you were walkin' along, mindin' your business, when out of an orange colored sky -- flash, bam, alakazam, wonderful him came by. in which you meet older!eddie at the grocery store and a little love affair ensues.
a collection of semi-blurbs inspired by @loveshotzz older!modern!steve series:
'all i really want is you'
rubbing my temples over making him a web dev when every web dev i have ever worked with makes me want to blow my brains out over how incompetent, unreliable, and annoying they are. but at least they make a shit ton of money so WHATEVER i guess. i’ll pretend he’s very attentive and good at his job.
Adding to this because I spent way too long trying to decipher the blurry artwork in the top left corner, partially covered by the Judas Priest poster.
'Dragonlance - Lord Gunthar & Fisban' Art by Larry Elmore
Eddie could have sourced from one of the following,
Dungeons & Dragons Sourcebook Dragons of Deceit; September 1985
Dragonlance Calendar 1985, featured in the month of August
suddenly thinking about ex-husband rockstar eddie and ex-wife reader and the divorce was messy and they’re in a custody battle over their one year old child and it’s coinciding with his rise to fame and they hate each other but deep down they love each other and they cannot stop fighting but they love their kid and she’s still in the trailer because she’s too proud to take alimony and he’s got a nice house and what if she came to pick the kid up and it was raining so bad she couldn’t drive back to forrest hills and wayne called to say part of the park was flooded and they had to stay at eddie’s house until it was cleared out? idk sounds like a good time!
“hm,” he hums, face scrunching in disappointment when you lean over the bed to open the window on the wall. sunday morning rain on soggy earth from the storm last night sends a soft patter through the room. the breeze feels nice, wanting that more than any overcast light the parting of the curtains let in.
you settle on your stomach, chest and face propped up on the pillows to look outside and watch the trees sag. watch a few neighbors walk their dog far and few in between. some families quietly getting more damp as they hurry to the car for eight o’clock mass.
“hm,” softer now, more needy. his face relaxes, reaching a tattooed arm out for you with closed eyes. you feel his hand run warm over your back, sticky with sweat from the room overheating last night. he’s like a human furnace. his fingers walk over to your side, giving you a little tug. you smile, letting a breath out of your nose as you give into him, scooching over to let him wrap himself around you. bare chest against your skin.
“morning, baby.” he mumbles, sleep still heavy in his voice, “you feelin’ better?”
“hm,” you shrug, “the weather helps. you feelin’ better?”
“hm,” he nods, wrapping a tattooed leg between yours. tangled up tight, entwined, “this helps.”
the fights weren’t often, but they were explosive. as big as the storm last night, fed by thunder and the promise of a downpour. who can yell the loudest? who can be the meanest? who can get the last word? two bolts of lightening that always need to be right, striking moments between each other. then the rain starts, it never matters who it is first. it’s never regularly you or him, almost always at the same time. crying like babies so hard you don’t even know why you’re fighting anymore.
you both never go to bed mad the way you used to. got in the habit of settling when the eye of the storm past over.
“i’m sorry, baby,” he’d rasp out, “m’sorry for yelling.”
“m’sorry for smashing that plate,” you’d guiltily cry, “i love you.”
“i love you, too.” teary confessions, drowsy needs.
“let’s just clean up and go to bed, okay?”
warm silence. you were both never violent, not even in bed. soft cascading hands, desperate clingy touches. but never speaking in bodies, never keeping score with him inside you. you kiss goodnight and draw the curtains so the moon doesn’t interfere.
and morning. wrapped up in each other in the rainy breeze, clouds joining for breakfast. you feel his limbs slide out of yours while he sits up in bed, bare aside from a pair of his boxers. he yawns and stretches, hand coming down to squeeze the fat on the back of your covered thigh while he crawls out of bed.
sweatpants from a pile of clean laundry are all he adds, a pair of socks with holes in the heels. his fingers glide over a hung acoustic guitar in a strum.
“gonna make us some eggs,” he tells you. he means more than eggs, but he always just says eggs.
“we’re out of sugar,” you mention, rolling onto your side, legs stretching like a cats, “for coffee.”
he smiles lazily, the cold breeze from the window catching his curls while he leans over you. he presses a warm kiss to your cheek, and then your lips, “you’re sweet enough for me.”
“hm,” you hum, sticky syrupy affection slipping in from your head to your toes, “smooth this morning.”
“it’s the munson way,” he mumbles, his voice still gravelly, noses brushing. butterfly kisses.
“hm,” you reply lazily, your lashes and his lashes meeting.
“hm,” he grins, another warm kiss against the cool breeze. he looks back at you before he leaves the room, brown eyes saying all he needs to say and yours match. he blushes. you’ll have a few more moments to yourself in the window before you go meet him in the kitchen.
He peers at you from the couch, squinting without his glasses on when you come down the stairs.
“What’s up with your face?” he asks, looking at you more closely when you snuggle up beside him. He smells like aftershave and coconut conditioner; hair still damp from the shower you both just finished up sharing.
“What’s up with your face?” you ask back.
“No, for real, what’s on your face?” he asks, turning your face gently by the jaw with his tattooed hand. His eyes scan three carefully placed triangle stickers, see through, between your brows and the center on your forehead.
“They’re stickers,” you shrug, taking your face away, “Leave me alone about it.”
“They look like guitar picks,” he observes, “What’re they for? They band aids are something?”
“If I tell you, will you make fun of me?” you ask tentatively, like you’re talking to a kid who is about to get in trouble.
“Yes, of course,” he answers honestly.
You tsk, shaking your head, “Then that’s too bad.”
“C’mon, just tell me,” he nudges, arm wrapping around you as it always does when you’re winding down in the living room. He scoots you close, grabbing under your knee to park you half on him, half not.
“It’s to help with my forehead lines,” you say, “To smooth them out a little.”
Eddie looks at you like he can’t believe you just said that, “What forehead lines?”
“I have them, they’re called 11s,” you explain, “It’s cause I’m always tensing my forehead. My mom has them, too.”
“Peach, you don’t have lines. I look at you every day,” he sighs. It was always a new thing these days. New moisturizer, new eye cream, new mask, new hair dye. He liked when you didn’t worry so much about stuff like that; but he guessed he had his own crisis in his 30s, too. Maybe it’s different for guys; it’s definitely different for guys like Eddie.
“I look at myself every day, too,” you sigh back, “I see them.”
“Do you see mine?” he asks, “They’re worse because you stress me out.”
You giggle, “I didn’t have these before we started dating, so…”
He shakes his head, grinning, “You’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’, girl.”
He feels you melt into him, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “I don’t think you need them, Peach but if they make you feel better then go for it. Just know that you look ridiculous.”
“Thanks,” you nod, “At least I’m not a 45 year old man with bangs.”
He nods, “What’re you turning this year? 34?”
You look up at him with a warning grin, knowing he’s gonna be an asshole, “And what about it?”
“Damn,” he shakes his head again, “You old bitch.”
“Fuck offfff,” you groan, leaning up to press a kiss against his full lips. He kisses back happily, pulling you close to him.
“See if I let you in my shower again,” you say as you break apart.
“Yeah okay,” he brushes off coolly, “Like I don’t earn that invite twice over every time.”
He peers at you from the couch, squinting without his glasses on when you come down the stairs.
“What’s up with your face?” he asks, looking at you more closely when you snuggle up beside him. He smells like aftershave and coconut conditioner; hair still damp from the shower you both just finished up sharing.
“What’s up with your face?” you ask back.
“No, for real, what’s on your face?” he asks, turning your face gently by the jaw with his tattooed hand. His eyes scan three carefully placed triangle stickers, see through, between your brows and the center on your forehead.
“They’re stickers,” you shrug, taking your face away, “Leave me alone about it.”
“They look like guitar picks,” he observes, “What’re they for? They band aids are something?”
“If I tell you, will you make fun of me?” you ask tentatively, like you’re talking to a kid who is about to get in trouble.
“Yes, of course,” he answers honestly.
You tsk, shaking your head, “Then that’s too bad.”
“C’mon, just tell me,” he nudges, arm wrapping around you as it always does when you’re winding down in the living room. He scoots you close, grabbing under your knee to park you half on him, half not.
“It’s to help with my forehead lines,” you say, “To smooth them out a little.”
Eddie looks at you like he can’t believe you just said that, “What forehead lines?”
“I have them, they’re called 11s,” you explain, “It’s cause I’m always tensing my forehead. My mom has them, too.”
“Peach, you don’t have lines. I look at you every day,” he sighs. It was always a new thing these days. New moisturizer, new eye cream, new mask, new hair dye. He liked when you didn’t worry so much about stuff like that; but he guessed he had his own crisis in his 30s, too. Maybe it’s different for guys; it’s definitely different for guys like Eddie.
“I look at myself every day, too,” you sigh back, “I see them.”
“Do you see mine?” he asks, “They’re worse because you stress me out.”
You giggle, “I didn’t have these before we started dating, so…”
He shakes his head, grinning, “You’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’, girl.”
He feels you melt into him, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “I don’t think you need them, Peach but if they make you feel better then go for it. Just know that you look ridiculous.”
“Thanks,” you nod, “At least I’m not a 45 year old man with bangs.”
He nods, “What’re you turning this year? 34?”
You look up at him with a warning grin, knowing he’s gonna be an asshole, “And what about it?”
“Damn,” he shakes his head again, “You old bitch.”
“Fuck offfff,” you groan, leaning up to press a kiss against his full lips. He kisses back happily, pulling you close to him.
“See if I let you in my shower again,” you say as you break apart.
“Yeah okay,” he brushes off coolly, “Like I don’t earn that invite twice over every time.”
am i insane or wasn’t the original plan for s5 to start right when s4 left off? did i imagine that being the original plan? did i shift to a different timeline?
