My name is Willow, or Bitter. I am a 19 year old woman, living in Canada.
I’m pansexual and I go by any pronouns! I don’t really have a preference on what you will call me (just don’t be rude about it. Have some decency please.)
Im a July cancer ♋︎
I love cats! Any cat is my favourite! Big cats, small cats, ANY CAT <3
Im apart of many fandoms, I can’t even count how many I’m still actively in :b
I don’t take disrespect! Towards me or others. Let’s not ruin others feelings, we don’t need the world to become more evil than it already is.
I LOVE gothic culture and music, I’m deeply resonated with this scene and its values.
(I’m open for mutuals! I love meeting new souls <3)
description: you grew up alongside the winchester boys, usually stuck babysitting them while your dads were off hunting. sam was sweet, dean was a menace, and somehow you survived both. years later, bobby calls you in to help with a case...and dean winchester is still just as much trouble as you remember.
pairing: dean winchester x hunter!reader (fem!reader)
tags: dean winchester x you, no y/n, childhood friends to lovers, shared history, childhood crush, sexual tension, bickering as a love language, backseat of the impala, hunter family lore, "our dads thought we'd get married", fluff and smut, season 1-3 vibes, comfort fic, bobby singer saw this coming YEARS ago
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not interact!!, PiV, unprotected, drinking
WC: 5.0k
A/N: requested by my love @bitterestwillow i hope you enjoyyyy:)))
reblogs are a writer's best friend<3
please! let me know if you want more supernatural fics, i lowkey am obsessed with writing sam and dean...dean gives like au eddie vibes
also, ofc i had to use a wendigo episode picture of dean, like COME ON
Bobby’s kitchen smelled like coffee grounds, motor oil, and something burnt that Dean had sworn twenty minutes ago was “still edible.” It wasn’t.
Sam sat at the table with a lore book spread open in front of him while Dean leaned back in his chair, boots hooked on another seat, flipping a knife through his fingers.
“So let me get this straight,” Dean said slowly. “This thing can mimic voices, disappear, and apparently rip a guy’s jaw clean off?”
“Not apparently,” Sam muttered, eyes scanning the page. “It did.”
Dean grimaced. “Awesome. Love that.”
Bobby shuffled past them, carrying another stack of books. “You two done bitchin’ or you wanna actually solve the case?”
Dean pointed his knife toward him. “I’m solving. Aggressively.”
“Yeah, well, aggressive ain’t helping when none of us know what the hell this thing is.” Bobby dropped the books onto the table with a heavy thud, sending dust puffing into the air. “Closest thing I found was some old Men of Letters mention from the seventies.”
Sam frowned. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Dean sighed dramatically. “Great. So we’re screwed.”
Bobby rolled his eyes. “Not entirely. I called somebody.”
Dean perked up a little. “Oh yeah? Who?”
“Lafontaine.”
Dean blinked, and Sam’s eyebrows lifted slightly in recognition.
And immediately, Dean barked out a laugh. “No way. Old man Lafontaine’s still alive?”
Bobby gave him a look. “Barely.”
“Man,” Dean chuckled, sitting forward now, “that guy used to scare the hell outta me.”
“Yeah,” Sam said dryly, “because you tried stealing his truck when you were twelve.”
“I was borrowing it.”
“You drove it into a ditch.”
Dean pointed at Sam. “Allegedly.”
Bobby snorted. “Well, he knows more about weird occult crap than anybody I trust. Said he’d send over everything he had.”
Dean nodded. “Alright. Cool.”
“Wait,” Dean said slowly. “Did he say he was comin’ himself?”
Before Bobby could answer, there was a knock at the door, three sharp taps. Bobby jerked his chin toward Dean. “Get that.”
Dean stood, stretching as he crossed the room. “If this guy’s still wearing those creepy snake skin boots, I’m leavin’.”
He swung the door open casually and froze. You stood on the porch with a duffel bag slung over your shoulder and a folder tucked under your arm. Older, definitely. But not by much.
Still wearing that same unimpressed expression you used to give him when he mouthed off as a teenager. Your eyes flicked over him once, then twice. And your mouth slowly pulled into a smirk.
“Well,” you said. “If it isn’t the pain in my ass.”
Dean stared, like actually stared. Because there was just absolutely no way. No friggin’ way.
The girl who used to force him and Sam to brush their teeth before bed while your dads were out hunting was standing on Bobby Singer’s porch looking like that. Behind him, Sam nearly choked trying not to laugh.
Dean finally found his voice. “Ain’t no way.”
You tilted your head. “That bad, huh?”
Dean looked you up and down again, almost offended by the universe itself.
“No,” he said immediately. “No, it’s— What the hell happened to you?”
You scoffed, brushing past him into the house. “Puberty. You should try it.”
Sam outright laughed this time.
Dean turned slowly toward his brother. “Did you know?”
Sam lifted both hands innocently. “I had a suspicion.”
Bobby already looked deeply entertained by the entire thing. “Good. Everybody’s here. Sit down.”
You dropped your duffel beside the table before pulling out a thick journal absolutely covered in sticky notes, while Dean couldn’t stop staring.
“What?” you asked flatly.
Dean blinked. “You’re—”
“Careful.”
He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Still bossy.”
“And you’re still annoying.” You opened the journal. “Nice to see nothing’s changed.”
Dean let out a breathy laugh through his nose. God, you sounded exactly the same. Which was somehow worse.
“You know,” you continued while flipping pages, “most people say hello before staring at somebody like they just rose from the dead.”
Dean leaned against the table. “I’m processing.”
“Slowly, apparently.”
Sam looked between the two of you with growing amusement. “Wow. This is exactly how I remember you guys.”
Dean pointed at you without looking away. “She used to bully me.”
You gasped theatrically. “I kept you alive.”
“You handcuffed me to a motel bed one time!”
“You tried to follow our dads on a vamp nest run!”
“I was thirteen!”
“And stupid!”
Dean looked at Bobby incredulously. “See? This. This is what I dealt with.”
You looked over finally, eyes glittering with amusement now. “Funny. I remember you following me around like a lost puppy.”
Dean barked out a laugh. “Please.”
“You cried when I left for a hunt once.”
Sam covered his mouth immediately.
Dean whipped around. “I did not.”
“You absolutely did,” Sam said.
“I was like nine!”
You grinned for the first time fully, and Dean honestly forgot what Bobby had even been saying before you walked in. Because this was not the awkward pigtailed girl who used to shove him away from cursed objects and yell at him to wear a jacket. This was—
“Well?” you asked, catching him staring again.
Dean cleared his throat immediately. “You got info on the monster, or you just come here to psychologically torture me?”
Your smile sharpened. “Oh, Dean,” you said. “Why not both?”
You flipped open the journal, all business now. “Okay,” you said, pushing a page toward Sam. “Your victims weren’t dealing with a ghost.”
Sam adjusted in his chair immediately, scanning the symbols scribbled across the paper. “Then what is it?”
“A Veskar.”
Dean frowned. “A what now?”
You pointed toward one of the sketches. “Old parasitic entity. Mostly Eastern European folklore. They attach themselves to abandoned places, feed on paranoia, fear, isolation— all the fun stuff.”
“Okay,” Dean said slowly. “And the jaw-ripping thing?”
“They hunt through sound mimicry. Lure prey deeper in, disorient them, then attack.”
Dean grimaced. “Still hate that.”
“They’re rare,” you continued. “Mostly because hunters usually die before figuring out what they are.”
“Comforting,” Sam muttered.
You ignored him.
“The important thing is they can’t fully manifest unless they anchor themselves to something physical.”
Bobby nodded slightly from the kitchen counter like he already knew where you were going.
“So what’s the anchor?” he asked.
You tapped the page. “Silver.”
Dean blinked. “Silver?”
“Not pure silver. Melted-down religious objects usually. Crosses, rosaries, grave ornaments. They create nests with it.” You looked at Sam. “The abandoned church near the mill?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah.”
“That’s your spot.”
Dean leaned forward now, focused despite himself. “So what kills it?”
You hesitated for half a second.
“Fire works temporarily. Silver blades can wound it.” Then your expression flattened. “Decapitation’s the only permanent kill.”
Dean snorted softly. “Of course it is.”
“You asked.”
Sam flipped another page in the journal. “These symbols…”
“Containment marks,” you answered. “If we can pin it long enough, it can’t phase.”
Bobby pointed toward Dean with a beer bottle. “Hear that? Means you actually gotta use your brain tomorrow.”
Dean scoffed. “I always use my brain.”
You and Sam both looked at him.
Dean frowned. “Rude.”
You started organizing papers across the table. “Alright. Sam and I can work the lore angle tonight, narrow down nesting habits. Dean—”
Dean immediately pointed at himself. “Why do I feel like I’m getting the dumb task?”
“Because you usually do.”
Bobby barked out another laugh, and Dean looked personally betrayed. “Bobby, you hearing this disrespect?”
“Deserved.”
You continued without missing a beat. “You and Bobby hit the church at dawn. Look for silver deposits, religious artifacts, signs of nesting.”
Dean crossed his arms. “And what’re you doing?”
“Making sure you don’t accidentally get yourselves killed.”
“Aw,” Dean said mockingly. “You still care about me.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it was practically affectionate. “Please. I care about Sam more.”
Dean placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “That’s evil.”
Bobby moved around the kitchen, already pulling mugs down from the cabinets. “You stayin’ here tonight?”
You looked up. “If that’s okay.”
Bobby stared at you as if the question itself offended him. “Kid,” he said softly, “you always got a place here.”
The room quieted for just a second. Dean noticed the tiny shift in your expression immediately, the way your shoulders loosened a little, how your face softened in a way he hadn’t seen yet tonight.
“Thanks, Uncle Bobby.”
There it was. Uncle Bobby.
Dean remembered hearing it a thousand times growing up. Usually, right before Bobby patched up your scraped knees or yelled at all three of you for roughhousing near weapons. Bobby grunted like he was pretending the affection embarrassed him.
“You eat yet?”
“Gas station peanuts count?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
“Jesus,” Bobby muttered, already moving toward the fridge. “Hunters are hopeless.”
You smiled faintly. Dean watched as Bobby checked your shoulder for injuries, absentmindedly. The way he automatically grabbed your favorite whiskey from the cabinet without asking, like muscle memory. It did something weird to Dean’s chest.
Before he could think too hard about it, you stood and walked toward the liquor cabinet yourself.
“You still keep the good stuff hidden?” you asked.
“From Dean? Damn right.”
“Seriously?” Dean called from the living room.
You grabbed the bottle with a victorious hum anyway and poured yourself a glass, then another smaller one. You slid it across the counter toward Bobby, and his face softened immediately.
“Well,” he muttered. “Ain’t you sweet.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Dean watched you lean back against the counter, whiskey glass in hand, talking quietly with Bobby while Sam reread the lore. And honestly? It was screwing with him a little. Because in his head, you were still sixteen years old, yelling at him for teaching Sam curse words.
Not…Not this. Not grown up. Not pretty enough to make him forget what conversation he was in halfway through.
You caught him staring again from across the room, your eyebrow lifting slowly. Dean immediately looked away and grabbed a beer while Sam smirked into his book. Dean kicked his chair hard enough to make him glare.
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinkin’ it loud.”
A couple of hours later, Bobby finally shoved himself up from his chair with a groan loud enough to rival the pipes in the house.
“I’m too old for this crap,” he muttered, pointing a finger between the three of you. “Don’t stay up all night bein’ idiots.”
“No promises,” Dean said immediately.
“Especially you.”
Dean grinned.
Bobby paused beside you on his way out, squeezing your shoulder once. “Night, kid.”
Your expression softened again. “Night, Uncle Bobby.”
Then he disappeared down the hall, bedroom door creaking shut a few seconds later. The TV played quietly in the background. Some old western Bobby definitely fell asleep watching earlier. You swirled the whiskey in your glass lazily before taking another sip.
“So,” Sam said carefully, leaning back in his chair. “How’s your dad?”
You snorted softly. “Still alive somehow. Complains about his knees every five minutes now.”
Dean grinned into his beer. “Good. Means karma’s finally hitting him.”
“You say that like your dad wasn’t just as bad.”
Dean pointed at you. “My father never made us run five miles because we ‘looked energetic.’”
You nearly choked laughing. “Yes, he did.”
“That was one time.”
Sam deadpanned from beside him. “It was not one time.”
You laughed harder at that, head tipping back slightly, and Dean found himself staring again before he could stop it. God, that laugh was exactly the same. Maybe a little lower now. But still the same laugh that used to echo through crappy motel rooms while the four of you survived off takeout and stolen cable.
“You know,” Sam said, smiling faintly, “those were actually some of the most normal parts of our childhood.”
You looked at him softer then. “Yeah?”
Sam nodded. “Seriously. Whenever your dad and ours hunted together…” He shrugged lightly. “It felt normal.”
Dean scoffed. “Speak for yourself. She ran that house like a tiny dictator.”
You gasped. “Excuse me? I kept you both alive.”
“You made schedules.”
“You needed schedules!”
Dean pointed accusingly. “You grounded me once!”
“You snuck out to steal a Playboy from the motel lobby.”
“I was curious!”
“You were fifteen!”
Sam laughed quietly into his drink. Dean turned toward him immediately. “Don’t act innocent. You were her favorite.”
Sam smirked. “Because I listened.”
“Because you were adorable,” you corrected.
Dean looked horrified. “I was adorable.”
“No,” you said instantly. “You were a menace.”
Sam outright snorted. You pointed toward Dean with your whiskey glass. “You wanna know what he used to do?”
Dean narrowed his eyes immediately. “No.”
“He would wait until I fell asleep—”
“Okay, no—”
“—and then put fake spiders in my shoes because he thought that was good pay-back for grounding him.”
Sam burst out laughing while Dean defended himself immediately. “IT WAS FUNNY.”
“You are literally evil.”
Dean grinned shamelessly. “Yeah, and then you chased me around a motel parking lot with a tire iron.”
Your mouth twitched. “Deserved.”
Sam shook his head fondly. “You guys were insane together.”
That made you laugh quietly into your drink. “God,” you muttered. “Our dads used to hate leaving us alone together.”
Dean barked a laugh. “No, they didn’t. They thought it was hilarious.”
You groaned immediately. “Don’t remind me.”
Sam looked between you both curiously. “Wait… are you talking about the marriage thing?”
Dean immediately covered his face with one hand. “Oh, my God.”
You looked equally mortified. “Absolutely not.”
Sam started laughing before either of you could stop him.
Dean pointed at him. “You are enjoying this way too much.”
“I forgot about that!” Sam wheezed.
“Because it was traumatic,” you muttered.
Dean groaned dramatically. “Every damn time we got in trouble—”
You pointed at him, already laughing. “‘One day you two are gonna get married and terrorize some poor town together.’”
Dean dropped his head against the back of the chair. “I can literally hear Bobby saying it.”
“And my dad!” you laughed. “‘Look at ‘em. Already acting like an old married couple.’”
Sam was losing it now. Dean shook his head hard. “No, because they were insane. We were constantly trying to kill each other.”
“Exactly,” you said.
“You broke my nose once.”
“You deserved it.”
“You bent my butterfly knife!”
“You called me bossy!”
“You are bossy!”
You both stopped at the exact same time. Silence.
Then Sam quietly muttered into his drink, “Yeah. You’re definitely getting married.”
Dean grabbed a pretzel off the table and launched it at his forehead immediately, which made Sam laugh harder. And you were smiling at Dean in that same old way you used to when you were kids. All sharp edges and challenges, like every fight between you, had always secretly been fun.
Dean stared for half a second too long again. Your smile faded into something smaller, slightly leaning towards curious. And Dean suddenly became very interested in his beer bottle.
Sam eventually stood with a long stretch, groaning as his back cracked.
“Alright,” he muttered. “I’m done reliving Dean’s humiliating childhood stories for one night.”
Dean pointed at him immediately. “You were there too, jackass.”
“Yeah, but nobody handcuffed me to a motel sink because I ‘chewed too loud.’”
You looked entirely unapologetic. “You did chew too loud.”
Sam laughed, shaking his head as he grabbed his book. “Night, you two.”
“Night, Sammy.”
“Goodnight.”
Then he disappeared down the hallway, leaving the living room oddly quiet. The TV murmured softly in the background while rain tapped lightly against the junkyard windows outside. You took another sip of whiskey, and Dean watched your fingers turn the glass slowly against your knee.
“Y’know,” he said after a minute, voice quieter now, “I always figured you’d get out.”
Your eyes flicked toward him. “Hunting?”
Dean nodded. “You used to talk about it all the time.” He shrugged lightly. “College. Apartment somewhere. Normal life.”
You smiled faintly at that. “Yeah.”
“What happened?”
You looked down into your drink for a second before answering. “The same thing that happened to you, probably.”
Dean didn’t say anything, so you leaned back deeper into the couch cushions.
“The hunter lifestyle never really leaves you,” you said softly. “Even when you try to walk away from it.”
Dean’s jaw tightened slightly, because yeah. He knew exactly what you meant.
You continued after a beat. “I tried once.”
Dean looked over fully now. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
“What, like… serious tried?”
You nodded slowly. “Couple years.” A tiny laugh left you. “Waitressed in Nebraska.”
Dean blinked. “Nebraska?”
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“You are failing.”
Dean grinned a little into his beer bottle.
You shook your head. “I had an apartment. Plants.” You looked genuinely offended by the memory. “Dean, I kept killing every damn one.”
He laughed softly.
“Couldn’t sleep right,” you admitted after a second. “Every noise sounded wrong. Every town felt temporary.” Your eyes lifted toward him again. “Eventually I heard about a hunt nearby and…”
“You went.”
“Yeah.”
Dean nodded once like he understood perfectly, probably because he did.
“You?” you asked. “You ever really try?”
Dean stared at the label peeling off his beer bottle. “Once or twice.”
Lisa flickered through his head for half a second before he shoved it away. You must’ve seen something on his face because your expression softened slightly.
“That bad, huh?”
Dean huffed a quiet laugh. “Something like that.” Then Dean glanced sideways at you, something mischievous slowly creeping into his expression.
“Oh, my God.”
You immediately narrowed your eyes. “What?”
“Do you remember—”
“No.”
“I haven’t even said anything yet.”
“I know that look. The answer’s still no.”
Dean laughed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “The Impala.”
You physically groaned. “Oh, come on.”
Dean grinned wider immediately. “You remember.”
“I wish I didn’t.”
“You absolutely do.”
You covered your face briefly with one hand. “We were teenagers.”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “Teenagers makin’ excellent decisions.”
You pointed at him. “Your father was twenty feet away.”
“At a bar.”
“Nearby.”
Dean shrugged. “Still counts.”
You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head. God, Dean remembered that night vividly. Rainstorm outside. The backseat of the Impala. You whisper-yelling at him to stop laughing because someone would hear.
Dean smirked into his drink. “You kissed me first.”
Your jaw dropped immediately. “I absolutely did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“You flirted with me for like six straight months!”
“Worked, didn’t it?”
You rolled your eyes hard, but you were smiling now. Dean noticed, and then noticed how close you were sitting suddenly. At some point during the conversation, you’d both drifted toward the middle cushion without realizing it, to where your knees were almost touching.
Dean’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before he could stop himself, and your smile faded just slightly when you caught it. But neither of you looked away.
“You know,” you said softly, “you were kind of an ass back then.”
Dean snorted. “Back then?”
You laughed under your breath, then Dean leaned a little closer.
“So were you.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“You drove me insane.”
“You drove me insane first.”
Dean’s eyes flicked between yours. God, there it was again. That same tension you used to dance around when you were younger, before life got messy and bloody and complicated. Only now, neither of you was sixteen anymore. Neither of you was pretending not to notice it.
“You still do,” Dean admitted quietly.
Your breath caught a little, just enough for him to notice. And then, you kissed him. Quick at first, like maybe you were testing if it was a bad idea. Dean answered immediately, one hand coming up to your jaw instinctively as he kissed you back harder.
And wow. Yeah. He remembered this, too. The whiskey on your tongue. The way you grabbed his flannel like you were annoyed about wanting him. You pulled back barely an inch, laughing softly against his mouth.
“This is such a bad idea.”
Dean grinned, forehead resting against yours. “Probably.” Then he kissed you again anyway.
He shifted you onto his lap in one quick and eager motion, his hands gripping your hips as your mouths moved together in a slow, heated kiss that had been building for the last twenty minutes. His tongue slid against yours, tasting like whiskey and cheap mint mouthwash. Every time you rocked against him, you felt how hard he already was beneath his jeans.
Dean pulled back just enough to breathe against your lips, green eyes dark with want. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, voice rough and low.
“Been thinking about this since you got here,” he murmured. “Hell, been thinking about it for years.”
Your breath hitched, because of course, the thought had slipped your mind once or twice. The frantic making out, hands under clothes, the way he’d groaned your name like a prayer when you ground down on him. You’d been interrupted by Sam before anything more could happen.
Dean’s lips curved into that cocky smirk, but his eyes were soft. “We’ve got unfinished business, sweetheart. Don’t y’think?”
You didn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”
He kissed you hard once more, then lifted you off his lap like you weighed nothing. You grabbed jackets and slipped out the back door quietly. Bobby was upstairs snoring, and Sam was out cold in some dusty guest room a few doors down.
The cool night air hit your flushed skin as Dean opened the back door of the Impala and guided you inside. The second the door shut, it was like a dam broke.
Dean pulled you into his lap again, hands sliding under your shirt to cup your breasts as he kissed you deep and filthy. “Been dying to get you back in this car,” he growled against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby.”
You moaned as he tugged your shirt off, his mouth latching onto one nipple while his hand worked the other. He was rough but attentive, sucking and biting just hard enough to make you arch into him. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging the way you knew he liked.
“Dean… please.”
“Look at you,” he breathed, eyes raking over your face. “So fucking perfect. Always have been.”
He lay you back across the wide leather seat, hovering over you. “Been dreaming about this for years,” he growled against your neck, kissing and biting his way down your body. He yanked your jeans and panties down in one rough motion, tossing them aside.
Dean settled between your thighs, pushing your legs wide. He looked up at you with that wicked smirk. “Gonna take my time with you first.”
He didn’t wait. His mouth descended on you, hot and hungry. The first slow lick from your entrance to your clit made your back arch. Dean groaned at your taste, like he’d finally gotten something he’d been craving forever.
“Shit, you taste even better than I imagined,” he muttered, then dove back in.
His tongue worked you expertly; long, flat licks followed by tight circles around your clit. He sucked the sensitive bundle of nerves into his mouth, humming in satisfaction when your hips jerked. Two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling and stroking that perfect spot while his mouth devoured you. The wet, obscene sounds of him eating you out filled the car.
You moaned loudly, one hand fisting his short hair, the other gripping the edge of the seat. Dean’s free hand pressed down on your lower stomach, holding you in place as he fucked you with his fingers and sucked on your clit.
“Dean—fuck—right there—”
He doubled down, sucking harder, fingers pumping faster. Your thighs started trembling around his head. He looked up at you, eyes locked on yours as he worked you closer and closer to the edge.
“Such attitude, now you’re begging me to please you. Are you close, sweetheart?”
You nodded eagerly, desperately pushing his head down to chase his touch.
He grinned against your center and mufflily ordered, “Come for me, then.”
The orgasm hit you hard. Your back bowed off the seat as you cried out his name, thighs clamping around his head. Dean didn’t stop, licking you through every wave until you were shaking and oversensitive.
Only then did he pull back, lips shiny with your arousal, wearing a proud, filthy grin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and crawled up your body, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue.
“You’re so fucking hot when you come for me,” he murmured, grinding his hard cock against your thigh. “But I’m nowhere near done with you.”
He shoved his jeans down with urgency, then flipped you onto your hands and knees, positioning himself behind you. One hand gripped your hip, the other slid up your back and fisted your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp.
He pushed into you in one deep thrust, bottoming out with a groan. “Fuck, so tight… perfect little pussy.”
Dean set a hard, steady rhythm, hips snapping against your ass, and the car rocked with every thrust. He leaned over you, biting your shoulder as he fucked you deeper.
“You like that? Been waiting years to bend you over in this car and fuck you raw,” he growled, voice low and dirty. “Tell me how good it feels, baby.”
“So good—Dean, harder—”
He gave you what you wanted, pounding into you with deep, powerful strokes while his hand reached around to rub your clit. The mix of rough and attentive was dizzying. Every time you moaned his name, he rewarded you with a particularly deep thrust or a filthy compliment.
When you got close again, he pulled you up so your back was against his chest, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other still working your clit. He kissed your neck, teeth grazing your skin.
“Come for me again. Wanna feel you squeezing my cock this time.”
You shattered around him, clenching hard as your second orgasm crashed over you. Dean followed right after with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he came.
He stayed inside you for a long moment, both of you catching your breath. Then he pulled out gently and pulled you into his arms. He grabbed the blanket from the trunk and wrapped it around both of you, shifting so you were curled up against his chest in the backseat.
Dean’s hand stroked slowly up and down your bare back, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, and your hair. The rough, kinky side was gone, replaced by the gentle, protective Dean only you and Sam ever saw.
“You okay?” he asked softly, voice warm. “Didn’t go too hard?”
“I’m perfect,” you whispered, nuzzling into his neck. “That was, uh… worth the wait.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Damn right it was.”
The smell of coffee was what did it; strong, burnt, unmistakably Bobby Singer coffee. Dean stirred first with a groan, face buried somewhere warm and familiar. You. His arm was heavy around your waist beneath an old quilt Bobby had thrown over the two of you sometime during the night.
At some point after the… backseat incident, you’d stumbled inside half asleep, laughing quietly and stealing blankets from Bobby’s linen closet before collapsing together onto the couch.
Dean vaguely remembered you threatening to kick him if he snored. Now, morning light filtered weakly through the junkyard windows, washing the room gold. Dean blinked sleepily, then immediately tensed.
Because Bobby was standing over the couch, holding a coffee mug and looking deeply unimpressed. “Well,” Bobby said flatly. “Ain’t this cute?”
You made a sleepy noise beside Dean, face still buried against his chest.
Dean squeezed his eyes shut briefly. “Oh no.”
Your eyebrows furrowed as you slowly woke up. “What?”
Then Bobby’s voice registered, and your eyes flew open. “Oh, my God.”
Dean started laughing immediately as you jerked upright so fast the blanket tangled around your legs.
Bobby looked between the two of you. “Seriously?” he asked. “On my couch?”
“Not on the couch,” you defended instantly, hair a complete mess.
Bobby looked between the two of you, then outside to the Impala, then back at Dean. “Well, as long as it ain't on my furniture…”
Dean was still half laughing, arm thrown over his face now.
You pointed accusingly at Bobby. “You knew this was gonna happen eventually.”
Bobby snorted. “Yeah. Didn’t mean I wanted visual confirmation.”
Dean sat up slowly, rubbing his face. “Morning to you, too, sunshine.”
Bobby narrowed his eyes at him. “Boy, I practically watched this girl grow up. You think I enjoy waking up and finding Winchester draped all over her?”
Dean grinned shamelessly. “Draped?”
“Dean,” you hissed, mortified.
He looked over at you and nearly lost it again because your face was bright red while you tried unsuccessfully to fix your hair.
“You’re laughin’ way too hard for somebody who started this,” you muttered.
Dean pointed at himself. “Me?”
“You kissed me back!”
“You kissed me first!”
Bobby made a gagging noise. “Alright, enough. I don’t need the damn play-by-play.”
You groaned, dropping your face into your hands. “This is humiliating.”
“Actually,” Dean said, stretching lazily against the couch cushions, “this is probably the best morning I’ve had in months.”
You looked over at him despite yourself. And unfortunately…unfortunately Dean looked very good in the morning. Sleepy voice. Flannel half open. That stupid smug grin.
You rolled your eyes immediately to save yourself. “Shut up.”
Bobby shook his head, muttering something about “kids” despite the two of you being fully grown adults. Then he pointed toward the kitchen with his coffee mug.
“Get up. Case ain’t gonna solve itself.”
Dean groaned dramatically, and you threw the blanket off both of you and stood first, stretching your arms above your head. Dean watched the motion automatically, and Bobby caught him.
“Boy,” Bobby warned.
Dean straightened immediately. “I’m respectful.”
“Bull.”
You snorted loudly while walking toward the kitchen. Dean followed close behind without even thinking about it, and Bobby watched the two of you go with the exhausted expression of a man who had seen this coming for about twenty years.
description: everyone in hawkins thinks you and eddie munson are already married. honestly? you can’t even blame them. between the shared garage, the constant flirting, and the way he cannot help but stare, it’s getting harder and harder to pretend there’s nothing going on between you.
pairing: mechanic!eddie x mechanic!reader (fem!reader)
tags: mechanic!eddie, eddie x you, no y/n, coworkers to lovers, unresolved sexual tension (until...), small town romance, flirtationship, mechanic core aftercare, old married couple energy, fucking on a '67 impala, workplace romance, tension tension tension, whimpering eddie, teasing each other mercilessly
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not interact!!!!, PiV, unprotected, needy eddie
WC: 4.1k
A/N: requested by my beloved @bitterestwillow I HOPE YOU ENJOY QUEEN AHHHHHHH. reblogs are a writer's best friend <3
yes, i had to use this gif for this fic...it does something to me idk......
The bell above the garage door jingled as Mrs. Patterson dug through her purse for her checkbook, glasses sliding halfway down her nose, while you leaned against the counter with a rag tucked into your back pocket.
“So,” you said, tapping the invoice with your pen, “the rattling sound was your serpentine belt. Thing was practically shredded.”
The elderly woman gasped softly. “Oh, dear.”
“Yeah, but you caught it before it snapped completely, which is good. We replaced the belt, topped off your coolant, changed the oil, and Eddie patched that little leak underneath your radiator.” You smiled reassuringly. “She’s good as new now.”
Beside her, Mr. Patterson squinted out toward the garage floor where the familiar sound of classic rock echoed through the open bays. “Which one’s Eddie again?”
Almost on cue, Eddie emerged from beneath a lifted pickup truck with grease smeared across his cheek and curls shoved back with a bandana.
Sweat darkened the collar of his black tank top, coveralls hanging around his hips, while he carried over a sweating tray of lemonade cups.
“There you are,” he said, setting them carefully on the counter. “It’s too damn hot outside not to hydrate.”
Mrs. Patterson practically lit up. “Well, aren’t you sweet?”
“Tell her that more often,” Eddie said, jerking his thumb toward you. “She’s mean to me.”
You rolled your eyes. “I told you to stop using the good shop towels to wipe down your van.”
“They’re towels.”
“They are expensive towels.”
Mr. Patterson laughed under his breath while Eddie handed them their drinks with an exaggerated flourish.
“Anything for my favorite customers.”
Mrs. Patterson smiled fondly at him before looking back toward you. “That husband of yours is such a gentleman.”
You nearly choked on your own spit.
Eddie froze for exactly one second before slowly turning toward you with the most insufferable grin imaginable.
“Oh?” he said. “You hear that, sweetheart?”
“Oh my God,” you muttered immediately.
The poor woman looked horrified. “Oh! I’m sorry, I just assumed—”
“No, no,” Eddie cut in smoothly, leaning against the counter. “Please continue. This is the best day of my life.”
You shot him a glare while he looked seconds away from laughing himself unconscious.
Mrs. Patterson pointed knowingly between the two of you. “You’ve got the look.”
“What look?” you asked suspiciously.
“The ‘been in love for years’ look.”
Eddie outright cackled. You grabbed the invoice and shoved it toward them. “Okay! Your total is—.”
The elderly couple left smiling to themselves while Eddie leaned against the counter, watching you with entirely too much amusement. The second the door shut behind them, he pushed off the counter and followed you toward the office.
“Husband, huh?” he mused.
“Don’t start.”
“I personally think it has a nice ring to it.”
You dropped into the squeaky office chair with a dramatic groan. “You’re unbearable.”
Eddie leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest. “And yet you keep having me back every morning.”
“You work here.”
“Semantics.”
“Hey,” Eddie said suddenly.
You looked up, and he tossed something shiny toward you, and you barely caught it before it hit your face. Your keys, the little keychain Dustin made you years ago, swung between your fingers.
“You left ‘em by the toolbox again.”
“Oh.” You blinked. “Thanks.”
“Mmhm,” he hummed smugly. “Good thing your husband’s lookin’ out for you.”
You pointed toward the door. “Get out.”
Instead of leaving, Eddie just grinned wider, sunlight pouring in behind him from the open garage bays.
“Say it once.”
“No.”
“C’mon, sweetheart. Just one little ‘thank you, my husband.’”
You threw a balled-up receipt at his head while his laughter rang through the entire garage.
By noon, the July heat had turned the garage into a furnace.
Every bay door was rolled open, old fans rattling uselessly in the corners while the smell of motor oil, hot pavement, and cigarette smoke clung heavily in the air.
Foreigner blasted low from the radio perched near Eddie’s toolbox, occasionally cutting out whenever someone used the compressor.
You were bent over the hood of a Mustang, wiping grease from your hands while talking to a customer, your laugh carrying across the shop floor. And across said shop floor, Eddie was staring. Not subtly, either.
Steve had noticed immediately, mostly because Eddie had been holding the exact same wrench for nearly three minutes without moving.
Steve slowly lowered his sandwich. “Jesus Christ.”
“Hm?” Eddie hummed absently.
“You are down catastrophically bad.”
That got Eddie to blink. “What?”
Steve pointed dramatically across the garage where you were explaining something with animated hand gestures, sunlight catching the sheen of sweat on your skin.
“You’ve been staring at her this entire time.”
Eddie scoffed, finally looking away. “I have not.”
“You absolutely have.”
“I’m working.”
“You’ve been holding that wrench upside down.”
Eddie glanced down, and sure enough, he was.
“Shut up.”
Steve barked out a laugh and leaned back in the lawn chair they’d dragged outside for Eddie's lunch break. It was honestly kind of ridiculous to witness at this point.
Everyone in Hawkins knew something was going on between the two of you, except apparently the two of you.
The lingering touches, the teasing, the way Eddie always magically appeared beside you whenever some asshole customer got too flirty.
The way you unconsciously reached for his cigarettes to steal one straight from his mouth…and the constant staring, especially the staring.
Steve watched Eddie’s eyes drift right back over toward you again.
“Oh my God,” he groaned. “There he goes again.”
Eddie ignored him completely. You’d just looked up from the engine bay, pushing hair from your forehead with the back of your wrist, and the second your eyes met Eddie’s from across the garage, you smiled.
It was quick, maybe two milliseconds, but enough to make Eddie smile back immediately without even realizing it. Steve made a loud fake gagging noise.
Eddie finally tore his eyes away. “What is your problem?”
Steve stared at him incredulously. “Dude. I genuinely thought you two would be married by now.”
Eddie choked on his drink. “What?”
“I’m serious,” Steve continued. “Like three years ago, I would've put money on it.”
Eddie rubbed the back of his neck, trying very hard to act unaffected while heat crept up beneath the grease on his cheeks.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “Hasn’t happened.”
“Why not?”
Eddie began to argue, but froze up. Because honestly? He didn’t fucking know.
Somewhere along the way, the flirting had become second nature. So had the late nights at the garage together. So had sharing fries at the diner after closing. So, had you climbing into the passenger seat of his van without asking. So had you wearing his flannels whenever the shop got cold in winter.
It had all become so normal that crossing the line felt weirdly terrifying. Steve watched the gears turning in Eddie’s head and sighed dramatically.
“You’re both idiots.”
“Says you.”
“I’m serious.” Steve pointed between him and you across the garage. “She might as well have personally invented beer by the way you stare at her. It’s honestly kinda sad, man.”
Eddie snorted. “That’s dramatic.”
Steve deadpanned, “You literally stopped mid-cigarette yesterday because she walked by in shorts.”
“That is such a lie!”
“It is the truth.”
Before Eddie could argue, your voice cut across the garage.
“Munson!” Both men looked over.
You stood beside the Mustang with your hands on your hips. “You gonna come help me, or are you too busy staring at me again?”
Steve immediately burst into obnoxious laughter while Eddie nearly dropped his beer. And from the way you smirked before ducking back under the hood, you absolutely knew what you were doing.
The next morning was somehow even hotter.
By ten a.m., the air inside the garage already felt thick enough to chew through, every fan working overtime while the sun beat down through the open bay doors. You had your coveralls tied around your waist, a cropped tank clinging to your skin with sweat, as you worked under the hood of a Jeep.
And Eddie was being an absolute menace. It started innocent enough; he’d complained dramatically about the heat for twenty minutes straight before finally yanking his shirt over his head with a frustrated, “I’m gonna die in this godforsaken town.”
You had looked up at exactly the wrong moment. Because suddenly there was just, Eddie. Shirtless. Hair tied back messily at the nape of his neck. Grease streaked across his stomach and chest. Dog tag and guitar pic hanging against tan skin. His jeans slung low on his hips while he wiped sweat from the back of his neck with a rag.
And the worst part? The asshole noticed immediately. You looked away so fast you nearly smacked your head against the underside of the hood. From somewhere across the garage, you heard another mechanic whistle loudly.
“Ohhhh,” he sang. “How the tables have turned.”
“Shut up, Mark,” you muttered.
Eddie, meanwhile, looked entirely too pleased with himself. For the next hour, he became absolutely insufferable. Needlessly stretching, standing too close, asking you to hand him tools he absolutely could’ve reached himself.
At one point, he bent over the engine bay beside you, and you caught the smell of gasoline, cigarette smoke, and his cologne and nearly forgot your own name.
“Wrench?” he asked casually, but you evidently handed him the wrong one.
Eddie bit back a grin. “Sweetheart, this is a screwdriver.”
Heat flooded your face. From behind him, Mark made an obnoxious gagging noise, and you narrowed your eyes.
Fine. If Eddie wanted to play this game? Two could absolutely play. Play a stupid game, win a stupid prize, right?
About twenty minutes later, Eddie was halfway underneath a truck when he heard your laugh ring across the garage.
That’s not unusual. However, what was unusual was the guy you were laughing with. Some customer leaned against the front counter while you smiled up at him, twirling a socket wrench lazily between your fingers.
Eddie immediately rolled himself out from under the truck on the creeper.
“What’s that?” Mark asked innocently from nearby.
“Nothing,” Eddie muttered.
“Looks like jealousy.”
“Not jealous.”
“Mhm.”
The customer laughed at something you said, briefly touching your arm, which caused Eddie to sit up straighter. Then the asshole smiled.
“Oh,” Mark murmured. “He’s flirting.”
Eddie stood immediately.
Mark burst out laughing. “THERE he is.”
Before Eddie could storm over there and make an idiot of himself, the rumble of an engine pulled into the lot. All three of you looked over automatically, and then Eddie froze.
“No fucking way.”
The car rolling slowly into the garage was gorgeous: black paint gleaming beneath the sunlight, chrome shining, low growl of the engine unmistakable.
A 1967 Chevy Impala. The entire garage seemed to pause.
Even you looked impressed. “Well,” you said softly. “Would you look at that?”
The driver climbed out, explaining something about rough idling and overheating, but Eddie barely heard a word. Because holy shit, it was pristine.
You walked slowly around the car, fingertips dragging lightly over the hood appreciatively. “She’s beautiful.”
And unfortunately for Eddie? The way you said it sounded dangerously similar to the tone you sometimes used with him. Mark caught the look on Eddie’s face and immediately started grinning.
“You alright there, big guy?”
Eddie ignored him entirely, stepping beside you near the Impala. “Think it’s the thermostat,” he murmured, eyes flicking toward you instead of the car.
You glanced up, and there it was again: that stupid tension. Especially when your gaze dipped briefly down his bare chest before snapping back up. A smug little grin tugged at his mouth.
“Oh, now who’s staring?” he asked quietly.
You held his gaze for a long second before reaching forward and grabbing the grease rag tucked into the back of his jeans. Eddie blinked, then watched you slowly wipe your grease-covered hands on it while maintaining eye contact.
Mark made a strangled noise somewhere behind him while the customer looked wildly confused. And Eddie? Eddie looked like he was about two seconds away from losing his mind entirely.
By the time the sun finally started setting, the garage had gone quiet.
The OPEN sign in the front window buzzed faintly before Eddie reached up and flicked it off with grease-stained fingers, plunging the office into dim golden light. Outside, cicadas screamed into the warm Indiana night while the last of the heat clung stubbornly to the concrete floors.
Most nights ended like this lately. Just you and Eddie lingering hours after closing, claiming there was still work to finish when really neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave.
The Impala sat in the center bay now, hood propped open while you leaned halfway into the engine compartment with a flashlight between your teeth. From the radio near Eddie’s toolbox, a slow rock song crackled softly through static.
And across the garage, Eddie was still shirtless, still. All damn day.
You tightened something with your ratchet a little harder than necessary before finally glancing over toward him. He was bent over the workbench this time, curls falling loose from his hair tie while sweat gleamed across his shoulders under the overhead lights.
Honestly, it was getting ridiculous.
“You know shirts exist for a reason, right?” you called.
Eddie didn’t even look up. “Do they?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.”
You rolled your eyes, ducking back under the hood. “Pretty sure OSHA would have a field day with you.”
That finally made him laugh. Then you heard the scrape of his boots as they crossed the garage floor. A second later, Eddie appeared beside you, leaning against the Impala with crossed arms.
Still shirtless, and still oh-so-very smug. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he asked innocently. “You don’t like what you see?”
You made the mistake of looking at him fully then. Big mistake, because up close was somehow worse.
Grease streaked across his stomach, forearms flexing where they crossed over each other, and his stupid hair half falling out of the tie from working all day.
Your eyes dipped for half a second too long, and Eddie caught it immediately with a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Oh my God,” he murmured. “You do.”
You snapped your gaze back to the engine. “Shut up.”
“Nah.” He leaned closer. “C’mon, tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Mhm.”
“You’re sweaty.”
“Thought girls liked that.”
“I don’t.”
“Liar.”
Heat crawled up your neck as you tried very hard to focus on the engine instead of the fact that Eddie was standing close enough for his knee to brush yours every few seconds.
“You’ve been staring at me all day,” he said softly.
You scoffed. “You wish.”
“You handed me a screwdriver this morning because you were too busy looking at my chest.”
“That happened one time.”
“And then you wiped your hands on my jeans while making eye contact with me like a psychopath.”
A smile tugged at your mouth despite yourself. “That was funny.”
“It was hot.”
Your ratchet slipped loudly against the engine, then silence. Then Eddie laughed quietly under his breath. You pointed the flashlight at him threateningly. “Don’t.”
But Eddie just leaned further over the hood beside you until your shoulders bumped.
“You know,” he said casually, “if this is your way of admitting you’re into me, there are easier methods.”
You snorted. “Into you? Please.”
“Sweetheart, half this town thinks we’re married already.”
“That’s because old people are nosy.”
“That’s because you look at me like that.”
You frowned. “Like what?”
Eddie’s eyes flicked slowly over your face, enough to make your stomach flip and your face burn pink. “Like you want to kiss me every time I open my mouth.”
Eddie’s grin faltered just slightly when you stepped closer instead of backing away.
“Oh yeah?” you asked lightly.
His eyes flicked over your face. “Yeah.”
You crossed your arms, leaning against the Impala beside him now, shoulder brushing his bare arm. “What about you, huh?”
Eddie blinked once. “What about me?”
“You think I don’t notice?” you continued, voice quieter now. “The staring. Following me around the shop all day?”
“That is not—”
“You literally almost dropped a transmission last month because I called you pretty.”
“That was one time.”
A smile tugged at your mouth. “Mhm.”
Eddie opened his mouth to argue again, but you stepped even closer first, close enough now that he had to tilt his head down to look at you properly. And suddenly, he wasn’t smirking anymore.
Interesting.
“You wanna know what I think?” you murmured.
Eddie swallowed visibly. “What?”
You reached up slowly, fingers hooking around the chain of his dog tags. The sharp inhale he took was immediate.
“Oh, you like this way more than I do.”
His eyes went dark instantly. “Careful,” he said softly.
“Or what?”
Eddie laughed once under his breath, disbelieving almost, like he couldn’t decide if you were trying to kill him on purpose. Then, the tension snapped like a fan belt under too much strain.
You tugged harder on Eddie’s dog tags, pulling him down until his mouth crashed into yours. He groaned into the kiss; raw, needy, and immediately pliant.
His hands hovered at your waist like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch, even after years of circling this exact moment. You solved that for him by grabbing his wrists and planting his grease-streaked palms firmly on your ass.
“Kiss me like you mean it, Munson,” you growled against his lips.
Eddie melted. His mouth opened for you instantly, tongue sliding hot and desperate against yours while you backed him up against the Impala’s fender.
He tasted like cigarettes and the beer he definitely should not have had earlier, and he whimpered, actually whimpered, when you bit his bottom lip and sucked it between your teeth.
“Fuck… sweetheart,” he panted when you finally let him breathe. His cock was already straining against the front of his coveralls, obvious and aching. You shoved a hand between you and palmed him roughly through the fabric. Eddie’s hips jerked forward into your grip with a broken sound.
“Close the hood,” you ordered, voice low.
Eddie blinked, dazed. “Wh—”
“Now.”
He scrambled to obey, reaching over and slamming the heavy hood of the Impala shut with a solid thunk that echoed through the empty garage. The second it latched, you pushed him back, hopped up onto the glossy black hood, and spread your legs in invitation.
Your coveralls were already half-off, tank top shoved up, work jeans unbuttoned, and yanked down your thighs along with your underwear in one impatient motion. Eddie’s eyes went wide and dark, pupils blown as he stared at your exposed pussy glistening under the overhead lights.
“On your knees,” you said, hooking a boot behind his shoulder to drag him forward.
He dropped so fast his knees probably bruised on the concrete. The first drag of his tongue was tentative, almost reverent—then you grabbed a fistful of his messy curls and ground against his face, and Eddie moaned like he’d been waiting his whole life for this.
He licked broad and sloppy, sucking your clit between his lips exactly how you liked it once you told him, “Higher—there, fuck, just like that.”
His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, but he never tried to take control. Every time you tugged his hair or rolled your hips, he whimpered gratefully into your cunt and doubled down, tongue fucking into you while his nose rubbed perfect circles against your clit.
Sweat and grease streaked his bare chest; his cock was leaking a wet spot through his coveralls. You came hard on his tongue, thighs clamping around his head as you rode his face through it, moaning his name loud enough that it probably carried out the open bay doors.
Eddie kept licking you through the aftershocks like he couldn’t bear to stop. When you finally pushed his head back, his chin was shiny with your slick, lips swollen, eyes glassy and adoring.
For a second, you thought he was going to stay soft, sweet, and submissive, but then he grabbed your hips, spun you around, and bent you over the warm hood in one rough motion.
“Eddie—” you started, but he was already kicking your feet apart.
“Please,” he whined, voice cracked and needy as he shoved his coveralls and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It slapped heavily against your ass, dripping wet. “Need to be inside you—fuck, I can’t wait anymore.”
He didn’t give you time to answer. He lined up and pushed in with one desperate thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The broken whimper that tore out of him was pure filth.
“Oh my god—oh fuck, you’re so tight,” he gasped, forehead dropping between your shoulder blades. His hips jerked forward again, shallow and frantic. “Feels so good… so fucking good—”
You gripped the edge of the hood, moaning as he started fucking you harder. He was still whimpering and panting with every thrust, but he had you pinned now; big hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, cock driving deep and relentless.
“Eddie—shit—”
“I’m sorry, I just—fuck—” He sounded wrecked, voice cracking as he slammed into you again, the car rocking under the force. One hand slid around to rub messy circles over your clit, too desperate to be coordinated, but perfect anyway. “Can’t stop…wanted this for so fucking long—”
You pushed back against him, and he sobbed a moan, pace turning sloppy and needy.
“Please—please let me come inside you,” he begged right in your ear, hips snapping faster. “I’ll be good—I'll be so good for you, just—fuck, I’m so close already—”
You clenched around him on purpose, and his rhythm stuttered, another broken moan spilling out as his cock throbbed inside you.
He came with a loud, shattered moan, hips jerking as he pumped deep inside you, shuddering and whimpering through every pulse. Even after he finished, he stayed buried in you, breathing hard against your neck, cock still twitching.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, voice hoarse. “I think I just died.”
You laughed breathlessly and gently tugged his hair. “Good,” you murmured.
You sat on the edge of the workbench, now wrapped loosely in Eddie’s discarded flannel, while he rummaged through one of the lockers near the tiny office bathroom.
“You alive over there?” he called.
“Mhm.”
“Liar. You sound deceased.”
You laughed tiredly, resting your cheek against your shoulder as you watched him move around the shop, half-dressed and still unfairly attractive. Honestly, it should’ve annoyed you more. Instead, your chest felt warm.
Eddie finally turned around, holding a towel triumphantly over his head. “Ha! Told you I left one here.”
“You keep towels at the shop?”
“Sweetheart, sometimes engines explode on me.”
He crossed back over toward you, hair falling loose around his face again now that the tie had disappeared somewhere in the chaos.
Up close, you noticed how pink his cheeks still were, how his lips looked swollen from the relentless eating and hungry kisses.
“C’mon,” he said gently, nudging your knee apart so he could stand between them. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
The bathroom attached to the office was tiny and honestly kind of terrible. Half the lightbulbs buzzed, the water pressure sucked, and the shower curtain had little motor oil stains near the bottom from years of mechanics rinsing off after long shifts. Still, with Eddie in there with you somehow, it felt strangely intimate.
You stood beneath the spray, rinsing soap from your arms while Eddie sat on the little built-in ledge beside you, lazily rubbing shampoo through your hair with surprising gentleness.
“There’s no way you know how to do this,” you mumbled.
“I’m multi-talented.”
“You use dish soap on your hair sometimes.”
“That is slander.”
You snorted softly while he carefully worked his fingers through the ends of your hair. His touch slowed after a minute, fingertips brushing lightly along the back of your neck.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
The softness in his voice caught you off guard, and you turned slightly to look at him. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
Then he reached forward, wiping a little mascara smudge from beneath your eye with his thumb. “Pretty girl,” he murmured.
You leaned against the tile wall while Eddie stood close enough for the warm water to run down both of you at once. Then, after a long, quiet moment, he grinned suddenly.
“So.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “What?”
“You think fucking on an Impala counts as our first date?”
anywayy... hope you all enjoyed ;) dean winchester fic coming later today if you're interested MUAHAHAHA
description: eddie's sick of corroded coffin's current standstill. gareth heard from a friend of a friend of a distant cousin who made a deal at a crossroads and got everything they wanted, and more. eddie takes it amongst himself to make a deal, in hopes to give corroded coffin it's well-deserved fame. little does he know what's at stake to make this deal official.
pairing: virgin!eddie x demon!reader (fem!reader)
tags: eddie x demon!reader, no y/n, crossroads demon, supernatural coded as FUCK, succubus reader, sub!eddie, dom!reader (she's a demon, duh), this is basically all smut lol, inexperienced eddie, fear & desire combo, he's terrified but completely into it, power play, edging, overstimulation, "good boy" energy, horny but scared
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not interact!!, PiV, unprotected (yk me), power play asf, eddie being a good little boy
WC: 3.4k
A/N: this idea came from a mix of a request from @meowtherkat and a suggestion from @brrrainst3w... and my ass loves making anything supernatural coded if it has to do with eddie...wink wink hint hint at a potential new seriesssssss🫣 anywayys, reblogs are always appreciated<3 yk the drill by now. enjoy ;)
The instructions had been… oddly specific.
Eddie had read them ove on a crumpled page Gareth swore he found in some back corner of a used occult shop two towns over.
“Crossroads deal,” Eddie mutters under his breath, crouched in the middle of the empty stretch of road just outside Hawkins.
Midnight had come and gone, the air thick and still in that way that makes every sound feel louder than it should.
He glances around once, nothing but trees, darkness, and the faint hum of cicadas.
“Okay. Cool. Totally normal. Not insane at all.”
From a small metal box at his side, he pulls out the items one by one, checking them like he’s about to run a ritual and a D&D campaign at the same time.
Black cat bone.
Graveyard dirt.
And a torn picture of himself, taken from Hellfire's yearbook photo.
The box itself is cheap; just something he stole from Wayne’s shed—but he’d lined it carefully, exactly how the instructions said. Everything placed just right, everything meaning something.
Because this? This matters. Corroded Coffin matters.
They deserve more than playing to half-drunk crowds at The Hideout. They deserve something real. Something bigger. And if this is what it takes?
Eddie exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Alright, Munson,” he murmurs. “You wanted a big break? This is the part where you commit.”
Then he starts digging.
It’s quick, messy work; shallow, just enough to bury the box in the center of the crossroads. Dirt under his nails, knees pressing into gravel. When it’s done, he places the box inside, covers it, and presses the earth flat with his palm.
And when he stands, he winces like he’s expecting the ground to explode underneath him. Eddie blinks.
“…That’s it?” he says to absolutely no one. “No thunder? No dramatic wind? Not even, like, a creepy—”
The wind shifts just enough to make the hair on his shoulders sway sideways. Eddie freezes.
“…Okay,” he whispers, suddenly very aware of his heartbeat. “Okay, that’s new.”
“Y’know,” a voice says softly behind him, “most people at least hesitate before doing something this stupid.”
Eddie spins around so fast he nearly trips, and there you are. Leaning casually against the invisible line where the road meets the dark, like you’ve been there the whole time.
You’re not what he expected: not smoke and fire, not monstrous. No, worse. You’re beautiful, and dangerously so.
Every detail of you feels deliberate, like you were built to be looked at. Your eyes catch the low moonlight, reflecting red in a way that definitely isn't human. Your smile is slow, knowing, and just a little too sharp at the edges.
And the way you’re looking at him?
Eddie stares. “…Holy shit.”
You tilt your head, amused.
“This is usually the part where people run,” you say lightly. “Or scream. Sometimes both.”
“Yeah, well,” he says, swallowing hard but squaring his shoulders anyway, “I’ve seen worse.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Have you?”
“…Okay, not worse,” he admits. “But, like, comparable? Maybe?”
That gets a soft laugh out of you.
You push off where you’re standing and step closer. Eddie doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, actually. Because now that you’re closer, it’s worse.
The air around you feels different, like standing too close to a live wire. And there’s something else, too; something pulling at him, like gravity just shifted and decided you were the center of it.
“Eddie Munson,” you say, his name rolling off your tongue like you’ve known it forever. “Guitarist. Dreamer. Chronic bad decision maker.”
He huffs a nervous laugh. “Wow. You really did your homework.”
“I don’t have to,” you murmur, circling him slowly. “People like you? You practically ooze disappointment.”
He tracks your movement, trying not to look too affected by the way your presence wraps around him.
“Yeah?” he says. “And what exactly is ‘people like me’?”
You stop just in front of him.
Close enough that he can feel the chill of you, and the heat beneath it.
“Desperate,” you say softly. “Hungry. Willing to trade anything for a shot at being seen.”
Eddie’s jaw tightens slightly.
“…Not anything,” he says.
Your smile deepens.
“Mm,” you hum, unconvinced. “We’ll see.”
“Alright,” he says, forcing his voice steady. “You’re here. So that means this worked, right? The whole…” he gestures vaguely at the ground, “...ritual, box, crossroads thing?”
“It worked,” you confirm.
“And that means… you make deals.”
“I do.”
Eddie exhales, running a hand over the back of his neck.
“Okay. Cool. Great. Awesome.” He nods once, like he’s psyching himself up. “Then let’s uh. Let’s do this.”
You watch him, curious now. “What might your wish be?”
“I want Corroded Coffin to make it,” he says. “Like, really make it. Crowds, records, the whole thing. I want people to hear us. I want—” he cuts himself off, shakes his head. “I just want a shot.”
“And in return?” you ask.
Eddie hesitates again.
“…My soul,” he says, quieter now.
"See?” you murmur, stepping even closer, your voice dropping just enough to send something sharp and electric down his spine. “Knew you’d be willing to trade anything."
Eddie swallows.
“…So is that a yes or?”
“It’s a yes,” you say.
His breath catches. And then you lean in, close enough that your lips almost brush his ear, your voice barely above a whisper.
“But here’s the thing, Eddie…”
A pause and a smile, he can hear.
“Under normal circumstances, this type of deal would be sealed with a kiss…but a deal with a virgin? That’s like, double the paygrade down there.”
“Okay—first of all—” he pulls back, blinking at you, flustered. “You don’t know that.”
You tilt your head, amused.
“Oh?” you hum.
“Yeah,” he says quickly, a little too quickly. “I mean what, you just, what, guessing now? That’s your big demon power? Wild assumptions?”
You take a step closer, and Eddie stops talking. Because now you’re really in his space.
Close enough that he can feel the cool edge of your presence, the strange pull of it, like something in him is leaning toward you whether he wants it to or not.
You inhale softly, and your smile deepens.
“I’m not guessing,” you say.
Your gaze flicks back up to his, slow and deliberate. “You smell like it.”
Eddie chokes.
“What?" he physically recoils half a step, hands coming up like that’ll somehow defend him. “That’s not a thing. That is not a thing people can…What does that even mean?”
You just watch him spiral, clearly enjoying yourself now.
“People can't smell purity," you say lightly. "But me? You reek of it."
His face goes bright red.
“Okay, wow. Cool. Great. Love that for me,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Super glad I dug a hole in the middle of nowhere for this specifically.”
You step closer again, because the feeling of his fear feeds a hunger you can’t ignore. Eddie doesn’t move this time. Can’t, really.
“…It also means,” you add, quieter now, your voice dipping just slightly, “your soul’s… untouched.”
Your fingers brush lightly against his wrist; barely there, but enough to make him freeze.
“And those?” you murmur, eyes flicking to his. “They’re always the most interesting.”
Eddie swallows. “…Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
Eddie’s breath is shallow, his eyes wide and dark.
“So… what happens now?” he asks, voice cracking on the last word like a teenager who just realized the campaign boss has bigger teeth than expected. “You take the soul and poof? Or do we…?”
Your laugh is low, velvet-wrapped sin. “Oh, sweetheart. We seal it properly.” You slide your fingers up his wrist, over the frantic flutter of his pulse, then higher, tracing the tendon along his forearm. “A kiss for an ordinary soul. But yours?”
You lean in until your lips hover a breath from his. “Yours is untouched. Pure. And down in Hell, that kind of untouched virginity is worth double. Dark Lord's going to be praising me for it for the next century.”
Eddie makes a strangled noise, eyes darting like he's considering running.
“Focus, Eddie.” You press one finger to his lips, then let it drag down slowly, catching on the plush lower one.
“You want your band to make it? Records. Crowds. The whole screaming, sold-out dream?” Your other hand settles on his chest, right over his rabbiting heart. “Then give me what no one else has ever had.”
He stares at you for one long, reeling second; fear, want, and that stubborn Munson fire all tangled together. Then his hands find your waist like he’s been dying to touch you since the moment you appeared.
“Fuck it,” he breathes. “Take it.”
You don’t give him time to second-guess.
The grass is cool and slightly damp when you push him down, straddling his hips in one smooth motion. Eddie lands on his back with a soft “oof,” staring up at you like you’re the only star left in the sky.
You peel his vest open, then his shirt, exposing the pale stretch of his chest, the scatter of dark hair, the faint scars from the Upside Down he still carries. When you lean down and drag your tongue over one nipple, Eddie arches with a broken sound that goes straight between your legs.
“Shit—warn a guy…” he gasps, hips jerking up instinctively.
You smile against his skin. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Clothes come off in a messy rush; his jeans shoved down just enough, your dress hiked up, no patience for anything graceful.
The moment you wrap your hand around him he keens, head tipping back into the grass, throat bared like an offering.
“Easy, rockstar,” you purr, straddling his hips and pinning his wrists above his head with one hand. “You’re not rushing this. I’m going to take my time with you.”
He’s hard, leaking already, velvet and steel under your fingers. Virgin, untouched, and absolutely delicious.
Eddie’s breath hitches. “O-okay… yeah. Fuck. Whatever you want.”
You smile, sharp and wicked. “Good boy.”
You stroke him gently once, “Shit!”
You lean down, lips brushing his ear. “First rule tonight? You don’t come until I say so. Understand?”
He nods frantically, curls sticking to his forehead. “Y-yes. God, yes.”
You start slow. Teasing. Your hand works him in long, languid pulls while you rock your hips against his thigh, letting him feel how wet you already are.
Every time his breath starts to hitch and his thighs tremble, you slow down or stop completely, squeezing the base until the edge fades.
First time, it's barely two minutes in. His cock twitches desperately in your grip, pre-cum dripping over your knuckles.
“P-please—” he whines, head tossing side to side in the grass.
You click your tongue. “Already? Pathetic. And adorable.”
You lean down and drag your tongue up the side of his throat, tasting salt and desperation. “Not yet, Eddie. I want you aching for it.”
Second time: you finally sink down on him, taking him to the hilt in one smooth glide. He’s thick, stretching you perfectly, and the sound he makes is pure sin.
You ride him deep and steady, rolling your hips in filthy circles, clenching around him on every downstroke. His hands fly to your waist, fingers digging into your skin.
“Fuck—fuck, you feel— so good— I can’t—”
You stop moving the second his rhythm turns frantic.
“No,” you command softly, still fully seated on his cock. “Breathe.”
Eddie lets out a wrecked sob, hips twitching helplessly beneath you. “You’re evil, holy shit...”
You laugh, low and warm, and roll your hips once, twice, just enough to keep him throbbing inside you before you lift off completely. He whines at the loss, cock slapping wetly against his stomach.
Third time: you slide down his body and take him into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the head, suck him deep until he hits the back of your throat, then pull back with a filthy pop. You tease him like this for what feels like forever, stroking, licking, sucking just enough to keep him right on the razor’s edge.
Eddie’s a mess beneath you. Babbling. Cursing. Begging in that pretty, broken voice.
“Please, I need...I’ll give you anything. My soul, my life, fuck, just let me come—”
You crawl back up and sink onto him again, this time facing away so he has the perfect view of your ass as you ride him reverse. The new angle makes him hit deeper, brushing that spot inside you that has you moaning too.
You reach between your legs and rub your clit in tight circles while you work him mercilessly; fast, then slow, clenching around him every time he gets close.
Fourth time. Fifth. By now he’s crying, actual tears shining in his lashes and streaming down his cheeks, body shaking, skin slick with sweat, hips jerking up desperately every time you pause.
You finally turn around, facing him again, and brace your hands on his chest. Your eyes glow faintly, infernal red in the moonlight.
“Look at me, Eddie.” You say, smearing the tear down his cheek with your thumb and place it in your mouth, relishing in the salty tang of his desperation. His eyes snap to yours, glassy and desperate.
“You’ve been so good,” you whisper, starting to ride him hard now; deep, punishing strokes that make obscene wet sounds in the quiet night. “Such a sweet little thing you are.”
Eddie’s hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise. “Please, I’m so close— please let me—”
You lean down, bite his bottom lip, and growl against his mouth.
“Come.”
The command snaps something inside him. Eddie comes with a shattered cry, back arching clean off the grass as he spills deep inside you, hot, endless pulses that seem to go on forever.
His whole body convulses with it, thighs trembling, fingers digging into your skin like you’re the only real thing left in the world.
You follow right after, grinding down hard and letting your own release crash over you in sharp, pulsing waves.
For a long minute there’s only ragged breathing and the distant sound of cicadas.
Eddie lies boneless beneath you, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded and dazed. His lips are kiss-swollen, cheeks flushed dark, hair a wild mess in the grass.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasps eventually, voice completely wrecked. “I think I just died. Like, actually died. Best death ever.”
You laugh softly and brush damp curls off his forehead, pressing a surprisingly gentle kiss to his temple.
“Deal’s sealed, rockstar. Corroded Coffin is going to blow up. Sold-out tours. Records. The whole dream.” You roll your hips once more, just to feel him twitch inside you. “And every time you step on stage, you’re going to remember exactly how you paid for it.”
“…So,” he rasps, dragging a hand over his face like he’s trying to re-enter his own body. “What happens now?”
You don’t answer right away. Instead, you trace your fingers lightly along his jaw, tilting his head just enough to make him look at you.
Your smile is softer now, but somehow worse.
“Now?” you echo, almost thoughtful.
“Now you get everything you asked for.”
Eddie lets out a shaky breath, something like relief flickering across his face, until your thumb presses just slightly harder against his chin.
“And usually,” you continue, voice dropping, “there’s a timeline.”
He swallows. “…Yeah?”
“Ten years,” you say simply. “Ten years of fame, fortune, everything your little heart desires.” Your gaze drags over him, lingering just long enough to make heat creep back into his expression. “And then I come back… and collect what’s mine.”
“…Right,” he mutters.
“But you,” you murmur, leaning in just enough that your lips hover near his again, “aren’t exactly standard inventory.”
He blinks. “…I’m not?”
A quiet, amused breath leaves you.
“Untouched,” you say, softer now, but heavier. “Unclaimed. Do you have any idea how rare that is down there?”
Eddie makes a face. “I’m starting to get the impression I should be offended.”
“You should be grateful,” you correct.
A pause, then, almost lazily: “I think I’ll give you twenty.”
“…Twenty?” he repeats.
“Mhm.” You straighten slightly, studying him. “Double the time. Double the investment.”
Eddie lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Wow. So what, I should say thank you?”
You tilt your head. “You can,” you say lightly. “But it won’t change anything.”
He huffs, shaking his head a little, still trying to process all of it.
“…Will I see you again?” he asks.
That seems to amuse you most of all, and your smile turns slow.
“Oh, Eddie,” you murmur.
You lean in one last time, brushing your lips just barely against his ear.
“I have to keep a very close eye on you now.” Your voice drops, velvet-dark and threaded with something possessive. “Wouldn’t want you trying to slip out of the deal early.”
Your fingers trail down his chest, over his heart, lingering there just long enough to make his breath catch again.
“And besides…” you add, almost teasing now, “I think I’m going to enjoy watching you.”
Eddie exhales, somewhere between nervous and completely, hopelessly intrigued.
“…Yeah,” he mutters. “That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”
“See you around, rockstar.”
Then, before he can add another comment, the weight on top of him vanishes. He swings his head around too fast, neck protesting, eyes scanning the empty stretch of road.
No lingering shadow, no trace of you. Just the quiet hum of cicadas again. The crossroads. The same stupid patch of dirt he dug up an hour ago, like an absolute idiot.
Eddie blinks.
“…Okay,” he breathes.
“…Okay, that—”
He pushes himself up onto his elbows, then sits fully, running both hands through his hair like he can physically reset his brain.
“—that happened.”
His shirt is half open. His chest still feels wrong, too warm, too charged, like something’s still sitting right under his skin. His heart hasn’t slowed down yet. Doesn’t feel like it can.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “I just—”
He stands up, slowly padding over to the van and shoves the keys in the ignition. Needless to say it was a quiet and confused ride home for the future rockstar.
When he get’s back to the trailer, the phone is already ringing.
“—Eddie?!”
Gareth’s voice explodes through the line, loud and borderline frantic.
“Dude, where the hell have you been?! I’ve been trying to reach you for like twenty minutes!”
Eddie presses the phone tighter to his ear, still trying to catch his breath.
“I was, uh, busy,” he says, because what else is he supposed to say? Sorry, man, was just selling my soul at a crossroads?
“What’s wrong?” he adds quickly. “Why are you blowing up my phone?”
“…We got a call.”
Eddie freezes.
“…What?”
“The tape,” Gareth rushes, words tripping over each other. “The one we sent in? To that label in the city? They, dude, they called back.”
Eddie’s grip on the phone tightens.
“No way,” he says immediately. “No, you’re messing with me.”
“I’m not!” Gareth practically yells. “I swear to God, I’m not! They want us to come in, like, in person, man. A studio session. They wanna hear us live.”
Eddie’s heart stutters. “…When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“…Tomorrow?” Eddie repeats, voice going thin.
“Yeah, tomorrow!” Gareth says. “We have to be in New York by the afternoon. Jeff’s already freaking out, man, we don’t even know how we’re gonna—”
Eddie stops hearing the rest, because this whole ordeal feels like a dream. A sick, yet awesome dream, with a 20 year time limit. The mix of emotions swelling in his chest makes him want to puke and laugh all at once.
“…Eddie?” Gareth says. “You there?”
Eddie swallows.
“…Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“…We’ll make it,” he says finally, a little dazed.
Gareth lets out a sharp laugh. “Dude, we have to, this is it!”
Eddie huffs out a breath that almost feels like a laugh.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “This is it.”
single tear down my leg
taglist is open!!
-please let me know if i forgot anyone i do b forgetting sometimes i apologize
description: he’ll get on his knees for you behind closed doors, call you his queen like it’s the only truth that matters. but at school? you’re just another cheerleader he rolls his eyes at, and you’ve had enough of being his secret.
pairing: eddie x you (fem!reader)
tags: eddie x you, no y/n, weekend lover energy, angst, hurt/comfort, secret relationship, dom!eddie smut, public denial private devotion, possessive!eddie, soft!eddie, "my queen", (all behind closed doors, of course)
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do NOT interact!!!!, PiV, unprotected, pet name
WC:7.9k
A/N: requested by @pierrotandsam i hope i did your request justice!! thank you all for your continued support, I LOVE YOU RAHHHHHH!! reblogs are always appreciated <33 enjoyyyyyuhhhhh
The first time you notice it, it almost feels like a mistake. Because the night before, Eddie had you pinned against the thin wall of his trailer, palms warm at your waist, voice low and reverent like he was saying something sacred.
“C’mere,” he murmured, pulling you closer like you belonged there, like you’d always belonged there. “My queen shouldn’t have to ask.”
He said it so easily, like it was fact. Like it was truth. Like you were something worth kneeling for.
And then, school comes. Fluorescent lights. Lockers slamming. The stale, over-perfumed air of Hawkins High School presses in on you from all sides.
You see him before he sees you. Or—no, that’s not right. He does see you.
You catch it, just for a second. His eyes flick up, lock with yours, and then slide right past you like you’re just another body in the hallway.
Like you’re nothing.
Your stomach drops so fast it makes you dizzy. But maybe it’s just a thing. A one-off, a weird morning, Eddie being Eddie.
Right?
You try again at lunch.
He’s at his usual table, boots kicked out, Hellfire Club crowding around him, loud and messy and unapologetic. He’s mid-rant about something; D&D, probably, hands moving like he’s conducting his own chaos.
You hover for half a second, just long enough to be seen. He notices you this time, you know he does. There’s that flicker of recognition again.
Something softer underneath it, something that belongs to you and you alone. And then it’s gone.
“Jesus,” he scoffs loudly, leaning back in his chair like you’re part of the scenery he’s criticizing. “The pom-pom parade’s getting more annoying every day.”
Laughter. Not yours, never yours. Your face burns, but you don’t stop walking. Years of practiced composure keep your spine straight, your expression neutral, your steps steady.
Like it doesn’t matter. Like he doesn’t matter. But it does. It really fucking does.
Because that night? That night he opens the trailer door before you even knock. Like he’s been waiting, like he always is.
“There you are,” he breathes, and it’s different now; soft, relieved, and almost desperate.
His hands are on you instantly, pulling you inside, the door slamming shut behind you like it’s sealing something sacred off from the rest of the world.
His forehead presses to yours, curls brushing your cheeks, his voice dropping into something quiet and worshipful.
“They don’t get to look at you like I do,” he murmurs. “They don’t get to have you.”
Your hands find his jacket, clutching tight.
“Then why do you act like you don’t even see me?” you ask, and it comes out smaller than you mean it to.
That pauses him. His grip tightens, and his jaw sets just a little.
“It’s different there,” he says finally. “That place? It’s a joke. A performance. I’m not playing their game.”
Your laugh is sharp, but quiet.
“But you are,” you say. “You just don’t realize it.”
Instead of pulling away, he leans in closer, always closer. Like, proximity can fix what distance breaks.
“You think I don’t mean it?” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek like you’re something fragile. “In here? With you?”
You don’t answer, because that’s not the problem.
He presses a kiss to your temple. Your cheek. Your mouth. Soft, reverent, careful like he’s trying to convince you through touch instead of words.
“You’re mine,” he whispers against your lips. “My queen. That doesn’t change just because we step outside.”
But it does.
Because tomorrow morning you’ll be back under those lights, and he’ll look through you again like you’re nothing but everything he claims to hate.
You wake up earlier than you ever do. Not because you have to, but because you want to.
The room is still dim, the kind of soft gray light that makes everything feel slower, like the world hasn’t fully decided to start yet.
You lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling, Eddie’s voice from last night looping in your head in a way that’s equal parts comforting and infuriating.
“My queen.”
Your jaw tightens.
“Yeah,” you murmur to yourself, pushing the blankets off. “Okay.”
If he wants to act like you don’t exist out there, fine. You’re not going to beg for attention. But you’re also not going to pretend you don’t care what he sees.
The closet takes longer than it should.
You pass over your usual outfits, the safe ones. The ones that fit neatly into the version of you everyone already understands. Pleated skirts, clean lines, soft colors that make people smile at you in the hallways.
Not today.
Your fingers land on a pair of ripped jeans you barely wear. They’re not extreme, not enough to raise eyebrows, but different enough that it feels like you’re stepping just slightly outside the lines.
You pull them on. A top next. Fitted, but not loud. It sits just right against your waist, the kind of thing you don’t usually reach for unless you’re trying to feel something.
You hesitate, then grab your Converse. That part makes you pause the longest, because it’s not random.
You remember him, sprawled across his mattress, tapping the side of your shoe once, absentminded, like it was a thought he didn’t mean to say out loud.
“Way better than those preppy things you wear,” he’d said. “More you.”
You didn’t ask what that meant.
Your hair is the last thing. Usually it’s styled, controlled. Pulled back into something intentional. Today, you let it fall. Loose, soft, and slightly imperfect; exactly how his hands always leave it.
You catch your reflection in the mirror, and for a second, you don’t move. It’s still you, just a version that feels a little closer to the one he sees when it’s just the two of you.
The halls of Hawkins High School are louder than usual. Or maybe you’re just more aware of it.
Every step feels deliberate, like you’re walking into something instead of just through it. You can feel the difference in how people look at you, subtle shifts, double takes that don’t quite linger long enough to mean anything.
You don’t look for him right away; you don’t want to. But your eyes betray you eventually, flicking toward the far end of the hall, and there he is.
Leaning against the lockers like he owns the place he claims to hate, Dustin beside him mid-sentence, animated as ever. Eddie’s not really listening, not fully.
His attention drifts, lazy and unfocused, until it lands on you and stops. It’s small, so small you almost miss it, but you don’t.
His eyes take you in like they always do when it’s just the two of you. Not just looking, but seeing.
The jeans. The shoes. Your hair. You watch the recognition hit. The quiet, almost involuntary flicker of something softer. Something that belongs to last night.
Your heart stutters, just once. And then it’s gone.
He straightens slightly, like he caught himself doing something he shouldn’t.
“Dude,” Dustin is saying, still talking, completely unaware. “I’m telling you, if we just—”
Eddie cuts him off with a short laugh, louder than it needs to be.
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, pushing off the lockers as the two of them start walking right toward you.
Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him.
You look anyway. For half a second, your eyes meet again, and this time, he rolls his. It’s exaggerated.
“Unbelievable,” he says, not even lowering his voice as he passes you, shoulder brushing just barely against yours. “It’s like they all share the same brain cell. New costume, same act.”
Dustin snorts beside him, quick and thoughtless. “Right? It’s like—”
Their voices fade as they keep walking. You don’t turn around. You don’t stop. You just keep going, steps steady, posture perfect, like nothing just shifted inside your chest.
Because you know that look he gave you before the eye roll. You know it wasn’t real, but it still stings more than it should.
The trailer door swings open before your knuckles even finish their second tap. Eddie doesn’t say hello. He doesn’t need to. His hand closes around your wrist, and he yanks you inside, the door slamming shut hard enough to rattle the walls.
The second the latch clicks, he’s on you; mouth crashing into yours like he’s been starving for the taste of you all day.
“Fuck, there she is,” he growls against your lips, walking you backward until your shoulders hit the flimsy kitchen counter.
His hands are everywhere at once, sliding under your shirt, palming your waist like he needs to remind himself you’re real. “My queen. My fucking queen.”
You barely get a breath before he’s kissing down your jaw, your throat, teeth grazing the spot that always makes your knees weak.
He drops to his knees right there on the worn linoleum like it’s the most natural thing in the world, hands sliding down your thighs, reverence in every touch.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, pressing his face against the front of those ripped jeans, inhaling like your scent is oxygen. “You walked around school looking like this for me, didn’t you?”
His fingers trace the frayed rips at your knees, then higher, thumbs pressing into the soft skin of your inner thighs. “Every single person who looked at you today wanted you. And none of them gets to have you. Only me.”
A soft, needy sound escapes you as he mouths over the denim, hot breath soaking through.
He looks up at you from the floor; dark eyes, glassy with want, curls wild, that cocky public mask completely gone. Here, he’s only yours.
“I saw you in the hall,” he confesses, voice low and rough as he pops the button on your jeans. “Nearly lost my goddamn mind. Jesus Christ, princess… you looked like sin. Like you’d let me ruin you right there against the lockers if I asked.” He drags the zipper down slowly, eyes locked on yours. “So perfect.”
He tugs your jeans and panties down in one motion, helping you step out of them.
Then he leans in and kisses you right at the apex of your thighs, soft at first, almost chaste, before his tongue parts you with a hungry groan.
“Eddie—” Your hand flies to his hair, gripping tight.
He hums against your cunt, the vibration shooting straight up your spine. “Taste so fucking good, like you were made for my fucking mouth.”
His hands grip your ass, pulling you closer as he devours you—long, filthy strokes of his tongue, sucking your clit like he’s trying to pull every sound out of you.
“Nobody else gets this. Nobody else gets to hear you moan like that. Just me.”
Your legs start to shake. He notices immediately, rising just enough to lift you onto the counter, spreading your thighs wide so he can bury his face again.
Two fingers push inside you without warning, curling just right, and your head falls back against the cabinet with a thud.
“That’s it,” he praises between licks, voice muffled and worshipful. “Ride my face, baby. Use me. You looked so goddamn pretty today.”
He pumps his fingers faster, tongue flicking relentlessly against your clit. “Come for me. Let me taste how much you need this.”
The orgasm hits you hard—white-hot and overwhelming. You cry out his name, thighs clamping around his head as he works you through it, groaning like your pleasure is the best thing he’s ever tasted.
He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling and oversensitive, only then pulling back with a slick shine on his chin and a dazed, adoring smile.
He stands, kissing you deep so you can taste yourself on his tongue, hands already working his belt open.
“Bedroom?” he asks, voice wrecked.
You shake your head, pulling him closer by his shirt. “Here. Now.”
Eddie laughs, low and delighted, lifting you off the counter and turning you around so your chest presses against the cool surface. He kicks your legs apart, lining himself up.
“Good girl,” he breathes against your ear as he pushes in, thick, slow, perfect. “Always so wet for me.” He bottoms out with a broken moan, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Only I get to know how you fall apart. Only I get to call you mine.”
Then he starts moving, deep, possessive thrusts that make the trailer creak, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks no one else will ever see.
Every snap of his hips is deliberate, like he’s trying to press the truth of you into your bones. The angle has you gasping, chest pressed tight to the counter, his mouth hot against the back of your neck.
“Fuck, listen to you,” he groans, voice wrecked. “All those pretty little sounds just for me. You take me so well, princess. Like your body was made for this cock.” He angles his hips and hits that spot that makes your vision spark white. “That’s it, right there.”
Your fingers scrabble for purchase on the countertop as the pleasure coils tighter. Eddie doesn’t let up. He reaches around to rub tight circles over your clit, mouth never leaving your skin; kissing, biting, whispering filthy praise between every thrust.
“Come on, baby. Come on my cock. Want to feel you fall apart while I’m still buried inside you.” His voice drops lower, almost reverent. “You looked so fucking good today. Drives me crazy knowing they all saw you and still don’t know you’re dripping for me every night.”
The words tip you over the edge. You cry out, clenching hard around him as the orgasm crashes through you.
Eddie curses, hips stuttering, and follows right after, burying himself deep with a guttural moan, spilling inside you while he holds you.
For a long moment, the only sounds are your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the fridge. Then he’s gently pulling out, turning you around, and kissing you slow and deep, like he’s sealing every word he just said into your mouth.
Later, you’re tangled in his bed, sheets twisted around your bare legs. Eddie’s sprawled on his back, one arm hooked around your waist, pulling you half on top of him.
His fingers trace lazy patterns up and down your spine, curls splayed across the pillow, eyes half-lidded and soft in the low lamplight. He looks peaceful and content, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
You try to match it. You press a kiss to his chest, right over the tattoo there, and murmur, “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling under your cheek. “Only for you, sweetheart. My queen deserves to be worshipped properly.”
His hand slides down to squeeze your ass possessively. “Especially after walking around school looking like a goddamn wet dream in those jeans.”
You smile against his skin, even as something tightens in your chest. You trace one of his scars with your fingertip, keeping your voice light. “Yeah… it was fun seeing you try not to stare.”
It comes out casual. Playful, even. Like you’re totally fine with it. Like the memory of him rolling his eyes in the hallway doesn’t still sting.
Eddie hums, clearly buying it, and presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Had to. Can’t have the sheep thinking I’ve gone soft. But trust me, the second I got you through that door…”
He trails off with a low groan, rolling you both so you’re underneath him again, caging you in with his arms. His eyes are warm, adoring. “Best part of my whole shitty day.”
You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently like you always do when you want him closer.
“I know. It’s okay.”
But it’s not, not really.
Because even now, wrapped up in him, warm and safe and wanted, you can already picture tomorrow: fluorescent lights, slammed lockers, the way his gaze will slide right past you again like you’re nothing.
Like this, his mouth on your skin, his voice calling you his queen, the way he fucks you like you’re sacred, doesn’t exist the second you step outside this trailer.
You bury your face in his neck so he won’t see the way your eyes sting. He holds you tighter, completely unaware, murmuring more soft praises into your hair until his breathing evens out.
You stay awake a little longer, listening to his heartbeat, your mind slipping off, wondering how much longer you can keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.
Game days always feel louder.
By the time you step into Hawkins High School, the whole place is buzzing; hallways packed tighter, voices higher, everything charged with that restless, anticipatory energy that comes before a Friday night game.
And you? You’re back in uniform. It fits like it always does. Clean lines, bright colors, everything about it is designed to be seen. It’s the version of you everyone recognizes, and the version he pretends to hate.
You catch a few looks as you move through the halls, smiles from teammates, nods from people who only acknowledge you on days like this.
Lunch is worse. It’s crowded, loud, suffocating, and you don’t even mean to look for him this time, you really don’t, but your eyes still drift. And there he is.
Boots up on the bench, leaning back like he owns his corner of the cafeteria, Hellfire Club gathered around him in their usual chaos.
He’s mid-story, hands moving, voice animated, until a group of cheerleaders passes by the table. Until you pass by. His gaze flicks over, just once. You feel it; you always do.
And then, “Man,” he says, loud enough for his whole table to hear, leaning forward with a smirk that feels practiced. “They really roll out in those uniforms like it’s some kind of holy procession or something.”
A couple of the guys laugh. Someone mutters something about pom-poms. Eddie shakes his head, scoffing, like the whole thing is beneath him. Like you’re beneath him.
Your grip tightens around your tray, and you don’t look over again. You don’t give him that. But the words stick anyway.
“Holy procession.”
You almost want to laugh. Because if anyone treats something like religion, it’s him.
Practice is worse in a quieter way.
The field stretches out under a dull sky, the air crisp, biting just enough to keep you alert. The rest of the team moves through warm-ups, chatter echoing across the track as your coach calls out instructions.
Eventually, they’re sent out to start running drills.
“Track. Let’s go,” someone calls.
You hesitate.
“Be right there,” you say, already stepping back toward the building before anyone can question it.
No one does, they’re too busy. You’re grateful for that.
The halls are quieter now, most people already filtering out toward the field, the distant echo of the marching band bleeding faintly through the walls.
Your footsteps feel louder than they should as you head toward the locker room, heart still a little off from everything earlier.
You just need a second, just a minute to breathe. The door creaks when you push it open.
Dark, mostly. The overhead lights are off, only a soft strip of yellow from one corner casting long shadows between the rows of lockers. It’s empty, or at least, it looks empty.
You don’t think twice. You step in, letting the door fall shut behind you, already reaching up to adjust your hair, your uniform. And then, hands.
They catch your waist from behind, pulling you back into a solid chest before you can even gasp properly.
“Missed me that bad?” his voice murmurs low against your ear.
Your breath stutters. Of course, of course it’s him.
“Eddie—” you start, but it comes out more like a breath than a protest.
His grip tightens just slightly, not rough—never rough—but insistent, like he already knows you’re not going to pull away.
“You didn't stop by at the end of the day,” Eddie mutters, nose brushing along the side of your neck, his voice softer now, edged with something almost accusing. “Had me thinking you were avoiding me.”
A quiet, disbelieving laugh slips out of you. “Maybe I was.”
That makes him pause, only for a second. Then his hands slide up, slow and certain, like he’s relearning you by touch alone, thumbs grazing over the sides of your uniform.
“Yeah?” he murmurs. “Didn’t seem like it last night.”
There it is, that tone. The one he always uses when it’s just the two of you. Like the rest of the world peels away, and he gets to be this version of himself again. Yours.
Your eyes close for a second despite yourself.
“That was last night,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t answer that. Instead, he turns you slightly in his arms, enough to get a better look at you, his gaze dropping, lingering in a way that feels almost reverent again.
“God,” he exhales, softer now. “You look—”
He doesn’t finish it, he doesn’t have to. His hand comes up, brushing a loose strand of your hair back, fingers catching just briefly like he doesn’t want to let go.
“My queen,” he adds under his breath, like it belongs here. Your chest tightens.
“You have a funny way of showing that,” you murmur.
He frowns, just slightly, like he doesn’t like the tone, like he doesn’t understand why this isn’t enough.
“Why do you keep doing that?” he asks, quieter now. “Dragging that shit in here.”
“Because it matters.”
You don’t raise your voice, you don’t pull away. But you don’t melt into him either. And he notices, you can tell he does.
So he does what he always does when something feels too real: he leans in and closes the distance.
His lips brush your neck, slow, lingering, and intentional in a way that makes your breath hitch despite everything.
“Let me make it up to you,” he murmurs against your skin.
Your hands hover at his chest, unsure. Because this? This is the part you want, and the part that hurts.
His grip tightens slightly at your waist, like he’s anchoring you there with him, like nothing outside this room exists. For a moment, you let yourself lean into it, just a little. Just enough to remember what it feels like when he’s not pretending.
By the time you make it back to the field, the lights are on. The game energy has fully taken over now, music blaring, people crowding into the stands, everything loud and overwhelming and public.
You rejoin your team near the track, slipping back into place as if nothing happened.
“Hey—oh my god, finally,” one of the girls says, grabbing your arm lightly. “Coach was about to send someone in for you.”
“Sorry,” you say automatically. “I just needed—”
She cuts you off, eyes suddenly narrowing. Not suspicious, but excited.
“Wait,” she says, leaning closer. “Hold on, turn your head.”
Your stomach drops. You don’t move.
“Wait, no—stop—” you start, but she’s already gently tilting your chin, just enough.
“Oh my god.” Her face lights up instantly. Pure delight.
“Shut up,” she whispers, grinning. “You have a hickey.”
Heat floods your entire body. “It’s not—” you try, but your voice falters.
“Finally,” she laughs softly, squeezing your arm. “I was starting to think you just weren’t interested in anyone. This is so good.”
“Good," you echo.
“You deserve to be happy,” she adds, softer now, genuinely warm. “Like, actually happy.”
Your throat tightens. Because to her, this is simple. Sweet. Normal.
You force a small smile.
“Yeah,” you say, even though it doesn’t feel true. “Something like that.”
She beams, completely satisfied, already turning back toward the rest of the team.
And you just stand there for a second. The noise of the crowd swelling around you. The mark on your skin is still warm, proof of something that only exists in the dark.
Something no one, not even the person who gave it to you, would ever admit to in the light.
The game ends in a blur of noise; cheering, music. The sharp echo of the band still ringing in your ears as people spill out of the stands, bodies moving in every direction, voices overlapping until it all becomes one steady hum.
You go through the motions. Smile when you’re supposed to. Clap when everyone else does. Stay just long enough that no one questions it.
And then you leave. The parking lot is quieter on the far side, tucked away from the main rush.
Stadium lights cast everything in this hazy glow, long shadows stretching across the pavement as you make your way to your car. You just want to go home.
You barely make it to the driver’s side before you hear it.
“Hey—hey, wait.”
You freeze, and you don’t turn right away. You don’t give him that immediately.
But you hear his footsteps, quick, uneven, like he almost slipped past you tonight and is trying to catch up before you disappear completely.
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath as he gets closer, glancing over his shoulder like he’s checking for witnesses. “You walk fast.”
Eddie looks different out here. Not softer, just restless.
His eyes flick around the lot again, shoulders tight, like even being near you out in the open is something he has to manage carefully.
That’s what does it.
“What?” he says, noticing the look on your face, trying to play it off with a crooked grin. “No ‘hi, Eddie’? I come all the way out here—”
“Why are you looking around like that?”
It cuts him off, clean. He blinks.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Your voice isn’t loud, but it’s not soft anymore either. His expression shifts, something defensive creeping in almost immediately.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” you say. “Like you’re gonna get caught doing something wrong.”
He huffs out a short laugh, running a hand through his hair like this is all ridiculous.
“Okay, and? What, you want me to roll out a red carpet in the middle of the parking lot?” he jokes, stepping a little closer. “Make a big announcement? ‘Hey everyone, look who I—’”
“I don’t want to be your secret anymore.”
For a second, he just stares at you, like he’s waiting for the punchline.
“You’re joking,” he says.
You don’t answer, and that’s when it clicks. The grin fades, something sharper takes its place.
“You’re serious?” he asks, voice flattening.
“Yes.”
It’s simple, honest…and apparently, completely unacceptable. He scoffs, stepping back like you just said something offensive.
“Are you kidding me right now?” he mutters. “This is what this is about? After everything?”
“After everything?” you repeat. “You act like I don’t exist. You talk about me like I’m—like I’m a joke.”
“Oh, come on,” he snaps, the edge in his voice coming out fast now. “Don’t act like you don’t know what that place is. It’s high school. It’s bullshit. None of it’s real.”
“It’s real to me.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be.”
You swallow, shaking your head slightly.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
He laughs again, but there’s nothing amused about it now.
“Right. Because what, you want me to suddenly start hanging around your little cheerleader squad?” he says, gesturing vaguely toward the field. “You want me to play nice with the same people who wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you’re implying.”
“No,” you push back, frustration finally breaking through. “I’m saying I don’t want to feel like something you’re ashamed of.”
His expression hardens, jaw tightening like he’s been cornered.
“I’m not ashamed of you,” he says, but there’s something off about it now. “I’m just not stupid.”
Your stomach drops. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m not about to screw myself over because you suddenly decided you need a public fucking announcement,” he snaps. “You think your friends are gonna be cool with this? You think your precious little image survives that?”
You stare at him. Because that wasn’t about protecting you, that was about protecting him.
“You don’t even hear yourself,” you say quietly.
“Oh, I hear myself just fine.”
“Do you?”
Because you don’t think he does. You don’t think he realizes what he’s actually saying.
Or, maybe he does.
“Look,” he says, running a hand over his face, clearly irritated now. “If this is gonna turn into some dramatic thing, I’m not doing it. I told you what this is.”
“What it is?” you repeat.
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Something real. Something that’s ours. Not for everyone else to pick apart.”
“Then why does it only exist when no one else is looking?”
“Because that’s the only place it works,” he says.
That’s the thing you can’t unhear. You nod slowly, even though it feels like something inside you is caving in.
“Okay,” you say. Just that.
He frowns slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to give in that easily.
“Okay?” he repeats.
“Yeah.”
You open your car door. “I get it.”
“Wait—” he starts, but there’s no real urgency behind it. Not enough.
Not like there should be. You pause just long enough to look at him one last time.
“I don’t want that,” you say. “Not like this.”
Something flickers across his face, too fast to hold onto.
“Then that’s your problem,” he mutters.
And that? That’s the final cut. You don’t say anything else. You just get in the car, slam the door, and leave.
Monday feels colder. Not literally, just the kind of cold that settles under your skin, the kind that comes from deciding something and sticking to it.
You don’t wake up early this time. You don’t overthink your outfit. You don’t stand in front of the mirror trying to see yourself the way he does.
The halls of Hawkins High School are the same as always: loud, crowded, and predictable. But you’re different in them now.
There’s no hesitation in your steps. No scanning the room without meaning to. No quiet, traitorous hope that maybe today he’ll look at you differently.
You don’t look for him at all. And somehow, that’s exactly why you feel it. That awareness, like someone’s eyes are on you.
You know who it is before you even confirm it.
You don’t give in right away. You keep walking, steady, focused, refusing to let your head turn.
But it lingers, that feeling of being watched. Eventually, your eyes flick; just barely, just enough to catch it in your periphery.
Eddie, leaning against the lockers like always. But he’s not talking, not really. Dustin is mid-sentence beside him, hands moving, voice animated…and Eddie’s not listening.
He’s watching you. Not casually, not like before. There’s no smirk. No eye roll, no performance.
You don’t slow down, and you don’t give him anything. You just keep walking like he’s part of the wall behind him. And for the first time, it throws him off.
You can feel it even without looking back.
Lunch is worse for him, but better for you. Because you sit with your friends, laugh when something’s funny, respond when spoken to, and fall into your usual rhythm like nothing is missing.
Like he isn’t missing.
And that? That’s new.
From across the cafeteria, Eddie notices it immediately. You’re not glancing over, not even once.
Not hovering at the edges of his awareness. Not giving him that half-second of attention he’s gotten so used to taking for granted. It shouldn’t bother him, it really shouldn’t.
This is what he wanted, right? Separation. Control. No complications. So why does it feel like something’s off?
“Dude, are you even listening?” Dustin asks, snapping his fingers once in front of his face.
Eddie blinks, dragging his gaze away from you like he got caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’m listening.”
“You’re not,” Dustin says flatly.
Eddie shrugs it off, leaning back in his seat, trying to force himself back into the conversation, back into the version of himself that makes sense here.
But his eyes keep drifting against his will, back to you.
You laugh at something one of your teammates says, head tipping back slightly, hair falling the way he always liked it, and something in his chest tightens.
Because you look…fine. Better than fine, actually. Like you’re not waiting for anything. Like you’re not missing anything. Like you’re not missing him.
And that doesn’t sit right, not at all.
You feel it again, that stare. You try to ignore it, you really, really do. But something in you—something stubborn, something tired—finally snaps.
You look up across the room, right at him. And when your eyes meet, there’s no softness. No hesitation. No flicker of last night, or the night before, or any of it.
Just a look: sharp, cold, and cutting.
The kind that says more than words ever could. Because it’s not angry in the way he expected. It’s not loud or emotional; it’s final.
Like you’ve already decided something he hasn’t caught up to yet.
You don’t hold eye contact, and you don’t give him time to recover. You just look away, like he doesn’t matter. Like, he’s not even worth the energy it takes to stay mad.
That’s when it really sinks in.
He fucked up.
And he doesn’t know how to handle that, not even a little.
He waits longer than he should; that’s the first mistake. Not days, but just enough time to convince himself it isn’t urgent, that you’ll come around, that you always do.
Except you don’t.
Your house looks the same as always. Warm lights on, quiet street, the kind of place that feels stable in a way his life never has.
Eddie sits in his van for a minute, then another. Hands tight on the steering wheel, jaw clenched, running through what he’s going to say and hating every version of it.
Because none of it sounds like him. None of it sounds right.
But leaving feels worse, so he gets out.
The knock on your door comes later than you expect. You almost don’t answer it, but something in you already knows. So you open the door anyway, and there he is.
Standing on your porch like he doesn’t belong there, like he knows it.
“Hey,” he says finally.
You don’t return it.
“Why are you here?”
“I—” he starts, then stops, running a hand through his hair. “Can we talk?”
You hesitate for a second. Then you step outside, pulling the door mostly shut behind you like you’re not inviting him in.
“Talk,” you say.
He nods, like he expected that.
“Look,” he starts, pacing once like he needs the movement, like standing still makes it worse. “About the other night—”
“Which part?” you cut in. “The part where you said it only works if no one knows about me, or the part where you said it’s my problem?”
He exhales sharply, nodding like he’s bracing himself.
“Yeah. That,” he mutters. “That was—” He huffs out a breath. “That was shitty. I know that.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he adds quickly.
“You said it like that.”
“I know.”
“And you meant it enough to say it.”
That corners him.
“I panicked,” he admits, quieter now. “You said you didn’t want to be a secret and I—” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I got defensive. I said shit I shouldn’t have.”
Your arms cross over your chest.
“And the way you act at school?” you ask. “Was that panic too?”
He flinches.
“No,” he says. “That’s just… how I deal with that place.”
“So humiliating me is how you deal with it?”
“I’m not trying to humiliate you—”
“But you are.” Your voice cracks just slightly.
“You think I don’t notice?” you continue, quieter now but sharper. “The comments, the eye rolls, the way you act like I’m everything you hate? You think that just… doesn’t matter because you call me your ‘queen’ and act like you care when no one’s around?”
His chest tightens at that.
Because hearing it out loud makes it sound exactly what it actually is.
“Yeah,” he mutters, almost to himself. “That sounds bad.”
“It is bad, Eddie.”
“I didn’t think—” he starts.
“I know,” you cut in. “That’s the problem.”
“I thought what we had was enough,” he says, softer now. “Just us. Away from all that shit.”
“It’s not,” you say. “Because I have to go back there every day and pretend you don’t matter. Pretend I don’t matter to you.”
“You do matter to me,” he insists, stepping closer again.
“Not in a way that counts.”
That stops him fully. Because he knows what you mean, and he doesn’t have a way around it.
“I don’t want something that only exists when it’s hidden,” you continue, your voice quieter now but steadier. “I don’t want to be something you tuck away when it’s inconvenient.”
“You’re not—”
“I am.”
Silence again. This time, he doesn’t try to fill it. Instead, he's looking at you like he’s finally seeing the full weight of what he did.
And it’s not pretty.
“I can fix it,” he says finally, a little desperate now. “I can— I don’t know, I’ll—”
“What?” you ask. “What are you going to do, Eddie?”
He opens his mouth and nothing comes out. Because he doesn’t know, not really. Not in a way that feels solid enough to promise.
Your shoulders drop slightly, like something in you just settles.
“Yeah,” you say quietly.
That one word feels like a conclusion, not a question.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer now. Real this time. “I really am.”
“I believe you.”
And for a split second, something like relief flickers across his face.
“I don’t want to be,” you admit, your voice finally wavering. “But I can’t do this. Not like that.”
He runs a hand over his face, frustrated now, pacing again like he’s trying to outrun the feeling.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re really gonna walk away from this?”
You shake your head slightly. “I’m walking away from how you treat me.”
“Can I… fix it?” he asks eventually, quieter now.
“You’d have to change how you show up for me,” you say softly. “Not just when it’s easy. Not just when no one’s looking.”
He nods, quick. Almost too quick. “I can do that.”
“Maybe,” you say.
“Then prove it,” you add, stepping back toward your door.
He stands there for a second, like he wants to say more. Like he should say more.
But nothing he has right now is enough. So he nods once, and lets you go inside.
Eddie doesn’t sleep, not really.
He tries. God, he tries: flipping over in his bed, staring at the ceiling, running every word you said back through his head like maybe if he hears it enough times, it’ll change.
It doesn’t, it just sits there, and not in a way that counts.
By the time the sky starts to lighten, he’s already up. Already dressed, already out the door before he can second-guess himself.
The bell above the door jingles softly when he pushes into the small café you mentioned once—offhand, like it didn’t matter, like it was just a passing detail. It wasn’t.
He remembers the way you said it; the little smile you didn’t mean to show.
“Iced coffee there is actually good,” you’d said. “And they have these chocolate croissants that are insane.”
So he stands there now, awkward as hell, hands shoved in his jacket pockets while he waits his turn like he doesn’t quite belong in a place like this.
“Uh—yeah,” he says when it’s his turn, clearing his throat. “Can I get… two iced coffees. And—” he hesitates, then adds, “those chocolate croissant things?”
The girl behind the counter nods, already moving. “Anything else?”
He pauses. Then, quieter, “Yeah. Can you, uh… make one of the coffees extra sweet?”
Because that’s how you take it, he remembers that too.
The flowers feel like overkill, he knows that. Standing outside a small shop with a bouquet in his hands, he almost laughs at himself.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You’re really doing this.”
But he doesn’t leave them. He doesn’t put them back. Because if he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it right.
By the time he gets to Hawkins High School, the halls are already filling. And for once, Eddie doesn’t hang back. He doesn’t slip into the background. He doesn’t wait until no one’s looking.
He walks in like he’s got somewhere to be, mostly because he does.
You’re at your locker when you hear it.
“Move—sorry—excuse me—yeah, my bad—”
That voice.
Your stomach flips before you can stop it. And when you finally turn, you almost don’t process it. Because it doesn’t make sense, not at first.
Eddie is standing right there. In the middle of the hallway, in full view of everyone.
Holding: coffee, a paper bag, and a bouquet of flowers that look wildly out of place in his hands. Your brain stalls.
“Hi,” he says. Simple, like this isn’t the most insane thing he’s ever done. Like he didn’t just shatter every rule he’s been following since this started.
The hallway is quiet in that subtle way; people pretending not to stare while very obviously staring.
You blink.
“…what are you doing?” you ask, because it’s the only thing your brain can come up with.
He huffs out a small, nervous laugh.
“Trying not to screw this up again,” he says honestly.
And then, he steps closer. Not hesitant, not checking who’s watching.
Just walking straight up to you like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“I, uh—” he starts, holding out one of the iced coffees. “Extra sweet. Like you like it.”
Your hand moves before your brain catches up, taking it from him automatically.
“You remembered,” you say quietly.
He nods.
“Yeah. Turns out I remember a lot of things I should’ve been paying attention to sooner.”
Your throat tightens. Before you can respond, he holds out the paper bag.
“And these,” he adds. “Chocolate croissants. Or… croissant. I don’t know. I got two in case I said it wrong.”
A couple of people nearby actually laugh softly at that. You don’t even notice; you’re still staring at him.
Because this isn’t him. Or maybe it is, just a version you’ve never been allowed to see out here.
“And—” he exhales, then holds out the flowers, suddenly a little less confident. “These felt like a good idea at the time.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“They’re… a lot,” you admit.
“Yeah,” he says immediately. “I figured. But I already bought them, so...”
There are still people watching. And for a split second, you expect him to fold. To pull back or make a joke to ruin it, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he shifts the flowers into one hand and reaches for you with the other; gentle, careful, and very much public.
His fingers lace with yours like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like it’s something he’s always been allowed to do.
“Hi,” he says again, softer this time, like the first one didn’t cover it.
Your heart stutters.
“Hi,” you echo.
He studies your face for a second, searching, checking, making sure he hasn’t misread anything.
“I meant what I said,” he adds quietly. “About fixing it. About showing up.”
You glance down at your joined hands, then back at him.
“You’re… definitely showing up,” you say.
He huffs out a small laugh.
“Yeah, well. Figured if I was gonna do it, I shouldn’t half-ass it.”
“You called me your queen,” you say, a little teasing now, a little testing. “You gonna say that out here too?”
A couple of people nearby go very still. This is the moment, the one that would’ve broken him before.
Eddie doesn’t even hesitate. He leans in just slightly, close enough that his voice drops, but not so quiet that it disappears.
“Yeah,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “That doesn’t change just because people are watching.”
Your breath catches. The hallway doesn’t matter, the people don’t matter, the whispers don’t matter.
Because for the first time, he’s not treating what you are like as something that only survives in the dark.
He’s choosing you. Right here, in the light. And it’s not perfect.
It’s a little messy, a little awkward, very Eddie, but it’s real.
Had to make a hurt/comfort comeback after Doll Parts, sorry!? i have a double-header coming tonight, keep your eyes peeled 👀
description: you’re Hopper’s daughter, which means one thing: no dating. ever. unfortunately for Eleven, that also means she can’t date either, unless you do first. cue Mike and Dustin coming up with the worst (best) idea possible: paying Eddie to take you out. too bad you’re the last person in Hawkins who’d ever fall for it… right?
pairing: eddie x you (fem!reader)
tags: hoppers daughter! reader, enemies to lovers (or something like that...), punk x menace, you hate everyone but him (eventually), he falls first, persistent idiot x guarded girl, sibling dynamic with el, soft eddie munson, we love a mean girl with a soft center, slight angst
TW: deception/manipulation, mild angst
WC: 12.2k (sorry not sorry)
A/N: i just re-watched 10 Things I Hate About You for the millionth time and immediately caught inspo. it's taking everything out of me to not make this a series but i stay doing that to myself. reblogs are always appreciated :) enjoy!!!! <3
The road is quiet in that late-afternoon way Hawkins always seems to settle into, golden light stretching across the pavement, your window cracked just enough for the wind to tug at your hair and carry in the faint smell of something burning from someone’s backyard.
You’re halfway through a cigarette you probably shouldn’t be smoking when you see them up ahead, two figures walking a little too close together to be accidental.
You don’t even have to squint to recognize Eleven in that oversized flannel she stole from your closet three weeks ago and never gave back.
You slow the car just slightly, not enough to be obvious, just enough to take it in. She’s looking up at Mike like he hung the goddamn moon, and he’s talking with his hands like he always does when he’s nervous, their shoulders brushing every few steps like it’s something they’re still getting used to but don’t want to stop.
It’s… harmless, objectively. Soft, even. The kind of thing most people would smile at.
You don’t.
You flick the ash out the window, press your foot back on the gas, and drive right past them without so much as a glance in their direction, because whatever this is, it’s not your problem. Not yet.
By the time you get home, Hopper’s truck isn’t in the driveway, which means you’ve got a small window of peace before the nightly interrogation disguised as dinner.
You take it without hesitation, tossing your keys on the counter and kicking your shoes off like the house belongs to you, because in every way that matters, it does.
El walks in about twenty minutes later.
You hear the door before you see her, the soft creak, the careful steps like she’s trying not to be noticed, which is almost funny considering the fact that she is, quite literally, impossible to ignore.
You’re leaning against the counter, flipping through some old magazine you found under a stack of mail, when she finally steps into the kitchen, pausing when she realizes you’re there.
Like a deer caught in headlights that doesn’t quite understand what a car is yet, but knows it should probably be afraid of it.
You don’t look up.
“You walk home?” you ask, voice casual in a way that’s almost too deliberate.
“Yes.”
You hum, turning a page. “Must’ve been a long walk.”
She doesn’t answer that, and for a second, you think she’s going to drop it, retreat, let it go the way you just did out on the road. But then she shifts, something in her posture tightening, like she’s bracing herself.
“I was with Mike.”
You glance up finally, one slow look that says everything you’re not bothering to put into words, and she lifts her chin just slightly under it, defiant in that quiet way of hers that almost makes you respect it.
“Congrats,” you say flatly, tossing the magazine back onto the counter. “Want a medal or are you just sharing?”
Her brows pull together. “You saw.”
“Yeah,” you shrug, reaching for the fridge like this conversation couldn’t matter less. “Hard to miss the whole hand-holding, walking-like-you’re-in-a-romance-movie thing.”
“It is not a movie,” she says, sharper now, stepping closer. “It is real.”
You close the fridge a little harder than necessary, turning to face her fully now, leaning back against the counter like you’ve got all the time in the world.
“Then maybe you should be smarter about it.”
Her eyes narrow. “You think you are smarter?”
“I know I am.”
You can see it in the way her jaw sets, the way her hands curl at her sides like she’s resisting the urge to do something she’ll regret.
“You don’t understand,” she says, voice tight. “You don’t even try.”
You let out a small laugh, not kind, not cruel, just dismissive. “Oh, I understand plenty. I just don’t care.”
That’s the wrong thing to say.
You know it the second her expression shifts, something hurt flashing across her face before it hardens into something else. Something a little more calculated, a little more familiar to you than you’d like.
“You are alone,” she says quietly. “You push everyone away.”
You go still.
“And now you want me to be alone too.”
There’s a moment where you could back off, could soften it, could remind her that you won't say anything to Hopper.
“If you end up alone,” you say, voice even, “it won’t be because of me.”
The front door opens before she can respond.
Hopper fills the doorway like he always does, presence first, everything else second, shrugging off his jacket and glancing between the two of you like he already knows he walked into something he doesn’t have the patience for.
“Why do I feel like I missed a fight?” he mutters, heading toward the kitchen.
You push off the counter, grabbing your keys again. “Because you did.”
“Hey—”
“I’m going out,” you cut him off, already moving past him. “Don’t wait up.”
“Dinner’s in twenty—”
“Then eat it without me.”
You’re halfway out the door when El’s voice cuts through the air, quiet but deliberate.
“I was with Mike.”
Slowly, you turn back.
Hopper frowns. “You were what?”
El doesn’t look at you. She keeps her eyes on him.
“We were walking together. We are… dating.”
Hopper’s expression darkens. “No, you’re not.”
El’s chin lifts. “Yes. We are.”
You watch it unfold like a car crash you could’ve prevented but chose not to. Something almost detached settles over you as Hopper starts pacing, running a hand over his face.
He's already gearing up for a lecture that’s going to last longer than either of you has the patience for.
“I told you, no dating,” he says, voice rising. “You’re too young, you’re not—this is not happening.”
El’s gaze flickers, just briefly, toward you.
And then, like she’s made a decision. “Just because she does not date doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, because I don’t want to.”
Hopper looks between the two of you, something clicking into place in that stubborn, overprotective brain of his, and you can actually see the moment the worst possible idea forms.
“…Fine,” he says.
“If she wants to date,” he continues, pointing at El, “then the rule changes.”
“Dad—”
“No dating,” he says firmly, eyes locking onto yours now, “until you do.”
Silence. You stare at him, and he stares right back.
And then you laugh, full and sharp, like this is the funniest thing you’ve ever heard.
“That’s not a rule, that’s a death sentence for El.”
“And why would that be?”
You roll your eyes. “Please. I would never date the neanderthals in this school if they were the last living organisms on earth.”
Hopper crosses his arms, satisfied. “Then I guess nobody’s dating.”
El’s lips press together, trying and failing to hide the smallest hint of disappointment.
You point at her. “This is on you.”
The next morning feels heavier for her in a way she can’t quite name.
Hawkins High hums the same as it always does, lockers slamming, voices overlapping, sneakers squeaking against the tile.
Eleven moves through it like something slightly out of place, like the rhythm doesn’t quite match her steps.
People notice her before she notices them, and then they look away just as quickly, conversations dipping, shoulders angling.
A group of girls by the lockers goes quiet when she passes. One of them mutters something under her breath, not loud enough to repeat, just loud enough to land.
El doesn’t react outwardly, but her jaw tightens, her hands curling into the sleeves of her sweater as she keeps walking, eyes forward, because she’s learned that looking back only makes it worse.
She doesn’t understand all of it, but she understands enough.
She finds Mike and Dustin near their usual table, both of them mid-conversation, Dustin animated as always, Mike nodding along like he’s only half paying attention until he spots her.
His whole face changes. “Hey,” he says quickly, standing up like he always does, like it’s instinct now. “Hi.”
El slows when she reaches them, glancing briefly at Dustin before looking back at Mike.
“Hi.”
Dustin leans forward immediately, eyes flicking between them. “Okay, so, I feel like something happened because you look like you just came back from, like, emotional warfare—”
“El, did you get in trouble—” Mike starts, already bracing.
“It is worse,” El cuts in.
Mike’s brows pull together. “Worse than what?”
“Hopper made a new rule.”
Dustin groans immediately. “Oh, that’s never good. Last time there was a new rule I wasn’t allowed in your house for, like, a month—”
“He says I cannot date,” she continues, voice steady but tight, “until she does.”
Mike blinks. “Until… who does?”
El doesn’t have to say it. Their heads both turn slightly, almost in sync, scanning the cafeteria like they expect to spot you immediately.
Dustin’s mouth falls open. “You’re kidding.”
“I am not kidding.”
Mike runs a hand through his hair, already stressed. “That doesn’t make any sense. That’s not even fair.”
“It is not fair,” El agrees, sharper now. “It is stupid.”
Dustin nods emphatically. “Super stupid. Like, impressively stupid. Like, I didn’t even know you could make a rule that stupid—”
Mike cuts him off. “Okay, okay—wait.” He looks back at El. “Why would he do that?”
El’s expression shifts, something more complicated flickering there. “Because she does not date.”
“…At all?” Dustin asks.
El shakes her head. “She said she would ‘never date the neanderthals in this school.’”
Dustin lets out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s… harsh. I mean, not entirely inaccurate for some of the male population here, but still. Harsh.”
Mike doesn’t laugh; he’s busy thinking.
“I want to be with you,” she says quietly. “Not in secret. Not like… like something bad.”
Mike looks at her, and whatever frustration he had a second ago shifts into something more determined. “Yeah. I know. I want that too.”
Dustin straightens, eyes lighting up just a little, that familiar spark of an idea forming, whether anyone asked for it or not. “Okay, wait. Wait, wait, wait.”
Mike groans. “Dustin—”
“No, hear me out,” he insists, pointing between them. “If the rule is that she has to date someone, then all we have to do… is make that happen.”
Mike stares at him. “You say that like it’s easy.”
Dustin leans in, lowering his voice like he’s about to propose something highly illegal, which, in his mind, is probably half the appeal.
“We find someone who’s willing to go out with her.”
Mike blinks. “And why would anyone do that?”
Dustin pauses, considers. Then slowly, a grin spreads across his face, the kind that usually means trouble. “…Incentive.”
Mike’s eyes widen. “Oh no. No, absolutely not—”
“It could work!” Dustin presses. “Think about it, man. We just need one guy, right? One guy who’s not completely terrified of her—”
“That’s already a short list,” Mike mutters.
“—and who doesn’t care about her whole… thing,” Dustin continues, gesturing vaguely. “Someone who’d do it for the right price.”
El watches them, confusion knitting her brows. “You want to pay someone to date my sister?”
Mike winces. “When you say it like that—”
“That is what you are saying.”
Dustin shrugs. “I mean… yeah. But it’s not, like, real dating. It’s just…strategic.”
El looks between them, uncertainty flickering, but underneath it is something stronger.
“If it works,” she says slowly, “the rule will change.”
Mike hesitates, then nods. “If it works… yeah.”
Dustin claps his hands together once, already scanning the cafeteria like he’s picking from a lineup.
“Okay. So. Who do we know that’s got a high tolerance for danger, questionable decision-making skills, and absolutely nothing to lose?”
There’s a pause. And then, almost simultaneously, both boys have the exact same thought.
Across the room, at a table that feels more like its own territory than part of the cafeteria, sits Eddie, boots up on the bench, laughing too loud at something one of the Hellfire guys just said, completely unaware that somewhere behind him, a very bad idea has just found its target.
They don’t move right away.
For a second, both of them just stand there, watching from a distance like they’re about to approach a wild animal that might be friendly but could just as easily bite.
Dustin shifts his weight from foot to foot while Mike very clearly considers abandoning the plan entirely.
“This is a terrible idea,” Mike mutters under his breath.
Dustin doesn’t disagree. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. But it’s also the only idea.”
Mike glances back at Eleven, still standing by the table, watching them with that quiet, unwavering expectation that makes it very hard to say no to her.
He sighs. “…Fine.”
The Hellfire table is loud in a way the rest of the cafeteria isn’t.
“Wheeler. Henderson,” Eddie drawls, leaning back slightly, a grin already forming like he can smell trouble from a mile away.
“To what do I owe the pleasure? You here to finally admit my campaign last night was amazing, or—”
“We need a favor,” Dustin blurts, cutting him off.
That gets his attention.
Eddie’s brows lift, interest piqued, grin sharpening into something more curious as he slowly lowers his boots from the chair.
“A favor,” he repeats. “From me.”
Mike crosses his arms, trying to look more confident than he feels. “Yeah.”
Eddie glances between them, taking in the tension, the way neither of them looks entirely sure about what they’re about to say, and it only makes him more entertained.
“This should be good,” he says, gesturing lazily. “Go on. Enlighten me.”
Dustin steps forward like he’s presenting a business proposal. “Okay, so. Hypothetically—”
“Oh, we’re starting with hypotheticals,” Eddie hums.
“—if someone,” Dustin continues, ignoring him, “needed you to, I don’t know, go out with someone—”
Eddie snorts. “Henderson, you’re gonna have to narrow it down. My dance card is shockingly empty.”
Mike cuts in, faster this time. “We’ll pay you.”
Eddie goes still for half a second, definitely caught off guard, like he wasn’t expecting them to skip straight to that part.
“…You’ll what?” he says, slower now.
Dustin nods, serious. “Pay you.”
Eddie lets out a short laugh, dragging a hand down his face as he leans forward onto the table, eyes flicking between them like he’s trying to figure out if this is a joke he hasn’t been let in on yet.
“You’re offering me money,” he says carefully, “to go on a date.”
“Yes,” Mike says.
“With who?” Eddie asks, already half amused again.
Mike hesitates.
Dustin doesn’t.
“Hopper’s daughter.”
Eddie leans back in his seat, something thoughtful creeping into his expression now.
“…That Hopper’s daughter,” he repeats.
Mike nods. Eddie’s gaze drifts, almost unconsciously, across the cafeteria. It doesn’t take long to find you.
You’re not hard to spot, not because you’re loud or attention-seeking, but because people give you space without meaning to, a quiet radius that forms around you wherever you sit.
You’re leaning back in your chair, one leg crossed over the other, completely uninterested in anything happening around you.
Like the entire room is background noise you’ve already tuned out. He’s never talked to you, not once. But he knows you. Everyone does.
The attitude. The sharp tongue. The way you look at people like you’ve already decided exactly what they are and found it lacking.
He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at them.
“…You want me,” he says slowly, “to go out with her.”
“Yes,” Dustin says again, like repetition might make it sound less insane.
Eddie exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly as he leans back, running his tongue over his teeth in thought.
“You guys have a death wish or something? I mean, I’ve seen the way she looks at people. I’m pretty sure I’d burst into flames on contact.”
“You won’t,” Mike says quickly. “Probably.”
Eddie shoots him a look. “Reassuring.”
Dustin leans in. “Look, it doesn’t have to be real. You just have to take her out a couple times, make it believable, and that’s it.”
“Why?” he asks.
Mike hesitates. El answers from behind them.
“Because I want to be with him.”
All three of them turn.
El stands a few steps closer now, her gaze steady as it moves from Mike to Eddie, something earnest and unfiltered sitting right at its center.
“Hopper says I cannot date until she does,” she continues. “So she must.”
Eddie’s expression shifts, just slightly, and he glances back at you again. You haven’t noticed him. Or maybe you have, and you just don’t care.
Either way, it does something strange in his chest, something he doesn’t quite have a name for. He looks back at Dustin and Mike.
“…And you’re paying me,” he says.
Dustin nods eagerly. “Yes.”
Eddie taps his fingers against the table, thinking.
“You do realize,” he says after a moment, “this is gonna blow up in your faces, right? Like, spectacularly. Possibly with casualties.”
“Probably,” Mike admits.
Eddie huffs out a quiet laugh. Then, almost absently, his eyes flick back to you one more time, alone at your table.
He tilts his head, something like a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“…Alright,” he says.
Mike blinks. “Wait—seriously?”
Eddie shrugs, pushing himself up from the chair, grabbing his jacket like he’s already halfway committed before he’s even finished deciding.
“What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good cause.”
Dustin grins. “And the money.”
Eddie points at him. “And the money.”
Then he glances back at you, eyes narrowing just slightly, like he’s studying something he doesn’t quite understand yet but very much intends to.
“…Plus,” he adds, almost to himself, “I’ve never met a dragon I didn’t want to try and charm.”
Mike groans. “Please don’t call her that to her face.”
Eddie’s grin widens. “No promises.”
The bell cuts through the cafeteria, sharp and final, and the room shifts all at once, chairs scraping, conversations breaking, bodies funneling toward the exits in a familiar, restless wave.
You don’t rush, you never do.
You take your time gathering your things, sliding your bag over your shoulder, letting the crowd thin just enough that you don’t have to fight your way through it.
You don’t notice him at first, not until he’s already there.
Falling into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like this isn’t the first time he’s ever willingly placed himself in your orbit.
“Hey,” Eddie says easily, turning slightly so he’s walking half backward just to catch your eye, a crooked grin already in place. “Hopper, right?”
You don’t stop, you don’t even look at him.
“Do I know you?” you ask flatly, eyes fixed ahead.
He presses a hand dramatically to his chest, as if you’ve wounded him. “Wow. That’s cold. I’m hurt.”
“Tragic.”
He snorts, clearly entertained, and then, without missing a beat, sticks his hand out between you like he’s introducing himself at a business meeting.
“Eddie. Munson. Local celebrity, part-time academic menace, full-time delight. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
You glance down at his hand. Then back up at him. And just… stare.
He holds it there a second longer than most people would, grin twitching slightly at the edges as he realizes exactly what’s happening, and then he exhales a quiet laugh, dropping it back to his side.
“Alright, tough crowd,” he mutters, half to himself.
You keep walking.
“So,” he continues, undeterred, falling back into step beside you like he’s decided this is a long game. “I was thinking, dangerous, I know, but maybe you and I could—”
“No.”
He blinks. “I didn’t even finish the sentence.”
“I didn’t need you to.”
That earns a laugh, low and surprised, like he wasn’t expecting you to shut him down that fast but he’s not exactly mad about it either.
“Okay, fair,” he concedes, nodding like you’ve made a solid point. “But hypothetically, if I had finished the sentence—”
“You shouldn’t.”
You cut around a group of people blocking the hallway, not slowing, not adjusting your pace to make room for him.
He sidesteps neatly back into place beside you, hands slipping into his jacket pockets, glancing at you from the corner of his eye like he’s studying a puzzle he hasn’t quite figured out yet.
“You always this friendly,” he asks, “or am I just special?”
You let out a quiet, humorless breath. “You’re not special.”
“Ouch,” he says, though there’s no real sting to it, just amusement. “Gonna have to try harder, I see.”
You stop at your locker, spinning the dial without acknowledging him, and he leans casually against the one next to yours like he’s got nowhere else to be.
“I mean, come on,” he goes on, softer now, less performative, more coaxing. “You haven’t even heard my pitch.”
“I don’t care about your pitch.”
“Not even a little curious?”
You glance at him then, finally, just a flick of your eyes.
“…No.”
He grins, like that’s the answer he wanted.
“See, that’s where I think you’re wrong,” he says, pushing off the locker, stepping just a little closer. “Because if you were really not curious, you would’ve told me to shut up and left already.”
You slam your locker shut. “I’m telling you to shut up now.”
He laughs, full and unbothered. “There she is.”
You sling your bag back over your shoulder, turning to walk away again, and he falls into step beside you immediately, like this is just how things are now.
“Just one shot,” he says, holding up a finger. “One sentence. If you hate it, I’ll disappear, never bother you again, you can go back to your regularly scheduled brooding—”
“You’re already bothering me.”
“—but if you don’t hate it,” he continues smoothly, ignoring that, “you hear me out.”
You stop again, slowly.
“…You have one sentence,” you say.
His grin comes back, slower this time, a little more careful.
“Go out with me.”
Silence. You stare at him, and he holds it, waiting.
And then you let out a short laugh, like he’s just confirmed exactly what you thought about him the second he opened his mouth.
“Absolutely not.” And just like that, you turn and walk away, not even giving him the chance to respond this time.
Behind you, Eddie just watches you go, something thoughtful settling in behind the amusement. Then he huffs out a quiet laugh, dragging a hand through his hair as he falls back a step.
“…Alright,” he mutters to himself, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth again. “Challenge accepted.”
By the time the plan reaches its next phase, it already feels like something that’s gotten out of hand. Not that that stops them.
The cabin is quiet when they get there. Late afternoon light spills through the windows, warm and low, dust floating lazily in the air like the place is holding its breath, and Eleven pushes the door open without hesitation.
The boys follow more cautiously.
Mike lingers just inside the doorway, already tense, eyes darting around like Hopper might materialize out of thin air, while Dustin closes the door behind them with a soft click, lowering his voice instinctively.
“This feels illegal,” Eddie whispers.
“It is not illegal,” El says, already moving toward the hallway. “It is necessary.”
Mike runs a hand through his hair. “We’re going through her stuff.”
El pauses, glancing back at him. “We are learning.”
“That’s worse.”
They find your room easily.
The door’s half-open, like you never bothered to shut it fully, and there’s something about that alone that makes all four of them hesitate for a second.
Dustin pushes it open anyway.
“Okay,” he says under his breath, stepping inside. “Recon mission.”
The room is exactly what Eddie expected. And not at all.
It’s not messy, not really, but it’s not polished either, not curated in that way some people’s rooms are.
Yours feels lived in, real. Clothes draped over the back of a chair, books stacked unevenly on your nightstand, a jacket tossed carelessly across the end of your bed like you’ll come back for it later.
There are posters on the wall, and not the ones people expect. Not pop stars or clean-cut bands, but darker, louder things, edges curling slightly at the corners, ink-heavy designs that feel more like statements than decoration.
Eddie steps further in, slower than the others, gaze dragging across the details, taking it in piece by piece like he’s reading something written in a language he almost understands.
“…Huh,” he says quietly.
Dustin’s already at your shelf, flipping through a stack of vinyls with growing enthusiasm. “Oh, this is gold. This is gold—she’s got good taste, I’ll give her that.”
Mike’s still hovering, arms crossed. “Can we not touch everything?”
“We’re not touching everything,” Dustin argues. “We’re strategically observing.”
“You’re holding it.”
“That’s part of observing.”
El moves toward your desk, fingers brushing lightly over the surface, pausing on a notebook left half-open, but she doesn’t flip through it. Not that.
Even she seems to recognize there’s a line somewhere.
Eddie, meanwhile, drifts closer to your wall. He studies the posters more carefully now, head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing just a bit as something clicks into place.
“…She’s not just mean,” he says, almost absently.
Mike glances over. “What?”
Eddie gestures vaguely at the wall. “This stuff—this isn’t random. She’s got a whole thing going on. It’s like…” He trails off, searching for the word, then shrugs. “Curated chaos.”
Dustin snorts. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is now,” Eddie shoots back, though his attention’s already shifted again, scanning the room like he’s trying to piece together a person out of fragments.
There’s something quieter in him now. Less show, more interest.
He doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t need to, but it’s there in the way he lingers, the way he notices things the others don’t, the way his gaze softens just slightly when it lands on something small, something personal.
On your nightstand. A folded piece of paper sticks out from under a book, worn at the edges like it’s been handled more than once, and Dustin, of course, zeroes in on it immediately.
“Ooh, what’s this—”
“Don’t,” Mike says quickly.
Too late. Dustin pulls it free, unfolding it with zero hesitation, eyes scanning over it before lighting up.
“No way.”
“What?” Mike asks, stepping closer despite himself.
Dustin turns it so they can see. Tickets. Two of them. Worn slightly at the corners, like they’ve been sitting there for a while, waiting.
“To a show,” Dustin says, unnecessarily.
Eddie steps in closer, eyes dropping to the print, and something in his expression shifts again, sharper this time, recognition sparking.
“…You’re kidding me,” he murmurs.
El tilts her head. “What is it?”
Eddie reaches out, not taking the tickets, just brushing his fingers lightly against the edge like he needs to confirm they’re real. “This is—”
He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “—The Misfits,” he finishes.
Dustin blinks. “Is that… good?”
Eddie looks at him like he just asked if oxygen is optional.
“Is that good? Henderson, that’s not just good, that’s—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, still half smiling. “That’s not exactly mainstream around here, alright? That’s… specific.”
Mike frowns slightly. “So she likes them?”
Eddie exhales, glancing around the room again, like everything suddenly makes a little more sense. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, she does.”
Dustin’s grin creeps back in, slow and deliberate. “Okay. So. We use that.”
Mike hesitates. “Use it how?”
Dustin gestures with the tickets. “Conversation piece.”
Eddie doesn’t answer right away. He’s still looking at the tickets, at your room. At the pieces of you scattered around it like clues he didn’t expect to care about.
“…That’s not a terrible idea,” he admits finally, quieter than before.
Mike stares at him. “You’re actually considering this.”
Eddie glances at him, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “I told you. I like a challenge.”
But it’s not just that anymore.
“…Guess I’ve got my opening line.”
The bell above the door gives a soft, tired jingle when it opens, the kind that’s been rung a thousand times and stopped caring somewhere around the five hundredth. You don’t look up right away.
The record store is slow this time of day, the low hum of music drifting through the speakers, something scratchy and familiar playing from behind the counter as you flip through a stack of new arrivals, reorganizing them more out of habit than necessity.
“Afternoon,” you say flatly, still not looking.
“Yeah, I’m hoping it gets better from here.”
You freeze for half a second. Then slowly, you lift your head.
Eddie stands just inside the doorway, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who very much does not belong here.
Your eyes narrow instantly. “…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He grins like that’s exactly the reaction he was hoping for. “Miss me?”
“No.”
“Cold,” he hums, stepping further inside, gaze drifting lazily over the shelves like he’s browsing. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“You weren’t.”
“Okay, no,” he concedes easily. “I wasn’t.”
You go back to what you were doing, dismissing him with the same efficiency you would anyone else you don’t care to deal with.
“Then leave.”
He doesn’t. Instead, he wanders closer to the counter, fingers brushing along the edge of a display, scanning the titles like he’s genuinely interested. Even though the slight tilt of his mouth says he’s enjoying this far more than he should.
“So,” he starts casually, like you’re in the middle of a normal conversation. “You got any Misfits vinyls in stock, or am I gonna have to take my business elsewhere?”
That stops you.
“…You like the Misfits?” you ask, tone edged with suspicion more than curiosity.
He catches it immediately, doesn’t flinch. Just shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal.
“Yeah. Shocking, I know. Dude in a leather jacket listens to loud, obnoxious music. Real plot twist.”
You step closer, bracing your hands on the counter, gaze locking onto his like you’re trying to catch him in something.
“Name three songs.”
He blinks once. Then huffs a quiet laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Wow. Okay. Gatekeeping. Love that for you.”
“Name them,” you repeat, unmoved.
He studies you for a second, something amused flickering in his eyes, like he’s enjoying this far more than he should.
“…‘Last Caress,’ ‘Hybrid Moments,’ ‘Where Eagles Dare,’” he says easily, ticking them off on his fingers. “Want me to keep going or—?”
You hold his gaze a second longer. Then lean back slightly, crossing your arms.
“…Lucky guesses.”
“Ouch,” he says, though he’s smiling again, a little softer this time, like he’s pleased he got under your skin even a fraction. “You wound me.”
You turn, gesturing vaguely toward the back. “Third crate. Don’t touch anything you’re not buying.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He finds the crate easily, crouching down to flip through it, but he doesn’t speak right away this time.
But, after a moment: “Minor Threat, huh?”
You don’t turn around. “What about them?”
He glances up at you from where he’s crouched, one brow lifting. “Didn’t peg you for the straight-edge type.”
“I’m not.”
He hums, flipping to the next record. “Bad Brains.”
You go still. “…You’re just naming bands now?”
“Descendents,” he adds, like he didn’t hear you.
“How do you know that?” you ask, voice quieter now.
Eddie doesn’t answer right away.
He stands, dusting his hands off on his jeans, expression shifting just slightly, and meets your gaze.
“I pay attention,” he says simply.
You search his face, like you’re trying to find the angle, the trick, the punchline that hasn’t landed yet.
“…That’s creepy,” you decide finally.
He exhales a soft laugh, nodding like he’ll take that. “Yeah. Little bit.”
You shake your head, turning away again, but it’s not the same dismissal as before. There’s something else under it now, something you don’t quite like.
“You’re not getting a discount.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“So,” he tries again, a little lighter now, easing back into that easy charm like he never left it. “You work here often, or is this a special occasion thing?”
You don’t miss a beat. “I’m here every day.”
“Good,” he says.
That makes you look at him again. “…Why?”
He shrugs, picking a record from the crate, holding it up like that’s his whole answer.
“Makes it easier to come back.”
You stare at him longer this time. Trying to decide if he’s serious. Trying to decide if you care.
“…Buy something or leave,” you say finally, turning back toward the counter, but your voice isn’t quite as sharp as it was when he walked in.
Behind you, Eddie just smiles to himself, something thoughtful tucked behind it as he glances down at the vinyl in his hands.
Hook set, whether you realize it or not. The next day, the idea finds him again before he can talk himself out of it.
You’re at your locker when he spots you.
Same as yesterday. Same hallway, same noise, same carefully maintained distance people keep from you like it’s second nature.
You’re leaning slightly into the metal, spinning the dial with that absent, disinterested look like none of this matters, like none of them matter.
He watches you for a second, then pushes off the wall and heads over.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie Munson calls lightly as he approaches, like this is already a routine between you. Like you didn’t shut him down less than twenty-four hours ago.
You don’t even look up. “Wrong person.”
He grins. “Debatable.”
You slam your locker shut, finally turning to face him, unimpressed as ever. “What do you want, Munson?”
“No hello?” he hums. “No, ‘how’ve you been, Eddie, light of my life, bane of my existence’?”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“Good,” he says easily. “This’ll be quick.”
That makes you pause, just slightly.
“There’s a party tonight,” he continues, casual, like it’s nothing, like he’s not watching your reaction a little too closely. “At Nancy Wheeler’s place. Parents are out of town, whole suburban rebellion thing, you know the drill.”
You blink once. “…And?”
“And,” he says, stepping a little closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough to keep your attention, “you should come.”
Then you laugh.
“I’d rather die.”
He winces theatrically. “Jesus. You always go straight to homicide, or is that just me?”
You shoulder your bag, already turning away. “Find someone else to bother.”
“I did,” he calls after you. “Didn’t take.”
That slows you down. You glance back, eyes narrowing. “…What.”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing, like this isn’t the entire point. “Figured I’d aim higher.”
You stare at him, and he holds it. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence with a joke.
“…I don’t think so,” you say finally.
He tilts his head, considering you, something softer slipping into his expression for half a second before the grin comes back.
“Alright,” he says.
You turn away again, done with it.
“Pick you up at eight.”
You stop.
“…I didn’t say yes.”
“You also didn’t say no,” he shoots back immediately.
You turn, ready to argue, but he’s already walking backward down the hall, hands up in surrender, grin wide and unbothered.
“Eight o’clock, sweetheart!” he calls. “Wear something scary!”
You watch him go. Annoyed... and something else you refuse to name.
That night, the cabin is quiet. Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that means something’s about to go wrong.
Eleven moves carefully, slow steps down the hallway, shoes in her hand, eyes flicking toward the living room like she expects Hopper to appear at any second.
She makes it halfway to the door.
“Where are you going?”
She freezes. Hopper stands in the doorway, arms crossed, already unimpressed.
“…Out,” she says.
“Out,” he repeats flatly. “At night. Without telling me.”
She hesitates, then lifts her chin slightly. “There is a party.”
“Oh, there is a party,” he echoes. “And you’re just gonna—what—sneak out and go to it?”
She doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.
Hopper shakes his head, already gearing up.
“No. Absolutely not. We talked about this—no dating, no parties, no—”
“She is going.”
Both of them turn.
You’re leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, already in something that looks like you might leave the house even if you haven’t admitted it yet.
Hopper frowns. “She is not—”
“I am,” El insists, stepping closer. “Because she is coming with me.”
You scoff immediately. “No, I’m not.”
El turns to you. And then, she does it: big eyes, slight tilt of her head.
That quiet, stubborn softness that somehow hits harder than any argument she could make. You stare at her.
“…No,” you repeat.
She doesn’t look away. “Please.”
You exhale sharply, dragging a hand over your face like this is physically painful for you.
“You don’t even know those people.”
“I know Mike.”
Hopper groans. “We are not doing this again—”
You glance at him, back at her, then at the door.
“…Fine,” you snap finally. “But if anything goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”
El’s face lights up just slightly. Victory.
Hopper points between the two of you. “No. No, no, no—hold on, I didn’t agree to this—”
Too late. There’s a knock at the door, and all three of you freeze.
You close your eyes briefly.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Hopper squints toward the door. “Who is that?”
Another knock. Louder this time. You push off the wall with a sigh, already heading for it.
“A mistake,” you mutter under your breath.
When you open it, there he is.
Eddie, leaning casually against the frame like he’s been there for a while, like this is perfectly normal, like showing up early to something you never agreed to is just part of his charm.
He looks you up and down once, quick. Then grins.
“…Eight o’clock felt a little late,” he says. “Figured I’d get a head start.”
You stare at him. Behind you, Hopper steps closer.
“…What the hell is this?” he asks.
Eddie straightens, instantly switching gears, hand coming up in an almost too-friendly wave. “Evening, Chief.”
You drag a hand down your face. “This,” you say flatly, “is exactly why I don’t go out.”
The drive is louder than it needs to be.
Not because of conversation, there isn’t much of that, but because Eddie keeps the music just a little too high, fingers tapping against the wheel, glancing at you every so often like he’s checking to see if you’re still there.
You sit with your elbow hooked out the window, gaze fixed on the blur of trees and streetlights, cigarette smoke trailing behind you, acting like he’s not there at all.
He doesn’t push it, not yet.
The house is already packed by the time you pull up.
Cars line the street, music spilling out through the walls, bass heavy enough to feel in your chest before you even make it to the front door.
El is out of the van the second it stops, practically sprinting toward the house like she’s been waiting for this all week.
“Hey—don’t—” you start, but she’s already gone.
Eddie watches her disappear inside, then looks at you, one brow lifting slightly, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.
“…After you.”
You roll your eyes, brushing past him without a word, pushing the door open like you own the place, like you’re not even slightly out of your element.
The noise hits you all at once. Laughter, shouting, music too loud for the speakers it’s coming from, bodies moving through the space in a chaotic, overlapping rhythm. You head straight for the kitchen.
It’s instinct at this point, find the drinks, find something to do with your hands, something to anchor you in a room you already know you don’t want to be in. Eddie follows.
Not hovering exactly, but close enough that you’re aware of him, that steady presence at your side as you weave through people, ignoring the looks, the whispers, the way heads turn just a little too slowly as you pass.
It doesn’t take long. “Look who finally decided to show up.”
You don’t even have to turn to know the tone, but you do anyway.
A couple of guys leaning against the counter, red cups in hand, smirks already in place like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment.
“The shrew herself,” one of them adds, louder this time, making sure people nearby can hear.
“Bite me,” you say flatly, already reaching past them for a drink like they’re nothing.
“God,” Eddie murmurs, just low enough for you to hear, “you’re terrifying.”
You crack open the drink, not looking at him. “Then why are you still here?”
He shrugs, grabbing one for himself. “I’ve got a thing for danger.”
You take a sip, letting the noise of the party settle around you, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.
For Eddie, that’s new.
Instead, he just stands there, shoulder brushing yours when someone squeezes past, like he’s not entirely sure what to do with the space between you.
You glance up at him.
“Why did you want me to come, anyway?” you say, nodding toward the crowd. "What's in it for you?"
He looks down at you, like he didn’t expect the question. “What, I can’t invite someone to a party without ulterior motives?”
“You?” you say, arching a brow. “No.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, bringing the cup to his lips.
He takes a sip, pauses, then grimaces immediately. “…Yeah. Okay. That’s foul.”
You almost smile, and he catches it.
“Was that—” he leans in a little, eyes bright, voice dropping like he’s in on a secret, “—was that a smile?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late,” he says easily. “Already planning my future around it.”
You shake your head, but there’s something softer in your expression now. He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then shrugs, a little less guarded this time.
“And for the record,” he adds, quieter, “I didn’t come for the party.”
You glance at him. “No?”
“Nah.” A small, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “I came for the part where you show up and pretend you don’t hate me for a couple hours.”
That does it. You smile fully, just a little. And he looks like he just won something.
Across the room, the party swells, louder, messier, people spilling into hallways, voices rising, music shifting tracks.
But Eddie sticks by your side.
The kitchen settles around you in waves, people rotating in and out, laughter rising and falling, and somehow, without you noticing exactly when it happened, you stop counting the seconds until you can leave. Eddie’s still there.
Leaning back against the counter now, one foot hooked behind the other, drink forgotten in his hand as he talks, like this is easy, like you’re easy, like the whole thing isn’t supposed to be an uphill battle.
“…and then Henderson swears the dice are cursed,” he’s saying, gesturing with his hands, animated in a way that should be annoying but isn’t, not really.
“Like, full conspiracy, thinks the entire campaign is rigged against him personally, which—honestly—not entirely wrong, but still.”
You glance at him, eyebrow lifting slightly. “You rig your own games?”
“Absolutely,” he says without hesitation. “I’m a tyrant. A menace. It’s in the job description.”
“That’s pathetic.”
He grins. “That’s leadership.”
You huff out a quiet breath, something that’s dangerously close to a laugh, and he catches it immediately, eyes lighting up like he’s just hit a milestone.
“There it is again,” he says, pointing at you. “I knew you had it in you.”
“Don’t push it.”
“Oh, I’m gonna push it,” he says easily. “That’s kind of my whole thing.”
You shake your head, taking another sip of your drink, but you don’t shut him down. He seems to clock that too, something softer settling into his expression for a second before he covers it with another smirk.
“So what,” he goes on, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own, testing the boundary. “You just sit around all day, scaring small children and rejecting perfectly charming invitations, or—”
“Children scare easily.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to see why.”
You glance at him again, like you’re trying to figure out what his angle is and coming up short.
“…You talk a lot,” you say.
“I’ve been told it’s one of my many endearing qualities.”
“It’s not.”
“Agree to disagree.”
There’s a pause. Then, before you can stop it, you laugh.
It slips out of you like you didn’t mean for it to, like it caught you off guard just as much as it does him.
Eddie goes quiet, like he doesn’t want to ruin it.
“Wow,” he says after a second, softer now, something genuine threading through the usual humor. “Okay. That— that was worth the price of admission.”
You roll your eyes immediately, the moment passing just as quickly as it came. “Don’t get sentimental on me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But he’s still smiling. Not the loud, performative grin from earlier.
“Hey—” You both turn.
Nancy stands a few steps away, red cup in hand, looking pleasantly surprised, like she almost didn’t believe it when she heard you were here.
“Hi,” she says, a little breathless from weaving through the crowd. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”
You shrug, already bracing for whatever comment’s coming next. “I didn’t plan on it.”
Nancy’s eyes flick briefly to Eddie, then back to you, something knowing in her expression that you immediately don’t trust.
“Well,” she says, smiling slightly, “I’m glad you did. It’s… nice to see you out of your shell.”
You stare at her. “I don’t have a shell.”
Eddie snorts into his drink.
Nancy laughs softly, unfazed. “You know what I mean.”
“I don’t.”
She just shakes her head, still smiling, like she’s decided not to push it, and takes a step back. “Just—have fun, okay?”
He glances at you, one brow lifting. “Out of your shell, huh.”
“Say one more word, and I’m leaving.”
He holds his hands up immediately. “Hey, hey—zip it. Noted.”
Then, quieter, “For what it’s worth,” he adds, nudging your shoulder again, gentler this time, “I think you’re doing great.”
You don’t respond. But you don’t pull away, either. And that’s enough for him.
The Hideout isn’t trying to impress anyone.
Dim lights, sticky floors, a stage that’s seen better decades, the low hum of a crowd that feels more like background noise than the main event.
It’s exactly the kind of place you’d expect Eddie to bring someone.
It’s not the kind of place you expected to like. And yet…
You’re sitting across from him in a cracked vinyl booth, one leg tucked under you, drink sweating in your hand as he tells stories.
Dumb ones, mostly, about Hellfire campaigns and arguments over rules and how Henderson once tried to “unionize the party,” whatever that means.
You don’t fully understand half of it, but you listen anyway.
“…and then he goes, ‘you can’t just kill my character because I questioned your authority,’” Eddie finishes, shaking his head, clearly still entertained by it. “And I’m like, ‘watch me.’”
You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Thank you,” he says, like it’s a compliment.
You take a sip of your drink, studying him over the rim of the glass, something quieter settling in your chest, something unfamiliar and a little unsettling. Because he’s not what you expected, not entirely.
He’s loud, yeah. Annoying. Persistent in a way that should get under your skin more than it does. But he’s also gentle, in strange, fleeting ways.
Like the way he slid into the booth first, so you wouldn’t have to squeeze past anyone. The way he asked what you wanted before ordering, like it mattered. The way he listens when you do speak, even if you only give him scraps.
It’s disarming. You don’t like that.
“…What,” he says suddenly, catching your gaze, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
You roll your eyes, looking away. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I,” he hums, leaning forward just slightly, like he’s trying to catch your eye again. “Because I’m pretty sure that was a nice look.”
“Don’t push it.”
He grins, softer this time. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Then he reaches across the table, not touching you, just tapping his fingers lightly against the surface like he’s resisting the urge to close the distance.
“I’m glad you came,” he says.
Simple, no joke attached. You don’t answer right away.
“…Me too,” you admit, quieter.
His expression shifts, just a fraction, something warm flickering there before he looks away, like he needs a second to recover from it.
“Careful,” he says lightly. “You keep saying stuff like that, I’m gonna think you actually like me.”
You scoff. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” But there’s no bite to it, not really.
You don’t realize how far you’ve let your guard down until you stand up to go to the bathroom and he doesn’t follow. You don’t expect him to, but you notice it anyway.
The hallway’s quieter, the music muffled, the buzz of the bar fading just enough that you can hear your own thoughts again, and for a second, you let yourself breathe.
This was a mistake; it has to be. You don’t do this. You don’t sit in booths and laugh at stupid stories and let people get close enough to matter.
And yet...You push the bathroom door open, splash water on your hands, stare at your reflection for a second longer than necessary, then head back out.
You hear it before you see them.
“…I’m just saying, man, you better get your cut.”
You slow, just slightly. Voices from around the corner, familiar in that distant way you recognize but don’t care enough to place.
“Yeah, seriously,” another one adds. “How much is Henderson even paying you for going out with Hopper’s daughter again?”
Your stomach drops, cold and sharp. You step around the corner, and there he is.
Eddie, leaning back against the wall, a couple of Hellfire guys clustered around him, laughing like it’s nothing, like it’s a joke that doesn’t have a target. Like it’s not you.
He doesn’t laugh, not really. But he doesn’t shut it down fast enough.
“…It’s not—” he starts. Too late.
They notice you, and the laughter dies. Eddie’s head snaps up. And the second his eyes meet yours, he knows.
“Hey—” he says, pushing off the wall immediately, something urgent in his tone now. “It’s not like that—”
You let out a short, hollow laugh. “Wow.”
He stops a few feet in front of you, hands half-raised like he’s approaching something fragile, something that might shatter if he moves too fast. “I can explain—”
“That’s rich,” you cut him off, voice low and sharp, eyes burning into him. “'Nothing in it for you', huh?”
“I was going to tell you,” he insists, stepping closer. “I just—”
“When,” you snap. “After you got paid? Or were you waiting on a bonus for sleeping with me?”
“It’s not about the money anymore,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “It hasn’t been for a while.”
You laugh again, harsher this time. “Oh, please.”
“I mean it,” he says, more forcefully now, frustration bleeding through. “Yeah, it started that way, I’m not gonna lie to you, but that’s not what this is now—”
“You expect me to believe that,” you cut in, stepping back, putting space between you like you need it to breathe. “You expect me to believe you suddenly just—what—like me?”
“Yes,” he says. No hesitation, no joke. It almost makes it worse.
You shake your head, backing up another step, something tight and ugly twisting in your chest that you refuse to name.
“God, you’re such an asshole,” you mutter.
“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this—”
“You didn’t mean for me to find out at all,” you correct.
You swallow hard, forcing your expression back into something colder, something safer, something that doesn’t let any of that hurt show through.
“Don’t follow me,” you say flatly.
Then you turn and walk out. Leaving him standing there, the noise of the bar rushing back in around him, the taste of something good turning bitter in his mouth before he even has time to process how badly he just screwed it up.
The next morning feels different.
Not in the way anyone else would notice, not in the noise or the routine or the way Hawkins High hums along like nothing ever really changes, but in the space around you.
You move through the hallway like you always do, head high, eyes forward, expression locked into something unreadable, but there’s an edge to it now, something sharper, like you’ve sealed something off and thrown away the key.
People still move out of your way; they always do. But this time, you don’t even register them.
Eddie is leaning against a row of lockers, mid-conversation with one of the Hellfire guys, but the second you round the corner, his attention shifts completely, like everything else drops out of focus.
He pushes off the wall without thinking. “Hey—”
You don’t slow.
“Hey,” he tries again, falling into step beside you, voice lower this time, less show, more real. “Can we just—”
“No.” Not even a glance.
He exhales, quick, frustrated, but keeps pace anyway.
“Just listen for a second, okay? I know you’re pissed, I get that, but I—”
“I’m not pissed,” you cut in, voice flat. You keep walking. “I just don’t care,” you finish.
He hovers there for a second, like he’s been physically pushed back, then jogs a step to catch up again, not ready to let it go.
“That’s not true,” he says, quieter now, almost like he’s trying not to spook you. “If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be—”
“Don’t,” you snap, finally turning to face him, eyes sharp enough to cut. “Don’t tell me how I feel.”
He lifts his hands slightly, backing off just a fraction. “I’m not—”
“You lied,” you say simply.
“I didn’t lie about everything,” he pushes, something desperate creeping in now. “I meant what I said—”
“Which part?” you cut in. “The part where you asked me out, or the part where you cashed the check.”
A couple of people nearby slow down, sensing tension, but neither of you notices or cares.
Eddie swallows, jaw tightening. “It wasn’t like that.”
“It was exactly like that.”
You step back, putting space between you again, shutting it down before he can try to spin it into something softer.
“Find someone else to entertain you,” you say, voice cold. “I’m done.”
And this time, you walk away without stopping. Without looking back. Without giving him anything to hold onto.
He just stands there for a second, staring after you, something tight and frustrated and stuck settling in his chest.
“…Shit,” he mutters under his breath.
Eddie drops into the seat across from them harder than necessary.
Dustin startles. “Jesus—”
“She won’t talk to me,” Eddie says flatly.
Mike winces immediately. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Eddie drags a hand down his face. “No, like—won’t. Won’t even look at me. I tried this morning and she just—”
He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “It’s like I don’t exist.”
El looks up at that. “You hurt her.”
Eddie exhales, nodding once. “Yeah. I got that part.”
Mike leans forward, lowering his voice. “You shouldn’t have let it go on that long.”
“I didn’t let anything—” Eddie starts, then stops, because he knows how it sounds, because he knows they’re not wrong. “…Okay, yeah. I did. I know.”
Dustin folds his arms. “So what’s the plan now?”
Eddie lets out a humorless laugh. “That’s what I’m asking you.”
They all look at each other. No immediate answer. Which is… not encouraging.
“You apologize,” Mike says finally.
“I did.”
“No, like—actually apologize,” Dustin adds. “Not the whole ‘I’m sorry but also here’s why I’m still kind of right’ thing you do.”
“I didn’t do that,” Eddie argues.
“You definitely did that,” Mike says.
Eddie groans, dropping his head briefly into his hands. “Okay, fine, whatever, I’ll apologize better. Then what?”
El watches him for a second, quiet, thoughtful. “You tell the truth,” she says.
He looks up at her. “I did.”
She shakes her head slightly. “Not just about the money. About… everything.”
Eddie leans back in his seat, staring at the table like it might give him an answer he doesn’t already know.
“…She doesn’t believe me,” he admits, quieter now. “Even if I say it, she’s just gonna think it’s another lie.”
“Then don’t make it sound like one,” Dustin says.
Eddie snorts. “Helpful.”
“I’m serious,” Dustin insists. “You can’t just charm your way out of this one, man. That’s like—your whole thing. She’s not gonna buy it.”
Mike nods. “You need to… prove it.”
Eddie glances between them. “How.”
El speaks again. “Do something for her,” she says simply.
He frowns. “Like what.”
She shrugs, small, but certain. “Something she would know is real.”
Your room feels smaller than it usually does. Not physically, nothing’s changed.
Same half-made bed, same stack of books by the nightstand, same records leaning against the wall like you meant to put them away and never did.
But it’s quieter in a way that presses in on you, like the air’s heavier, like everything’s waiting for you to do something you’re not going to do.
You’re stretched out on your bed, a book open in your hands, eyes moving over the same paragraph for the third time without actually reading a word of it.
It’s stupid, all of it. You knew better. You always know better.
A knock breaks the silence. You don’t look up.
“Go away.”
A pause. Then, softer, “Please.”
You close your eyes briefly, irritation flickering up fast and familiar.
“I said go away, El.”
The handle rattles, and you hear her try it once. Twice. Then: a quiet click.
Your head snaps up just as the door pushes open. Anger hits first.
You sit up fast, book forgotten as you swing your legs over the side of the bed, already moving.
“I told you not to do that anymore,” you snap, voice rising as you step toward the door. “What part of that is confusing to you, you little—”
You stop. Because it’s not just Eleven standing there. She’s off to the side, watching.
And in the doorway, Eddie. The anger doesn’t disappear. If anything, it sharpens.
“What the hell is this,” you say, colder now, folding your arms like that’s enough to hold yourself together. “You recruiting now?”
El looks between the two of you.
“He wants to talk,” she says.
“I don’t.”
Eddie doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to push into the room, doesn’t lean, doesn’t grin. He just stands there, hands empty, like he’s not sure what he’s allowed to do.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I figured.”
You scoff, looking away. “Then what are you doing here.”
“I gave it back,” he says.
You glance at him. “…What.”
“The money,” he clarifies, swallowing once. “I gave it back to Henderson. All of it. Told him I’m out.”
You stare at him, searching. For the angle, the lie, the performance.
“…Why.”
He lets out a breath, dragging a hand briefly through his hair before dropping it again, like he doesn’t want to hide behind the motion.
“Because it’s not what I want,” he says.
You don’t react.
“Wasn’t at first,” he adds, honest in a way that almost makes you more irritated than if he’d tried to sugarcoat it. “I’m not gonna pretend it was. But somewhere in there, it stopped being about that.”
You shake your head slightly, a bitter laugh slipping out. “And I’m supposed to just believe that.”
“No,” he says immediately.
“I don’t expect you to believe anything I say,” he continues, voice steady, even if there’s something tight underneath it. “I just… needed to say it.”
El shifts slightly by the door, unsure, watching both of you like she’s waiting for something to break.
You look at Eddie again. No grin, no attitude, no bullshit.
“…You should’ve told me,” you say, quieter now, but no less sharp.
“I know.”
“Before.”
“I know.”
“You let me sit there,” you continue, stepping a little closer, not soft, in your anger now, “and actually think you—” You cut yourself off, jaw tightening.
He doesn’t fill the space.
“That part wasn’t fake,” he says instead, softer.
You laugh, but it’s weaker this time. “That’s convenient.”
“I liked you,” he says. “I like you. That didn’t start with the money and it didn’t end when I gave it back.”
You shake your head again, but there’s less certainty in it now, less bite.
“You’re such an idiot,” you mutter.
“Yeah,” he says, a little breath of a laugh slipping through. “Been hearing that a lot lately.”
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he adds.
Your eyes flick back up to his.
“I’m not asking you to go out with me again,” he continues. “Or even talk to me after this.”
“I just didn’t want you thinking it was all fake,” he finishes. “Because it wasn’t.”
You don’t move, and you don’t respond.
Just stand there, caught somewhere between the version of him you decided on and the one standing in front of you now.
Behind him, El watches, quiet, hopeful in a way she’s trying not to show.
You exhale slowly, dragging a hand over your face.
“…You’re still an asshole,” you say finally.
He nods. “Yeah.”
“And you showed up to my house uninvited.”
He glances at El. “…Yeah.”
“And she broke into my room.”
“She did.”
You look at him for another second. Then, “…But you gave the money back.”
It’s not a question. He shakes his head.
“Didn’t feel right keeping it.”
“…That was stupid,” you decide.
A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say, softer now, something shifting under the surface whether you like it or not. “You could’ve at least kept it.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Thought about it.”
“…You still owe me a real date,” you say.
His head tilts, like he’s not entirely sure he heard you right. “…I do?”
You roll your eyes immediately, looking away like you already regret it. “Don’t make it weird.”
A slow, careful smile spreads across his face. Not big. Not cocky. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You cross your arms again, trying to regain some control over the situation. “And if you screw it up again, I’m not giving you another chance.”
“Fair.”
“And you’re not picking me up early this time.”
He nods, serious. “Eight o’clock.”
“Eight o’clock,” you confirm.
Behind him, El’s face brightens just slightly, relief slipping through before she quickly tries to hide it. You catch it anyway.
“Get out,” you tell her flatly. She doesn’t argue this time. Just turns and disappears down the hallway.
You look back at Eddie. He lingers in the doorway for a second longer, like he’s making sure this is real, like you didn’t just shut the door on him again.
“…I’ll see you at eight,” he says. You don’t answer, but you don’t tell him to leave, either. And when he finally does, the room doesn’t feel quite as small.
You stare at your closet like it personally offended you. Nothing looks right. Everything looks like you, which is the problem.
You tug a shirt off a hanger, hold it up, hesitate, toss it onto your bed with a quiet huff.
Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror across the room, arms crossed, expression already halfway to annoyed, like you’re judging yourself for even trying.
It’s just a date. A real date.
You roll your eyes at the thought, dragging a hand through your hair before turning back to the mess you’ve made.
After a second, you pull something else out. Simpler. Still you, just… softer around the edges. Something that doesn’t scream don’t talk to me quite as loudly.
You hesitate, then change anyway. When you step back in front of the mirror, you don’t smile. But you don’t hate it either.
“…Shut up,” you mutter to your reflection, grabbing your jacket.
The knock comes right at eight.
You freeze for half a second in the hallway, like your body needs to catch up with the fact that this is actually happening. Then you force yourself forward, pushing past it before you can overthink your way out of the entire night.
Hopper gets to the door first.
“Stay,” he says over his shoulder, already reaching for the handle like you’re a dog he doesn’t trust to bolt.
You scowl but don’t argue, lingering just behind him as he opens the door.
Eddie's standing on the porch like he’s been there for a while, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, posture just a little straighter than usual, like he’s aware of exactly whose house he’s standing in.
“Evening, Chief,” he says, lifting a hand in a small wave.
Hopper eyes him up and down.
“I know you,” he says.
Eddie nods once. “Yeah. Munson.”
“I knew your dad,” Hopper adds, like that explains everything.
Eddie winces slightly. “That can’t be good.”
Hopper’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Depends on the day.”
Then Hopper steps out onto the porch, pulling the door halfway closed behind him so you’re left just inside, listening whether you want to or not.
You lean slightly, just enough to catch it.
“You’re taking her out,” Hopper says, voice lower now.
“Yes, sir.”
Hopper studies him for another second, something shifting in his expression. Like he knows the reputation, but he’s also seen enough of the kid underneath it to not write him off completely.
“I don’t care what people say about you,” Hopper continues, steady. “I care how you treat her.”
Eddie nods immediately. “Fair.”
“If she asks, you bring her home. No questions.”
“Of course.”
“And if she looks even a little unhappy—”
“I won’t let that happen,” Eddie cuts in.
That pauses Hopper, just for a second. He looks at him again, sharper this time, like he’s trying to decide if that confidence is arrogance or something else.
“…Alright,” he says finally.
He steps back, pushing the door open again. “Don’t make me regret it.”
Eddie gives a small nod. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You’re already there when he steps back inside.
Leaning against the wall like you haven’t been eavesdropping, like you didn’t hear a single word of that. Eddie looks at you and stops, just for a second.
His eyes flick over you, quick but not careless, taking in the change, the effort, the fact that you showed up to this night differently than before.
Something soft crosses his face.
“…Wow,” he says quietly.
You immediately cross your arms. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“You were about to.”
He huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “You look nice.”
You roll your eyes, pushing past him toward the door. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The drive is different this time.
“…So,” you say after a while, glancing at him. “Where are we going.”
He glances over, a hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. “You’ll see.”
“I hate surprises.”
“I figured.”
“Then why—”
“Because this one’s good,” he cuts in, softer this time.
You study him for a second, then look back out the window.
“…It better be.”
The venue isn’t in Hawkins. Small, a little rundown, lights buzzing faintly above the entrance, a line already forming outside, people packed close, voices loud, energy crackling in the air.
You step out of the van and stop, recognition hitting instantly.
“…No way.”
Eddie leans against the door, watching your reaction, something almost nervous flickering behind the usual confidence.
“Yeah,” he says. “Thought you might like it.”
You look at the sign again. At the crowd. At him.
“…Descendents?”
He nods once. “Figured I’d start strong.”
“You got tickets.”
“Had to pull some strings,” he admits. “Almost sold my soul, but, you know. Worth it.”
You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly as something warm settles in your chest before you can stop it.
“…You’re unbelievable,” you say.
“Yeah,” he grins. “Been told.”
“…Thank you,” you add, quieter.
That hits him in a different way; you can see it. The way he stills for just a second before nodding, like he doesn’t trust himself to make a joke out of it this time.
“Yeah,” he says. “Course.”
He pushes off the van, stepping closer, not crowding you, just enough to fall into step beside you as the two of you move toward the line together.
The crowd spills out of the venue in loose waves, people shouting over each other, laughing, reliving moments that already feel bigger than they probably were.
You step out with them, breath catching slightly as the quiet starts to settle back in.
“…Okay,” you admit, pushing your hair back from your face, still a little flushed from the heat inside. “That was—”
You stop, like you don’t want to give it to him.
Eddie watches you, already grinning, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he knows exactly where this is going.
“Go on,” he says. “Finish the sentence.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t ruin it.”
“I’m not ruining anything, I’m encouraging honesty.”
You scoff, starting down the sidewalk, and he falls into step beside you immediately, like he always does now, like there’s no question about it.
“…It was good,” you say finally, quieter this time, like it costs you something.
His grin widens. “Good?”
“Don’t push it.”
“I’m just saying, I expected at least a ‘life-changing experience’ or a tearful confession—”
“I said don’t push it.”
He laughs, softer this time, not trying to get a rise out of you, just simply enjoying it.
“Alright, alright,” he concedes, nudging your shoulder lightly as you walk. “But for the record, I think I deserve more credit here.”
“For what,” you ask, glancing at him.
“For broadening your horizons,” he says easily.
You blink at him. “You took me to a band I already like.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “But I picked the right band.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it.
“…They were better live,” you admit after a second.
That catches him.
“Yeah?” he asks, a little surprised.
You nod slightly. “Yeah.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, I’ll give you that one.”
You glance at him again, brow lifting. “You didn’t think they were good?”
“I thought they were fine,” he says carefully. “Like, solid. Respectable.”
You scoff. “Respectable.”
“Hey, I’ve got a reputation to maintain,” he shoots back. “Can’t just go around admitting I enjoyed something that much.”
You bump your shoulder into his, a little harder this time. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he grins. “But you’re still here.”
You don’t respond. But you don’t move away, either.
There’s a moment as you walk, the noise of the crowd fading behind you, replaced by the quiet stretch of road, the hum of distant cars, the lingering echo of music in your chest.
And then, his arm comes up. Slow. Careful.
Not like he expects it, not like he’s claiming anything, just resting across your shoulders, light enough that you could shrug it off if you wanted to.
You feel it immediately; the warmth, the weight. You tense, just for a second. He feels it too and starts to pull back.
“Sorry, I didn’t—”
But you don’t move away. You don’t shrug him off. Instead, you pull his hand around the rest of the way.
You lean into him just slightly, your shoulder fitting more comfortably under his arm like it makes sense there.
Like it’s allowed. He goes quiet.
“…You’re quiet,” he says after a moment, softer now.
“So are you.”
“Yeah, well,” he glances down at you briefly, something warm in his expression, “I don’t want to mess this up.”
You huff out a small laugh, shaking your head. “You’ve already done that once.”
“Yeah,” he admits. “Trying not to make it a pattern.”
“…You’re doing alright so far,” you say. It’s quiet, almost lost to the night. But he hears it.
“I’ll take that,” he says.
You glance up at him for a second, catching the way he’s looking ahead, not at you, like he’s giving you space even now.
The van comes into view at the end of the lot, headlights dim, the night settling in around it like a quiet pause between moments.
Neither of you rushes toward it. Neither of you breaks the space between you.
And as you walk, side by side, his arm still draped over your shoulders, your weight just barely leaning into him; it doesn't feel fake. It doesn't feel forced. Just easy in a way you're a little scared to name.
The ride home feels softer than the one there.
The windows are cracked just enough to let the night air in, cool against your skin, the kind that keeps you awake in a way that’s not exhausting.
The music is lower this time, something steady humming through the speakers while the road stretches out in long, quiet lines ahead of you.
You’ve got your elbow hooked out the window again.
He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against his thigh, like he’s still half in the rhythm of the show.
“…So,” he says after a while, glancing over at you. “Be honest.”
You don’t look at him. “I am always honest.”
He snorts. “That’s terrifying, but not what I meant.”
You finally turn your head, brow lifting. “What did you mean.”
“Scale of one to ten,” he says. “How good was it.”
You consider it for a second, dragging it out just to annoy him.
“…Seven.”
He scoffs immediately. “Seven?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
“That was at least an eight,” he argues. “Minimum.”
“Seven,” you repeat.
He shakes his head, like he’s deeply disappointed. “Unbelievable. I pour my heart and soul into planning the perfect night—”
“You bought tickets,” you cut in.
“—and this is the thanks I get,” he finishes anyway.
You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth again, one you don’t bother hiding this time.
“…Okay,” you say after a second. “Eight.”
He glances at you, quick. “Yeah?”
“Don’t make me take it back.”
“I’m just saying,” he grins, settling back into his seat a little, “I might be good at this.”
“At what.”
“Dating you.”
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’ve had one successful outing. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“One and a half,” he corrects. “You didn’t hate the first one until the whole… you know.” He gestures vaguely.
You exhale through your nose. “Don’t ruin the moment.”
“Right. Sorry.” He nods once. “Moment preserved.”
“…You’re not as bad as I thought you were,” you admit.
It slips out before you can stop it. The car goes quiet. He looks at you, like he’s trying to decide if you’re messing with him.
“…Wow,” he says softly. “High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late,” he murmurs.
You turn back toward the window, but your shoulder brushes his arm for a second when the car shifts, and neither of you pulls away right away.
By the time you pull up to the cabin, the night’s settled in fully.
He cuts the engine, the sudden silence almost too loud after everything else, and for a second, neither of you moves.
“…Home sweet home,” he says lightly.
“Don’t say that.”
“What, you don’t like it?”
“It’s weird.”
He huffs a small laugh. “Noted.”
You reach for the door. He’s already out of the van by the time you step onto the gravel, circling around without thinking, falling into step beside you like it’s automatic now.
The walk to the door is short, too short. You notice that, annoyingly.
Neither of you says much, the quiet stretching out again, not uncomfortable, just full of something neither of you is naming.
You stop at the door, turn. He’s already looking at you.
For once, he doesn’t have a line ready. Just that same careful, steady look he’s had all night, like he’s trying not to mess this up.
“…I had a good time,” he says.
You nod once. “Yeah.”
“…Eight,” you add.
His mouth twitches. “I’ll take it.”
You should go inside, you know that. You always know when to end things. Clean. Simple. No room for anything to get complicated.
But instead, you step forward. He barely has time to register it before your hand catches lightly on his jacket, pulling him just enough, and you kiss him.
It’s quick, but not hesitant. Not soft enough to be mistaken for anything else.
You pull back just as fast, like you’ve already decided that’s all he’s getting, like if you linger, you might rethink it.
He stares at you. Completely caught off guard.
“…Wow,” he breathes.
You roll your eyes immediately, stepping back toward the door.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not—” he starts, then stops, because he is a little stunned, because that definitely wasn’t what he expected.
You reach for the handle, pause, then glance back at him over your shoulder.
“…Goodnight, Munson.”
A slow, slightly dazed smile spreads across his face.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Goodnight.”
You disappear inside before he can say anything else.
And for a second, he just stands there on the porch, staring at the door like it might open again. Like, he didn’t just imagine that.
Then he lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand through his hair as he turns back toward the van.
“…Eight,” he mutters to himself, still smiling.
AGHAHGDHHS okay here it is. i hope you all enjoyed :3
description: eddie’s used to being the one people whisper about. until you walk into the room, and suddenly, he’s not the one being watched. you’re not sweet, you’re not safe, and you definitely don’t scare easy. good thing he’s never been afraid of a little danger.
pairing: eddie x you (fem!reader)
tags: eddie x alt!reader, nancy downs core! reader, eddie's obsessed with you, dom!reader, reader has him wrapped around her finger, "enemies" to lovers (kinda), mutual obsession, she's the moment fr, "boo"
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not interact!!, PiV unprotected, dom! reader af
WC: 6.3k
A/N: AHH okay this request came in from my beloved @bitterestwillow i hope you love it muahmuahmuah. reblogs are always appreciated<33 also ily all sm thank you for your continued support, it means sm to me🥹okay im done no more mush ENJOYYYYYYYY!!
The rumors about you come in layers.
Not the loud, cafeteria-table kind, not the careless whispers traded between lockers. Yours are heavier, the kind that stick.
The kind people lower their voices for without even realizing it, witchy, bitchy, strange. “Don’t look her in the eye too long.”
Something about the way you smile, like you know something no one else does.
Eddie has heard all of them. And still, he watches you.
It starts small. A glance across the parking lot, your boots crunching gravel like you own the place, headphones slung around your neck, rings glinting when you push your hair back. Then it becomes a habit.
He notices what bands are scribbled across your notebooks, how you tap your pen in rhythm to something only you can hear, how you never rush, never fidget, never fill silence unless you want to.
You don’t orbit Hawkins High; it orbits you.
And that’s the problem. Because Eddie Munson, resident freak, king of Hellfire, professional loudmouth, suddenly finds himself very, very quiet whenever you’re around. He tells himself it’s your reputation, because that’s easier than admitting the truth.
“Alright, Munson and…” the teacher drones, barely glancing up from her clipboard. Even your teacher hesitates over your name, like it might bite.
Eddie’s stomach drops. Of course, of course it’s you.
You don’t react right away. You just close your notebook slowly, like you’ve known this was coming all along.
When you finally look at him, it’s not shy; you’re simply just assessing him for what he’s worth.
Eddie nearly forgets how to breathe. He lugs his chair over, trying to act like this is normal, like he hasn’t spent the last month watching you like you’re some kind of cryptid sighting.
“Uh,” he starts, then stops. Great. Smooth.
You tilt your head slightly, eyes dragging over him in a way that feels almost physical.
“You’re staring,” you say.
Your voice is softer than he expected.
“I—what? No, I’m—this is my natural face,” he deflects, gesturing vaguely to himself. “Very stare-y. It’s a condition.”
You pause for a second, then smile. Not big or warm, but just enough. Eddie’s heart does something stupid in his chest.
“Relax, Munson,” you murmur, pulling the lab sheet toward you. “I don’t bite.”
Your fingers tap once against the paper.
“Unless you give me a reason to.”
Oh. Oh, he’s done for. Working with you is disorienting, to say the least.
You don’t rush through the assignment like everyone else. You take your time, reading each step carefully, jotting notes in the margins that Eddie can’t help but lean over to read.
Your handwriting is sharp, deliberate, with little symbols and sketches mixed in with the chemistry, like it all connects somehow.
“Are you always this intense?” he asks at one point, trying to keep his voice casual.
You glance up at him. “Are you always this distracting?”
He chokes on air.
“Jesus, okay. Sorry, I’ll just—” he mimes zipping his lips, then immediately fails at it. “No, wait, that’s worse, I’m not a quiet person, this is not sustainable—”
“You talk a lot when you’re nervous,” you observe.
“I’m not nervous.”
You raise a brow.
He exhales. “Okay, I might be a little nervous.”
“Why?”
Eddie hesitates because the real answer is ridiculous.
Because you’re terrifying in a way he doesn’t understand, in a way he kind of likes. Because you look at him like you can see right through him, and instead of running, he wants to step closer.
“Reputation,” he settles on, weaker than he’d like.
“People say a lot of things,” you reply, turning back to the experiment. “Most of them are boring.”
“Yeah?” he says, watching you carefully. “What do you say?”
“I say,” you murmur, “that most people decide what they’re afraid of before they ever actually look at it.”
Eddie swallows.
“Lucky for you,” you add, almost as an afterthought, “you don’t seem very afraid.”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “That’s because I’ve been watching you for like a month.”
Shit.
He freezes. “I, uh, okay, that sounded—wow, that sounded so much worse out loud—”
You don’t interrupt. You just watch him spiral.
“You have,” you say. Not a question.
Eddie blinks. “You… knew?”
You shrug slightly. “You’re not subtle.”
“And?” he asks, cautiously.
“And,” you echo, eyes dropping briefly to his hands before meeting his gaze again, “I didn’t stop you.”
Something electric snaps into place. Eddie leans in without realizing it, elbows on the lab table, grin creeping back despite himself.
“Yeah?” he says, voice low now. “Why’s that?”
You don’t answer right away. Instead, you reach for his wrist. Your rings press cool against his skin as you turn his hand over, examining it like it’s part of the experiment.
Eddie forgets every coherent thought he’s ever had.
“Because,” you say softly, tracing the curve of his palm with your thumb, “you look at me like you’re trying to figure me out.”
Your gaze flicks up to his. “And most people don’t bother trying.”
Eddie exhales slowly.
“Maybe I like puzzles,” he murmurs.
Your lips twitch.
“Careful,” you say, finally letting go. “You might not like what you find.”
He leans back, heart still racing, but something steadier settling underneath it now.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough but sure. “I think I will.”
By the time the bell rings, neither of you has finished the lab, and neither of you seems to care.
As everyone files out, you take your time packing up, slipping your notebook into your bag. Eddie lingers, suddenly unwilling to let the moment end.
“So,” he starts, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly, “same time next class, partner?”
You glance at him over your shoulder. “Maybe,” you say.
Then, just before you turn away, “If you’re lucky.”
Eddie watches you leave, a little dazed, a little thrilled, and entirely screwed.
Lunch is loud in the way only a cafeteria can be. Trays clatter, chairs scrape, conversations overlap into a steady, shapeless hum that fills every inch of the room. It’s the kind of noise most people get swallowed by.
You don’t.
You sit at the far end of one of the tables near the windows, your friends scattered around you in loose, shifting positions, half-paying attention to whatever story is being told. You’re there, but not fully.
One leg crossed over the other, elbow resting against the table, fingers idly tracing the rim of your drink like you’re following a thought only you can hear.
Every so often, you hum under your breath, barely audible, like a song that hasn’t decided to exist yet.
People notice you, they just don’t approach.
Across the room, Hellfire has claimed their usual table. Loud, chaotic, a mess of half-finished lunches and overlapping voices.
Eddie sits at the center of it, where he always does, all restless energy and sharp edges, talking with his hands as he launches into some dramatic retelling of last night’s campaign.
But he’s not really there. Because every few seconds, his gaze drifts. It pulls, like gravity, back to you.
At first, it’s subtle. A flicker between sentences. A glance when someone else starts talking. But it builds, becomes harder to hide, until he’s fully turning his head, attention slipping clean out of whatever Gareth is saying about a botched spell roll.
And then you look up. It’s not immediate or reactive. It’s like you feel it before you see it, your gaze lifting slowly, deliberately, until it lands on him across the crowded room. There’s no surprise in your expression, just recognition.
Eddie freezes mid-sentence.
For a second, everything else drops away. The noise, the movement, the people. It’s just that look, steady and knowing, holding his in place like a hand at the back of his neck.
Then, you tilt your head slightly. Barely anything, but it’s enough. Enough that Eddie’s mouth goes dry.
“—and then the demogorgon just, like, absolutely wrecked—” Dustin stops mid-rant, frowning. “Dude. Eddie.” No response.
“Eddie.”
Gareth leans over, following the direction of Eddie’s stare, and immediately groans under his breath. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”
That does it. Eddie snaps back, blinking hard, like he’s been caught coming up for air.
“What?” he says, a little too quickly.
Gareth doesn’t even bother being subtle. He jerks his chin across the cafeteria. “You’re staring.”
“I am not staring,” Eddie shoots back automatically, grabbing his soda like that proves something.
“You are absolutely staring,” Mike chimes in, twisting around in his seat to look. “At—oh. Oh, dude.”
Dustin’s eyes widen. “No way.”
Eddie follows their line of sight, sees exactly where they’ve landed, and immediately tries to play it off, leaning back in his chair with exaggerated ease.
“Okay, first of all,” he says, pointing at them like he’s about to make a solid legal argument, “I can look wherever I want. It’s a free country.”
“Yeah,” Gareth mutters, “and you chose her.”
“Dude, you know she’s like… resident bitch number one, right?”
“She’s not—” he starts, then stops himself. Because how the hell would he even know that?
He drags a hand through his hair instead, shrugging like it’s nothing. “People say a lot of things.”
“Yeah, and in this case, they’re right,” Mike says, a little too confidently for someone who has definitely never spoken to you. “My cousin had a class with her. Said she, like, made a kid cry just by looking at him.”
Dustin snorts. “That’s kind of impressive.”
Eddie huffs a quiet laugh despite himself, shaking his head. “Or maybe the kid was just weak.”
Gareth squints at him. “Why do you sound defensive?”
“I don’t sound defensive,” Eddie says, immediately defensive.
“You do,” Dustin and Mike say at the same time.
Eddie opens his mouth to argue, and then he looks again. He can’t help it. Across the cafeteria, you’re already watching him, like you knew he would.
This time, you don’t look away. You just hold his gaze, slow and steady, like you’re waiting to see what he’ll do with it.
Eddie exhales, something low and amused curling in his chest despite the attention on him. He leans back further in his chair, dragging his thumb along the edge of his cup, and—very deliberately—keeps looking.
Eddie doesn’t. Instead, he lifts his brows slightly, almost like a challenge.
Across the room, your lips twitch. Not a full smile, not even close. But it’s there. And then, just to make it worse, you drag your gaze down him. Slow and unhurried, like you’re taking inventory.
Eddie’s brain short-circuits.
“OH MY GOD, SHE SAW YOU,” Mike hisses, ducking like that’s going to save him from the situation somehow.
“No shit she saw me,” Eddie murmurs, voice lower now, something steadier settling in.
Gareth is staring at him like he’s lost his mind. “You’re enjoying this.”
Eddie doesn’t answer right away. Because across the room, you finally look away, but not before tapping your fingers twice against the table, a small, deliberate rhythm. The same one from chemistry.
Eddie’s lips curl, slow and certain.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, eyes still on you even as you turn back to your friends. “Yeah, I think I am.”
“Dude,” Dustin says, equal parts horrified and impressed, “you’re gonna get cursed.”
Eddie huffs a laugh under his breath, shaking his head. “Worth it.”
The last note lingers longer than it should.
It hangs in the air, vibrating through the low ceiling of The Hideout, through the sticky floors and half-empty glasses, through the crowd that’s already half turned toward the bar before the sound even fully dies.
Corroded Coffin finishes the set rough and loud, the way they always do, Eddie’s fingers still buzzing from the strings as he pulls back from the mic, breath uneven, curls damp at his temples.
There’s a smattering of applause, some whistles, and a few half-interested cheers.
Eddie barely registers any of it. The second he steps off that stage and heads toward the bar, he sees you.
And everything else just stops.
You’re leaning against the counter, like you belong there more than anyone else in the room. Like the dim lights were built for you.
The black long-sleeve clings to you clean and sharp, the corset pulling everything into a silhouette that feels almost unfair, structured and deliberate, like armor.
The skirt sits just right, layered and soft against the harder lines, fishnets catching the low light in fractured patterns every time you shift your weight.
And the boots; heavy, grounded, unapologetic, plant you firmly in place like you’re not going anywhere unless you decide to.
Your wrist moves as you lift your drink, rings glinting, dark and intentional, every detail curated without looking like you tried.
Eddie forgets how to walk. Like, genuinely forgets. He slows mid-step, eyes locked, brain completely short-circuiting in real time.
“Dude,” Jeff mutters behind him, nearly walking straight into his back. “Why did you just—oh.”
Gareth follows his gaze. “…oh, shit.”
Eddie doesn’t answer. Because you choose that exact moment to glance over, and catch him.
There’s no confusion in your expression. Just that same slow recognition from earlier, like you’ve been aware of him the entire time.
Your lips tilt slightly around the rim of your glass. Eddie’s heart slams against his ribs.
“Okay,” Gareth says under his breath, grabbing Eddie’s shoulder like he’s trying to physically ground him. “We can still turn around. We can still not do this.”
Eddie exhales once, sharp, dragging a hand down his face before straightening slightly.
“Shut up,” he murmurs.
Then he walks over.
Each step feels louder than it should. He’s aware of everything in a way that’s almost irritating: the press of the room, the hum of conversation, the fact that Jeff and Gareth are absolutely trailing behind him like backup he did not ask for.
You don’t move, you just watch him approach. When he finally stops in front of you, there’s a beat. A quiet stretch of space where neither of you speaks, the tension sitting thick and steady between you.
Up close, it’s worse. Or better, he hasn’t decided just yet.
“Hey,” Eddie says finally, voice rougher than he intended.
You tilt your head slightly. “Hi, Eddie.”
There’s something in the way you say his name, like you’ve been waiting to use it.
Eddie lets out a soft breath, half a laugh. “You came.”
Your gaze flicks briefly toward the stage, then back to him. “You played.”
That shouldn’t sound as loaded as it does. Behind him, Jeff shifts. Gareth makes a quiet noise that sounds suspiciously like panic.
You notice, naturally.
Your eyes slide past Eddie, landing on them both, taking in the way they hover just slightly behind him, unsure, wary, like they’ve accidentally walked into something they don’t understand.
Your expression doesn’t change, but something in it sharpens.
“…you brought friends,” you say lightly.
Eddie glances back over his shoulder. “Oh—uh, yeah, these are—”
“Gareth,” Gareth blurts, immediately, like introducing himself might save him.
“Jeff,” Jeff adds, nodding once.
You look at them for a moment longer than necessary. Then, you lean in just a fraction.
And softly, “Boo.”
Gareth physically flinches. Jeff nearly chokes on nothing.
Eddie stares at you for half a second, then lets out a surprised laugh, head dropping as he drags a hand through his hair.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, grinning despite himself.
You sit back again, completely unbothered, lifting your drink like nothing just happened.
“They scare easily,” you remark.
“I can see that,” Eddie says, still laughing under his breath. “Don’t worry, they’ll recover. Eventually.”
“Debatable,” Gareth mutters.
You ignore him. Your attention settles back on Eddie.
“You’re better than I expected,” you say.
Eddie raises a brow. “Oh yeah? That a compliment?”
“It depends,” you reply. “Do you want it to be?”
He huffs a quiet laugh, stepping a little closer without fully realizing he’s doing it. “I’ll take what I can get.”
Your gaze drops briefly, dragging down his chest, his hands, the remnants of the performance still clinging to him, then back up.
“You don’t seem like the type who settles,” you murmur.
Eddie’s grin softens, just slightly.
“Funny,” he says, voice lower now, “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
The noise of the bar fades again, not completely, but enough that it feels like the two of you are standing just outside of it.
You shift your weight, one boot sliding slightly against the floor, close enough now that he can catch the faint scent of whatever you’re wearing, something dark and subtle and impossible to ignore.
“Chemistry went unfinished,” you say, almost casually.
Eddie’s breath hitches.
“Yeah,” he replies. “Tragic, really.”
“Maybe we should fix that.”
His eyes flicker. “Yeah?” he says, quieter now.
Your lips curve, just a little sharper this time.
“Unless,” you add, glancing briefly past him again, “your friends are too scared to let you.”
Eddie doesn’t even look back this time. “Trust me,” he says, holding your gaze steady, “they’re not stopping anything.”
Behind him, Gareth makes a small, distressed noise.
You smile. Not nice, not soft, but just enough. And Eddie? Eddie is absolutely, completely done for.
The corner of your mouth lifts just slightly, like you’ve already decided something he hasn’t caught up to yet.
“Good. Swing around my place tomorrow afternoon, then, partner.” You say, placing your drink down on the counter. It lands with a soft, deliberate clink.
Eddie blinks; once, twice.
“Your place?” he echoes, like the words need a second to fully process.
You nod, already reaching for your jacket, as if this conversation is simply concluded. “We never finished the lab.”
“That feels like a very loose interpretation of academic responsibility,” he says, but there’s no real argument in it, just a crooked smile starting to pull at his mouth.
“Maybe,” you reply, shrugging one shoulder as you slip your arm through the sleeve. “Or maybe I don’t like unfinished things.”
Eddie exhales through his nose, something almost like a laugh caught in his chest.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’m starting to get that.”
There’s a second where neither of you moves, where it feels like something else could be said, something that tips this from flirting into something neither of you can easily step back from.
You don’t let it. Instead, you turn slightly, brushing past him just close enough that your shoulder grazes his arm, the contact brief but very, very deliberate.
“Don’t be late, Munson,” you add, voice softer now, meant just for him.
Then you’re gone, just like that.
Eddie stands there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the space you just left behind, like he’s trying to replay it in real time.
Behind him: “…you’re going to her place?” Gareth says, somewhere between disbelief and concern.
Jeff lets out a low whistle. “Man.”
Eddie drags a hand over his face, then drops it, a slow grin spreading whether he tries to stop it or not.
“Yeah,” he says, almost to himself.
Gareth groans. “You’re not coming back alive.”
Eddie huffs a quiet laugh, already turning toward the door, like staying here any longer suddenly feels pointless.
“Worth it,” he tosses over his shoulder.
The next afternoon settles over the trailer park in that quiet, sun-warmed way that makes everything feel slower than it actually is.
The gravel crunches under Eddie’s boots as he cuts across the lot, past familiar doors, familiar windows, familiar lives he’s never really questioned.
Until now. Because he’s heading somewhere he’s never been before.
He knew you lived here. Hawkins is small, and rumors travel faster than anything else. He’d heard it in passing, half-formed conversations, someone mentioning “the girl on the other side of Forest Hills,” always said with that same tone people use when they don’t quite understand something.
But knowing it and seeing it are two very different things.
Eddie slows a little as he reaches the end of the park. It’s quieter over here. Less traffic, fewer people lingering outside. The air feels still, like even the place itself knows better than to be loud around you.
He finds your trailer easily. Something about it just fits.
Not in an obvious way. There’s nothing over the top, nothing screaming for attention. But it feels intentional.
A few small details that don’t match the rest of the park, a sense of quiet control, like everything is exactly where it’s supposed to be.
He notices the absence before anything else. No extra car, no voices, no movement behind the curtains. You’re home alone.
Eddie exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck before knocking twice against the door.
There’s a pause, and then the handle turns. And, Jesus, you look different. Not less, never less.
Just softer, in a way that somehow makes everything else worse. Better. Dangerous in a quieter way.
The structured edge from last night is gone, traded for something more relaxed, more effortless, like you’ve peeled back a layer but kept the core exactly the same. Your clothes sit easier on you now, less armor, more you.
And somehow, still breathtaking. Eddie forgets whatever he was going to say.
“Hi,” you say, like you haven’t just short-circuited his entire brain.
“Hey,” he manages, a second too late.
Your gaze flicks over him once, quick but thorough, before you step back and gesture him inside. “You made it on time.”
“Yeah, well,” he says, clearing his throat as he steps past you, acutely aware of the space between your bodies, “I was told not to be late. Felt threatening.”
The corner of your mouth lifts as you shut the door behind him. “Good.”
The inside of your place is exactly what he expected, and also not at all.
There’s that same sense of intention where nothing feels accidental. Books stacked in uneven but purposeful piles, little objects scattered that look like they have stories attached to them, things he can’t quite place but feels like he should.
It’s quieter in here; the outside world muffled just enough that it feels separate, private.
Eddie turns slowly, taking it in.
“You’ve never been over here before,” you note, moving past him like you already know the answer.
“No,” he admits, watching you. “Guess I never had a reason.”
You hum softly, pulling your notebook from the table and flipping it open. “And now you do.”
“Yeah,” he says, a little quieter.
You glance up at him briefly, something unreadable flickering in your expression, before tapping the open page. “Come on, partner. We have very important academic work to finish.”
Eddie snorts, dragging a chair over and dropping into it across from you. “Right. Science.”
“Try to keep up.”
For about five minutes, it almost works.
You walk him through the steps, your voice focused, explaining something about reactions and measurements that Eddie is absolutely pretending to follow.
He leans in, watching your hands more than anything else, the way you write, the way you underline certain things like they matter more.
He tries, he really does.
But then: “You’re not listening,” you say, without looking up.
Eddie leans back, caught, but not even a little ashamed. “I am listening.”
“Mm,” you hum, finally glancing up. “Then repeat what I just said.”
He opens his mouth, closes it. “…something about chemicals?”
Your lips twitch. “Very impressive.”
“Hey, I never claimed to be a science guy,” he defends, leaning forward again, elbows on the table. “I’m more of a… vibes-based learner.”
You raise a brow. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
“You were staring at me last night,” you say, like you’re picking up a conversation that never really ended.
Eddie exhales, a quiet laugh slipping out. “Yeah, well. You made it kinda hard not to.”
Your gaze drifts over him slowly, mirroring what you did at the bar, unhurried, deliberate.
“And now?” you ask.
He doesn’t look away. “Still hard,” he says.
Another pause, the kind that stretches. The kind that says this isn’t about chemistry anymore. Your fingers tap once against the table, that same rhythm, softer this time.
“Careful, Munson,” you murmur.
He tilts his head slightly, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You keep saying that.”
“Maybe you should start listening.”
“Or,” he counters, leaning just a little closer, “maybe I like not knowing what happens.”
Your eyes flicker. Something sharper, more interested.
“Yeah?” you say.
“Yeah.”
The space between you isn’t very big now. It would be easy, too easy. The air shifts first.
It’s subtle, but unmistakable. Whatever thin line had been keeping this in the realm of just flirting dissolves the second you lean back in your chair, eyes dragging over him with a little less restraint than before.
Eddie feels it immediately.
“Y’know,” you say, voice softer now, edged, “for someone who talks so much, you get real quiet when you’re being watched.”
He huffs a breath, trying to keep his composure, but his fingers twitch against the table. “Depends who’s doing the watching.”
Your head tilts. “And what if it’s me?”
Eddie swallows. “Then I’m probably in trouble.”
That earns you a real smile this time. Not big, not warm, but sharper, more amused. Like you like that answer.
“Good,” you murmur.
You don’t rush it, that’s the thing about you. Everything you do feels intentional, like you’re deciding each movement before it happens.
You stand slowly, the chair scraping faintly against the floor, and Eddie’s eyes follow you without thinking. He doesn’t even try to pretend he’s focused on anything else now.
You circle the table. Not fast or hesitant, just sure.
Eddie leans back slightly in his chair, like he’s giving you space, but really he’s just bracing, watching you approach with that same steady focus he’s been trying to maintain since yesterday.
“You said you like puzzles,” you remind him quietly.
“I did,” he replies, voice a little rough.
You stop right in front of him. Close. Close enough that he has to tilt his head back just slightly to keep your gaze.
“And you still do?” you ask.
There’s something in your tone. Not challenging. Not quite teasing. Testing.
Eddie’s mouth curves despite the tension coiling low in his chest. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”
“Good.”
And before he can overthink it, you move. It’s smooth, deliberate, like you’ve already decided the outcome.
Your hands find his shoulders as you step in, and then you’re there, settling into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Eddie’s brain completely shuts off.
“Holy—” he breathes, hands hovering for half a second like he’s not sure where they’re allowed to go.
“Relax,” you murmur, leaning in just enough that your voice brushes against him. “I told you. I don’t bite.”
A pause. Then, quieter, “Unless you give me a reason to.”
His hands finally land, tentative at first, then a little more certain at your waist, grounding himself in something real because everything else feels like it’s slipping.
“You’re, uh,” he starts, then huffs a quiet laugh at himself. “You’re not exactly helping the whole ‘not nervous’ thing.”
Your lips curve again, closer now, your gaze flicking between his eyes and his mouth like you’re deciding something. “Good,” you say.
And then you close the distance. The kiss isn’t rushed. It’s slow and intentional, like everything else you do.
You give him just enough to react before you deepen it, one hand sliding from his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers curling lightly in his hair.
Eddie exhales into it, something soft and surprised slipping through as he finally gives in, leaning into you, hands tightening slightly at your waist.
It’s not messy, not frantic. The kind of kiss that feels like it’s building something rather than burning it out all at once.
When you pull back, it’s only by a fraction. Close enough that your breath still mixes with his.
Eddie blinks up at you, a little dazed, a little wrecked, a grin already threatening to break through.
“…so,” he murmurs, voice low, “we definitely didn’t finish the lab.”
Your thumb traces lightly along his jaw, almost absentminded. “No,” you agree. “Do you want to?”
He keeps your gaze, immediately and frantically shaking his head ‘no’.
You don’t answer with words.
Instead, you roll your hips once, slow and deliberate, grinding down against the obvious bulge already straining in his jeans.
Eddie’s breath catches hard in his throat, his fingers flexing against your waist like he’s fighting the urge to pull you closer and the even stronger urge to let you do whatever the hell you want.
“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes wide and dark, pupils blown. “You’re really… shit, you’re on me.”
You smile, small and sharp, and lean in until your lips brush the shell of his ear. “I am. And you’re going to stay right here, Munson. Hands on my hips unless I move them. Understand?”
He nods so fast it’s almost embarrassing. “Yeah. Yeah, I—Jesus Christ, whatever you want.”
You reward him with another slow roll of your hips, dragging your core along the thick line of his cock through too many layers of fabric.
Eddie groans, head tipping back against the chair, curls spilling over the back of it like a dark halo. His throat bobs when he swallows, and you can’t resist leaning down to drag your teeth lightly along that exposed skin.
“You’ve been watching me for weeks,” you murmur against his pulse point, sucking just hard enough to leave a faint mark. “Staring in the cafeteria. At the bar. Like you couldn’t look away even if you tried.”
“I couldn’t,” he rasps, voice wrecked already.
You sit back just enough to look at him. His cheeks are flushed, lips parted, eyes glassy with pure want. Obsession looks good on him.
You slide one hand into his hair, gripping a fistful of curls and tugging his head back further so he has to look up at you.
“Good,” you say softly.
Eddie’s hips jerk up involuntarily at the praise, a broken little sound escaping him. You press down harder, pinning him in place.
“Stay still. This is my project now.”
You reach between you and pop the button on his jeans, dragging the zipper down with deliberate slowness.
When you palm him through his boxers, he’s so hard it has to hurt, the fabric already damp at the tip. You squeeze once, firm, and watch his mouth fall open on a silent moan.
“Look at you,” you coo, stroking him lazily. “So worked up just from sitting here. Have you been hard for me since chemistry class, Eddie? Since the bar? Since you knocked on my door?”
“Since the first time I saw you,” he admits, voice cracking. “I might have jerked off thinking about this more times than I want to admit.”
The honesty makes the heat pool low in your belly. You slip your hand inside his boxers and wrap your fingers around his cock, skin hot and velvet-soft over steel.
He’s thick, throbbing in your grip, and when you give him one long, slow stroke from base to leaking tip, his whole body shudders.
“Fuck—your hand,” he breathes, eyes fluttering shut for a second before he forces them open again, desperate not to miss a moment of you. “Feels so much better than I imagined. Please don’t stop. Please.”
You stroke him again, twisting your wrist at the head the way you already know will drive him crazy. His hips twitch, but he catches himself and stills, obeying. The effort makes his arms tremble where his hands grip your thighs.
You lean in and kiss him again, deep and filthy this time, tongue sliding against his while you keep working his cock in steady, relentless strokes. When you pull back, a thin string of spit connects your mouths for a second.
“Take my shirt off,” you tell him.
His hands fly up immediately, tugging your shirt over your head. The second your breasts are bare, he stares like he’s been given something sacred.
You guide one of his hands to your chest, and he cups you reverently, thumb brushing your nipple until it tightens.
“So fucking perfect,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re gonna ruin me. Use me. Whatever you want, it’s yours, I don’t fucking care.”
You push his jeans and boxers down just enough to free him completely, then stand long enough to slide your own shorts and panties down your legs. Eddie watches with open hunger, chest heaving.
When you settle back onto his lap, this time with nothing between you, the slick heat of your cunt slides along his length. He chokes on a moan.
“Condom?” you ask, even though you already know the answer from the way he’s looking at you.
“Fuck, I have one in my wallet,” he stammers, “but I swear I’m clean, I haven’t…”
You reach down, line him up, and sink down onto his cock in one smooth, relentless motion.
Eddie’s head slams back against the chair again, a guttural groan tearing out of him as your tight, wet heat swallows every inch. “Oh my god—oh fuck, you feel—holy shit—”
You don’t give him time to adjust. You start moving immediately, riding him hard and steady, hands braced on his shoulders for leverage. Every downward thrust takes him deep, grinding your clit against his pelvis on every pass.
“Look at me,” you command.
His eyes snap to yours, wide and worshipful, mouth slack with pleasure. One of his hands stays on your hip, the other slides up your back like he needs to touch as much of you as possible.
“You’re obsessed with me,” you say, voice low and steady even as pleasure coils tighter inside you. “Say it.”
“I’m obsessed,” he pants, meeting every roll of your hips like he was made for this. “Completely fucking obsessed.”
You clench around him at his words, and he whimpers, the sound so needy it sends a fresh rush of heat through you.
Faster now. The kitchen table creaks faintly beneath you. The chemistry notes are long-forgotten, scattered beneath your discarded shirt. You ride him as if you own him, because right now, you do.
Eddie’s close already, you can feel it in the way he throbs inside you, the desperate little thrusts he can’t quite hold back.
“Don’t come yet,” you tell him, slowing just enough to torture him. “Not until I do.”
He nods frantically, biting his lip hard enough to leave marks. “Yes—fuck, yes. Come on my cock, baby, I need to feel it.”
You reach between you and rub tight circles over your clit while you keep riding him, chasing your own peak. When it hits, it crashes through you hard, walls fluttering and clenching around him as you moan low and long, hips stuttering.
Eddie watches you fall apart with something close to awe, lips parted, eyes glassy. The second you start to come down, you lean in, bite his bottom lip, and whisper against his mouth:
“Come for me, Eddie.”
He breaks with a shattered groan, burying himself deep as he pulses hot and endless inside you. His arms wrap around your waist, holding you down on him like he never wants to let go, face pressed into your neck as he rides out the aftershocks.
For a long moment, the only sounds are your breathing and the faint creak of the chair.
Then Eddie pulls back just enough to look at you, flushed, dazed, and still so fucking gone for you.
“We're never finishing that chemistry project,” he says hoarsely.
You smile, slow and satisfied, rolling your hips once more just to hear him gasp.
Eddie’s head tips back again, a weak, wrecked laugh leaving him, like he doesn’t even have the strength to pretend he’s okay anymore.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, dragging a hand down his face before it settles back on your waist, grounding himself in you. “You’re—fuck—you’re gonna kill me.”
You tilt your head, studying him like you’re deciding if that’s a real concern. “Maybe,” you murmur.
But there’s no bite to it now, not really.
The sunlight has shifted just enough to creep further across the table, catching the mess you made of your “work,” the open notebook, the pen rolling lazily toward the edge.
Neither of you moves to fix it. Eddie’s hands stay where they are, warm and firm at your waist. His chest is still rising a little too fast, eyes softer now, but no less locked on you.
“You’re trouble,” he says, quieter this time.
You hum, considering that, your fingers tracing absent shapes along his shoulder.
“I told you that already.”
“Yeah,” he exhales, a small smile pulling at his mouth despite everything. “I just didn’t listen.”
“Are you going to now?”
Eddie looks at you like he’s standing on the edge of something, something he knows he shouldn’t step into, and stepping anyway.
“No,” he says.
Something flickers in your expression at that. Not surprised, not quite approval. Something more dangerous than both.
“Good,” you reply softly.
Eddie lets out a quiet breath, shaking his head once like he’s trying to come back to himself and failing.
“So,” he murmurs, glancing briefly at the abandoned lab sheet before looking back at you, “this was… educational.”
Your lips curve again. “Very.”
He laughs under his breath, then leans in just slightly, like he’s testing the space between you again. “Same time tomorrow?” he asks.
“We’ll see,” you say, voice low, deliberate. And then, softer, “If you’re lucky.”
Eddie huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head, already gone for you in a way he probably won’t recover from. And the thing is, you know, he definitely won't.
