Summary: After Barb’s death, things hadn’t been the same for you and your long time friend Nancy. Now that senior year is here, you’re looking forward to a future away from Haunted Hawkins. Until the school’s biggest Freakazoid gets paired with you for a project to prepare students for adult life. Eddie Munson has a habit of making a mess of things and it seems your life is no different. But...what if you don't mind too much?
What to expect: Enemies -> Friends -> Lovers. Hurt/Comfort. Eventual smut/Lemon. Canon Divergent/No Vecna.
a/n: So, it's been a while since I've written smut, so sorry if it's weak.
WC: 3748
Smut ahead +18 only
You wake to the soft clink of dishes.
For a moment your mind is blank, like floating, unanchored the way it gets when you’re somewhere that isn’t home but feels a little too close to becoming one.
The couch beneath you is too short. Your spine aches in that strangely personal way only Eddie Munson’s thrift-store furniture can manage. The blanket slipped halfway down during the night, leaving your legs exposed to the draft. It smells faintly of cedar, cheap detergent… and him.
Thin stripes of gold slip between the blinds. The apartment carries that warm, lived-in quiet: part mess, part comfort, entirely him. You feel him awake before you hear anything, just the sense of someone moving through space with soft shuffles, a cabinet bumping shut, a hushed oh, shit that makes something in your chest twitch.
You push the blanket off and sit up. Your hair’s a disaster. Your mouth tastes like weed, sleep, and a regret you keep pretending is anything but longing.
Footsteps approach.
Your pulse reacts before your thoughts do—traitor, traitor, traitor.
Eddie rounds the corner with two mismatched mugs, then stops like he hit an invisible wall.
“Oh. You’re up.”
His hair is a full explosion of electricity and pillow friction teaming up against him. His shirt is wrinkled, a faint crease mark on his cheek from the pillow. He looks soft, warm, painfully real in a way that steals your breath.
You try not to stare.
You fail.
“Morning,” you mumble.
He clears his throat and hands you a mug without quite meeting your eyes. “I made coffee. It’s… technically coffee.”
You brush his fingers on purpose when you take it.
“Thanks.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
The silence that settles isn’t awkward. It’s weight-bearing. It leans.
He studies his mug like it might offer divine answers. The hem of his shirt lifts slightly when he shifts, and you look away before your face betrays you.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks, too casual.
“Terribly.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like that was exactly the answer he wanted.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too.”
Something warm curls low in your chest. Familiar. Dangerous.
You swallow it down.
You were supposed to stay “just until you figure things out,” but by day three the phrase loses meaning. By day seven neither of you says it at all.
Routine forms without permission.
You wake on his couch.
He pretends you being there doesn’t fluster him.
You pretend it doesn’t soothe you.
You brush your teeth while he knocks dramatically on the door, complaining that you’re “stealing his toothpaste again,” like it’s a joke you never actually started.
You begin memorizing him, accidentally at first, then obsessively.
The way he shakes the coffee pot like it personally betrayed him.
How he squints at sunlight like it’s being dramatic on purpose.
The half-awake humming that gives away his mood before he speaks.
One morning he opens the bathroom door without knocking.
You’re inside hair up, brushing your teeth, drowning in one of his old band shirts because digging through your bag at 7 a.m. has become a myth.
The door cracks open. Eddie steps in. Freezes.
“Ohshit—sorry—sorry—”
The door slams shut. A second later you hear him quietly bonking his forehead against the frame.
You laugh so hard you choke on toothpaste.
Outside he mutters, loud enough to hear, soft enough to deny, “Jesus Christ, Munson, pull it together…”
Work becomes a minefield of small shifts. Some days he can’t look at you without revealing something warm. Other days you can’t look at him without remembering the feel of his shoulder brushing yours on the couch, the breath he caught like he was about to speak but didn’t.
Sometimes he watches you when he thinks you’re busy. His eyes flick to your hands, your mouth, the space between you.
And every time, something fragile and humiliating curls tight inside your chest.
Wanting something you don’t have.
Missing something you’ve never touched.
You hate it.
You crave it.
Then a girl walks in, pretty, tall, confident. She laughs like she expects to be laughed at. She touches his arm like she’s done it before.
“Are you free Friday?” she asks.
It hits you like a punch to the ribs.
Eddie smiles, clueless and gentle. You turn away before you hear his answer, hands shaking as you reorganize albums into categories that don’t exist.
Later he finds you glaring at the Pop section like it insulted you personally.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You filed Taylor Swift under Metal.”
“Oh.”
“Twice.”
“Okay.”
You keep rearranging nothing until he steps closer enough for his warmth to reach your skin.
“It’s not like that with her,” he says softly.
“Nice,” you murmur.
“Yeah. Nice.”
The second week complicates everything.
Domesticity crawls in.
You cook together.
He tries teaching you to roll a joint; you fail so horribly he cries laughing.
Your legs tangle during a movie and both of you jerk away like you touched a live wire.
One day you come home early to find one of his shirts folded neatly on your pillow.
Just one.
No note.
No explanation.
It hits you harder than it should.
The next morning you’re brushing your teeth when he walks in awake, hair damp, entirely unbothered. He pauses, looks at you, then at the mirror.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning.”
You stand shoulder to shoulder, toothpaste and all.
“Sleep okay?” he asks.
“Better than the couch deserves.”
“That couch is a family heirloom.”
“It 's lumpy.”
“It’s vintage.”
“It hurts.”
“It builds character.”
You bump his hip.
He bumps back.
Too easy.
Too familiar.
Too dangerous.
That night a regular—one who definitely has a crush on you—walks you out after closing.
Eddie sees.
When you get home he’s quiet.
“You’re being weird,” you tell him.
“No, I’m not,” he mutters, chopping vegetables like they committed treason.
“You’re murdering a bell pepper.”
He slams the knife down.
“That perv was all over you.”
“So?”
“So…” He grinds his jaw. “Nothing.”
“Eddie.”
His eyes darken.
“I don’t like him.”
“That’s not your choice.”
“I know.” His voice drops. “I know.”
It bruises something inside you.
“I didn’t like the girl from the store,” you confess.
His eyebrows shoot up.
“Oh.”
“So we’re even.”
A slow, helpless grin spreads across his face.
“Guess we are.”
After that, there are no lines left.
He buys your favorite cereal.
You steal his hoodie.
He washes your mug every morning.
You fix his pillow every night.
His bedroom door stays half-open.
You fall asleep listening to him turn over, sigh, shift.
On Thursday everything tilts.
You’re on the couch, pretending to watch a movie. Eddie sits too close. His arm brushes yours every time either of you breathes.
He looks at you.
“Can I ask you something?”
Your pulse jumps.
“Yeah.”
“Are you okay… with all this? With being here? With me?”
You swallow.
“I am. More than I should be.”
He breathes out, quiet and fractured.
“Yeah. More than we should.”
Silence folds around you. He lifts his hand as if to touch your knee, then curls his fingers into a fist.
“I’m trying not to…”
“Not to what?”
“Not to make this harder for you.”
“It’s not hard because of you.”
“Good.”
You laugh softly.
“Scary. That’s the word.”
“Yeah. That too.”
He stands abruptly, nerves pulling him upright.
“I should go to bed.”
“Okay.”
He lingers in the hallway.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
His door stays half-open.
You lie awake anyway.
You don’t hear him get up, only the heavy exhale of someone trying to outrun their own thoughts. When you walk into the kitchen he’s half-dressed, jacket zipped, keys in hand.
“You’re up,” he says quickly.
“Why are you in such a hurry?”
“Steve needed a hand. Early shift.”
A lie. A messy, obvious one.
Something’s off. Not morning-grumpy. Something deeper, tighter. Last night cracked something open, and he hasn’t figured out how to close it.
You both reach for the coffee at the same time and bump into each other.
Static.
Live current.
You’re digging through your bag, trying to find your keys, when you feel him waiting behind you.
Not impatient, just… on edge.
“You took my charger,” Eddie says.
You blink. “What? No, I didn’t.”
“It was on the coffee table last night. Now it’s gone.”
There it is.
Not the charger.
The tone.
He isn’t angry about an object.
He’s angry because he woke up and you weren’t where he expected you to be.
“I didn’t take anything of yours,” you say quietly.
“Right,” he mutters, jaw tight. “Because you never do.”
That hits.
Hard.
He knows it.
You know it.
“Eddie… where is this coming from?”
He exhales through his nose, sharp.
“From the fact that I can’t find anything in my own damn place anymore.”
You stare at him.
“This isn’t about a charger.”
He flinches, and that’s the closest he comes to admitting it.
“This is the living room I’ve been sleeping in,” you remind him.
“I know where you’ve been sleeping,” he fires back and instantly regrets it.
The silence after that is thick.
A silence that says everything he refuses to.
He drops his gaze.
“Forget it. I’m just… having a morning.”
He grabs his jacket and leaves without looking at you.
The door closes hard.
And everything he didn’t say stays behind.
The Hideout opens too early and smells like stale beer even at noon. Eddie sits in a corner booth with Steve Harrington, two half-finished sodas between them. He runs a hand through his hair for the ninth time in two minutes.
Steve watches him like someone watching a guy disassemble a bomb with shaking hands.
“You gonna tell me what’s going on,” Steve says, “or should I keep guessing?”
Eddie shrugs, eyes on the table. “It’s nothing.”
“That's why you texted me at seven a.m. with ‘are you up’ like someone who absolutely wasn’t fine?”
Eddie groans and covers his face. “I don’t,look, I just… needed space.”
“From who?”
Eddie hesitates.
Steve’s eyebrows go up. “Dude. C’mon.”
A beat.
Then Eddie admits, barely audible: “From her.”
Steve leans in. “Thought things were good.”
“They are,” Eddie insists too fast. “We’re good. We’re friends. We’re…yeah. Friends.”
He swallows. “I’m over it. The crush. The whole… thing.”
Steve stares at him.
Doesn’t blink.
“Say it again,” he challenges.
“I’m over it,” Eddie repeats.
Right then, his voice betrays him,cracks, just slightly.
Steve hears it. Files it away.
Doesn’t call him out yet.
“Okay,” Steve says slowly. “If you’re over her… then you won’t care if I talk to her tonight. Flirt a little. See what happens.”
Eddie goes still.
Stone-still.
His jaw clenches, but he forces a shrug. “Sure. Do whatever you want.”
Steve’s eyes narrow, like he’s found the loose wire he was searching for.
He doesn’t push yet.
He just says, “Hideout later. Be ready.”
Eddie nods, but his stomach drops.
Hours drag by. Long, stale, anxious ones.
The kind that makes you feel like something already exploded and you somehow missed the sound.
Your phone buzzes.
Eddie:
If you want, swing by the Hideout. I’m here with Steve.
Like nothing happened.
But it did.
And you feel it like static under your skin.
The Hideout is already too loud when you walk in. Too warm. The kind of crowded that makes people stand too close, laugh too hard, pretend they’re fine.
Eddie’s at the bar with Steve.
For a split second, he looks like himself,smiling at something Steve said, hands moving animatedly, head thrown back.
But then Steve sees you and Eddie’s smile falters.
Steve waves you over, grinning. “There you are! Eddie 's been…”
A look from Eddie cuts him off, you slide onto the stool beside them, pretending you didn’t notice. Eddie’s voice is careful again. “Hey.”
Steve watches the two of you like he’s tracking a foreign species.
“So,” he says casually, “Eddie here was telling me you guys are just friends, do you believe it?.”
You choke on air, Eddie stiffens.
“Steve,” he warns, low.
“What?” Steve raises his hands. “You said it. You said you’re over your crush.”
Eddie’s eyes snap to yours, then away. “It’s not, whatever. It doesn’t matter.”
Steve leans forward, studying you. “Sure doesn’t look like it doesn’t matter.”
“Steve,” Eddie snarls, but there’s no real heat, more… fear.
Steve turns to you with exaggerated sweetness. “Mind helping me test a theory?”
And before Eddie can react, Steve shifts just a little closer to you, close enough that Eddie’s entire expression cracks open in a flash of panic he tries to swallow too late.
“You look great tonight,” Steve says, like he’s offering bait.
You don’t even have to answer.
Eddie’s chair scrapes violently as he stands. “We’re leaving.”
He grabs your wrist before you can speak.
“Oh yeah,” Steve calls after you, “totally over it!”
The car ride is silent in the loudest possible way.
Eddie’s hands grip the steering wheel hard enough to make his knuckles pale. His jaw keeps tightening and loosening, like he’s fighting himself in real time.
Finally you ask, “What was that?”
His breath shudders. “Steve being an asshole.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He pulls into his building’s parking lot and kills the engine, but he doesn’t move. The quiet becomes a pressure.
“You don’t get to do that,” you say softly. “Act like I’m nothing.”
His head snaps toward you. “I never…God, I never said you were nothing.”
“You acted like it.”
“Because I don’t know what I’m doing!” he bursts. “I don’t know how to be around you without” He cuts himself off, breath shaking. “Without wanting you too much.”
That lands between you like lightning.
You whisper, “You think wanting me is the problem?”
He laughs, broken, disbelieving. “You think it isn’t?”
He looks at you then. Really looks. Eyes wide, raw, terrified in the way people get when they’ve already lost something they never had.
“Let’s just…go upstairs,” he finally says, voice hoarse. “Please.”
You go.
His apartment is dark when the door clicks shut behind you.
He turns to say something, maybe some apology or excuse or self-defense,but you move first.
You kiss him.
It’s soft at first, cautious, the kind of kiss that asks is this what you want? He answers by pulling you in harder.
His hands slide up your sides, almost desperate, and you let yourself press into him. All the confusion from this morning burns away under the heat of his mouth.
He pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips, “If this isn’t what you want, you have to tell me now… because I don’t have the strength to stop.”
Your breath leaves you in one sharp exhale. “Eddie…”
That’s all it takes.
His mouth is on yours again, hungrier now, and the kiss turns messy, needy.
You barely notice him walking you backwards until your shoulders hit the wall. His lips travel down your neck, slow and deliberate, and his voice drops to a low murmur against your skin.
“God, you drive me crazy.”
One of his hands finds your waist; the other trails down, fingers skimming the hem of your shirt before slipping underneath. His touch is warm, reverent, almost careful.
He lifts you slightly,just enough for your feet to leave the ground for a second, just enough to make you gasp.
Before you know it, your back hits the softness of his bed.
He hovers over you, breathes unsteady, eyes dark in a way that makes heat pool low in your stomach.
His fingers trace the inside of your thigh, slow, teasing, maddening.
“You’re already so wet for me, sweetheart.”
The sentence alone makes your breath stutter. His lips return to your neck, then your collarbone, moving lower in a path that makes every nerve in your body spark, his hand slides higher.
You arch into him and he stops. Just a fraction,his forehead rests against your shoulder, breath shaking like he’s fighting something deeper than desire.
“Tell me this is what you want,” he whispers. “Tell me you’re not gonna wake up tomorrow and regret it. Tell me I’m not gonna be a mistake”
Your hand rises instinctively to the back of his neck. “Eddie… look at me.”
He lifts his head and that’s where it happens. The real break. The moment where want turns into fear, and fear turns into confession, and confession turns into something so fragile you almost stop breathing.
His voice cracks. “I don’t want you to go away.”
You feel it like gravity shifting beneath you.
You cup his face, pulling him close, not to kiss him, but to anchor him.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.
His eyes close, a tremor runs through him full-body, unguarded, devastating.
The kiss that follows isn’t sexual, It’s not even heated. Looks more like a plea.
A press of mouths that says don’t go, don’t disappear, don’t change this, don’t break this thing we’re building.
His hand fist in the sheets beside your head like he’s holding himself together by threads. The heat is still there—God, is it there, but something deeper rises over it.
Something that makes your chest ache more than your body. That was all it took; The boy's long fingers gently caressed your cheek before deepening the kiss. He kissed you, trying to memorize the taste of your tongue against his. Eddie's other hand pressed you against his hard torso, caressing your soft skin with the tips of his icy fingers. The sounds coming from your throat made the hairs on the back of Eddie's neck stand on end. It didn't help that his fingers were intertwining with some strands of his long curls. His lips slid down your neck, nibbling and sucking at the sensitive skin there, captivated by your scent, the scent that haunted him for so long.
He began to walk slowly, never letting your bodies lose contact with him, his eyes devouring you with desire and something you couldn't quite name. And before you knew it, your back collided with the softness of his bed.
Eddie didn't take long to be on top of you, his knee strategically positioned between your legs, making contact with your warm, covered pussy. "Look at you," he looked down at you, a few seconds before ripping off his shirt. "You're already all wet for me, sweetheart."
His breath ghosts against your mouth, warm and trembling. You feel him try to steady himself, and fail.
You cup his jaw, firm but gentle. “Come here.”
He exhales like he’s been underwater for years, finally surfacing.
The kiss deepens immediately, slow at first, then jagged and hungry, teeth and lips brushing, tongues teasing, as if every second without this had been torture. His body presses fully into yours, heat radiating off him, every brush and shift sending sparks up your spine.
His hands slide along your sides, gripping, memorizing. Every touch is impatient, reverent, desperate. When you arch instinctively against him, he shudders audibly, like your skin alone is breaking something inside him.
“God…” he breathes, voice rough, breaking. “You feel…”
He doesn’t finish. The words hang in the air, alive in the way his fingers trace the curve of your ribs, tentative, reverent, trembling as if he’s afraid to push too hard too soon.
You guide his hand higher.
A startled sound escapes him,soft, raw, unsteady and he leans into the side of your neck, mouth warm and wet, dragging his lips along your pulse. Every exhale of his breath fans heat over your skin, every brush against you sharpens your own needs.
Your fingers thread into his hair. He gasps, throat vibrating against your shoulder.
“Is this okay?” he murmurs against your skin.
“Yes,” you gasp. “Eddie… yes.”
Something inside him relaxes,like permission, like gravity itself has shifted.
He slides his hands under the hem of your shirt, tracing your ribs, letting every brush and press linger. When you lift your arms, he pulls the fabric over your head with a soft reverence, eyes dark, focused, drinking you in.
“You’re…” His voice falters. “You’re beautiful.”
It’s not just desire. It’s awe.
You press your lips to his again, hard, molten, and he responds with equal fire, chest flush against yours, heat and urgency tangling every nerve in your body.
His hands roam, patient but insistent, brushing along the curve of your hips, teasing, exploring. Your breath catches, body trembling under his touch. Every soft, deliberate stroke is a question; every tiny shift, a confession.
The boy's long fingers gently caressed your cheek before deepening the kiss. He kissed you, trying to memorize the taste of your tongue against his. Eddie's other hand pressed you against his hard torso, caressing your soft skin with the tips of his icy fingers.
You grip his shoulders. He groans, low and ragged, pressed to your mouth, moving impossibly closer, heat spreading through you like wildfire.
“Eddie,” you whisper, shivering.
He lifts his head, eyes dark, dilated, raw. “What sweetheart?”
“Don’t stop,” you gasp “please”.
And he doesn’t.
Every touch is slow, torturous, desperate, like he wants to memorize you, carve you into his memory in every gasp and shiver. His lips find every sensitive line of your skin, every sound you make shaping his next move.
Your body arches into him, reacting, seeking, needing. Your nails dig into his back, hair, shoulders…anything that lets you feel him closer.
He kisses you lower, hands roaming boldly yet tenderly, building heat that coils inside you, climbing, threatening to undo everything.
Your voice catches. “Eddie”
His lips press to your ear. “I’ve got you.”
And for a heartbeat, you do break,soft, breathless, consumed by him, by this closeness, by everything that’s been simmering between you for months.
He kisses you through every shiver, every tremor, like if he stops, it’ll vanish entirely.
When he finally pulls back just slightly, forehead pressed against yours, the world feels impossibly still.
“Are you okay?” he murmurs.
You nod, fingers clutching him, desperate for more. He laughs, soft, helpless, and leans back in just enough to hold you without letting go.
Your bodies tangle, skin against skin, heat and sweat mingling, breaths ragged and tangled. Nothing more needs to happen yet.
The world outside ceases. The rain, the night, the distant hum of the city, all fades to black against the storm raging in this room and your head on Eddie’s chest.
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