quick psa: if you are under 18 or your age isn't marked clearly in your bio, do not interact with or read any material marked as 18+ ! you will be blocked.
guidelines <- please read
bucky barnes - (marvel)
a mutually assured attachment: masterlist [angst-ish, fluff]
chapter two from through the fences.
pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader
word count: 5.8k
summary: an instant attraction gets in the way of eddie's aim: remain anonymous. you could prove further trouble when he learns the system he's trying to escape is closely linked to your world.
content warnings: 18+ minors dni: suggestive & mature themes, lust at first sight, smutty but primarily implied intimacy, use of nicknames / pet names, adult language, slight daddy issues (on both sides lol), reader is kinda a brat and eddie is very much into it, also includes: mentions of physical violence, references to breaking the law, terrible knowledge of the american legal system, food consumption — if i missed anything, pls let me know!
psa: images used in the header don’t depict readers physical attributes!
a/n: sorry ive been mia <3 turns out kids do actually grow really fast and when they go from babies to a toddler, life can turn into a giant hamster wheel that you cannot stop. thank you for being patient while i focus first on being a mom <3
Morning light peeks through a gap in the heavy, beige curtains, and Eddie stirs awake from a surprisingly deep slumber.
When was the last time he slept this well? He truly can’t remember. Sleepless nights, then waking with the sun is the brunette’s norm. His day-to-day life in Hawkins doesn’t allow for much else. A day shift at the shop, fixing cars he can’t afford, then an evening that blends into night at The Hideout for various cash under the table gigs: bartender, security, janitor, musician, whatever.
His ring-clad fingers rub along the duvet. Fuck, if he’s lucky enough to find a more permanent place to stay, and some cash to burn, he will get himself some of these Egyptian cotton sheets. He finally understands why you were raving about them last night.
“Five-hundred thread count,” your voice a mere whisper.
“We could be fucking under a fleece blanket, baby. I really don’t give a shit.”
And he meant every word, but as sunlight envelops your bedroom, even Eddie can’t deny, wrapped in your white duvet, with your naked frame pressed into his side, he slept like a fucking god.
Sporting a semi from the mere memory of last night, Eddie eventually opens his eyes, only to find there’s no one else under the soft covers with him. You’re gone.
Not a rare occurrence, waking up alone, yet — without sounding overly cocky — it doesn’t happen often when he’s in someone else’s bed. Usually, Eddie needs to use pre-planned excuses like they’re items on a grocery list just so he can get away. Work being number one, an errand for Wayne a close second.
He wanted to do the same this morning. Treat this as any other one night stand, except this time around, the real reasons for his quick escape would have to remain a secret. Really, he should be grateful you’re not here. He won’t have to explain himself. However, what the brunette feels, is the opposite of relief.
Double standards, or whatever, but one could say he’s a little hurt.
Still, Eddie shakes it off because this… thing, with you is only supposed to be a one time deal. A body to distract him from the shit he’s trying to escape, a bed to sleep in before figuring out what the fuck he should do next.
After making his way down the marble staircase, sliding his worn, leather belt through the last loop, Eddie allows himself to look around. Last night, his sole focus was you. He didn’t really care how or where, he just wanted you underneath him. Mission accomplished. Now, with you nowhere to be seen, he’s in the clear to snoop a little. Who knows, maybe your pretty, rich ass has some cash laying around. Money that you clearly don’t need.
Daylight gives your apartment a different feel. Oddly, edging on eerie. Despite the open layout of the entrance hall and living area, the astonishing amount of red (plush sofas, big armchairs), and the dark wood tones that compliment the insane view of the city skyline, the place feels slightly haunted — like the walls carry secrets of their own.
His attention shifts to the collection of golden frames on top of a credenza. The majority of photographs feature a beautiful woman, oozing elegance even through the camera lense. He assumes she’s your mom, so the man featured in a handful of the pictures — older than her, poised and straight faced — must be your dad. Eddie notices how there’s only one frame of you (graduation cap on your head, diploma in hand), and his heart clenches.
Staring at your practiced smile, lost a little in his own head, he thinks that perhaps the two of you aren’t as dissimilar as he initially assumed. Clearly, you live a very privileged life, yet there’s very little, from what he’s witnessed so far, to indicate any sort of fulfilment. Eddie can relate.
For a moment, he considers running back upstairs and sliding into the bed he abandoned minutes ago. He considers waiting until you inevitably return, and considers kissing you again. Images flash before his eyes of possible conversations, of learning more about you. Bonding. And just as this fantasy — because Eddie knows it can never be more — forms in his mind, colouring his dark soul in a vibrant hue, he hears it.
The voice static: a television presenter. His feet carry him towards the sound with urgency, borderline panic, as his ears perk for any mention of his name, the trailer park, Rick, Steve… anything.
‘This morning’s top story. Our team is on the ground in Hawkins, Indiana, after a series of home invasions ended in a violent attack on a local hero. Lois Bright is live with the details. Over to you, Lois.’
‘Thank you, Peter. I’m here in Hawkins, Indiana, where folks are on edge, asking how could this happen in their peaceful town?’
Eddie’s hands are shaking. Maybe his entire body is too, he’s not sure. His mind is elsewhere.
‘The local Sheriff’s Office began receiving reports of break-ins five months ago, but with no leads, no viable suspects, and limited resources, their hands were tied.’
Pushing a door open, heart is in his throat, Eddie stops short when he sees you. Luckily, you’re not watching the TV that’s playing in the corner, you don’t even seem to be listening, your back is to him as you pour yourself a cup of dark coffee. A blush-pink robe hides your frame and Eddie needs a second to remind himself why the fuck he’s just rushed into a kitchen the size of Wayne’s entire trailer.
His gaze snaps to the news broadcast. Footage of his hometown grace the screen and for the first time since he ran from trouble, he feels sick to his stomach.
‘Two days ago, local hero and candidate for Mayor, Jason Carver, arrived at the hospital badly beaten, with no recollection of how he got in such a state. Officials say the incident is tied to the recent string of home invasions and are asking for anyone that may have seen Mr. Carver on Thursday evening to come forward. Back to you in the studio.’
Calling Carver a ‘local hero’ is fucking twisted, considering the real circumstances surrounding that night, but Eddie doesn’t want to think about that now. He made his choice to run away and take the truth along with him, so needs to focus on leaving here, then keep running since apparently New York isn’t far enough.
The TV flickers off and when he turns to look at you once more, your gaze is already on him. Porcelain cup in hand, you eye him with suspicion and Eddie swallows. Did he miss the part of the newscast where they said his name? Oh hell, he’s such a fucking idiot for not using a fake one when he introduced himself in the taxi.
“Leaving so soon?” Your tone is playful, but his nerves don’t ease. If anything, he straightens, tightening the grip he has on the strap of his rucksack.
“I don’t want to interfere with your day.” At least this sentiment is honest.
There’s a beat of silence during which Eddie wonders if perhaps you’ve already called the cops and this is you stalling. He’s beyond fucked if that’s the case. They’ll lock him up and throw away the key because he’s a coward.
If they arrest him, he won’t get a chance to explain his side of the story, and that would be his own dumb fault. He needs to get a grip and just walk away. It’s honestly quite simple. Say goodbye, dipshit.
“You haven’t even had breakfast,” you say, placing the cup down before rounding the kitchen island.
Fingers trail along the tiled countertop as you walk towards him, your eyes glued to his browns the entire time. Eddie swallows again, like a giant dweeb, heart hammering behind his ribcage — for different reasons than minutes prior.
“I uh… I’m not hungry,” he lies and whether you believe him, the brunette can’t tell.
One hand still on the countertop, you reach for his bicep with the other, slowly walking your fingers towards the strap of his bag. A shiver runs down his spine, but he tries not to show the effect you have on him because it’s stupid. He shouldn’t be this gone for a girl he’s barely met, one that may have potentially outed his location to the police — even if the girl is as goddamn pretty as you.
“Well, you’ll upset Magda if you go. She’s tried really hard,” you tell him, pouting slightly, lashes fluttering. “She’s got it all set up in the dining room.”
And just as Eddie is about to ask, ‘who the fuck is Magda’, a door on the other side of the kitchen opens and a woman, wearing an old-fashioned maid uniform, walks in. She clocks the brunette immediately, but does nothing to acknowledge his presence, as if this is a regular occurrence. Naturally, Eddie can’t help but wonder just how many guys you bring home and invite for breakfast, and something akin to jealousy washes over him.
He straightens his spine, like those pretentious alpha douchebags he hates, and takes an unnecessary step towards you. One hand lands on the small of your back almost instinctively, and this whole split-second show earns him a brief, questioning glance from under your lashes.
“The table ready, Miss Kitty,” the woman says in a thick accent. Eastern European, if Eddie had to guess.
“Thank you, Magda.”
His head tips from the maid to you, taking in your polite smile and slightly overanalysing the way you haven’t moved away from him, even underneath Magda’s increasingly narrowing gaze. Actually, you may have even pushed further into his tightening hold. Are you this affectionate with the other guys who frequent your kitchen? Fuck it. If he’s going down, he may as well get one last good meal out of his freedom.
“Kitty?” Eddie asks, curious.
You look back at him and nod, but before you get a chance to properly answer, it’s Magda who chimes.
“Miss Kitty obsessed with cats as child. She scratch and meow until she get what she want.”
Eddie can’t help the smirk that appears on his face. The expression grows more amused when you frown, clearly unamused, and turn to Magda.
“Yes, such a lovely trip down memory lane. Thank you, Magda.” You plaster on a smile, clearly a fake one. Something Eddie imagines you’ve perfected over the years. “We’ll manage from here,” you add.
Magda tips her head and disappears without another word, and Eddie snorts.
“What was it you said last night about making assumptions, Carrington?” He teases.
Rolling your eyes, you drop your hold on him and shove past without another word. Still smiling like an idiot, Eddie follows because he can’t help himself. It’s like you bewitched him — you confirm so later, teasing how your souls are tied, but he’s reluctant to believe in that voodoo shit (even though, by that point in time, he probably should).
The dining room table is set with enough food to feed a family of six and he’s instantly salivating. Running on a post-sex haze and an abundance of nerves, Eddie didn’t realise just how hungry he actually is. Starving, actually. Which is unsurprising considering he didn’t finish the burger last night and the meal he had prior was a stale sandwich.
Dropping his bag to the floor, he sits and after stealing one last glance in your direction, seeking permission or whatever, he begins to plate his breakfast. Scrambled eggs, an array of cold cuts and cheeses, jars of different flavours of jam, and freshly-baked bread. He ignores the sliced vegetables because Wayne isn’t here to tell him otherwise, then thinks of his uncle, heart clenching. He should probably call, give the old man a sign of life, but that would defeat the purpose of running away.
You must notice the solemn expression he fails to hide because you break the momentary silence with a question he really hoped wouldn’t come to your mind.
“So, is Hawkins where you’re running from?”
His gaze snaps to where you’re sitting, but your focus is on meticulously buttering a slice of bread.
“The news broadcast seemed to catch your attention,” you add, completely nonchalant, as if you didn’t just throw a match into a burning fire.
“No,” he lies and you look up at him, perhaps sensing the untruth.
It’s brief, the eye contact. For a total of thirty-four seconds — yes, he’s counting — you take in his expression. Eddie hopes it’s unreadable, or at least innocent enough to warrant a swift change of subject. When your lashes flutter, disarming, and your lips tip into a soft smile, he relaxes.
You bring the slice of bread to your mouth, snagging Eddie’s wide gaze to where the carb disappears. He inadvertently slides his tongue along his own bottom lip, then smirks. You’re trouble. He has sensed this since the very second he heard your laugh, saw your face. Seems he’s a magnet for that sort of thing and this breakfast should end before it begins because, truly, he can’t afford the hassle.
Yet, he remains seated. His ass stays glued to the pricey chair because some odd sensation inside of him — and the mischievous glint in your eyes when he looks up to meet them once more — says you’re worth the risk. And as the thought settles in his mind, a feeling of pure disbelief washes over him.
He’s not that type of guy. Relationships and shit are not his forte, and girls are a dime a dozen. He adheres to a very strict rule of grab and go. He should be clinging to that by-law now more than ever. Especially as you continue to ask him questions: why New York, what’s his plan while he’s here, does he have a job lined up, etc.
His answers remain vague, but you’re not easily deterred. If anything, his lack of forwardness only seems to fuel your resolve. Are you this chatty with all the guys you bring home, or is this interest only reserved for him? And because he’s a twisted, weird psycho, one that is way too interested in a girl he’s only just met, he’s hoping it’s the latter.
“Do you have any siblings?”
“No,” he answers. “Just little ol’ me.”
“Same here,” you tell him, melancholy slipping into your tone, and Eddie remembers the frames in the living room.
“What do your parents do for work?” It’s his turn to ask a question.
“Philantropy, mainly. My mom heads a nonprofit for at-risk youth, although her main source of income is the various restaurants and nightclubs my grandparents own across the country. Safe to say it’s not really work, but I’d be a hypocrite to point that out since it’s also how I make my money.”
Eddie gets the feeling you’d like to do something different, but he doesn’t push to find out. Not this time, anyway.
“My dad on the other hand is a SAC.”
“A sack of what?” He wonders, thinking that perhaps you’re not a fan of your dad.
Maybe he’s the type of guy to mooch off his rich wife and still hand out orders. His own old man was like that. Not like his parents had any money to begin with, but his sperm donor chose the sofa over working, yet still decided where the cash his mom brought home went: alcohol. It was always alcohol.
You let out a poorly stifled giggle.
“No, Eddie. A SAC, not a sack,” you correct, but he still can’t tell the difference.
In hindsight, he should’ve stopped the conversation there. Instead, he watches you quickly disappear behind a door on the other side of the room. When you return, there’s a frame in your grasp that you give him before sitting back down.
It’s a headshot of your dad. The American flag behind his broad shoulders and carved into a plaque, at the bottom of the picture, is his name, plus…
“Special Agent in Charge,” you say. “SAC.”
Oh. Oh.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. You didn’t call the cops, your dad is the cop. An officer of the law. A fucking FBI agent, and an important one at that.
His body stills while his thoughts run wild, considering viable options for what the hell he’s going to do next. God, he’s such an idiot. He should’ve scrammed when he had the chance, but instead he got hooked on your pretty face, your sultry voice, and the promise of a home-cooked meal. Idiot.
If Eddie leaves now, after finding out what your old man does for work, it’ll be even more obvious that he’s hiding something. Very few innocent people run at the mere mention of the police — and yes, he understands his privilege in this particular case.
None of that matters anyway because you seem to notice something different in his lack of reaction, before you place your slice of bread down and raise a perfectly shaped brow in his direction.
“So, you really are on the run, huh?”
Just kill him. Eddie is slowly learning how perceptive you actually are, which must be a genetic thing, a skill you picked up while living under the same roof as an FBI agent. Either way, he’s screwed (and not in the way he likes to be).
“Don’t worry,” you quickly chime, “I won’t tell my dad. He’s currently not in the city, and even if he was, we’re not really that close.”
Eddie swallows. “Close enough to tell him the guy you fooled around with is a uh—”
“Criminal?” You finish for him, and to further prove just how much of an idiot he actually is, Eddie nods.
One, slow bop of his head as he holds your gaze and waits for a reaction. The one he gets surprises him. Like everything else about you.
“Unless you kidnapped and murdered someone, I think I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
And then the corners of your lips twitch. For a few beats, he’s shell shocked. He also can’t tell if you’re joking, but the longer you look at him, eyes twinkling mischievously, the more likely it becomes that you’re really being honest. He’s actually safe with you.
“What gave me away?” Eddie dares ask.
You shrug, your soft smile turning into an expression of pure know-all.
“The scarf.”
“Are you serious?”
“Well, Eddie, not a lot of people would buy anything Hermés and then leave it behind somewhere,” you tell him. “The rich don’t stay rich by constantly losing their expensive items. Whatever we purchase, we take care of.”
He groans, blinking up at the ceiling for a minute. Oddly, your explanation makes sense, but who knew the bandana, scarf thing he nicked was some designer shit? Not him.
“It’s still tied to my bedpost, by the way.”
Snorting a laugh, he glances back at you. The prettiest face he’s ever seen happens to stun him further, with ease, and he is scared shitless.
“Keep it,” he says. “It looked good on you.”
The silence that follows is charged, but neither of you make any attempt to break it. As if you both realise things can’t go further than the night you spent together, than this breakfast. The lives you two lead are vastly different and even if you’ll willingly keep his secrets, he doesn’t want to put you in that position in the first place. Especially not with your family.
This whole thing is over before it ever really began and that’s good. Eddie wanted it to end. He’s getting what he wants.
“Full of mystery, aren’t you?”
“That’s by design.” Eddie says, hoping the sentence comes off as a tease, and not a desperate attempt to steer himself back on course.
You huff, clearly unfamiliar with the people around you setting boundaries, and he lets himself wink in your direction, enjoying this game you’ve both engaged in a little too much and his chest aches at the thought of it ending prematurely.
“I’ll break you yet,” you mumble, but it’s lighthearted, and Eddie can’t help the chuckle that escapes his throat.
There’s not many people in Eddie’s life who bounce off him the way you seem to. Taking each tease with stride and not as an insult, throwing your own jokes back in humour and not to hurt him…
Thinking about you this way, he immediately drops his head, focusing on the plate before him instead of the thoughts boxing inside his brain. Frustration bubbles beneath the surface. What is this weird hold you’ve got on him? How come he has to break free? He sure as hell doesn’t want to, but he sees no other choice.
Slowly, he lifts a fork and digs at a piece of egg, metal scratching against porcelain.
“If memory serves, I’m the one who broke you.” Eddie says, seemingly unable to help himself.
Brown eyes remain everywhere but your face because he might do something he’ll further regret. Something like leap over all of this food and kiss you breathless. Something like make his mouth work downwards, until he’s hidden under the tablecloth, truly enjoying his breakfast.
He hears you scoff.
“Perhaps they don’t teach manners wherever you’re from,” you begin.
“You brought up the Herbert bandana,” he interjects quickly, but you ignore him.
“It is really quite rude to talk about sex at the table. I think you should apologise.”
And it’s his turn to scoff, shake his head slightly as if to answer your ridiculous request. He’s sure as shit not saying sorry because not one inch of him is. The joke, the sex. All far too enjoyable to apologise for and you’ve got to be out of your mind if you think he’ll bend the knee.
When another, this time expectant, silence stretches across the entire room, he eventually looks in your direction again. There’s a big smile on your face. Beautiful. Unrehearsed. Perhaps the first honest smile you’ve given him. One he wasn’t expecting to see, yet one he returns almost immediately.
“You’re only playing into my assumptions, Carrington.”
You shrug the comment off, quite unlike the behaviour he’s witnessed from you so far, and in the blink of an eye, you’re pushing to stand. He’s watching you round the table, an airy bounce in your step, until you stop at his side. Taller than him for once, and only because he’s sitting, you bow and kiss him without warning. Lush, eager.
Eddie takes a second to register what’s suddenly happening, then pulls you into his lap because he can and he wants to savour every moment he’s free to do what he wants. And when you giggle against his parted lips, fingers tangling in his messy locks, the battle inside his mind ends. He’s one-hundred percent decided on his next move.
He needs to leave.
There’s a pressure building behind his ribcage that he’s never experienced before and he’ll be damned if the first girl he’s given any sort of damn about ends up in trouble for his crimes. He may have only known you a few hours, but under different circumstances, the pull he feels would be undoubtedly worth exploring. There’s something here, between you. Something he doesn’t want to sacrifice.
Maybe in another life, if he wasn’t on the run from the law. If Jason fucking Carver wasn’t in a hospital bed because of actions they both committed. If Eddie wasn’t a fucking criminal, maybe he’d be worthy of a girl like you. Until then, he has to leave.
Which is exactly what he does.
After breakfast, after… dessert, he kisses you one last time and walks out following a goodbye he hopes he’ll be able to keep. You don’t push him to stay — which is its own torment because now he thinks this thing he thinks is shared, is actually all in his head.
Nevertheless, New York is a big city and he’s a big boy. He’ll forget about the girl who saved him a night on the streets. The girl who offered her bed, the girl that fed him the best damn breakfast he’s ever had (even if she didn’t cook it herself). The girl who shoved a couple hundred bucks into the back pocket of his jeans when she hugged him goodbye.
The girl who said she’ll keep his secrets.
Normally, you’re not one to lament over a boy, but watching Eddie Munson walk out of your apartment undid something within you. A latch you closed over your heart is dented, pumping blood into the organ in a way you’re not overly familiar with.
(And yes, you confirmed the brunette gave you his real name before he left. For a man on the run, he really does seem to have terrible self-preservation skills.)
The plan has always been relatively simple. Find a guy your parents will accept, marry him before you turn twenty-five, and gain access to your entire trust fund. Everything in between is irrelevant; especially the feelings aspect of things.
Sure, you let yourself imagine falling in love for real with the person you end up tying the knot with, because that would be the best of both worlds, but you’re not a complete idiot. The only guys you’ve ever found remotely interesting were the ones you couldn’t actually end up with. Case in point: Eddie.
The brunette’s entrance into your life has been unexpected to say the least, especially the effect his presence — and now departure — seems to hold over you. When you first saw him last night, all you really had in mind was a quick fuck. Zero strings, just a little harmless fun. Not even twenty-four hours have passed since your chance encounter and you find yourself singing a completely different tune.
Too bad nothing can come of it — for reasons far greater than the ol’ trust fund situation.
Eddie is a criminal. He admitted so during breakfast and despite not knowing the full story, the title he branded himself with is enough to stop the bus you two have found yourselves on.
However, you meant what you said. You won’t tell another soul, especially not your FBI agent dad. What Eddie has done up until this point is his prerogative and you’re not one to judge a book by its cover. Besides, your dad has bigger fish to fry than a cute brunette stealing Hermés scarves. For one, the whole debacle in that small town, Hawkins, which is currently all over the news.
Your latest one-night stand also seemed interested by the broadcast, and you initially jotted his reaction down to curiosity, but the coincidences are clear. Eddie arrives in New York a few hours before the story breaks with nothing but a backpack and a scared expression on his face? He’s also a terrible liar, but that might be your own observation skills at play.
Honestly, you wish he told you a little more about the events that brought him here, but you understand his reservations. You also understand the need to let him go — even if everything inside of you screams to hold on.
The sense of longing you’re experiencing as you lock the door behind Eddie is unfamiliar and unfair. You swear you can still feel his arms around you; ring-clad fingers digging into your flesh, pulling you close. A shiver runs down your spine and you’re forced to stop half-way up the staircase to shake the feeling off.
By the time you’re ready to tackle the day, you’ve already relived the night prior over ten times. Psychotic, honestly. You’re not some lovesick fool, unable to unhook yourself from the metaphorical leash the bad boy has put you on. He talked about girls like that, momentarily compared you to one before you set the tone for your intentions. But no matter how many times you tell yourself to “get a grip”, you can’t shake the sound of his voice ringing in your ears.
You also can’t shake the feeling something bad will happen to him.
He’s an adult, yes. He can undoubtedly take care of himself, possibly possess some survival skills, otherwise he wouldn’t have gone on the run in the first place. Then again, New York City can be bleak and unwelcoming to strangers. Its vast landscape can be hard to navigate, especially in the winter months (November is only around the corner).
However, since you’re not a complete stalker, you keep your distance.
Working becomes a good distraction from the worry inside your chest and the memories you can’t control, flashing images of Eddie’s body hovering over yours as he trails sloppy kisses down your neck. Frankly, you’ve never taken on as much as you do over the next thirty-odd days just to keep your brain occupied.
There’s a certain amount of work you take on over a month, usually accompanied by a trip or two out of the country. However, during the weeks between October and November, you: write a column for BLITZ and Cosmopolitan (each), actively help your mother with the planning of her upcoming Thanksgiving luncheon, and attend staff meetings of the restaurant you’re technically managing. You also take back some of the tasks you’ve previously delegated to your mother’s assistant, further adding to the shock of those around you. Then, there’s the business award show you agreed to present at the last minute — a stand-in for some actress who pulled out following her own, personal scandal — and the Good Morning America segment you sign up to do about ‘Best Places to Eat in New York’.
People notice this change in your work ethic. Friends call, wondering when you’ll go out with them again, if that trip to Mexico is still happening. Grandmother Judith threatens to call the family doctor and arrange a CT scan in case you hit your head, in case you are concussed. You tell them all you’ve simply turned over a new leaf and for the most part, they seem to believe you.
The boring dates unfortunately also resume and every time you go out with a guy named Michael, John, or Frank, you want to bang your head against any brick wall. During those dinners, Eddie’s presence feels heightened, like a ghost of hookups past. He’s mocking the other guy you’re with, teasing the assumption he’s made about you, and telling you the dress you’re wearing is wasted on tonight.
But it’s not your longing that matters. It’s your worry.
You wonder if he’s been caught, if the police arrested him for whatever he’s done — and the more you hear about Hawkins from your dad, the more you believe the connection. Shit.
You also wonder if Eddie’s been conned yet. Swindled from the money he doesn’t have and left behind on the street because he can no longer afford a roof over his head. What will he do then? Seduce another girl, just so he can get a good night's sleep? Jealousy rears its ugly head at the thought.
The list of reasons why he shouldn’t be alone out there quickly outweighs your better judgement, and you do what you tell yourself any good-natured human would: look out for him. Something tells you no one has ever done that for Eddie before.
Over the following few days, you put out feelers around the city, inadvertently asking for a tall brunette in his early to mid twenties that goes by any name beginning with E — since you doubt he’d stray too far from his own.
Considering you know anyone who knows anyone, and the fact your grandparents own a number of locales around the city (including the one you manage), it doesn’t take long for information to find its way back to you. What odd jobs he’s taken, which dingy motel he’s chosen for the night, who are the people he’s met along the way.
Where he’s working now.
Eddie also tries his best to forget, but he doesn’t. He thinks about you every day for thirty-three days — a worthy distraction from his real problems.
He can’t seem to keep a steady cash flow, getting fired before the week ends or just quitting out of fear he’s getting too comfortable in one spot, revealing too much. The motels that stink of various bodily fluids also add to his growing discomfort. At night, when he closes his eyes, the springs from the mattress digging into his spine, he dreams of your Egyptian cotton sheets. He dreams of you.
The story from his hometown continues to make rounds. Luckily, Eddie’s name seems to be in the clear. The press coverage alludes to out of towners being the current, sole focus of the investigation, and from what he understands, Jason is still saying he doesn’t remember what happened that night.
On dark days, Eddie thinks about going home, especially since he still hasn’t talked to Wayne and that hurts the most. He thinks about apologising to his uncle and forgetting the last month of his miserable existence , acting as if it didn’t happen. But that would mean he never met you, and he can’t fathom living a life without the minuscule possibility of running into you again — which is fucked, considering all of the reasons he left you that morning.
His torment is about to enter day thirty-four, and just as the clock strikes midnight, Eddie hears it.
Laughter. Your laughter, to be more precise.
Ring-clad fingers twist into the dishtowel he’s using to wipe down the wooden bar. Surely, he’s just imagining it. The bass of the speaker makes the floor shake, the walls vibrate. The chatter increases in volume with every drop of alcohol these people consume. There’s no way he’d hear anything true over these vibrations.
But when a hand lands in his field of vision — perfectly manicured nails wielding a hundred-dollar bill — his heart jumps to his throat. No fucking way, he thinks while swallowing the growing lump, and looks up quickly.
There you are. Smiling like you recognise him, like you’ve been searching high and low to find him again.
Time seems to come to a standstill for a few beats. You’re the one to break the spell you put him under when you lean over the bar, reach for his white, alcohol-stained shirt, and pull him in your direction.
“Of all the nightclubs in all the towns in all the world,” you begin with a flirty smile, eyes scanning his entire face like they’re searching for clues as to where he’s been for the past month. “She walks into yours.”
Something tells him you’ve known how and where to find him this entire time, and it should be enough to make him feel uneasy. For the alarm bells to go off. They don’t. Instead, he jumps over the bar with ease and plants his mouth on yours, claiming.
Eddie has fucked off the rules more than he can count, so why start following them now?
i do NOT consent for my works to be fed to ai agents. i also do NOT consent to them being copied or reposted in any way, here or on any other site. this tumblr account is the only place i post my works.
as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3
🌟mal's rambling corner aka extra context / content
- the description of the apartment is very much so inspired by the image in the header (found on Pinterest, because of course it was)
- magda is not so subtly supposed to be dorota from gossip girl
- i literally do not know anything about the american legal system (as stated in the cw's) so most of the legal/law enforcement parts are embellished by what i've seen on tv aka just pretend pls
- BLITZ is an actual magazine; i spent way too much time on finding one jskjsk
- "of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine", is the original, full quote from casablanca and the scene in which it's said inspired this little part of this chapter
story masterlist
some super cool people that expressed interest in this story way back when (& have been so patient while i figured my shit out): @probablyin-bed @kellsck @micheledawn1975 @slutforpumpkins @taylorswiftsloverr @leelei1980 @whitakerstorm @yabrokrispy
chapter two from through the fences.
pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader
word count: 5.8k
summary: an instant attraction gets in the way of eddie's aim: remain anonymous. you could prove further trouble when he learns the system he's trying to escape is closely linked to your world.
content warnings: 18+ minors dni: suggestive & mature themes, lust at first sight, smutty but primarily implied intimacy, use of nicknames / pet names, adult language, slight daddy issues (on both sides lol), reader is kinda a brat and eddie is very much into it, also includes: mentions of physical violence, references to breaking the law, terrible knowledge of the american legal system, food consumption — if i missed anything, pls let me know!
psa: images used in the header don’t depict readers physical attributes!
a/n: sorry ive been mia <3 turns out kids do actually grow really fast and when they go from babies to a toddler, life can turn into a giant hamster wheel that you cannot stop. thank you for being patient while i focus first on being a mom <3
Morning light peeks through a gap in the heavy, beige curtains, and Eddie stirs awake from a surprisingly deep slumber.
When was the last time he slept this well? He truly can’t remember. Sleepless nights, then waking with the sun is the brunette’s norm. His day-to-day life in Hawkins doesn’t allow for much else. A day shift at the shop, fixing cars he can’t afford, then an evening that blends into night at The Hideout for various cash under the table gigs: bartender, security, janitor, musician, whatever.
His ring-clad fingers rub along the duvet. Fuck, if he’s lucky enough to find a more permanent place to stay, and some cash to burn, he will get himself some of these Egyptian cotton sheets. He finally understands why you were raving about them last night.
“Five-hundred thread count,” your voice a mere whisper.
“We could be fucking under a fleece blanket, baby. I really don’t give a shit.”
And he meant every word, but as sunlight envelops your bedroom, even Eddie can’t deny, wrapped in your white duvet, with your naked frame pressed into his side, he slept like a fucking god.
Sporting a semi from the mere memory of last night, Eddie eventually opens his eyes, only to find there’s no one else under the soft covers with him. You’re gone.
Not a rare occurrence, waking up alone, yet — without sounding overly cocky — it doesn’t happen often when he’s in someone else’s bed. Usually, Eddie needs to use pre-planned excuses like they’re items on a grocery list just so he can get away. Work being number one, an errand for Wayne a close second.
He wanted to do the same this morning. Treat this as any other one night stand, except this time around, the real reasons for his quick escape would have to remain a secret. Really, he should be grateful you’re not here. He won’t have to explain himself. However, what the brunette feels, is the opposite of relief.
Double standards, or whatever, but one could say he’s a little hurt.
Still, Eddie shakes it off because this… thing, with you is only supposed to be a one time deal. A body to distract him from the shit he’s trying to escape, a bed to sleep in before figuring out what the fuck he should do next.
After making his way down the marble staircase, sliding his worn, leather belt through the last loop, Eddie allows himself to look around. Last night, his sole focus was you. He didn’t really care how or where, he just wanted you underneath him. Mission accomplished. Now, with you nowhere to be seen, he’s in the clear to snoop a little. Who knows, maybe your pretty, rich ass has some cash laying around. Money that you clearly don’t need.
Daylight gives your apartment a different feel. Oddly, edging on eerie. Despite the open layout of the entrance hall and living area, the astonishing amount of red (plush sofas, big armchairs), and the dark wood tones that compliment the insane view of the city skyline, the place feels slightly haunted — like the walls carry secrets of their own.
His attention shifts to the collection of golden frames on top of a credenza. The majority of photographs feature a beautiful woman, oozing elegance even through the camera lense. He assumes she’s your mom, so the man featured in a handful of the pictures — older than her, poised and straight faced — must be your dad. Eddie notices how there’s only one frame of you (graduation cap on your head, diploma in hand), and his heart clenches.
Staring at your practiced smile, lost a little in his own head, he thinks that perhaps the two of you aren’t as dissimilar as he initially assumed. Clearly, you live a very privileged life, yet there’s very little, from what he’s witnessed so far, to indicate any sort of fulfilment. Eddie can relate.
For a moment, he considers running back upstairs and sliding into the bed he abandoned minutes ago. He considers waiting until you inevitably return, and considers kissing you again. Images flash before his eyes of possible conversations, of learning more about you. Bonding. And just as this fantasy — because Eddie knows it can never be more — forms in his mind, colouring his dark soul in a vibrant hue, he hears it.
The voice static: a television presenter. His feet carry him towards the sound with urgency, borderline panic, as his ears perk for any mention of his name, the trailer park, Rick, Steve… anything.
‘This morning’s top story. Our team is on the ground in Hawkins, Indiana, after a series of home invasions ended in a violent attack on a local hero. Lois Bright is live with the details. Over to you, Lois.’
‘Thank you, Peter. I’m here in Hawkins, Indiana, where folks are on edge, asking how could this happen in their peaceful town?’
Eddie’s hands are shaking. Maybe his entire body is too, he’s not sure. His mind is elsewhere.
‘The local Sheriff’s Office began receiving reports of break-ins five months ago, but with no leads, no viable suspects, and limited resources, their hands were tied.’
Pushing a door open, heart is in his throat, Eddie stops short when he sees you. Luckily, you’re not watching the TV that’s playing in the corner, you don’t even seem to be listening, your back is to him as you pour yourself a cup of dark coffee. A blush-pink robe hides your frame and Eddie needs a second to remind himself why the fuck he’s just rushed into a kitchen the size of Wayne’s entire trailer.
His gaze snaps to the news broadcast. Footage of his hometown grace the screen and for the first time since he ran from trouble, he feels sick to his stomach.
‘Two days ago, local hero and candidate for Mayor, Jason Carver, arrived at the hospital badly beaten, with no recollection of how he got in such a state. Officials say the incident is tied to the recent string of home invasions and are asking for anyone that may have seen Mr. Carver on Thursday evening to come forward. Back to you in the studio.’
Calling Carver a ‘local hero’ is fucking twisted, considering the real circumstances surrounding that night, but Eddie doesn’t want to think about that now. He made his choice to run away and take the truth along with him, so needs to focus on leaving here, then keep running since apparently New York isn’t far enough.
The TV flickers off and when he turns to look at you once more, your gaze is already on him. Porcelain cup in hand, you eye him with suspicion and Eddie swallows. Did he miss the part of the newscast where they said his name? Oh hell, he’s such a fucking idiot for not using a fake one when he introduced himself in the taxi.
“Leaving so soon?” Your tone is playful, but his nerves don’t ease. If anything, he straightens, tightening the grip he has on the strap of his rucksack.
“I don’t want to interfere with your day.” At least this sentiment is honest.
There’s a beat of silence during which Eddie wonders if perhaps you’ve already called the cops and this is you stalling. He’s beyond fucked if that’s the case. They’ll lock him up and throw away the key because he’s a coward.
If they arrest him, he won’t get a chance to explain his side of the story, and that would be his own dumb fault. He needs to get a grip and just walk away. It’s honestly quite simple. Say goodbye, dipshit.
“You haven’t even had breakfast,” you say, placing the cup down before rounding the kitchen island.
Fingers trail along the tiled countertop as you walk towards him, your eyes glued to his browns the entire time. Eddie swallows again, like a giant dweeb, heart hammering behind his ribcage — for different reasons than minutes prior.
“I uh… I’m not hungry,” he lies and whether you believe him, the brunette can’t tell.
One hand still on the countertop, you reach for his bicep with the other, slowly walking your fingers towards the strap of his bag. A shiver runs down his spine, but he tries not to show the effect you have on him because it’s stupid. He shouldn’t be this gone for a girl he’s barely met, one that may have potentially outed his location to the police — even if the girl is as goddamn pretty as you.
“Well, you’ll upset Magda if you go. She’s tried really hard,” you tell him, pouting slightly, lashes fluttering. “She’s got it all set up in the dining room.”
And just as Eddie is about to ask, ‘who the fuck is Magda’, a door on the other side of the kitchen opens and a woman, wearing an old-fashioned maid uniform, walks in. She clocks the brunette immediately, but does nothing to acknowledge his presence, as if this is a regular occurrence. Naturally, Eddie can’t help but wonder just how many guys you bring home and invite for breakfast, and something akin to jealousy washes over him.
He straightens his spine, like those pretentious alpha douchebags he hates, and takes an unnecessary step towards you. One hand lands on the small of your back almost instinctively, and this whole split-second show earns him a brief, questioning glance from under your lashes.
“The table ready, Miss Kitty,” the woman says in a thick accent. Eastern European, if Eddie had to guess.
“Thank you, Magda.”
His head tips from the maid to you, taking in your polite smile and slightly overanalysing the way you haven’t moved away from him, even underneath Magda’s increasingly narrowing gaze. Actually, you may have even pushed further into his tightening hold. Are you this affectionate with the other guys who frequent your kitchen? Fuck it. If he’s going down, he may as well get one last good meal out of his freedom.
“Kitty?” Eddie asks, curious.
You look back at him and nod, but before you get a chance to properly answer, it’s Magda who chimes.
“Miss Kitty obsessed with cats as child. She scratch and meow until she get what she want.”
Eddie can’t help the smirk that appears on his face. The expression grows more amused when you frown, clearly unamused, and turn to Magda.
“Yes, such a lovely trip down memory lane. Thank you, Magda.” You plaster on a smile, clearly a fake one. Something Eddie imagines you’ve perfected over the years. “We’ll manage from here,” you add.
Magda tips her head and disappears without another word, and Eddie snorts.
“What was it you said last night about making assumptions, Carrington?” He teases.
Rolling your eyes, you drop your hold on him and shove past without another word. Still smiling like an idiot, Eddie follows because he can’t help himself. It’s like you bewitched him — you confirm so later, teasing how your souls are tied, but he’s reluctant to believe in that voodoo shit (even though, by that point in time, he probably should).
The dining room table is set with enough food to feed a family of six and he’s instantly salivating. Running on a post-sex haze and an abundance of nerves, Eddie didn’t realise just how hungry he actually is. Starving, actually. Which is unsurprising considering he didn’t finish the burger last night and the meal he had prior was a stale sandwich.
Dropping his bag to the floor, he sits and after stealing one last glance in your direction, seeking permission or whatever, he begins to plate his breakfast. Scrambled eggs, an array of cold cuts and cheeses, jars of different flavours of jam, and freshly-baked bread. He ignores the sliced vegetables because Wayne isn’t here to tell him otherwise, then thinks of his uncle, heart clenching. He should probably call, give the old man a sign of life, but that would defeat the purpose of running away.
You must notice the solemn expression he fails to hide because you break the momentary silence with a question he really hoped wouldn’t come to your mind.
“So, is Hawkins where you’re running from?”
His gaze snaps to where you’re sitting, but your focus is on meticulously buttering a slice of bread.
“The news broadcast seemed to catch your attention,” you add, completely nonchalant, as if you didn’t just throw a match into a burning fire.
“No,” he lies and you look up at him, perhaps sensing the untruth.
It’s brief, the eye contact. For a total of thirty-four seconds — yes, he’s counting — you take in his expression. Eddie hopes it’s unreadable, or at least innocent enough to warrant a swift change of subject. When your lashes flutter, disarming, and your lips tip into a soft smile, he relaxes.
You bring the slice of bread to your mouth, snagging Eddie’s wide gaze to where the carb disappears. He inadvertently slides his tongue along his own bottom lip, then smirks. You’re trouble. He has sensed this since the very second he heard your laugh, saw your face. Seems he’s a magnet for that sort of thing and this breakfast should end before it begins because, truly, he can’t afford the hassle.
Yet, he remains seated. His ass stays glued to the pricey chair because some odd sensation inside of him — and the mischievous glint in your eyes when he looks up to meet them once more — says you’re worth the risk. And as the thought settles in his mind, a feeling of pure disbelief washes over him.
He’s not that type of guy. Relationships and shit are not his forte, and girls are a dime a dozen. He adheres to a very strict rule of grab and go. He should be clinging to that by-law now more than ever. Especially as you continue to ask him questions: why New York, what’s his plan while he’s here, does he have a job lined up, etc.
His answers remain vague, but you’re not easily deterred. If anything, his lack of forwardness only seems to fuel your resolve. Are you this chatty with all the guys you bring home, or is this interest only reserved for him? And because he’s a twisted, weird psycho, one that is way too interested in a girl he’s only just met, he’s hoping it’s the latter.
“Do you have any siblings?”
“No,” he answers. “Just little ol’ me.”
“Same here,” you tell him, melancholy slipping into your tone, and Eddie remembers the frames in the living room.
“What do your parents do for work?” It’s his turn to ask a question.
“Philantropy, mainly. My mom heads a nonprofit for at-risk youth, although her main source of income is the various restaurants and nightclubs my grandparents own across the country. Safe to say it’s not really work, but I’d be a hypocrite to point that out since it’s also how I make my money.”
Eddie gets the feeling you’d like to do something different, but he doesn’t push to find out. Not this time, anyway.
“My dad on the other hand is a SAC.”
“A sack of what?” He wonders, thinking that perhaps you’re not a fan of your dad.
Maybe he’s the type of guy to mooch off his rich wife and still hand out orders. His own old man was like that. Not like his parents had any money to begin with, but his sperm donor chose the sofa over working, yet still decided where the cash his mom brought home went: alcohol. It was always alcohol.
You let out a poorly stifled giggle.
“No, Eddie. A SAC, not a sack,” you correct, but he still can’t tell the difference.
In hindsight, he should’ve stopped the conversation there. Instead, he watches you quickly disappear behind a door on the other side of the room. When you return, there’s a frame in your grasp that you give him before sitting back down.
It’s a headshot of your dad. The American flag behind his broad shoulders and carved into a plaque, at the bottom of the picture, is his name, plus…
“Special Agent in Charge,” you say. “SAC.”
Oh. Oh.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. You didn’t call the cops, your dad is the cop. An officer of the law. A fucking FBI agent, and an important one at that.
His body stills while his thoughts run wild, considering viable options for what the hell he’s going to do next. God, he’s such an idiot. He should’ve scrammed when he had the chance, but instead he got hooked on your pretty face, your sultry voice, and the promise of a home-cooked meal. Idiot.
If Eddie leaves now, after finding out what your old man does for work, it’ll be even more obvious that he’s hiding something. Very few innocent people run at the mere mention of the police — and yes, he understands his privilege in this particular case.
None of that matters anyway because you seem to notice something different in his lack of reaction, before you place your slice of bread down and raise a perfectly shaped brow in his direction.
“So, you really are on the run, huh?”
Just kill him. Eddie is slowly learning how perceptive you actually are, which must be a genetic thing, a skill you picked up while living under the same roof as an FBI agent. Either way, he’s screwed (and not in the way he likes to be).
“Don’t worry,” you quickly chime, “I won’t tell my dad. He’s currently not in the city, and even if he was, we’re not really that close.”
Eddie swallows. “Close enough to tell him the guy you fooled around with is a uh—”
“Criminal?” You finish for him, and to further prove just how much of an idiot he actually is, Eddie nods.
One, slow bop of his head as he holds your gaze and waits for a reaction. The one he gets surprises him. Like everything else about you.
“Unless you kidnapped and murdered someone, I think I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
And then the corners of your lips twitch. For a few beats, he’s shell shocked. He also can’t tell if you’re joking, but the longer you look at him, eyes twinkling mischievously, the more likely it becomes that you’re really being honest. He’s actually safe with you.
“What gave me away?” Eddie dares ask.
You shrug, your soft smile turning into an expression of pure know-all.
“The scarf.”
“Are you serious?”
“Well, Eddie, not a lot of people would buy anything Hermés and then leave it behind somewhere,” you tell him. “The rich don’t stay rich by constantly losing their expensive items. Whatever we purchase, we take care of.”
He groans, blinking up at the ceiling for a minute. Oddly, your explanation makes sense, but who knew the bandana, scarf thing he nicked was some designer shit? Not him.
“It’s still tied to my bedpost, by the way.”
Snorting a laugh, he glances back at you. The prettiest face he’s ever seen happens to stun him further, with ease, and he is scared shitless.
“Keep it,” he says. “It looked good on you.”
The silence that follows is charged, but neither of you make any attempt to break it. As if you both realise things can’t go further than the night you spent together, than this breakfast. The lives you two lead are vastly different and even if you’ll willingly keep his secrets, he doesn’t want to put you in that position in the first place. Especially not with your family.
This whole thing is over before it ever really began and that’s good. Eddie wanted it to end. He’s getting what he wants.
“Full of mystery, aren’t you?”
“That’s by design.” Eddie says, hoping the sentence comes off as a tease, and not a desperate attempt to steer himself back on course.
You huff, clearly unfamiliar with the people around you setting boundaries, and he lets himself wink in your direction, enjoying this game you’ve both engaged in a little too much and his chest aches at the thought of it ending prematurely.
“I’ll break you yet,” you mumble, but it’s lighthearted, and Eddie can’t help the chuckle that escapes his throat.
There’s not many people in Eddie’s life who bounce off him the way you seem to. Taking each tease with stride and not as an insult, throwing your own jokes back in humour and not to hurt him…
Thinking about you this way, he immediately drops his head, focusing on the plate before him instead of the thoughts boxing inside his brain. Frustration bubbles beneath the surface. What is this weird hold you’ve got on him? How come he has to break free? He sure as hell doesn’t want to, but he sees no other choice.
Slowly, he lifts a fork and digs at a piece of egg, metal scratching against porcelain.
“If memory serves, I’m the one who broke you.” Eddie says, seemingly unable to help himself.
Brown eyes remain everywhere but your face because he might do something he’ll further regret. Something like leap over all of this food and kiss you breathless. Something like make his mouth work downwards, until he’s hidden under the tablecloth, truly enjoying his breakfast.
He hears you scoff.
“Perhaps they don’t teach manners wherever you’re from,” you begin.
“You brought up the Herbert bandana,” he interjects quickly, but you ignore him.
“It is really quite rude to talk about sex at the table. I think you should apologise.”
And it’s his turn to scoff, shake his head slightly as if to answer your ridiculous request. He’s sure as shit not saying sorry because not one inch of him is. The joke, the sex. All far too enjoyable to apologise for and you’ve got to be out of your mind if you think he’ll bend the knee.
When another, this time expectant, silence stretches across the entire room, he eventually looks in your direction again. There’s a big smile on your face. Beautiful. Unrehearsed. Perhaps the first honest smile you’ve given him. One he wasn’t expecting to see, yet one he returns almost immediately.
“You’re only playing into my assumptions, Carrington.”
You shrug the comment off, quite unlike the behaviour he’s witnessed from you so far, and in the blink of an eye, you’re pushing to stand. He’s watching you round the table, an airy bounce in your step, until you stop at his side. Taller than him for once, and only because he’s sitting, you bow and kiss him without warning. Lush, eager.
Eddie takes a second to register what’s suddenly happening, then pulls you into his lap because he can and he wants to savour every moment he’s free to do what he wants. And when you giggle against his parted lips, fingers tangling in his messy locks, the battle inside his mind ends. He’s one-hundred percent decided on his next move.
He needs to leave.
There’s a pressure building behind his ribcage that he’s never experienced before and he’ll be damned if the first girl he’s given any sort of damn about ends up in trouble for his crimes. He may have only known you a few hours, but under different circumstances, the pull he feels would be undoubtedly worth exploring. There’s something here, between you. Something he doesn’t want to sacrifice.
Maybe in another life, if he wasn’t on the run from the law. If Jason fucking Carver wasn’t in a hospital bed because of actions they both committed. If Eddie wasn’t a fucking criminal, maybe he’d be worthy of a girl like you. Until then, he has to leave.
Which is exactly what he does.
After breakfast, after… dessert, he kisses you one last time and walks out following a goodbye he hopes he’ll be able to keep. You don’t push him to stay — which is its own torment because now he thinks this thing he thinks is shared, is actually all in his head.
Nevertheless, New York is a big city and he’s a big boy. He’ll forget about the girl who saved him a night on the streets. The girl who offered her bed, the girl that fed him the best damn breakfast he’s ever had (even if she didn’t cook it herself). The girl who shoved a couple hundred bucks into the back pocket of his jeans when she hugged him goodbye.
The girl who said she’ll keep his secrets.
Normally, you’re not one to lament over a boy, but watching Eddie Munson walk out of your apartment undid something within you. A latch you closed over your heart is dented, pumping blood into the organ in a way you’re not overly familiar with.
(And yes, you confirmed the brunette gave you his real name before he left. For a man on the run, he really does seem to have terrible self-preservation skills.)
The plan has always been relatively simple. Find a guy your parents will accept, marry him before you turn twenty-five, and gain access to your entire trust fund. Everything in between is irrelevant; especially the feelings aspect of things.
Sure, you let yourself imagine falling in love for real with the person you end up tying the knot with, because that would be the best of both worlds, but you’re not a complete idiot. The only guys you’ve ever found remotely interesting were the ones you couldn’t actually end up with. Case in point: Eddie.
The brunette’s entrance into your life has been unexpected to say the least, especially the effect his presence — and now departure — seems to hold over you. When you first saw him last night, all you really had in mind was a quick fuck. Zero strings, just a little harmless fun. Not even twenty-four hours have passed since your chance encounter and you find yourself singing a completely different tune.
Too bad nothing can come of it — for reasons far greater than the ol’ trust fund situation.
Eddie is a criminal. He admitted so during breakfast and despite not knowing the full story, the title he branded himself with is enough to stop the bus you two have found yourselves on.
However, you meant what you said. You won’t tell another soul, especially not your FBI agent dad. What Eddie has done up until this point is his prerogative and you’re not one to judge a book by its cover. Besides, your dad has bigger fish to fry than a cute brunette stealing Hermés scarves. For one, the whole debacle in that small town, Hawkins, which is currently all over the news.
Your latest one-night stand also seemed interested by the broadcast, and you initially jotted his reaction down to curiosity, but the coincidences are clear. Eddie arrives in New York a few hours before the story breaks with nothing but a backpack and a scared expression on his face? He’s also a terrible liar, but that might be your own observation skills at play.
Honestly, you wish he told you a little more about the events that brought him here, but you understand his reservations. You also understand the need to let him go — even if everything inside of you screams to hold on.
The sense of longing you’re experiencing as you lock the door behind Eddie is unfamiliar and unfair. You swear you can still feel his arms around you; ring-clad fingers digging into your flesh, pulling you close. A shiver runs down your spine and you’re forced to stop half-way up the staircase to shake the feeling off.
By the time you’re ready to tackle the day, you’ve already relived the night prior over ten times. Psychotic, honestly. You’re not some lovesick fool, unable to unhook yourself from the metaphorical leash the bad boy has put you on. He talked about girls like that, momentarily compared you to one before you set the tone for your intentions. But no matter how many times you tell yourself to “get a grip”, you can’t shake the sound of his voice ringing in your ears.
You also can’t shake the feeling something bad will happen to him.
He’s an adult, yes. He can undoubtedly take care of himself, possibly possess some survival skills, otherwise he wouldn’t have gone on the run in the first place. Then again, New York City can be bleak and unwelcoming to strangers. Its vast landscape can be hard to navigate, especially in the winter months (November is only around the corner).
However, since you’re not a complete stalker, you keep your distance.
Working becomes a good distraction from the worry inside your chest and the memories you can’t control, flashing images of Eddie’s body hovering over yours as he trails sloppy kisses down your neck. Frankly, you’ve never taken on as much as you do over the next thirty-odd days just to keep your brain occupied.
There’s a certain amount of work you take on over a month, usually accompanied by a trip or two out of the country. However, during the weeks between October and November, you: write a column for BLITZ and Cosmopolitan (each), actively help your mother with the planning of her upcoming Thanksgiving luncheon, and attend staff meetings of the restaurant you’re technically managing. You also take back some of the tasks you’ve previously delegated to your mother’s assistant, further adding to the shock of those around you. Then, there’s the business award show you agreed to present at the last minute — a stand-in for some actress who pulled out following her own, personal scandal — and the Good Morning America segment you sign up to do about ‘Best Places to Eat in New York’.
People notice this change in your work ethic. Friends call, wondering when you’ll go out with them again, if that trip to Mexico is still happening. Grandmother Judith threatens to call the family doctor and arrange a CT scan in case you hit your head, in case you are concussed. You tell them all you’ve simply turned over a new leaf and for the most part, they seem to believe you.
The boring dates unfortunately also resume and every time you go out with a guy named Michael, John, or Frank, you want to bang your head against any brick wall. During those dinners, Eddie’s presence feels heightened, like a ghost of hookups past. He’s mocking the other guy you’re with, teasing the assumption he’s made about you, and telling you the dress you’re wearing is wasted on tonight.
But it’s not your longing that matters. It’s your worry.
You wonder if he’s been caught, if the police arrested him for whatever he’s done — and the more you hear about Hawkins from your dad, the more you believe the connection. Shit.
You also wonder if Eddie’s been conned yet. Swindled from the money he doesn’t have and left behind on the street because he can no longer afford a roof over his head. What will he do then? Seduce another girl, just so he can get a good night's sleep? Jealousy rears its ugly head at the thought.
The list of reasons why he shouldn’t be alone out there quickly outweighs your better judgement, and you do what you tell yourself any good-natured human would: look out for him. Something tells you no one has ever done that for Eddie before.
Over the following few days, you put out feelers around the city, inadvertently asking for a tall brunette in his early to mid twenties that goes by any name beginning with E — since you doubt he’d stray too far from his own.
Considering you know anyone who knows anyone, and the fact your grandparents own a number of locales around the city (including the one you manage), it doesn’t take long for information to find its way back to you. What odd jobs he’s taken, which dingy motel he’s chosen for the night, who are the people he’s met along the way.
Where he’s working now.
Eddie also tries his best to forget, but he doesn’t. He thinks about you every day for thirty-three days — a worthy distraction from his real problems.
He can’t seem to keep a steady cash flow, getting fired before the week ends or just quitting out of fear he’s getting too comfortable in one spot, revealing too much. The motels that stink of various bodily fluids also add to his growing discomfort. At night, when he closes his eyes, the springs from the mattress digging into his spine, he dreams of your Egyptian cotton sheets. He dreams of you.
The story from his hometown continues to make rounds. Luckily, Eddie’s name seems to be in the clear. The press coverage alludes to out of towners being the current, sole focus of the investigation, and from what he understands, Jason is still saying he doesn’t remember what happened that night.
On dark days, Eddie thinks about going home, especially since he still hasn’t talked to Wayne and that hurts the most. He thinks about apologising to his uncle and forgetting the last month of his miserable existence , acting as if it didn’t happen. But that would mean he never met you, and he can’t fathom living a life without the minuscule possibility of running into you again — which is fucked, considering all of the reasons he left you that morning.
His torment is about to enter day thirty-four, and just as the clock strikes midnight, Eddie hears it.
Laughter. Your laughter, to be more precise.
Ring-clad fingers twist into the dishtowel he’s using to wipe down the wooden bar. Surely, he’s just imagining it. The bass of the speaker makes the floor shake, the walls vibrate. The chatter increases in volume with every drop of alcohol these people consume. There’s no way he’d hear anything true over these vibrations.
But when a hand lands in his field of vision — perfectly manicured nails wielding a hundred-dollar bill — his heart jumps to his throat. No fucking way, he thinks while swallowing the growing lump, and looks up quickly.
There you are. Smiling like you recognise him, like you’ve been searching high and low to find him again.
Time seems to come to a standstill for a few beats. You’re the one to break the spell you put him under when you lean over the bar, reach for his white, alcohol-stained shirt, and pull him in your direction.
“Of all the nightclubs in all the towns in all the world,” you begin with a flirty smile, eyes scanning his entire face like they’re searching for clues as to where he’s been for the past month. “She walks into yours.”
Something tells him you’ve known how and where to find him this entire time, and it should be enough to make him feel uneasy. For the alarm bells to go off. They don’t. Instead, he jumps over the bar with ease and plants his mouth on yours, claiming.
Eddie has fucked off the rules more than he can count, so why start following them now?
i do NOT consent for my works to be fed to ai agents. i also do NOT consent to them being copied or reposted in any way, here or on any other site. this tumblr account is the only place i post my works.
as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3
🌟mal's rambling corner aka extra context / content
- the description of the apartment is very much so inspired by the image in the header (found on Pinterest, because of course it was)
- magda is not so subtly supposed to be dorota from gossip girl
- i literally do not know anything about the american legal system (as stated in the cw's) so most of the legal/law enforcement parts are embellished by what i've seen on tv aka just pretend pls
- BLITZ is an actual magazine; i spent way too much time on finding one jskjsk
- "of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine", is the original, full quote from casablanca and the scene in which it's said inspired this little part of this chapter
story masterlist
some super cool people that expressed interest in this story way back when (& have been so patient while i figured my shit out): @probablyin-bed @kellsck @micheledawn1975 @slutforpumpkins @taylorswiftsloverr @leelei1980 @whitakerstorm @yabrokrispy
chapter ONE from through the fences.
pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader (au)
word count: 5.6k
summary: crash-landing in hot water, eddie does what he knows best: he runs. and he runs right into you; a girl unlike any he's ever met. but it doesn't - can't - mean anything other than a bed to sleep in.
content warnings: 18+ minors dni: suggestive & mature themes, lust at first sight, smutty but primarily implied intimacy and a closed-door romance, use of nicknames and pet names, adult language, reader is kinda a brat and eddie is very much into it, also includes: references to breaking the law, mentions of food consumption — if i missed anything, pls let me know!
psa: images used in the header don’t depict readers physical attributes!
Eddie Munson is good at one thing and one thing only: running the fuck away from problems.
At least, that’s what he tells himself when he does what he does. Because you’ve not met him yet to prove otherwise. You meet him later.
Thirty-four hours later, to be exact.
His life changes forever when he bumps into you, fresh off a night bus from Indianapolis to New York. It’s a double-edged sword, really. But more on that in a minute.
If the truth is to be considered, the trajectory of Eddie’s future changes earlier. At his uncle's trailer. During an altercation between him and that fuckface, Carver.
It’s a fight that ends in casualties larger than just the brunette’s fractured ego. Hence the panicked packing, the scribbled goodbye letter to Wayne (left in a spot only the older man will find), the hot wiring of Mrs Hubert’s car that aids in his quick getaway — all of which occurs as hot tears burn into his bruised skin.
The drive from Hawkins to Indianapolis is a blur. Dead silent too. Nothing but gushes of wind blowing through the parted window, the sound of tires on gravel, and his messy, laboured breathing. He keeps to the speed limit, since the last thing he needs is getting pulled over while he’s attempting to go on the run, and doesn’t make any stops until he reaches his destination.
Parking the car on some random, rather dodgy, street, Eddie exhales. Closed fists land at his eyes, rubbing the tiredness away, then he keeps moving. Keys remain in the ignition as his feet hit the tarmac. There’s also an apology note to Mrs Hubert in the glovebox — because he’s not a complete fucking asshole.
With the rucksack over his shoulder, head hanging low, Eddie walks aimlessly through the city crowd. This is as far as he thought to go. Honestly, he had no clear plan of action aside from get the fuck out of Hawkins, fast. He should probably find a motel, at least until he figures out what he’s going to do next because staying in Indianapolis isn’t a good idea in the long run. No doubt this will be the first place they’ll come looking.
His legs weave with the wind, down various blocks. He’s unsure how long it’s been since he’s abandoned the car, but when his stomach rumbles, he scans the surroundings he’s found himself in and he decides to take a break, at a diner he can see down the street.
He doesn’t make it two steps when a cop car pulls up outside and Eddie freezes. They don’t look in his direction as they scramble out of their vehicle, they probably don’t even know who he is yet, but the sight of them alone is enough to redirect the brunette’s movements, make him turn on his heel. And that’s when he sees it.
The bus depot.
Boston, Atlanta, Houston, Toronto, New York. He scans the list of departures. Since he doesn’t have a passport, escaping to Canada is definitely out of the question. For a minute, he thinks about Boston, but ultimately it’s the city that never sleeps he picks in the end. Millions of people. Plenty of opportunity to become invisible, anonymous.
Later, when he retells this part of the story, your eyes glisten mischievously, as they usually do, and you say it’s your wishes that put him there, at the same time as the police, so he’d abandon the notion of hiding out in Indianapolis, venture further. New York, perhaps. Where you’re living, completely oblivious to his existence and somehow knowing all the same.
This voodoo shit is not for him, but the sentiment of someone out there — especially a smokeshow like you — willing him in a different direction, well, he can’t help the fucking cocky grin on his face.
The lady at the desk informs him there’s an overnight to New York City in four hours. He buys a ticket on the spot, leaving him with a lowly sum of three-hundred bucks for whatever plan he comes up with once in the city. He’ll have to get a job somewhere. A no-questions-asked, cash-under-the-table type of employment. Shouldn’t be too hard, he thinks. Hopes, actually. In reality, he’s got no clue what the fuck he’s doing.
Maybe he should have stayed in Hawkins? What if he got in his head too fast? What if they (being the general public along with the cops) considered his side of the story? But he shakes the questions away as fast as they arise. He can’t second guess himself, not now.
In the time Eddie’s waiting for his bus, he buys a bottle of water and a sandwich. He finds an empty bench in the corner of a depot and eats his food, scanning the surroundings for anyone looking in his direction suspiciously. Nobody does. His face makes the news only after he’s met you, but by then he feels pretty much invincible.
The journey is restless. He knows he should sleep. Wishes for the sweet release of dreams as lights zoom past the bus window, however the drowsiness never comes. Too anxious, scared. He’s also missing his uncle. The one family member that’s always been in the brunette’s corner and now he may never see the old man again. Not like Wayne would want to see his nephew, not after what he’s done. Disappointed him in the process. Fuck, that hurts to think about.
Twenty long hours pass.
Two stops on the way for bathroom breaks and fuel. Eddie stays on the bus both of those times, hiding towards the back so no one can place him later. His aim is to remain a shadow without a face because when the police are eventually going to try and find his whereabouts, no one can step up and say: “Oh, that boy you’re looking for took the same night bus as me. To New York City.”.
By the time Eddie steps off the metal machine, a new day is already coming to a slow end. The surrounding crowd is a mix of office folk, heading home after presumably long, exhausting hours at their unfulfilling jobs, and rowdy college kids, whose next agenda item is getting plastered drunk. A few families, some tourists. Homeless, street vendors, all groups mixing together in a way that mere hours ago, would have seemed unnatural to the lost brunette.
Despite the heavy tiredness, Eddie’s struck by how alive he suddenly feels.
He ventures further between the concrete blocks and busy lights, momentarily unafraid to keep his head up and takes in every last detail of the expansive jungle — until he’s rudely reminded it’s been hours since he’s had a warm meal.
Stomach rumbling louder than necessary, Eddie stops at the first diner he comes across. He sits at the far end, eyes on the door since he shouldn't be too careless, and orders a burger from the grey-haired waitress. A couple of people venture in and out as he waits. No one of particular importance stands out, so once he gets his food, the brunette feels secure enough to drop his gaze and eat.
Although, he’s still listening. Actively. To the bell above the door, the various chatter of everyone else here, the orders being placed and delivered. He listens to the radio that’s playing in the background, just in case it switches to the news and his name is being broadcasted across the nation. And as he’s listening, he hears something quite unexpected.
Laughter. Which frankly, isn’t all that strange, but the sound vibrates through him, causing a tingle to run down his spine and his heart to skip a beat — odd.
Eddie looks up, around. Can’t place the person, thinks he may have imagined the whole thing, so it’s back to eating the most average burger in America.
Thank god his ears stay alert while he’s chewing on the unseasoned patty because there it is again, and this time, as his head snaps up from the plate in front of him, he sees a girl two tables up. You.
Facing his general direction, although your focus is entirely on the person you’re with. There’s a wave of heads blocking his view, but every time they shift, Eddie catches a glimpse and for a moment that borders on stalkery, his burger is frozen mid-air.
Fuck, what a face.
He shakes his head, gaze dropping along with the burger, and blinks a few times at nothing in particular. When you laugh again, Eddie closes his eyes tight, because this is perhaps the darkest time in his life and for some reason, when your giggles reach his ears, his entire being feels sort of warm, fuzzy — and if anyone is paying attention to his inner monologue from the last thirty-odd hours, this isn’t the time for either of those inklings.
What else is a guy to do but run? It’s already been established that Eddie’s quite good at that.
He flags down the waitress, pays with a tip that he cannot afford but whatever, he also can’t afford to fall in a trap otherwise known as another pretty girl, so he bolts. Doesn’t spare you another glance as he rushes past, just straight out the door and onto the busy New York street.
The universe — as you’d later tell him — has other plans because there’s a gentle tap on his shoulder while he figures out which way to go. He doesn’t think when he turns back around, facing the entrance of the diner he just ran out of. Facing you.
“You dropped this,” you say and he blinks, glancing down at your outstretched hand and his stupid fucking bandana, tucked carefully between your fingers.
Eddie clears his throat. “Thanks.”
But he doesn’t move. Stupid, really. Mere seconds ago he was aching to get away from the possibility of something like this happening, and now he’s standing a fool, staring at the piece of cloth you’re holding. Only when you retrieve your hand, the bandana still in your grasp, does his gaze trail upwards, meeting yours.
One brow up, arched, you’re studying him with a level of scrutiny he’d rather not experience from a complete stranger. Especially one as pretty as you. Fuck. This is a nightmare.
He sighs, then reaches for the item between your fingers. He shouldn’t have turned around. Once his photo is plastered across the news outlets, you’ll definitely be able to place him here.
“Hermès.”
“What?” He asks, brows furrowed. Heart in his fucking throat from the nerves.
“The scarf.”
Eddie once again looks at the piece of cloth, now in his grasp, then frowns because he’s still not sure what you mean. You must notice the weird look he is undoubtedly sporting because you keep talking.
“I recognise the pattern and the classic Hermès orange.”
“I don’t know. I found it,” he says mindlessly, although that’s not entirely true.
Honesty doesn’t come easy to him. In reality, Eddie stole what he believed to be a bandana working at McKinney's party a couple of weeks back. Business was slower than usual, so he wandered through the house, rifled through some cupboards, closets. The scarf — as you call it — was just waiting to be rescued.
“Well, it’s quite the find,” you say, and there’s something in your tone that has the brunette meeting your gaze once more.
“This uh… Hermès…” He cocks a brow. “Sounds expensive?”
You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. He tries not to let his eyes wander, really, but he’s only a man. The slip is brief and only happens once… okay, twice. You must notice and decidedly like that sort of attention from him because you pull your bottom lip between your teeth.
And if Eddie wasn’t done for before, he is now.
Not to sound overly cocky, but he knows the look written across your face, has seen it many times before, so his list of never ending troubles is longer by one more: you. For sure the type of girl that can ruin his life — more than it already is — and now that he’s thinking about it, looking at you up close, not the kind of girl that willingly eats at a dingy diner.
A thought very much confirmed when a taxi you hail, without giving a second thought to the friend he believes is still inside the locale, drops you and Eddie outside a building with a doorman. The elderly gentleman calls you by your surname, tipping his hat and opening one side of the glass to allow passage. You smile sweetly, motioning for Eddie to follow.
He really should be careful not to show his face to too many people that could timestamp him in different spots around the city he escaped to. But the sway of your hips and the glimmer in your eyes is, quite frankly, hypnotic. A friendly reminder: he’s only a man.
“So, what brings you to New York?” You ask once the elevator closes.
Eddie shrugs. “Wanted somethin’ new.”
“Ahh,” you muse, tilting your head slightly. “So you’re running from something.”
Not a question and Eddie wonders how you can tell. You answer his thought with a slight glance at the bag over his shoulder, and he presses his lips together.
“Quite the deduction skills.”
“Runs in the family,” you say with a shrug.
In retrospect, he should have asked straight away what you meant. Earlier, in the taxi, you made a comment that also dinged a bell in his mind, tickling his fight or flight, but Eddie ignored the obvious because your hand was down his pants. He’s never met a girl this forward and one could colour him intrigued — even if this sudden fascination came at a really, really terrible time.
The elevator opens with a swoosh and as he follows you through the foyer, large staircase to one side, chandelier up above, he’s thinking again about what a girl like you was doing at a diner. Surely there’s fancier places to eat in the city. Restaurants suited to your poise, your outfit.
“Nice place,” he says, taking a look around.
“It could be better,” you tell him, and when Eddie’s brow shoots upwards, wanting just slightly to check your privilege, you add, “Less suffocating, for starters.”
He frowns. A twinge of guilt settles in his core for judging you based on surface level. Clearly, he doesn’t know you. Strangers still. And he absolutely hates when people jump to conclusions about him, his upbringing. The notion has caused many fights back home, yet here he is, doing the same to a girl that’s done nothing but shown him interest, kindness too.
“Show me your room.”
You huff a gentle laugh, briefly glancing at your heels, then ask, “Are you always this forward?”, with a slight tease to the tone of your voice. Eyes settled on him once more.
“I’m not the one who pushed a stranger into a taxi and touched ‘em in a very forward way.” Eddie counters, sauntering towards you. He stops when his sneaker touches the tip of your heeled toes, both of you looking down between the barely-there space.
His mind is spiraling slightly, since this is a pitstop he really cannot afford right now. Although, his worries are quickly fusing with the intoxicating scent of your undoubtedly expensive perfume and the recent memory of your delicate fingers wrapped around his girth. Whatever. He can spend the night and fuck off in the morning, before you wake up. If the police place him here and question the doorman, question you, he’ll be long gone. Maybe to another city? It’s already been established how he’s good at that: running.
“What if I’m simply trying to rob you?” You ask, pulling the Hermès scarf from his back pocket and lifting it into view.
He smirks as his gaze briefly darts between the designer cloth and yours.
“Pretty sure you can afford one all on your own, Krystle Carrington.”
You scrunch your nose. Not a fan of the nickname, he notes while wetting his lips to hide an affectionate smile. He’ll definitely use it again, like a schoolboy endlessly teasing a girl he’s got a crush on. Which, of course, this isn’t. Eddie just needs a certain type of relief and you’ve already indicated how you’re more than eager to oblige.
With the orange scarf still in your grasp, you turn away from him and start to walk up the stairs.
“I suppose I should be glad you didn’t compare me to Alexis,” you say over your shoulder, the sound of your heels clacking against the marble staircase almost muffling your voice.
When you stop right at the top, Eddie is still a few steps behind, meaning when you turn to face him again, you’re ever so slightly taller. Seemingly the one in control.
“And it’s not nice to make assumptions about people,” you continue.
“Well,” Eddie begins, glancing around the space with his arms outstretched slightly, as if to prove a point. “Look at this place. I think it’s safe to say you’re doing okay for yourself.”
“You wouldn’t believe me anyway, if I told you otherwise.”
Despite the sudden solemn tone, there’s a proud look on your face. The sort Eddie loves to wipe off with his mouth because nothing is more humbling to girls like you than messing around with a guy like him, only to be left behind since this sort of shit doesn’t matter to him, not the way it historically matters to chicks.
They’ll screw around with him, follow him around for free weed, some other shit too, and a big fuck you to their stiff parents. Eddie knows his role in the Hawkins social hierarchy and it has never bothered him. He sticks by the rules, even wears his title as a badge of honour. Yet, even though they’re just using him, they get attached anyway and he ends up having to break hearts — which he kind of enjoys.
Come tomorrow morning, you’ll be just another girl and he won’t think of your laughter, won’t spare a second reminiscing the mischievous glimmer in your eyes, or the way your hand felt down his boxers (like it belonged there).
“Kick me out, let me crash. It’s honestly whatever to me, sweetheart.” Eddie says with a shrug. “But I don’t think you want me to leave.”
You raise a brow in that challenging way you do, and he should be worried how he’s noticing these things already, after barely knowing you an hour. He doesn’t dwell on that thought though. Instead, Eddie slides a hand up your side, slow and steady, until his fingers are at your waist. He pulls you closer and you weave your arms around his neck, trying to find balance.
“I think you’re trying to prove something to the people that own this place and you need a guy like me to help you out.”
Admittedly, a line he’s used plenty of times in the past, so colour him surprised when you scoff. Your eyes roll — brat — as you push off him and keep walking along the upstairs hallway. There’s a split-second during which Eddie is muttering to himself, “What the fuck?”, because that line always works, before a smirk replaces the momentary confusion and he continues to follow you.
“If all I’m looking for is - and I quote - a guy like you,” you begin in rebuttal, pushing a large, white door open with your hip. “I would have simply stayed at the diner to wrap up my date and brought that loser home instead.”
Eddie can’t help the short laugh that escapes.
“That was a date?”
You nod, then say, “Clearly not a very successful one.”
The inside of your bedroom is unsurprisingly devoid of any real character. All the furniture matches in woodtones, clearly custom made to fit the dimensions of space. There’s a white duvet on top of the large bed and some fashion magazines scattered around the place, half-hidden behind piles of colourful clothes. No posters, no photos. If you’re lying, and the two of you are breaking and entering, he’d be none the wiser.
“Is this actually your place?” He can’t help himself. He’s already on the run, so it would be great to avoid any additional charges.
A dangerous, knowing smile tugs at your lips at the question, and when you decide not to answer, Eddie seriously begins to consider calling quits on this whole thing. He’d rather face a case of blue balls than get arrested for having sex in someone else’s bed. Not an ideal scenario to get caught here, especially after travelling this far to escape his fate.
The universe — or in this case, you — glues his feet to the ground by a simple act of undoing the collection of buttons currently holding your blouse together. You leave the last few before moving onto the zipper of your skirt, which you slide down your legs, all while holding his gaze and the orange Hermès scarf.
Clearing his throat, Eddie drops the rucksack to the carpeted floor and crosses the room. It only takes a few, slow strides until he’s towering over you once more, hastily latching onto your blouse and pulling you flush against his chest. You tug your bottom lip between your teeth and blink up at him, a picture of false innocence.
“Any last words?” You ask, voice all sultry, sending a zap straight to his groin.
Fingers cross your frame, a ghost of a touch, as Eddie reaches for the scarf you’re still holding. He lifts it slightly into view, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk, one brow raised.
“Do you think this Herbert person—”
“Hermès,” you chime.
“—will forgive me if I use this to tie you up?”
And then he kisses you.
He doesn't wait for you to answer the question, and doesn't ask permission either. Eddie simply takes what’s right in front of him and revels in the way you melt, equally wicked. It’s fierce and demanding, tasting of tension that’s been simmering between the two of you all evening. Boil, bubble, pop.
The abstract floral scent of your undoubtedly expensive perfume fills his senses. Intoxicating, he thinks, like throwing gasoline on a burning fire. He wants — needs — more. So his fingers work to remove the blouse completely, fabric soft against his calloused fingers.
It’s pure, animalistic instinct. At least that’s what Eddie tells himself when he bites your lower lip, tongue catching your gasp. Or when he slides his hands down the curve of your ass and lifts you off the floor, guiding your legs around his waist.
One could also call it expanding his portfolio. He’s been with a fair share of upper-class chicks, but no one compares to your stature. Plus, yours is the first of many beds he’ll land in while hiding out in the city. Nothing special. By tomorrow’s sunrise, the feeling of your skin against his will be nothing but a memory.
At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself beneath the sheets, arms around your frame, holding on for dear life.
The New York dating scene bores you.
Honestly, there is a lousy selection of candidates to begin with. If they’re employed, established — and tick the criteria set by your parents, in terms of wallet size — they are really unattractive. And if the potential date is somewhat good looking, handsome even, they’ve seemingly got no prospects, and any potential romance is over before it even begins because your parents would never allow their only daughter to enter a relationship with a bum.
The whole thing has become quite the chore, and everyone in your inner circle knows you’re not one to ruin a good manicure for housework.
Now, that’s not to say you spend your days and nights alone. Quite the opposite, actually. Finding a boyfriend that satisfies your family by meeting their ridiculous expectations may be a tedious task, but you persevere. After all, there’s the trust fund stipulation to consider, the bonus you don’t receive unless you find a potential husband before your twenty-fifth birthday. The feminist inside of you screams to let it go, try a hand at true happiness (whatever that looks like), but the materialistic side always wins. Money is all you’ve ever known.
“A life that’s incredibly comfortable is hard to give up.” That’s what your grandfather always says. Your mother’s father. He’s the only one in your family who thinks the ‘marriage’ clause is ridiculous. Then again, Bernard Senior is also the only one who got lucky in that department. The love of his life — your fabulous grandmother, Judith Cecil — happened to be beautiful, successful, and came from old-money. Tick, tick, and tick.
The Cecil family are British-American financiers and real estate investors. Your grandfather’s side of the tree is also very wealthy (what is these days known as Big Pharma, they had a small part in that), but still not quite Cecil stature, which is why grandmother Judith never changed her surname. Smart woman.
Money makes your world go around, so you go on unsuccessful dates with unattractive, rich assholes, only to end up in bed with someone a lot more… fun. Not a foolproof plan by any means, but the game’s the game. You’ve got a few years left until you need to be sauntering down the aisle and there is a long list of suitors who will marry you in the blink of an eye — even if you don’t want to marry them.
That’s how you find yourself at La Bonbonierre.
You like this diner. Primarily for its convenient location: far enough from the Upper East Side, so no one from your real life will ever spot you here, yet still close enough to home, making for a short-ish car ride.
The guy you’re with didn’t even bat an eye at the suggested locale, which tells you all you need to know about how much further this night will go; i.e. not very far. Sure, you’ll make out a little before bidding him goodnight, but chances are you will never see him again. Sorry to Matthew from the Bronx. He’s charming as hell and in another life, maybe the two of you would go on a second date… Not a third though. Never a third.
In the span of thirty-two minutes, you’ve learned all about Matthew’s shattered dreams of becoming a professional athlete due to a badly torn ACL, his pivot into getting a journalism degree from a local community college, and his desire to travel outside of the great state of New York. You tell him next to nothing, but the guy doesn’t seem to mind. Easy on the eye, bad at a two-way conversation.
As he talks, polishing a burger faster than you can blink, you nibble on the french fries, dipping them in your vanilla milkshake and nodding along to words you most definitely will not remember tomorrow. Tonight’s goal is simple: satisfy an urge that needs satisfying. Nothing he’ll say will change your mind about what this date actually is.
“The Bulls are dominating this year,” Matthew says. “If the Knicks had half the squad they do down in Chicago, we’d be unstoppable.”
“I’m more of a Yankees fan myself.”
Matthew snorts and shakes his head. “Yankees are a baseball team.”
“A ball is a ball, Matthew.” You deadpan, unbothered by the correction and the amused look he’s shooting you from across the table. “Besides, I prefer to watch the players than the game, and the Yankees have Don Mattingly.”
“Jerrod Mustaf, Charles Oakley…” Matthew lists off.
“Yes, the New York Knicks team is full of knockouts,” you say honestly, smiling because there’s nothing you enjoy more than a lighthearted sparring match. “But Matthew… Don Mattingly has a mustache.”
He laughs at that and you join in instantly. Short and sweet. Nothing to write home about, except when your date tilts his head to flag down the waitress, still laughing to himself, you notice someone behind him, sitting all alone just a few booths down. Someone quite striking.
All you get is a glimpse, but it’s enough to pique your interest.
A wave of chocolate-brown locks and a big, wide gaze to match. The mystery man is wearing a faded denim jacket — vintage, if you were to take a guess — over a plain tee, and there’s something silver around his neck that glistens slightly under the fluorescent light. His head hangs low, just as quickly as he lifted it seconds prior, as if he’s avoiding eye contact with whoever glances his way, and the tension in his shoulders is visible even from the space between you. An out-of-towner, for sure. Running from something perhaps?
Stealing one last look in the mystery man’s direction, you force yourself to focus on your date. In the seconds you just lost, too distracted by the lonesome brunette, Matthew seemingly has moved on from talking about sports, choosing instead to ramble about the public transport in this city. Poorly designed routes, overcrowded carts, expensive for a college student. All facts you can agree with, so you nod.
“Don’t you have a car?” Matthew asks, then adds, “And a driver?”
“Aren’t you observant.”
“You literally picked me up. Or should I say, your driver picked me up,” he teases and you roll your eyes in a playful manner.
“My generosity is always overlooked,” you dramatise, the corners of your lips twitching upwards because boys always think you’re flirting if you say shit with a soft smile.
Matthew places a hand over his heart.
“I thank your generosity,” he says with a smirk. “Just be sure to pass along my gratitude to your driver too. Do you even have a licence?”
A shocked scoff escapes you, followed by a giggle as you throw a french fry at him. He dodges with ease, then returns the attack, which only makes you laugh louder.
“Well, Frank won’t be giving you a lift home,” you say between chuckles. “He’s got the rest of the night off.”
“Fuck. Not a night off.” Matthew replies sarcastically.
Surprisingly, you feel good with him, which doesn’t happen often. Sure, you’re good at making people comfortable, you’re good at flirting, but you don’t usually let your own guard down. Knowing that dates with guys like Matthew — guys who you could never bring home to your parents — won’t make it past the night, well, it’s just easier to keep true feelings out of these interactions.
Matthew must notice the sudden change in your demeanor because his smile turns softer, wistful even, as he looks at you from across the table.
“I’m never going to see you again, am I?”
You do your best to keep the smile on your face, even if it doesn’t reach your eyes, as you reach for his hand and squeeze.
“You’ll make one hell of a journalist some day,” you say earnestly. “And who knows, maybe you’ll interview me in the future, for a piece about the most generous women in the world.”
Matthew snorts and squeezes your fingers back.
“I’m looking forward to it.” And then he says goodbye.
After your date leaves, you take all of two seconds to sigh, compose yourself, before glancing in the direction of the mystery man you spotted earlier. To your disappointment, he’s gone too. Great. Looks like you’re going home alone.
You place some cash on the table, including a generous tip, and push to stand. That’s when you notice something orange on the floor, close to where the brunette was sitting. On closer inspection, the piece of cloth is a scarf. A Hermés scarf, at that. Odd. You wouldn’t say the person sitting here moments prior could afford something this expensive, but assumptions can be wrong, so you pick the scarf up.
Thinking — hoping — he didn’t get very far, you rush out of the diner. Maybe you’d be able to spot his head of hair and give this back to him. Maybe…
Huh.
The universe is on your side because there he is, just standing outside, looking around as if he’s unsure which way to turn. His hesitancy tugs at something inside of your body and you instantly want to become someone he can count on, at least for tonight, so you tap his shoulder.
Facing you completely, the mystery man is even more handsome than you first noticed. A sea of light freckles coat his face, complimenting his deep-brown eyes perfectly. There’s tiny dents in his cheeks where you can tell dimples will appear if he smiles, and gentle frown lines that somehow make him feel more real. And his mouth, so plump and… kissable.
“You dropped this,” you say, trying to appear nonchalant.
The guy blinks, glancing down at your outstretched hand, before clearing his throat.
“Thanks.”
His tone is all gravely and deep, and it sends a shockwave through your system. God, you want him to keep talking. You need him to keep talking. You need him to do a lot more actually, but you’ll settle for hearing his voice again.
Naturally, you get what you want and in the process you find out a few things about him.
Hermés is not a brand he’s familiar with, meaning your assumption about the item being out of his league was correct. The fact is further proven when he says he found the scarf, which you actually think is a lie, but you let it slide (for now). Then he asks if it’s expensive and his curiosity seems slightly desperate, as if all of a sudden he’s contemplating where to pawn the item off for some extra cash.
You nod at his last question, smiling softly and his eyes snap to your lips. They don’t linger, but they do drop down again for a second time and you know you have him right where you want him — which will soon prove quite detrimental.
i do NOT consent for my works to be fed to ai agents. i also do NOT consent to them being copied or reposted in any way, here or on any other site. this tumblr account is the only place i post my works.
as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3
🌟 mal's rambling corner aka extra context / content:
- set in the early 90s (in case anyone is wondering), + an au cause no monsters etc in Hawkins; eddie is running from something else hehe
- although not directly specified, eddie and reader are around the same age: i.e. in their early twenties
- i may also become a late 80s/ early 90s fashion guru while working on this series lol .. took me forever to research which designer brand was big in that time + sold scarves/ bandanas (the Hermès scarf mentioned linked here)
- for those that don't know, krystle carrington is a character from dynasty, and here i'm thinking of the og that eddie maybe watched with wayne (a guilty pleasure, of sorts)
- imagine what you please, but i think reader wears Chanel N°5; hence the vague description of an abstract floral scent.. my mom uses this perfume and it's the only way i could think to describe it, aside from using the word 'expensive'
- i also researched diners operational in the 90s, then i google mapped how far they'd be from the port authority bus depot to see if it's walkable for eddie jskkskks + la bonbonniere is about 34-41 mins by foot (these days) and a pretty straight road so for someone just arriving to the city — eddie — it would be quite easy to find
some super cool people who expressed interest in this story (pls let me know if you wanna be added / removed): @scarlet-prey @msmetallicareeves @probablyin-bed @kellsck
some protector | chapter three from right where you left me.
pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader (modern day au)
word count: 6.5k
summary: tensions are rising. eddie’s no longer expressing confusion, but rather annoyance. anger. yeah, he’s angry because how dare you put words in his mouth. has he been acting distant since yesterday? yes. does that have anything to do with your arrival? everything. does he wish you weren’t here? not even one bit.
content warnings: forced proximity, angsty, suggestive & mature themes, adult language, mentions & descriptions of underage alcohol consumption / substance abuse, recreational drug use, discusses sobriety, emotional hurt / little-comfort, eddie is a bit of an asshole, some mutual pining, also touches on topics of: death, grief, reckless driving, toxic relationships, gaslighting, self-doubt / insecurities, love triangle?, unrequited love — pls read the cw's for each chapter and let me know if i missed any!
psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.
Eddie skips breakfast.
Nobody points it out, although it is clear they are all thinking about it.
Steve in particular is acting extra weird, shooting you pointed looks all throughout the meal as if to wordlessly ask what the hell happened last night? He is the one to have left you alone with the metal-head. Perhaps he’s feeling guilty for doing so?
You try to reply with your own glances in his direction — there’s nothing to worry about. Logically, Eddie skipping breakfast is just him wanting to sleep in.
Right?
While grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, you quietly tell Steve to let it go. He’s hovering like a shadow, eager for answers and truthfully, there’s nothing you can say. You have no idea why Eddie wouldn’t come down. He didn’t get burned. He wasn’t an ass. There’s no juicy gossip to share. It’s all very demure.
Steve pretends to buy what he perceives as excuses to some wider scheme and momentarily leaves you alone, but only to get ready.
Robin is the next person on your case. She sticks her head in through the door, babbling rather excitedly how Harrington told her all about last night, leaving you alone with the metal-head. She thinks she’s putting two-and-two together — something happened — but you only burst her bubble with the exact same thing you told Steve.
“He just apologised for the way he acted when he saw me,” you say. “There’s no bigger story.”
“So, you’re all good now? Friends?” She asks, sitting on the edge of your bed.
You scoff. “No. We’re still not talking.”
Robin rolls her eyes. “Well, your canoe ride is going to be hell.”
Then she proceeds to explain how after you went upstairs, Argyle suddenly felt really sick and he’s no longer going to partake in today’s planned activities. The dark-haired pothead was supposed to be your partner on the boat. Jonathan and Nancy, Robin and Steve, you with Argyle, and Eddie on his own. That was the planned pairings.
Not anymore.
“At least you’ll get to ask him if you’re the reason he skipped breakfast,” Robin teases with a sly smile and you suppress a groan. One of you is for sure going to push the other off that boat; unintentionally or otherwise.
The rental place is located one lake over from the house you are staying at. It’s about a twenty minute drive and the metal-head doesn’t speak the entire ride there. From where you’re sitting in the backseat, you see how tight he’s gripping the steering wheel. Knuckles on the verge of turning white. He found out about the last-minute switch just as he made an appearance, moments before Nancy ushered the group out the door. If he wanted to complain or protest, she didn’t give him a chance.
You half-wish you had taken your own car for this outing. In case anything occurs and you need a quick getaway, which is probably precisely why Nancy insisted Jonathan and Eddie drive. No more running. That’s the whole point of this weekend, as you have to keep reminding yourself. Unfortunately, nothing changes the fact that the thought of being alone with Eddie in a rather confined space is making you uneasy and judging by his blank stare, he’s feeling something similar.
Or pure rage.
Down at the dock, once the cars are parked and Nancy dramatises a roll call, you can feel Eddie’s indifference to the whole thing. He’s not paying attention to the owner, who explains how the life jackets work along with instructions on Canoeing 101. How to get into the boat, where to position yourself, is it better to kneel or sit, how to launch, how to paddle and steer, how to not tip. The list goes on. You nod along but truthfully, your mind is also elsewhere. Subtle foreshadowing: you both should have been listening more actively.
“Any questions?” The owner asks, glancing between the group.
And while under the impression that everyone now knows what they’re doing — considering there are no questions — he divides the paddles, helps with adjusting the lifejackets, then leads you all to the edge of the water.
Surprisingly, you both manage to get inside the canoe unscathed.
Considering Eddie still hasn’t so much as bothered to look in your general direction, you acknowledge this as a success. The good luck doesn’t last long. Since neither of you is willing to break the silence, you don’t agree on an order of motion and when Eddie tries to paddle backwards, you go forwards. For a solid three minutes, the canoe circles in place. Frustrated, you look out to the water, hoping to catch a glimpse of Robin and signal her a desperate plea. It seems however, you two are the only people left in this section of the lake. Everyone else has already disappeared behind the bend, hidden from view by the droopy trees.
You’re just about to shit on this whole day and jump out in your lifejacket, simultaneously saving yourself from any further embarrassment while also deepening the humiliation, when the boat starts to surge ahead. Eddie, taking advantage of the fact you’ve lost yourself in your thoughts and momentarily given up on paddling, uses his full force to row the aluminium oars, finally making headway in a direction that’s not circular.
For a moment, you think he’s going to gloat. Or worse. Tell you he doesn’t need you here: in this boat, this weekend, in his life — a fact you’ve seemingly grown accustomed too. However, the metal-head remains quiet. His expression is devoid of any emotion. It makes you want to scream, but you won’t give him that satisfaction. After all, you’re nearly one-hundred percent sure he’s doing this to get a reaction out of you. Rub your buttons the wrong way. Twisted payback for ruining, well, everything.
Another ten minutes later and the boat halts to a stop. You haven’t caught up with the rest of your friends yet, but you’re making headway (no thanks to your efforts). Eddie lets go of the oars and reaches down, at his feet is a bottle of water from which he takes a sip and then for the first time this entire morning, he looks at you. Seemingly unbothered. Nevertheless, the mahogany of his eyes glistening in the sun, the constant intensity of his stare, it makes you tremble ever so slightly.
“Would you like some?” Eddie offers his water.
You shake your head. “No, thank you.”
He scoffs. “First the cigarette and now the water,” he points out after taking another sip. “I’m not trying to poison you, you know?”
“I-I know.”
The two of you stare at each other for a minute.
There’s things you want to get off your chest, but you’re the one who said talking isn’t necessary. Plus, his behaviour makes it clear how, despite his apology for crappy behaviour, he’s not willing to listen and the twinge of hurt you feel, knowing Eddie has no interest in forgiving you for what happened at Chrissy’s party and everything after, it makes you nauseous.
Beginning to feel rather overwhelmed under his pointed glare, you glance back onto the water.
The beauty of the moment isn’t lost on you. This scenery is unlike anything you’ve ever had the privilege of witnessing and a breath gets caught in your throat now that you’ve allowed yourself to fully take it all in. Eddie’s still watching you, that much you’re aware of. Unfortunately, you can’t read his mind. If you could, perhaps you wouldn’t be feeling this way because all Eddie can think is how utterly alluring you look right now.
He can’t help himself. You’re… you. And it’s all against his better judgement. He hates you. He wants to hate you because that’s easier than admitting his true feelings towards you. That deep down, they haven’t changed. Seeing you after all these years only solidified that notion. He won’t admit it outloud, but he can allow himself to stare. To wish. To dream. What if things had been different? That’s the biggest dream of all.
“Should we get moving?” You ask eventually, unable to take the weight of his eyes on your body any longer.
Eddie shrugs. “Sure. Whatever you want.”
And the metal-head probably doesn’t mean anything by it. The phrase. You’re in your own head a little too much. Being at the receiving end of his resentment has done that to you.
“Stop that.”
Eddie’s expression is puzzled. Deepens when words continue to flow through your mouth, unfiltered.
“Stop with the ‘whatever you want’, and the ‘everyone is back to kissing your ass’, and she’s a princess, everyone is quick to forgive her, she’s always put on a pedestal.”
“I never even said half of what you’re implying,” Eddie defends. “And I said I was sorry for being a dick. You’re the one who suggested we don’t talk.”
“It doesn’t matter when I know you’re thinking it. When I can see on your face how much you wish I wasn’t here and how you resent the fact that my friends took me back.”
Tensions are rising. Eddie’s no longer expressing confusion, but rather annoyance. Anger. Yeah, he’s angry because how dare you put words in his mouth. Has he been acting distant since yesterday? Yes. Does that have anything to do with your arrival? Everything. Does he wish you weren’t here? Not even one bit. Quite the opposite, in fact.
He wishes he could get over it, put it to bed, like the rest of the friend group. He’s just not sure where to begin since everything to do with you still feels very fragile. Eddie’s hurting. He’s hating. He’s conflicted. The one thing he won’t stand for however, is someone making shit up about him. Even — and especially — if that person is you.
“You don’t know what I’m thinking. You don’t know anything about me anymore!”
“Because you won’t let me in!” You shout, hastily sitting slightly forward and in turn, rocking the canoe. “You won’t let me apologise. You won’t let me make peace. Eddie, you won’t let me move forward and that’s all I want. I just want to move forward!”
“And you think I don’t?!” He also shuffles forward. Arm at his chest, to emphasise how deep this whole thing runs. “You think I relish in feeling this… all of this… nastiness towards you? You think I enjoy not being able to so much as look in your direction? You think I don’t want to forgive you and let you move forward? I also want to move forward! Desperately! Angel, it’s just not that simple.”
Angel. The moniker lingers in the air. It startles you. Him too. If only for a split-second.
“Why won’t you let me apologise then? You’re allowed to say sorry, but I’m not?” You question, “Why can’t we start there?”
Eddie doesn’t immediately answer. His lack of response speaks more than words, however. You decide to drop it then. You decide it’s not worth it. There’s nothing else you can do to fix this at this moment in time.
And so you reach for an oar and tell Eddie that the two you should get moving before you fall even further behind. He tries to get a hold of the aluminium pad, in an attempt to keep this conversation going because in his eyes, you two are finally getting somewhere.
You try with all of your might to hold onto it while also reaching for the other one, which Eddie accidentally knocks with his knee and the paddle plunges into the water. He lunges for it. This sudden motion shakes the boat and you lose your balance, falling.
What happens next is a blur.
Splash. You’re submerged under water. Considering today is quite warm, the lake is anything but. Freezing; would be a better word to describe it. Although, it’s like you have a moment to think about it. You need to swim up. Get back on the boat.
Splash. Water ripples around you. Suddenly, there’s an arm holding your waist, pulling you close then pulling you up.
Within seconds, you surface together, under the cover of the canoe. Eddie’s now holding it with one hand, the other still firmly clinging onto you.
“Are you alright?”
“Did you just jump in after me?”
You ask simultaneously. A heartbeat pause.
Then you smile.
You can’t help it. The corners of your mouth twitch upwards on their own accord. Eddie’s grip on your tightens as you do and ensuingly, he smiles too. An expression so earnest, your heart skips a beat. With how the metal-head is holding you, you’re sure he can feel it.
Unfortunately, the good mood doesn’t last long. Kicking your feet underwater, a horrible thought crosses your mind.
“My chip.”
“What?” Eddie asks, confused.
“My sobriety chip. I-I don’t feel it in my sock.” Panic stricken, you push away from him and without further explanation, you swim under.
Instantly, your eyes hurt. In the darkness of the water, you can’t see anything other than Eddie’s frame and once again, you feel pathetic. Why can’t you catch a fucking break? So coming back up for air, the only thing you’re grateful for is being absolutely soaked because at least Eddie can’t tell where the droplets end and the tears begin.
“I-I always carry it with me,” you explain, “Everywhere I go. It’s usually in my wallet, but with my bag in the car… I-I needed the chip closer, so I thought what’s the worst that can happen if I put it in my sock.”
“I hate to say it, but it’s most likely already at the bottom of the lake.”
He’s right. You know he’s right.
Wordlessly, the two of you get out from under the boat and try to flip it. Unfortunately, considering neither of you really listened to the owner when he explained what to do in this situation, the whole thing takes a couple of tries and by the time you succeed, you’re even more stressed than before.
While you desperately try to gather your thoughts, Eddie swims around, gathering the oars.
Next, getting back into the canoe is even trickier than turning the thing.
“I-I think I’ll just swim to shore,” you say, deflated.
“Don’t be ridiculous, angel, that’s miles.” Eddie counters. “Just grab the opposite side, in the middle, and push yourself up.”
“Eddie—”
“Come on,” he interrupts, “I’ll do the same and our movements will counteract each other.”
Listening to his instructions, the two of you manage to get back into the boat. The first thing you do is take off your water-filled shoe and carefully remove your sock to confirm your suspicions. The chip is gone. Your heart sinks.
“It’s gone,” you mutter. After, you stifle a sniffle and wipe the lake-mixed tears with the bottom of your palm.
“I’m sorry,” Eddie offers.
You try to say it’s fine, but no words come out. Eddie understands. Despite the distance of the last three years, he still knows you better than anyone. And he knows that what you need now more than ever, is to be alone.
He lets you sit there, holding onto your soaked sock, and paddles back to shore. You don’t wait for him when the canoe hits the wooden dock, instead, you jump out and slide the other shoe off. Barefoot, you scurry towards the parking lot while the metal-head sorts things out with the owner. He proceeds after you, but only to unlock the car, from which you retrieve your backpack. With a shaky hand, you call your sponsor.
-
Back at the house, you’re first to run upstairs. The door closes with a thud and when you’re out of earshot, Nancy smacks Eddie’s chest to chastise him.
“What the fuck happened on that canoe?”
“Nothing,” he answers plainly.
“Then why does she look like she’s been crying?” Robin chimes.
Eddie ignores the questions and pushes past the girls, following you. He’s not listening to their protests. He’s not really thinking. Truthfully, the only thing on his mind is making sure you’re alright — even if it means swallowing his pride (and that’s a tough pill).
You let him in on the second knock. Rather you open the door and hover, waiting for him to speak. He doesn’t. Not with words. Instead, he slides in through the gap and kicks it close because he knows the remainder of the group will be eavesdropping. They can’t help themselves.
Eddie then reaches for your wrist. His own hand is steady as his fingers envelop around your bone and tug you closer. You don’t protest.
His other arm slides across your back, palm stretching. He begins to rub gentle circles into the material of your now fully dried t-shirt and you feel yourself relaxing with every passing second. The hand holding yours is now placed firmly against his chest. If he didn’t feel your heart beating under the canoe, you think he can definitely feel it now. Just like you can feel his. Focusing on the steady rhythm, you muster up the courage to look up and meet his brown eyes.
They speak volumes. Memories flash and disappear. The good, the bad, the ugly. Then a thousand apologies and notes of forgiveness. Everything falls into place. It’s just you and Eddie. Just like before that nightmare party.
“I’m listening,” he whispers. “Let’s move forward. I’m listening.”
Exhaling a shaky breath, you nod.
“Eddie, I-I am extremely sorry for everything I put you through,” you begin. “I’m sorry for being oblivious. I’m sorry for acting self-centred. I’m sorry for the night of Chrissy’s party. For hurting you like I did and for jumping into Steve’s arms instead of focusing on what was really important. You. Eddie, you—” Pause. “— you don’t know how incredible you are and I think I will forever hate myself for not being the girl you thought I was.”
The metal-head accepts your apology in the form of a hug. Right hand on your back slides lower and pushes you closer while the other finds itself at the back of your head. His mouth is at your earlobe, which he kisses gently. In turn, you allow yourself to let go and hold him tight, inhaling his natural scent of cigarettes and cheap breath mints. Today, right now, he also smells like the lake. It fuels your senses and ignites that fire in your core, the one you’ve been quietly trying to put out for three years — seemingly to no avail.
There’s still a lot of fixing that needs to happen. Rebuilding this friendship will not be easy by any means, you know that. This feels like a good start though and for the first time since you arrived, you’re feeling a little bit lighter on your feet. Like part of the burden has been lifted off your shoulders. Like you’re no longer alone.
Eddie places another kiss to the side of your head before eventually pulling away. When he does, you’re instantly missing his touch and all you can do is hope that he can’t read your mind because only baby steps can get you to where you really want to be with him. So you try to minimise your reaction when the metal-head fishes something out from the pocket of his shorts and takes your hand once again. His fingers work to open up your palm and without breaking eye contact, he places a single guitar pick in your grasp.
“I know it’s not the same,” the boy says, “But I thought this could replace that chip you lost. At least for this weekend.”
You’re rendered speechless. Lips parting, your gaze travels to where his hand is holding yours and where the red guitar pick rests — same colour as your Jeep — tangled in a silver chain.
Recognition feigns. Of course it does. You’re the one who gifted said guitar pick to the metal-head, for Christmas of senior year. Back then however, there was no chain attached to it. Either way, as you trace along the plastic, you can’t believe he kept such a small piece of you for all these years.
Hold on. Didn’t you throw it out the window of Chrissy’s childhood bedroom? The memories are a little hazy, but no, you definitely remember holding it one second and then, poof.
Eddie sees your bewilderment.
“After I dropped you home, I-I went back for it,” he admits, “Took me fucking forever to find. Almost had the cops called on me too ‘cause the flashlight on my phone, someone thought I was breaking in.”
He went back for it. He searched for it. He found it. He kept it.
Yet, you focus on: “You dropped me home?”
You string your brows together as you speak, hesitant to meet his gaze again when the question settles in the air because that part of the night, you definitely don’t remember.
“Shit, of course.” Eddie answers because to him it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You were in no condition to get yourself home and I wasn’t about to let someone else take you.”
This new development, another piece of the puzzle, causes a bubble to form in the back of your throat. Heavy. Waiting to burst. Somehow, knowing Eddie drove you to Nancy’s in the middle of the night and most likely helped you into bed, after you broke his trust and more importantly, his heart, well, it only makes you feel worse about yourself.
“Do you realise you just shit on everything we’ve ever shared?!” Eddie’s pointing a finger, it’s close to your face and your anger spikes.
You wince at the evocation and push his hand away.
“I can’t accept this.”
“Please. Take it.” He practically forces the item into your grasp. “I’ve been wearing it around my neck. Carrying it to remind me of you - as if I could ever forget - but now that you’re here, I think you should have it instead.”
Tears swell in the corner of your eyes.
“Eddie, I’m not worth this.” You try to reason, but the metal-head just shakes his head.
“Angel, you’re worth everything and more. I’m sorry if I made you doubt that.”
That’s where the conversation ends. Not because either one of you wants it to. Instead, you get interrupted by an eager knock on the door. Then Robin is telling you both through the wood how lunch is almost ready and how she hopes no one’s been murdered because she’s got no interest in cleaning up a scene. You reply that it’s all fine, not looking away from the curly set of hair in front of you.
Eddie smiles timidly. He orders you to shower and change, says he’ll do the same.
“I’ll see you downstairs, okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Under the shower, you replay the entire thing in your mind. Analyse from every angle. Pulling apart the words, the looks, the touch. His touch. You get lost in that hug again. Reliving how it felt to be in his arms once more, after all this time. Home, you think. That’s what it felt like. Instinctively, your hand travels to your earlobe, where he placed his soft kiss. The other lands between your collarbone, to the red guitar pick now hanging around your neck.
The longer you stand under the hot water, the harder it is to remind yourself to keep grounded. One conversation will not fix years of pent up frustration and resentment, no matter how well it went. There’s a lot more to say. The weekend is just beginning.
Although, after you make your way downstairs, it’s hard not to feel as if you’d already won.
Your high school friends together, laughing.
Yesterday, there was a vibe of awkwardness around the table. Even this morning was rough with the metal-head skipping the meal and no one really knowing why. Right now however, there’s jokes being shared and playful anecdotes exchanged. When you enter the kitchen, no one stops mid-conversation. They don’t exchange weird glances. Mood is high and realise how much of a ripple effect your relationship with Eddie has on the rest of the group.
That thought equally excites and terrifies you. After all, it’s only Saturday afternoon. A lot can happen between now and when it’s time to say goodbye.
(And a lot appears later, in the form of an uninvited guest.)
Now, you focus on lunch. On Eddie choosing to sit next to you, arm brushing yours as he slides into the chair, wild locks of hair still wet from his shower. He smiles and your heart flutters — this seemingly insignificant exchange earns you a kick from Robin under the table. She winks when you shoot her a quick glance, then, for the remainder of the meal, you do your best to keep attention on the food on your plate.
Conversation flows swiftly. Memories are recounted with flair. The high school years, albeit quite hellish for you at a certain point, don’t look so bad through the eyes of your friends. You almost forgot how much fun you had before the Billy-of-it-all.
Steve retells the story of his Junior Prom. You went as his date, which was unheard of for a freshman. He’s talking about winning Prom King and tossing you the crown, a seemingly innocent act that made most of the girls from his year jealous and therefore solidified your place in social hierarchy: ‘cause no one was to fuck with Harrington’s clique, that was the law.
“You’re misremembering a few important details, Steve.” You point out, taking a sip of your water. He looks at you from across the table, patiently waiting for an elaboration. You oblige. “You spent half of the night quizzing me about Nancy.”
Robin snorts.
Argyle drawls, “Play on playa.”
Jonathan and Nancy snicker.
Steve rolls his eyes at the lot of them, before replying to you. “Well, I made it up to you, didn’t I, sweetheart? I gave you Widlak’s number.”
“Lee Widlak?” Eddie asks, but his question is ignored. Sort of.
It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “We went on one wildly unsuccessful date,” you say, “I hardly count that as you making it up to me. You and Nancy dated for quite a bit which, dare I say, is hugely thanks to my cooperation at your prom.”
“But then Widlak introduced you to Billy while me and Nancy infamously broke up, also hugely thanks to you, so shouldn’t all be forgiven?” Steve muses, a sly smirk circling his lips.
“Dustin introduced me to Billy,” you correct without giving it a second thought.
When the table falls silent, you realise that wasn’t common knowledge.
You were always quite secretive when it came to your relationship with the Hargrove boy. Aside from his lavish looks and intense charm, he wasn’t entirely good news. Your parents didn’t like him. Your friends didn’t like him.
While you and Billy were together, it really felt as though it was you against the world. Later on, thanks to a lot of therapy, you realised he purposefully made it that way. He wanted to isolate you. You were easier to control when feeling lonely and Billy was all about control.
People were confused about the whole thing. You, a cheerleader at that point and easily the most popular girl in school. Him, a womanising bully. There were a lot of assumptions and rumours floating around back then about the two of you. Innocent enough about how you met, and some rather nasty, about Billy’s tendency to flirt with everything that had a pulse. Effectively, you didn’t clarify or respond to anyone’s assumptions. Why feed the mill?, as Billy would say.
Lee Widlak spread crazy stories during his high school run. One of said stories happened at a house party you attended and of course, Billy was there. From the outside, Lee had every right to think he introduced you to the dirty-blonde. On paper, that was days prior when an outspoken Dustin accosted you outside the Wheeler house and told you all about his new friend Max, her older brother Billy — who, right on queue, pulled up in his rundown BMW and charmed the shit out of you.
“Not intentionally, so I didn’t think anything of it.” You clarify. “But then at the funeral, Dustin came up to me, his eyes were puffy red, and he said how sorry he was. That it was all his fault. That I wouldn’t be this heartbroken if he hadn’t introduced us.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Steve’s sympathetic.
They all seem to be.
What you focus on however, is Eddie’s fingers gently brushing the side of your leg. Letting you know he’s here and he’s got you, always.
You swallow. “I obviously told him it wasn’t his fault. Probably didn’t believe me, but there’s no way I’d let this kid think he’s the reason for my misery,” you continue, then pause. “And anyway, Billy died because of me.”
“Dark,” Argyle whispers under his breath.
Jonathan and Steve simultaneously say your name. Nancy reaches for your hand on the table and squeezes it, saying how that’s definitely not true. Robin also says that you shouldn’t be blaming yourself. Eddie is the only one who doesn’t react. His movements also come to a halt and from the corner of your eyes, you can see how his fingers intertwine in his lap, as if he’s no longer sure what to do with them.
“Guys, it’s fine,” you reassure, “I made peace with it a long time ago.”
“Babe, Billy died ‘cause he was driving over the speed limit. He was being reckless, like always. That’s got nothing to do with you,” Robin tries to reason.
“He was coming to see me.”
“You don’t know that.” Nancy is next to step in. “He could have been going home. He could have been going—”
“He called me,” you state, hoping to put this whole thing to bed because the longer you talk about it, the more uneasy you feel. “He called me when he got in that stupid car and he asked if I was home, if anyone else was there. He said he needed to talk about something. He sounded really agitated, so I asked what was wrong. Billy threw some insults around, babbled about some freak - as he put it - who practically jumped him outside Benny’s. I think that was all bullshit. He just got in these moods and he was coming over to yell at someone who listened, aka me, and then I also got this feeling that he was going to break up with me. Earlier that day, I bumped into Max who wouldn’t meet my eyes. Despite their troubled relationship, she was always her brother’s keeper. Billy was done with me and that’s one of the reasons he was in the car that night.”
“Shit, dude.” Argyle breathes. He’s the only one at this table who never met Billy and perhaps that’s why he’s got the only genuine reaction. The remainder of your friends are silent. Glancing between one another, all nervous again, as if they’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It does. Mere seconds later, when Eddie says, “I’m the freak.”
Your head snaps to the side. The metal-head is staring at his lap while you examine the side of his face, trying to figure out if you heard him correctly.
“Eddie…” Nancy the peacekeeper.
He looks up then. Not at you, but at her. His eyes wander down the table until they land on Wheeler and his shoulders rise ever so slightly. They have a stare down. It’s only a couple of seconds long. You desperately want to know what they’re thinking. What he’s thinking. How many secrets can one friend group share before they’re no longer considered friends? And then you find yourself praying that it’s not as bad as it seems.
“Well, you might as well tell her now.” It’s Robin who breaks the weird stillness. “She was bound to find out sooner or later.”
“Tell me what?” You ask, glancing between the group, until your gaze travels back to Eddie who’s now waiting to catch it.
The seriousness in the mahogany has an uneasy undertone. You fear you already know what your ex-best friend is about to share. His eyes say it all. They always have. Your body sags into the chair, expression fading into one of sadness — things were barely good again, things were barely good again, things were barely good again.
“Now, I didn’t jump him. I wasn’t waiting for him. I didn’t plan any of what happened,” Eddie starts, “I caught him in Benny’s with some girl. They were awfully close to being just friends.”
For a split-second, you close your eyes. The metal-head places a hand on your thigh. You want to move away, but there’s nowhere else to go.
“Afterwards, he walked the girl to her car and I was going to let it go, I really was, but then they kissed and I instantly saw red ‘cause how dare he fuck around on you.” Eddie’s words are full of venom. Years of pent up aggression towards the boy that completely demoralised you.
“I swear, I just wanted to talk. I told him how he better come clean to you, but Billy just laughed in my face. He said he’s got you wrapped around his finger and no matter what he does, you’d never leave. Then he got in my face. You’re nothing but a jealous freak, he spat. You can’t have her so you ruin the fun for everyone else. Well, I’ll tell you what, freak, it’s my name she screams at the end of the night—”
The rest of that sentence gets caught in Eddie’s throat as your eyes swell with tears.
For the hundredth time since you arrived, you feel pathetic. You’re questioning everything. Yourself, your friends. Their motives. Eddie.
In your story, Eddie was always the good guy. Even at that stupid party, he didn’t do anything wrong. Sure, his timing may not have been perfect, but in your eyes, he was faultless.
Seems though, you were missing a vital piece of information. They all knew, you think, they knew and chose not to tell you.
“I punched him. Square in the jaw.”
“I don’t want to know,” you whisper, but your wishes aren’t heard.
“Billy was all talk, so he didn’t fight back. He threatened that he’ll call the cops and that’s when I got out of there.” Eddie concludes, “He must’ve called you instead.”
There is a lot to be said about grief. Even more about heartbreak. You experienced both of those things simultaneously and the person you leaned on the most, is the person who kept this huge secret from you.
“Excuse me.”
Shuffling free from the grasp of the curly-haired man, you’re on your feet in a flash and saunter away, towards the door and out of the kitchen area. Your friends call your name. Jonathan is the only one to say, “Let her go.”.
In true Eddie Munson fashion, the metal-head doesn’t listen. He’s rushing after you. Repeating that stupid moniker. Chanting it like a prayer because maybe then you’d stop and finish this conversation. Only, you don’t want to hear anything else that he’s got to say.
No, you didn’t suddenly think Eddie was now to blame for Billy dying. That’s ludicrous.
But, for three miserable years, you were haunted by what you did to Eddie Munson — rightfully so. Riddled with anxiety, regret. Endlessly apologetic. Thinking he’d never forgive you. When you arrived yesterday, he made you feel like crap — also, rightfully so. To learn he’s been sitting on this high horse while harbouring a truth about a night that changed the entire trajectory of your life… That feels like a betrayal.
“Angel, please.”
At the bottom of the stairs, he finally catches up. You’re a couple of steps ahead but he’s got a hold on your forearm.
“I just want to be left alone.”
You don’t dare look at him when you speak because that’s when the real emotions would show. Instead, you tilt your head backwards and count the paint speckles on the ceiling. Three, four, five…
A sigh escapes Eddie’s lips. Carefully, so you don’t trip, he pulls you back down, towards him. He leads you into a corner of the hallway, away from prying eyes and ears. His grip on you tightens slightly while the fingers of his free hand touch the tip of your chin.
“Look at me.” It’s more of a plea than a command. “Angel, look at me.”
He guides your face. The pace is slow, almost as if the metal-head’s afraid you’ll breakaway if he moves any faster. Eventually, his brown eyes catch yours and he offers a smile. Earnest, true. Kind.
“I did try to tell you. I called and texted, but you didn’t answer. Then, news broke of Billy’s accident and the group collectively decided not to mention it for a while.” Eddie says, hoping to explain. “You never asked me about the missed calls, so I went with what the guys wanted.”
Placing one hand flat on his chest, you reply, “Only you’re not the group, Eddie. To me, back then, you were—”
You pause, unsure how much to reveal. Then you remove your hand, letting it fall down to your side because suddenly this feels too intimate.
“Truthfully, I don’t remember much about that time. I don’t know if you called, but I believe you if you say you did,” you say. “I-I guess I just wish you told me anyway because maybe then things would have gone differently between us.”
Eddie blinks. Words settle in the air.
“Different how?”
You shrug. What you really want to tell him is that maybe you wouldn’t have gotten so horribly out of control over Billy’s death. Maybe you’d heal in a more healthy way. You want to list the endless questions you now have, starting with: ‘what if, knowing what I know now, I was okay enough to open myself up to feeling loved and cared for, by whoever, starting with you?’
The argument at Chrissy’s party doesn’t ensue. The friendship doesn’t shatter. You don’t run away, you don’t leave. Vegas doesn’t become your new home. Eddie remains in your life. The last three years simply don’t exist.
You want to tell him all of that and more, but just as you’re about to open your mouth to start spilling your thoughts, there’s a knock on the front door.
The two of you glance towards it, although neither makes a move to address whoever is on the other side. Until there’s another knock, then another. Reluctantly, and with a sigh, Eddie lets you go. He strides towards it, shooting you a rather longing look over his shoulder, before he reaches the handle.
When the metal-head opens the large wooden frame, your stomach sinks and you wish you hadn’t hesitated. You wish you told him everything. Spilled your guts into his lap. You wish you hugged him and told him that in the grand scheme of things, you two were alright.
There, standing on the patio with a small smile on her perfectly oval face, is Chrissy Cunningham.
And your day goes from bad to worse.
as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3
I love when Eddie is a bit of an asshole in his stories because it just seems kind of realistic with his character?? I feel like he genuinely wouldn't want to hear someone tell him what to do and he would have to discover the harsh truth for himself (like in Flight of Icarus).
some protector | chapter three from right where you left me.
pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader (modern day au)
word count: 6.5k
summary: tensions are rising. eddie’s no longer expressing confusion, but rather annoyance. anger. yeah, he’s angry because how dare you put words in his mouth. has he been acting distant since yesterday? yes. does that have anything to do with your arrival? everything. does he wish you weren’t here? not even one bit.
content warnings: forced proximity, angsty, suggestive & mature themes, adult language, mentions & descriptions of underage alcohol consumption / substance abuse, recreational drug use, discusses sobriety, emotional hurt / little-comfort, eddie is a bit of an asshole, some mutual pining, also touches on topics of: death, grief, reckless driving, toxic relationships, gaslighting, self-doubt / insecurities, love triangle?, unrequited love — pls read the cw's for each chapter and let me know if i missed any!
psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.
Eddie skips breakfast.
Nobody points it out, although it is clear they are all thinking about it.
Steve in particular is acting extra weird, shooting you pointed looks all throughout the meal as if to wordlessly ask what the hell happened last night? He is the one to have left you alone with the metal-head. Perhaps he’s feeling guilty for doing so?
You try to reply with your own glances in his direction — there’s nothing to worry about. Logically, Eddie skipping breakfast is just him wanting to sleep in.
Right?
While grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, you quietly tell Steve to let it go. He’s hovering like a shadow, eager for answers and truthfully, there’s nothing you can say. You have no idea why Eddie wouldn’t come down. He didn’t get burned. He wasn’t an ass. There’s no juicy gossip to share. It’s all very demure.
Steve pretends to buy what he perceives as excuses to some wider scheme and momentarily leaves you alone, but only to get ready.
Robin is the next person on your case. She sticks her head in through the door, babbling rather excitedly how Harrington told her all about last night, leaving you alone with the metal-head. She thinks she’s putting two-and-two together — something happened — but you only burst her bubble with the exact same thing you told Steve.
“He just apologised for the way he acted when he saw me,” you say. “There’s no bigger story.”
“So, you’re all good now? Friends?” She asks, sitting on the edge of your bed.
You scoff. “No. We’re still not talking.”
Robin rolls her eyes. “Well, your canoe ride is going to be hell.”
Then she proceeds to explain how after you went upstairs, Argyle suddenly felt really sick and he’s no longer going to partake in today’s planned activities. The dark-haired pothead was supposed to be your partner on the boat. Jonathan and Nancy, Robin and Steve, you with Argyle, and Eddie on his own. That was the planned pairings.
Not anymore.
“At least you’ll get to ask him if you’re the reason he skipped breakfast,” Robin teases with a sly smile and you suppress a groan. One of you is for sure going to push the other off that boat; unintentionally or otherwise.
The rental place is located one lake over from the house you are staying at. It’s about a twenty minute drive and the metal-head doesn’t speak the entire ride there. From where you’re sitting in the backseat, you see how tight he’s gripping the steering wheel. Knuckles on the verge of turning white. He found out about the last-minute switch just as he made an appearance, moments before Nancy ushered the group out the door. If he wanted to complain or protest, she didn’t give him a chance.
You half-wish you had taken your own car for this outing. In case anything occurs and you need a quick getaway, which is probably precisely why Nancy insisted Jonathan and Eddie drive. No more running. That’s the whole point of this weekend, as you have to keep reminding yourself. Unfortunately, nothing changes the fact that the thought of being alone with Eddie in a rather confined space is making you uneasy and judging by his blank stare, he’s feeling something similar.
Or pure rage.
Down at the dock, once the cars are parked and Nancy dramatises a roll call, you can feel Eddie’s indifference to the whole thing. He’s not paying attention to the owner, who explains how the life jackets work along with instructions on Canoeing 101. How to get into the boat, where to position yourself, is it better to kneel or sit, how to launch, how to paddle and steer, how to not tip. The list goes on. You nod along but truthfully, your mind is also elsewhere. Subtle foreshadowing: you both should have been listening more actively.
“Any questions?” The owner asks, glancing between the group.
And while under the impression that everyone now knows what they’re doing — considering there are no questions — he divides the paddles, helps with adjusting the lifejackets, then leads you all to the edge of the water.
Surprisingly, you both manage to get inside the canoe unscathed.
Considering Eddie still hasn’t so much as bothered to look in your general direction, you acknowledge this as a success. The good luck doesn’t last long. Since neither of you is willing to break the silence, you don’t agree on an order of motion and when Eddie tries to paddle backwards, you go forwards. For a solid three minutes, the canoe circles in place. Frustrated, you look out to the water, hoping to catch a glimpse of Robin and signal her a desperate plea. It seems however, you two are the only people left in this section of the lake. Everyone else has already disappeared behind the bend, hidden from view by the droopy trees.
You’re just about to shit on this whole day and jump out in your lifejacket, simultaneously saving yourself from any further embarrassment while also deepening the humiliation, when the boat starts to surge ahead. Eddie, taking advantage of the fact you’ve lost yourself in your thoughts and momentarily given up on paddling, uses his full force to row the aluminium oars, finally making headway in a direction that’s not circular.
For a moment, you think he’s going to gloat. Or worse. Tell you he doesn’t need you here: in this boat, this weekend, in his life — a fact you’ve seemingly grown accustomed too. However, the metal-head remains quiet. His expression is devoid of any emotion. It makes you want to scream, but you won’t give him that satisfaction. After all, you’re nearly one-hundred percent sure he’s doing this to get a reaction out of you. Rub your buttons the wrong way. Twisted payback for ruining, well, everything.
Another ten minutes later and the boat halts to a stop. You haven’t caught up with the rest of your friends yet, but you’re making headway (no thanks to your efforts). Eddie lets go of the oars and reaches down, at his feet is a bottle of water from which he takes a sip and then for the first time this entire morning, he looks at you. Seemingly unbothered. Nevertheless, the mahogany of his eyes glistening in the sun, the constant intensity of his stare, it makes you tremble ever so slightly.
“Would you like some?” Eddie offers his water.
You shake your head. “No, thank you.”
He scoffs. “First the cigarette and now the water,” he points out after taking another sip. “I’m not trying to poison you, you know?”
“I-I know.”
The two of you stare at each other for a minute.
There’s things you want to get off your chest, but you’re the one who said talking isn’t necessary. Plus, his behaviour makes it clear how, despite his apology for crappy behaviour, he’s not willing to listen and the twinge of hurt you feel, knowing Eddie has no interest in forgiving you for what happened at Chrissy’s party and everything after, it makes you nauseous.
Beginning to feel rather overwhelmed under his pointed glare, you glance back onto the water.
The beauty of the moment isn’t lost on you. This scenery is unlike anything you’ve ever had the privilege of witnessing and a breath gets caught in your throat now that you’ve allowed yourself to fully take it all in. Eddie’s still watching you, that much you’re aware of. Unfortunately, you can’t read his mind. If you could, perhaps you wouldn’t be feeling this way because all Eddie can think is how utterly alluring you look right now.
He can’t help himself. You’re… you. And it’s all against his better judgement. He hates you. He wants to hate you because that’s easier than admitting his true feelings towards you. That deep down, they haven’t changed. Seeing you after all these years only solidified that notion. He won’t admit it outloud, but he can allow himself to stare. To wish. To dream. What if things had been different? That’s the biggest dream of all.
“Should we get moving?” You ask eventually, unable to take the weight of his eyes on your body any longer.
Eddie shrugs. “Sure. Whatever you want.”
And the metal-head probably doesn’t mean anything by it. The phrase. You’re in your own head a little too much. Being at the receiving end of his resentment has done that to you.
“Stop that.”
Eddie’s expression is puzzled. Deepens when words continue to flow through your mouth, unfiltered.
“Stop with the ‘whatever you want’, and the ‘everyone is back to kissing your ass’, and she’s a princess, everyone is quick to forgive her, she’s always put on a pedestal.”
“I never even said half of what you’re implying,” Eddie defends. “And I said I was sorry for being a dick. You’re the one who suggested we don’t talk.”
“It doesn’t matter when I know you’re thinking it. When I can see on your face how much you wish I wasn’t here and how you resent the fact that my friends took me back.”
Tensions are rising. Eddie’s no longer expressing confusion, but rather annoyance. Anger. Yeah, he’s angry because how dare you put words in his mouth. Has he been acting distant since yesterday? Yes. Does that have anything to do with your arrival? Everything. Does he wish you weren’t here? Not even one bit. Quite the opposite, in fact.
He wishes he could get over it, put it to bed, like the rest of the friend group. He’s just not sure where to begin since everything to do with you still feels very fragile. Eddie’s hurting. He’s hating. He’s conflicted. The one thing he won’t stand for however, is someone making shit up about him. Even — and especially — if that person is you.
“You don’t know what I’m thinking. You don’t know anything about me anymore!”
“Because you won’t let me in!” You shout, hastily sitting slightly forward and in turn, rocking the canoe. “You won’t let me apologise. You won’t let me make peace. Eddie, you won’t let me move forward and that’s all I want. I just want to move forward!”
“And you think I don’t?!” He also shuffles forward. Arm at his chest, to emphasise how deep this whole thing runs. “You think I relish in feeling this… all of this… nastiness towards you? You think I enjoy not being able to so much as look in your direction? You think I don’t want to forgive you and let you move forward? I also want to move forward! Desperately! Angel, it’s just not that simple.”
Angel. The moniker lingers in the air. It startles you. Him too. If only for a split-second.
“Why won’t you let me apologise then? You’re allowed to say sorry, but I’m not?” You question, “Why can’t we start there?”
Eddie doesn’t immediately answer. His lack of response speaks more than words, however. You decide to drop it then. You decide it’s not worth it. There’s nothing else you can do to fix this at this moment in time.
And so you reach for an oar and tell Eddie that the two you should get moving before you fall even further behind. He tries to get a hold of the aluminium pad, in an attempt to keep this conversation going because in his eyes, you two are finally getting somewhere.
You try with all of your might to hold onto it while also reaching for the other one, which Eddie accidentally knocks with his knee and the paddle plunges into the water. He lunges for it. This sudden motion shakes the boat and you lose your balance, falling.
What happens next is a blur.
Splash. You’re submerged under water. Considering today is quite warm, the lake is anything but. Freezing; would be a better word to describe it. Although, it’s like you have a moment to think about it. You need to swim up. Get back on the boat.
Splash. Water ripples around you. Suddenly, there’s an arm holding your waist, pulling you close then pulling you up.
Within seconds, you surface together, under the cover of the canoe. Eddie’s now holding it with one hand, the other still firmly clinging onto you.
“Are you alright?”
“Did you just jump in after me?”
You ask simultaneously. A heartbeat pause.
Then you smile.
You can’t help it. The corners of your mouth twitch upwards on their own accord. Eddie’s grip on your tightens as you do and ensuingly, he smiles too. An expression so earnest, your heart skips a beat. With how the metal-head is holding you, you’re sure he can feel it.
Unfortunately, the good mood doesn’t last long. Kicking your feet underwater, a horrible thought crosses your mind.
“My chip.”
“What?” Eddie asks, confused.
“My sobriety chip. I-I don’t feel it in my sock.” Panic stricken, you push away from him and without further explanation, you swim under.
Instantly, your eyes hurt. In the darkness of the water, you can’t see anything other than Eddie’s frame and once again, you feel pathetic. Why can’t you catch a fucking break? So coming back up for air, the only thing you’re grateful for is being absolutely soaked because at least Eddie can’t tell where the droplets end and the tears begin.
“I-I always carry it with me,” you explain, “Everywhere I go. It’s usually in my wallet, but with my bag in the car… I-I needed the chip closer, so I thought what’s the worst that can happen if I put it in my sock.”
“I hate to say it, but it’s most likely already at the bottom of the lake.”
He’s right. You know he’s right.
Wordlessly, the two of you get out from under the boat and try to flip it. Unfortunately, considering neither of you really listened to the owner when he explained what to do in this situation, the whole thing takes a couple of tries and by the time you succeed, you’re even more stressed than before.
While you desperately try to gather your thoughts, Eddie swims around, gathering the oars.
Next, getting back into the canoe is even trickier than turning the thing.
“I-I think I’ll just swim to shore,” you say, deflated.
“Don’t be ridiculous, angel, that’s miles.” Eddie counters. “Just grab the opposite side, in the middle, and push yourself up.”
“Eddie—”
“Come on,” he interrupts, “I’ll do the same and our movements will counteract each other.”
Listening to his instructions, the two of you manage to get back into the boat. The first thing you do is take off your water-filled shoe and carefully remove your sock to confirm your suspicions. The chip is gone. Your heart sinks.
“It’s gone,” you mutter. After, you stifle a sniffle and wipe the lake-mixed tears with the bottom of your palm.
“I’m sorry,” Eddie offers.
You try to say it’s fine, but no words come out. Eddie understands. Despite the distance of the last three years, he still knows you better than anyone. And he knows that what you need now more than ever, is to be alone.
He lets you sit there, holding onto your soaked sock, and paddles back to shore. You don’t wait for him when the canoe hits the wooden dock, instead, you jump out and slide the other shoe off. Barefoot, you scurry towards the parking lot while the metal-head sorts things out with the owner. He proceeds after you, but only to unlock the car, from which you retrieve your backpack. With a shaky hand, you call your sponsor.
-
Back at the house, you’re first to run upstairs. The door closes with a thud and when you’re out of earshot, Nancy smacks Eddie’s chest to chastise him.
“What the fuck happened on that canoe?”
“Nothing,” he answers plainly.
“Then why does she look like she’s been crying?” Robin chimes.
Eddie ignores the questions and pushes past the girls, following you. He’s not listening to their protests. He’s not really thinking. Truthfully, the only thing on his mind is making sure you’re alright — even if it means swallowing his pride (and that’s a tough pill).
You let him in on the second knock. Rather you open the door and hover, waiting for him to speak. He doesn’t. Not with words. Instead, he slides in through the gap and kicks it close because he knows the remainder of the group will be eavesdropping. They can’t help themselves.
Eddie then reaches for your wrist. His own hand is steady as his fingers envelop around your bone and tug you closer. You don’t protest.
His other arm slides across your back, palm stretching. He begins to rub gentle circles into the material of your now fully dried t-shirt and you feel yourself relaxing with every passing second. The hand holding yours is now placed firmly against his chest. If he didn’t feel your heart beating under the canoe, you think he can definitely feel it now. Just like you can feel his. Focusing on the steady rhythm, you muster up the courage to look up and meet his brown eyes.
They speak volumes. Memories flash and disappear. The good, the bad, the ugly. Then a thousand apologies and notes of forgiveness. Everything falls into place. It’s just you and Eddie. Just like before that nightmare party.
“I’m listening,” he whispers. “Let’s move forward. I’m listening.”
Exhaling a shaky breath, you nod.
“Eddie, I-I am extremely sorry for everything I put you through,” you begin. “I’m sorry for being oblivious. I’m sorry for acting self-centred. I’m sorry for the night of Chrissy’s party. For hurting you like I did and for jumping into Steve’s arms instead of focusing on what was really important. You. Eddie, you—” Pause. “— you don’t know how incredible you are and I think I will forever hate myself for not being the girl you thought I was.”
The metal-head accepts your apology in the form of a hug. Right hand on your back slides lower and pushes you closer while the other finds itself at the back of your head. His mouth is at your earlobe, which he kisses gently. In turn, you allow yourself to let go and hold him tight, inhaling his natural scent of cigarettes and cheap breath mints. Today, right now, he also smells like the lake. It fuels your senses and ignites that fire in your core, the one you’ve been quietly trying to put out for three years — seemingly to no avail.
There’s still a lot of fixing that needs to happen. Rebuilding this friendship will not be easy by any means, you know that. This feels like a good start though and for the first time since you arrived, you’re feeling a little bit lighter on your feet. Like part of the burden has been lifted off your shoulders. Like you’re no longer alone.
Eddie places another kiss to the side of your head before eventually pulling away. When he does, you’re instantly missing his touch and all you can do is hope that he can’t read your mind because only baby steps can get you to where you really want to be with him. So you try to minimise your reaction when the metal-head fishes something out from the pocket of his shorts and takes your hand once again. His fingers work to open up your palm and without breaking eye contact, he places a single guitar pick in your grasp.
“I know it’s not the same,” the boy says, “But I thought this could replace that chip you lost. At least for this weekend.”
You’re rendered speechless. Lips parting, your gaze travels to where his hand is holding yours and where the red guitar pick rests — same colour as your Jeep — tangled in a silver chain.
Recognition feigns. Of course it does. You’re the one who gifted said guitar pick to the metal-head, for Christmas of senior year. Back then however, there was no chain attached to it. Either way, as you trace along the plastic, you can’t believe he kept such a small piece of you for all these years.
Hold on. Didn’t you throw it out the window of Chrissy’s childhood bedroom? The memories are a little hazy, but no, you definitely remember holding it one second and then, poof.
Eddie sees your bewilderment.
“After I dropped you home, I-I went back for it,” he admits, “Took me fucking forever to find. Almost had the cops called on me too ‘cause the flashlight on my phone, someone thought I was breaking in.”
He went back for it. He searched for it. He found it. He kept it.
Yet, you focus on: “You dropped me home?”
You string your brows together as you speak, hesitant to meet his gaze again when the question settles in the air because that part of the night, you definitely don’t remember.
“Shit, of course.” Eddie answers because to him it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You were in no condition to get yourself home and I wasn’t about to let someone else take you.”
This new development, another piece of the puzzle, causes a bubble to form in the back of your throat. Heavy. Waiting to burst. Somehow, knowing Eddie drove you to Nancy’s in the middle of the night and most likely helped you into bed, after you broke his trust and more importantly, his heart, well, it only makes you feel worse about yourself.
“Do you realise you just shit on everything we’ve ever shared?!” Eddie’s pointing a finger, it’s close to your face and your anger spikes.
You wince at the evocation and push his hand away.
“I can’t accept this.”
“Please. Take it.” He practically forces the item into your grasp. “I’ve been wearing it around my neck. Carrying it to remind me of you - as if I could ever forget - but now that you’re here, I think you should have it instead.”
Tears swell in the corner of your eyes.
“Eddie, I’m not worth this.” You try to reason, but the metal-head just shakes his head.
“Angel, you’re worth everything and more. I’m sorry if I made you doubt that.”
That’s where the conversation ends. Not because either one of you wants it to. Instead, you get interrupted by an eager knock on the door. Then Robin is telling you both through the wood how lunch is almost ready and how she hopes no one’s been murdered because she’s got no interest in cleaning up a scene. You reply that it’s all fine, not looking away from the curly set of hair in front of you.
Eddie smiles timidly. He orders you to shower and change, says he’ll do the same.
“I’ll see you downstairs, okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Under the shower, you replay the entire thing in your mind. Analyse from every angle. Pulling apart the words, the looks, the touch. His touch. You get lost in that hug again. Reliving how it felt to be in his arms once more, after all this time. Home, you think. That’s what it felt like. Instinctively, your hand travels to your earlobe, where he placed his soft kiss. The other lands between your collarbone, to the red guitar pick now hanging around your neck.
The longer you stand under the hot water, the harder it is to remind yourself to keep grounded. One conversation will not fix years of pent up frustration and resentment, no matter how well it went. There’s a lot more to say. The weekend is just beginning.
Although, after you make your way downstairs, it’s hard not to feel as if you’d already won.
Your high school friends together, laughing.
Yesterday, there was a vibe of awkwardness around the table. Even this morning was rough with the metal-head skipping the meal and no one really knowing why. Right now however, there’s jokes being shared and playful anecdotes exchanged. When you enter the kitchen, no one stops mid-conversation. They don’t exchange weird glances. Mood is high and realise how much of a ripple effect your relationship with Eddie has on the rest of the group.
That thought equally excites and terrifies you. After all, it’s only Saturday afternoon. A lot can happen between now and when it’s time to say goodbye.
(And a lot appears later, in the form of an uninvited guest.)
Now, you focus on lunch. On Eddie choosing to sit next to you, arm brushing yours as he slides into the chair, wild locks of hair still wet from his shower. He smiles and your heart flutters — this seemingly insignificant exchange earns you a kick from Robin under the table. She winks when you shoot her a quick glance, then, for the remainder of the meal, you do your best to keep attention on the food on your plate.
Conversation flows swiftly. Memories are recounted with flair. The high school years, albeit quite hellish for you at a certain point, don’t look so bad through the eyes of your friends. You almost forgot how much fun you had before the Billy-of-it-all.
Steve retells the story of his Junior Prom. You went as his date, which was unheard of for a freshman. He’s talking about winning Prom King and tossing you the crown, a seemingly innocent act that made most of the girls from his year jealous and therefore solidified your place in social hierarchy: ‘cause no one was to fuck with Harrington’s clique, that was the law.
“You’re misremembering a few important details, Steve.” You point out, taking a sip of your water. He looks at you from across the table, patiently waiting for an elaboration. You oblige. “You spent half of the night quizzing me about Nancy.”
Robin snorts.
Argyle drawls, “Play on playa.”
Jonathan and Nancy snicker.
Steve rolls his eyes at the lot of them, before replying to you. “Well, I made it up to you, didn’t I, sweetheart? I gave you Widlak’s number.”
“Lee Widlak?” Eddie asks, but his question is ignored. Sort of.
It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “We went on one wildly unsuccessful date,” you say, “I hardly count that as you making it up to me. You and Nancy dated for quite a bit which, dare I say, is hugely thanks to my cooperation at your prom.”
“But then Widlak introduced you to Billy while me and Nancy infamously broke up, also hugely thanks to you, so shouldn’t all be forgiven?” Steve muses, a sly smirk circling his lips.
“Dustin introduced me to Billy,” you correct without giving it a second thought.
When the table falls silent, you realise that wasn’t common knowledge.
You were always quite secretive when it came to your relationship with the Hargrove boy. Aside from his lavish looks and intense charm, he wasn’t entirely good news. Your parents didn’t like him. Your friends didn’t like him.
While you and Billy were together, it really felt as though it was you against the world. Later on, thanks to a lot of therapy, you realised he purposefully made it that way. He wanted to isolate you. You were easier to control when feeling lonely and Billy was all about control.
People were confused about the whole thing. You, a cheerleader at that point and easily the most popular girl in school. Him, a womanising bully. There were a lot of assumptions and rumours floating around back then about the two of you. Innocent enough about how you met, and some rather nasty, about Billy’s tendency to flirt with everything that had a pulse. Effectively, you didn’t clarify or respond to anyone’s assumptions. Why feed the mill?, as Billy would say.
Lee Widlak spread crazy stories during his high school run. One of said stories happened at a house party you attended and of course, Billy was there. From the outside, Lee had every right to think he introduced you to the dirty-blonde. On paper, that was days prior when an outspoken Dustin accosted you outside the Wheeler house and told you all about his new friend Max, her older brother Billy — who, right on queue, pulled up in his rundown BMW and charmed the shit out of you.
“Not intentionally, so I didn’t think anything of it.” You clarify. “But then at the funeral, Dustin came up to me, his eyes were puffy red, and he said how sorry he was. That it was all his fault. That I wouldn’t be this heartbroken if he hadn’t introduced us.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Steve’s sympathetic.
They all seem to be.
What you focus on however, is Eddie’s fingers gently brushing the side of your leg. Letting you know he’s here and he’s got you, always.
You swallow. “I obviously told him it wasn’t his fault. Probably didn’t believe me, but there’s no way I’d let this kid think he’s the reason for my misery,” you continue, then pause. “And anyway, Billy died because of me.”
“Dark,” Argyle whispers under his breath.
Jonathan and Steve simultaneously say your name. Nancy reaches for your hand on the table and squeezes it, saying how that’s definitely not true. Robin also says that you shouldn’t be blaming yourself. Eddie is the only one who doesn’t react. His movements also come to a halt and from the corner of your eyes, you can see how his fingers intertwine in his lap, as if he’s no longer sure what to do with them.
“Guys, it’s fine,” you reassure, “I made peace with it a long time ago.”
“Babe, Billy died ‘cause he was driving over the speed limit. He was being reckless, like always. That’s got nothing to do with you,” Robin tries to reason.
“He was coming to see me.”
“You don’t know that.” Nancy is next to step in. “He could have been going home. He could have been going—”
“He called me,” you state, hoping to put this whole thing to bed because the longer you talk about it, the more uneasy you feel. “He called me when he got in that stupid car and he asked if I was home, if anyone else was there. He said he needed to talk about something. He sounded really agitated, so I asked what was wrong. Billy threw some insults around, babbled about some freak - as he put it - who practically jumped him outside Benny’s. I think that was all bullshit. He just got in these moods and he was coming over to yell at someone who listened, aka me, and then I also got this feeling that he was going to break up with me. Earlier that day, I bumped into Max who wouldn’t meet my eyes. Despite their troubled relationship, she was always her brother’s keeper. Billy was done with me and that’s one of the reasons he was in the car that night.”
“Shit, dude.” Argyle breathes. He’s the only one at this table who never met Billy and perhaps that’s why he’s got the only genuine reaction. The remainder of your friends are silent. Glancing between one another, all nervous again, as if they’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It does. Mere seconds later, when Eddie says, “I’m the freak.”
Your head snaps to the side. The metal-head is staring at his lap while you examine the side of his face, trying to figure out if you heard him correctly.
“Eddie…” Nancy the peacekeeper.
He looks up then. Not at you, but at her. His eyes wander down the table until they land on Wheeler and his shoulders rise ever so slightly. They have a stare down. It’s only a couple of seconds long. You desperately want to know what they’re thinking. What he’s thinking. How many secrets can one friend group share before they’re no longer considered friends? And then you find yourself praying that it’s not as bad as it seems.
“Well, you might as well tell her now.” It’s Robin who breaks the weird stillness. “She was bound to find out sooner or later.”
“Tell me what?” You ask, glancing between the group, until your gaze travels back to Eddie who’s now waiting to catch it.
The seriousness in the mahogany has an uneasy undertone. You fear you already know what your ex-best friend is about to share. His eyes say it all. They always have. Your body sags into the chair, expression fading into one of sadness — things were barely good again, things were barely good again, things were barely good again.
“Now, I didn’t jump him. I wasn’t waiting for him. I didn’t plan any of what happened,” Eddie starts, “I caught him in Benny’s with some girl. They were awfully close to being just friends.”
For a split-second, you close your eyes. The metal-head places a hand on your thigh. You want to move away, but there’s nowhere else to go.
“Afterwards, he walked the girl to her car and I was going to let it go, I really was, but then they kissed and I instantly saw red ‘cause how dare he fuck around on you.” Eddie’s words are full of venom. Years of pent up aggression towards the boy that completely demoralised you.
“I swear, I just wanted to talk. I told him how he better come clean to you, but Billy just laughed in my face. He said he’s got you wrapped around his finger and no matter what he does, you’d never leave. Then he got in my face. You’re nothing but a jealous freak, he spat. You can’t have her so you ruin the fun for everyone else. Well, I’ll tell you what, freak, it’s my name she screams at the end of the night—”
The rest of that sentence gets caught in Eddie’s throat as your eyes swell with tears.
For the hundredth time since you arrived, you feel pathetic. You’re questioning everything. Yourself, your friends. Their motives. Eddie.
In your story, Eddie was always the good guy. Even at that stupid party, he didn’t do anything wrong. Sure, his timing may not have been perfect, but in your eyes, he was faultless.
Seems though, you were missing a vital piece of information. They all knew, you think, they knew and chose not to tell you.
“I punched him. Square in the jaw.”
“I don’t want to know,” you whisper, but your wishes aren’t heard.
“Billy was all talk, so he didn’t fight back. He threatened that he’ll call the cops and that’s when I got out of there.” Eddie concludes, “He must’ve called you instead.”
There is a lot to be said about grief. Even more about heartbreak. You experienced both of those things simultaneously and the person you leaned on the most, is the person who kept this huge secret from you.
“Excuse me.”
Shuffling free from the grasp of the curly-haired man, you’re on your feet in a flash and saunter away, towards the door and out of the kitchen area. Your friends call your name. Jonathan is the only one to say, “Let her go.”.
In true Eddie Munson fashion, the metal-head doesn’t listen. He’s rushing after you. Repeating that stupid moniker. Chanting it like a prayer because maybe then you’d stop and finish this conversation. Only, you don’t want to hear anything else that he’s got to say.
No, you didn’t suddenly think Eddie was now to blame for Billy dying. That’s ludicrous.
But, for three miserable years, you were haunted by what you did to Eddie Munson — rightfully so. Riddled with anxiety, regret. Endlessly apologetic. Thinking he’d never forgive you. When you arrived yesterday, he made you feel like crap — also, rightfully so. To learn he’s been sitting on this high horse while harbouring a truth about a night that changed the entire trajectory of your life… That feels like a betrayal.
“Angel, please.”
At the bottom of the stairs, he finally catches up. You’re a couple of steps ahead but he’s got a hold on your forearm.
“I just want to be left alone.”
You don’t dare look at him when you speak because that’s when the real emotions would show. Instead, you tilt your head backwards and count the paint speckles on the ceiling. Three, four, five…
A sigh escapes Eddie’s lips. Carefully, so you don’t trip, he pulls you back down, towards him. He leads you into a corner of the hallway, away from prying eyes and ears. His grip on you tightens slightly while the fingers of his free hand touch the tip of your chin.
“Look at me.” It’s more of a plea than a command. “Angel, look at me.”
He guides your face. The pace is slow, almost as if the metal-head’s afraid you’ll breakaway if he moves any faster. Eventually, his brown eyes catch yours and he offers a smile. Earnest, true. Kind.
“I did try to tell you. I called and texted, but you didn’t answer. Then, news broke of Billy’s accident and the group collectively decided not to mention it for a while.” Eddie says, hoping to explain. “You never asked me about the missed calls, so I went with what the guys wanted.”
Placing one hand flat on his chest, you reply, “Only you’re not the group, Eddie. To me, back then, you were—”
You pause, unsure how much to reveal. Then you remove your hand, letting it fall down to your side because suddenly this feels too intimate.
“Truthfully, I don’t remember much about that time. I don’t know if you called, but I believe you if you say you did,” you say. “I-I guess I just wish you told me anyway because maybe then things would have gone differently between us.”
Eddie blinks. Words settle in the air.
“Different how?”
You shrug. What you really want to tell him is that maybe you wouldn’t have gotten so horribly out of control over Billy’s death. Maybe you’d heal in a more healthy way. You want to list the endless questions you now have, starting with: ‘what if, knowing what I know now, I was okay enough to open myself up to feeling loved and cared for, by whoever, starting with you?’
The argument at Chrissy’s party doesn’t ensue. The friendship doesn’t shatter. You don’t run away, you don’t leave. Vegas doesn’t become your new home. Eddie remains in your life. The last three years simply don’t exist.
You want to tell him all of that and more, but just as you’re about to open your mouth to start spilling your thoughts, there’s a knock on the front door.
The two of you glance towards it, although neither makes a move to address whoever is on the other side. Until there’s another knock, then another. Reluctantly, and with a sigh, Eddie lets you go. He strides towards it, shooting you a rather longing look over his shoulder, before he reaches the handle.
When the metal-head opens the large wooden frame, your stomach sinks and you wish you hadn’t hesitated. You wish you told him everything. Spilled your guts into his lap. You wish you hugged him and told him that in the grand scheme of things, you two were alright.
There, standing on the patio with a small smile on her perfectly oval face, is Chrissy Cunningham.
And your day goes from bad to worse.
as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3
girl you have that really angsty Eddie fic where he gets hooked on things he shouldn't and it ruins his relationship with reader - please please please write some more Eddie angst, BEGGING
pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader [modern day au]
word count: 5k
summary: a weekend gateway to with your old high school friends? sounds like a dream! only it’s not really as it’s been three years since you last saw them. three years since you left hawkins without so much as a goodbye, and certain people tend to hold grudges.
content warnings: heavily unedited (sorry): angsty angst, mature themes & adult language, mentions & descriptions of underage alcohol consumption / substance abuse, anxiety / panic attacks, emotional hurt / no comfort, unrequited (sorta) love, some mutual pining, love triangle?, eddie is a bit of an asshole, also touches on topics of: divorce, death, grief — pls let me know if i missed any!
AUTHOR UPDATE: SERIES MASTERLIST HERE
Parking your car at the desired destination, you glance out the half-opened window and note how the weather is far from ideal for the planned activities.
It’s cold. Cold enough to make anyone's atoms shiver. Dark grey clouds cover every inch of the sky above, hiding the beautiful autumn sun. The air is brisk. It’s harsh against your skin as you eventually get out of the red Jeep and the unwelcoming breeze that follows makes you wish that you had packed warmer clothes for this weekend.
Jesus, you think, as if this trip wasn’t going to be hard enough.
When your feet hit the gravel below, you exhale, wondering whether it’s too late to change your mind about agreeing to come. Since the weather was seemingly against you, what’s to say the universe wasn’t going to continue ruining this weekend? But before you get a chance to decide what your next move is going to be, the door of the lake house swings open and Nancy runs out, arms spread wide as she squeals with excitement.
“I can’t believe you actually came!”
The hug she gives you is strong, almost full force. It takes you a second to register that one second she was running out of the house, and the next, her arms are wrapped tightly around you as if no time has passed between now and when you last saw her. Therefore, it takes you a second to hug her back, but when you do, a small smile circles your lips. Familiarity. Maybe this trip won’t be so bad after all.
“Of course I came,” you say as she draws back, “You know me, Nance, always down for a good time.”
Nancy laughs. “Oh, I remember.”
Then her smile falters just as fast as it appears and you know exactly which memory crosses her mind because your own thoughts wander back to that moment too, along with the people involved.
“Sorry, my joke was in poor taste. If you can even call that a joke.” You admit with a lighthearted huff.
“No, no.” Nancy shakes her head, but even with the years that have passed since you last saw each other in person, you know the look in her eye is one of concern.
You think to try and ease at least some of her worry since she did go through all the trouble to organise this weekend for your high school group to get together and the last thing you’d want is for her to second-guess ever inviting you.
“I- uh… I actually don’t really drink anymore.”
Her facial expression shifts to one of surprise, though she doesn’t say anything which would demonstrate that. Instead, she smiles again.
“Good for you,” the tone of her voice conveys pride and you’re grateful.
“Thanks, Nance.”
One day you’ll tell her about the road that led you to sobriety, but today’s not that day.
Today is about reintroducing yourself to the friends that have helped you get through four hellish years that were called ‘high school’. The people that were there for you through the good and the ugly; which got real fucking ugly sometimes. The group that most often than not was your literal lifeline.
Nancy, your best friend. Robin, your sidekick. Jonathan, your unlicensed therapist. Steve, your partner in crime. And Eddie…
You haven’t seen any of them since graduation.
Three years of virtually no contact.
Sure, it made you wonder why you were even invited to this weekend getaway in the first place, but Nancy was always like a sister so you knew her motives were definitely not malicious.
“Let me help you with your bags,” the brunette girl offers and before you get a chance to decline, say you’ve got them on your own since you really didn’t bring much with you, she’s at the boot of your car.
While Nancy fills you in on the plans she’s made for everyone, the various activities she’s organised for the days ahead, the two of you gather your belongings before making your way towards the big house.
Apparently everyone is already here.
Nancy, Jonathan, and someone called Argyle (a new addition to the group, undoubtedly a breath of fresh air following your departure), got here last night. Steve, Robin, and Eddie arrived this morning.
“But the boys went to the shop to get all the groceries we need for this weekend, so right now it’s just me and Robin.” Nancy explains, fingers wrapping around the door handle. It’s her way of saying not to be nervous, he wasn’t here right now, and with that your shoulders relax in relief.
The inside of the house is even more impressive than its exterior. High ceilings, all wooden floors, and decor that undoubtedly cost more than anything you own or could actually afford. In the living area, there’s paintings on the walls that depict the home during construction, then in its full glory, as it stands now. Various knick-knacks fill the shelving, and the bookcase at the back of the room is filled top to bottom with stories you’ve never even heard of.
You allow yourself to continue into the kitchen, which looks like a piece out of Architectural Digest. Modern touches to the original design, upgraded appliances that look like they’ve never been used. There’s a large dining table in the back of the space, already set for dinner. The windows behind it offer a perfect view of the lake and as you look at the water; peace. For a split-second, you let yourself really think that coming wasn’t a bad idea after all.
“Jesus, Nance, how the hell did you find this place?” You ask in awe once the girl stands beside you.
“Argyle has this aunt who’s an avid Airbnb user. Honestly, when he first showed me the pictures, I thought he was out of it, like he usually is, but here we are...”
You don’t get to tell her how beautiful you think it is ‘cause there’s a high-pitch screech that startles you, and within seconds, someone’s arms wrap around your frame, swaying you from side to side.
“When Wheeler told me you agreed to come, I swear I thought she was bluffing!”
Robin drops her arms, allowing you to turn in your spot and face her. The grin on her face is wide, complimenting her new haircut, which is about the only thing that’s changed in her physical appearance over the last three years.
She playfully smacks your arm. You do the same to her. It’s reminiscent of a handshake, an acknowledgment that despite the years of only sending and receiving generic birthday texts, you guys were still as close as ever.
“Long time no see, Buckley. Loving the new look.” You point to her long bleached locks.
“Yeah? I was going for that badass lesbian vibe. What Daenerys should’ve been.”
You chuckle. “Well, I’d say mission accomplished.”
“Thanks,” Robin smirks then takes the duffle out of your grasp and turns to Nancy, asking to lead the way to the room that’s been assigned to you.
Up the stairs and down the long hallway, the girls point to the shared bathroom, but Nancy says your room actually has an en-suite. Then she outlines which door leads to whose bedroom — Eddie’s is first up the stairs and you wonder whose choice it was to deliberately keep you two away — before stopping at the last door and pushing it open to reveal your safe space for this weekend.
First thought that crosses your mind is how this one bedroom is bigger than your entire apartment. The bed alone would probably not fit in your current home. Second thought is how you have the same view as in the kitchen, only higher up, and you thank Nancy for assigning you this room for that reason alone.
“It’s no big deal,” she replies with a shrug, “You had the longest trip out here, only fair you get the best room, so you can properly rewind.”
“As the organiser, you should have the nicest room,” you counter, but Nance just waves her hand, dismissing what was going to be an offer to swap.
She proceeds to place the bag she was holding at the foot of the bed.
“Get settled in and we’ll start on food once the guys return.”
“You should have enough time to shower, if you want,” Robin chimes in, also dropping the duffel she carried up for you, “Knowing the four of them, they’re still trying to locate the gluten free sticker on the pasta Nance asked for.”
“Rob,” Nancy snorts.
The blonde shrugs. “You know it’s true! Those idiots can’t fucking read.”
They leave you shortly after, telling you to take your time to clean up and change into something more comfortable.
When the door shuts with a soft thud, you exhale a breath you didn’t even realise you were holding. It’s all okay, it’s all okay, it’s all okay, you repeat to yourself silently, and although you feel a little calmer than when you first arrived, there is still tension in your neck. There’s only one reason for that. One that isn’t here right now, but is bound to arrive at any point in the next hour.
‘arrived safe & sound. still feeling a little nauseous about this whole thing, but I’m taking your advice.. keep positive.’ - The text to your mom sends with a whooshing sound as you throw your phone on the large bed.
You glance around the room again, taking in the decor as a distraction to the anxiety bubbling in your chest. The furnishings are similar to the rest of the house, classy with a modern twist. Peaceful colours that perfectly compliment the wooden fixtures, and the birds chirping melodically outside the open window only add to the serenity. It’s really one of the nicest places you’ve ever stayed in and you take a mental note to send Nancy a bouquet of flowers when you get home, as a thank you.
When you step under the shower, you’re even more grateful.
Back in your own apartment, you’re not guaranteed warm water, having to often make a choice between rinsing off the hectic day or cleaning the dishes so there’s something to eat off. It’s the life you chose, so you really can’t complain, but standing here in silence as the hot droplets wash over your skin, you think maybe you chose wrong. Then you think how fucking selfish that is of you since there’s a clear list of reasons why, aside from the comfort of a scolding shower, the choices you made three years ago where far from good.
Leaving without saying goodbye to everyone, for one. No explanations, no notes.
Only Nancy knew of your plan. After all, she was the one that talked you into leaving.
The final nail in the coffin — so to speak — was her opinion on the literal shitshow that the final months of your high school career had become. And when she sat you down, the afternoon before graduation, she made it clear how she was worried about you and perhaps it was for the best to get away from Hawkins. Leave everything and everyone behind, allowing yourself time to heal and get your head straight.
You had only planned to be gone that one summer. But things never go to plan, especially for you.
Three months turned into four, then six, and before you knew it, a year had passed since your departure. Some of the group had tried to reach out at various points during that time, but you didn’t engage — only replied to Nancy the odd time, and texted Robin the mentioned before birthday wishes.
The one person you really wished checked in on you, was the only person that didn’t. Not like you could blame him. You broke his fucking heart.
It wasn’t entirely a secret that Eddie Munson had a big fat crush on you.
He wouldn’t call it love at first sight, but it was pretty damn close — as you later found out from Robin. Later. Too late. She then went on to say, when the rocker first laid eyes on you, standing at Nancy’s locker and laughing at something she’d said moments prior, Eddie’s heart skipped a beat. Then two. The metalhead thought you were perhaps the most gorgeous girl to ever walk down the halls of Hawkins High, although he never said it out loud.
(Not to you anyway.)
Things changed however, when you started dating Billy Hargrove.
That boy was a bad influence for sure, even more than Eddie’s wild antics, but at that point in your life, you saw the world through rose-coloured glasses and turned a blind eye to Billy’s shitty behaviour.
Your first drink was provided to you by the scruffy blonde.
The first time you blacked out was after his funeral.
Earth shattering, his sudden death. Having lost the first love you’ve ever had, you didn’t know what to do with yourself. You didn’t know how to cope. By the time your senior year came around, and Eddie’s third attempt at graduation, your life only continued to spiral out of control.
Your parents announced their divorce. It was apparently no one’s fault — irreconcilable differences — but their break up meant the house you’d grown up in was being put up for sale and you suddenly had to choose who you wanted to live with.
Being an only child never brought with it any pressures, until now. Your father was moving cross country. Relocating with his job, who no longer needed him at their Indianapolis location, preferred he run the new branch in Las Vegas. Your mother was also venturing outside Hawkins, just not as far. She apparently found this cute place in Fort Wayne and was already in talks with a local school there for a part-time teaching position.
The Wheelers took you in following a conversation between Karen and your mom about how you shouldn’t be finishing your high school education someplace new, so this solved one problem.
But being away from your support system unfortunately made you feel increasingly isolated. Your parents had this “open door” policy that you didn’t realise you needed until it was no longer readily available. Phone calls and texts just weren’t the same.
This time in your life proved how difficult it was to pretend you were genuinely happy.
Eddie was the first to notice the subtle change in your attitude. He’d often ask what was bothering you, but you’d always tell him nothing, so he eventually learned to stop and simply tried to distract you with his usual antics.
You hated him for it. You hated how he just knew how you were feeling. How he could sense those deep and inner thoughts you were trying to hide. And you hated now he would try to make you feel better when all you really wanted was for the sad feelings to swallow you whole.
Without proper supervision, your after school activities also shifted into ones that would fill the emptiness you were constantly feeling. You were always quite outgoing, always the first one to say yes when someone mentioned a party, but the months between December and April unlocked a new version of you. One not many people in your friend group were particularly a fan of, though all too afraid of saying something.
It all came crashing down the night of Chrissy Cunningham’s farewell party. A few days before graduation, she invited the entire senior year to her parents’ lavish home for a get together that her dickhead boyfriend called: Project X 2.0.
You asked Steve to come with you — much to Eddie’s dismay.
In the end, Carver got his wish. The party was indeed memorable for all the wrong reasons and the endless list of mistakes you made that night, in your inebriated state, was precisely why you left Hawkins in a hurry.
Las Vegas turned out to not be so bad.
There were a few bumps in the road upon your first arrival. A few too many drunken nights, drunken fights, and drunken one night stands. But once your dad acknowledged your reckless behaviour was becoming a serious problem, things got a little easier. Therapy helped.
A year and a half later, there was only one thing that made you want to reach for a drink to flush the hard work down the drain: Eddie Munson and how you treated him at that party, what you put him through that night.
In retrospect, you should’ve been the one to reach out to him. At least a call to say I’m sorry for the things I did and said. No time just felt like the right time and then, when Chrissy posted a picture of herself sitting happily in Eddie’s lap, it seemed a little too late.
Did it hurt to see him move on from the crush he had on you? Yes.
Again, you couldn’t blame him for doing so.
-
“How was your shower?” Nancy asks when you come back downstairs.
She’s sitting on one of the sofas, a cotton blanket covering her legs. Robin is next to her, fingers working the keyboard of her phone, and looks up following Nancy’s question.
“No offence, but you look a lot better than when you first arrived.”
The comment earns Buckley a good nudge to the rib cage by the brunette beside her.
“Ow! Jesus Christ, Nance—”
“We talked about this,” Nancy interrupts, narrowing her eyes at the girl.
“It was a simple observation,” Robin defends, “I’m sure she’s fucking nervous to be here, rightfully so—”
“Robin!”
“It’s okay,” you chime in and the girls simultaneously turn to look at you once again. “Buckley’s right. I am nervous.”
Both their expressions simultaneously turn to one of sympathy. You plaster on the best smile you can muster before making yourself comfortable in an armchair by the open window, feeling their gaze follow your every move. You want to tell them to stop, tell them that the nerves will pass so it’s no big deal, but they’d see right through you. The topic of you, Eddie, and that horrendous high school party will haunt this group like a ghost, lingering in the background even if it’s addressed — which you’re going to have to do very soon. That’s why you came.
“He asks about you all the time,” Nancy says after a long pause, “What’s she doing? Is she working, studying?”
“Is she seeing anyone?” Robin adds.
“Is she happy…”
The ache in your chest increases with every spoken word, fueled by the guilt you carried every single day for the last three years. Somehow knowing now that Eddie asked about you was worse than thinking he’s moved on because, selfishly, if he was happy, then it wasn’t all bad. If he was happy, then the harsh truths you drunkenly sputtered in his direction weren’t a cruel thing to do, they weren’t as vile as you remembered them to be. If he was happy, then what you did after wasn’t a complete betrayal.
“I-I never meant to hurt him,” you finally whisper, forcing down the tears that threaten to break. “I never meant to hurt any of you.”
The girls both offer you a smile.
“We know,” Nancy reassures, “That’s why we thought it’d be a good idea to invite you this weekend. What happened three years ago is so minor in terms of the rest of our lives, it’s time we all move past it.”
Nancy, the peacemaker.
“Plus I’m planning a trip to Vegas for my birthday and I need your help with organising,” Robin chips in, her smile shifting into a grin. “You wouldn’t have answered my call, but now there’s no escape.”
Robin, the girl that can always get you to laugh.
The chuckle that escapes your lips is genuine. For a split second, your nerves are eased and you’re transported back to the basement of your childhood home where the three of you spent hours planning your futures while flicking through trashy magazines in accompaniment to old hits blaring through the docking station your dad’s iPod was connected to.
Back then, turning twenty-one seemed like a distant dream.
So you proceed to reassure the blonde you are going to get her name on the list of some of the best clubs Vegas has and she squeals, jumping up to squeeze you with excitement, and telling you how Vickie, her girlfriend, was going to lose her shit over this, then she disappears into the kitchen, presumably to call Vickie with the news.
“You just made her day,” Nancy says, smiling kindly.
“I’m glad I could do at least that,” you reply, then add, “I’m happy to be here. Thank you for thinking of me, Nance.”
Whatever Nancy is about to say next is interrupted by the sound of tires on gravel. The engine is shut shortly after your head snaps in the direction of the entryway, a large gulp forming in the back of your throat.
The next few minutes pass at an agonisingly slow pace. You think you hear Nancy call out your name, but your focus is on the door alone, waiting for it to open, waiting for him to come inside. You’re anticipating his reaction to seeing you after all this time, wondering if he’d even acknowledge your presence or skip straight to the kitchen with the acquired groceries.
From a recent post on Instagram, you know what he looks like. Really good, if anybody asked. You were careful not to like it despite your finger hovering over the image for a few seconds too long. Then you were careful not to like any other picture as you scrolled through his profile until you reached the very end: a post of the two of you at a Halloween party your junior year, the night you finally talked him into creating an account.
Thanks to the light stalking, you also know him and Chrissy broke up a few weeks ago. He seemingly deleted any trace of the preppy blonde from his profile, she did the same with him, and you couldn’t deny the stinge of satisfaction that cursed through your veins upon that revelation.
When the doorknob rattles, you hop on your feet.
There’s no going back now. You prepared yourself for this moment ever since you accepted Nancy’s invitation. Time to face the music.
Jonathan walks in first. He greets Nancy with a kiss before offloading the twelve-pack of beers onto the floor and turning his attention to you. His smile is big and you’re feeling a little less nervous when he pulls you into a silent hug. When he pulls back, he pats you on the shoulder, then picks up the box he’s after placing on the floor and walks in the direction of the kitchen.
The guy that introduces himself as Argyle is next. Heavy lidded, he’s holding an open bag of Doritos and jokes about how he’d also give you a hug but he doesn’t trust himself with the orange residue on his fingers.
“White t-shirts are the devil, man,” he draws out the last syllable and flops onto the couch next to Nancy, offering her a corn triangle. When she politely declines, he just shrugs and throws it in the air, only to not catch it with his mouth, the piece falling onto the wooden floor.
With your gaze now focused on the chip, a single step away from you, Nancy scolds Argyle to not do that again. In the midst of this small ordeal, you don’t hear your name being said. Only when a white Nike sneaker appears in your field of vision, stepping on the Dorito and smashing it to pieces, you look up at the person addressing you.
Steve’s expression is full of emotion, but he doesn’t move from the spot he’s found himself in. He doesn’t attempt to hug you or reach out for you like the others did, only staring into your eyes as if he was mesmerised by the fact you were actually here.
“Shit– I mean…”
“Yeah…”
That’s all that you can say right now because it’s not yet the time to address what also went down between the two of you at the infamous party. Steve seems to be on the same page as you, opting instead to finally take that step forward and hesitantly wrap his strong arms around your frame.
The hug is awkward at first, but when you nuzzle your head into the crook of his neck as if no time has passed, exhaling softly when your hands make home on his back, the boy relaxes and his grip on you tightens ever so slightly. He whispers, “I missed you, sweetheart.”, into your ear and you instantly return the sentiment because it’s true, you missed him terribly. More than you cared to admit to yourself before this very moment.
For a few seconds, you forget where you are. Inhaling the scent of Steve’s aftershave and revelling in the way his arms perfectly folded around you, making you feel safe. For a few seconds, you feel at peace. For a few simple seconds, you forget about the person you’re still to see. The person that most likely wouldn’t be as open to seeing you again, especially now that you were in Steve’s arms.
The door shuts with a tame bang, a distinctive sound of runners tapping against the wooden floor, Nancy says your name as Robin calls out for Steve, you think you hear Argyle murmuring “Ohhh shit, dude”, then someone clears their throat and you finally open your eyes, which seemingly have closed moments prior.
Your throat dries.
There, leaning against the archway with his hands hidden in the pockets of his dark denim jeans is the boy who was once your friend, if not more.
Unlike Steve, Eddie stares at you with a blank look in his eyes, devoid of any real emotion. The emptiness behind the mahogany sends a shiver down your spine and you’re suddenly hyper aware of the position he has once again found you in.
Freeing yourself from Steve’s grasp, you hold your arms close to your chest for protection. He places a hand on your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, before motioning for Argyle to follow him out of the room, where Nancy and the rest of the group just disappeared — leaving you alone with Eddie.
Neither of you says anything for what feels like an eternity.
You’re afraid to blink, just in case he disappears during the brief second your eyes close. Truthfully, he has every right to do so. Rush upstairs and slam his bedroom door shut as you remain right where he left you, forever haunted by the choices you made three years ago.
No, no.
There’s a reason you came and that’s to say you’re sorry.
Before you get a chance to break the silence, Eddie scoffs under his breath, dipping his head while running a hand through his brown locks. His hand remains at the back of his neck when he looks up at you again, a stupid smirk now plastered across his face.
“So, you and Harrington seem close as ever.”
Not the first words you expected to come out of his mouth, but given the situation he’s just encountered, they’re not surprising.
You nervously clear your throat, hugging yourself tighter.
“Uhm… No, we were just—”
“I don’t care,” he interrupts, his words cold yet the tone of his voice deceives him just a little. Also, if he actually didn’t care, then why make a sly comment in the first place?
But you don’t get to point that out, firstly ‘cause you’re still building up the courage to speak, and secondly because he’s quicker to continue with making his opinion known.
“Obviously you’ve always done whatever the fuck you wanted. Whoever you wanted.”
Ouch.
“Eddie, I-I…” you sigh quietly, “We were just hugging. We haven’t seen each other in a while.”
Eddie scoffs. “Cute.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t be condescending.” You shake your head. “I didn’t come here to argue with you.”
“Then why did you come here?”
“‘Cause I missed all of you, plus Nancy invited me and I-I wanted to take this trip to apologise. Explain myself.”
Eddie rolls his eyes.
“Well as far as I’m concerned, you can keep your apology,” he states sternly, standing up straight and taking a step in your direction. “Clearly the rest of them are right back to licking your ass, just like they did in high school. Entertaining your shitty behaviour, but I’m not interested.”
His words hurt. It feels like tiny nails are being hammered into your heart and you’re helpless to stop it.
“I don’t care for you and I don’t want to be around you. Since we’re stuck here, just refrain from jumping on Harrington at every chance you get. It’s fucking desperate behaviour.”
Tears burn down your cheeks slowly. They blur your vision and make you look like a giant fucking fool, even bigger than you already are. Eddie doesn’t owe you anything, you know that. Yet here you stand, silently crying over his animosity.
Nancy's words ring in your ears, “he asks about you, he asks if you’re happy.”. What a load of bullshit. He clearly doesn’t give a shit.
“I’ll make sure to stay out of your way then,” is all you manage to blurt out, wiping the wet droplets with the back of your hand.
Pushing past him, making a point to shove his shoulder with a little force, you hurry upstairs and into the confines of your bedroom. You make sure not to let the door shut with a bang, steering away from the dramatics Eddie undoubtedly wanted to provoke. Yes, he hurt your feelings, but you sure as hell weren’t going to let him ruin this weeknd for you and the rest of your mutual friends.
His reaction didn’t surprise you. In fact, you expected it.
That doesn’t mean it’s any easier to digest.
Taking a few minutes to collect yourself, you check your phone and begin to open unseen notifications from various social media sites in an attempt to think about anything else than Eddie’s words.
“Deseperate fucking behaviour,” he’s said that to you before. The deja-vu hits harder than anticipated, making the nausea you thought you surpassed earlier spring right back up, stronger.
Yup. As you regain control of your breathing, you think for sure that coming here was definitely a mistake.
thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3
chapter ONE from through the fences.
pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader (au)
word count: 5.6k
summary: crash-landing in hot water, eddie does what he knows best: he runs. and he runs right into you; a girl unlike any he's ever met. but it doesn't - can't - mean anything other than a bed to sleep in.
content warnings: 18+ minors dni: suggestive & mature themes, lust at first sight, smutty but primarily implied intimacy and a closed-door romance, use of nicknames and pet names, adult language, reader is kinda a brat and eddie is very much into it, also includes: references to breaking the law, mentions of food consumption — if i missed anything, pls let me know!
psa: images used in the header don’t depict readers physical attributes!
Eddie Munson is good at one thing and one thing only: running the fuck away from problems.
At least, that’s what he tells himself when he does what he does. Because you’ve not met him yet to prove otherwise. You meet him later.
Thirty-four hours later, to be exact.
His life changes forever when he bumps into you, fresh off a night bus from Indianapolis to New York. It’s a double-edged sword, really. But more on that in a minute.
If the truth is to be considered, the trajectory of Eddie’s future changes earlier. At his uncle's trailer. During an altercation between him and that fuckface, Carver.
It’s a fight that ends in casualties larger than just the brunette’s fractured ego. Hence the panicked packing, the scribbled goodbye letter to Wayne (left in a spot only the older man will find), the hot wiring of Mrs Hubert’s car that aids in his quick getaway — all of which occurs as hot tears burn into his bruised skin.
The drive from Hawkins to Indianapolis is a blur. Dead silent too. Nothing but gushes of wind blowing through the parted window, the sound of tires on gravel, and his messy, laboured breathing. He keeps to the speed limit, since the last thing he needs is getting pulled over while he’s attempting to go on the run, and doesn’t make any stops until he reaches his destination.
Parking the car on some random, rather dodgy, street, Eddie exhales. Closed fists land at his eyes, rubbing the tiredness away, then he keeps moving. Keys remain in the ignition as his feet hit the tarmac. There’s also an apology note to Mrs Hubert in the glovebox — because he’s not a complete fucking asshole.
With the rucksack over his shoulder, head hanging low, Eddie walks aimlessly through the city crowd. This is as far as he thought to go. Honestly, he had no clear plan of action aside from get the fuck out of Hawkins, fast. He should probably find a motel, at least until he figures out what he’s going to do next because staying in Indianapolis isn’t a good idea in the long run. No doubt this will be the first place they’ll come looking.
His legs weave with the wind, down various blocks. He’s unsure how long it’s been since he’s abandoned the car, but when his stomach rumbles, he scans the surroundings he’s found himself in and he decides to take a break, at a diner he can see down the street.
He doesn’t make it two steps when a cop car pulls up outside and Eddie freezes. They don’t look in his direction as they scramble out of their vehicle, they probably don’t even know who he is yet, but the sight of them alone is enough to redirect the brunette’s movements, make him turn on his heel. And that’s when he sees it.
The bus depot.
Boston, Atlanta, Houston, Toronto, New York. He scans the list of departures. Since he doesn’t have a passport, escaping to Canada is definitely out of the question. For a minute, he thinks about Boston, but ultimately it’s the city that never sleeps he picks in the end. Millions of people. Plenty of opportunity to become invisible, anonymous.
Later, when he retells this part of the story, your eyes glisten mischievously, as they usually do, and you say it’s your wishes that put him there, at the same time as the police, so he’d abandon the notion of hiding out in Indianapolis, venture further. New York, perhaps. Where you’re living, completely oblivious to his existence and somehow knowing all the same.
This voodoo shit is not for him, but the sentiment of someone out there — especially a smokeshow like you — willing him in a different direction, well, he can’t help the fucking cocky grin on his face.
The lady at the desk informs him there’s an overnight to New York City in four hours. He buys a ticket on the spot, leaving him with a lowly sum of three-hundred bucks for whatever plan he comes up with once in the city. He’ll have to get a job somewhere. A no-questions-asked, cash-under-the-table type of employment. Shouldn’t be too hard, he thinks. Hopes, actually. In reality, he’s got no clue what the fuck he’s doing.
Maybe he should have stayed in Hawkins? What if he got in his head too fast? What if they (being the general public along with the cops) considered his side of the story? But he shakes the questions away as fast as they arise. He can’t second guess himself, not now.
In the time Eddie’s waiting for his bus, he buys a bottle of water and a sandwich. He finds an empty bench in the corner of a depot and eats his food, scanning the surroundings for anyone looking in his direction suspiciously. Nobody does. His face makes the news only after he’s met you, but by then he feels pretty much invincible.
The journey is restless. He knows he should sleep. Wishes for the sweet release of dreams as lights zoom past the bus window, however the drowsiness never comes. Too anxious, scared. He’s also missing his uncle. The one family member that’s always been in the brunette’s corner and now he may never see the old man again. Not like Wayne would want to see his nephew, not after what he’s done. Disappointed him in the process. Fuck, that hurts to think about.
Twenty long hours pass.
Two stops on the way for bathroom breaks and fuel. Eddie stays on the bus both of those times, hiding towards the back so no one can place him later. His aim is to remain a shadow without a face because when the police are eventually going to try and find his whereabouts, no one can step up and say: “Oh, that boy you’re looking for took the same night bus as me. To New York City.”.
By the time Eddie steps off the metal machine, a new day is already coming to a slow end. The surrounding crowd is a mix of office folk, heading home after presumably long, exhausting hours at their unfulfilling jobs, and rowdy college kids, whose next agenda item is getting plastered drunk. A few families, some tourists. Homeless, street vendors, all groups mixing together in a way that mere hours ago, would have seemed unnatural to the lost brunette.
Despite the heavy tiredness, Eddie’s struck by how alive he suddenly feels.
He ventures further between the concrete blocks and busy lights, momentarily unafraid to keep his head up and takes in every last detail of the expansive jungle — until he’s rudely reminded it’s been hours since he’s had a warm meal.
Stomach rumbling louder than necessary, Eddie stops at the first diner he comes across. He sits at the far end, eyes on the door since he shouldn't be too careless, and orders a burger from the grey-haired waitress. A couple of people venture in and out as he waits. No one of particular importance stands out, so once he gets his food, the brunette feels secure enough to drop his gaze and eat.
Although, he’s still listening. Actively. To the bell above the door, the various chatter of everyone else here, the orders being placed and delivered. He listens to the radio that’s playing in the background, just in case it switches to the news and his name is being broadcasted across the nation. And as he’s listening, he hears something quite unexpected.
Laughter. Which frankly, isn’t all that strange, but the sound vibrates through him, causing a tingle to run down his spine and his heart to skip a beat — odd.
Eddie looks up, around. Can’t place the person, thinks he may have imagined the whole thing, so it’s back to eating the most average burger in America.
Thank god his ears stay alert while he’s chewing on the unseasoned patty because there it is again, and this time, as his head snaps up from the plate in front of him, he sees a girl two tables up. You.
Facing his general direction, although your focus is entirely on the person you’re with. There’s a wave of heads blocking his view, but every time they shift, Eddie catches a glimpse and for a moment that borders on stalkery, his burger is frozen mid-air.
Fuck, what a face.
He shakes his head, gaze dropping along with the burger, and blinks a few times at nothing in particular. When you laugh again, Eddie closes his eyes tight, because this is perhaps the darkest time in his life and for some reason, when your giggles reach his ears, his entire being feels sort of warm, fuzzy — and if anyone is paying attention to his inner monologue from the last thirty-odd hours, this isn’t the time for either of those inklings.
What else is a guy to do but run? It’s already been established that Eddie’s quite good at that.
He flags down the waitress, pays with a tip that he cannot afford but whatever, he also can’t afford to fall in a trap otherwise known as another pretty girl, so he bolts. Doesn’t spare you another glance as he rushes past, just straight out the door and onto the busy New York street.
The universe — as you’d later tell him — has other plans because there’s a gentle tap on his shoulder while he figures out which way to go. He doesn’t think when he turns back around, facing the entrance of the diner he just ran out of. Facing you.
“You dropped this,” you say and he blinks, glancing down at your outstretched hand and his stupid fucking bandana, tucked carefully between your fingers.
Eddie clears his throat. “Thanks.”
But he doesn’t move. Stupid, really. Mere seconds ago he was aching to get away from the possibility of something like this happening, and now he’s standing a fool, staring at the piece of cloth you’re holding. Only when you retrieve your hand, the bandana still in your grasp, does his gaze trail upwards, meeting yours.
One brow up, arched, you’re studying him with a level of scrutiny he’d rather not experience from a complete stranger. Especially one as pretty as you. Fuck. This is a nightmare.
He sighs, then reaches for the item between your fingers. He shouldn’t have turned around. Once his photo is plastered across the news outlets, you’ll definitely be able to place him here.
“Hermès.”
“What?” He asks, brows furrowed. Heart in his fucking throat from the nerves.
“The scarf.”
Eddie once again looks at the piece of cloth, now in his grasp, then frowns because he’s still not sure what you mean. You must notice the weird look he is undoubtedly sporting because you keep talking.
“I recognise the pattern and the classic Hermès orange.”
“I don’t know. I found it,” he says mindlessly, although that’s not entirely true.
Honesty doesn’t come easy to him. In reality, Eddie stole what he believed to be a bandana working at McKinney's party a couple of weeks back. Business was slower than usual, so he wandered through the house, rifled through some cupboards, closets. The scarf — as you call it — was just waiting to be rescued.
“Well, it’s quite the find,” you say, and there’s something in your tone that has the brunette meeting your gaze once more.
“This uh… Hermès…” He cocks a brow. “Sounds expensive?”
You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. He tries not to let his eyes wander, really, but he’s only a man. The slip is brief and only happens once… okay, twice. You must notice and decidedly like that sort of attention from him because you pull your bottom lip between your teeth.
And if Eddie wasn’t done for before, he is now.
Not to sound overly cocky, but he knows the look written across your face, has seen it many times before, so his list of never ending troubles is longer by one more: you. For sure the type of girl that can ruin his life — more than it already is — and now that he’s thinking about it, looking at you up close, not the kind of girl that willingly eats at a dingy diner.
A thought very much confirmed when a taxi you hail, without giving a second thought to the friend he believes is still inside the locale, drops you and Eddie outside a building with a doorman. The elderly gentleman calls you by your surname, tipping his hat and opening one side of the glass to allow passage. You smile sweetly, motioning for Eddie to follow.
He really should be careful not to show his face to too many people that could timestamp him in different spots around the city he escaped to. But the sway of your hips and the glimmer in your eyes is, quite frankly, hypnotic. A friendly reminder: he’s only a man.
“So, what brings you to New York?” You ask once the elevator closes.
Eddie shrugs. “Wanted somethin’ new.”
“Ahh,” you muse, tilting your head slightly. “So you’re running from something.”
Not a question and Eddie wonders how you can tell. You answer his thought with a slight glance at the bag over his shoulder, and he presses his lips together.
“Quite the deduction skills.”
“Runs in the family,” you say with a shrug.
In retrospect, he should have asked straight away what you meant. Earlier, in the taxi, you made a comment that also dinged a bell in his mind, tickling his fight or flight, but Eddie ignored the obvious because your hand was down his pants. He’s never met a girl this forward and one could colour him intrigued — even if this sudden fascination came at a really, really terrible time.
The elevator opens with a swoosh and as he follows you through the foyer, large staircase to one side, chandelier up above, he’s thinking again about what a girl like you was doing at a diner. Surely there’s fancier places to eat in the city. Restaurants suited to your poise, your outfit.
“Nice place,” he says, taking a look around.
“It could be better,” you tell him, and when Eddie’s brow shoots upwards, wanting just slightly to check your privilege, you add, “Less suffocating, for starters.”
He frowns. A twinge of guilt settles in his core for judging you based on surface level. Clearly, he doesn’t know you. Strangers still. And he absolutely hates when people jump to conclusions about him, his upbringing. The notion has caused many fights back home, yet here he is, doing the same to a girl that’s done nothing but shown him interest, kindness too.
“Show me your room.”
You huff a gentle laugh, briefly glancing at your heels, then ask, “Are you always this forward?”, with a slight tease to the tone of your voice. Eyes settled on him once more.
“I’m not the one who pushed a stranger into a taxi and touched ‘em in a very forward way.” Eddie counters, sauntering towards you. He stops when his sneaker touches the tip of your heeled toes, both of you looking down between the barely-there space.
His mind is spiraling slightly, since this is a pitstop he really cannot afford right now. Although, his worries are quickly fusing with the intoxicating scent of your undoubtedly expensive perfume and the recent memory of your delicate fingers wrapped around his girth. Whatever. He can spend the night and fuck off in the morning, before you wake up. If the police place him here and question the doorman, question you, he’ll be long gone. Maybe to another city? It’s already been established how he’s good at that: running.
“What if I’m simply trying to rob you?” You ask, pulling the Hermès scarf from his back pocket and lifting it into view.
He smirks as his gaze briefly darts between the designer cloth and yours.
“Pretty sure you can afford one all on your own, Krystle Carrington.”
You scrunch your nose. Not a fan of the nickname, he notes while wetting his lips to hide an affectionate smile. He’ll definitely use it again, like a schoolboy endlessly teasing a girl he’s got a crush on. Which, of course, this isn’t. Eddie just needs a certain type of relief and you’ve already indicated how you’re more than eager to oblige.
With the orange scarf still in your grasp, you turn away from him and start to walk up the stairs.
“I suppose I should be glad you didn’t compare me to Alexis,” you say over your shoulder, the sound of your heels clacking against the marble staircase almost muffling your voice.
When you stop right at the top, Eddie is still a few steps behind, meaning when you turn to face him again, you’re ever so slightly taller. Seemingly the one in control.
“And it’s not nice to make assumptions about people,” you continue.
“Well,” Eddie begins, glancing around the space with his arms outstretched slightly, as if to prove a point. “Look at this place. I think it’s safe to say you’re doing okay for yourself.”
“You wouldn’t believe me anyway, if I told you otherwise.”
Despite the sudden solemn tone, there’s a proud look on your face. The sort Eddie loves to wipe off with his mouth because nothing is more humbling to girls like you than messing around with a guy like him, only to be left behind since this sort of shit doesn’t matter to him, not the way it historically matters to chicks.
They’ll screw around with him, follow him around for free weed, some other shit too, and a big fuck you to their stiff parents. Eddie knows his role in the Hawkins social hierarchy and it has never bothered him. He sticks by the rules, even wears his title as a badge of honour. Yet, even though they’re just using him, they get attached anyway and he ends up having to break hearts — which he kind of enjoys.
Come tomorrow morning, you’ll be just another girl and he won’t think of your laughter, won’t spare a second reminiscing the mischievous glimmer in your eyes, or the way your hand felt down his boxers (like it belonged there).
“Kick me out, let me crash. It’s honestly whatever to me, sweetheart.” Eddie says with a shrug. “But I don’t think you want me to leave.”
You raise a brow in that challenging way you do, and he should be worried how he’s noticing these things already, after barely knowing you an hour. He doesn’t dwell on that thought though. Instead, Eddie slides a hand up your side, slow and steady, until his fingers are at your waist. He pulls you closer and you weave your arms around his neck, trying to find balance.
“I think you’re trying to prove something to the people that own this place and you need a guy like me to help you out.”
Admittedly, a line he’s used plenty of times in the past, so colour him surprised when you scoff. Your eyes roll — brat — as you push off him and keep walking along the upstairs hallway. There’s a split-second during which Eddie is muttering to himself, “What the fuck?”, because that line always works, before a smirk replaces the momentary confusion and he continues to follow you.
“If all I’m looking for is - and I quote - a guy like you,” you begin in rebuttal, pushing a large, white door open with your hip. “I would have simply stayed at the diner to wrap up my date and brought that loser home instead.”
Eddie can’t help the short laugh that escapes.
“That was a date?”
You nod, then say, “Clearly not a very successful one.”
The inside of your bedroom is unsurprisingly devoid of any real character. All the furniture matches in woodtones, clearly custom made to fit the dimensions of space. There’s a white duvet on top of the large bed and some fashion magazines scattered around the place, half-hidden behind piles of colourful clothes. No posters, no photos. If you’re lying, and the two of you are breaking and entering, he’d be none the wiser.
“Is this actually your place?” He can’t help himself. He’s already on the run, so it would be great to avoid any additional charges.
A dangerous, knowing smile tugs at your lips at the question, and when you decide not to answer, Eddie seriously begins to consider calling quits on this whole thing. He’d rather face a case of blue balls than get arrested for having sex in someone else’s bed. Not an ideal scenario to get caught here, especially after travelling this far to escape his fate.
The universe — or in this case, you — glues his feet to the ground by a simple act of undoing the collection of buttons currently holding your blouse together. You leave the last few before moving onto the zipper of your skirt, which you slide down your legs, all while holding his gaze and the orange Hermès scarf.
Clearing his throat, Eddie drops the rucksack to the carpeted floor and crosses the room. It only takes a few, slow strides until he’s towering over you once more, hastily latching onto your blouse and pulling you flush against his chest. You tug your bottom lip between your teeth and blink up at him, a picture of false innocence.
“Any last words?” You ask, voice all sultry, sending a zap straight to his groin.
Fingers cross your frame, a ghost of a touch, as Eddie reaches for the scarf you’re still holding. He lifts it slightly into view, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk, one brow raised.
“Do you think this Herbert person—”
“Hermès,” you chime.
“—will forgive me if I use this to tie you up?”
And then he kisses you.
He doesn't wait for you to answer the question, and doesn't ask permission either. Eddie simply takes what’s right in front of him and revels in the way you melt, equally wicked. It’s fierce and demanding, tasting of tension that’s been simmering between the two of you all evening. Boil, bubble, pop.
The abstract floral scent of your undoubtedly expensive perfume fills his senses. Intoxicating, he thinks, like throwing gasoline on a burning fire. He wants — needs — more. So his fingers work to remove the blouse completely, fabric soft against his calloused fingers.
It’s pure, animalistic instinct. At least that’s what Eddie tells himself when he bites your lower lip, tongue catching your gasp. Or when he slides his hands down the curve of your ass and lifts you off the floor, guiding your legs around his waist.
One could also call it expanding his portfolio. He’s been with a fair share of upper-class chicks, but no one compares to your stature. Plus, yours is the first of many beds he’ll land in while hiding out in the city. Nothing special. By tomorrow’s sunrise, the feeling of your skin against his will be nothing but a memory.
At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself beneath the sheets, arms around your frame, holding on for dear life.
The New York dating scene bores you.
Honestly, there is a lousy selection of candidates to begin with. If they’re employed, established — and tick the criteria set by your parents, in terms of wallet size — they are really unattractive. And if the potential date is somewhat good looking, handsome even, they’ve seemingly got no prospects, and any potential romance is over before it even begins because your parents would never allow their only daughter to enter a relationship with a bum.
The whole thing has become quite the chore, and everyone in your inner circle knows you’re not one to ruin a good manicure for housework.
Now, that’s not to say you spend your days and nights alone. Quite the opposite, actually. Finding a boyfriend that satisfies your family by meeting their ridiculous expectations may be a tedious task, but you persevere. After all, there’s the trust fund stipulation to consider, the bonus you don’t receive unless you find a potential husband before your twenty-fifth birthday. The feminist inside of you screams to let it go, try a hand at true happiness (whatever that looks like), but the materialistic side always wins. Money is all you’ve ever known.
“A life that’s incredibly comfortable is hard to give up.” That’s what your grandfather always says. Your mother’s father. He’s the only one in your family who thinks the ‘marriage’ clause is ridiculous. Then again, Bernard Senior is also the only one who got lucky in that department. The love of his life — your fabulous grandmother, Judith Cecil — happened to be beautiful, successful, and came from old-money. Tick, tick, and tick.
The Cecil family are British-American financiers and real estate investors. Your grandfather’s side of the tree is also very wealthy (what is these days known as Big Pharma, they had a small part in that), but still not quite Cecil stature, which is why grandmother Judith never changed her surname. Smart woman.
Money makes your world go around, so you go on unsuccessful dates with unattractive, rich assholes, only to end up in bed with someone a lot more… fun. Not a foolproof plan by any means, but the game’s the game. You’ve got a few years left until you need to be sauntering down the aisle and there is a long list of suitors who will marry you in the blink of an eye — even if you don’t want to marry them.
That’s how you find yourself at La Bonbonierre.
You like this diner. Primarily for its convenient location: far enough from the Upper East Side, so no one from your real life will ever spot you here, yet still close enough to home, making for a short-ish car ride.
The guy you’re with didn’t even bat an eye at the suggested locale, which tells you all you need to know about how much further this night will go; i.e. not very far. Sure, you’ll make out a little before bidding him goodnight, but chances are you will never see him again. Sorry to Matthew from the Bronx. He’s charming as hell and in another life, maybe the two of you would go on a second date… Not a third though. Never a third.
In the span of thirty-two minutes, you’ve learned all about Matthew’s shattered dreams of becoming a professional athlete due to a badly torn ACL, his pivot into getting a journalism degree from a local community college, and his desire to travel outside of the great state of New York. You tell him next to nothing, but the guy doesn’t seem to mind. Easy on the eye, bad at a two-way conversation.
As he talks, polishing a burger faster than you can blink, you nibble on the french fries, dipping them in your vanilla milkshake and nodding along to words you most definitely will not remember tomorrow. Tonight’s goal is simple: satisfy an urge that needs satisfying. Nothing he’ll say will change your mind about what this date actually is.
“The Bulls are dominating this year,” Matthew says. “If the Knicks had half the squad they do down in Chicago, we’d be unstoppable.”
“I’m more of a Yankees fan myself.”
Matthew snorts and shakes his head. “Yankees are a baseball team.”
“A ball is a ball, Matthew.” You deadpan, unbothered by the correction and the amused look he’s shooting you from across the table. “Besides, I prefer to watch the players than the game, and the Yankees have Don Mattingly.”
“Jerrod Mustaf, Charles Oakley…” Matthew lists off.
“Yes, the New York Knicks team is full of knockouts,” you say honestly, smiling because there’s nothing you enjoy more than a lighthearted sparring match. “But Matthew… Don Mattingly has a mustache.”
He laughs at that and you join in instantly. Short and sweet. Nothing to write home about, except when your date tilts his head to flag down the waitress, still laughing to himself, you notice someone behind him, sitting all alone just a few booths down. Someone quite striking.
All you get is a glimpse, but it’s enough to pique your interest.
A wave of chocolate-brown locks and a big, wide gaze to match. The mystery man is wearing a faded denim jacket — vintage, if you were to take a guess — over a plain tee, and there’s something silver around his neck that glistens slightly under the fluorescent light. His head hangs low, just as quickly as he lifted it seconds prior, as if he’s avoiding eye contact with whoever glances his way, and the tension in his shoulders is visible even from the space between you. An out-of-towner, for sure. Running from something perhaps?
Stealing one last look in the mystery man’s direction, you force yourself to focus on your date. In the seconds you just lost, too distracted by the lonesome brunette, Matthew seemingly has moved on from talking about sports, choosing instead to ramble about the public transport in this city. Poorly designed routes, overcrowded carts, expensive for a college student. All facts you can agree with, so you nod.
“Don’t you have a car?” Matthew asks, then adds, “And a driver?”
“Aren’t you observant.”
“You literally picked me up. Or should I say, your driver picked me up,” he teases and you roll your eyes in a playful manner.
“My generosity is always overlooked,” you dramatise, the corners of your lips twitching upwards because boys always think you’re flirting if you say shit with a soft smile.
Matthew places a hand over his heart.
“I thank your generosity,” he says with a smirk. “Just be sure to pass along my gratitude to your driver too. Do you even have a licence?”
A shocked scoff escapes you, followed by a giggle as you throw a french fry at him. He dodges with ease, then returns the attack, which only makes you laugh louder.
“Well, Frank won’t be giving you a lift home,” you say between chuckles. “He’s got the rest of the night off.”
“Fuck. Not a night off.” Matthew replies sarcastically.
Surprisingly, you feel good with him, which doesn’t happen often. Sure, you’re good at making people comfortable, you’re good at flirting, but you don’t usually let your own guard down. Knowing that dates with guys like Matthew — guys who you could never bring home to your parents — won’t make it past the night, well, it’s just easier to keep true feelings out of these interactions.
Matthew must notice the sudden change in your demeanor because his smile turns softer, wistful even, as he looks at you from across the table.
“I’m never going to see you again, am I?”
You do your best to keep the smile on your face, even if it doesn’t reach your eyes, as you reach for his hand and squeeze.
“You’ll make one hell of a journalist some day,” you say earnestly. “And who knows, maybe you’ll interview me in the future, for a piece about the most generous women in the world.”
Matthew snorts and squeezes your fingers back.
“I’m looking forward to it.” And then he says goodbye.
After your date leaves, you take all of two seconds to sigh, compose yourself, before glancing in the direction of the mystery man you spotted earlier. To your disappointment, he’s gone too. Great. Looks like you’re going home alone.
You place some cash on the table, including a generous tip, and push to stand. That’s when you notice something orange on the floor, close to where the brunette was sitting. On closer inspection, the piece of cloth is a scarf. A Hermés scarf, at that. Odd. You wouldn’t say the person sitting here moments prior could afford something this expensive, but assumptions can be wrong, so you pick the scarf up.
Thinking — hoping — he didn’t get very far, you rush out of the diner. Maybe you’d be able to spot his head of hair and give this back to him. Maybe…
Huh.
The universe is on your side because there he is, just standing outside, looking around as if he’s unsure which way to turn. His hesitancy tugs at something inside of your body and you instantly want to become someone he can count on, at least for tonight, so you tap his shoulder.
Facing you completely, the mystery man is even more handsome than you first noticed. A sea of light freckles coat his face, complimenting his deep-brown eyes perfectly. There’s tiny dents in his cheeks where you can tell dimples will appear if he smiles, and gentle frown lines that somehow make him feel more real. And his mouth, so plump and… kissable.
“You dropped this,” you say, trying to appear nonchalant.
The guy blinks, glancing down at your outstretched hand, before clearing his throat.
“Thanks.”
His tone is all gravely and deep, and it sends a shockwave through your system. God, you want him to keep talking. You need him to keep talking. You need him to do a lot more actually, but you’ll settle for hearing his voice again.
Naturally, you get what you want and in the process you find out a few things about him.
Hermés is not a brand he’s familiar with, meaning your assumption about the item being out of his league was correct. The fact is further proven when he says he found the scarf, which you actually think is a lie, but you let it slide (for now). Then he asks if it’s expensive and his curiosity seems slightly desperate, as if all of a sudden he’s contemplating where to pawn the item off for some extra cash.
You nod at his last question, smiling softly and his eyes snap to your lips. They don’t linger, but they do drop down again for a second time and you know you have him right where you want him — which will soon prove quite detrimental.
i do NOT consent for my works to be fed to ai agents. i also do NOT consent to them being copied or reposted in any way, here or on any other site. this tumblr account is the only place i post my works.
as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3
🌟 mal's rambling corner aka extra context / content:
- set in the early 90s (in case anyone is wondering), + an au cause no monsters etc in Hawkins; eddie is running from something else hehe
- although not directly specified, eddie and reader are around the same age: i.e. in their early twenties
- i may also become a late 80s/ early 90s fashion guru while working on this series lol .. took me forever to research which designer brand was big in that time + sold scarves/ bandanas (the Hermès scarf mentioned linked here)
- for those that don't know, krystle carrington is a character from dynasty, and here i'm thinking of the og that eddie maybe watched with wayne (a guilty pleasure, of sorts)
- imagine what you please, but i think reader wears Chanel N°5; hence the vague description of an abstract floral scent.. my mom uses this perfume and it's the only way i could think to describe it, aside from using the word 'expensive'
- i also researched diners operational in the 90s, then i google mapped how far they'd be from the port authority bus depot to see if it's walkable for eddie jskkskks + la bonbonniere is about 34-41 mins by foot (these days) and a pretty straight road so for someone just arriving to the city — eddie — it would be quite easy to find
some super cool people who expressed interest in this story (pls let me know if you wanna be added / removed): @scarlet-prey @msmetallicareeves @probablyin-bed @kellsck
pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x popstar!fem!reader
total word count: 58,181
summary: as corroded coffin frontman, eddie munson regards himself as perhaps the most important person in the 90s music scene. that is until he meets you — america's favourite starlet. things evolve pretty quickly from there.
content warnings: 18+, minors dni: smut with a rather angsty plot, suggestive & mature themes, adult language, use of pet names, mutual pining, mentions of recreational alcohol & drug consumption, emotional hurt / comfort, topics of guilt / regret, general family drama — if i missed anything, pls let me know! also, pls read the warnings for each individual chapter.
psa: images used in the headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also described vaguely in the story, only that she’s a little shorter than eddie.
part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | part ten
blurbs & things:
honesty: the music video
a/n: the following are some songs that inspired this story / keep inspiring this story. i'll probably be adding as i write along, but feel free to also share some that remind you of eddie + the starlet.
hole - celebrity skin | taylor swift - miss americana & the heartbreak prince | the cure - just like heaven | maisie peters - not another rockstar | red hot chilli peppers - californication | måneskin ft. tom morello - gossip | inhaler - if you’re gonna break my heart | r.e.m. - shiny happy people | nasty cherry - six six six | fleetwood mac - silver springs | lana del rey - fuck it i love you | u2 - mysterious ways | rod stewart - sailing | suki waterhouse - to love | lenny kravitz - i belong to you | guns n’ roses - don’t cry | taylor swift - don’t blame me | ringside - tired of being sorry | cigarettes after sex - motion picture soundtrack | future islands - deep in the night | letters to cleo - i want you to want me
pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x singlemom!reader (modern au)
total word count: 42.7k
summary: five years after he returns home, eddie munson is greeted at the front door of his uncles house by a toddler with a head of dusty-brown locks. in need of a break from the life he's built for himself, the rockstar is instead faced with another hard truth. Wayne Munson tells his nephew about the girl Steve Harrington introduced him to. the girl that found herself in a certain… situation, following one of Eddie’s gigs. the girl, who had nowhere else to go, so Wayne took her in, helping her every step of the way for the last four years because, after all, she's the mother to Eddie’s kid: Mason Wayne Munson aka Messer.
content warnings: 18+ minors dni: suggestive & mature themes, implied intimacy + also just pure smut at times, one night stand gone awry, secret pregnancy aka no-one told eddie he's a dad, forced proximity, slow-ish burn, heavy on the mutual pining / yearning, on the fluffy side as these two flirt (a lot), use of pet names, emotional hurt / comfort, adult language, navigating family dynamics, plus mentions of: alcohol consumption, recreational drug use, physical violence — pls friends, read the warnings for each individual chapter.
psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.
prologue (a blurb)
chapter one | aka the little mess you made
chapter two | aka nice to each other
chapter three | aka what did i miss?
chapter four | aka something has to change
chapter five | aka never felt better
chapter six | aka i won’t quit on you
chapter seven | aka the longest goodbye
chapter eight | aka times like these
chapter nine | aka divine feelings
chapter ten | aka restless little heart
epilogue
a/n: the following are some songs i think they fit perfectly with their story, so i wanted to share them with you.
the favors - the little mess you made | willow avalon - honey ain't no sweeter | abba - i've been waiting for you | aly & aj - if you get lonely | kali uchis - it's just us | elbow - one day like this | hohnen ford - another lifetime | john denver - take me home, country roads | mumford & sons - truth | miley cyrus - more to lose | lana del rey - not all who wander are lost | laufey - tough luck | olivia dean - nice to each other | hozier - too sweet | the hollies - the air that i breathe | the killers - bright lights | brigitte calls me baby - impressively average | the cranberries - when you're gone | james bay - us | billie eilish - birds of a feather | t'pau - china in your hand | benson boone - reminds me of you | the lumineers - a song for you | damiano david ft. suki waterhouse - the bruise | lorde - current affairs | pale waves - she's my religion | david bowie - changes | lana del rey - thunder | mitski - my love is mine all mine | robbie williams - better man | fleetwood mac - coming home | taylor swift - peace | elbow - one day like this
as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3
congressman!bucky barnes x phone sex operator!reader
he called on a whim and ended up thawing desires long lost. you thought it was just another routine, until your body showed you otherwise. lines tangle, cross, and blur—and not just on the phone.
or: congressman james buchanan barnes finds a curious business card.
🍒 SERIES WARNINGS/TAGS: SMUT 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, secret identities, power dynamics, phone sex, masturbation, sex work, workplace romance, questionable depictions of american politics (sorry)
📌 READER WARNINGS/TAGS: afab!reader, reader has hair and is able-bodied
☎️ CHAPTERS:
🎉 completed! 16.2k
₊˚ dial one for fun 3.8k
₊˚ dial two for a breakthrough 3.1k
₊˚ dial three to be a vip 9.3k
press # to be added to the taglist (comment below ❤️)
pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x popstar!fem!reader
total word count: 58,181
summary: as corroded coffin frontman, eddie munson regards himself as perhaps the most important person in the 90s music scene. that is until he meets you — america's favourite starlet. things evolve pretty quickly from there.
content warnings: 18+, minors dni: smut with a rather angsty plot, suggestive & mature themes, adult language, use of pet names, mutual pining, mentions of recreational alcohol & drug consumption, emotional hurt / comfort, topics of guilt / regret, general family drama — if i missed anything, pls let me know! also, pls read the warnings for each individual chapter.
psa: images used in the headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also described vaguely in the story, only that she’s a little shorter than eddie.
part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | part ten
blurbs & things:
honesty: the music video
a/n: the following are some songs that inspired this story / keep inspiring this story. i'll probably be adding as i write along, but feel free to also share some that remind you of eddie + the starlet.
hole - celebrity skin | taylor swift - miss americana & the heartbreak prince | the cure - just like heaven | maisie peters - not another rockstar | red hot chilli peppers - californication | måneskin ft. tom morello - gossip | inhaler - if you’re gonna break my heart | r.e.m. - shiny happy people | nasty cherry - six six six | fleetwood mac - silver springs | lana del rey - fuck it i love you | u2 - mysterious ways | rod stewart - sailing | suki waterhouse - to love | lenny kravitz - i belong to you | guns n’ roses - don’t cry | taylor swift - don’t blame me | ringside - tired of being sorry | cigarettes after sex - motion picture soundtrack | future islands - deep in the night | letters to cleo - i want you to want me
pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x singlemom!reader (modern au)
total word count: 42.7k
summary: five years after he returns home, eddie munson is greeted at the front door of his uncles house by a toddler with a head of dusty-brown locks. in need of a break from the life he's built for himself, the rockstar is instead faced with another hard truth. Wayne Munson tells his nephew about the girl Steve Harrington introduced him to. the girl that found herself in a certain… situation, following one of Eddie’s gigs. the girl, who had nowhere else to go, so Wayne took her in, helping her every step of the way for the last four years because, after all, she's the mother to Eddie’s kid: Mason Wayne Munson aka Messer.
content warnings: 18+ minors dni: suggestive & mature themes, implied intimacy + also just pure smut at times, one night stand gone awry, secret pregnancy aka no-one told eddie he's a dad, forced proximity, slow-ish burn, heavy on the mutual pining / yearning, on the fluffy side as these two flirt (a lot), use of pet names, emotional hurt / comfort, adult language, navigating family dynamics, plus mentions of: alcohol consumption, recreational drug use, physical violence — pls friends, read the warnings for each individual chapter.
psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.
prologue (a blurb)
chapter one | aka the little mess you made
chapter two | aka nice to each other
chapter three | aka what did i miss?
chapter four | aka something has to change
chapter five | aka never felt better
chapter six | aka i won’t quit on you
chapter seven | aka the longest goodbye
chapter eight | aka times like these
chapter nine | aka divine feelings
chapter ten | aka restless little heart
epilogue
a/n: the following are some songs i think they fit perfectly with their story, so i wanted to share them with you.
the favors - the little mess you made | willow avalon - honey ain't no sweeter | abba - i've been waiting for you | aly & aj - if you get lonely | kali uchis - it's just us | elbow - one day like this | hohnen ford - another lifetime | john denver - take me home, country roads | mumford & sons - truth | miley cyrus - more to lose | lana del rey - not all who wander are lost | laufey - tough luck | olivia dean - nice to each other | hozier - too sweet | the hollies - the air that i breathe | the killers - bright lights | brigitte calls me baby - impressively average | the cranberries - when you're gone | james bay - us | billie eilish - birds of a feather | t'pau - china in your hand | benson boone - reminds me of you | the lumineers - a song for you | damiano david ft. suki waterhouse - the bruise | lorde - current affairs | pale waves - she's my religion | david bowie - changes | lana del rey - thunder | mitski - my love is mine all mine | robbie williams - better man | fleetwood mac - coming home | taylor swift - peace | elbow - one day like this
as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3
pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x singlemom!reader
(modern au)
word count: 3.8k
summary: establishing a new normal is not easy. but then again, with you by his side, everything is possible.
chapter cw: 18+, minors dni: suggestive & mature themes, adult language, fluff, this chapter contains smut: oral (m receiving) + allusion to f receiving too, unprotected p in v, breeding kink, dom!eddie, slightly possessive!eddie, hints at multiple rounds, dirty talk, use of pet names, plus navigating family dynamics, mentions of: physical violence, hints at blackmail / coercion — pls let me know if i missed any!
psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.
The general public may not agree with Eddie Munson’s decision to temporarily step away from the limelight, and he should care about their opinion, their feelings on the matter, since the rockstar owes the majority of his success to his loyal fanbase. But the way you’re looking at him, all happy that he’s here… well, fuck what people think.
A shift in priorities, a much needed break. Blah, blah, blah.
After finally regaining access to all his socials, Julie helps with the statement he posts. Firing his entire team at the same time as walking away from all he’s ever known how to do? Probably not a wise move, all things considered. Thankfully, the lovely Julie Schaefer is a micro-influencer, then there’s Steve the business mogul, and uncle Wayne who oozes good, sound advice.
You’re on the sidelines for most of the crisis management talks. Partially because this isn’t really a crisis. Eddie’s always had a professional to deal with the inevitable influx of interest from the press following one of his stints, now he has friends and family with no real experience in this area. Naturally, to them, it feels like a crisis. However, the reasons why your kitchen is currently reminiscent of a boardroom are a far cry from a real tragedy.
The rockstar chose normalcy. He chose Wayne and Messer. He chose you. Home. Nothing resembling a crisis here, in your eyes. But you’re understanding because this is a big fucking deal.
Following his quick rise to fame, Eddie never ventured out on his own. Smithie and the entire bag of turds were in the rockstar’s corner for years. Even if, at the end of the day, they lied, cheated, and burned him to the bone, they were a circle of protection that now he doesn’t have. And considering his current lifestyle change, that’s scary.
So you hold his hand here and there, let him squeeze yours for a minute longer than necessary. Let him trail his fingers along the small of your back as he passes by, still when his chin rests on top of your head during moments he needs to think. Light, delicate touches. Reassuring touches that say more than words ever could.
Until he gets you alone.
The night he flew in to surprise you, break the news, the two of you barely make it through the front door before the rockstar has you pinned against the wall. Mouth hot and heavy, hands rough. He nips at your skin with his teeth, lifts you off the floor. Moments later, you’re in the privacy of your bedroom, both equally giddy with anticipation.
He takes his t-shirt off in that way you like, reaches behind and pulls it over his head, all the right muscles flexing in the process. And a grin spreads across his features because you’re staring at him like you could eat him — which is coincidentally, what he does to you mere minutes later.
Afterwards, you lay on top of your bed, just hugging for touching sake. Taking in time lost, the years that passed before Eddie showed up at his uncle’s door, and the last few weeks when he returned to stage — both equally painful, for different reasons.
“Tell me about that ex-boyfriend of yours.”
The request catches you off guard. “You really want to talk about him after we just did… that?”
Eddie huffs out a charming laugh, pulls your body closer to his, kisses the top of your head, and says that he does.
“No better time,” he jokes, but you can tell he’s nervous. This is the man currently (allegedly) in some sort of cahoots with the rockstar’s team.
Swallowing, you sit, angling your body so that you and Eddie are facing one another, and hug your knees to your chest.
“We went to Dalton together.”
The rockstar cocks a brow. “Isn’t that like a fancy, rich kid school?”
“Yeah,” you exhale.
Eddie knows a good bit about your upbringing already, majority of which you told him that very first night, before you completely tore each other’s clothes off. He knows how you were raised in the city, by your aunt, Agnes. Knows that you never met your parents, don’t know who they are and never really cared to find out. Your aunt kept that shit locked down. At first out of kindness, because no child wants to grow up knowing their parents didn’t really want them, then, as you got older, she simply obliged your request.
Until she passed, she was the only parent you ever needed.
“I didn’t question it at the time ‘cause to me, it was just a school.” You shrug. “But then I started dating RJ and he had all these things I didn’t, so Agnes told me my parents left her money, specifically for my education.”
He takes this in, nodding slowly, and decides quickly this particular topic doesn’t need to be pressed further because he understands better than anyone what it’s like, the whole parents abandoning their kid thing. He had a similar upbringing. Same coin.
“So you met him at Dalton?”
“We were friends at first,” you say, as if that makes this story any easier to swallow. “Everyone knew who he was and I think that freaked him out a little because it’s one thing to choose fame yourself, and it’s completely different when you’re born into certain responsibilities. I think we gravitated towards each other because I didn’t care who his parents were and he didn’t care that I didn’t have any.”
“That’s… fucked.” Eddie says, then apologises quickly, just in case he’s hurt your feelings.
He hasn’t. You know it’s fucked.
“The friendship developed over time and by the time we were Sophomore's, we were dating. In love, actually.” You tell him, then add, “RJ is… Well, he’s kind of my first, everything.”
You gauge the rockstar’s reaction to that last admission. He doesn’t have one, not really. He reaches for your hand, then gently traces along your index finger with his own, eyes focused on his minute action, before intertwining your fingers together, squeezing. His gaze settles on your face once more and he urges you to continue.
“His parents didn’t like me very much.”
He scoffs because as if. In his eyes, you’re literally impossible not to like.
“Primarily because I didn’t come from money and they thought RJ should be with someone from the same social circle.” You offer the rockstar a lopsided smile. “Anyway, they got involved, started meddling, and the whole thing blew apart.”
“I’m sorry,” Eddie offers, but you shrug.
“It was a long time ago.”
“I’m grateful you called him. That probably wasn’t easy.”
Eyes locked on his browns, you shuffle a little closer. “There isn’t a lot I wouldn’t do for you, Eddie Munson.”
He smiles. “Right back at you, sugar.”
Days, weeks, continue to pass like they usually do. Wake up, have breakfast, complete some school work with Messer or go to the studio, get groceries, dinner, bedtime. Except they’re also different because Eddie is there, by your side. Tangled in the sheets, pulling you back into bed for just a few more minutes in his arms. He’ll make breakfast, while you get Messer ready for the day. He’s salvaging his career at the same kitchen table you help your toddler colour within the lines of his ABC’s, or he’s driving you to work, distracting you during classes.
He’ll pack the grocery cart full of shit that’s not needed, recite the ingredients at the back of a box of cereal and make you guess exactly how much sugar it contains. He cooks dinner since apparently he’s a world class chef, then he’ll help with bedtime, sing Messer a song while the toddler watches him all starry-eyed. Then a movie together or a beer with Wayne, before you do it all again the next sunrise.
Ever the picture of domestic bliss, the two of you. Wayne jokes about moving out, but you’re not impressed because this is his home, so Eddie takes matters into his own hands and hires a contractor (through Steve).
As the dust of his career-shift settles, and the legal time he’s recently hired confirms there’s never been any charges against him in the first place, a new house is built on the land, a little way in from where Wayne’s four walls currently stand. Same style, similar view, but a completely different energy. A new beginning. You watch it rise from nothing with a fluttering feeling inside your chest and Eddie watches you, watches all these different dreams come true. Dreams he didn’t even know you shared.
The morning he carries you through the threshold of the completed build, you’re both a puddle of all these feelings you don’t really know how to address. He built a goddamn house for you, yet saying a certain entanglement of three words feels like an undoing you’re equally not ready to address. So, instead, you kiss each other silly.
By the front door, bumping into the brand new mirror, metal coatrack. In the kitchen, against the SMEG fridge and the new (expensive) dining table. Along the wooden staircase, down the hall that still smells like fresh paint, and by the marble sink in the guest bathroom.
“What do you think?” Eddie asks, mouth at your ear, hand under your shirt, as he continues the erratic house tour and leads you into the living room.
You look around, although you can’t focus on all of the details because his thumb grazes over your hardening nipple, and his erection presses into the curve of your ass. Impossible to ignore the physical reactions you elicit from one another, you turn in his embrace, catch his smile, catch the way he bites down on his bottom lip.
“I think we’ll be very happy here, B-lister.”
Eddie dips his head in response, capturing your lips between his, and fuck, does he feel like the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet. Happy? With you? That’s been the goal. Happy in this house he's built for you and Messer? That’s out of this world.
The kiss starts tentative and sweet, different from the heat you’ve so far exchanged in every other room of your new home, and you’re softening under the rockstar’s touch, melting like chocolate left out in the sun, because that’s what he is: sunshine.
When Eddie can no longer contain himself, because he’s just a man and he’s never been fond of slow, metal tugs at your nipple, the other hand lands on your neck, and he’s pulling you flush against him. Close is not close enough. That’s when a moan escapes you and he smirks, whispers against your mouth how he can’t wait to fuck you so hard you’ll never forget about him — as if you ever could.
He continues to trail rushed, sloppy kisses along your jawline, down your neck, as his cock twitches in a prison made of expensive fabric. You feel it against you, eager to be touched, and without a word of warning, you push off the rockstar and drop to your knees.
You undo his belt, zipper, and Eddie doesn’t really have time to react with how eager you’re going about this task. Hastily pulling his pants, and boxers, down, you look up briefly, with those not-so-innocent eyes, a smirk playing at your lips, before settling your gaze on his fully erect cock.
Fingers around his base, he groans, all throaty and deep, and his hands fly to the back of your head, steadying himself as you lean forward. Slowly, teasing slightly, you run your tongue around the rim of his throbbing dick before wrapping your lips around it completely.
“Jesus Christ,” he swears, already breathless, when your cheeks hollow and you begin to bop your head.
You take him deeper, deeper, and deeper, until his entire length is at home, in your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. You place your hands on his thighs to steady yourself, and when his grip on your crown tightens, cock twitching on your tongue, you quicken your pace and suck harder, wanting nothing more than to devour him completely.
“Shit. Sugar, I—”
Eddie feels like he’s floating. Huffing, puffing, and whispering your name like a song he will never get out of his mind. He starts to thrust, hips meeting your puffy lips a little too eagerly. He makes you gag, your eyes water as he hits the back of your throat several times over, reveling in the control he has so easily acquired while you’re completely breathless, soaked between the thighs because you love the dominance he emits in these moments.
His groans are getting louder, the sound music to your ears. They fuel your resolve, continuously sending shockwaves of electricity down, between your legs. He’s got a good voice, Eddie. Singing, speaking, take your pick. The noises he makes in the bedroom, however… Well, they might just be your favourite.
He pumps into you forcefully and it’s a struggle to keep up, but just when you swear you can’t take anymore, he pulls out without warning. A ring-clad hand lands on your throat, tight though not too tight. He’s urging you to get back on your feet, which you do without question.
“I wanna come inside of you,” he grunts, free hand pulling down your pants, then tugging at your panties until they both fall to the ground beneath.
Then his lips are on yours in a flash. Eddie tumbles backwards, eagerly pulling you along as his tongue further explores your mouth. When his calves hit the edge of the sofa, you push him ever so slightly and the rockstar drops with a slight bounce. But he doesn’t bother making himself comfortable. Instead, he’s reaching for you again, fingers around your wrist as you straddle him, your aching cunt hovering over his throbbing cock.
For a split-second, you contemplate teasing him a little, rubbing your sleek slit along his tip until he’s the begging mess, but Eddie doesn’t give you a chance. He holds you down, shoving himself inside your impressively wet pussy so that all you can do is exhale in pleasure, matching in tone his visceral groan.
Eyes rolling to the back of his head, he lifts you by the waist, slides his dick out, then pushes back in, nice and slow. He’d been starving for years, he thinks. Lost and chasing the high he realises he can only achieve with you.
“God, sugar, you take me so well.” Eddie grumbles, continuing to insert and remove the full length of his shaft from your glistening cunt. “You’re made for me.”
Of course you are, you’re sure of it. Have been since that first night in New York. No one has ever made you feel the way this man does, and no one ever will. The feeling between your thighs, where his cock meets your wetness, is proof enough. An oasis.
Placing your hands on his outstretched legs, you rock backwards, arching your spine.
“Oh… shit, sugar.” Eddie breathes as you start rocking your hips, feeling the tip of his head hit that spot deep within. “God, that feels so fucking good. Don’t stop.”
Biting down on your bottom lip, you increase your speed, rotating on his member, forward, backward, forward and backward, faster with every thundering heartbeat. Lub-dub, lub-dub. Boom, thud, crash. Whatever the description, you feel his and he feels yours, and it’s more intimate than anything, really.
Panting underneath you, Eddie’s hands make home underneath your shirt once again. He squeezes, kneads your tits like they’re made of Play-Doh, and you whine, hips rocking.
“Mhm, Eddie…” Moaning rather pathetically, you grind against his pelvis, until you reach a speed you can no longer sustain without getting completely winded.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he grunts, fingers pinching your nipples and watches you hop on his girth with nothing but an awestruck lust in his eyes as euphoric waves of pleasure contract inside of him, a pre-orgasmic ecstasy.
“Fuck,” you breathe, “Of course I’m yours. Only yours.”
“Fucking— Christ.” Eddie grunts, sitting straighter and resting his forehead against yours.
His gaze is wild, hungry, waiting to undo you completely, like you are him. Moans turn to cries of pleasure. You feel his hard cock scrape along every wall, every curve and nook. When your eyes threaten to close, Eddie grips your chin before they get a chance, forcing you to look at him. Forcing you to focus on the feeling of your cunt clenching around his dick, again, and again, and again.
"Eddie, fuck!” You’re practically screaming now, insides starting to burn and ache for that sweet release you’re chasing. “I’m so fucking close— Shit…”
Continuing to ride the man you’re absolutely in love with, you bury his length entirely in your tight hole and grind against his pelvis as your orgasm builds in your chest, moving downward to where the two of you are connected. His name sputters from your lips as the dopamine hits, and while you ride that high, body jerking against him, Eddie forces you to collapse on his chest. His arms hold you steady as he picks up where you left off, thrusting deep into your aching cunt, chasing his own orgasm.
“You’re fucking hot, sugar.” He breathes, moves relentlessly, and you feel like a ragdoll in the confines of his embrace.
His cock, completely covered in your juices, is dipping in and out of you with such force, you swear he’s going to break through that wall he’s hitting at each thrust.
“I’m gonna come deep inside of you, shit. Gonna make you have more of my babies, yeah?” Eddie’s practically growling, throaty and breathless, quite unlike him. But then again, you drive him absolutely wild.
“Please…”
“You want to carry around another one of my kids, sugar?”
“Yes. Please, Eddie, please.”
The not-so-quiet begging is all he needs to hear because, mere seconds later, he’s spurting hot cum inside your dripping cunt and you can’t help but shudder at the feeling, an excited tingle down your spine.
“Fuck… You’re so… I-I—”
Chest heaving, heart beating in tandem with yours, Eddie empties himself completely while you find comfort in the crook of his neck. Mind completely numb from reality, you lay in his embrace for a moment longer, counting the stars that circle beneath your closed eyelids.
The rockstar’s fingers gently trace along your spine as you both try to catch your breaths. It’s serene, considering the nastiness of what the two of you just did, and you find yourself wishing you could stay like this forever. Lost in the wonderland that Eddie makes you experience simply by his proximity.
Quite doable these days, you think, smiling against his shoulder blade.
“Can I tell you something?” Mouth to your ear, he breaks the content silence.
“Mhmm.”
He pats your arm, nudging you to sit up. Then he holds your face, gently, and searches your eyes for a split-second before smiling too. It’s tiny, barely even a smile, but it’s loaded with emotions and your heart glows inside your chest.
“I love you. I’m in love with you, sugar.”
A shaky, breathless noise escapes your parted lips. It sounds a little like a laugh, or a barely-there gasp. Either way, it’s thick with a sob you want to fight back, so you pull his face down to yours in a sudden, desperate movement, and kiss him in a way that says finally, and me too.
“I was so scared to say it first,” you confess, breath catching in your throat. “I'm in love with you too, Eddie.”
Grinning from ear to ear, his head falls backwards and he exhales in relief. Sweet, sweet relief. The girl he’s been chasing, mother of his child. The girl of his dreams loves him too and fuck, he could die happy. What a life.
“This calls for a celebration,” the rockstar says and you giggle, eyes shining.
And you celebrate on the staircase, which frankly is not a comfortable spot, then in the bedroom you’ll share together, on the four poster bed and a little next to it, on the floor. The en suite also welcomes your celebration, first against the cabinet and later under the rainforest shower. Eddie contemplates continuing on the balcony that overlooks an expansive garden, but he stops himself — a little too risque, even for him.
After the entire house is christened, you wander back towards Wayne’s, hand in hand. The eldest Munson is in the kitchen, a paper in hand, as Messer sits next to him and draws. They both look up when you enter with Eddie, and smile. Wayne because he’s finally seeing his nephew happy, finally seeing you happy. And Messer because…
“Hi, dad.”
“Hey, bud.” Eddie greets his kid, ruffles his hair a little, before making himself comfortable across the table.
You roll your eyes. “Don’t I get a hello?”
Messer nods, stretches his arms and waits for a hug, one that you give with no hesitation as Eddie watches. You, his son. His entire life. A warm feeling beneath his ribcage. He briefly glances at Wayne, who is already looking at his nephew with a knowing smirk beneath the mustache.
“All good at the new house?” His uncle asks.
Eddie nods. “Couldn’t be better.”
And the sentiment rings true for the rest of your lives, actually.
Messer returns to school not long after, beyond excited to see his friends, as little kids usually are. He decides he wants to be a rockstar, just like his dad, so Eddie teaches him the piano, and a few years later, guitar.
You put together all of the photographs you took during Eddie’s time in Hawkins, over those first few weeks when he was navigating the news of being someone’s dad. With Julie’s help, and the rockstars too, you pick a select few and organise a small show at the local gallery. It’s quite the hit and you decide to start freelancing, taking odd photography jobs here and there, while still helping Julie with the yoga studio. Although, your favourite muse is still the man you love.
Eddie says the same about you. Every song he’s written since seeing you again has been about finding love, falling in love. The band comes down to visit. They record a few of the tracks, just for fun, at the home Eddie’s built (there’s a recording studio in the basement). Eventually, about a year later, Eddie hires a new manager, new agent. They help with the album release and when the topic of touring is brought up, he goes.
This time however, he brings Wayne, brings you, and Messer, makes it a family affair. And in New York, when he glances down below at the photographers, you’re there — smiling at him through the lens of your 35mm.
Click. A flash. Hearts soaring.
i cry as i write: THE END. this fic has meant so much to me, and the love y'all have shown it makes my heart all warm and fuzzy. ily forever <3
as always, thank you for reading! pls support your writers by commenting & reblogging <3
tagging some cool people that expressed interest (if you want to be removed, just let me know), and if anyone wants to be added- also let me know:
pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x singlemom!reader (modern au)
total word count: 42.7k
summary: five years after he returns home, eddie munson is greeted at the front door of his uncles house by a toddler with a head of dusty-brown locks. in need of a break from the life he's built for himself, the rockstar is instead faced with another hard truth. Wayne Munson tells his nephew about the girl Steve Harrington introduced him to. the girl that found herself in a certain… situation, following one of Eddie’s gigs. the girl, who had nowhere else to go, so Wayne took her in, helping her every step of the way for the last four years because, after all, she's the mother to Eddie’s kid: Mason Wayne Munson aka Messer.
content warnings: 18+ minors dni: suggestive & mature themes, implied intimacy + also just pure smut at times, one night stand gone awry, secret pregnancy aka no-one told eddie he's a dad, forced proximity, slow-ish burn, heavy on the mutual pining / yearning, on the fluffy side as these two flirt (a lot), use of pet names, emotional hurt / comfort, adult language, navigating family dynamics, plus mentions of: alcohol consumption, recreational drug use, physical violence — pls friends, read the warnings for each individual chapter.
psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.
prologue (a blurb)
chapter one | aka the little mess you made
chapter two | aka nice to each other
chapter three | aka what did i miss?
chapter four | aka something has to change
chapter five | aka never felt better
chapter six | aka i won’t quit on you
chapter seven | aka the longest goodbye
chapter eight | aka times like these
chapter nine | aka divine feelings
chapter ten | aka restless little heart
epilogue
a/n: the following are some songs i think they fit perfectly with their story, so i wanted to share them with you.
the favors - the little mess you made | willow avalon - honey ain't no sweeter | abba - i've been waiting for you | aly & aj - if you get lonely | kali uchis - it's just us | elbow - one day like this | hohnen ford - another lifetime | john denver - take me home, country roads | mumford & sons - truth | miley cyrus - more to lose | lana del rey - not all who wander are lost | laufey - tough luck | olivia dean - nice to each other | hozier - too sweet | the hollies - the air that i breathe | the killers - bright lights | brigitte calls me baby - impressively average | the cranberries - when you're gone | james bay - us | billie eilish - birds of a feather | t'pau - china in your hand | benson boone - reminds me of you | the lumineers - a song for you | damiano david ft. suki waterhouse - the bruise | lorde - current affairs | pale waves - she's my religion | david bowie - changes | lana del rey - thunder | mitski - my love is mine all mine | robbie williams - better man | fleetwood mac - coming home | taylor swift - peace | elbow - one day like this
as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3
chapter ONE from through the fences.
pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader (au)
word count: 5.6k
summary: crash-landing in hot water, eddie does what he knows best: he runs. and he runs right into you; a girl unlike any he's ever met. but it doesn't - can't - mean anything other than a bed to sleep in.
content warnings: 18+ minors dni: suggestive & mature themes, lust at first sight, smutty but primarily implied intimacy and a closed-door romance, use of nicknames and pet names, adult language, reader is kinda a brat and eddie is very much into it, also includes: references to breaking the law, mentions of food consumption — if i missed anything, pls let me know!
psa: images used in the header don’t depict readers physical attributes!
Eddie Munson is good at one thing and one thing only: running the fuck away from problems.
At least, that’s what he tells himself when he does what he does. Because you’ve not met him yet to prove otherwise. You meet him later.
Thirty-four hours later, to be exact.
His life changes forever when he bumps into you, fresh off a night bus from Indianapolis to New York. It’s a double-edged sword, really. But more on that in a minute.
If the truth is to be considered, the trajectory of Eddie’s future changes earlier. At his uncle's trailer. During an altercation between him and that fuckface, Carver.
It’s a fight that ends in casualties larger than just the brunette’s fractured ego. Hence the panicked packing, the scribbled goodbye letter to Wayne (left in a spot only the older man will find), the hot wiring of Mrs Hubert’s car that aids in his quick getaway — all of which occurs as hot tears burn into his bruised skin.
The drive from Hawkins to Indianapolis is a blur. Dead silent too. Nothing but gushes of wind blowing through the parted window, the sound of tires on gravel, and his messy, laboured breathing. He keeps to the speed limit, since the last thing he needs is getting pulled over while he’s attempting to go on the run, and doesn’t make any stops until he reaches his destination.
Parking the car on some random, rather dodgy, street, Eddie exhales. Closed fists land at his eyes, rubbing the tiredness away, then he keeps moving. Keys remain in the ignition as his feet hit the tarmac. There’s also an apology note to Mrs Hubert in the glovebox — because he’s not a complete fucking asshole.
With the rucksack over his shoulder, head hanging low, Eddie walks aimlessly through the city crowd. This is as far as he thought to go. Honestly, he had no clear plan of action aside from get the fuck out of Hawkins, fast. He should probably find a motel, at least until he figures out what he’s going to do next because staying in Indianapolis isn’t a good idea in the long run. No doubt this will be the first place they’ll come looking.
His legs weave with the wind, down various blocks. He’s unsure how long it’s been since he’s abandoned the car, but when his stomach rumbles, he scans the surroundings he’s found himself in and he decides to take a break, at a diner he can see down the street.
He doesn’t make it two steps when a cop car pulls up outside and Eddie freezes. They don’t look in his direction as they scramble out of their vehicle, they probably don’t even know who he is yet, but the sight of them alone is enough to redirect the brunette’s movements, make him turn on his heel. And that’s when he sees it.
The bus depot.
Boston, Atlanta, Houston, Toronto, New York. He scans the list of departures. Since he doesn’t have a passport, escaping to Canada is definitely out of the question. For a minute, he thinks about Boston, but ultimately it’s the city that never sleeps he picks in the end. Millions of people. Plenty of opportunity to become invisible, anonymous.
Later, when he retells this part of the story, your eyes glisten mischievously, as they usually do, and you say it’s your wishes that put him there, at the same time as the police, so he’d abandon the notion of hiding out in Indianapolis, venture further. New York, perhaps. Where you’re living, completely oblivious to his existence and somehow knowing all the same.
This voodoo shit is not for him, but the sentiment of someone out there — especially a smokeshow like you — willing him in a different direction, well, he can’t help the fucking cocky grin on his face.
The lady at the desk informs him there’s an overnight to New York City in four hours. He buys a ticket on the spot, leaving him with a lowly sum of three-hundred bucks for whatever plan he comes up with once in the city. He’ll have to get a job somewhere. A no-questions-asked, cash-under-the-table type of employment. Shouldn’t be too hard, he thinks. Hopes, actually. In reality, he’s got no clue what the fuck he’s doing.
Maybe he should have stayed in Hawkins? What if he got in his head too fast? What if they (being the general public along with the cops) considered his side of the story? But he shakes the questions away as fast as they arise. He can’t second guess himself, not now.
In the time Eddie’s waiting for his bus, he buys a bottle of water and a sandwich. He finds an empty bench in the corner of a depot and eats his food, scanning the surroundings for anyone looking in his direction suspiciously. Nobody does. His face makes the news only after he’s met you, but by then he feels pretty much invincible.
The journey is restless. He knows he should sleep. Wishes for the sweet release of dreams as lights zoom past the bus window, however the drowsiness never comes. Too anxious, scared. He’s also missing his uncle. The one family member that’s always been in the brunette’s corner and now he may never see the old man again. Not like Wayne would want to see his nephew, not after what he’s done. Disappointed him in the process. Fuck, that hurts to think about.
Twenty long hours pass.
Two stops on the way for bathroom breaks and fuel. Eddie stays on the bus both of those times, hiding towards the back so no one can place him later. His aim is to remain a shadow without a face because when the police are eventually going to try and find his whereabouts, no one can step up and say: “Oh, that boy you’re looking for took the same night bus as me. To New York City.”.
By the time Eddie steps off the metal machine, a new day is already coming to a slow end. The surrounding crowd is a mix of office folk, heading home after presumably long, exhausting hours at their unfulfilling jobs, and rowdy college kids, whose next agenda item is getting plastered drunk. A few families, some tourists. Homeless, street vendors, all groups mixing together in a way that mere hours ago, would have seemed unnatural to the lost brunette.
Despite the heavy tiredness, Eddie’s struck by how alive he suddenly feels.
He ventures further between the concrete blocks and busy lights, momentarily unafraid to keep his head up and takes in every last detail of the expansive jungle — until he’s rudely reminded it’s been hours since he’s had a warm meal.
Stomach rumbling louder than necessary, Eddie stops at the first diner he comes across. He sits at the far end, eyes on the door since he shouldn't be too careless, and orders a burger from the grey-haired waitress. A couple of people venture in and out as he waits. No one of particular importance stands out, so once he gets his food, the brunette feels secure enough to drop his gaze and eat.
Although, he’s still listening. Actively. To the bell above the door, the various chatter of everyone else here, the orders being placed and delivered. He listens to the radio that’s playing in the background, just in case it switches to the news and his name is being broadcasted across the nation. And as he’s listening, he hears something quite unexpected.
Laughter. Which frankly, isn’t all that strange, but the sound vibrates through him, causing a tingle to run down his spine and his heart to skip a beat — odd.
Eddie looks up, around. Can’t place the person, thinks he may have imagined the whole thing, so it’s back to eating the most average burger in America.
Thank god his ears stay alert while he’s chewing on the unseasoned patty because there it is again, and this time, as his head snaps up from the plate in front of him, he sees a girl two tables up. You.
Facing his general direction, although your focus is entirely on the person you’re with. There’s a wave of heads blocking his view, but every time they shift, Eddie catches a glimpse and for a moment that borders on stalkery, his burger is frozen mid-air.
Fuck, what a face.
He shakes his head, gaze dropping along with the burger, and blinks a few times at nothing in particular. When you laugh again, Eddie closes his eyes tight, because this is perhaps the darkest time in his life and for some reason, when your giggles reach his ears, his entire being feels sort of warm, fuzzy — and if anyone is paying attention to his inner monologue from the last thirty-odd hours, this isn’t the time for either of those inklings.
What else is a guy to do but run? It’s already been established that Eddie’s quite good at that.
He flags down the waitress, pays with a tip that he cannot afford but whatever, he also can’t afford to fall in a trap otherwise known as another pretty girl, so he bolts. Doesn’t spare you another glance as he rushes past, just straight out the door and onto the busy New York street.
The universe — as you’d later tell him — has other plans because there’s a gentle tap on his shoulder while he figures out which way to go. He doesn’t think when he turns back around, facing the entrance of the diner he just ran out of. Facing you.
“You dropped this,” you say and he blinks, glancing down at your outstretched hand and his stupid fucking bandana, tucked carefully between your fingers.
Eddie clears his throat. “Thanks.”
But he doesn’t move. Stupid, really. Mere seconds ago he was aching to get away from the possibility of something like this happening, and now he’s standing a fool, staring at the piece of cloth you’re holding. Only when you retrieve your hand, the bandana still in your grasp, does his gaze trail upwards, meeting yours.
One brow up, arched, you’re studying him with a level of scrutiny he’d rather not experience from a complete stranger. Especially one as pretty as you. Fuck. This is a nightmare.
He sighs, then reaches for the item between your fingers. He shouldn’t have turned around. Once his photo is plastered across the news outlets, you’ll definitely be able to place him here.
“Hermès.”
“What?” He asks, brows furrowed. Heart in his fucking throat from the nerves.
“The scarf.”
Eddie once again looks at the piece of cloth, now in his grasp, then frowns because he’s still not sure what you mean. You must notice the weird look he is undoubtedly sporting because you keep talking.
“I recognise the pattern and the classic Hermès orange.”
“I don’t know. I found it,” he says mindlessly, although that’s not entirely true.
Honesty doesn’t come easy to him. In reality, Eddie stole what he believed to be a bandana working at McKinney's party a couple of weeks back. Business was slower than usual, so he wandered through the house, rifled through some cupboards, closets. The scarf — as you call it — was just waiting to be rescued.
“Well, it’s quite the find,” you say, and there’s something in your tone that has the brunette meeting your gaze once more.
“This uh… Hermès…” He cocks a brow. “Sounds expensive?”
You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. He tries not to let his eyes wander, really, but he’s only a man. The slip is brief and only happens once… okay, twice. You must notice and decidedly like that sort of attention from him because you pull your bottom lip between your teeth.
And if Eddie wasn’t done for before, he is now.
Not to sound overly cocky, but he knows the look written across your face, has seen it many times before, so his list of never ending troubles is longer by one more: you. For sure the type of girl that can ruin his life — more than it already is — and now that he’s thinking about it, looking at you up close, not the kind of girl that willingly eats at a dingy diner.
A thought very much confirmed when a taxi you hail, without giving a second thought to the friend he believes is still inside the locale, drops you and Eddie outside a building with a doorman. The elderly gentleman calls you by your surname, tipping his hat and opening one side of the glass to allow passage. You smile sweetly, motioning for Eddie to follow.
He really should be careful not to show his face to too many people that could timestamp him in different spots around the city he escaped to. But the sway of your hips and the glimmer in your eyes is, quite frankly, hypnotic. A friendly reminder: he’s only a man.
“So, what brings you to New York?” You ask once the elevator closes.
Eddie shrugs. “Wanted somethin’ new.”
“Ahh,” you muse, tilting your head slightly. “So you’re running from something.”
Not a question and Eddie wonders how you can tell. You answer his thought with a slight glance at the bag over his shoulder, and he presses his lips together.
“Quite the deduction skills.”
“Runs in the family,” you say with a shrug.
In retrospect, he should have asked straight away what you meant. Earlier, in the taxi, you made a comment that also dinged a bell in his mind, tickling his fight or flight, but Eddie ignored the obvious because your hand was down his pants. He’s never met a girl this forward and one could colour him intrigued — even if this sudden fascination came at a really, really terrible time.
The elevator opens with a swoosh and as he follows you through the foyer, large staircase to one side, chandelier up above, he’s thinking again about what a girl like you was doing at a diner. Surely there’s fancier places to eat in the city. Restaurants suited to your poise, your outfit.
“Nice place,” he says, taking a look around.
“It could be better,” you tell him, and when Eddie’s brow shoots upwards, wanting just slightly to check your privilege, you add, “Less suffocating, for starters.”
He frowns. A twinge of guilt settles in his core for judging you based on surface level. Clearly, he doesn’t know you. Strangers still. And he absolutely hates when people jump to conclusions about him, his upbringing. The notion has caused many fights back home, yet here he is, doing the same to a girl that’s done nothing but shown him interest, kindness too.
“Show me your room.”
You huff a gentle laugh, briefly glancing at your heels, then ask, “Are you always this forward?”, with a slight tease to the tone of your voice. Eyes settled on him once more.
“I’m not the one who pushed a stranger into a taxi and touched ‘em in a very forward way.” Eddie counters, sauntering towards you. He stops when his sneaker touches the tip of your heeled toes, both of you looking down between the barely-there space.
His mind is spiraling slightly, since this is a pitstop he really cannot afford right now. Although, his worries are quickly fusing with the intoxicating scent of your undoubtedly expensive perfume and the recent memory of your delicate fingers wrapped around his girth. Whatever. He can spend the night and fuck off in the morning, before you wake up. If the police place him here and question the doorman, question you, he’ll be long gone. Maybe to another city? It’s already been established how he’s good at that: running.
“What if I’m simply trying to rob you?” You ask, pulling the Hermès scarf from his back pocket and lifting it into view.
He smirks as his gaze briefly darts between the designer cloth and yours.
“Pretty sure you can afford one all on your own, Krystle Carrington.”
You scrunch your nose. Not a fan of the nickname, he notes while wetting his lips to hide an affectionate smile. He’ll definitely use it again, like a schoolboy endlessly teasing a girl he’s got a crush on. Which, of course, this isn’t. Eddie just needs a certain type of relief and you’ve already indicated how you’re more than eager to oblige.
With the orange scarf still in your grasp, you turn away from him and start to walk up the stairs.
“I suppose I should be glad you didn’t compare me to Alexis,” you say over your shoulder, the sound of your heels clacking against the marble staircase almost muffling your voice.
When you stop right at the top, Eddie is still a few steps behind, meaning when you turn to face him again, you’re ever so slightly taller. Seemingly the one in control.
“And it’s not nice to make assumptions about people,” you continue.
“Well,” Eddie begins, glancing around the space with his arms outstretched slightly, as if to prove a point. “Look at this place. I think it’s safe to say you’re doing okay for yourself.”
“You wouldn’t believe me anyway, if I told you otherwise.”
Despite the sudden solemn tone, there’s a proud look on your face. The sort Eddie loves to wipe off with his mouth because nothing is more humbling to girls like you than messing around with a guy like him, only to be left behind since this sort of shit doesn’t matter to him, not the way it historically matters to chicks.
They’ll screw around with him, follow him around for free weed, some other shit too, and a big fuck you to their stiff parents. Eddie knows his role in the Hawkins social hierarchy and it has never bothered him. He sticks by the rules, even wears his title as a badge of honour. Yet, even though they’re just using him, they get attached anyway and he ends up having to break hearts — which he kind of enjoys.
Come tomorrow morning, you’ll be just another girl and he won’t think of your laughter, won’t spare a second reminiscing the mischievous glimmer in your eyes, or the way your hand felt down his boxers (like it belonged there).
“Kick me out, let me crash. It’s honestly whatever to me, sweetheart.” Eddie says with a shrug. “But I don’t think you want me to leave.”
You raise a brow in that challenging way you do, and he should be worried how he’s noticing these things already, after barely knowing you an hour. He doesn’t dwell on that thought though. Instead, Eddie slides a hand up your side, slow and steady, until his fingers are at your waist. He pulls you closer and you weave your arms around his neck, trying to find balance.
“I think you’re trying to prove something to the people that own this place and you need a guy like me to help you out.”
Admittedly, a line he’s used plenty of times in the past, so colour him surprised when you scoff. Your eyes roll — brat — as you push off him and keep walking along the upstairs hallway. There’s a split-second during which Eddie is muttering to himself, “What the fuck?”, because that line always works, before a smirk replaces the momentary confusion and he continues to follow you.
“If all I’m looking for is - and I quote - a guy like you,” you begin in rebuttal, pushing a large, white door open with your hip. “I would have simply stayed at the diner to wrap up my date and brought that loser home instead.”
Eddie can’t help the short laugh that escapes.
“That was a date?”
You nod, then say, “Clearly not a very successful one.”
The inside of your bedroom is unsurprisingly devoid of any real character. All the furniture matches in woodtones, clearly custom made to fit the dimensions of space. There’s a white duvet on top of the large bed and some fashion magazines scattered around the place, half-hidden behind piles of colourful clothes. No posters, no photos. If you’re lying, and the two of you are breaking and entering, he’d be none the wiser.
“Is this actually your place?” He can’t help himself. He’s already on the run, so it would be great to avoid any additional charges.
A dangerous, knowing smile tugs at your lips at the question, and when you decide not to answer, Eddie seriously begins to consider calling quits on this whole thing. He’d rather face a case of blue balls than get arrested for having sex in someone else’s bed. Not an ideal scenario to get caught here, especially after travelling this far to escape his fate.
The universe — or in this case, you — glues his feet to the ground by a simple act of undoing the collection of buttons currently holding your blouse together. You leave the last few before moving onto the zipper of your skirt, which you slide down your legs, all while holding his gaze and the orange Hermès scarf.
Clearing his throat, Eddie drops the rucksack to the carpeted floor and crosses the room. It only takes a few, slow strides until he’s towering over you once more, hastily latching onto your blouse and pulling you flush against his chest. You tug your bottom lip between your teeth and blink up at him, a picture of false innocence.
“Any last words?” You ask, voice all sultry, sending a zap straight to his groin.
Fingers cross your frame, a ghost of a touch, as Eddie reaches for the scarf you’re still holding. He lifts it slightly into view, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk, one brow raised.
“Do you think this Herbert person—”
“Hermès,” you chime.
“—will forgive me if I use this to tie you up?”
And then he kisses you.
He doesn't wait for you to answer the question, and doesn't ask permission either. Eddie simply takes what’s right in front of him and revels in the way you melt, equally wicked. It’s fierce and demanding, tasting of tension that’s been simmering between the two of you all evening. Boil, bubble, pop.
The abstract floral scent of your undoubtedly expensive perfume fills his senses. Intoxicating, he thinks, like throwing gasoline on a burning fire. He wants — needs — more. So his fingers work to remove the blouse completely, fabric soft against his calloused fingers.
It’s pure, animalistic instinct. At least that’s what Eddie tells himself when he bites your lower lip, tongue catching your gasp. Or when he slides his hands down the curve of your ass and lifts you off the floor, guiding your legs around his waist.
One could also call it expanding his portfolio. He’s been with a fair share of upper-class chicks, but no one compares to your stature. Plus, yours is the first of many beds he’ll land in while hiding out in the city. Nothing special. By tomorrow’s sunrise, the feeling of your skin against his will be nothing but a memory.
At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself beneath the sheets, arms around your frame, holding on for dear life.
The New York dating scene bores you.
Honestly, there is a lousy selection of candidates to begin with. If they’re employed, established — and tick the criteria set by your parents, in terms of wallet size — they are really unattractive. And if the potential date is somewhat good looking, handsome even, they’ve seemingly got no prospects, and any potential romance is over before it even begins because your parents would never allow their only daughter to enter a relationship with a bum.
The whole thing has become quite the chore, and everyone in your inner circle knows you’re not one to ruin a good manicure for housework.
Now, that’s not to say you spend your days and nights alone. Quite the opposite, actually. Finding a boyfriend that satisfies your family by meeting their ridiculous expectations may be a tedious task, but you persevere. After all, there’s the trust fund stipulation to consider, the bonus you don’t receive unless you find a potential husband before your twenty-fifth birthday. The feminist inside of you screams to let it go, try a hand at true happiness (whatever that looks like), but the materialistic side always wins. Money is all you’ve ever known.
“A life that’s incredibly comfortable is hard to give up.” That’s what your grandfather always says. Your mother’s father. He’s the only one in your family who thinks the ‘marriage’ clause is ridiculous. Then again, Bernard Senior is also the only one who got lucky in that department. The love of his life — your fabulous grandmother, Judith Cecil — happened to be beautiful, successful, and came from old-money. Tick, tick, and tick.
The Cecil family are British-American financiers and real estate investors. Your grandfather’s side of the tree is also very wealthy (what is these days known as Big Pharma, they had a small part in that), but still not quite Cecil stature, which is why grandmother Judith never changed her surname. Smart woman.
Money makes your world go around, so you go on unsuccessful dates with unattractive, rich assholes, only to end up in bed with someone a lot more… fun. Not a foolproof plan by any means, but the game’s the game. You’ve got a few years left until you need to be sauntering down the aisle and there is a long list of suitors who will marry you in the blink of an eye — even if you don’t want to marry them.
That’s how you find yourself at La Bonbonierre.
You like this diner. Primarily for its convenient location: far enough from the Upper East Side, so no one from your real life will ever spot you here, yet still close enough to home, making for a short-ish car ride.
The guy you’re with didn’t even bat an eye at the suggested locale, which tells you all you need to know about how much further this night will go; i.e. not very far. Sure, you’ll make out a little before bidding him goodnight, but chances are you will never see him again. Sorry to Matthew from the Bronx. He’s charming as hell and in another life, maybe the two of you would go on a second date… Not a third though. Never a third.
In the span of thirty-two minutes, you’ve learned all about Matthew’s shattered dreams of becoming a professional athlete due to a badly torn ACL, his pivot into getting a journalism degree from a local community college, and his desire to travel outside of the great state of New York. You tell him next to nothing, but the guy doesn’t seem to mind. Easy on the eye, bad at a two-way conversation.
As he talks, polishing a burger faster than you can blink, you nibble on the french fries, dipping them in your vanilla milkshake and nodding along to words you most definitely will not remember tomorrow. Tonight’s goal is simple: satisfy an urge that needs satisfying. Nothing he’ll say will change your mind about what this date actually is.
“The Bulls are dominating this year,” Matthew says. “If the Knicks had half the squad they do down in Chicago, we’d be unstoppable.”
“I’m more of a Yankees fan myself.”
Matthew snorts and shakes his head. “Yankees are a baseball team.”
“A ball is a ball, Matthew.” You deadpan, unbothered by the correction and the amused look he’s shooting you from across the table. “Besides, I prefer to watch the players than the game, and the Yankees have Don Mattingly.”
“Jerrod Mustaf, Charles Oakley…” Matthew lists off.
“Yes, the New York Knicks team is full of knockouts,” you say honestly, smiling because there’s nothing you enjoy more than a lighthearted sparring match. “But Matthew… Don Mattingly has a mustache.”
He laughs at that and you join in instantly. Short and sweet. Nothing to write home about, except when your date tilts his head to flag down the waitress, still laughing to himself, you notice someone behind him, sitting all alone just a few booths down. Someone quite striking.
All you get is a glimpse, but it’s enough to pique your interest.
A wave of chocolate-brown locks and a big, wide gaze to match. The mystery man is wearing a faded denim jacket — vintage, if you were to take a guess — over a plain tee, and there’s something silver around his neck that glistens slightly under the fluorescent light. His head hangs low, just as quickly as he lifted it seconds prior, as if he’s avoiding eye contact with whoever glances his way, and the tension in his shoulders is visible even from the space between you. An out-of-towner, for sure. Running from something perhaps?
Stealing one last look in the mystery man’s direction, you force yourself to focus on your date. In the seconds you just lost, too distracted by the lonesome brunette, Matthew seemingly has moved on from talking about sports, choosing instead to ramble about the public transport in this city. Poorly designed routes, overcrowded carts, expensive for a college student. All facts you can agree with, so you nod.
“Don’t you have a car?” Matthew asks, then adds, “And a driver?”
“Aren’t you observant.”
“You literally picked me up. Or should I say, your driver picked me up,” he teases and you roll your eyes in a playful manner.
“My generosity is always overlooked,” you dramatise, the corners of your lips twitching upwards because boys always think you’re flirting if you say shit with a soft smile.
Matthew places a hand over his heart.
“I thank your generosity,” he says with a smirk. “Just be sure to pass along my gratitude to your driver too. Do you even have a licence?”
A shocked scoff escapes you, followed by a giggle as you throw a french fry at him. He dodges with ease, then returns the attack, which only makes you laugh louder.
“Well, Frank won’t be giving you a lift home,” you say between chuckles. “He’s got the rest of the night off.”
“Fuck. Not a night off.” Matthew replies sarcastically.
Surprisingly, you feel good with him, which doesn’t happen often. Sure, you’re good at making people comfortable, you’re good at flirting, but you don’t usually let your own guard down. Knowing that dates with guys like Matthew — guys who you could never bring home to your parents — won’t make it past the night, well, it’s just easier to keep true feelings out of these interactions.
Matthew must notice the sudden change in your demeanor because his smile turns softer, wistful even, as he looks at you from across the table.
“I’m never going to see you again, am I?”
You do your best to keep the smile on your face, even if it doesn’t reach your eyes, as you reach for his hand and squeeze.
“You’ll make one hell of a journalist some day,” you say earnestly. “And who knows, maybe you’ll interview me in the future, for a piece about the most generous women in the world.”
Matthew snorts and squeezes your fingers back.
“I’m looking forward to it.” And then he says goodbye.
After your date leaves, you take all of two seconds to sigh, compose yourself, before glancing in the direction of the mystery man you spotted earlier. To your disappointment, he’s gone too. Great. Looks like you’re going home alone.
You place some cash on the table, including a generous tip, and push to stand. That’s when you notice something orange on the floor, close to where the brunette was sitting. On closer inspection, the piece of cloth is a scarf. A Hermés scarf, at that. Odd. You wouldn’t say the person sitting here moments prior could afford something this expensive, but assumptions can be wrong, so you pick the scarf up.
Thinking — hoping — he didn’t get very far, you rush out of the diner. Maybe you’d be able to spot his head of hair and give this back to him. Maybe…
Huh.
The universe is on your side because there he is, just standing outside, looking around as if he’s unsure which way to turn. His hesitancy tugs at something inside of your body and you instantly want to become someone he can count on, at least for tonight, so you tap his shoulder.
Facing you completely, the mystery man is even more handsome than you first noticed. A sea of light freckles coat his face, complimenting his deep-brown eyes perfectly. There’s tiny dents in his cheeks where you can tell dimples will appear if he smiles, and gentle frown lines that somehow make him feel more real. And his mouth, so plump and… kissable.
“You dropped this,” you say, trying to appear nonchalant.
The guy blinks, glancing down at your outstretched hand, before clearing his throat.
“Thanks.”
His tone is all gravely and deep, and it sends a shockwave through your system. God, you want him to keep talking. You need him to keep talking. You need him to do a lot more actually, but you’ll settle for hearing his voice again.
Naturally, you get what you want and in the process you find out a few things about him.
Hermés is not a brand he’s familiar with, meaning your assumption about the item being out of his league was correct. The fact is further proven when he says he found the scarf, which you actually think is a lie, but you let it slide (for now). Then he asks if it’s expensive and his curiosity seems slightly desperate, as if all of a sudden he’s contemplating where to pawn the item off for some extra cash.
You nod at his last question, smiling softly and his eyes snap to your lips. They don’t linger, but they do drop down again for a second time and you know you have him right where you want him — which will soon prove quite detrimental.
i do NOT consent for my works to be fed to ai agents. i also do NOT consent to them being copied or reposted in any way, here or on any other site. this tumblr account is the only place i post my works.
as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3
🌟 mal's rambling corner aka extra context / content:
- set in the early 90s (in case anyone is wondering), + an au cause no monsters etc in Hawkins; eddie is running from something else hehe
- although not directly specified, eddie and reader are around the same age: i.e. in their early twenties
- i may also become a late 80s/ early 90s fashion guru while working on this series lol .. took me forever to research which designer brand was big in that time + sold scarves/ bandanas (the Hermès scarf mentioned linked here)
- for those that don't know, krystle carrington is a character from dynasty, and here i'm thinking of the og that eddie maybe watched with wayne (a guilty pleasure, of sorts)
- imagine what you please, but i think reader wears Chanel N°5; hence the vague description of an abstract floral scent.. my mom uses this perfume and it's the only way i could think to describe it, aside from using the word 'expensive'
- i also researched diners operational in the 90s, then i google mapped how far they'd be from the port authority bus depot to see if it's walkable for eddie jskkskks + la bonbonniere is about 34-41 mins by foot (these days) and a pretty straight road so for someone just arriving to the city — eddie — it would be quite easy to find
some super cool people who expressed interest in this story (pls let me know if you wanna be added / removed): @scarlet-prey @msmetallicareeves @probablyin-bed @kellsck
pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x singlemom!reader
(modern au)
word count: 3.9k
summary: five years after he returns home, eddie munson is greeted at the front door of his uncles house by a toddler with a head of dusty-brown locks. hoping for a break from the life he's built for himself, the rockstar is instead faced with another hard truth.
chapter cw: suggestive & mature themes, implied intimacy | non-explicit, one night stand gone awry, secret pregnancy aka no-one told eddie he's a dad, this chapter is kinda angsty, emotional hurt / little-to-no comfort, navigating family dynamics, adult language, some pining / yearning — pls let me know if i missed any!
psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.
story masterlist
The kitchen is a statement in itself, Eddie thinks.
Wayne’s collection of printed mugs stands on the windowsill above the sink, on full display. Random postcards and colourful post-it notes are stuck to the fridge with plastic alphabet magnets. A calendar hangs by the doorway, a different vintage car on display for the various months and hard to read scribbles on seemingly important dates.
There’s a fancy coffee machine in one corner of the forest-painted counters and a collection of hot sauces in the other. In the centre of the space, there’s a wooden table with mismatched chairs placed around it. A stack of old newspapers lies in the middle, all open to the crossword page. The table also features a vase of tulips and a single ‘World’s Best Grandpa’ photo frame: Wayne, in hospital blues, cradling a newborn.
The kitchen is a statement in itself, Eddie thinks. The statement being: he’s a stranger in his own uncle’s home.
A stranger in the house he bought for Wayne; a brick-faced thank you for everything the rockstar's uncle did for him over the years. Expecting nothing in return, only thinking this could become the place Eddie could possibly return to when in need aka now more than ever. Instead, he doesn’t feel welcome. He feels like he’s intruding somehow.
Wayne has replaced him.
While Eddie was off touring and galavanting around the world, building himself the career of his wildest dreams, it seems Wayne has been busy too. His uncle created himself a family. Somehow got himself a grandson.
“So, whose kid is that?” Eddie asks, nudging his head in the direction of the toddler.
The little boy is kneeling on one of the chairs, the top half of his body is bent over a currently blank piece of paper. He’s gripping a red crayon in his left hand, the tip of his tongue sticking out in concentration as he doodles on the page.
Wayne places a mug of tea in front of Eddie then makes himself comfortable in the chair next to his grandson, across from his nephew. For a few minutes, as the two older Munson men stare at the toddler, it’s quiet. Only the scratching sound of crayon on paper. Wayne’s gaze is filled with adoration, while Eddie’s is laced with uncertainty. There’s something oddly familiar about the tiny head of dusty-brown curls.
Clearing his throat, Wayne gently nudges his grandson.
“Messer, what do we say when we invite someone inside?”
The boy lifts his eyes from the doodles. First, he looks at Wayne, who nods, encouraging. Turning his attention to Eddie, the toddler squeezes his mouth together and offers a timid smile.
“Hello,” he utters simply.
Eddie chokes back a scoff at the absolute insanity of this moment. He wants to ask Wayne what’s the reason for this charade. Why can’t his uncle just tell him what the fuck is going on.
“Hey,” the rockstar replies, forcing a smile.
“My name is Messer,” he introduces himself, not able to pronounce the r so instead, it sounds like he’s saying Messel.
Lifting a hand to his chest, the rockstar says, “I’m Eddie.”
Seemingly satisfied with doing a good job, Messer looks to Wayne for the same type of approval, once only reserved for Eddie and the sentiment makes the brunette rockstar shift uncomfortably in his seat. The eldest Munson ruffles the toddler’s hair and asks him to go play in the living room.
“I’ll join you in a minute, okay?”.
Once they’re left alone, Wayne faces his nephew completely and Eddie now notices the difference a five years can make. A few extra frown lines, wrinkles. His hair is a shade of grey that glistens under the light and the bags under his eyes are a little deeper than before. Overall however, Wayne looks happy. There’s no stress visible across his features and Eddie’s heart clenches inside his chest because maybe coming back to Hawkins was a bad idea.
“What are you doing here, Eddie?” Wayne asks.
“When I called for your birthday, you said the tour wasn’t supposed to be over for a few more months and then you had obligations to be back in the studio.”
Ignoring his uncle’s question, the rockstar fires back with his own. The same one from minutes ago.
“Whose kid is that, Wayne?”
Placing the mug down in front of him, after taking a sip, Wayne relents. He tells his nephew he loves him. Really. The highs, the lows. The crazy antics. Eddie’s dreams and passions, his intense drive for a better life, far away from Hawkins.
“I know all that,” Eddie says.
Wayne sighs. “Your friend, Steve, introduced me to this girl. Twenty-something. Pretty as a sunset.”
“So, you’re playing grandpa to Harrington’s child?”
“No,” Wayne answers. “I am a grandpa to yours.”
The roll of Eddie’s eyes is almost instant. He huffs in disbelief, lips twisting into a smirk at the ridiculousness of the information his uncle is after putting forward because there’s a plethora of reasons why Messer being his kid is near impossible. Top of the list: Eddie Munson uses protection. That’s rule number one and no matter how wasted he finds himself to be, it’s a rule he never forgets.
For crying out loud, he even did a months-long ad campaign for Durex.
Seeing the disbelief spread across his nephew’s features, Wayne continues.
“Following one of your gigs, she found herself in a certain situation and with nowhere else to go, I took her in. There’s plenty of space in this big house you bought me and I won’t lie kid, since you never visit, an old man gets lonely.”
“So she says,” Eddie grumbles, reaching for his own mug of tea.
“Don’t make stupid comments like that, son. I for sure raised you better.” Wayne chastasies. “With your reputation, I had no reason to doubt her.”
That the rockstar can’t deny.
Ever since his fast rise to fame, he's on the front page of every gossip site almost daily — usually with a different girl on his arm. He’s a constant topic of conversation on various pop culture podcasts and social media accounts, primarily Deuxmoi (a pain in Eddie’s backside). Everybody has something to say and it’s not always kind, or true.
Over the years, he’s been labelled a womaniser, an asshole, the lost cause. Satanist. He’s been called reckless, heartless, and brainless. People that have never met him pretend they know him best. The internet mafia. They write how he’s incompetent, a nightmare to work with, and worse of all, void of any real talent.
Yes, the rockstar is known by many names yet, despite his public list of conquests, Eddie never thought he’d add this one to the list: someone’s dad.
“There’s no way…” Eddie begins, but the words get tangled at the back of his throat. There’s no way I have a kid and no one told me. There’s no way I missed three years of his life. There’s no way I’m fit to be a dad.
Almost as if he can feel his nephew's mind spiral out of control, Wayne reaches across the table to grab Eddie’s shaking hand.
“When Messer was born, I knew.” Wayne states, full of emotion. “My heart expanded when I held him for the first time and in that moment, I knew. He’s half you, Eddie.”
They finish their tea in silence.
When the cups are empty, Wayne stands then asks his nephew whether he’s hungry. Eddie shakes his head no, even though he is, and tells his uncle to go be with the kid, that he’ll join them soon. He washes up the ceramics, heart still hammering inside his chest, and after wiping his ring-clad fingers on a kitchen towel, Eddie ventures deeper inside this foreign house.
The living room makes the rockstar feel even more uneasy, but he doesn’t digest every piece of decor upon entry. Instead, Eddie’s focus lands on the little boy.
Messer is playing with a collection of plastic farm animals and makes the different noises with his mouth as he moves the pieces around the carpeted floor.
“You be a cow, granpa,” he instructs, once again soft on the letter r, and passes Wayne the black-and-white animal.
Then his doe-eyes turn to Eddie. He doesn’t say anything, just lifts the hand holding a plastic horse in the rockstar's direction, patiently waiting for Eddie to take it from his grasp.
Hesitantly, Eddie steps towards the toddler and crouching down in front of him, grabs the toy. Messer averts his gaze and continues playing, just like he was seconds ago, while Eddie remains frozen because, in a single second, this kid has shown him more kindness than Eddie’s experienced in his life.
Then, a small smile breaks through Eddie’s features.
The three Munson’s sit on the carpet and knock the animals around. Using a colourful Lego Duplo set, they build what is supposed to be a farmhouse along with a red tractor (and some obscenely large fruit and vegetables). Eddie realises he can’t remember the last time he’s been this naturally relaxed.
Afterwards, when Messer falls asleep in Wayne’s lap, Eddie watches his uncle gently scratch down the toddler’s back. Melancholy washes over him. A wish to be a child again, resting in his uncle's lap without a care in the world. No responsibilities, just afternoons full of play and laughter. Suddenly, he’s met with a new sensation.
“Why did no one tell me?”
The question is almost a whisper, an undertone of sadness flows through it and it’s true, Eddie is holding back tears. Although, he’s not fully sure why. Perhaps it’s longing for the memories he has missed during his kids' life.
“Not you, not Steve, not his mom.” The rockstar lists, pointing to Messer. “I bet half this stupid town knows he’s mine and no one cared enough to fill me in.”
“You’ve been kinda hard to track down,” Wayne tries to reason, which only makes Eddie roll his eyes further into his skull.
“We talk nearly every damn day, Wayne. I’m not that hard to track down.”
Wayne sighs. “This is not a conversation someone wants to have over the phone, son.”
Eddie scoffs. Leg shaking, hand covering his mouth. He’s pondering the waves of different emotions circling through his veins. He’s sad, he’s angry. He’s confused. Sure, Eddie may not have been always available to Wayne over the last few years, and he may also have dodged hanging out with his high school friends on more than one occasion, but keeping this secret from him… That seems below the belt.
Especially because Wayne knows exactly what Eddie felt his entire life, growing up not being wanted by your dad. Surely his uncle wouldn’t want this kid to experience the same hardships.
“He didn’t recognise me,” Eddie says.
Slowly, Wayne nods. He can sense the question at the end of that sentence.
“Messer’s mom thought it best to not tell him yet.”
“Of course she did,” the rockstar mutters and sinks deeper into the large armchair. “So, who does he think his dad is? Fucking Santa Claus or some soldier that went off to fight in a war.”
This makes Wayne laugh. A quiet chortle, as not to disturb the sleeping toddler. He shakes his head at his nephew's dramatic sense of humour, something he has definitely missed quite dearly.
“A musician,” he answers honestly, “Off touring the world.”
Eddie blinks a couple of times, taking this information in.
“She told him the truth, son.” Wayne affirms. “She just didn’t use your name or show him what you look like. She didn’t want him pointing to your photos around the place and asking when you’re going to come home, only to be wildly disappointed.”
Guilt trickles in, another cold unwelcome visitor to the persistent emotions currently overflooding Eddie’s mind and soul. He tries to ignore it. Focus instead on the confusion from moments ago, or the anger, the sense of betrayal, but guilt’s icy current wins.
Eddie clears his throat and says, “That must’ve been hard.”
“What must’ve been hard, kid?”
“Seeing me everywhere while you lived… this life.”
Wayne presses his lips together. He nods again, once, slowly, then looks down at Messer. The curve of his earlobe, the tilt of his button nose. The brown locks and the miniscule freckles, reminiscent of Eddie’s dotted Milky Way.
“That’s not for me to answer, son.”
He wants to tell his nephew just how hard it’s been. The sleepless nights, the colic, the constant anxiety, the eventual weaning, the big emotions. And before all of that, the pregnancy and associated judgement. Wayne wants to tell his nephew he’s got years of making this right, but that’s not up to him. There’s only one person who speaks for how hard this has really been and that person — as he can see from the corner of his eye — is currently making her way up the front path.
The front door opens with a click.
Eddie snaps his head in the direction of the sound, palms of his hands now clammy against his dark denim jeans. There’s a few seconds of quiet shuffling. A bag being dropped and shoes kicked to the side, and then the rockstar hears it. A voice that could calm a storm. A voice imbued with inherent peace.
A voice he’s heard before.
One he thought he’d never hear again.
A LITTLE BEFORE
“Have a great show!” Felix, his tour manager, shouts over the drumroll and Eddie shoots him a quick thumbs-up, before jogging onto the stage with the usual bravado.
Effortlessly, the rockstar spins on his heel, facing the crowd, then throws his arms up in the air as they cheer from below. The screams get louder with each city, tickling Eddie’s second favourite spot: his ego. Tonight is no exception. Thousands of fans squeal and shout up at the stage. They jump in anticipation as Eddie looks to his band. Start.
New York, New York.
The most populous city in the United States and Eddie’s preferred choice, in terms of crowds. They know all of the words to his catalogue of songs, including all of the live chants. They move when he moves, get louder if he encourages. They boo him only when he steps off the stage because they always want more and Eddie’s fucking happy to oblige.
He lives for this. Yes, the fame and the money, but in reality, it’s the shows that keep him going. The control he has over the people that come watch him perform. Up on that stage, night after night, Eddie Munson can do no wrong.
As the third song draws to an end, the rockstar casts his eyes downwards, and for the first time in his to date relatively short career, he freezes.
The tight space between the barrier and the front of the stage is filled with photographers, most of whom Eddie recognises since, night after night, they travel with the band. There’s always the couple of strays, invited from local news outlets, but usually Felix will do quick introductions before the show so they can get a couple of quotes for the releases.
Staring down, Eddie spots the familiar faces and in the midst, he notices a girl.
She’s looking at him through a lens, but even with the camera blocking half of her face, the rockstar sees a glint of pearly whites. Click. A flash. Then, slowly, the girl lowers the 35mm and Eddie’s throat dries — not to sound overly simplistic, she’s the most beautiful creature he’s ever fucking seen.
The next song's opening guitar riff snaps the brunette rockstar out of his sudden daze, albeit briefly. He does a hectic double take, eyes landing on the girl once more as the lights change colour and her smile grows wider. She lifts the camera back up. Click. Another flash. Now, Eddie’s smiling too, forcing himself to focus back on the crowd and the task at hand.
He can feel her eyes on him, however. During the entirety of two full tracks: Won’t Get Fooled Again and Broken Mirror. She’s chasing him around the stage spellbound, as if she was physically dancing next to him, and the feeling Eddie derives from this interaction is other-wordly. He’s floating through space and time. Through galaxies, like a comet streaking across the cosmos. Actually, he’s not just floating. He’s soaring. Powered by this girl’s absolutely insane aura and her fucking gorgeous smile.
Getting lost in the moment, Eddie doesn’t realise she’s gone until the following song wraps and his gaze searches below the stage. He tries to regain focus. A drum roll fills the silence he’s created while wondering who she is and where she went. Eventually, he snaps out of his daze, turning to the crowd once more. “How are we doing tonight, New York!”
They’re doing fucking amazing, is the answer.
“That girl,” Eddie says to Felix after the show, “One of the photographers, what’s her name?”
Felix claps him on the back of the neck, pulling him into a half-hug. “Great show, man. For a minute there I thought you were going to jump through the time-space continuum.”
“The girl?” Eddie repeats; so what if he sounds desperate.
Dropping his arm, Felix laughs. “Always about the ladies with you,” he teases, then adds, “Don’t know her name. Think she’s with the venue.”
Wiping the sweat drops off his forehead with a trusty grey towel, Eddie nods, taking this information in. He glances around his surroundings, wondering if he can spot the venue promoter he met earlier and ask them the same question, but he can’t spot any other faces, aside from the band's own crew.
Felix is still talking about the show. Going over the highs, the aspects that could be improved upon, and what to never fucking do again: which in this instant, is freeze.
“It’s that girl, man.” Eddie tells his tour manager. “I saw her in the crowd and my brain just short-circuited.”
“There’s always going to be another girl,” Felix says plainly, “Chances aren’t as high for another good fucking show.”
Fingers in a fist, he playfully bumps the rockstar on the arm and walks away to chat with the other band mates. Eddie’s in half a mind to yell after Felix, scream at the top of his lungs that somehow this girl is different, but would that be true? All she did was smile. And yeah, maybe it’s the most perfect smile the rockstar has ever seen. Doesn’t mean she’s anything special…
But God, does he wanna find out.
A LITTLE AFTER
“You’ll not believe the day I’ve had, Wayne.” The voice calls out. Close. For the first time in years, it’s within Eddie’s reach.
However, he remains fixed to his current spot.
He can feel his uncle's gaze burn into the side of his skull, waiting just as eagerly to see how this will play out, but all Eddie can think is: what an embarrassment. Seemingly, he’s lost all control of his movements. Can’t even stand to greet the fucking girl. The mother of his child.
“And all before you texted me about the certain visitor.”
That wakes Eddie up.
His brown-eyes lock with Wayne’s, wide. There was a time, not overly long ago, when the two Munsons would present a united front against everyone in this shitty town. A team. Nothing and no one could come between them. So, not only has Wayne gotten himself a new family that apparently doesn't include Eddie, he’s also got himself a new team. The betrayal Eddie’s sensed all afternoon deepens.
“You told her?” The rockstar whispers.
Wayne nods as if it’s the simplest answer in the world. And to the eldest Munson, it is. Because yes, Eddie has been a priority ever since he arrived into this world, screaming his little head off. Eddie’s now in his mid-twenties, with a life on his own. Far away from Hawkins, by design. The toddler sleeping in Wayne’s lap being, at times, the only remaining common thread. A new priority.
“Jesus,” Eddie exhales.
He runs a hand through his already disheveled locks, then down his face. His gaze jumps between the doorway and the window. He could run away and pretend this afternoon never fucking happened, but that would only prove the point they’re all thinking. That he’s a fuck-up, unworthy of being someone’s dad.
A mobile sounds in the hallway. The unmistakable sound of an iPhone ringtone. It’s picked up almost instantly, as if the call was expected.
Then Eddie hears her voice again and his attention settles back on the doorway. Despite his feet being fiercely planted to the carpet below, mainly out of fear, he’s unmistakably drawn to the raw sound. Like he’s a pirate and she’s a siren, calling him to sea.
“Are you on your way?”
Eddie hears and his brows string together. How many people in this godforsaken town have to bear witness to the rockstar facing this colossal mess he’s made for himself — and all because he borrowed a condom from Brick, the drummer from his band. Eddie remembers now. He’s placed the voice in his memory palace along with the night this all happened.
New York, New York. A camera down below. Click. Flash. And the prettiest smile he’s ever fucking seen.
“Okay, ‘cause I can’t face him without you here.”
A moment of shuffling. Pacing, Eddie’s deducted. She’s nervous, he thinks.
“Ugh. Steve—”
The rockstar blocks out the remainder of that sentence because of fucking course. Harrington to the rescue. His gut twists in envy. Always the same old story: Eddie the screw-up and Steve the hero. They’ve circled this scenario since high school. The alibis provided to Hopper, the countless stacks of copied homework, the train of hearts Harrington mended. Even though — one could argue — Harrington is the bigger asshole in their unlikely friendship, his best friend always comes out on top because he has something Eddie thought he himself lacked. Charm.
Although, charm is not exactly an explanation for how Steve has landed himself in the middle of this particular situation.
Casting his memory back, the rockstar doesn’t remember Harrington at the concert in question. In fact, now that he’s thinking about it, Eddie’s sure the two of them weren’t even speaking at the time.
Wayne made it quite clear that it was indeed Harrington who introduced the girl, but when the fuck did he meet her? More importantly, why did she reach out to Steve and not Eddie directly? The questions continue to pile in his head, nauseating.
Eventually, there’s quiet. The conversation has ended and after a beat of utterly anguished silence, light footsteps make their way down the hall. Towards the living room.
Then, for precisely thirty-three seconds, Eddie’s heart stops.
“Hi.”
There’s no smile behind the word. A blank expression greets him, but regardless the rockstar feels elated — if only for a moment.
You.
New York, New York. A camera down below. Click. Flash. And the prettiest smile he’s ever fucking seen.
You.
“Hi,” he says back, throat coarse.
Tongue pressed to the inside of your cheek. Eddie knows what it means, he’s seen it before. An anxious tick. Despite Wayne’s warning, you weren’t expecting him, the same way he wasn’t expecting you.
“We’ve got a lot to talk about, I guess.”
Eddie nods, slowly. His anger subsides with every spoken word that surrounds the living room because he may not have known there’s a kid walking around this world that is half him, but you…
Seeing you after all this time, knowing Messer is also half of you, well, the rockstar thinks to himself: what a fucking twisted little jackpot he’s just hit.
as always, thank you for reading! pls support your writers by commenting & reblogging <3
story masterlist
tagging some cool people that expressed interest (if you want to be removed, just let me know), and if anyone wants to be added- also let me know: @tvserie-s-world @probablyin-bed @the-dumpster-fire-of-life @darknesseddiem @kellsck @althaiareads @streamafterlaughter @ali-r3n @spider-starry
Eek! It's missing Eddie hours over here so this is really hitting the spot. I have so many questions about the night they met, how Steve fits into all this and why she never reached out to Eddie :( excited to keep reading!!
ellievsbear
origamiaround
2087
yousharknotpass
kianamaiart
