Summary: You’ve been in Hawkins for almost a year now. It was nice, an escape from painful memories and a way to start fresh. After so long isolating yourself, you decide that it’s time to make friends, get to know someone so you’re not so alone. One of those friends happened to be your Cryptid Neighbor.
General Warnings: Mentions of suicide attempts, domestic abuse, stalking, graphic depictions of violence, and smut. I will try and tag each chapter accordingly, but please please, PLEASE tell me if I miss one!
@savybabyyy: ex husband!eddie munson and reader still fuck whenever they can because no one can make them feel as good as each other can but they have to hide it from the kids so it doesn’t confuse them!!! do you think they’d be able to ever work out their differences and try their relationship again? if you chose to make this a fic i NEED it to be FILTHY NASTY smut (pls ily)
Anon: not sure if this is something you’d enjoy (so please feel free to delete!) — but maybe exboyfriend!Eddie (or ex-husband 😛 whichever is yummier to you) being soooo smug when you come back ‘just one more time’ (maroon 5 — i’m looking at you). but he just knows that is not the truth
Prescribed Burn
Ex-Husband!Eddie Munson x Ex-Wife!Reader
A/N: I've been working on this for a few weeks and it's finally done. I decided to combine the submission with another ask I got because I think they mesh well together. I have no thoughts on a part two to this so please don’t ask. Also, a better way to get more writing on a certain fic universe is to ask specific questions—not just the general request for a part two. If there’s some lore you want to know, I’d be happy to answer any questions regarding that!
Summary: Eddie, your ex-husband, won't stop crashing your dates, leaving you sexually frustrated and alone with him. He wouldn't be such a thorn in your side if you'd just take him back. Maybe one more hookup will do the trick...
Word Count: 8.7k
Warnings: 18+ mdni!!! Smut, PiV unprotected, jealousy, perv!eddie is a panty thief, kinda angst w a happy ending, Eddie hates your date, mention of masturbation, maybe considered coercion because Eddie doesn't wanna wear a condom and you don’t want another kid while divorced but it’s chill bc you really just wanna fuck, cream pie, kissingggg, tensionnn, cryinggg, Eddie’s a menace, breeding kink, Eddie calls reader mama in a slutty way, daddy kink but in the sexy 'I’m the actual father of your children way,' Hopper is a county judge now, teasing, Eddie’s kinda condescending but it’s hot, lot of pet names because again–he’s condescending, a little biting, Eddie has two sons with you but he wants to be a girl dad so bad, confessions in the nude, I think that's it lmk if I missed anything.
“A controlled burn or prescribed burn (Rx burn) is the practice of intentionally setting a fire to change the assemblage of vegetation and decaying material in a landscape.” — Wiki
“Low to moderate-intensity fire reduces competition from invasive species and encourages the growth of fire-adapted native vegetation…” — nationalforests.org
Masterlist
Your date is practically slobbering on you as you fiddle with the lock on the front door. When the damn thing finally gives way, you walk in, throwing your purse on the nearby hook, your date stumbling in after you—still trying to leech blood from your veins, apparently.
“Damn–useless–,” you mutter, cursing at your door, voice trailing off. “Shoulda had Eddie fix the stupid thing.”
Blane releases your neck to throw you a confused look, “What was that?”
“Nothing. Let’s–take this into the living room.” You try to herd him into the wider space, struggling to withhold an eye roll at his desperate, uncoordinated hands groping your body. Feeling around for the lightswitch, you flick it on and jump at the sight before you.
“Jesus Christ!”
“Holy shit!”
You and your date shout at the same time, both startled by the curly haired man lounging in the arm chair like he owns the place—jackass.
“Oh, please, don’t stop on my account,” he waves you on before threading his fingers, elbows on each arm of the chair as he rests his chin on clasped hands, an expectant smile plastered over his face.
“What the hell are you doing here,” you groan, crossing your arms, closing yourself off to him.
Blane’s eyes widen even more, darting from your rigid body to the stranger leisurely eyeing you in your living room. “Do you know this man?”
Restraining another eye roll at the idiot’s reaction, you don’t get the chance to speak before Eddie runs his mouth.
“Does she know me? Oh, her and I go way back! What was it, ‘77? ‘78?” His grin never leaves his stupid face, a wicked glint in his obsidian eyes.
This time you allow yourself to eyeroll. Eddie will take every chance to remind any male that comes within a hundred feet of you that he got there first. And not only was he there first, but he was your everything. Until he wasn’t.
The genius you agreed to go on a date with looks back at you, still confused. “So, you do know this man?”
The blond’s cluelessness makes Eddie snort, you sure know how to pick ‘em. He likes to think he was your magnum opus, your big kahuna, your white whale. “I’m her husband.”
“Ex,” you grit out, knowing Eddie gets a sick little thrill any time he runs into you with a guy and gets to drop the bomb that you were married once before—to him, no less.
Blane looks at you shocked, you pointedly ignore his burning gaze on the side of your face. It’s not your fault you didn’t get the chance to disclose that information between his non stop yammering about his management position at RadioShack—proud to lord over a bunch of seventeen-year-olds.
“And I’m also the father of her children.” The curly haired man stands up with an exaggerated groan, pretending to dust off his tattered jeans. “Yup, everybody around here calls me ‘daddy,’ you can too if ya like.”
Head jerking back at the brash statement, the blond looks at you again. Apparently, there’s no other way the man can turn his damn neck.
“Don’t–call him–I don’t call him ‘daddy’,” You shake your head, looking at Blane sharply.
Eddie steps forward, hand outstretched to your date, “Sorry–did you say your name was ‘Flavor of the Week’?”
“Eddie!”
“Uh, no, it’s Blane,” the blond shakes Eddie’s ringed hands, cringing at the harsh squeeze the metalhead gives.
He can’t help the way his eyebrows disappear into his bangs, eyes lighting up like he just heard the best thing all day. “B–uh–lane?” His jaw is dropped in awe of the new low you’ve stooped—hooking up with a ‘Blane’. Why don’t you go ahead and get a ‘Chad’ or ‘Brad’ in there while you’re at it.
“Well, it’s actually pronounced, ‘Blane,’ but yeah.”
You stomp over, separating their hands, positioning yourself between the single-sided pissing contest. “What are you doing here, Eddie?”
Shrugging, he gives you an innocent smile, “I just came to pick up the kids.”
He knows damn well you don’t have them, he actually ran into the little rugrats at the park with Robin on his drive home. He pulled over, asking what she was doing with his children, and Robin was spineless enough to let slip that you had a date tonight. So here he is.
He didn’t have anything better to do, anyway. Got tired of the chick he was trying to see—keyword: trying. But she wasn’t anything like you, so he had to ditch her after a short lived affair. He’s thankful he’s here right now, god forbid you sleep with a ‘Blane.’
You narrow your eyes at him—this wasn’t his night to take the boys. The asshole probably just wanted to crash your date. It’s like he’s torturing you for something he did. Anytime you try to go on a date—get back out there, as Robin says—he magically shows up, ruining the whole affair.
The lack of successful hookups have left you to make some poor mistakes—like sleeping with your ex, for one. It’s like this is his huge, master plan to get you back. He’ll fuck up any chance you have at moving on and just when you’re at your wits end, he’ll swoop in on his best behavior—acting like the saint he’s not.
“Well, they’re not here,” you deadpan, eager to see what excuse he can come up with next.
Eddie snorts, looking at Blane for support, “Woah, absentee mother alert! It’s ten o’clock, do you know where your children are?”
“Okay, that’s it! Get out!” You grab his leather clad arm, dragging him to the door.
You only get to the threshold of the family room before he weasels his arm out of your clawing grasp.
“Aht, aht! Not so fast! It’s my house, too.” Walking back to a stunned Blane, he throws his arm over the awkward guy, leaning into his face. “My name is on the deed,” he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at the cringing blond.
“Yeah, and I’ve been meaning to change that. Got a judge’s approval and everything.” Crossing your arms, jutting a hip out, you give him a smug look.
“Hop, right? Oh, yeah, no,” he waves you off. “That’s no good. Turns out the guy’s got a soft spot for me. All it took was a few tears, a couple of sad pictures of a broken family, and a promise to make it right—he folded like an omelet. That guy should really get his attorney license revoked,” he muses, frowning at how easy Hopper was to manipulate despite all of Eddie’s less than savory run-ins with the ex-chief of police in his youth.
“What? The Fuck? Eddie?” Steam could be blowing out of your ears for all you know, you’ve never felt so enraged. Eddie’s overstepped your boundaries a lot since you two separated—ruining dates, buying the boys things you specifically said ‘no’ to, introducing the boys to his flings, purposefully neglecting to bring your kids back until you come over to take them back just so he can see you—but this takes the cake.
You’ve been waiting five months for the paperwork to go through. In fact, you only just got the approval this past Monday. Now he’s in your house—without your consent—rubbing it in your face that he got the change expunged only four days later.
Blane slips away from Eddie, looking like he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he sheepishly mutters, “I can see you two have a lot to work through, so I’m just gonna–” He motions to the door, stepping toward you and then back, unsure whether he should approach you with how irate you look. Deciding to risk it, he lays a hand on your stiff shoulders, giving a hesitant kiss to your cheek. “Call me when you figure this stuff out.”
Eddie snorts at the bold move. ‘Alright, Blane, you dog,’ he thinks. Even he wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole right now—you’d probably melt it—and he’s known you since he was eleven and you were nine. He’s surprised the guy didn’t liquefy from your magmatic fury, leaving nothing but his shitty veneers and obvious toupée.
The front door shuts leaving the two of you alone, the only thing that can be heard is the huffing breaths of your ire. You’re staring daggers at Eddie, wishing on every star that you secretly have laser eyes you never knew about—so you can smite your awful ex-husband, zapping him off the face of the earth like a moth in an electric bug zapper.
“Can you believe that guy?” Eddie throws his hand out to the door Blane just left out of. “Like, ‘Okay, drama queen, way to make an exit,’” he mocks, looking at you for support. “Thought he’d never leave.”
“Eddie…”
It’s his first and only warning, but he doesn’t heed it.
“And, hey, what’s with you and men who have the personality of a wet paper bag? I mean seriously, who’s a grown man and blond?”
Steadily stalking towards him with sharp, unyielding eyes, you’re imagining every way you’re about to throw him out of your house. He’s slowly backing up, the smug smile never leaving his face.
“By the way, I felt his hands—that man has never worked a day in his life. His hands are so soft and supple—like a woman’s. If you wanted to feel a woman’s hands, I’m sure Robin’s just been waiting on your call,” he laughs, getting off on shit talking your choice of date.
Your movements stop, halting a few inches in front of him. Looking up into his twinkling eyes—mirth to your anger.
“Well, it’s kind of hard to find somebody willing to date a single mother, and anybody who is, you open your big mouth to,” you bite out, trying your hardest to restrain yourself from grabbing him by the hair and dragging him out the front door.
A closed-mouth smile spreads up one side of his face, his head ducks to gaze into your eyes, admiring. “You know, I actually know someone who really goes for that type of thing.”
“Oh, my ex-husband is gonna set me up now?”
He shrugs.
“Alright, I’ll bite. Who?”
“Me.”
You snort—that’s the funniest thing you’ve heard in a while. Eddie always did make you laugh.
His smile falters a bit, but he catches himself before you can see it. “Oh, come on! The boys would be ecstatic to see their daddy home.”
“Well, their daddy should’ve thought about that before he was an awful husband.”
That comment takes the wind right out of his sails, the light in his eyes tempering at the reminder of the fuck up he’ll regret for the rest of his life.
“Also, don’t ever call me an absentee mother,” you threaten, anger flaring up again at the memory of his comment—in front of your date, too.
Being the king of deflecting feelings, a smile quirks up on his lips again. He prowls the short distance to you, head dipped to read your body language as he reaches for your hips, pulling you to his chest. “Aw, you know I didn’t mean it, sweetheart,” he pouts. “Just wanted old B–uh–lane to leave us alone…”
Head tentatively moving to your neck, his lips graze the column of your throat. The featherlight sensation against your delicate skin has your shoulders relaxing, a stuttering breath leaving glossed lips.
“I know you’re the best mother the boys could ever ask for. Best mama and a great wife. S’too bad I wasn’t a great husband,” he mutters against your skin, hot, languid tongue mouthing at the flesh.
Predictable. This is what you were afraid of. It’s like clock work. He ruins your dates, acts like a saint, plays the part of the man you fell in love with, and takes you to bed. Every. Time. There’s not a hint of remorse in his comment, he’s saying what you want to hear.
Doesn’t mean he doesn’t believe he was a bad husband. He’s just on a mission right now, and pondering the shortcomings of his vows to you is not a big turn on.
Pulse spiking at his attention, the intoxicating smell of his familiar cologne melts your brain into mush. “S–Stop,” you try to push him off, but he just takes the hands you splay on his chest and slides them around his back—making you hold him.
His hands slide up your body, settling on either side of your cheeks. Half-lidded, hungry eyes rove over your face. Swollen lips pant soft breaths against your skin; the sensation has you closing your eyes, trying to scrounge up some sense of self-worth.
Leaving slow, delicate, open-mouthed kisses around your face, he mumbles lowly, “You know we don’t have to stop sleeping together just because we’re separated, right?”
“Divorced,” you correct—separated sounds temporary, this was supposed to be forever.
“Semantics.”
You almost preen at the little pecks he gives to your closed eyelids. You haven’t felt this kind of intimate affection in so long. It feels like a sisyphean task to gather your willpower; you can’t let him continue to do this. It’s not healthy. For either of you.
He doesn’t let you have a boyfriend and he can’t hold down a girlfriend. They all either walk out because he won’t ever stop talking about you or he dumps them because they’re not enough like you.
Eddie’s wandering mouth inches to yours with each delicate kiss. Finally hovering over your parted lips, he gives a tentative lick to your cherry lip gloss—the flavor he dreams about every night in the cold bed in his empty apartment, fist squeezing his cock, mind convincing him it’s your velvety walls surrounding him.
“You don’t have to keep telling me ‘no.’ Don’t gotta waste your breath.”
Giving a purposeful lick into your mouth, he draws waiting lips to his in a tight, wet kiss. A moan works its way up your throat, fingers digging across his back as he caresses your tongue with his.
Pulling away panting, he leaves you breathless—eyes still closed and head mindlessly leaning in for more. But it doesn’t come.
“I’ll always be here, baby.” His confidence is other worldly, you’ll never understand what you do to make him so ballsy. All he gets from you is denigration and cold stares. “I’m the father of your children.”
That’s the nail in the coffin—the epitome of why you still allow him into your life. He’s the father of your children—a damn good one at that: loving, kind, and a good role model for the boys. You will never be rid of him. You couldn’t do that to the boys. No matter how badly you might want to never speak to him again sometimes.
Before this goes any further—and you know it will—you have to know…
“Why’d you go behind my back with Hopper?” Opening your eyes, you catch a small look of shock passing over his features before he corrects himself—deflecting again, just like he always does.
“This house is the first thing we ever bought together. Wasn’t ready for that history to be erased,” he answers earnestly, hands never leaving your face.
That’s the first time in a long time he’s been genuine with you. It makes you frown, though. The house is what upset him? Not you divorcing him?
“What, I was easier to let go of than a house?”
His eyebrows knit together for a split second, eyes narrowing just as quick. Do you not get it? He’s been pretty clear.
“I didn’t let you go. I haven’t let you go,” he amends, shaking his head, eyes studying you closely. “I just can’t make you stay.”
The words he carefully chose have a strange feeling washing over you as you take them in. You’re trying so hard to read his mind through his expressive eyes, but he’s always been good about showing you only what he wants you to see.
Right now, the muddy pools you used to fall asleep gazing into every night only show empty depth. His words aren’t empty—you trust him in that. But he’s not imploring you to believe him—not begging you to look into his eyes and decide for yourself whether he means what he says. He’s speaking as plainly as possible, his dark irises reflecting that.
You don’t need to guess what he feels. He’s telling you.
A rueful smile appears, “At least a house doesn’t know it deserves better. Better than what I gave.”
He specifically doesn’t say, ‘Better than what I could give,’ because he’s sure now—he could be who he should’ve been from the start. He’s felt the hole you left, tried to fill it with other women. All he’s learned is you were it for him. And he was stupid enough to let you go. No, he didn’t let you go. He made you leave. It was his actions—he knows that now. But he can be the man you need. He’s certain.
All of a sudden the subject is too heavy for you. His kiss—the quiet affection—messed with your mind. You feel your grasp on certainty slipping. Why did you divorce him? No. You know why…
He’s suffocating you—his charm, his scent, his presence, his hands on your body. The hands you remember like it was yesterday—sliding a ring on, caressing your bump, holding your babies.
You need to change the subject. Quick. He’s breaking you down, rocking inhibitions like a barge at sea.
“You need to get rid of that damn key,” you utter, attempting to regain a firmness in your voice—the one he took, along with your breath.
He accepts your subject change gracefully, a smile spreading across his lips, thumbs smoothing over your hairline. “But what if there’s an emergency,” he goads, eyes alight with twinkling affection.
“Crashing my date doesn’t count as an emergency,” you chide, looking up at him with an indignant tilt to your head.
“It does if his name is ‘B–uh–lane.’ Where’d you meet ‘im anyway? Did’ya see his picture on the back of a milk carton?”
You can’t help but snort at his comment. Blane wouldn’t have been your first choice for a date, but you were desperate for connection. It’s been so long since you were properly wined and dined. You were hoping he’d talk less in bed.
A blinding grin breaks out across Eddie’s face, he’s always loved making you laugh—it’s his favorite sound in the entire world. Pecking your lips, he pulls back, “I mean seriously, that guy is like those jockstraps we went to high school with! That’s not your type, sweetheart.”
Fighting the smile off your face, you run your tongue over your teeth behind your lips, “Yeah? And what is my type?”
He bites his lip, relishing in the banter he’s sorely missed since you kicked him out. This is the lightest you’ve been with him since everything went down. It’s like he and you are in high school all over again—flirting, teasing each other, dancing around big feelings, unsure of your place in the other’s heart.
“Oh, I don’t know…” he shrugs, playing coy before leaning into your lips again. “Gorgeous…tall…brown button eyes…voluminous curls…father of your children…” He leaves a quick peck on your lips between each attribute he lists, leaving a longer kiss after the last descriptor.
Shaking your head, you try to disavow him, but the fondness in your eyes betrays you. “That was my old type. I’m not into that anymore.”
He had hoped you’d say that…
“Really? Because I actually came to return your panties.” He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a ball of black lace, letting it hang from his index finger in front of you.
The spell is broken, you blanch, snatching the intimate scrap of fabric from his greedy hands—more like sticky fingers, how the hell did he get those?
“I didn’t leave these with you,” you hiss, stuffing the underwear in the front pocket of your jeans. He’s not allowed to see your intimates anymore—or at least he won’t be once you stop sleeping with him.
Shrugging, he dismisses your attitude with a passive tilt to his head, “Yeah, well, I got a hankering during work.”
His shit eating grin makes you scoff. Not only did he use his old house key to break in and ruin your date, but he also snuck in earlier—while you were at work and the boys were at school—just to rifle through your drawers. At least, you hope to god it was your drawers and not your dirty laundry basket.
“You’re a pig.”
His grin only widens at your derision. Leaning in, he shakes his head as he says, “Oink oink, baby. Whatever you say, now can we please fuck?”
“No.” You’re not about to enable his behavior by sleeping with him after this shit show of a night.
Eddie’s eyebrows raise, amused at your attempt to turn him down, “No?”
“Correct. I’m setting a boundary and I’m putting an embargo on my panties.” You reach around his body, plucking the pair he has haphazardly shoved into his back pocket. You’re sure he nicked this pair while he was waiting for you to get home from your date.
When he realizes what you’re doing—watches as you hold the red lacy fabric he painstakingly picked out—he’s beside himself. “Hey, hey, hey, that’s mine! You can’t have both! I need at least one for later if we’re not gonna fuck.”
Ignoring his comment, you notice the fabric has a stiffness to it, immediately dropping it, you wipe your hand against your jeans—a useless reaction as the underwear is completely dry. He didn’t get this out of your drawers…
“Oh, you’re disgusting! Seriously deranged.” You cannot believe this is what he’s doing with his old house key. This is a new low, even for him.
“Oh, like you didn’t take my Dio shirt last time,” He argues, remembering the way you sent him home shirtless—like a real walk of shame. He’d never felt more turned on. The image of you in his shirt—just like old times—became his masturbation material for a whole week after that.
You guffaw, throwing your head back at the insanity he’s trying to dress up as logic. “That’s a shirt, dumbass! Not underwear!”
He throws his arms up like he’s exasperated by your ‘logic.’ “Fine, you can have my underwear if you want! Here, I’ll give ‘em to you right now!”
You watch in horror as he starts unbuckling his belt. He gets as far unbuttoning his pants and pulling down his fly before you’re able to stop him. “No, I touch enough male undergarments, thank you,” you sass, holding up a hand to halt his movements.
All of a sudden, he looks miffed. You don’t know why, but you feel the need to correct yourself. “The boys,” you specify.
His face relaxes, shoulders dropping—you can almost see his hackles go back down. “Oh! Well, they don’t count.”
With nothing else to say, you shake your head, trying to fend a smile off, “You’re such a perv. Always have been.”
“You used to love that about me.” He tilts his head, studying you intently. You feel like you’re under a magnifying glass—his gaze is piercing.
“Yeah, well, I grew up,” you mutter, no longer smiling.
He closes the space between your bodies, wandering fingers inching their way back around your waist. His head ducks as he catches your eyes, face drifting to yours, “Well, grow back down then.”
Before you get the chance to respond, his lips are on yours. It feels like all the air in the room has been sucked out to fuel Eddie’s greedy endeavors. His hands slide up each side of your body, leaving you shuddering at the caress he gives the very edge of your breasts.
Eddie’s the first to pull away, heavy lidded eyes filled with desire watch as your lips fall after his—looking for the lost connection. The ghost of a smile covers his lips at the sight of your trance, your eyes still closed, longing for him to come back. He grants you one more sweet kiss before you open your eyes, chest huffing as you try to slow your heart rate.
“We can’t keep doing this…”
“Who says?” Every time you’ve claimed an end to this—you and Eddie—it’s been an empty threat. Hollow words from a broken heart.
“Me.” Looking up at him, you try to sound firm in your decision, but you can’t help the way your chin juts out—head almost leaning in again, desire defying your brain.
Watching every single minute movement you make, he’s confident in the way this night will go. That famous grin spreads across his face. Cocking his head, unconvinced, he argues, “Well, you’re unreliable. I bet you $100 you’re wet right now.”
A sigh leaves you swollen lips, your willpower leaving you like rushing water from a broken dam. “Eddie…” It’s one last attempt at trying to abstain—a weak attempt, but an attempt nonetheless.
He licks his lips, letting go of your face to grab your hand and force it into a handshake deal. “Show me or pay up, sweetheart.”
Another sigh leaves you, trying to fight off a smile at his dirty ploy. “You’re ridiculous.”
He shrugs, smirking, “You married me.”
“And divorced you.”
“Semantics,” he repeats his sentiment from earlier, fingers creeping under the hem of your top.
Shivering at the feeling of his ringed fingers, you try again, “You should leave. I–I’ll make you leave.”
Another empty threat.
He pulls off your top, not waiting for any protest as he drags you in for a messy kiss. Undoing your jeans and working them down your legs, he crouches as you put your hands on his shoulders, using his body to steady yourself. He looks up at you while removing your shoes and freeing your feet from the bunched-up pant legs. It looks like you could dive headfirst into the muddy pools of his eyes, swim for miles, and still never reach the bottom. Heat flushes through your body like a fever preparing to put you out for weeks on end. The desire in his twinkling irises has you huffing out desperate breaths.
“And yet…I’m still here,” he murmurs, standing up chest-to-chest with you.
In a flash, he’s ripped off his own clothes, dragging you to the couch, his naked body covering yours. Puffs of breath rush across your panting lips, he smells like cigarettes and Listerine—an indication that the bastard knew he’d get you one way or another.
“Tell me this is the last time.”
“Eddie, please,” you whine, trying to pull his hips to your core, aching to feel the hard weight of his cock against your wet and waiting heat.
“You wan’ me, sweetheart?” Halting his hips from going any further, he gazes down at your face, screwed up in desperation.
Frustrated at the change of pace—he wanted you so badly earlier and now he’s acting like he’s got all the time in the world—you groan. “Are you gonna fuck me or not, jackass?”
“Are you gonna do what I tell you?”
“Oh please, if this is how you wanna play, I can get off just fine with a vibrator upstairs. I don’t need you,” you grit out, pushing his shoulders, trying to put space between your heated bodies.
A low chuckle leaves his throat as he lets you push him—only slightly. Taking the space you force, he picks up one hand, reaching for your wet folds. The frustration leaves your voice, face, and body as he runs deft fingers along your slit, gathering slick arousal. A broken moan leaves your lips, the new sensation between your legs has you rolling your hips for more—needing him inside of you now.
“Baby, you’re so wet you’re gonna short circuit the damn vibrator. You know you need me, so just tell me what I wanna hear.”
“Fuck you.” He’s toying with you and you hate that he wields any kind of power over you.
“I’m tryin’ to, honey,” he grins, watching between panting bodies as his fingers lift, a string of cyprine hanging on for dear life. Sucking wet fingers into his mouth, he moans at the taste of you—his favorite flavor. If you’d only have him back, he could be down feasting on your delicious cunt morning, noon, and night.
Watching his eyes roll back with a slack jaw, tears almost fill your waterline—you need him so fucking bad. It doesn’t matter if it’s his mouth, his cock, or his fingers—you need to feel him.
“This is the last time,” you mutter, saying what he so desperately needs to hear—you don’t know why. Not a particularly fond sentiment—the phrase is something he’s complained about before.
“Promise?” Placing his hand back down beside your head, his face tilts as he watches you with rapt, hungry attention.
Your eyebrows furrow, with a shake of your head you indulge him, “Yeah, sure.”
Air huffs out of his nose in amusement at your willingness to comply after he spent so long breaking you down. Grasping his hard cock, he runs the leaking tip through your swollen folds. A relieved moan leaves you as he notches the head into your hole, lining up for a straight shot into your warmth.
Sanity crawls back into your mind for a split second causing you to pause his hips. “Wait–Eddie, condom.”
Pressing lightly inside of you, only centimeters of his tip breaching your hungry walls, he shakes his head at your words. “No. No condom, baby. Wanna feel you.”
Struggling to make your brain think logically, you whine out again. “Eddie, we can’t–if we don’t–”
With the tip safely in your cunt, he reaches his hand back up to you, grasping the side of your face, petting your hair with a soothing thumb. “You gonna stop me, sweetheart? Gonna throw me out?”
If he hadn’t said the words so softly, desperate panting breath accenting every syllable, you would have thought he was mocking you—teasing you for your earlier threats. A mewl leaves your throat, your hips roll against his cock, aching for more with a mind of their own. You shake your head at his questions—no, you won’t throw him out. You need him too bad and the shithead knows that.
A mocking grin pulls his lips up, leaning down, he gives you a condescending peck on the nose. “No, you won’t do that, sweetheart. I know you…I love you.”
Closing your eyes, you breathily let out a weak, “S–Stop.” You don’t need to hear that right now, not when you’re still trying to force yourself to reject him and his constant advances.
You moan as his tip finally pushes all the way in, the thick ledge of sensitive skin hugged by your greedy walls. “I love you,” he repeats, breathing against your open mouth, inching in a little more. “Wanna have another baby with you, mama.”
Your nails claw down his chest as you shake your head, trying to hold in the mewling whine threatening to escape your lips. Your traitorous hips give another desperate roll, wanting him fully inside you despite your mind screaming at you to tell him to go to hell.
Ravenous, dark eyes take in the continuous shake of your head—the rejection to his admission. It only makes him hungrier. “Wan’ another baby, sweetheart. Wan’ a little girl. She’ll be as pretty as her mama.”
His words bring you back to your body, the feel of his hard, bare cock inches away from full envelopment. “Shut up, Eddie. We can’t have another baby, we’re divorced.”
Never one to follow authority, he only smiles sweetly at your perturbed eyes. “Yeah, for now.”
“Forever,” you grit out, pinching his nipple in retaliation. That was a mistake because it only makes him grunt and jerk his hips, pushing his cock one bit closer to where you need him.
Muffling another groan at the feeling of your wet heat, he messily murmurs, “You can’t raise another baby on your own, sweetheart.”
“I’m not having one.”
Ducking down to give you a searing kiss, he meets your blown eyes. “Well, I’m not fucking you if I have to wear a condom,” he argues, a wicked glint to those brown irises.
“Eddie!”
“It’s your choice, but I’m setting a boundary, honey,” he mocks your earlier words.
Huffing out a frustrated breath, your pussy is getting wetter by the second and it’s been so long. Doing quick mental math, you don’t think you’re ovulating. His cock is already so warm inside your cunt and it would only take one buck of his hips to sink all the way in—your sanity is slipping away again. If you miraculously conceive, you’ll jump off that bridge when you get to it, you decide.
“Oh, just fuck me you jackass.”
Victoriously grinning, he gives you another kiss—this time softer. “As the lady wishes.”
A loud moan emanates from deep within your chest, travelling up your throat and out of panting lips as he fucks all the way in. You’re practically whining as you feel every ridge, every bump, every pulsing vein on his large, thick cock.
“Eddie, please move, fuck–please!”
Hanging his head over your writhing body, he bites his lip harshly—trying not to blow his load so early. “Shit, honey, you feel s’fucking good, fuck me.”
“Eddie,” you whine, repeating yourself like a broken record, “Please, I need you to fuck me–just move!”
Pulling out shakily, he thrusts in with another loud groan wracking his body, weakening his ability to hold himself up. Dropping his weight onto you, he spreads his knees as much as he can on the couch, hooking his arms under yours and grasping your shoulders. He begins a messy pace, pulling your body to his grinding hips, cock tunneling into your tight hole with jerking thrusts.
“Fuck, sweetheart, wan’ you to have my baby again. Pretty mama wanna have daddy’s baby, huh?” He mumbles the words through bared teeth and sharp breaths, pistoning his hips into you. He’s revelling in your surrender to the odds.
His vigorous movements, the desperate grip pulling your limp body to meet each thrust has you huffing out whines in time with the jarring intrusion of his cock. “Said it’s the last time, now she’s gonna have my baby. Gonna fuck you so full, sweetheart. Y’gonna look so sexy carrying my baby again.” He’s babbling out incoherent thoughts—wishes and desires to see you pregnant and his again.
Every groan and grunt from him pushes you closer to the edge. In a moment of such intense pleasure, you find yourself believing his words—getting off on his desires. “Eddie, please, wan–” But you can’t bring yourself to admit it.
And he knows.
“I know, I know, sweetheart. You wanna have my baby, I know you fuckin’ do. Wan’ daddy’s cum in this pretty little pussy? Shit–you gonna cook me up a baby in that tummy o’ yours, pretty mama?” Reaching between sweaty bodies, he presses a hand down on your lower stomach, reveling in the way he can feel the thick tip of his cock hitting his rough palm from inside you. The pressure has you near screaming, he dips his head to give an adoring bite to your neck—a soft acknowledgement of the pleasure he’s providing you. “Y’gonna gimme my little girl, honey?”
If you weren’t on cloud ten thousand right now, you’d hate the mental position you’re in. The only logical one out of the two of you, you’re thinking another baby is the last thing this fraught relationship needs. But he feels so good inside you, so you can only moan out, desperately nodding. “Y–Yeah, please–please gimme your cum–need it so fucking bad!”
His large palm rushes down the rest of the way, your stomach clenches as you feel his fingers rubbing haphazard circles around your clit. “Oh fuck–fuck, fuck fuck me–god, unh!”
Eddie feels the vice grip your cunt has around his cock and it has his balls pulling taut to his body. Hunching over you and mixing panting breaths, he prattles into your mouth. “Fuck, sweetheart. Wan’ another baby with you, shit. I love you, fuck, I love you–love you.”
The affectionate promise is the only thing he can manage to say as he shakily orgasms, his spend spurting messily onto velvety walls as you squeeze every last drop from him.
Breathing like he just ran a marathon, he drops his head into your neck, adorning the sweaty skin with soft, open-mouthed kisses. Your heart and mind are at war as you thread your hands through his wet curls. The oxytocin conjures up pretty dreams of reconciliation, new beginnings, addicting baby smell, and a happy family. The hormone doesn’t need to create a picture of a loving husband—that’s already laying in your arms right now, shivering from the aftershocks of the biggest orgasm he’s had in a while.
“I love you, sweetheart,” he mumbles into your neck. Your heart drops. You thought you’d be able to chalk it up to the heat of the moment—that he wasn’t truly telling you so plainly that his feelings never changed.
Syncopated heartbeats and calming breaths are the only sounds in the quiet room before he speaks again, nuzzling his nose against your throat. “Wanna be good for you. Let me come home. Let me take care of you, let me be with you and the boys again.”
Tears flood wide eyes as you stare up at the ceiling, struggling to feel normal from his dangerous words and your shallow breaths. He’s saying exactly what you wished you could hear for three years straight—leading up to the divorce and after. The melancholy soaked pleas are different from his usual song and dance. For one, he’s saying all of this after he got his fill of you.
Feeling the weight of him lift off your chest, you slowly tilt your chin down, meeting his big, wet eyes as they reminisce on the contours of your face—noting every change he’s so sorely missed in his absence. Licking your dry lips, you don’t mean to draw his yearning gaze to your mouth—it only seems to make him more desperate.
“I wasn’t the man you needed, but I wanna be now–I can be–I–I am,” he struggles to correct himself, those words feel like the most important sounds he ever has and will utter in his entire life.
Everything is too much—his pleas, his honesty, those eyes, the weight of his softening cock still inside you, his seed just waiting to ooze out at the first sign of the blockade’s retreat. You can’t do this, not now. Avoiding his attention, your eyes dart to the side. “Eddie–”
The tone of your voice—fretful and solemn—tells him exactly where your mind is going. You’re going to push him away again. But he doesn’t want to spend another minute without you if he can help it. Always being held at arm's length by the woman he loves is changing him fundamentally. He can’t do it anymore. His twin sized mattress is too cold, his apartment too empty.
Panic displayed clearly in muddy irises, he hurries a rough hand to your cheek, guiding you back to him—as if one look from you will grant every last wish his heart desires. “No, please–I–”
A frustrated sigh leaves his lips, you feel the soft wind of it across your face. Words are failing him when he needs them most—he knows actions would be a better show of commitment, but he’s never been good at behaving when it comes to you. You just do something to him. It’s like there’s an inherent weakness sewed into his chemical makeup that makes you the kryptonite to his Man of Steel. You make every neuron in his brain fire, awakening facets of his mind that have laid dormant his whole life.
Actions are better, but words are all he has in this moment and he can’t afford to squander it.
Making sure to hold your attention, he throws caution to the wind. “Sweetheart, when I look at you, I don’t see my ex-wife or a co-parent. I see the girl I met at eleven in the trailer park—the one who told me to get bent for flipping her skirt up,” he lets out a rueful laugh, forever embarrassed at that being your first impression of him, but never regretting what a beautiful mess it turned into.
The memory draws a wet chuckle from your throat before you have a chance to catch it. Your brows pull tight over sad, wet eyes as you think of that day—how your young heart never stood a chance when the pretty older boy showed you such attention.
Allowing himself to hope at the sound of your laugh, he continues with a small smile. “I see my first love—the girl I dreamed about every night for nine years until I finally figured out you’re not supposed to think about friends that way.” Another wry chuckle, followed by a mumbled confession—the adolescent misunderstanding of relationships: “I just thought every guy pictured forever with their girl friends—white picket fences and little babies.”
A warm tear glides down soft skin, heading for your hairline across your temple, but Eddie intercepts it—rubbing it away. “I’ve been dreaming of you longer than I’ve been alive, honey. I can’t–I wanna be with you. I’m supposed to be with you. If it takes another nine years for you to feel the same, I’ll be here. I’ll be yours and nine years older. But I’ll be yours.”
Trying to stop your face from crumpling into overwhelmed sobs, you let out a stuttering breath. “Eddie, you hurt me–”
“I know,” he fervently assures, wiping away more tears, his naked body feeling restless with desperation.
“I deserved better.”
“You did,” he affirms, confident in his fuck ups and your innocence in the ordeal.
Unable to think of what else to say—no argument to be had from his end—you let out a deep sigh. This is more than one person should have to deal with. There’s been so many emotions whirling around your heart tonight, enough to make you dizzy and sick to your stomach.
You’ve had dreams of scenarios exactly like this—Eddie comes crawling back, admitting every wrong, assuring you he’ll be a better man. But he was supposed to be a good man from the start. You shouldn’t have to give second chances to a man you legally wed—a man you’ve known since you were nine years old.
Second chances. Is it insanity? Allowing him in again, risking the same result. Deep in your heart, you can tell he’d never do you wrong again. But so much fear covers that truth. He’s left you with enough baggage to start a bellhop service, carrying every trauma to its designated hideaway, where it can quietly corrode your mind and heart.
He acts like he knows what his actions did, but can he still see the ripples his pebble made on smooth, unsuspecting waters? It will never be as easy as it once was—he must know that.
“You can’t just–be with me, again,” you shake your head at him, imploring him to understand.
Wet eyes dart between yours—a nervous twitch in his eyelid, a stuttering nod. He accepts your response. He made his grand argument, and you’ve declined. That’s that. Trying desperately to hide the deflation of his heart—the fire charring his hope like a prescribed burn on old, spent crops—he resigns himself to his place in your life: an ex, a co-parent, an old friend, a bad memory.
Pulling out and off of you, he sits up, prepared to gather his belongings before you can see him cry. How pitiful to cry now after everything he’s done to you—you shouldn’t have to see that.
Shivering from the loss of his body heat and the weight of him inside of you, you watch with worried eyes as he quietly sniffles, pulling one of the legs of his jeans outside in. “It won’t be that easy.”
Your words halt his movements, the insinuation sending his heart plummeting to his stomach. It won’t be that easy. But will it be something? Slowly, he turns his head back to look at you, afraid that one wrong move might make you change your mind.
Pulling your knees to your chest, you cross your arms as a barrier, hiding your naked body. Ignoring the way your movements cause his cum to leak out of you with gravity on its side, you squint at the tears in his waterline. Battling the small quirk of your lips, you try to stay resolute despite the contentment of giving a sad man hope.
“I’m not that easy.”
If he wasn’t so convinced you’re working him up just to let him down—which he’d deserve—he’d think you’re teasing him like you used to.
“No, you’re not,” he agrees seriously, needing to hear more.
“And you have years of making up to do…”
His mouth parts slightly in awe as he cocks his head, questioning whether he heard you correctly. After what feels like forever studying your face, the hint of light in your eyes fills his body with optimism—like an injection of sunshine straight into his veins. Letting himself hope again, he turns fully toward you. His shining eyes regard you like an idol, and he is your lowly devotee.
“Already got your name written all over the next nine years of my datebook," he says with a slow grin, feeling light as a feather—more alive than he has in ages—all because you're looking at him with those pretty eyes of yours.
“And probably months of groveling before you can even think about coming home,” you argue, scrutinizing his elated face. It’s getting harder and harder not to match his smile.
Nodding, Eddie takes your proposed penance in stride. “That’s doable.” He hesitates, curious to know how long his punishment will last before he can hold you at night again. “How many months?”
Pressing your lips together to stop the smile threatening to break free, you narrow your eyes at him. “Five.”
“Three,” he negotiates, trying to melt your icy barriers with his best puppy dog eyes.
“Don’t push your luck. Four.”
Accepting your counter offer, he nods. “I can do four. Do I get to see you?”
He already legally gets the boys every other weekend, but unfortunately, divorce court doesn’t rule on ex-wife visitations, so he’s had to resort to holding the children captive just to see your angelic face—anger aside.
Ignoring the flutter of your heart, you suck your teeth, cocking your head to the side. “How else are you gonna beg for my forgiveness? Over the phone? That’s not nearly as enjoyable.”
Huffing out a laugh, his dazzling grin tempers as he broaches more sensitive subject matter. Gesturing between your still nude bodies, he nervously mutters, “And, what about…this?”
Understanding he’s referencing the tempestuous ongoing affair neither of you have the willpower to end, you smirk, not letting the mood dip again. “Well, I expect to be fully wined and dined now.”
Thankful you’re not blocking him from all acts of intimacy during his atonement, Eddie chuckles. “Sweetheart, if you wanted to date me, you could’ve kicked the jockstrap to the curb and called me up.”
Now is not the time for his cocky attitude or for him to feel smug about crashing your date. “You are on the thinnest of ice,” you warn.
Raising his hands in surrender, he bites his lip to temper his grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
Feeling the way his cum is pooling under your ass on the couch—a mess you'll be scrubbing off the leather later—you consider him for a quiet moment.
Relishing your attention on him, Eddie readjusts his body to sit on the other end of the couch, mirroring your position. He waits for what you have to say, knowing your thinking face when he sees it—it’s the same one you’ve had since he met you.
“Do you really want another baby?”
The question catches him off guard, he didn’t think you’d bring that up. He knew the odds that you’d ever agree to have another baby—let alone take him back—were slim, but he brought it up nonetheless. Although, he was feeling far more brazen with his desires while he was inside of you.
Trying not to ogle at the trail of his seed leaving your hole—the view clear between your ankles from planted feet and pulled up knees—he nods. “Do you really not?”
Scoffing, you rest your cheek against your palm. “Well, up until two hours ago, I thought divorce was forever and that I was done having kids. Didn’t really want anybody else fathering my children,” you mutter out the last part, the words feeling far too intimate of an admission.
Eddie’s heart jumps at the sentiment. He’s glad you didn’t let another man give you kids, but what makes his pulse race is your lack of a rejection. You didn’t say no to another kid. He won’t push the matter, though. He’s flying by the seat of his pants with you right now, he can’t risk upsetting the pleasant equilibrium he did nothing to earn.
Catching sight of the time on the microwave in the kitchen behind you, he realizes how late it is—how greedy he’s been with your indulgences. If he’s going to get back in your good graces, he needs to be on his best behavior and give you space when you deserve it.
Sucking in a deep breath, he lightly smacks his knees, moving to put his underwear back on. “I should probably go. It’s pretty late and you’ve gotta get the boys in the morning.”
Pensive expression dropping at his sudden need to escape, you sit up, grabbing the Metallica shirt he was wearing earlier and pulling it over your head—swiping it right from in front of his reaching hands. He watches your movements with barely contained fondness, happy to drive home shirtless if it means you’re sleeping in his scent again.
“You can stay…if you want.”
Your quiet words bring shock to his features—he really doesn’t think he did anything to deserve the concessions you’ve made tonight, but he selfishly won’t turn you down. As he’s about to accept, you quickly amend your offer.
“On the couch…” you specify, “And we can pick up the boys together in the morning…”
Letting a hopeful smile light up his face once more, he gives a small nod. “Okay.”
Eddie’s pretty sure no man on earth has ever felt as happy as he does in this moment—just watching the way you hesitantly eye him while gathering up strewn-about clothes. He feels like he’s walking on sunshine when you make up the couch for him, even giving him blankets, a pillow, and everything. You want him here. You want to pick up the boys together. As a family.
He has never felt so invigorated. It’s that night, lying on his old couch, staring at the ceiling of the first home you and he bought together, that he makes a vow. He will be the man you deserve for the next nine years—and every set of nine after that. He’ll be yours, always. And soon, you’ll be his again.
A/N: Like, reblog, and comment if you enjoyed it! I'd love to hear what y'all think about this! I really like it and it's definitely gonna be a work I re-read lol.
Also, please tell me y’all got my reasoning for the quotes at the beginning. I can’t stop thinking about it, so if you didn’t, lemme explain teehee. Crashing her dates is the planned fire, the men are the invasive species/competition, and he’s fire-adapted and native to her lands—he’s known her for most of his life, her anger and desire to push him away doesn’t faze him. He will grow on her again and they’ll be stronger than ever.
"'I didn’t let you go. I haven’t let you go,' he amends, shaking his head, eyes studying you closely. 'I just can’t make you stay.'"
Ohhhh, the yearning, the devotion!! It's delectable 😩
"His grin only widens at your derision. Leaning in, he shakes his head as he says, 'Oink oink, baby. Whatever you say, now can we please fuck?'"
I love this so much, you just have a wonderful way of catching his voice and I adore how you play with it in your stories--cause this is just so Eddie to me, avoidant of feelings, all about the laughs, but still desperate for love and acceptance. YES PIGGIE!!
"'You used to love that about me.' He tilts his head, studying you intently. You feel like you’re under a magnifying glass—his gaze is piercing.
'Yeah, well, I grew up,' you mutter, no longer smiling.
He closes the space between your bodies, wandering fingers inching their way back around your waist. His head ducks as he catches your eyes, face drifting to yours, 'Well, grow back down then.'"
This was so achingly sweet, I loved this little interaction, because yes bebey I will grow back down for you, god how I'll do anything for those cow eyes and dimple grin--just talk nerdy to me pretty boy!
"Panic displayed clearly in muddy irises, he hurries a rough hand to your cheek, guiding you back to him—as if one look from you will grant every last wish his heart desires. 'No, please–I–'"
THIS!! This little heart breaking, tear jerking, begging moment was everything, uuuggggh so good, Mama loves it so good! I was sobbing, but it felt so sweet
Seriously though, this whole story is beautiful and I love it so much--it has humor, angst, fluff, smut, and the pining!!! Uuugggghh-yessss, love me a man that yearns!! Gorgeous, darling, thank you Ghost, this is wonderful 🩷
Growing up, you've always been known as a people pleaser. Ever the altruist, you take joy in helping others, even if it's at your own expense. So when you decided to pursue a degree in nursing after high school the people in your life were less than surprised.
As you enter your second year of schooling, you decide to enroll in a program to assist those affected by the earthquakes in Hawkin's that happened back in the spring. But, when you volunteered to take on a case of someone who had been turned down by everyone else, you had no idea that you were signing up for your life to change forever.
content warnings: canon divergent, eddie lives, grumpy!eddie disabled!eddie, nurse!reader, medical talks, violence and all that comes with it, major character death, suicidal ideation and all that comes with it, eventual smut. each chapter will have its own warnings.
the playlist
*chapters contain smut and/or heavy topics. Please read each chapter’s warnings as you go.
chapter list:
i. did you get what you deserve?
ii. gotta promise not to stop when i say "when"
iii. the smoke and who's still standing when it clears
iv. someone like you and all you know and how you speak
v. i want to hold the hand inside you*
vi. i run the risk of losing you, and that’s worse
You had taken to wanting to buy "gifts" for your Cryptid Neighbor after the Treaty of Cookies (as you had taken to calling it, for some reason). It was like leaving food out for the feral cats (which you also did; there was an orange boy cat who was getting stupid enough to trust you and you were antsy for the day he let you pet him).
After cookies you had decided to leave a scented candle.
You had gone to Bradley's Big Buy and they had these cedar scented candles that smelled exactly like the forest on a warm day. It was silly, but you had grabbed two and a gift bag with a dumb card. You had sat in your car and stared at the flimsy cardboard with a picture of Garfield in a bow-tie. The inside was blank, but the cartoon cat reminded you of the feral cat you loved, so you had grabbed it without a second thought.
You clicked the pen you had stolen from work over and over, staring at the blank page and willing thoughts to come.
You sighed heavy through your nose, mumbling a quiet, "Fuck it" as you scribbled your name and phone number with the dumb message 'howdy neighbor'.
Shoving the card into the shiny blue plastic gift bag next to the cedar candle, you walked up to your Cryptid Neighbor's door and stared at your shoes. Was this weird? Probably… but they kinda felt like your first friend here in Hawkins. And you had been hanging out more with Nancy and her gang, so you, weirdly, didn't want your neighbor to feel left out.
Setting the bag down you stepped a few inches away, steeling your nerves and knocking three times before running to your apartment as fast as you could.
You had managed to open the door just as you heard theirs open and you swung yourself inside and shut the door with a loud 'BANG', startling yourself.
"Jesus Christ." You breathed, heart hammering in your chest. "Why the fuck am I like this?" You mumbled, shaking your head as you removed your coat and swung your grocery bag onto your couch.
"Shave And A Hair Cut"
You smiled, feeling your ears heat up and a giggle escape at the sound of yours and your Cryptid Neighbor's call and response song.
You skipped over and slid your hands against the wall, tapping "Two Bits" with the back of your knuckle.
You had lit up your candle that night and scooted a pillow over to the lower vent in the corner of your apartment. You knew it was connected to your neighbor’s room, and you often wondered about if you were to speak into it, if they would hear you. But you were too nervous to try.
Instead, you set the candle on a plate (so it wasn’t directly on the shitty carpet) and you laid your head on a pillow close to the vent. You could hear the muffled sounds of them moving, a few grunts and sighs. Then you heard them start to play on their electric guitar. They diddled around with a few chords, playing the start of a few songs–one you recognized as ‘Runnin’ With the Devil’ by Van Halen.
You smiled, rereading the same line from your book a few times before setting it down and letting yourself close your eyes and simply smell the woods from your warm candle and listen to the sounds of your Cryptid Neighbor as they strummed to unnamed songs.
Before you realized, you had fallen asleep.
When you awoke, it was with a start. Your arms slammed underneath you and pushed you up like you were doing a push-up. You took deep ravenous breaths, your heartbeat thundering in your ears as you stared unseeing at your surroundings. You blinked a few times, gulping sweet air before glancing over to see your candle still lit, flame flickering and dancing as you breathed towards it.
You groaned, sitting up and feeling your spine creak and your muscles groan at having slept on the floor for an odd number of hours. You rubbed your shoulders, leaning down and blowing out the candle. Wisps of grey smoke meandered around you reminding you of watered-down camp fires and wishes on birthdays.
The music had stopped, you glanced at your window and saw the sun was up.
Your neighbor was probably asleep.
You sighed and picked up your candle plate, setting it onto the dresser top next to your TV.
You rubbed between your eyes, pushing into the sockets with a groan as a migraine started to form. You pulled the black out curtains over top of the sheer ones, dousing the room into darkness before you slumped onto your twin bed over the covers, too exhausted to pull them out from under you.
You were within the veil of mostly asleep but not quite awake when you heard something.
It sounded familiar, like the ghost of a voice you recognized.
It was low, sultry almost, and rang out in a question. The words were muffled, like from under water, and you waved one of your hands behind you as if a bug was buzzing in your ear and you tried to swat it away.
"You there?" You thought you heard, but you just groaned lowly into your pillow, willing your mind to rest.
"Shave and a Haircut"
Your eyes snapped open and you looked to the vent–well, where you think it was considering it was dark as fuck with the blackout curtains drawn.
"Hello?"
The voice called out again and you let out a surprised squeak, crawling from your bed and grunting when you hit your knee against your bed post. You switched on the lamp that was next to your dresser and stared down at the vent, holding your breath.
You heard the drip of your bathroom sink and the wind outside whisper through the trees and then–
"Are you okay?"
The voice was male, low and throaty and colored with concern.
You dropped to the floor, wincing when you hit your bruised knee again and you knelt so your face was next to the vent. "...Hello?" You made a face at the sound of your croaky voice, still cloudy with sleep.
There was another pause.
"Hi." This time he was shyer, voice softer, and the dulcet tone sent a shiver down your spine. Your face heated at your reaction.
"Huh-hi." You stuttered. Hitting your forehead with the palm of your hand. What the fuck dude??
"Are you okay? I thought I heard you screaming." He tapered off towards the end, unsure but still worried.
You felt like melting. He was checking in on you. Like a friend. Maybe this strange dynamic you've concocted within the absurdity that was your mind went both ways a little. Maybe he cared cause he felt the weird connection, too?
"Yeah, I-I'm okay. Just uh… just had a nightmare." You bit your lip, staring at the vent and wondering if you should ask. 'How were the cookies?', 'Did you like the candle?', 'I promise I'm not creepy, do you believe me??'.
"... Thanks for the candle."
You hiccuped. Blinking owlishly at the vent.
A smile spread across your lips and you laid down fully on the floor. "Did you like the smell?"
A beat. You heard him grunt and sigh, "Yeah. It's woodsy. I haven't been in the woods in a while, so it was nice."
You kicked your feet giddily, "I'm glad." You felt like you were a teenager talking to your crush, "Did you like the cookies? I got them from some weird block party."
He chuckled and your eyelids fluttered shut. God the sounds he made were gorgeous.
"You tellin' me you let me eat weird cookies?" His undertone of teasing made you grin.
"I mean, they were from a weird block party, they themselves weren't weird." You paused, picking at your nails nervously, "But I could make you weird cookies if you want."
He snorted and you muffled your laughter with your hands, "If you can manage to make anything in this rinky dink oven, I'd be thoroughly fucking impressed."
You smirked, "That a challenge?"
There was a moment of silence and you worried your bottom lip between your teeth.
"Hell yeah it is."
You had to look at the Better Homes And Garden magazines that were in the hospital waiting room to try and find a cookie recipe. All of them were a few months old, so the best sugar cookies for Easter were what you were aiming for. The icing looked the easiest, you were just debating what to shape them as, since they were supposed to be weird.
You also had to stop back at the store on your way home for the rest of the ingredients and to buy a cookie sheet. You had pulled a double so you were exhausted, but you were too fucking excited to make these damn cookies to try and sleep just yet.
As soon as you walked into your apartment you knocked on the wall with your customary rhythm and Eddie answered.
You felt elated at learning his name.
You had repeated it in your head all night long. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.
Your phone rang and you ran to it, letting your grocery bag fall to the floor next to your tiny kitchen counter.
You put the headset to your ear and blinked nervously, "... Hello?"
"Hey."
Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.
You bit your lip and leaned your hip against the counter top. "You made me a vandal." You giggled, twisting your finger around the rubbery cord.
He chuckled and your stomach flipped. God you need to get laid if just the sounds of this man's voice got you going.
"I didn't make you do anything, sweetheart."
You dropped your head back and silently mouthed 'oh my god' into the air. Really really needed to get laid.
You pulled the phone back to your ear and hummed thoughtfully. "'Twas you who challenged me to a cookie duel, thus I was forced to rip a page out of the Better Homes and Gardens magazine in my work lobby. Therefore: you are the problem, not me."
He laughed loudly, a throw your head back kind of laugh that tickled your insides and made you want to make him do it again.
"I offer to the lady that if your cookies are acceptable, then the vandalism will be worth it and none are to be blamed and I shall be celebrated as the one who brought deliciousness to the realm." He had taken on a hauty British accent. You giggled madly.
"Alright alright, Lord Butthead–are you ready to have the most okayest cookies ever?"
Your phone bill would be astronomical.
You both talked for hours about anything and everything. Whatever nonsense popped into each other's brains became the topic of conversation.
You had asked what his favorite marsupial was and he said kangaroo cause it was the only one he could remember, but he does think he's seen a picture of one in boxing gloves. Did you see Rocky? Nah, I don't really like action movies, but I know enough to know that he punched a bunch of meat and ran up some stairs. What kind of movies do you like then? All kinds, I really like B-rated sci-fi or horror because they tend to either have really cool props and plots, or really bad and either way makes for a fun time. What was the craziest thing you did as a kid? One time I set off fireworks in the locker rooms. Holy shit did anyone get hurt? Nah, but they never caught me!
A stream of consciousness that you never wanted to end.
And the cookies were turning out pretty good, too. The oven took forever and a half to pre-heat, and the cookie sheet barely fit, but you managed not to burn them. Eddie had given you a well-earned golf clap and you bowed telling him you were doing so as you did it.
"How weird we talking Sweetheart?"
You giggled under your breath, holding the phone between your shoulder and cheek while you squeezed a pastry bag. "Let's just say I'm really amused by the dumbest things and I apologize for nothing."
"...
"Did you bake a bunch of dick cookies?"
You cackled, proud of the veins you put on some and the icing that ran down the balls like they had just cum.
"And a vagina one! But that one is more because it spread out too far when it was baking." You tried to defend yourself between giggles.
He chuckled on the other end and you bounced excitedly, finishing up a few more penises before moving onto the vagina. "Now remember when you eat my vagina, start with the clitoris!"
You squeezed your eyes shut and dropped the icing to the counter, "I actually want to die, why did you let me say that, out loud, with my dumb mouth?"
Eddie was gasping on the other line, unable to form a sentence through his laughter. You scowled, picking up the piping bag to finish the damn vagina cookie.
"I bet this one tastes the best too! So yuk it up all you want, mister, but," you but your lip, "My vagina will taste delicious!"
You dissolved into giggles alongside Eddie.
Your face hurt from smiling.
Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.
He caught his breath, sighing dramatically into the phone and humming softly, "You know what sweetheart, I'm really excited to taste your vagina cookie."
You felt your face heat up and you ducked your chin to your chest, biting your lip to stop from smiling. "Fucking better be, this tiny ass oven sucks."
He barked out another laugh. "I am excited. No one's ever made me cookies before."
You looked at the phone, eyebrows furrowed. You brought the phone back to your ear, "You're kidding. Really?"
"Yup!" He popped the p, "You're the first." He groaned and it sounded like he was laying down, you heard a bump against the wall you shared and you figured there was a couch or something there.
You hummed, smiling softly. "Well, I'm honored, and I really hope you enjoy my bag of dicks."
I need some more Eddie smut that involves dorky roleplay. Bring on the helpless elf princess and her rugged knight. I need it to be bodice ripper levels of horny and totally absurd.
I love that four different people on my feed scheduled this joyous person to reblog by 8am on June 1. I look forward to seeing this a dozen more times today.
fucking sucks ass that detective is a subtype of cop or always some type of law enforcement. a detective should be someone who is a master of disguise, a weirdo, socially maligned, and hated by the police. he should solve the cases using his ultra specific knowledge about geography, linguistics, human biology, and cigar ashes
After the earthquake, he had woken up changed. He remembered dying. He remembered the pain, burning in his stomach and neck–his whole body engulfed in a tortuous fire that followed him into the darkness. He remembered Dustin, his arms secured around Eddie and tears falling onto his blood-stained cheeks as he faded into the ether.
He remembered floating.
A void of nothing.
His mind was quiet, finally, and he simply existed in this realm of nowhere; no longer feeling pain, or sadness, or hatred, or love.
Numb to the world he floated in, no cognitive thoughts to register if he was in heaven or hell.
Until milky blue eyes were cast into his view and he was face to face with Vecna.
His body had been broken, his hands blackened with decay that spread like ink in water up to his biceps. His stomach was mottled with gray scars of similar quality, drops of paint on watercolor paper as it bled over his parchment pale skin like marks of death. His nails turned to claws and his canines became pointed and deadly. He was himself but estranged from who he used to be. He looked in the mirror and his pale skin was sickly, the whites of his eyes yellowed with death, and the scars on his body tattooed in rotting black so he couldn't forget his sacrifice. But with his sacrifice he had become a puppet.
Like a window he watched through his eyes as Vecna controlled the body of what he had become. He attacked his friends, sucked blood from them and reveled in the flavor of their essence. He fought against them instead of for them, and he screamed inside his mind, trapped by a body that no longer belonged to him and moved by the whim of Vecna.
He had been broken all over again, but this time in his soul instead of a physical death.
Eleven had been able to save him. She expelled the curse of Vecna and he was himself once again, body unfamiliar and life no longer his own, but he was free.
At least, he had been until the government showed up.
Once Eleven had defeated Vecna and the fissures to the Upside-Down closed and all seemed calm and secured, a secret government organization descended on them and went into overdrive on keeping their horrible secrets buried.
He just so happened to now be part of said horrible secrets.
They poked and prodded him, studied his blood and his DNA. They found that he was still human, at least to a certain degree.
He was no longer able to gain nutrients from human foods. His stomach rejected everything he tried to eat. He had been starving for a while until they found that, curiously, he got some nutrients from red meat. Eventually thay found that the meat wasn't what his new body craved, but the blood within it. He was able to survive off the blood of any mammal (poultry not so much). Human blood, the scientists found, happened to be the best for him as far as nutrition went.
Some more fun parlor tricks of his new body: his heartbeat was so low it was almost undetectable. It pumped through him lazily, which they couldn't explain why, but they could relate that to why he was so fucking cold. His internal temperature ran an icy 57 degrees. When they tried to raise his temperature they found he got burned, or ill, if faced with too high of heat. For shits and giggles they tested how he was affected by the sun and the answer was: bad.
He didn’t burn up like Dracula, thankfully, but he broke out in some sort of hives/rash. They equated his condition to a sun allergy.
It was annoying as fuck everytime they stuck him in the sun because he got so damn itchy he wanted to wrip his skin off.
They were also completely befuddled by his healing.
He could heal in the blink of an eye–his skin knit together like roots from a plant overlapping and twisting until they secured back into place like he had never been cut in the first place. The scientists told him that for a being with such a slow heart rate and cold internal temperature it was impossible for him to be able to heal so quickly.
He told them it was also impossible for him to be alive, yet here he was.
They shut up about how ‘impossible’ he was after that.
For three years he was in that horrible laboratory. For three years they took biopsies and samples, poked him and forced him into experiments to test his new capabilities. For three years he was alone, tortured, looked at like an animal.
He tried to kill himself.
But he healed too quickly and his blood coagulated too fast.
They finally let him go after a few more repeated attempts, as long as he promised to show up at the rebuilt Hawkins lab every two weeks for check-ins and bloodwork, as well as to talk with a government mandated psychologist. They paid for his shitty apartment, his ‘food’ that they delivered every week, his electricity, his water, his cable, he got an allowance so he could buy whatever the fuck else he wanted. The catch?
He couldn’t be seen by anyone.
Outside of the others that knew about the Upside-Down, of course.
He ran with that deal.
Sure he was bored as fuck most days and ached for the times that he could hang out with his friends, but at least he wasn’t in that damned laboratory.
And it had been fine.
For a while.
Until you moved in.
He knew he wasn’t the only one in the shitty motel turned apartment complex, but you moved in directly next to him. You would be able to hear him as he moved around, to know he existed.
It felt kinda nice.
He could hear you too, moving at the same hours of the night he did. He heard you puttering around, getting ready for something before leaving for a while, coming back after enough time to constitiute that you had a job. After getting back you’d clang pots and pans, probably cook something, then turn the TV on for hours on end.
It was like having a roommate.
It was comforting.
Then he saw you for the first time.
It was late, as per usual, but you had stayed in longer so he figured it was one of your nights off work. He didn't know what compelled him, but he had glanced through his curtain to see you standing in front of your apartment, holding a cigarette and staring up into the sky mindlessly.
You were beautiful.
The moonlight shined so brightly on you, bathing your face in its ethereal glow and lighting you up like an angel. You wore baggy sweatpants and an oversized hoody, hair scrunched up on top of your head like a tumbleweed. But god damn you were gorgeous.
Then you had turned to look at his window and he hissed, sliding the curtain shut as fast as he could with a cold sweat breaking out over his brow. He heard the crunch of gravel as you walked back inside your apartment. He closed his eyes and listened to you breathing. Concentrating enough he was able to make out the calm flutter of your heartbeat against your chest. It soothed him.
He had pushed his bed around so it was up against the wall that connected both of your apartments. He had let his hand caress the wall, blackened fingers with clawed tips gliding over the plastered surface. He shut his eyes and hiccuped down a sob, pretending he was running his hands across your back.
God damn he was so lonely.
And he watched you.
You were so achingly tempting. He could smell you through the wall: your blood, sure, but also your natural scent wafting through the vents floating around him and bathing him in an aura of you. Flowery and earthy, it reminded him of petrichor. There were soft undertones of stale chemical cleaner which led to him figuring you probably worked at the hospital, hence your horrible work hours.
For almost a year he observed you. Your routine of watching the sky on days off, even if it was rainy. You would don your galaches and an umbrella and smoke a joint while looking at the moon and stars. Your eyes were haunted, glossy with memories as your vision went in and out. You looked like you had scars, something you were trying to hide.
He could tell because he was the same.
No matter how much he tried to forget, to push into the recesses of his memories and blacken out that time using weed and booze, he would always remember Chrissy, his death, Vecna, the lab. It was embedded in him, woven into the fibers of who he had become. His soul–his very being–was tarnished just as his body had been. Used and abused.
Knocks sounded on his wall, lazy and off beat.
He squinted, trying to name the recognizable tune.
His eyes widened and he bolted upright from his seat across from the TV he had been mindlessly observing. He slid his hand over the wall reverently, his lips quivering and his heartbeat feeling like it was picking up. He felt warm.
A/N: So sorry about the radio silence!! But I'm going to double post to try and make up for the long break so those that are interested in where this little blurb goes can still enjoy my ramblings! Thank you dearies!
**Just a reminder that I'm moving from my other account (bunni3thebard) to this one, so that I can have more independence from my random trash account that's just an amalgamation of memes I enjoy lol–also, I can't remember who made the page break bats, so if you may know send me their name and I can at them accordingly. I just saved it on my phone one day cause I thought it was neat!**
Title: Through the Walls
Vampire!Eddie Munson x Female!Reader
Summary: You’ve been in Hawkins for almost a year now. It was nice, an escape from painful memories and a way to start fresh. After so long isolating yourself, you decide that it’s time to make friends, get to know someone so you’re not so alone. One of those friends happened to be your Cryptid Neighbor.
Chapter 1: Silent Scream
[Masterlist] [Chapter 2]
Your neighbor was a cryptid.
At least, you were convinced they were.
You knew someone lived there because of the lights that would come on and off, and the shadow figures moving behind the curtains. Not to mention that the walls were thin as fuck, so you heard them watch TV and play guitar and listen to metal music obscenely loud during the midnight hours.
But even though they kept the same crazy hours you did, you've never seen hide nor hair of them.
You started to make theories about what kind of person they were. Like that they were a burn out whose parents paid for everything for them so they didn't work, just farted around all day–hence the 4am jam sessions.
Another theory that had struck you one night while working a double at the Hawkins ER was that they were a drug lord and had to keep odd hours to evade the police.
But you wrote off that theory since you'd thought it up while sleep deprived after an 18 hour shift.
You entertained the idea of a squatter, but then why would they have electricity?
You had finally come to the conclusion that you were lonely as fuck and you obsessed over the identity of your mysterious neighbor because you were long deprived of human companionship and thus you hyperfixated on a superficial meaningless thing to distract yourself from being alone.
Or maybe they were Mothman…
Thankfully the grocery store kept late hours on the weekend, and that's where you found yourself on your free Saturday night. You'd woken up naturally around seven pm, even though your alarm was set for nine, and decided to putter around your house until your alarm went off so you could feel like you were properly lazy.
You sat contemplating cereals for a few meandering seconds, sure your eyes were blinking at an astronomically slow pace. You'd smoked a bowl to help you sleep and felt like it hadn't completely left you. You just hoped your eyes weren't red.
Grunting, you shoved both boxes into your cart and turned to move on to the next aisle when you crashed into someone else's cart. "Shit." You hissed below your breath, rubbing your stomach where the handle of the cart had roughly jabbed into you.
"Damn, sorry about that!"
Looking up you met the soft face of a brunette woman who looked about your age with her hair pulled back into a messy bun and long-sleeve black shirt falling off one of her thin shoulders exposing her bra strap. She gave you a sheepish smile and you shrugged.
"No harm no foul, although if you do it again I'll take it personally and make no bones about it: I will cry." She snorted, making you grin in triumph.
"Don't worry. I don't make it a habit of accosting people in the grocery store." She pulled her cart back from yours.
You hummed, "Good to know I'll be a one-and-done hit-and-run."
Her smile was cute. She had a strong jaw with a petite nose that scrunched up adorably as she grinned.
"I'm Nancy." She'd offered her hand.
You hesitated.
It had been a while since you'd earnestly interacted with someone outside of transactional exchanges, like for work or buying things or paying bills. People were messy. Maybe it was the paranoia from your past–trauma you couldn't shake that clung to you like a second skin–but you'd been wary of making friends on the off chance your name gets around and spreads to corners of places you didn't want it to go.
It was ridiculous. Narcissistic in a way.
So you ground your teeth and mustered a smile hoping it looked genuine and shook her hand.
You stood outside staring at the moon for a while dressed in nothing but a size 8XL shirt you snagged from Wal-Mart cause it was soft. You knew you should smoke inside, no telling when someone might rat you out to the cops, but the moon was full and the stars were bright. You weren't used to how clear the sky was in comparison to the city, even after a year.
Your eyelids fluttered, vision hazy as the weed worked its magic.
Nancy had invited you to some neighborhood get-together next week that was popular in Hawkins. Said she hadn't seen you around before and was surprised you'd survived a year without becoming the talk of the town. You blew out a heavy stream of smoke, humming to yourself thoughtfully.
But that had been the point, right?
Keep a low profile, stay hidden.
Sighing, you took another deep drag of your joint, holding the burning breath as tight as you could. You watched the stars dance in your vision before you finally exhaled.
God you were fucking lonely, though.
You scrubbed at your head, mussing up your hair. Curiosity was easy to take hold in your high state, so you peered towards your neighbors apartment and saw a shadow in front of the curtains. You squinted, eyeing the light blue fabric for a while since your vision was blurry. You could've sworn you saw a sliver of it be pulled aside with tentative fingers. You blinked slowly, sighing heavy through your nose and mumbled to yourself, "Fucking bigfoot in there for sure."
Turning back around to your apartment door you sucked in the last bit of the joint and dropped the roach to the ground, bending over to squish it with a rock to make sure it was out. Standing with a groan, you walked barefoot back to your front door. You were like, 90% sure the complex was just repurposed from an old Motel 6, but it was cheap and they sprayed for bugs every Tuesday, so you didn't complain.
It was small, enough space for your bed with a loveseat to watch your shitty TV that sat on top of your dresser and a micro kitchen they built in the corner next to the door for the bathroom. There was no kitchen sink and the fridge was half-size, but you were one person so you didn't quite care enough to complain. You did wish the fridge drawers were a bit bigger so they didn't catch on all the food packages you shoved in there.
Maybe it was because you were high, or lonely–or maybe a combination of the two–but you slid your hand across the wall that connected your apartment to your cryptid neighbor's. Then you tapped the starting notes for "Shave and a Haircut". You waited a breath, not sure if they had even heard it.
But then there it was: "Two Bits".
You grinned, giggling like Scooby Doo as you danced over to your bed, throwing yourself down with a bounce on the cheap twin.
Since you had smoked, sleep came easy. You were lulled into dream after weird dream courtesy of Miss Mary Jane. There was one where you went grocery shopping with Bigfoot and another where you went on Jerry Springer because you were pregnant with Mothman's baby.
You were curious what kind of cryptid your neighbor was.
The neighborhood block party was, for all intents and purposes, a Hawkins bash.
Apparently it was a pretty regular affair every few months: a potluck with a few dad's who wheeled their grills to the end of a large cul-de-sac to cook up some burgers and dogs, some artsy fartsy mom's who made crafts for the younger kids to do, and sparklers and poppers for the older kids to get into mischief with.
There were maybe fifteen to twenty adults and a smattering of an equal number of kids.
You had brought a shitty box of cookies from a bakery a few blocks away from the hospital since you couldn't cook anything on your extra small stove. You also had switched shifts with Beverly–fucking ray of sunshine she was, grunting and groaning about working on a Saturday night, but you had taken her Sunday so she could get bent–so that you could be here, at this lovely affair.
You were starting to have regrets.
You watched a few pre-teens wave sparklers around in glee, making to poke and prod one another with the burning end. You wondered if you should step in, knowing that there were some second degree burns waiting to happen, but a random mom came over and grabbed each kid's wrists in warning. You slunk away to the food table.
You set your meager contribution down and turned to eye all the adult women, trying to find your potential petite new friend.
They all had their hair done up in that style where their bangs spiraled out in delicate feathering with the ends curled towards their shoulders. Some had simple ponytails decorated with hair bands and colorful scrunchies. You ran your fingers through your hair self-consciously; you hadn't done anything, merely brushed it and hoped for the best as you donned your nicest pair of jeans and a thrifted Van Halen '79 tour shirt. You figured since it would be outside the party would be a casual thing, but the dresses and blouses these housewives wore made you think you were a little unprepared for the mandatory 'Sunday Best' dress code.
You fiddled with the ends of your shirt.
You contributed to the sacrificial neighborhood potluck, maybe the Gods will be pleased enough to let you leave without seeing Nancy.
You turned to make a break for it and nearly bowled over the brunette in question.
Cookies were not a good enough sacrifice.
Her smile was bright and her blue eyes lit up at seeing you. "Hey, you made it!" She went in to hug you and you tensed, locking your arms to your side in the world's most awkward exchange of physical affection.
She gave a nervous smile and pulled away, "Sorry, too soon for hugs?" Her chuckle was used to try and break the tension and you were grateful as you laughed along.
"No, it's just–I uh… haven't really hung out with anyone for a while, so I guess I'm just getting back into the swing of how friendship works." You shrugged, rubbing the back of your neck.
Her eyes sparkled at your admission of seeing her as a potential friend. She grabbed your hand and pulled you over to a small group that hung around the edges of the block party.
The first one you noticed was a taller Hispanic man with the most beautiful hair you had ever seen in your life. It was lustrous and hung past his hips, swaying gently with his movements. He smiled, eyes half-lidded but sweet, giving you a gentle nod as Nancy motioned to the group, giving your name.
"This is Argyle," she pointed at the man with the incredible hair.
"Robin," next was a thin, lanky woman with messy dirty blonde hair that hung a little past her chin. She had a dusting of freckles across her nose and a charming crooked smile. She wiggled her fingers in a sweet hello.
"Steve," the man next to Robin was broad-shouldered with a just as square jaw line. His eyes were slightly turned down at the ends, giving him this sweet puppy-dog stare matched with a megawatt smile. He had some random freckles and moles that decorated across his face and the visible areas of his arms that made him look a lot younger. He nodded to you, giving a weird wink that you were sure was supposed to come off as charming, but was mildly unsettling.
"And my husband, Jonathan!" The last guy had a small upturned nose with a low brow that was covered by messy strands of mousy brown hair. He gave a shy smile, nodding to you while bouncing lightly. Over his shoulders he had a baby vest strapped to him and a very crabby looking baby facing outwards. Their face was scrunched up, looking more like a potato than a child, and they had wispy brown hair that was stuck up wildly like their head had been rubbed with a balloon.
Nancy smiled proudly, tickling the cheek of the child that gave a low, annoyed hum for an impressively long amount of time. "And this is Eliza, my daughter."
You gave a pinched smile, waving awkwardly. "Hey."
"'Sup Brosephina," Argyle smiled, offering you his fist. You chuckled, tapping yours against it lightly. "A pleasure to aquaint with you." He stuck his hand back in his pocket, the other holding the neck of a Pabst.
"An enjoyable aquaint with you as well." You rocked awkwardly onto your heels.
Argyle's smile grew and he nodded, "Right on." He laughed.
"Hi," you looked over to Steve who held out his large hand in greeting. You shook it, noting that he was gentle when shaking yours, but gave a squeeze before he released you. His smile was adorable, but he was definitely trying to flirt. You were curious if it was just an unconscious thing, or if he was actually putting in effort. "Nice to meet you."
You gave a soft nod in reply, but before you could fully pull your hand away, Robin shot forward and grabbed it giving you a few firm shakes, "It's really good to meet you, I think I actually saw you a while ago–my girlfriend's daughter broke her arm and I remember you gave us all strawberry Jell-O before we left."
Your eyes widened and you pointed at her with your other hand, "Oh yeah! Dotty! She was freaking adorable. How's her arm?"
Robin's smile was glowing and she squeezed your hand tightly, "She's good, her whole class signed her cast and when she got it off she begged to keep it even though it smelled like old shoes."
You barked out a laugh, unknowingly squeezing Robin's hand back, "Hell yes, that's awesome. A trophy of her triumphs! I recommend a pantyhose sock full of cat litter, it helps a ton with the shoe stink."
Robin's eyes widened and she gave a dramatic gasp, "That's freaking brilliant, oh my god, thank you!"
Jonathan snickered, "You got chronic stinky feet?" He teased, eyes glimmering as he bounced his daughter.
You smirked, dropping Robin's hand and leaning into your hip, "Maybe, or maybe I've learned a thing or two from working with older nurses. But I could also have insanely stinky feet, and now you know my shame."
Everyone laughed and you felt your smile grow, your shoulders relax, and you let yourself feel like you belonged.
You didn't feel so alone anymore.
The block party ended up not being bad. Although, a guy named Andy Barker had tried to hit on you when you went to grab a hot dog ("You like 'em long and juicy, huh"–barf) even though his wife was within eyesight. Nancy had warned you that they often did that: flirt with other people in front of each other to get their partner jealous.
It was absolutely insane, small towners were bonkers.
You had snagged a bag full of cookies for the road, not including those from the bakery you had gone to as they were a little rubbery and sad. Argyle gave you a high five.
"Choice snack Brochacha, need a muchie master to inspire your partaking in said chocolate chunks?" You blinked a few times, unsure of what in the hell he was trying to say.
Jonathan snickered, leaning over to translate, "Do you want some weed with that?"
Needless to say: Argyle was your favorite.
Pocket a little heavier with two freshly rolled "Blunts of Friendship", as Argyle called them, and a couple of sandwich bags full of pilfered cookies, you walked up to your door with a smile.
You had made friends.
It was nice, this feeling. You hadn't been able to know companionship, even platonic ones, in such a long time it was like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders. Maybe not all the weight, but it was lighter and it felt good to breathe with a little less paranoia pushing you down.
You jiggled the keys into your lock but stopped, turning ever so slightly to look at your neighbor's door. It was a gawdy yellow with a plaquard of gold painted numbers reading "2D" decorating it. The paint on the numbers and the door was chipped in places and faded from natural weathering. You didn't see any shadows in the window and the light wasn't on. It wasn't surprising since the sun was still, technically, out.
It was sunset, the sky lit up by a golden-amber glow that slowly sunk into the royal purple of the evening as it met the horizon. Night would fall soon.
You weren't sure what compelled you, maybe the giddy feeling that came from making new friends, or from having a really good day, but you strolled over to the door and stared at it, feet placed only a few inches away. Looking down at the bags in your hand, you placed one of them against the wall next to the door and sighed.
Nerves were starting to eat at you and you looked at your apartment door that was about ten feet away, then back to 2D's. Sucking in a deep breath for strength, you gathered your bravery and knocked on the door three times before booking it to your door: 2C.
Slamming your door behind you, you kept the lights off and took deep gulping breaths. That was the fastest you'd ever run in your life, you're sure of it.
You slunk to the floor, splaying your legs out in front of you as you caught your breath, thumping your head back against the wood of your own gawdy yellow door. You shut your eyes.
You don't know why in the fuck you decided to dong-dong-ditch some cookies for your cryptid neighbor.
Maybe it was because you had developed a weird relationship with them in your head: mysterious being that occupies the shitty motel-esque apartment next to you that may know your struggles because they keep the same weird hours you do. You had put too much thought into them and they became a being you considered a friend in the fantasy of your mind.
You wanted to include them in the block party.
You had sat there for a good ten minutes, breath caught, and you didn't quite know what to do with yourself now. You didn't want to go to sleep–no matter how fucking tired you were from staying awake during the day–but you were at an impasse of not knowing where to go or what to do.
And that's when you heard it.
"Shave And A Hair Cut".
The smile that spread across your face pushed the apples of your cheeks up so high you could see the tops of them in your vision. You laughed softly, bringing your hand up to the wall and replying.
Hello, I'm Bunni! I had another blog that was attached to my non-writers blog, but I didn't like that format, so I created my own account for BunnitheBard!
I'll repost the minimal amount I had and start anew, thanks!!
OLD INTRO POST:
Hello! My name's Bunni, and I have got it absolutely down BAD for Eddie Munson.
So I haven't watched Stranger Things Season 4 in a hot minute, but suddenly my Brain™ decided to switch gears to all things Eddie out of nowhere. But hey, let's roll with it!
I've been writing a few original fanfictions, but I'm hoping to try my hand out on some one shots, maybe 'x reader' stuff (although I'm not great at second person writing right now, but hopefully with some practice I'll get there). I'm also open to Steve romances as well, cause who can deny The King--I mean c'mon, Joe Keery is freakin' adorable!
What can I say, the Joes just got it. 😌
I'll (hopefully) post the first chapter of one of the stories I've been writing within the next few days, but ya! I know I have literally nothing on my blog, but feel free to send me asks if you have any, maybe even suggestions for stories/one-shots to get the ole creative juices flowing.
I'm probably going to be an 18+ blog, so, sorry kiddos!
