became a woman posessed and decided i needed to write something about taking care of my baby cow eyes sad bf.
tw: as always, minors dni. themes of depression/mess. mention of minor character death. reader wears eddie's clothes. some suggestive language. showering together.
Steve called for a check-in just to call you right after, said he'd offer to drive. You peek into the darkened trailer, hearing the scratch of the record player in the living room. Too tired and achey to make it to his bed last night and too defeated to leave the couch all day today -- not even to flip The Animals record to the B-side.
Rain patters on the tin roof, curtains drawn but not thick enough to keep out the gray light from spilling in through the bare threads of years of use. He faces the back cushions, hugging a pillow, knees tucked under the bottom. A kid in his adult disguise, he always gets like this around the anniversary of his mom's passing.
You ease in, lightly closing the storm door behind you. The soft gray glow in the kitchen leaves you a little sullen. Half done dishes on a rag on the counter -- two smashed glasses scattered across the tile. Evidence of his frustration part way through the task, you can practically hear his desperate 'I don't wanna do this,' while he threw them. You let out a breath through your nose silently, noting the piles of laundry on the table by the washing machine across from the living room. He hadn't let you come over in a couple weeks, it's clear why now.
When you tip toe onto the brown shag carpeting by the record player you ease the needle off the disc. The steady rise and fall of his back and shoulders aids your next move. You clear off the McDonald's bags from nights of fast food off the coffee table like a mouse, making sure not to crinkle anything too much. You don't want to stir him. Once clear, you walk around it, taking a seat on the edge of the couch by his feet -- hand reaching out to run comfortingly over his back.
"Hi baby," you say softly, "It's me."
He stirs, looking down to see you there, confused. He looks down at himself, same pajamas he's had on for three days, unshowered, unshaven. He's embarrassed, he never let's you see him when he's like this. Eddie's face crumples when the realization sets in -- it's not a dream and you're there, seeing his filthy trailer, seeing what happens when he's not okay. You're not supposed to see this, even when you're so sweet on him every time you do.
"What's goin' on, bub?" you ask in just above a whisper, "What're you thinkin' about?"
His brows pull in, jaw getting tight when his nose starts to tingle with the start of a cry. His eyes water, shining in the light of the overcast through the threadbare curtains. One hiccup turns to two, and then he starts.
"S'just been hard," he sniffles, "I'm just havin' a h-hard time."
"I know," you soothe, still rubbing his back, "It's that time of year."
"You sh-shouldn't be here," he shakes his head, shoulders shaking while the sobs start to over take him, "You kn-know I'm not like th-this."
"Shh, I know, I know," you coo, climbing into the space between him and the back of the couch, squishing over him slightly, "I can help. I wanna help."
He welcomes your body along his, you manuever so he's partly atop you, replacing the pillow with your torso. His face finds home in the crook of your neck, while you scratch at the top of his scalp the way he likes it.
"You smell good," he says wetly into your skin.
"Thank you," you whisper. You both lay there for a little bit, letting him cry, letting him listen to the rain while it picks up outside. The living room gets a darker while the storm rolls further through the park and evening sets in. He settles after some time, your neck and shouler damp with his tears.
"I'm sorry," he says when he sits up part way, "I'm sorry you're seeing me like this...again."
"I will always rather see you like this than any worse alternative," you smile at him, "I get like this too, you never make me apologize."
"I know but I -- "
"No buts," you shake your head, sitting up right to lean down and kiss him on the forehead, "Why don't you put a movie on and I'll take care of that laundry?"
"No, no, you're not -- you're not doing my laundry," he says with an annoyed huff, "I can do it -- it's fine."
"I want to," you assure, wiping at his cheek with your thumb when frustrated desperate tears start to spill from the pool in his eyes again.
"It's not -- fuck babe, it's not your job. You don't have to take care of me," he complains, "I'm okay. I'm fine."
"I don't think you're fine," you shrug, tilting your head to looking at him. His cheeks redden, you can tell he's stressed -- embarrassed to be crying in front of you, embarrassed by the mess. The rise and fall of his shoulders quicken while he takes stock of what needs to be done around him.
"Hey, hey, look at me," you encourage, your palm skating over his stubbled cheek, "How about I do some laundry and if it makes you feel better you can take out the trash. Does that work?"
"Angel, I don't want you doin' my --"
"Would you like it better if I did your laundry...naked?" you smirk. He huffs a soft breathy laugh, a smile pulling on his while he wipes his eyes.
"There he is," you murmur, "There's that smile I like so much."
He sniffles, collecting himself for a minute before looking back up at you with sleepy, puffy eyes, "You don't have to do my laundry naked."
"I can if you want," you offer with a joking grin, "If it'll make you happy."
"You being here makes me happy," he whispers, "But I know you're just as stubborn as me so I'll let you start the laundry, but you're not doing all of it."
"Okay," you nod, "And after I start the laundry I'll get the kitchen together f--"
"Don't push it," he warns, leaning forward to leave a loving kiss on your cheek. You ease up off the couch, offering your hand to help him up. He creaks the way old men do, men who have seen too much before they were supposed to. He's unsteady when he stands, stiff with dehydration and lack of movement beyond the shuffle to the bathroom from the couch.
Eddie pulls you into him, your face nuzzling his uncle's army tee softened from so many years of washing. Your arms wrap tight around him, thinking if you squeeze him enough it'll remind him that he's here with you and not wherever his mind keeps taking him.
"Let's take a shower," you mumble against him, "We'll go slow."
"Am I gross?" he asks with a frown, you can hear his heart beat quicken from under his ribcage.
"No, but you'll feel a little better. I think, at least," you arms fall, hands sliding down to his, "I'll wash your hair for you."
He loves that.
"Okay," he nods, big brown eyes rounding -- admitting defeat, letting you lead the way he prefers to. The heat soothes his skin, the sharp twang in his muscles, the tension in his neck. He breathes in the steam, taking handfuls of water and splashing his face with it despite the sting. It's a hurt that feels good. That feels earned.
You let him get a head start, a few moments alone to let the water heal whatever you can't. In the mean time, while he's not looking, you sweep up the glass in the kitchen and start a load of laundry. He knows you, his face a poster of unsurprised annoyance when you finally make it into the shower with him.
"I know you cleaned," he says softly.
"You love me anyway," you shrug, stepping close to press yourself against him -- skin hot from the water.
"I do love you anyway," he nods, voice gruff and sleep soaked, crying vocal chords begging for something more. You suds him up, letting the water hit you in a waterfall as you step ahead. His eyes shut, heavy breaths taking over from crying while he relaxes further into your touch.
He hums when you wash his hair, letting you baby him in a way he never was as a kid. You comb out his curls when they're wet with conditioner, massaging his scalp when you let it set in. He's always a little disappointed when it's over -- he'd offer to pay you to keep going.
His bedroom is not in dissaray the way other parts of the trailer are. He never leaves mess where his guitars stay, where the amps are, it's the only place there needs to be order. You both step in with towels on, it's chilly from the window being left open, goosebumps raising on both of you at the wind. He still has some clean pajamas in his dresser, enough for both of you to wrap yourselves up in. He loves you like this, hot skin and refreshed, water still clinging to your eyelashes.
The washing machine buzzes and you both turn, his hand reaching out to your shoulder when you go to switch it out.
"Hey," he pleads, "I said you could start it, that's it."
"Then come switch it out with me," you say, "Let's do it together. That's what I'm here for."
A heartfelt smile flickers over his features, eyes shining with tears again from the shake up in emotions from your arrival in general.
"Okay," he nods. You both pad in socked feet to the main living space, dressed in PJs in the middle of the early evening. The glow of the overhead lamp catches his wet hair, the glint of his silver chain, the wet slick of his lips. You switch out the laundry while he puts in another load, shutting the top down door with a tinny thud.
You hoist yourself on it, legs dangling above the tile, heels rumbling against the cream coated metal. It's not long before his hands reach your thighs, leaning forward to catch you in a gentle kiss.
"Thank you," he mumbles against your lips, "Again."
"Anytime," you whisper, kissing him back, "Always."
Summary: You have a stomach ache and your boyfriend makes you feel better.
Word Count: 1.4k
Pairing: Older!Eddie Munson x Reader
Themes/Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Established Relationship, Stomach ache and associated symptoms, Probably a Fart/Vomit/Poop mention in association with previous stomach ache, Humor, Reader is too old to be Eddie The Iron Stomach's foodie Ride or Die anymore, I write these fucking tags before I write the fic if you didn't know
Note: Happy Sunday night (when I started writing this fic, and but not when I'm posting it) from my bathroom where I haven’t moved for the past 20 minutes (when I started writing). This is gonna be a quick one as I distract myself from the actual demon I’m exorcising from my body tonight. What’s a girl to do with no other cure but pepto and fanfiction?
You can find my masterlist here.
Please do not interact unless you’re 18+.
Enjoy!
—
There's something about getting older where you can no longer digest food the same way you used to.
For the longest time, you believed that you would never reach that point.
What brought about a swift end to your perceived invincibility would be your boyfriend with a bottomless pit of a stomach: Edward J. Munson. He ordered extra, extra pepperoni on his pizza. Extra, extra cheese too. He made sandwiches with all sorts of condiments and spicy peppers and pickled vegetables. One time, he even said he would buy ice cream with extra lactose if he could, for the richness.
And still somehow, aside from the occasional appearance of the most rancid farts known to man, he was fine. You, unfortunately, were the unsuspecting bystander (read: victim, in more ways than one) along for the ride.
You tried to mitigate the effects. First, it was the travel size bottle of tums that you kept in the glovebox of your car. Next it was the bottle of pepto that you kept in the kitchen, in addition to the one in the medicine cabinet, just in case.
Then, one day, came the end. And, oh boy, did you think it was Capital-The, Capital-End.
Heartburn, the likes of which you'd never experienced before, took you by surprise. You were innocently sitting at your desk at work when it started. A hot sensation in your chest that slowly overtook your abdomen. Just a constant, searing feeling that practically took your breath away after enough time passed. You thought it would just go away; you figured a handful of tums and you'd be fine. Until you weren't. Until you were sitting through a meeting wondering if you were actually having a heart attack. Until you excused yourself and belched obnoxiously as soon as you crossed the threshold into the bathroom.
You could taste the taco pasta bake Eddie insisted on making the night before. Layers of cheese, meat, beans, sour cream and extra, extra pickled jalapeños on top. It was rich and decadent. Delicious.
And it was going to be the thing that killed you.
Your boss, thankfully, saw how miserable you were and sent you home. But home offered no respite.
You dropped your work bag haphazardly by the door, and you stripped down to your underwear; the tight waistband of your pants was doing you no favors. You had the foresight to grab a glass of ice water and place it within arms reach on the edge of the coffee table, before you fell into the squishy cushions of the couch. As you settled into the most comfortable position you could find, the heartburn subsided and the mother of all stomach aches began.
Time passed with only three certain facts: You were gonna puke. You were gonna poop your pants. And then you were going to die.
"Honey, I'm home!" Eddie's voice cut through your agony, and you slowly cracked your eyes open to stare at the ceiling. "I saw your car outside. And your clothes on the floor? You home early as a surprise? Are you naked in bed?"
No, you obviously forgot one certain fact; you were going to kill him.
But as you opened your mouth to yell, your stomach cramped painfully and you let out the most pitiful groan.
"Babe?" The playfulness in his voice was gone, replaced by concern. "You ok?"
"I'm dying," you muttered weakly.
He scoffed immediately, concern vanishing. You both had an understanding: if you were feeling good enough to be dramatic, you were feeling good enough. Typically, it applied to Eddie more than it did to you—he was the biggest baby when he was sick—but you had your moments. Regardless, he took pity on you as he dropped to his knees in front of the couch.
“Alright, the doctor is in,” he joked. “What’s the preliminary diagnosis? Terminal illness? A parasite? Do we need to amputate?”
His fingers reached your bare side and he tickled you gently, wincing as your instinctive laughter turned into another groan.
"Ah, I see." He stroked his invisible beard with one hand and flattened the other so he could rub over your sore belly with the utmost care. "Any other pain? Nausea, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, and dare I ask, diarrhea?"
"I took some pepto earlier," you explained. "Didn't help."
"Well of course it didn't." He now put on an invisible stethoscope. "You didn't have a proper examination."
"It's just a stomach ache," you deadpanned as he started to lean down and inspect you. "You put too much sour cream in the taco bake."
“Nonsense, there’s no such thing as too much sour cream!” He curled his fingers into his palm, and then kneaded your belly in a way not unlike a cat. Of course, a little too much pressure caused a very gentle toot to inadvertently escape you. He wrinkled his nose and you covered your face in embarrassment. “Ok, maybe in this case I was a little heavy-handed.”
He went back to gentle rubbing and then adjusted his invisible stethoscope.
“Let’a give it a listen shall we?”
He leaned his head down and gently placed his ear against your abdomen, readjusting his head a few times before he hummed.
“Ah, well well well.” He lifted his head for a moment. “Seems I found an extra terrestrial creature.” You rolled your eyes as he went back down. “Chest burster? Giant worm of some sort? We’ll get you the bottom of this. You’re lucky I’m a xenoglot. I’ll translate.”
Your stomach, clearly working with Eddie on this comedy act, suddenly made the most embarrassing sound. It was wet and bubbly, and you felt it rumble right below his ear. What did he do in return?
“Gur-gur-gur, blblblbl.” You couldn’t help but laugh as he mumbled stomach noises and resumed kneading and rubbing. He looked up at you, utterly serious, and shushed you. “I’ve made contact. I need concentration if I’m gonna make a proper diagnosis.”
Despite your condition, and the fact that said condition was his fault, you couldn’t help but look at him and be overwhelmed by all the love you felt. From the way he dropped everything to check on you as soon as he got home, to now when he couldn’t help but make you smile as you felt miserable. This idiot—your idiot—had charmed you beyond your wildest imagination, and you didn’t want him to stop.
“Alright Dr. McCoy,” you joked and rested a hand atop his head, giving him an appreciative little scratch. “Or are you Uhura? Communications officer?”
“My legs would look good in that dress.” Your stomach grumbled again. “It agrees. Now shut up. I need to do an advanced procedure. Very delicate.”
You thought his kneading was as far as he was gonna take it. But leave it to Eddie to commit to the bit. He straightened up, shook out his arms, cracked his neck. Then he leaned down and blew the biggest raspberry on your stomach, and in turn you couldn’t help but laugh. You also couldn’t help but pass gas through your poor, unsuspecting ass.
Oh, so you were gonna have the hot poops later. Take back everything you thought about loving him, this was not gonna be fun.
"See, gastrilitis superioris." Eddie nodded sagely, still touting some fake-doctor bullshit. "Also known as a stomach ache. Or, as I like to call it, a case of the Gurgles.”
Of course he had a cute little name for it.
“What’s the treatment doc?” You questioned. “Aside from never letting you cook again?”
“The treatment is 50cc’s of ginger ale,” he ignored your comment, “and letting me feed you saltines as I continue rubbing your tummy for the rest of the night. How does that sound?”
It sounded perfect.
“I think you’re missing something,” you lied. Well, it wasn’t really a lie.
“I am?” Eddie frowned, and straightened his spine. He looked around the apartment as though he expected to find the answer lying about. He saw the telltale pink bottle on the counter in the kitchen and his brows jumped. "Pepto? Because babe, I will pour that pink crap down your throat all night if you need it."
You rolled your eyes and forced yourself upright, just so you could gently cup his face in your hands.
"I hate to ask, doc, but I think the usual treatment also includes 10ccs of smooches."
It was a lightbulb moment, and you were sure that you saw hears in his eyes. His arms snaked around you.
"You already have a prescription for that, sweetheart. Endless refills," he muttered and leaned forward to press his lips to yours.
And you melted into him.
Until you felt your esophagus quiver with an impending burp. You pulled away to try and spare him, only to belch loudly right in Eddie's face.
"Ok," he winced. "Now that was pretty gross."
---
Tagging my WIP Weekenders for getting me to finish this: @sidereustales @rebelfell and an anon 👀 thank you guys
Oh, he would absolutely do this, and I’d keep adoring him for it!!! Even if my tummy hurt, he’d at least have to deal with the gas he caused. Worth it.
went to a sporting goods store to buy myself a new water bottle. knocked a bottle down and the whole shelf of bottles went down like dominos and rolled to floor. the whole city heard it i think.
thinking about platonic cuddling with eddie... i just believe he'd be so refreshingly safe to touch. there's no expectation with him, no fear of any gesture being misinterpreted or taken for something it's not. you can huddle in as close as you'd like to, rest your cheek on his chest or warm your nose in his neck; smooth your hand over his bare tummy, wrap your legs up with his however you'd like, thread fingers through his hair and twirl or braid a little strand; ask for him to hold you tighter, closer, rub a warm hand over your back or along your arm, hum a favorite tune in his rumbly chest that always lulls you to sleep. there's no judgment or embarrassment or hesitation. he treats it all as pleasantly unremarkable, comfort purely for it's own sake—never, ever as a means to an end, never waiting for some opportunity to escalate, because he enjoys the simplicity of it just as much. though, you might fluster him a little bit if you get too greedy.
Your boyfriend Eddie tells you funny stories to help you fall asleep. Contains fluff, Eddie being sweet, silly and a lil cheesy. Blurb, 800 word count.
It was 11:43 on a rainy Sunday night, and you were lying in bed next to your boyfriend who had his arm draped around your waist. You’d been lying awake for at least 40 minutes, memorizing every line and detail of your boyfriend's chest tattoos when you huffed in annoyance.
“Mm, you alright, sweetheart?” He groans.
“Yeah, I just can’t fall asleep, didn’t mean to disturb you though, sorry baby.”
“It’s fine sweetheart, I wasn’t out yet. Why can’t you sleep?”
“I don’t know, I’m tired but I just can’t. Maybe it’s because I know I have to wake up extra early tomorrow..”
“Aww c'mere,”
He pulls you closer to him and so you’re now snuggled up to his chest. One of your favorite places in the whole world. “anything I can do to help?” he sighs and starts stroking your hair.
“I don’t know…I usually just wait it out when this happens..”
“Aww babe, gotta at least try something, can’t have you being a little grump in the morning.”
“Ha ha” you respond dryly. He’s only teasing.
“You're adorable, baby.” he affirms with a kiss to your hairline. “You know I read once, one way to fall asleep fast is to lie on the floor with your legs up on the bed. Something about blood pressure, I think.”
“Yeah, that sounds real comfortable, babe.” You joke “Any tips where I can remain in bed?”
“Hmm, I don't know about that, sweetheart.” he grins.
You take his hand and start fiddling with his cross ring he hadn’t taken off, noticing how pretty his hands were.
“You know, when I was little and couldn’t sleep, I’d go to Wayne’s room and he’d tell me stories until I fell asleep. Or if I just didn't want to be alone, sometimes I'd listen to his breathing and try to match it and end up knocking out that way. Unless he’d snore. Then I’d go on the roof.”
You let out a small laugh, “No you would not…you better not have.”
“Nah. Although I can't deny that I did try stargazing up there once I got older. That didn’t last long when Wayne saw me climbing up one night and threatened to chase me with the broom.”
“Not the broom” you say with a hint of sarcasm.
He smiles, “Yeah”
“Tell me more stories..please” you look up at him with cute pleading eyes.
“Sure baby” he laughs and kisses your nose. “How could I say no to you.” He continues playing with your hair while he thinks.
“Lets see, agh..oh this is when i was in like 3rd grade, I think. They had our class sing for some holiday thing. I already didn’t like school and didn't want to do it, but Wayne said it was important for me to be a part of. So I did, and they had me on the side of the stage towards the back, and I remember we were all singing along, and I looked down because one of the cutout snowflakes they had all over was stuck to the bottom of my shoe, and instead of waiting, I bent down to grab it, and somehow lost my balance and fell off the stage mid-song. I'm just glad not everyone had camera’s back then.”
“Oh baby,” you hide your laugh “stop it, you're so cute. But I’m sorry you fell off the stage. Did it hurt?”
“Nah, I was fine. But I did tell Wayne it was a sign, and that I shouldn't have done it. How could I not.”
“My poor baby.” you let out a small laugh, feeling your mind start to settle down a little bit.
“What else. Oh, so back in high school, it was in Gym, we were outside on the soccer field, and you know that’s not really my thing. Well I was mouthin off to the coach about something, and he was always such an asshole to all the kids. Don’t know why he chose that job, but anyway. He said he was gonna give me detention if I ‘continued to not try while participating’ so I just said ok and went to sit on a bench. He came over and started bitchin’ at me again, so I just started to zone out. But it was also windy that day, and I happened to look back up at him, and all of a sudden his hairpiece goes flying off. He went chasing after it until it landed in a bush, and I couldn't hold in my laugh. I got detention for it, but what was I supposed to do?”
He feels the vibrations of your laugh in his chest.
“Yeah I would've gotten detention for that too, baby” you smile. “You were always up to no good, huh?”
“Mmm, had a few years of mischief, but, really I just wanted to get out of there. And now look at me, got the prettiest girlfriend in the world laying in bed with me.” he gleams.
“You’re so sweet baby, I love you.” You sigh. “I think I’m getting a little bit tired now, though.”
“Yeah? My trick worked?” He smirks “Fall asleep on my chest, baby. I’ll keep the nightmares away.” He kisses your crown.
keep thinking about lounging on the couch with bestfriend!eddie, both tired after a long week of work. his body leans up against your side, which you welcome, gently guiding his head to rest near your neck, where your hands automatically move to rove through his curls. your fingers push through tousles of thick plush hair, making him groan in response, and settle into you further.
"feels good, sweetheart," his voice is a deep whisper against your throat.
"mhm," you hum, your softness matching his. "your hair's so fluffy, eds. you'll never cut it, right?"
he lets out a soft snort, "no, no. would never do that to you. know it's basically your favorite thing about me."
you smile, your cheek landing on his crown, "is not."
"you supervised my last trim."
"that was just emotional support, thank you very much."
"emotional support for you." he grins, moving a hand up to thumb with your shirt collar. "would you even still love me without it?" his face morphs into a phony frown, wide brown eyes on display for you.
"oh shut up, drama king, you know i would." you tease him, "would you still love me if not for the amazing back scratches i supply?"
he lets out a sigh, head falling back against the crook of your neck, pretending to ponder it. "i s'pose so. guess you're stuck with me."
"yeah, guess i am." you hand moves down to his shoulder blades and you start your light scratches, just because he brought it up, and also because he's a brat.
"wait a sec-" he slurs out, "can you go underneath my shirt? please? 'ts a more immersive experience that way."
totally a brat.
"yes king eddie, i'll do as you please" you roll your eyes, eating it right up. he knows it, too.
"thanks, sugarpop. you're the best."
and within a few minutes, his body is jello against yours, and you can't help but let out a quiet laugh when you notice him already drooling against your chest.
