I can’t believe he’s so trusting While I’m right behind you thrusting
Summary: Jonathan had been emotionally distant for months, pining after another girl while you sat there helplessly. Fortunately, Byers isn’t the only one who wants you, and he’ll never have to know.
4.8k words
Contains: TW: cheating (emotional and physical), p in v smut, fingering, allusions to oral (fem receiving), guilt, angst, happy(ish) ending.
…
The first time Eddie Munson kissed you, Jonathan Byers was thirty feet away buying popcorn.
Which honestly should’ve made you stop.
Instead, it made your pulse race harder.
The Hawkins Theater buzzed with noise around you; sticky floors, neon lights, kids shouting near the arcade machines, but all you could focus on was Eddie leaning lazily against the hallway wall beside you, cigarette smoke still clinging faintly to his jacket.
“You’re staring,” he murmured.
“I’m not.”
“You totally are.”
You rolled your eyes, but he grinned anyway, smug and impossible.
Jonathan had dragged you there with Nancy and Steve after one of their “investigating weird shit” days. Except Jonathan barely spoke to you anymore during those outings. He and Nancy walked ahead together whispering constantly, heads bent close enough to touch, and Steve fought for his own girlfriends attention like a kicked puppy.
You noticed everything.
The way Jonathan looked at Nancy when she wasn’t paying attention.
The inside jokes you weren’t part of.
How he always seemed more awake around her. Meanwhile, you’d become background noise.
A girlfriend in title only.
So maybe that was why you kept finding excuses to talk to Eddie lately.
Because Eddie looked at you directly. Like he was interested, like he noticed when you entered a room, and maybe you were angry enough to let that matter too much.
“You wanna know something?” Eddie asked quietly.
“What?”
“You keep looking at them like you’re trying not to set something on fire.”
You followed his gaze automatically.
Jonathan was laughing softly at something Nancy said. That ache returned immediately.
Sharp. Familiar. Humiliating.
“I think he’s cheating on me,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.
Eddie’s expression shifted.
Not joking anymore.
“You know that for sure?”
“No.” You swallowed. “But I think he wants to.”
The words tasted awful out loud.
Eddie stared at Jonathan for another second before muttering, “He’s an idiot.”
You laughed weakly. “You don’t even know me.”
“Don’t have to.”
And God, maybe you were lonelier than you realized, because that almost hurt worse.
…
After that, Eddie started appearing everywhere.
Leaning against your locker after class, sliding into the seat beside you during lunch, waiting outside the arcade while you pretended not to notice him immediately.
At first you thought he was messing with you.
Most people in Hawkins treated Eddie like trouble wrapped in denim and chains.
But Eddie looked at you like he understood something ugly sitting inside your chest.
And the worst part?
You understood him too.
“You know Byers is gonna kill me eventually, right?” Eddie asked one afternoon while walking you home.
“You’re assuming he’d notice.”
The bitterness slipped out before you could stop it.
Eddie glanced sideways at you carefully.
“Huh.”
“Sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize.” His voice softened. “I just… don’t think you should talk about yourself like you’re invisible.”
You looked away immediately.
Because lately, invisible was exactly how you felt.
…
The sneaking around started accidentally.
At least that’s what you told yourself.
A ride home after Hellfire ran late. A cigarette shared behind the school gym.
Long conversations in the trailer park while music played softly from Eddie’s room and Wayne slept down the hall.
You kept saying it wasn’t serious. Nothing you’d done with Eddie was physical.
You kept saying Jonathan already emotionally left first anyway.
But guilt still crawled beneath your skin every time Jonathan kissed your forehead distractedly before running off to meet Nancy again.
Because despite everything, Jonathan still trusted you.
And you were starting to hate yourself for breaking that trust even while your heart broke too.
…
One night after a party, everything finally snapped.
You found Jonathan and Nancy alone in the kitchen talking quietly while everyone else crowded the living room.
Nancy’s hand rested on his arm.
Jonathan looked at her the way people looked at stars.
Your stomach twisted painfully. Neither of them noticed you standing there. That somehow hurt most.
You left without saying goodbye.
And twenty minutes later Eddie’s van pulled up beside you while you walked home alone down the dark road.
“Jesus Christ,” he said through the open window. “You look miserable.”
“Thanks.”
“Get in.”
You should’ve said no.
Instead you climbed inside.
The van smelled like gasoline, old leather, and Eddie’s cologne. Music played softly through blown-out speakers while rain started tapping against the windshield overhead.
Neither of you spoke for a while.
Then finally Eddie said quietly, “You love him that much?”
Your throat tightened.
“Yeah.”
“And he still makes you feel like that?”
You stared out the window. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
“Hey.” Eddie’s voice sharpened instantly. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Blame yourself because some guy can’t figure his own shit out.”
You laughed bitterly. “Easy for you to say.”
“No, actually, it’s pretty easy in general.” Eddie leaned back against the seat. “If I had a girlfriend who looked at me the way you look at Jonathan, I wouldn’t even know other girls existed.”
That shouldn’t have affected you as much as it did, but after months of feeling unwanted, Eddie’s attention felt dangerously comforting.
The silence between you shifted.
He noticed it too. You could tell by the way his breathing changed slightly.
“You should go home,” he murmured.
Probably.
Instead you kissed him.
It happened fast. Messy. Impulsive.
The second your hand touched his face, Eddie made this startled sound against your mouth like he genuinely hadn’t expected it.
Then suddenly his hands were in your hair and he was kissing you back hard enough to make your heartbeat stumble.
It felt wrong. It felt reckless.
It felt unbelievably good.
Teeth clashing together, knocking against each other with soft taps. His tongue wet, massaging over your own.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you breathing hard, reality crashed back immediately.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
Eddie stared at you wide-eyed for half a second before laughing softly in disbelief.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s about the reaction I was expecting.”
Guilt flooded your chest instantly.
Jonathan.
Jonathan, who still held your hand.
Jonathan, who still said he loved you even if it sounded distracted now.
Jonathan, who might actually be innocent while you were here kissing Eddie Munson in the front seat of a van.
“I’m a terrible person,” you said quietly.
Eddie’s expression softened immediately.
“No,” he said. “You’re hurt.”
“That doesn’t make this okay.”
“No,” he admitted. “Probably not.”
Rain hammered harder against the roof.
Inside the van, everything felt small and overheated and impossible to undo now.
Eddie looked at you carefully.
“You wanna know the really messed up part?”
“What?”
“He doesn’t have to know.”
You laughed weakly despite yourself.
Then Eddie started grinning too.
And suddenly both of you were laughing quietly in the middle of this awful complicated mess because honestly, what else were you supposed to do?
…
By December, sneaking around with Eddie Munson had stopped feeling shocking.
That was probably the worst part.
At first, every secret meeting had made your stomach twist with guilt so sharp you thought you might actually confess just to make it stop.
Now it felt normal.
Dangerously normal.
You’d tell Jonathan you were studying with a friend, then end up tangled in blankets in Eddie’s trailer while Black Sabbath played low through his speakers, your legs thrown over his shoulders in a deep mating press, taking you in a way Jonathan could never quite do for you.
You’d sit beside Jonathan in class the next morning while Eddie burned holes into the back of your chair from two rows over, grinning to himself because nobody else knew where you’d been the night before.
Nobody knew.
Not Nancy.
Not Steve.
Not even Robin, and she somehow knew everything.
Especially not Jonathan.
And honestly?
After a while, you stopped feeling as bad about that as you probably should have.
Because Jonathan still looked at Nancy like she hung the moon.
He still disappeared for hours with her chasing supernatural disasters while you sat at home pretending not to notice.
Half the time he barely touched you anymore unless you initiated it first.
Meanwhile Eddie looked at you like he couldn’t help himself.
Like every room improved the second you walked into it.
It became addictive.
…
Eddie hovered over you on the mattress, curls falling into his face while his hand stayed planted beside your head, trapping you between him and the tangled blankets in a way that made your pulse feel unsteady.
One thigh rested over his broad shoulder, the other wrapped around his hips. His body forced your thighs open, body trembling with uncontrollable need.
His fingers settled deep inside, scissoring them slowly, letting the burning stretch take over.
The closeness alone was enough to make your thoughts blur a little, the smell of cigarette smoke still clinging faintly to his hair, the cold rings brushing your skin whenever he moved, the way he looked at you like he found this entire situation unbelievable in the best possible way.
Months ago, you used to leave the trailer feeling guilty.
Now you just never wanted to leave at all.
Eddie tilted his head slightly, watching your expression shift.
“There’s that look again.”
“What look?”
“The one where you remember you snuck around with me for months.”
You groaned immediately. “You are never letting that go.”
“Absolutely not.” His grin widened. “You know how insane that was from my perspective?”
“Oh, here we go.”
“No, seriously.” Eddie laughed quietly. “You’d walk into Hellfire meetings holding Jonathan Byers’ hand, then show up at my trailer three hours later looking at me like that.”
Your face burned instantly.
“Like what?”
“Like you wanted to climb me like a tree.”
You shoved his shoulder hard enough to make him laugh louder.
“You’re unbelievable. You are inside of me right now, this couldn’t wait?”
“And yet,” Eddie said smugly, leaning closer again, “still your favorite bad decision.”
The space between you disappeared again after that.
Not rushed.
Not careless.
Just magnetic.
Your hands slid up into his hair while Eddie buried his face briefly against your neck with a groan dramatic enough to make you laugh softly.
“Don’t laugh,” he muttered.
“You’re so dramatic.”
“You made me wait months, sweetheart. I earned dramatic.”
You rolled your eyes again, but your heartbeat stumbled anyway when he looked back at you.
Because teasing aside, Eddie still had this dangerous habit of looking at you too sincerely when things got quiet.
Like underneath all the jokes and flirting, he still couldn’t fully believe you chose him.
His fingers quickly became replaced with something bigger. He sheathed himself all the way in, not satisfied until his pelvic bone ground against yours.
His thumb brushed lightly along your jaw.
“You know what I think?” he asked softly.
“What?”
“I think part of you liked that I noticed you.”
The teasing tone was gone now, replaced by pure confidence and a little bit of power. That made it harder to answer.
You swallowed, because he was right.
Jonathan used to notice you once.
Then somewhere along the line, you became something familiar. Expected. Easy to overlook.
But Eddie noticed everything.
When you were upset.
When you were pretending not to be.
When you walked into a room.
When you looked at him too long.
Even now, his attention felt intense enough to make your chest ache a little.
“You looked at me like I mattered,” you admitted through strangled breaths.
Eddie’s expression changed instantly at that.
Softer, amost angry on your behalf.
“You do matter.”
The words hit harder than they should have, and he drilled in deeper with a brutal force. For a second neither of you moved, Eddie holding you there, letting you feel him pulsing inside of you.
Rain rattled against the windows.
The trailer creaked softly around you.
And Eddie just stayed there close enough that you could feel his breathing, looking at you with an intensity that made everything else feel very far away.
Then his grin returned slightly.
“Still think Byers was blind, by the way.”
You laughed despite yourself.
“There’s the ego again.”
“Massive ego,” Eddie agreed proudly before leaning down to kiss your forehead this time, slower and gentler than before. “Can’t help it. I won.”
The pace picked up again, a conversation far too deep for an act meant to be completely casual melting into pleasurable moans and deep grunts.
The mattress creaked, filling the small room with an unavoidable heat.
…
“Your boyfriend’s gonna figure this out eventually,” Eddie said one night.
You were sprawled across his mattress while cigarette smoke curled lazily toward the trailer ceiling. Outside, rain hammered softly against the windows, wet marks adorning your skin where clothes hid the evidence.
Eddie sat beside you tuning his guitar absentmindedly.
“He hasn’t so far.”
You didn’t even bother to put your shirt back on, perfectly comfortable laying spread in only your underwear.
“That’s because Byers is too busy staring at Wheeler.”
The words should’ve hurt more, instead you just rolled your eyes.
“That obvious, huh?”
“To literally everyone except him.”
You laughed quietly. Months ago that conversation would’ve made your chest ache, now mostly it just exhausted you.
Eddie noticed immediately.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Liar.”
You looked over at him.
The dim light softened the sharp edges of his face. His rings glinted silver as his fingers moved over the guitar strings lazily. The same fingers that had been knuckle deep inside of you just moments before, completely drenched with the arousal he pulled from my core mixed with the slick saliva from his messy mouth.
His dirty mouth becoming something softer after, always carrying a simple conversation, and somewhere along the line, Eddie had become easy to be around.
Too easy.
“You know what’s weird?” you murmured.
“What?”
“I thought I’d feel guiltier than this.”
Eddie stopped playing.
The room went quiet except for the rain.
“Do you wanna?”
You considered it honestly.
Then shrugged.
“Not really.”
That should’ve sounded horrible.
Maybe it was horrible.
But after months of being ignored, overlooked, and quietly replaced emotionally, your guilt had slowly burned itself out.
Jonathan still technically belonged to you, but his heart didn’t. Maybe it hadn’t for a long time.
Eddie set the guitar aside carefully.
“You ever gonna break up with him?”
The question hung heavy between you. You stared at the ceiling.
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
You frowned at him. “Excuse me?”
“You know.” Eddie leaned back against the wall behind the bed. “You just don’t wanna be the bad guy.”
That hit too directly.
Because maybe he was right.
If Jonathan officially left you for Nancy, then at least your heartbreak could stay clean.
Simple.
But this?
Sneaking around with Eddie for months while pretending everything was fine?
That made you complicated too.
Messy.
Selfish.
Eddie watched your expression carefully.
Then quieter, “I’m not judging you, sweetheart.”
“You should.”
“Nah.” He gave a crooked smile. “I like complicated girls.”
You snorted despite yourself.
“Your standards are concerning.”
“Very.”
The tension eased after that.
It always did with Eddie.
He had this irritating ability to make terrible situations feel lighter without pretending they weren’t terrible.
That was part of why you kept coming back.
With Jonathan, loving him had started feeling lonely.
With Eddie, even silence felt full.
…
The secrecy became routine.
Thursday nights at the trailer park.
Quick hidden conversations after Hellfire meetings.
Eddie’s hand brushing yours under tables while Jonathan sat three feet away completely oblivious.
Honestly, that part started becoming thrilling too.
Not because you wanted to hurt Jonathan.
But because for once, somebody was choosing you in secret instead of choosing someone else right in front of you.
“You’re staring again,” Eddie murmured one afternoon in the school parking lot.
You blinked. “At what?”
“Me.”
“I am not.”
He grinned immediately. “You totally are.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet here you are.”
You shoved his shoulder lightly, trying not to smile.
Eddie caught your wrist before you could pull away.
The touch lingered.
Your pulse skipped instantly.
God.
That still happened every time.
Eddie’s expression softened just slightly as he looked at you.
Not joking now.
Not flirting.
Just… looking.
“You know,” he said quietly, “you laugh more now.”
Something about that made your chest tighten unexpectedly.
Because he was right.
You did.
Even with all the lying and sneaking around and emotional disaster of your life, you laughed more with Eddie than you had in months with Jonathan.
Maybe that should’ve told you everything already.
…
The closest Jonathan ever came to figuring it out happened in January.
The three of you were at Family Video helping Steve reorganize tapes while Robin complained loudly from behind the counter.
Jonathan reached for your hand absentmindedly while talking to Nancy.
You froze immediately.
Because Eddie was standing across the store watching.
For one horrible second guilt came rushing back hard enough to make you nauseous.
Jonathan squeezed your hand lightly without even looking at you.
Automatic.
Distracted.
Like habit.
Then Nancy said something and his attention snapped right back toward her.
Your chest went cold.
Across the room, Eddie saw it too.
The hurt.
The realization.
Jonathan let go of your hand a second later without noticing your expression at all.
But Eddie noticed.
Of course he did.
Later that night, you showed up at the trailer without calling first.
Eddie opened the door already smirking. “Miss me?”
Instead of answering, you kissed him immediately.
Hard enough to shut him up.
Eddie stumbled backward laughing against your mouth. “Whoa, okay—”
“You were right.”
“That narrows absolutely nothing down.”
“About Jonathan.”
Eddie’s grin faded slightly.
You looked away.
“He doesn’t love me anymore.”
The words hurt less now.
Mostly because you’d already mourned the relationship while still inside it.
Eddie’s face softened.
Slowly, carefully, he reached up and brushed hair away from your face.
“You deserve somebody who actually sees you,” he said quietly.
And maybe that should’ve scared you more than it did.
And maybe it did.
After that night, something shifted, not between you and Eddie, that had already shifted months ago. No, the change happened inside you.
Because Eddie’s words kept echoing in your head every time Jonathan forgot to call. Every time he canceled plans because Nancy “needed help.” Every time you caught yourself sitting silently beside your own boyfriend feeling lonelier than when you were actually alone.
You deserve somebody who actually sees you.
The problem was, Eddie did see you.
Too much, maybe.
And lately that was starting to scare you.
…
“You’re distracted,” Jonathan said one afternoon.
You nearly laughed out loud at the irony.
The two of you sat together in the Byers living room while Will and Joyce argued softly in the kitchen. A movie played on the television, forgotten background noise neither of you were really watching.
Jonathan had barely spoken to you for twenty minutes.
Now suddenly he noticed something was wrong.
“I’m fine,” you answered automatically.
He studied you for a second like he wanted to believe that.
Then Nancy called the house phone, and just like that, his attention vanished again. You watched him smile at the sound of her voice.
Watched him lean forward unconsciously like hearing Nancy Wheeler speak required his full concentration.
Something inside you finally went numb.
Not broken.
Not shattered.
Just… done.
You stood quietly, grabbing your jacket.
Jonathan looked up distractedly. “You leaving?”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
There it was again, that guilty little crease between his eyebrows, like part of him already knew he was losing you.
You almost wanted him to fight for it anyway.
Instead he just looked tired.
And suddenly you couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at you the way Eddie did.
“I’ll call you later,” Jonathan said.
You both knew he probably wouldn’t.
…
Eddie was waiting outside some building on the outskirts of town when you arrived.
Leaning against the brick wall, cigarette glowing between his fingers, leather jacket damp from the cold.
The second he saw your face, his expression changed.
“What happened?”
You crossed your arms tightly. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
You looked away.
Eddie sighed softly, flicking the cigarette onto the pavement before stepping closer.
“He with Wheeler again?”
You hated how easily he guessed. You hated even more that you nodded.
For a moment Eddie didn’t say anything.
Then quieter, “C’mere.”
The words were so gentle they nearly undid you. You let him pull you against his chest without protest.
His arms wrapped around you instantly — warm, solid, familiar now.
You remembered when touching Eddie used to feel dangerous, now it felt like relief.
“You know what’s really messed up?” you mumbled against his jacket.
“What?”
“I don’t even feel sad anymore.”
Eddie’s hand slowed against your back.
That got his attention.
“I just…” You swallowed hard. “I think I stopped missing him before we even ended.”
The confession sat heavy between you both, because neither of you had said it out loud yet.
Not really.
You and Jonathan were still technically together.
But it felt more like a memory than a relationship now.
Eddie tilted his head down slightly, trying to catch your eyes.
“You gonna tell him?”
“Eventually.”
“Eventually,” Eddie repeated skeptically.
“I know.”
He studied you carefully.
“You’re afraid.”
“Obviously.”
“Of hurting him?”
You hesitated.
Then whispered, “Of him not caring.”
That made Eddie visibly flinch.
His jaw tightened immediately like the idea genuinely upset him.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “He really did a number on you, huh?”
You tried laughing it off.
It came out shaky instead.
…
The next few weeks became unbearable in a different way.
Not because of Jonathan.
Because of Eddie.
Because somewhere along the line, the rules between you had gotten blurry.
This was supposed to be casual. Revenge, maybe. A distraction. Something reckless to numb the ache Jonathan left behind.
Except Eddie started memorizing things about you.
Your favorite songs.
How you took your coffee.
Which movies made you cry even when you pretended they didn’t.
And worse?
You memorized things too.
The exact sound of his laugh when he was genuinely surprised, the way he got quieter when he was tired, how he always handed you the last bite of whatever he was eating without even thinking about it.
It stopped feeling temporary.
That was the problem.
…
“You’re staring again,” Eddie said one night from across the trailer.
You blinked. “Shut up.”
He grinned lazily from the couch. “Nah, seriously. It’s getting weird now.”
“You’re literally wearing a Dio shirt and leather pants indoors.”
“And?”
“And you look ridiculous.”
“Yet deeply attractive.”
You rolled your eyes.
But Eddie caught the tiny smile anyway.
He always did.
The trailer felt warm despite the snow outside. Music played softly from Eddie’s cassette player while Wayne worked the late shift.
You sat cross-legged on the floor flipping through one of Eddie’s campaign notebooks absentmindedly.
Then you found it.
A sketch.
Messy pencil lines of your face tucked between pages of monster designs and campaign notes.
Your chest tightened instantly.
“Eddie.”
“Hmm?”
“You drew me?”
His expression changed the second he realized what you found.
For once in his life, Eddie Munson looked caught off guard.
“Uh.”
You stared at him. “When?”
He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Couple weeks ago.”
“A couple— Eddie.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
But his face had gone slightly red.
Which somehow made it worse.
You looked back down at the drawing.
The detail startled you.
He’d drawn you carefully.
Like he’d spent time on it.
Like you mattered enough to study.
Something dangerous twisted low in your stomach.
“This,” you said quietly, “doesn’t really feel casual anymore.”
The room went still.
Eddie looked at you for a long moment without joking this time.
Then finally:
“No,” he admitted softly. “Guess it doesn’t.”
The silence after Eddie admitted it stretched painfully long.
Outside, wind rattled weakly against the trailer windows. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once before everything went quiet again.
You stared down at the sketch in your hands.
Eddie stared at you.
Neither of you seemed to know what happened next, because feelings complicated things.
Feelings turned this from something reckless and temporary into something capable of hurting people.
And maybe the worst part was realizing you didn’t want it to stop anyway.
“You should’ve told me,” you said softly.
Eddie let out a short laugh. “Oh yeah, because that conversation would’ve gone great.”
You looked up.
“I mean it.”
His expression shifted immediately at your tone.
“I know.” He leaned back against the couch cushions, running a hand through his hair. “I just… didn’t think you wanted this to be serious.”
You opened your mouth. Then closed it again, because months ago he would’ve been right. Months ago Eddie had been escape. A distraction. A way to feel wanted while Jonathan slowly drifted toward Nancy.
But now?
Now Eddie was the person you looked for first in crowded rooms.
The person you wanted to tell things to. The person who noticed when you were upset before you even spoke.
And that terrified you a little.
“You know what the really pathetic part is?” you murmured.
Eddie frowned slightly. “What?”
“I think I started falling for you while I was still trying to convince myself I loved Jonathan.”
The confession hung heavily between you both.
Eddie looked stunned for half a second.
Then something softer settled into his expression.
Not smugness.
Not victory.
Just tenderness so genuine it made your chest ache.
“Sweetheart,” he said quietly, “there is literally nothing pathetic about choosing someone who actually makes you happy.”
Your throat tightened immediately.
God.
Jonathan used to make you feel like this once.
Seen.
Important.
But somewhere along the line, loving Jonathan had started feeling like waiting outside a locked door hoping someone might eventually let you in again.
With Eddie, the door had always been open.
You just hadn’t realized how badly you needed that.
…
The breakup finally happened three days later.
Not dramatic.
Not explosive.
Honestly, that almost made it sadder.
Jonathan stood beside you outside the school parking lot, shoulders tense against the cold while students passed around you pretending not to eavesdrop.
You’d rehearsed this conversation all night.
None of the words sounded right anymore.
“I think we both know this isn’t working,” you said quietly.
Jonathan looked down immediately.
That told you everything.
No confusion.
No shock.
Just resignation.
Like some part of him had been expecting this too.
“Yeah,” he admitted after a moment.
The simplicity of it hurt more than yelling would’ve.
You crossed your arms tightly.
“I didn’t want us to end like this.”
Jonathan nodded slowly. “Me neither.”
But neither of you knew how to fix it anymore.
Maybe you never really could’ve.
You studied his face carefully, searching for the devastation you’d imagined for months.
It wasn’t there.
He looked sad.
Guilty, maybe.
But relieved too.
And strangely enough?
So did you.
After a long silence, Jonathan finally said quietly, “Is there someone else?”
Your heart stopped.
For one horrible second, you thought he somehow knew.
You thought about Eddie waiting for you at the trailer later tonight.
About hidden kisses and secret smiles and months of lying.
About the few times he’d have you half heartedly, and all you could think about while he shoved your face into the mattress was how much deeper Eddie could reach. Then, when it became more the physicality, how much sweeter Eddie would talk to you.
Your stomach twisted.
But Jonathan looked tired more than suspicious.
And suddenly you realized something awful:
He was asking because he hoped there had been someone else, because then maybe this wouldn’t entirely be his fault either.
You swallowed hard.
“No,” you lied.
Jonathan closed his eyes briefly.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
That was it.
No screaming.
No accusations.
Just two people quietly acknowledging they’d already lost each other a long time ago.
When Jonathan finally walked away, you expected heartbreak.
Instead you mostly felt empty.
And underneath that emptiness:
Relief.
…
Eddie answered the trailer door already smiling.
“You’re late.”
You stared at him silently for a second.
His smile faded immediately.
“What happened?”
“It’s over.”
The words came out smaller than you expected.
For a moment Eddie just looked at you.
Carefully.
Like he was trying to figure out whether to comfort you or celebrate.
Then finally he asked softly, “You okay?”
And somehow that question broke you more than the breakup itself.
Because Jonathan hadn’t asked.
Not really.
But Eddie always did.
You laughed shakily, wiping suddenly burning eyes before tears could actually fall.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “I think I am.”
Eddie stepped aside quietly to let you in.
The trailer felt warm compared to the freezing air outside. Music hummed softly from the radio while a half-finished campaign map sat spread across the table.
Normal.
Comfortable.
Homey in a way you hadn’t expected it to become.
You set your bag down slowly.
Then Eddie reached for your hand.
Not rushed.
Not secretive.
Just open.
Like he wasn’t afraid anymore.
Your chest tightened painfully at the difference.
“You know,” Eddie murmured, thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles, “this means I can finally flirt with you in public now.”
You laughed through the lingering ache in your chest.
“That’s your first thought?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he grinned softly, pulling you closer, “you still picked me.”
This time, when he kissed you, there was no guilt left hiding underneath it.
Pairing: Eddie Munson x female! reader (No use of y/n)
Summary: When the Starcourt Mall went up in flames, it took Hawkin's only local music shop with it, forcing Eddie to trek a town over just to find a set of guitar strings. He expected a boring errand. He didn't expect the quiet, smoky atmosphere of a hole-in-the-wall shop or the girl behind the counter who looked like she stepped out of a folk-rock fever dream.
Series Warnings: Mentions of parental loss, mentions of bullying, Explicit sexual intercourse, dirty talk, first-time sex (male), tobacco use, semi-public sex (in a vehicle), sort of corruption kink if you SQUINT, mentions of reading/watching porn, oral sex (male & female receiving). awkward sex. Not quite a warning but mentions of "Flight of Icarus" and some events/canon from that.
Disclaimer: In an effort to be a better neighbor to all my readers, I am working to keep my descriptions physically vague. As I navigate this learning curve, some white-coded/specific language may accidentally slip through my editing. I’m sharing this disclaimer so you can curate your reading experience with that in mind!
Rating: NSFW (18+) no minors allowed!
Word Count: 31,000+
Author's note: I got inspired by the utter crumb we received from behind the scenes recently. After consulting with the lovely @sheneedsrocknroll92 we both came to the consensus that Eddie having a meet/cute with someone a bit more like him (but still her own person) would be a fun angle. I don't really have much explanation other than that folks? I just missed Eddie and wanted to pop back in with him taking a different direction. Let me know if you would want/could see a follow-up with this 'reader' (since you all know I'm always going to make her a character even if I try to avoid specific descriptors). Also pushing off Sam and Jolene's update till next week because... I'm exhausted and don't want to rush it. Peace and love folks ~ Mae
Welcome to Hellfire || My Other Work || Ao3 link
Eddie Munson didn’t have a crisis on his hands. It wasn't the kind of earth-shattering revelation that brought your entire world crashing down in a heap of metaphorical rubble. It was more of a... pesterization. A low-frequency hum of annoyance that he’d grown just apathetic enough to tolerate, mostly because he didn't see it changing anytime soon.
One week into his third attempt at senior year, and the problem he’d first tripped over at thirteen was becoming glaringly apparent. On the cusp of high school, Eddie had made the error of trying to kiss one of his only friends, only to be gently informed that she didn’t exactly do the “boys” thing. He’d spent years silently hoping it was just an age thing, a phase they’d both outgrow, until she confessed before heading off to New York that she’d definitely had sex with a girl in the marching band. And since then? Nothing. Radio silence. Sure, he found fantasy tucked inside the gloss of magazines and the grainy flickers of cheap pornos from the back of the video store like every other red-blooded guy in Indiana. But when it came to the living, breathing variety of girls? He was inexperienced, terrified, and frankly, bored.
His third lap around senior year had taught him that the scenery never changed, it just swapped out the actors. There was always a fresh crop of jocks convinced that the universe ended at the edge of the football field. There were the nerds acting as if a B-minus on a lab report would derail their entire existence. The names changed, but the archetypes remained. The kid getting shoved into lockers today was named Fred; a year ago it was Todd, and before that, Arthur. Same script, different face. Yawn.
The girls of Hawkins High weren't exempt. According to the general consensus of the locker room, girls occupied three very specific boxes: the Buddy, the Porn Star, and the Sweetheart. Take Chrissy Cunningham with those baby-pink sweaters and wholesome smiles. Adorable? Sure. But she was the type who would likely burst into tears if she found herself alone in a room with him. That put her firmly in the friendly category, even if a friendship between a cheerleader and a freak was about as likely as Eddie passing Calculus.
Then there was Tina, a girl from his original graduating class. He’d heard the rumors from Billy Hargrove and the other cavemen at school about her extracurricular talents. She had the personality of a wet brick and cared more about her perm than her pulse, but that hadn't stopped Eddie from watching her lips move across the hall and wondering if the rumors lived up to the hype.
As for that third category… the ones you actually wanted to hold hands with? The kind of girls who could make your heart stop with just a smile or a quick remark? He hadn't met a soul who fit the bill. Eddie wasn't sure if he was a romantic, but he was a realist. Who wanted the son of the town criminal? A guy on his third try at Grade 12, who dealt weed to keep the van running? He’d perfected the art of being offensive to avoid the need to be defensive. Scare 'em or weird 'em out before they realize how easy it is to shove a scrawny metalhead into a locker.
He flung open the door to his rusted-out GMC, tossing his beat-up Jansport that had managed to survive since Freshman year, onto the passenger seat with a satisfying thum. He peeled out of the parking lot without a second thought, the engine groaning in protest as he left the school behind. Just another year in the Hellhole, all because he couldn't grasp the basic principles of chemistry. At least it was Friday. And Fridays meant freedom. It also meant he had a chance to deal with his other little pesterization. This one wasn't quite as existential as his quest to find a girl who’d laugh at his dorkier jokes before helping him finally retire his nineteen-year-old virginity, but it was an annoyance nonetheless.
Since the age of nine, Eddie had been a regular at the downtown music shop. It started with replacement strings for the battered Alvarez acoustic his Uncle Wayne had rescued from a pawn shop. A guitar that had seen hell and back as Eddie bled over chords until his callouses finally took. As the years passed and he saved every cent, he’d graduated to the electric variety, but the constant need for fresh strings and heavy-duty picks remained. The Starcourt Mall had changed everything. In its short, neon-drenched life, it had swallowed the downtown shop whole, only for the entire place to go up in flames. Now, with the mall a blackened shell and the downtown storefront still empty, Hawkins was a musical desert.
A quick session with the White Pages had revealed the closest oasis. Mainstreet Music in Bedford, about twenty minutes down the road. That was the Friday plan. Drive ten miles out of his way on a half-empty tank, pray that Bedford wasn't as soul-crushing as Hawkins, and see if this new shop could actually provide the gear he needed to keep Corroded Coffin’s output loud enough to piss off the neighbors.
The drive to Bedford was fueled by a warped Iron Maiden cassette and the flickering orange light of his fuel gauge. When he finally pulled up to Mainstreet Music, he found it tucked between a hardware store and a dusty laundromat. It wasn't the gleaming palace of rock he’d hoped for, but the window display featured a cracked Gibson and a stack of Marshall amps that looked like they’d seen a tour or two. Good enough, he thought. The bell above the door gave a weary chime as he stepped inside, but the muffled ring was immediately swallowed by the sheer scale of the place. From the outside, it looked like a cramped hole-in-the-wall, but the interior was a TARDIS-like trick of architecture. It was massive, stretching back into the shadows of the building with rows of instruments that made his breath hitch.
It wasn't just the gear, though that was impressive enough. The walls were a sensory overload, plastered floor-to-ceiling with posters of bands ranging from the household names to obscure acts he couldn’t have identified if his life depended on it. It was a chaotic museum of sound: metal logos sat right next to soft-focus folk singers. Neon-drenched pop stars shared space with gritty, black-and-white country legends. Beneath the posters, the floor space was a maze of wooden crates overflowing with vinyl and precarious stacks of cassettes that looked like they might topple if he breathed too hard.
"Just a second! I'll be right out!" a voice called from somewhere deep in the back, muffled by a heavy curtain. Eddie barely offered a grunt of acknowledgement, as he drifted toward a rack of vintage offsets. He was too busy drinking in the atmosphere to care about service. Then, the silence of the shop was broken by a familiar sound. The distinct sound of a needle dropping onto a record, followed by the soft crackle. A second later, the stinging lick of an electric guitar cut through the air. Albert King’s "Born Under a Bad Sign."
The opening notes hit Eddie, pinning him to the spot. Suddenly, he wasn't in a music shop in Bedford; he was five years old, sitting on a linoleum floor in a sun-drenched kitchen, watching his mother hum along to this exact track while she sewed. She’d been the one with the blues records. The one who taught him that music wasn't just noise, but a feeling you pulled out of your soul. She was the reason he’d ever bothered to pick up a guitar in the first place.
He stood there, paralyzed by a rare moment of vulnerability, his hand hovering over a pack of guitar strings as the horns blared through the shop's speakers.
"Dio. Nice." The voice was right behind him. Cool, steady, not to mention entirely too close. Eddie jumped, nearly knocking over a display as he spun around. His heart hammered against his ribs as his carefully cultivated "Lord of the Freaks" persona momentarily was replaced by the wide-eyed look of a startled cat.
Eddie finally managed to find his footing, his sneakers scuffing against the floor as he fully faced her. He opened his mouth to deliver some biting, eccentric remark but the words died in his throat. It was as if the oxygen had been sucked right out of the room, leaving him lightheaded and strangely hollow. He’d spent years cataloging the girls of Hawkins into his little mental boxes, but as he looked at her, the system crashed. She wasn't a "Sweetheart," a "Buddy," or a "Porn Star." She was something else entirely. A category all of her own.
She looked to be right around his age, though she carried herself with a groundedness that Eddie felt he’d been lacking his entire life. She was pretty but it wasn't the manicured, hairsprayed beauty of the girls in the hallways at school he’d grown used to. There was an edge to her, apparent in the way an unlit cigarette was perched behind her ear and her wrists were covered in a collection of woven bracelets. Smudged smokey looking eyeliner adorning a bottom row of lashes that drew his focus to the beautiful color of her eyes. An authenticity that matched the heavy blues track still vibrating through the speakers overhead.
A searing jolt of attraction hit him, sharp enough to make his pulse thrum in his ears. But beneath that was a second feeling, something he couldn't quite put a name to. It wasn't just that he wanted to look at her. It was a sudden, desperate urge to be known by her. He realized he was staring, his hands still awkwardly raised from his momentary fright. He looked like a deer caught in the high beams of a semi-truck, and for the first time in his life, Eddie Munson was genuinely, painfully speechless.
"Uh," Eddie managed, a masterclass in eloquence. He cleared his throat, desperately trying to summon the Munson charm, but his rings felt heavy on his shaking fingers. "Yeah. Ronnie James. The man, the myth, the... very short legend." He stood there, scrawny and wide-eyed in his battle vest, feeling like for the first time in his life, he was the one who was totally out of his depth. She was pretty with a look in her eyes that suggested she could see right through his "scary freak" mask to the nervous kid underneath who still missed his mom's singing.
“Men," she said, her voice dry and laced with a playful edge as she tilted her head toward his Dio patch. "Always seemingly obsessed with size?"
Eddie froze. He stood there for a beat, his brain short-circuiting as he replayed the comment. He looked at his vest, then back at her, the realization hitting him like a bucket of ice water. She wasn't just talking about Ronnie James Dio’s height, or lack thereof. She was making a joke about... that. The male obsession with measurement. The length of the sword, so to speak.
A heat he couldn't control climbed rapidly up his neck, flooding his cheeks with a vivid, traitorous crimson. Eddie Munson, the man who stood on cafeteria tables and barked at jocks, was officially speechless. He opened his mouth to deliver a witty, rock-and-roll themed comeback, but all that came out was a faint, pathetic squeak.
Then, she laughed.
It wasn't a dainty, princess-like giggle, with a manicured hand covering her mouth. It was a loud, uninhibited, soul-deep sound that echoed off the stacks of vinyl. It was messy and real, and in that instant, Eddie decided it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. He watched her, mesmerized, his own embarrassment softening into a dazed, lopsided grin.
She caught her breath, wiping a stray tear from her eye as her laughter subsided into a lingering, mischievous spark. She leaned against the glass counter, crossing her arms as she looked him up and down. "You know," she said, her voice dropping into a teasing, rhythmic lilt that made his stomach do a backflip. "For a guy dressed so satanic by rural Indiana standards, you sure are adorable when you get flustered."
The word adorable should have been an insult. To a guy like Eddie, it should have been a blow to his carefully cultivated ego. But coming from her, delivered with that specific, flirtatious tilt of the head, it felt like a damn coronation.
Eddie scrambled to find a foothold, his brain a frantic mess of "don't screw this up" and "say something cool." He opened his mouth, his tongue feeling like a heavy piece of lead as he tried to summon a suave, biting quip. Something about how he was actually a creature of the night who just happened to enjoy a good laugh. But as she scrutinized him, her eyes dancing with that playful, observant light, the words just died in his throat. He ended up letting out a half-formed "I,well–" before trailing off, sheepishly adjusting his rings. He was failing. Spectacularly. But for some reason, looking into her face, he didn't even mind.
"I haven't seen you around here before," she noted, her gaze traveling from the chaotic curls of his hair down to the scuffed toes of his sneakers. "And I usually remember the ones who look like they’ve climbed out of a Black Sabbath pit."
Eddie finally managed to get a coherent sentence out. "I'm from Hawkins. Just a quick, twenty-minute trek down the road. Usually, I'm a big fish in a very small, very judgmental pond."
She hummed, a low sound of acknowledgement that seemed to vibrate right through him. "Hawkins, huh? Explains it. I’ve seen more traffic in here lately since that mall of yours turned into a giant charcoal grill."
"Yeah, the Starcourt disaster," Eddie said, leaning against a nearby rack of acoustic guitars, trying to look like a guy who wasn't currently having an internal meltdown. "Ruined the only music shop for miles. Which is exactly why I found myself wandering into your neck of the woods today. Desperate times, desperate measures."
She straightened up from the counter, her playful demeanor shifting, though the spark in her eyes remained. "Well, consider me your savior for the afternoon kind Sir who hails from Hawkins," she said. "What exactly does thou seek on this quest to the far land of Bedford?"
Eddie’s brain hit a screeching halt. Did she just... did she really just "kind sir" me? His heart practically performed a double-bass beat against his ribs. Because now it wasn't just that she was pretty, or that she liked the blues. Or even that she’d successfully made a dick joke at his expense. It was the delivery. That specific, nerdy, high-fantasy cadence. The kind of talk he usually had to reserve for a small circle of social pariahs gathered around a twenty-sided die. The crush he’d felt five minutes ago had just been upgraded to a full-blown obsession. He felt like he was looking at a unicorn in the middle of Indiana. He stared at her, his mouth slightly agape, searching her face for any sign that she was mocking him. But all he found was that same, sharp-eyed amusement.
"Has the traveler been struck by a silence curse?" she asked, leaning over the counter just enough to bring the scent of old paper and vanilla into his personal bubble. "Or hast my presence rendered thee speechless in the same way the sirens lured sailors to their doom?"
Eddie snapped out of it, clearing his throat so hard it actually hurt. He scrambled for a shred of dignity, reaching out to gesture vaguely at the rack of guitar strings he’d been hovering over before the Albert King track had transported him. "I, uh... no. Just...," he stammered, finally finding a smirk to hide behind. "I seek the tools of my trade, oh mysterious guardian of the Bedford realm. My current strings are sounding a bit too much like a dying cat and not enough like the heralds of doom."
She nodded, but instead of staying behind the safety of the glass, she rounded the counter and stepped directly into his space. She looked up at him, her presence strangely grounding despite the way he was vibrating with nerves. "A noble pursuit," she murmured, her eyes scanning the wall of Slinkys and Cobalts before settling back on him. "And what exact gauge of steel does thou require for this 'herald of doom' business? Are we talking light enough for those flashy solos, or heavy enough to shake the foundations of the earth?"
Eddie took a small breath, trying to steady his hands. "Heavy."
She reached out, her fingers brushing past a pack of Ernie Balls near his shoulder, and he felt the contact like a jolt of electricity. She pulled a pack down, but she didn't hand it to him. Instead, she turned the small package over in her hands, a sheepish, genuine smile finally breaking through the fantasy persona. "Sorry," she said, her voice dropping the theatrical lilt for a second. "I was a total drama nerd in high school, and I’ve been stuck in set design for the local community Shakespeare production all week. I keep slipping into the 'thee' and 'thou' without even thinking about it."
"Theater nerd?" Eddie repeated, a laugh bubbling up that was actually genuine this time. "Well, that explains the dramatic entrance. And here I thought I’d finally found someone who spent as much time in a dungeon as I do."
Her eyebrows shot up, and she leaned an elbow against the shelf, eyeing him with a newfound curiosity. "Don’t tell me you’re a traveler of the tiled maps and polyhedral dice variety. Do you play?"
Eddie’s chest puffed out, a surge of genuine, unadulterated pride washing over him. This was his home turf. "Play? Sweetheart, you are looking at the Dungeon Master of the Hellfire Club. I don't just play, I run the whole show at Hawkins High. I’ve spent more time crafting campaigns and painting lead miniatures than I have studying for... well, basically anything."
For a split second, he felt like a king. But then he saw it. The slight twitch of her lips, a tiny deflation in her shoulders as she looked at him over again. "High school?" she repeated, her voice losing a bit of that playful spark. "Oh. So you're... what, sixteen? Seventeen?"
Eddie winced, the mystique he’d hoped he was projecting evaporating instantly. He quickly held up his hands. "Whoa, hey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m nineteen. Almost twenty. Technically, I should’ve been Class of ’84. I’m just... on the extended, scenic tour of the twelfth grade. My third attempt, if you’re keeping score. Chemistry and I have a long-standing mutual hatred."
The change in her was immediate. She let out a long, dramatic sigh of relief, as she practically sagged against the instrument rack. "Oh, thank god," she laughed, and that beautiful, loud sound was back, making his heart do another clumsy backflip. "Whew! I was starting to sweat for a second. I was really out here thinking I was about to be a cradle robber."
Eddie grinned, the relief infectious. "And you?"
"Nineteen," she confirmed, tossing the pack of strings into the air and catching them with ease. "Class of ’84, actually made it out on the first try, though barely. I’ve been working here and going to the community college for art classes since. So, technically, we’re from the same brand of vintage."
"Vintage," Eddie mused, his confidence finally clicking into place. He leaned one hand against the shelf, closing the gap between them just an inch. "I like that. Makes me sound like a fine wine instead of a guy who just can't remember the periodic table."
She hummed, her eyes flicking down to his lips for a fraction of a second before meeting his gaze again. "I think vintage suits you, Hawkins. It’s got a bit more character than a repeat offender."
"I'm Eddie," he finally offered, realizing he’d been talking to a goddess for ten minutes without a name to call her. "Eddie Munson. Local freak, master of the dungeon, and currently your most intrigued customer."
She told him her name then, and the sound of it seemed to hang in the air between them, vibrating at the exact same frequency as that Albert King record. Eddie repeated it internally, testing the weight of it, the way the syllables felt like a hook to a song he knew was going to be stuck in his head for weeks. It was a name that had grit but a certain kind of melody to it, too. "Well," she said, pulling him out of his internal daze as she tossed the pack of strings from her left hand to her right. "Now that the introductions are out of the way, what exactly are we stringing up? Please tell me you aren't putting these on some cheap, dusty plywood box."
Eddie shook his head, a smirk returning to his face. "Give me some credit. She’s an Iron Maiden-inspired beauty. B.C. Rich Warlock."
She whistled lowly, nodding in approval. "A Warlock. Bold choice. So, are you just a solo act? A lonely bard shredding in his bedroom to a wall of posters?"
"Absolutely not," Eddie corrected, his pride flaring up again. "I’m the front-man, lead guitarist, singer, and because I own a van, transportation for Corroded Coffin. We’re currently the loudest, most offensive thing to happen to the Hawkins music scene. Have a dedicated crowd of about… 5 drunks on your average Tuesday night at the local dive bar."
She hummed, leaning her hip against the counter as she considered him. "Corroded Coffin. It’s got a nice ring to it. And I get it. There’s something about playing with a group that you just can’t replicate on your own. It’s always nicer with a crew." Her expression shifted, a small, weary shadow flickering over her features. "Though, honestly, my situation lately has made getting the band back together feel like a pipe dream."
"You’re in a band?" Eddie asked, his interest peaking.
"A blues-rock outfit," she explained. "Nothing as loud as whatever a Corroded Coffin puts out, I’m sure. We drive up to Bloomington once a week to play this little jazz bar. It’s good for the soul, when we can actually make it happen. One of our guys has been a bit of a wildcard lately. Stuck at home with his kid more often than not. Parenthood and the blues… they go together, but they don't exactly make for a consistent rehearsal schedule."
Eddie leaned in, fascinated. "Bloomington? That’s the big leagues. You’re telling me I’m standing in the presence of a professional?"
She laughed that beautiful, world-ending laugh again. "Let’s call it semi-professional. We get paid in drinks and gas money, but in Indiana, that basically makes us rockstars."
Eddie’s grin widened, his fingers drumming a restless beat against the side of his pant leg. He couldn't help himself. The fantasy metaphors were bubbling up again, fueled by the sheer high of actually talking to someone who didn't look at him like he was a stain on the carpet. "Alright, so we’ve established you’re a high-level bard," he said, keeping the D&D speak lighter this time, more of a shared shorthand than a full-blown roleplay. "But what’s your actual contribution to the party?"
She gave a small, graceful shrug, her eyes following the movement of his hands. "I’m one of the singers. Since our frontman is currently preoccupied with the dad questline, lately I’ve been carrying a lot of the vocal weight. We split the setlist down the middle, which usually works out until he has to bail for a diaper emergency." She stepped closer to the repair bench, picking up a stray pick and flipping it between her fingers. "And when I’m not behind the mic, I’m on guitar. Rhythm mostly, keeping things steady."
Eddie felt a literal physical tug in his chest. A girl who could talk Shakespeare, play the blues, handle a guitar, and didn't flinch at the mention of a d20? He was fairly certain he was dreaming, and if he was, he never wanted to wake up again.
"Singer and a rhythm player," Eddie mused. "The backbone of the operation. That’s a lot of power to hold over a bunch of Bloomington jazz-heads."
"It keeps me busy," she admitted, finally handing him the pack of strings. As she did, her fingers lingered against his for just a second too long to be accidental. "Though I have to say, Hawkins, a Warlock is a lot of guitar for a guy who gets as red as a tomato over a little dick joke."
Eddie took the strings, his skin buzzing where she’d touched him. "The Warlock is for the stage. The blushing? Well, let's just say you caught me with my armor unequipped."
The air between them suddenly felt thick, charged with a tension that was far more electric than any amp in the room. Eddie found himself caught in her gaze, his usual restless energy replaced by a grounded stillness. He didn't look away, and for a long, heart-hammering minute, neither did she. It was a silent standoff. One where Eddie felt like he was being read like a book, and for once, he didn't mind the scrutiny. Finally, she broke the spell, clearing her throat and glancing down at the counter. "So," she started, her voice a little huskier than before. "Did you actually just venture into the wilds of Bedford for one pack of strings, or is there something else on your quest log?"
Eddie exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his shoulders dropping as he tried to find his swagger again. "I, uh... I could probably use a few extra picks. I tend to lose them in the abyss of my van or my hair if I’m honest."
"Follow me, Hawkins," she said, gesturing for him to follow her toward the glass display cases at the back of the store.
As they walked, Eddie watched the way she moved. Comfortable, confident, and entirely in her element. He couldn't help himself; He had to know. "So, if you’re holding down the rhythm for a blues band, what’s your weapon of choice? Please don't tell me it's a Squier."
She laughed. A sound that made him grin. "Hardly. I’m a traditionalist at heart. I usually stick to a Gibson ES-335. Ebony finish. It’s got that warm, woody growl that just... well, it does things to a song that a solid body can't touch."
Eddie stopped dead in his tracks. A low, playful moan escaped his throat in a sound of unadulterated appreciation. In a sudden surge of confidence he leaned in slightly, a wolfish, dazed smile spreading across his face. "God," he breathed, his eyes wide. "Could you say that again? But, like, way slower this time? Because a pretty girl describing her ebony Gibson ES-335 is officially the hottest thing I’ve ever heard in my entire nineteen years of existence."
She paused, her hand hovering over the tray of picks, and turned to look at him. A slow, dangerous smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth, and for the first time, Eddie felt like he might be the one in trouble. “Careful there, Eddie the Head," she chuckled, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial register that made his skin prickle. "You’re wandering into dangerous territory. You keep inflating my ego like that, and I might just decide to keep you here as a permanent fixture. I’ve been looking for a roadie who’s easy on the eyes and knows his way around a headstock."
Eddie stood there, the nickname hitting him with the force of a freight train. She knew Iron Maiden well enough to pull out the mascot’s moniker, and she was using it to flirt with him. He took a long, exaggerated pause, tilting his head back as if weighing the heavy consequences of his next move. He tapped a ringed finger against his chin, his eyes darting toward the ceiling in faux-contemplation.
"Well," he finally said, a slow, reckless grin splitting his face. "A lifetime of service to a Gibson-wielding siren in the heart of Bedford? Honestly, as far as traps go, it’s a lot more enticing than a weekend at the trailer park with a six-pack of cheap beer and a physics textbook." He leaned an elbow onto the display case, looking her dead in the eye, all the stuttering nervousness from before replaced by a sudden, sharp clarity. "I think I’m willing to take that risk. Lay it on me. I’m a big boy. I can handle a pretty girl with a guitar."
She laughed, the sound lower and more intimate now that they were tucked away in the back of the shop. She reached into the case, pulling out a handful of heavy-gauge Tortex picks and let them rain slowly into his open palm. "I like the confidence, Hawkins," she murmured, watching him as the plastic clicked against his palm. "But let’s see if you can still talk that big when you’re actually holding a guitar instead of just talking about one. Most guys come in here and talk a lot of game, but the second they plug in, they sound like they’re trying to strangle a cat."
Eddie caught the last pick out of the air, clutching it tight. "Is that a challenge? Because if you’re asking me to audition for the role of your most loyal subject, I’ve got a whole repertoire of metal that’ll shake the dust off the rafters."
"Maybe," she countered, her gaze lingering on his hands. "But for now, let's just get you checked out before my boss, who also happens to be my aunt, comes back and wonders why I’ve spent twenty minutes hovering over the picks with a guy who looks like he’s about to start a riot."
“Ah nepotism… snatching up all the good local gigs,” he teased at the mention of her aunt owning the shop.
She hummed, a soft, wistful sound that didn't quite match the sharp wit she’d been wielding moments before. "Less about nepotism," she said, her fingers tracing the edge of the glass counter. "After my folks passed in a car accident, my aunt, the cool one, thankfully, took me in. It’s been just the two of us since I was in middle school. Working here... it’s how I pay her back for the groceries and the roof over my head. Rent’s cheap when you’re family, but the debt’s still there."
The timing was almost eerie. Just as the weight of her words settled into the air, the record on the speaker system reached the end of the side. The stinging blues guitar faded out, replaced by the empty hiss-thump of the needle spinning in the run-out groove. The silence that followed was heavy. She seemed to realize the gravity of what she’d just dropped on him, and she cleared her throat, shifting her weight as if she were about to bolt back to the safety of the repair bench. The playful spark in her eyes had flickered, replaced by a momentary, awkward vulnerability that made Eddie’s heart ache in a way he wasn't prepared for.
She started to turn away, murmuring something about finding a bag, when Eddie reached out. Not touching her, but close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her arm. "Hey," he said, his voice dropping the theatrical projection entirely. She paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. Eddie cleared his throat, "I get it. More than you know." He looked down at the counter, a rare flash of somber honesty crossing his face. "I've been living with my Uncle since I was a kid. My mom... she passed a long time ago. And my old man? Well, he traded his parenting duties for a permanent residency with the state after he got busted for five finger discounting some cars. It’s been me and Wayne against the world ever since."
The air in the shop shifted, the shared weight of their histories acting like a bridge between them. She turned back fully now, her shoulder losing its defensive tension as she leaned against a stack of amplifiers. There was a new light in her eyes. Not just the spark of a flirtatious challenge, but the quiet, steady gaze of someone who had seen the same shadows he had. "He sounds like a good man. Your Uncle. It takes a certain kind of soul to take in a kid with baggage like us and not try to sand down all the rough edges."
Eddie let out a short, dry laugh, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of his denim vest. "Oh, he’s the best.He’s the only reason I haven't dropped out and headed for the coast already."
She nodded, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She moved toward the record player, the silence of the shop feeling too loud now that they’d traded pieces of their souls. She flipped the vinyl, and a moment later, a new track began to fill the room. Something a bit more upbeat, that cut through the somber mood.
"Well, Eddie Munson," she said, stepping back behind the counter and held out her hand for the strings and picks to ring him up. "I think you’ve officially earned a 'kindred spirit' discount, though don't tell my aunt. I have a feeling if I let you walk out of here without a reason to come back, I’d be failing some kind of cosmic quest."
Eddie handed over his treasures, his heart doing a slow, controlled roll in his chest. "A reason to come back, huh? You think the twenty-minute drive and the threat of my van running out of gas isn't enough of a hurdle for me to leap?"
"I think," she said, her eyes locking onto his as she punched the keys on the old-fashioned register, "that for the right kind of music, and the right kind of company, you’d drive a lot further than ten miles out of your way."
“I’ve got a counter-proposal for you," Eddie said, his voice regaining that theatrical flair, though it was softened by the genuine heat behind his gaze. He gestured toward the counter, his fingers mimicking a scribbling motion. "Dear maiden, might I humbly request a quill and parchment? Or, you know, a ballpoint and a scrap of a receipt will do."
She smirked, sliding a notepad and a pen across the glass. Eddie took it with a flourish, leaning over the counter as he began to write. His handwriting was a chaotic scrawl as he jotted down his number and the address of The Hideout. "Tuesday night," he said, tapping the pen against the paper before sliding it back to her. "Corroded Coffin is taking the stage. It’s loud, it’s unapologetic, and it’s definitely not a jazz bar in Bloomington. But, if you don't mind a little heavy metal, you should come see me actually put this equipment to work." He straightened his vest, hooking his thumbs into his pockets as he looked at her. She only raised an eyebrow, fingers tapping the bar surface as if pondering his request. "I’d love to see you there," he added, his voice dropping into a sincere, quiet register. "I’ve spent three years playing to the same bored faces in that town. It’d be nice to have someone in the crowd who actually appreciates music."
She picked up the paper, her eyes scanning the address before she tore the sheet and tucked it carefully into the pocket of her jeans. A thoughtful smile spread across her face. "Tuesday," she repeated, her gaze meeting his with a weight that made his breath hitch again. "I’ll see what I can do. But you better make sure those strings are tuned perfectly. I’m a very harsh critic."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Eddie grinned, finally backing toward the door. He felt like he was walking on air, the jingle of the bell above the door sounding less like a warning and more like a victory chime.
He paused at the threshold, one hand on the brass handle, and turned back for a final flourish. He swept a low, exaggerated bow. "Until then, my silver-tongued siren," he called out, his voice ringing through the shop with a newfound warmth. "May your chords stay true. This humble bard shall count the hours until Tuesday's moon rises."
He winked, and finally stepped out into the afternoon. He hopped into the GMC, slamming the door and letting out a triumphant shout that was promptly swallowed by the roar of the engine. As he pulled away from the curb, his eyes caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. The blush was still there, staining his cheeks a dusty rose, but his grin was wide enough to hurt. He reached over, patting the bag of new strings on the passenger seat like a prized trophy.
"Alright," he muttered to himself, shifting into gear. "Don't screw this up. You’ve got a Gibson-wielding goddess to impress, and only four days to make sure the Coffin doesn't sound like a literal trash compactor." He cranked the volume on his Maiden tape, the twin-guitar harmonies of The Trooper flooding the cab. For the first time in three years, the drive back to Hawkins didn't feel like a sentence. It felt like a countdown.
🎸⋆⭒˚.⋆
It was Tuesday night, and the air inside The Hideout was a thick, stagnant cocktail of stale cigarette smoke, spilled draft beer, and the electric hum of overworked Marshall stacks. Eddie had arrived two hours early, his nervous energy manifesting as a buzzing restlessness that his bandmates had already grown tired of. He’d recounted the story of the "Bedford Siren" no less than six times since load-in. By the fourth retelling, Jeff had stopped looking up from his drum kit, and by the sixth, Gareth had threatened to shove a drumstick in Eddie's mouth if he mentioned the words "Gibson Goddess" one more time.
"She’s not coming, man," Gareth muttered, "You met her once in a music shop ten miles away. Girls like that don't just show up to dive bars because an awkward guy in a vest asked nicely."
"She’s not just a girl, Gareth, you uncultured swine," Eddie shot back, though his stomach did a nervous flip at the suggestion. He was currently pacing the small expanse of the hallway that led to the stage, his rings clicking against the neck of his Warlock. "She’s a kindred spirit. A fellow music lover. A theater nerd who knows her way around a fretboard. She’ll be here."
He looked at the door every time the heavy oak wood creaked open, his heart jumping into his throat only to sink back down when it was just another local regular looking for a cheap pitcher. The bar was filling up. Well, "filling up" by the Hideout standards. A few fellow metalheads, some curious stragglers, and the usual crowd of misfits who found sanctuary in the dark corners of the bar. Eddie checked his reflection in the grime-streaked mirror in the hall next to the stage. He’d put a little extra effort into his hair tonight. "Five minutes, Munson," the bar manager grunted, signaling toward the clock.
Eddie took a deep breath, the scent of the bar suddenly feeling suffocating. He adjusted his guitar strap. He’d spent hours yesterday stretching the new strings she’d sold him, making sure they were settled and ready to howl.
"Alright, boys," Eddie said, "Tonight, we don't just play. We melt faces. We go out there like the Prince of Darkness himself is in the front row. Clear?" He was met with the excited energy that only can come from teenage boys indulging in their favorite pastime as they finally stumbled out of the hallway. He stepped up to the mic, the feedback whining in anticipation. He took one last, desperate scan of the room. The door swung open again, letting in a swirl of cool night air and the muffled sound of a car engine cutting out. For a second, the silhouettes were just shadows against the neon "Budweiser" sign. But then, he saw the shift of a leather jacket and the unmistakable movement of a confident stride.
She slid through the crowd with a devastating ease, stepping toward the edge of the light. She paused, reaching up to shed her jacket, and Eddie nearly dropped his pick as he took in the change. She looked like she’d been pulled straight from a 1970s rock festival. She was wearing a tight, shortly cropped Wings t-shirt that had seen its fair share of wash cycles, paired with high-waisted black denim bell-bottoms that flared out over the tops of her boots. Topping it all off was the schoolboy cap featuring pins he couldn’t quite make out from a distance, but the overall effect was like an ACDC album cover. It screamed "I know exactly where I am," and it sat on her with a natural, effortless cool that made every other girl in the bar seem to fade into the background. Eddie stood paralyzed, his fingers frozen on the fretboard, his jaw probably hovering somewhere near his knees. He was staring and he knew it, but he couldn't find the mental brakes to stop.
"Eddie!" Gareth’s voice hissed from behind him, sharp and impatient. "Eddie, for the love of God, the intro!" Gareth’s hiss acted like a bucket of cold water. Eddie snapped his head back, blinking rapidly as his brain finally reconnected with his hands. He looked back toward the edge of the stage just in time to see her catch his eye. She didn't look flustered. Instead, she raised a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her lips quirked into a knowing smile. She gave him a small, two-fingered wave. The kind that said I'm watching, Hawkins, so don't blow it.
Eddie felt the adrenaline hit his system like a live wire. The nervousness was still there, buzzing under his skin, but it was being rapidly overtaken by a fierce, desperate need to show off. He slammed his hand down on the strings, and the first chord of the set ripped through the smoke-filled air with a raw, aggressive power that made the floorboards groan. He threw himself into the music, the world outside the stage lights blurring into a haze of distorted sound and flickering shadows. Between the shredding and the straining growl of his vocals, he lost track of her in the dark. The Hideout was a sea of shifting shapes and nodding heads, and he couldn't afford to scan the crowd while trying to keep Corroded Coffin from derailing. He played with a manic intensity, his hair flying as he thrashed his head. The new strings she’d sold him biting into his fingertips.
Halfway through the set, the energy shifted. Eddie wiped sweat from his brow with the back of a ringed hand and signaled for Gareth and Jeff to hold up. They knew exactly what was coming, and they weren't thrilled about it. Eddie stepped up to the microphone, his chest heaving. He looked out into the gloom, a lopsided, slightly breathless grin on his face. "Alright, folks!" he barked, though his eyes were searching the back of the room. "I have to offer a little disclaimer. I apologize in advance if this next one sounds like absolute dogshit. It’s... well, it’s one we had to pull from the archives."
Gareth let out a long, dramatic sigh behind him. Eddie’s mind flashed back to the previous forty-eight hours. The absolute war he’d waged to get the guys to agree to this. He had practically held them hostage in the garage, forcing them to relearn a song they hadn't touched since their first month of jamming together. There had been shouting, there had been threats of mutiny, but Eddie had been relentless. He needed something with soul.
He closed his eyes for a second, catching a glimpse of a familiar silhouette leaning against a wooden pillar near the bar. "This one’s for the Gibson wielding Goddess who drove out of her way to hear us butcher Sabbath," he murmured, earning a few chuckles at the self deprecating humor. He let out a slow, steady breath and began the slow, bluesy opening crawl of Led Zeppelin’s Since I’ve Been Loving You. The transition from thrash metal to agonizingly slow blues-rock was jarring, but as Eddie’s fingers danced over the frets, coaxing a mournful, soaring wail from his Warlock, the room went eerily still.
Eddie poured himself into the solo, his eyes squeezed shut as he bent the strings until they practically wept. Chasing that feeling his mother had loved. Every slow slide was a message sent directly across the room. A bridge built of high-voltage wire and raw vulnerability. Behind him, the guys held the rhythm with a surprising steadiness despite it being a last minute addition to their set. He was sweating through his shirt, his curls plastered to his forehead, completely lost in the agonizing beauty of the track.
As the final, haunting chord began to decay, vibrating through the wood of the stage until it was just a ghostly hum, Eddie finally dared to open his eyes. He didn't have to search for her this time. She was right where he’d seen her last, but she wasn't leaning back with that guarded, teasing smirk anymore. She was leaning forward, her arms crossed over the railing, her body language completely open. In the dim, smoky light, he caught her gaze. She was smiling. Not the teasing smile from the shop, but something genuinely impressed. She was nodding her head slowly, a rhythmic, appreciative movement that told him she hadn't just heard the song; she’d felt it. She looked entirely consumed by the performance, her eyes locked onto his with an intensity that made the rest of the room vanish. The rest of the set was a blur of adrenaline and unadulterated showing off. With her eyes locked on him every time he glanced up, Eddie played like a man possessed. Every power chord felt heavier, every solo faster, his fingers flying across the frets with a precision that usually deserted him halfway through a crate of cheap beer. He barely felt the sting of the strings or the sweat stinging his eyes.
When the final crash of cymbals signaled the end of the night, Eddie didn't wait for the scattered applause or the usual post-show banter with the guys. As the house lights flickered to life he practically peeled the Warlock off his body. He set the guitar into its stand and hopped off the edge of the stage before the feedback had even fully died out. He moved through the crowd with a single-minded focus, sidestepping a drunk regular and ignoring Jeff calling his name. He didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of her, his chest still heaving. "So," he panted, his hair a chaotic mess around his face as he wiped a streak of sweat from his temple. He tried to summon the smirk, but his heart was beating too hard for his usual theatricality. "How did I do? Am I still a candidate for that roadie position, or should I stick to my day job of failing calculus?"
She didn't answer immediately. She just looked at him, her gaze traveling from his ripped jeans up to his wide, expectant eyes. The smirk she’d worn in Bedford was back, but there was a new warmth behind it, a softness that made Eddie’s stomach do a slow, dizzying roll. "You're a liar, Munson," she finally said, her voice low and smooth under the humming of the bar’s neon signs.
Eddie blinked, his confidence faltering for a split second. "A liar? I’ve been nothing but an open book!"
"You told me you played aggressively," she countered, stepping into his space, her fingers catching the wallet chain hanging from his jeans, tugging him just a fraction closer. "You didn't mention you could play with that much soul. Zeppelin? That wasn't dogshit, Eddie. That was... something else entirely."
Eddie felt his face heat up, the adrenaline of the performance curdling into a delicious, dizzying sort of bashfulness. He shifted his weight, leaning one hand against the wooden pillar she’d been occupying, effectively caging her into a small, private pocket of the loud bar. As he leaned in, the scent of vanilla he’d noticed in Bedford was now layered with the familiar tang of a recently smoked cigarette and the malty aroma of the longneck beer bottle she held loosely in her other hand. It was the smell of The Hideout, but on her, it was aphrodisia. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat and summon the confident persona that usually came so easily. He let a crooked smirk pull at his lips, his eyes dropping to the beer in her hand before flicking back to hers.
"Well, you know," he started, his voice dropping into a drawl that he hoped sounded suave and not just like he’d been screaming for an hour. "I figure if a legendary creature like yourself is going to brave the treacherous journey to Hawkins, the least I can do is provide a soundtrack worthy of the journey. I’d hate for you to think the local talent was... lacking in inspiration."
She let out a soft snort, her eyes tracking the way he was trying to look effortless while his chest was still heaving from the set. She slowly rolled her eyes, the movement playful enough that Eddie didn't feel the sting. "God, you are so corny, Munson," she laughed, taking a slow sip of her beer while she watched him over the bottle. She lowered the amber glass, her thumb tracing the condensation on the label. "Normally, I’d have to penalize you for a line like that." Eddie opened his mouth to defend his honor, but she held up a finger to silence him, her smirk softening into something that made his knees feel like they were made of jelly.
"However," she continued, her voice dropping to a near-whisper that cut straight through the house music playing over the speakers. "I think I can find it in my heart to grant you a pardon tonight. Only because you went through the trouble of dedicating a Zeppelin track to me. And because you actually managed to hit those high notes without your voice cracking."
"It was a calculated risk," Eddie admitted, his cocky facade finally cracking into a genuine, beaming grin. "High stakes, high rewards. Does this mean the harsh critic is officially satisfied with the evening's entertainment?"
“Very satisfied," she purred, the words vibrating with a low resonance that seemed to travel straight down Eddie’s spine. She took another slow pull of her beer, her eyes never leaving his, and Eddie felt like he was a second away from short-circuiting. The bravado he’d spent the last hour projecting on stage suddenly felt like a suit of armor that was three sizes too big. He was Eddie Munson. He was supposed to have a witty comeback for everything. But standing this close to her, under the harsh yellow glow of the house lights, he found himself utterly tongue-tied. He looked down at his sneakers for a second, his rings catching the light as he nervously fidgeted with his belt loops.
"I, uh... good. Great. Excellent," he stammered, before mentally kicking himself for sounding like a broken record. He cleared his throat and looked back up, trying to regain his footing. "Can I... can I get you another one? Another beer, I mean. Not that I'm trying to ply the Bedford Siren with spirits, but the service in this establishment is notoriously slow unless you know the guy behind the tap."
She tilted her head, looking at the nearly empty bottle in her hand and then back at him. She seemed to weigh the request for a moment, a thoughtful glint in her eyes. "I think I can manage one more and still be okay to navigate the treacherous roads back to my realm," she decided, a playful smile tugging at her lips.
"Music to my ears," Eddie grinned.
Without thinking and driven by a sudden burst of "now or never" confidence, he reached out and took her hand. Her skin was cool compared to his post-show heat, her fingers slender but strong. He tugged her gently, weaving through the lingering crowd toward the bar. Eddie kept her close, his shoulder brushing against hers as he carved a path through the sweaty bodies and discarded plastic cups. When they reached the sticky wooden edge of the bar, he didn't let go of her hand. Instead, he leaned back against the counter, pulling her into the small space beside him, shielding her from the rowdy regulars with his own body.
"Hey, Rick!" Eddie barked, catching the bartender's eye with a wave. "Two more! And make 'em cold. We’ve got a VIP in the house tonight." Rick only rolled his eyes and grabbed two Coors out of the fridge and popped the bottle caps, setting them down before turning away without a word.
“He’s chatty,” she remarked, the corner of her mouth quirked in a grin as she claimed one of the sweating bottles. As she tilted it back to drink, Eddie reached out, his hand hovering briefly to arrest the movement. He held the crown of his own bottle out toward her, an unspoken invitation suspended in the space between them. For a fraction of a second, her gaze flickered with a quiet, curious confusion. The look of someone momentarily caught off guard by a sudden shift in the script. Then, the understanding settled in. She met the gesture with a deft movement, clinking her glass against his with a clack that punctuated the low roar of the bar.
Eddie lowered his bottle, a stray drop of condensation clinging to his thumb, and felt the intense beat of his heart finally begin to settle into something more sustainable. The bar was a riot of sound but tucked into this narrow sliver of space at the counter, the world felt strangely compressed. “So,” he started, leaning his weight onto his elbows. He shifted his weight, trying to find a pose that felt like effortless rockstar and less like a kid vibrating out of his skin. He watched her for a moment, the way she handled the grimy atmosphere of the Hideout as if she’d personally designed the decor. She was so composed, so entirely there, that Eddie felt a pang of certainty that she had lived a dozen lives while he was still stuck repeating his senior year. She likely had a string of Bloomington musicians in her wake. Guys who knew how to talk to a woman. College boys who had an actual future.
He cleared his throat. He wanted to say something smooth, something that suggested he was a man of the world, but his brain could only offer up a clumsy bridge between his two favorite worlds. “Now, I don’t want to presume the nature of your... mission to Hawkins,” Eddie began, his voice laced with a nervous energy he couldn't quite suppress. He toyed with the heavy silver ring on his thumb, his eyes darting to the label of her bottle before snapping back to hers. “But a guy could get the wrong idea. A girl drives all this way, braves the local fauna of the Hideout on a Tuesday? One might think she was looking for more than just a souvenir guitar pick.”
It was clunky. A bit too wordy and transparent. Eddie felt the heat of his own awkwardness prickling at the back of his neck. He watched her carefully, certain that a woman who carried herself with that kind of effortless gravity probably had a trail of much smoother, much more experienced men in her wake. He felt like a level-one bard trying to charm a high-level sorceress with a cantrip he’d only half-learned.
She didn’t laugh at him, though. Rather than letting him flounder in the awkward silence of his own making, she closed the distance, her boots scuffing as she pushed her way into his space. She didn't stop until her hip pressed into his side. Eddie’s breath hitched, his elbows sliding just a fraction on the bar as he found himself suddenly, wonderfully pinned by her proximity.
“You want to know the truth, Munson?” she murmured. “I haven’t been able to get our little encounter on Friday out of my head. Not once. I stared at the phone for two days, but I didn’t want to be the one to call. I didn't want to seem... overeager.”
Eddie’s brain short-circuited. The girl he’d been dreaming about had been sitting at home, thinking about him? The mental image of her wrestling with the same restless, pacing energy he’d been nursing since Friday felt like a victory more significant than any natural twenty he’d ever rolled.
She reached out then, her hand moving with a focused intent that made his heart threaten to beat out of his chest cavity. She didn’t go for his hand or his shoulder; instead, her fingers trailed upward, ghosting over the wild, untamed tangle of his curls. She caught a stray lock of dark hair between her fingers, testing the texture of it with a soft, appreciative hum. “And for the record,” she added, her eyes tracking the movement of her own hand as she tucked a curl behind his ear. “I love the hair.”
The bashfulness hit him then. Genuine reaction of a guy who had spent most of his life being told his appearance was a problem to be solved. He ducked his head slightly, his shoulders hunching as he offered her a small, lopsided smile that was far more vulnerable than anything he’d shown on stage. But then, a flicker of something else stirred beneath the bashfulness. A spark of the guy who had climbed onto cafeteria tables to face down the world. If she was going to bridge the gap, if she was going to stand there and tell him she’d been thinking of him, he wasn't going to let the moment slip away into a stuttering mess of apologies.
With a steadying breath that he hoped didn't look as shaky as it felt, he reached out. His movements were slow, giving her every second to pull away, but she stayed right where she was. He let his hand settle tentatively against her side, his palm finding the narrow, warm expanse of skin where her cropped shirt rode up above the dark denim of her jeans. The contact was electric. Her skin was soft, radiating a heat that seemed to travel directly up his arm and settle in the center of his chest. His thumb brushed against the curve of her waist, his rings feeling cold for a split second against her warmth before they acclimated to her. He felt the slight hitch of her breath beneath his touch.
Eddie’s pulse was frantic now, but as he looked at her, he didn't pull back. He kept his hand there as some sort of physical claim in the middle of the crowded bar. "I, uh... it's a lot of maintenance," he stammered, his voice sounding lower, roughened by the proximity and the sudden weight of his own hand against her. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of the suave persona he’d been projecting, even as his fingers curled slightly against her skin. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into him further, her body language shifting from a flirtatious challenge to something more intimate. Her hand settled on his shoulder, her fingers finding a different, thick strand of his hair. She began to toy with it, twisting the curl around her index finger as she looked up at him, her eyes soft and shining with a playful sort of surprise.
“Maintenance, huh?” she asked, her voice a low, rhythmic purr that seemed to vibrate right through his denim vest. “Tell me, Munson, does the Dungeon Master have a specific ritual?”
Eddie opened his mouth to answer, a rambling explanation about specific drug-store conditioners and the struggle of humidity already halfway up his throat. “Well, see, the trick is you can’t actually brush it when it’s dry, or you end up looking like a Pomeranian that’s been…”
He trailed off, the words dying as he caught the look in her eyes. She wasn’t actually listening for hair care tips. She was watching his lips move, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw while she continued to weave her fingers through his curls. The question was just a flimsy excuse to keep her hands on him. She let out a soft, throaty chuckle as his voice failed him, her gaze traveling over the vivid, traitorous heat that he could feel creeping up his neck and flooding his face.
“You know, for a guy who has that kind of stage presence, you really are something else when you’re flustered,” she murmured, her thumb ghosting over the apple of his cheek. “It’s incredibly endearing, Eddie.”
Eddie let out a shaky, self-deprecating breath, his hand on her waist tightening just a fraction as he tried to find his footing. “How is it possible?” he managed, his voice sounding raw and far more honest than he’d intended. “How are you so... grounded?I feel like I’m literally about to turn into a puddle right here. And you look like you’re just having a casual stroll through the park.”
A knowing, secret smile pulled at her lips. She leaned in closer, bridging the final inch of space until her lips were hovering just beside his ear, her breath a warm, tickling sensation against his skin. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she whispered, her voice a smooth, conspiratorial velvet. “I was a theatre nerd. Shakespeare, remember?” She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, her expression dancing with a mixture of mischief and warmth. “I’m not actually this cool, Eddie. I’m just very, very good at acting like I know exactly what I’m doing.”
Eddie’s hand stayed anchored at her waist, but his thumb went still against her skin as he processed her confession. The admission that she was "acting" should have made him feel more on her level, but instead, it sent a jolt of caution through his system. His mind flickered back. An unwelcome strobe light of a memory, to a rainy afternoon when he was thirteen. He could almost feel the sting of Ronnie’s gentle rejection, the hollow weight in his gut when he realized he’d completely misread their friendship. He couldn't do that again. Not with her.
“And what are you doing… exactly?” he asked, his voice barely more than a rough murmur. He tried to keep it light, to lace it with his usual eccentric curiosity, but the vulnerability he was trying to shield was leaking through the cracks. She didn't pull away. She let the strand of his hair go, her palm flattening against the back of his neck, her fingers tangling slightly in the curls at the nape. She looked at him, her eyes searching his with a steady, unblinking focus that made the air in his lungs feel heavy.
“The real question, Eddie,” she whispered, “is what do you wish I was doing?”
He let his gaze drop to her lips, then slowly back up to her eyes, his thumb tracing a deliberate, trembling arc against her waist. "I think," he began, "that if I actually answered that, the Dungeon Master would have to call for a wisdom saving throw. Because my wishes... aren't exactly PG-rated tonight, Bedford."
He leaned in that final, agonizing inch, until the tip of his nose brushed against hers. The world outside their small circle became a muffled, distant static. “Try me,” she whispered, looking up at him with encouraging wide eyes.
"I wish," he whispered, his breath hitching as he felt her fingers tighten at the nape of his neck, "that you’d stop acting for a second and you’d tell me if this script ends with me finally getting to see if you taste as good as you look, or if I’m destined to spend the rest of the night wondering if I’m just a fading curiosity."
She didn’t answer right away. She just stared at him, her gaze dropping to his lips with a heavy, lingering intent that made the air in Eddie’s lungs turn to lead. The silence stretched, thick and humming with the kind of electricity that usually preceded a lightning strike. Then, slowly, she pulled back just an inch, her eyes flicking toward the heavy oak door at the front of the bar before returning to his. “I’m dying for a smoke,” she said, her voice regaining a bit of that dry, practical edge. She gave his shoulder a playful pat, her hand sliding away from his neck. “And you... you should probably go pack up that Warlock of yours. It’s a lot of guitar to leave sitting on a stage in a place like this.”
Eddie felt the floor drop out from under him. The sudden withdrawal of her touch felt like a cold front moving in to replace the heat of a moment ago. He stood there, his hand still hovering awkwardly near the space where her waist had been, his mind racing to find where he’d tripped the wire. He’d been too bold. He’d overstepped. He’d taken a "try me" as an invitation and turned it into something too real, too fast.
“Right,” he managed, the word sounding hollow and brittle. He forced a stiff smile onto his face, his rings catching the light as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He started to turn away, his shoulders hunching in a defensive crouch, the familiar weight of rejection settling into his bones. He was already rehearsing the self-deprecating joke he’d tell Gareth later to mask the sting.
But before he could take a single step toward the stage, she moved. She bridged the gap again, tugging him back into her orbit. She leaned in, her lips finding the shell of his ear, her voice a low, secret vibration that cut through his spiraling thoughts. “Have a little faith, Sir Munson,” she whispered, her breath warm and smelling of vanilla. “I’m not making an exit. I’m just making sure there won't be any interruptions. I'll be by your van. Don't make me wait.” She pulled back, giving him a wink, before turning and heading toward the door with that same confident stride.
Eddie stood at the bar for a beat longer, his pulse thrumming in his ears, before he let out a breathless laugh. He turned and practically bolted toward the stage. Gareth and Jeff were already there, winding up cables and snapping latches on road cases, but their movements were sluggish. They were both staring at the front door as if expecting it to burst back open.
“So,” Gareth started, his voice a mixture of awe and genuine confusion as he looked at Eddie. “That was her? The actual manifestation of your hyper-fixation?”
“She’s real,” Jeff added, shaking his head. “And she was all over you. I think I saw your soul leave your body for a second there.”
Eddie reached for his Warlock, his fingers trembling with a newfound energy as he slid it into its coffin-shaped case. He tried to puff out his chest, catching his reflection in the stage monitors and attempting to summon a look of cool, calculated triumph. He adjusted his jacket, tossing his hair back with a flourish that was about sixty percent bravado and forty percent sheer panic. “What can I say, boys?” Eddie quipped, though his voice cracked just enough to betray him. “The lady has discerning taste. She knows a legendary bard when she sees one.” But as he snapped the last latch on his guitar case, the facade flickered. He leaned his forehead against the cold Tolex of the case for a fleeting second, letting out a long, shaky exhale. “Fuck,” he muttered, his eyes wide and slightly glazed. “I think I’m actually about to die. My heart is doing things it’s definitely not medically cleared to do.”
Gareth snorted, hoisting a drum throne over his shoulder. “Well, don't die on the stage. Rick’ll charge us a cleaning fee.”
“I can't stay,” Eddie said, suddenly galvanized, grabbing his gear with an urgency. “I shouldn’t keep her waiting. Every second I’m in here talking to you two losers is a second I’m risking her realizing she could do infinitely better.”
Jeff frowned, looking around the emptying bar. “Waiting? Where? She walked out the door, man. She’s probably halfway to the county line by now.”
Eddie offered a manic, lopsided grin as he began to back away toward the hallway, the Warlock case bumping against his leg. “She’s waiting by the van while I pack up to ‘ensure there are no interruptions’, I’ll have you know.”
The two of them stopped dead, exchanging a look. A slow, mischievous grin spread across Jeff’s face, and Gareth let out a low whistle that echoed through the darkening room. “The van?” Gareth repeated, a wicked glint in his eye. “In the parking lot? Damn, Munson.”
“Godspeed, Eddie,” Jeff called out, tossing a balled-up bit of tape from their cables toward him as a parting gift. Eddie didn't even bother with a retort. He just flipped the bird over his shoulder and disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, his mind already miles ahead of his feet, sprinting toward the cool night air and the girl waiting by the rusted-out GMC.
🎸⋆⭒˚.⋆
The drive from Hawkins to Bloomington was usually a mundane stretch of Indiana blacktop, but this Saturday evening, Eddie barely noticed the miles. His mind was a chaotic rewiring of the last four days, a highlight reel that played on a continuous loop behind his eyes.
Tuesday night in the back of the War Wagon was the undisputed headliner. The air in the van had been thick enough to choke on. Heavy with the scent of her vanilla perfume, the lingering metallic tang of the bar, and the humid heat of two people who had run out of words. He could still feel the weight of her. The way she’d climbed into his lap and draped herself over him like she belonged there. She’d been relentless. The agonizing friction as she rutted against his thighs, her hands tangled in his hair while he gripped her waist with a desperation that bordered on feral. He’d come so close to losing it right there in his denim, his breath hitching in a series of broken, pathetic sounds that she’d swallowed with open mouth kisses, before they’d finally forced themselves to call it a night.
She’d promised to call before she even climbed out of the back into the brisk air. And she’d kept that promise. Every single night since, the phone in the trailer had become Eddie’s lifeline. They talked until his ear went numb and Wayne started knocking on the wall, trading stories that went deeper than the "freak" persona he projected for the world.
Then there was Thursday. A mid-week fever dream where he’d pushed the van to its limit just to meet her at the edge of Bedford. They’d found a nondescript, neon-lit burger joint. The kind of place where the grease soaked through the paper bags before you even got to the window. It was perfect. He remembered the way she’d sighed, kicking off her boots and propping her sock-covered feet up on his dashboard, her toes wiggling to the rhythm of something on the radio. They hadn’t talked much then; they didn't need to. They’d just shared a strawberry shake and watched the lightning bugs congregate in the tall grass, the silence between them feeling more comfortable than any conversation he’d ever had with a girl in Hawkins. But now, the neon "OPEN" sign of the Bloomington blues bar was staring him down. Eddie adjusted the collar of his vest. He wasn't the frontman tonight; he was the visitor in her realm, and he was dying to see if the girl under the stage lights was the same one who’d left her footprints on his dashboard.
The heavy door of the Bloomington club swung shut, cutting off the humid Indiana night. The place felt different from the Hideout; the air was thinner, smelling more of expensive bourbon and old wood than stale PBR and regret. Eddie knew he was early, his internal clock having run on overdrive for the entire drive, so he kept his head down, slipping toward the mahogany bar. He ordered a Jack on the rocks and retreated to a shadowed corner table, a tactical position that offered a clear view of the modest stage.
He didn't have to wait long. A side door near the stage creaked open, and the band began to file out. Eddie leaned forward, his drink momentarily forgotten. He was struck first by the company she kept. He’d expected peers but these men were seasoned. They were middle-aged, faces etched with the kind of lines only decades of late nights and low lamplight could carve. One man, cradling a weathered saxophone, looked to be pushing sixty, his hair a shock of silver against a dark vest. And then, there she was.
She looked radiant, a sharp contrast to the lived-in grit of her bandmates. She was wearing a short, dark dress, paired with a vintage fur coat that was already beginning to slip provocatively down her shoulders. She looked like a starlet who had wandered into a noir film, her presence commanding the room before she even touched a microphone. As the house lights began to dim, a single blue spotlight cut through the haze, catching a flash of silver on her own hand that made Eddie’s heart stop.
They had been sitting in the cramped cabin of the War Wagon, the windows beginning to fog from the heat of their proximity. The radio was a low hum between them, and Eddie’s fingers had been restlessly tapping an uneven beat against the steering wheel. She had reached out, her cool hand catching his, stilling his movements. She didn't say a word as she looked at his hand, her eyes tracing the heavy silver of the ring on his index finger. A piece of gothic hammered metal he’d worn since he was fifteen. She’d slid it off his finger and onto her own. It was too big, hanging loose against her skin, but she didn't seem to mind. She just turned her hand over, admiring the weight of it.
Suddenly, the staticky speakers of the van had flared to life with the opening, upbeat chords of Suzi Quatro’s "Stumblin' In." She’d let out a small, breathless laugh, her shoulders hitching as she looked at the dashboard. "Oh, god," she’d murmured, her voice laced with a sudden, uncharacteristic bashfulness. "I love this song." She glanced at him, her eyes guarded as if she expected him to scoff. "I know, I know. I’m admitting to liking something soft and sugary to a god of metal like yourself. It’s probably a strike against my cool-girl credentials, isn't it?"
Eddie had looked at her, watching the way the neon light of the burger joint turned her features into a palette of pink and orange. Instead of the biting remark she’d clearly expected, he’d leaned his head back against the seat and started to sing. "Our love is alive, and so we begin..."
His voice wasn't the gravelly roar he used on stage; it was softer, a light, melodic baritone that caught the rhythmic swing of the track perfectly. He saw her eyes go wide, her mouth parting in a tiny "o" of genuine surprise. "Foolishly laying our hearts on the table," he continued, a playful, lopsided grin spreading across his face as he nudged her shoulder with his own. "Stumblin' in..."
She’d joined in then, her voice a rich, soulful harmony that bridged the gap between his metal world and her bluesy heart. In that moment, surrounded by the smell of fries and the glow of the radio dial, the genres didn't matter. They were just two kids in a van, finding the same tune.
Back in the present, under the blue light of the Bloomington stage, she gripped the fretboard of her guitar with that same hand. His ring still shining defiantly on her finger. She scanned the dark room, and for a moment, Eddie was certain her gaze locked onto his corner. The smirk she gave the microphone was a silent acknowledgment that she was glad he came.
She didn't introduce the band or offer a rehearsed greeting to the crowd. Instead, she simply nodded to the drummer behind her. The count-in was a sharp, clicking rhythm that was immediately drowned out by the deep, honey-thick growl of her ES-335. Watching her play was a different experience than seeing her lean over a music shop counter. Here, she was the authority. She moved with a controlled, swaying grace, her fingers dancing over the frets with a technical precision that made Eddie’s own style feel like a chaotic brawl.
Midway through the first set, the tempo dropped. The middle-aged bassist fell into a slow, walking groove, and the saxophonist stepped back into the shadows. She stepped up to the mic, the fur coat finally sliding completely off her shoulders to pool around her elbows, revealing the delicate line of her collarbones. She didn't look at the crowd this time. She looked straight toward the back corner, toward the flicker of the candle on Eddie’s table.
She didn't rush the microphone; she drifted toward it, her boots clicking softly against the wood as the band transitioned into a slow, dirty blues shuffle. She gripped the stand with both hands, the fur coat finally surrendering to gravity and slipping to the crook of her elbows.
“We’re gonna slow it down just a hair,” she said into the mic, her voice a low, honeyed rasp that made the ice in Eddie’s drink rattle as his hand shook. She scanned the dark room, her eyes eventually finding his corner and staying there, pinned and unwavering. “This next one goes out to a certain… traveler. A guy who thinks he’s a lot more dangerous than he actually is, but who knows exactly when to lean in.”
A few light chuckles rippled through the sophisticated crowd, but Eddie felt like he was the only person in the building. The band dropped into a heavy beat, the bass player’s thumb thumping out a rhythm that felt like a heartbeat against the floorboards. She leaned into the mic, her eyes hooded and dark, her voice a rich, soulful rasp as she delivered the opening line.
"These men that I've been seeing, baby... got their soul up on the shelf."
He’d spent years watching his peers. The guys who peacocked in the locker rooms or treated girls like trophies to be won and discarded. He thought of his own three boxes theory and realized how shallow he had been. But as she continued, her voice swelling with a gritty, uncompromising power, he realized she was cutting through all of it.
"You know they could never love me, When they can't even love themselves"
She was so casually stripping away the performance. Eddie watched the way she leaned her lips into the microphone, his silver ring catching the blue light as her fingers danced on the frets, and he felt a strange illumination in his chest. He knew what it was like to struggle with that. To hide behind a "freak" mask because the person underneath felt too small, too battered. And yet, all things considered Eddie knew who he was. The parts of himself he could control, he liked. When she reached the chorus, her gaze intensified, locking onto his with a heat that made the back of his neck prickle.
“I want a man to rock me like my backbone was his own. Darlin', I know you can”
The line hit him with the force of a freight train. His mind flashed back to Tuesday night, to the way he’d held her in the van, his hands shaking but steady enough to keep her close. He hadn't wanted to "take her for a ride"; he’d wanted to be exactly what she was asking for. Someone who could hold the weight of her without folding. Someone to be strong enough for the both of them.
She let the guitar do the talking for a moment. A stinging, bent note wailing out from the ES-335 that sounded like a cry for help and a declaration of war all at once. She moved with the music, her body swaying in a slow, hypnotic curve that made Eddie’s pulse hammer.
"I come home sad and lonely... feel like I wanna cry. I want a man to hold me, not some fool to ask me why."
There was a raw vulnerability in her delivery that moved him more than the technical skill of the band ever could. She was telling him what she needed. A man who understood the shadows. Someone who wouldn't put himself above her, or beneath her, but would simply stand beside her when the house lights went down. As she reached the final, lingering notes, her voice dropped to a near-whisper, a conspiratorial secret shared across the crowded room.
"Don't you put yourself above me... you just love me like a man."
The final chord decayed and for a long moment, the bar stayed silent. Eddie sat in the shadows, his drink forgotten, his eyes wide and bright. He felt seen in a way that terrified him, but as she stepped back from the mic and offered him one last, lingering smirk, he knew he wasn't going to run. Eddie lifted his glass, the amber liquid catching the last of the blue stage light, and offered a silent, steady toast to the air between them. He capped it with a slow, deliberate wink before taking a long pull of the whiskey.
As the band transitioned into a more upbeat, rhythmic shuffle, Eddie sank back into the shadows of his booth, letting the music wash over him like a tide. She stayed at the microphone for a few more tracks, her voice weaving through the smoky air with an effortless, practiced soul. She shared a few harmonies with the older saxophonist, her head tilted back, a small, genuine smile playing on her lips that seemed to say she was exactly where she was meant to be. She sang a haunting, low-tempo cover of a Janis Joplin track that made the hair on Eddie's arms stand up, and later, she retreated to the edge of the stage to provide a steady, driving rhythm for a long, improvisational bass solo.
But for Eddie, none of it quite reached the heights of that Bonnie Raitt cover. The lyrics to Love Me Like a Man were etched into his brain, playing on a loop alongside the memory of her fingers tracing his silver ring. It was a heavy thing to ask of someone and Eddie found himself wondering if he was actually up to the task. He was used to being the one who needed an audience, the one who filled the silence with noise to keep the dark at bay. It was a new kind of quest, one where the monsters weren't made of lead and paint, but of shared history and quiet, lonely nights. Eventually, the set wound down. The silver-haired drummer let out a final, resonant crash of the cymbals, and the house lights began their slow, amber climb back toward reality. The applause was warm and lingering, a sophisticated roar that filled the room as the band began to unstrap their instruments.
Eddie watched as she handed her Gibson off to the older man, her movements tired but graceful. She didn't head for the stage room or linger to talk to the regulars who were already drifting toward the stage to offer their compliments. Instead, she grabbed her fur coat from the back of an amp from where she’d tossed it towards the end of the set, slinging it over one shoulder.
While the band had been taking their final bows, Eddie had made a quick retreat to the bar, navigating the cluster of Bloomington jazz-heads to flag down the bartender. The man had looked Eddie over, eyes lingering just a second on the denim vest and the chaotic hair, before his expression softened into something knowing. "She’s a powerhouse, isn't she?" the bartender had murmured, already reaching for a heavy-bottomed rocks glass. "Her usual is an Old Fashioned. Extra bitters, easy on the sugar. She likes the bite."
Now, as she reached the table, Eddie slid the condensation-beaded glass toward her. The orange peel twist caught the low light, glowing like an ember against the dark wood.
Her eyebrows shot up, a tired but genuine smile breaking across her face. "An Old Fashioned? You’ve been doing your homework."
"I have my sources," Eddie quipped. "I figured a goddess of your stature shouldn't have to fetch her own libations after a performance like that."
She didn't stay on the other side of the table. Instead, she rounded the edge of the booth and curled up onto the vinyl seat right next to him. She didn't leave a polite gap either as she pressed herself directly into his space. Eddie felt the air leave his lungs as she settled in, her thigh flushing against his in a move that was as forward as the lyrics she’d just sung. She took a slow, appreciative sip of the drink, her eyes closing for a brief second as the bite of the bourbon hit her tongue. When she opened them, she was looking up at him from under her lashes, the silver of his ring flashing as she rested her hand on the table, dangerously close to his own.
“So,” she murmured, her voice a low vibration that seemed to pull the shadows of the booth tighter around them. “Did the reality live up to the day dream, Munson? Or do I need to go back up there and do an encore to keep your interest?”
Eddie looked down at her. The proximity was intoxicating. The scent of the stage, the vanilla, and the sharp, citrusy tang of her drink all swirling into a cocktail that made his head spin. He didn't pull back. He leaned his head against the back of the booth, turning his face just enough so that he could catch the heat of her gaze. “Interest was never the problem,” he admitted.
Slowly, she reached out, her hand disappearing beneath the edge of the table to slide firmly across his denim-covered thigh. Her fingers moved with a slow, agonizing deliberation, the pressure of her palm sending a jolt of heat straight to his core. She looked up at him through the dark fringe of her lashes, her eyes heavy with a look that made the smoky air in the bar feel ten degrees hotter. "Yeah?" she asked, the word a soft, sultry challenge that hung in the air between them.
Eddie swallowed hard. He looked at her, noticing the way she was looking at him like he was the only thing in the room worth seeing. "Yeah," he whispered, nodding slowly. "I'm always stuck in this... middle ground with you. Half the time, I’m trying so hard to be the guy who deserves to stand next to you. And the other half? I just want to drop the act. I want to tell you all the dorky, uncool things I love without apologizing for any of it."
He let out a shaky breath, his own hand finding hers beneath the table, his fingers lacing through hers. "I'm stuck between wanting to just hold your hand and walk through a park like we're in some cheesy rom-com... and wanting to get you out of here right now." He paused, his gaze dropping to her lips before flicking back to her eyes, his pupils blown wide. "I want to find out if you're just as pretty underneath me as you are standing under those blue lights."
She didn't flinch at the intensity of his gaze. If anything, she leaned in closer, her thumb tracing the seam of his jeans while she studied the vulnerability etched into his face. The smoke-heavy air of the club seemed to hold its breath as she tilted her head. "Eddie," she murmured, her voice dropping the sultry lilt for something far more direct. "Have you ever had sex?"
Eddie froze, his mind instantly spiraling. He could lie. He could weave some elaborate, rock-star tale of a wild night after a gig. Something involving a groupie and a motel room and she’d probably believe him. He was nineteen, after all. He was supposed to have a few notches on his belt. But as he looked at her, seeing the way his ring caught the amber light on her finger, the lie died in his throat. He realized he didn't want to give her a performance. Not after the song she’d just sung for him.
"No," he admitted, the word sounding small and startlingly honest. He let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh, his gaze dropping to the table. "Believe it or not, there isn't exactly a long, winding line of girls in Hawkins eager to jump into bed with the long haired, super-senior freak."
He felt a sharp pang of shame. The weight of his reputation in that small, narrow-minded town suddenly felt like a lead weight. He waited for her to realize she was wasting her time. Instead, she hummed. "Well," she said, her voice reclaiming that teasing, melodic edge as she tightened her grip on his hand beneath the table. She leaned in until her lips were ghosting just beneath the shell of his ear, "I think those girls in Hawkins must be even more boring and stupid than you let on.”
"I don’t know, I think they just have a very healthy survival instinct," Eddie muttered, his eyes darting to his drink. He tried to rely on his usual shield of self-deprecation, a nervous twitch pulling at the corner of his mouth. "I’m an acquired taste, like... black licorice."
She didn't laugh. Instead, she reached out with her free hand, her fingers catching his chin and firmly turning his face back to hers. She shook her head, her expression settling into something intensely serious, stripping away the layers of his defense until he felt completely exposed. "Stop it," she commanded softly. "I’m not being nice. You are, without a doubt, the coolest guy I’ve ever met."
Eddie’s breath hitched, the joke he’d been about to make dying in his throat.
"You’re incredibly talented," she continued, her voice a low, steady anchor. "You get what it’s like to have a home life that isn't exactly a Hallmark card, which is a rare thing in this corner of the world. And you’re the only person I know who doesn't look at me like I’ve grown a second head when I randomly drop into Shakespearean English."
She leaned in, the thumb of her hand on his thigh traced the heavy denim seam again, her voice dropping into a register that made his entire body hum. "I may have only known you a week, Eddie Munson, but I’ve already spent a significant amount of time imagining things." She paused, her smirk returning. "Some of it is wholesome. Like how cute you looked with mustard on your cheek or how adorable it is after it rained and your hair gets all frizzy. But mostly, I’ve been wondering what it would be like if you played me as well as you play that Warlock."
Eddie choked.
A genuine, undignified sputter as he inhaled a bit of his Jack and Coke at the exact moment she finished that sentence. He coughed into his fist, his face turning a shade of red, until he finally managed to clear his throat and blink the stinging tears from his eyes.
"Right," he rasped, his voice an octave higher than usual before he settled it back down. "Okay. Message received. Loud and clear. Critical hit." He leaned in, his fingers twitching against his glass. "Is there... I mean, hypothetically, if I were to act on that very specific and terrifyingly enticing invitation… assuming that was actually an invitation… is there somewhere we can go? Because I don't think my van is quite the private chamber you deserve tonight."
She smiled, a slow, cat-like curve of her lips as she watched him recover. "My aunt is out of town for the weekend," she whispered, her hand finally sliding up from his thigh to lace her fingers with his on the table. "The house is quiet. And very, very empty."
Eddie didn't even hesitate. "Can I follow you back? I’ll stick to your bumper like glue, I swear."
"Actually," she said, tilting her head toward the stage, "I could use a ride. I tagged along with the bassist tonight since my car’s been making a sound like a dying cat."
Eddie didn't answer with words. He grabbed his glass and downed the rest of his drink in one determined swallow, the ice clinking against his teeth. She followed suit, tilting her head back to finish her Old Fashioned. "Wait here," she commanded, sliding out of the booth.
He watched her weave back toward the stage, her fur coat swinging around her hips. She leaned over to the silver-haired drummer and the older bassist, nodding toward Eddie as she made her excuses. The bassist, the one who looked like he’d seen everything twice, looked over at Eddie and barked a laugh, saying something low that made the drummer grin and shake his head. Eddie stood up, his legs feeling a little like jelly, and met her halfway as she grabbed her Gibson case. He reached for it before she could lift the heavy weight, his hand brushing hers.
"Careful with her, kid," the bassist called out, leaning over the edge of the stage with a toothy, mischievous grin.
"Knock it off, Lou!" she shot back, waving him off with a roll of her eyes. She grabbed Eddie’s free arm, her fingers digging into his leather sleeve, and began pulling him toward the side exit. "Ignore them. They’ve been playing bars since the Mesozoic era. They tend to think they’re hilarious."
They burst out of the side door and into the cool, humid night air of Bloomington. Eddie led the way, his sneakers hitting the pavement in a quick shuffle. He fumbled with his keys as they reached the van, the rusted GMC looking like a majestic carriage in the yellow glow of the streetlights. He threw the side door open and tossed her guitar case onto the bench seat before turning to help her up. "Watch the step," he breathed, his eyes wide and dark as he looked at her in the moonlight.
Eddie practically hoisted her into the van, his hands lingering on her waist for a split second longer than necessary just to feel the heat of her through the dress. Once she was settled, he slammed the heavy door shut with a triumphant thud and sprinted around the front. He vaulted into the driver’s seat and keyed the ignition. The engine turned over with a guttural, rattling roar that felt entirely appropriate for the state of his nerves. He didn't waste time. He threw the van into gear and tore away from the curb, the tires chirping as he pointed the War Wagon toward the highway that led back to Bedford.
Beside him, she didn't seem bothered by the sudden G-force. She leaned forward, her fur coat spilling over the center console as she began to dig through the disorganized mountain of cassettes littering the floorboards. She tossed aside a few home-recordings before her eyes lit up. "A call back," she murmured, sliding Holy Diver into the tape deck.
The opening synthesized growl of "Stand Up and Shout" exploded through the van's mismatched speakers, the riff immediately filling the cramped cabin. Eddie found himself drumming his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat. "Good choice, Bedford!" he shouted over the music, a wild, reckless grin splitting his face as they hit the open road.
They had just cleared the final flickering streetlights of Bloomington’s city limits, the dark, rolling hills of the Indiana countryside swallowing the highway, when the atmosphere inside the van shifted. The neon glow of the dashboard caught the wicked curve of her smile as she turned in her seat. She didn't say a word. She just leaned across the console and reached out. Eddie’s breath hitched as he felt her cool fingers find the metal button of his jeans.
"Eyes on the road, Munson," she purred, her voice nearly lost under Dio's soaring vocals.
Eddie’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles went white, his heart performing a frantic, chaotic solo against his ribs. The highway was a blur of gray and black, and for a terrifying, wonderful second, he forgot exactly how to breathe. "I... uh...," he managed to stammer, his head falling back against the headrest as he felt the button pop. "Right. The road. Keeping my eyes... on the road."
The heavy bassline of Dio’s anthem pulsed through the space, but it was quickly eclipsed by the rush of blood in Eddie’s ears. He felt the cool slide of the zipper, a sound he felt more than heard, followed by the sudden, sharp relief of the cool night air against his skin as she cleared the path. She didn't hesitate. With a fluid, cat-like grace, she slid out of the passenger seat and knelt in the narrow, carpeted gap between the two pilot chairs. The van hit a small dip in the highway, but she braced herself against his thigh, her touch grounding him even as his head began to swim. When she leaned forward and took him into her mouth, the world outside the windshield ceased to exist.
Eddie’s head snapped back against the headrest, his eyes fluttering shut as a groan tore from his throat. It was a raw, unfiltered sound that drowned out Ronnie Dio’s soaring vocals. His hands cramped around the steering wheel, his knuckles white and shaking, as he struggled to remember the basic mechanics of driving.
"Jesus," he gasped.
The sensation was overwhelming. A localized explosion of heat and friction that made every nerve ending in his body scream. He was nineteen, operating on a decade's worth of built-up anticipation and a week's worth of agonizing tension. Having experienced this long awaited act was almost more than his system could handle. He felt the occasional glide of his own silver ring against his skin as she used her hand to guide what she couldn’t take in her mouth, and it sent a fresh wave of electricity straight up his spine. He fought the urge to look down, knowing that if he did, he’d lose whatever precarious grip he had on his remaining sanity, not to mention, the steering wheel.
"You're... you're gonna be the death of me," he managed to choke out, his chest heaving as he stared blindly at the road ahead, his hips jerking involuntarily upward into her warmth. "The absolute... death of me."
The dashboard hummed with the vibrations of the music, but Eddie felt like he was being slowly dissolved from reality. In his head he’d rehearsed this a thousand times. He’d read the descriptions in the back of the dirty paperbacks Wayne kept in the trailer, heard the guys in the locker room talk about it and had certainly spent enough lonely nights in his bedroom imagining the mechanics. He’d assumed it would feel nice. In theory, the idea of a warm, wet environment pulling at him was a solid concept. A gold-tier fantasy. But theory was a pale, flickering candle compared to the bonfire currently happening in his lap.
It wasn't just the warmth, though that was a shock in itself. It was the intensity of the suction. Every time she moved, her tongue swirled or her throat tightened around him, and a new wave of pleasure surged up his spine, short-circuiting his brain until he couldn't remember his own middle name. The actual experience was a sensory overload he hadn't been prepared for. It was a visceral, bone-deep sensation of being wanted, and of being the sole focus of someone who knew exactly how to dismantle him. He’d spent his life playing the role of Hawkin’s “Freak". Al, the dead beat Munson’s boy. The guy everyone looked down on. But right here, in the narrow gap between two pilot seats, he felt like a king.
As she increased the pace, her hand guiding him with a firm, steady grip, Eddie’s vision blurred. The white lines of the highway ahead became long, glowing streaks of light. The world was narrowing down to a single point of white-hot sensation until an aggressive blare of a horn shattered the spell. The left tires hugging the yellow line as an oncoming sedan flashed its high beams in warning. The sudden jolt of adrenaline was a cold bucket of water. Eddie yanked the wheel back to the right, his heart leaping into his throat for an entirely different reason. She pulled back just an inch as she looked up at him with a look of unbothered mischief.
"I said eyes on the road, Munson," she murmured before she leaned back in with a renewed, predatory vigor.
"I can't–I'm gonna–" Eddie’s words came out jumbled. The combination of near-death on the asphalt and the expert movements happening in his lap was too much. He couldn't keep the van between the lines and keep his soul from leaving his body at the same time. With a shaky hand, he flicked the indicator and guided the GMC onto the gravel shoulder, the tires crunching loudly as they came to a rolling stop. He threw the van into park, the engine idling. He reached down, his fingers lacing into the hair at the nape of her neck. He didn't pull, but he held her there, his knuckles brushing the soft skin behind her ear. "Is this... you're okay? I'm not..." he trailed off, his voice thick and uncertain. He wanted this more than his next breath, but the gentleman buried under the denim and chains needed to hear it. She didn't speak. She just looked up at him, her eyes wide in the dim light of the cabin, and gave a firm, decisive nod.
That was all the permission he needed.
Eddie let out a sound as he finally let go of the restraint. He guided her back down, his hand steadying her as he pushed deeper, the raw reality of her throat closing around him far more intense than any fantasy. He bucked upward, his hips moving. She let out a muffled, involuntary gag as he hit the back of her throat, her eyes watering but never leaving his. The vulnerability of it, the sheer trust of her letting him do this, sent him over the edge. He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers tightening in her hair as he finally came. His body racked with a series of long, shuddering tremors that felt like they were shaking the very frame of the van.
Eddie sat there for a minute, his head lolling back against the headrest while his chest heaved in uneven bursts. The world was slowly reassembling itself. The smell of the old upholstery, the distant hum of the idling engine, and the fading wail of a guitar solo on the stereo. He felt heavy, light, and completely hollowed out all at once. Eventually, he forced his eyes open, looking down at her as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looking remarkably composed given she’d just dismantled him.
“Holy… sweet mother of Mary,” he managed to croak out. Panic suddenly flared in his brain. He began to dig frantically through the center console, his rings clattering against loose change and old guitar picks. “Gum. I have gum. Somewhere. I know I have a pack in here for emergencies.” He finally unearthed a crumpled yellow pack and held it out to her with a hand that was still visibly trembling. “In case you, uh… want to get the taste of the Hawkins freak out of your mouth.”
She let out a soft, throaty laugh that made his stomach flip, taking a piece and giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Thanks, Munson. You’re a real peach.”
She moved, sliding back into the passenger seat and pulling her fur coat back up over her shoulders. Eddie stayed where he was, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, trying to convince his legs that they still knew how to operate pedals. After a few steadying breaths, he reached across the console. He simply took her hand, his thumb tracing the silver ring of his she was still wearing. He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to her knuckles. “That was amazing,” he whispered, his eyes dark and sincere as he looked at her. “Truly. But you’ve officially ruined this van for me, Bedford.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Ruined it?”
“Yeah,” Eddie grinned. “Because now, every single time I’m behind this wheel, even if I’m just driving Gareth to practice or going to get cigarettes, I am going to be vividly imagining road head.”
She watched him, her head tilted against the headrest, with a satisfied smile playing on her lips. She looked utterly unbothered, almost serene in the dim amber glow of the dashboard. But as the silence stretched, the manic grin on Eddie’s face began to falter. A flicker of something else crossed his features. He looked down at his lap, then back at her, his expression softening into something uncharacteristically quiet and heavy.
"What?" she asked, her voice dropping the sultry edge for something more curious. She reached out, her finger tracing the line of his jaw. "What’s that look for?
Eddie let out a long, slow breath, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. "I just..." He paused, "I feel like a bit of a prick, honestly. I’m sitting here making jokes about road head and my van being ruined, and you just... you did that. For me." He looked at her then, his big, dark eyes wide. "And as much as I loved every agonizing second of it, it feels a little one-sided for my taste. I don’t want to be the guy who just... takes."
He shifted the van back into drive, but he didn't let up on the break yet. He leaned over the console. "I’d really like to get back to your place, Bedford," he whispered. "Because I’d very much like the chance to show you exactly how thankful I am.”
She didn't say a word, but the way her breath hitched and her pupils dilated told him all he needed to know. "Well then, Munson," she murmured, a glimmer of challenge in her eyes. "I suggest you stop talking and start driving.
The twenty-minute crawl toward Bedford was the most exquisite form of torture Eddie had ever endured. The adrenaline from the roadside stop was still humming in his veins, but it had shifted. He couldn't just sit there with his hands at ten and two. Not after that. Tentatively, his hand migrated across the console, his palm finding the smooth, exposed skin of her thigh where the dress had ridden up. The warmth of her was startling. He let his fingers trail upward, tracing the soft curve of her leg with a slow deliberation.
Out of the corner of his eye, he kept a constant, flickering watch on her. He was terrified of overplaying his hand, and assuming that he had a permanent green light. But every time he looked over, she was leaning back against the seat, her head tilted toward him with an expression that was nothing short of encouraging. “Left at the next light, Munson,” she murmured, her voice like velvet.
As he turned the wheel, his hand moved a fraction higher, his thumb grazing the very edge of her hem. The absolute frustration of being strapped into a vibrating metal box while the person he wanted to dismantle was sitting inches away becoming almost unbearable. Yet, the frustration of the drive was being rapidly eclipsed by a spike of anxiety that began to twist in his gut. It was one thing to act the part of the confident lead guitarist, but the reality of a stationary bed and four quiet walls was starting to loom like a boss battle he hadn't leveled up for. Eddie’s mind was suddenly sprinting through every worst-case scenario. He was acutely aware of every flaw. The way his ribs poked out a bit too much, the spastic energy he couldn't always turn off, the fact that his experience was limited to grainy magazines and his own vivid imagination.
"You're awfully quiet over there, Munson," she said, her voice cutting through his spiraling thoughts.
Eddie swallowed hard, his throat feeling tight. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to admit that his heart was currently trying to exit his ribcage. But he also didn't want to break the spell. He wanted to be the man she asked for in that song. He squeezed her thigh, and forced a breath out through his nose. "Just concentrating on the road," he lied. “Gotta make sure the Princess gets back to her tower in one piece.”
Sensing the sudden, tight tension in his frame, she reached down and laced her fingers through his, her palm pressing firmly against the back of his hand. Eddie almost groaned aloud when the contact made it undeniable. His fingers were shaking. She didn't pull away or laugh. Instead, she leaned over the center console, her shoulder pressing into his arm. "There is absolutely nothing to be nervous about, Eddie," she murmured.
"I beg to differ," he countered, his voice cracking just enough to make him wince. He kept his eyes fixed on the dark ribbon of the highway, but his grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled. "You’ve already proven, quite wonderfully, I might add, that you’re a goddamn expert in this arena. Meanwhile, I’m feeling like I’m flying a plane in the middle of a storm with no radar and a manual written in a language I don't speak. I don't want to be a disappointment, Bedford."
She squeezed his hand, her thumb tracing the silver rings on his fingers. "Look at me," she commanded softly. He flicked his gaze toward her for a split second before returning it to the road, but the heat in her eyes was enough to make his head swim. "Do you trust me?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered instantly, and he realized with a start that he meant it. It wasn't just about the prospect of sex. It was about the way she looked at him. The way she heard the music in his head, and the way she didn't flinch at him the way everyone else did. "And are you willing to listen to me?"
"Of course," he rasped. "I'm a very attentive student. Well, if you don't count the super-senior thing."
A small, genuine smile touched her lips, and she leaned in closer until her breath was hot against his ear. "Then you have nothing to worry about." The knots in his stomach didn't disappear, but they loosened just enough for him to breathe again. He squeezed her hand back. “Right here,” she whispered, pointing toward a narrow lane lined with overgrown maples.
Eddie turned the wheel, the tires crunching onto a gravel driveway that tucked back away from the street. He put the van in park, the engine giving one final, shuddering rattle before falling silent. He took a moment to just look at the place. It wasn't the sprawling, pristine estate he might have expected for a girl who looked like she belonged on a velvet-lined stage. It was a simple, small historic house. The kind with deep eaves and white siding that had grayed over decades of Indiana winters. A bit decrepit around the edges. A loose shingle here, a slightly sagging porch step there, but it had a soul. A single lamp cast a warm, buttery glow through the living room curtains, and the porch light flickered behind a frosted glass shade, welcoming them into the quiet. It felt lived-in. It felt safe. It felt like the kind of place where the rest of the world couldn't find them.
"Home sweet home," she said softly.
Eddie hopped out of the driver's side, moving with a quietness that was unusual for him. He met her at the side of the van, his sneakers barely making a sound on the gravel as he swung the heavy sliding door open. He reached in and grabbed the Gibson case, handling the instrument with care. She led the way up the front steps, her fur coat swaying under the porch light. Eddie followed a step behind, his eyes fixed on the way she moved.
She fished her keys out of her coat pocket. She turned the lock and pushed the door open, and Eddie stepped over the threshold. He didn't say a word, he just followed her into the warmth of the house, the scent of old wood and dried lavender wrapping around him as the door clicked shut behind them. She lingered by the door for a moment, the heavy fur of her coat slipping slightly as she turned to face him. "Can I... get you anything?" she asked, her voice sounding different now. "I’ve got tea, or I think there’s some wine left in the kitchen."
Eddie paused, his throat still feeling like he’d swallowed a handful of dry Indiana dust. "Water would be a godsend, actually," he rasped, offering a small, tired smile.
She nodded toward the back of the house. "Kitchen’s through here."
Eddie moved into the living room, moving gingerly as if he might break the stillness. He found a spot for the guitar case near an old, velvet-backed armchair. When he straightened up, he noticed her still standing near the entryway. She was shifting her weight, her fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on her dress’s hemline. "I... sorry," she said, her eyes scanning the room as if seeing it through a stranger’s eyes for the first time. "I realized as we were walking up that I don't really bring people around here. Like, ever. And it’s... it’s a bit of a mess. My aunt isn't exactly a decorator, and the floorboards creak if you breathe on them too hard."
Eddie let out a short, genuine scoff, his head shaking as he looked around the cozy, slightly cluttered space. He took in the stacks of books, the mismatched rugs, and the faint scent of old paper. "Bedford, look at me," he said, stepping back into her space. He gestured vaguely toward the worn denim, the rings, the messy hair that had been through the wringer tonight. "I live in a double-wide trailer with my Uncle. The decor consists of empty beer cans, an aggressive amount of mugs and trucker hats and my half-finished D&D maps. There are layers of dust that are probably older than I am. Clean is a concept I only understand in theory." He took another step closer, his voice dropping. "This place? It’s got a soul. It’s nice. Really."
She looked up at him, the tension in her shoulders finally beginning to dissolve. "Okay," she breathed, a small, relieved smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Water. Right. I'll be back in a second."
Eddie watched her disappear into the kitchen, the floorboards indeed giving a friendly, familiar groan under her boots. He stood in the center of the living room, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, and realized that there was a possibility that she was just as nervous as he was. Only that she’d been better at hiding it up till this point.
He had spent the entire week viewing her as this untouchable, mythic entity. A siren who had stepped out of a folk song and landed in his passenger seat. He’d been so preoccupied with his own shaking hands and the fear of being "just a freak" that he hadn’t considered the quiet weight she was carrying. Seeing her stand there, apologizing for the creak of a floorboard or a stack of unread mail, humanized her in a way that made his chest ache.
He scanned the room again, really looking this time. There were stacks of film theory books on the coffee table next to a bowl filled with take out menus. A stray guitar pick sat on the mantel next to a framed, grainy photo of an older woman laughing in a garden. This was the place where she didn't have to be the girl with the Gibson. She was just a girl living in a town that probably didn't understand her any more than Hawkins understood him.
He heard the tap run in the kitchen, the plumbing letting out a distant rattle. He pulled his hands from his pockets and started to pace the small area of the rug. When she stepped back into the living room, she was holding two mismatched glasses of water. She’d shed the fur coat and in the soft light of the single lamp, she looked smaller. She walked over and handed him a glass, her fingers brushing his, and Eddie noticed that her own hand wasn't as steady as it had been on the highway. "Here," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Eddie took a long sip, the water soothing his parched throat, but his eyes never left hers. He set the glass down on a ceramic coaster and reached out, gently catching her wrist. "Hey," he said, "You don't have to put on a show for me here. The Blues Siren routine is great, don't get me wrong but I’m pretty fond of the girl who lives in the creaky house, too."
She didn’t look away this time, but her eyes seemed to fix on a point just past his shoulder. "I'm just..." she started, her voice sounding raw. "I'm not used to people actually seeing me. Not the performance, not the girl on stage with the Gibson. Just... this. And liking it."
She leaned her hip against the back of the armchair, her fingers tracing the worn velvet. "I was a total pariah in high school, Eddie. I wasn't the cool, mysterious girl back then. I was the girl people avoided because I was 'weird' or 'too much.' I never really had friends growing up. The two or three people who tolerated me packed up and left the second they got their diplomas, and I can't say I blame them."
She let out a dry, mirthless laugh. "When I got to college, I realized I could just... reinvent. I could fake the confidence. I could be this person because nobody there knew every cringey, desperate thing I did as a teenager just to keep people from messing with me. I built a character so I wouldn't have to be the girl who ate lunch in the library anymore."
"Hey," he said, his voice soft but firm as he reached out, taking both of her hands in his. He squeezed them, forcing her to feel the callouses of his palms. "Look at me. " He waited until her eyes locked onto his. "You think I don't get that? I’m the guy who stood on a cafeteria table and made a speech about being non conformists just last week. I’m a guy who wears all this like it's a suit of armor because if I don't look like I’m dangerous, they’ll realize I’m just a guy who likes to play pretend in a dusty room with my dorky friends. Everything I do is all just a way to survive high school without losing my goddamn mind."
He took a step closer, closing the gap until the warmth of her breath was ghosting over his lips.
"I would never judge you for that. Not in a million years. Especially not for the stuff you do to get by, because I’m doing the exact same dance. If you want to be the confident chick out there, that’s fine. I’ll be your biggest fan. But in here?" He leaned down, his forehead resting gently against hers. "You don't have to fake a single thing."
The tension in her hands finally snapped, and she leaned into him, her face hiding in the crook of his neck. Eddie wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against his chest, feeling the frantic beat of her heart finally start to sync up with his. Eddie pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands resting on her shoulders. He felt a protectiveness that overrode his own hormones. He might have been dying for the chance to finally cross that finish line, but the guy who looked out for the lost sheep of the Hellfire Club wasn't about to let her feel like she had to perform for him just to keep him interested.
"Hey," he whispered, his thumbs tracing the line of her collarbone. "You know we don't have to do... anything, right? The highway stuff was incredible, and I am definitely a fan of your work, but we can just hang out. We can put on a movie, or just sit here and talk. I’ve actually got some pretty decent weed back in the van if you’d rather just get high and forget the world exists for a few hours."
She pulled back, her eyes searching his face with a flicker of skepticism. Her brow arched as she studied his sincerity. "Are you telling me, Eddie Munson, that after everything I just did in that van, you’re offering to go back out into the cold for a bag of weed and a movie?"
Eddie let out a self-deprecating laugh, his ears turning a faint pink. "I’m saying I like you. And I don't want you to feel like you’re on a stage in your own living room. If you’re tired, or if you’re just in your head too much right now, I’m good. I’m content just being in the same zip code as you."
She looked at him for a long beat. Then, the skepticism melted. She leaned closer, closing the small gap, and the vulnerability in her gaze shifted into heat that made his breath catch. "I appreciate the offer, Eddie," she said, her voice dropping back into that bluesy rasp that always made his knees feel like they were made of water. She reached out, her fingers hooking into the collar of his leather jacket and pulling him down until their noses brushed. "I really do. But..." She gained confidence with every syllable, her smirk returning. "I don't want to get high and I definitely don't want to watch a movie," she murmured, her eyes dropping to his mouth before locking back onto his. "I want to get you into my bedroom, where I want to take those ridiculous chains off you.”
He managed to find his smirk again, though it was a little lopsided and breathless. He stepped back, giving her a theatrical, sweeping bow that sent his hair cascading over his shoulders and his silver chains rattling as if to punctuate her sentiment at how ridiculous they were. "Well, in that case," he said, his voice dropping into a playful, faux-chivalrous rumble, "lead the way, milady."
She let out a genuine laugh that echoed through the quiet house. The sound finally chasing away the last of the awkwardness. She reached out, swiping a lock of hair from his face as she stepped past him, her hand trailing along the wall as she headed toward the narrow hallway. "Follow the creaking floorboards, Munson," she tossed back over her shoulder, her hips swaying under the silk of her dress.
Eddie straightened up, and as he started to follow her, he caught the faint, amused whisper she breathed into the dark hallway. "Dork." A ridiculous grin broke across Eddie’s face. He didn't even mind. In fact, coming from her, it sounded like the highest compliment he’d ever received. The bedroom door clicked shut behind them before he truly had time to process it. Eddie stood for a moment, his back against the wood, just taking it in. If the living room was a sanctuary, this was the inner sanctum. It was a chaotic, beautiful explosion of everything she was when the world wasn't looking.
High on the walls, old black-and-white movie posters were tacked up next to charcoal sketches that looked fresh, the edges of the paper still smudged. An easel stood in the corner, a half-finished canvas draped in a thin cloth, surrounded by a minefield of paint tubes and jars of murky water. One entire wall was dominated by a music system that looked like it cost more than his van, flanked by a library of vinyl and cassettes that made his own collection look like a starter kit. And there, glowing under the soft light of a beaded lamp, was a rack holding three guitars. A Fender, a battered acoustic, and a sleek black Gretsch that looked like it could kill a man.
"Damn, Bedford," he whispered, his eyes wide. "You’ve got a whole ecosystem in here." Eddie didn't wait for an invitation this time. He stepped into her space and slid his hands around her waist. He pulled her flush against him looking down at her. "You're incredible," he murmured. He leaned down, and when their lips met, the kiss was different. It wasn't the desperate clash they’d shared in the van.
As the kiss deepened, Eddie’s mind started to betray him.
He was a guitarist. His hands were his livelihood. He knew how to bend a string until it wailed. But as he held her, a sudden, paralyzing wave of uncertainty washed over him. He realized with a jolt that his hands were currently the most important tools in the room, and he had absolutely no blueprint for how to use them. Sure, they’d made out. He knew the basic geometry of a girl’s waist and the way the back of her neck felt. But this was different. This was the moment where "making out" turned into "making love," and the technicality of it all started to feel like an exam he hadn't studied for.
Where was he supposed to start? Should he reach for the zipper of her dress, or would that be too aggressive? Was he supposed to keep his hands on her waist, or would it be better to cup the side of her cheek? He was acutely aware of his rings and he worried about them being too cold against her skin or catching on the delicate silk of her dress. He felt like his hands were suddenly twice their normal size, clumsy and uncoordinated.
He wanted to touch her everywhere. To trace the line of her spine. To feel the heat of her shoulders. To learn the geography of her body with the same precision he used on a fretboard. But he was terrified of the silence that would follow a wrong move. His thoughts all swimming. Don't squeeze too hard. Don't be too light; she’ll think you’re scared. Wait, are you supposed to move your thumbs like that? Should you be taking your own shirt off first?
She felt the way his hands went rigid, she broke the kiss, pulling back just a few inches to look him in the eye. "You’re still in your head, Munson," she whispered. "You’re nervous."
Eddie let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating. "No shit," he rasped.
She laughed and gave his chest a playful shove. "Go to the turntable. Pick an album. Any album. Put it on and let it do the work for a minute."
Eddie sighed, but he didn't argue. He welcomed the task. He needed a moment to ground himself, in something he understood. He walked over to the stack of vinyl, his fingers skimming the spines until he found a worn, yellowing cover. Ray Charles. Hallelujah I Love Her So. It felt right: soulful, steady, and a little bit gritty. He slid the record out, placed it on the platter, and carefully lowered the needle. The crackle of the static was a comfort before the upbeat, soulful piano of "Ain't That Love" began to bounce through the speakers.
When he turned back, the room felt different. She was already on the bed, her back propped against a headboard that, upon closer inspection, was just a series of old wooden crates turned on their sides and bolted together. The bed itself was barely a foot off the floor. Just a mattress thrown over a makeshift platform of old shipping pallets. It was DIY, a little rough around the edges, and perfect.
She had already lit a cigarette, the smoke curling toward the ceiling in the lamplight. Eddie walked over and lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress, the pallet frame creaking. Without a word, he reached out, and she handed him the cigarette. He took a long, slow drag, letting the nicotine steady his nerves. He noticed her boots were already discarded on the rug. Feeling the need to catch up, Eddie leaned over and began to unlace his own sneakers. He kicked them off with a thud, but as he pulled his feet up onto the mattress, he felt a sudden flush of heat creep up his neck. Right there was a decent-sized hole in his black sock, his big toe peeking through like a stray stowaway. "God," he muttered, staring at the hole. "The King of the Freaks, ladies and gentlemen. I'm taking you to bed with a hole in my sock. Truly, I am the height of sophistication."
She let out an unladylike snort. "Oh, knock it off with the self-deprecation routine, Munson," she said, rolling her eyes as she leaned forward. The movement brought her dangerously close, the scent of her perfume overwhelming his senses. She reached out, her fingers ghosting over the frayed edge of the hole in his sock before she leaned in to whisper against the shell of his ear, her voice a seductive purr. "The socks stay on. It’s a very specific kink of mine."
Eddie barked out a laugh, the sound genuine and loud enough to startle himself. The sheer absurdity of it broke the last of the glass walls in his mind. He looked at her and the nervousness that had been a tight, cold knot in his gut began to unfurl. He didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted his weight on the low mattress, moving closer until their knees were locked together. He didn't hand the cigarette back. He held it up, his hand steadying as he brought the filter to her lips. He kept his eyes locked onto hers, an intense, unwavering stare that challenged her to look away first. The room felt like it was shrinking, the upbeat rhythm of Ray Charles’s piano fading into the background as the space between them became charged. His thumb brushed the corner of her lower lip as he held the cigarette steady. There was a gravity in his gaze now, a silent communication that the dork was stepping aside for a moment to let the man who had been wanting this all week take the lead.
She didn't blink. She met his stare with an intensity of her own, her eyes tracking the slight movement of his hand before she leaned in. She took a slow, deep drag of the cigarette while his fingers remained touching her mouth, the cherry of the tobacco glowing bright between them. As she exhaled, the cloud ghosting over his lips, Eddie didn't move an inch. He just waited, his heart hammering a heavy beat against his ribs, finally ready to see exactly where this was going to lead him.
She reached out and took the cigarette from his fingers, her eyes never breaking the connection as she leaned over to crush it out in an ashtray resting precariously atop a stack of heavy hardbacks. When she turned back, she didn't settle back against the crates. Instead, she rose onto her knees, the mattress dipping and the wooden pallets beneath giving a groan under her weight.
She reached for the lapels of his leather vest. "Can I take this off?" she whispered, her voice soft. Eddie nodded, his throat too tight to offer a witty retort. He worked his arms out of the heavy leather, helping her slide it off his shoulders until it slumped onto the floorboards. Without the vest, he felt suddenly exposed, his white t-shirt clinging to him in a way that felt like it was broadcasting every boney shape of his torso.
She didn't move toward his shirt yet. Instead, her hands found his forearms. Her touch was light, almost feather-like, as her fingertips traced the ink of the puppet master leading toward his elbows, until he turned his arm around and her callouses landed on his bats. She followed the lines of the wings with a slow reverence that made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. "Do you have any others?" she murmured, her thumb pressing into the soft skin of his inner wrist.
"Yeah," Eddie rasped. "A few."
"Can I see them?"
He nodded again. His hands reached for the hem of his shirt, and for a second, they stalled. He didn't say he was nervous, but the fabric of his shirt bunched and trembled in his grip. He pulled the shirt up and over his head, the cotton catching briefly on his messy curls before he tossed it aside. The air in the room hit his bare skin, and he felt an involuntary shiver ripple across his shoulders. He didn't look at her immediately. Instead, he looked down at his own lap, his chest rising and falling in shallow, visible hitches. He stayed very still, his elbows tucked slightly inward as if trying to take up less space, his fingers curling and uncurling against his denim-clad thighs. He felt every inch of himself on display. The pale stretch of his torso, the dark ink of the demon on his chest, the way his ribs flared with every breath. He was waiting for the verdict, his entire frame humming with a tension so tight it felt like a guitar string tuned three steps too high, vibrating on the verge of snapping.
She didn't move away. If anything, she drifted closer, the mattress dipping further as she moved her weight to accommodate the new, bare reality of him. Her hands remained steady as they migrated from his wrists up the lean, pale expanse of his arms. When her fingertips finally reached the ink, she traced. Her touch was agonizingly slow. A gentle exploration that turned his skin into a sensory minefield. She lingered especially long on the spider perched near his collarbone, her index finger following the spindly, arched legs of the arachnid where they led into the hollow of his throat. Eddie felt his swallow catch halfway down, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath her touch. He was acutely aware of how small her hand looked against his chest, and how loudly his heart was thumping against his ribs.
She let out a low hum that seemed to resonate in the small space between them. "Very metal, Munson," she murmured, a trace of a smile ghosting her lips as she admired the dark artwork. Her hand slid around to the side of his bicep, her eyes scanning the collection of symbols and creatures he’d gathered like a visual diary of his own rebellion. "So, tell me," she whispered, her breath warm against the skin of his shoulder. "Which one is your favorite?"
Eddie took a shaky breath, the air whistling through his teeth as he tried to regain his composure. He shifted his weight, rotating his right arm slightly so the back of it faced her. "This one," he said, gesturing with a tilt of his chin toward his triceps. Under the amber lamplight, the ink was visible. A sharp-winged, serpentine dragon coiling around the faint, almost non-existent muscle of his arm. Its jaw frozen in a silent, defiant roar. It was older than the others, the lines a bit softer but the detail still fierce.
"The wyvern," he explained, his voice gaining a sliver of that old storytelling gravity. "Most people think it’s just a dragon, but it’s different. Two legs instead of four. It’s a bit of an underdog in the monster manual. It’s got to be faster, meaner, and more resourceful just to survive." He paused, his eyes flickering up to hers for a brief second. "I always felt a bit of a kinship with the lesser monsters. They usually have better stories."
She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned in closer, her nose almost brushing the ink of the wyvern’s wing as she studied it with a focus that made Eddie’s entire arm feel like it was on fire. "The underdog monster," she repeated softly. Eddie’s gaze flickered away, his neck flushing a deeper shade of red. He couldn’t maintain that level of eye contact. Not while he was sitting shirtless on a pallet bed, feeling like she was reading the fine print of his soul via the ink on his skin. It was exposure of the highest order. The good kind that made your skin tingle and your stomach drop.
His eyes landed on the charcoal sketches tacked to the wall near the easel. Her talent was undeniable. The lines were aggressive but precise, capturing shadows with accuracy. "I didn't realize you were... god, I didn't realize you were this incredible at art," he said, his voice regaining some of its volume as he focused on a sketch of a detailed spindly tree. He let out a breathless chuckle. "I mean, I probably should've guessed, right? You're literally in school to be an artist. It’s kind of in the job description."
She shrugged, her hand dropping from his arm as she leaned back slightly, her expression shifting into something uncharacteristically modest. "I’m decent. It’s mostly just a way to get the noise out of my head."
Eddie shook his head emphatically, his wild curls bouncing. "No, Bedford. You're better than decent. You’re 'enlist-you-to-design-my-next-campaign-map' good. Or better yet..." He looked back at her, a spark of genuine excitement momentarily overriding his nerves. "I’d kill to have you design my next tattoo."
She scoffed, a quick sound of dismissal as she shook her head. "No way. I am not letting you put my doodles on your body permanently, Munson."
Eddie blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Why not? I like them."
"Because they aren’t good enough," she said, her voice dropping. "It’s just sketches, Eddie. Tattoos are... they're forever. You deserve better than some amateur student's charcoal practice."
Eddie didn't even hesitate. He gestured down to the large, snarling demon head sitting right in the center of his sternum, the lines a bit shaky and the shading somewhat muddy. "Bedford, look at this guy," he said with a lopsided grin, tapping the ink over his heart. "The art here isn't exactly immaculate. The guy who did it was working out of a kitchen in a trailer park and he might have been seeing double by the time he got to the smile. It's there permanently. And I love it anyway, you know? But what you do? That’s a hell of a lot better than half the shit already on this pasty white ass of mine."
Her eyes searched his face as if she were trying to see the version of her art that he saw. "I’ll think about it," she murmured, though the stubborn set of her jaw had softened. "But if I draw it, it’s going to be something that actually lives up to the rest of this canvas."
The conversation about ink and art had acted like a brief bridge over a chasm, but now the bridge was falling away, leaving them right back on the edge of the mattress. The weight of the room shifted. The playful debate ended, and in its place, a thick, pressurized tension settled over them. She didn't move her hand away this time. Instead, she let her fingers wander back to his chest, tracing the outline of the demon on his skin before drifting lower, mapping the lean ridges of his stomach. Her touch was slower now, more deliberate, and her gaze followed the path of her hand with a focus that made Eddie feel like he was being memorized.
"You know," she whispered. She leaned in until her lips were ghosting against the shell of his ear, her breath hitching just slightly. "Under all that leather and the hair... you sure are pretty, Eddie."
Eddie felt his stomach do a slow, dizzying roll as her fingers grazed the waistband of his jeans. He was still vibrating, and feeling like he was one wrong move away from short-circuiting, but when he looked at her, he saw a girl who was looking at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. He reached up, his hand trembling only slightly now as he cupped the back of her head, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck. He didn't say anything, and honestly he couldn't have found the words if he'd tried, but the way he pulled her back into a kiss was his answer. It was desperate, heavy, and carried the weight of a week's worth of wanting, finally boiling over in the quiet of the room.
The heavy, electric air of the room seemed to thicken as she pulled back just enough to create a sliver of space between them. The Ray Charles track had transitioned into a slower, more rhythmic groove, the brass section humming steady in the background. She reached behind her back, her shoulder blades moving beneath the fabric as she fumbled with the small zipper at the top of her dress.
Eddie watched her, his hands still hovering in the air where her neck had been just seconds before. His eyes were wide, his pupils blown out until the dark irises were almost indistinguishable. He didn't move until he saw her fingers slip against the metal, a frustrated little huff escaping her lips. He simply tilted his head, a silent, wide-eyed question written across his face: Do you want me to do it?
She met his gaze and gave a single nod. She turned her back to him, the movement shifting the mattress. Eddie took a breath that felt like it had to travel through a mile of lead to reach his lungs. He reached out, his fingers feeling immense and clumsy as he approached the delicate task. As his knuckles grazed her, he felt the heat radiating off her. He found the tiny metal tab and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. He was so agonizingly slow. As the fabric began to part, revealing the graceful line of her spine, Eddie’s pulse spiked so hard he could feel it in his fingertips. He followed the path of the zipper all the way down to the small of her back, his hand shaking with a tremor he could no longer suppress.
He didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his hand hovering just an inch from where the dress had loosened. As she reached up, she hooked her thumbs under the delicate silk straps and eased them over the curve of her shoulders. The dress surrendered, sliding down her frame in a rustle until it pooled around her hips on the low mattress.
Eddie’s brain, usually hyperactive, stalled into a total whiteout. He had spent years imagining moments like this. Moments fueled by late-night magazines but none of it had prepared him for the quiet reality of a woman in front of him. He realized then, that there was no lace or wire to be found. She had been wearing nothing but the dress and a thin-strapped pair of panties, leaving her almost entirely bare to the soft light of the room. When she turned back around to face him, the shift in her weight caused the pallet bed to groan softly.
His eyes tracked upward. He viewed the front of her, his gaze lingering on the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He felt the ache of inadequacy. He was so aware of his own frame. The lanky, pale limbs, the dark ink, the tremors he couldn't hide, meanwhile he looked like something carved from marble and moonlight. His hands, still resting near his knees, twitched. He felt a bead of sweat trek down the back of his neck, the air in the room suddenly feeling five degrees hotter. He wanted to say something but his tongue felt like lead in his mouth.
She didn't look away, and she didn't try to cover herself. She sat there on her knees, her shoulders back, watching the way his eyes moved over her with a quiet, patient confidence. Sensing his paralysis, she reached out and took his hands and guided them back to her waist. Even as his fingers made contact with the soft curve of her hips, Eddie couldn’t keep his gaze steady. His eyes began to dart, frantic and wide, scanning the room as if looking for an exit. He looked at the Ray Charles record spinning on the turntable, at the charcoal sketches on the wall, at the hole in his left sock. Anywhere but the overwhelming reality of the bare woman sitting inches from him.
"Eddie," she murmured in the storm of his panic.
Before he could find his voice to offer a shaky apology she rose onto her feet for a fleeting second, just enough to step over his legs. In that brief transition, the silk dress, no longer held up by the curve of her waist from where she sat, surrendered completely. It slid down her frame as it hit the floorboards.
Then, she climbed onto his lap. The mattress dipped sharply under the added weight. She straddled him, her knees tucking into the space beside his hips, her weight settling firmly against his thighs. He froze, his head snapping up as he was forced to look at her. She was right there, her breath ghosting over his lips, her heat radiating into his chest. He could see the slight tremor in her own shoulders now, a mirror of his own nerves that she had finally stopped trying to hide. He felt small and large all at once, a chaotic mess of ink and nerves held together by the sheer gravity of her presence.
She reached up, her fingers sliding into the wild, tangled mess of his hair, cupping the back of his head to steady him. She didn't push, just held him there, in the center of the world they had built on a shitty pallet bed in a creaky house. "Breath, Munson," she whispered, her forehead leaning against his.
He reached up, his hands still trembling slightly, and cupped her breasts. They were warm and heavy in a way that grainy magazines and his own imagination had never quite managed to convey. A soft, breathless "oh" escaped him, his eyes widening as the reality of her superseded every fantasy he’d ever had.
She looked down at him, a flicker of concern softening her gaze. "Is something wrong? Do you not...?"
"No," Eddie rasped. "No, nothing is wrong. It's just... I’ve never actually felt bare tits before. I didn't realize they’d be this soft. Or this nice. It’s like... god, it's incredible."
The honesty of it seemed to ground them both. Emboldened by her proximity, his thumbs began to move of their own accord, tracing the peaked circles of her nipples. He wasn't even thinking about it. It was an instinctual, tactile curiosity, like a musician finding the right tension on a string.
Her eyes fluttered shut instantly, her head falling back as a long, shaky sigh escaped her lips. Eddie froze, his thumbs going still. "Are you okay? Did I... was that too much?"
She let out a soft, breathy laugh, her eyes remaining closed as she leaned into his touch. "No, Eddie. It’s fine. It just... it felt really good."
Eddie stayed very still. He looked down at his hands, watching the way his calloused, ring-adorned thumbs were pressed against her. Tits had always been a visual concept to him. He hadn't considered the intricacies of the anatomy or the fact that something so small could be so easily stimulated. He hadn't realized that the texture could change under his touch, or that a simple, unconscious movement of his thumb could elicit a sound like that from her. He moved his thumbs again, more deliberately this time, watching the way her breath hitched in response.
He remembered Tuesday. He remembered the cramped interior of the War Wagon, the smell of gasoline and rain, and the way she had come alive when he’d buried his face in the crook of her neck. He remembered how her hands had gripped his hair, and how her hips had found a frantic, punishing rhythm against his denim-clad thigh the moment his lips hit that one sensitive spot.
With a spike of confidence, Eddie leaned forward, letting his head drop. He pressed his mouth into the hollow of her throat, his lips finding the jump of her pulse point. He tasted the faint salt of her skin and the lingering vanilla of her perfume, and he felt a low, vibrating growl start in the back of his own chest. The reaction was instantaneous and even more violent than it had been in the van. A ragged, choked-off sound escaped her as she arched her back, her fingers clenching into the tangled curls at the nape of his neck with enough force to make him wince even if he didn’t mind the pain. The shift in her body was tectonic as she began to grind against his lap. The contact was devastating. Every time his lips moved against her skin, every time his teeth grazed the column of her throat, she responded with a renewed, desperate pressure, her breath coming in short, staccato gasps that synced perfectly with the beat of the Ray Charles record.
She reached down between them, her fingers fumbling with the heavy silver buckle of his belt. Her knuckles grazed the skin just above his waistband, and the contact made Eddie’s vision swim for a second. She wasn't being delicate anymore. There was a hungry energy in the way she worked the leather through the loops, her breath coming in hot, uneven puffs against his shoulder.
Eddie didn’t need a second invitation. "I've got it," his voice a distorted rumble.
He shifted his weight, bracing one hand against the rough wood of the pallet frame to steady them both as he helped her. He made quick work of the button and then he was reaching down to shove the denim toward his knees. He kicked his legs out, the heavy fabric and his leather belt pooling on the floorboards. Eddie sat there, stripped down to the absolute bare essentials, feeling the cool draft of the room against his legs.
His mind flashed back to the van ride earlier with the ego-shattering sensation of her mouth on him. It had been amazing, a core memory in the making, but there was a world of difference between a dark backseat and this room. Being exposed like this, with the light catching every awkward angle of his lanky frame and the nervous tremors he still couldn't quite kill, felt like being on stage without a guitar to hide behind. As she moved to climb back onto his lap, her weight shifting the mattress again, his hand drifted to the thin, delicate strap of her underwear. He gave it a playful, nervous snap against her hip.
"Hey," his voice cracked just a hair before he steadied it. He looked up at her, his dark eyes searching hers. "How exactly does a guy go about... returning the favor?"
A flicker of genuine confusion crossed her face. "Returning the favor?"
"Yeah," Eddie said, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "You know. Going down. On you. How does a guy do that properly?"
She shrugged, her gaze dropping for a second as she shifted her weight. "I... I'm not really sure, actually."
The admission caught Eddie off guard. The insecure part that lived in the back of his brain, had been trying very hard not to think about her with other guys. He’d assumed, given the sheer confidence she’d shown thus far, that she’d done this a thousand times with guys far more polished than a trailer park metalhead. He figured if she knew how to handle him like that, she must have had plenty of people eager to return the gesture. But looking at her now, seeing that small, uncertain shrug, he realized he might have been wrong. Maybe the Siren didn’t get as much back as she gave. Maybe nobody had ever bothered to take the time to learn the map of her.
The thought made a desperate desire to be the one who got it right. He didn't care if he was a novice. "Can I..." he started, his voice barely a whisper, a quiet question lost in the soul music humming from the speakers. He reached out, his fingers ghosting over the fabric he’d just snapped. "Can I try? To figure it out?"
She sputtered, a startled, breathless sound that was a far cry from her usual composure. "Eddie, I’ve heard... I’ve heard it’s really not that great. Most guys say it’s a chore, or they don’t do it for a reason. You really don't have to."
Eddie just shrugged, a slow, lopsided tilt of his shoulders that conveyed a stubborn lack of concern for what most guys thought. "I don’t really care what the consensus is. I want to try. I want to know everything about you, remember? That includes the parts people are too lazy to appreciate."
She bit her lip, looking at him with a mix of disbelief and a growing heat. Finally, she gave a small, reluctant nod. "Okay. Fine. Lay back."
Eddie didn't need to be told twice. He eased himself down onto the mattress, his head resting against her mismatched pillows. As he settled, she reached down and slid the final barrier down her legs, discarding it somewhere in the shadows near his clothes. Then, she leaned over him, her hand finding the switch on the beaded lamp. The warm glow vanished, replaced instantly by the cinematic palette of the night. The room now washed in the pale, silver-blue light of the moon and the distant, flickering orange of a streetlamp filtering through the window. It cast long, dramatic shadows across the art supplies and the guitar rack, making the space feel even more like a private world.
Eddie reached up, his large hands finding the backs of her thighs. He felt the soft curve of her as he gently but firmly tugged her forward, guiding her weight until she was hovering directly over his face. As his eyes slowly adapted to the shadows of the room, Eddie felt like he was peering through a lens into a world he had only ever heard described in hushed, exaggerated tones. Up close, the perspective changed everything.
The reality was far more detailed than any magazine centerfold. Everything was soft and curved, anchored by the patch of groomed hair that felt like just another texture to memorize. The gravity of the moment was too heavy for a punchline. He let out a shaky exhale and gave a slow, experimental swipe of his tongue across her folds. It was a tentative move, a basic chord struck on an unfamiliar instrument just to see how it sounded.
She buckled, her weight dropping slightly as her knees trembled. One of her hands, which had been resting tentatively on his shoulder for balance, suddenly lunged forward. Her fingers tangled deep into the wild, messy curls of his hair, her knuckles pressing hard against his scalp as she gripped a fistful of him. Eddie’s eyes went wide in the dark. He felt her fingers tighten in his hair, a silent, desperate command to keep going. He didn’t pull away. Emboldened by the way she gripped his hair, Eddie leaned back in, his movements losing their tentative edge and gaining a focused intent. He let his tongue linger this time, a long, slow stroke that started low and followed the center line upward.
He experimented with the pressure, moving from a broad, flat sweep to the sharper, more targeted tip of his tongue. He found that if he swirled it in small, concentrated circles against the sensitive peak hidden in the shadows, her breath shattered. Every time she let out an airy gasp, Eddie cataloged it. He noticed that a soft, suctioning pull of his lips combined with a steady, flicking motion was what made her hips start that searching roll again. He was fascinated by the mechanics of it. The way the textures shifted from soft and velvet-like to something slick and responsive under his touch.
His nose brushed against her, and he breathed in the scent of her deeply feeling it settle into his lungs like a heavy fog. He began to use his lips more, grazing the tender skin of her inner thighs before returning to the center, his tongue now moving with a more confident, metronome-like rhythm. Eddie felt her fingers tighten even further in his hair, pulling him closer as if she were afraid he’d disappear if she let go. The sound of his own heavy breathing and the wet slide of his tongue became the only soundtrack in the room, drowning out the faint crackle of the record player.
Her breath came in short, sharp bursts, and her hips began to shake with a fine, uncontrollable tremor that vibrated right through his jaw. She let out a sound that wasn't a gasp or a moan, but something raw and grounded. Her strength simply vanished. Her knees, which had been bracketed so firmly around his face, gave out as she collapsed forward, her weight landing fully across his chest and face. Eddie didn't mind. He melted back into the pillows, his head sinking into the soft fabric as he took the full weight of her. He let his arms wrap around her back, his hands splaying wide against her skin to steady her as she shook against him. The room was silent except for the heavy, desperate sound of her trying to find her air and the low, skipping hiss of the record player needle reaching the end of the groove. He lay there in the moonlight. He was exhausted, his jaw ached, and his hair was a total disaster, but as he felt her thighs twitching against the side of his cheek , her skin damp and warm, a triumphant grin spread across his face.
She finally stirred, her limbs moving with a slow, clumsiness as she slid off his face. She retreated only a few inches, kneeling beside him on the tangled sheets, her chest still heaving in uneven swells. The moonlight caught the stunned widening of her eyes as she looked down at him, her lips parted but silent, as if the connection between her brain and her voice had been temporarily severed by the sheer force of what had just happened.
Eddie didn’t move for a long moment, content to let the room spin around him while he stared up at the ceiling. Slowly, he turned his head to meet her gaze, his messy curls splayed out against the pillow like a dark halo. "So," he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been scraped over gravel. "I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say the general population of men are wrong."
She tried to speak, her throat clicking as she swallowed, but only a faint, airy sound escaped. She looked genuinely shaken, a far cry from the composed girl who had been teasing him about his socks only an hour ago.
Eddie let out a chuckle, his aching jaw stretching into that triumphant, lopsided grin. "Seriously, Bedford. I don’t get it. I don't understand why guys wouldn't want to do that. People talk about it like it’s some kind of chore you have to get through, but that?" He shook his head, his dark eyes glowing in the silver light. "That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever been a part of."
She shook her head weakly, her voice finally returning in a hushed, disbelieving whisper. "It’s... it’s messy, Eddie. And it’s not… I don’t know. It feels a bit one sided…"
"One-sided?" Eddie repeated, a spark of genuine amusement dancing in his gaze. He didn't bother with words to argue. Instead, he simply gestured down toward his lap, where the thin fabric of his boxers was stretched taut, the unmistakable, rigid tenting leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. "Does that look one-sided to you?" he asked, his brow arching in a playful, defiant challenge. "Because from where I’m lying, I’m pretty sure I was getting just as much out of that as you were. Seeing you like that? Hearing those sounds?" He let out a long, shaky exhale, his hand reaching out to trace the line of her knee. "I’d spend every night in this room right between your thighs just to get that reaction out of you again. No contest."
She let out a soft, mortified groan and immediately covered her face with her hands, her fingers splaying wide as if she could physically shield herself from the unvarnished honesty of his gaze. "Hey, none of that," Eddie said. He reached up, his large hands gently encircling her wrists. He didn't use force, just a persuasive tug, prying her hands away from her face until he could see her eyes again. "Don't you dare go covering your pretty face now. Not when I’m trying to tell you how fucking sexy you are."
He leaned up on one elbow, his face inches from hers. "Seriously. Riding my face like you were trying to find a way to take flight? That’s going to be burned into my retinas until the day I die."
She let out a strangled yelp, his name escaping her in a shocked, high-pitched rush of air and immediately surrendered the fight, diving forward to bury her face into the crook of his shoulder. She was warm, her damp skin pressing against his bare chest, and Eddie couldn't help the triumphant rumble of laughter that vibrated through his ribs. He didn't push her for more words. He knew the feeling of being overstimulated and too nervous to speak. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close into the mismatched pillows. He began to draw aimless, drifting patterns on the skin of her back. His fingers traced the line of her spine, circling the small of her back before wandering up to the sensitive skin between her shoulder blades.
He watched the way her breathing gradually slowed. She began to melt into his frame, her limbs losing their defensive tension and draping over him with a comfortable familiarity. The room was quiet, save for the insistent, click-hiss of the turntable needle. Eddie shifted slightly, his lips grazing the shell of her ear as he leaned in. "As much as I love this, and believe me, I could stay right here until the sun comes up," he whispered, his breath warm against her skin, "I should probably flip the record over. Side B has all the good songs,”
She looked up from his shoulder, her eyes heavy-lidded and gave a slow nod. Eddie felt the sudden absence of her heat as he slid off the edge of the mattress. His bare feet met the cold floorboards with a soft creak. He reached the turntable and carefully lifted the needle, the rhythmic scratching finally cutting to a blissful silence. He flipped the record to Side B and lowered the needle, and a few seconds later, the first notes of a low, soul-drenched ballad began to bleed into the room, the bass line thick.
While the music swelled, he heard the sound of movement behind him. He turned back to see her reaching into one of the cubby-style compartments built into the headboard. When he reached the edge of the bed, she was sitting up slightly, her hand extended. Between her fingers, catching a glint of the streetlamp's orange glow, was a small, square foil packet. Eddie froze, his hand hovering over hers as the reality of the situation finally caught up with his adrenaline. He took the packet, the plastic crinkling under his thumb, and let out a long, shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, sobering sincerity. He sat on the edge of the mattress, looking down at the condom in his palm. In his rush to get her clothes off and prove he wasn't just a dork with a hole in his sock, the actual logistics of protection had completely slipped his mind. He’d been flying by the seat of his pants, literally and figuratively. He looked back at her. "I’m an idiot. It just dawned on me that I don't have one in the van, let alone in my pocket. And trust me, Uncle Wayne would personally castrate me if I managed to knock someone up before I got my hands on that diploma.”
Eddie took a deep breath as he reached for the elastic waistband of his boxers and tugged them off, the fabric falling to join the graveyard of denim and silk on the floorboards. Standing there completely bare in the moonlight, he felt a momentary return of that vulnerability, but it was quickly overshadowed by the task at hand. He tore the foil packet open with a shaky thumb and forefinger, pulling out the small latex ring. He squinted at it, his brain working overtime to pull a hazy, half-remembered demonstration from a health class filmstrip out of the depths of his memory. He set it against his tip and tried to roll it down, but the rubber snagged, stubborn and unyielding.
"Dammit," he hissed under his breath, a flush creeping up his neck. He didn't let the frustration take hold, though. He flipped the ring over, centered it, and tried again. This time, it glided down his length with a smooth ease. He let out a silent sigh of relief.
He turned back toward the bed, intending to climb back into the spot they’d carved out on top of the sheets, but he paused. In the time he’d been occupied, she had reached back and pulled the covers open. She was lying back against the pillows now, the pale light tracing the curves of her body as she waited for him. Eddie didn't hesitate. He slid into the bed, the cool cotton of the sheets a stark contrast to the heat radiating off her. He moved, bracing his weight on his forearms as he dragged himself over her frame.
The full length of him settling against her, skin to skin, heart to heart. He could feel every breath she took, and the way her thighs parted naturally to welcome his weight made his head light. He hovered there for a second, his nose brushing against hers, his eyes searching her face in the shadows. In the cool, blue-shadowed light, she looked up at him, her hand reaching up to brush a stray, wild curl away from his forehead.
"Eddie?" she asked, her voice a soft, barely-there thread of sound. "Are you okay?"
He took a breath, his chest expanding against hers. He lowered his head until his forehead rested against her own, his eyes closing. "I'm just nervous," he whispered back. "I've been thinking about this for a long time. I don't want to mess up."
She shifted beneath him, her hands sliding down to rest on his shoulder blades. "We don't have to rush it," she murmured. "We have all night. We can just... be here."
Eddie opened his eyes, his dark gaze locking onto hers. "It's okay," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, certain rumble. "I want to."
He tilted his head and closed the small gap between them, his lips meeting hers in a kiss. This was slow. It was a lingering exploration, his mouth soft and patient. Her tongue began to move against his, a lazy dance. It was a deep, sensory conversation without words, each movement a question and each response a quiet, certain answer. Eddie felt his entire body relax into the mattress, the tension in his shoulders finally dissolving into the warmth of the bed. She let the kiss linger until his heart was thudding a heavy beat against her ribs, and then she slowly pulled away. She didn't go far. Just enough to look at him, her lips damp and parted in the moonlight, her hands tightening their grip on his shoulders as the music outside the covers seemed to fade into the background.
Eddie shifted his weight, bracing himself on one shaky forearm. He reached down between them, his fingers searching for the right alignment, but the angles felt all wrong. He let out a soft, frustrated huff, his brow furrowing as he fumbled. "Dammit," he hissed, his voice a strained, breathy rasp against her collarbone. "I swear... the movies and the magazines always make this part look like a seamless transition. I feel like I'm trying to tune a guitar with boxing gloves on."
She let out a tiny, truncated laugh and reached down to meet him. Her fingers were steady where his were trembling. She guided him. The moment they finally aligned, Eddie let out a long, shaky exhale. He felt the initial, velvet-soft resistance and then the slow, incredible glide as he found exactly what he’d been searching for. He didn't move any further. He just stayed there, poised at the threshold, his eyes fixed on hers. He looked down at her, his pupils so blown out they swallowed the dark irises entirely, leaving only a reflection of the moonlight. He wanted to see her expression.
Slowly, with an agonizingly careful pressure, he pushed in just a tad. Eddie’s breath caught in his throat, his jaw tightening as he felt the sheer, overwhelming heat of the connection. He stayed perfectly still, waiting for her to tell him that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Eddie’s eyes squeezed shut for a fleeting second, his head dropping back as he choked out "God... it’s so hot," the words sounding like they were being squeezed from his lungs by a heavy weight. "It’s really, really hot."
She looked up at him, her hands moving from his shoulders to cup the sides of his face, her palms cool against his feverish skin. "Do you want to stop?" she whispered, her voice laced with a genuine, quiet concern that nearly broke his focus.
He shook his head immediately. He forced his eyes open, pinning her with a look that was raw and desperately sincere. "No," he rasped, his chest heaving against hers. "No, don't–don't stop. Am I... am I okay to keep going. Are you okay?"
She didn't hesitate, giving him a firm, encouraging nod as she pulled his head down to press a quick, salt-sweet kiss to his forehead. "I'm okay. Go ahead, Eddie." He took a breath that felt like it was made of liquid gold and pushed forward, the movement slow and deliberate as he settled deeper into the heat.
He had spent years hearing guys talk about this. Exaggerated stories told over cheap beer and cigarettes, but none of them had ever mentioned the weight of it. Being inside her for the first time felt like finally stepping inside the music instead of just listening to it from across the room. It was an overwhelming, pressurized warmth that seemed to wrap around not just his body, but his very pulse. He was fascinated by the way his own rhythm was being dictated by the velvet-tight squeeze of her, the way every small shift in his hips sent a corresponding ripple through his entire frame.
It wasn't just "sex". That word felt too small and simple for the reality of the silver light, the soul music, and the way her body was stretching and yielding to accommodate his lanky, awkward self. He felt grounded and untethered all at once. A chaotic mix of ink and bone finally finding its center in the quiet, humid dark of the bed. He watched her face as he realized that no magazine or porno could have ever prepared him for the sheer, staggering intimacy of being this close to another human being.
Eddie had always been a creature of high-energy distractions. Loud music, chaotic campaigns, the constant hum of being the "freak" everyone expected him to be. He had assumed that this would follow that same trajectory. He’d expected a surge of pleasure, a release, and maybe a bit of a boost to the ego he spent so much time pretending was bulletproof.
But this wasn't simple. It wasn't just a physical thing.
It was a total, terrifying dissolution of the boundaries he’d built around himself. Being inside her felt less like a conquest and more like a surrender in some odd way. He felt every hitched breath she took as if it were his own. He felt the way her fingers traced the lines of his shoulders and realized she wasn't just touching his skin. She was touching the parts of him he usually kept hidden behind a denim vest and a wall of jokes.
The intimacy of it was overwhelming. Eddie didn’t feel like he was just "getting laid" in the way the guys in the locker room used to brag about. He was being seen, completely and utterly, in a way that made his messy life feel... enough. The pleasure was there, but it was anchored by something much heavier: the weight of being the person she chose to appreciate unfiltered. He looked down at her, his eyes searching hers in the pale light, and for the first time, he didn't feel like he had to perform. He didn't have to be the Dungeon Master or the lead guitarist or the charismatic outcast. He was just Eddie, and she was just her, and they were building something in the silence of this room that didn't need a dramatic flair for the sake of survival.
He shifted his weight forward, his brow furrowing as he tried to translate theory into motion. It wasn’t like the movies. There was no automatic rhythm. He started with small, tentative movements, pulling back just an inch and then sliding back in, his body feeling heavy and uncoordinated. He experimented with the angle of his hips, a bit frustrated by the clumsy friction of the sheets against his knees, until he adjusted his tilt and felt the resistance give way to a smoother, deeper glide.He started to move more deliberately, letting the slow, honeyed tempo of the Side B ballad dictate his pace. He went deeper this time, in a long, steady slide that made him let out a low sound against the hollow of her neck. He felt her respond with a gasp, her body unfolding and relaxing around him as if she were finally letting him into the deepest part of her.
He watched her face in the silver moonlight, fascinated by the change. The tension in her jaw was gone, replaced by a soft, dazed expression, her lips parted as her breath began to sync with his. She started to meet him, her hips rising slightly to greet each stroke, her hands sliding from his shoulders to his hair, pulling him down until their chests were fused.
Her fingers dug into his scalp with a new, hungry urgency, and the small moans she let out told him he was finally getting it right. Seeing her enjoy it in the way her eyes clouded over with pleasure, made Eddie feel ten feet tall.
Eddie felt the heat in his core intensifying in a thrumming that started at the base of his spine and radiated outward until his fingertips felt numb. He leaned down, his voice against her ear. "I’m close... God, I’m really close," he managed to choke out, his muscles locking with the effort of trying to maintain his pace without shattering.
She responded by shifting beneath him, her thighs opening wider to bracket his hips, her heels digging into the mattress to pull him even deeper. "It's okay," she whispered, her voice thick and dazed. "Just let go, Eddie. Don't stop."
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his face pained. He shook his head, a wild curl falling over his damp forehead. "No, wait," he breathed, his chest heaving. "What about you? I want... how do I get you there?"
The sheer, unselfish desperation in his voice must have made her soften. She didn't say a word; instead, she reached down between their fused bodies, catching his hand. She guided his fingers, placing them firmly against the sensitive peak of her clit that was already slick and swollen. Eddie watched, his breath hitching, as she kept her hand over his, demonstrating a steady pressure. She moved his fingers in small circles, with a friction that made her head fall back against the pillows with a sharp inhale.
"Like that?" he whispered, his eyes wide as he cataloged the way her body arched under the touch.
"Yes," she gasped, her eyes fluttering shut. "Just like that. Don't stop moving, Eddie. Do both."
For a few seconds, Eddie’s brain short-circuited. He’d find the right pressure with his fingers only to have his hips falter, or he’d get the glide back only to lose the circular motion she’d taught him. "I’m trying," he grunted, his brow furrowed. But then, he stopped thinking. He found a sweet spot where the slide of his hips provided the base and the friction of his thumb provided the high notes. As he locked into it, she let out a gasp that echoed off the walls, her back arching off the mattress until only her heels and shoulders were touching the bed.
The sensation of her clenching around him was a velvet-tight seizure that sent a white-hot spark straight to his brain. Eddie’s eyes went wide and he let out a startled, unceremonious swear. "Holy—!"
He felt the control snap. It wasn't a choice . He came with a force that made his vision blur into a haze of moonlight, his head falling forward into the crook of her neck. He wanted to stop, to just sink into the sheets and breathe, but she wasn't done. Her hand shot down, her fingers locking around his wrist like a vice, pinning his hand in place against her. "Don't," she choked out, a desperate, commanding edge to her voice. "Don't stop, Eddie. Please."
He forced himself to move, his muscles screaming and his heart doing an uneven gallop. He pushed through the overstimulated haze, maintaining the pressure with his hand even as his body felt like it was turning to mush. He kept the rhythm, stumbling but persistent, until she finally hit the edge. She let out a high, broken cry that was muffled against his shoulder, her fingers digging into his wrist so hard he’d probably have nail bites tomorrow.
Eddie lay there for a long moment, his forehead pressed against her damp shoulder, before the reality of his own lanky frame hit him. "Sorry, shit, I'm probably crushing you," he panted, his voice a ghost of its usual self.
He moved, rolling off her and onto the cool side of the mattress. The sudden shift in temperature made him shiver, but he focused on the task at hand. He reached down, his fingers still a bit shaky, to carefully remove the condom and tie it off. He set it aside on the floor, feeling a strange, quiet sense of pride in the plastic proof of his deflowering. Once he was clear, he didn't stay on his side of the bed for more than a second. He rolled back toward her, his arm sliding out to hook around her waist and pull her flush against his chest. He tucked his chin over her shoulder, his wild, sweat-damp curls touching her cheek as he settled into the crook of her neck.
"You okay?" he whispered, his hand splaying against her stomach, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles over her skin. "I didn't... I didn't break you, did I?"
She let out a soft, tired giggle that vibrated through him, her hand coming up to rest over his. "No, Eddie. I'm definitely not broken."
"Good," he murmured, his eyes drifting shut as the adrenaline finally began to recede, leaving a deep exhaustion in its wake. Eddie’s eyelids felt heavy, weighted down by a satisfaction so deep it felt structural. He shifted his head slightly, his nose brushing against the soft skin of her nape, and let out a long, contented sigh.
"Hey," he murmured, the word slurring just a bit as sleep began to pull at him. "Your aunt... is she gonna, like, bust in here at dawn and flip her lid? Because I’m pretty sure I don’t have the energy to jump out a window right now. My legs are officially made of lead."
He felt her chest move with a quiet, tired huff of amusement. She turned her head just enough to catch his gaze in the dim moonlight, her eyes soft and glazed with the same lingering haze that was clouding his own mind. "She’s in Chicago until Monday," she whispered.
Eddie’s brain processed it slowly. The implications of a whole weekend of this. Of her, of this room, of the lack of a ticking clock. He tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her a fraction of an inch closer until there wasn't a single gap of air between them. "So," he started, his voice barely audible over the hum of the house. "You want me to... you want me to stick around? Or do you want your bed back?”
She didn't even hesitate, the answer leaving her lips with a soft, certain breath. "Stay," she whispered, her fingers interlacing with his where they rested on her stomach. "I just want you to turn that record player off before the needle wears a hole straight through the vinyl."
Eddie let out a huffed laugh, "Copy that, Bedford."
He started to shift, bracing himself, but he stopped mid-motion. He hovered over her, his arms framing her head against the mismatched pillows. In the silver-blue wash of the moonlight, she looked softer than he’d ever seen her. "You know," he murmured, "you look so beautiful right now it’s actually kind of terrifying. Like, 'legendary siren pulling a sailor to his doom' terrifying."
He leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss right between her brows, his lips soft against her skin. When he pulled back, he didn't move away immediately. He worried his bottom lip for a second, the bravado finally failing him as he asked the question that had been thrumming in the back of his mind since the van. "So... just for the record," he started, trying and failing to sound off-hand, "does this, uh... does this officially make us a couple? Or is there a specific ritual or a signed contract I’m missing? Because I’m pretty new to the 'not-a-loner' scene."
She reached up, her palm cupping his jaw, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone with tenderness. "Eddie Munson," she said, a playful but firm glint in her eyes, "you are not getting rid of me that easily. You’re stuck with me now."
A slow, genuine grin spread across his face. "Stuck, huh? Yeah, I think I can live with that."
He slid out of bed just long enough to cross the room, as he finally clicked the turntable off. The silence that followed was profound, filled only by the soft creak of the floorboards as he practically dove back under the covers. He pulled her close, her back against his chest and his chin tucked into the crook of her neck, his long limbs tangling with hers until they were a single, messy knot of warmth. As the edges of sleep began to blur his thoughts, he thought of the charred, skeletal remains of the Starcourt Mall. A place that had felt like the center of his frustration only a week ago. He thought of the long, aimless drive across the county line, his fingers drumming irritably on the steering wheel of the van, cursing the luck that had forced him to travel a town over just to find a shop with a decent set of guitar strings. He had been so angry at the inconvenience. He had spent the whole drive thinking about how much gas he was losing.
Now, with the scent of her skin filling his senses and the steady, solid reality of her heart beating against his arm, the memory of that frustration felt like a different lifetime. It was a strange realization. That a fire in a town he hated had been the exact pieces of luck required to lead him to this room. If the world hadn't inconvenienced him just a little bit, he wouldn't be here. He wouldn't know the sound she made when she lost her breath, or the way the moonlight made her look like something he didn't deserve but was allowed to hold anyway.
He tightened his grip on her, a small, sleepy smile touching his lips as the darkness finally pulled him under. He decided right then that he’d never complain about a detour again.
Tag List? Just ask babes
(Tagging those who used to be on my Eddie story tag list)
If it's a seven hour flight or a forty-five minute drive
In my imagination, you're waitin' lyin' on your side
With your hands between your thighs
Pairing: (Rockstar) Eddie X (F) Reader
WC: 1036
Summary: Based off of 505/Arctic Monkeys - Eddie makes his way home to you after a long tour.
CW: /fluff/smut/oral(f receiving)/
A/N: I know, I know- not a whole lotta smut.. but I really wanted to focus on Eddie yearning over you. 😈
The van rattles down the highway, Eddie’s fingers gripping the wheel as he scans for the next exit with a gas station. Streetlights flash past in hazy bursts, casting quick shadows over his face- turning up the radio as he tries to drown out the chatter from the guys in the back. His whole body is buzzing- not from the show, not from the stupid amount of energy drinks Wayne would kill him for drinking- but from the way his head is full of you.
Finally, a sign catches his eye.
GAS – EXIT 220
He makes a sharp lane change, the van jerking slightly as he takes the exit. The guys grumble at the sudden shift.
Gareth leans forward, peering into the front. “Hey, what gives?”
“Need to fill up the tank,” Eddie mutters.
Gareth scoffs. “Right. ‘Cause we didn’t just stop, what? Thirty minutes ago?” He smirks. “Not that you need to make a certain call, huh?”
Eddie shoves Gareth’s face back toward the back, making him laugh as he falls away.
The second he throws the van into park, he’s out the door, crossing the lot toward the payphone. He barely registers the cold, fingers already feeding coins into the slot. The ringing drags out longer than he likes.. then—
“Hey.”
Your voice is soft, laced with sleep, and something in Eddie’s chest pulls tight.
“Shit, did I wake you?” He rubs a hand over his jaw, closing his eyes for a moment. “Didn’t think about the time, I just—” He sighs. “I just needed to hear you.”
You hum, the sound warm and knowing. Sheets rustle on the other end, and Eddie can picture it perfectly- you stretching, rolling onto your side, arms tucked close like you always do.
“Where are you?” Your voice snaps him back into reality.
Eddie glances toward the gas station, watching Gareth, Jeff, and Grant make their way inside. “About forty-five minutes out.” He leans against the payphone, fingers tightening around the receiver. “Feels like seven hours, though.”
You giggle quietly, and Eddie grins, even though you can’t see it.
“Dramatic,” you sigh.
“Yeah, yeah.” His voice drops lower, rougher, as the distant sounds of the highway fade into static. His eyes flutter shut, and he lets himself sink into the thought of you- curled up in bed, waiting, hands tucked between your thighs like you’re keeping something warm just for him.
He exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders. “I keep seeing you, y’know?” His voice dips into a whisper, words meant only for you. “Lyin’ there, all warm, all…” He trails off, shaking his head. “Fuck.”
Your breath catches, and Eddie grins.
“Wish I was there,” he murmurs. “Wish I could just—” He stops himself, biting his cheek.
“You will be,” you say softly. “Soon.”
Eddie exhales, nodding even though you can’t see him. The cold is finally creeping in, but all he can think about is getting to you- slipping into bed, pressing against you, chasing the warmth he’s been missing since the second he left.
“I gotta get back on the road. Just needed something to keep me going.” His voice is quiet, a little rough. “Don’t fall asleep on me. Wanna see you the second I walk through that door.”
You hum, a sleepy little sound that settles deep in his chest. “Hurry up, Munson.”
Eddie smirks, twirling the van keys in his hand. “Already on my way, sweetheart.”
Click.
He drops the guys off one by one, barely registering their goodbyes as the van rolls to a stop in your driveway. His mind is already upstairs, already inside, already on you.
Taking the porch steps two at a time, he fumbles with the keys, cursing under his breath before finally shoving the front door open. The house is quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the familiar creak of the floorboards under his boots. He kicks them off in the hallway, shrugs out of his jacket, and pushes open the bedroom door- breath catching in his throat.
There you are.
Bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, barely tangled in the sheets, body sprawled across the mattress, warm and waiting. His eyes drag down, breath turning shallow as he takes you in- bare legs, the slow rise and fall of your chest, the way your hand is lazily tucked into the waistband of your panties like you got started without him.
Jesus Christ.
Eddie exhales hard, shutting the door behind him, locking out the rest of the world. His bag drops to the floor, already forgotten.
“Couldn’t even wait for me, huh, sweets?” His voice is rough, teasing, but there’s something darker curling at the edges.
You blink up at him, eyes heavy with sleep, lips parting in a slow, lazy smile. “You were taking too long,” you mumble, voice drowsy.
Eddie huffs out a breathless laugh, running a hand through his curls as he moves toward the bed. His knees hit the mattress, fingers skimming over your thigh, and he swears he could collapse right there- burrow into you, melt into the warmth he’s been chasing for hours, days, weeks.
“No fair…” he murmurs, leaning in, breath ghosting over your skin.
You hum, eyelids fluttering as your hand moves to tug him closer. Your lips collide, slow and deep, a sigh slipping from your mouth into his like a breath of relief.
Eddie pulls back just enough to murmur, “Let me make it up to you for being gone so long, yeah?”
You nod slowly, biting your bottom lip around a smile.
Eddie slides between your legs, fingertips teasing down your sides before hooking into the band of your panties. His hands are still cold, making you shiver as he peels them away. The sheet shifts, draping over both of you as he settles, face to face with your heat.
He presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your clit before licking a long stripe up your folds, groaning at the taste of you.
You moan, head tilting back into the pillow. “Eddie- fuck, I’ve missed you.”
He chuckles low, breath hot against your skin. “I’ve missed you more, sweetheart- you have no idea.”
And just like that, Eddie’s home.
Ty for the banners and dividers @saradika & @strangergraphics 🖤
Tagging some besties who might enjoy this: @28bohemianmoons @the-unforgivenn @the-witty-pen-name @punkrockmlchael @keeryhours @roseareeh 🖤
I reblogged her late last year and my 2024 has been very satisfying work-wise and (secure enough to not stress out) money-wise so far. Money Snake is wise and good.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader || Walter McKeys x Reader ▵ Eddie Munson x Reader || Eric x Reader ▵ Gator Tillman x Reader || Baron Lamram x Reader ▵ Kurt Kunkle x Reader || Duke Goolies x Reader ▵ Travis Meacham x Reader || Sean Lockwood x Reader ▵ Johnny Storm x Reader || Geta x Reader
Summary: It’s kind of uncanny, the connection you felt to this stranger, where have you seen him before?
Word Count: 1000 + each
Tags: Established relationship, fluff, little bit of spice, let’s pretend time is not a thing because time bullshittery, ModernActor! Sean not sure if I nailed him I think he's a little cattier than normal society I guess.
Warnings: 18+, Explicit Language, Kurt :( but now with Duke :(( segment based off a meme I saw. Where all my Duke Goolies fan's at! where'd all these crickets come from.
Main Masterlist ▵ Tag List
You drop a bag of chips into your basket, eyes skimming the shelf for any other snacks you might want for your movie night with Steve. You manage to convince him to pick up Chopping Mall for tonight. You could tell by the look on his face when you mentioned it that he would rather watch some dork shit recommended by Dustin sooner than a crappy B-horror flick, but with a cute batting of your lashes and a pouty ‘Please Stevie’, he disintegrated like a wet paper towel and got called pathetic by Robin. Now, here you were, selecting snacks whilst your boyfriend disappeared off to the haircare aisle to pick up some products he was running low on.
You blow a breath from your lips as you boredly amble through the aisle, grabbing a box of peanut butter boppers and flinging them carelessly into your basket. Your eyes light up as you spot a familiar head of pretty brown hair, back turned to you. Sidling up to the boyfriend-shaped person. You slip your hand into theirs, feeling them startle with a jolt, their hand squeezing yours on instinct. You look up with a confused smile. When was your boyfriend so skittish...
Who the hell is this?
“Uh…” The guy mumbles, his cheeks redden as you scrutinize him, you’re getting pretty close, is everyone in this town so... carefree about personal space?
You quit analyzing the guy, leaning back, much to his relief. You watch the tension leave his shoulders as you say with an apologetic tone, “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were my boyfriend.” You make no move to let go of him, still not entirely convinced he’s not Steve, you tip your head to the side to catch his eye, dragging his gaze away from your joined hands, “You haven’t seen him, have you?”
This has never happened to Keys before. He figured you’d drop his hand the second you realized your mistake, but here he is, still caught in your grasp, completely at a loss. “No?” He answers, voice pitching up, “What, uh, what does he look like?” he asks, placing the box of snacks he was holding back on the shelf.
You purse your lips, skimming your eyes over his face once more before answering simply, with a carefree shrug, “Kinda exactly like you.”
Keys just blinks blankly at you. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, as he feels a hot flush crawl up his neck again, coating his cheeks in a rosy red. What? What do you mean exactly like him? “Are you hitting on me?” He manages to squeak out. There’s no way. Right?
Your brows shoot up in surprise as you say, “No? Am I?”
Yeah, he thought as much, his shoulders slumping in defeat, what was he thinking? This isn’t some cheesy Hallmark movie. Still, desperate to salvage his dignity, he stammers, “It’s just- You said- I don’t understand, that wasn’t a pick up line?” He shakes his head in confusion, using his free hand to push his glasses back up his nose from where they slipped down.
“What wasn’t a pick-up line?” You ask, somehow feeling so far out of the loop in a conversation you’ve been a part of this entire time.
Keys rubs the back of his neck; it feels warm under his touch. God, he must look and sound like an idiot as he mutters, embarrassed, “Asking if I’ve seen your boyfriend and then saying he looks like me?”
Well, when he puts it like that, you see where he’s coming from. In your defense, your earlier statement wasn’t wrong. “He does look like you, except for the glasses. Even though he needs them, he doesn’t wear ‘em jus’ squints at stuff, and I guess your hair’s a little flatter, you're pretty skinny too, Loverboy’s got a little more meat on his bones, and he’s got an itty bitty ‘stache growing too.” You fawn, gushing about your boyfriend and picking apart this stranger. You give him a little grimace-y smile as you sheepishly apologize, “Sorry, that felt mean.”
Keys heaves out a heavy sigh, giving you a shug and a weak smile, “No, it’s ok, this is probably the closest I’m ever getting to being flirted with.” Why would he admit that to a stranger? Let alone an incredibly pretty stranger who’s now looking at him like a kicked puppy.
“Oh, that’s sad.” You state, offering him an awkward smile. What else can you say in this situation? Keys just nods. He’s never returning to this town again, being in public is embarrassing.
“Babe?” A confused voice breaks through the awkward silence that brewed between the two of you as you look over Keys’ shoulder at the newcomer, a dazzling smile pulling at your lips.
“Stevie, there you are!” you call out, waving enthusiastically, forgetting your hand is still tangled with Keys’. Steve’s brows furrow, confusion and a hint of possessiveness flickering across his face as his lips twist into a pout.
“Who’s this? Why are you holding his hand?” He huffs, staring at your conjoined hands with irritation. Is this guy bothering you?
Keys tenses up. Oh God, your boyfriend’s here, he’s gonna beat the shit out of him for holding your hand. He quickly drops your hand, stumbling to turn and face the guy to explain. “Uh, no, this isn’t what it looks like, she thought I was you and-” Keys cuts himself off as he gawks at the guy, finally turning to look at him, “Holy shit.” It’s like looking into a mirror. Keys feels a chill run down his spine at the uncanniness.
“What, why?” Steve scoffs, dropping his hair products in your basket, then folding his arms defiantly over his chest as he steps between the two of you, glaring at the other man. “We look nothing alike.” Steve squints, leaning slightly closer to Keys like you did earlier, the latter quick to take a step away from your guard dog.
“Told you he needed glasses.” You chirp from over your boyfriend’s shoulder, giving Keys an amused grin. He manages a weak laugh. Yeah, you were right about a lot of things.
“My eyes are fine.” Steve instantly retorts, quick to stop squinting, now just staring blankly at Keys. Yeah, Keys knows that look, that is the look of a man who cannot see him. Steve huffs, rolling his eyes, curling his fingers around yours, gently tugging you in the opposite direction as he softly murmurs to you, “C’mon, let’s go.”
Keys watches you and Steve walk away. You glance back with a bright smile, calling, “See you ‘round, doppelganger!” He gives a small, awkward little wave as he’s left behind in the aisle; that’s enough social interaction for one day.
“That’s a weird name,” Steve mutters to you, pout still on his lips. “Why were you speaking to some German guy?”
You look at Steve, one brow cocked in confusion, as you start to say, “No doppelganger isn’t… You know what, Loverboy, it is a weird name.” You press a kiss to his pout, a little grin tugging at your lips, and his expression softens as he hears your quiet laughter. Was it something he said?
You stroll up to the workshop, car keys twirling around your finger and a tune on your lips. Your eyes flick up, catching a familiar profile looking down at a sheet of paper, then up at the sign on the building.
“Eddie!” you chirp gleefully, spring in your step as you slam into the man. Your arms wrap him in a strong embrace, your head nestled on his shoulder. He tenses up and lets out a squeal. That was not a squeal of delight, it sounded more like pure terror. You lift your head from the cardigan-clad shoulder and lock eyes with a petrified man.
“Oh, not Eddie, who are you?” you ask. He certainly looks like your boyfriend, but if you’d taken more than a nanosecond to actually think and look at the guy, you'd realize that, aside from his face, he looks nothing like your boyfriend.
The skittish man takes a second to breathe deep once he realizes you aren’t here to accost him; it was just a mix-up. He manages to blurt out a response to you: “U-Uh uhm, Eric?”
Your brows practically shoot off your face when you hear his accent. This buckaroo is a long way from home. “Whaoh, British Eddie,” You joke, more so to yourself than to your new companion, a grin perking to your face.
Eric, as you now know, ducks his head in confusion, and an uncomfortable laugh leaves his lips. “Wha- Ha um no I’m not- sorry who is Eddie?”
“This is my Eddie.” You titter excitedly, fishing your wallet from your pocket and holding Eric close with one arm slung around his shoulders. You flip open the wallet, revealing a Polaroid wedged behind its plastic screen: a dark blur of a person, caught mid-movement, their face slightly distorted, and with what looks like eyeshine. What devil is this?
“Oh, good lord.” Eric stares at the image in your wallet. You think he looks like that? He side eyes you, but can’t help but soften at your fond smile. He supposes there’s someone out there for everyone.
“Isn’t he cute?” you gush, cheeks warming bashfully. You could ramble about your boyfriend to a lamppost and still not run out of things to say.
Eric hesitates, then manages, “Uh, yes?” The picture looks more like something you’d receive in a chain email, and if you don’t send it to three of your friends, he’d be at the end of your bed at 3 am. Suddenly feeling claustrophobic, Eric clears his throat and sheepishly says, “Sorry, but are you going to keep holding me or…?”
You let go of his shoulder, flashing an apologetic smile. “Oh, right, my bad, sorry.” A beat of silence passes between the two of you as you really take in the guy; he’s pretty formally dressed for your quaint little town. You tilt your head as your curiosity gets the better of you. You find yourself prying into his business, “So... Why are you in Hawkins?”
Eric’s brows furrow in confusion, the name not sounding familiar as he asks, “Where?”
You pause for a moment, a little stunned. What does he mean, where? Who comes to Hawkins without knowing it’s Hawkins? Never in your life have you seen someone accidentally stumble their way into this town. “Hawkins? This town? Not a whole lot is going on around here, man. You got family around here or something?” You ask, placing your hands on your hips as you watch for his answer.
Eric’s eyes brighten with relief when he realizes you must know where you are. Obviously, judging by how you talk about this town, you must be from here. He quickly fumbles with the paper in his hands, handing it to you in hopes you can help. “Oh, uh, no, actually I’m a bit lost, I’m er- looking for this building.” His fingers pick at the yarn at the end of his cardigan as he watches you anxiously. You take in the information on the letter. “Taxi dropped me here,” he adds, but the furrow of your brow makes him nervous as your eyes scan the address several times before you finally look up at him.
“Dude, this address is for New York City.” You shoot him a worried look. Who in their right mind would drop him here instead of mentioning he was in the wrong place?
“Yeah?” Eric responds, swiping his sweaty palms against his cardigan. Why’d you say it like that? You’re starting to freak him the fuck out.
“This is Hawkins…” You start slowly, only receiving a blank expression in return. With a quiet sigh, you rip the bandage off, “Indiana? You’re in the wrong state?” You watch the color drain from his face; he looks like he’s about to puke.
He draws in a shaky breath, voice trembling as he stammers, “What? You’re joking, right?” A dry, empty laugh escapes him while he staggers closer. He quickly takes back the letter, scanning his eyes over the address again. “No, no, nonono, that can’t be possible.” Eric’s chest tightens, breath coming in short bursts. “You’ve got to be wrong, there’s no way,” he blurts. You hesitantly show him Wayne’s business card: Munson’s Maintenance - Best Mechanic in Indiana* *Indiana, Hawkins. The card is a tongue-in-cheek joke, but you think you might have just ruined this guy’s day with it. His horrified eyes flick to the card, then to the shop sign, then back again. He sinks to the floor, curling his arms around his knees as he begins to hyperventilate and ramble, “Oh my god, what do I do? Oh my god!”
He gulps in another ragged breath as you kneel beside him. “Hey, hey, it’s okay…” You murmur, coaxing his gaze to yours. His tear-bright eyes lock onto your steady ones. You offer a gentle rub on his back. “If it helps, they’re not that far apart… kind of,” you add, voice trailing off.
“How far?” He shakily asks, he’s not sure he can afford another plane ticket, but if another form of travel is possible, he’ll take it.
“Uh, like half a day drive, maybe a little more? You could probably get a bus or something there.” Eric sucks in a sharp breath at the travel time, but his breathing soon returns to normal. Something about how lax you are keeps him grounded.
“Okay,” he lets his eyes flutter shut, taking in another breath and then another. He brushes the sleeve of his cardigan under his eyes, sighing. “O-Okay, right um,” His eyes open again, looking back to you for guidance. “Is there a station around here or anything?”
You nod and tip your head to the side as you explain, “Yeah, just a little out of town.” Your hand slips from his back to his arm as you give a reassuring squeeze. “Do you need me to take you?” you ask.
“You would?” He croaks out weakly. A soft smile pulls to your lips. You stand up straight, holding a hand out for him to take.
“Why not? I’m not busy or nothin’,” you reply, pulling him up as he takes your hand. You add, “I should probably give Ed-” Just as you’re about to say his name, you see him wander out of the workshop, a confused pout on his face. “Oh, speak of the devil.”
You told your boyfriend you were coming a bit early to pick him up after work, so when he finished his shift, and you still were nowhere to be found, he went looking for you. “Hey, whatcha doing out here?” He grumbles, his coverall sleeves tied around his waist, leaving his DIO T-shirt on display. Eddie’s eyes track over to a bewildered-looking man who’s just staring at him. Eddie stares back blankly, as if he hasn’t seen that reaction before. “Have we met?” he grunts.
You can’t help but grin at their reactions, nudging Eric’s arm with a teasing smile. “Weirder in person, right?” Eric moves his gawking expression back to you, silently nodding.
Eddie snorts with an eye roll as he lazily bumbles to your side. “Here I was thinking the bullying would end after high school,” his arm slipping around your shoulder as he squeezes you to his side, pressing a kiss to your brow, as he chastises you, “I just walked outside, sweets. You can’t be nice to me?”
You grin, smacking a kiss to his cheek. “I’m not calling you weird, freak,” you quip as Eddie gives a sarcastic little ‘oh ok’. “M’gonna take Eric here to the bus station, comin’?” You offer, happy to drop him home if he’s exhausted after his shift.
Eddie shrugs, “Yeah, why not,” and keeps you tucked against his side as you head for the car. Glancing over his shoulder at your tagalong, he calls, “So, where you headed, man?”
Eric quickly catches up to the two of you walking at your side as he awkwardly answers, “New York City, somehow made a wrong turn and ended up here.”
Eddie gives him a look, brows high and a little impressed, the guy managed to get that lost, “Whoa, completely in the wrong state, how’d you do that?”
“I don’t know,” Eric whimpers, face flushing in humiliation as he buries his face in his hands.
You shoot Eddie daggers as you slip out of his grasp, pulling Eric into a side hug, rubbing his arm, and reassuring him. “Hey, it’s alright, go, go, go,” you say quickly, urging him into your car as you exasperatedly look at your boyfriend and sigh, “Ed, come on, I just got him to calm down.” Eddie raises his hands in surrender, giggling to himself as he heads round to the passenger seat.
One hand wrapped around the handle of the drinks fridge. Your eyes scan over all the options. Candy bars are clutched in your other hand. You purse your lips, then finally swing the door open. Grabbing two drinks, you let the door swing shut behind you. As you turn to make your way to the cash register, you bump into a solid frame. Everything in your arms careens to the floor. You hiss out a quiet curse and sigh, reaching down to pick up what you dropped. A voice apologizes as you see in your peripheral the person you bumped into crouching to help. “Sorry about that.”
You shake your head mumbling out a reassurance, as you stand to your feet reaching out to the drinks the guy offers back to you, “S’fine, s’noth-” You pause, meeting eyes with a familiar pretty brown, you blink a little put off as you sputter out, “Gator?”
The man before you looks at you with a lost little smile, brows twitching in confusion for a moment as he quickly looks behind himself before turning back to you, “‘Scuse me?”
You sort of just gawk at the guy. “Are you not my boyfriend?” you blurt out in genuine confusion. On one hand, you couldn’t pay Gator to leave the house without hair gel. On the other hand, this guy has your boyfriend’s face. It’s actually a little scary.
A grin tugs at not-your-boyfriend’s lips, a soft laugh escaping as he teases, “You’re pretty forward, huh?”
You bawk, “Wha-? Sorry, no, it’s just, you look just like him,” you try to explain, shoving the snacks and drink into the crook of your elbow as you dig into your pocket for your phone.
The stranger cocks his head to the side, interest piqued as he watches you fumble with your password. “Who?” He asks, another smile pulling to his lips as you curse out your face ID for choosing now to not work.
“My boyfriend!” you say without thinking, and the man huffs a little laugh. Oh, did you want his number? Is that it?
“You’ve got a lot of confidence, I’ll give you th- Oh wow, ok,” you actually manage to catch him off guard. Once you flip your phone screen around to him, he sees a picture of a guy who looks almost exactly like him, just very grumpy. It’s a cute picture. It’s of you and your boyfriend cheek to cheek: you beaming brightly, him doing the opposite.
“See?!” you exclaim, waggling your phone for emphasis.
“Yeah, I do,” he nods, eyes still locked on the look-alike on the screen. “Huh... Small world...” he murmurs, taking in all the details of the picture. He notes the way the man furrows his brow, the faint stubble on his face, and the shaved marks at his temple. You see his brows raise for a fraction of a second before he schools his features. He then asks, sounding genuinely curious, “Is he a cop?”
You blink in surprise, turning to look at the picture. You can just barely make out the sheriff vest he’s wearing, “Huh? Oh yeah, deputy,” you answer, a little stunned that he even noticed something like that.
“Is he working right now?” he asks casually, taking a quick glance out of the window before turning his attention back to you.
You huff a quiet laugh, a fond smile on your face as you roll your eyes. “Yeah. Though, considering a whole lot of nothing happens in this town, he’s probably on a lunch break.” You tuck your phone back into your pocket as the bell on the convenience store door chimes.
The man laughs, taking a quick glance towards the sound. “Right, well, great meeting you. I'd better go, just blowing through town after all.” He says, giving you a little wave.
You manage a wave, arms full of snacks and drinks. “Nice meetin’ ya,” you call as he turns and hustles out, head ducked. Weird. “Nice guy, though,” you shrug to yourself.
“Hey,” came a gruff voice from directly behind you, almost making you jump out of your skin as you whirl around to the actual familiar face of your boyfriend.
“Hi! God Gates, where'd you come from?” You squeak out, looking over your shoulder for the guy, wondering if you could point him out to your boyfriend. Unfortunately, he left fast. You turn back to your boyfriend, a teasing grin pulling at your face as you say, “You ever do actual work?”
Gator rolls his eyes, already resigned to your antics. “I’m workin’ right now,” he fires back, swiping the Mountain Dew and Snickers from your arms. He pops the cap, takes a long swig, then slings his arm around your shoulder. “BOLO’s out for some guy headed this way. Brown hair, brown eyes, about 5’11. Leather jacket, boots, the usual. You seen anybody like that?” He keeps his arm draped over you as you both head to the register.
You give him a blank look. That could be literally anyone. What a lackluster description. You scoff out a dry laugh, taking the bottle from him before he can take another sip, screwing the lid back on, and putting it on the counter with the rest of the stuff you were going to buy, as you snidely say, “Yeah.”
Gator looks up at you, surprised as he blindly slaps a ten on the counter to pay as he asks, “Ya have?”
“Lookin’ right at him,” you respond with a smug smile, taking the plastic bag of snacks from the counter. You saunter out of the store without him. Gator scoffs and rolls his eyes. He snatches his change off the counter and trails after you into the frigid afternoon air.
“You ever take anythin’ serious?” He huffs with a petulant pout. You snort at his face, fingers curling into his collar as you tug him into a quick kiss, pulling away before he can even lean into it.
“Nope,” you chirp, smirking as you pat his chest. You dig through your bag, hand him his drink, and fish out your own. “Met a guy today, by the way,” you add, the odd encounter suddenly popping back into your mind.
Gator scrunches his face up like he sucked on a lemon. “Ain’t I enough for ya? Whatcha ‘meetin’ guys’ for?” he huffs, miming quote marks as he mimics what you said.
You grin at your boyfriend, head butting his arm as he instinctively hooks an arm around your waist. “You are aware I exist on the planet Earth and have the chance to run into randos when I’m out in public, right?” you tease, giving his cheek a little pinch as his brows furrow, and he swats your hand away.
“Smartass,” he grunts, pressing a grouchy kiss to your lips to get you to shut up, teeth nipping lightly at your lower lip.
“Dumbass,” you mock back, sticking your tongue out at him. If you're not careful, he’s gonna bite it off. “Anyway, guy I met right, god Gator it was like looking at a-,” You flap your hand around as if trying to grasp words that could articulate the sheer bamboozlement you just went through as you just give in and blurt out, “I don’t know magic mirror, to a world where you don’t single-handedly fund the hair gel companies.”
Gator’s brows knit together, you still want to talk about the guy you met, “What?”
“The guy, babycakes,” you stress, ignoring his growl of protest at the pet name, you continue, “He looked just like you, like exactly like you, I thought he was you for a second, didn’t have your scowl, though,” Through all your rambling you don’t notice the pieces your boyfriend is putting together in his head with the description of the guy you met. “Nobody's got a sourpuss like you do, though,” you say, slipping in a compliment?
Gator rifles through his pockets as he pulls out his phone, hissing out a, “Damnit,” before pulling up the picture of the suspect, it’s grainy cctv footage, but still sort of visible enough to make out a few key features, he’s been badgered all morning about looking like the criminal whos on the run, he turns the phone to you an grits out, “This guy?”
You squint a little at the phone before a smile pulls to your lips, “Yeah!” It immediately drops as you turn to Gator, “Oh shit,” you speak through a grimace.
“You let him go?!” Gator scolds, turning to you, hands on your shoulders as he gives you a little shake.
You huff, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t know, Genius. I look like an officer of the law to you? Stop shaking me!” You pout, grabbing his shoulders to steady yourself.
“Where’d he go?” He grills, maybe if you know, he can still go after him and catch up.
“What am I, his best friend now? I don’t know,” you say, looking at him like he’s an idiot. He forgot you’re incredibly unhelpful; he might just arrest you for obstruction of justice. Surely, that’s what this is. The pair of you spend so long bickering that Lamram is probably on a different continent by now.
It was one of those days where you managed to convince Kurt to have a day out with you without streaming, and he actually agreed, as long as he could vlog. Beggars can’t be choosers. At the very least, you managed to convince him not to vlog the entire time, and by 'convince' you mean anytime he reached for his camera, you’d ask to hold hands, and Kurt, being unable to resist any form of contact with you, always obliges, forgetting all about what he was going to do. It’s a win-win. For you mainly. You get to hold his clammy ass hands in this shitty Azusa heat, your boyfriend isn’t narrating everything you’re about to do to his phone, and he can’t wander off. It's ingenious.
Relief washes over you as the icy blast from a nearby ice cream parlor's air-con drifts over your heated skin. You turn to the rainbow-bright storefront and ask, “Hey, wanna get an ice cream?” You reach a hand up to tug on Kurt’s sleeve, fingers wrapping around a thick cotton sleeve. Your brows furrow in confusion. Was Kurt wearing a jacket? You turn to look over your shoulder, and for a brief second, you genuinely believe your boyfriend just changed outfits, but you would never let Kurt out of the house wearing a beanie like that. You drop the stranger’s arm fast. “Oh! uh sorry I thought-“
“Yeah, I’m down,” the not-Kurt interrupts, tossing out a shrug and a crooked grin. You just gape at him, brows furrowed, stunned into silent disbelief.
“Uh… no, I’m sorry, I thought my boyfriend was next to me.” You stammer awkwardly, glancing around the busy mall as you hiss, “Where did he go?” You’re not sure what’s worse, the fact that you're now stuck in this weird-ass conversation with this complete stranger that might be your boyfriend’s long-lost twin, or the fact that Kurt has somehow disappeared in the mall doing god knows what. Probably getting scammed. Again.
“I love ice cream,” The guy says, breaking you out of your Kurt-induced hysteria.
You turn back to him, confusion clear on your face. Why the fuck is he still here? “…Ok?” You say, glancing off to the side. Should you divert his attention and make a run for it? What the fuck do you do?
He bites his bottom lip, squinting at the menu through the glass, deep in thought. “I’m gonna get sprinkles,” his lips pull into a pout as he declares his decision, rubbing his knuckles under his chin like he’s making a life-altering decision.
You blink at him. What the hell is this guy’s deal? “No, I didn’t mean to ask you,” You reiterate, slowing your speech to be clearer. Is he stupid, or is he just purposely ignoring you?
Your rescue arrives in the form of your slightly sweaty boyfriend, fanning himself with the collar of his shirt, a goofy, triumphant grin lighting up his face as he bounds over to you and calls, “Hey, I was- I lost you, Where did you go, babe?”
Your shoulders drop in relief. “There you are!” you exclaim, exasperated. For your own sanity, you decide to ignore his claim that you were the one who wandered off. Your gaze lands on the plastic trading card store bag in his hands. Mystery solved. Judging by the mountain of card packs, you’re in for an hour-long unboxing session when you get home.
“We’re going to get ice cream,” Beanie guy says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the little ice cream shop. You slowly turn to him, face scrunched in frustration. Kurt’s gonna have to hold you back; you’re about to beat the shit out of this guy. Your boyfriend perks up in surprise, just now registering that you were in fact with someone else this entire time.
Before you could once again tell this guy that you were not in fact getting ice cream with him, recognition flashed across Kurt’s face, a slightly awed smile pulling to his lips as he points out and says, “Oh, hey, it’s Duke Gool-”
You snap your attention back to your pookie, shocked. You cut him off as you interrogate him, “You know him? Are you friends?” You can’t believe Kurt knows someone named Duke. Who names their son Duke? Is he a dog?
“No,” Kurt states simply, he mistakes your shock for excitement. His eyes flicked over to the popular content creator and then back to you, clammy hand latching onto yours as he tugs you closer to him. “Why were you talking- What, um, what were you guys talking about?” he asks, more to you than to the other guy. “Are you a fan?” he sounds almost worried when he asks that, a faint pout on his lips, and you feel his fingers flex against yours. You stare blankly at Kurt. Fan? Oh God, he’s an influencer, isn’t he?
“Are you a fan?” Duke asks, a pleased grin on his face, eager for your response. Maybe he can get your Instagram after this. You’re pretty cute, he wonders if you’re an Instagram model. Although judging by the GoPro in sweat boy’s right hand, you might be a vlog couple. That’s never stopped him before.
You shoot Duke an irritated look before turning back to your boyfriend, squeezing his hand to reassure him. “No, I thought he was you and accidentally asked if he wanted to get ice cream,” you explain, sighing heavily through your nose.
“I’m already getting sprinkles, but you can get caramel sauce if you want?” Duke says to your boyfriend with a shrug.
You shake your head in confusion, looking back at the lookalike. “What? We can get the same toppings. You can’t just call dibs on the toppings,” you respond incredulously, gesturing with your hands in frustration. You let a groan of irritation out. This shit doesn’t matter, you’re not getting ice cream with this guy.
“I call dibs on hot fudge!” Kurt announces with a perky smile, relieved to find out you're not a fan. It was silly, really; he knows you’ve never seen any of Duke’s videos, he checks your watch history all the time, duh.
“Kurt, don’t listen to him. We don’t know him,” You tug his hand, garnering his attention. “and he’s fuckin’ weird,” you mumble to him under your breath.
“I call dibs on waffle cone,” Duke swoops in, completely ignoring your side conversation.
“Aw, I wanted a waffle cone,” Kurt pouts, shoulders slumping.
“No, stop! I don’t even know who you are, dude. Kurt, we’re leaving.” You huff in annoyance. This circus act has gone on long enough. Time to go.
You drag Kurt away as he calls out to the other man, “Hey, follow my socials Kurtsworld96!”
Duke gives a tight-lipped smile and a thumbs up before tucking his hands into his pockets. Yeah, he’s not gonna do that; he is gonna get an ice cream, though.
It’s quiet at the front entrance. You sit with your feet kicked up on the front desk, Travis’ worn copy of The Body Snatchers in your hands, your eyes tracing over the same paragraph over and over again. You’re bored, and you miss your blondie. How long do lock checks take again? “Excuse me, you work here, right?” A smooth voice calls out to you, garnering your attention.
You snap to attention, feet thudding back to the floor. “Huh? No, I- Oh wow.” The man before you is a vision of effortless style, dressed fashionably and comfortably for the heat, sunglasses resting atop hair that looks like it’s never known a bad day. He oozes charm, leaning into the counter with elbows propped, chin resting on his fist as he gives you a once-over. That smile of his is suave and practiced.
“Are you a fan?” he teases, that charming smile not leaving his face, the same face that you wake up to, actually.
You blink slowly. Is this a prank? Movement on the monitor draws your attention; you see Travis hopping up and down, waving his hands at the camera to get your attention. You see a giddy smile split onto his lips as you watch him fumble his hands for a moment, making a triangle, then a circle, before finally nailing a heart for the camera. A soft laugh slips from your lips. But if Travis is making heart hands on camera 7... Who the fuck was this guy in front of you? And did he just call you a fan? You turn your attention back to Alternate Travis and blurt out with a confused look, “What?”
The stranger gives a coy little wave, his voice smooth as velvet. “It’s alright, I don’t mind if it’s just you.” He fishes a small leather-bound pocketbook from his summery blazer pocket, plucks a photo from a neat stack, and hands it over with a charming smirk.
“Oh. Alright… thanks?” You accept the photocard, determined not to make this bizarre encounter any more awkward than it already is by leaving him hanging. “I guess…” You glance down at the glossy, signed headshot. Sean Lockwood? The name means nothing to you. Looking back up at ‘Sean,’ you ask, “So, what did you need here?”
His smile fades the moment he remembers why he’s here, sighing as he says, “I was told something was left here for pick up, something for the set.” He folds his arms, rolling his eyes and muttering, “Not sure why I had to pick it up, not like I’m the lead actor or anything.” With a sardonic grin, he shrugs and keeps venting, “I mean, what are PAs for if not the grunt work, right?”
You nod, “Sure, just a sec,” you say, scooting over to the tannoy.
“Yeah, take your time,” he graciously says, resuming his position of leaning on the front counter, boredly looking around the front entrance.
You press the button and announce, “Um, Travis? There’s some guy here to pick something up… can you come back to the front?” You release the button, then press it again, squeaking out a quick, “Please?” Your cheeks flush; you doubt you’ll ever get used to hearing your own voice echo back.
Sean huffs, ‘Some guy?’ Oh, you must be being subtle about him being here, how sweet, “I appreciate you being discreet.” He says, moving to stand in front of you again, “It gets exhausting sometimes.”
You give him a tight-lipped smile and nod your head, “I bet.” The sound of sneakers quickly squeaking along the floor is then accompanied by your out-of-breath boyfriend quickly rounding the corner, “Travis! That was quick.”
He staggers over, panting and a little sweaty. “Hey, I’m here, I’m here,” he manages, leaning hard on the desk beside Sean. Sean gives him a quick once-over, wrinkles his nose, and edges away.
“Did you run?” You ask, grabbing his metal water bottle off the desk and handing it over to him.
“Uh-huh, you needed me,” He says, like running up all those stairs was the only logical thing to do when your partner asks for help. He gratefully takes the bottle, twists it open, and chugs, a little spilling from his lips and onto his shirt, not that he cares. He finishes drinking, handing the bottle back to you and swiping an orange sleeve over his face before turning to the customer. “Hey,” Travis balks at the guy, because no fucking way, this guy looks just like him, even his own brother doesn’t look that similar to him, “Holy shi-”
Sean sighs, holding a hand out to stop the ruffian you called to assist, “Please, I’m just here to pick something up.”
“Huh? Oh, right uh-” Travis manages to stop staring, turning to you and giving you a little ‘are you seeing this’ look. You respond with a bewildered nod, and Travis clears his throat before pointing to the clipboard on the desk. “Babe, can you get the sign-out sheet for me, please?” You quickly grab it for him, swiftly handing it over, his warm fingers brushing against yours as he takes it, and he praises you sweetly for your help: “Thank you, pretty.” Travis turns back to the guy, holding back a full-body shiver as it feels like his own unimpressed face is scrutinizing him. Does this guy not see it? “Uh, just sign here on the dotted line, and then I can open the grate and get you the keys for-”
“I get it,” Sean cuts him off flatly, taking the pen from the clipboard's holder.
Travis presses his lips together and nods, mumbling, “Yup, right, obviously.” Instead of grabbing the clipboard, Sean opts to use the other man as a makeshift stand. “Oh, you can take- Okay…” Before Travis can even finish his offer, Sean clips the pen back onto the board. Travis gives the signature a once-over before handing it back to you and saying, “Cool, uh, babe, keys for this one.” You take the board and quickly retrieve the corresponding keys for Travis. He smiles dreamily at you, his hand clasping around your own as he takes the keys from you, another compliment spilling from his lips, “You’re beautiful.” He turns to the man and offers the keys. “Here you go, man.”
A dry, “Thanks,” is all he receives as the man brushes past him to the elevator.
Travis spins around, calling after him, “Oh, uh, you’ll want sub 2. When you get there, take a left out of the elevator, walk a bit, you’re looking for—” The elevator doors slide shut, cutting him off. The last thing Travis catches is Sean’s tight-lipped smile. “And he’s gone…” Travis sighs, slumping an elbow onto the desk as he stares at the closed doors.
“I think your customer service is great, Travvy,” You coo, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek. You see his eyes light up as he quickly turns to you, his nose bumping yours as he leans over the desk more to press his lips to yours.
You pull away, his cheeks cupped in your hands as he sighs out, “‘Least you think so.” Travis wrinkles his nose, adding, “Also, was it just me, or was that guy like givin’ you a weird vibe?”
“If you mean he looks exactly like you and is a famous actor, trying to be lowkey, then yes,” you reply, letting go of your boyfriend to pull up your earlier Google search on your phone.
“Famous?” Travis says, arching a brow. The guy can’t be that famous, he’d know if there was a famous celebrity that looked like- “Whoa, famous,” he says, reaching over to gently take your phone from you, scrolling through the guy's extensive IMDb. “Think he’ll give us an autograph?” Travis asks as a half-joke.
You snicker, tipping your head to the side and teasingly asking, “You a fan?”
Travis smirks at you, “No,” giving a carefree shrug as he says, “But people pay a pretty penny for shit like that, right?”
You grin, rolling your eyes as you pull out the signed photocard. “Lucky me, he gave me one,” you tease, flashing it to Travis, who leans so far over the counter he nearly climbs across.
“Wow,” the blonde breathes, studying the glossy photo. “You really think I look like this?” Travis holds the card up beside his face for comparison.
You cock a brow, “Think? Lovebug, if I hadn’t seen that guy today, I’d assume it was a picture of you.”
Travis looks baffled, cheeks flushing. “I’m blonde?!” he protests, as if you’ve made an absurd claim.
“Your roots say otherwise,” You tease with a grin, causing Travis to pout and claim that he’s gonna dye it again soon and that he’ll need your help and not just because he wants you to run your fingers through his hair.
Johnny said he was going to Rome and asked if you would come with him. He failed to mention that it was Ancient Rome, and that it was a retrieval mission you weren’t even allowed to go on, but he insisted that you’d both beg for forgiveness later. So here you are, in a comfortable, flowy tunic, trying to blend in as you admire the architecture. “Pretty,” you whisper, fingers gliding over a cool marble pillar. “Also, where are we?” You ask with furrowed brows, turning to where your boyfriend should have been standing, “Johnny?” You call, eyes darting around the little isolated courtyard area for a glimpse of blonde hair. “Babe?!” You call out again. Now you’re freaking out, panic prickling at your skin. Being lost in another country is bad enough; being lost in another time is worse.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” You grumble under your breath. The next time you see him, you're gonna give him such a tongue-lashing. There’s gotta be a better phrase for that. You hold your hands out in front of you, fluttering your eyes shut as you take a grounding breath. “This is fine, totally fine, super fine, being lost in Ancient Rome without my emotional support superhero boyfriend, this is totally… Groovy…” You sigh heavily, letting your eyes open again. You give another scan of your surroundings and see a blonde flash behind a tree. Your heart jumps to your throat as you hurriedly make your way over. “Johnny!” Your elation is immediately snuffed out as you round the tree to see a pale, golden-haired, dark-eyed man, dressed in gold and white, sitting on a marble bench, “Not Johnny?”
“Lost are we, pet?” The man asks, settling his book in his lap. His stare pins you in place as he curiously rakes his gaze over your form.
“Huh?” You manage to choke out, your startled look makes the regal man laugh, you look like a deer in the headlights, or in his case, a peasant about to be hit by a carriage.
His smirk is broad with amusement as he leans towards you, “Quite ill-mannered too, speaking to your emperor like that, no less.”
What did he say? “Em-emperor?” you squeak, voice cracking. That does not sound good. For you. You can’t believe you’ve been in Ancient Rome for like 30 minutes and you’re gonna be beheaded. Unlucky.
The emperor scoffs, his eyes narrowing at you like you’ve got some gall. “Surely, even you can recognize the ruler of your country.” He tips his head to the side in thought, studying you with a sharp, almost predatory curiosity. “Although you look a little out of place, a foreign one perhaps?” he muses, voice dripping with suspicion.
You blink and shake your head in confusion, “Foreign what?”
“Concubine obviously pet,” He retorts, like it was obvious, leaving his book on the bench as he takes a step towards you. “Uneducated ones always tend to be the cutest,” his hand coming up to pinch your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tipping your chin up to bore his eye into yours.
“Excuse me?!” You fluster in a panic. Absolutely not. You need to get away from this man immediately. Where the hell is- “Johnny!” Relief floods you as you lock eyes with those anchoring blue eyes, his warm hand grasping yours. He whisks you away from the emperor, and you stumble into his chest, your hands pressed against him. Safe.
A cold sneer pulls to the dark-eyed emperor's lips as he hisses hatefully, “What right do you have to touch my pet like that, you scum?!”
“Where have you been?” you whisper worriedly, clinging to your blue-eyed hero. His sly smirk melts your tension, and your shoulders finally relax.
“Did you miss me?” he teases, but your unimpressed glare wipes the smirk off his face, replacing it with a sheepish grin. “Sorry, must’ve gotten separated when we warped.” He tries to explain, but your scowl lingers. “I was looking for you,” he promises, lips jutting in a small pout. “Please don’t be mad at me?”
A wild snarl erupts beside you, followed by the golden-haired man’s thunderous roar: “I AM YOUR EMPEROR, AND I AM SPEAKING TO YOU FILTH!” You and Johnny both flinch at the outburst, your hands clutching his tunic as he stares, lips pursed in surprise.
He lets out a low whistle, glancing back at you. “Woof, he’s angry. What’s his problem?” he mutters, shooting the furious emperor a sideways look.
You wet your lips as you nervously inform your doofus, “Uh, he is the emperor of Rome, and he thinks I’m his concubine and that you are probably some audacious peasant who thinks he can do whatever he wants,” you finish with a little smile.
“Oh…” Johnny says a tiny bead of sweat is forming on his brow. Getting tangled up with an emperor probably won't have any consequences. Johnny takes the opportunity to do something important. Make a suggestive comment, “Concubine, ey? If you’re gonna be anyone’s concubine, you’d be min- ow!” You sock him on the shoulder; you have bigger priorities right now.
“GUARDS!” The man explodes with anger, turning his visage a furious red. You know what they say. Lovers who piss off Ancient Roman emperors together will probably be turned into gladiators together or whatever.
“Whu-oh, time to go,” Johnny says, scooping an arm under the back of your knees and the other around your back, lifting you off your feet as he hurriedly carries you off to somewhere you can both warp without exploding the minds of Ancient Roman citizens.
“SEIZE THAT CUR MAKE HIM UNHAND MY PET!” the emperor bellows. Footsteps thunder behind you, but you keep your face tucked into the warm crook of Johnny’s neck, holding on tight as he makes a sharp turn down a quiet hallway.
“He sure is fond of you. Sure you don’t wanna stay?” Johnny teases with a shit-eating grin, you smack his shoulder again with a frown as he lets out a squeak at the action.
He sets you back down onto your feet as you huff, "That’s not funny, Johnny. I don’t want to be a concubine for a tyrant leader. By the way, you still owe me a real trip to Rome."
“What’s wrong with here?” He asks with a stupid smile on his lips, looking up from the watch he’s fiddling with on his wrist, setting the time back to your present day.
“Johnny, stop talking.” You huff, arms crossed over your chest as a light blue glow emanates from the watch screen, casting you both in its light. You feel Johnny pull you closer by the waist.
“Yes, my Love.” He croons, and with a flash, you’re both gone.
A/N: And you know maybe the April Fools were the April's we fooled along the way. Look, I'm late and I can explain... No I can't I've just got some major writer's block, literally had to ring my brain like a rag to get this out of my head and into my drafts but it's here!! this was not proof read they never are but I hope you still enjoyed!!
I will hopefully get back to normal at some point but as of now stuff will come when my brain fog lifts <3
missing eddie munson hours so i made a little blurb ♡
edit: okay maybe it’s a big blurb…
- takes place after s5 ! -
———𑣲 .☘︎ ݁˖
Eddie Munson was always sweet.
Despite his so-called bad reputation, he was never anything less than perfect to you. Even if the world was seemingly against him, you remained his one good thing.
By the time you turned twenty, the world had already ended once, or had come close to it, and your lover’s name had been mostly, if not completely cleared, thanks to Hopper.
You and Eddie had spent time with his uncle after the world had nearly almost ended, it being a team effort to help rebuild a home that had been destroyed—a home that was originally just Eddie Munson and his uncle, though had included you with ease when you were introduced in Eddie’s life.
Rebuilding the trailer… or even the idea of buying a new one after armageddon was… pricey, to say the least. Though, your parents, with Harrington-level money, had stepped in, and had ended up helping the Munsons with buying a comfortable-sized house, despite Wayne’s initial denial for help.
The new home had been technically meant to be just for Wayne, with you and Eddie having plans envisioned for your semi-soon future in finding a place for the two of you, together.
Though… as much as the thought had thrilled the both of you, the act of being sidetracked had quickly stepped in and settled.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
“Jesus Christ—Eds!”
Smoke curled up from the pan in thin streams, Eddie jumping back like the stove had personally offended him, wooden spatula still clutched in his hand. “I didn’t do anything!”
“Eddie Munson, you absolutely did!” you shot back, rushing forward to turn the burner down before the entire kitchen went up with it. “Jesus—why is it black?”
“It’s not black,” he argued, squinting at it. “It’s… it’s dark.”
You stared at him, baffled, concerned by his lack of cooking skill.
“It’s dark? Eddie.”
He hesitated. “…Okay, it might be a little black.”
A sigh left you, somewhere between exasperated and amused as you carefully grabbed the pan from him. “You can’t just leave it on high and walk away, pretty. You gotta watch it so this doesn’t happen.”
“I didn’t walk away,” he said defensively. “I was… monitoring.”
“From the other room?”
“I have good instincts!”
You huffed a laugh despite yourself, shaking your head as you scraped whatever was left of the food out of the pan. “Your instincts are going to burn your uncle’s new house down on his day off.”
At that, Eddie winced slightly, glancing toward the hallway like his uncle might appear at any second.
“Okay, in my defense,” he started, lowering his voice, “he said he wanted to relax today. I’m helping.”
“By committing arson?”
“By cooking,” he corrected.
You turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised.
He grinned—crooked, unapologetic, a little sheepish at the edges.
And still, oh-so sweet. Yours.
You could only sigh, rolling your eyes, though your shoulders relaxed as you began to further clean up the mess he had made, murmuring,
“C’mon, pretty. I’ll teach you.”
⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚
The kitchen felt warm again.
Not just from the blazing stove this time.
Eddie stood a little too close behind you, arm brushing your own every time you reached for something, his attention split between what you were saying and the way your hands moved—a little more strangely aware of the injuries still healing on his body from the aftermath of armageddon—
—the pull in his side when he shifted just a little too fast. The dull ache that hadn’t fully left yet, lingering reminders of everything that had happened—everything he’d made it through.
He didn’t mention it, didn’t really need to, as you knew. Were always careful, always knowing with him, his state of being.
But it was there, in the way he leaned just slightly into you, like grounding himself without thinking. Like your presence made the sharp edges of it all a little easier to ignore.
“Okay,” you said, tapping the spatula lightly against the pan. “Medium heat. Not high. Not whatever you did before.”
“I told you, that was instinct.”
“Uh, your instinct is dangerous.”
“Wow,” he muttered. “And here I thought this was a safe space.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, nudging him gently with your hip. “Just watch me, Eds.”
For once, Eddie actually did.
He leaned in just enough to see, chin nearly brushing your shoulder, before finally resting there, eyes following your movements with a focus that would’ve been impressive if you didn’t know him better.
A comfortable silence settled between the both of you, just momentarily broken by the quiet sound of him kissing your shoulder, then the action being returned with a quick, gentle kiss against the side of his head, before—
“Well,” a voice drawled from the doorway, “I’ll be damned.”
Eddie froze.
You didn’t jump, but you did glance up, already knowing who it was before you even turned.
Wayne stood there, one shoulder resting against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed over his chest. He looked like he’d been there for a second—long enough to take in the scene, long enough for something small and knowing to settle into his expression.
Eddie straightened immediately, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Hey—uh—didn’t hear you get up.”
Wayne hummed. “Didn’t think I needed to announce it.”
Your lips pressed together slightly, fighting a smile as you turned back to the stove, giving Eddie just enough time to recover.
“Morning, Wayne,” you said instead, tone easy. “We’re making breakfast.”
Wayne glanced at the pan, then at the faint trace of smoke still lingering in the air.
“Smells like it,” he said dryly.
Eddie scoffed. “Okay, that was one time—”
“Five minutes ago,” you cut in.
“—and it’s under control now,” he finished, pointedly ignoring you.
Wayne’s gaze shifted between the two of you.
Not intrusive, just observant—observant on the way his nephew hovered close to you, like he couldn’t quite help it. The way you moved around the kitchen like you’d been there longer than you technically had. The quiet rhythm the two of you had slipped into without thinking.
It didn’t go unnoticed—never did, not to Wayne Munson.
“Hm,” Wayne muttered, pushing off the doorframe and stepping further into the kitchen. “Didn’t know I had a chef in the house.”
“You don’t,” Eddie said quickly. “She won’t let me touch anything.”
“Because you’ll burn it,” you added.
Wayne snorted softly at that, reaching for a mug from the cabinet without asking where it was—because he didn’t have to.
“Smart girl,” he said, almost to himself.
Eddie rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite to it. “Yeah, yeah. Everybody’s against me.”
You quietly giggled underneath your breath, continuing to cook. “You’re learning now. That’s enough.”
“Wow,” he said, mock-offended. “High praise.”
Another giggle left you.
Wayne leaned against the counter now, quiet again, watching the two of you for a moment longer.
There was something softer in it this time—settled, content.
Wayne took a slow sip of his coffee, gaze lingering just a second longer before he looked away, giving you both the space like he always did.
“…You two make enough for three?” he asked casually.
“Yuh-huh.” You hummed, smiling, though not looking away from what you were doing still. “Wouldn’t let you starve off of Eddie’s charcoal.”
Eddie scoffed immediately. “Okay—first of all—”
Wayne huffed into his coffee.
This was going to be a long morning.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
Time had soon passed, eventually, as it tends to do, and the day was a comfortable, lazy blur.
Now it was just the two of you in Eddie’s room, your cheek against his chest as you comfortably curled up against his side, the room smelling faintly of the Cherry Sandalwood incense you had brought over when helping the Munsons first settle into the new space, and the heavy blend of weed, cigarettes, and the cheap cologne you surprisingly convinced him to buy.
His free hand slowly rubbed over your hip, the other holding a lit joint he lazily smoked as he leaned back against the headboard of his bed, eyes half-lidded, taking in the rhythm of you and the soft hum of the bedroom.
Your voice was low, slow, half-breathed, the kind of sleepy tone that made him want to freeze time. “Y’know… a few of my friends and I… we’re thinking about getting a house soon. You know, one near campus.” You nuzzled a little closer, eyes half-closed, not moving a muscle against his chest. “Was thinking… maybe… having you live with us, pretty.”
Eddie froze mid-drag on his blunt, the smoke curling lazily upward, and let out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “Wait… what?”
“Mm,” you hummed, a small smile brushing your lips without lifting your head. “Mhm. Could make it work. Jus’ have you be in my room. Share a bed.”
He blinked, trying to wrap his mind around the words, the casual confidence in your tone making it somehow worse—like he’d been invited into this plan of yours, not just dragged along. “You… you mean that? Like… serious?”
“Mhm.” You quietly hummed, the sound being all you could manage as you grew sleepier by the second while continuing to rest where you lay.
He let out a quiet scoff, tilting his head as he tried to process the idea, his free hand brushing lazily over your arm. “Wow… okay. That’s… that’s kinda perfect,” he murmured, voice rough and warm. “I mean… sure, I don’t have a degree or dorm life, but…” He shifted slightly, leaning back against the headboard, eyes softening. “…I’d like that. A lot.”
You hummed again, a small smile pressing into his chest without moving, barely coherent but enough to make him chuckle. “Mhm.”
His eyes slowly drifted down towards you at that, staying quiet for a moment, before reaching over to put out his blunt, a quiet sigh escaping his calmed, hazy mind as he brought you closer.
“You know,” he murmured, voice rough but soft, “you really know how to make a guy forget everything else.” His fingers traced lightly along your side, careful, like you might vanish if he touched too hard.
You let out a soft hum, not moving, just nuzzling a little deeper into him. “S’okay,” you mumbled, a yawn escaping your lips.
Eddie chuckled softly, low and warm, tilting his head so his forehead rested just above yours. “S’okay, huh?” he murmured, voice rough but fond. “Don’t think I’m not gonna notice how tired you are.”
A soft hum escaped you, sleepy and hesitant at first, barely more than a vibration against his chest.
He only sighed, a fond thing as he brought you closer, a kiss pressed atop your head, “C’mon, baby. Time for bed.”
Careful not to jostle you, he shifted so you could curl fully against him, one arm around your back, the other tracing lazy circles along your side. Your hum deepened, sleepy and content, and with that, he pressed another kiss to the crown of your head, content to lay in the darkened room with you.
——
chat idk if this one’s a good one i didn’t read over it… 💔
chapter summary: "Except it doesn't feel like [a nightmare] anymore"
chapter warnings: canon divergent, happens after s4 but before s5, fem! reader (referred to as 'girl' and 'birdy'), angst and fluff, time jumps, implied that reader has been victim to dv and abuse, homelessness, a lot of death mention, implied smut (very tastefully so), reader's depression and ptsd post s4, reader kinda spirals at Eddie's grave, a lil surprise at the end
a/n: happy valentine's day (a few days earlier because i got excited) from yours truly <3
word count: 5.7k
eddie munson masterlist | series masterlist
inspired by the 2019 musical 'hadestown' by anais mitchell
He hadn’t planned on dying.
Not when he knew he had someone waiting for him on the other side.
And yet, his sprawled body in the middle of the empty lot, mauled, bitten, broken by the creatures, just didn’t seem to want to die. Almost as if someone was voluntarily keeping him alive.
He was there, and he wasn’t. Drifting in and out of consciousness for what felt like days in that suffocating hellscape. He could feel his heartbeat, though. Pumping hot, crimson blood into his veins, out of his oozing wounds that would not have been tended to.
Petrified.
Too weak to move, too awake to let himself be taken by the sweet embrace of death. Someone had decided that dying was too merciful a fate for him, condemned to his own personal circle of hell. Where he would’ve belonged anyway.
In this twilight sleep, not quite fully embraced by Morpheus, he cursed himself for wanting to be a hero, he could’ve just stuck to what he’s known best for years– running.
Nobody would have found his body, and his uncle would have lived his life thinking he was dead, you would’ve thought he had died.
Had he been in better health would he have been able to escape? Not with the bats on the loose, no.
And then maybe he thought it a blessing that he had gotten himself stuck down there. What kinda life would he have been able to provide you? A failed wannabe rockstar who hadn’t been able to graduate high school? Stuck in a trailer park scrounging for whatever money you could gather? You had such a bright future ahead of you, not like him.
He had dreams, and hopes for the future that quickly went to die, as he realized that he was nobody. That’s why no one would have saved him. In the nick of time, the people in town would have forgotten all about him, even rejoiced in his absence.
Like clockwork, each thought would haunt him for days on end. Unable to tell the passage of time, sprawled on the dirty concrete, with each breath getting more shallow than the one before. He hadn’t heard the sound of his own voice in God knows how long, did he remember how your voice sounded? He had forgotten himself.
And in the middle of forgetting himself, he heard an unfamiliar sound in the vicinity. A whoosh behind his head. Had his time finally come. Would he have been plucked out of his misery after days of staring upwards, in hopes of something suffocating him, eating him from within, consuming him. All he wanted was to see you one last time before finally dying in the pits of hell.
He felt a tear roll down his cheek, or was it blood? He had forgotten how to cry. He wasn’t scared to die, not after it had been delayed for so long. And yet, the unknown made his shallow heart beat slightly faster. The whooshes had gotten closer and more frequent. It was there to take him.
A whimper escaped him. He was ready.
The figure rushed right past him. It bit him. And his heart stopped beating for good.
___
Hawkins, IN- November 1986
Eight months of emptiness.
The November rain pitter patters on the window of your room. A room that used to provide you comfort against the demons of the night, when you’d wake up in cold sweats from a nightmare, only to realize it was just that. A nightmare.
Fuzzy stuffed animals sitting limply on your dresser drawer, which with time got replaced by glossy magazines, powdery makeup, posters on your wall, a cassette player. You used to look around your room for a sense of stability, the darkness providing comfort from the nightmares that would leave your sheets soaked with sweat.
Except it doesn’t feel like that anymore.
Not since–
The nightmare wasn’t the pressure of choking tentacles right against your carotid, nor the feeling of skin being marred by dozens of batlike teeth. It wasn’t even the fact that you didn’t even see his body. That you found out through the airwaves of a walkie-talkie, because you were needed elsewhere. You were needed to keep an eye out– to drive a crying Lucas to the hospital as he held an unconscious Max.
As the town split in four, it felt too selfish to wonder where Eddie was. Not when you were the only responsible adult around while Lucas and Erica waited for their parents as you spoke with countless doctors, trying to grasp at something certain, something sure.
You won’t lose me.
Dustin’s broken voice wasn’t a nightmare either. Him, with his limping leg coming to wrap his arms around you, just to let him sob before you could even get the chance to.
You’d begin to resent him, after.
Once you had enough time to stew in your own emotions. Once the box with whatever was left of Eddie’s things began to bear a square-shaped dent in the carpet of your room. When his smell began to fade from the few t-shirts you were able to salvage, along with a couple bridge pins from an acoustic guitar that went destroyed, a tin of picks, and a half-burnt journal.
You’d begin to resent the way he’d started to grow his hair out to look like him. The chunky rings on his fingers, the tattered jeans. You’d resented the fact that he was the last one to see him alive– not you.
There was too much of Eddie in Dustin. And you couldn’t bear it.
It builds with time, as his hair grows longer, and the divots in his face become deeper, until a perpetual frown fully sets in. You can’t even look at him, at the deliberate way he lifts his middle finger like he did, the way his lips curl, the way his hands violently drag across the expanse of his face in frustration.
So you stop showing up.
“Crawls”, they call them. Looking for the creature that caused so much damage to the town. Sleepless nights spent in the van, the clock tower, the radio station, waiting for the walkie talkie to do something. Waiting for news– one screech is good, two is bad, three is life or death.
Death, death, death. They use that word a lot for a bunch who’s seen more dead people than the average person.
When Dustin delineates a plan, he always brings death with him.
“We have to follow all these steps to a T, or we’re dead,” “We’re dead if Hopper doesn’t answer,” “If the government finds out what we’ve been doing for the past six months we’re toast.”
What does he know about being dead?
That word wrings out a devastating expression out of you. Discordant, like pressing on a freshly purple bruise, it makes your nose flare, your lips tighten in a bitter line. It’s followed by a pitiful look at you, then a sugared, hurried ‘sorry’, going back to their busy muttering. Their mouths are pulled taut, their eyes are squeezed, like they don’t know what ‘death’ means.
Like they haven’t seen death. Mauled bodies and the empty stares. Like they haven’t known hunger– for a better life, for it all to end, hunger for dreams outside of Hawkins.
You offered to go with Hopper the first time, in a place of horrors you’d never bothered to discuss with Steve and Nancy past a dry “how’re the scars looking?”– hoping to recover whatever was left of his body. The bone of an arm, a lone, dirtied Reebok, the black bandana he sported on his head when you saw him last– literally anything that could carry on the thought of him.
“No chance, kid,” he’d uttered, bearing a load of ammo and enough provisions to last him a few days were he to get stuck there.
And you begged and cried, with fat tears digging lines into the skin of your cheeks. All you wanted was to see him one last time. To know that when you sat in front of his tombstone, you weren’t sitting above an empty grave. Shallow wood that never bore the weight of the man you loved.
It didn’t help that everyone treated you with kid gloves. Their sorries always too hushed, too gentle, as if afraid to step on live wire. Afraid to get hurt, while you wandered aimlessly through the four walls of this perfectly rectangular building.
Letting your fingers trace and your mind catalog each frayed spine on each record on the dusty shelves, they allow you to break by yourself. In the quiet bustle you’re more than comfortable staying out of, you play a new game you invented.
You take stock of every record, every song, every cassette that Eddie liked. Music you would listen to when he’d lay you in the backseat of his car and take his fill of you until the world past his backseat blurred. Music he’d try to get you into, the tracks you played for him, the ones he didn’t like, music he would have liked if he hadn’t–
They let you stay at the radio station, lounged on the rickety couch while they busied themselves with trackers, signals, and codenames. It all felt so pointless to you.
So you stopped showing up.
___
Hawkins, IN- July 1985
The humid mist rinses the air with stuffy heat coming through the dirty floorboards.
The dingy bar on the edge of town emanates a sourness from the few bodies occupying it. You’re just passing through for a cold glass of water, lemonade, something to relieve you from the suffocating heat that summer brought with its arrival.
You slipped a twenty dollar bill in the rough hands of the giant manning the entrance of the place, just so he would pay extra attention to your car– packed to the brim with whatever you could fit in it.
Because leaving has always been better than staying and facing the music– the greenish purple bruises on your face and arm serves as a reminder of that. Along with the split lip.
You fan your neck with a sweaty hand, sitting down on one of the sticky leather stools at the counter. A shadow of a smile appears on the barman’s handsome face, shiny from sweat, as he steals a glance at you.
He clumsily slings the damp rag over his shoulder as he walks in your direction, drawing a chuckle from you.
“You old enough to be here?”
“Just passin’ through. Came in from something cold,” you tighten your shoulders apologetically. There’s something boyish in the way he smiles, like the world amuses him more than it should.
A closed-mouth smile, leaving room for divots on his cheeks. Kind, brown eyes, the same color of his hair—long, frizzy, loosely tied at the back of his neck.
Exposed freckled shoulders framed by a jaggedly cut black muscle tank, his left arm sporting a tattoo of a swarm of bats, moving with each jolt of his forearm.
“We got coke…I think?”
You take stock in the way his words squeak up at the question, as his eyes glance down at the bruise on your arm.
“Do you do rum and cokes here…?” Your eyes search for some type of identification on the boy’s shirt. No name tag.
“Eddie,” he solemnly bows his head, followed by a pause, a proud smile, like he’s expecting you to introduce yourself.
He blinks once, twice, for a name that never comes.
A heavy, heated sigh.
“Uh.. yeah we do– rum and cokes, I mean,” the glass he’s been wiping since you came in looks so clean you could see your reflection on it. Is he nervous?
Once he finally sets it down on the wet rubber mat of the counter, he scoops some ice into it with a sonorous clink. The soda gun held tight between his fingers as he presses the ‘coke’ button.
You watch as he fills the cup to the brim, ice cubes clinking against the glass, then offers it to you.
“‘S the old one– sorry,” he mumbles, scratching at his shoulder.
His nails leave red marks on the milky skin, as he watches you take a long swig from the glass of coke. A satisfied hum leaves your lips, letting the cold coke waterfall down your throat, while you press the sweating glass against your forehead for a moment of relief from the devastating heat.
“You don’t look old enough to be here, either, Eddie,” you retort to his initial statement, playing with the thick rim of the glass.
“I work here,” he defends, like a kid caught in the biscuit tin. A flush creeps up his neck and face, something tells you it’s not from the heat.
“As long as I keep playin’ on Tuesday nights, they’ll let me work behind the counter. Patty doesn’t care how old I am, she just likes me serenadin’ her, dontcha Patty?” he jests, gesturing to the small, angry- looking woman waddling through the bar.
“Stop flirtin’ with my customers, Munson!” The woman screeches, hitting him with the rag sitting on her shoulder.
“Charming as always, Patty-pants,” he flashes all thirty-two of his teeth at her, who curses at him in Spanish. A laugh bubbles out of you.
“I’m sure pinche pendejo means ‘because you should be flirting with me,’” he remedies, keeping his sunny smile at the woman while he emptily wipes at the wooden surface of the counter.
“And what do you play on Tuesday nights?” He diverts his attention back to you, then he’s distracted again by the sun-spotted hand of a whiny old man asking for a top-up.
He looks at you for a moment. A promise that he’ll be back to answer your question, while he moves away from you to serve the old drunk at the end of the bar another Bud Light.
“I play with my band,” he lets it hang in the air, not fully realizing he hasn’t answered your question.
You look at him expectantly.
“Oh– uh… guitar,” he gestures at the empty stage at the corner of the room with his chin, you follow his gaze. “I sing, too.”
“You must be real insufferable,” you snicker, taking another sip of your coke.
He weighs his answer.
“Most of the time I’m alright,” he shrugs, then his eyes drift to somewhere distant.
There’s something about him. Something good, something scary. Something that makes you feel warm, but not the way the high Hawkins sun does.
It doesn’t burn your skin, or make you pant with shallow breaths. Rather it expands from the depth of your chest.
A warmth that terrifies you.
His voice brings you back from your panic.
“You said you’re just passing through,” he fidgets with the string of his apron, hanging tight on his hips. “Where’re you headed?”
You shrug. “Dunno. Somewhere,” another sip. The cup is sweating around the palm of your hand, pruning the tips of your fingers with moisture. “My– uh, someone– is looking for me,” you clear your throat.
“You got someone chasin’you up to the middle of buttfuck nowhere, Indiana?” He chuckles at his own joke. “I’m assuming that’s how you got those gnarly bruises,” he points at the watercolor stains on your eye and arm.
You thought they were healed enough, but its colors are evidently still there. Enough for Eddie to notice.
You nod, tentative, unsure.
Unsure if you wanna let the charming bartender in on your secrets just yet. Unsure if it was wise to let yourself spill this much in the first place.
You toe at the metal footrest of the stool with your dusty shoes, while your gaze falls into the spinning bits of ice that circle around your cup.
The boy’s earnest gaze puts you in a state of uneasiness, unable to look at the brown pools of his eyes without feeling a trembling sense of anticipation for what he’ll say next.
“If you’re hiding, this is the best place to hide. Nothin’ ever happens out here,” he stuffs a wad of crumpled ones in the cash register.
“Most we had was a kid disappearing a couple years ago. Mall fire just about a month ago. You’re lucky you showed up now, we had to run off the reporters out of here up until last week,” he chuckles, filling a glass of ice water for himself, pressing the cold cup against his sweaty bangs.
“Was hopin’ to maybe, dunno, go a bit East. Got an auntie in Chicago who might take me in if I beg hard enough,” you joke with a dry laugh.
You know nobody’s coming to save you.
Eddie knows that, too, but he’ll let you play the tough girl bit for now: “Coke on the house for the toughest girl passing through Hawkins, then,” he says with a wavering smile.
___
A knock on your car window awakens you from your far-from-peaceful sleep. You’re damp from the heat that has collected in the car, and the relentless humidity of the night.
It’s the boy. Eddie.
You rub your eyes, your back cracking from the uncomfortable position you woke up in. Why is he here? You cautiously crack down a sliver of your driver window.
“What happened to Chicago auntie? She die?” He jokes, cradling a white, greasy, paper bag in his arms.
The quiet that follows is taut, tense. He can see it, the ache in your eyes, framed by purple, sleepless blots.
You wonder if the contents of that bag are for you.
You wonder if he knows that Chicago auntie isn’t real. That she’s a fantasy, a dream. To be taken in and taken care of, in the way you had done for so many, but none had done for you.
His smile shrinks, small but honest. “There’s no Chicago auntie, is there?”
You shake your head, rolling down the rest of the window like you’re lowering a weapon. And the tough girl crumbles.
“How’d you know I was out here?” It comes out small, weak. You hate it.
“Big Marg at the front told me,” he gestures to the big man you had tipped off earlier to watch your car. Something pulls at the corners of your lips.
“Big Marg?”
“Boy likes his margaritas,” he shrugs. “He told me that there was a girl who had been in her car for the whole afternoon, and to maybe come check on you. Brought shitty fries,” he holds up the greasy bag.
“I’m fine, Eddie. There has to be some Chicago auntie that will take me in. Hell, maybe even Indianapolis at this point,” you finally lean closer, defeated, resting your head on the car door.
“Alright, fine. At least stay until Tuesday night, so I can prove you I’m not totally insufferable,” he opens the white bag and directs its oily mouth to you.
“Please?”
___
As you drive into the unknown boroughs of Hawkins, you lower down the windows of your car to feel a semblance of wind, but all you get is hot air infiltrating every one of your pores.
You wonder where Eddie lives. In a small apartment by himself, or maybe in a big house with the rest of his family. Does he have brothers? Sisters? Will his mom take you in willingly?
Eddie’s white van guides you into the trailer park.
Run-down and rickety, the stuffy smells of motor oil and malfunctioning gas tanks invade your nostrils as soon as you enter the residential area. You curl your nose, hoping Eddie doesn’t see you through his rearview mirror.
You can’t afford to be ungrateful right now.
Eddie’s van guides you to a trailer closer to the main road, letting you park your car next to his.
“This is your manor?” You joke, scratching at the plane of your neck, walking towards the trunk of your car.
“Pretty sick, right?”
He helps you unload your bags from your trunk with a wobble. He’s stronger than he looks.
The trailer looks smaller from the outside, but there’s something comforting about it. About the collection of mugs hanging from a rack above the old TV. The countless hats sitting on a shelf above the sofa. Eddie is definitely not the only one living there.
“My uncle Wayne should be back soon, he works nights at the plant. It’s just me and him these days,” he sets down your suitcase, and an uncomfortable shiver runs down the length of your spine.
“He’s a good man. Just a bit… uh, rough around the edges,” he says, venturing into the kitchen to wipe at an invisible stain on the counter. You grip your bag tighter, unsure of what to do.
The ache floats around your gut like dead weight. You shouldn’t burden him with all the ways life has been unkind to you. With the hunger you feel– the burning need to start anew.
Maybe you should leave.
“You can take my bed, if you want. I’ll sleep on the couch, or on the floor, I don’t mind,” he fidgets with the dirty pans in the sink, marinating in murky water since breakfast the day before.
A beat.
He’s awkwardly throwing pretend punches at the separating wall between the living area and the kitchen.
Your gaze falls on the crowded tray of keys and trinkets on the table next to the door. A Hawkins High School ID card peeks out of the muddle of metals. Holy shit.
“Pause. Tell me I wasn’t flirting with a high schooler,” you counter, presenting the card with one hand, and grazing the handle of the front door with the other.
Now’s a good time to leave and forget this whole ordeal ever happened.
“Wait– I’m… I’m not underage, I promise,” he sighs, casually alarmed, and raises his arms over his head with a casualness that makes you think this isn’t the first time it’s happened to him.
“I’m nineteen,” he gazes at the floor, kicking the air with the tip of his dirty shoe. “I just–uh, got held back a couple times,” he tightens his shoulders, and in doing so, his shirt rides up just slightly. You pretend not to notice.
A long beat of silence follows, accompanied by the hum of the AC.
Eddie emits a shallow breath. He’s ready to hear it all.
Loser, freak, failure, disappointment. Nothing he hasn’t heard before.
Yet he imagines it will hurt more said by the tough girl he offered a coke to.
But you just laugh and sigh in relief. Eddie cocks an eyebrow, unsure if he should be offended, relieved, or amused by your reaction.
“Thank God, could you imagine? Got beat up within an inch of my life by my shitty boyfriend, homeless, and also a sex offender? I’d just turn myself in at that point.”
The heel of your hand smacks against your forehead at the sheer absurdity of the situation, and you hiss at the dull bruise you just hit.
Eddie just ignores the way that first confession spilled out of you, but makes a mental note to ask you about it, eventually. When you’re less freaked out.
Once you’re done laughing, Eddie sits down on the couch right next to you. His knee, covered by light-wash denim, nudges yours.
He offers an ice cream sandwich he and his uncle keep tucked in the freezer for special occasions. “For– for the heat,” he stammers. You take it with a barely-there ‘thanks.’
Once the last bites of ice cream have been popped into your mouth with sticky fingers, you speak up with your mouth still chewing at the soft sugar.
“I can sleep on the couch,” you pat the fabric. Almost like a response, dust motes fly into the sunbeam hitting the room through the windows. “I don’t wanna inconvenience you more than I’ve already done.”
“I can wash the sheets, if that helps. You deserve to have one good night’s sleep, at least,” he nudges his shoulder with yours, and something about it makes that warmth appear again.
There’s chocolate strewn across Eddie’s lips and chin from the aftermath of his fight against the quickly-melting dessert.
He’s just a boy, you remind yourself.
He’s not your savior.
He’s not the one who will rescue you from days of endless hunger ahead of you.
The heat will rise, and rise, and rise, until the leaves will turn, and the snow will fall in quick crescendoes, and there you’ll meet your fate.
There’s nothing you can do to stop it.
It’s only until Tuesday, you admonish, he’s just being nice. Then it’s back to sleeping in your car, and scrambling for food and places to stay.
It’s four days of reprieve from the rest of your life.
Four days of waking up in Eddie’s bed, seeing him jolt awake with the mechanical whirs of the toaster and the humming of the coffee machine.
His gangly limbs stretch past the frame of the couch with a strained sound. Four days of frozen dinners, watching rented tapes from the local video store.
You realize you like horror movies, and the Star Wars series. You find that you like talking about yourself– a pastime that was never allowed to you, for fear of making it all about yourself. Talking without the fear that something might set someone off.
You like talking to Eddie, whose voice is gentle and sweet, and the way he smells, like smoke and worn leather.
You like the way he smiles at you.
He’s so patient when you burn the first two pop tarts in the toaster on Saturday morning.
You like Wayne’s warm twang in his voice when Eddie introduces you. He calls you ‘girl’ and tells you to make yourself at home, and that even though you’re only crashing until Tuesday, you can overstay your welcome if needed.
It’s four days that feel like a lifetime never lived. Four days of unlearning how to walk the tense tightrope edge of a knife.
Four days of summer bliss that remind you of childhood. Of scraped knees and neighborhood kids. Knocking on your friends’ doors to come out to play with the fire hydrant. You’re reminded of goodness and innocence, something you haven’t had in a long time.
He splits a joint with you on Sunday night. It’s shitty, packed weird and wonky, curved to the left, but it gets you high enough.
High enough that for a moment, it makes you think that maybe you could stay.
That if Eddie is the ever-protecting sun, you can bask in his light a little longer than you thought. That your existence, just as violent as the birth that brought you in it, doesn’t have to end with a cold whisper in an unknown alleyway.
And when you feel his clammy hands travel up your arm, your shoulder, the back of your neck, you don’t fight it. You don’t oppose.
Instead, you open up for him– because you want it just as much. You want to feel the sweaty closeness of his body. The noises wrung out of him, that make him feel like he’s holding the whole world in between his arms. Full of craters and cracks, but with the eager willingness of a noble knight to build you back up.
Deep down he knows you won’t leave.
And when Tuesday arrives, your car isn’t packed.
You watch him perform at the dive bar, and his every movement fills you with an electricity you’ve never felt before. You clap along with him, as he holds the crowd in the palm of his hand.
And then you just… stall.
With every muttered “I should leave tomorrow,” there’s a disinterested “Mhm” that follows against the softness of your lips. Every time you try to pack your things to leave, your brain muddles, as if conditioned.
You don’t go– you can’t.
A month goes by, then two, and the leaves turn, the snow falls. You’re still in Hawkins, and Eddie’s spot on the couch empties. It turns into messy sheets, stolen kisses in the morning while he gets ready for school, and you decide to look for a temporary job at the diner across the road from the Hideout.
You let him occupy your space–his space. There’s so much warmth within him, you can’t help but bask in it, like a warm beam of sun on a cold morning. You let yourself feel– past a need of survival. You find that there’s more to life than running, tiptoeing on fragments of eggshells.
In spite of yourself, you let him in, little by little.
While your bruises heal, so do the wounds in your heart.
___
Hawkins, IN- November 1986
Bottling up the magic of being young– or the nine months you had spent with Eddie– it almost seems like a sin.
There was so much love in his eyes. You could see it twinkle in the flickering yellow lights of the trailer as he strummed emptily at his guitar, humming with honeyed voice a song that belonged to his mother’s bluegrass stash.
“You should send that new song to a producer, or something,” you’d murmured against the bare skin of his moled shoulder.
There’s a couple more tattoos on his milky flesh.
“I could, but ‘s not ready yet,” he spoke with his teeth bitten down on a red pick, emptily picking at copper strings.
“Sounds ready to me,” a kiss on the side of his head, where the smell of the green apple shampoo lingered on his wet hair.
“I don’t have enough money to haul my ass to Indy and record,” his tone was sharpened, irritated. It made you flinch out of habit, despite knowing he wouldn’t.
He never yelled. Not with you.
“We’ll get out of here soon, birdy, this song’s gonna be the one,” his head turned around to press a kiss against your lips.
“Love you,” he muttered, before going back to his strings.
“Love you, too.”
But was love going to always be enough?
It was enough to damper the crawling feeling of wanting to leave, at least for a while.
The leaves crunch under the tires of your car as it comes to a stop. It’s sunny today.
Eddie must be in a good mood. You smile to yourself.
The engine stops humming, the car door squeaks open, and the same leaves crunch under your boots. There’s a gelid wind poking at your nose and cheeks.
You tighten your shoulders from underneath your jacket.
There’s a wet sheen of paint thinner on the granite headstone that makes you roll your eyes. Dustin beat you to it.
A fresh bouquet of wildflowers is placed right against it. Your fingers wrap tighter against the plastic casing of the flowers you’d bought from Melvald’s as you toss them next to Dustin’s bundle.
There’s a fury that crawls up your throat. You should’ve come earlier.
Has Dustin just cared more about him than you have all this time?
Did Eddie care more about Dustin than he did you? Because it did feel like it for the last few or so months.
When he quit his job at the Hideout to bury himself in rehearsals to work on his song, his after-school club that caused him to come home late. The one that caused the occasional black, green, and purple bruises on his milky skin, the split lip and nose.
The sole sight of his beaten face made you flinch on occasion, as you cleaned the matted blood off of his skin. The same way he’d cleaned yours when you met.
And all you were met with were empty promises. Of a song that would have never been perfect. The one that was going to change your lives.
Watch, when we make it big, we’ll have a huge penthouse in New York.
We’ll never have to eat these TV dinners again.
Maybe we’ll get married. Somewhere nice, like Vegas.
That was when love began to not be enough. When his kisses became dry and hurried, disappearing to rehearse with his band, convinced that this song needed to be perfect.
You’d contribute to rent, groceries, various expenses, while his life revolved around school, DnD, and his band.
There was no more room for you in his life. And yet, you refused to leave.
What other option did you have?
You couldn’t let your own hunger for a better future blind you into having less than you had.
It wraps like vines around your throat. A phantom feeling to what had bruised your larynx in the Upside Down.
Unable to swallow, you let out a sob. Then you bite at the palm of your hand in regret.
A grieving widow shouldn’t feel anger.
Her cries should be full of misery, sorrow. Pregnant with an unending sadness.
So beautiful, but so sad.
Yet you’re angry. Harboring so much resentment for the man laying dormant below you.
Like a ritual, you defeatedly sigh, and wipe the tears that have watered the weeds below you. You push down the fury that boils within you, placing a kiss on the cold stone, like a good widow would.
The wind picks up, your hair wriggles against your neck, drying the wet tracks of the tears on your cheeks.
But it feels… odd.
Like something isn’t right this time.
It’s chilling, right into your bones. The same way you felt–
You shake off the feeling. Must have been a faint memory.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” you whisper, with your forehead pressed against the headstone. “Bye, Eddie.” Yet you don’t move.
Your legs don’t want to get up from their crouched position. Your eyes don’t stray from the dirty gravel on the ground. They don’t want to.
Like you’re frozen. Forced to relive a darkness you haven’t dared to explore.
The vines, the bats, the crack of lightning. The somber sky, and the smell, the–
The snap of a twig.
You jump.
Heart thrumming in your throat, afraid to turn around.
“Birdy?”
thank you so much for reading! feedback is always appreciated <3
you’re the hired princess for steve’s daughter’s birthday party, and eddie can’t take his eyes off you.
part II is up!
-
Eddie had always said he hated children, hate is a strong word, maybe mildly disliked. Vowed he’d never have any himself, no more Munson’s to poison the world. 5 years out of high school, a steady mechanic job he had somehow acquired, no children to ruin that. Maybe he hated kids, but he had a soft spot buried in his cold, dark heart for Steve’s little girl who calls him uncle.
Eddie sips his beer as he watches from the wall, little girls running around in their bright dresses. He should hate it here, but he couldn’t say no to sweet Olivia’s personal invitation she wrote for him to come. Steve’s partner is sat in a chair, hand on her 6 month belly. Safe to say Steve couldn’t wait to start a family. The doorbell chimes as Steve is sat with Robin having a tea party with Olivia and her friends. Steve looks over at Eddie.
“Man, could you get the door? I think it’s the—-,” Steve then mouths ‘special guest’ to which Eddie snorts and nods, saluting. He jogs inside the house and to the door, pulling it open, breath knocked out of him the minute he got a glimpse.
“Oh! Hi— you must be my fill in knight—,” you sigh out, smiling. Slightly red in the face but it looks like a natural, cute blush, he thinks. “He cancelled an hour ago, can you believe it?” You ramble as you place a box in his hands, he take it, blinking slightly and stepping aside wordlessly. Your tiara has tipped slightly, pale pink dress conjuring up all images in his mind he can’t escape. “I have all the costume in the box for you, Steve told me—“
That brings Eddie back from his monetary love spell you caused.
“Wait— what? Steve told you what?” Eddie speaks, watching your face as he follows you up the stairs.
“You’re Eddie, no?”
“I— that is he—“ Eddie fumbles with the box as you push into the guest room to lay your bag on the bed. Eddie clutches the box awkwardly as he watches you fix your curls. “How do you— know I’m Eddie?”
“Steve told me he can get a guy to fill in, for the knight role, said he had a mop of curls— metal looking—,” you speak absentmindedly, smiling happily as the tiara is fixed. Eddie doesn’t make a plan to move, eyes wide. “The costume should fit,” you smile, nodding to the box. Eddie can’t speak, can’t process, still distracted by your vanilla perfume wafting like he’s a cartoon attracted to a freshly baked pie.
“I— okay,” Eddie speaks, and shuffles into the guest bathroom. Eddie can’t believe his luck, Steve stitching him up like this. To make matters worse you’re possibly one of the most beautiful women he’s seen since The Princess Bride.
Eddie manages the knight costume on, arranging his curls again pathetically before pushing the door open. You’re stood applying some lip gloss, then turning to him.
“Oh it fits! Perfect,” you hum, standing to tie the red cape to the top of the costume. “My usual story is, you were a serving knight in my kingdom— a big dragon came and tried to burn the place down but,—“ you trail off, absentmindedly arranging his curls gently. Eddie thinks he might die, pop a boner, or just melt away into nothing. “We teamed up and saved the kingdom, married— blah blah,”
“Uh— didn’t want to go with the usual, saving Princess from a tower story?” Eddie attempts a joke, breath quiet as you mill it over.
“Hm, yeah, but I wanted to keep my stories feminist, especially for growing girls,” you smile, and Eddie thinks he might pass there on the spot. “Although you did save me today, thank you, by the way. Very chivalrous of you,”
“Oh uh—- yeah. Of course,” Eddie coughs, nodding. “Totally,”
“Cool,” you smile, the pink makeup shining under the sunlight through the window. “Showtime?”
*
When Eddie comes out to the garden behind you, Steve is already laughing behind his beer. The children have gathered to sit on the picnic blanket, staring wistfully at you, gliding over to them.
“Oh! What a lovely bunch of ladies and gentlemen!” You coo, voice soft. “It is a pleasure to meet you all, where is the birthday girl?”
Olivia shuffles up shyly, the toddler gripping her dress. You softly crouch, dress touching the floor. She smiles bright as you wish her happy birthday, and that’s always the best part of your job. Seeing the smiles on tiny faces.
Eddie is frozen behind you, posed a bit awkwardly. He avoids Steve’s gaze, for the sake of Olivia. A child asks about him, and you hum and stand, turning to take Eddie’s hand. Eddie can’t speak, blinking, before getting himself together. Olivia keeps looking at him with narrowed eyes, like she’s trying to solve a puzzle.
“This is my loyal knight,” you coo, nodding to Eddie, “Whom helped me defeat the evil dragon that tried to destroy my kingdom,”
A child pipes up.
“Are you in love?” The small toddler asks, eyes hopeful, as he stares up. “Like mommy’s and daddy’s are?”
“Oh, very in love,” you smile at his use of words, “Like mommys and daddys are— like all parents are,” Eddie’s not sure how to function, but is pulled by your hand to stand closer.
Olivia then giggles and toddles up to Eddie.
“Uncl’ Eds—“ she holds her hands up for him to pick her up, and he melts, like he always does for the little girl. You watch smiling softly, Eddie pulling Olivia up in his arms and sitting her on his hip.
“I am no uncle eds you speak of—“ Eddie plays the role perfectly, years of Dungeon Master training coming in handy. Olivia giggles loudly, patting his cheeks and hugging his neck. Eddie looks at you apologetic as he rocks the toddler, to which you just smile and continue to entertain the other kids.
“It’s time for some crafts, are we all ready for some crafts?”
*
You teach them how to make flower crowns, not catching Eddie staring at you— your glittery cheeks, soft lips, eyes that he’d go to war for. He tries to make one haphazardly with his clumsy hands.
“Do you need some help, my knight?” You giggle, Eddie blinking out of the trance you had him in. He smiles a bit embarrassed, a mangled flower crown sat in his lap. You crawl over, dress touching his lap, which sends his brain into a scramble. “Okay, so push the flower through— like this—,”
Eddie can’t concentrate, doesn’t have a bubbly what you’re explaining. The black flowers he chose weave through the crown, he blinks, armour clinking as he adjusts Olivia on his lap.
“Here,” you smile, finishing it for him, and placing it softly into his dark curls. His cheeks redden, as he adjusts it. Olivia claps.
“Uncle eds is so boot-iful!” Olivia giggles, and you smile, head tilted as you look over his features. Eddie huffs, tickling Olivia’s princess dress clad tummy.
“M not uncle eds, I’m a knight, remember?” Eddie coos, melting under the toddler’s attention like he always does. You hum.
“Seems like she loves her uncle Eds,” you speak, settling on the grass properly next to them. Eddie puffs out his chest slightly, letting her run off to play with her friends. He adjusts the armour slightly before nodding. “Thank you, by the way. For filling in, my knight he— pulls out quite a lot,” you trail off, a slight frown. Eddie wants to make sure you never frown again in your life.
“A cowardly knight if I’ve ever heard,” Eddie smiles over, hand resting on the grass behind you both, leaning back. “Ser Munson now at your service,” You smile warmly, cheeks heating up. Steve thinks then is the best moment to come over, Olivia over his shoulder, declaring it time to sing happy birthday.
-
As each child leaves with their parents, you give each of them a hug and some candy, something you do at every party. Eddie, standing with Steve crosses his arms.
“So you put me up to that today?” Eddie remarks, eyes not leaving you as you poke a child’s cheek softly. Steve chuckles lowly.
“What? You were the most experienced guy at this party— y’know with all that, nerd stuff you do on the weekend, that freaky roleplay—,”
“—it’s not, freaky— it’s. Never mind,” Eddie scoffs, then sighs out. “For Olivia of course, I’d do it any day, you know that.”
As all the guests leave, you pick up Olivia as she asks for it, ever the polite little girl. I walk her over to her father, and Eddie. Steve takes her carefully, kissing the toddler’s tired face. Steve gestures to inside the house quietly, before winking quite exaggerated at Eddie. You giggle, and move to fix his flower crown.
“You uh— going home now?” Eddie manages, cursing himself for the terrible line. Of course you were going home.
“I am, well, no plans i mean,” you smile, tilting your head. “Why?”
“Oh, no reason I just— wondered if— well I was stopping by the hideout on my way back, if you wanted to join me?” Eddie offers, holding his breath. Your face softened.
“I’d love to, let me just— de princess,” you giggle, gesturing to the outfit, to which Eddie shrugs, a bit more comfortable to use his normal charm.
“I don’t mind the princess get up,” Eddie shrugs, stepping closer, tattooed hand brushing over the sleeve.
“Let’s save it for the third date, at least,” you hum, moving down to squeeze his hand and move into the house.
Eddie stood, red in the face, but a smile that looked like he’d won a million dollars.
The town looks smaller than it did when you left, as if it shrank out of spite, the streets narrower, the sidewalks uneven in familiar ways, the air carrying that faint scent of rain and old coffee that never quite disappears. When the taxi drives away you are left standing in front of your aunt’s house with your suitcase at your side and a folder of legal documents pressed against your ribs like it might offer emotional protection in addition to ownership.
You had imagined this moment differently. A quiet house, closed windows, dust, or even grief that behaved predictably. Instead, the porch is swept, the garden trimmed. Someone has been here.
You tell yourself it’s probably a neighbor being kind, someone with spare time or a hero complex, and you walk up the steps trying not to feel irritated that your first emotion upon returning home is territorial.
The key turns easily. The door opens into warmth.
Not stale warmth. Lived-in warmth. The kind that suggests coffee was made recently and windows were opened at some point during the day. There is the faint smell of toast and something metallic underneath it, like grease, subtle but present.
You step inside slowly.
There are boots by the door, not decorative boots, placed neatly like they belong. A leather jacket hangs nearby, a toolbox rests under the hallway table.
You stand there for a moment, staring at the evidence of someone else’s existence inside what is legally, unequivocally, your house.
“Fantastic,” you mutter. “I’ve inherited a squatter.”
From the kitchen, a man’s voice answers casually, as if you’ve commented on the weather.
“I prefer ‘tenant with excellent survival instincts.”
You freeze.
He stands in the kitchen doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame like he has been listening for your reaction and is mildly satisfied with it. Tall. Broad. Dark hair tied loosely back. A faded band T-shirt that looks older than your last relationship. Grease-stained jeans. A mug in his hand. Completely at ease.
He looks at you like you’re the one who just walked into his morning routine.
You stare.
“I’m sorry,” you say slowly, because clarity feels important right now. “Why are you in my house?”
He takes a sip of coffee before answering, which feels like a deliberate choice.
“Because I live here.”
There is no panic in his voice, just a fact. The confidence is outrageous.
You step further inside, dropping your suitcase with a soft thud that echoes slightly in the hallway.
“I inherited this house three days ago,” you say, voice tightening into that calm tone you use when children attempt to negotiate reality. “Which usually means other people do… not.”
He watches you with visible interest, like you’re a puzzle he’s enjoying assembling.
“Your aunt hired me,” he says. “To fix things. Keep the place running. I was around a lot, then more. It made less sense to leave.”
“She never mentioned you.”
He shrugs lightly. “She wouldn’t.”
You narrow your eyes. He smiles slightly, not wide, just enough to suggest he’s having more fun than he should be.
“You need to leave,” you say.
He tilts his head, considering you in a way that is far too calm for someone being evicted from a kitchen.
“Immediately?”
“Yes.”
“Before or after I fix the upstairs shower so it stops screaming like it’s in emotional distress?”
You pause.
“That’s what I thought,” he says quietly, taking another sip.
“I am not negotiating plumbing with a stranger.”
“I’m not a stranger.”
“You are very much a stranger to me.”
He studies you again, more attentively now, and you become uncomfortably aware of your travel-wrinkled clothes and rain-damp sleeves.
“You look like her,” he says suddenly.
The comment lands unexpectedly.
“Excuse me?”
“Your aunt. Same expression when you’re annoyed. Like you’re about to reorganize someone’s life against their will.”
You don’t like that your chest tightens at that.
“How long did you know her?” you ask.
He doesn’t hesitate. “A while.”
“That is not an amount of time.”
You exhale sharply. “We’re calling the lawyer.”
“Already did,” he says.
“You what.”
He gestures toward the living room. “He’s on his way. Figured you’d want backup before you tried to physically remove me.”
The lawyer arrives looking like a man who has already had this conversation once in his head and did not enjoy it the first time. He shakes rain from his umbrella, steps inside with careful politeness, and sits across from you with his briefcase balanced on his knees like it might shield him from what he is about to say.
Eddie doesn’t sit. He leans against the wall instead, arms loosely folded, watching in that infuriatingly calm way of his, as if this is mildly entertaining and not a logistical threat to your sanity.
“Clause 7B,” the lawyer begins.
You close your eyes briefly. “Of course it has a name.”
“It stipulates that the residence cannot be sold, transferred, or vacated for a period of one year following your aunt’s passing. It must remain continuously inhabited.”
You blink. “That’s it.”
“That is the condition.”
“Inhabited,” you repeat carefully. “Meaning.”
“Meaning someone must live here. Consistently. As a primary residence.”
You turn slowly toward Eddie. He raises his eyebrows slightly, almost innocently.
“If the property is left vacant or listed for sale within that period,” the lawyer continues, “it will be transferred to a holding trust and sold.”
“And the proceeds,” you ask, already bracing.
“Distributed.”
Of course.
You lean back against the couch. “So I can’t sell it.”
“Not for one year.”
“And I can’t leave?”
“Not for one year,” Eddie mutters. “Are you listening to the man?”
You ignore him, looking around the room. The familiar furniture, the preserved details that now feel less accidental and more deliberate.
“And if,” you begin slowly, “someone is already living here.”
The lawyer hesitates just enough to be noticeable.
“That would satisfy the residency requirement. Provided the home remains occupied.”
Silence settles between the three of you.
Eddie pushes off the wall. “Well,” he says lightly. “That’s convenient.”
You shoot him a look sharp enough to qualify as a weapon. “You already knew.”
“I suspected,” he corrects. “She mentioned something about the house not liking to be empty.”
“That is not legal language.”
“No,” he agrees. “It’s sentimental.”
The lawyer closes his briefcase with relief. “You have no obligation beyond maintaining residency. Simply occupancy.”
You stare. “So she trapped me here.”
“She ensured the house would not be abandoned,” he replies.
That lands differently.
You look toward the hallway, toward the rooms that still hold your aunt’s absence like a quiet echo.
“She didn’t want it empty,” you say softly.
Eddie watches you for a moment, something quieter moving beneath his usual ease.
The lawyer stands, offers a sympathetic nod, and steps back out into the rain.
The door closes.
For a moment neither of you speaks.
Eddie walks over and locks it with a soft click.
“This is not real,” you say calmly.
He leans back against the door. “You inherited a house. And a roommate.”
“I did not agree to a roommate.”
“You didn’t agree to a clause either.”
You glare at him.
He looks almost amused. “One year. You live here. I live here. The house stays yours. You can glare at me recreationally.”
“You are enjoying this.”
“A little,” he admits. “You walking in like a storm was a highlight of my week.”
“You were not supposed to still be here.”
He tilts his head. “I was.”
There’s something in the way he says it that refuses to unpack itself.
The rain taps softly against the windows, the house hums around you and you stand there in the home you cannot leave or sell, staring at the man who apparently comes with it, trying to understand how something can feel both deeply inconvenient and strangely inevitable at the same time.
The living room is warm in the way houses get when they have been lived in consistently, not just occupied, and once the lawyer is gone the silence doesn’t feel empty so much as uncertain, like the place is waiting to see what you will do now that the rules have changed and the next year has quietly been decided for you.
You find yourself drifting toward the couch because it’s something familiar to sit on and because standing still makes your thoughts too loud, and Eddie, infuriatingly, follows with the ease of someone who has already claimed the comfortable parts of this house without ever having to ask.
He doesn’t sit close enough to make it a statement, but he also doesn’t sit far enough to make you feel alone, and the television becomes the third presence in the room, some local station playing a show that looks like it was filmed when shoulder pads were a valid threat.
The volume is low, the kind of background noise people use to trick themselves into thinking they’re not listening for another person’s breathing. You can tell within minutes that neither of you is actually watching.
Eddie keeps his gaze loosely on the screen as if it’s polite, but his attention lives elsewhere, in the room, in you, in the shape of this new arrangement.
You keep your eyes on the moving colors because the alternative is looking at him and registering the fact that he looks like he belongs here, like he belongs anywhere he decides to lean, which is an unfair quality in a man you’ve known for less than a day.
Eventually, you speak first, because you would rather discuss logistics than feelings.
“So,” you say, making it sound casual even though nothing about this is, “what time do you usually get up.”
Eddie’s mouth twitches as if the question amuses him on principle.
“Depends.”
“You’re going to be one of those, nice” you say.
“One of what.”
“People who answer simple questions like they’re negotiating a hostage situation.”
He shifts slightly, stretching one arm across the back of the couch with the kind of casual confidence that makes you want to throw something soft at his head.
“I get up early.”
“How early.”
“Earlier than you,” he says, and then, as if he can’t help himself, “but you strike me as someone who gets up already annoyed.”
You glance at him. He is still looking at the television, voice dry, like he’s sharing a harmless observation. It lands anyway.
“I don’t wake up annoyed,” you say.
“You walked into a house you inherited and immediately accused me of being a squatter,” he replies.
“That’s not exactly a peaceful aura.”
“That was a reasonable conclusion.”
“Sure,” he says, as if he’s humoring you.
“So what time do you wake up, then?”
You hesitate, because it feels strangely intimate to admit anything practical when you don’t even know how long you’re going to be able to tolerate him.
“Seven,” you say. “Usually.”
Eddie nods once, as if he’s filing it away.
“And you work.”
It’s not a question. It 'sa prompt.
You exhale, eyes still on the TV, because if you look at him you’ll feel like you’re confessing.
“I’m trying to,” you say. “I write.”
Eddie’s head turns slightly. Not dramatic, just enough to indicate interest.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You roll your eyes at the screen like it can absorb your discomfort. “I’m finishing a manuscript.”
“What kind.”
You pause.
“Fiction.” He waits, the silence is annoyingly patient.
“You want details,” you say.
“When you're gonna turn me into a character,” he replies.
You look at him now, surprised, and he’s watching you with that calm, amused steadiness, like he’s been waiting for the moment you’d finally react with something that isn’t pure irritation.
“I don’t write about people I just met,” you say.
“Coward,” Eddie murmurs, and the word is so casual, so ridiculous, that you almost laugh.
“You have a garage,” you counter, because if he’s going to poke at you, you’re going to poke back. “You fix cars. You grease your hands for a living. That 's… safe.”
Eddie’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Safe.”
“Predictable.”
He leans back, letting the word sit between you.
“You think I’m predictable.”
“You think you’re not?”
He looks at you for a beat, then smiles in that faint way he has, like he’s trying not to show it fully because giving you too much would feel like losing ground.
“I’m extremely predictable,” he says. “I wake up early, I fix things, I drink coffee that could strip paint, and I mind my business.”
You glance around the room.
“You live in my aunt’s house.”
“That´s business,” he adds smoothly, “became mine a while ago.”
You don’t ask him what that means, because you can feel the conversation leaning toward something you don’t want to touch yet, something old and tender and complicated.
You stay on the surface.
“So,” you say instead, “your garage. Is it… actually a garage.”
Eddie makes a sound that is almost a laugh. “It’s a garage.”
“Not a suspicious shed where you hide bodies?.”
“That’s the shed out back,” he says, deadpan.
You stare at him and he looks back, perfectly composed. You snort despite yourself, a short sound of reluctant amusement, and Eddie’s mouth curves like he’s pleased with the small victory.
For a while, the conversation stays in the shallow end in a way that feels almost normal, as if this is simply two people sharing a living room and complaining about the town and the weather and how the grocery store never has the same layout twice.
Eddie is louder now that you’ve stopped treating him like a threat, and he talks the way he moves, confident and slightly reckless with his words, like he enjoys the friction he creates.
“You’re going to hate it here,” he tells you casually.
“I don’t hate it.”
“You left.”
You narrow your eyes. “You don’t know anything about why I left.”
He turns his head to look at you properly now, and the shift in attention feels like stepping closer even though he hasn’t moved.
“I know you didn’t come back for a long time,” he says.
There’s a softness in that statement that doesn’t belong to sarcasm, and it catches you off guard, the way the room quiets around it even with the television still chattering in the background.
You swallow. “Life happened.”
Eddie’s gaze stays steady. “Yeah,” he says, quieter. “It does.”
The air changes a little, not heavy, just more honest, and you can feel it pushing the conversation toward your aunt, toward absence, toward the kind of truth that makes humor feel like a thin blanket.
“She…” you begin, and stop, because you don’t know how to speak about her yet without falling into the hole she left behind.
Eddie’s expression doesn’t change much, but you see it anyway, the smallest tension around his eyes, the way his jaw settles like he’s holding something in place.
“She didn’t like people pitying her,” he says first, as if offering you a bridge.
You exhale a laugh that isn’t really laughter. “She didn’t like people helping her either.”
Eddie’s mouth twitches.
“No,” he agrees. “She liked help as long as she could pretend it wasn’t help.”
“That sounds like her,” you admit, and the admission warms you and hurts you at the same time.
For a moment, it feels like you are both looking at the same invisible thing between you, some shared memory you weren’t aware you shared, and the intimacy of that is strange, too quick, too real.
“How long did you know her,” you ask, because the question has been itching under your skin all day.
Eddie exhales through his nose.
“A while.”
You stare at him. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting,” he says, and there it is, the Eddie you expected, the boundary drawn with a grin in his voice, as if he’s making a joke when he’s actually dodging.
“Why,” you press, because you can’t help it now, the curiosity laced with grief. “Why didn’t she tell me about you?”
Eddie looks back at the television like it suddenly deserves his full attention, which would be convincing if the muscles in his shoulders hadn’t tightened slightly.
“She thought you’d overthink it,” he says.
“I’m not overthinking.”
“You reorganized forks,” he reminds you, and the humor is a lifeline tossed across a gap he doesn’t want to fall into.
You almost smile, but the question doesn’t let go.
“And you,” you say, softly now, “why did you stay?”
Eddie’s gaze flickers toward you again, and for a second you see something older than his mouthy confidence, something careful, something that feels like it’s been held down for a long time.
It is, unmistakably, too deep for this hour, for this couch, for the thin safety of background television.
Eddie blinks once, and the moment is gone.
He shifts forward abruptly, stands up like he’s remembered an urgent responsibility, and points toward the hallway with a seriousness that would be impressive if it weren’t immediately ruined by the words that follow.
“I should,” he says, “check the… back door.”
You stare.
Eddie freezes for half a beat, like he’s hearing himself in real time.
“The back door,” you repeat.
He nods once, solemn. “It’s… a door.”
“That’s a terrible excuse.”
“I didn’t say it was a good one.”
“You don’t need to check a door.”
“I do if I’m… responsible,” he says, and the sentence is so thin it’s almost transparent.
You keep staring, waiting for him to save himself.
He doesn’t.
He grabs his jacket off the hook like he’s about to go battle a draft, then stops and glances back at you, mouth already tilted toward a grin.
“Don’t stay up reorganizing the living room,” he says.
“I’m not…”
“You’re totally going to,” he interrupts, and the confidence in his tone makes you want to argue purely out of spite.
“Goodnight,” you say sharply.
“Try to miss me just a little,” he replies, and it’s delivered like a joke, but his eyes linger for a fraction longer than a joke would require.
Then he disappears down the hallway, and you are left on the couch with the TV still playing and the strange sensation that you have just been pushed gently away from something real.
You sit there for a while, listening to the house settle, noticing the way quiet lives in the corners, noticing the way your body feels looser than it did earlier, as if the act of talking about ordinary things has made the day less sharp.
Eventually, you force yourself to stand, to turn off the television, to walk upstairs.
Your new room is your aunt’s old room, and the fact lands softly when you open the door and the air changes immediately, warmer, familiar in a way you can’t explain. The lamp on the bedside table is the same one you remember, the curtains still the same pale fabric, the dresser still holding small objects arranged with care. It should feel invasive, sleeping here, but instead it feels like stepping into a space that has been kept ready for you.
When you pull back the sheets, the scent rises, faint and gentle, your aunt’s perfume still lingering in the fabric like a quiet insistence that she is not entirely gone, and you lie down with a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
You fall asleep faster than you expect, cocooned in the softened weight of familiarity.
The night passes without drama. No creaks. No shadows. No nightmares. Just rest.
When you wake, morning light is pale across the floor, and for a moment you don’t remember where you are until the scent of coffee reaches you from downstairs, rich and dark and immediate.
You find Eddie in the kitchen.
He’s at the window, mug in hand, one shoulder angled toward the glass as he watches the street like it’s an old habit. Between his fingers there’s a cigarette, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. He looks absurdly composed for someone who was apparently checking doors in the middle of the night, hair slightly messier than yesterday in a way that suits him too well, shirt clinging lightly to his shoulders like he slept in it or didn’t sleep at all.
He hears you before you speak, turning his head slightly.
“Morning,” he says.
You nod toward the cigarette. “You smoke.”
Eddie looks at it like he forgot he was holding it. “Unfortunately.”
You reach into your pocket on instinct, then remember you don’t have your pack on you, and the motion betrays you anyway.
Eddie’s mouth tilts.
You lift your chin. “I’m an adult.”
“That’s disappointing,” he replies. “I was going to blame it on rebellion.”
You step closer, drawn by the smell of coffee, by the normalcy of this small shared vice, and Eddie wordlessly slides the mug pot toward you as if this is already a routine.
You pour yourself a cup. Black. Of course.
You take the first sip, and it’s strong enough to feel like a slap, which is exactly what you need.
Eddie watches you react.
“You look like you just got insulted,” he says.
“It’s aggressive.”
“That’s how it works,” he replies. “Coffee should either wake you up or make you regret your choices.”
You huff a laugh, the sound surprising you, then lean your hip against the counter, cigarette smoke mixing with morning light, the two of you framed by the quiet ordinary intimacy of a kitchen.
Outside, the town is waking up slowly. Inside, the house feels lived in.
And you don’t mention the fact that you never heard Eddie come back in last night, even though you are fairly sure you fell asleep lightly, even though the house is old enough that every door usually complains.
You take another sip of coffee instead.
Eddie turns back toward the window, cigarette glowing briefly and for a moment his reflection in the glass looks slightly wrong, not absent, just… indistinct around the edges, as if the light doesn’t know what to do with him.
You blink and the reflection is normal again, probably the angle or the early morning.
Eddie exhales smoke toward the open window, calm as ever, then glances sideways at you with that irritating hint of amusement.
“You’re staring too loud,” he says.
“I’m not staring,” you reply automatically.
He hums like he doesn’t believe you, and the corner of his mouth lifts, and you hate that you feel all the butterflies inside your guts.
Just a shared kitchen, coffee and smoke, the quiet knowledge that you’re going to have to learn how to live in a house that refuses to be empty, with a man who seems to know exactly where everything belongs, including you.
Eddie doesn’t move when you look at him again. He just stands there by the window, cigarette burning down between his fingers, morning light resting across his face in a way that makes him look softer than he ever sounds.
For a second, you have the strange urge to step closer, to see if he would lean back or lean in.
He doesn’t.
His eyes flick to yours instead, steady and knowing, like he’s aware of something you haven’t said out loud.
You glance toward the hallway without meaning to, remembering that you never heard him come back in last night. The thought sits between your ribs longer than it should.
The house is old.
It makes noise.
It always has.
You slept lightly, you would have heard the door.
Eddie stubs out the cigarette, pushes away from the window, and walks past you close enough that his shoulder brushes yours, barely there, almost accidental.
Almost.
Your body reacts before your brain does,he pauses just long enough to look down at you.
“You’re going to get used to me,” he says quietly.
It should sound like a joke, you think.Then he keeps walking, disappearing down the hallway toward the garage, like nothing about that statement required explanation.
Warnings: Angst, enemies to lovers, slow burn, mentions of trauma
Summary: Eddie convinced himself that he hates the girl that took over his mind the moment he laid eyes on her. The girl that he saved without even knowing it.
part two
-
His gaze was burning into your skin, making you shift in discomfort. He was on the other side of the room and yet he managed to make you uncomfortable, even from a distance.
Clenching your jaw, you put your sandwich down and lift your head to look at him, huffing in annoyance.
Sitting at his usual table, Eddie ignores the little banter between his friends, instead he looks at you with narrowed eyes, his gaze burns with hatred as he sizes you up from the other side of the room, he doesn’t turn away even when your eyes find his, he just continues to stare at you.
You're knuckles burn, and your chest constricts. You wished for once you could just be angry without tears rising to the occasion. One rolls down your swollen cheekbone anyways.
Pathetic piece of-
"Oh fuck- Trouble! " your favorite metal head bursts through the school doors and almost trips on the concrete mid sentence.
He recovers clumsily if not a bit dramatic, arms swinging wildly to regain balance.
Then he rights himself and pauses as he gets a glance at you. Sitting in the shadows where you belong.
He says your name lower this time but his voice wobbles bit. He walks slowly over to the shady overgrown part of the school you had tried to camouflage into. You must look like a final girl from one of his horror films. Heavy eye bags, blood splatter on your face and shirt, lazy drags from a shitty cigarette.
You only gave him a side glance, wanting to avoid showing him the new decor on your face even though he had pretty much witnessed the whole debacle.
You had been hollow all week and itched to feel anything.
Fated to snap like one of Eddie's over stretched guitar strings, impossible to receive a warning beforehand.
And you would rather rot than have him catch it face first.
So you had to seek out other means. Other means......like a beautifully placed fist to a preppy bitch's fake nose after you overheard her call Eddie a retard.
Eddie stooped down a foot away from you effectively breaking the satisfying replay of a bone crunch. He looked at you like someone would a fire. Not to close.
Like it would protect him from the inevitable crash and hot sparks.
You didn't deserve him, you knew this, but he reached out towards your beat up face anyways.
"Hey," he breathed, like you would blow away if he was any louder.
His hand then, with heartbreaking gentleness brushed away the hair covering your mess.
You had taken some hits yourself from the nasty little friends of that worm.
They looked worse than you though. You were a military brat, you knew your shit.
Ed leans forward more to get a better look.
Your heart jumps even though months ago you told yourself that Eddie Munson was light-years out of your league. Only broken pieces fit with other broken pieces.
And maybe he was too.
But while he was more like a perfectly broken off peice of metal, you were more like deteriorated and jagged concrete cracks in the sidewalk that tried to trip people.
Just so that someone else might have a chance to hate you more than you do.
Yeah. You two would never work out. You were even way too lucky to have him as a friend.
Stupid.
Stupidstupidstupidstupid STUPI-
"Trouble." You flinched.
"Stop it."
His calloused finger landed in between your eyebrows and rubbed.
Ah.
Your self-hatred tell.
Angry brows.
His other hand reached out and he cradled your face.
He exposed your bloody side.
He let out what could be classified as a whimper. You guessed he got a glimpse of your eye. Leaking red into the white like carnage.
It suited.
He reached back into his jeans and brought forward a hankie.
With a touch more loving and delicate than you deserved, he cleaned blood from your split lip.
Your insides burn.
He had no right to be so close. Couldn't he hear the ticking time bomb in your chest? Feel it? Fear it? Know that only he could cure it?
Fuck.
He swiped a thumb over your cheek.
You looked anywhere else.
"Okay," he nodded.
Then he plopped down next to you.
You let him bring out a fresh cig.
You let him wrap around you.
You let him place his chin on your sore head.
You let yourself pretend that you're too tired to try and push him away.
At least now you would have company while you burned.
summary : 4 times you realized you were falling in love with your best friend’s boyfriend + 1 time you finally faced the truth…
pairing : steve harrington x reader
warnings : mentions of a past abusive relationship. jealousy. unrequited love. messy feelings. frustration. pure angst.
word count : 4.6k
a/n : I wanted to give this a try, I hope it turned out ok 🙃 Proofread, though not flawless 💕
1.
Parties weren’t really your scene anymore, you realized, as you stepped into the cold night and slid open the back door of Steve’s car. Who would have thought he’d end up being the responsible one? A small, wry smile tugged at your lips as you took a sip from the red cup in your hand, the brown liquid burning gently down your throat, offering a little warmth.
Your head throbbed, and your eyes felt heavy. Inside, the party raged on, music booming, laughter spilling into the night, but you only watched from your quiet corner, a bittersweet smile hovering on your face. You had once been the life of the party, the one whose presence made a night worth remembering, but now, here you were, tucked in the backseat, ready to call it a night before midnight.
Thinking about it, parties weren’t the only thing he’d taken from you. He’d stolen something else too, the spark in your eyes, the part of you that used to feel untouchable. You realized it the moment you caught yourself staring at your reflection in the bathtub, trying to figure out what was missing. You’d learned to look away from mirrors. You wished you could flee your thoughts just as easily.
A loud laugh jolted you out of your reverie. It was Nancy, already tipsy, clinging to Steve, laughing like the world revolved around her. And there he was, looking at her with that infuriating, devoted smile, his puppy eyes sparkling as he looked at her.
He opened the front door carefully, guiding her inside with gentle hands before slipping into the driver’s seat. You sank a little deeper into the back, clutching your now empty red cup, and tried to tell yourself it didn’t matter, even if your heart whispered otherwise.
“You good?” he asked, glancing back at you as he started the engine.
You shivered as a gust of cold air swept through the car. “Jesus, it’s freezing,” he muttered, turning the dial to crank up the heat before pulling onto the road.
“Just tired,” you offered softly, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the red cup.
The streets were quiet, the glow of the streetlights painting everything in streaks of gold and white. Rain began to fall lightly, blurring the world beyond the window. You leaned back in the backseat, exhausted, the faint smell of alcohol and smoke from the party still clinging to the air. Nancy was slumped against the window, head tipped lazily to the side, her hair messy from dancing and a few too many drinks. Without thinking, you reached over and gently stroked her hair, smiling at your best friend. She’d been drinking a lot lately. You knew she needed this, needed to let loose. She put far too much pressure on herself, and tonight, at least, she deserved a little freedom.
“Thanks for driving me home early,” you said softly, trying not to sound needy “I… I didn’t want to stay out so late tonight.”
He flicked a glance at you through the rearview mirror, one corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said casually. “I was ready to bail too. Josh is a dick.”
You smiled, a little, the tension in your chest loosening. He didn’t make you feel guilty. He didn’t need to. That small consideration hit harder that you expected.
The low hum of INXS - Never Tear Us Apart filled the car, soft and calming, as Steve hummed along quietly. When the car hit a bump, your hand went out reflexively to steady yourself against the driver’s seat. Steve’s eyes flicked toward you, his fingers brushed yours lightly, just enough to make contact, and then retreated back to the wheel as if nothing happened. Your chest skipped a beat, and you let your hand rest on your lap, suddenly noticing how his warmth still lingered on your skin. You glanced at him, catching the faint crease between his brows, the tension in his jaw and the way his gaze lingered just a fraction too long in the rearview mirror.
“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he said, his gaze briefly flicking to you, a hint of concern in his eyes.
“Just… worn out,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, fragile and thin.
He didn’t say anything for a moment, just let the car hum along the road. Then almost under his breath, he murmured, “You don’t have to hide it, you know. I’ve got you.”
His words wrapped around you in a way that made something inside you loosen, and you allowed yourself a small smile, just enough to feel lighter than you had all night.
You wanted to say something, to tell him how safe and seen you felt in that moment, but the words caught in your throat as you glanced at his girlfriend, still blissfully asleep beside him. Instead, you leaned back, letting the soft patter of the rain and the distant music fill the silence between you.
By the time he pulled into your driveway, the song had ended. You stepped out into the rain, your little black dress clinging in the wind. He tossed his jacket over your shoulders, it smelled like him, warm musk, with just a hint of smoke. It hurt to feel so safe and so wrong at the same time. As you retreated to your room, you realized something you weren’t quite ready to put into words.
2.
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as you wandered through the nearly empty mall, the scent of popcorn and perfume hanging faintly in the air. Nancy had wandered off into a clothing store, leaving you and Steve alone near the record shop.
You had your favorite ice cream in one hand and a bag of clothes in the other. It felt like the first time in ages that you were truly enjoying yourself. Maybe it was the ice cream, or maybe it was him? But either way, you felt light, carefree, and almost… happy.
You were wandering through the aisle of the record shop, letting your fingers trail over the vinyls, the familiar smell of paper filling the air. The buzz of the place was comforting and safe, but then you felt a shift, a presence too close, too eager. You glanced up to find a guy standing beside you, leaning in just a little too much, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Hey,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “You come here often?”
You half-rolled your eyes, already bored with the cliché pickup line, but you forced a polite smile, just to brush him off. “Sometimes,” you replied, glancing away, hoping he’d get the hint.
He didn’t.
His eyes lingered just a second too long, not meeting your face but clearly looking at your legs, the hem of your dress grazing just above your knees. You could feel the weight of his gaze as it slid over you, uncomfortable and persistent.
“Nice dress,” he added, his tone dripping with insincerity. “Looks great on you.”
You tried to step back, but he shifted, blocking your path. You could feel the unease creeping up your spine, your stomach tightening. You opened your mouth to brush him off, but before you could, you felt Steve’s presence at your side. He didn’t say a word, he didn’t need to, but the way he stood next to you, close but not touching, made the guy falter. He glanced between you two, then looked back at Steve, who hadn’t even acknowledged him with more than a cold glance.
The guy hesitated, clearly uncomfortable now, but still he smirked and muttered something about “maybe seeing you around”. Arrogant, clueless… and painfully reminiscent of your ex. He backed off, though not without a lingering, almost apologetic glance at Steve.
You looked up at Steve, expecting something. Anything. But he didn’t react. His expression stayed neutral, almost unreadable, yet the tension in his posture spoke louder than words. He wasn’t angry. Not at the guy, at least.
“Everything alright?” Steve said after a beat, his voice casual, his hand brushing against yours.
“Yeah,” you said, straightening up and brushing it off. “Just an asshole.”
He gave a simple nod, then turned and kept walking, the conversation forgotten, but the brief interaction lingered between the two of you like unspoken tension.
Minutes later, Steve pulled a cassette from the shelf, turning it in his hands before handing it to you.
“Thought you might like this,” he said lightly, but the brief glance he shot you felt careful.
You blinked at the tape, U2, With or Without You. “You… thought of me?” You asked, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.
Steve handed you the cassette with a slight smile, the edges of the packaging worn from his own handling. “Yeah, it’s cool,” he said softly, his tone almost secretive, like there was something more to the song that he was letting on.
You looked at him, confused for a moment. “Why this one?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
He just nodded, urging you to take the cassette. “Trust me.”
You hesitated, but his earnestness nudged you. You accepted the cassette, but before you could even think of putting it in your bag, he pulled out a walkman from his jacket pocket, holding it out to you.
“Here,” he said, his fingers brushing yours for a second as he handed it over. He seemed a little more nervous now, his usual confident demeanor slipping just a fraction.
Curious, you took the small device from him. He stepped closer, just enough to close the space between you two, and carefully settled the headphones over your ears. His breath brushed against your cheek for a moment, warm and unexpectedly intimate in the quiet of the store. You felt the familiar stir of something unspoken.
The moment you pressed play, the soft opening chords of “With or Without You” began to fill your ears. It hit you that this was the kind of music that perfectly captured how everything about being near Steve felt, like you were floating. The lyrics, soft but intense, wrapped around you like a memory you weren’t ready to name yet.
You didn’t pull away from the walkman, letting the music play out, but your mind kept drifting back to look in Steve’s eyes. The way he was watching you now, slightly vulnerable. It wasn’t just the song. It was everything about the moment, the way he handed it to you, the way his fingers brushed yours, the way you didn’t want to move. Your eyes kept flicking to his lips, and your mind couldn’t stop reminding you how perfect he looked right here, in this exact moment, near you, with you.
He stepped back a little, watching you. “Well?” he asked, his voice quiet.
You didn’t know how to answer. The music spoke for you, and for once, you didn’t need words. Was he trying to send you a message through it?
You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close he felt. “It’s…” you stared at him, your cheeks warming.
When Nancy’s voice echoed from the clothing store, calling for you, your stomach twisted with guilt and a strange, bittersweet ache. You had already crossed a line in your mind, and the thought made your heart race. Steve sighed, pulling the headphones out, avoiding your gaze as he turned and walked away. He joined Nancy in a gentle embrace. You watched them, wondering if it was all in your head. Had you read between lines that weren’t even there?
Even after you left the store and walked back to the car, the cassette still in your bag, you couldn’t stop replaying that quiet stretch of time: the proximity, the lingering glances, the way he made you feel. What was going on?
3.
The phone rang just after ten, sharp against the quiet hum of your house. You picked it up, expecting your best friend, but instead, it was him.
“Hey… she’s not answering,” he said, voice a little rough, like he’d been up too late thinking. There was a distant noise in the background, faint street sounds, maybe the neighbor’s dog barking in the yard.
“Oh, ok,” you murmured, pressing the receiver to your ear.
“Mind if I stay on the line for a bit? Just… talk?” His tone was casual, but there was something underneath it.
You hesitated for a moment, then said softly, “Sure.”
At first, the conversation was light. School, homework, the weather. But soon, it shifted into more personal territory. He asked about your plans for the future, and you found yourself speaking in a way you hadn’t before. You had always been so guarded, but now, in the quiet of the phone call, it felt easier to open up.
He seemed to listen to everything, about the classes you loved, your dream to travel, the things you wanted to leave behind. But then, almost out of nowhere, his voice dropped a little, and he said,
“You know, I’ve been thinking… I really like talking to you. It’s just… with her, it’s hard sometimes.”
You frowned, not sure what he meant at first. “With Nancy?”
“Yeah,” he said with a soft laugh, a little nervous. “She’s… she got everything figured out, you know? She knows exactly what she wants. She’s all about studies, college, plans.” His voice softened, like he was admitting something he hadn’t before. “Me? I can barely get through the week without feeling like I’m just… floating. I don’t even know what I’m doing tomorrow, let alone five years from now.”
Your chest tightened. You could hear the quiet vulnerability in his words, the weight of the uncertainty he carried. “But you’re not… I mean, you’re not just floating,” you said quickly “You’re figuring it out. It’s not a race, you know.”
He was silent for a beat, then sighed. “Yeah, maybe. But sometimes I wonder if I’m good enough for her. She’s got everything planned, she’s smart, she knows where she’s going. I’m just trying to go with the flow… and sometimes I think she deserves someone who has it all together.”
There was a pause on the line, and you felt a sudden pang in your chest, a bittersweet ache. You realized, for the first time, how much he was struggling with the comparison between himself and Nancy, how much he worried about being “enough”. Steve, if only you knew how much more than enough you were for me… But I’m not her.
You didn’t know what to say. You wanted to reassure him, to tell him he didn’t need to be perfect to be worth something. Even if, to you, he was perfect in every way. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you let the silence linger for a moment, absorbing the weight of what he had shared.
Eventually, the conversation drifted back to lighter things, shared memories, inside jokes, but even as you laughed, you sensed the way you fit together too easily, and it left a bitter taste in your mouth, because he wasn’t yours and never would be.
“I… I’m glad you broke up with him,” he said quietly, after a long pause. “You deserve to be happy, Y/N.”
Your breath caught in your throat, and for a second, you couldn’t speak. The breakup had been hard, devastating, you had never told anyone about the worst of it, the things he had done. He’d been abusive, manipulative. He’d left town in the end, but the scars stayed with you.
“It…wasn’t easy,” you whispered. “I- If I ever got out of… him… it’s because of you.”
You swallowed, the memory of that night still sharp : the day he had caught your ex hitting you, stepping in without a second thought, and the long talk that had followed. That conversation had given you the courage, the courage to finally leave.
“I don’t know what I would have done without you, Steve,” you whispered.
You could hear him exhale softly, a quiet, almost involuntary sigh that lingered longer than a normal pause.
“You’d have found your way, but I’m glad I was there,” he said finally, his voice gentle but carrying a weight you couldn’t place. “You can always count on me. You’re my friend, I’d never let anyone hurt you like that.”
For a second, you thought you heard a small catch in his tone, like he had held back something just for you, a fleeting hesitation that made your heart thrum in a strange, unfamiliar way. Then he laughed softly, almost to shake it off, and the conversation returned to its usual warmth.
You talked for almost an hour, your voices comfortable in the quiet of the night. When you finally said goodnight, your chest felt heavy, but your heart was full in a way that scared you.
You pressed the phone to your cheek, closing your eyes for a second, letting the quiet of the house settle around you. You realized that the feelings you’d been brushing aside, hoping they would fade, or that they weren’t as strong as they seemed, were only growing. What you’d once thought was affection for your knight in shining armor was starting to feel more like… love?
4.
The cassette clicked when the song ended. Static hissed softly before the next track started, something slow, something romantic, like it was mocking you. The room smelled like cigarette smoke and cheap beer and the rain that had followed you all inside. It was late. It always was when things finally went wrong. You were at Steve’s place, lounging with your friends. Jonathan and Robin were bickering about which movie to pick, their voices rising over the low hum of the conversation. You sat on the couch, your purple dress falling over your tights, a beer in your hand, your fingers twirling your hair in a small, restless habit.
She was talking, Nancy, about something small. School, maybe. Or her brother. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the way her voice faltered, just a little, like she was embarrassed to need comfort over something so stupid.
He noticed instantly.
He always did.
He turned toward her, full body, no hesitation. Black outfit, perfect hair, arms that could hold you steady. He was so pretty. His knee touched hers. His hand found her wrist, thumb pressing lightly where her pulse jumped. You knew that touch. You knew exactly how it felt, how it steadied you, how it told you without words that you were safe now, that nothing bad was going to happen while he was there.
Your stomach dropped.
You remembered sitting on the edge of your own bed months ago, knees pulled to your chest, shaking so hard your teeth rattled. You remembered his voice then, low and careful, like sudden movements might break you. You remembered thinking, stupidly, desperately, that maybe this was… love? That had to be. He was so gentle…
Across the room, she exhaled. She leaned into him without even looking, like she had done it a hundred times already.
And he let her.
Something hot and poisonous curled in your chest. Jealousy, sharp enough to make you nauseous. You hated it. You hated yourself for it. She was your best friend. She had held your hair back when you were sick with fear. She had never once asked you why you stayed so long with him. She had never once said I told you so. She’d always been there for you, but now, all you could think about was how much you wished her boyfriend would stand up and claim you, right there, in front of everyone.
He smiled at her, not wide, not performative. Just soft. Private. The kind of smile you only gave when you were already in love and didn’t even realize you were showing it yet. His thumb brushed over her skin again, absentminded, intimate. Possessive. They were in their own little world.
A small laugh slipped from you, barely there, as you realized how much you’d been avoiding the truth.
What you had hadn’t been the beginning of something, it had been the aftermath of something terrible. He hadn’t chosen you. He had caught you when you were falling apart. He had stayed because you were bleeding, and he was the kind of man who didn't walk away from broken things.
You felt stupid for ever believing otherwise. For thinking the way he had looked at you, careful, concerned, endlessly patient, meant you were special. You were just delusional.
You swallowed hard. Your hands were clenched in your lap, nails biting into your palms, grounding you in a way he no longer would. The room felt too small. Too loud. Every laugh they shared sounded like a door closing.
He didn’t love you.
You imagined a future you weren’t in. Him as the perfect husband, knowing her coffee order by heart, dropping her off with a passionate kiss, wrapping her with love. He was the perfect father always at their kids’ competitions, cheering them, while you watched from the sidelines, smiling, pretending this didn’t hollow you out.
He wasn’t looking at her the way he had looked at you. He wasn’t doing it to protect her. He was doing it because he wanted to.
No, he didn’t love you.
You were just the girl he saved from drowning. Just a friend.
You were never meant to be anything more.
The thought stung, sharp, like glass breaking in your chest.
You wished you hadn’t needed saving. Because maybe, just maybe, if you hadn’t been so broken when he found you, he might’ve seen you the way he saw her now.
But he didn’t.
He was looking at her. He was touching her. He was choosing her. And the worst part? You couldn’t stop it. You couldn’t stop the way your heart was shattering just watching him love her in all the ways he never could with you.
You caught her watching you from across the room, her eyes piercing through the walls you’d built up. Robin always knew. She was the kind of person who could see right through anyone, and right now, she saw all of it. She saw the chaos inside you, the ache that twisted in your gut, the feelings you couldn’t suppress. Her look wasn't pity, it was sympathy. Understanding. It made you feel so exposed and stupid. You quickly dropped your gaze, desperate to shield yourself from her silent accusation, even though you knew she wasn’t judging.
Your vision blurred, a scream building inside you that you couldn't release. You’d never be his. No matter how different he was from her, no matter how many arguments they had, he loved her. And that was something you could never change.
You were stuck, trapped between what you felt and what you knew you had to do. Part of you wanted to keep them both, wanted to hold on to the fragile thread of your friendship with her, to keep being near him, even if it meant torturing yourself every time you saw him with her. But deep down, you knew that staying in this place was only hurting you. Watching the man you loved, knowing he would never be yours, was like slowly suffocating. You were lost, unsure of what to do, because the longer you stayed, the more you were drowning in your own feelings.
5.
The bleachers were empty, the late-afternoon sun low and warm across the field. You climbed to sit beside him, metal scraping beneath your sneakers, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might burst. You were wearing a blue sundress, light and cute, the kind that made you feel soft even when everything else hurt. It was strange how something so ordinary, something you’d shared with him every day after school, had grown heavy and complicated now that you understood what you were really feeling.
You stared down at your hands, clenching and unclenching, trying to steady your racing heart. You had to tell him. Even if it broke you, even if it changed nothing. You couldn’t spend your life wondering. You tried to ignore it, tried to push it away. You told yourself it was just loneliness, just envy at the sight of them together. But the truth pressed anyway : you weren’t jealous of them. You were jealous of her, because she had him.
Steve shifted beside you, hair falling just right over his forehead, yellow sleeves pulled tight over his arms. He was so close, and yet so impossibly distant, because everything you felt was locked inside.
“She’s the one,” he said suddenly, casually, as if the words weren’t knives in your chest. “I want… kids, a house, the whole thing someday.”
You froze. The sunlight glinted off his hair, and every detail of him. The curve of his jaw, the tilt of his head, the warmth in his eyes when he smiled at the thought. You wanted to speak, to shove the truth out of your chest, but your throat closed.
He turned to you, grinning, mischief in his eyes. “And hey, you’d better play at the wedding,” he added, nudging you playfully. “You’re the best at piano.”
Your fingers slackened on the bleachers, the realization hitting you in a wave : you couldn't speak. You couldn’t tell him, not now, maybe never, because he was happy with someone else and you had no right to take that from him. You forced yourself to smile faintly, the world tilting slightly around you.
“Of course,” you whispered, voice barely audible “I’d… I’d love to.”
He frowned, tilting his head, but didn’t press. Then his lips quirked into that small, almost boyish smile, the one that made your stomach twist with a mix of longing and despair.
“Eddie asked about you today,” he said, voice low, almost shy, “I think he likes you,” he laughed, a little uncertain, “I don’t know why, but I… don’t like it.”
Your chest twisted. His words, innocent, protective, faintly jealous, were both a balm and a knife. Why did you have to make it so complicated, Steve? You were meant to be grateful that he cared, and yet it hurt like hell, because the way he looked at her, not you, was always sharper, softer, untouchable in a way you could never reach.
“Steve!!” Nancy called his name, and his eyes lit up instantly, warm and unmistakable, like loving her was the easiest thing he’d ever done.
You forced yourself to look at him : the way he met her by the bleachers, the careful way his hand rested at her waist before he kissed her softly, whispering sweet nothings meant for her alone.
You wanted to step closer, to tell him that he could love you too, that you’d wait, that you’d be everything he didn't know he wanted but you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. Not after everything you’d seen, not after seeing how he looked at her. You had no right.
So you stayed quiet. You swallowed the words back down, letting them die in your chest. You didn’t want to ruin what they had. You didn't want to hurt anyone.
“Y/N ! You’re coming?” he called from the bleachers below.
Why did his voice feel like a shard of glass in your ribs?
Yeah, I’m coming. It doesn’t matter that I love you, Steve. I’ll just keep it to myself. I’ll watch you be happy with someone else because you deserve it. Hell, it hurts, but I think I love you more than I love myself. And it’s ok. It has to be ok. I can handle it. You wanted to scream it out…
Instead, you nodded, your voice faltering slightly as you spoke, betraying the weight of everything you couldn’t say.
Now wasn’t the time, and it felt like it never would be.
a/n : Um... I don’t know?
Feedback is always welcome (likes or reblogs too ofc) TYSM for reading, kisses baby 💕
just something short, silly and stoopid for desperation day (let's pretend it's still the 13th, okay? okay)
You wanted the record to reflect you absolutely Did Not come here looking for a Valentine.
February 13th might have been some people’s last-ditch opportunity to snag a date for maybe the most overhyped holiday of the year, but not yours. Tonight, you were only interested in cheap beers and some half-decent music from the line-up of moderately talented bands in the area.
So far, the watery excuse for a beer in your hand was the highlight. There was at least one band that held your attention, though.
Or rather, one guitarist.
He and his merry group of misfits had gone on stage fairly early in the night. Literally fought their way through a set of only five or six songs. One of which he added backing vocals to: a rough, gritty voice to go with his frenetic stage presence. Dark waves flying as he threw his head back, already growing damp with sweat and sticking to the starkly pale column of his neck.
At the end of their set, he dragged up the tail of his sodden t-shirt to mop his brow and revealed his similarly pale torso intermittently plastered with black ink tattoos of varying quality,
Okay, fine. He was hot. In more ways than one. But it wasn’t like it mattered.
Now he was out on the floor, looking a little closer to powder fresh after swapping out his shirt and cleaning up a bit backstage. He and the rest of his band had posted up in the corner to watch the remaining acts, but halfway through the second to last band he spotted something that captured his interest a lot more than yet another cover of “For Whom the Bell Tolls.”
Namely, you.
His deep brown eyes caught on your form while he scanned the crowd, and he determinedly held your gaze even when you caught him staring. But rather than backing down or shying away, instead he took a long, slow pull from the bottle in his hand, never dropping eye contact.
You took a sip of your drink as well, and returned his smoldering stare with a determination of your own. No, you weren’t here for a Valentine, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t play a little.
As the band on stage finished up and the crowd started to disperse, heading to the bathroom or outside to the alley for a smoke, this guy seemed to set off on a different mission. He leaned way over the bar, saying something to the bartender who looked puzzled by his request. Still, he ended up handing something over you couldn’t quite make out through the flurry of bustling bodies.
His head turned and your eyes and his met once again, a crooked smile playing on his full lips. He made his way through the crowd, weaving in and out but never straying from his path to you.
“Hey,” he said, leaning against the wall when he got to you. “Can I show you something?”
The chain hanging off his pocket clinked softly as it swayed and you shrugged one shoulder.
From behind his back, he produced two bright green limes he was holding. You felt the urge to laugh, more confused than anything. Though it was hard not to admire the way his long fingers, decorated with a number of chunky silver rings, wrapped around the fruit.
“So, what do you think?” he asked, holding them up as if for an inspection. Entirely serious as far as you could tell. Fuck it, you could play along. Gave the limes a quick once-over and nodded.
“Uh, good?” you chuckled, still unsure of the joke. “They’re fine, I guess.”
His brows arched.
“Good enough to get your number?”
You actually did laugh at that. Something about the abruptness of the way he asked and the way his eyes sort of danced when he did.
“What are you talking about?” you said, laughing.
That same sly smile curled along his face, twisting up the corner of his mouth. He rolled the two fruits in his palm and nodded at them again.
“They’re my pick-up limes.”
I warned you 😜 ty for reading — love you, mean it! 🍋🟩
🅣🅐🅖🅢: Angst? Eddies doing better, the kids are introduced
🅢🅤🅜🅜🅐🅡🅨: Years after shattering his angel's heart and letting their childhood friendship fade into silence, Eddie Munson is forced to swallow his pride and beg her for help to defeat his final boss: senior year exams. As late-night study sessions in the trailer unearth old wounds and buried chemistry, Eddie realizes he’s fighting for much more than a diploma. But with "King" Steve Harrington hovering and his own insecurities spiraling, Eddie must prove he’s no longer the coward who pushed her away—before he loses his second chance at the only girl who ever really knew him.
The summer of 1986 in Hawkins didn't feel like the start of a bright future; it felt like a recurring fever dream. For the third time in his life, Eddie Munson stood in front of his locker, watching the familiar current of students swirl around him. He was nineteen years old now, a man among boys, a veteran of a war that only he seemed to be fighting—the war against the mundane, the war against a high school diploma that felt more like a myth than a document.
He had become a fixture of the school, like a piece of vintage furniture that nobody quite knew what to do with. He was the "King of Freaks," the legend who refused to die, and the guy who had seen the inside of the Dean's office more often than he’d seen the inside of a textbook.
But as he adjusted his rings and pulled on his worn denim vest, a memory flickered in the back of his mind—a memory of a girl with a denim jacket and a sharp mind who had left him in the dust two years ago. He pushed it down. That version of Eddie, the one who called people Angel and believed in "plans," was dead.
The new Eddie Munson had a kingdom to run.
September 1986: The Arrival of the Sheep
The freshman class of ’86 was a particularly scrawny bunch. Eddie watched them from his perch on the cafeteria table, his eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk looking for mice. Most of them were terrified, eyes glued to the floor as they tried to navigate the gauntlet of varsity jackets.
But then, he saw them.
Four boys. They were a chaotic cluster of limbs and specialized interests. There was a tall, skinny one with a mop of dark hair; a shorter, intense-looking kid with no front teeth; a quiet one with a bowl cut; and a boy who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else but still had a spark of defiance in his eyes.
They were huddled together, looking at a map of the school as if it were a dungeon floor plan.
"Look at them," Eddie muttered to Jeff and Gareth, who were sitting nearby. "Fresh meat. Fresh, nerdy meat."
Eddie didn't just walk over to them; he descended. He jumped off the table, his boots hitting the floor with a heavy thud, and swept his hair back. He intercepted them near the trophy case—a place Eddie usually avoided out of principle.
"Gentlemen," Eddie boomed, his voice echoing in the hallway.
The four boys froze. The one without teeth—Dustin, as he would later learn—looked up at Eddie with a mixture of terror and awe.
"You look lost," Eddie said, leaning in close, his shadow falling over them. "You look like you're looking for something more than just Algebra I. You look like you're looking for... adventure."
"We're just looking for the AV club," the one called Mike Wheeler said, trying to sound brave but failing as his voice cracked.
Eddie grinned, showing a bit of teeth. "The AV club is for people who want to play with wires. I’m talking about something much more dangerous. I’m talking about the Hellfire Club."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of flyers, the ink still fresh. The stylized devil on the front seemed to wink at the boys.
"My name is Eddie Munson," he said, throwing an arm around Dustin’s shoulders, much to the boy's shock. "And I think you four are exactly the kind of lost souls I’ve been looking for. Come to the drama room after school. If you have the stomach for it."
October: The Taming of the Nerds
By October, the four freshmen—Dustin, Mike, Will, and Lucas—weren't just members; they were the core.
Eddie had found a strange, unexpected peace in mentoring them. They didn't care that he was twenty. They didn't care that he had failed twice. To them, he was a god. He was the Dungeon Master, the weaver of worlds, the guy who could make a plastic twenty-sided die feel like a weapon of mass destruction.
He taught them even more intricacies of the game, but more importantly, he taught them how to survive Hawkins.
"Listen to me, Henderson," Eddie said one evening, leaning over a sprawling map of the Underdark. "People are going to look at you. They're going to see the teeth, or the hair, or the books, and they’re going to try to make you feel small. But here? In this room? You’re a paladin. You’re a wizard. You’re whatever you want to be. Don't let the 'mundanes' take that from you."
Dustin beamed, his eyes shining. Eddie felt a pang of something he hadn't felt in a long time—pride. It was different from the pride he felt for his band. This was the pride of a big brother.
He saw himself in them. He saw the same awkwardness he’d felt before he’d discovered metal and leather. But he also saw a bond between the four of them that was stronger than anything he’d ever had. They were a party in the truest sense.
Sometimes, when the game ran late and the school was quiet, Eddie would find himself day dreaming. For a split second, he’d imagine a girl laughing at his dramatic voices, calling him a nerd with that specific tilt of her head.
He’d shake it off, rolling the dice with extra force. "Roll for initiative, boys! The Beholder doesn't wait for your feelings!"
November: The Cult of Personality
As the leaves turned brown and the Indiana wind grew sharp, the Hellfire Club became a sanctuary. Eddie had cultivated a vibe of "refined chaos." He took them to his trailer once or twice, letting them listen to Iron Maiden and Black Sabbath, watching their eyes widen as the heavy riffs filled the small space.
"This," Eddie said, pointing to the speakers, "is the soundtrack to your life. Not that Top 40 garbage. This is the sound of the outsiders."
Lucas Sinclair was the hardest to crack. He was a skeptic, a boy who valued logic and sports as much as fantasy. But Eddie respected that. He liked the challenge of winning over someone who didn't just take his word for gospel.
"You’re the soldier, Sinclair," Eddie told him during a particularly tense battle against a group of Orcs. "You’re the one who keeps them grounded. Every party needs a skeptic, or they all end up walking off a cliff because a ghost told them there was gold at the bottom."
Lucas had nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "I'm just saying, Eddie, we should have scouted the perimeter first."
"And that's why you're going to survive high school," Eddie laughed.
The boys became his shadow. They sat with him at lunch close enough to be under his protection. Eddie found himself playing the role of the shepherd, glaring down any jock who looked too long at the "freaks" in the corner.
He was their shield. It was a role he took seriously. He hadn't been able to protect his own heart back in '84, but he could damn sure protect these kids.
December:The Winter of Discontent & Dice
By December, the Hellfire Club was the talk of the school—mostly whispered rumors of Satanism and weird rituals, which Eddie leaned into with malicious glee. He started wearing more rings, more chains, making himself look as intimidating as possible to keep the prying eyes away from his "sheep."
The campaigns grew more complex. Eddie spent hours in his trailer, lit by a single lamp, drawing maps and writing lore. He was creating a world for them where they were the heroes, where the monsters could be defeated with a high roll and a clever plan.
"The Cult of the Dragon is rising," Eddie whispered one snowy afternoon, the drama room lit only by candles he’d snuck in. "They seek to summon Tiamat. And you, the brave adventurers of Hawkins, are the only ones standing in their way."
Will Byers, the quietest of the group, was the most immersed. He lived for the stories. Eddie noticed the way Will’s drawings of their characters were becoming more detailed, more haunted. He saw a kindred spirit in Will—a boy who used fantasy to escape a reality that was often too heavy to bear.
"You've got the spark, Will," Eddie told him privately after a session. "The way you see the world... don't let them dull it. The world needs more people who can see the monsters before they strike."
The month culminated in a marathon session right before winter break. They played for six hours straight, fueled by flat soda and stale chips. When they finally emerged from the school, the ground was covered in a fresh layer of snow.
"That was... incredible," Mike said, his breath fogging in the cold air. "I really thought we were going to TPK there at the end."
"Not on my watch," Eddie said, leaning against his van. He looked at the four of them—scruffy, tired, and happy. "You guys did good. Real good."
Dustin stepped forward, looking up at Eddie. "Thanks, Eddie. For everything. For letting us in."
Eddie felt a lump in his throat. He cleared it quickly, putting on his best "cool guy" smirk. "Yeah, yeah. Don't get mushy on me, Henderson. It ruins the aesthetic. Get home before your moms call the cops."
He watched them walk away, their voices echoing in the quiet street. He climbed into his van and sat there for a long time, the engine idling.
He thought about New York. He thought about the girl who was probably walking through snow-covered streets in Manhattan, her mind full of big ideas and important stories. He wondered if she ever thought about the boy she hated.
He shifted the van into gear. He wasn't the boy who called people Angel anymore. He was the DM. He was the Freak. He was Eddie Munson.
And for the first time in two years, as he drove back to the trailer park through the winter night, he felt like he might actually survive another year in Hawkins. He had a party now. And every party needed a leader who was willing to take the hits so the rest of them could win the game.
The first week of January 1986 brought a cold front to Hawkins that seemed determined to freeze the very soul of the town. The sky was the color of a bruised plum, and the wind rattled the thin windowpanes of the high school drama room like a restless spirit trying to gain entry. Inside, however, the air was thick with the scent of pepperoni pizza, unwashed denim, and the electric thrill of a victory hard-won.
Eddie Munson sat atop his "throne"—a mismatched wooden chair reinforced with duct tape—and surveyed his kingdom. The table before him was a battlefield of plastic miniatures, spilled soda, and crumpled character sheets.
"And so," Eddie intoned, his voice dropping into a gravelly, cinematic baritone that always made the boys lean in, "as the smoke clears from the ruins of the Obsidian Tower, the Great Wyrm lies defeated. Its hoard is yours. But remember, heroes... gold is heavy, and the road back to the light is long."
He slammed his hand on the table, making the twenty-sided die jump.
"Session over! Huzzah!"
The four freshmen erupted into a chorus of cheers and sighs of relief. Dustin Henderson threw his hands up, his hat nearly falling off his head, while Mike leaned back, wiping sweat from his forehead as if he’d actually been the one swinging the broadsword.
"I’m telling you, the Fireball was the only way," Mike argued, already dissecting the final moments. "If Will hadn't cast that, we were toast."
"I was just the distraction," Will said with a modest smile, meticulously packing his colored pencils back into their tin. "Eddie almost got us with that tail swipe."
Eddie grinned, his rings catching the dim light as he began to sweep the miniatures into their velvet pouches. "Almost doesn't get you a seat in the Hellfire Club, little Byers. You lot are getting too smart for your own good. I’m going to have to bring out the big guns for the spring campaign."
As the boys began to gather their backpacks, the conversation drifted from the fantasy world of Oerth back to the mundane reality of Hawkins.
"Man, I am not ready for Monday," Lucas groaned, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "My dad is already on my case about my geometry grade. He thinks D&D is 'rotting my tactical brain.'"
"At least your house is quiet," Mike said, nudging Dustin. "Hey, I heard your sister is actually coming back to town. For real this time?"
Eddie, who was busy rolling up a sprawling map of a subterranean labyrinth, paused. His hands stayed on the parchment, his ears pricking up. He didn't know much about the boys' families—mostly because he preferred to keep his world and theirs separate—but he knew Dustin lived with his mom and a cat. He’d never heard mention of a sibling.
Dustin nodded vigorously, his curls bouncing. "Yeah, man! My mom is losing her mind. She’s been cleaning her room for three days straight. She hasn't been back in Hawkins since, like, two years ago. Right after she graduated."
Eddie’s heart did a strange, uncomfortable stutter. Two years ago. Graduation. It was a common enough timeline. Half of Hawkins fled the second they got that piece of paper. It didn't mean anything. It couldn't mean anything.
"Two years?" Lucas asked. "Where has she even been? She didn't come back for Christmas or anything?"
"Nah," Dustin said, his expression turning a bit thoughtful, almost sad. "She got this high-intensity internship at a newspaper in New York right after she left, and then she just... stayed. Took extra classes, worked three jobs. My mom said she was 'finding herself,' but honestly, I think she just hated this town. She used to talk to me all the time, but after she left, she kind of focused on what she was doing. The calls got shorter, you know?"
Eddie forced a sharp, dramatic laugh, his typical defense mechanism whenever a conversation felt a little too close to the bone. He stood up, throwing his arms wide and pacing the small stage area of the drama room.
"Ah! A runaway! A seeker of the forbidden city!" Eddie cried, his voice dripping with his usual theatrical sarcasm. "How exciting for the Henderson household to have the prodigal daughter return from the concrete jungle. Tell me, Henderson, does she return with the secrets of the East? Or just a very expensive habit for espresso and cynicism?"
Dustin laughed, oblivious to the way Eddie’s knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the table. "I don't know about the espresso, but she was always pretty cool. She's the one who gave me my first set of polyhedral dice, actually. She told me if I was going to be a nerd, I should at least be a legendary one."
Eddie felt a cold sweat break out at the base of his neck. The dice. He remembered a girl who had sat in his van, looking at his own dice and calling them "the keys to a better world."
He tried to keep his voice light, playing the role of the curious mentor. He leaned over the table, propping his chin on his hand, his eyes narrowed in a mock-serious gaze. "Is that so? And what did this mysterious benefactor do in her former life here? Was she a fellow traveler of the dark arts? A member of a secret society?"
Dustin shrugged, stuffing a stray notebook into his bag. "She wasn't into the game as much as we are, but she was smart. Like, scary smart. She was always writing things down, always had her nose in a book. I used to go to her for help with my essays because she could make even a boring report on the Industrial Revolution sound like a goddamn movie."
"Fascinating," Eddie murmured. "And why the sudden return? Did the Big Apple bite back?"
"I think she just needed a break," Dustin said. "Mom says she’s coming back for a couple of months to 'decompress' before she starts some big new job in the fall. I’m just stoked because she promised to take me to the city if I survive middle school."
Before Eddie could dig deeper—before he could ask the one question that was burning a hole in his tongue, the question of a name—a sharp, static-filled crackle cut through the room.
Dustin reached for the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt.
"Dusty-bun? Are you there? Dusty!"
Mrs. Henderson’s voice echoed through the drama room, sounding frantic and high-pitched. Dustin groaned, rolling his eyes at the guys.
"I’m here, Mom! Over!"
"It’s past ten, Dustin! You know the rules! And your sister just called from the toll booth! She’ll be home in twenty minutes! Get your bottom back here right now! Over and out!"
"Copy that, Mom! See you in ten! Over!" Dustin unclipped the radio, looking at Eddie with an apologetic grin. "Duty calls. The queen has arrived, or whatever."
The boys started moving toward the door, a chaotic flurry of coats and chatter. Mike, Lucas, and Will were already halfway out, arguing about whether a Paladin could technically use a poisoned blade.
Dustin stayed behind for a second, adjusting his backpack. He looked back at Eddie, who was still standing by the table, looking strangely still in the middle of the empty room.
"Hey, Eddie?"
Eddie snapped out of his trance, flashing a quick, jagged smile. "Yeah, Henderson?"
Dustin smiled, a genuine, wide-eyed look of excitement. "I can't wait for you to meet her. Seriously. I was telling her about the club in my last call, and she seemed actually interested. I think you two would really get along. You’re both... I don't know. Intense."
Eddie felt like the floor had suddenly turned into quicksand. "Intense, huh? Is that what they call it in New York?"
"I guess," Dustin laughed, walking toward the door. "See ya Tuesday, Eddie! Don't let the mind flayers get you!"
"Never!" Eddie called back, his voice echoing in the now-silent room.
🅣🅐🅖🅢: Angst, Angst, oh did I mention Angst? Eddies a dick(it'll get better I promise lol)
🅢🅤🅜🅜🅐🅡🅨: Years after shattering his angel's heart and letting their childhood friendship fade into silence, Eddie Munson is forced to swallow his pride and beg her for help to defeat his final boss: senior year exams. As late-night study sessions in the trailer unearth old wounds and buried chemistry, Eddie realizes he’s fighting for much more than a diploma. But with "King" Steve Harrington hovering and his own insecurities spiraling, Eddie must prove he’s no longer the coward who pushed her away—before he loses his second chance at the only girl who ever really knew him.
The hallways of Hawkins High in the spring of 1984 were thick with the scent of floor wax and the frantic energy of seniors counting down the seconds until freedom. For most, the future was a map of possibilities; for Eddie Munson, it was a blurred reflection in a rearview mirror.
But then there was her.
She wasn't like the girls who spent their mornings hair-spraying their bangs into stiff waves or whispering about the basketball team. She was a quiet, sharp-witted presence who had drifted into Eddie’s orbit during a grueling semester of English Lit. They had started as reluctant lab partners and ended up as a two-person insurgency against the boredom of small-town life.
To Eddie, she was the only thing in Hawkins that felt real.
"Don’t worry about that assignment, angel," he’d whisper in the back of the classroom, leaning in close enough to smell the faint scent of vanilla and old paper that followed her. "The poets we’re studying were all drunk and miserable anyway. They wouldn't want you stressing over their metaphors."
She would laugh, a low, melodic sound that made Eddie’s chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with his theatrical bravado. "Someone has to care, Eddie. Some of us actually want to get out of here."
"Oh, we’re getting out," he’d promise, his rings clinking against the desk as he mimicked a guitar solo. "I’ve got the van, you’ve got the brains. It’s a foolproof plan."
By May, the "plan" felt less like a joke and more like a lifeline. They spent their afternoons at the Quarry or hidden in the woods behind the trailer park, talking about everything and nothing. She talked about the university she’d been accepted to out East—a place with old stone buildings and libraries that stayed open all night. Eddie talked about the stages he was going to play, the crowds that would finally understand the power of a distorted power chord.
The crush wasn't a secret, even if it was unspoken. It was in the way she’d tuck a stray lock of his hair behind his ear when he was mid-rant. It was in the way Eddie’s voice softened every time he looked at her.
Finally, standing by her locker as the afternoon sun streaked through the dusty windows, Eddie took the plunge.
"Listen, angel," he said, his usual smirk replaced by a rare, vulnerable sincerity. "There’s this party at the lake this weekend. Everyone’s gonna be there, but I don't care about everyone. I want to go with you. Properly. Like, a real date before we leave this hellhole behind."
The smile she gave him was the brightest thing he’d ever seen. "I thought you were never going to ask. I'd love to go with you, Eddie."
For days, Eddie Munson walked the halls like he owned the world. He was graduating. He was leaving. And he had her.
The humidity of late May in Hawkins was stifling, a thick blanket of heat that made the locker-lined hallways feel like they were closing in. For Eddie Munson, the world had already ended. The dream ended on a that rainy Tuesday morning in the Dean’s office.
Eddie had gone in expecting a slap on the wrist for a missed assembly. He came out feeling like he’d been hit by a freight train. The news was blunt: his grades in two core subjects weren't high enough. He was three credits short. He wasn't graduating. He was being held back. Again.
He stood in the hallway, the sound of the rain against the roof echoing the frantic drumming in his ears. Eddie felt a sudden, violent surge of shame.
He saw the trajectory of her life—bright, fast, and upward. Then he saw his own—stagnant, muddy, and stuck in the gravel of the Forest Hills Trailer Park. If he stayed with her, if he let her love him, he’d be the anchor that dragged her down. He pictured her staying in Hawkins for him, wasting her intellect at a local diner just to be near a guy who couldn't even pass high school.
He saw her coming from the end of the science wing. She was wearing that oversized denim jacket he liked, the one with the frayed sleeves. She looked like a dream—a future journalist, a girl with a ticket out of this graveyard of a town.
Eddie felt a physical ache in his throat. He had a choice: he could tell her the truth and watch her offer to stay, watch her ruin her life trying to fix his. Or, he could cut the cord so cleanly that she’d never look back.
So Eddie did the one thing he was good at.
He turned on his heel and walked the other way.
He tried to duck into the music room, but she was too fast. She caught him by the elbow, her fingers pressing into his leather jacket. Her face was a map of confusion and beginning signs of heartbreak.
"Eddie, stop," she commanded, her voice trembling. "Just stop. Why are you avoiding me? If you’ve changed your mind about the lake, just say it, but don't do... this."
Eddie didn't look at her. He couldn't. He stared at a chipped piece of paint on the wall over her shoulder. He needed to be a monster. It was the only way to be a hero.
"The lake?" Eddie let out a sharp, jagged laugh that sounded wrong even to his own ears. He finally turned his gaze to her, but he made sure his eyes were flat and cold. "Oh, angel. You actually thought I was serious about that?"
She flinched as if he’d slapped her. "What are you talking about?"
"I was bored," Eddie said, leaning back against the lockers and shoving his hands into his pockets. He forced a smirk, the kind that usually made people think he was dangerous. "Look around. This town is a drag. You were a fun distraction for a semester. You're smart, you're cute in a quiet way... it was an experiment. To see if I could get the 'good girl' to fall for the freak."
"An experiment?" she whispered. Her eyes were beginning to glass over with tears she refused to let fall. "You told me you loved the way I thought. You called me—"
"I called you Angel because I couldn't be bothered to remember anything else," he interrupted, his heart screaming at him to shut up, to grab her, to tell her he was lying. Instead, he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a cruel, mocking whisper. "But let’s be real. You’re going off to some fancy school to be a big deal. And me? I realized I can do better than a girl who spends her Friday nights reading poetry. I need someone with a bit more... bite. Someone who isn't so boring."
The silence that followed was deafening. He watched the light in her eyes go out, replaced by a cold, hard shutter.
"You're a liar," she said, her voice now steady and sharp as a razor. "You're a pathetic, scared little boy, Eddie Munson. And you're right about one thing—I am going to be a big deal. And I’m going to forget you ever existed."
She turned and walked away, her boots thudded rhythmically against the linoleum. Eddie stayed leaned against the locker until he couldn't hear her footsteps anymore. Then, he let his head thud back against the metal with a hollow clang.
For the next two weeks, the silence between them was a physical wall. They still shared a class, but she never looked at him. She sat in the front row now, her back straight, her focus laser-focused on the teacher. She had scrubbed him from her life.
Eddie watched her from the shadows of the back row. He watched the way she laughed with other people—hollow, performative laughs that didn't reach her eyes. He saw the way she pointedly ignored his van in the parking lot.
He was drowning in the role he’d chosen to play. Every time he saw her, he wanted to scream that he was failing, that he was staying, that he just wanted her to be happy. But he kept his mouth shut. If she hated him, she was safe.
Graduation Day, 1984
The ceremony was held on the football field under a punishing June sun. Eddie didn't have a cap or a gown. He was seventeen, and he was officially a senior for the second time.
He stood at the very top of the bleachers, tucked behind the press box where no one would notice him. He watched the procession of green robes. He found her instantly. She looked radiant, her graduation cap pinned perfectly into her hair.
When her name was called, the applause from the crowd was loud. Eddie clapped, too, his hands muffled by his sides. He watched her shake the Principal's hand, her chin held high. She didn't look around the crowd. She didn't look for him.
After the ceremony, the field was a chaos of hugging families and flying caps. Eddie saw her standing with a small group near the end zone. She looked happy. She looked free.
He saw her catch sight of the bleachers. For a split second, her eyes traveled up to where he was standing. Even from that distance, the coldness in her gaze was palpable. There was no longing there, no "what-ifs." There was only a deep, settled resentment. She looked at him like he was a stain on her past that she couldn't wait to wash away.
She turned back to her friends, tucked her diploma under her arm, and walked away without a backward glance.
The ghost of her presence lingered in Hawkins for exactly forty-eight hours after the ceremony. Eddie didn't know where she lived—he’d always picked her up at the library or the park, a boundary she’d kept to protect herself from her strict parents, or perhaps to keep her two worlds separate. Now, he was glad for the distance.
He heard the news third-hand at the local gas station. Some guys from the basketball team were laughing about how "the brainy girl" had packed her entire life into the trunk of a beat-up sedan the morning after graduation.
"Straight for New York," one of them said, whistling. "Didn't even wait for the graduation parties. Just loaded up her tapes and her books and peeled out of town like the devil was chasing her."
Eddie stood by the pumps, the smell of gasoline heavy in the humid air. He pictured her driving East, the Hawkins water tower disappearing in her rearview mirror. He imagined her crossing the state line, music up loud, her jaw set in that stubborn way she had whenever she was determined to prove someone wrong.
She was going to the city of lights, to a place where people didn't know the name Eddie Munson and didn't care about the "freaks" of Indiana. She was going to become the person she was meant to be, and she was doing it with a heart hardened by his lies.
He sat in the trailer that night, the heat of the Indiana summer pressing in on him. He had his guitar in his lap, but he wasn't playing. He was thinking about the word "better." He had told her he could do better, but the truth was, he was the one left behind in the dirt.
He had won. She hated him. She was gone. She would never look back at Hawkins with anything but a bitter memory of a boy who wasn't worth her time.
"You're welcome, angel," he whispered to the empty room, the words disappearing into the hum of the window A/C unit.
He was eighteen, he was alone, and he had successfully ensured that the only person he ever loved would never forgive him. He was the King of Lost Causes, and as the summer of '84 stretched out before him, he had never felt more like a ghost.
