glowing and full of everything that should distract you - cotton candy clouds spinning in machines, kids in half-falling-apart costumes darting between booths, the smells of cider and kettle corn twisting through the air, a tinny remix of Monster Mash leaking from the speakers overhead. Somewhere, someone screams - the happy kind - probably from the haunted hayride you’re absolutely not getting on later.

But your brain keeps getting hijacked by the sound of his voice.

It’s annoying. Like a song stuck in your head.

Like a mosquito with good hair.

Steve’s hand rests on Nat‘s waist, comfortable and certain, and for a second you wonder what it would be like to have that kind of easy warmth.

Then Bucky winks at you.

And the thought dies a swift and justified death.

“Alright, so what I’m hearing,” Sam starts, voice filled with a faked offense, his face still smiling, “is none of you girls won me something.”

You don’t bother hiding your grin. “Sorry to disappoint, Sammy.”

Steve wraps an arm around Natasha’s shoulders and says something about finding the best pumpkin pie stand. Sam agrees loudly and wanders off toward the smell of sugar like a cartoon character following a scent trail.

And soon enough the six of you are walking through the fair in a loose cluster. Natasha and Steve remain joined at the hands, looking like a Pinterest board brought to life.

Wanda bounces between Sam and you, dragging you toward every booth that glows or sparkles, which, at a Halloween fair, is approximately all of them.

And Bucky remains somewhere in your peripheral vision, because apparently the man doesn’t believe in personal space but does believe in existing exactly where your awareness can’t ignore him. You hear him making low and amused sounds whenever something inevitably catches fire on a grill.

Then Wanda makes you all pause at a booth lined with plush animals stacked in precarious towers, or hanging from hooks like soft trophies. Stuffed bears with crooked smiles. Tigers that look faintly unhinged. A battalion of plush ghosts dangling from clothespins. She gasps delighted and points at a round little bat with wings too small for its body. “Oh, look at him,” she coos lightly. “He’s adorable.”

You lean closer to squint at it. “He is adorable,” you agree, but then spot a sleepy-looking fox with a pumpkin in its paws. “That one’s cute too, look!”

Wanda’s smile blooms wide and wicked. You nudge her before she can say anything smug. “Shut up.”

“What are we shutting up about?” Sam materializes behind you two like a nosy older brother.

“Nothing,” you and Wanda chorus, which, of course, makes everyone suspicious.

Bucky sidles up next to you, already looking at the wall of prizes. “These things rigged?” he asks the booth guy - some teenager in a vampire cape who looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.

“Only if you suck,” the kid deadpans.

Sam smirks, slapping his palms together. “Oh I got this.”

A snort escapes Bucky before you can even roll your eyes. “Come on, man. You couldn’t even throw straight in middle school.”

Sam turns to him, mocking offense with a glint in his eyes. “You got middle school trauma you wanna unpack, Barnes? Or you just jealous you’re about to lose in front of an audience?”

“Oh, I’m counting on the audience,” Bucky drawls, smirk glinting under the yellow lights. “They should witness greatness.”

You cross your arms, unimpressed. “This is so stupid.”

Natasha hums, leaning into Steve’s shoulder, her grin too knowing for comfort. “Let them be boys.”

Bucky picks up one of the baseballs from the counter and spins it in his hand a few times. His eyes snap to the stuffed fox you pointed out earlier, hanging from a hook above.

And maybe it’s your imagination, but something happens in his face - focus, mischief, maybe both. Maybe even something gentler, if he ever let himself have that. He sets his feet, shoulders loose but sure.

You watch with folded arms and furrowed brows. “What are you even planning to do with a stuffed animal, Barnes?” you inquire, tone deliberately flat.

He glances over his shoulder, lips curling into something familiar. “Didn’t say it was for me, doll.”

Your brain does that stuttery thing you can never suppress when Bucky says things that make you hope for things, but Sam is already stepping forward and your brain is thankfully shutting up again.

Sam throws, and the ball hits the edge of a tin can tower, knocking only two cans off. “Alright, that was a warm-up,” he says quickly.

“Sure it was.” Bucky sounds amused, a little too smug for your liking. “You done warming up or you need me to call the coach?”

“Man, shut up and throw your ball.”

And so he does.

Bucky steps up. The others lean in. You do too, but who’s to acknowledge that. You watch him squint once, spin the ball once more as though he is taming a thought, and then lets it fly.

There is a clatter.

Every can drops.

Every single one.

Wanda gasps. Sam groans. Natasha slow-claps. Steve smiles proudly as though this is somehow America’s achievement too.

You hate how fast your mouth curves upward. You hate that you’re smiling. But there it is - a reluctant, back-stabbing bloom in your chest.

You hate how fast your mouth wants to curve upward. You can’t help it. But there is a reluctant, traitorous bloom in your chest.

They go back and forth, throwing and taunting, the fair lights flashing. You catch yourself watching Bucky too long, though you pretend you’re not.

He’s focused in that way that makes you understand, suddenly, why he’s good at so many things. There is something sharp and balanced about him when he’s locked in - as though he can’t stand to lose, even at something that costs three tickets and wins a plush animal worth maybe five dollars.

And you can’t seem to be able to look away. You tell yourself it’s because you try to understand what makes him tick, but you know it’s not just that. There is something dangerous in his focus. Something magnetic. Something you shouldn’t find beautiful.

When it’s finally over, Sam’s last throw ricochets off a bottle and bounces uselessly to the ground where it takes its last breath. Your group lets out a collective oooh, which makes him glare in your direction.

With a triumphant and aggravatingly cocky smirk, Bucky turns toward the booth attendant, and points to the stuffed fox you‘d liked earlier. “That one.”

The kid shrugs, unhooks it, and hands it over. “Congrats, dude.”

Bucky twirls the fox by its little paw, then glances your way. His smile is the exact kind you wish you could legally ban.

“Guess I still got it,” he exclaims smugly.

You arch a brow. “Congratulations. You beat Sam Wilson at carnival sports. Truly an achievement for the history books.”

Sam crosses his arms with a theatrical sigh. “You could’ve let me win, man.”

Bucky clicks his tongue. “Not in my nature.” His smirk widens, almost soft now.

You look away, pretending not to see how he’s still holding the fox with almost exaggerated care. Its soft and warmly brown colored fabric glows under the lights.

And you freeze because he’s still looking at you with the kind of gaze that tugs at something you carry too deep inside yourself. There’s a smirk lurking there. Dangerous because it’s too familiar and impossible to ignore.

But you can practically feel the smugness radiating off him.

And you freeze because he’s still looking at you with the kind of gaze that tugs at something you carry too deep inside yourself. There’s a smirk lurking there. Dangerous because it’s too familiar and impossible to ignore.

“So,” he starts, voice low, each word a conscious brush against your awareness. He steps closer to you. “You wanted this one, right?”

Your pulse jumps and you‘d like to tell it to keep it normal. “I never said I wanted it.”

He grins and it’s too infuriating, too effortless. “Didn’t have to.”

And for a microscopic second, you forget how to roll your eyes.

Bucky spins the plush fox once more in his hands before tossing it lightly into your hands. Reflexes betray you and you catch it.

“Souvenir,” he says, voice soft but edged with that infuriating confidence. He starts walking backward into the crowd.

Wanda sidles up beside you, whispering. “You know he totally won that for you, right?”

You snort, clutching the fox tighter. “He just can’t stand losing.”

Wanda hums, Natasha smirks.

You tell yourself it’s because he’s competitive. Because he has that stubborn streak that probably gets him into trouble. Because it’s not about the fox, or you, or anything other than the challenge and winning it.

That’s what you tell yourself. Because that’s what this is.

The fair is beautiful in that messy, overstimulating kind of way. Like someone spilled magic and sugar across an entire parking lot and then charged admission for it.

Everywhere you look there is motion. Spinning rides, people screaming and laughing and singing all at once. The lights flash in colors that make everything look like it’s underwater. It smells of fried dough, melted butter, kettle corn, and the faint metallic tang of the Ferris Wheel that’s been here since you were born probably.

Together, you wander and weave between children in plastic masks and teenagers holding hands. Wanda wipes off caramel on her fingers. Natasha keeps stealing bites of Steve’s popcorn. Sam walks backward half the time, narrating your night as though he’s hosting a travel show while still pretending he wasn’t emotionally wounded by losing at the booth. You are still holding that fox plushie to your chest, warming your hands with the soft fibers of his fur.

You’re laughing more than you mean to.

Until Bucky comes walking beside you. Every few steps, his shoulder brushes yours - not on purpose you tell yourself, just bad spatial awareness. Except he has perfect spatial awareness. You‘ve seen it often enough. You know he’s doing it just to get a rise out of you.

You shift half an inch away. He notices. Smiles. Moves closer again.

Infuriating man.

“So,” he starts, glancing down at the fox, and you want him to stop. “You name him yet?”

You blink, irritated once more. “Why would I name him?”

He shrugs. “Just thought you’re the type who names things.”

“I’m not the type who names things,” you protest, frustrated, tightening the grip on your fox as though using it as a shield before you get flustered.

Bucky smirks, proud of himself for knowing whatever fact about you. “Didn’t you name-”

“Oh, hell yeah,” comes the loud exclamation of Sam further ahead. And something in your stomach tells you you are not going to like whatever comes next.

You follow Sam’s gaze to a booth wrapped in fake cobwebs and glimmering lights - a big, gaudy setup lit in blood-red bulbs and fog machine mist. A sign above says SKEEBALL OF DOOM! in jagged orange letters. Beside the booth, a banner flaps in the cool night air - Test your aim! Win vip haunted house tickets! Couples get bonus rounds!

A pit forms in your stomach.

“That’s perfect,” Sam declares. “We’ve gotta try that.”

Natasha grins, sharp and sly. “I’m in.”

Steve smiles down at her affectionately, a little teasing. “You sure? You flinched last year when the clown jumped out.”

“That was a reflex,” she replies evenly. “If I’d had a weapon, he’d be dead.”

Bucky laughs, the sound a low, satisfied rumble, clapping his hands together. “Alright, let’s win us some tickets then.”

“I’ll pass,” you interject, before this can get any further.

He looks at you, pretending not to hear. “What’s that, sweetheart?”

“I don’t feel like going in there.”

Wanda tilts her head, teasingly bright. “You don’t like haunted houses?”

You shrug, trying to look casual. “They’re fine. I just… don’t need to go to one tonight.”

Natasha smirks.

You send her a subtle glare in warning.

“What, scared already, doll?” Bucky throws you a smirk, that teasing edge in his voice you hate so much.

Your stomach knots. It’s not that you’re scared - okay, you are - but it’s different. It’s the thought of getting startled, and of him seeing it. You can already picture the smirk and the teasing and the way he‘d hold it over your head for weeks.

You cross your arms over the plushie and you hate how it makes you look so much less serious. “No. I just have no interest in giving a man dressed as a zombie the satisfaction of my money.”

He laughs. “God, you’re adorable when you lie.”

You glare, ready to snap, but Wanda bumps you gently. “Could be fun,” she encourages sweetly, like a sunbeam trying to coax a storm into smiling. “A little adrenaline.”

You grit your teeth. You already have plenty of adrenaline. It’s called anxiety.

“Yeah, c’mon,” Sam says, elbowing Bucky. “Barnes here can hold your hand if you get too scared.”

You spin toward him, teeth bared. “He can hold his own hand.”

Bucky’s smile is slow and sharp, predatory in its leisure, like he’s enjoying this more than he should. “You know, doll, that sounded almost like an invitation.”

You stare him down, wishing you could weaponize sheer disdain. “You wish.”

He just shrugs, unbothered. “You’ll be begging for it by the second hallway.”

Your heart does an irritated, startled stutter, but you ignore it, staring determinedly at a nearby cotton candy stand like that’s suddenly your religion.

The guy at the booth, a middle-aged man wearing a cape and exactly zero enthusiasm, waves some plastic darts. “Three tries, win two tickets. Easy.”

Bucky cracks his knuckles, eyes gleaming. “Piece of cake.”

You want him to lose.

You really want him to lose.

Partly because you can’t bear the thought of being trapped in a fake haunted asylum while he laughs at you, and partly because - you admit it - his stupid confidence makes your blood fizz like soda.

But you know that this is Bucky and you know that that makes the chances of him losing almost zero. Which, honestly, is kind of hot. But you’re not acknowledging that.

Steve murmurs something to Natasha about friendly competition and Wanda’s already fishing in her purse for more tickets because apparently, you’re all funding this madness now.

Bucky rolls his sleeves up, eyes on the target like this is a mission. “Let’s make it interesting.”

“Define interesting,” you mumble.

“If I win,” he draws out, leaning on the counter. “we all go. No excuses.” His eyes meet yours and you look away.

“And if you lose?”

He smirks. “I don’t lose.”

You can’t do anything except clutch that poor fox to your chest, feeling its soft, threadbare fur squish against your palms, while watching Bucky line up for his first dart. His focus is absurd. Jaw tight. Eyes fixed. He looks too calm, too sure.

Sam stands beside him, muttering prayers to the carnival gods. Steve is offering advice as though this is a strategy meeting. Wanda is whispering something to Natasha, and you can practically feel her smugness on your skin.

You stand there, pretending not to watch, pretending you don’t care, pretending your pulse isn’t keeping time with the flickering fair lights.

The first dart flies. Pops a balloon dead center.

Of course it does.

You sigh.

The second dart follows and thuds against its target, slightly off - but close enough to be perfect. He clicks his tongue like it’s a personal affront to his skill.

The third dart hangs in the air a fraction too long. He glances back at you, that one eyebrow arching in a way that makes your stomach do a tiny somersault. “This one’s for you, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes so hard you almost sprain something. “Wow, romantic.”

The attendant looks mildly impressed. “Almost there, big guy.”

He throws. Another pop.

The carny, who has seen all manner of carnivals and idiots, actually smiles - a genuine, slightly impressed smile. The booth lights up and a bell rings so loudly, half the fair turns to look.

He hands Bucky two black tickets with VIP HAUNTED HOUSE printed in dripping red letters. “Congratulations, lovebirds. Haunted house tickets for two!”

“Not lovebirds,” you grumble as Bucky pockets the tickets, grinning as though he just robbed a bank.

“Guess we’re going ghost-hunting, doll.”

You narrow your eyes in annoyance. “Over my dead body.”

He leans closer, voice low enough that only you can hear. “That’s kinda the point, isn’t it?”

And you hate it. How your stomach flips like a carnival ride, how the lights smudge a little around the edges, how he looks at you as if this is all some game he is already winning.

You tell yourself it’s irritation.

Definitely irritation.

But when he strolls off to show Steve the tickets, Sam dashing after another set for Wanda, that stupid grin never leaves his face. And you’re still standing there, staring after him, wondering when exactly you lost control of this night.

Because it all happens faster than you can protest from here on.

Natasha somehow nails her shots as though she’s been training her whole life for this kind of thing. Which you wouldn’t even be surprised at, to be honest. But it’s inconvenient for you now. And now she’s waving two more tickets in the air, all casual, throwing you a heated smirk that has some kind of meaning you can only scowl at.

And because the universe enjoys symmetry and your suffering, Steve wins another set - for himself and Sam.

Which means all of you now have tickets.

Which means you are officially outnumbered.

Bucky looks absolutely delighted about this. Sam looks less so. His ego has taken another audible hit, and Bucky has not shut up about it since.

And you continue clutching your stuffed fox as if it’s a therapy animal and seriously consider tripping into the kettle corn stand to avoid whatever’s going to happen next.

“It was a warm-up!” Sam argues, still trying to claim winning the tickets was a team victory, but everyone knows it was Steve‘s aim that won his ticket.

“Didn’t you already have a warm-up?” you add your own commentary, weaving a little bit of a teasing tone into your voice to mask your unease.

Bucky grins at you and it’s blinding for a short second. There is something delighted, almost proud in the way he smiles. “She’s learning.”

Sam ignores you both and keeps muttering about rigged equipment and unfair wind conditions, and Bucky‘s still smiling so wide, and you’re absolutely not distracted by it.

The path to the haunted house winds past the Ferris wheel, where the lights blink constant circles of cobalt and amber into the foggy air, and the closer you get, the colder it seems to get, too. Or maybe that’s just your nerves catching frost in your spine.

The air almost starts tasting like damp hay and something caramel-y. Somewhere behind you, a ride screeches, gears grinding, and your nerves decide to start practicing acrobatics.

The warped, old Victorian facade of the haunted house looms ahead. It’s half covered in cobwebs and real shadows. It looks like it should have its own tragic backstory and Wikipedia page. Speakers hidden in the fake ivy groan out the sounds of rattling chains and screams coming from inside.

You hear the screams of a girl group that start out playful and end in actual panic, and you feel your heart leap in sympathy.

That’s just the soundtrack you needed.

There is a sign by the entrance that sparkles like a dying heartbeat.

WELCOME TO THE HOUSE OF HORRORS. ENTER IF YOU DARE.

You don’t dare.

Your heart is doing jumping jacks in your ribcage, and your palms feel too warm, and the closer you get, the more the fog seems to breathe.

A horde of people is waiting outside, shuffling forward as the line crawls along.

You shift your weight and stare at the painted signboard near the entrance - something about „no refunds if you faint.“ Cool. Fantastic. Excellent.

The others are talking. Wanda and Natasha are analyzing who will scream first. Wanda says Sam, Nat bets on you, which - rude. Steve is asking questions about the setup and if there is a tactical plan involved because he‘s just that extra. Sam insists that jump scares don’t count as fear because they are only a reflex.

Bucky is quiet beside you.

Which is worse.

Because you can feel him looking at you. Not directly, just that sideways awareness that punctures your skin.

You keep your eyes fixed ahead, on the fake gravestones and fog machines hissing out mist like the world's most tragic kettle.

When you glance sideways, he’s definitely looking at you.

You see him nod at the plush fox. “You’re gonna strangle that poor thing before we even get inside.”

Your fingers loosen automatically, caught. “You gave it to me,” you defend, as if that’s reason enough to want to kill it.

He chuckles, low and easy. “Yeah, I’m still waiting for a thank you, by the way.”

You glance up at him then, because of course he‘d say that, and of course he’d look completely nonchalant while doing it. His hair is a little wind-tousled, his jaw shadowed, eyes bright with that perpetual teasing gleam.

You take in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

He seems to fight a grin. “Afraid of saying something nice to me, doll?”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse is skittering too fast. You don’t notice your hands kneading the fox's fur. “You don’t handle compliments well.”

He wears that smirk again, and it makes you want to throw something soft and plush and fox-shaped at his head. “You don’t give 'em well, either.”

But he’s still looking at you as though anything you say might be a compliment to him.

The line moves forward a little. The fake screams keep coming - louder now, closer. You can see dim red lights pulsing through the cracked boards of the house, hear something mechanical creaking behind the walls. Every instinct you have is begging to leave.

But everyone is here. Everyone is laughing. And you’re not about to be the one to back out - especially not in front of him.

Still, your palms are clammy, and your stomach is doing a whole interpretive dance of dread.

Bucky is waking a little closer now, his jacket brushing your sleeve. You hate that you notice. You hate that your heart is making up its own rhythm again.

Every new sound makes your stomach tighten another notch. You can already imagine the flashing lights, the jump scares, the embarrassing sounds that will come out of your mouth when something inevitably lunges at you.

You can already imagine him laughing.

The line moves again, until there is nothing left between you and the entrance. The heavy curtain at the entrance sways open, the kind of dark that feels like it could swallow anything waiting just beyond it.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You tell yourself you’re fine.

You tell yourself you don’t care if Bucky sees you startle or hears you scream.

But you do care. You really, really care.

Bucky tilts his head, studying you for a moment longer, that smirk fading into something softer, something that looks suspiciously like concern. “You good?” he asks, low enough for you to hear.

You nod. “Totally.”

He hums, clearly not buying it. “If you say so.”

You tighten your grip on the plush fox and you do feel a sense of gratitude for Bucky for getting you it but you won’t ever tell him that.

Bucky steps ahead, to hand over the tickets for both of you. The man at the door scans them under the dim red light, his face painted like a corpse. „Two at a time. Couples only,“ he explains, voice theatrical. „Enter at your own risk.“

You open your mouth to argue the word couple on principle, but Bucky just smirks and motions you forward, that infuriating kind of self-assuredness oozing from every step. He doesn’t even wait, just nudges the curtain aside with one hand, looks back at you with that damn glint in his eyes, and says, “After you, doll.” His other hand gestures toward the door as if he’s about to escort you into a ball instead of your personal nightmare.

You narrow your eyes with a glare. “If I die in there, I‘m haunting you.”

His grin widens, slow and bright. “Wouldn’t ever say no to your company, doll.”

The others laugh. You don’t. The fog grows thicker.

And as you step toward the dark entrance, Bucky’s win clutched tight against your chest, you get the feeling that maybe the haunted part of this house isn’t even what’s inside it.

You step in first because pride is a terrible thing, and Bucky follows, close enough that you can feel the brush of his jacket against your shoulder.

The first thing you notice is the dark. Not normal dark - this kind eats the light and presses close to your skin. It smells like old wood and machine fog, like cheap rubber masks and something cold. The floor creaks under your shoes. Somewhere is a warped music box tune that sounds like it’s melting.

You keep walking carefully, the fox clutched to your chest like a talisman

The sound of a heartbeat thumps from speakers that are hidden somewhere above, and it syncs up too easily with your own. The lighting is all wrong the further you step - too red, too flickering, every corner whispering something’s waiting there.

Dim bulbs are swinging overhead and shadows move when you blink. Somewhere ahead, something groans. Something mechanical. Or not.

Bucky leans in, voice low, teasing. “Still time to back out, doll.” You feel the heat of him even through your jacket.

“I’m fine,” you whisper back, even though you’re gripping your fox like it’s a flotation device on the Titanic.

He hums, not convinced at all. “You’re squeezing that thing so tight it’s gonna need CPR.”

You glare at him in the dark, but words are failing you.

He grins. You can hear it, even if you can’t see it. “You know, if you needed someone to hold onto-”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll feed you to the zombies.”

He laughs under his breath, soft and maddening.

You move forward down a narrow hallway. The walls are lined with crooked portraits - eyes that seem to follow you. Every time the light flickers, the expressions change. You know it’s sensors. You know it’s fake. Your brain knows. Your body, however, does not.

The floorboards groan underfoot. There’s a sound - slow footsteps behind you - and your heart immediately tries to exit through your throat. You whirl around. Nothing’s there.

Except Bucky, who’s still smiling like he is the jump scare.

“Stop doing that!” you hiss.

“Doing what?” he says, perfectly innocent.

“Just- being there!”

He chuckles. “I can walk in front if you want.”

Pride is still a terrible thing so you don’t react immediately, but then a mechanical ghost jerks forward with a hiss and a canned scream. You flinch so hard the plush fox nearly goes flying.

Beside you, there’s a warm laugh. “You okay there, champ?”

Again, you shoot a heated look into the dark. “That was cheap.”

“Pretty sure that’s the point,” he retorts, still grinning.

You keep walking, chin up, pretending you’re over it. You’re not. Every step feels like stepping into a dare. The walls creak beside you. Shadows keep moving in places they shouldn’t. Someone whispers overhead - something about don’t look behind you - which, of course, makes you look behind you.

And of course, Bucky is still there.

He is close enough for your shoulder to brush his chest. He doesn’t move away. Neither do you, because moving means acknowledging it.

The next room is darker with strobe lights turning everything into snapshots - flashes of fake cobwebs, plastic skeletons, people’s faces caught mid-expression. In one of those flashes, you can see your own reflection in a cracked mirror, wide-eyed and gripping that poor thing. Bucky’s right, it probably will need some serious damage checks.

Something flashes from the wall ahead. A painted face, maybe. You can’t tell. You flinch again.

“Easy,” his voice murmurs in your ear, smooth and deep. “It’s fake, doll.”

You can’t tell if your heart is pounding from the scares or from the way he said it.

You shoot him a look. “I know that.”

He hums - that sound lives somewhere between a scoff and a dare. “Sure you did.”

You keep moving and your fox is probably developing trauma of its own from the way you’re squeezing the life out of it. The hall grows more narrow, and you can hear the others’ voices somewhere behind you. Wanda is laughing nervously, Sam swears dramatically, and Natasha sounds like she is comforting Steve, which feels cosmically correct.

Bucky is still beside you and he doesn’t tease you again, not for a while. Every time you flinch, his hand twitches. As though he’s ready to reach out, but doesn’t.

When another jump scare hits - a skeletal hand dropping from the wall - you flinch again, and he just chuckles quietly, low enough you almost don’t hear it. But his hands twitch again.

“Not funny,”you mutter.

“Kinda is,” he drones out, but it sounds a little softer than before.

You hit his arm with your plush fox, hard. “You’re the worst.”

You glare at him through the dim light, and he meets it with amused eyes a little too soft for your liking. They are on you for another few seconds and you start feeling fidgety. The hallway seems to narrow further.

And then, of course, a clown drops from the ceiling.

You scream. Full volume. High and startled and humiliating.

He bursts out laughing.

It’s not mean, though. It’s bright, surprised, like he wasn’t expecting you to be that loud. You swat his arm, mortified.

“Stop laughing! That thing fell from the ceiling!”

He’s still laughing like a maniac with his head thrown back a little. And you hate to admit it, but his unguarded laugh nearly makes the dark feel bright. “Jesus, doll,“ he wheezes out. “I didn’t know you had that kind of range.”

You elbow him, hard enough to make him grunt, which helps your dignity approximately one percent.

Your cheeks are burning, and his grin is still catching what little light there is.

Your heart is still racing - and not just from the scares. There’s something about the darkness and the laughter and the way he’s looking at you now that has your hands start getting clammy.

You clutch your stupid fox tighter, lift your chin, and keep walking like your dignity isn’t trailing behind you somewhere near the jump-scare curtain.

He follows, still smiling. And you pretend not to notice.

You keep walking, faster now, hoping the next corner isn’t hiding anything with claws. The air feels colder. The whispers are getting creepier.

Another corridor. Another door. The hinges scream as you push it open. Inside, dim red light spills over a scene - fake blood on walls, broken furniture, a mannequin sitting at a dinner table with its head turned backward.

You stop dead with a grimace. “Oh god.”

Bucky chuckles under his breath. “Creative,” he assesses.

“Psychotic,” you correct.

And then a loud bang erupts from the wall beside your head, and instinct takes over before thought.

You grab his arm. Hard.

He goes still. The air between you tightens.

It grows silent again, but your fingers don’t let go. They just stay there. Holding onto leather and his warmth.

You realize it a moment too late. You snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned. “That was reflex.”

“Of course,” he lets out, voice low and stupidly amused.

And then, without warning, a figure bursts from under the table - a guy in a half-rotted mask - and lunges forward. You yelp, stumbling back so hard you hit Bucky‘s chest. His hands shoot out automatically, steadying you at your waist, going around you.

You freeze.

His palms are warm, his breath your ear, and even through the fog and the flickering lights, you can feel the way he is looking down at you. The air feels thick enough to drink.

He doesn’t move either, his breath moving close enough that it grazes your temple. His voice drops to a whisper. “Hey. You okay?”

You nod, too fast. “Fine. Totally. Great. Super haunted, love it here.”

He laughs quietly - not mocking, really - just this low sound that feels too warm for a place this cold.

And then you try to jerk away, but Bucky keeps close again, brushing up against you, and invading your personal space once more.

You throw him a look.

“Gotta make sure you don’t pass out on me,” he explains, deadpan, but there is more to his gaze than to his voice.

You shove him lightly, waking ahead, refusing to let him see that your pulse hasn’t settled at all.

And as you keep walking, the lights shift from strobe to dim amber. The path widens, and you think you hear Wanda laughing somewhere ahead. You don’t know when the others passed you, but it doesn’t matter because it seems you’re through the worst of it.

Further ahead, between the fog, you spot the glowing red EXIT sign - a salvation in neon. You’re two minutes from freedom, from fresh air, from laughing this whole thing off with half your dignity intact.

Your pulse finally starts to settle into something almost reasonable.

You think you’ve made it.

But it seems like you didn’t.

From nowhere - from everywhere - a door slams open beside you. The sound is a bang. And you don’t even have time to flinch when a figure lurched out of the darkness - taller than the others, mask slick with fake blood, voice distorted by a cheap speaker.

He moves fast, too fast, and suddenly he’s in your space. His gloved hand catches your arm, fingers pressing just a little too tight, too real.

“Gotcha,” he hisses, the word dragged out low and ugly and threatening.

You barely register the fake knife before it’s against your throat - cold, hard plastic pressing into your skin - and suddenly you are dragged back into a hard chest that smells like latex and fog machine and sweat.

It’s supposed to be an act. It’s supposed to be a scare.

You know that. You know.

But your body doesn’t.

Your pulse explodes, your lungs forget their job entirely, and the sound that leaves your mouth is somewhere between a gasp and a choke.

You twist, try to pull away, but the grip tightens. The guy says something - scripted, probably - low and menacing. “Don’t move, sweetheart.” A breath brushes your ear, but you hate the way it doesn’t feel like Bucky’s.

And that word - sweetheart - sounds too much like the one Bucky uses when he’s teasing you, except this one feels wrong.

For a second, your brain blanks. You can’t find the line between what’s pretend and what isn’t. The walls shrink. The lights contort. The sound distorts. It’s too much.

You try to wind your way out of the guy’s grip, but he has you locked against him, arms branded across your chest in some horror movie abduction bit that’s supposed to be funny, maybe, if you weren’t running on nerves.

“Hey,” a voice snaps, and you know it’s Bucky despite the way it doesn’t sound like him at all. It’s not the teasing kind of tone you know, it’s something colder, something iron. “Hands off!”

The actor hesitates, probably thinking this is still part of the show, but Bucky’s tone makes something in the air shift. He has lost all his playfulness.

“Let her go! Now,” he says again, stepping closer. His voice is quiet, but it’s somehow worse than yelling.

“Relax, man, it’s part of the show,” the actor mutters, but he still has you constricted to his chest, still has his arms tightly wound around you, still lets his breath fan your temple.

“Yeah?” Bucky’s voice is dangerous. “Well, it’s fucking stopping now.”

And suddenly, you’re free and pulled firmly into another chest, but this time it’s Bucky’s. He holds you to him with one arm and shoves the guy back hard enough that the actor stumbles into the wall with a sound that isn’t scripted.

You’re still clutching the stuffed fox, breath coming too fast, eyes stinging. The world feels fuzzy at the edges, like someone smeared all the colors. You can smell fake blood and rubber and fog juice and underneath all of it, leather and something clean and comforting.

Blood roars in your ears, but the music seems to fade, and someone nearby mutters about calling a supervisor.

You can’t breathe properly until he finds your face. His expression softens instantly, the tension draining out of his shoulders.

“C‘mere,” he mutters, his voice softened as though he flipped a switch only you have access to.

You shake your head, automatically. “I’m fine, Bucky.” You’re not, and you know he hears it. You can’t seem to catch your breath. Your hands are trembling, and the plush in your grip feels like it’s vibrating with your heartbeat.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, just keeps his arm around you and glances toward a side door marked Emergency Exit, Staff Only. He doesn’t even hesitate. He pushes it open with one hand and guides you out into the cold night air with the other.

You know you’re trembling, and you’re embarrassed by it. But adrenaline still ricochets through you.

The door slams behind you and you flinch once more. Bucky’s grip tightens.

The night air is a shock. You blink and the fair sounds slam back into you. The muffled screams from inside fade into carnival sounds - laughter, carousel music, the slow creak of the Ferris wheel turning somewhere above, the scent of fried dough. Everything normal. Everything wrong.

You suck in a breath that feels too jagged, and tastes of sugar and smoke and shame.

Bucky watches you carefully, jaw tight, and guides you past food stalls and game booths.

You gulp the air down as though you’ve been underwater. The fair lights are smearing all around you - orange and violet and gold - and the noise of laughter feels a million miles away.

The only thing that reaches your awareness are Bucky’s guiding hands on you.

You don’t shake him off this time.

You don’t realize where he is taking you until the sounds of the fair start to grow thinner. Until the laughter, the thrum of carnival music, the mechanical groan of machines all dissolve quietly.

You pass rows of parked cars, the scent of gasoline and sugar thick in the cool air. The lights from the fairground stretch long and blurred across the asphalt, smearing themselves into the dark.

And then you spot his bike. Black and chrome, gleaming under the weak glow of a streetlight.

He stops beside it, turning to face you. The set of his shoulders is hard. His jaw is still tight. He looks as though he is chewing on words and choosing not to spit them out yet.

“Sit,” he says, nodding toward his bike.

You blink at him. “What?”

“Sit,” he repeats, quieter this time, but with the same intensity.

“I’m fine,” you insist, but your voice wavers, traitorously thin.

He doesn’t roll his eyes. Doesn’t tease or smirk. He just lifts the helmet off the seat, setting it aside, and keeps his other hand at the small of your back because you both know that your legs are about to give out. “I know. Sit anyway.”

You hesitate, then relent. Because the world still feels slightly tilted, and arguing suddenly takes too much energy.

Your knees wobble as you step forward and he steadies you without comment, his hands warm even through your clothes.

He helps you up, making sure you don’t trip on the curve of metal. You settle awkwardly onto the seat, the leather cool against the back of your thighs. The bike creaks slightly under the shift of your weight.

You clutch that stupid stuffed fox to your chest because apparently, that’s your emotional support now. The leather seat is cool under you, the night air brushing against your skin as though searching for cracks.

Bucky stands in front of you, close enough that you can see the faint red reflection of the fair lights in his eyes. He doesn’t speak for a moment. Just studies you quietly.

He crouches down in front of you, one knee on the pavement, the other bent. It makes your breath hitch a little. His eyes catch yours, worried and unbearably clear. The anger hasn’t left him - you can feel it vibrating under his skin. But he doesn’t let it out on you.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

You nod too fast. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Right,” he says dryly. “That’s why your hands are shaking.”

You look down at them - trembling around the fabric of the fox, small tremors that won’t stop. You sigh in defeat.

There is silence for a small while and it feels like a shift in gravity nobody warned you about.

You look away, a shameful heat crawling along the back of your neck.

Bucky digs a water bottle out of the side pack on his bike and hands it to you. “Drink.”

You obey because it’s easier than arguing. The water is cold and relieving. The bottle shakes in your hand.

“Talk to me,” he says quietly.

But you don’t know what to tell him.

“I’m-” you start, but your voice falters. “I’m just… embarrassed, okay? I shouldn’t- I don’t even know why I-”

He exhales through his nose. “You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.”

You glance up at him, searching for mockery, because that’s his usual default - sarcasm and that crooked grin, but he’s not wearing it right now. His expression is serious. Careful.

And it feels worse.

Blinking hard, you look away from him. Your throat is tight. You wipe at your eyes before a tear can come loose, but the way Bucky‘s brows come together in the middle makes it clear he notices what you’re trying to hide from him.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice a little rougher now. “Hey, it’s alright, doll.”

You sniff, not looking at him, defensive out of habit.

He watches you for a long second, then just shakes his head, that sharp anger from earlier showing a glimpse once more. “He shouldn’t have touched you. I don’t care if it’s an act. That’s not part of the job.”

Something in the way he says it - the grit, the protectiveness, the bite under his words - sends another wave of heat through your chest, something that‘s circling around a guilty knot sitting in your chest for a long time.

You shrug weakly. “Guess he thought I’d play along.”

His mouth tightens. “Yeah, well, he’s lucky I didn’t forget I’m a guest here.”

You glance up in surprise. “You were gonna hit him?”

He doesn’t answer. Just raises an eyebrow, and that’s enough.

For a moment there’s more silence lingering between you, elastic and strange. The fair is still glowing in the distance, blinking behind him. And you can still hear people screaming for fun. It feels like another planet. Here, you’re sitting with a heart that’s still racing from a fear that’s half-real and half something else entirely.

You hug the plush tighter, half-laughing. “It’s still stupid.”

Bucky’s brows pull together once more. “What?”

“Getting scared like that,” you mumble. “I just- I overreacted. It’s not a big deal.”

A hand runs through Bucky’s hair and then settles on the bike beside you. Right beside you. He is brushing your legs with a finger. “Someone grabs you like that - it’s a big deal. You don’t have to be embarrassed, doll. That guy went too far.”

You shake your head, words tumbling out. “I knew it was fake, and I still-” Your voice is small. “I’m sorry. I hate that I freaked out. I mean, you must think I’m-”

He cuts you off. “Hey.” His voice is firm. Insistent. A little strained. The muscle in his jaw twitches. “You don’t gotta apologize, doll. And I don’t think anything. Except maybe that you‘ve got guts for going in there at all.”

You huff out a laugh and look away, shame creeping up your back. “Right.”

“S true.” He smirks, but it’s gentle. He reaches out and tenderly tucks a strand of hair out of your face. The gesture is careful, as though he’s testing the air. You forget to breathe until his hand moves away again. “Most people who hate me don’t trust me enough to let me drag them through a haunted house.”

You look back at him, because somehow you always do, even when you don’t want to.

“I didn’t let you,” you murmur weakly. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to hold yourself together. “And I don’t know a single person who hates you.”

The expression you receive from him makes you feel certain weird things, so you stop meeting his eyes again.

He almost smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

With a clear of his throat, he leans back a little and glances at the fair glowing in the distance. Then he looks back at you. “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

“What?” You blink up at him. “No- I- I’ll call Nat-”

He shakes his head, settling both his hands on either side of you on his seat. “She’s still inside. And I don’t want you waiting around for anyone. You’re coming with me. I‘m taking you home.”

You frown, nerves twisting in your stomach. “I can- I can just call a cab, you don’t have to-”

“Ride’s already here, sweetheart,” he says, standing up and taking hold of his helmet.

You open your mouth to argue again but the word sweetheart comes out of his mouth differently this time - soft, caring, as though it’s been rinsed of every trace of teasing. And maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s the exhaustion sitting in your bones, but you only sigh when he slips the helmet over your head. He checks the strap that feels too careful for the man that he is.

You mutter a weak “fine” and swing a leg over the bike to make space for him.

He almost smiles down at you. Small and hidden. “You ever been on one of these before?”

You shake your head, nervous.

“Then here’s the rule,” he starts, tone turning lighter, and he settles in front of you. “Hold on tight.”

You look at him. “To what?”

“Me, unless you wanna test your flying skills tonight,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Don’t you need a helmet too?” you ask cautiously, a little unsure about him driving like that.

He throws you a little smirk before turning around again. “Think I’ll be fine, doll.” There is something in his tone you can’t quite make out.

And the world narrows to just you and him and the smell of leather and oil and the pounding in your ribcage.

You hesitate. Long enough for him to glance back again, and there it is again, that glint of amusement trying to fight its way through his lingering frustration and something else that swims in the blue of his eyes.

“Both hands,” he adds, a little quieter than before, with something warm in his voice. “Feel free to squeeze the life outta me, doll. I’ll let you know if I can’t breathe.” The corner of his mouth twitches.

You roll your eyes, but your eyes slide around his waist anyway. It’s stiff and awkward and cautious at first. The moment your fingers brush the fabric of his shirt beneath the leather jacket, your pulse jumps again.

He starts the engine. The sound is low and smooth, more purr than roar. But it vibrates through you, through him, through everything.

Then, without a word, he drives off - slow. Slower than you expected. The wind pulls at you, cool and clean, tugging away the remnants of the haunted house.

The fair fades behind you - just a blur of orange lights - and the road opens ahead, empty and quiet. You can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, the pulse of the engine under your thighs.

He doesn’t show off, doesn’t drive sharp turns. He’s solid and patient in his motions, and it lets your heartbeat finally slow down.

You let yourself exhale, finally, deeply, really exhale, and he glances at you in the mirror, eyes soft, a pleased and suppressed smile lifting the corners of his cheeks.

You rest your helmet-clad cheek against his back and let your eyes flutter closed because it feels safer that way, because the world is still unsteady and he isn’t.

Your fingers tighten once when the road dips, and you feel one of his hands lightly rest against yours where they are wrapped around him. He squeezes once.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

The world is a jumble of neon lights and October wind and the echo of both your heartbeats, and your breathing has a rhythm again.

You still hate that he saw you scared. You still don’t know what to do with the warmth suavely gliding in behind the shame. But sitting here, pressed against his back, leather warm under your palms and his voice still somewhere in your head - it doesn’t quite feel so awful to let him see you.

“Fear doesn’t shut you down; it wakes you up”

- Veronica Roth

[batkin028]

🖤🖤

[losingmygrasponreality]

Chase Me

Pairing: Eddie Munson X (f) Reader

CW: /primal play/primal kink/chasing/established relationship/fingering/oral (female receiving)/pinv/unprotected sex/finishing inside/aftercare/multiple orgasms/boundaries set/praise kink/

Summary: Eddie finds out you like being chased; so he makes it his mission to give you the real deal.

WC: 8.3k

A/N: OMG I’m positing!! I know it’s not finding yourself again but this was practically done and I have been craaaaving sharing this.

You’re barely two steps inside the door before you hear it- the unmistakable thud of Eddie’s boots as he kicks them off, the grumble of his jacket being thrown onto the recliner, the soft clink of his keys tossed somewhere on the coffee table.

He’s already flopping onto the couch- dramatic as hell, as always- grabbing the thick throw blanket off the back and holding it open like a trap.

“Get over here,” he says playfully but his voice low. “C’mere. Now.”

You just raise your brows at him, shrugging out of your jacket slowly.

Pretending to consider it. Pretending to be good.

Eddie narrows his eyes, smirking.

“Don’t make me come get you, sweetheart.”

You grin mischievously and take one slow, deliberate step back toward the hallway instead.

Eddie groans, “You little shit.”

“Three… two…”

You bolt.

A burst of laughter escapes you as you dart away, your socked feet sliding across the floor just as Eddie shouts:

“One—!”

You hear the couch creak behind you, hear the thump of his feet hitting the floor- and then Eddie’s chasing you down the hall, swearing under his breath.

You squeal, rounding the corner into your room too fast, almost slipping- heart pounding, stomach flipping with adrenaline and giddy panic. You don’t even make it five steps in before strong arms wrap around your waist, yanking you right off the ground.

“Nooo—!” you shriek, kicking your legs uselessly as Eddie laughs- that deep, wrecked belly laugh that you feel all the way in your chest.

“That’s what you get!” he crows, spinning you once before hauling you back toward the couch like you weigh nothing.

You land in a tangled heap on the cushions breathless, but still laughing- Eddie’s weight half pinning you down as he throws the blanket over both of you triumphantly.

“You,” he says, still out of breath, “are such a brat.”

You huff against his chest, batting his hair out of your face.

“You’re the one who threatened to come get me,” you shoot back, grinning.

Eddie smirks, but his eyes darken, and look wicked as he presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

“And you,” he murmurs, hand sliding down your back, “ran like you wanted me to.”

You freeze. Because he’s not wrong.

You feel your face heat up, and your stomach flips as Eddie shifts, draping the blanket better around you both.

You tilt your head up slightly, nose brushing his hoodie, voice barely above a whisper, “…Is it bad that being chased kinda turned me on?”

It’s like Eddie’s whole body groans, and he tips his head back against the cushion like he’s in pain.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart,” he mutters, clutching your hips tighter. “You can’t say shit like that when you’re sittin’ on my fuckin’ lap.”

You giggle a little breathless now, and wiggle slightly just to tease him more.

Eddie growls low, a warning sound that makes your toes curl, and leans in close, mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“Keep it up,” he whispers, voice dark and rough. “See what happens.”

You shiver. Press closer.

But you’re both still too giddy, too tangled up in laughter and adrenaline and the buzz of each other’s presence- to do anything but melt deeper into the couch together.

His hands roam absentmindedly- slow and soothing over your hips, your thighs- as he presses lazy kisses into your hairline, your temple, the curve of your jaw.

Neither of you says anything for a long moment.

Then Eddie murmurs, his voice soft, almost shy. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”

Your heart skips. But you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips, and snuggle closer, tucking your face against his chest.

“Maybe a little idea,” you whisper.

He huffs out a laugh- the kind that rumbles deep in his chest- and tilts his head, brushing the tip of his nose against yours.

“Yeah,” he says, “You’re trouble.”

You just grin. And you don’t even try to deny it.

The second you nod all breathless and desperate- Eddie moves.

Not fast. Not greedy.

But careful.

He shifts you fully onto his lap, settling you sideways over one of his thighs first- the thick, denim covered muscle pressing right against your soaked panties.

You squirm as heat blooms between your legs, and Eddie groans low under his breath, like he’s barely holding himself together.

His hands are steady- almost too steady- while your whole body shudders.

The TV flickers low across the room- some random channel neither of you is watching- but it’s just loud enough to cover the sharp little gasps slipping out of you.

Eddie kisses you once slowly and deep, before slipping one hand between your thighs.

Your breath catches hard- hips jerking up instinctively- and he shushes you with a soft, broken laugh against your mouth.

“Easy, baby,” he murmurs, teasing his fingers up the inside of your thigh. “Gotta be good for me.”

You nod frantically, teeth sinking into your lower lip, as he slides his hand higher. He finds the damp edge of your panties, humming low in approval, and tugs them gently aside.

You squirm, desperate, but he only grazes you with the tips of his fingers. Barely there.

Just enough to make you ache.

“Been thinkin’ about this all day,” he whispers, dragging his fingers through your slick folds, teasing slow circles around your clit but never right on it.

You whimper quietly and broken- he bites back a groan at how wrecked you already are for him.

“So fuckin’ soft,” he rasps, thumb brushing lightly, barely a feather touch. “All this for me, huh?”

You nod again, trembling, nails digging into the sleeves of his hoodie, mouth falling open around a silent gasp.

Eddie finally- finally- slides one thick finger inside you, slow and careful, while his other hand grips your hip, keeping you steady on his lap.

Your whole body arches as your hips grind helplessly against his palm and he catches your mouth with his, swallowing the sounds you can’t hold back.

“That’s it,” he breathes against your lips. “Good girl.”

You moan softly but wrecked and Eddie’s eyes flutter shut for a second, like the sound physically hurts him.

“You like that, don’t you?” he whispers, slipping another finger in beside the first- stretching you wider, slow and aching. “Like bein’ my good girl.”

You nod frantically, grinding down on his hand, thighs already trembling.

He smiles against your cheek, and curls his fingers just right, hitting that spot that makes your hips buck.

You sob against him, biting down hard on his hoodie and Eddie growls under his breath.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he pants. “So fuckin’ good for me.”

Your hips move faster now- desperately and frantic- chasing the high building low in your belly.

Eddie matches your rhythm perfectly, fingers stroking that perfect spot inside you, the pad of his thumb brushing messy, maddening circles over your clit.

“You gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” he murmurs, voice thick and reverent. “Gonna let go all over my hand?”

You nod frantically, whole body locking up- the pleasure so sharp, so overwhelming, it blurs everything else out.

“That’s it, baby,” Eddie whispers, curling his fingers just right. “C’mon, honey. Wanna feel you.”

You clamp down around him with a strangled sob, your hips jerking helplessly as the orgasm tears through you.

It’s everything. Sharp and soft.

Hot and shattering.

You muffle your cries against his shoulder, shaking apart in his lap all while Eddie holds you through it, murmuring quiet, broken praises against your temple.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

When you finally collapse against him, boneless and trembling, he pulls his fingers from you carefully. Eddie lifts his hand to his mouth slowly, but deliberately and sucks your slick off of his fingers.

Groaning low in his throat, like he can’t fucking believe how good you taste.

You watch wide-eyed and wrecked as he continues to lick his fingers clean.

When he’s done, he leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth sweetly and wraps both arms around you again, holding you tight against his chest.

You lay there still calming down while breathing in the mix of cologne, sweat, him.

The world feels far away.

“You’re trouble,” Eddie whispers against your hair, voice still wrecked with awe.

And you just smile sleepily, satisfied and so deeply, completely his, as he tucks the blanket tighter around you both and presses another kiss to your temple.

—————————

The second Eddie steps into the trailer later that night, he knows he’s done for.

He kicks the door shut with the heel of his boot, dumps his keys somewhere by instinct, and just stands there in the dark for a second, his heart is still thudding, mind still racing.

He can’t stop replaying it.

The way you ran from him, laughing and gasping, that sweet, teasing look over your shoulder- the way you sat on his lap on your couch later, all flushed and breathless and a little wild in a way he hadn’t seen before.

And when you’d blurted out like you were embarrassed, but also proud, that being chased turned you on?

Yeah.

Yeah, Eddie hasn’t been the same since.

He palms the front of his jeans absently, already half hard just thinking about it again, and groans under his breath.

He’s a goner.

A full, complete, no hope goner.

But, in the back of his mind- a little voice nudges him: Don’t fuck this up.

You trusted him with that confession. You let him see that side of you.

And the last thing he wants is to bulldoze into something he doesn’t fully understand- not with you. Not when you mean so fucking much to him.

So he shakes off the urge to just immediately yank his dick out like a caveman, grabs a bottle of water from the fridge like it’ll help (it won’t), and flops onto the couch with a determined grunt.

Laptop open. Internet loading.

Mission: Learn what the fuck he’s doing before he wrecks something perfect.

He types it in awkwardly at first.

Half embarrassed, half fucking fascinated.

“Chase kink?”

“Primal play?”

“Hunter/prey dynamic in sex?”

The articles pop up fast. Reddit Forums. Blogs. Maybe a few porn sites he will need to bookmark for later..

And holy fucking shit.

Eddie drags his hand down his face, eyes widening as he reads.

It’s everything he felt today but couldn’t name.

The adrenaline.

The loss of control.

The instinct to hunt, to catch, to claim.

The way your whole body had responded, flushed and lit up and buzzing- even from something as simple as him counting down from three before chasing you.

And according to half the shit he’s reading?

That’s normal.

It’s a thing.

A thing that apparently gets very intense very fast if you’re not careful.

He shifts on the couch- painfully aware now of the growing strain in his jeans- but keeps reading.

Keeps imagining it.

You in the woods, glancing over your shoulder with that same wicked smile.

You running through the forest, all giggles and daring glances, daring him to catch you. Or maybe more out of fear when it’s the real deal.

You squealing when he finally grabs you, all wriggly and breathless and so fucking desperate under his hands.

Letting him devour you like you deserve, like it was what you were made for. Sinking into you as his prize for catching you.

Eddie groans and slouches further down the couch, palming himself through his jeans without even meaning to.

Goddamn.

He reads about boundaries, about making sure you both know when to stop, about hand signals and words and aftercare.

Gotta make it good, he thinks, biting his lip hard enough to sting.

Safe for her. Perfect for her.

Because you deserve that. Because you’re worth learning for.

Because you’re his.

And if he gets to chase you through the woods and fuck you senseless against a tree somewhere in the process?

Yeah.

He’s not exactly gonna complain.

God, he really hopes you let him fuck you against a tree.

He reaches for his phone and types out a quick text he’ll send tomorrow, “Free Sunday? Got an idea.” and then tosses it aside with a groan.

Because right now? Right now he’s wrecked.

Right now he’s as hard as a fucking rock just from reading about it, imagining it, imagining you.

Eddie pops the button on his jeans with a low curse, like it’s your fault, like it’s anyone’s fault but his own fevered brain- and yanks them down his thighs impatiently.

“Fuck,” he mutters, head tipping back against the couch cushions, palm wrapping around himself- already leaking, already throbbing.

He fists himself hard and fast, no teasing tonight- no games.

Just raw, desperate need.

He pictures you.

Your cheeks flushed red, your gasp, your eyes going wide when he finally catches you. Your legs locked around his waist, your voice breaking on his name, your body surrendering under his.

He’s panting now, hips snapping into his hand, chasing that finish the way he’ll chase you Sunday.

It doesn’t take long.

He cums with a low, broken groan- his hips jerking, hand squeezing hard- your name slipping between his teeth like a prayer.

When he finally sags back against the couch, boneless and panting, he covers his face with one arm and laughs weakly into the crook of his elbow.

“Yeah,” he mutters, still breathless, still wrecked. “I’m so fucking screwed.”

—————————

Eddie barely slept.

He kept tossing and turning, his brain full of you, the woods, the chase- every wild, desperate image from last night’s research flashing like a slideshow behind his eyes.

Now he’s standing in the kitchen, nursing a coffee, staring down at his phone like it’s a live grenade.

He looks at the draft he wrote up lastnight.

Deletes it.

Types.

Deletes.

Types again.

Pauses.

Because it has to sound casual, right?

Cool. Chill. Not like he spent half the night jacking off to the idea of you running from him and letting him catch you.

(Even though he 1000% did.)

Finally- finally- he hits send:

Eddie [9:42 AM]:

sunday

got an idea

you free?

The second it sends, he immediately regrets everything.

Runs a hand through his hair, paces the kitchen, muttering to himself like a lunatic.

“Cool,” he grumbles. “Real smooth, Munson. Real fuckin’ eloquent.”

He checks his phone again even though it’s only been like ten seconds.

No reply. He starts overthinking it immediately.

What if she thinks it’s weird? What if she thinks I’m weird? What if she doesn’t wanna do it? What if I just scare the shit outta her?

Eddie sighs and flops face down onto the kitchen table dramatically, forehead thunking against the wood.

He’s still sprawled there, groaning into the surface like a man possessed, when his phone buzzes.

His head snaps up so fast he almost knocks over his coffee.

You [9:45 AM]:

hmmm… depends

what kind of idea? ;)

Eddie nearly chokes on his own breath.

He scrambles upright, thumbs flying over the screen, trying to figure out how the hell to answer without sounding like a complete pervert.

He goes for honest.

Mostly.

Eddie [9:46 AM]:

something fun

something that might intrigue you

…or maybe make you run

idk

you up for it?

He barely has time to panic about that text before your reply comes in:

You [9:47 AM]:

well I am definitely intrigued, so I’m in

Eddie slaps a hand over his mouth to smother the ridiculous giddy sound that slips out.

Because fuck yes.

You’re in.

And he’s gonna make it so good for you.

He grins into his coffee mug, his heart hammering, mind already racing with plans- and starts counting down the days.

Two days, he thinks. Two days, sweetheart. And then you’re mine.

——————————

The engine hums low beneath you, the heater blasting just enough to keep the November chill at bay. Eddie’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye.

You’re fiddling with the strap of your bag in your lap- looking cute as always, innocent, completely unaware he’s been planning a full blown feral manhunt for you.

He clears his throat- trying to act casual.. acting like this is no big deal to him.

“So, uh…”

His fingers tap a little faster.

“You still good for Sunday?”

You look over, smiling. “Yeah, of course. Was there something you wanted to do in particular that involves running?”

Eddie almost lets out a wild, almost evil laugh-

Was there something I wanted to do?

Only spend the entire day chasing you through the woods like a starved animal.

He shrugs, “I was thinkin’,” he says, real cool-like, “we could, y’know, do somethin’ a little different. Get outside. Little fresh air.”

He grins sideways at you.

“Maybe… go to that spot Steve always talks about.. the one with the trails? Nobody’s ever really there this time of year.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You wanna go hiking?”

Eddie chokes a little- because, technically, that’s not a lie.

There will be a lot of moving involved. Just maybe not “hiking” in the traditional sense.

“Kinda,” he hedges. “Y’know, a little walking, a little running…”

His grin turns wicked.

“Maybe some chasing.”

Your breath catches just for a second- and Eddie sees it.

The way your fingers tighten on the strap of your bag. The way your thighs shift slightly, like your body remembers exactly how that conversation ended last time.

You narrow your eyes at him playfully, but dangerous.

“Chasing, huh?” you murmur.

Eddie just shrugs, trying to play it off, but his cheeks are starting to flush, and he knows you can tell.

“Could be fun,” he says, real casual. “Could get your heart rate up. Good cardio.”

You snort under your breath. “Right. ‘Cardio.’ Is that what we’re calling it?”

He shoots you a sideways look- cocky, but a little breathless.

“I mean… if you’re too scared..” he teases, voice dropping low.

You turn in your seat to face him fully- challenge sparking in your eyes- and Eddie feels his cock twitch in his jeans immediately.

“Scared?” you echo, mock offended. “Please. You’re the one who’s gonna be begging.”

Eddie’s heart stutters.

Oh fuck.

He leans in a little, close enough that his curls brush your shoulder and his voice rough with want.

“Sweetheart,” he rasps, “you start runnin’ - you better be ready for what happens when I catch you.”

The car goes very quiet. The only sound is the faint hum of the heater and your soft, uneven breathing.

You swallow once, twice- visibly trying to keep your composure.

Then you smirk, and unbuckle your seatbelt with a click.

“Sunday,” you murmur, grabbing your bag and cracking open the passenger door.

Eddie watches you hop out, watches the way you saunter toward your house, and barely restrains himself from bolting after you right then and there.

Instead, he leans back against the seat, exhaling shakily, running both hands through his hair.

“Dead man walkin’,” he mutters.

Then he grins- feral, starved- and whispers to himself:

“Bring it on, sweetheart.”

——————————

Eddie’s a goddamn menace today.

At least, that’s what Wayne mutters under his breath when Eddie bolts through the kitchen for the third time, tripping over his own boots.

“You runnin’ from the law or somethin’, boy?”

Eddie just grins manically, breathless- arms full of… laundry? Towels? A hoodie he’s not sure he even needs?

“Nah,” he says, tossing a wink over his shoulder. “I’ll be doing the chasing. But something better.”

Wayne grunts like he doesn’t want to know.

Eddie nearly slams into his closed bedroom door, heart pounding.

Because today’s the day.

Today’s the day he gets to see you running and laughing in those worn jeans, boots kicking up dead leaves, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes flashing with that look you only give him.

Today’s the day he catches you.

Claims you.

And Jesus H. Christ, he’s already so fucking hard he can barely think.

Eddie drops everything onto his bed in a heap:

– two clean towels (Wayne’s gonna kill him for stealing them)

– a thick hoodie (for you, he figures you might get cold after)

– a water bottle (he’s not a complete animal)

– and his freshly washed flannel blanket

He paces his room, shoving his hands through his curls, biting the inside of his cheek.

Chill the fuck out, Munson. It’s just a day in the woods.

Just you and her.

Alone.

With no witnesses.

He groans quietly, tipping his head back to stare at the cracked ceiling.

It’s freezing out. He knows it is.

November’s bite is sharp as hell, the woods are gonna be all bare branches and crunchy leaves and breath-clouds in the air.

But the thought of you all flushed and breathless and cornered- makes him feel like it’s the middle of July under his skin.

He tries, really tries- to pack like a normal human.

Zip the hoodie into his backpack.Roll up the towels.

Make sure everything’s ready.

But every time he bends over, every time he thinks about pulling you down into the leaves and making you scream his name into the cold air- his cock twitches painfully in his jeans.

He mutters a curse and adjusts himself, trying not to dwell on it.

You’ll get her later, he promises himself.

You’ll have her begging later.

He grabs his leather jacket, slings the backpack over one shoulder, and slams out of the bedroom before he can jack off in the bathroom like a desperate idiot. (Again.)

Wayne’s still at the kitchen table, coffee in one hand, newspaper in the other.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Wayne mutters, eyeing the whirlwind that is Eddie storming through the kitchen.

Eddie just smirks, grabbing his van keys from the hook.

“No promises,” he says, tossing Wayne a wink.

He slams the door behind him and bolts down the steps like a man possessed.

——————————

The van rattles down the cracked back roads like it’s trying to vibrate Eddie’s bones out of his skin.

It’s not even his fault this time.

He’s not blasting Iron Maiden like a maniac because he wants to- he’s doing it because he needs to.

Needs the drumbeat hammering into his ribs.

Needs the guitar screaming louder than his own thoughts.

Because otherwise?

Otherwise he’s gonna turn this van around, drag you back to his bed, and spend the next six hours proving that he can catch you and fuck you senseless without ever leaving his damn room.

(Which- okay- doesn’t sound like a bad plan either.)

But you wanted this. He wants this.

And Eddie Munson is not the type to back down from a challenge.

Especially not when it’s you standing in the woods breathless and teasing and just out of reach- waiting for him to chase you down and ruin you.

He grips the wheel tighter, jaw clenching. He’s been half hard since he woke up.

Hell, if he’s being honest- he’s been half hard since the night he found out you liked being chased.

Found out how wet you got just thinking about it.

He groans, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Jesus Christ.

His other hand drums frantic, restless beats on the wheel, fingers tapping out a rhythm that doesn’t match the song.

He can picture it too vividly:

– you sprinting through the trees, hair streaming out behind you,

– the breathless little giggle you’ll try to hide,

– the split second your eyes flash back over your shoulder,

– the moment he catches you, pins you, and you melt against him like you’ve been waiting for it all along.

He groans again- actually groans out loud- and slams his palm once against the wheel.

“Get a fuckin’ grip, Munson,” he mutters.

But it’s useless.

He’s already twitching in his jeans, already picturing your mouth, still wondering if you’ll let him fuck you against a tree.

(God, please let him.)

He pulls up at the curb outside your place way too fast, tires crunching over gravel, and immediately kills the engine.

The van rattles into silence.

His heart doesn’t. It’s pounding in his throat.

He taps the keys nervously against his knee, glancing up toward your porch, the front door.

Breath fogs the windshield. It’s fucking cold.

But Eddie doesn’t even feel it- he’s burning from the inside out.

He leans back in his seat, closing his eyes for a second, breathing deep through his nose. It’s just a little chase, he tells himself.

It’s just a little game..

And then he grins- wide and feral and aching- because they both know it’s never just a game with you.

It never fuckin’ was.

He shoves the keys in his pocket, shrugs into his jacket, and hops out- his boots crunching on gravel.

Waiting outside the van like a man about to commit a fucking felony.

Waiting for you.

You crack the door open, and your stomach flips so hard it knocks the breath out of you.

Eddie’s standing there, his boots planted, jacket hanging open over his hoodie, hair a mess from the wind- and he looks…

Wrecked.

Already.

Dark eyes heavy, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he’s been pacing the driveway.

The second he sees you bundled in your jacket, cheeks flushed from the cold, something shifts behind his eyes.

The kind of look that sends a lightning bolt straight through your spine. You grip the door tighter without meaning to.

“Hi,” you breathe out.

Eddie just stares for a second, blinking like he needs to reset his brain.

Then he huffs a low laugh- one that scrapes at the edges like it’s barely holding something bigger back- and shoves one hand through his hair.

“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice is low and hoarse. “You ready?”

You nod, maybe a little too fast- you can feel your heart hammering.

And it’s like he notices, because his lips twitch into a slow, crooked almost smirk that could kill a weaker person.

He steps closer.

Which causes you to step back instinctively- just a little and his grin spreads.

Predatory. Pleased.

Fuck.

You’re not sure if you’re ever making it to the woods.

He tilts his head, studying you like you’re something he’s already about to unspool.

“You nervous?” he asks, his voice drops low.

You try for a nonchalant shrug. But you fail miserably.

Eddie’s grin turns wolfish. “Good.” And he says it like a promise.

Then he jerks his chin toward the driveway. “C’mon. Van’s warm.”

Eddie’s hand finds the small of your back the second you’re close enough. Just a brush- just fingertips over fabric- but it makes you shiver harder than the cold.

You shoot him a look over your shoulder like a playful warning, and he winks.

Cocky bastard.

Still, he’s a little too quiet as you walk to the van.

A little too intense, vibrating just under his skin.

The second he opens your door and you climb inside, he rounds the front of the van- sliding into the driver’s seat, tossing one last look at your house- and you catch it:

The way he grips the wheel like he’s holding himself back.

The way his knuckles creak when he flexes them.

The way he steals glances at you out of the corner of his eye, like he’s counting down to something he knows he can’t delay forever.

You clear your throat, tugging your jacket tighter.

“So…” you say, voice too bright. “Where exactly are we going?”

Eddie smirks without looking at you.

“There’s a little spot,” he says. “Couple minutes outside town. Nobody goes there this time of year.”

A pause.

And then he adds, deceptively casual:

“Plenty of trees.”

You swallow thickly.

Eddie’s smirk deepens.

The tension thrums in the van like a taut wire about to snap.

And it only gets worse when he reaches over- fiddling with the radio? and some Zeppelin riff growls to life low over the speakers.

“Real subtle,” you murmur.

Eddie shrugs one shoulder. “What?” he says, grinning. “Gotta set the mood.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath, but your pulse skips.

Because the mood?

The mood is already set.

It’s buzzing under your skin. It’s slamming in Eddie’s veins.

And the second the trees start crowding thick around the road- the second he kills the engine and turns to look at you full on- you realize…

You’re already playing the game.

And Eddie?

Eddie’s already hunting you.

You barely step two feet out of the van before you feel it.

That weight.

That thick, charged air- like the trees themselves are leaning in, like the whole world is holding its breath.

Eddie slams the van door with a low thud behind you- and you turn, heart already hammering, pulse already rabbit fast in your neck.

He’s just standing there- shadowed by the trees, boots scuffing the dirt, leather jacket slung over his shoulder now.

Only a hoodie underneath.

One that looks dangerously good stretched across his chest.

You suck in a shaky, sharp breath, and Eddie’s mouth curves.

Not smiling.

Smirking. Predator.

He steps closer, boots crunching low against the ground until he’s barely a foot away.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and gravel rough. “Couple rules first.”

You swallow hard, and barely nod.

“Number one…” His hand lifts- knuckles grazing your jaw so lightly. “If you wanna stop- you say so. Loud and clear. Right away- at anytime.”

You nod again, your pulse increasing by the second.

Eddie’s thumb brushes your bottom lip slowly.

“Number two…” He tilts his head toward you- his eyes are filled with something dark now. “You run. As fast as you can. No holding back.”

Your knees wobble- you can feel his breath on your mouth when he says it.

“And number three…” His hand start to drift- lazily, like he’s taunting you- down your throat, over your jacket zipper, the heavy press of his palm low against your ribs. “If I catch you?”

He leans in, and you can feel the scrape of his stubble at your ear.

“I get to do whatever I want.”

Your entire body shudders even before he finishes that sentence.

He pulls back a bit- just enough to get a good look at ya- and still with that wicked grin spreading across his face..

“You good with that, pretty girl?”

You’re not sure you even have a brain anymore, but you nod.

Nod, and whisper, “Yes.”

Eddie’s eyes glint.

“Good.”

He backs up a step- letting the space grow wide between you.

The forest stretches dark and tangled behind him. You’re already panting like you ran a mile.

He lifts a hand, and holds up three fingers.

“Gonna give you a head start, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and lazy and mocking. “You better fuckin’ use it.”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

“You ready?” he asks- voice low and taunting.

You swallow. Nod.

He lifts three fingers.

Your whole body tenses.

He drops one.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

He drops another.

You turn- fast, boots skidding- and sprint.

The last finger falls.

Behind you, somewhere, a low, dark laugh echoes through the trees.

You run harder.

You tear down the dirt path, lungs burning, the cold air cutting at your cheeks. Branches whip against your jacket, snagging at your sleeves, but you don’t dare slow down.

You don’t dare look back.

You know he’s back there.

Somewhere.

Watching.

Waiting.

You hear a branch snap to your right, and your pulse spikes.

You glance back just for a second and trip over a root.

Stumble.

Catch yourself. Keep running.

Another crunch of boots against earth.

Closer now.

You veer off the trail and deeper into the trees- heart hammering so loud you’re half blind with it.

The ground gets rougher, steeper- and you almost slip on a patch of damp leaves.

But you don’t stop.

You can’t.

You’re gasping when you hear it:

A low growl.

Behind you.

So close it lifts the hairs on the back of your neck.

You push harder, your thighs burning, lungs raw- boots slipping against the uneven ground.

You hear another step- closer.

Another.

Then- silence.

You dare a glance over your shoulder.

Nothing.

Just trees. Just breathless air.

Just—

A shadow darts between the trunks.

Fast.

Silent.

Like an animal.

You choke on a gasp and run faster- heart slamming, jacket flapping behind you.

Your boot snags on another root causing you to stumble down, cursing- and when you right yourself, you hear it:

A low, amused grunt.

You don’t know how far he is. You don’t know where he is.

But you know he’s getting closer.

Your legs are burning, your chest heaving- and still, you push.

Deeper.

Further.

Twisting through trees, over fallen branches, slipping on damp leaves.

You skid around a wide oak and almost crash into it- and for one terrifying second, you swear you feel fingers graze the back of your jacket.

You shriek out a breathless, broken sound and push harder.

Another laugh- low and dark- ghosts over the air.

“You can’t run forever, sweetheart,” Eddie calls, hisvoice rough and ragged, closer than you thought he was.

Your heart jumps.

You scramble through a thicket, tearing through underbrush.

You hear him clear as day now, his boots pounding against the dirt- hunting you.

You can barely breathe.

You don’t know how he’s not winded- how he sounds almost gleeful- but you don’t have time to think.

You sprint around another tree.

And then you feel it.

A hand.

Snapping around your waist.

Hauling you back into a solid, burning hot chest.

You shriek- but he just laughs low against your ear.

“Told you I’d catch you,” he growls- voice ragged, shaking with adrenaline.

You’re gasping and panting- squirming in his arms.

But Eddie just squeezes you tighter.

One hand locking across your stomach, the other dragging up your ribs, until you go boneless against him.

His breath is hot at your ear.

“You run so fuckin’ pretty, honey,” he murmurs, voice dark and sinful. “All flushed and panting for me.”

You whimper helplessly and feel his grin against your skin.

“Maybe I should let you go,” he muses, mockingly thoughtful. “Chase you again.”

You whimper harder, your thighs clenching.

“Yeah,” he breathes, dragging his nose up the side of your neck. “That’s what I thought.”

And then, without warning- he lifts you.

Hands under your thighs- dragging you up his body, slinging you over his shoulder- carrying you deeper into the woods like you weigh nothing.

His fingers dig into your thighs.

You squirm and gasp- but he doesn’t slow.

Doesn’t stop.

Just carries you.

Like you’re his prize.

His reward.

Like you belong to him.

You barely have time to think before your back hits a tree- rough bark biting through your jacket- and Eddie’s mouth crashes into yours.

Hard and messy and starving.

You moan into him- one hand clutching the back of his hoodie- and he groans against your mouth, grinding his hips into you, seeking friction like he can’t fucking breathe without it.

“Mine now,” he growls, voice almost feral. “All mine.”

And then without warning- he sinks to his knees in the dirt.

Spreading you open.

Mouthing at the inside of your thighs.

“You ran real good for me, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jeans. “Now I’m gonna make you feel real good too.”

Before you can even catch your breath, he’s yanking your jeans down, rough but careful- letting them bunch around your ankles, boots still planted firmly on the ground.

You gasp as the cold air kisses your exposed thighs- the heat of your skin practically steaming in the chill- but Eddie’s hands are running down your legs.

You try to adjust, but he shoves his firm hands against your thighs gently pressing you back against the tree.

“Stay still, sweetheart,” he pants. “Let me have you.”

You brace yourself against the tree- one hand buried in Eddie’s curls, the other fisting desperately at the bark.

You barely have time to whimper before you feel his hot breath ghosting over your exposed cunt.

He groans low the second he sees you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Look at you. Drippin’ down your fuckin’ thighs.”

You whimper, arching instinctively.

“Ran through the fuckin’ woods for me,” he growls, hands squeezing your hips tight. “Gotta reward you, right?”

And then his mouth is on you.

You cry out -loudly, barelymuffling it with your hand.

Eddie moans into your pussy, tongue dragging through your folds, greedy and messy and worshipful all at once.

He eats you like a man starving- like he doesn’t care about anything except making you come apart on his tongue.

“Goddamn, honey,” he rasps between licks, voice wrecked. “Taste so sweet like this. All worked up. All mine.”

You writhe against him, your hips canting wildly- grinding down against his mouth.

He lets you.

Lets you rut against his face, lets you use him, lets you lose yourself on his tongue like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

His tongue flicks quick, filthy patterns over your clit- relentless and devastating- while his hands knead the front of your thighs, keeping you open for him.

“Cum for me, sweetheart,” he groans. “Let me taste how bad you needed it.”

You shatter fast and hard, the orgasm ripping through you like a live wire.

You sob into your palm, thighs trembling, hips jerking helplessly against his mouth.

Eddie growls when he feels you cum- drinking you down, licking you through every frantic aftershock until you’re whimpering and twitching from overstimulation.

Finally, he pulls back- panting, chin slick with you- and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looking completely wrecked.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “Could live between your legs forever.”

You barely have a second to breathe before he’s on his feet again- grabbing your hips, spinning you so you’re braced against the tree.

You whimper at the loss of contact, at the feeling of the rough bark against your palms, but you’re too far gone to care.

You need him.

You need him now.

You hear the frantic clink of his belt, the rasp of his zipper, and then the heavy weight of his cock sliding against your soaked folds.

“Shit,” Eddie groans, pressing the head against your entrance. “You’re so fuckin’ ready for me.”

You nod frantically- breathless, desperate- pushing your hips back to meet him.

And then- slowly and brutal, he thrusts in.

You both cry out- Eddie biting down hard on a groan, you gasping open mouthed against the tree.

He bottoms out in one steady push- filling you to the brim, stretching you perfectly- and doesn’t move for a second, just breathes raggedly against your spine.

“Jesus fuck, honey,” he pants. “You’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight.”

You whimper helplessly, your whole body shivering.

Eddie pulls back slowly, and slams back in.

You sob against the tree- the sound punched out of you- and Eddie groans low and wrecked.

He sets a brutal pace- deep, powerful thrusts that have your boots slipping slightly in the dirt- your hands scrambling for purchase on the rough bark.

Your jeans are still tangled around your ankles, your panties shoved aside, your whole body jerking forward with every ruthless snap of his hips.

“Fuck,” he pants. “Look at you. Takin’ it so good. So fuckin’ good.”

You can’t answer- can barely even breathe- just whimper and push back against him, desperate for more.

“You gonna cum again for me?” he rasps against your ear. “Gonna soak my cock like you did my fuckin’ mouth?”

You nod frantically with tears in your eyes- the pressure building sharp and hot and unbearable.

“You’re close,” he growls. “I can feel it.”

His hand snakes around your front, fingers finding your clit- rubbing tight, filthy circles that have you crying out.

You try to stay quiet.

You really do.

But it’s impossible.

Not when he’s pounding into you like he owns you.

Not when his hand is wrecking you from the front.

Not when you’re teetering right on the edge of oblivion.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he groans. “Cum for me. Let me feel you fuckin’ milk me.”

You break with a sob- your whole body locking up, and you cum again, harder this time, clenching around his cock so tight Eddie curses like he’s in pain.

You feel it happen, feel the gush of wetness- feel the way he gasps and stutters and loses it inside you.

“Fuck- fuck, that’s it,” he groans against your spine, hips staggering for a second from the sheer force of it.

You expect him to finish right then- but somehow, he doesn’t.

Eddie grits his teeth, jaw locked tight- and holds on.

Barely.

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Tryin’ to milk me dry, aren’t you?”

You whimper, overstimulated, every nerve burning- but Eddie just growls low in his throat and keeps fucking you.

Deep, grinding thrusts that have you sobbing into your hands, legs trembling, the boots on your feet barely keeping you standing.

“You’re not done,” he pants, wrecked and feral and desperate. “Not yet.”

He reaches around again, rubbing your clit with rough, messy circles- and you cry out, hips jolting away instinctively.

He doesn’t let you run.

He chases every tiny shiver, every flutter of your walls, every broken sound from your mouth.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he groans. “Gimme another one. Wanna feel you lose it on my cock again.”

You whimper high and broken- because it’s too much, you’re too sensitive, but it’s Eddie.

It’s him.

And he’s wrecking you in the best possible way.

You squeeze around him again- fluttering, helpless- and Eddie lets out a guttural noise from deep in his chest.

His thrusts get faster and rougher- slamming up into you, making filthy sounds echo through the trees.

“You were made for this,” he growls. “Made for me.”

You can feel him start to lose rhythm- feel the snap of his hips turn messier, harder- feel the way his hand tightens on your waist like he’s anchoring himself to you.

“You want it?” he gasps, desperate now. “Want me to fuckin’ fill you up, sweetheart?”

You sob out a whimper and nod frantically- barely able to form words.

“Tell me,” he rasps, voice a ragged edge. “Tell me, sweets.”

“Y-Yeah,” you whimper, barely coherent. “Please, Eddie—”

He groans out, low and broken- and finally lets go.

A few more brutal, deep thrusts- the tip of him dragging against your sweet spot- and then he’s cumming hard inside you.

You feel it- the heat of it flooding you as he buries himself as deep as he can go, grinding his hips into yours with a wrecked, helpless noise.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” he gasps, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to your shoulder as he rides it out.

You’re both shaking and panting, completely ruined against the tree.

Eddie’s still buried inside you, still pulsing faintly, when he finally regains enough strength to straighten a little. His hands slide tenderly down your hips, squeezing once- grounding you- before he eases out of you slowly.

You whimper at the loss- at the messy, sticky feeling of him leaking out of you- but Eddie’s already tugging your jeans carefully back up your legs.

His hands linger- warm and steady- as he adjusts you, fingers brushing reverently along your thighs.

Then- with a grunt of effort- he scoops you up into his arms, bridal style.

You make a soft, breathless sound against his chest, your arms looping around his neck instinctively.

“Got you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough and thick with leftover adrenaline. His nose brushes your temple. “Always got you.”

You melt against him, head into his chest- boneless and wrecked- and Eddie presses his mouth to your hair, murmuring ragged praises into the tangled strands.

“So fuckin’ good for me,” he breathes. “Ran so fuckin’ pretty. Took it all like my perfect girl.”

You just hum weakly against his chest, too wrecked to even respond.

He carries you back toward the van, your boots bouncing lightly with each step, the chill of the evening air brushing against your flushed skin- but you barely feel it.

Not with how tightly Eddie holds you. Not with the way he presses a kiss into your hair, like he needs the contact just as much as you do.

By the time he reaches the van, he eases you down onto the floor inside with infinite care, hands never leaving your body for more than a second.

“Hang on, sweetheart,” he whispers, brushing your hair back gently. “Gotta get you cleaned up a little first.”

He crouches down in front of you, grabbing one of the towels he packed/ the edges still a little warm from being tucked in the backseat.

Carefully, he peels your jeans down again just enough to clean you up.

Your body shivers slightly from the loss of warmth, but Eddie’s already there- pressing a firm, steadying palm to your thigh as he wipes you down with slow, deliberate strokes.

The towel moves tenderly over your sensitive skin, cleaning the slick mess between your legs, careful and thorough.

“Just like that,” he murmurs under his breath, almost to himself. “You’re okay, honey. You’re perfect.”

Once you’re cleaned up, Eddie helps pull your jeans back up again and grabs the soft flannel blanket from the front seat and wraps it snugly around you, bundling you up like you’re something sacred.

“Not lettin’ you freeze your ass off after that,” he mutters, smiling crookedly as he presses another kiss to your knee.

Then he lifts you again- strong arms locking under your knees and shoulders- and you cling to him, heart fluttering.

He settles you into the passenger seat, tucking the blanket around you one last time before slamming the door and jogging around to the driver’s side.

When he gets in, he glances over at you- bundled up and blinking sleepily at him- and he feels like his chest might just cave in from how full it is.

“You good, y/n?” he rasps, throat raw.

You hum, drowsy but smiling. “Better than good.”

The van rumbles to life, heater blasting as Eddie drives the winding roads home, sneaking little glances at you every few minutes like he still can’t believe you’re real.

When he pulls up to the trailer, Wayne’s truck is long gone- and Eddie wastes no time getting you inside, still carrying you all the way up the steps.

He doesn’t set you down until you’re in the bathroom- shower already running hot, steam curling around both of you. “Easy, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs, voice rough but gentle. “Let me take care of you.”

And when he peels the blanket and the rest of your clothes away, it’s with a tenderness so deep it makes your heart ache.

Without a second thought, Eddie strips too- tugging his shirt over his head, shoving his boxers and jeans down in one motion, until he’s just as bare as you.

You catch a glimpse of him in the mirror- flushed from the heat, hair curling wild around his face, eyes drinking you in like he still can’t believe you’re real.

You expect him to crowd you immediately, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he just grabs your hand and tugs you gently under the water.

You gasp when the hot water hits you, but Eddie’s already pulling you against his chest, letting the heat soak into both of you.

His arms loop around your waist, his forehead pressing to yours.

For a long moment, you just stand there together- wrapped up in the pounding water, the scent of his soap and the warmth of his skin.

Then Eddie leans back a little, smiling softly. “Turn around for me, sweets.”

You do, and he immediately reaches for the shampoo, lathering it between his palms before sinking his fingers into your hair.

You let out a soft, content sound- almost a whimper- and he chuckles fondly under his breath.

“Feels good, huh?” he teases, voice still a little raspy.

You nod wordlessly, eyes fluttering closed as he massages your scalp with slow, careful hands.

He rinses your hair gently, tipping your chin up to keep the soap from getting in your eyes, his thumbs brushing feather light against your cheeks.

Every touch is so soft it makes your chest ache.

When he’s done, he presses a kiss to the crown of your head- lingering, like he can’t help himself.

He grabs the body wash next, working the soap into a thick lather in his hands before gliding them down your arms, your back, your hips.

Nothing rushed.

Nothing greedy.

Just soft, reverent motions- like you’re something fragile and precious he’s been trusted to care for.

By the time he’s done, you’re boneless against him, blinking up at him with dazed, sleepy eyes.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, grabbing a clean towel and wrapping it around you tight. “Bedtime.”

He dries you off with gentle strokes, and tugs one of his clean shirts over your head.

You’re tired.

Too warm.

Too full of him.

Eddie pulls on a clean pair of boxers, still damp and flushed, raking a hand through his wet hair before scooping you right back into his arms.

You giggle weakly into his shoulder, and he grins, carrying you through the darkened trailer like you weigh nothing.

He sets you down in his bed and climbs in after you, pulling the covers up high around both of you.

You curl into his side instantly, your leg slinging over his hips, your hand fisting in the soft fabric of his shirt.

Eddie presses a kiss to your forehead, his hand stroking slow, lazy lines down your spine.

“You okay?” he murmurs against your skin.

You nod into his chest, feeling your whole body go limp with safety, with warmth.

“Perfect,” you whisper.

He smiles into your hair- one of those rare, private smiles that’s just for you- and murmurs something you can’t quite catch before you both finally, finally let yourselves drift into sleep.

Ty @saradika-graphics for the dividers 🖤

Tagging some besties I think might enjoy this.. @the-unforgivenn @the-witty-pen-name @mediocredreams @mugloversonly @28bohemianmoons @justalotoffanfiction @streamafterlaughter @kellsck @mrsjellymunson @punkrockmlchael @notsoscenebean 🖤

[madeofmunson]

when I tell you I was LOCKED THE FUCK IN 😵‍💫😵😮‍💨 the build up of this was spectacular, the way they both slowly discovered this was something they were into and just HOW into it eddie got was just sooooooo 🫠

[midnightevab]

FRIDAY, I'M IN LOVE

Warnings: nothing special, kind of strangers to sweethearts with a little bit of hurt and very much comfort. Essentially fluff.

💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫

You’d had a crush on Eddie Munson for years, practically since you were a kid.

Which, in Hawkins High time, was basically the equivalent of a life sentence.

Everyone knew who Eddie was: the loud, dramatic metalhead who stomped across cafeteria tables to shout about conformity, satanic panic or mess with the basketball team.

He was impossible to miss, and yet somehow he always missed you.

Because while Eddie was known as the king of the freaks, you… were just the strange nerd girl nobody asked for.

Baggy jeans, oversized t-shirts, glasses that constantly slid down your nose no matter how many times you pushed them up with your finger.

And to complete the ensemble, the Mount Everest of acne decorating your forehead.

You tried. God, you’d tried so hard despite your shyness.

Every chance you got, you’d find an excuse to talk to him:

“You are really very good at drawing, Eddie! You have a lot of imagination!”

“Woa Eddie, I like your new tattoo! So cool!”

“Hey Eddie, I think your band sounded awesome at lunch rehearsal! You guys are very metal!”

“How do you like the latest Metallica album?”

And every time he gave you the same look.

The one that said: oh great, it’s you again.

“Yeah, cool, thanks, whatever,” he’d mutter, already halfway down the hall with his ever-present friends.

You told yourself it didn’t matter, that you were used to being annoying, forgettable, invisible.

But damn, it hurt so bad from him.

Each time was worse.

Every time Eddie ignored you or brushed you off without too many compliments—tears filled your eyes in record time, fogging up your lenses and making your face all red in spots.

Not that he ever noticed.

As the weeks and attempts passed you had less and less exuberance, less courage, almost zero optimism that one day he would look at you with interest.

The late May sun was already dipping low over the school building, turning the cracked asphalt of the parking lot into streaks of gold and shadow. Seniors leaned against their cars blasting Bowie, girls in pastel skirts laughed as their boyfriends revved engines, and the smell of cigarette smoke floated heavy in the air.

You clutched your books to your chest like a shield, sneakers scuffing against the pavement as you forced yourself toward the far corner of the lot.

You knew exactly where you were going and who you were going to see.

This is the last time, I promise…

The van was impossible to miss—battered, covered in stickers, a testament to bad decisions and good music.

And leaning against it like they owned the entire world were the guys from Corroded Coffin.

Gareth, Jeff and the others passed a cigarette back and forth, their laughter loud, careless.

But it was Eddie Munson who caught your eyes, as always.

Hair wild, ripped battle vest, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips as he gestured animatedly. He wasn’t just in the center of their circle—he was the circle. The gravitational pull that kept everyone else orbiting.

Your heart thundered as you approached, palms sweating against the worn fabric of your Star Wars tee.

Every instinct in you screamed to turn around, run home and pretend you never thought of this.

But it was now or never.

School was ending and with it any chance of being seen by him for a couple of months.

You stopped a few feet away, trying to clear your throat over the lump lodged there.

“Uh—hey, Eddie?”

The group turned towards you, smoke curling in the twilight.

Eddie’s brows furrowed as if he had to squint to recognize you. “…Yeah?”

“I was just, um—” You pushed your glasses up, fighting not to stammer. “I was wondering if… maybe I could sit in on one of your Hellfire Club campaigns? Just to watch? I—I’ve been reading the manuals, but I’d really like to see how it works, you know, in real life.”

The words tumbled out in a nervous rush, like dice scattering across a rough tabletop.

For a moment, Eddie just stared. Then he snorted softly, shaking his head.

“Look, Hellfire isn’t like… a carnival ride, princess Layla. We don’t do open day passes for the curious.”

A ripple of laughter broke out from behind him—Jeff muttering something you couldn’t quite catch, Gareth chuckling under his breath.

Your face burned hot, but Eddie wasn’t done.

He leaned back against the van, arms crossed, trying for casual but coming off dismissive.

“It’s a serious campaign. People commit. They don’t just drop in to gawk.”

The shame hit harder than any insult.

Your stomach twisted, your throat closed and suddenly the weight of every zit on your forehead, every frizzy strand of hair, every baggy shirt screamed at you all at once.

“Oh. Right. Yeah, of course,” you mumbled, hugging your books tighter. “Sorry, I—I didn’t mean to…”

You trailed off, already stepping back, desperate to disappear before your eyes stung too much. The laughter behind you—low, cruel, not even meant to be cruel but somehow worse for it—chased you across the parking lot.

You didn’t look back and Eddie Munson, who would spend the rest of his life screaming about how people misjudged him, didn’t stop you or try to apologize for treating you like a complete idiot.

Then eventually the summer break came to save you.

Maybe it was puberty finally deciding to cut you a break, or maybe you were simply tired of hiding under layers of shyness and self-pity, or maybe the enormous emotional support your hippie mom had wrapped you with—but when you walked back into school in September… it was like someone had swapped you out for a much cooler and prettier twin.

Your essence hadn't changed, you had just transformed into the best version of yourself—the most faithful and natural possible You just had to make a few small changes to your life.

Acne? Pill and skin routine. Glasses? Replaced with contacts—when you were not at home.

Clothes? Let’s just say you discovered that jeans could fit you perfectly and that t-shirts didn’t need to double as tents. You had even discovered the existence of comfortable yet cute tops and tanktops.

Fear of not being enough? So much, so much love for yourself.

But the biggest one?

You stopped chasing Eddie Munson.

Sure, your heart still gave a little traitorous flutter the first time back from holiday—when you had heard him talk or laugh or just breathe, but you didn’t try to shove yourself into his orbit anymore.

You had already done enough, you had already humiliated yourself enough.

If he wanted to ignore you, fine. You had better things to do.

… Or so you told yourself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of course, fate had other plans.

“Alright, class,” Mr. Clarke announced, clapping his hands. “Lab partners for the semester project. I’ll be assigning them randomly.”

You barely heard the rest, busy doodling galaxies in your notebook.

You figured you’d get paired with someone who wouldn’t show up and end up doing the whole thing yourself, as always.

It was okay, better alone than in poor company.

Then your ears caught something chilling: your last name and 'Munson' in the same sentence, close together.

Your purple pen froze mid-star.

Eddie Munson turned in his seat with the expression of someone who’d just been sentenced to community service.

His brown eyes flicked over you, searching, a frown tugging at his lips—then, oddly, his gaze lingered.

“…Wait.” His eyebrows shot up, mouth slightly open. “You are really you?!”

You would have gladly strangled him.

You raised an eyebrow too. “Yeah. Hi. In case you forgot, we’ve had, like—five classes together since freshman year.”

He blinked. Then blinked again.

Holy shit, you realized.

He actually didn’t recognize you at first.

Eddie rubbed the back of his head, suddenly sheepish, a strange blush on his cheeks.

“Uh. Guess you, uh… changed your hair? And… no glasses anymore?”

You smirked. “Among other things.”

The silence that fell between you wasn't awkward for you, but for Eddie it evidently was.

He seemed like a fish out of water.

You got up from your desk to join him at his.

“How do you want to organize the project? It doesn't matter to me.”

He stared at you for a beat too long before snapping out of it.

“Right. Science. Project. Cool. Let’s… yeah.”

You couldn't help but roll your eyes and give a bitter laugh.

Science project with Eddie Munson looked like a lot of fun.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first time Eddie came over to your house, he expected—well, he wasn’t sure what he expected. Something boring. Something ordinary… and instead it was a real spectacle.

It seemed to have come out of one of those bohemian interior design magazines that you usually find in dentists waiting rooms.

Very cozy, very cool.

And he didn’t expect you to crack open two Dr. Pepper, shove one into his hand, and say, “So, Eddie Munson. Why the hell do you always jump on cafeteria tables? Is it a height thing, or do you just like the view from up there?”

He nearly spit out his soda.

“Excuse me?”

You grinned, sitting cross-legged on the multicolor rug.

“What? You think nobody notices you’re, like, a one-man Broadway show at lunch? It’s impressive, really. I’ve just always wondered if it’s a power move or a hobby.”

For the first time ever, he was speechless.

Then he laughed.

A real, belly-deep laugh that had you biting back your own smile. “Shit. You’re funny.”

Your chest warmed, but you tried not to give in openly.

You hadn't forgotten the lessons of the past and you definitely were a person who learned from your mistakes.

But from then on, things shifted anyway.

You joked, he pretended to be offended.

You (pretended) to be serious, Eddie acted like a clown to try to break your sulk.

Sometimes you answered with such sagacity that he could only stare at you in silence, admiring you secretly.

The clear awareness of having been a complete idiot to you made its home in his chest, making him feel like a little piece of shit.

Some work actually got done—shockingly enough, between fits of laughter and moments of small confidences and curiosities, and you scheduled to meet every wednesday afternoon to continue the science project.

In the following days at school Eddie started walking you to your locker after class together, always with some dumb excuse like, “Well, it’s on my way,” when it really wasn’t.

He searched for you in the corridors or during breaks to exchange a few jokes or simply to know how you were doing.

And he looked at you a lot.

Really looked at you, as if he was seeing you for the first time every time.

He even offered to pick you up at home in the morning for school and take you back in the afternoon, so you didn't have to take the bus.

For you it was like a daydream, that closeness with him that you had longed for was finally building itself—and without you having to do anything in particular.

Eddie Munson seemed really bewitched by you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After your fourth study session in your living room, you were packing up notes and books when Eddie shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“So, uh,” he started, voice strangely nervous. “I’ve been thinking…”

You raised an eyebrow while looking at him. “It is a very dangerous hobby.”

He shot you a glare, but there was no anger in it.

“Yeah, well. I was wondering if maybe, instead of—you know, doing this science project all the time… you might want to do something else. With me. Like… not homework.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Like what?”

His cheeks flushed red.

Eddie Munson, the guy who made entire classrooms his stage, actually blushed.

“Mh, I—Maybe you'd like to watch the next DnD campaign on friday night? And maybe we could grab something to eat together after it?”

You stared at him for a long moment, savoring it.

Savoring the way he fidgeted, suddenly unsure of himself.

Your mum had tried every way to convince you that revenge would bring you no satisfaction, but you were of the opposite opinion.

You grinned. “I'd really like to, but I thought the Hellfire Club didn't have open days for nosy curious people.”

His jaw dropped and his heart did the same, sinking under his feet. “Okay, yes… Well, I'm sorry for my behavior a few months ago.” He ran a hand through his curls. “I've been stupid, insensitive, and rude. I can assure you that I'm not that way. I really would like you to come. And spend some time alone, just the two of us.”

You might have been thirsty for revenge, but you would never have trampled on him.

You would never have given him a taste of his own medicine.

“You think it didn’t hurt to see you ignoring me for years? Do you think an apology is enough to heal the wounds you caused me?” You hadn't raised your voice, there was no need.

Your calm, steady tone was better than any shout.

Eddie was starting to panic; he wasn't used to situations like this and frankly he thought you had already forgiven him.

"No! Not at all! I can make it up to you, I can show you that I care about you!”

Seeing him so vulnerable hurt you, but Pandora's box had already been opened and your tongue was in flood.

“You know, I didn't want anything special. I didn't expect a date, or for you to declare a love you clearly didn't feel. I just wanted to get to know you better, share some common interests, maybe be your friend... nothing more.”

Silent tears began to stream down your cheeks, running down your neck and under your sweatshirt.

Eddie acted instinctively: in a couple of steps he was in front of you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pushing you against his chest.

A hand rested on the back of your head, in your hair, holding you there, over his heart.

You could feel its beat under your ear, the warmth of his skin under the well-worn Iron Maiden t-shirt.

His smell was an intoxicating blend of tobacco, pine aftershave and peppermint chewing gum.

You loved it.

Your hands moved on their own, sliding up his back.

“I’m sorry, I'm so sorry. You didn't deserved it. I'm going to punch myself right in the face with my own rings on.”

The laughter escaped you without wanting it, spontaneous and relaxing.

“You’re too cute, Munson. Don't ruin it.”

Eddie blinked, his head tilted in disbelief.

Then he lifted your chin with two fingers, a small mischievous smile on his lips. “Am I?”

It was your turn to blush.

“Lucky for you, yes you are.” You rolled your eyes as his smile turned into a grin. “And I definitely talk too much.”

He shoved you against him again, hugging you even tighter and making you sway gently on the spot.

Finally you felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be, a languid warmth in the pit of your stomach made you feel deeply connected to him.

And to the entire Universe.

Long minutes passed like that, enjoying that unexpected, sudden closeness.

Then he sighed.

“Shit. I really was an idiot, wasn’t I?”

You stopped your little dance to look at him straight in the eyes.

“Yup, you definitely were.” You shot him a playful wink as you headed for the kitchen, leaving him stunned and a little worried. “But maybe you can really make it up to me friday night.”

He grinned, wide and wicked, following you and grabbing your hand to make you turn to him.

“So it’s a date.”

And for once, you didn’t feel invisible at all.

“Damn it, if it is.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eddie Munson was about to have a heart attack.

Or a syncope—or even a near-death experience, he didn't know.

The only thing he was sure of was that it was friday night and he was in love.

The Hellfire Club had gathered for a new campaign that he had poured his heart and soul into—and you were not there.

You said you'd be.

You had a date right after.

Your first date.

He had planned everything for you, prepared surprises that he was sure would make you happy.

But you weren't there and your absence took his breath away.

The fact that you had insisted that he shouldn't pick you up before heading to Hawkins High was starting to ring like a sinister and ominous bell.

Sitting on the throne stolen from the theater group and surrounded by dozens of flickering candles, he looked like a disgraced king without his queen.

“Eddie please, can we start?” Gareth was rejected.

“No.”

“She is not coming, okay? Let's accept it and move on as if nothing happened.” Jeff was trying to psychoanalyze him.

Eddie didn't take his eyes off the drama room door, only the clenching of his jaw signaling that he was listening to them.

“Don't talk bullshit. She will come.”

Mike Wheeler rolled his eyes.

“You had treated her terribly, Eds.

She only made fun of you to get her revenge.”

Eddie rested his elbows on the table, interlacing his fingers and bringing them to his mouth, a deep, vertical line between his eyebrows.

“I said no bullshit, kiddos. You all have to wait.”

A concert of dissatisfied grunts and half-voiced curses filled the air, but he didn't give a fuck.

“Even you weren't that submissive when you met El—which says it all…”

Eddie glared at Lucas Sinclair as if he wanted to pulverize him in the chair, but said nothing.

The worm of doubt began to gnaw at his ribs, making him fidget on his throne.

Maybe those four bastards were right: he had behaved so badly towards you that you would have had no wrong in returning him the favor.

The next time he’d see you he wouldn't even say anything to you, he wouldn't feel any anger towards you—only the desolate certainty of having had a treasure in his hands and having thrown it to the wind.

“I don't know, it seems strange to me. I don't know her that well, but she doesn't seem like the kind of girl who acts like that.”

Indeed.

Dustin Henderson was right.

You weren't like other girls.

You weren't a vain cheerleader with a boyfriend on the basketball or rugby teams.

You weren't the classic snobbish, perfect first-of-the-class with a nose in the air.

You were you—spontaneous, funny, brilliant, beautiful—and you would never have behave that way.

Even if he had been a jerk to you in the past.

Eddie slammed his palms on the table, making the dice and everyone present jump.

“Okay, I've had enough. I'm going to get her. There is certainly a plausible explanation.”

Pulling on his leather jacket and patched denim vest, he paid no attention to the chorus of protests and complaints rising around him. Everything was background noise, only you were the main melody.

He hurried out of the room, almost running through the deserted corridors towards his van.

He turned the last corner before the main exit and what suddenly lay before him made his blood run cold.

You were there, your back pressed against the wall, Jason Carver practically lying on top of you.

Two of his henchmen surrounded you, cackling like brainless hyenas.

“... God, look at you. You think a new pair of shorts and some mascara erases years of being a loser?” Jason’s drawl cut through the silence, dripping venom.

You stood your ground, though Eddie could see your hands trembling where you clutched your bag between your bodies.

“Shut up, Carver. At least I don’t spend my life riding daddy’s money and bullying people because I’ve got nothing else to offer.”

“Ohhh,” one of the goons taunted. “She even talks now.”

Jason sneered, his fingers grabbed your chin.

“You know, all Hawkins High knows about your ‘little’ crush. Years drooling over Eddie the Freak Munson. How pathetic.”

Years?!

Eddie felt his stomach tighten, as did his fists.

“Guess what, sweetheart? That's what he calls you, right? Lipstick or no lipstick, he doesn’t want you. Nobody does.”

More silly giggles.

Your breath hitched, but your chin stayed high, your eyes planted in his.

“Better to want him than some empty-headed jock who thinks he’s a God’s gift. At least Eddie’s got talent. At least he’s not an asshole.”

Carver had a devilish expression on his face.

"Oh yeah? And what talent would he have? Did he already screw you good in the back of that filthy van? Then it's already a lot that he didn't abandon you on the side of some road lost in the countryside.”

That did it.

Eddie didn’t think anymore—he moved.

“HEY!”

The word cracked across the empty space like a thunder.

All four heads snapped his way as he strode forward, eyes blazing, fists already itching.

You were looking at him as if he was a mirage in the middle of desert.

Jason smirked, though Eddie caught the flicker of uncertainty at the sight of his furious face.

“Well, speak of the devil. We were just talking about you, Munson.”

“Yeah?” Eddie spat, his voice low, dangerous.

“Then let’s skip the gossip and cut straight to the part where I tell you to back the fuck off.”

He grabbed him by the jacket, pushing him hard away from you.

Jason laughed, trying to play it cool.

“What are you gonna do, freak? Cast a spell on me and—”

The punch landed before he could finish the sentence.

Bone met bone with a sickening crack, Jason stumbling back with blood spurting from his nose.

The two idiots grabbed him, wide-eyed.

Eddie didn’t even flinch—he shook out his knuckles and glared at all three of them like he’d burn them alive if they so much as breathed wrong.

“Don't you ever dare talk to my girlfriend like that again, Carver, or I swear to God I’ll make you regret it.” Eddie’s voice shook, not from fear but fury. “Don’t ever look at her—got it, asshole?”

Jason groaned, clutching his ruined face, but none of them argued.

They slunk off into the dark ouside, muttering nonsense on their way.

The hall fell silent again, save for the rush of your breathing.

Eddie turned to you, heart still hammering, adrenaline making his hands tremble. “Are you okay, love?”

You didn’t answer right away, instead you launched forward, arms wrapping tight around him, your face burying into his chest—his perfect smell grounding you in the chaos.

He hugged you right away, his mouth resting on top of your head, in your hair.

“Thank you, Eddie” you whispered, voice shaky.

Without realizing it, you began to sway without moving your feet—like you had done just a couple of days earlier at your house, and he immediately followed you.

It was your own little dance.

Then, after what seemed like an eternity, you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, a crooked smile tugging your lips. “So… since when exactly am I your girlfriend?”

Eddie Munson was caught off guard—something that only happened with you this often.

His mouth opened and closed, then curved into his signature cocky grin.

“Since right now.”

And before you could tease him again, he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t shy.

It was every ounce of pent-up want and regret and relief, crashing into you like fireworks. His hands framed your face, your fingers fisted in his shirt, and for the first time ever, you knew—really knew—that he saw and liked you just the way you were.

When he finally pulled back—both of you breathless, your lips swollen and wet, he chuckled, pressing is forehead on yours.

“Let’s get out of here. First date, dinner at Benny's and horror movie at the drive in. The whole nine yards. My van’s got your name on it. And so my heart.”

You laughed, linking your arms behind his neck.

“Sounds perfect to me, but what about your Hellfire folks?”

He took your hand, intertwined your fingers carefully with a satisfied smile and leading you outside, across the parking lot.

“Don't worry, they'll survive without me for once.”

He winked, opening the passenger door for you with a small bow.

“I want to dedicate myself only to you tonight. And all the other nights, or evenings, or mornings, or afternoons you want me to.”

Your eyes were two bright, pulsating little hearts as you were getting comfortable into the van.

“I must admit it, this is a dream come true. The most beautiful one.”

He kissed you quickly, laughing like a happy child as he ran to the driver's side and started the engine.

“And the best thing is it will never end, I promise you, sweetheart.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's Notes: this oneshot was born from an anonymous request sent to @ashwhowrites , who wrote her delightful story, which I recommend, inspiring me to write my own version.

I apologize for any errors, but since English isn't my primary language, I tried to do my best.

Let me know if you liked this story, and if so, please share it so I can expand my little circle of readers. Thank you! 🖤🤟🏻

[batkin028]

🖤🖤🖤

[cacoetheswriting]

right where you left me. (the masterlist)

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader (modern day au) total word count: 39,640

summary: a weekend gateway to with your old high school friends? sounds like a dream! only it’s not really as it’s been three years since you last saw them. three years since you left hawkins without so much as a goodbye, and certain people tend to hold grudges.

content warnings: friends-to-enemies-to-lovers, slow burn, forced proximity, angsty, mutual pining, suggestive & mature themes, adult language, emotional hurt / comfort, use of pet names, eddie is a bit of an asshole, mentions & descriptions of underage alcohol consumption / substance abuse, discusses sobriety, and also touches on topics of: unrequited love, divorce, death, grief, toxic relationships, mental health, self-doubt / insecurities, love triangle? — pls read the cw's for each chapter and let me know if i missed any!

chapter one | (aka right where you left me) chapter two | (aka dear stranger,) chapter three | (aka some protector) chapter four | (aka what can i say after i'm sorry?) chapter five | (aka we can't be friends) chapter six | (aka break my heart again) epilogue | (aka eddie my love)

psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.

a/n: the following are some songs i think they fit perfectly with their story, so i wanted to share them with you.

taylor swift - right where you left me | dido - thank you | iron & wine, fiona apple - all in good time | ariana grande - i wish i hated you | chappell roan - kaleidoscope | jesse - rainbow | finneas - break my heart again | tiny habits - people always change | taylor swift - dear reader | the cranberries - linger | bon iver - things behind things behind things | duran duran - come undone | cigarettes after sex - pistol | twenty one pilots - the run and go | taylor swift - my tears ricochet | david kushner - daylight | lana del rey - how to disappear | ashe - dear stranger, | lp - the one that you love | willow avalon - baby blue | role model - some protector | taylor swift - the great war | omega - pearls in her hair | lizzy mcalpine - ceilings | mark ronson ft. miley cyrus - nothing breaks like a heart | ashe - cherry trees | blossoms - what can i say after i'm sorry? | gracie abrams - i love you, i'm sorry | suki waterhouse - nostalgia | taylor swift - the bolter | ariana grande - we can’t be friends (wait for your love) | finneas - partners in crime | lana del rey ft. father john misty - let the light in | the script - the man who can’t be moved | brigitte calls me baby - eddie my love | harry styles - love of my life

as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

main masterlist

[batkin028]

🖤🖤

[elegantpaperoperatormaker]

@savybabyyy: ex husband!eddie munson and reader still fuck whenever they can because no one can make them feel as good as each other can but they have to hide it from the kids so it doesn’t confuse them!!! do you think they’d be able to ever work out their differences and try their relationship again? if you chose to make this a fic i NEED it to be FILTHY NASTY smut (pls ily)

Anon: not sure if this is something you’d enjoy (so please feel free to delete!) — but maybe exboyfriend!Eddie (or ex-husband 😛 whichever is yummier to you) being soooo smug when you come back ‘just one more time’ (maroon 5 — i’m looking at you). but he just knows that is not the truth

Prescribed Burn

Ex-Husband!Eddie Munson x Ex-Wife!Reader

A/N: I've been working on this for a few weeks and it's finally done. I decided to combine the submission with another ask I got because I think they mesh well together. I have no thoughts on a part two to this so please don’t ask. Also, a better way to get more writing on a certain fic universe is to ask specific questions—not just the general request for a part two. If there’s some lore you want to know, I’d be happy to answer any questions regarding that! 

Summary: Eddie, your ex-husband, won't stop crashing your dates, leaving you sexually frustrated and alone with him. He wouldn't be such a thorn in your side if you'd just take him back. Maybe one more hookup will do the trick...

Word Count: 8.7k

Warnings: 18+ mdni!!! Smut, PiV unprotected, jealousy, perv!eddie is a panty thief, kinda angst w a happy ending, Eddie hates your date, mention of masturbation, maybe considered coercion because Eddie doesn't wanna wear a condom and you don’t want another kid while divorced but it’s chill bc you really just wanna fuck, cream pie, kissingggg, tensionnn, cryinggg, Eddie’s a menace, breeding kink, Eddie calls reader mama in a slutty way, daddy kink but in the sexy 'I’m the actual father of your children way,' Hopper is a county judge now, teasing, Eddie’s kinda condescending but it’s hot, lot of pet names because again–he’s condescending, a little biting, Eddie has two sons with you but he wants to be a girl dad so bad, confessions in the nude, I think that's it lmk if I missed anything.

“A controlled burn or prescribed burn (Rx burn) is the practice of intentionally setting a fire to change the assemblage of vegetation and decaying material in a landscape.” — Wiki

“Low to moderate-intensity fire reduces competition from invasive species and encourages the growth of fire-adapted native vegetation…” — nationalforests.org

Masterlist

Your date is practically slobbering on you as you fiddle with the lock on the front door. When the damn thing finally gives way, you walk in, throwing your purse on the nearby hook, your date stumbling in after you—still trying to leech blood from your veins, apparently. 

“Damn–useless–,” you mutter, cursing at your door, voice trailing off. “Shoulda had Eddie fix the stupid thing.”

Blane releases your neck to throw you a confused look, “What was that?”

“Nothing. Let’s–take this into the living room.” You try to herd him into the wider space, struggling to withhold an eye roll at his desperate, uncoordinated hands groping your body. Feeling around for the lightswitch, you flick it on and jump at the sight before you.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Holy shit!”

You and your date shout at the same time, both startled by the curly haired man lounging in the arm chair like he owns the place—jackass.

“Oh, please, don’t stop on my account,” he waves you on before threading his fingers, elbows on each arm of the chair as he rests his chin on clasped hands, an expectant smile plastered over his face. 

“What the hell are you doing here,” you groan, crossing your arms, closing yourself off to him. 

Blane’s eyes widen even more, darting from your rigid body to the stranger leisurely eyeing you in your living room. “Do you know this man?” 

Restraining another eye roll at the idiot’s reaction, you don’t get the chance to speak before Eddie runs his mouth. 

“Does she know me? Oh, her and I go way back! What was it, ‘77? ‘78?” His grin never leaves his stupid face, a wicked glint in his obsidian eyes.

This time you allow yourself to eyeroll. Eddie will take every chance to remind any male that comes within a hundred feet of you that he got there first. And not only was he there first, but he was your everything. Until he wasn’t. 

The genius you agreed to go on a date with looks back at you, still confused. “So, you do know this man?”

The blond’s cluelessness makes Eddie snort, you sure know how to pick ‘em. He likes to think he was your magnum opus, your big kahuna, your white whale. “I’m her husband.”

“Ex,” you grit out, knowing Eddie gets a sick little thrill any time he runs into you with a guy and gets to drop the bomb that you were married once before—to him, no less. 

Blane looks at you shocked, you pointedly ignore his burning gaze on the side of your face. It’s not your fault you didn’t get the chance to disclose that information between his non stop yammering about his management position at RadioShack—proud to lord over a bunch of seventeen-year-olds. 

“And I’m also the father of her children.” The curly haired man stands up with an exaggerated groan, pretending to dust off his tattered jeans. “Yup, everybody around here calls me ‘daddy,’ you can too if ya like.” 

Head jerking back at the brash statement, the blond looks at you again. Apparently, there’s no other way the man can turn his damn neck.

“Don’t–call him–I don’t call him ‘daddy’,” You shake your head, looking at Blane sharply. 

Eddie steps forward, hand outstretched to your date, “Sorry–did you say your name was ‘Flavor of the Week’?” 

“Eddie!” 

“Uh, no, it’s Blane,” the blond shakes Eddie’s ringed hands, cringing at the harsh squeeze the metalhead gives. 

He can’t help the way his eyebrows disappear into his bangs, eyes lighting up like he just heard the best thing all day. “B–uh–lane?” His jaw is dropped in awe of the new low you’ve stooped—hooking up with a ‘Blane’. Why don’t you go ahead and get a ‘Chad’ or ‘Brad’ in there while you’re at it. 

“Well, it’s actually pronounced, ‘Blane,’ but yeah.” 

You stomp over, separating their hands, positioning yourself between the single-sided pissing contest. “What are you doing here, Eddie?” 

Shrugging, he gives you an innocent smile, “I just came to pick up the kids.” 

He knows damn well you don’t have them, he actually ran into the little rugrats at the park with Robin on his drive home. He pulled over, asking what she was doing with his children, and Robin was spineless enough to let slip that you had a date tonight. So here he is. 

He didn’t have anything better to do, anyway. Got tired of the chick he was trying to see—keyword: trying. But she wasn’t anything like you, so he had to ditch her after a short lived affair. He’s thankful he’s here right now, god forbid you sleep with a ‘Blane.’

You narrow your eyes at him—this wasn’t his night to take the boys. The asshole probably just wanted to crash your date. It’s like he’s torturing you for something he did. Anytime you try to go on a date—get back out there, as Robin says—he magically shows up, ruining the whole affair. 

The lack of successful hookups have left you to make some poor mistakes—like sleeping with your ex, for one. It’s like this is his huge, master plan to get you back. He’ll fuck up any chance you have at moving on and just when you’re at your wits end, he’ll swoop in on his best behavior—acting like the saint he’s not. 

“Well, they’re not here,” you deadpan, eager to see what excuse he can come up with next. 

Eddie snorts, looking at Blane for support, “Woah, absentee mother alert! It’s ten o’clock, do you know where your children are?” 

“Okay, that’s it! Get out!” You grab his leather clad arm, dragging him to the door.

You only get to the threshold of the family room before he weasels his arm out of your clawing grasp. 

“Aht, aht! Not so fast! It’s my house, too.” Walking back to a stunned Blane, he throws his arm over the awkward guy, leaning into his face. “My name is on the deed,” he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at the cringing blond. 

“Yeah, and I’ve been meaning to change that. Got a judge’s approval and everything.” Crossing your arms, jutting a hip out, you give him a smug look. 

“Hop, right? Oh, yeah, no,” he waves you off. “That’s no good. Turns out the guy’s got a soft spot for me. All it took was a few tears, a couple of sad pictures of a broken family, and a promise to make it right—he folded like an omelet. That guy should really get his attorney license revoked,” he muses, frowning at how easy Hopper was to manipulate despite all of Eddie’s less than savory run-ins with the ex-chief of police in his youth. 

“What? The Fuck? Eddie?” Steam could be blowing out of your ears for all you know, you’ve never felt so enraged. Eddie’s overstepped your boundaries a lot since you two separated—ruining dates, buying the boys things you specifically said ‘no’ to, introducing the boys to his flings, purposefully neglecting to bring your kids back until you come over to take them back just so he can see you—but this takes the cake. 

You’ve been waiting five months for the paperwork to go through. In fact, you only just got the approval this past Monday. Now he’s in your house—without your consent—rubbing it in your face that he got the change expunged only four days later.

Blane slips away from Eddie, looking like he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he sheepishly mutters, “I can see you two have a lot to work through, so I’m just gonna–” He motions to the door, stepping toward you and then back, unsure whether he should approach you with how irate you look. Deciding to risk it, he lays a hand on your stiff shoulders, giving a hesitant kiss to your cheek. “Call me when you figure this stuff out.” 

Eddie snorts at the bold move. ‘Alright, Blane, you dog,’ he thinks. Even he wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole right now—you’d probably melt it—and he’s known you since he was eleven and you were nine. He’s surprised the guy didn’t liquefy from your magmatic fury, leaving nothing but his shitty veneers and obvious toupée.

The front door shuts leaving the two of you alone, the only thing that can be heard is the huffing breaths of your ire. You’re staring daggers at Eddie, wishing on every star that you secretly have laser eyes you never knew about—so you can smite your awful ex-husband, zapping him off the face of the earth like a moth in an electric bug zapper.

“Can you believe that guy?” Eddie throws his hand out to the door Blane just left out of. “Like, ‘Okay, drama queen, way to make an exit,’” he mocks, looking at you for support. “Thought he’d never leave.” 

“Eddie…”

 It’s his first and only warning, but he doesn’t heed it. 

“And, hey, what’s with you and men who have the personality of a wet paper bag? I mean seriously, who’s a grown man and blond?”

Steadily stalking towards him with sharp, unyielding eyes, you’re imagining every way you’re about to throw him out of your house. He’s slowly backing up, the smug smile never leaving his face.

“By the way, I felt his hands—that man has never worked a day in his life. His hands are so soft and supple—like a woman’s. If you wanted to feel a woman’s hands, I’m sure Robin’s just been waiting on your call,” he laughs, getting off on shit talking your choice of date. 

Your movements stop, halting a few inches in front of him. Looking up into his twinkling eyes—mirth to your anger. 

“Well, it’s kind of hard to find somebody willing to date a single mother, and anybody who is, you open your big mouth to,” you bite out, trying your hardest to restrain yourself from grabbing him by the hair and dragging him out the front door. 

A closed-mouth smile spreads up one side of his face, his head ducks to gaze into your eyes, admiring. “You know, I actually know someone who really goes for that type of thing.” 

“Oh, my ex-husband is gonna set me up now?”

He shrugs.

“Alright, I’ll bite. Who?” 

“Me.” 

You snort—that’s the funniest thing you’ve heard in a while. Eddie always did make you laugh. 

His smile falters a bit, but he catches himself before you can see it. “Oh, come on! The boys would be ecstatic to see their daddy home.” 

“Well, their daddy should’ve thought about that before he was an awful husband.” 

That comment takes the wind right out of his sails, the light in his eyes tempering at the reminder of the fuck up he’ll regret for the rest of his life. 

“Also, don’t ever call me an absentee mother,” you threaten, anger flaring up again at the memory of his comment—in front of your date, too. 

Being the king of deflecting feelings, a smile quirks up on his lips again. He prowls the short distance to you, head dipped to read your body language as he reaches for your hips, pulling you to his chest. “Aw, you know I didn’t mean it, sweetheart,” he pouts. “Just wanted old B–uh–lane to leave us alone…” 

Head tentatively moving to your neck, his lips graze the column of your throat. The featherlight sensation against your delicate skin has your shoulders relaxing, a stuttering breath leaving glossed lips. 

“I know you’re the best mother the boys could ever ask for. Best mama and a great wife. S’too bad I wasn’t a great husband,” he mutters against your skin, hot, languid tongue mouthing at the flesh. 

Predictable. This is what you were afraid of. It’s like clock work. He ruins your dates, acts like a saint, plays the part of the man you fell in love with, and takes you to bed. Every. Time. There’s not a hint of remorse in his comment, he’s saying what you want to hear. 

Doesn’t mean he doesn’t believe he was a bad husband. He’s just on a mission right now, and pondering the shortcomings of his vows to you is not a big turn on. 

Pulse spiking at his attention, the intoxicating smell of his familiar cologne melts your brain into mush. “S–Stop,” you try to push him off, but he just takes the hands you splay on his chest and slides them around his back—making you hold him. 

His hands slide up your body, settling on either side of your cheeks. Half-lidded, hungry eyes rove over your face. Swollen lips pant soft breaths against your skin; the sensation has you closing your eyes, trying to scrounge up some sense of self-worth. 

Leaving slow, delicate, open-mouthed kisses around your face, he mumbles lowly, “You know we don’t have to stop sleeping together just because we’re separated, right?” 

“Divorced,” you correct—separated sounds temporary, this was supposed to be forever. 

“Semantics.” 

You almost preen at the little pecks he gives to your closed eyelids. You haven’t felt this kind of intimate affection in so long. It feels like a sisyphean task to gather your willpower; you can’t let him continue to do this. It’s not healthy. For either of you. 

He doesn’t let you have a boyfriend and he can’t hold down a girlfriend. They all either walk out because he won’t ever stop talking about you or he dumps them because they’re not enough like you. 

Eddie’s wandering mouth inches to yours with each delicate kiss. Finally hovering over your parted lips, he gives a tentative lick to your cherry lip gloss—the flavor he dreams about every night in the cold bed in his empty apartment, fist squeezing his cock, mind convincing him it’s your velvety walls surrounding him.

“You don’t have to keep telling me ‘no.’ Don’t gotta waste your breath.” 

Giving a purposeful lick into your mouth, he draws waiting lips to his in a tight, wet kiss. A moan works its way up your throat, fingers digging across his back as he caresses your tongue with his. 

Pulling away panting, he leaves you breathless—eyes still closed and head mindlessly leaning in for more. But it doesn’t come.

“I’ll always be here, baby.” His confidence is other worldly, you’ll never understand what you do to make him so ballsy. All he gets from you is denigration and cold stares. “I’m the father of your children.” 

That’s the nail in the coffin—the epitome of why you still allow him into your life. He’s the father of your children—a damn good one at that: loving, kind, and a good role model for the boys. You will never be rid of him. You couldn’t do that to the boys. No matter how badly you might want to never speak to him again sometimes. 

Before this goes any further—and you know it will—you have to know…

“Why’d you go behind my back with Hopper?” Opening your eyes, you catch a small look of shock passing over his features before he corrects himself—deflecting again, just like he always does. 

“This house is the first thing we ever bought together. Wasn’t ready for that history to be erased,” he answers earnestly, hands never leaving your face. 

That’s the first time in a long time he’s been genuine with you. It makes you frown, though. The house is what upset him? Not you divorcing him?

“What, I was easier to let go of than a house?” 

His eyebrows knit together for a split second, eyes narrowing just as quick. Do you not get it? He’s been pretty clear.

“I didn’t let you go. I haven’t let you go,” he amends, shaking his head, eyes studying you closely. “I just can’t make you stay.” 

The words he carefully chose have a strange feeling washing over you as you take them in. You’re trying so hard to read his mind through his expressive eyes, but he’s always been good about showing you only what he wants you to see. 

Right now, the muddy pools you used to fall asleep gazing into every night only show empty depth. His words aren’t empty—you trust him in that. But he’s not imploring you to believe him—not begging you to look into his eyes and decide for yourself whether he means what he says. He’s speaking as plainly as possible, his dark irises reflecting that. 

You don’t need to guess what he feels. He’s telling you. 

A rueful smile appears, “At least a house doesn’t know it deserves better. Better than what I gave.” 

He specifically doesn’t say, ‘Better than what I could give,’ because he’s sure now—he could be who he should’ve been from the start. He’s felt the hole you left, tried to fill it with other women. All he’s learned is you were it for him. And he was stupid enough to let you go. No, he didn’t let you go. He made you leave. It was his actions—he knows that now. But he can be the man you need. He’s certain. 

All of a sudden the subject is too heavy for you. His kiss—the quiet affection—messed with your mind. You feel your grasp on certainty slipping. Why did you divorce him? No. You know why…

He’s suffocating you—his charm, his scent, his presence, his hands on your body. The hands you remember like it was yesterday—sliding a ring on, caressing your bump, holding your babies. 

You need to change the subject. Quick. He’s breaking you down, rocking inhibitions like a barge at sea. 

“You need to get rid of that damn key,” you utter, attempting to regain a firmness in your voice—the one he took, along with your breath. 

He accepts your subject change gracefully, a smile spreading across his lips, thumbs smoothing over your hairline. “But what if there’s an emergency,” he goads, eyes alight with twinkling affection. 

“Crashing my date doesn’t count as an emergency,” you chide, looking up at him with an indignant tilt to your head. 

“It does if his name is ‘B–uh–lane.’ Where’d you meet ‘im anyway? Did’ya see his picture on the back of a milk carton?” 

You can’t help but snort at his comment. Blane wouldn’t have been your first choice for a date, but you were desperate for connection. It’s been so long since you were properly wined and dined. You were hoping he’d talk less in bed. 

A blinding grin breaks out across Eddie’s face, he’s always loved making you laugh—it’s his favorite sound in the entire world. Pecking your lips, he pulls back, “I mean seriously, that guy is like those jockstraps we went to high school with! That’s not your type, sweetheart.” 

Fighting the smile off your face, you run your tongue over your teeth behind your lips, “Yeah? And what is my type?” 

He bites his lip, relishing in the banter he’s sorely missed since you kicked him out. This is the lightest you’ve been with him since everything went down. It’s like he and you are in high school all over again—flirting, teasing each other, dancing around big feelings, unsure of your place in the other’s heart. 

“Oh, I don’t know…” he shrugs, playing coy before leaning into your lips again. “Gorgeous…tall…brown button eyes…voluminous curls…father of your children…” He leaves a quick peck on your lips between each attribute he lists, leaving a longer kiss after the last descriptor. 

Shaking your head, you try to disavow him, but the fondness in your eyes betrays you. “That was my old type. I’m not into that anymore.” 

He had hoped you’d say that…

“Really? Because I actually came to return your panties.” He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a ball of black lace, letting it hang from his index finger in front of you. 

The spell is broken, you blanch, snatching the intimate scrap of fabric from his greedy hands—more like sticky fingers, how the hell did he get those? 

“I didn’t leave these with you,” you hiss, stuffing the underwear in the front pocket of your jeans. He’s not allowed to see your intimates anymore—or at least he won’t be once you stop sleeping with him. 

Shrugging, he dismisses your attitude with a passive tilt to his head, “Yeah, well, I got a hankering during work.” 

His shit eating grin makes you scoff. Not only did he use his old house key to break in and ruin your date, but he also snuck in earlier—while you were at work and the boys were at school—just to rifle through your drawers. At least, you hope to god it was your drawers and not your dirty laundry basket.

“You’re a pig.” 

His grin only widens at your derision. Leaning in, he shakes his head as he says, “Oink oink, baby. Whatever you say, now can we please fuck?” 

“No.” You’re not about to enable his behavior by sleeping with him after this shit show of a night. 

Eddie’s eyebrows raise, amused at your attempt to turn him down, “No?”

“Correct. I’m setting a boundary and I’m putting an embargo on my panties.” You reach around his body, plucking the pair he has haphazardly shoved into his back pocket. You’re sure he nicked this pair while he was waiting for you to get home from your date. 

When he realizes what you’re doing—watches as you hold the red lacy fabric he painstakingly picked out—he’s beside himself. “Hey, hey, hey, that’s mine! You can’t have both! I need at least one for later if we’re not gonna fuck.” 

Ignoring his comment, you notice the fabric has a stiffness to it, immediately dropping it, you wipe your hand against your jeans—a useless reaction as the underwear is completely dry. He didn’t get this out of your drawers…

“Oh, you’re disgusting! Seriously deranged.” You cannot believe this is what he’s doing with his old house key. This is a new low, even for him. 

“Oh, like you didn’t take my Dio shirt last time,” He argues, remembering the way you sent him home shirtless—like a real walk of shame. He’d never felt more turned on. The image of you in his shirt—just like old times—became his masturbation material for a whole week after that. 

You guffaw, throwing your head back at the insanity he’s trying to dress up as logic. “That’s a shirt, dumbass! Not underwear!”

He throws his arms up like he’s exasperated by your ‘logic.’ “Fine, you can have my underwear if you want! Here, I’ll give ‘em to you right now!” 

You watch in horror as he starts unbuckling his belt. He gets as far unbuttoning his pants and pulling down his fly before you’re able to stop him. “No, I touch enough male undergarments, thank you,” you sass, holding up a hand to halt his movements. 

All of a sudden, he looks miffed. You don’t know why, but you feel the need to correct yourself. “The boys,” you specify.

His face relaxes, shoulders dropping—you can almost see his hackles go back down. “Oh! Well, they don’t count.” 

With nothing else to say, you shake your head, trying to fend a smile off, “You’re such a perv. Always have been.” 

“You used to love that about me.” He tilts his head, studying you intently. You feel like you’re under a magnifying glass—his gaze is piercing. 

“Yeah, well, I grew up,” you mutter, no longer smiling. 

He closes the space between your bodies, wandering fingers inching their way back around your waist. His head ducks as he catches your eyes, face drifting to yours, “Well, grow back down then.” 

Before you get the chance to respond, his lips are on yours. It feels like all the air in the room has been sucked out to fuel Eddie’s greedy endeavors. His hands slide up each side of your body, leaving you shuddering at the caress he gives the very edge of your breasts. 

Eddie’s the first to pull away, heavy lidded eyes filled with desire watch as your lips fall after his—looking for the lost connection. The ghost of a smile covers his lips at the sight of your trance, your eyes still closed, longing for him to come back. He grants you one more sweet kiss before you open your eyes, chest huffing as you try to slow your heart rate. 

“We can’t keep doing this…”

“Who says?” Every time you’ve claimed an end to this—you and Eddie—it’s been an empty threat. Hollow words from a broken heart. 

“Me.” Looking up at him, you try to sound firm in your decision, but you can’t help the way your chin juts out—head almost leaning in again, desire defying your brain. 

Watching every single minute movement you make, he’s confident in the way this night will go. That famous grin spreads across his face. Cocking his head, unconvinced, he argues, “Well, you’re unreliable. I bet you $100 you’re wet right now.” 

A sigh leaves you swollen lips, your willpower leaving you like rushing water from a broken dam. “Eddie…” It’s one last attempt at trying to abstain—a weak attempt, but an attempt nonetheless.

He licks his lips, letting go of your face to grab your hand and force it into a handshake deal. “Show me or pay up, sweetheart.” 

Another sigh leaves you, trying to fight off a smile at his dirty ploy. “You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugs, smirking, “You married me.”

“And divorced you.”

“Semantics,” he repeats his sentiment from earlier, fingers creeping under the hem of your top.

Shivering at the feeling of his ringed fingers, you try again, “You should leave. I–I’ll make you leave.” 

Another empty threat. 

He pulls off your top, not waiting for any protest as he drags you in for a messy kiss. Undoing your jeans and working them down your legs, he crouches as you put your hands on his shoulders, using his body to steady yourself. He looks up at you while removing your shoes and freeing your feet from the bunched-up pant legs. It looks like you could dive headfirst into the muddy pools of his eyes, swim for miles, and still never reach the bottom. Heat flushes through your body like a fever preparing to put you out for weeks on end. The desire in his twinkling irises has you huffing out desperate breaths.

“And yet…I’m still here,” he murmurs, standing up chest-to-chest with you. 

In a flash, he’s ripped off his own clothes, dragging you to the couch, his naked body covering yours. Puffs of breath rush across your panting lips, he smells like cigarettes and Listerine—an indication that the bastard knew he’d get you one way or another. 

“Tell me this is the last time.” 

“Eddie, please,” you whine, trying to pull his hips to your core, aching to feel the hard weight of his cock against your wet and waiting heat. 

“You wan’ me, sweetheart?” Halting his hips from going any further, he gazes down at your face, screwed up in desperation.

Frustrated at the change of pace—he wanted you so badly earlier and now he’s acting like he’s got all the time in the world—you groan. “Are you gonna fuck me or not, jackass?”

“Are you gonna do what I tell you?”

“Oh please, if this is how you wanna play, I can get off just fine with a vibrator upstairs. I don’t need you,” you grit out, pushing his shoulders, trying to put space between your heated bodies. 

A low chuckle leaves his throat as he lets you push him—only slightly. Taking the space you force, he picks up one hand, reaching for your wet folds. The frustration leaves your voice, face, and body as he runs deft fingers along your slit, gathering slick arousal. A broken moan leaves your lips, the new sensation between your legs has you rolling your hips for more—needing him inside of you now. 

“Baby, you’re so wet you’re gonna short circuit the damn vibrator. You know you need me, so just tell me what I wanna hear.” 

“Fuck you.” He’s toying with you and you hate that he wields any kind of power over you. 

“I’m tryin’ to, honey,” he grins, watching between panting bodies as his fingers lift, a string of cyprine hanging on for dear life. Sucking wet fingers into his mouth, he moans at the taste of you—his favorite flavor. If you’d only have him back, he could be down feasting on your delicious cunt morning, noon, and night. 

Watching his eyes roll back with a slack jaw, tears almost fill your waterline—you need him so fucking bad. It doesn’t matter if it’s his mouth, his cock, or his fingers—you need to feel him.

“This is the last time,” you mutter, saying what he so desperately needs to hear—you don’t know why. Not a particularly fond sentiment—the phrase is something he’s complained about before. 

“Promise?” Placing his hand back down beside your head, his face tilts as he watches you with rapt, hungry attention. 

Your eyebrows furrow, with a shake of your head you indulge him, “Yeah, sure.” 

Air huffs out of his nose in amusement at your willingness to comply after he spent so long breaking you down. Grasping his hard cock, he runs the leaking tip through your swollen folds. A relieved moan leaves you as he notches the head into your hole, lining up for a straight shot into your warmth. 

Sanity crawls back into your mind for a split second causing you to pause his hips. “Wait–Eddie, condom.” 

Pressing lightly inside of you, only centimeters of his tip breaching your hungry walls, he shakes his head at your words. “No. No condom, baby. Wanna feel you.”

Struggling to make your brain think logically, you whine out again. “Eddie, we can’t–if we don’t–”

With the tip safely in your cunt, he reaches his hand back up to you, grasping the side of your face, petting your hair with a soothing thumb. “You gonna stop me, sweetheart? Gonna throw me out?” 

If he hadn’t said the words so softly, desperate panting breath accenting every syllable, you would have thought he was mocking you—teasing you for your earlier threats. A mewl leaves your throat, your hips roll against his cock, aching for more with a mind of their own. You shake your head at his questions—no, you won’t throw him out. You need him too bad and the shithead knows that. 

A mocking grin pulls his lips up, leaning down, he gives you a condescending peck on the nose. “No, you won’t do that, sweetheart. I know you…I love you.”

Closing your eyes, you breathily let out a weak, “S–Stop.” You don’t need to hear that right now, not when you’re still trying to force yourself to reject him and his constant advances. 

You moan as his tip finally pushes all the way in, the thick ledge of sensitive skin hugged by your greedy walls. “I love you,” he repeats, breathing against your open mouth, inching in a little more. “Wanna have another baby with you, mama.”

Your nails claw down his chest as you shake your head, trying to hold in the mewling whine threatening to escape your lips. Your traitorous hips give another desperate roll, wanting him fully inside you despite your mind screaming at you to tell him to go to hell. 

Ravenous, dark eyes take in the continuous shake of your head—the rejection to his admission. It only makes him hungrier. “Wan’ another baby, sweetheart. Wan’ a little girl. She’ll be as pretty as her mama.”

His words bring you back to your body, the feel of his hard, bare cock inches away from full envelopment. “Shut up, Eddie. We can’t have another baby, we’re divorced.”

Never one to follow authority, he only smiles sweetly at your perturbed eyes. “Yeah, for now.” 

“Forever,” you grit out, pinching his nipple in retaliation. That was a mistake because it only makes him grunt and jerk his hips, pushing his cock one bit closer to where you need him. 

Muffling another groan at the feeling of your wet heat, he messily murmurs, “You can’t raise another baby on your own, sweetheart.”

“I’m not having one.”

Ducking down to give you a searing kiss, he meets your blown eyes. “Well, I’m not fucking you if I have to wear a condom,” he argues, a wicked glint to those brown irises. 

“Eddie!” 

“It’s your choice, but I’m setting a boundary, honey,” he mocks your earlier words.

Huffing out a frustrated breath, your pussy is getting wetter by the second and it’s been so long. Doing quick mental math, you don’t think you’re ovulating. His cock is already so warm inside your cunt and it would only take one buck of his hips to sink all the way in—your sanity is slipping away again. If you miraculously conceive, you’ll jump off that bridge when you get to it, you decide. 

“Oh, just fuck me you jackass.”

Victoriously grinning, he gives you another kiss—this time softer. “As the lady wishes.” 

A loud moan emanates from deep within your chest, travelling up your throat and out of panting lips as he fucks all the way in. You’re practically whining as you feel every ridge, every bump, every pulsing vein on his large, thick cock. 

“Eddie, please move, fuck–please!”

Hanging his head over your writhing body, he bites his lip harshly—trying not to blow his load so early. “Shit, honey, you feel s’fucking good, fuck me.”

“Eddie,” you whine, repeating yourself like a broken record, “Please, I need you to fuck me–just move!” 

Pulling out shakily, he thrusts in with another loud groan wracking his body, weakening his ability to hold himself up. Dropping his weight onto you, he spreads his knees as much as he can on the couch, hooking his arms under yours and grasping your shoulders. He begins a messy pace, pulling your body to his grinding hips, cock tunneling into your tight hole with jerking thrusts. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, wan’ you to have my baby again. Pretty mama wanna have daddy’s baby, huh?” He mumbles the words through bared teeth and sharp breaths, pistoning his hips into you. He’s revelling in your surrender to the odds.

His vigorous movements, the desperate grip pulling your limp body to meet each thrust has you huffing out whines in time with the jarring intrusion of his cock. “Said it’s the last time, now she’s gonna have my baby. Gonna fuck you so full, sweetheart. Y’gonna look so sexy carrying my baby again.” He’s babbling out incoherent thoughts—wishes and desires to see you pregnant and his again. 

Every groan and grunt from him pushes you closer to the edge. In a moment of such intense pleasure, you find yourself believing his words—getting off on his desires. “Eddie, please, wan–” But you can’t bring yourself to admit it.

And he knows. 

“I know, I know, sweetheart. You wanna have my baby, I know you fuckin’ do. Wan’ daddy’s cum in this pretty little pussy? Shit–you gonna cook me up a baby in that tummy o’ yours, pretty mama?” Reaching between sweaty bodies, he presses a hand down on your lower stomach, reveling in the way he can feel the thick tip of his cock hitting his rough palm from inside you. The pressure has you near screaming, he dips his head to give an adoring bite to your neck—a soft acknowledgement of the pleasure he’s providing you. “Y’gonna gimme my little girl, honey?” 

If you weren’t on cloud ten thousand right now, you’d hate the mental position you’re in. The only logical one out of the two of you, you’re thinking another baby is the last thing this fraught relationship needs. But he feels so good inside you, so you can only moan out, desperately nodding. “Y–Yeah, please–please gimme your cum–need it so fucking bad!” 

His large palm rushes down the rest of the way, your stomach clenches as you feel his fingers rubbing haphazard circles around your clit. “Oh fuck–fuck, fuck fuck me–god, unh!” 

Eddie feels the vice grip your cunt has around his cock and it has his balls pulling taut to his body. Hunching over you and mixing panting breaths, he prattles into your mouth. “Fuck, sweetheart. Wan’ another baby with you, shit. I love you, fuck, I love you–love you.” 

The affectionate promise is the only thing he can manage to say as he shakily orgasms, his spend spurting messily onto velvety walls as you squeeze every last drop from him. 

Breathing like he just ran a marathon, he drops his head into your neck, adorning the sweaty skin with soft, open-mouthed kisses. Your heart and mind are at war as you thread your hands through his wet curls. The oxytocin conjures up pretty dreams of reconciliation, new beginnings, addicting baby smell, and a happy family. The hormone doesn’t need to create a picture of a loving husband—that’s already laying in your arms right now, shivering from the aftershocks of the biggest orgasm he’s had in a while. 

“I love you, sweetheart,” he mumbles into your neck. Your heart drops. You thought you’d be able to chalk it up to the heat of the moment—that he wasn’t truly telling you so plainly that his feelings never changed. 

Syncopated heartbeats and calming breaths are the only sounds in the quiet room before he speaks again, nuzzling his nose against your throat. “Wanna be good for you. Let me come home. Let me take care of you, let me be with you and the boys again.”

Tears flood wide eyes as you stare up at the ceiling, struggling to feel normal from his dangerous words and your shallow breaths. He’s saying exactly what you wished you could hear for three years straight—leading up to the divorce and after. The melancholy soaked pleas are different from his usual song and dance. For one, he’s saying all of this after he got his fill of you. 

Feeling the weight of him lift off your chest, you slowly tilt your chin down, meeting his big, wet eyes as they reminisce on the contours of your face—noting every change he’s so sorely missed in his absence. Licking your dry lips, you don’t mean to draw his yearning gaze to your mouth—it only seems to make him more desperate. 

“I wasn’t the man you needed, but I wanna be now–I can be–I–I am,” he struggles to correct himself, those words feel like the most important sounds he ever has and will utter in his entire life. 

Everything is too much—his pleas, his honesty, those eyes, the weight of his softening cock still inside you, his seed just waiting to ooze out at the first sign of the blockade’s retreat. You can’t do this, not now. Avoiding his attention, your eyes dart to the side. “Eddie–”

The tone of your voice—fretful and solemn—tells him exactly where your mind is going. You’re going to push him away again. But he doesn’t want to spend another minute without you if he can help it. Always being held at arm's length by the woman he loves is changing him fundamentally. He can’t do it anymore. His twin sized mattress is too cold, his apartment too empty. 

Panic displayed clearly in muddy irises, he hurries a rough hand to your cheek, guiding you back to him—as if one look from you will grant every last wish his heart desires. “No, please–I–” 

A frustrated sigh leaves his lips, you feel the soft wind of it across your face. Words are failing him when he needs them most—he knows actions would be a better show of commitment, but he’s never been good at behaving when it comes to you. You just do something to him. It’s like there’s an inherent weakness sewed into his chemical makeup that makes you the kryptonite to his Man of Steel. You make every neuron in his brain fire, awakening facets of his mind that have laid dormant his whole life. 

Actions are better, but words are all he has in this moment and he can’t afford to squander it. 

Making sure to hold your attention, he throws caution to the wind. “Sweetheart, when I look at you, I don’t see my ex-wife or a co-parent. I see the girl I met at eleven in the trailer park—the one who told me to get bent for flipping her skirt up,” he lets out a rueful laugh, forever embarrassed at that being your first impression of him, but never regretting what a beautiful mess it turned into. 

The memory draws a wet chuckle from your throat before you have a chance to catch it. Your brows pull tight over sad, wet eyes as you think of that day—how your young heart never stood a chance when the pretty older boy showed you such attention.

Allowing himself to hope at the sound of your laugh, he continues with a small smile. “I see my first love—the girl I dreamed about every night for nine years until I finally figured out you’re not supposed to think about friends that way.” Another wry chuckle, followed by a mumbled confession—the adolescent misunderstanding of relationships: “I just thought every guy pictured forever with their girl friends—white picket fences and little babies.”

A warm tear glides down soft skin, heading for your hairline across your temple, but Eddie intercepts it—rubbing it away. “I’ve been dreaming of you longer than I’ve been alive, honey. I can’t–I wanna be with you. I’m supposed to be with you. If it takes another nine years for you to feel the same, I’ll be here. I’ll be yours and nine years older. But I’ll be yours.” 

Trying to stop your face from crumpling into overwhelmed sobs, you let out a stuttering breath. “Eddie, you hurt me–”

“I know,” he fervently assures, wiping away more tears, his naked body feeling restless with desperation. 

“I deserved better.”

“You did,” he affirms, confident in his fuck ups and your innocence in the ordeal. 

Unable to think of what else to say—no argument to be had from his end—you let out a deep sigh. This is more than one person should have to deal with. There’s been so many emotions whirling around your heart tonight, enough to make you dizzy and sick to your stomach. 

You’ve had dreams of scenarios exactly like this—Eddie comes crawling back, admitting every wrong, assuring you he’ll be a better man. But he was supposed to be a good man from the start. You shouldn’t have to give second chances to a man you legally wed—a man you’ve known since you were nine years old.

Second chances. Is it insanity? Allowing him in again, risking the same result. Deep in your heart, you can tell he’d never do you wrong again. But so much fear covers that truth. He’s left you with enough baggage to start a bellhop service, carrying every trauma to its designated hideaway, where it can quietly corrode your mind and heart.

He acts like he knows what his actions did, but can he still see the ripples his pebble made on smooth, unsuspecting waters? It will never be as easy as it once was—he must know that. 

“You can’t just–be with me, again,” you shake your head at him, imploring him to understand. 

Wet eyes dart between yours—a nervous twitch in his eyelid, a stuttering nod. He accepts your response. He made his grand argument, and you’ve declined. That’s that. Trying desperately to hide the deflation of his heart—the fire charring his hope like a prescribed burn on old, spent crops—he resigns himself to his place in your life: an ex, a co-parent, an old friend, a bad memory.

Pulling out and off of you, he sits up, prepared to gather his belongings before you can see him cry. How pitiful to cry now after everything he’s done to you—you shouldn’t have to see that. 

Shivering from the loss of his body heat and the weight of him inside of you, you watch with worried eyes as he quietly sniffles, pulling one of the legs of his jeans outside in. “It won’t be that easy.” 

Your words halt his movements, the insinuation sending his heart plummeting to his stomach. It won’t be that easy. But will it be something? Slowly, he turns his head back to look at you, afraid that one wrong move might make you change your mind.

Pulling your knees to your chest, you cross your arms as a barrier, hiding your naked body. Ignoring the way your movements cause his cum to leak out of you with gravity on its side, you squint at the tears in his waterline. Battling the small quirk of your lips, you try to stay resolute despite the contentment of giving a sad man hope. 

“I’m not that easy.” 

If he wasn’t so convinced you’re working him up just to let him down—which he’d deserve—he’d think you’re teasing him like you used to. 

“No, you’re not,” he agrees seriously, needing to hear more. 

“And you have years of making up to do…”

His mouth parts slightly in awe as he cocks his head, questioning whether he heard you correctly. After what feels like forever studying your face, the hint of light in your eyes fills his body with optimism—like an injection of sunshine straight into his veins. Letting himself hope again, he turns fully toward you. His shining eyes regard you like an idol, and he is your lowly devotee.

“Already got your name written all over the next nine years of my datebook," he says with a slow grin, feeling light as a feather—more alive than he has in ages—all because you're looking at him with those pretty eyes of yours.

“And probably months of groveling before you can even think about coming home,” you argue, scrutinizing his elated face. It’s getting harder and harder not to match his smile.

Nodding, Eddie takes your proposed penance in stride. “That’s doable.” He hesitates, curious to know how long his punishment will last before he can hold you at night again. “How many months?”

Pressing your lips together to stop the smile threatening to break free, you narrow your eyes at him. “Five.” 

“Three,” he negotiates, trying to melt your icy barriers with his best puppy dog eyes. 

“Don’t push your luck. Four.”

Accepting your counter offer, he nods. “I can do four. Do I get to see you?” 

He already legally gets the boys every other weekend, but unfortunately, divorce court doesn’t rule on ex-wife visitations, so he’s had to resort to holding the children captive just to see your angelic face—anger aside. 

Ignoring the flutter of your heart, you suck your teeth, cocking your head to the side. “How else are you gonna beg for my forgiveness? Over the phone? That’s not nearly as enjoyable.” 

Huffing out a laugh, his dazzling grin tempers as he broaches more sensitive subject matter. Gesturing between your still nude bodies, he nervously mutters, “And, what about…this?”

Understanding he’s referencing the tempestuous ongoing affair neither of you have the willpower to end, you smirk, not letting the mood dip again. “Well, I expect to be fully wined and dined now.” 

Thankful you’re not blocking him from all acts of intimacy during his atonement, Eddie chuckles. “Sweetheart, if you wanted to date me, you could’ve kicked the jockstrap to the curb and called me up.”

Now is not the time for his cocky attitude or for him to feel smug about crashing your date. “You are on the thinnest of ice,” you warn. 

Raising his hands in surrender, he bites his lip to temper his grin. “Yes, ma’am.” 

Feeling the way his cum is pooling under your ass on the couch—a mess you'll be scrubbing off the leather later—you consider him for a quiet moment. 

Relishing your attention on him, Eddie readjusts his body to sit on the other end of the couch, mirroring your position. He waits for what you have to say, knowing your thinking face when he sees it—it’s the same one you’ve had since he met you. 

“Do you really want another baby?” 

The question catches him off guard, he didn’t think you’d bring that up. He knew the odds that you’d ever agree to have another baby—let alone take him back—were slim, but he brought it up nonetheless. Although, he was feeling far more brazen with his desires while he was inside of you. 

Trying not to ogle at the trail of his seed leaving your hole—the view clear between your ankles from planted feet and pulled up knees—he nods. “Do you really not?” 

Scoffing, you rest your cheek against your palm. “Well, up until two hours ago, I thought divorce was forever and that I was done having kids. Didn’t really want anybody else fathering my children,” you mutter out the last part, the words feeling far too intimate of an admission. 

Eddie’s heart jumps at the sentiment. He’s glad you didn’t let another man give you kids, but what makes his pulse race is your lack of a rejection. You didn’t say no to another kid. He won’t push the matter, though. He’s flying by the seat of his pants with you right now, he can’t risk upsetting the pleasant equilibrium he did nothing to earn. 

Catching sight of the time on the microwave in the kitchen behind you, he realizes how late it is—how greedy he’s been with your indulgences. If he’s going to get back in your good graces, he needs to be on his best behavior and give you space when you deserve it. 

Sucking in a deep breath, he lightly smacks his knees, moving to put his underwear back on. “I should probably go. It’s pretty late and you’ve gotta get the boys in the morning.” 

Pensive expression dropping at his sudden need to escape, you sit up, grabbing the Metallica shirt he was wearing earlier and pulling it over your head—swiping it right from in front of his reaching hands. He watches your movements with barely contained fondness, happy to drive home shirtless if it means you’re sleeping in his scent again. 

“You can stay…if you want.”

Your quiet words bring shock to his features—he really doesn’t think he did anything to deserve the concessions you’ve made tonight, but he selfishly won’t turn you down. As he’s about to accept, you quickly amend your offer.

“On the couch…” you specify, “And we can pick up the boys together in the morning…”

Letting a hopeful smile light up his face once more, he gives a small nod. “Okay.” 

Eddie’s pretty sure no man on earth has ever felt as happy as he does in this moment—just watching the way you hesitantly eye him while gathering up strewn-about clothes. He feels like he’s walking on sunshine when you make up the couch for him, even giving him blankets, a pillow, and everything. You want him here. You want to pick up the boys together. As a family.

He has never felt so invigorated. It’s that night, lying on his old couch, staring at the ceiling of the first home you and he bought together, that he makes a vow. He will be the man you deserve for the next nine years—and every set of nine after that. He’ll be yours, always. And soon, you’ll be his again.

A/N: Like, reblog, and comment if you enjoyed it! I'd love to hear what y'all think about this! I really like it and it's definitely gonna be a work I re-read lol.

Also, please tell me y’all got my reasoning for the quotes at the beginning. I can’t stop thinking about it, so if you didn’t, lemme explain teehee. Crashing her dates is the planned fire, the men are the invasive species/competition, and he’s fire-adapted and native to her lands—he’s known her for most of his life, her anger and desire to push him away doesn’t faze him. He will grow on her again and they’ll be stronger than ever.

Tags: @defututus @ratsematary @american-idiot-jpg @glassbxttless @justalotoffanfiction @savybabyyy @thepinkpanther83 @sorayasworld @slaytheusurper @dangerousnbeautiful @hellmastereddie @ali-r3n @lilithera0 @tlclick73 @joonbread @jesterghuleh @bellalillyrose @bigboymoozz @am0iur @pastelpoppies @lionkingshiddenmessage

[batkin028]

🖤🖤

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending

Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

[batkin028]

🖤🖤

[ghost-proofbaby]

I love the idea of Eddie having an especially grueling day at work his friend (they have mutual feelings but nothing has been said) offers to give him a massage. Eddie is genuinely grateful but also vv flustered by the end!!

listen. LISTEN. i know this got out of hand. i know i said these were going to stay short n sweet. i know what i said and promised. but. listen. you can't hand me a prompt that is just so delicious, with so much potential to sprinkle in a light dusting of angst, and to give me the chance to garnish with a beautiful open ending full of promise, and not expect a monster of a product to come from it. you just can't. i'm sorry. i hope you enjoy this, regardless. even if it's not quite bite-sized.

warnings: seemingly unrequited love that turns into clearly idiots in love. eddie gets shirtless. that's all.

wc: 4.4k+ yikes

It had started off as an innocent, well-intentioned offer. You swear it did. 

When Eddie had called you right after pulling a double at the garage, begging to come over and simply relax at your apartment, you’d set up to allow him to do just that. You’d cleaned up a little bit, lit a candle that normally gave you a headache if it burned too long but that Eddie loved, prepped a selection of movies for him to choose from, pulled out the menu for your favorite take-out – you’d gone the whole nine yards for your best friend. 

Someone might even point out it wasn’t just best friend behavior at this point. Steve and Robin alike had certainly called out your behavior at times, coining it as “girlfriend behavior on a best friend salary”.

You didn’t care. You were well aware of what you were doing, and you didn’t care. 

You’d spend the rest of your life on the best friend salary, as the two dinguses had so lovingly called it, for the look of sheer peace on Eddie’s face right now. 

He’s leaning back on the opposite end of your couch from you, knees spread and chin facing the ceiling as he sighs in bliss. Take-out containers are scattered about the coffee table, and his movie of choice of Return of the Jedi is about halfway over on your TV. 

You both had already chosen a second movie – The Lost Boys. The plans for the night were set in stone.

You tuck both knees up beneath your chin, side-glancing your best friend for a second and ignoring the flutter of your chest as you watch him sink deeper into the cushions, “We can talk about it, y’know.” 

“Hm?” 

“Your day,” you adjust a bit, turning your body to face him fully, “If you wanna talk about it, I’m all ears. We’ve already seen enough Jabba the Hutt to last a lifetime.”

That earns a smile from him, slowly crackling over his cheeks as he rolls his head towards you, “I dunno. Is there such thing as enough Jabba the Hutt?” 

You toss a piece of your sour watermelon candy at him, and despite it landing on his shirt, he still grabs it to pop it into his mouth. 

You try not to think too hard about how that shirt had been sitting in your drawers, clean and neatly folded, occupying space as if that might be normal. As if everyone has some of their best friend’s clothes at their apartment that they can change into after a long day at work. 

As if everyone has occasionally used said shirt as pajamas on nights they particularly miss the scent of their best friend’s cologne.

“Shut up,” you finally snicker, dropping your knees from your chin, sitting criss-cross now, “We don’t have to talk about your day if you don’t feel like it. By all means, if you wanna keep drooling over an alien slug, be my guest-”

At your teasing, Eddie moves quickly to grab one of your ankles, pulling your feet towards his lap before you can register what he’s doing. You gasp a little, and it’s definitely not because of the feeling of his warm palms wrapped around your bare skin. Totally not at the rush of warmth that travels up your body, head to toe, when you feel his rings pressing into you so eagerly. 

Absolutely not. You gasp, because anybody would gasp in this scenario. Because you’re just best friends. And best friends do stuff like that. 

“I am not drooling over a slug,” he chastises, grinning recklessly as he wiggles his fingers menacingly, mere inches from the bottom of your foot, “Take it back, or pay the price, baby.” 

Has he ever called you baby before? 

Certainly not, if your roaring heart has anything to say about it. 

“Don’t you dare,” you squeal – genuinely squeal – as you try and tug your legs out of his grasp. It’s a useless effort; he’s too strong, even after his long day, and your body isn’t even sure if it approves of taking his hands off of you. “Edward Munson, I swear to God-” 

It’s a mess of flailing limbs, painful laughter, and high-pitched screams from there. Squeaks from your own mouth, and a few from Eddie, mocking you all in good fun as he continues to persist for you to take it back. For just a moment, it feels like this is the normal – you’re living in a space where Eddie comes home from every day, grueling or effortless, to you. Where the two of you always end up on the couch together, bodies touching in any way they can. Where there’s always background noise on the TV as his focus is solely on you, smiling foolishly at his antics that were really just a simple effort to hear your laughter. Where your laughter is the only thing he really wants to hear at the end of the night, and it’s the greatest thing he’s ever heard. 

A world where he tells you as much. 

A world where after this, he’s reaching the knob of your shared bedroom door rather than the front door of your lonesome apartment. 

A world where you aren’t existing on a best friend salary.

“Had enough yet, sweetheart?” he quips, just as breathless as you are from the struggle. This time, the nickname he uses is normal. It took you off guard during the first few months of friendship, but now? Your weary heart could handle it, cherish it even, and not let your stupid little crush get in the way of appreciating it. “All you have to say are the magic words.” 

“Are the magic words, you’re a dickhead?”

“Hm,” he pretends to ponder thoughtfully for just a second before shaking his hand, “‘Fraid not. Try again?” 

Instead of verbally replying, you give him a gentle kick in the stomach. Not the magic words he had in mind, but they sure do the trick. 

He lets out a soft oomph, one arm cradling his midsection as though you actually hurt him. You take it as your cue to remove your legs – his dramatics quickly come to a halt to prevent just that.

It’s probably meant to be subtle, the way both his arms fall down over your calves and keep your feet in his lap, but it has the capability to implode your entire world. 

“I can’t believe you’re being mean to me after the day I’ve had,” he whines, and all you can focus on is the way his thumb is rhythmically stroking the ball of your ankle now, “Me, your best friend, has had the most awful day and you-”

“Now you wanna talk about it?” you laugh a little, rolling your eyes at him.

“Absolutely.” 

“After you’ve just tortured me?” 

“Well, yeah. When else would I talk about it?” 

“I’m rescinding my offer to listen,” you continue to joke, making one more good faith offer to slip your legs from his lap. And, once more, he won’t allow it. 

He whines out a long, drawn out no, starting to lay his entire body across your legs this time. More direct, more to the point. Subtleties have been forgotten, you suppose. 

You don’t know if it’s more for you, or for him. You just know you like it. You like existing within a sneak preview of a girlfriend salary.

“You never answered me, drama queen,” you murmur as the joking lean across your legs becomes a bit more heavy, and Eddie is more genuinely collapsing his figure into your lap. He doesn’t even have to ask, or gesture – your fingers find home within his hair, and you can feel his hum of content against your thigh as you scratch along his scalp, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

All joking pretenses slip away from him as he mumbles out a muffled, “Not really.”

And you can work with that. You swear, you can. 

If you’d been so ready to lend a listening ear, then you can offer him this peace and quiet. A simple head massage as he leans into you, cheeks pressed to the top of your thigh as you think he returns to watching Return of the Jedi. 

His eyes might be closed, if his heavy breaths are anything to go off of. You’re just not sure. 

You just keep up your massage, sluggish strokes, clement scratches, deep breaths to match his own- 

And then, an idea hits you.

“Eds,” you whisper, your hand in his hair traveling to his shoulders, shaking him a bit, “Eddie.”

Only a grunt in response.

“Eddie, seriously, get up,” you stress, overeager, “I have an idea.”

“The apartment better be on fire,” he grumbles as he finally raises his head, face imprinted with the lines of your shorts in rolling hills of soft indents. 

Definitely was sleeping. Definitely wasn’t watching Star Wars. 

But even with his shoulders wrapped with dreary slumber, you’re still excited about your idea, motioning him to sit up fully. You let him take his time, of course, only after he swats your hands away sluggishly a few times. 

Once his back is straight, you lift one finger in the air, and draw a circle – motioning for him to turn his back to you without saying a word. 

His eyes narrow to slits at you, “Are you about to pull a prank on me? Because-”

“I’m not,” you assure him, reaching for his shoulders, nearly turning him yourself, “Scout’s honor.” 

He listens to you. Despite it all, despite his seeming mistrust, he turns his back to you. More specifically, he turns his shoulders to you. 

He’s still mumbling on about how you better not make his day worse, getting a little bit snappier when you gather his hair up to lay out of your way and claiming his scalp was extra sensitive today.

You pay his attitude no mind. He’s just grumpy. It doesn’t particularly phase you after years of close friendship.

“Listen, I know you like braiding my hair, but-” he continues with his protests as you grin behind him, shaking your head as you settle yourself closer to him. Knees bumping his hips, back straight for the time being. “I’d rather just nap right now. And I was really comfy, and really getting my rocks off to that damn alien slug-” 

All his words cut off when you finally put your plan into action. Your palms fall atop his shoulders, fingers curling around the tense skin, and he’s melting before you’ve even begun. 

“I- Oh,” he jumps a little at the first squeeze, but quickly returns to being pliant in your hold, “Oh… That’s…. That’s nice.” 

You continue your massage, gently squeezing, thumbs and fingers digging into any knots you find to work them away as you jeer, “Is it now?”

He nods, the smallest of movements as to not interrupt your work, “It is. ‘S real nice.” 

His head rolls with each pinch of your fingers, posture loosening as he leans back into your touch further. 

You take it a step further, biting back nerves when you slip your hands beneath the collar of his old t-shirt. You feel the shiver begin before it races down his spine at the press of your skin directly on his now. 

Your warm hands work dutifully, determined to bring as much relaxation to your best friend as possible. Definitely not enjoying yourself a bit too much at his smooth skin under your palms. Definitely not enjoying yourself just as much as he is. Certainly not. 

The shirt constricts you, though. Prevents your hands from traveling fully over sore spots you can feel the edges of. Catching your wrists, limiting the full potential of your movements. 

You’re glad he can’t see you as you suddenly request, “Take your shirt off.” 

“Hm?” he can’t form a proper word at first, not startled but simply sunken too deep in his relaxation, “What was that?” 

“I need your shirt off, Munson.” 

You try to sound brave, nonchalant, as you repeat yourself. You don’t want him to hear the fluttering of your heart – you don’t want him to hear the shake of your hands as you remove them from him.

You only want him to hear the totally reasonable request from a friend, who is simply trying to offer the best massage possible to their best friend who’s had a bad day. 

“Oh?” he looks over his shoulder, and you can see the edges of his raised brows through messy bangs, “Damn, sweetheart. If you wanted me naked, you just had to ask.” 

Can ribs break from a heart beating too fast? Is that even possible? 

“I did ask,” your voice is flat as a trade off to avoid any quivering to filtrate it, lips pressing tightly together as you swallow your heart, “So get to it.”

He leans forward, putting a bit of distance between you two before he reaches back to grab the center of his shirt. The fabric comes off with a flourish, and all you’re left face to face with is the bare expanse of his back.

You silently beg him not to look back over his shoulder, if only for just a second. 

You’ve seen Eddie shirtless plenty of times. At pool parties with the entire group, on rare lake days that always ended sun drunk and giddy, that one time he’d answered his door right after a quick shower and you’d seen a lot more than you’d bargained for. He was your friend. After a while, it would have been weirder to not have seen Eddie shirtless at least once. 

Something about this time feels different. 

He has freckles – not nearly as much as Steve or Robin, but they still exist. Small markings across skin glowing warmly in the dim light of your living room lamp, spattered without rhyme or reason. One on the back of his left shoulder, another slightly off-centered at the base of his neck. He has a light scar towards the bottom of his right shoulder blade – a memory from his childhood he told you once when you’d first seen it at the lake. Everyone else was out splashing about the ten-degrees-too-cool water, and he’d joined your side on the shore. Laid on his stomach as you laid on your back, offering you conversation in the form of stories about every blemish across his skin. The intentional tattoos, the unintentional scars. Everything. 

Even that day doesn’t quite compare to the intimacy of him being here now, being shirtless in your apartment, just the two of you. 

Maybe there was something extra in your coffee this morning, making you feel so delusional. 

“I don’t have any lotion or oils,” you finally clear your throat, trying to joke about as the two of you had been before, “But that doesn’t matter. You ready for the best damn massage of your life, Munson?” 

“Yes, please,” he groans, and something deep in your stomach clenches at the sound, “Want me to lay down or something?” 

Your brain short-circuits for a second, because you know where that leads. 

If he lays down, there’s only one way to continue to comfortably give him the massage. If he lays down, you’re about to bite off more than you could chew on a best friend salary. 

“Sure,” you choke out, damning yourself in the process. 

It’s all robotic mechanics as you two shift to assume the position; you stand up, and he sprawls out. And you swear, in the process, you catch a smothering of pink slow creeping across his chest and neck. 

“Can I…” you start to question, finally growing a bit shy as you stare down at the dip of his lower back. Two dimples on either side of his spine, looking so inviting and yet daunting. 

He finishes the sentence for you, saving you the embarrassment, “Sit on me? Yeah, go for it, babe.” 

There it is again. An unfamiliar nickname that falls so effortlessly off the lips for him. Another pet name to send you into a tailspin as your breath catches and your heart races, as though needing to catch up after the fleeting endearment.

“Thanks,” you whisper out. 

You’re starting to regret all your choices, but it’s too late to back down now. You just want to help him relax – that’s all this is. 

Stop making this more than it is. 

You’re exceptionally careful as you crawl over Eddie, placing a knee on either side of him, hovering for just a second as you take deep breaths to hype yourself up to do the inevitable. 

He twists a bit, startling you enough for you to balance yourself with a palm on each shoulder blade, “C’mon now, you’re not going to crush me. You should know this by now,” his eyes glitter, and you know he’s referring to that time you two made a bet he couldn’t carry you bridal style while drunk. He could, “Sit your pretty ass down and get to work, Masseuse.” 

You weren’t imagining the pink across his chest and neck. It’s climbed up now, tendrils tickling his cheeks. The bridge of his nose nearly looks sunburnt from this angle. 

It’s a good look on him. 

“Masseuse?” you snort as you shove him to be fully laying down once more, needing to get his eyes off of you for just a second, “That’s an awfully big word. You been reading without me or something? Becoming a secret genius?” 

Fall back into the normal flow of things. Try not to think about the heat of him between your legs as you sit half your weight down. 

“That is not a big word,” he chides. 

“Spell it, then.” 

“I-” he cuts off as your hands smooth back over his skin, no more restrictions. 

He never finishes his sentence, never complies with your request. All that falls from his lips are soft sighs as you begin the massage again. 

There’s an occasional twitch below his muscles as you knead away, slowly but surely becoming more comfortable with it all. Becoming more mesmerized as you can now see his skin moving with you, occasionally letting up when you skirt past freckles and scars alike, fingertips merely tracing them as he shivers under your delicate touch. 

You do exactly as you set out to do – you relax him. And then some.

You’ve never really gotten into the art of massages, something about it always feeling a bit too intimate. You’d never consider yourself a professional at it by any means – if anything, you’ve been on the receiving end rather than the giving end more often than not. And even those occurrences were rare. 

But when it came to Eddie, it seemingly came naturally. 

Not all of your movements are conventional. You pass back and forth between the usual squeezes of skin you’ve witnessed on TV and from others, and gentle tracing of your fingertips. Drawing shapes, painting pictures that vanish without ever having existed in the first place. Words, sentences, secret messages for just you two. 

When you trace out the endearment of idiot, Eddie seems to catch on, lazy grin peeking up past his curtain of hair covering the cheek almost facing you. 

In another place, where you make that coveted girlfriend salary, you’d trace out three little words on the tip of your tongue. 

You almost do it, too. It’s when you trace out idiot, in fact. You start, entirely subconsciously, with the i. A long pause, a space between words. 

And then you trace an l. One long line down the center of his spine. 

Your finger is already rotating for the o, ready to trace it in the center as the other two letters had been, a signalling it wasn’t a part of that last simple line. 

And then you divert. And you rush to finish out with the i, the o, the t. He laughs a little, the rush of air felt below you as he lets it out soundlessly, and you catch sight of his smile.

A seeming endearment to Eddie, a hidden scolding for yourself. 

Maybe one day you can find the nerve to properly trace it out – or better yet, say it. Speak your truth outloud and handle whatever consequences come from it. Because you do – you really, really do mean it – and those feelings for Eddie can’t seem to change. Something carved into your very soul, unchanging as the years pass. If anything, the carving only digs deeper into you with each month you spend with him. 

One day. But not today, not when Eddie’s had a bad day. It should be a good day when you say it, lessening the blow of rejection, hopefully. 

You almost lose your balance a few times. Each time having to adjust your position of sitting on him, shifting his hips right along with yours. And each time, you notice the catch in his sighs. The way they almost transform into moans, tense noises that seemingly tear from his throat, only dampened by poor attempts to conceal them. Even the back of his neck has grown flushed now, the tips of his ears vibrant when you see them poke through his hair. 

Sometimes, you lose your balance from his shifting, even. 

The air is sticky with tension as you finally finish up. It could have been ten minutes, it could have been an hour – you weren’t keeping score, more focused on continuing on until Eddie’s entire body has gone boneless beneath you. 

Pretty, and pink, and pliant. Entirely slackened beneath your touches. 

It takes more to encourage yourself to climb off of him than it did to climb on originally. Your body protests entirely, knees not caring for the ache forming, inner thighs happy to be bracketing his hips. But you do it. Because you’re just a friend, a best friend, helping your friend relax. 

You stand, towering over him, looking down to find him hiding his face just a bit. “Well?” 

“Well, what?” his voice is entirely muffled by his mouthful of couch cushion, and you furrow your brows. 

“How was it?” 

He lifts his face strategically. He probably hopes you don’t notice, but you do, “Oh! Oh, it was, uh- It was fucking great, sweetheart. I… I swear, your hands are fucking magic.” 

Why is he tripping over his words like that? 

He can’t even look you in the eyes, line of sight darting anywhere but you.

Why is he flushed, head to toe? 

“Yeah?” you cross your arms, and subtly lean to block the TV now displaying credits that Eddie found terribly interesting, “Would you consider it the best massage you’ve ever had?” 

He nods, and you catch the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows before squeaking out, “Oh, yeah! The absolute best I’ve ever had,” his eyes widen at his words, as if he’s made a terrible choice that you’re unaware of, “I mean, you know, I just- you should really consider becoming an actual masseuse.”

That’s when it hits you; Eddie is absolutely refusing to sit up. To remove his hips from your couch. 

He’s blushing, and he’s stuttering, and he’s definitely hiding something. 

There’s a twist in your gut that you can’t reveal. A satisfaction you know better than to celebrate right now. 

Instead, you decide to play with him just a little bit more. 

“Good,” you nod, stepping towards the end of the couch you’d originally occupied. Where Eddie’s knees are stiff against. “Maybe I will consider a career change. But for now – move, Munson. I’m just exhausted.” 

“What?” he looks at you, frightened, only moving his neck to keep his hips flush and hidden away. 

“Get your legs out of my seat,” you laugh a little, leveling him with a daring stare. 

You know what he’s hiding. You’re a bit proud of it, too. 

“Oh, yeah,” he says slowly, and you can see him going over his options in his head. A million excuses he’s probably conjuring, a hundred different escape plans he’s grasping at. “Yeah, of course.” 

And, just as you’d suspected, he doesn’t go with a single one to save his dignity. 

He moves quickly. Tucking his legs up and twisting himself into an upright position in the blink of an eye, and immediately grabbing one of your throw pillows that two of you had tossed off into the floor amidst the original movie night plans. 

He’s fast, you’ll give him that. But not fast enough for you to not catch sight of the tent in his pants. 

You don’t let your eyes linger too long. Swallow down any drooling threatening to begin. Tamper down any desire flaring in your chest and between your hips. 

Best friend salary, you remind yourself even as you grin a tad bit too salaciously for your current cover. Best friend salary, not girlfriend salary. 

You plop down on the seat still warm from Eddie’s legs, sinking back in self-satisfaction. Maybe you had been wrong. Maybe it doesn’t have to be another time, or place, or Universe to get what you want. Maybe all your delusion, that wild imagination of yours, wasn’t so misplaced after all. 

Best friend salary, your mind whispers. For now.

Eddie makes himself comfortable right along with you, still seeming in a much better condition than when he’d first arrived, even if his cheeks had bloomed into a rose garden. He presses that throw pillow of yours protectively over his crotch, and once more focuses on the screen in front of you two. 

“Say, Eddie,” you drawl, almost radiant with your grin. A fire now lit inside both of you. “Think you could be a doll and pop in the next movie for me?” 

It’s a little evil, you’ll admit. But he kind of deserves it for underpaying you over the years, when it’s so clear you’re due for a promotion. Sometime soon, you hope. 

Both your heads turn to each other at the same time, wildly different speeds. Eddie’s neck snaps in disbelief, while you take your time to make eye contact.

All it takes is one knowing look exchanged, and the illusion fumbles on its stilts. 

“I…” his embarrassment, all that flush, slowly morphs as he catches the truth behind your intentions. The hand pressing down on the throw pillow alleviates just a bit, stiff shoulders relaxing as they should have been after your massage as he reflects back just as evil of a glint in his eyes as you had, “Sure thing, baby.”

It’s probably going to be a long night. Surely, the promotion of best friend to girlfriend is going to involve some paperwork. Or an interview, to prove your capability and experience first hand, of course.

But, well, he never did put his shirt back on, did he?

[batkin028]

🖤🖤

[ghost-proofbaby]

FLASHES OF THE BATTLE COME BACK TO ME IN A BLUR. ALL THAT BLOODSHED, CRIMSON CLOVER - SWEET DREAM WAS OVER. MY HAND WAS THE ONE YOU REACHED FOR.

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

☆ warnings: no use of y/n, strong language, angst, i cannot emphasize the angst warning enough - it's a sad one for our boy, sugar is spoken of inappropriately by roadies with sexual undertones, mentions of drug use beyond just weed (specifically sleeping pills as well as allusion to heavier drugs being acquired), minors dni

☆ WC: 6.7K+

☆ AN: i'm not even sorry at this point. let's get into it, shall we? or should i say - let's fight.

thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for the divider!

masterlist

“Alright. Let’s fight.”

There was a certain point in Eddie Munson’s life, approximately one year ago, in which he had come to the acceptance that sometimes harsh words exchanged were better than silence. 

It had taken a lot out of him, that night – another drink tossed down his throat, another hit from his sour joint, another sigh passing his lips that was the closest he could come to communicating all that nostalgia and guilt building up within his chest. He had been terribly far gone, and he swears, at some point he had heard your voice call out his name. 

And for a second there, he had believed you really were there.

It wasn’t because you had called out his name so sweetly, it wasn’t because there had been some sort of longing in your tone that echoed in his ears. No, he had heard your voice, and you had been angry. Furious, venomous in the way you had spit out his name. Each echo of it in that empty hotel room had felt like a residual punch to the gut, and for a second, he truly believed you were there with him. You were there, and you were angry, and all he could feel in his inebriated state was sheer happiness at the thought of seeing you again. He didn’t care if you screamed in his face. He didn’t care if you shot nothing but insults his way. It would be enough if you were there. He just wanted you to be there. 

It had been a sore disappointment when he’d sat straight up in the bed that wasn’t his, in a room he wouldn’t see again after the night passed, and found himself to still be entirely and utterly alone. 

He had wished you were there. He had wished that he could fight with you rather than drown out his sorrows. 

And the Universe is funny in granting wishes, because now, he’s getting exactly what he had yearned for that night. 

Your eyes are wide, pupils blown out, chest heaving with rapid breaths are you both simply stare. He doesn’t know where to start – but he remembers where it had ended the last time. 

“You stopped saying you loved me.”

It’s already an unfair fight, uneven playing ground. Because how does he explain that? How does he explain how even if the words stopped leaving his lips, the feeling never paused its growth in his bones? You were rooted too deeply within him, even once your presence had been replaced with your absence, and he can’t imagine a day coming where he doesn’t love you. 

He clears his throat awkwardly, “Would you like-”

“It was more than the physical leaving,” you interrupt him, “It was the… emotional leaving. That’s where we left off before Matt came into the studio.”

Straight to the point then, so it seems. 

You stopped saying you loved me.

He did, didn’t he? He couldn’t fight against facts. 

I never needed elaborate metaphors or pretty words, Eddie.

And he had been well aware of that. Perhaps that’s exactly why he’d gone and overdone it with the songs, with the lyrics, with the poetry. He gave you everything he had left, everything he knew you wouldn’t need. 

I just needed to know you still fucking loved me.

And what is crueler than finally telling you how he knew that? That at the time, he had been so well aware that’s exactly what you had needed to hear, and perhaps that was exactly why he stopped saying it. 

Keep you at an arm’s distance. Keep you safe and sound, miles away from the disaster of impending doom. 

Miles away from him.

I can explain, he nearly says, but he doesn’t want to lie to you. His explanation is hardly palpable, and surely not something you would be able to stomach. He can hardly stomach it. 

Instead, he tries to stand his ground, as if he could ever stand a chance against you, “What else was I supposed to do?” 

Wrong choice of words.

“What else?” you parrot back in disbelief, finally looking less sad, less broken. This could work, he thinks. To see you fiery and alive, even in all your anger against him, rather than some broken thing, “Would you like to me to list out all of the fucking options you had?” 

It’s a rhetorical question, but when he doesn’t respond, you decide to answer the obvious. 

“You could have taken ten extra seconds on the phone to say love you, babe. You could have texted me the damn words. You could have- just- you could have just told me if you were getting sick of me!” 

He doesn’t know which is a bloodier catastrophe – the shaking in your voice as you yell out the last part, or the twist of his stomach at hearing it. 

Sick of you. You had thought he was sick of you. 

“I wasn’t sick of you,” it comes out snappier than intended, but all that his tongue seems to care about is that the words are out there – no care in the fragility of tone. “I was- it was just a lot. It was our biggest tour yet, and-”

“Oh!” you laugh out, and his blood is beginning to go cold. All the warmth is leaking out, and all he can think about is twenty four hours ago. How warm it had been beneath his covers, your body curled against his, not a worry in the world. “Oh, I’m sorry. It was a lot? I’m so glad, in that case, that I took the stress of our relationship off your plate,” your voice is still cracking with every syllable. All he can think about is how it had sounded breathing out against his ear, “I just- Jesus, you ask me why I left? That’s why. Forget the bullshit about loving me. Maybe I just felt like a burden. Have you considered that?”

Sweet memories of the night before snaps away like elastic, back out of reach, your words yanking him back down to reality abruptly. 

You, of all people, felt like a burden. To him. 

The person he saw a future with – the person he wanted a future with. The only one he had wanted to see at the end of each wearing day on tour, tears clogging his throat up to the point where he pretended to be asleep so he could avoid having to try and chat with his bandmates. The only one who could have soothed whatever ferocious ache that had materialized deep within him while on the road, that he had foolishly tried to replace with a million different things that only ended up leaving him more empty. The only cure to a homesickness that had ruined him in the end. 

You had never been a burden. But he was fucking it all up, and he was watching the weight of that belief fall down upon your shoulders again. 

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like that!” he’s desperate now, struggling to find ways to fix this. There was a fine line when it came to the fight, a dance between seeing you alive and willing to put up your fists for whatever was left of the two of you versus seeing you broken and unwilling to help him fix it, and he’s sure he’s crossed it. Irreversible damage is being done, and he doesn’t know how to fix it, “It wasn’t- You weren’t- The problem was never…. Never….”

Fix it, fix it, fix it. 

“Don’t say that the problem wasn’t me,” you huff out, almost laughing, looking right at him. Dead in the eyes, but still putting up the fight, “If I weren’t the problem, you wouldn’t have pushed me away. You would have- I don’t know, just let me in. We were supposed to be a team.”

He can’t deny a single word falling from your mouth. You’re right – he knows you’re right, sure as he knows the sun sets in the West, and he knows there’s nothing to be said that can fix this. 

He chose to break this. This wasn’t some terrible accident; Eddie had gripped the wheel with both hands, shaking white knuckles in control, and had driven the two of you straight off the road. 

—

He can’t breathe. 

It’s all he could think about the moment he saw your contact light up the screen of his phone, as he swiped to answer, as he said his pitiful hello. Your voice doesn’t unlatch the tightness from around his lungs, your sweet words do nothing to lighten the load upon his chest. If anything, he almost swears you’re making it worse.

He can’t breathe, because he can’t handle you making it worse. 

It wasn’t supposed to go this way. He wasn’t supposed to dread the phone calls. He wasn’t supposed to come up with lies about how his day has gone. He’s not supposed to be jumping through hoops to guarantee you can’t find out the truth.

Whenever he’d imagined these calls amidst his daydreams for this very life, give or take, he’d always assumed they’d be boiling over with the truth. That spilling out the mundane details of his day would come naturally, that he’d probably make you laugh by making sure you knew exactly which pair of mismatched socks he’d thrown on for the day. He thought he’d be honest; he’d be happy, and he’d be honest.

At the end of the day, he supposes he’d always thought the truth would have been something different. 

He’s staring at the bottle of pills recently prescribed to him through whatever low-profile doctor his manager had found for him, meant to help him sleep these days after he’d had an entire private breakdown over his restlessness and a proper scolding for his ever-growing use of plain pot, and your voice prattling on about something is entirely lost on him.

When did that happen? When did he zone out when you, of all people, spoke to him?

You’re mid sentence when he cuts you off, “Hey, baby.” 

A pause that feels like eternity to him, but probably goes unnoticed by you. He’s gotten good at that – he’s gotten good at churning out little infinities for himself amongst the seconds for others. Time to ruminate, time to rot, time to decay. A coping mechanism since privacy has become a foreign thing. 

“I’m sorry, but they need me for soundcheck,” he says the lie so easily, it scares him. His palms shake at the realization that it was so simple, so second nature to him now. 

Lying to you. He was lying to you. A realization that twists his gut painfully as it settles deep within him. 

Soundcheck had finished over an hour ago. Showtime wasn’t for another two. He had the time for you – he had specifically made sure to have the time for you after dancing around your texts and calls the last week. 

Why was he making up an excuse to end the call? He’d made the time. Why?

“Oh.” 

He can’t fucking breathe. He can hear the disappointment, and he can’t fucking breathe.

One little word. Two insignificant letters. They ruin him in too many ways to formulate. 

“Oh, that’s fine!” your desperate attempt at a recovery doesn’t fool him for a second, but maybe you had sensed his mind being so far away. Maybe you had assumed he’d fall for the nauseatingly fake mask of joy, “Go, they need you.” 

Do they, though? Do they truly, genuinely need him? 

It had been a question keeping him up lately. The very question that was meant to be quieted by the Zolpidem that he continues to burn holes through the bottle of with his heavy eyes. 

Lately, it had felt a lot less like they needed him, and more like everyone around him needed the idea of him. They needed the rockstar, the frontman. They needed the man who would get on stage every night and sing his heart out, who would smirk at a crowd of adoring fans and wink at them in order to send their hearts racing. The charming trickster who could produce honey words both over a record and over interviews, luring in new fans at every corner. 

They needed his hands, only so that they may write words across pages and play instruments across tracking. 

They needed his vocal chords, to sing the lyrics to market, and to smooth talk the early morning show host. 

They needed his heart, so they could tear it apart and devour it right in front of him, uncaring that they would leave him with nothing but a bloody mess by the end of it. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, and he knows you won’t be able to taste the dryness of it. His entire tone has been flat – the laugh is no different. “Rockstar duties and all. We’ll talk more later?” 

He hates rockstar duties. He hates it all. 

He hates the lights that are always too warm while he’s up on stage, gasping with every breath to try and find the joy once more in his tired bones. He hates the tight schedule, and the way he can’t even have enough free time to leave his hotel room to see half the cities he’s visited. He hates the flashing phones across the crowd, all vying for a photo more than they are a connection.

He’s being drained dry. He has nothing left to give – by the time he’s meant to come home to you, he will have less than nothing. 

“Of course. Go give ‘em Hell.” 

His fingers can’t work fast enough. Your soft oh had broken him, but this shatters him. 

Because that’s what they want, isn’t it? They want him to give them Hell, packaged in the euphoria of a false Heaven. And yet, at the end of the day, the only one receiving the fires of the Hell is him. The loneliness, the demanding weight of the world, the bottom of a parched well. Everyone else lives in a dream from what he can give them, but Eddie? 

Eddie is left with nothing. 

He hangs up just in time for the first sob to leave him. Dry as he felt, dry as his laughter. He couldn’t even choke out a pathetic love you. And his ears are ringing, and somewhere in the buzz, he tries to decipher out the last time he had said those words to you. He knows the sound of your sweet tongue awarding him the affection – you say it at every chance you get – but he can’t recall when he’d last offered you that piece of his soul. 

Did he still love you? 

Yes, the violent thing in him sobs as he lets out another croak, doubling over and tossing his phone away blindly, I do. And that’s the issue. 

He was a ticking time bomb now. He knew there was an inevitable end coming for him, and he was terrified he wouldn’t survive this tour. 

And you – his darling light, the one he was supposed to race home to and was supposed to hold close to his heart as motivation to make it through so that this tour would not be the end – wouldn’t survive it either. The blast radius, the implosion. You were something too soft, too gentle to handle that. He couldn’t do that to you. 

He couldn’t ruin you. And so he was pushing you away. 

Somewhere through the gasping breaths and shake of his shoulders, he reaches to find his phone again. His eyes burn, but no tears come as he stares down at a now cracked screen. He’s hyperventilating – he can’t catch his breath, no matter how wide his chest and lungs try to expand. It’s been stolen from him.

All of it has been stolen from him. His happiness, his dreams, you. 

A month back, he had to change his lockscreen from his favorite photo of you. It had been at a party, and one of the sleazes dressed in leather and cigarette smoke had thrown his arm around Eddie just in time to get a peek at his lockscreen. 

‘Take a load of that,’ the stranger had commented with a low whistle, whiskey on his breath suffocating. 

Eddie had tried to not judge him the entire night. Sometimes, when he was looking at him, he saw the reflection of himself these days. 

‘What?’ Eddie had tried to laugh off, looking more properly through his drunkenness at that vibrant photo of you. His girl, the one he wanted to go home to. All big smiles and aching cheeks, laughing probably at something stupid he had done. 

He could see your bare thighs brushing the sheets of your shared bed back home – it started a hollow ache of longing to feel them wrap him up again. The sheets, your thighs, your arms. 

The small bunks on the bus and the hotel rooms didn’t compare to sleeping next to you. He thought if you had been there, if you had been with him, maybe this all would have been easier. 

‘That fine piece of meat on your screen, man,’ the guy motioned vaguely with a deep chuckle. ‘Fuck, is that what’s waiting for you back home?’

The sinking feeling had started then. The urge to flip his phone over and hide you away began to accumulate, his hand twitching with it. 

‘Yeah, that’s my girlfriend,’ he had said. Choked the words out. Tried to brush off his worry.

That’s just how the guys on the road had spoken. It was fine. It would be fine. 

‘Shoulda brought her on the road,’ the man had sighed. ‘Then we all could have gone a few rounds with her.’

Eddie had never leapt up from a couch quicker. He had also never vomited up more of his guts in a stranger’s plants than he did immediately upon running out the back door. 

Your photo had been exchanged for a stock image the next day. 

The memory still makes him sick. 

He swipes right over that very stock image, one he never cared enough to change because the only photo worth replacing it with was one he could no longer share with this world, to unlock his screen to find his texts with you already open. 

His thumbs are shaking, alien, almost unwilling as he commands them to type a message. 

Maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t be pushing you away. He shouldn’t be sinking deeper into this crowd of uncaring faces, of people who only want him for what he can give them. 

Maybe he should come crawling back to the one who wants him for his hands, and the way you could hold them out in your lap as you traced the softest of patterns over sensitive skin, a secret message of adoration poured from your own fingertips. 

Maybe he should confide more in the one who wants him for his vocal chords, and for the conversations that could be had in the middle of the night, upholding his opinions on anything and everything with the most importance. And in the shield of the night, sometimes even the day, he couldn’t possibly say the wrong thing – not with you. 

Maybe he should remember to love the one who wanted his heart, simply to handle it with care instead of devourment. 

The simple message of I love you is typed out. His thumb hovers over the small send button. 

Maybe he should let you back in. Maybe he could survive this. 

His thumb diverts suddenly, backing out of the conversation, back into the rows of texts awaiting to be opened and read. Left to smolder just like all his missed calls, missed birthdays, missed holidays. Friends from back when everything felt real, and more sleazes in leather and cigarette smoke. People who devour. People who want what he gives, never what he is. 

Wayne, somewhere amongst the missed connections, just asking if Eddie is alive. If his boy is okay. 

He goes ignored, just as you had as of late, and for all the same reasons. Same lump stuck in Eddie’s throat, same weight on his chest. 

The thumb finds its way to a text chain with someone who can’t fill the hole in Eddie’s chest, but he certainly had offered something at one of those after parties that might be a good place to start. 

Maybe Eddie should just get more of that, more sweet releases without a prescription, something to send his mind swirling until he forgets that you, that Wayne, that even he exists. Yes, that might be the best idea he’s had all week – he types out a message and hits send without hesitation this time to a stranger with his worst interests in mind, asking if he might have any more of that snow in the dead of July he’d been offered at the party. 

His text to you, unfortunately, is never sent.

—

“You want me to let you in?” Eddie suddenly says as he snaps back into his body, into his current mind and current situation. 

He can’t change the past. He’d give anything – God, he’d give everything – to go back to that night and make different choices, better choices, but he can’t. 

All he really has is the here and now. This version of him, and this version of you. The current you, who hates him and absolutely should. The current him, who’s six weeks sober yet has finally seen the light. 

The past doesn’t matter, and yet the past is the entire reason for this. 

“Yes,” you laugh as dryly as he had that night during that final call, throwing your head back in your own desperation, “Jesus Christ, yes. That’s all I ever wanted, all I fucking asked f-” 

He cuts you off by suddenly storming off, but it’s not away from the situation. Not this time. 

Down the hallway, through the door only himself and you have ever passed through. Across the carpeted floors and straight for the stack of notebooks scattered beside the couch. 

Somewhere in the mess, he finds the notebook he’s looking for, right on top of his laptop he needs. 

You trail in behind him, seemingly stunned by his rash actions – except they’re not that rash. He may be moving fast, erratically even, but this is the most sane he’s ever felt with how he’s handling the situation that has become the two of you. 

“You want me to let you in?” he repeats, and you stare with confused eyes, mouth barely agape, entirely lost for a moment, “Fine. I’ll let you in.”

He throws the notebook your way, and your reflexes are your savior as you catch the flutter conglomeration of paper between your palms. The laptop, however, he’s smarter about. 

“Clearly, you’ve already seen my notebook of lyrics,” he says as he huffs, setting the laptop up on the coffee table, rummaging for a pair of headphones he knows he’s left somewhere in this mess, “Why not take it a step further, yeah? I have the demos right here, on my laptop. I’ve been recording them for ages, and having copies of any we try out in the studio sent over to me. I want you to listen to them, because obviously, just reading everything I wanted to say to you doesn’t wo-”

You nearly fling the notebook right back at him, slamming it down against the side of your thigh, “I don’t want songs!” 

He pauses, looks up at you, nearly deranged. “No? You just asked me to let you in, and this is me letting you in.” 

“That’s not- this isn’t-” you stutter over your words and he can see your eyes begin to sparkle with tears as you approach him, just as frustrated as he was now. “I want you to speak to me, Eddie! I’m tired of listening to second-hand accounts and I’m tired of all the versions of you, of this fight, in my head! Use your words,” you make your way between him and the table, the laptop, falling to your knees slowly, the notebook being tossed away for a moment as both your palms come to grip his knees. He can’t tell if you’re trying to ground him, or yourself, “I am here. Right fucking here, right in front of you. And after all this time, you still can’t talk to me.”

He feels the way you shake with those gentle palms on his bruised knees. He’s terrified – the rough fabric of his jeans isn’t thick enough to keep you away. There’s not enough layers of any fabric on this planet that could ever be thick enough to keep you from feeling that rot. And you must feel it – you must feel all those holes that have whittled away at the man you once knew. 

The man you once loved. 

He doesn’t think he can ever be that man again. They did more than break his spirit over the years, or crush his childhood dreams. 

Something snapped in the foundation of him. 

“I…”A lump he’s felt as though he’s lived a lifetime without finally returns. The same one from that terrible night in which he made every wrong choice possible. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

Your face falls, ever so slightly. “It’s not about what I want-” 

“Yes,” he stops you, hands coming down to press over yours. Your skin is warmer than his, and he fights the urge to flip your palms up. Press the softest of your skin against the roughest of his, intertwining unworthy fingers between slots unmeant for him, “It is. It absolutely is.”

Just how silently can a heart break? 

You don’t pull back from his touch, and it almost feels like progress. Silent shattering can almost be mended with the way you only let your left palm weakly squeeze at his knee once, twice. 

He waits for the third squeeze, but it never comes. 

“Then there’s where we start,” you whisper, looking down at where his hands hover over yours.

“Start with what?”

“Fixing things.” 

You finally pull your hand away, a slow drag that sends shivers up his spine. He has half the mind to try and capture your hand in his to prevent it; one last desperate attempt to cling to you and all the ways you could heal him. All the ways you could love him. A world of possibility, another time in the Universe where you adore him and he’s never hurt you. Where his shelves are filled with photos of the two of you, together. Where he doesn’t fold you out of the frame, and where his walls are just a little less cold. 

A time, a world, where home feels like home again. 

“We need to stop saying what we think the other person wants to hear,” you croak out as you stand up, almost ashamed. As if realization has finally washed over you of just what you had done – gotten down on your knees and begged him, pleaded with him. “If this is going to work, that…. It has to stop.” 

We need to stop being what we think the other needs. We don’t know what the other needs. 

The unspoken truth you don’t need to say to him. He gets it, he really does. 

This entire relationship, this entire situation the two of you have stumbled into headfirst, needs to be a fresh start. As far as either of you should be concerned, you need to be strangers. No history, no marks, no dust. 

It’s a challenge Eddie would have balked at a mere six weeks ago, but that he faces head-on now. The thought of forgetting you, untangling your soul from his, in order to make new knots doesn’t scare him as much as he should. It’s his chance to start over; his chance to start fresh and new, a clean slate he’d begged for every night amidst every new mistake he had made in your absence. 

He could do this. And by the look on your face, you could also do this. 

“Agreed,” he finally stands up from the couch, nodding more to himself than to you, “Start new. Start fresh. Some inspirational quote from those fucking Facebook moms I hate.” 

A smile nearly cracks on your face, “You hate Facebook moms?” 

“Oh, I loathe them,” he leans in a bit closer, as though he might be letting you in on a secret. Really, he’s just trying to distract you from his wound – that terrible gash in his chest this fight had opened back up, a slice from the past he’ll need the night to stitch back together, “It’s okay, though. The feeling’s mutual.”

Your laugh is weak, and it’s proof enough that it isn’t forced. “Figured as much. I guess the Satanic panic wasn’t just a Hawkins’ thing, huh?” 

Hawkins. God, he hadn’t spoken about Hawkins with anyone, any single soul, in so long that the name of the town almost felt foreign. 

“Guess not,” he quirks his mouth, tilting his head at you, trying to chase away the reeling you’re sending him on. If he thinks too hard about Hawkins, he’ll think too hard about more names he hasn’t uttered in a year. More people left behind, more memories left to burn, “So… Now what?” 

He needs to change the topic, to run away one last time. There’s other nights ahead for the two of you to open those wounds of his. Tonight is not the night. 

You shrug, looking around the room, “I mean… we have a contract to fulfill.” 

“I’m sure my people will get in touch with your people.” 

“I also have work tomorrow.” 

“I’m sure I could call a cab for you in the morning.” 

“Eddie.” 

A selfish part of him had hoped if he’d given in and fought, you might stay another night. That maybe the fight would give him everything he had wanted, and then some. 

Another night. Another clean slate. Another chance to prove himself. 

But by the break in your voice as you say his name, he knows he was clearly delusional. 

“Or I could call you one tonight,” he secedes softly, failing at hiding most of his disappointment. It doesn’t matter – it doesn’t change a thing. “You’ll probably need your beauty sleep. No need for some aggravating rockstar to interrupt all your rest with his lousy guitar playing.” 

“Stop that,” you insist, face falling a bit too serious for his liking. He had been trying to joke around, “I- Your guitar playing is not lousy. We both know that.”

“Lousy or legendary, it still keeps you up.” 

He watches the contort of your face, and his chest constricts. He wants to be able to read your mind, look past that sudden stoic wall that falls over your eyes and flat lips. Chip past the marble facade to understand why those words seemingly sucked all the air out of the room just now. 

“Yeah,” you say, but you sound miles away, looking over his shoulder, breaths a bit unsteady. “Yeah… You’re, uh, you’re right. I don’t mind calling my cab-”

“I insist,” he rushes out, still scanning your face, still grasping for straws to get a glimpse inside your brain. 

What did he do wrong? What had he said? 

“You really don’t-” 

“Consider it done.” 

His phone is already in hand, and the number already half dialed into it isn’t just the city’s taxi service. It’s his driver’s.

His personal driver. Is that what had made you uncomfortable? Had you realized that before he’d even called for one of those SUVs to be your ride home? 

Was he coming on too strong for all this talk of a fresh start? 

You pick your battles, and just as he had lost the war to have you stay, you let him dial the number. Wander to the corner of the room as he talks to the man only he’s familiar with over his cell phone, fingers tracing over the few instruments littering the space. He wonders if you take note of which ones you pull away from with a smudge of dust on the pad of your finger, and if you can see the desperate wear worn into others from late nights like the night before. If you can see the scratch marks covering guitars from violent strumming, or rough circles over the keys of a keyboard he’s propped against the wall after it had stopped emitting noise due to being kicked off its stand after a particularly rough session. 

He wonders if tears can stain, and if you could see any of his panic and regret at that burst of violence. It was the night he swore off vodka. 

With confirmation of the SUV being on its way, he turns all his attention back on you, “See anything you like?”

You’d been staring at one specific acoustic guitar, one that had gathered more dust than any other instrument in the room. A stunning guitar polished to perfection, to the point of still being able to see your reflection in the onyx abyss of it below the layer of neglect. 

He knows exactly where your eyes have caught. A perfect carving of his initials, deeply cut into the rosewood right below the strings at the top of the neck. Dust had covered up the deep red painted into the hand-carved letters. 

“What?” you look over suddenly, almost as though you wanted to pretend you hadn’t seen it. But he knows you did, and he knows you had a good guess, an accurate guess, as to where that guitar came from. “I- No- I mean, yes! Sorry, I just… A lot of instruments, I guess?” 

You’re biting your lip, clearly nervous, as he forces a smile, “Yeah. Always swore I’d have a room like this when we- I had a place of my own someday.”

He knows the blood has drained from his face at his slip up. Feels the cold creep into his cheeks, as he clears his throat awkwardly. 

“You did,” you grant him the grace of ignoring it. Save him the embarrassment, and move right along, “What kind of guitar is that one?” you pause, turning back to the guitar you’d locked your sights on and jut your chin in it’s direction, “A… Yamaha, right?” 

“Yamaha F335,” he confirms, walking up behind you, looking at the dark beauty, “Nothing extravagant, but…”

“You always said Yamaha never felt cheap,” you murmur under your breath, smiling as if lost in a memory, “Under two hundred bucks, and you still sounded like Kirk Hammett when you hammered out those solos over Master of Puppets.” 

He wishes you wouldn’t do this. Not now, not when you aren’t spending the night. Not when a car is coming to take you away, and not when he knows your knees are still raw from falling to them and begging him of all people to just talk to you. 

“It was a crime,” he chokes out in a tight tone, having to cough a little to loosen up his words before continuing, “Playing such a metal album on an acoustic. Always sounded better on Sweetheart.” 

You continue to tear him open, rib by rib, as you softly say, “Yeah, but Wayne always seemed to like that music a little better when you played it that way instead.”

It feels as though it’s finally his turn to fall to his knees. 

You don’t even notice the unraveling, reaching up to caress over the strings covering the simple cursive EM on the neck. Almost out of reach from where the guitar sways on the wall mount. 

“Does she have a name?” 

He has to gather himself before he can reply, “What?” 

“The guitar,” you glance over your shoulder, eyes shining just a bit. He thinks he knows why you wouldn’t face him now. Why you’d kept your back to him, “You always named your guitar. Don’t tell me you grew out of that, Munson.”

This smile isn’t quite as forced, but it quivers all the same on his lips and cheeks, “Never. His name’s Nelson.”

Your face scrunches a bit, “Nelson? His name’s Nelson?”

“Yep.” 

He can’t help the way the word comes out so short, so quipped. You’re both treading in very dangerous territory now. 

“That’s…” you nod, deep in thought as you trail off, and he wonders if you caught on, “Odd. But I like it. What was the inspiration?” 

He has to lie. He can’t admit it to you. There is only so much blood left in his body to bleed out tonight, and he simply cannot give you the full truth now. 

“A bit of a nod to the person who gifted it to me,” he offers as much of the truth he can, but if you ask him for any more specifics, he simply can’t.

You look between him and the guitar, a small smile growing, and it breaks his heart, “Oh? And who- I mean… may I ask who gifted it?” 

His entire body aches as he forces out, “An old friend.”

Eddie Munson hates himself. More than he ever believed possible, to the point of a stomach churning with sheer sickness as you nod at the oddly quiet answer, finally taking the hint. 

He hates himself. He hates what he has become. He hates what he has destroyed. 

“Sounds-” you’re cut off by the ringing of his phone, incessant chiming from his driver to announce his arrival. 

The conversation ends there. Eddie informs you your ride is here, and he trails after you slowly as you gather your things. He feels the apartment drop colder and colder as each article of you is snatched up, no malicious intent but painful all the same, until he’s finally walking you to the elevator with his hands shoved in his pockets. 

“So,” you nearly stumble over your own two feet as you try to face him in the final few steps, clumsy and nervous as ever. Even if the fight has cleared some of the air, offered some clean slate, some things never change, “I guess your people will call my people?” 

He only nods, discreetly tucking his hand back away that had shot out, ready to catch you. 

“Okay,” you nod, eyeing him as though you have more to say. A million words, a million questions, a million topics to avoid. He really wishes you would spend the night. “Well, then…. See you around, I guess?” 

Bruised knees, avoidant eyes, tight throats. The two of you are such a mess, it’s no longer funny. 

“See you around, Sugar.” 

The elevator dings with its arrival, and Eddie doesn’t let you get another word in before he’s motioning you in. Away from him, away from the damage, away from the impending explosion. 

He almost wonders if you had the same look on your face the final day you’d left your shared apartment with him as he watches the two doors slide shut. 

He doesn’t linger, though. The moment you’re locked away from him, he’s rushing back to his apartment. The only one on the entire floor, entirely secluded in his tower, cursed to solitude as a private punishment. Whenever anyone had asked in the past, it had always been the excuse of privacy – but he knows better. 

Eddie Munson had torn himself limb by limb, cutting every lifeline ever tied to him, long before he’d moved into this chilling penthouse. 

He avoids the urge to run to one of his panoramic windows, trying to remind himself he won’t be able to see thirteen floors down to the street where you’re surely rushing into that familiar black SUV. He takes a sharp turn down his hallway, feeling almost robotic, returning back to that cursed room the two of you had just broken each other inside moments before. 

Straight to the back wall, and straight to the black Yamaha guitar. Straight to Nelson.

His hands shake as he pulls the instrument away from the wall just enough to see a note that barely clings to hand-polished wood, tape aged and paper crumbled. Yet the ink is still visible. The scar, it seems, is not quite healed as he reads over the messy scrawl. 

For my boy. Give them Hell, kid. And maybe give your old man a call. 

Love, Wayne.

[batkin028]

🖤🖤

[chaptersleftunwritten]

if you’re still taking requests, i’m a sucker for a good one bed trope with our boy Eddie🤭

Too Close for Comfort

requested by the lovely @braindelete , hope you enjoy! ☺️

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Warnings: Tension, angst, cliche trope.

divider by @cafekitsune

-

The quiet spinning world came to a sturdy halt as your fatigue stricken eyes landed on the single double bed centred in the middle of the motel room. You had specifically asked for a room with two beds but clearly the receptionist was also engulfed in a thick mist of sleep induced haze. You couldn’t blame her— it was 3 a.m.

The story explaining how you and Eddie Munson ended up in such a predicament was as simple as this— Steve Harrington’s wedding reception. Yes… that’s right, Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington was finally screwing his courage to the sticking place and settling down with his lovely fiancé whom he met during freshman year at college.

You had met her a few times, but with your busy schedule you were always left wishing you were able to spend more time with them and so when your invitation came in the mail, stamped with a ‘Save The Date’ announcement you were ecstatic. Only issue? You couldn’t quite pinpoint the moment where you ended up getting stuck in a van with Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson on this 5 hour long car journey from one state to the next.

He had matured slightly, you could give him that praise. But a lot about him remained unchallenged and the same. He was unapologetic about the way he was, he had always been that way. You admired that about him… ever since you had met in high school.

“Shit.” Eddie’s voice grumbled in the still air, rippling down your spine, “I swear this isn’t some dumb ploy, the lady said there would be two beds.” You could sense his nerves in his hoarse sleep deprived voice and it left your skin tingling. You sighed as you watched Eddie peripherally drag a pale hand down his face.

“Look, I’ll sleep on the ground. I wanna go out for a cig’ anyways so that leaves you with first dibs on the bed.”

You immediately laughed, a crazed and obnoxiously loud laugh that caused one of Eddie’s pierced eyebrows to perk on his forehead in confusion and distaste.

“Dibs?” You echoed and Eddie’s features softened as he came to realise you were teasing him, “What, are you five?” He rightfully huffs in response and you try to ignore the tightening of your chest and the way your gaze lingers a second too long on the glint of light that crosses over his muddy brown eyes.

“I’ll happily take the bed if you don’t want it, smartass.” His challenge silences you and your own face scrunches in dissatisfaction as you scoff.

“Nope. Like you said, I called first dibs.” Eddie brought out a petty childish side to you and it caused a smug grin to eat up the corners of your lips as you pounced onto the bed. Both of your legs and arms were spread to each corner of the mattress and in defeat, Eddie left the room to the porch balcony just outside the front door.

Through the pale curtains of the motel room you could see the porch light casting a shadow through the fabric. Eddie’s silhouette engulfed the green carpeted ground and you were almost hypnotised by the small blood orange cherry of his cigarette burning like a powerful beacon of light through the blackness.

You watched the fire flicker and eventually die and as you did, it soothed you to close your eyes and just breathe.

This whole journey had been nothing but stressful and borderline tormenting. Eddie made your head spin and your teeth clatter together and then, just as you thought you could prepare yourself for his spontaneous outbursts, he would confuse you and show you a whole other side of him. A side you hadn’t seen in years. A side that reminded you of why you were ever friends in the first place.

Sure, you two weren’t overly close, but you would’ve taken a bullet for one another. That’s what it meant to be part of that friend group. The love was endless and forgiveness was a priority. Nothing could separate you from your friends and vice versus.

Unless that separation was college or jobs or distance.

And as time ticked mercilessly onward, you heard from everybody less and less. The only glue tethering you to Hawkin’s was Steve. He was the only one who fought to keep in touch with you, despite your trying efforts to push everyone away.

Pulling you from your thoughts, Eddie grabbed two pillows from beside your head and he made himself a pity worthy bed on the floor.

You sit upright and before you can even contemplate what you’re doing, you are speaking, “Eddie, you can sleep up here with me. Just… don’t get any weird ideas.” It pained you that you had to even say such a thing to him, but you were both adults now and you had both probably spent way too many nights just like this one. Only difference being that whoever you slept with was gone within an hour of you dozing off. And they were a stranger.

But Eddie… Eddie was no stranger to you. Even after all of this time.

“Scouts honour.” He presses his palm to his chest and you smile softly, your eyes following his bodies every move as he climbs into the bed next to you, so cooly that you would’ve thought he was used to doing this sort of thing, “Let’s get a quick two or three hours before we need to be up and on the road again.”

The dark brunettes voice trails off in your ear and you nod hesitantly, your eyes trained on the stained ceiling of the room, “Yeah...” you reply absentmindedly.

“Yep.” Eddie shifts next to you, mirroring your laying position and you fight every instinct to turn your head and look at him.

To look into those milky chocolate eyes that are sweet enough to give you a toothache.

“Eddie?” Your voice is hushed, an echoing whisper.

“Hmm, yeah?” He turns his head toward you, his eyes warming the skin of your cheek but your face remains trained ahead of you.

“You never called… you never reached out.” Your mouth sours into a slight frown, “Why?”

You felt like a kid again, sharing a bed with your friend. Staying up way too late, eating way too much junk and sharing way too much of your feelings. It felt all too foreign and all too familiar.

“Neither did you.” Words that should have made your skin turn to ice only made your heart crack in your chest at the honest truth that Eddie was right.

Your hands fist the quilt that shields your body so tightly that you’re sure your knuckles would be pale.

For a moment you were stilted, your stubborn nature battling with what was the right thing to do. To say. And the harder you tried to conjure up something to say, the longer the silence thickened the air between you and the metal head lying next to you.

“Just because you didn’t hear from me doesn’t mean that I wasn’t thinking about you,” there was a pause full of anticipation and only then were you able to look at Eddie, “I thought about you all of the time. Every day…” Eddie catches himself, and you watch as he gulps thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down his throat, “I thought about everyone.”

You study him for a moment, quietly admiring the freckles littered over the bridge of his nose and his rosy cheeks. The slope of his tired eyes and the softness of his eyebrows. The thickness of his eyelashes left you envious of their length and you hate that your heart leaps as soon as you glimpse down at his plump pink lips.

“I thought about you too. I guess I was just too stubborn to be the first one to reach out…” Your cheek nuzzles further into the feathery pillow beneath your head and for a moment you are certain that Eddie stops breathing, “I’m sorry.”

And you meant it. With your whole heart.

“I’m sorry too…” Eddie’s response is sombre in comparison to your own and at the time you weren’t aware of what was racing through Eddie’s mind.

Bubbling beneath his calm demeanour Eddie was thinking back to all the times he had called in the middle of the night and hung up as soon as your voice bounced back through the receiver. All of the times he used you as his muse for a sketch in his sketch book and the motivation you provided him for all of the times he struggled to get up on stage and perform. You were all he could think about for years. And then one day…

He was forced to give you up. He had to stop because it was hindering his life. He couldn’t quit you.. no matter how hard he tried. And finally, after many failed attempts, things started getting easier— his mind would wander occasionally but not even near as much as it used to.

Now, lying next to you, your perfume tingling his nostrils and your hair tickling his shoulder. It all came rushing back. The drug he couldn’t rid himself of. The lost love of his life. He would sit in this torturous pain forever if it meant he could be this close to you— even if it was only for a little while.

He should have told you in that moment. But he didn’t.

His love for you died in his chest.

And as he watched you slowly succumb to beautifully dark sleep, he slipped out of the bed to step outside…

Only so he could sob to himself and leave you to rest.

Eddie cried gently into his hands, the hands he wished could caress your skin, hoping that one day he would be able to muster up the courage to tell you the truth. The truth he should have told you all of those years ago. The confession he should have told you right there and then.

-

taglist: @colorful-white-ideas @littlered0000 @ali-r3n @daisy-munson @serenadingtigers @rainybloo28 @munson-enthusiast @godcreatoreli @littlefreckles4 @what-the-jams @tlclick73 @ameliapond1995 @thepurplelovewitch @somethingvicked @costellation-hunter @munsonzgf @emxxblog @ingridvasquez @sadbitchfangirl @im-julessssss @munsonburn3r @unclecrunkle @cierra222 @ziggeddie @yarafae @sidthedollface2 @kellsck @your-nightmaredoll @purplewitchcauldron @manitskatrina @georgeweasleyslostearhq

[andvys]

OUCH!? you come right back and fix this, right now!!!!!

PLEASE. GET HIM THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE BACK, THAT POOR MAN 😭😭 IM CRYING

[batkin028]

💔💔

[ghost-proofbaby]

twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

"HALLOWEEN PARTIES"

EXTRA CONTENT- "BEYOND THE HOURS"

→ pairings: modern!college!eddie x college!fem!reader → warnings: strong language, mentions of breeding kink, mentions of possible future pregnancy, lots of suggestive conversation and making out. not edited. upside down does not exist, minors dni → wc: 9.9k+ → a/n: @take-everything-you-can plagued me with thoughts of what our idiots would get up to on halloween, and i just couldn't help myself. it definitely spiraled out of control though. my bad. ALSO, QUICK DISCLAIMER: please if you get a snake don't do what reader and eddie did. snakes a homebodies. we are just going to pretend it's okay in this context for the name of fiction, alright? obligatory snake owner ramble over. let's GO.

enjoy the main story's masterlist here

The thumping of the bass was audible before you’d even exited the elevator fully. 

Any other day of the year, you’d assume your group of friends would be earning an instant noise complaint for the volume of the music coming from behind Steve and Robin’s apartment front door. But it wasn’t just any other day – it was Halloween, and somewhere amongst the rhythm of what surely had to be Steve blasting Abba, you could make out fellow neighbors playing music just as loudly. 

If anything, the overly quiet apartments were more concerning than the noisy ones. 

“Do you think Lestat is going to do okay with the music?” Eddie suddenly frets, one hand reaching to tug on what little fabric there was of his costume. It almost made you smile, a reminder of what exactly your usually ‘scary’ boyfriend was donning. 

Britney Spears, circa 2001. One of her most iconic VMA performances. 

He’d decided it the moment you two had come home several months ago with the most important accessory that was draped around his neck – a juvenile ball python named Lestat, who looked surprisingly content as he hung onto Eddie’s shoulders. 

“I don’t know,” you hum, looking over at Eddie, a little bit concerned now that he’d brought it up, “Maybe it’s a bad idea-”

“I’m texting Nance to turn the music down.” 

“What if it freaks him out?” 

“It’ll be fine.” 

“What if he gets stressed and bites you, Eddie?” 

To any onlooker, the sight of you might have been a bit funny. Furrowed brows, arms crossed, sticky blood spread out across your stomach and sternum. 

The theme tonight for the two of you had been iconic performances. Eddie insisted, and part of you knew he was just afraid to dress up so extravagantly all alone when it came to this small get-together, but you hadn’t hesitated to pull together your own version of Lady Gaga’s iconic VMA performance from 2009. If you two were going to commit to a theme this year, you were committing. 

Eddie balances his phone in one hand, typing with a single thumb. Impressive, given his history of ardently avoiding owning a smart phone. His other hand trails up to his collarbone, sneaking a careful finger below Lestat’s head, holding him up and pouting his lip a little, “This little guy? Biting me? He would never.” 

The sight was cute. Obnoxiously, overly, endearingly cute. 

“He’s still a snake,” you try to argue, stopping right outside of apartment 34C. The music was more clear now as it switched from whatever Abba tune had been playing to Maneater by Nelly Furtado, “If he gets scared enough, he might.” 

“I’d hardly call him a snake,” Eddie snorts, shoving his phone back into his pocket, smiling as he tilts his chin to awkwardly stare at the snake now carefully slithering over his knuckles, “Dude misses the mice on his first strike every time we feed him. And if there was ever a time he was going to bite me, it would have been when I was taking that moss out of his mouth as he was eating.”

That earns a huff of a laugh from you as well. The image of Eddie on Monday night, absolutely losing his mind as he’d noticed that Lestat had gotten his mouse entangled in some of the moss decorating his enclosure, not even hesitating to open the tank once more and throw his hand in right along with the tongs to prevent your new ‘son’ from ingesting it, crosses your mind. It hadn’t mattered how much you reassured him that it was probably normal in the wild, that Lestat’s body could certainly handle it. Eddie had been insistent and blinded by what could only be described by paternal instinct. 

If you’d asked yourself last Halloween if that had been where you see your life heading in a year’s time, you would have rolled your eyes. 

“You do realize how dumb that was of you, right?” you insist, remembering your fear and the way your breath had caught in the moment. It was funny now, but you’d never gripped onto Eddie’s shoulder tighter than when he’d recklessly done so. You loved the snake, you really did, but you’d realized in that moment you might still love Eddie just a little bit more. 

The conversation is cut short as it’s clear that Nancy had received Eddie’s text, the music behind the door quieting a bit along with a change of song. 

Your jaw nearly drops, “You did not make Nancy do that.” 

The opening notes of I’m a Slave 4 U were impossible to miss.

“I did.” 

“You’re an idiot.” 

“Are you gonna insult me the entire night, or let me make my iconic entrance?” 

You don’t get a chance to answer, Eddie carefully passing by you, Lestat’s head bouncing a little as it passes a bit closer to your face than you would have been comfortable with a few months ago. 

The snake, funnily enough, had even been your idea to begin with. Your want, your desperate argument you’d wasted countless breaths upon while getting ready for bed with Eddie. 

It’ll be fun, you’d whined to Eddie as you’d both crawled into bed, we even have the space in the living room. 

Sweetheart, you’re fucking terrified of snakes, Eddie had easily rebuttalled. He wasn’t wrong, but it didn’t stop you from huffing like a petulant child. 

That’s an exaggeration, you argued right back.

Your hands had still shook ferociously that first day of bringing home the snake when you’d been the one to move him from the small container the store had placed him and into the full fifty gallon tank now occupying a fairly large chunk of the apartment’s living room. 

You’re still lost in your head as the door swings open for Eddie right as the first chorus of the song begins. He’s dramatic, fully committed, a glimmer of who he must have been in high school shining right through as he struts confidently into your friends’ apartment. 

A version of Eddie you somehow missed despite never having met. You almost wonder if you would have still ended up here if you’d met then; you almost wonder if you would have still ended up at each other’s throats inevitably, even in those days. 

You probably would have. You secretly hope that it all would have still happened exactly as it has. 

“No fucking way!” 

Robin is the first voice you can hear excitedly shriek out a reaction to Eddie, followed by a sharp hush from Nancy. They’re deeper in the apartment, out of your line of sight. You can hear Jonathan’s muttered response lost in the music, and you can smell Argyle’s presence rather than hear or see it. 

Weed had been expected, but Steve and Robin were strict in their rule of only partaking on the balcony. 

“Yes fucking way,” Eddie responds, clearly giddy. You finally trail in behind him, not necessarily shy but certainly not nearly as extravagant as he had been. You hang back a bit, biting back a grin, just admiring your boy.

All warmth, rosey cheeks spread wide in his boyish grin, eyes bright as he wiggles his brows as Robin. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” Robin whispers as she rushes forward, glancing over her shoulder, clearly looking for Steve before she leans it a tad bit closer towards Lestat. 

“Mama didn’t raise a bitch,” Eddie snarkily replies, moving to slowly remove the snake from his neck. 

“Language,” you jokingly scold him, reaching out to take the snake from his hands as he brings it to his chest, giving Robin a closer look at the nearly-glimmering pale scales of your pet. Almost instinctively, he starts to pull the animal away, but once he sees the look on your face, he’s quick to hand him over. “No cursing around our son.”

Nancy finally walks up, still no sign of Steve as she joins your side and Lestat wraps his body slowly around your wrist, “Oh my God, don’t tell me you also refer to this thing as your child.” 

“This thing?” Eddie huffs, more offended than you, “Nance, he has a name.” 

Robin has gravitated towards you now, entirely captivated by the ball python, eyes shimmering as she lets out the smallest gasps and squeals under her breath, “What’s his name?” 

“Lestat,” you whisper, watching Nancy and Eddie grow closer and clearly get more immersed in their own private conversation, “But Eddie wanted to name him Frodo.” 

“Frodo,” Robin chuckles a little, looking at you questioningly as she holds out a timid finger. You give her a nod, moving a thicker part of the snake’s body to face her rather than the head, “Sounds like Eddie.” 

It did indeed. Once the bickering of whether or not you two would even get the snake to begin with had faded, the entire argument of what its name would be had started up. Eddie wanted the snake to be named after his favorite books – you wanted to name the snake after your most recent reads. 

You’d clearly won. At the sacrifice of promising the inevitable first of many cats you and Eddie would eventually have be named Frodo instead. But you’d still won. 

Robin’s eyes finally leave the snake long enough to take in your own outfit, and you hadn’t realized it was possible for the girl’s grin to widen, “Wait - are you dressed as Lady Gaga from her Paparazzi performance?” 

“Oh, my dear Birdie,” you coo out the endearment, shivering slightly as the cool body of the snake continues to slither up near your elbow, “This night is just getting started.”

—

You were right. The night had just begun. 

The first few hours pass fairly chaotically. A languid and rapid mixing of everyone excitedly catching up on each other’s lives, various drinks beginning to be concocted. Some delicious, and some spurring gags from others simply from the description of the hard liquor that had gone into them. 

Argyle had managed to lure many of the group out onto the patio at various intervals to partake in the devil’s lettuce, as he had proudly proclaimed it. Nancy and Jonathan had figured out a way to set up a makeshift karaoke party in the living room, lyrics for songs being displayed on the main TV. And Steve, for all his attentive hospitality as the one of the co-hosts of the night, had remained painfully oblivious. 

Eddie had gone behind his back when it came to bringing Lestat. Steve had made it clear when the two of you had purchased the puppy in reptile form that he wanted nothing to do with the python, while the rest of the group had been easily intrigued – especially Robin. And so once Eddie had decided upon his Britney outfit, the next logical step had been securing Lestat’s attendance at the party. He hadn’t texted Steve - or Nancy, as a matter of fact - but rather Robin. 

The girl hadn’t even taken a minute to respond, overly enthusiastic to meet the snake. 

Everyone had slowly become a part of a more silent bet as the night dragged on, and for once, you and Eddie were on the betting side of it all. The drinks were poured, the weed was smoked, the music was sung along to painfully off-key, and Steve never once noticed the snake that was frequently wrapped around various parts of yours and Eddie’s body. 

The quick exchanges probably didn’t help. When Steve needed your help in the kitchen at one point, you’d smoothly handed Lestat over to Eddie in passing. When Eddie had agreed to join Jonathan and Argyle on the balcony at one point, he’d easily and carefully draped the snake across the nape of your neck from behind the couch. Hell, you’d even spent a good five minutes engrossed in a conversation with Steve, all the while Lestat had been comfortably coiled around your bicep opposite the man. 

As the hours passed by, you found yourself wanting to be caught. 

Your phone pings suddenly as you bury yourself deeper into the leather couch, giggling over Steve’s current rendition of What’s New Scooby Doo?. 

You shuffle carefully to pull it from where you’d wedged it against your hip, trapped weakly by your white bottoms speckled with glittery blood.

WORLD’S HOTTEST BOYFRIEND: I want a cigarette :-( 

You do a double take of the contact name, blinking rapidly before you finally connect the dots. 

YOU: when the hell did you change your contact name in my phone?

WORLD’S HOTTEST BOYFRIEND:  Unimportant. 

WORLD’S HOTTEST BOYFRIEND:  Do you think if I hand Lestat off to you right now that Steve would notice? 

Your eyes flick up as the song ends, Robin having jumped up to finish off the performance with Steve, the two of them a mess of flailing limbs clinging to each other and joyful laughter bubbling out of them for unknown reasons. 

Well, partially unknown reasons. One of them was surely the strange concoction the two of them had chugged at some point in the night that had included both watermelon flavored vodka and green apple whiskey. That had been one you’d cringed and stuck your tongue out at. 

YOU: 50/50 chance. And NOT unimportant btw, what’s my name in YOUR phone? 

Just as Eddie exits the bathroom, Steve perks up at the sound of the door and distant flush, removing himself entirely from Robin’s embrace, “Fuckin’ finally! I have to piss.”

Everyone holds their breath as he rushes past Eddie, but he still remains completely unaware of the snake that Eddie is carrying. 

The slam of the door times perfectly with Eddie’s collapse onto the couch next to you, a shy and guilty grin already gracing his face before you even begin bursting at the seams with continuing the text conversation face-to-face. 

“Seriously,” you waste no time, turning to him quickly and your knee easily overlapping his thigh as you shuffle into a more comfortable position, “When did you change your name in my phone, asshole?” 

He takes his time answering, pulling on the ridiculously small jean shorts he wears as his shoulders quiver with the effort of holding in his laughter, “Words hurt, baby.” 

You hate the way nicknames as simple as baby can send still shivers down your spine. 

“You couldn’t have at least been a little more creative? Like, world’s hottest boyfriend? C’mon, you can be more clever than that, surely.” 

It’s easy to do this, to egg him on and prod at his ego in the softest of ways. It’s also always been a dead giveaway to him that he’s gotten under your skin. 

“My name with a pretty black heart next to it just wasn’t cutting it anymore,” he pouts exaggeratedly, leaning into your space a bit, holding the snake a careful distance away as he looks into your eyes and a suspiciously jubilant look crosses his face, “What would you have preferred?” 

“Something shorter,” you breathe out, feeling some of the alcohol coursing through your veins now, making your headswim as you suck in the scent of his cologne heavy in the space between you, “It’s a bit of a mouthful, if I’m being honest.” 

“It is,” he nods, and his lips spread salaciously, pupils growing just a tad bit wider before he delivers a devastating blow, “But we both know you can take it, can’t you, baby?”

Damn him. Fuck him. Send him all the way down to the depths of Hell, for all you care. 

He’s caught on to a clear game he can play now that you’re tipsy, one that he certainly has the upper hand in, and you can’t tell if the night ending in him winning it would actually spell your loss. You swear, you can already feel his hands on your hips, tearing off the costume you’d spent several weeks carefully sewing sequins into, his lips getting sticky with all the fake blood across your torso, his- 

Huh. Never had you realized yourself to be such a horny drunk. 

“Now I need a cigarette,” you grumble, leaning away from him, trying to break whatever spell he was casting. None of your friends’ have even noticed the interaction happening on the couch, saving you from eternal embarrassment. 

If you’d had less pinot noir and shots of Fireball whiskey in your veins, you’d probably still find the decency in you to be self-conscious at toying with these things in public. Maybe scold him, maybe douse out whatever flames he was attempting to ignite. 

Eddie leans back as well, clearly satisfied with himself as he lifts Lestat up to preoccupy himself by pretending to study the lightened coloring of the snake. Mostly white, with splatterings of a traditional morph at random across the body. The woman who had sold the snake to the two of you had referred to it as a piebald. If you had been shopping with an actual breeder rather than a reputable rescue, he would have cost an arm and a leg. 

Luck had been on your side the day you’d stumbled upon the snake. You wish luck was still on your side tonight. 

Eddie sticks out the tip of his tongue to mimic the snake a few times before he focuses on you again, “You know, we could always see if Robin wants to watch him while we both go grab one.”

You have no clue how the girl had heard him from across the living room, but she suddenly appears at his side, just as eager in appearance as her original text giving the blessing to bring Lestat had been. 

“Did someone say I could hold the snake?” she bounces a bit on the balls of her feet, looking down with utter fascination, “Please tell me you guys just said I could hold the little guy. When you first got him, I did a ton of research so I’d know proper handling tips, and also how to know if he gets too stressed. Also I may or may not have been nervous about how often they bite, but I found out that-”

“They don’t bite,” Eddie interrupts with reassurance, offering a small smile as he looks up to her, “At least, not very often. You usually have to aggravate them pretty badly, or catch them on a really shit day for them to strike.” 

It had been a huge selling point in convincing him. Ball pythons were docile in nature, and they’d be quicker to match up to their namesake by balling up than actually strike out at someone. 

Of course, the day you had been informing of this, you had no idea he was already aware of it. He knew they didn’t bite, he knew the specifics of what a habitat for them needed, he knew their dietary needs – he’d already had an Amazon shopping cart filled with supplies after the first time you brought the snake up to him, unbeknownst to you. 

“Yeah,” Robin nods ferociously, hands reaching out carefully, already more than prepared to take the snake, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now hand over the baby and go do whatever debauchery you two are clearly wanting to get up to.” 

“We aren’t getting up to debauchery!” you try to defend the two of you, watching Eddie carefully uncurl Lestat from his arm to pass him into Robin’s waiting hands, “Eddie just wants a cigarette and-”

“And you want to join him and probably get in some hot and steamy makeout sessions, right?” Robin finishes your sentence for you, quirking an eyebrow for a second before letting out a whisper of a squeal when Lestat takes to her quickly. His tail wraps around the length of her wrist and you’re shocked as you watch him stay just as curious as he had been while held by you and Eddie. A tad bit more reserved, but no sign of balling up any time soon. 

Eddie stands from the couch, patting his largest back pocket to ensure his pack of cigarettes and lighter are still safely tucked into it, and you know it’s useless to keep arguing with Robin. She’s entirely entrapped by the snake in her hands now, whispering in a high-pitched tone that surprisingly doesn’t seem to bother Lestat. All her coos nearly resemble baby-talk. It’s cute – sort of. A direct mirror of how you and Eddie have been acting at home when you handle the ball python. 

You stand slower than Eddie had, hawk eyes still glued to your friend, “Just- Just be careful, okay? Avoid touching his head, and don’t wave your hands around too much while talking, because it can scare him. He also might try and crawl up to your hair because Eddie lets him hide in his at home, and sometimes he’ll pull on it because it sticks to him, so just-”

“Sweetheart,” Eddie stresses, throwing an arm around your shoulders, giving your bicep opposite from him a quick squeeze, “She’ll be fine.” 

Robin nods, clearly only half listening to the debate as she watches Lestat wander up her arm in clear wonder. 

It sort of does feel like Lestat is your actual human child, as though you’re leaving your toddler with a babysitter for the first time. 

Eddie tugs you deeper into his side, musky cinnamon and boyish charm filling your nose as he leans down and murmurs, “C’mon.” 

A Ghost song starts to thump over the speakers as you allow Eddie to guide you over to the sliding door beside the kitchen, the layout different and even a tad bit nicer than your own apartment. It’s odd, the view of the kitchen being clearer than the living room, the exact opposite of how your home is. 

Home. Even in your tipsy state, even after so much time having living with Eddie and even going as far as to now own a pet with him, the notion fills you with warmth. 

Maybe you’re actually a sentimental drunk. 

As the two of you pass by Argyle, he briefly lifts his head, cherry-shaded eyes peering up excitedly until Eddie quickly shakes his head, making the poor man sink back against the loveseat that he occupies with Jonathan and Nancy. You almost feel bad, but it’s clear Argyle is too far gone to even feel disappointment right now. 

“After you, m’lady,” Eddie chivalrously slides the door open for you, half-bowing and putting on a half-assed British accent as he sweeps his arm for you to exit onto the balcony first. 

“It’s Lady Gaga to you,” you snark as you slip out into the crisp Autumn air, cheeks cooling instantly. 

“Oh,” the door slides shut with a soft thud behind Eddie as he joins you, face immediately covered by the shadows of the evening, “My apologies.” 

It’s nice out. Far nicer than any October has been in the city in what feels like years. The air is refreshing, dare you even say sobering, and the city lights below wink at you as you hear all the distant noises of life. Car horns, children’s laughter, music from other parties. It sounds as though one of the neighbors below is blasting heavy rap, and you swear you can hear the trill of a radio pop song from your left. 

Beer, cider, pumpkin spice – it all fills the air. It’s Halloween, and it’s nice. 

The breeze is electric with all the livelihood, sending goosebumps up your arms as you approach the railing, looking out across a night sky painted some sort of faded cross between navy and grey rather than a stark black of midnight. 

It all turns to static the moment Eddie wraps his arms around your waist from behind you, heavy pack of cigarettes in his palm as his lips find solace in one of the few bare patches of skin on your shoulder. 

“God, I love Halloween,” he murmurs against you, his breath hot as it catches across your costume. 

God, I love you.

You can’t help the cheesy thought as a hand comes up to grip Eddie’s forearm, giving three short squeezes, pulling him just a tad bit closer. But it’s true – Halloween was wonderful, you’d always enjoyed any excuse to get together with your friends and family, but it had never felt quite like this. 

Planning cliche dates during the season, movie marathons spent cuddling up with your other half rather than sitting across on a couch from friends. Kisses in the pumpkin patch. Cider on his lips. Putting up decorations and ending up chasing each other around the apartment, landing in a pile of limbs that slot against one another perfectly. Arguing about which decorations should go on the balcony, which garland to line your front door with. 

It wasn’t a replacement for spending time with your friends. And there were still crude jokes, still bickering over timing of plans and locations to visit. It still felt like spending the holiday with friends – it was spending it with your best friend. 

Eddie Munson. Your best friend. Your boyfriend. The sentiment is unexpected to past you, but so entirely welcome by the you currently enveloped in his embrace.

“I used to insist on spending Halloween alone, you know,” you mumble as his chin digs in the point where your shoulder connects to your neck, vision blurring as you continue to stare out at the tiny busy streets, “Just, like, lay around in my dorm. Watch shitty horror movies on my laptop until I got too scared and had to find some dumb comedy to help me sleep. It was the only day of the year where my roommate sort of acknowledged my existence. She was the one who’d go out, and she’d get all this candy and share it with me.” 

You don’t know the point of your rambling, but Eddie is listening intently anyways. 

You turn carefully in his arms, now mesmerized by how his face looks in the warm glow of the seasonal lights Robin and Steve had put up. Shades of orange flickering across his amber eyes, shadows making all his sharpness in his features more prominent. 

“Talking about it now sounds kind of boring,” you muse, laughing a bit dryly, “The most festive thing I would do was going to the Halloween store with Robin and Steve once they opened.”

“Yeah?” he asks softly, arms still tangled around you, grinning gently, “I don’t think that’s too boring.” 

“It was,” you insist, pressing just a little closer to him, “God, it was so boring. Not going to the store with those idiots – I mean, that was pretty fun. But it was nothing compared to setting up a snake habitat, or carving pumpkins with you. Now I can watch whatever slasher you want before bed, and I still sleep just fine, cause I’ve got you to protect me.” 

His smile matches your own – radiant, proud, happy. 

“Oh, definitely,” he nods once, twice. So sure, ego inflated for the bit, “Any scary men with a chainsaw dare to break into our apartment, and I’ve got you, sweetheart.” 

Our apartment. The perfect ring to it. 

“Didn’t you scream about that spider in our apartment yesterday? Like, full on squeal, hopping up onto the couch, begging me to save you-” 

He cuts off all your teasing, even though it was true, with a kiss. Simple, strong, sure. Fingers dancing under your chin to pull you up to him, meeting you halfway and not even hiding his smile at your antics as he effectively shuts you up. 

“We agreed to not talk about that,” he mumbles against your lips, tasting like the last shot of whiskey he took with Nancy. 

“You agreed to not talk about it,” you pester back, trying to pull away from his kiss. But his other hand comes up, trapping your face between both his palms, and it’s a useless effort, “I just promised to not immediately share the photo of you up on the couch with everyone.” 

Half the words are hardly articulate as his lips continue to nip at yours, struggling from your wide smile and the way your entire body is shaking from your giggles. You can feel the cold metal of the railing brushing your exposed lower back, a breeze picking up that can be blamed for the goosebumps racing down your spine rather than Eddie’s wandering hand. It’s not devourment, it’s not desperation, it’s not Earth-shattering. 

It’s something like mending. Something like a promise. 

Living together, celebrating the holidays together, owning a pet together – they were all baby steps leading to something even brighter in the future. An unspoken truth between the both of you. An inevitable crescendo to all that had been built. 

Eddie whines a bit when you pull away again, but this time, your forehead stays pressed to his. A joint effort between the way you tilt your head and the way his hands press you against him.

“Do you remember the last time we were on a balcony together?” you ask in a low whisper, trying to mimic the same suggestive tone that he’s always been able to put on at the drop of a hat.

You’re not quite as talented as him. You’re actually just a giggly drunk.

His brows furrow, “What? This morning?” 

“No.” 

“Two nights ago, when you insisted Lestat needed to see the moon?”

“No.” 

“Are you talking about the afternoon we had a redo of our pumpkin carving contest? Because I still won again, fair and square, ba-”

“I’m talking about the bet, you idiot.” 

His fingertips press a bit deeper into your flesh, his lips forming a wobbly ‘o’ as he stares down at you, “How was I supposed to know you were referring to that? That was definitely not the last time we were on a balcony together-”

You shut him up with the same courtesy as he had done to you, adding in a roll of your eyes before your hands wrap around his neck to pull him into you. This time, you make it hot and heavy. Lips and teeth and tongues, grabby hands from the both of you making their way across all the exposed skin and scraps of costumes you two wear. It takes Eddie aback at first, clearly not expecting the sudden passion, but he recovers quickly. 

He remembers exactly what you’re referring to quickly. 

Your back collides a bit harsher with the railing as he rolls his body up against yours, not a breath of space between the two of you as he wedges his knee between your thighs. You have no idea where his pack of cigarettes has vanished to, but you don’t care. All you really care about is the way he’s holding you, the way he’s suffocating you, the way he’s watering you. 

It’s hard to believe the garden within that he’s nurtured at your side for the last year was ever something broken. That there was once a time it was nothing more than dried vines and pathetic blossoms begging to see the light of day. Now, the warmth of a thousand suns was gifted to you every morning you awoke to his smile. Every joke, every small caring act, every kiss stolen just because one of you felt like it. You two may have accidentally killed that first plant you bought the week you moved in properly with him, but this? 

You can’t imagine a day where the two of you ever might let this die off. 

His lips break from yours, predictably painting a path along your jaw as he murmurs, “I think I do remember. But, just in case – wanna remind me?” 

And for a second, you almost do. 

All your coils are tight across your body, burning in your abdomen and shaking in your knees, but all it takes is the faintest movement of a shadow to remember all your friends inside the apartment still. 

“We can’t,” you whisper, as if they might hear you in the glass, trying to pry yourself away from him just as his teeth start to graze your neck, “Seriously - we can’t.” 

Eddie chuckles lowly against your neck, and you know exactly why. 

You’d started this without even considering the consequences. 

“Started something you can’t finish, didn’t ya, baby?” 

Oh, damn him. That stupid low and teasing tone. That dimple you can feel brush against your skin as he moves his mouth to the other side of your neck. All the heat in your body travels south, pooling between your hips, aching for him to go against your wishes to avoid embarrassment and just finish this. 

He doesn’t, though. You’re starting to believe he’s less drunk than you are, a clearer mind than your own with far more sensibility than he seems capable of most of the time. His lips leave your neck, his hands finding the polite placement of hovering over your hips. The fog is starting to clear, if only just the slightest bit, and-

You were wrong. So, so wrong. 

He’s not sensible. That wicked hand placement was nowhere near polite. In an instant, he’s latched onto you tightly and spun you around, quickly bending you over against the railing so your chest presses into the metal and the cold sends shockwaves across your entire body. Your ass is pressed to his crotch and one hand holds you securely, tight enough that he can be sure you won’t fall, as the other crawls up your back at impeccable speed to press you further down. 

Immediately, you’re squealing, “Eddie!” 

His laughter is just as loud as all your protests as you come face-to-face with the true height of a three-story balcony, knuckles paling from gripping onto the bars. 

You’d hate him for it, but you feel the security of his palm and knuckles around your waist, and you know he’s not letting you go anywhere over that railing. He’s hardly even allowing your head to hang over it. 

The moment you start to lean back up against his hand on your back, he’s allowing it immediately. There’s no friction or fight as you stand up straight once more, back against his chest and your hands already prepared to swing back to smack him before both of his arms come up around your shoulders and cross your chest. 

“You asshole,” you gasp out, flailing hands deciding to grip strongly onto his forearms as he cradles you up in the tight embrace from behind, still chucking in your ear as you both take several steps back. Your heart pounds, and you’re pretty sure your nails are biting into his skin. 

Maybe they’ll leave a mark – you hope they sort of hurt. 

“Just had to make sure you really do remember that night,” he jokes, trying to lean his head far enough over your shoulder to get a good look at your face, “I think the bars would have been a bit more exposing, though, yeah?” 

Your nails dig in deeper, and his grin widens. 

Bastard.

“What if I had fallen?” you snap, finding it hard to be mad at him. Those damned strong arms around you, the thump of his own heart right against the space between your shoulder blades, that fucking dimple. 

“I wouldn’t have let you.”

If the two of you had children some day, would they have his dimples? 

“We’re both drunk-”

“I’m not that drunk.”

“-And I’m pretty sure this balcony isn’t up to OSHA standards-”

“Oh, it definitely isn’t.” 

“-And you almost left our poor son motherless,” you finish off with a forced scowl, shaking off his embrace to face him properly, “Are you prepared for that? Were you prepared to be a single father?” 

God, you hate his fucking smile. God, you hope if you have real kids someday, they have that same shit-eating grin. 

With a pout of his lips, he steps back up to you, looking down tauntingly, “You’re right, baby. I didn’t even think about poor Lestat.”

You hum, standing your ground, but your defenses are quickly crumbling. Your mind is running with too many thoughts, exhausting itself over everything except the residing anger you should feel at your absolute nuisance of a boyfriend. 

The feeling of being held down by him in that position once more. How the heat of his body had warmed you, and you’d only noticed now that the cool air was attacking your exposed back. Swimming in the visions of what color eyes your children might have, pigtail curls of a little girl with Eddie’s defiance or a little boy who wears his shit-eating grin as he exhibits your same unbreakable curiosity. 

You definitely shouldn’t have drank so much tonight. It doesn’t matter what kind of drunk you are – it was a bad idea regardless.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Eddie’s voice takes you out of your thoughts as he slides his arms around your waist, always needing to be touching you, clingy to a ridiculous degree. 

You weren’t complaining, though. How could you? If given the option, you’d make a home out of his bones in a fraction of a heartbeat as well. 

“Nothin’,” you lie through a sigh, head tilted dramatically, much preferring to focus on the ginger contours of Eddie’s cheeks than whatever future Jack Daniels had been painting in your mind. 

“Bullshit,” he doesn’t hesitate to call you out on it. And it’s not the alcohol fueling his boldness – it’s just how he is. He knows you better than the back of his hand, the roof of his mouth, his favorite songs on guitar. He knows you. “You got this dreamy look in your eyes, and you’re staring so hard over my shoulder, I’m almost scared I’ll turn around to see a ghost in the window-” 

Jack Daniels will be your arch nemesis after tonight, the culprit behind the way the words suddenly tumble out of your mouth, “Do you think we’ll have kids someday?” 

You wait for the air to leave the space between the two of you with the same urgency it’s left your lungs. You wait for a crack in the air, a chasm to suddenly appear. It’s heavy – God, it’s a heavy question to suddenly ask your boyfriend of one year at a Halloween party. You’re both drunk on your friends’ balcony, and you were having a perfectly sweet moment, and you’d just gone and ruined it. And to top it all off, Eddie was still just smiling, and- 

Wait. 

Eddie was smiling. 

The air was still there, filling his lungs with calm breaths. No sign of fear within his twinkling eyes. No chasm squeezing between the stitches holding you two together. 

He’s just smiling. 

“Is that really what you were thinking about?” he quietly asks.

You almost don’t want to answer. You almost want to force out cackles of fake laughter, to double over and face the ground rather than his humored expression. 

“Yeah.” 

Maybe he doesn’t believe you yet, maybe he has to double check before he breaks out into his own laughter. Maybe the alcohol in both your veins is just delaying the inevitable that you’d been originally expecting. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

Maybe not. 

Instead of laughter, instead of mocking you, he keeps a cheery expression as he shrugs softly, “I mean, maybe? I sort of hope so. And, don’t get me wrong, I know a kid is a pretty far leap from a snake, but I’d say we make a pretty good team at keeping living things…. Well, living, y’know? Besides, I solemnly swear I won’t try to name our kids after Tolkien. I’ll reserve those names for the pets.” 

All the air leaves your lungs again, but this time, it’s a little less painful, “What?” 

“Annie’s a cute name,” he continues on, completely unphased. It’s nearly impossible to remember that you were the one who had started such a serious conversation about the future, “I also like the name Parker. I remember you mentioned that one once, right? Something about being able to nickname the kid Pac-Man, I’m pretty sure. I think that’d be pretty sick.” 

And oh, was he right. You had mentioned the name Parker once. Just not to him. Not directly, at least.

The entire ridiculous make-believe scenario had come to you during a girls’ night, after one too many glasses of wine and Nancy bringing up the topic. You, her, and Robin had all spent a good hour coming up with names for children and the best nicknames to suit them. Some had been genuine, and some had been for nothing more than shits and giggles. 

Parker, and the nickname Pac-Man, had been serious for you. Parker Anthony. You hadn’t figured out a second middle name to complete the initial acronym of Pac that night, the rosé eventually getting to you, but you had been serious. 

“You were listening that night?” you breathe out, only feeling slightly betrayed, “What the Hell? I thought you said you were going to put your headphones on and listen to some Metallica to unwind after work.”

“I lied,” he cheeses, hot palms against your barren lower back, “I’m nosey. Sue me.” 

“You could have just joined us, Eddie.” 

“And miss the chance to hear you plot out the middle names of our future children?” Eddie snorts, “Not a chance, sweetheart.” 

He says it so casually, you wonder if it’s possible for a heart to burst from optimism. 

“So,” you pause, take a deep breath, feeling the embarrassment creep back up your throat, “Is that, uh…. Is that a yes? That you do think so?”

Why was it so hard to repeat yourself, to just say the words already spoken? 

Eddie had made it clear you had nothing to lose. You two were on the same page. He hadn’t scoffed in your face, he hadn’t even pulled away at the mere mention of the idea. Instead, he had leaned fully into it, head-first as he slid right into the imaginary future with you. He’d given a name to the little girl with his hair and his spunk, to the little boy with his dimples and his mischief. 

Was it still a little too soon, too fast? Was that where the hesitation was born from? 

It just all felt a bit too easy. After the rocky start you two had endured, this entire last year had just felt too simple. 

Of course, even if the hesitation was sitting there in the pit of your stomach alongside all of your anxieties, all of your waiting for the other shoe to drop, Eddie easily soothes it all over as he gives a slow nod and responds, “Yeah. I do – I really do.” 

And you clearly wear your heart on your sleeve, emotions painted across your eyes and cheeks for him to read clear as day, because he notices that catch in your breath.

“Not right now,” he rushes to add on, “I mean, listen, we’re still adjusting to Lestat. I think I’d like to be a cat dad too, before I even think about being a girl dad.” 

“You’re gonna be a girl dad?” you laugh out without thinking, starting to thaw into a conversation that Jack Daniels had begun but you know you can surely finish with Eddie at your side, “That’s… unexpected.” 

His face scrunches for the first time during the entire conversation, “What? You don’t think I’d be a good girl dad? I already deal with my rat’s nest of hair, so I know I’d be at least decent at braiding. And can you imagine getting to take a mini-you to shows, or buying her some cute unicorn helmet once she’s old enough to ride ol’ Nightfury? God, I think I might die from cuteness overload…”

Your cheeks are aching, ears ringing with his words. But all you can do is latch onto one little phrase: mini-you. 

Here you were, picturing duplicates of Eddie bounding around the two of you, and you hadn’t considered what he might be seeing. 

Not a child with his spunk. No, he’s seeing a little girl with your wit. A little boy with your stubbornness. Those eyes of his, nearly resembling heart-shapes at this point, weren’t wanting to see carbon copies of his whiskey irises. He wanted yours to be looking back up at him. 

Hearts clearly can’t burst from an overload of optimism, of happiness. Yours beats wildly as proof, still intact behind your ribs that bloom with rosebuds for the boy pressed to your front. 

“Mini-me?” you murmur, making him trail off, focused entirely on you so sincerely you could choke up. You shake your head, letting out a soft huff of air, smiling down at the ground, “No, I- I think you’ll be an amazing dad, Eddie. I just didn’t…. I just forgot…”

“That I’m with you all the way?” he finishes your sentence for you, one eyebrow arched as he gives a squeeze to one of your hips, “You could decide tomorrow you don’t even want to talk about having a kid ever again, that you’d rather get ten more snakes and live as some sort of cryptic couple somewhere in the Midwest the rest of our lives, and I’d be just as excited. I don’t really care where we end up, sweetheart – I just care that it’s with you,” You can no longer tell if it’s his words or the remnants of alcohol in your system that has you tearing up. All you know is that you are, and it’s ridiculous, but it’s fine, because all you see are dark brown eyes and entire realms of possibility in front of you, “Girl dad, snake dad, cat dad – whatever you need from me, I’m your guy.”

When the first tear falls, you're quick to shoot one hand up to your cheek in order to swipe it away as the other reaches out blindly to smack Eddie softly, “Shut up. Stop being cheesy. I’m too drunk for this.” 

“You’re right,” he nods ferociously, taking over the duty of wiping away your tears without so much as mentioning it, “Wanna make out again instead?” 

You let out a snort, and it eggs him on. 

“Or, hey,” his eyes light up, some of the seriousness of the moment fading naturally, “Maybe we ditch this party and start practicing. You know, in case we still want kids someday.” 

His pupils widen a bit, and you know surely that it’s only half a joke. You don’t miss the way his breathing picks up at the thought.

“Careful, big boy,” you tease, leaning into his feathery touch on your cheek, relishing the way the nickname draws him under your spell even when you aren’t saying it with an ounce of gravity, “It’d be awfully dangerous to get yourself worked up in such short shorts.” 

Saying it outloud almost makes you want to see it, genuinely. 

“Worked up?” he scoffs, backing up a little, caught off-guard, “Who says I’m getting worked up? I’m not getting worked up.” 

It doesn’t matter how many steps back he takes from you, you still follow, your palm still lands dead center on his chest as you roll your eyes, “Right. Because I’m totally meant to believe that the guy who used to jack off to Playboy magazines with girls who looked like me isn’t going to pop a boner at the thought of fucking a baby into me-”

He shuts you up with a kiss. Nearly more resembling a bite, his canines digging right into your bottom lip as he pulls you forward and collapses back against the glass door behind him. 

No words are spoken, no subtle interruptions for this kiss. Toying a dangerous line, dancing along a narrow cliff, and he’s the one who’s decided to drag the two of you off of it. 

You don’t mind. You’d follow him to the ends of the world if he asked you to. 

When one of his hands reaches up to your scalp, tugging at the roots of your hair for no other reason than he can, your mouth opens up into a silent laugh. An invitation, a jeer, a challenge. A quiet whisper of go ahead, do it. Consume me already. 

He’s already everything to you. He’s already a definition of home thinly veiled with skin and bones, a future with a heartbeat. 

His tongue down your throat doesn’t change the matter. Just reclaims it. 

A whine is lost in translation somewhere from the back of your throat and right into his cheeks. His right hand wraps around some of the skin of one of your thighs, encouraging it to lift up to his hip, and you can still feel the memory of his usual rings imprinting into your skin. A permanent tattoo, a ghost of a feeling that’ll haunt you for all time – you love it. You want to live there forever, right here in this haunted house, collecting memories and dust of all that he is. 

Haunted houses are only lonely when you’re left to wander these halls all by yourself, and you think he’d truly cross over into the actual afterlife rather than leave you like that. 

The kiss is almost enough to forget where you are and who’s waiting on you inside the apartment. It’s almost enough to have you recreating that fateful night from over a year ago, to let him bend you back over this balcony railing again, and this time, any squeals you let out won’t be of fear. You’d face that fall head on.

His hot hands on your waist, his tongue in your cheek, his knee once again pressed between your inner thighs. Him, him, him-

A sharp rap sounds on the sliding door behind Eddie, and you’ve never jumped apart faster. 

It’s Robin and Nancy at the door, Lestat happily wrapped around Robin’s forearm as she waves and points eagerly to him and Nancy simply crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow as though she might have been a disappointed mother rather than a friend at the moment. 

You done? Robin mouths, exaggerating her silent enunciation. 

As you nod, Eddie only deeply sighs, throwing his head back against the glass with a soft thump. Nancy is quick to throw out a palm against the glass and tap back at him, mimicking swatting him for his theatrics. 

Eddie pays no mind to Nancy’s retaliation, or maybe he just doesn’t see it, as he whines out, “I didn’t even get my cigarette.”

“Oh, cut it out, drama queen,” you snicker, trying to hide all your breathlessness as you fully pull away, “We’ve left our son alone long enough. You can chainsmoke to your heart’s desire once we get back home.” 

You’re already walking towards the door, Nancy and Robin having retreated further into the kitchen, when he catches your wrist to tug you back close to him. He leans down, deliberate and careful to make sure his lips catch against the lobe of your ear, whispering soft as night, “Can’t chainsmoke if I’m too busy fucking a baby into you, sweetheart.” 

It feels like someone’s poured literal fire across your body. As if flames have been dumped over the crown of your head, and are licking their pathway down your spine. 

“Eddie.” 

If you don’t get inside within the next ten seconds, you’re definitely going to make a decision you regret. 

He’s chuckling the entire time he steps around you, opening the door and waving for you to slip inside in front of him. Your entire body is still burning so violently, you barely register the way his fingers hang at his side and make a point to brush the back of your thigh when you pass him. 

Bastard, you want to snipe, but instead you just smile. 

—

The next morning, you’re awoken by the incessant pinging of your phone. 

You try to ignore it at first, burying your head deeper beneath the covers as a headache pulses at the edges of your mind, but after the fifth ping, it becomes impossible. 

“Who the fuck is texting us this early?” Eddie’s muffled voice complains into his pillow, facedown with one arm thrown across you securely. 

You can even feel him kick his bare legs in a show of defiance next to yours at the edge of the bed. If it wasn’t for the late night prior catching up to you, it’d be something sweet to laugh at. 

“What time is it?” you croak, scooching further up the bed, making Eddie’s arm around you only tighten. As if he can stop you from getting out of bed, or delay the inevitable by resisting you checking the phone, “Is it even early?” 

His free arm that had been tucked below his pillow flings out to the bedside table quickly, grabbing blindly for at least one of your phones. It doesn’t really matter if it’s yours or his; he’s got the password to both. 

“It’s eight in the fucking morning,” he curses, seeming more awake as he notices that he was right in it being early. “How in the fuck is anyone up right now? We didn’t leave until nearly three.”

His arm is finally loose enough for you to sit up properly, tugging the comforter with you to keep your bare chest covered, “Lemme see it.” 

“If it’s Harrington, can you post my bail for murder?” 

“You’re not killing Steve,” you nonchalantly reply as you snatch the phone right out of his hand. It had been yours, unsurprisingly. You don’t even know if Eddie remembered to put his own phone on the charger before the two of you had promptly passed out. You hardly even remember how you managed to do so, “But – yeah, it’s Steve.” 

“Fucking Harringt-”

“And Robin. And Jonathan.” 

“Have I mentioned I hate our friends?” 

The fog of sleep has officially lifted for you, and despite the wave of fatigue and aching joints you’d argue you’re far too young to be experiencing right now, you smile at your grumpy boyfriend. He exchanges his pillow for your stomach, shoving his entire cheek tightly to you as his arms wrap around you slowly. Clinging to you like a child, squinting against what little light pours in through the curtains. 

“You don’t hate them,” you murmur, holding the phone in one hand to get a better look at the phone as the other cards through his curls, “You hate mornings.” 

He hmphs in agreement, relaxing against your makeshift scalp massage. 

DINGUS: WHY THE FUCK IS THERE A PHOTO OF ME WITH A SNAKE IN THIS CHAT? 

BIRDIE: it is too early to be yelling

DINGUS: oh my bad

DINGUS: WHY THE FUCK DID YOU, ROBIN, SEND A PHOTO OF A SNAKE IN THIS FUCKING CHAT? WHO’S FUCKING SNAKE IS THAT?

You can’t help the gasp that leaves your mouth as you begin to see what the entire commotion was, and Eddie is lifting his head immediately.

“What?” he questions, moving to lift himself up and peer over the top of the phone, nosier than ever, “Why did you gasp? Is someone dead?” 

You scroll up, finding the photo being referred to.

“Not yet.” 

Steve, clearly partaking in another round of karaoke. Eyes glazed over, mid stumble based on the blur. 

“What do you mean not yet?” 

Most impressively, most notably, is the snake around his neck. 

Lestat, without a care in the world, his upper body being cradled by Steve’s palm as your drunk friend appears to be serenading the snake. 

You bite back your smile, eyebrows high as you glance down at Eddie, “You remember when we let Steve sing Taylor Swift while holding Lestat? About… two and a half drinks after he finally noticed we had him, and he didn’t flip out courtesy to all that Absolute vodka?” 

“Oh, fuck me.” 

Eddie flings himself back to the edge of the bed in search of his phone just as another notification pings. 

JOHNNY: I’ll do you one better. I have a video.

You don’t know if you’ve ever watched Eddie excitedly type on his phone faster than he does once he’s read that message, already giggling like a fool long before you can see what he’s sent in the chat. 

LOVER BOY: Johnny, my boy, you can’t just say that and NOT send it.

JOHNNY: Unlike you, I don’t have a death wish. 

DINGUS: WHO’S FUCKING SNAKE WAS IT? IS IT EDDIE’S? 

YOU: i will not stand for this erasure of me as lestat’s mother. 

Eddie snorts and looks up at you with glee as he reads your response, “He’s going to kill us, isn’t he?” 

“Can we be buried next to each other?” you respond with a question instead, looking at him lazily, “We could have matching headstones.” 

“Oh, hell yeah,” his grin is worth whatever Hell there may come to pay with Steve and the Lestat debacle last night, “Should we look up designs or-” 

He’s cut off by the trill ringing of his own phone, watching several messages roll into the groupchat in quick succession. 

DINGUS: who the fuck is lestat?

BIRDIE: the snake, dingus. 

NANCE: As someone who has seen the video… I think Jonathan should send it. 

DINGUS: DON’T YOU DARE

You’re a mess of hoarse giggles, hardly able to look at Eddie for the fear of both of you descending right into a madness of laughter. Like two children staying up too late at a sleepover, the room rings out with all your little noises, Eddie propping up his chin to watch you with the widest of smiles. 

Except you’re not children – you’re just two idiots, in your shared apartment, with your shared snake in the living room and your shared friends blowing up both your phones. 

Mornings have never felt quite as sweet as this kind. 

“We’re gonna hear an earful next time he sees us, aren’t we?” Eddie finally sighs wistfully, rolling over flat on his back, head propped up slightly in your lap. 

“Oh, definitely,” you nod, taking to twirling his frizzed curls around your knuckles this time rather than scratching mindlessly at his scalp, “But who cares? You saw how in love with the snake he was after a few drinks. He’ll come around, sober this time.”

Eddie doesn’t reply, eyes fluttering shut. 

You let the two of you sit in the quiet a bit longer, phones still buzzing with new messages, but the chaos can wait. For now, you just want to drink it in. Rays of vivid sunlight, the silence from the lack of the buzzing AC unit, the birds chirping annoyingly outside the window. You have one foot in relaxation, and one foot in the hangover you know you’ll have to battle once you choose to leave this bed. 

“You know what sounds good?” you question, nearly under your breath. You’re really thinking outloud more than anything, but Eddie still entertains you with a hum in his tired state, “Betty’s.” 

He’s the equivalent of a puppy dog who’s heard the word walk. One second, Eddie Munson is seemingly dead to the world, and the next, he’s perked up entirely. If it wasn’t for his nude state, he’d probably already be out the door with his keys in hand, dragging you right along with him. 

His eyes shimmer despite heavy lids as he asks, “Almond croissants?” 

A small nod, an ever present smile. You recall the conversation from the night before as you look into those deep russet eyes, and you see an entire future of late nights and almond croissants reflected back. 

“Almond croissants.”

[batkin028]

🖤🖤

[hellfire--cult]

MafiaBoss!Alpha!Eddie Munson x Omega!Fem!Reader

wc: 17k

+18, omegaverse, boss and secretary, possessive behaviour, jealousy, blood mentions, biting, rough, smut, p in v (unprotected), oral (both ways), slight dubcon at a point, mentions of nancy x reader, fingering, heat and rutting behaviour, breeding kink, spit, marking, degradation

Plot: Being the secretary of a Mafia boss was not easy, much less when you believed your boss was your scent mate and you knew he made your omega coworkers stay after hours to fuck them, yet he never called you to stay. It was time to move on, but your boss smelled the scent of another Alpha on you and decided to make sure you knew who you belonged to.

A/N: it was intended to be just a smut thing, never to be this long. Oh well, enjoy 9k words of pure filth out of that count. this isn't the header i intended, but it'll do

Don't be lazy and reblog.

AFTER HOURS

You didn’t want to pay it much attention. 

You absolutely didn’t. 

But you couldn’t help yourself as you smelled him, walking through the doors a room away. That scent was filled with ash and iron, yet it was intoxicating in the most addicting of ways. You didn’t want to be loving his scent, but you just couldn't avoid it. The omega inside of you always craved to go closer for a deeper smell, but you couldn’t.

He is your boss and you can’t want him this way. You can’t. You’re his secretary, well, one of them. There are four of you in total, always sitting outside of his office at your respective desks. Your coworkers are Omegas, just like yourself, and you have known them for over six months since you started working here.

You found the job offer through a friend of yours, Robin. Your beta best friend that told you her girlfriend was looking for a new secretary at her workplace. You were desperate to leave your old job, being dragged around by a misogynistic Alpha, telling you you were too dumb to be more than a mere assistant, even if you were great at your work and did it all so he would not have anything to do during the day.

You were shoving your resume in Robin’s hands the second she said that. You wanted out, you needed out, and Robin gladly passed it on to her girlfriend. You were called for an interview a week later, but you didn’t expect the job offer to come from one of the highest social buildings in the city. 

You never knew what was inside but you could only guess it was a big company of some sort. When walking through the building, you could smell iron all around you, not blood to be exact, but just a strong smell. It smelled… powerful. A scent that intensified the more you walked through the office.

Then you finally saw Chrissy, going into a glassed room for your interview. You had met Chrissy before, but just a wave from afar. Robin told you Chrissy preferred to stay away from social events, or from meeting new people because of her work. That threw you off but your friend smiled apologetically and you didn’t press on the subject.

As the interview went on, the iron smell got stronger, sharper, only for you to turn around and for your eyes to clash against deep brown ones with dilated pupils. The smell was coming from him. From the man dressed in black outside of the room, his face almost touching the glass, his breath fogging it from how hard he was inhaling and exhaling. 

You remember how awe-struck you were with him, and you remember how badly you wanted to get up from your chair to rush after him. But you saw him take a step back, giving Chrissy a nod and then walking away. You were confused and looked at Chrissy with a questioning look and that’s when you found out.

This was the Komodo mafia gang. They owned many businesses, residences, buildings… You were being interviewed to be Eddie Munson’s secretary. Eddie Munson is an alpha, and the boss of this gang. The owner. The leader. 

Your thoughts were cut off when you saw the doors open, your head whipping to the side to see your boss walking in, ripping his blazer off, the smell of actual blood rushing into the room. All the omegas winced at the smell, as well as the other betas that were walking around with paperwork in their hands. 

Your worry raised, unlike the other Omegas who were aroused or scared in the room, you were worried. Did something happen to him? Is the blood splattered on his shirt his own? Someone else’s? Your nose twitched as a sweet note of vanilla invaded you, and you saw Eddie walking by your desk, giving you a pointed look.

“I’m fine. Anything I need to catch up on?” His voice was low as he stood in front of your desk and you stood up as you tried to go back into your professional stance, shaking your head.

“No sir. I already knew that Kromstar’s dealership had to be sealed in the morning, so I took care of that.” You stood proudly, chin tilted up as you looked at your boss’s reaction. A small smirk was sent your way, followed by a single nod. You grabbed the paperwork from your desk and raised it towards him.

“Perfect. Good job my Rose.” He leaned forward, his hands reaching to hold the paperwork, but the tip of his index finger ran over yours and your breath left your lungs for a second as an electric shock ran down your spine. Your eyes locked with his as you saw his nose flare up slightly and then he took a step back from you.

“Do you– need me to get you some fresh clothes, Mr. Munson?” You kept your voice to a normal level, steady, professional. He shook his head as his eyes scanned your face, only to then look away and start walking towards his office.

“No, Chrissy already prepared stuff for me.” And like that, the scent slowly went away as he closed the doors to his office behind him. You turned your head to see the other omegas and betas looking at you and then returned to their business. 

You sighed as you sat down again. Rose. His Rose. Eddie named his workers with flowers, but the only one that he called by her name was Chrissy. Steve, the male omega, he called Sunflower. Heather, the other female omega, he called Cosmo, and then Carol he called Carnation.

When you were named Rose you were surprised. You wondered what color of rose he pictured when naming you it. Was it pink? Red? White? A rosebud? A single rose? What colors were the other Omegas? Either way, your name caused a string of rumors that didn’t cease until a month later from your first day at your new job.

But he never referred to them as… his. You were the only one. You always wondered why.

You looked up to see Steve and Heather gossiping, and you wondered why you were never close to them. It was fairly civil, but you can’t say you shared a single lunch with them, nor with Carol. You guessed you were not part of their group because–

“Sunflower.” Chrissy’s voice made your head snap towards the big black office doors, her head peeking out. She sent a small greeting smile your way, which you reciprocated before she turned her head back to Steve, who was standing up from his desk so the Alpha knew she had his attention. “Stay after hours tonight.”

You heard a chirp coming from Steve’s way, the scent of lust filling the room as well as happiness. Heather’s scent soured as she received a shoulder wiggle from Steve, showing himself off. Your stomach twirled, moved all around, and you looked down at your paperwork, knowing your scent might be bitter.

You felt your body burn with anger, sadness, and jealousy, the omega inside of you wanting to let out a whine of distress. It was not fair. You were pretty sure you were the one who wanted him the most, you were sure of it… Six months you worked here, six months you’ve seen the other three omegas being called in for after hours, knowing damn well the Alpha was fucking them behind his office doors, and…

You were never called.

Not once. You came to the conclusion he did it to keep it professional with at least one of his secretaries, but– why did it have to be you? Why? His scent drives you crazy, so much so that after that first interview you went into a triggered heat, and you weren’t even near your heat date. 

But you felt his stare. You felt it many times. You saw how his nose flared every time he came close to you, smelling you, taking in your scent just like you did with him. Your omega wanted to jump on the Alpha, and much more knowing he is a good man. He donates to schools and helps with the medical bills of many elderly people in the hospitals. Elderly people that have no one or very little. Not to mention how safe you knew you would be with someone like him. You and your pups would be cared for exceptionally.

Your Omega yearns to be submissive to this Alpha, to be bred by him, mated, protected… But Eddie can’t even see you as a random fuck. He sees you as just what you are. His secretary. You are nothing else but his dutiful, professional secretary. Nothing more, nothing less. You were the only secretary he didn’t fuck so that the job gets done, unlike the other three.

But later on, when you were already out of the office doors, you noticed you left your jacket behind. You would have not cared for it and just retrieved it the next day if it weren't for the fact that it was a friday, and it was your favorite jacket. So you went back up, all the way to the 23rd floor. 

And god you wish you hadn’t.

The smell of sex filled your nostrils as you walked out of the elevator doors. His scent, spiked, aroused, strong, and fierce. You walked by the cubicles where a few betas were still typing away stuff, only caring for the job to be done. Guards stood by the door where your desk was, your office.

You were let in and you felt your knees weaken and tremble the closer you got to the desk, which was the closest to Eddie’s door. His office. You could hear the purring, the moaning, Steve calling Eddie’s name, and–

“Alpha– Knot me– Knot me, please–”

You felt like vomiting. You needed to get out of there. You needed to run. You needed to leave this place. Your hand snatched the jacket off the back of your chair and you rushed out of the doors and past all the cubicles. You didn’t want to think about it. You couldn’t bear to think about Eddie knotting someone. 

As soon as the doors of the elevators closed, you let yourself whine and sob a couple of times as tears filled your eyes. Why do you feel so rejected? Nothing ever happened between the two of you. Nothing. The words were very little, and the most physical contact you had with him was the brushing of fingertips when he reached for something that was on your hand.

It didn’t make sense, but it might mean you found your scent mate… only that it’s one-sided. If it is that, you would have to leave the city. Leaving the job only won’t do the trick, you need to leave the city, fuck, even the state. 

You felt your belly cramp less and less the more floors you went down and the less you could smell the aroused Omega and the feral Alpha. You can’t keep doing this. Maybe you need the distraction. You need someone else.

These six months you’ve been working here, there was this pull or this sense of respect that didn’t allow you to properly agree to dates or encounters with other people. Not even betas. You didn’t know why but you just felt like you needed to reject these advances. Your hands gripped your purse and zipped it open, taking out your cell phone and opening your Instagram.

Maybe this will help you feel better.

It did, yet it didn’t.

It did because Nancy was very sweet. The Alpha met you through Robin at a party once, and you chatted all night long, exchanging usernames on Instagram with one another. She messaged you a couple of times but soon after you started your new job and you didn’t feel the need to engage with her in such a manner any longer.

And when meeting with her she was kind, and respectful, and you were the one that had to initiate the flirting stance of the night out. Nancy was a good alpha. She looked like she could take care of you, so you didn’t mind when she asked if you wanted to go back to her place. 

That’s when your mind couldn’t help but think of someone else when having sex with Nancy.

It wasn’t fair. You didn’t want to imagine him, but you felt like if you didn’t you wouldn’t have been able to even suck her cock. You don’t know what to make out of it, but you wanted her to knot you. You wanted it so you could confirm if you had an unrequited scent mate situation, and by the looks of it, it seems you did… You didn’t let Nancy knot you. You backed out at the last minute.

Her knot bumped into your entrance a couple of times, but you couldn’t let it in. You just let out warning growls at her everytime it did and Nancy respected it. But, even amidst all of that, you at least had your thirst quenched. Even if a bit and with someone you didn’t truly want.

Now monday, back in the forsaken office you want to burn down to start a whole new torturous week. You were at your desk, putting your paperwork away as Carol talked to you from hers, steps away from yours.

“Someone had fun.” She snickers as she chews on her gum and you glance once at her and back down, Steve’s voice filling your ears.

“Carol, knock it off.” Out of the three omegas, Steve was the most tolerable one. You looked up at him and he gave you a nod and then looked back down at his papers. Carol scrunched her nose and then started writing down on her contracts. 

You wondered if the three showers you took were not enough. You were sure it was enough. You didn’t have any marks on you, you told Nancy not to leave any. You sighed at how unprofessional this might make you seem in front of everyone. You tried taking the scent off but it seems it didn’t work and now everyone knows. 

The iron scent filled your nostrils and you knew your boss got off the elevator. All of you got up from your desks to receive your boss, but your nose scrunched when you started smelling something bitter or pungent. The doors opened with Eddie, followed by Chrissy right on his heels. His hands were in his pockets as the four secretary omegas gave a nod and a greeting to their boss. 

He was about to pass by you but he suddenly stopped. You tilted your head as you saw his nose flaring slightly. The scent in the room became a little suffocating, your knees feeling like they wanted to give up on you and it seemed that it was taking an effect on the other omegas because you could hear Heather whining in fear in the corner of the room.

You didn’t know what was going on, but then another scent joined in, spicy, alarmed. Chrissy was inspecting Eddie’s back and then she slowly turned to face you. Her eyes widened slightly as she took a deep breath in. 

Your eyes were wide, eyebrows meeting in the middle as you saw Eddie slowly turning to face you. His eyes were black, pure black. You could feel your omega wanting to submit, to ask for forgiveness, but for what? You didn’t do anything wrong, so why is his anger directed towards you? 

“Mr. Munson?” Your voice was small and worried, but you needed to know why he was looking at you like he wanted to… kill you? 

“Mr. Munson, I think we should head inside.” Chrissy’s hand pressed on his shoulder as Eddie’s eyes kept scanning you, from head to toe. Did you do something? Did you forget to do paperwork on friday? Did you miss a client? No, it’s not like you… but who knows? You are human.

Eddie’s face got closer to yours as you stood there, looking at him as he towered over you, his presence bigger than this room, and you felt like you were being suffocated. You felt your heart hammering in your chest, his breath hitting your face as it came out of his nostrils in harsh puffs. 

His face was tense, his jaw clenched, and a vein was popping out on his forehead. Then you heard a low rumble, a vibration and you realized that he was growling. Your boss was growling at you. You whined slightly now, knowing you had done something wrong. You didn’t know what but he was displeased with you, no, he was angry, furious with you.

“Sir–” Chrissy tried again, this time more alarmed, more pressure in her tone, but keeping her Alpha rank below Eddie’s. She sounded worried as she looked at you and then back at Eddie, and– was he going to fire you? What did you do?

Eddie growled loudly as a rough hand made your pen holder fly across the room and hit the wall with force. You gasped and jumped one step back at the sudden aggressiveness, never having seen your boss like this. You were scared, worried, alarmed, but you wanted to apologize, for whatever you did. 

The male Alpha huffed once and marched into his office. Chrissy was breathing heavily and then looked at you, shaking her head to calm you down. You didn’t notice the whine that was leaving your throat until Chrissy tried to shush you.

“What– Did I forget to do something on friday?” You were trembling, and Chrissy shook her head and was about to press a hand on your shoulder, trying to comfort you, only to retreat before doing so.

“N-No… he– had a rough weekend. Please, don’t be alarmed omegas, just– Please, have a twenty-minute break and come back.” Chrissy gave you one last glance before she turned and rushed into the Alpha’s office. You looked at the other Omegas in the room and they were as confused as you but more scared. The guard nodded to you all towards the other door, and you wanted to barge into his office and ask if he was okay. Ask for forgiveness, or do something to make him feel better.

But as you were escorted out for your break, you started hearing things breaking inside his office as well as muffled yelling. You held a whine in as your body trembled and then you walked out of your office. You looked at the other three omegas who only crossed their arms at you with frowns on their faces.

“What the fuck did you do?” Heather asked and you shook your head, not knowing what to say.

“I– I swear I don’t know, I– I did all my work on friday and I rechecked today and everything is fine?” Your heart wanted to explode and your stomach twisted with nerves and you needed to pace. You needed to let go of the energy that was consuming you. The omegas followed you as you walked towards the balcony to get some air, the murmurs of your other coworkers making your head throb. You didn’t need the speculations or people making more rumors about you. Not right now.

“You did something! Did you check properly?” Steve asked this time and you growled at them, taking them aback. Omegas hardly growled, only when purely distressed or displeased.

“I didn’t! Maybe it was one of you that lacked on their job to get their pussy wet with the boss and since I’m the only one that actually works, I get the fucking blame!” Your voice was loud, high-pitched, angry, and fed up. Carol cleared her throat and scoffed as she squinted at you.

“Don’t blame it on us. It’s not our fault he doesn’t want to touch a single strand of your head.” Your heart plummeted to the ground at that and Steve pressed a hand on Carol’s shoulder only for her to rip it out of his grasp and walk away. 

You were looking down at the floor, and you felt your eyes fill with tears. You heard Steve and Heather mumble something to one another before walking away, and then all you could hear was the beating of your heart in your ears. What did you do? What have you done so badly, so wrongly, for him to get angry like this?

Will you get fired? Maybe… Fuck, what if you do get fired? But didn’t you want to? Wasn’t that one of the best decisions for you? You didn’t want to feel this anymore, this rejection, this pain in your gut. You don’t want to be near him any longer, not if you have to watch him be with others all the time. Watch him choose others before you. You can’t keep doing that to yourself.

So maybe if he fires you it is for the best. Whatever the reason might be. You would be able to move on at one point, leaving the city, away from him and his scent. Yes, it will hurt leaving Robin behind, but you can’t bear it. You can’t. Seeing him this angry at you, not only makes you feel little and useless, but also it adds up to the rejection. You feel unwanted, undesired.

You take your time, taking deep breaths before walking back. The other three already returned to their desks, but you took one more minute to yourself. You took a deep breath in before you walked through your office doors and you could hear your coworkers typing away, in silence.

The air was tense, the scent around you all was covered by sprays and blockers, yet you could still smell the bitterness, the sourness, the musk. You just wanted to head home. You needed to head home. Maybe you can call Chrissy and tell her you don’t feel well. Yeah, you’ll do that.

You walked towards your desk and slowly sat down on your chair. As soon as you did, Eddie’s door opened and Chrissy walked out, closing the door behind her. All the omegas snapped their heads to look at her, expectantly, except for you. You knew that when Chrissy walked out of Eddie’s office it meant–

“You’ll stay after hours tonight.” That. She always says that. Wait–

“Huh?” Your head snapped upwards to see Chrissy looking down at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

“You’ll stay after hours tonight. No questions asked, you cannot reject it. You must stay.”

Your eyes were wide as you looked at how she turned and walked back into the black doors, the guard moving away for her to enter. You looked at the door, and stared at it as if what just happened was a fantasy that happened in your head. There’s– 

Your breathing accelerated as you looked down at the desk. This wasn’t like when he asked for Steve or Heather or Carol to stay, wasn’t it? You couldn’t smell anything, fuck, you couldn’t smell what he was feeling at all. You can still smell the bitterness despite the blockers in the room, but you don’t know if it is remnants of before or–

“Hey, hey, you need to calm down.” You didn’t notice Steve was in front of you with worry in his eyes as he rested his palms on your desk. You looked at him, frowning, lip trembling, and you didn’t notice the whines coming from your throat. Your eyes filled with tears as the anxiety consumed you, and you were in clear distress.

“I mean, Steve, she has every right to be like this, it’s not like he is calling her to do what he does to us.” Heather snickered on the corner, disguising her displeasure of you being called tonight, but also calm because the boss was not in a good mood at all. That comment didn’t make you feel any better, if anything, it made you feel worse. 

The first time you are asked to stay after hours, and it’s because you might get fired or– killed? It looked like that. He looked like he was going to eat you or rip you to shreds, not sexually. It didn’t look like that for you at all, and the scent he was leaving was a clear giveaway.

“Heather, shut the fuck up, you’re not helping.” Steve bared his teeth slightly at the coworker and all you could do was stare down at your desk. You started frowning as you looked down at your papers. Everything is fine… You know it. You know everything you did was right and on time. Work wise? You were impeccable.

Your posture changed as you straightened up and took a deep breath in. You cleared your throat and gathered your papers and looked at your computer. You will recheck but, you know everything was fine. You looked at Steve and directed a soft smile his way.

“I’m fine. It was nice working with you Steve, I say this just in case we don’t see eachother after today.” Your voice became low, calm as your thoughts settled. Whatever you did, it wasn’t of your knowledge, or whatever someone else did and blamed it on you. You know you did everything right, so even if you’re scared… terrified, you will stand your ground.

Steve only cleared his throat and walked back to his desk as Heather and Carol looked back down to their computers as they shared one look. It wasn’t nice working with them, you weren’t going to lie to them, but Steve was the only one that helped you with stuff, despite him fucking your possible scent mate.

Now it was a matter of waiting, looking at your watch as the hours went by, and your nerves started eating away your intestines, your stomach, just everything. You felt like you were being consumed slowly but you had to keep your head straight. You were not going to be chewed for something you didn’t do, or a misunderstanding, or a rumor.

You might not return to your office tomorrow, so you started putting some of your stuff all together in your drawer, maybe someone will bring you a cardboard box for later on. Steve was looking at you from the corner of his eye, eyebrows frowned as he typed away.

And then, 6 PM arrived. Chrissy walked out from the black doors and looked at the other three Omegas with a sharp look.

“Leave immediately.” Your breath was taken out of your lungs as you heard her authoritative tone, her Alpha voice vibrating against the walls of your office. Steve gave you one last look before he got up from his chair and ducked his head as a goodbye. You stayed in your chair as you saw how the other omegas left the office giving you final glances.

Your heart was accelerated, wanting to break out from your chest and you felt the blood rushing through your ears like a waterfall. You looked at Chrissy and she turned to face the guard. Without a word, the guard that was on Eddie’s door walked out of your office, surprising you because the guards never left.

“Um… why is Geoffrey–” 

“You must stay on this floor. The boss doesn’t want…” Chrissy bit her tongue as she looked at you with a frown. You didn’t know if it was stern, or worried, or a mixture of both. “Get inside his office once you do not hear anyone else. Good luck Rose.”

And then you saw Chrissy walking out of the door of your office. You sucked in a breath as you saw from the open door how all the betas were being commanded to leave, which never happened. There were always a few who stayed or did night shifts. Your breath was heavy as you realized Chrissy was clearing out the floor, leaving you and Eddie as the only people on it.

You heard the elevator ding many times as people left. You still couldn’t smell anything, and you didn’t notice you were scratching the wood of your desk from your anxiety. You sharpened your ear until no more dings came from outside. You gulped as you shakily stood up from your chair and looked at the big black double doors. 

You stepped away and fixed yourself, wanting to appear unaffected or as professional as possible, not wanting him to know how anxious you were. You took a few steps towards his office, your heels clicking on the floor. You took a sharp deep breath in as your hand trembled, grabbing the door handle. You then opened it and– oh god–

The scent was strong, pungent, making your nose burn. It was a mixture of so many smells, including wood, lemon, ash, and leather? Musk? But you also noticed the hint of bitterness, of sourness. Strong and sharp. It was suffocating, yet– you could feel your belly turning, strongly, pulling you to him. You felt your body growing hot, just like it always did when you caught his scent but this time it was ten times worse.

You held your breath in order to concentrate on your task of walking inside, seeing his back turned to you, behind his desk, and looking out his big windows, going all the way to the very tall ceiling. His hair was tied up in a bun, wearing a black buttoned-up shirt with a loosened burgundy tie around his neck, with the sleeves rolled up just under his elbows and his black pants. He had a cigarette in his hand and you could see the smoke leaving him as it went over his head.

“Lock the door after you walk in.” His voice was demanding, not yet authoritative. You wanted to run away from this confrontation but you knew he would come in contact with you one way or another. 

You slowly stepped inside, feeling like every step was one step closer to your doom, or to something unknown. You closed the door and took a deep breath in as you locked the door just as he ordered. Were you… going to die? Did you read something you shouldn’t have? You don’t remember anything that would have made you think you shouldn’t have, so–

“Come closer Rose.” His voice was strained, angry still. You gulped and followed his instructions, slowly taking steps closer to him until you were ten steps away from his desk. The scent was stronger and you felt like kneeling before him as you felt wetness start to pool inside your underwear. You were embarrassed, but maybe he won't notice if you don’t show it. Fuck his scent for making you this way, you might die right now, and all you can feel is being horny?

“Sir… What do you… need me for?” You asked, slowly and mostly submissive, to show him that whatever he says will go, at least for now. You heard a rumble, and you didn’t know if it was a groan or a growl. He took a puff out of his cigarette before speaking again.

“Do you know why you’re here?” 

“Not really… Did I do something to make you this displeased?” It was a risky question, but someone had to break the ice for it. 

“You did.” You felt your breath being knocked out of your lungs. Fuck, what did you do? What could you have possibly done? Whatever you did was no small thing, remembering how he threw your pen holder across the room. 

“I– I checked everything I did on friday and I didn’t notice anything– Was it something my colleagues had to do that–”

“Did she knot you?”

Your mouth fell open as you looked at his back, your heart stopping completely at the question. How did he–?

“What?”

“I asked you a question, Rose, so you answer it accordingly.” And then your boss slowly started turning around, and you felt your blood leaving your body as his eyes, now all black, not a single speck of brown anywhere looked into your soul. You couldn’t see his irises from how dilated his pupils were. His features were clenched, eyebrows tense, and when he fully turned to you, you saw how his chest was moving quicker than normal because of his breathing. “Did. She. Knot. You.”

Your eyes looked into his again, noticing the anger, the rage, the desperation that lingers there. Your scent probably spiked right now because irritation coursed through you. How dare he? Why? You need confirmation that he has the information of your personal life, because, why the fuck would he need it?

“I’m sorry Sir, she?”

“Nancy Wheeler. 27. Journalist. Presented at the age of 15 as an Alpha, moved to the city of Chicago three years ago to pursue her career. She has two siblings, her father, and mother still alive, no Omega mated to her, so this is your last chance to answer. Did she knot you?” His voice was low, commanding, not yet authoritative in his Alpha tone, but it was coming to it. Your lip twitched at this man's audacity, not understanding the reason for the interrogation.

“With due respect, I don’t think my personal affairs are important at all.” And then Eddie’s hands slammed against the desk and your eyes widened when the Alpha’s teeth were suddenly bared, growling at you, the noise sending a wave of daggers across your entire skin.

“I CAN SMELL HER ON YOU!” His voice was loud enough that you felt like the walls shook from its vibration. Your heart was about to explode as you took a step backwards, your belly turning in fear as well as– arousal? Nerves? You couldn’t pinpoint it, but his scent was becoming stronger and stronger and it was making your mind turn hazy and your belly cramp slightly.

How dare he? How dare he ask something like that? Why does he care or why does he acknowledge it? Is it because Nancy’s Alpha scent was stronger than his? Was his ego crushed? You stepped back to the place you were standing, your face stern as you defied your boss, your senses on alert and sharp as you looked at him, trying not to glare to not create more discourse.

“I repeat, I do not believe my personal business has anything to do with you, sir. I do not meddle in yours, except work-related. All professional business.” Your voice was firm and assertive, yet there was a hint of shakiness behind it. Of course there was, Eddie was still baring his teeth at you, the air around you clenching your lungs, tightly, wanting to rip them apart.

He put out the cigarette on the ashtray, or one would say he smashed it into it from the force he sent his hand down. His nose scrunched up in distaste as he clenched his eyes tightly as if trying to contain himself from something. You were overwhelmed with all the Alpha pheromones that were around you, and you couldn’t understand the reason behind the question. You opened your mouth to speak again but he interrupted you with a rough tone.

“Why the fuck did you let another alpha touch you?” He asked but you didn’t know if he was asking it to you or if he was talking to himself because he was still not looking at you. He was clenching his eyes as his hands gripped the edge of the desk. You noticed the veins popping on his forearms, underneath the ink, you could still see the bumps thanks to the reflection of the soft lamps around you. 

“Sir–”

“And you didn’t even take her scent off of you. You didn’t wash her fucking scent off your skin.” His eyes looked into yours again, his top lip twitching into showing off his teeth again but he was containing himself so it seemed. You gulped and looked down at your feet, trying to control your breathing as you felt yourself becoming smaller each second he stared at you.

“I– I tried. I thought I managed but– I’m sorry if it is unprofessional–” and you heard him let out a sarcastic chuckle, making you look back up at him.

“Unprofessional? Yes. You can call it that… so I’ll take that stench off of you.” Your eyebrows knitted together in the center of your forehead, not understanding the meaning of his words.

“You’ll– I don’t understand?” And the room became silent. You made a displeased sound when you felt some slick soaking your panties and it started being a little uncomfortable. You wanted to bolt out of here, you wanted to go away but you felt– you felt like you were being preyed on. You felt like fucking prey.

“I will take that putrid smell away. I will replace it with my scent.”

And you froze. You felt as if all the blood had drained from your body in just one instant. You couldn’t feel the tip of your fingers as you watched him as he rounded the desk, steps slowly taken, the sound muffled by the single large carpet against the wooden floor. You were breathing as best as you could as your mind processed his words. 

His scent? Why? You two– 

“We– Why?” 

“Because you are mine.” And that made your blood come back to your veins, but it was burning now. His? You’re his? You saw how his eyebrow twitched at the change of attitude inside of you once again.

“Yours? I’m not yours, sir. I am free to do as I please… just like you are.” You saw his jaw clenching at your defiance as he stood in front of you, two steps away, towering over you. He smelled so good, but so strong, so dangerously strong. He squinted his eyes slightly at you as he scanned your body, and then back at your face.

“Time to change that. Strip.” You couldn’t process his words correctly in your brain. What did he say? Why–

“What–?” His eyes were staring into your soul as his hands clenched at his sides.

“Strip.” And you didn’t want to comply, you wanted answers first, or at least for him to realize how hypocritical he was being. Your body trembled with the need of submission but you prevailed, not wanting to fall for it.

“I don’t see the need to.” And that’s when you heard it, the growl, and his teeth were bared once more. 

“I said, strip, Omega.” His voice, now authoritative in his Alpha command. You felt yourself become limp, your mind shutting off slightly from rationality and control. You could only tear up as your hands went towards the buttons of your blouse against your will. You wanted answers, you needed them, not do this. 

His eyes watched you as you slowly undressed, and every try of you gaining control of your hands once again was useless. If it were another Alpha, you could have probably fought the command, but Eddie was your kryptonite. Now you are sure he is your scent mate, though you are not his. This is enough proof. Not being able to stop at all, even if there might be danger, that’s when your omega is in complete submission to THEIR alpha.

Your hands removed your blouse first, then you unzipped, and dropped your tube skirt, then got out of your shoes. You were not looking at him as you felt your eyes burning, your hands moving towards your back to unclasp your bra, letting it fall down. The last piece of clothing were your black lace panties. 

You didn’t realize you were trembling as your hand got under the elastic of your underwear, but a hand stopped you. A ringed, tattooed hand gently grasped yours and you felt yourself breathing again, for some reason feeling safe. You shortly realized it was him releasing calming pheromones towards you. His feelings were being a whiplash for you, not understanding the brutal change, not understanding if he wanted to intimidate you or rather calm you.

“You– You have your fun with the other omegas… why can’t I have my own?” Your voice came out small, but then you raised your head to look at him. His eyes were black, pitch black. His nose was flaring as he looked at you and his mouth was slightly open, and you took notice of his fangs being enlarged somewhat. You frowned at the display, at how– desperate he looked.

“I will ask… one more time…” His voice low, strained, and there was a hint of begging behind it. “Did she knot you?”

And your face twisted, your scent soured making his nose scrunch up, his eyebrow twitch as he scanned your features. 

“Did you knot them? Sunflower? Carnation? All?” You hissed through your teeth, your displeasure known for once and for all, and then, the room felt as if it spun around you, oxygen was exchanged for his smell.

A loud snarl was heard from him, vibrating within himself and you swore you could feel it inside you as well from how intense it was. How alarming. How threatening. How empowering. How… possessive. It made you shiver, whimper, and look at him with eyes filled with uncertainty, fear, excitement, arousal, and nervousness– just a mix of many emotions.

And you knew he could smell you. You knew he could smell the slick, your juices just making a mess out of your thin thong, coming out from the sides and already dampening your inner thighs. You couldn’t help yourself, you couldn’t help how your limbs were trembling for his touch, and you didn’t have to wait long for it, just not how you expected.

Tattooed hands went towards the loosened tie around his neck and undid it in one single tug. Your heart skipped a beat as he put the tie in his mouth, biting onto it, while he grabbed your wrists, making you gasp at the sudden touch, but then– fear mixed with arousal. He held your wrists together in front of you with just one hand, while he used the other to wrap the tie around them, expertly, and then tying them up together. 

It was tight, a small whimper getting stuck in your throat.

His right hand flew to the back of your head, clenching your hair in a warning and threatening grip, a hiss falling from your lips as he pulled your face closer to his. His hot breath falling on your lips like molten lava, his eyes long gone from rationality, and you know, you just know, you cannot defy him. Not now.

“On your knees.” He didn’t use his Alpha tone. He didn’t have to. Despite your fear, the twist in your gut, your dignity yelling at you at the back of your head to not do this, to not become one of his many toys just because his alpha pride was hurt, you still got on your knees. It was slow, and your eyes never left his as you sunk lower.

His hand left your head and went to undo his pants, and the zipper noise made your eyes move to the bulge that was in front of you. You couldn’t help the feeling of wanting to nuzzle your face against it, but you weren’t going to indulge in that feeling. You weren’t going to become putty, even if your omega was jumping happily, making you want to purr in delight and chirp because your scent mate was finally looking your way.

His tattooed hands, scarred even, pulled the zipper down and then his pants went downwards with a push. Your eyes were fixated on the wet stain that was over the dark blue hue of the fabric of his boxers. Your tongue tingled with the need of darting it out to lick on it, needing to taste it, to finally have his flavor in your mouth.

He could probably see it, how your eyes teared up, or clouded, pupils starting to dilate slowly, and how your own wetness was gushing out even more. You wanted to rip the tie off with your teeth, let your hands free to touch him, but– No. You cannot do this. It’s not fair. But it is what you have wanted all along, isn’t it? You closed your eyes to try to keep your brain to yourself, trying to control your body, at least regain a bit of it.

“Mr. Munson– I will not be one more for the collection.” You didn’t expect a low chuckle to escape him, but you could hear the angered growl behind it, expressing how disgusting that comment of yours was. Your eyes opened, looking up at him, only to see enraged eyes and bared teeth directed your way, which only made you tremble in fear, in anticipation, and in eagerness.

“You have no idea what the fuck you are talking about, My Rose.” His. Why is there so much anger coming from the Alpha that is now towering you? You cannot comprehend it. You cannot really understand it. His hands moved, you noticed, and then when your eyes went back to your front, your breath caught in your throat.

His cock sprung out and hit his pelvis as he pulled his boxers down enough to release it. It was thick. The tip was bright red, and it looked like it hurt. You couldn’t help yourself when your mouth started watering, seeing the drop of precum leaking out of the tip. You felt your saliva pooling on your tongue, your eyes fixated on it, and your body was suddenly set ablaze as your wrists tried pulling against the tie with no chance of success of untying yourself.

“Taste it.” Eddie’s voice was low, and commanding, and you didn’t really know if he was using his Alpha tone or not, but your body reacted instantly. Your tongue darted out, and the tip of it scooped up that drop of precum escaping him. You tasted it, mouth closed and if your mind was hazy before, it was now gone. Out of the window who you were before tasting him. Dead was the woman who could probably live without the need to know this taste. 

Your eyes were closed as you moaned at how delicious he was. Everything made sense, puzzles were put together, that little earring you thought you lost was found again, you discovered the secret ingredient to a recipe you never got right. And then–

Your eyes opened, revealing that tears had filled them, slick dripping furiously down your inner thighs, body trembling, lip wobbling as you stared up at him. The Alpha that made you simply lose yourself.

“Please… Please…” You begged. You didn’t even need to probably, but you still begged. His hand went towards your head again, his fingertips softly digging into your scalp. His jaw was clenched, strained.

“Open, Omega.” Electricity rushed through your body at the command, at his voice calling you omega. He called you it. And how can you ever defy him? Not now. Not ever. Not after this.

Your eyes looked at the red tip in front of you, and you saw how his dick twitched, bobbing a little, as if anticipating your touch, your warmth. His hand was still on the back of your head, but was not pushing you. Not that it needed to. 

Your mouth opened, tongue lolling out just slightly as you leaned forward. The tip touched your tongue first and then you kept going, finally taking him inside your mouth. A pleased growl vibrated through the room, and Eddie could only throw his head back in delight as your warmth finally started to engulf him.

Moaning is the only thing that could be heard from you the more you took him inside. Once you knew you couldn’t go further without choking, you moved your hands to help yourself only to whine at feeling them tied. You could only use your mouth on him, but it was no time to complain. There wasn’t any.

His grip tightened as you started bobbing your head, coating his dick in saliva, all over, slobbering it so much that it started running down the side of your mouth. You didn’t know it, but the Alpha before you was losing his mind, fighting against the animal that was inside of him.

Your moans helped with the vibrations around him, and you felt your entire body just burning inside out. You pulled away to be able to dip the tip of your tongue onto the slit of the head of his cock. He groaned loudly as he looked down at you and then you felt him guide you, which you obliged. 

His cock went inside your mouth again, and you started moving faster, but not by choice. If it were your call, you would take your time to taste him properly, try to trace every ridge of his veins so that it burns into your memory because, you don’t know if you will ever have this opportunity again. 

Even if your mind was knocked out of the park, you still remember how he has never called on you for months. How he slept with others and not you. How when the slight bit of his ego got damaged, he commanded you to be on your knees for him. So yes, you do not know if this will ever happen again.

So you’ll take this chance.

His hand guided you to move faster on him, your tongue slurping against the shaft, allowing him to slide in easily over and over into your mouth. Your pussy clenched with need around absolutely nothing. The scent of him filling you, sweaty, and with the distinctive little hints of cackling wood in the fire. 

Your belly turned at hearing his grunts, willing your eyes to open and look up at him, still moving your head, swallowing him in. He was looking down at you with his eyebrows meeting in the middle, groaning, growling, grunting under his breath. He looked in pain, or was it desperation? You couldn’t figure it out, but it can wait, right now you just want to keep tasting him.

You closed your eyes again, and his hips started moving against your movements, making him go a little deeper, beginning to touch the back of your throat. You started feeling the beginnings of your gags, but you focused on breathing through your nose. His grip tightened at the back of your head and then out of nowhere, he pushed you into his thrust. You yelped, or rather choked a yelp in surprise, feeling the tip of his cock pushing further into your throat. 

Your eyes started burning, raising your hands to grab onto his right knee, a silent plea to pull away before you start gagging. But at the same time you didn’t want him away, because your nose was now into his pubic hair, his scent stronger than ever and the omega inside of you was elated. 

“Taking me so good in that little mouth of yours. Such a good omega for me.” His voice was strained but you could only purr at his praise, but that action made you lose concentration and you gagged on him, coughing, and his grip loosened for you to pull away. You gasped for air as he got out of your mouth with a pop. You breathed heavily as you felt tears running down your cheeks, looking up at him with a lost look in your eyes.

“Did you say that to them as well?” The words were out of your mouth before you could think. Even in your delight, it seems the rejection you suffered these past months was not easy to forget. Not even if you were in the one thing you have wanted to experience all this time. 

He was looking down at you in disbelief. He thought he was clear enough, but he was never good with words, and his actions could be better. He snarled down at you, his fangs showing in displeasure, but you didn’t back down and you hissed at him. Your omega wanted answers, defying the Alpha towering over you, and Eddie was taken aback by it. 

You felt possessive, needing to know if he had knotted your coworkers, if he had called them omegas, if he had called them sweet yet nasty names. You felt this was your Alpha, and you were angry, saddened, disappointed. He wasn’t yours, but you certainly felt he was, and this is your excuse for the way you’re reacting.

“Dense as fuck. Cute, but aren’t you a dumb little thing?” You were stunned at his insult but you winced when he dug his fingertips into your scalp, pulling you up on your feet once more, and then he continued talking “-- let me do to you things I didn’t do with the rest.”

His lips were on yours in a frenzy, making you gasp in surprise, not expecting him to kiss you at all. He didn’t seem like the man to be keen on kissing, because most of the time people thought of it as intimate, or caring. Maybe he was not one of those people and you were completely wrong about him, because the fact is– You don’t know him at all.

But how could you complain when he didn’t care that you just had him in your mouth? His lips were hungrily devouring yours, tasting himself, and you. He groaned into the kiss, his chest rumbling in delight, resembling a purr that only made you whimper in need, your hands reaching up to grab onto his shirt. Your wrists started to hurt as you kept tugging at them to be able to touch, to feel more, but it seemed that he didn’t intend to take the tie off.

His teeth bit onto your bottom lip, and you winced as he tugged on it before pulling away. Your eyes fixated on him as he licked his teeth with his tongue and you could see the red tint on them. You were bleeding and he was moaning at the taste of it, which only made the slick overflow and run down your legs more than before.

You whined in need as you felt a cramp punching you in your belly. The need of his knot resembled that of a heat, but you knew you were not due yet. The last one you had, you asked for a week off, and it was a month ago. You had to wait for another month for your next heat, so you didn’t understand why you were cramping.

Was it because of him? Was it just his mere scent and touch enough to induce you into a placebo of a heat? Into the feel of it? He was clearly your scent mate, there was no question now. There were no doubts. To make you feel like a bitch in heat at any time of the month, that is only something scent mates are able to do.

His eyes found yours as you licked your bottom lip, tasting the iron of your own blood. It wasn’t a deep or long cut, but it was still a small one. His chest rumbled as he took a sharp intake of breath in, smelling you, your arousal, your slick. His eyes closed for a second as you stared at his features, wanting to grab onto his face and kiss him again, but– you were not able to.

“I need to fucking taste you.” You gasped at his words and then you were guided towards his desk. You saw him just throw everything on the floor, including important paperwork. You knew it was important because it was the same thing you have been working on the last week. Once the desk was cleared and he turned to face you again, you opened your mouth to complain, only to be interrupted by his hand gripping your bicep, tightly and pushing you against the desk, your hip hitting the edge of it.

You whimpered in pain, knowing very well that it would leave a bruise on your skin. Your breath got caught in your throat when his hands pressed on your waist and lifted you off the ground in order to place you on the desk. His breaths were heavy, looking at you with intensity and purpose. A shiver ran down your spine when his digits dug into the skin of your waist, fingernails seemingly sharper as it scratched your flesh.

A yelp escaped your lips as his hands pushed on your shoulders, making you fall back, laying down on the desk and quickly, his hands moved to your knees in order to spread your legs for him. You whimpered as you could tell there was a string of your slick connecting both your inner thighs, the cold air making it obvious. Tears of embarrassment filled your eyes as you turned your head to the side, hiding your face behind your tied hands.

“Don’t you dare fucking hide your face from me.” You didn’t listen, not caring for the warning growl he directed your way. Suddenly your hands were engulfed by a singular larger one and pushed upwards, over your head, your knuckles slamming against the hardwood of the desk. Your breathing hitched as your head looked back at him, a piercing and threatening gaze as he bared his teeth for your submission. 

His eyes went towards your breasts, and without a second to waste, he dove downwards, taking your right nipple into his mouth. Your body jerked at the touch, and you bit your bottom lip to hold back a moan, only to whimper in pain as you remembered you had a cut. You realized he did it on purpose so you wouldn’t be able to bite onto anything to hold back your noises. 

His tongue swirled on your perked nipple, making your stomach jump at the attention, his scent spiking up with a hint of sweetness, delight. An appreciative growl, a low purr vibrated in his throat at your taste, at your reaction to him. His free hand went to rub your left nipple, his calloused fingertips rough to the touch, and then he nipped on your right one, making you gasp as your back arched, his hand holding your wrists tightening.

He pinched and bit and sucked on your nipples like a man starved, like this was the one thing he had been dreaming about for an eternity. Your eyes widened in the haze of your lust as you saw him rubbing his neck against your breasts, passing his scent gland all over. He was marking you, putting a claim on you that you didn’t think he deserved even if you wanted it and wanted to chirp in contentment.

“Sir–”

“Alpha.” He demanded and your eyes clashed with his again. He was right on your face, eyes dark as he asked you to call him the one thing you have been wanting to call him the moment you smelled him six months ago. Why now? Should you comply? Should you call him what he wants, needs?

“A–A–” You tried, but you knew that the moment you called him that way, you were going to enter in a mild state of a hivemind. Your rationality will fade slowly, only caring for the knot of the Alpha that was towering over you right now. His knot, his scent, his bite. You felt his hand leave your wrists but before you could lower them, his hand grabbed your chin roughly, making you pucker your lips as you felt the rumble in his chest.

“I’m your Alpha, Omega, and you will call me as such.” He spat through his teeth and you could only whine, which got cut short when a moan replaced it. His hips pressed against yours and you could feel his cock pressing against your clothed, wet and throbbing cunt. You felt yourself clench at nothing. Absolutely nothing. You were fucking desperate. 

“Y–You… are not mine… and I’m not yours.” Your voice was muffled by your puckered lips and he only hissed at you in complete displeasure, in disgust towards your words.

“We’ll change that tonight. Once and for all.” He removed his hand from your breast and held onto the elastic of your thong. You gasped in pain as he pulled, the lace digging into your skin the more he stretched it until you heard a rip. You hissed at the burn the pull left on your hip, and then his hand left your face, letting you move your jaw freely once more. 

Your mind raced at his words, not knowing what he meant, looking at the ceiling as if it would whisper the answer to you, whisper the meaning of this whole act towards you, but your body jerked out of its trance when you felt his tongue running from the middle of your chest and downwards, tasting your sweat. 

Your back arched as you held a moan in, trying not to bite onto your bottom lip when he pressed the tip of his tongue onto your belly. He was closer to where you had been wanting him the most for so long. You should stop this, but can you? Do you even have the willpower to do that? The answer was simple when you felt like puking at the idea of stopping him at all.

You felt his breath hit your pussy, your ripped thong still dangling on your right inner thigh. You shivered since the air made the wetness become cold, and you put your hands on your chest, not knowing where to place them. You heard him inhale deeply, a low rumble being heard from him.

“You smell so delicious… so fucking good My Rose.” You whined at the name, wanting to tell him to call you Omega, just like he demanded you to call him Alpha. You needed to hear it again, for your own sanity before you became someone that does not know the word ‘dignity’.

“I–” You couldn’t even start talking that his hot tongue licked your slick off your inner right thigh first, and he moaned in pleasure. Your eyes widened at the feeling of it, but mostly at the sound that came out of him, and it prompted your pussy to clench and more slick to come out on a string and down towards the table below you, at the edge of it.

He licked your left inner thigh now, slurped on it and then sucked on your skin, taking your cold juices into his mouth. Your breath was stuttering at the feeling as your pussy clenched and clenched, and you wanted to yell at him, to please touch you, lick you, eat you, just anything–

And your eyes widened when he flattened his tongue all over your slit to take a long lick from it. It felt divine, you were finally in bliss as your body felt like it was in flames. It felt as if someone threw a bucket of cold water on you, but it was a temporary relief. Unbeknownst to you, your boss was trembling at the taste of you as his dick twitched in absolute need.

The resemblance of a purr could be heard in the room, not coming from you, but from him. His hands dug into your inner thighs, fingertips marking you as he stared at your pussy, his breathing becoming slightly erratic the more he looked at it. And then, he didn’t hold back.

He went in, starved, desperate, his lips circling around your aching clit and sucking on it as he kept your legs spread for him. You gasped at the feeling and finally let a moan escape your lips, but Eddie was not even listening. You could smell his scent becoming stronger than before, and you couldn’t help but purr at the notice of high arousal, of pleasure, and it was all because of one lick on your pussy.

His tongue started lapping in between your folds, running all over and slurping all the slick that just kept coming out of you. He was moaning into you as you arched your back at every flick to your clit. He was making the most obscene sounds against you and you were loving it. You felt him pull away from you, a growl of pleasure escaping him and you wanted to look down but you couldn’t use your elbows to push yourself up to do so.

“You taste so good. So fucking good. I’m addicted, I knew I would be, but jesus fuck–” His tongue went back on you, a moan leaving you as he licked your clit and sucked on it to create that amazing friction you ached for. What does he mean? What does he mean by ‘he knew’? Did he want to do this to you before? 

“Why– Why didn’t you ever–” You gasped when you felt his tongue sliding inside of you, your back arching towards the ceiling and the small of your back aching at the hardness of the desk below you. Your body was lit on absolute fire, burning you from inside out, not caring if you died in the process of it. It was almost unbearable.

He moaned loudly into you, his dick leaking precum each second that passed, twitching in need at the feel he has around his tongue. He wants to feel the fluttering of your walls that are on his tongue, around his cock. His nose rubbed against your clit as he shook his head a bit at you. He pulled away to run a finger over your slit, covering it in your juices.

“Look at it… So pretty for me. So ready to receive her Alpha.” Your pussy clenched on nothing at his praise, a purr vibrating in your throat as your hips moved against him, making the Alpha smirk in victory. “You want that, My rose? Want me to be your Alpha?”

You didn’t know if he was messing with you or not. How many times did he use this as his dirty talk when fucking Steve? Carol? Heather? How many times did he say these things to them? How many times have they fallen for this trick? 

“Don’t– Don’t play with me.” A warning snarl was sent your way and your back arched as he roughly introduced his middle finger inside of you, a gasp escaping your lips.

“I’m going to make you beg for my knot. I’m going to hear you screaming for me. I’ll make sure of this.” His finger twirled upwards as he started thrusting in and out of you in short yet striking movements. Your soft spot was rubbed on, over and over again, and the moans were coming out of your mouth without any self control.

Your mind started becoming fuzzy the more pleasure you felt, the more slick that came out of you, and the more he moaned against you at each flick of his tongue on your clit. You didn’t want to comply with his orders, but you couldn’t fight your omegan instinct much longer. 

“Oh– fuck!” You yelled out as you felt his ring finger join his middle one, his tempo increasing as he sucked on your clit, and the gushing sounds of your juices could be heard around the room, mixing with your moans, with his groans, and the smell of pure arousal was intoxicating and just making the both of you feel as if you were high.

The coil in your belly started turning, wildly, and you knew you were going to have a strong one. The one person you consider ‘Your Alpha’ was touching you the way you’ve always wanted, and by him and him only. How could you not purr? Chirp? Moan loudly?

Your hands went down to grab onto his hair, who had the bun already a bit messy from his movements, and even with your wrists tied, you managed to cling to him. He moaned into your pussy and your walls started clenching all around his fingers and that’s when you felt him add his index finger, your eyes widening at the stretch, but you felt a certain relief, like a wave of cold air washing over you.

“You need to be ready for my knot. C’mon Omega, cum around your Alpha’s fingers.” You moaned when he called himself your Alpha. As if it were true. As if he truly was just yours and for a moment you believed him as he pumped his fingers in and out of you, the loud squelching of juices even more depraved than before.

“Ed–Ed–” You stuttered out in between moans only to receive a growl in response and then you yelped as pain and pleasure mixed as he bit your clit, and even if it was gentle, it was still a sensible area. It was a warning, a threat to comply with his previous order.

“Say it.” And he twisted his fingers upwards as he made short thrusts yet quick and you felt your belly about to explode, your fingers digging into his hair as you pushed his head into you. Your knees were now bent, and you saw them tremble on the sides of his head. Your body started to shake as your mouth fell open and your eyes started going to the back of your head.

“A–Alpha!” Your orgasm crashed on you like a train, shaking you all over, short circuiting your brain and leaving you gasping for air as stars filled your vision. Eddie only cursed under his breath as his mouth latched onto your clit to help you ride your orgasm out, your pussy clenching around his fingers like a vice, and your slick was just running down, dripping from you.

He moaned at the taste of your orgasm, different to your normal slick. It was sweeter, tastier, and more intoxicating. Your grip loosened once you felt yourself stop trembling wildly, your walls unclenching from around his fingers as you slowly came down from your climax. Your breathing was heavy, feeling drained from how hard your orgasm was just now. You called him Alpha. You gave in. 

Your eyes were closed as you felt him leave your clit, and slowly pulled his fingers out from you, making an involuntary whine escape your throat at the loss of him. You felt defeated. You gave him what you didn’t want to give to someone who only sees you as one more notch in his belt. Another Omega he knotted. 

Your nose scrunched up as the air around you smelled way too intense, so much that you felt it prickle your nose. You couldn’t quite identify what it could be, but you felt like the appropriate word would be, desperation. Your eyes opened and you saw Eddie looking down at you, your slick all over his mouth, his fangs enlarged, his pupils blown out, and–

Your eyes widened as realization hit you. You were in the presence of an Alpha that had a triggered semi-rut. Your eyes went down to his still exposed pelvis, and his dick was larger, and just purely red and pulsing with need. Precum just oozed out from the tip and dripped down the shaft, and it was all for you.

And your mind was gone.

“A– Alpha…” You whimpered as your hivemind took over. Your irises were gone from how wide your pupils were, and your slick was overflowing the edge of the desk and falling onto the floor. Drip. Drip. Drip. You raised your knees towards your chest, letting you show off your pussy to him, presenting yourself in a semi mating press. 

He licked his lips as he looked down at you, his chest moving up and down as he hissed through his teeth. Your Alpha, for some reason, you felt like he was fighting against something. It felt as if he was trying to fight off the rut. But you didn’t want him to. Maybe he knots you, and breeds you, hopefully. You want a pup with him, a pup from your scent mate, yes.

“Please, Alpha, my Alpha…” You begged and that was enough for Eddie to come out of his trance, his hands moving to the back of your knees for support as he moved his hips forward, and his cock ran over your slicked folds, making you moan desperately as you salivated in your mouth. “More, more, more–”

“Yes my Omega. My beautiful Omega… My Rose, your Alpha will give you more. Always.” His tip caught on your entrance and you gasped and you showed your Alpha your wrists, begging for him to take them off so your hands could touch him properly.

“I need to touch you, please, I’ll be good, I promise!” He immediately worked on the tie, yanking it off, probably ripping it apart in the process, and your hands shot up, trying to unbutton his shirt, whining with need to see, touch, feel his skin. His hands grabbed onto the collar of his shirt and he pulled, the buttons snapping and the shirt was ripped open, a breath of relief leaving his lips.

Your eyes scanned the tattooed chest, just a few tattoos here and there, scars that littered all over his stomach as well. You could hear your heartbeat into your ears, your body setting on fire at the sight of the layer of sweat covering his skin. Your hands, now with painful markings around their wrists but you could care less about that now, went forward to touch his stomach.

Fingernails scratched onto the flesh as another thrust of his hips made the tip enter you for just a second, a desperate whimper leaving your lips as you looked up at him with a pleading look. Why isn’t your Alpha taking you? Does he not want you? Are you not as pretty as the others? Your belly cramped, making you clench your eyes as pain shot towards your entire body.

“She didn’t knot you, didn’t she?” Your eyes shot open at the question and you looked at the man towering over you as his grip tightened underneath your knees. You wanted to tell him the truth, comply, but you were also feeling betrayed, used, and played with.

“D-Did you knot them?” Your voice was small and shaky, knowing you weren’t in the position to question the Alpha. You were in a vulnerable state, completely open for the kill. 

And with a loud growl, the biggest one you heard him give yet, he seethed himself inside of you in one powerful thrust.

You threw your head back as you shrieked at the sudden stretch, at the sudden pressure and the pain. It wasn’t great, but it was still painful, yet, your cramps stopped, just a little bit. They stopped stinging like knives, leaving a pain that can only be calmed by a knot. His knot. Tears ran down your cheeks as you gasped for air, your mouth open while you stared at the ceiling, and he bottomed inside of you, inch by inch.

He was big, the biggest you’ve ever had and it felt good, yet painful even with the foreplay. You pissed him off with your response, and you knew it because you could still hear him growling inside of his chest, groaning at the feel of you around him. 

His pelvis clashed against yours and you guided one of your hands towards your belly and you could swear you could feel him when you pressed. He was too deep inside of you and– and– you needed him to move. He needs to move. Your cramps are coming back as well as the cloudiness of your mind.

“P-Please Alpha, move–”

“I won’t move until you tell me.” His voice came out through his teeth as he looked down at you. More tears ran down your eyes as you tried to move your hips against him and he snarled at you in warning. “Tell me!”

“She didn’t! I couldn’t! The only– The only knot I want is–” And a sob ripped out of you as you looked at the man above you. It wasn’t fair, to be in this state and having no control, and knowing that after this, it would be forgotten, a fling of the moment because his ego got smashed.

“Is mine. The only knot you want is mine… And it’s the only one you’ll ever get from now on.” And his hips reeled back, only to slam themselves against you once again, making you choke up on a moan, your breath being knocked out of you instantly, the tip of his cock hitting the deepest part inside of you.

He felt divine, the burning of the first thrust slowly dissipating the more he moved his hips, going in and out of you as you adjusted to his size. The cramps were obscured by the waves of pleasure that your body started to feel, your limbs becoming limp for him to maneuver however he liked.

His fingertips were bruising your skin and his eyes were fixed where the two of you were connecting over and over again, and he grunted in pleasure at the sight, seeing himself disappear inside you, filling you up and feeling your cunt squeezing him, friction burning him from head to toes.

“Ah–” You gasped into your moan as he straightened up to pick up the pace, pulling his cock all the way out, leaving the tip inside, only to then go back in at a steady pace. Your hands flew to the edges on each side of the desk, trying to ground yourself as your mind reeled, your Omegan pheromones only making the Alpha in the room even more feral.

“So good, fuck, you feel so good baby. So, so, so fucking good.” He hissed out, his eyebrows meeting in the middle, a strained look on his face as his jaw clenched, still looking down at his cock going into your pussy, and he could see how your slick overflowed all around him.

You chirped at the praise as you bounced on the desk at each hit of his hips against yours, moans coming out of both your mouths and your rationality shut off once more as another cramp suddenly hit your belly. You weren’t being satisfied. Your needs were not being met and you were becoming restless.

“M-More…” You whimpered and he only tsked as he kept the same pace, not relenting to your begging.

“More what?” He knew exactly what you wanted, and he was playing with you. Tears of exasperation filled your eyes as you moved your hips in retaliation, making him hiss at you from the sudden action.

“More please? Please Alpha… I need– Faster, rougher– It hurts, it hurts–” And you were referring to that in so many ways. How your cramps hurt right now because your body needs and requires his knot, or how your whole soul hurt these past months knowing he never chose you for this before. He chose others, right in your face.

“Anything for my dumb little omega.” You didn’t know why he was insulting you, but you had no time to think. Your eyes widened as you gasped, followed by pleased mewls and loud moans as his hips started snapping against yours, the slapping on skin bouncing on every wall and bookcase, echoing thanks to the tall ceiling above you.

You now realize why he made everyone leave the entire floor.

His pace was rough, deep and fast, fucking into you desperately and your fingernails dug into the wood of the edge’s of the desk as you felt your insides being basically rearranged by him. Your cramps were still there but getting his cock inside of you helped somewhat, the pleasure overpowering it at times. You were loud, crying your moans out, your breaths, your huffs, and the yelling of his name.

His eyes were fixated now on your body, how it moved up and down thanks to his movements, your tear stained face, your open mouth that only let out filthy sounds, mumbling his name on the low in the haze of it all. You felt yourself start to flutter around his dick, the abuse against your g-spot making it an easy climax from the overstimulation. New tears prickled your eyes as your body jerked at every thrust, your belly coiling up, causing another cramp to happen. You whined loudly as your hips started meeting with his thrusts, desperately.

“Please, please, Eddie, my Alpha, more–” You were begging, pleading, imploring him to help you, because you were feeling good, but you weren’t at the same time because you needed more, your body still unsatisfied. You knew what it wanted, and it wasn’t just his knot. You wanted his bite.

“Tell me what you want.” You mewled as his thrusts turned deep, his hips coming to a slower pace and he circled them against you. You didn’t want to tell him, it is too embarrassing, knowing he is only doing this just for lust, and that he has done it with the rest, many times. Suddenly, a cry tore out from your mouth and you looked at Eddie with his teeth biting into your right calf. Your body jerked at the sudden bite, and your hands flew in reflex to try to grab him, but you weren’t strong enough to push yourself up and towards him.

“It hurts– Stop–” He growled as he pulled away from your skin, blood at the corner of his mouth, teeth glistening with a crimson hue. You looked at the bite, at his mark in your flesh and you chirped at the sight, wanting the same mark around your mating gland. It looked so pretty, so perfect, and it felt like you were owned. He hissed at you and his hips came to a halt, bottoming out inside of you. 

“Tell me what you want. I won’t continue until you tell me.” His jaw was clenched, the vein on his neck popping out from how much he was holding himself back from continuing your very destruction. You whined once more as you felt the burning of his bite on your calf, a drop of blood oozing out.

“I– I can’t– Not when you knotted… the others– embarrassing, Alpha, it’s embarrassing–” You were sobbing now, the pain from the past six months rushing back to you in a wave, clashing against the happiness you feel now, making you a bit dizzy from the mix of emotions. 

You heard him sigh and you dared to look at him through your tears, and he was looking down at you with a pained look. Why is he looking at you like that? Maybe it’s pity? Or maybe he feels sorry for how dumb you are? How naive? Or maybe–

“Oh my Omega… I have never knotted any of them.”

Your eyes fully opened at that, your heart thrumming in your chest as your body shook with excitement against your own will. What did he say? You saw his tongue darting out, his hand caressing your calf gently and pushing it towards his mouth so he can lick the wound clean. He side eyed you as he did this action, making your pussy clench around him, making the both of you hiss, remembering the position you are in.

“But– But I heard–”

“And I never complied.” He took his hands off your calf and the back of your left knee to lean forward. Your breathing was erratic, your hands immediately flying to hold onto his shoulders to pull him closer. His hands caged you in, one on each side of your head as he looked down at you. “-- I couldn’t comply.”

You blinked with confusion and doubt in your eyes. You wanted to believe him, you really wanted to, but– 

“Why?” Was the question flying out of your mouth and he leaned down towards you, his lips finding purchase on yours and you could only purr out of instinct, your heart exploding with happiness and joy inside your chest, trying to take the spotlight off of the thunder raging in your head.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, and your legs around his waist, pushing him into you. You both groaned at the action, making him pull away from the soft peck, his pupils back to being completely dilated and you moaned as his cock twitched inside of you. A growl escaped him as he quickly wrapped his arms around your frame and lifted you off the desk, a gasp leaving your lips and your grip tightened all around him.

You knew his instincts kicked in again, his mind clouded once more, but the knowledge that he never knotted the others was starting to settle in your head, and it was slowly making you go back to that state of mind where the only thing that mattered was being bred and knotted by the Alpha that was holding you tightly in his arms.

You felt yourself being lowered and the carpet hit your back, your eyes finding the ceiling once again. His hands grabbed onto your knees and he pulled them away from himself, making you untangle your legs from his waist. He bared his teeth at you as you didn’t let go of his shoulders, and you quickly complied, submitting yourself to him.

“Good Omega. My Omega.” He suddenly pulled out from you as he kneeled back and you whined with a sob, lifting yourself with help of your elbows to look at him.

“NO! Alpha, please, I need your knot, please– Why are you doing this? I–” His hand pressed against your chest and pushed you back down, snarling at you to let him work. You gasped when he grabbed onto your knees, keeping them apart, but then roughly pushing them up towards your chest, and you felt your hips rising from the ground, bending your body slightly.

His knees were now on each side of your hips as he leaned forward, towering over your frame, his cock twitching and your eyes could see the base of his cock pulsating, ready for his knot to pop. You purred and salivated at it, wanting it, desiring it, needing it and then you realized–

You were put in a mating press.

His cock went in with one harsh thrust, and you swear you could feel him at the back of your throat as you threw your head back. Your hands grabbed onto the carpet below you for some grounding, but you only let yourself smile in pleasure, in bliss, as you felt him burn inside of you. 

His knuckles were white from how hard his grip was on your knees to keep you in that position. A position that helps with fecundation. He groaned loudly when you clenched around him, your climax coming back to you as if it had never left moments ago. Your belly ached, cramped, turned, but most of all, it burned. It was burning you with the need of release, the need to be filled, the need of him.

His thrusts started quick and powerful, knocking the breath out of you at each jerk, the carpet burning your back as you rubbed it back and forth. You couldn’t care less. Not the burn of the back or the pain of your wrists or the bite on your calf. He could hurt you, bend you, break you, and you would be fine with all of that. At least, you mean something to him that way. Something different than the rest.

“Mine. Mine. Mine. You’re fucking mine.” He growled, over and over again while he fucked into you like a madman, like an animal. He was sweating, your eyes following every drop, his hair clinging to the sides of his face, and he was the most beautiful person in this whole wide world. He is calling you his, maybe thanks to his small triggered rut, but you had no time to feel the pain of that realization yet.

“Alpha, it feels so good. Fill me up, please, pretty please–” You didn’t recognize your voice. Needy, dripping with lust and pleasure, and you don’t remember a single time you talked like this. Not even when you shared your heats with your ex. You never begged like this. This is what a scent mate does to someone. It turns you fucking stupid.

The slapping of skin was filthy, wet sounds following them because your slick was being produced at each thrust of his. It was probably a mess, and you know it because you turned your head to see the edge of the desk you laid on moments ago, and the side had your slick dripping down in a single streak towards the floor, and a small pool of it formed at the foot of the desk. 

His thighs were drenched in you, and you moaned loudly at the thought, your eyes returning to meet his. He moaned your name under his breath and you trembled at the sound of it. He called you by your name, not rose, not omega. Your name. It made your belly come closer and closer to the edge, pussy fluttering and clenching all around him as he continued his powerful thrusts.

Your vision became blurry as tears mixed with how cockdrunk you became, but you could see a thin silver necklace dangling from his neck, back and forth. Your nails dug into the carpet underneath you as your breath picked up a pace, feeling the coil in your stomach and belly turn wildly, your orgasm threatening you to explode at any second. 

“Alpha– Alpha– I’m–” And he grunted as your eyes widened with a surprised gasp when you felt the beginning of his knot start to hit your entrance. You could feel it popping in and then back out, his teeth bared and he finally looked at you, a yellow glint flashing in his eyes as he stared down at you.

“I’m going to knot you. I’m going to knot you and breed you, over and over and over again… And I’m going to mate you.” You didn’t know if you were making it up, you didn’t know anymore. It sounded way too good to be true– “Oh, you don’t believe me?” 

Your eyes widened, shock washing over you as you tried to talk, only for loud cries to escape your lips when his thrusts became hard, rough, and the knot started swelling more and more, making it a little painful when it started popping in and out of you. Your mind was a haze, the only need being his knot. His knot. His knot.

“Alph–” You couldn’t talk because of this position, which was a bit straining, and the air was just simply knocked out of you at each thrust. You couldn’t breathe properly, feeling as if you were going to pass out. His teeth were now bared, fangs just slightly enlarged, snarling as he huffed in pleasure.

“You’re mine. All mine. Forever mine, my omega.” Your pussy clenched at the words, your mind no longer your own, and you cried out as your climax finally hit you, tightening all around his cock and now, his knot swelling instantly, impossible to pull out without hurting you, so he braced himself on his knees to push deep into you, and then he moaned loudly as his breath trembled when he locked himself inside of you, his cum filling your belly.

Your pussy milked him as your cramps finally stopped, leaving you in the stars. Your trembling was intense as you felt him spill inside of you and the more you clenched, the more cum he let out. It was never ending, the both of you moaning, groaning, and purring. He moved his hips once, a whimper leaving your lips and a growl rumbling in his chest.

He let go of your knees, his breathing heavy, his nostrils flaring as he leaned forward, his upper body bending as one hand cradles the back of your head, while the other holds your left bicep. His eyes clashed with yours, breaths intertwining between the two of you, chests heaving as the scents inside the room made your head spin.

He leaned down and you felt him lick the scent gland on your neck, his cock twitching inside of you and you swore you could feel more cum leaking out from him. You groaned, your eyes closing as he tasted you. His chest rumbled as he pressed his own scent gland against yours, true to his word. He cleansed the other alpha’s smell from you, replacing it with his own. He then proceeded to scent your mating gland, which only broke you.

He marked you in ways he probably doesn’t understand. After this, the two of you will go back to boss and secretary. You will have to leave, leaving this, leaving him behind you. Turn him into your past. You will probably have to go to an omegan therapist after this, and you would also leave Robin–

And the world stopped.

Everything. The universe. The stars. Your own breath. Your heart. Time itself. What…?

And then, fire. Fire spreading all over you coming from your mating gland. Your mating gland that was suddenly bitten into by the alpha that had his knot deep inside of you. You were bitten. He bit you. He claimed you. You were now his. 

A scream ripped out from your chest as another orgasm came crashing out of nowhere, clenching around him like a vice, milking him even more. He moaned into your skin, the hand on the back of your head holding you tightly as you shook underneath him. You didn’t understand anything. He was telling the truth. Eddie… Your– Your Alpha. He was your alpha now. For real.

He pulled away from you with a gasp for air, your blood all over his lips and teeth. You could feel his pleasure. His joy. His desire. His fear. His nervousness. His ecstasy. His delightfulness. Everything. He pressed a soft kiss on your lips, your shock still apparent, even if the kiss sent a million jolts of electricity through your body.

He pulled away with a chuckle and he proceeded to lean down again, pushing your head into his own mating gland this time. Your eyes were lost as you wondered what he wanted, his smell slowly bringing you down to earth once more, time moving again, the stars and the universe continuing their course.

“Bite me. Bite me back Omega.” Surprise was displayed on your features as soon as he said those words. It wasn’t common for omegas to bite their alphas back to seal the bond, the mating process, but people say it’s for the bond to be permanent, for eternity, for the mates to find eachother in this time and the next.

Your hands went towards his back, your nails dragging across his shirt, he never took it off. You could feel how damp it was thanks to the sweat, clinging to his body, and now– your eyes filled with tears, knowing now that he also knew you were his scent mate. This was never one sided. You have a lot of questions to ask him, but now… right now–

Your small fangs pierced through his mating gland.

He gave a small whimper as you felt iron filling your mouth. His blood. His scent. He was now all over you, and inside of you, in every sense and way possible. You moaned at his taste when you felt him twitch inside of you once more, his knot pulsing. You couldn’t believe it. As you retreated your mouth from him and laid your head back down on the carpet, you finally smiled.

He looked down at you, and you knew he was hoping you weren’t mad at him. He took your liberty and freedom in a single night thanks to his jealousy. To his possessiveness. To his fear of losing you. Your right hand moved towards his face, caressing his cheek gently, and he gave you a reassuring smile, closing his eyes, leaning towards your touch.

This is the first time you saw him like this. Vulnerable. A true smile of happiness on his lips, and it was all because of you. How could you be mad at him when he gave you what you’ve been wanting for the past six months you’ve known him? Something you didn’t think was possible, or that it was just in your head, or it was simply one sided? No… You could never be mad at him for it.

“My Alpha…” You whispered, your breaths starting to slow down as exhaustion started to wash over you, knowing your body will ache the following day, but you couldn’t care less. His eyes opened again, and he leaned down to press a soft kiss on your lips, a huff escaping his nose in pure delight. He pulled away a second later, his right hand caressing the side of your face, wiping your tears away. Tears you didn’t notice had fallen down your eyes.

“My Omega… Mine only… so dumb for not realizing what I was trying to say…” Your eyes closed as a satisfied sigh escaped your lips, relief washing over you. His hand kept caressing your face, his soft lips pressing on your forehead, your cheek, tender and caring. Keeping you safe in his arms, his embrace being your safest nest, at least for tonight.

“Eddie…” You mumbled as your consciousness started to slip away as slumber started to overtake you. You heard your name being called out by him after a soft kiss was pressed against your forehead. Your heart now filled with joy, your mating gland ablaze, but you could not feel the pain. 

“Rest darling… I’ll keep you safe.” 

And then, darkness.

His back was against the headboard of the bed hidden inside his office. He just had to press a button and a bookcase would fall down to reveal itself as a king sized mattress. He held his cellphone on his left hand, calling on Chrissy while his right arm was around your sleeping frame, completely knocked out as you laid on your side, your head on his chest and right hand over his heart. 

Once he knew his knot had deflated, he got you both in a more comfortable position. He will have to explain himself to you but now, he had to–

“Tell me you didn’t boss.” Chrissy’s voice blasted in his ear, making him hiss and pull the phone away from him. His fingers were softly brushing your back, keeping you asleep.

“It is done.” His voice was low as he looked down at you, your breaths coming out from your mouth evenly and calm. A soft smile appeared on his lips, feeling the wound of your bite pulsing and burning on his shoulder, but it only made him happier. He heard Chrissy letting out an exasperated sigh on the other side of the phone, making his smile fall and look out the window.

“We haven’t solved the issue with the Hagans. You had to wait until that was finished! They will now know about your mate and target her!” His jaw clenched as his arm tightened around your frame, making you whimper slightly at the tightness but not in pain, just a sound in your sleep. 

“I won’t let them touch her, you know that.” Chrissy sighed once more. He knew his right hand was right, but he couldn’t– “Chris, I couldn’t let her slip away from me. She is my scent mate. It was going to happen sooner or later, and the other omegas were not a useful distraction any longer.”

“I know Eddie…” There was a moment of silence before Chrissy continued talking, “but it doesn’t take away the fact that she will be targeted from now on. Something you were trying to avoid all this while by keeping your distance… So, what now?”

And Eddie pondered. He looked out the window as his mind worked, the need to protect you now ten times bigger, may he say twenty thanks to the bond. You two are mated for life now. In this life and the next, and the next, and he has to protect you with everything that he is, even if his own life is at risk.

“Then I guess I have to kill Tommy once and for all and take the clan for myself.” Chrissy remained silent on the other side. It wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all. He was going to do it peacefully, but Tommy was not a bright or reasonable leader. He was never happy about Eddie’s negotiations, always threatening him and his group, and Eddie knows he will threaten your life in order to get what he wants.

So he prefers to have Tommy’s head in his hands than wait for him to do something stupid.

“Alright… It’s settled.” He hears a rustling of papers, knowing she is taking down notes. He feels you stir slightly, but you just fixed your head on his chest, letting out a soft sigh as you kept sleeping. “And then?”

Eddie frowned in thought and looked down at your frame. A smirk spread on his face as he looked all over your body, his eyes resting over your waist, seeing your belly from the side.

“Get me a house. Somewhere residential, private, secure.” His voice was imperative, and he knew Chrissy was going to comply with no questions asked.

“Alright. How many rooms?” And his lips pressed on the top of your head as a smile spread on his lips, almost wickedly so.

“Let’s start… with four.”

End

a/n: time to get bred ig, hope u enjoyed, don't forget to leave a reblog, a comment on the reblog doesn't hurt either pretty pls

[batkin028]

🖤🖤

[mediocrexoxo-deactivated2025120]

BAD LUCK⚡️PT 2 | Best Friend!Eddie x Fem!Reader

Summary: Turns out you’re not so big on forgiveness. Luckily, you find a mysterious object that just might be the solution to all of your problems, if only you believed in that sort of thing…

WC: ~ 5k

Warnings: Angst, jealousy, heartbreak, unrequited love (for now), pining, misunderstandings, reader has poor self-image, swearing, occult themes, hexes/curses, spicy dream ft. oral f!receiving, slightly sub!Eddie, voyeurism ig?, eventual!dark reader, everyone is 21+ 18+ ONLY MDNI

SERIES MASTERLIST | PART 1

The living room was already bathed in the warm honey-orange glow of sunrise when you were rudely awakened from your sleep by the sound of the apartment door being slammed shut.

For a few blissful moments you were confused as to why you were still lying on the sofa, but it didn’t take long before the memories of the previous night all came rushing back.

Your birthday. The show at the Hideout.

The betrayal.

You listened as Georgina’s footsteps faded down the hallway towards her bedroom, then waited until you heard her door click shut before you sat up and let out a defeated sigh.

So that was that.

She’d obviously been out all night, more than likely with Eddie, and as much as you wished it had all just been a horrible nightmare, it was real.

Eventually you heard the sound of Georgina turning on the shower, and you decided to get up and make yourself some coffee while the coast was clear. After a night of broken sleep there was no way you were going to survive your shift at the record store without a caffeine boost, plus you needed a task to distract you from your thoughts.

But it didn’t work.

In the kitchen you went through the motions like you were working in a daze, unable to focus on anything other than what had happened the night before.

By the time you sat down at the table with your very questionable cup of coffee, Georgina had emerged from her room, humming a cheerful tune and looking radiant despite having been out all night. You imagined you probably looked like death warmed over by comparison.

She grabbed a mug out of the cupboard and helped herself to some of the coffee, then leaned back against the counter, sipping the hot drink in her fluffy bathrobe like it was just a regular Saturday morning.

But it wasn’t a regular morning. For you, everything had changed.

“Did you stay at Eddie’s last night?” you asked in the steadiest voice you could manage, hating yourself for hanging onto one last shred of hope that it was all just a big misunderstanding and there was some other reason Georgina hadn’t come home after the bar.

“Yeah,” she sighed with a dreamy smile, and in that instant it felt like she had sucked all of the air out of the room and you couldn’t breathe.

“You know, it’s funny,” she continued as her perfect lips curled into a sly grin. “I’ve never been with a musician before, but they sure know how to use those fing—”

“That’s enough!” you roared, slamming your mug down onto the table so hard that most of its contents sloshed over the side. You fought back tears as you watched the brown liquid pool on the polished surface. Even though you were upset, you knew it wasn’t going to help anything if you let your anger reduce you to a blubbering mess.

Georgina’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at your sudden outburst. In all the years you’d known each other, you’d never dared to raise your voice at her before.

As if preparing for battle, she carefully set her mug down on the counter, pushed back her shoulders and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Not backing down, you held her glare, letting all of the anger you’d pushed down for so long finally rise to the surface. If Georgina wanted a fight, you were going to give her one.

“You knew I liked him and you just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Your voice trembled with rage as you eyed her with disgust. “You can’t let me have anything. I’m so sick of your bullshit, Georgina!”

“Sick of me? That’s rich,” she snapped, her eyes flashing with controlled anger. “You’re nothing without me, you ungrateful bitch. You’re lucky I even keep you around.”

You couldn’t hold back a bitter laugh.

“Lucky? Wow Georgina, you’re right. I’m so lucky that you decided to steal the guy I liked on my birthday!”

She stared at you as if confused for a moment, and then you watched her face transform into the mockingly sweet facade you’d seen so many times before.

“Stole him? Wait…don’t tell me you actually thought you had a chance?” She stifled a giggle and you could feel the stinging burn of humiliation start to creep up your neck and spread over your cheeks.

“Oh my god…you did?” She faked a look of incredulous surprise, putting all of her years of high school drama club acting to good use.

With your insecurities laid bare, you struggled to think of a response and she shook her head as she gave you a pitying smile.

“Sweetie, it was never going to happen. He’s hot and his band might actually make it. He needs someone a bit more on his level, don't you think?”

As intended, her cruel words drove into the soft cavity of your chest, all at once stealing your breath and rendering you speechless. The way she smiled at your wounded expression could have almost been mistaken for kindness, if you hadn’t known better.

But, oh, you knew.

Sensing victory, Georgina stuck out her bottom lip in an imitation of a pout.

“Now, don’t look at me like that. You’ll find someone else to have a pathetic little crush on someday. If anything, you should thank me for saving you a lot of wasted time.”

Thank her? She had to be kidding.

You clenched your fists at your side so hard that your nails bit into the flesh, but just as you were about to unleash a torrent of angry words, you were interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone.

Georgina immediately rushed across the room to answer it, and a few seconds later you saw her face break out into a delighted smile.

“Of course! I’ll be there right away!”

She hung up and looked over at you with a disarmingly pleasant grin, your argument all but forgotten in her excitement.

“That was the spa at my parent’s country club. I’ve been on a waitlist for a treatment with Sven for ages and they finally had a cancellation! He’s a miracle worker!”

You watched in stunned silence as she rushed out of the kitchen to go get ready, and only a few minutes later she was dressed and headed out the door.

With Georgina gone, you slumped down further into your chair and wiped away a few stray tears that had escaped your lash line. She was right, you were pathetic. You hadn’t even managed to tell her off properly, and worse, she’d made you realize that your biggest fear was true — a guy like Eddie would never want someone like you. He’d made his choice, and he wanted Georgina.

A few minutes later the phone rang again and you reluctantly dragged yourself out of your chair to go answer it.

“Hello?”

Your heart nearly skipped a beat when you heard the familiar voice on the other end of the line.

“Uh, hey, it’s Eddie, I—”

“Georgina’s not here,” you interrupted, slamming the receiver down with a satisfying bang. Then you stood and glared at the silent phone as if daring it to ring again.

Hanging up on Eddie may not have healed the clawing ache that gripped your chest, but it had sure felt good.

After you showered and got ready for work you were about to walk past Georgina’s bedroom, when you paused in the open doorway.

Her room looked like something out of a high-end catalogue. Perfectly furnished and decorated. Perfectly organized. Perfectly…Georgina.

You walked over to her dresser and picked up a framed photo that she’d kept of the two of you from prom night. In it, she had her arm around your waist and you were both smiling brightly at the camera. You scoffed at the sight of her happy face.

Stupid Georgina and her stupid perfect smile…

Without a second thought you released your grip on the silver frame and let it fall in a loud clatter of metal on wood. Then you reached out to swat at a few of her other thoughtfully displayed trinkets, watching with satisfaction as they tumbled to the floor.

Not quite finished, you turned your attention to the rest of Georgina’s pristine room.

Her bed was topped with several carefully arranged decorative pillows and you picked one up in each hand and tossed them at the wall, releasing a desperate, guttural growl. Your vision blurred with angry tears as you violently hurled the remaining pillows and watched them land in a soft pile on the other side of the room.

Swallowing back sobs, you stormed over to her closet and started to pull her clothing off the hangers, then you grabbed a few pairs of her designer heels and launched them at random objects around the room.

As you raged, the same thoughts kept repeating in your mind over and over — like a broken record trapped in an endless loop.

Georgina had stolen the man you loved.

Georgina had ruined your life.

Georgina needed to pay.

You had just picked up her bedside lamp and yanked the cord out of the wall, when a shiny object on her nightstand caught your eye — an antique necklace that just so happened to be Georgina’s most prized possession.

She wore it all the time, in fact, you couldn’t remember ever seeing her without it. You’d asked her about it years before and she had explained it was a precious heirloom that had been passed down in her family for generations. She’d told you it had once belonged to her great-great grandmother on her mother’s side, a very powerful and respected woman in Hawkins during her time.

You reasoned that Georgina must have forgotten to put it back on after her shower in her rush to get out the door.

As you ran your finger over the silver pendant’s interwoven design you were struck with a wicked idea.

Georgina had taken away the most important thing in your life — it was only fair that you take something that was just as special to her.

Maybe you couldn’t manage to hurt her with words, but losing her beloved necklace would be a devastating blow. You picked it up and admired the way it gleamed in the light before you undid the clasp, fastened it around your neck and slipped it under your collar.

Feeling a bit better, you surveyed the wreckage of Georgina’s bedroom. As much as she deserved it, leaving her room in its current state wasn’t going to hide the fact that you’d been in there and taken the necklace. You didn’t have much time before you needed to leave for work, so you immediately sprang into action, putting her belongings back in place to cover your tracks.

Once you finished, you looked around with a sense of satisfaction. Not a single pillow or knick knack was out of place and Georgina would never suspect a thing.

With that taken care of, you grabbed your bag and quickly headed out the door.

You were unpleasantly surprised when Eddie showed up at the record store later that morning.

He mostly stuck to the back of the shop, perusing the music displays and shooting furtive glances in your direction. Not ready to talk to him, you let on that you didn’t notice he was there.

After several minutes of pretending to browse, he finally approached the counter where you sat reading the latest issue of Metal Edge.

“Hey,” he greeted you in a soft voice and you acted like you didn’t hear him, letting out a bored yawn as you flipped another page of your magazine.

“Um…hello?” he repeated a bit louder, waving a hand in front of your face.

You looked up, only sparing him a withering glance before returning to your article.

“If you can’t tell, I’m busy right now,” you said gesturing to the magazine.

“Can you just talk to me for a second?”

He sounded desperate and you paused your page mid-turn to look up at him in disbelief.

He had a lot of nerve showing up the day after hooking up with Georgina and acting like he deserved a single minute of your time. You shook your head and looked back down at the page.

Seemingly not getting the hint, Eddie stayed right where he was, staring at you from across the counter until you couldn’t take it any longer.

“Can I help you?” you finally snapped, slamming your magazine down so hard that he jumped.

“Is there…is something going on? Last night you took off so early, and then this morning with the phone—”

You cut him off with a bitter laugh, watching as his already large eyes somehow grew wider.

“You were so busy with Georgina last night, I’m surprised you noticed I was gone.”

He lowered his head to study the floor.

“Yeah, about that…” he trailed off, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I came down here to say I’m sorry. She was just…and I didn’t…look, noth—”

Eddie ran a hand over his face in frustration. Whenever he was anxious or upset he had trouble expressing himself and he knew he was doing a terrible job, evidenced by the unimpressed look on your face.

“Just give me a chance to explain, ok?” His eyes searched yours for some sign that you might be willing to hear him out. “Can I pick you up after work so we can talk?”

You couldn’t imagine that there was anything Eddie could say that would excuse what he’d done, and you certainly weren’t ready to forgive and forget.

You shook your head. “I think you should leave.”

You were proud of yourself for not backing down. Normally, you would have folded at the sight of his sad eyes and nervous stumbling, but your disappointment in Eddie far outweighed any feelings you may have had in the past.

Realizing you weren’t going to budge, he gave a resigned nod and turned to leave. You watched him walk away and just as he was about to push open the door, you called out.

“Oh, and Eddie?”

He wheeled around on the spot, his eyes wide with a glimmer of hope.

“Maybe the next time you need a record you should try the mall.”

With that you looked back down at your magazine, not daring to raise your head again until you heard the bell over the door signal that he was gone.

On your walk home from work that evening you stopped to look at the Halloween display in the front window of Spellbound, a quirky little curiosity shop located a few doors down from the record store.

Their theme was scary mythical creatures, and you couldn’t help but think of Eddie as you gazed at a dragon’s shiny painted scales and tissue paper flames. That sort of thing would have been right up his alley, or at least the Eddie you thought you knew.

Tears stung your eyes as you turned from the window to continue on your way home.

You had to wonder if everything you’d believed about Eddie had all just been a lie. His views had seemed so antithetical to everything Georgina represented, but maybe deep down he’d wanted someone like her all along. After all, he did have dreams of becoming a famous rockstar someday, and who better to show off on his arm than the lovely Georgina?

It wouldn’t have been the first time a guy you’d met had said one thing with his mouth and another with his dick, but you had never expected that sort of thing from him. Maybe you’d given him too much credit.

Lost in your thoughts, you reached under your collar to distractedly fiddle with Georgina’s necklace. You’d meant to take it off earlier and stash it in your bag, but you had found the weight of it oddly soothing.

As you ran a finger over the cool metal, you wondered if Georgina had noticed it was missing. You smiled, picturing her sad face when she realized it was gone.

At least you knew you wouldn’t have to deal with her when you got back to the apartment, as she always had plans to go out on Saturday night. You tried to think of some things you could do to cheer yourself up at home, settling on a nice, relaxing bubble bath and then watching one of your favorite scary movies. While you debated which one to watch, your troubles were momentarily forgotten until your building came into view and you were stopped dead in your tracks.

From where you stood you could see that the lights were on in your apartment and that Eddie’s van was parked just outside. He was there. They were there together.

That asshole. That absolute snake.

Your blood ran cold as you realized his visit to the record store earlier hadn’t been to apologize — he wasn’t sorry. It had just been some bullshit way to make himself feel better about seeing Georgina again.

Well, there was no way in hell you were going to risk walking in on whatever the two of them might be doing; the moving shadows you could see through the window making your stomach turn.

Overwhelmed with a sense of panic, your first instinct was to run as far away as possible — to escape to a place that wouldn’t remind you of Georgina or Eddie at all.

Somewhere quiet where you could wallow all alone in your misery.

Somewhere no one would bother you on a Saturday night.

Left with no other option, you turned and headed towards the library.

As you marched down the sidewalk the beauty of the crisp fall evening was lost on you, as each crunching step over flame-colored leaves only left you more and more upset.

Wrapped up in your thoughts, you barely noticed that the clouds above you had rapidly darkened, until you saw a flash of lightning tear across the sky. A few moments later you heard the rumble of thunder overhead and you stopped walking, shaking your head in frustration.

You almost had to laugh. Of course it would rain. Nothing could ever work out for you.

You thought of Georgina and how she floated through life, never dealing with any consequences. Why did someone awful like her keep getting rewarded by the universe while you kept getting the short end of the stick? Had you done something wrong?

Why was she the one who got to spend an evening at home with Eddie, while you were forced to walk outside in a thunderstorm all alone?

By the time the first large raindrop hit the tip of your nose, you were vibrating with anger. You were so worked up that even Georgina’s necklace felt hot against your skin. In irritation you reached under your collar to pull at it, gripping the pendant in your hand.

“ARGH!” you cried, throwing your other hand up in frustration at the sky. “Give me a fucking break! Why don’t you go pick on Georgina for a change?!”

Several vibrant bolts of lightning lit up the inky sky above you, but you ignored them and continued to stomp down the sidewalk, avoiding the stares of curious people in passing cars. You knew you probably looked ridiculous as you trudged along muttering angrily, but you didn’t care what anyone thought about you anymore. You’d finally reached your limit.

Oddly enough, the thunderstorm seemed to pass by as quickly as it came and never amounted to anything more than a few measly drops of rain. When you arrived at the library entrance, you stopped to look up at the peaceful evening sky and shrugged before walking inside.

That was kind of strange.

Once inside the library, the comforting and slightly musty scent of books hung thick in the air and you inhaled deeply, attempting to let the peaceful surroundings calm the tempest in your mind.

As expected for a Saturday evening near Halloween, it was practically deserted.

Unsure of how to pass the time, you recalled that your history professor had assigned an essay on Ancient Rome earlier in the week, so you decided you may as well grab a few books and make some notes to keep yourself busy until you had to go home.

You were walking along the aisles and had picked out a few books that looked promising, when something from the shelf above you must have been knocked loose and fell, hitting you on its way to the floor.

Rubbing your smarting head, you looked down to see that it was a slim hardcover volume, bound in soft purple cloth that was decorated with an intricate gold foil design. You opened it up and saw that its yellowed pages were filled with a delicate script that looked like poetry or some other type of short prose. Intrigued, you added it to your stack of books.

You chose a table by one of the large windows that looked out onto the park, and let out a wistful sigh at the sight of a couple walking hand-in-hand through the picturesque fall scene. You imagined they were probably off to a romantic dinner date together, or maybe home to watch a scary movie and cuddle on the…nope.

You had to stop. Those kinds of thoughts could only lead to Eddie and that was the last thing you needed.

Your eyes drifted to the strange purple book on the top of your pile and you decided to take a look.

The first page you opened up to was titled Blighting of a Harvest and appeared to be some kind of old-fashioned incantation or spell. Overcome with curiosity, you continued to flip the pages, chuckling to yourself at some of the titles that looked like they were straight out of a B-horror movie about wizards. Then you came to a page that gave you pause.

To Curse Thine Enemies. Now that one sounded interesting. You pulled the book a bit closer and read the first line.

“By the light of the full moon, recite the words that follow to steal an enemy’s good fortune and bestow a curse that shall endure for seven years minus a day.”

You thought back to Georgina’s smug face from earlier that morning and somehow seven years of bad luck didn’t seem quite long enough.

Even though you didn’t really believe in the supernatural or that sort of thing, you couldn’t help but think how great it would be if you could just say a few words and magically solve all of your problems.

You were about to turn to the next page, when you hesitated.

Even though you’d never dabbled in anything magical before, you reasoned that doing the spell could be a bit of fun. In real life you couldn’t hurt Georgina or exact a meaningful revenge, but maybe the ritual would help you feel a little less powerless. Besides, nobody else would ever have to know.

You skimmed the list of required items and saw that you had most of them at home, and for the others you figured you could probably just improvise. Cooking oil still counted as oil, right?

Your mind made up, you gathered your things and got ready to head to the front desk with the book, but when you looked inside the front cover you realized it didn’t have a checkout card. On further inspection, it had no identifying information at all.

What if you tried to check it out and the librarian took it away? You couldn’t have that.

You looked around the empty room to see if anyone was watching, and then you hastily shoved the book into your bag. You got up and with your head down, you quickly headed to the exit, then out into the cool evening air.

The whole walk home you silently hoped that nobody would be at the apartment when you arrived, and as you approached you were relieved to see that the lights were off and Eddie’s van was gone.

Once inside, you immediately set to work gathering the things that you needed for the spell; a candle, the oil, a jar, a picture of Georgina along with a few other personal effects. It wasn’t a full moon quite yet but you supposed you’d have to make do.

To set the mood you lit some incense and threw a handkerchief over your lamp to dim the light. Then you put a Fleetwood Mac record on the stereo on low volume, for some reason it just felt right.

When you had all of the items gathered, you sat down on your bedroom floor and arranged them in the specific way the book directed.

You lit the candle and took a deep and centering breath. The book said to focus on all the ways your enemy had wronged you, so as you recited the words you thought of all the terrible things Georgina had said and done to you over the years. Your skin grew warm as your emotions swelled, and you unconsciously grasped her necklace as you pictured her cruel smile and hurtful words.

When you were finished, you blew out the candle and set about putting everything away. You felt a little foolish, but at the same time it was almost as if a weight had been lifted off your chest. For the first time since the Hideout you finally felt a hint of inner peace, and that was all you had really wanted in the first place.

Before getting into bed you took off Georgina’s necklace and shoved it under your pillow, resolving to find a better hiding spot in the morning. Then you drifted off to sleep with a smile on your face.

That night you dreamed of Eddie.

You were together in a strange room lit only by a ring of glowing candles that surrounded a mattress on which you both knelt, facing each other in the near dark. Flickering light danced over the walls, casting long, moving shadows that concealed most of Eddie’s form, but you could see that he was naked.

The sheer robe that you were wearing was partly opened in the front and you could feel the cool weight of Georgina’s necklace between your breasts, the knotted silver gleaming in the reflected candlelight. You ran a hand over the pendant and hummed as you gazed into Eddie’s eyes, soft and beseeching in the dim light of the room.

“Let me show you,” he entreated in a low voice that was thick and smooth like honey, and you felt the warmth of desire spread between your thighs when you saw him wet his lips.

You let the robe fall off your shoulders, and as you watched his eyes roam over your naked form, you didn’t feel the slightest hint of shame.

You felt powerful.

His heated gaze was filled with reverence and as his dark eyes drank you in, it almost felt like it was akin to an act of worship. In fact, he was worshiping you and you realized you could feel it. Hear it.

It was as if the room was buzzing with energy, and you were the source.

Behind you in the dark you could hear the sound of muffled crying but you didn’t care to turn and see what it was, or where it was coming from.

“Please,” he whispered, and you felt a stir of pity in your heart at his desperation. You grasped his chin and brought his mouth to capture yours in a tender kiss. As you parted your lips to allow his tongue to glide against your own, you heard a deep rumble in his chest and then he pushed you onto the bed.

He braced his body over yours and even though you couldn’t see it, you could feel the firm weight of his cock against your skin. You released a breathy sigh as his mouth traced a slow path down your body, taking his time to linger with each soft press of his lips.

“Let me worship you, show you.” He ran the very tip of his tongue along the smooth curve of your upper thigh, leaving a trail of tingling goosebumps in its wake. The soft curls that hung around his face tickled your skin as he moved, and you buried your hands in his hair, urging him closer to where you needed him.

He slipped a hand between your thighs, gently coaxing them apart, and you gasped when you felt his warm breath fan over your cunt. By then you were so aroused that you could feel yourself dripping down onto the sheets, and his eyes darkened when he saw the way you glistened.

He spread you open with his fingers, then flattened his tongue nice and wide, to glide it slowly through your wetness, groaning as he relished in your taste.

“Thank you.”

He breathed the words like a sigh of relief then flicked his tongue over your clit in a rapid, steady rhythm as you started to writhe beneath him on the bed.

Then letting out a feral growl, he threw your legs over his shoulders, burying his face in your pussy like he’d been starved and you were his salvation.

The sobbing noises kept growing louder and you finally turned your head in their direction to see Georgina standing in the doorway, watching you as tears ran down her cheeks.

Even though you were surprised, you didn’t tell Eddie to stop. In fact, the sight of her tears spurred you on and pushed you closer to the edge.

You threw your head back with mocking laughter as you rapidly approached your climax, gripping Eddie’s hair to grind against him as your pleasure built to an earth-shattering peak—

And then you woke up with a start, your brow covered in sweat and your heart pounding.

What the fuck.

You looked around your room letting your eyes slowly adjust to the dark as you realized that you were alone in your bed. Your initial disappointment was quickly replaced with anger — you didn’t want Eddie anymore, in real life or in a dream.

Still, you were flustered.

It was far from the first time you’d dreamed of fooling around with Eddie, but nothing before had ever felt so real. You swore you could still feel where his strong hands had gripped your thighs.

Such a cruel trick of the mind.

It took a while for you to shake off the disturbing dream and go back to sleep, and as you drifted off you reached under your pillow to run your hand over the hidden necklace.

You didn’t wake up again until later the next morning when a blood-curdling scream pierced the quiet of your apartment.

A/N: Thank you for reading! Next chapter is the final part 👀

Dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

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BAD LUCK ⚡️ PT 1 | Best Friend!Eddie x Fem!Reader

Series Summary: You’re resigned to living in your best friend’s shadow, letting her walk all over you in her designer heels because life is just easier that way. But when she steals the one thing that matters you decide enough is enough. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

WC: ~4k

Warnings: Angst, jealousy, pining, unrequited love (for now), brief mention of f!masturbation, reader has poor self-image, swearing, heartbreak, eventual smut, eventual witchcraft/occult themes, eventual dark-ish!reader, everyone is 21+ 18+ MDNI

Over the years you had come to realize that in life there were certain indisputable truths — things that you could count on happening time and time again without fail. A fumbled slice of bread would inevitably fall butter-side down. The checkout line you picked at the supermarket would always end up moving the slowest. And perhaps most notably, your best friend Georgina Banks would always get whatever she wanted.

If it wasn’t already enough that Georgina had been born into a life of wealth and privilege, she’d also been blessed with perfect skin, hair and posture. With a face kissed by the gods and perky breasts pushed sky-high in pink cashmere cardigans, she was the living, breathing embodiment of feminine grace.

And after nearly a decade of friendship you’d learned that fate would always side in her favor.

During Georgina’s reign as the Queen of Hawkins High, she’d ruled her faithful minions with a well-manicured iron fist. Most of your fellow students would have given their right arm to sit at the lunch table over which she presided, but only a select few ever managed to make the cut.

And for some reason, that included you.

You knew that people who saw you and Georgina together likely thought you made a very odd pair, and in all honestly you were just as perplexed by your friendship as everyone else.

You never quite understood why she’d chosen you to be her best friend out of all of her available options, but as much as you hated to admit it, her attention made you feel special — not a sentiment you were overly familiar with.

As a teenager you’d spent an embarrassing amount of time in front of your bedroom mirror mimicking your best friend’s gestures and style, hoping some of that Georgina magic might eventually rub off and transform you into someone more like her — popular and beloved instead of the dull, awkward girl you saw staring back at you in the reflection. It never worked, and as you grew older Georgina continued to float through life with infuriating ease while you just…didn’t.

In the grand scheme of things, without Georgina by your side to open all the right doors and secure all the right invites, your social status was even lower than the outcasts and unpopular kids, who at least got some attention, albeit negative.

You were invisible.

A true nobody. An afterthought who barely registered as a blip on anyone’s radar. A stagnant weed unable to flourish in the ever-looming shadow of Georgina’s lofty branches.

Sometimes, deep down, you wondered if that was the real reason she kept you around. It made perfect sense. You, of all people, would never pose a threat to her position as queen bee. She could rest comfortably knowing you would never try to steal her spotlight. Never put your own needs first. Never dare step out of line, lest you fall victim to social ruin.

You hadn’t exactly found it easy to make friends after moving to Hawkins while in middle school, and once Georgina had scooped you under her wing that was pretty much it. You had no one else in your corner and she knew it.

She knew you would continue to take what she dished out, all the while making her look more vibrant by comparison; a drab extra in the background of her life, blending into the scenery while she got to shine.

And oh, how she shone.

Perfect grades without opening a book. Lead actress in each year’s drama production. The hostess of every highly anticipated party or social function Hawkins had to offer.

Georgina was a natural born star.

To you it felt like everyone who met your friend instantly fell under her spell, and you’d watch with veiled disgust as people would fawn over her to a sickening degree. Teachers, children, even small animals — it didn’t seem to matter. Nobody in town was immune to Georgina’s winsome charms.

Growing up you’d even had a sneaking suspicion that your own parents wished that she’d been their child instead of you, a laughable scenario at best because there was no way in hell that Georgina Banks would have been able to endure the ordinary existence of your simple family home. No maids? No avant-garde cuisine? No, thank you.

You found the way people worshipped her to be a very curious phenomenon, because even though she was beautiful, rich and well-dressed, she wasn’t a good person. Just like a piece of spoiled fruit that looked ripe and sweet on the surface, when you finally peeled back the layers, Georgina was rotten to her core.

If you were being totally honest with yourself, you hated her.

You hated her fake smile, and the way her perfect lips would curl in callous mockery of anyone she felt was beneath her. How she could be so casually cruel without a second thought, twisting the knife in deep to make sure it inflicted maximum damage.

You hated how she treated people in general, but especially the ones she had labeled the weirdos and freaks; a wide-ranging group that consisted of anyone whose interests veered outside of shopping, parties, or anything else that Georgina deemed “normal”.

As time went on, that part started to bother you the most of all, because you just so happened to be fond of one of those aforementioned “freaks”. Very fond.

You’d become friends with Eddie Munson shortly after starting your first semester at college, when you’d taken a part time job at the local record store.

The first time he came in to buy some cassette tapes you’d thought he looked familiar, but you couldn’t quite place him. At least not right away.

When you’d heard the bell over the store entrance chime, and looked up from your spot behind the counter to see a handsome man with wild long hair walk through the door, you had been intrigued. He wore a battle vest that was covered in various rock paraphernalia, and even though you couldn’t quite put your finger on it, you could have sworn you’d seen it somewhere before.

As you sat there watching him check out the music displays you had noticed he was cute, really cute, with big brown eyes, a defined jaw and full lips that lent a softness to his face. How had such a hot guy been right under your nose in Hawkins without you noticing? You swore sometimes it was like you lived under a rock.

After browsing the metal section for a few minutes, he had approached you at the counter and you'd silently willed yourself to try and play it cool. Something that was much easier said than done.

“Hey, do you guys have the new Metallica album in yet?” he’d asked in a deep voice that caused a slight clench of your thighs, and all you could think in the back of your mind was that it just wasn’t fair how attractive he was.

“No, it’s not in yet. Sorry,” you’d told him with a shake of your head. Then you’d smiled sympathetically at his obvious disappointment.

“We’re supposed to be getting it in on Friday,” you added helpfully. “If you want to leave your name and number I can give you a call when it gets here.” The prospect of getting to see him again was already making you giddy.

“Yeah sure, thanks.” The smile he gave you in response was wide enough to make his eyes crinkle at the corners, and the sight had caused an unfamiliar tightening in your chest.

You’d pushed a pen and paper across the counter towards him.

“I’m looking forward to hearing it too,” you had volunteered quietly as you watched him write his contact info on the sheet, and he’d looked up at you immediately, his big eyes widened in surprise.

“You like Metallica?” Eddie had tried to keep his voice casual, but could barely contain his excitement at meeting a fellow heavy metal fan — something few and far between in the small town.

“Yeah, I love them. Their last record was amazing...” you had said full of enthusiasm, before trailing off shyly. You’d wished you could think of something else a bit more insightful to say about Master of Puppets, but unlike Georgina who was a gifted conversationalist, you always struggled to find right words. Especially around someone as handsome as the brown-eyed metalhead.

After he’d left the store with a promise to come back on Friday, you’d looked down at the sheet where he had written his name and everything finally clicked into place. Eddie Munson. Of course! You were immediately hit with a vivid memory of him atop a cafeteria table back in high school, making a scene while loudly calling out the preps and the jocks. You remembered being amused by his obnoxious antics at the time, but had only dared to cheer him on inside your head. You hadn’t been brave enough to laugh out loud with Georgina perched at your side, especially considering she was one of his intended targets.

Other than the occasional cafeteria rant, you’d never really crossed paths with Eddie while you were at Hawkins High, not surprising considering his reputation and the fact that Georgina kept you on a pretty short leash. You may have forgotten about him back then, but after that fateful day at the record store, you couldn’t seem to get him off your mind.

After that day Eddie started to visit to the store on a much more frequent basis, and before long he became one of your favorite customers. Ok, the favorite.

Eddie was one of the few people you’d met in Hawkins who made you feel comfortable in your own skin. It felt amazing to spend time with someone who wasn’t always looking over your shoulder and judging everything little thing you said or did. Since you and Georgina had moved into an apartment together after starting college, you felt more trapped than ever within her controlling grasp.

You started to live for those shifts at the record store.

After a while Eddie asked for your number and you started to hang out with him outside of work, meeting up to go to rock shows on the rare occasion that a decent band came through town. He also invited you to the weekly gigs of his own band, Corroded Coffin, and you quickly became their number one fan. Well, you and the other five drunks.

It didn’t take very long for you to fall in love with Eddie; it was like he’d been created in a lab specifically for you. He could be sarcastic yet sweet, a little rough around the edges but still a bit of a dork — a perfect combination that made you swoon. It also didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eyes.

As your feelings for Eddie grew, so did a raging battle inside you, because while you didn’t have the confidence to tell him how you felt, you wanted him so very badly. Adding to your confusion was the fact that he could get a bit flirty at times, but you were never sure if he meant it or was just kidding around.

You weren’t used to being the object of anyone’s desire, and found it hard to believe that someone like him would be interested in you. For as long as you could remember every time a guy had looked your way, he was just trying to see around you to get a better view of Georgina.

As much as you wanted to be with Eddie, you couldn’t help but worry that the signals he was giving off were all in your head. If you confessed your feelings and he turned you down, it would have shattered the one fantasy that got you through the day. You decided it was safer to keep things between the two of you platonic, at least until you could be absolutely sure.

Still, when you touched yourself late at night, it was his face that you imagined. His eyes on yours — his hands, his mouth…those lips. And when you’d finally spill over the edge into the most exquisite pleasure, it was his name you would sigh out in the dark. Afterwards you would lie there alone in your bed, wishing you could feel the warmth of his body pressed against yours beneath the sheets. Sometimes the yearning was almost unbearable.

Of course, you never dreamed of telling Georgina about your crush. Eddie was so far beneath her on the Hawkins social ladder that there was no way she would have approved. It wasn’t that you cared about her opinion of him at all, but you didn’t want to let her taint that part of your life, as she would no doubt try. Your time with Eddie was something special, just for you.

To keep from having to explain things to Georgina, you hid your outings with Eddie, telling her that you were heading to the library to study whenever the two of you met up. It was the perfect white lie that you knew she’d never figure out, because the library was one place she’d never be caught dead.

Your ability to hide your friendship with Eddie was one of the few times that Georgina’s disinterest in you worked in your favor. She never noticed what was going on with you unless it affected her in some way. In fact, even though you spent most of your free time with each other, you were pretty sure she didn’t know a single thing about you. All of your time together was spent talking about Georgina — her interests, her crushes, her problems.

It was never, ever about you.

So you were understandably taken aback when your birthday rolled around and she asked what you wanted to do to mark the occasion.

“I cleared my whole night,” she’d announced haughtily, as if you should thank her. You had just stared at her blankly, not quite knowing what to say.

It just so happened that Corroded Coffin was playing a show at the Hideout that night, and Eddie had promised there was going to be a special birthday surprise just for you. Naturally you wanted to be there front row center to support your friends, but certainly not with Georgina in tow.

She never wanted to do anything unless it benefited her, so when you begrudgingly admitted that you wanted to spend your birthday at a metal show of all places, you expected her to dig in her heels and refuse to go.

You were unpleasantly surprised when she agreed to join you.

That night when you arrived at the entrance to the Hideout, you could tell that Georgina was already horrified by her surroundings. The old dive bar wasn’t exactly the Ritz, after all. She sniffed at the burly doorman when he asked for her ID like he’d somehow managed to offend her to her core. It didn’t get any better once the two of you got inside.

“I’m not sitting on these,” she hissed in a horrified whisper, gesturing at the bar stools you’d suggested as a place to wait for the show to start. “Look, they’re all grimy. This skirt is suede.”

You just rolled your eyes and did your best to ignore her complaints because you were there for Eddie, not her.

The show that night had the potential to be a really important one for Corroded Coffin. They’d heard a rumor that a talent scout for a record label was going to be in the audience, and if everything went well, it could be their chance to finally land a recording contract.

You waved at Eddie when you saw him walk out onto the stage during soundcheck, and when he smiled and waved back your stomach did an excited little flip. You were so happy that not even Georgina’s presence could ruin your mood.

Once the lights went down and the show started you decided to move closer to the stage, dragging a very reluctant Georgina behind you. The entire set you stared up at Eddie from the front row like he hung the moon, your eyes locked on his large hands as they coaxed the most incredible sounds out of his guitar that you’d ever heard. You’d never seen him play with such fiery passion.

You got a nervous lump in your throat when he finally zeroed in on you in the crowd, flashing you an adorable dimpled smile as he shook his head to move away the sweaty curls that surrounded his face. Then he stepped to the mic and announced that they were going to do a cover of your favorite song.

“This one goes out to my special girl on her birthday.”

He winked at you before counting it down, and your heart felt like it might burst out of your chest. You couldn’t get his words out of your head.

He had just called you his special girl in front of everyone. Not his friend or buddy or pal — his girl. Was it possible that you hadn’t been imaging things after all and he actually liked you? You stared up at him in love struck awe as the first notes of Master of Puppets filled the air.

And that’s when Georgina finally noticed Eddie.

Well, not him exactly.

She noticed the way your eyes lit up while you watched him, and saw the dreamy smile plastered across your face. It was pretty obvious you had it bad for the handsome metalhead, and from the way he was looking down at you from the stage, the feeling appeared to be mutual.

“You like him.” It wasn’t a question, but a matter-of-fact statement, spoken just loud enough that you could hear it over the buzz of the boisterous crowd.

You snapped your head around to face Georgina, and you could see the realization written all over her face. She now understood why you had wanted to spend your birthday squished alongside sweaty bodies in the front row of a metal show instead of somewhere more dignified with her and her other posh friends.

“No, I don’t.” You shook your head in brisk denial, but the flame you carried for Eddie burned too bright for you to hide. You’d always been a terrible liar and Georgina could see right through you.

“Don’t lie. It’s cute.” She gave you a tight-lipped smile, and even though the pleasant expression didn’t quite reach her eyes, it was a much tamer reaction than you had anticipated. You had always imagined her angrily scolding you for associating with a “freak” who might make her look bad by association.

Realizing there was no longer any point in lying, you nodded and even dared to flash her a relieved grin. You couldn’t believe Georgina was being so calm about the whole thing, but it felt amazing to finally be able to admit your feelings out loud to someone. You’d been dying to let it out for so long.

“Yes, but please don’t say anything when he comes over, okay? He doesn’t know,” you begged, and she nodded, pulling her finger and thumb like a zipper across her pursed lips.

When the set ended, Eddie made his way through the crowd to greet you, wiping the sweat from his brow as his warm eyes assessed the ripped cropped top and tight jeans you’d squeezed yourself into for the show; not a Georgina-approved outfit by any means, but she had let it slide seeing as it was your special day.

“Hey, get over here birthday girl.” He laughed as he grabbed you by your hips and pulled you close to him in a tight embrace. You closed your eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne as you relished in the feeling of his body held to yours. For that short moment you could almost imagine that you and Eddie were the only two people left in the crowded bar, but you weren’t, and when he finally let you go and stepped back with a bashful smile, Georgina quickly slid in front of you and cleared her throat.

For a split second you thought she was about to tell Eddie to get lost, and you were just about to rush to his defense when your annoyance quickly turned to confusion.

You heard a soft giggle pass through Georgina’s glossy lips, and not just any regular old, run-of-the-mill giggle. No, you would have recognized that high-pitched girlish sound anywhere. It was her extra special giggle, reserved for flirting.

Like a switch had suddenly been flicked, Georgina’s sour grimace from earlier had been replaced by a dazzling smile, directed squarely at the man that you adored.

“You guys were on fire tonight…especially you,” she purred as she moved close enough to run her hand down Eddie’s sweat-glistened bicep. Her flirtatious words echoed and bounced around your uncomprehending skull as you watched Eddie’s dark eyes gleam and his front teeth protrude just enough to bite his lower lip.

What. The. Fuck.

“I love your rings…they’re so sexy.”

You could hear Georgina’s voice but it sounded far away, muffled by a fuzzy pounding in your head that had started to make things go out of focus. You watched as she reached out to touch the jewelry that decorated Eddie’s hand, her manicured nails gleaming as they caressed the fingers that you’d imagined on your skin so many times.

No, no, no.

On the outside you were frozen in place, but inside you were screaming. Your fleeting hope, now swallowed whole, and sinking slowly into a bottomless pit of despair that knew no end.

You stood there, helpless, watching them make eyes at each other for a few moments before you finally found your voice and jostled Georgina’s arm.

“We’d better head out now. It’s getting late and I’ve got that paper I need to work on, remember?”

You hoped your words might trigger Georgina’s memory, and remind her that she wanted to go home. That she would realize you were offering her an escape from the dingy bar that she’d wanted to leave since the moment she’d stepped inside.

Instead, she turned to face you, her eyes widened in confusion as if she had suddenly just remembered you were there.

“Then go,” she said breezily, her icy cold eyes were a stark contrast to her forcibly casual tone. “I want to stay.”

“But…I’m your ride.”

You were still struggling to make sense of what was happening. It felt like you were losing your grip on a situation that was rapidly spinning out of your control. You couldn’t have prepared yourself for the turn of events that was unraveling in front of your eyes. Not in a million years.

“Uh, I can give you a ride if you want,” Eddie offered in a low voice while he gazed into Georgina’s eyes. It was like he was hypnotized and couldn’t look away.

Georgina raised a seductive eyebrow at the obvious double entendre before turning her head over her shoulder to fix you with a triumphant smirk.

You shook your head in angry disbelief.

Your eyes stung as you fought back tears, completely crushed by Eddie’s betrayal. You had learned to always expected the worst from Georgina, but not him. You had told him about her nastiness so many times, and he’d seemed genuinely disgusted. So all it took was a pretty face and a low cut shirt, and suddenly everything he’d shouted about on table tops was forgotten?

“There, it’s settled. Eddie will give me a ride,” Georgina said coldly as she dismissed you from their presence with a wave of her fingers. “You can go.”

You looked helplessly at Eddie one last time, hoping he’d try to convince you to stay. But he wasn’t paying any attention to you. He was too wrapped up in Georgina, just like the soft curl of his hair that was already twisted around her finger.

Suddenly feeling ill and in desperate need of air, you turned on your heels and rushed out of the bar and into the parking lot. Once outside, you fought to catch your breath and tried to keep your tears at bay until you could make it to the privacy of your car.

You drove home through a haze of tears, barely able to see the road. You felt like your whole world had suddenly been flipped upside down and nothing made any sense.

When you arrived home, you stormed inside and proceeded to pace your apartment, impatiently waiting for Georgina to return. The bar would be closing in a couple hours and you were resolved to finally to give her the piece of your mind that had been a long time coming. You had taken her shit for years and never once fought back, but this time she had gone too far. This? This was unforgivable.

But as the hours passed and the night wore on, Georgina never came home.

You waited up all night until finally, exhausted and heartbroken, you fell into a restless sleep on the sofa, lying on top of the decorative party banner that had fallen off the wall behind it.

Happy birthday, indeed.

A/N: Yikes. I'm so sorry, but reader is going to have to go through it a little. We all need our villain origin story, right? 👀 See you in the next part! I'll be posting the next parts of this story over the course of spooky season <3

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