hi y'all! my name is dath (dathie, dathomir) and i made this blog as a place to chat about my writing hobby and connect with other eddie/ST writers! 🦇
black biracial ✌🏽 queer 🌈 mid-twenties 💞 vampire aficionado 💉
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i do not and will never use AI in my writing (hopefully that's obvious 💀) and i don't really fuck with anyone who does 🤷🏽♀️ i don't see the point in appropriating the lifeless, amalgamated husks of other peoples' creativity when you can always develop your own for free 🖤
this is a short(-ish), nameless little idea i couldn't get out of my head about eddie trying and failing to fulfill a cnc fantasy for you and the conversation that follows, written from his perspective. 5.5k words.
warnings: EXPLICIT; MINORS DNI, I WILL BLOCK YOU! simulated non-consent. eddie's pushy but not at all violent. still soft, still himself. it's played serious. angsty, hurt/comfort. reader is characterized as shy/reserved when it comes to sex with hinted-at low self-esteem, eddie loves you more than anything and thinks he doesn't need boundaries. happy ending. lmk if y'all think i should tag anything else. dead dove: do not eat!
tagging some people that expressed interest: @stickystrawbunny @lunaiswriting @residentoftomlinsonsass @teddysugar
Eddie was sure he could handle it.
That it'd be easy, even. All it really amounted to was roleplay, after all, and he was nothing if not a veteran of make-believe.
It had started with a request that Eddie be a little rougher. You’re sort of shy when it comes to speaking—struggling usually to talk about your activities in the bedroom much more than you ever did participating in them—so he was ecstatic to hear you ask him for anything at all.
It was while laying together in bed after a quick shower that you brought it up. Two rounds apiece had worn you both out, and maybe it was being cradled so close to his heart, the comfort of warm skin pressed together and the dreamy lull of sleep that had relaxed your anxious tongue enough for the words to escape. Eddie, ever gently, eased you back enough to see your face and smiled.
He hummed as he watched you, endeared to the moon and back by the bashful little look on your face—the way you can barely meet his eye. “...How rough are we talkin’ here?”
He’d left a bruise or two on you before by accident, and as much as he felt bad for hurting you, he also couldn’t deny the appeal of knowing he’d made a mark on you. Flesh and blood evidence of the pleasure you'd shared; the grooves of his hands embedded beneath your skin. He’d also carefully pulled at your hair once or twice, even smacked your bottom, albeit more as a joke than anything carnal.
It took you a moment, staring at his mouth and his chin while you gathered the courage. “I… Well, I like it when you’re…pushy,” you admitted.
Eddie grinned even wider. “Oh yeah? You want me to bully you a little? Toss you around?” That would be no problem at all.
His knowing intonation made you purse your lips to fight a smile. “Yeah, I like that. But also…”
“...Also?” he prompted with patience. “Don’t hold out on me, sweetheart.”
“I don’t know.” You stared down at the sheets with a strained, twitchy little smile. “I just sort of have this…weird fantasy, I guess. Can't get it out of my head.”
Now you’re talking. He took care not to look too ecstatic, lest he scare the nerve out of you. “Tell me all about it,” he encouraged, “and I might be able to help you out.”
You hesitated. The sheepish smile fell away, and your eyes seemed to turn in on themselves, unfocusing. Right on the precipice of changing your mind, waving it all away. Something was scaring you inward. Eddie’s brow furrowed and he softly lifted your chin, startling you back to the present.
“Sweetheart, I’m the last person that’s ever gonna judge you for wanting to try something kinky, or…unusual,” he assured you. Serious but without pressure, smiling warm and fond. You don’t have to tell him anything, but he needs you to know that you can. “I’m not gonna look at you differently, or love you any less. That’s a promise.”
He already felt like the luckiest guy on the planet just holding you as he was, watching you watch him with love and trust and melting reservations in your eyes. If you also happened to possess even half of the freakiness that he’d been valiantly keeping at bay from the first time you touched, he might just dissolve into a pile of lovestruck mush.
-
Eddie never thought he’d have you, so he has a tendency to do anything—anything—that he thinks might help him keep you. It’s a bad habit of his (in your mind, at least) that he’s kept hidden almost as well as his less savory appetites, his more cringeworthy fears. You’ve noticed it a couple times. The way he grits his teeth and bears things you would’ve gladly relieved him of, that you’ve never asked of him in the first place. Eddie knows it’s stupid; unhealthy, even, to treat your relationship like a rolling audition he’s always in danger of bombing, but there’s some misshapen part of him that just can’t help it. You don’t need him to be anything more than he is, to give more than he has, and he knows that, he really does, but he could. If you wanted him to, he could.
Just start and don’t stop. That’s how you explained it to him, more or less.
Eddie was to do what he was going to do, and while you might squirm and struggle, tell him no and don’t and stop it, you assured him plenty that it’d just be for show. To fulfil your half of the little fantasy you’ve trusted him with—and he could see on your face how much trust it really took. Unless you use your safeword, you don’t really want him to stop; you want him to ignore it; to fight you right back; to make you.
And that’s simple. He’s the bad guy, the bully—a role he’s uniquely accustomed to—and you’re the poor maiden he’s meant to distress. He isn’t sure he’ll get as much out of it as you will, if the suppressed thrill in your eyes as you spoke about it is to be trusted, but to put it frankly, Eddie loves fucking you. He could do it for hours, for days, probably until the combined forces of exhaustion and dehydration knocked him out cold, if he lost his grip on restraint. It never really occurred to him that this could be any different.
You decide on a Friday, after dinner. Plenty of time for both play and comfort, no looming alarms to dread come morning. The day went by as usual, but when you sit down to eat, neither of you have much to say. He catches you staring. Again and again, cutting your eyes away in shyness each time. Getting impatient.
For once, you eat faster than him. When you’re done, you stand to put your plate in the sink and return to him with awkward, scattered energy, crossing your arms like it’s your first time trying to.
“...I’m gonna get ready for bed,” you tell him simply.
Eddie lets out the smirk he’s been sitting on. “Okay, baby.” It does something to you, makes you twitch. He stops you before you rush down the hall to escape. “...You’re sure you still wanna do this?”
Your feet catch awkwardly on the carpet as you turn back to face him, and your smile, unusually wide and giddy with nerves, makes his chest swell with warmth. If it was up to him, he’d jump on you right here and now, but probably not in the way you’d want him to. “I’m really sure.”
“Great,” he says. “Then… I’ll be right behind you.”
Eddie takes his time. Finishes his food, packs away the leftovers, washes the dishes in the sink—wouldn’t want them to crust over. There are a few stray food scraps on the floor, close to hidden beneath the cabinet ledge, so he decides to go ahead and sweep the entire kitchen, neglected lately.
Then, he heads for the bathroom. Turning off lights as he goes, Eddie squints through the dark and thinks that this feels correct. This is where he should be, preparing for something like this. He really wants to see you but he isn’t sure he’s ready yet, and he wants even more to get it right for you. He’s so happy, so happy that you found it in you to share it with him, knowing how awful it could be in the wrong hands. When you’d gone to sleep that night, Eddie stayed awake a while longer and teared up at the thought. No one else, you’d said. You never told anyone else but him.
Eddie brushes his teeth, washes his face. He fiddles with his hair, for some reason. As if a wayward strand might ruin the fantasy for you. He considers taking a shower, too, to cool himself off, but he knows both of you will need one afterwards anyway, and you must be getting antsy waiting for him. He pictures you squirming, sighing, grinding your needy thighs together.
And he thinks about your thighs, and the precious flower between them. How it opens up and takes him in, holds him tight and loves him just as much as you do; gushes with it. Your stomach, round and plush, his favorite plane to sink his teeth into. The swell of your chest and the pretty little jewels that dot either side, that tense and stiffen under his fingertips. Every bit as meek and sensitive as the rest of you. He figured it’s for the best if he’s already there before he gets started, and knowing he’ll get to touch you soon, to ravish you just the way you want, it doesn’t take long at all.
Eddie pushes the door in and finds you waiting with purposeful unawareness, your back to him at the far side of the bed. For a moment, he just smiles, and his nose scrunches with endearment. Your shoulder tensed up to your ear at the sound of his arrival, and it stays there as you sit in anticipation. Stepping inside, he closes the door behind him and makes his way towards his side of the bed, pulling the unneeded shirt over his head, tossing it aside.
“...Baby, you awake?” He knows you are, but he gives you the chance to pretend anyway. Your answer is a non-committal hum that scrunches his nose a second time.
He kneels onto the bed and crawls nearer, watching your partly-obscured profile. His hand lands on your upper arm and squeezes and you hum again—more distinctly reluctant this time. He figures that’s the go-ahead.
Eddie’s much more heavy-handed than usual in stealing a kiss from you; starting the game. Leaning over you, he takes you by your jaw and turns your head towards him, smashing an indulgent kiss into your lips and drinking in your cute, startled peep.
Only, then, you try to make him stop—tugging at his wrist, turning your head away from him—and on instinct he lets you go with a hot prod of anxiety. Did he fuck it up already? Is this not what you wanted?
But when you mumble your timid complaint (“I’m not in the mood, Eddie”) and turn away from him again, it clicks into place.
…Right, yeah, that’s how this works. You’re going to reject him, unambiguously, over and over and over again, and he’s supposed to ignore it every time. He knew that on paper, but seeing it in action, experiencing what it feels like to be told no by you and pretend it doesn’t matter, hits him somewhere hard to place.
But it’s what you want, so he keeps going. He grabs your shoulder far meaner than the real Eddie ever would and yanks you onto your back, lays himself over you to plant his mouth onto yours again, and when you whine into his lips he pushes even harder, forcing his tongue inside. You don’t mean to moan, probably, but when you do, Eddie’s tension deflates with a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Squirming beneath him, you push at his chest with both hands, harder and harder until he finally relents and gives you room to breathe.
“What are you doing?” you gasp, wide-eyes flitting all over his face, and it gives him pause again. He’s…doing what you asked him to—what you want him to, even if it feels like anything but.
“Need you bad, honey,” he murmurs, playing his own part a little belatedly, and his hands slide down to squeeze at your thighs. “Open up.”
“I told you, I’m not in the mood tonight.”
“It won’t take long,” he assures you. “Open up.”
Your brow furrows deep and tight, somewhere sadder than confused. “I don’t want to.”
Eddie pushes out a sharp sigh, gives you a look. He knows what to say, but it takes a moment to convince himself to let out with it. “...Sweetheart, I’m not asking.”
That clearly did it for you—nearly sent your eyes rolling back. There’s a fire in them, a pinprick of red-hot excitement even as you press your thighs tighter together, and he realizes, once again, that you aren’t going to help him out at all.
He forces his hands into the space between your thighs and abruptly wrenches them apart, and the gasp you suck in at the feeling of it is definitely real. Eddie stifles a grimace. He hopes that wasn’t your full strength he was fighting. If it really is that easy to make you, he could’ve gone his whole life without knowing it.
You have made it easy for him in one regard. Between your nightgown—really just an oversized tshirt, already riding up above your hips—and the thin, lacy excuse for a pair of panties you’ve got on beneath it, he has as much access as he possibly could without having to try and wrestle you out of your clothes. He’ll hardly even have to move anything out of the way.
You’re also fucking soaked, thank God. More than you usually are without a little help, but maybe you’d been helping yourself while you waited for him. It’s a strange feeling. Relieving for substantiating how you truly feel about what he’s doing, a little concerning (or, at the very least, puzzling) for whatever the hell that might mean. What is it that this asshole is doing for you that Eddie himself is failing to?
He takes himself out of his pants, still pulsing at the thought of you, and sucks air through his teeth as he drags his fist from base to tip, trying to work himself up a little more. When he goes to line up, your hands fly between your legs, trying to hide yourself from him, but it isn’t too hard to snatch them up and hold them out of his way. You aren’t really fighting back, just trying to seem like you are. He tugs the thin seat of your panties aside and notches his cock at your entrance, then lays his weight over you.
“Don’t,” you beg. “Eddie, please don’t!” The drop of panic in your voice is way too convincing. His heart sinks a few inches in his chest.
“Stay still, honey,” he tries to comfort—that part at least comes naturally. He’s psyching himself up to it. You told him explicitly not to prepare you; that it’s okay if it hurts a little, that you even sort of want it to, but he didn’t realize how intimidating that request really was until now. “...It’s okay. Just stay still.”
“No, baby, you can’t—”
He jerks his hips, pushes halfway in with one sharp thrust, and hisses through his teeth as he does. He’s never felt you like this before, without having been teased open on his fingers or his tongue first, and you’re wet enough for the sound of it to squelch, but he’s surprised to discover he can feel that it isn’t quite right all on his own. It’s too tense, shocked rigid, trying to evict him. At the same time, you gasp like his penetration removed some deadly blockage from your airways, and Eddie freezes, watching your face with cold sweat dripping down his sides. Your jaw hangs open, panting, brow pinched and hips squirming with overwhelm. When you meet his eye and find him staring, waiting, gritting his teeth, you give him the slightest nod you can manage, and Eddie continues.
He slowly pulls his hips back and snaps them in another mean thrust that delves even deeper, sending you moaning in pain or delight. Mouth dipped down beside your ear, he shushes you as sweetly as he can while doing such an awful thing. Grasping for any gentleness he can find. He’d like to kiss you again, but he’s reluctant to create any obstacle if you need to tell him to stop.
“It hurts,” you whine.
It’s supposed to, he reminds himself. You might even be pretending. “...It’ll pass, sweetheart, I promise.”
One more thrust, a kiss to your neck in tandem, and he’s fully sheathed inside. You cry out, and he’s pretty sure it’s pleasure—your thighs twitch like they always do when you’re excited to be full of him. Eddie pulls out again and sinks right back in, starting up a deep, powerful rhythm that makes you mewl beneath him. It almost puts a smile on his face.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he teases, planting a kiss on your cheek.
“No,” you insist, indignant. You’re still putting up your weak impression of a fight, pushing at his chest and digging your nails in, scratching him, but every ruthless thrust he gives you punches a clipped little moan out of you, surprised by the force each time.
Eddie dips his face into your neck, starts to work his teeth into you. “Don’t lie to me, baby,” he murmurs. “Know just what you like.”
He does his best to hold you still, pin you down. He’s been too focused on you to really think about his own pleasure, but when it finally occurs to him to take stock, he startles. It’s not that you don’t feel good—you always feel good—but it’s almost like he’s slowly going numb to it. Eddie abruptly picks up the pace, trying to remedy it, and you cry your noisy pleasure beneath him, but it doesn’t change much. It’s hot and slick and tight, and it’s you, but there’s no…momentum to it, no steady build-up for him to manage, no urgency.
And that wouldn’t really matter to him, since the point of all this is getting you off, but he can feel himself waning. The aching tightness he always succumbs to when you play with each other begins on its own to slump in disinterest, and the frustration of it grits his teeth together.
There’s a cold little pit in the bottom of his gut warding off the blood that should be pumping excitedly through it, and it dawns on him that, for the first time, entirely in absence of weed or alcohol or pure, concentrated nerves, Eddie probably can’t keep it up long enough to get you off. And just then, while he’s already flirting with the dread of poor performance, your voice warbles out once more, as frail as he’s ever heard it.
“...Eddie, please.”
The hair on the back of his neck stands up. It’s a sob. You sound like you’re going to cry; like you’ve been crying, and crying, and you just can’t seem to stop. Like you’re miserable, devastated, and it’s entirely and exclusively his fault. A ripple of intense aversion whips down his spine and spreads to the end of each limb, abruptly contracting his muscles to push and tear him off of you, out of you. Sitting back on his knees, eyes squinted shut, he grunts and shakes his head to cast away the awful feeling.
“...Eddie? Are you okay?” He can feel you shifting, starting to sit up.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, baby,” he says, rubbing sweaty hands over his face. The shame hits him next, sinking him lower—knowing that he’s done it again. He should’ve hit pause as soon as something felt off or done anything other than grit his teeth and assume it’ll pass, and now you’ll think it’s your fault. “I… Shit. I don’t think I can do this.”
A little silence stretches out. Eddie drops his hands to hide his wilting dick away and finds your big eyes flitting all over him, stunned; your hand trembling in front of your mouth.
“...Okay.” You hardly manage to squeeze it out. He can already hear the lump in your throat. “...I’m sorry.”
The thought of you crying scrubs his nerves even rawer. “No, no, c’mere.” He guides you to sit up with him all the way so he can wrap his arms around you, touching you with the warmth he’s been dying to all along, and he sighs in relief. He presses firm kisses to your temple, your cheek. “S’not your fault, not at all, okay? I’m fine, we’re both fine.”
You wrap your arms around his back, holding him just as snugly, and your voice is muffled into his chest. “I don’t wanna make you do something you don’t like.”
“You aren't, honey, I promise,” he assures you, squeezing you even tighter. “I said we'd try it and we did. That's exactly how it's supposed to work.”
You say, “Okay,” and nuzzle into him harder, and Eddie rests his head against yours as you breathe together, calm each other down. But a frown starts to grow on his face. He knows why he couldn’t do it—it curdled his stomach to make you feel like that, like the months he’d spent adoring you mattered less than a few minutes of empty pleasure, make-believe or not—but he can’t for the life of him figure out what you found enjoyable in all of that. You like it when he’s a little mean, he knows that, and he likes giving you a hard time just as much. But forcing himself on you; this quiet tragedy you’ve been so eager to play out. His heart pounds with anxiety just thinking about it. He never thought it would feel so real.
“...Maybe I just don’t understand,” he says. “The…appeal of it, I guess. What you’re getting out of this.”
You freeze up in his arms. “I…”
Carefully, he eases you back until he can see you, your eyes flickering over his chest in unease, and he holds both your hands in his own. “I’m not judging you, sweetheart, I swear to God. I get being…rough, y’know, and pushy. But I… can’t really wrap my head around why you’d want someone to treat you like this.”
“...I don’t know,” you mumble, but Eddie’s eye is well attuned to you. He thinks you might know, but you’re too frightened to admit it.
He sighs. “I just… I really hope you don’t think you deserve that, or—”
“No, it's not— I don’t,” you sputter out, reassuringly horrified. “I promise I don’t. It’s just… I don’t know. It's only because it's you.”
Eddie frowns, unsettled on instinct by the sound of that, but he stays quiet. Leaves you the room to creep out of your shell on your own. You chew hard on your bottom lip before your mouth opens again, and he gives your shaky hands a squeeze.
“...Because I love you, and I trust you, and…you're safe,” you go on. “I know you'd never really do anything like that, and…I like making you feel good.”
Eddie’s heart crushes in. He presses another firm kiss to your temple. “I love you too,” he tells you, but that doesn’t quite explain anything. “...Can you tell me a little more?”
You lick your lips and wrestle yourself to continue, his sweet girl. “The thought of you…needing me that badly, that it makes you mean, that you don't even care. Like I only exist to make you feel good, and that's all that matters, and I’d still love you anyway. …Sometimes I do feel like I'd let you do anything you wanted to me, even things I know you'd never actually want to do, so… it's like, I get to…give you something you'd never even ask for. Something that's sort of…dark, and intense, that I'd never give to anyone else. I don't know what’s…wrong with me, why I like it so much. But it's only because it's you, Eddie.”
“Nothing’s wrong with you, baby,” he reminds you softly, cupping your cheek and stroking his thumb over it. You aren’t crying outright, but the extra water in your eyes is torture. “I told you, I don’t like you talking about yourself like that.” Eddie looks at you and sees the purest fucking angel he’s even known.
“I know,” you sniffle. “I’m sorry.”
He smoothes his palm over your back as he thinks it over. “I…think I get that, sort of, but...you’re making it sound like you’re doing this for me, and I don’t—”
“No, it’s— It’s for me,” you correct. “I know it’s for me, and I know it’s…a lot to ask, so we don’t have to do it again. I don’t ever wanna make you do something that upsets you, Eddie. I’m really sorry.”
When your face starts to contort and your teary eyes blink faster, Eddie sucks his teeth and pulls you back in, and the way you cling onto him brings about a little sting behind his own eyes.
“I’m not upset,” he assures you softly. “Not anymore. Just…worried about you. Makes me scared you don’t love yourself like I do.”
He sways you lightly back and forth, spreading warm pressure over your back with gentle hands. Relishing the weight and feel and scent of you, the privilege of shrouding you like this.
“I love you so much, Eddie.” The evidence of it trickles down his throat, collects in the pocket of his clavicle.
“God, I love you too, baby.” He still hasn’t found a way to tell you that feels strong enough. “Like you wouldn’t fucking believe.”
When you settle yourself and your tears have dried, you press your lips to his skin, kissing, kissing, kissing. Soft enough to make him shiver.
“It’s like…a horror movie, kind of,” you muse as it occurs to you, ticklish against his neck. “It scares you, but…in a good way, cause you aren’t really in danger, and you can stop it whenever you want.”
Eddie’s mind chews on that and swallows. It goes down much easier than any other way you’ve put it. “...You want me to scare you a little bit.”
You nod into him, and his brain sparks and flares like a firework.
“...I can't do the begging, I don't think,” he decides. “It's just—too real. You’re too good at it. Makes me feel like I'm really hurting you. But…”
He can feel his synapses firing. His eyes flit around as he pieces it together. You want him to scare you, to take from you even if you refuse, but there are a lot of ways to say “no” that don’t make him feel like he should be thrown under the jail and left to rot.
“What if we…kept it physical?” he suggests. “Like play fighting, almost. I'll still, y'know, pin you down and shove it in if you want me to, but it'll be less…”
“Real,” you finish for him. You push back on your own this time, your rosy, searching eyes finding his.
He nods and gives you a little smile. “Not so dark, y’know?”
“...Okay,” you agree. “That sounds good.”
And then, when it looks like you have more to say, Eddie doesn’t even need to prompt you.
“...Could you still say things?” Your stare jumps around, skittish, only landing back on him for a split second at a time. “I just… I like it when you talk.”
He grins and cocks his head to the side. “You mean like, evil asshole things? ‘I'm not asking’ and all that?”
You breathe a laugh out of your nose and bob your head in a timid nod.
“...Yeah, I think so,” he says, scratching his jaw as he thinks about it. “We’ll try it.”
Starry-eyed as you are, Eddie can’t fight the urge to kiss you, and you melt happily into it. Arms thrown around his neck, fingers in his hair, you kiss him like you need him to breathe, each insistent press longer than the last. Eddie’s well and truly love-drunk, humming pleasedly into your mouth, but he doesn’t miss the urgency in it, the way you press yourself into him as close as you can; almost like you’re trying to rile him up, and it isn’t not working. He aspirates a laugh as he finally escapes your affection.
“Wow,” he says, close to breathless. “Did, uh… Did you wanna try it right now?”
“Is that okay?” you breathe, suddenly rigid. Then, quickly: “We don’t have to.”
He must’ve left you very frustrated, or maybe renegotiating the approach worked you up again. He pinches his eyes at you in fondness.
Eddie thinks about himself, really thinks about it. The dread pit has dissipated, knowing that he doesn’t have to be that guy anymore, seeing you smile again. He feels off, sort of, some distant imprint of it stuck in the back of his mind, but even more than that, he loves you, he loves you, and he wants you. Wants to show you how much he loves you. He was still planning on making you feel good if you wanted him to, even if he couldn’t personally summon the interest to have it reciprocated, but now, he’s probably a fourth of the way hard again already just from the fever in your kiss. If you wanna roughhouse with him so bad, he’s having trouble locating any real desire not to.
“...Yeah, I’m down,” he says, trying not to look too smug at the sight of your relief. “You wanna start right now?”
“Um… First, I should—”
You cut yourself off to shove your hand into his pants and fish his dick back out of them—bold in your actions if not with your words—and Eddie chokes on a gasp.
“Christ,” he giggles, grunting as you squeeze and tug at him, rub your thumb beneath his slit. “You really need it, huh?”
“Shush,” you tell him.
Either impatient or just suffering a craving, you scoot back, stoop down, and ease him into your mouth. The soft, wet presses of your tongue against his skin open the floodgate, sending the blood rushing in.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans, head tipping back in bliss. “...You’re too fuckin’ good to me.”
You keep it up until he’s hard again and a little longer after that, stroking him leisurely with your lips while Eddie pants and shivers above you. Then, you stop. Pull back completely and stare at him like you’re waiting for something, and Eddie’s brow furrows. Is he supposed to start it? He sort of thought you were, but all you’re doing is staring.
You blink at him a couple times, and just before he can ask what you’re doing, if you’re alright, if you still want to do this, you scramble off the side of the bed. He watches you with a frown for three leisurely steps, but when you throw a coy glance at him over your shoulder, it snaps into place.
A big, wolfish grin tears across his face. “Where do you think you're going, missy?”
Eddie starts after you with enough speed to make you gasp, easily catching around the middle, dragging you back towards the bed.
“Let go,” you complain, but his arms don’t budge.
“Not a chance.”
Eddie braces himself, squats down a little, and then lifts you clean off your feet, throwing you face-down onto the bed and grinning wider at the squeal that flies out of you. He grabs you by your hips and turns you onto your back, and you stare up at him with bewildered eyes and a disbelieving smile, like you didn’t think he’d actually be able to toss you around like this. Naturally, it goes straight to his head.
Then comes the fighting. You raise your arms and your legs trying to fend him off, shield yourself; shoving away his attempts to tug at your dress or stick his hand between your thighs, and neither of you can stop from smiling as Eddie struggles to push his way in, finally securing your wrists over your head and yanking your dress up.
“No, Eddie, stop,” you whine, still squirming. It's petulant, the same tone you use when he's acting immature, annoying the hell out of you for fun.
“Nope,” he says, remorseless. “You're all mine.” He slaps his fingers down over your slit to prove it, and you jolt in surprise.
“You're being mean!”
He scoffs at the accusation. “No, I'm not. You got me hard as a fucking rock, babe, and your actions have consequences.”
You laugh—it bubbles out before you can stifle it—and Jesus Christ, this is so much better. You’re defiant, sure, putting up a fight and playing annoyed as much as you can, but you aren’t resigned to hopeless sorrow like earlier. There’s a buzzing energy between you, a tension of excitement more than sheer intensity—you fight like hell to keep the smile off your face and Eddie lets his stretch deviously across his cheeks, feeling closer to a raunchy cartoon villain than any sort of genuine predator.
“But I don’t want to,” you whine again, frowning your sweet face up at him. Eddie grabs you by the jaw, and your eyes pop wider.
“You’re adorable, sweetheart,” he coos, squishing your cheeks and staring down his nose at you with all the love in the world. Your pupils spread wide and dark, inviting him into their fire. “...Since when have I ever gave a shit what you wanted?”
-
thanks for reading! feedback is always welcome 💞 likes, comments, + reblogs would be much appreciated!
weed gummies are such a fake sounding concept like yeah if you eat this piece of candy and wait an hour you'll suddenly become very easily entertained and airheaded and cuddly
ughhh another idea for the pile... feeling like writing about a very intense and fast-paced whirlwind romance with eddie that feels very huge and cosmic like it's the beginning of the rest of your lives but it accidentally comes to an abrupt end after like. a month maybe. because what really happened was, you triggered a massive hyperfixation that tricked him into thinking you were the absolute love of his life until the dopamine drops and he's like. whoops 😭
All your life, all you’ve ever wanted is for your best friend to be happy. For all of his wildest dreams to come true. Now that they have, you should be happy too…right?
3.8k┃18+, MDNI
cw: we’ve got an angsty one, cap’n. childhood friends to ??? modern-ish au, no upside down, alcohol, drinking to excess, semi self-destructive behavior, feelings denial.
cliffhanger? I hardly know her!
The Save the Dates had definitely gone out.
Hardly anyone who received one could talk about anything else—making plans to take off of work, securing sitters for pets and babies months in advance, joking about selling organs on the black market to be able to afford the trip.
It was huge news, after all. Like, the biggest news to hit Hawkins since…ever.
Eddie Munson was getting married.
Hometown zero turned mega-rockstar, Dungeon Master turned guitar god, formerly ridiculed and believed-to-be-devil-worshipping town pariah Edward Phillip Munson was getting married.
TMZ had broken news of the engagement long before Eddie had gotten the chance to make any of the long-distance calls required to tell anybody himself. Which wasn’t terribly surprising, truth be told. It had been months, close to a year in some cases, since anyone from your small hometown had been in regular contact with Eddie.
The cost of fame, you all supposed.
But no one seemed to mind it so much once they had that envelope in their hands.
Robin had called immediately upon opening the one that was delivered to her and Nancy’s place, talking rapid fire as usual, asking if you wanted to fly out early with them to sightsee, if you wanted to go in on the AirBnb with them, if you thought rock stars still registered at Bed, Bath & Beyond or was there some other super-exclusive place they got their linens and dishware?
You forced out a laugh, trying to sound as good-natured as you could when you said you’d have to let her know. Normally, you probably would have accepted without a second thought.
Normally, you might have been joking with her about how celebrities slept on sheets with thread counts higher than your income. Normally, you’d be over the moon to see a Save the Date for the wedding of your oldest and closest friend.
Except you had yet to receive yours.
It was surprising, to say the least, to come home on the day everyone had been showing theirs off, waving them in the faces of anyone who had eyes to see, to find your mailbox barren—not so much as a catalog or a predatory credit card offer.
Still, you told yourself to keep calm. And actually managed to do so, for the most part.
There were a million and a half possibilities for why it hadn’t arrived. Maybe they had been sent out in batches. Maybe the ink smudged and it had to be returned when the post office couldn’t decipher your address. Maybe Eddie had forgot to put your new address and sent it to the trailer park where you no longer lived instead of your apartment on the other side of town.
You told yourself all these things and more, over and over again like a bedtime story. Trying to reassure yourself that nothing was amiss.
Because why would it be?
And yet your mailbox remained empty. Cluttered with the typical assortment of drab bills and junk mail, with no sign of the weighted, cream-colored cardstock bearing Eddie’s full government name written in a script so elegant you’d think he was a Duke or an Earl of some sprawling English estate rather than a gangly metalhead who hailed from the humble beginnings of Forest Hills.
Anyone you mentioned it to tried to soothe you in the same ways you tried to soothe yourself.
It has to be a mistake, they all said. Lost in the mail, delivered to the wrong address, insufficient postage—they gave endless explanations for the inexplicable. Of course you’re invited. You have to be. He wouldn’t dream of getting married without having his best friend there!
Eventually you resolved to just call him, knowing it would likely go straight to voicemail; knowing it would take a few days for him to get back to you as it always did. But just as you sat down in your living room to dial, your phone buzzed in your hand as a call from him came through.
“Hey!” you said brightly, all the hurt you had been plagued by the past few weeks having evaporated the second his name flashed on your caller ID. “That’s so weird, I was about to call you.”
“Oh, yeah?”
His voice was rougher than expected, raspy and haggard. It sounded the way it did when he’d just gotten off stage, after he’d finished screaming his own lyrics to thousands. Except there was no joy behind his exhaustion, no exhilaration or elation cracking through the way it always had whether he was singing for a sold-out crowd at MSG or the same five drunks at the Hideout.
“You okay?” you asked. “You sound funny.”
“Yeah, yeah, just ahhhh…we were in the studio all day. I’m really beat.”
It wasn’t a lie—he was a shit liar, you could always tell when he was—but there was most definitely something he wasn’t telling you.
Your spine instantly went rigid, panic spiking with a sharp pinch to your nose, and you tried to sound as normal as possible while you picked at a piece of loose skin hanging around your thumbnail.
“So…what’s up? To what do I owe the pleasure?” The teasing edge to your voice came out hollow and phony, lacking all the natural ease that normally came along with talking to him.
It had been years now since he moved out to Los Angeles but you never really felt the distance until his music career took off. When he first got there, he still called you nearly every night. And as you laid in your bed with the phone pressed to your ear, it was easy to imagine he was just a few trailers down stretched on his own lumpy mattress instead of 2000 miles away.
Secretly, you sort of longed for those days—for the nights he poured himself into bed after a shift bartending or caterwaiting or whatever other odd job he had fallen into that week. And still the one call he always made, even if he was bordering on passing out from pure exhaustion, was to you.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he explained solemnly. “About the wedding.”
“Um…me too, actually.”
“Yeah?”
There it was again—that crack, that fissure, that slight waver in his voice so unfamiliar it made him sound like a stranger. Too serious. Too stoic. Too unlike the boisterous boy you’d always known.
“Yeah, uh…this is kind of awkward,” you chuckled again, the sound of it riddled with nerves, and you wondered if he could tell how much you hated to ask, how long you’d waited, trying to put it all off. “But I was wondering about your Save the Dates? Because everyone else got theirs and I—”
“I didn’t send yours.”
The words are maudlin. Almost pained, like he’d just told you someone died. And your reaction is more or less the same as if he had.
“…Oh.”
“I’m—I’m looking at it right now.”
You tried to imagine him in California, sitting in his fancy penthouse the record label had helped him secure just as the paparazzi began to swarm his humble fourth floor walk-up. You’d only seen it in pictures, and not even ones he had sent you—Architectural Digest had done a piece on it that came out around the same time the news broke that he had started dating Carli West.
Was he stretched out on his massive leather sofa looking out those floor-to-ceiling windows at the twinkling metropolis laid out at his feet?
Holding the phone to his ear with one hand while the other clutched an envelope with your name and address stamped on the front?
Or maybe he wasn’t even there.
Maybe he had finally moved into his girlfriend’s—fiancée’s—mansion in Westlake Village.
“She, um…” his voice cracked again. “She asked me not to invite you.”
The ancient springs in your plaid recliner squeaked in protest as you sank into it, wobbly legs threatening to give out underneath you. Your mind was a blank, eyes staring unfocused at the walls, totally dumbfounded. A low buzz began to drone in your ears, steadily getting louder until it was all you could hear, like a deafening static drowning out every sound in existence.
“I’m so sorry. I swear, I tried. We’ve been having it out for weeks and she won’t budge.”
“B-but…why? I’ve never even met her! What could I have possibly done to—”
“It’s not you,” he insisted firmly. “Seriously, it has nothing to do with you. She just thinks—”
Whatever explanation he was about to sputter, you didn’t hear. The simple press of a button with a red icon is not nearly satisfying enough, though. You desperately miss the harsh clang of a landline being slammed back into its cradle, its metallic reverb echoing in the emptiness and silence.
As it is, all you can do is toss your phone away and blink back tears as it bounces off the couch cushion and thumps to the floor. You opt to leave it there, reaching instead for your keys where they sit in the middle of the coffee table.
You’re not even sure where you’re headed as you follow the same roads you’ve driven most of your life, tires swerving on asphalt that’s still wet with melted snow from the barrage of winter storms you’ve had over the past couple weeks. The night is pitch black in front of you, the air stinging and harsh, threatening yet another cold snap.
It’s not until you’re halfway downtown that you realize you left your wallet at home and have to head for The Hideout. You certainly would prefer not to spend an evening surrounded by countless memories of listening to Eddie’s band play, sitting at the end of the bar watching him bob and weave in and around stumbling patrons to clear empties and wipe down tables—all while razzing Peg with his ineffable, nigh insufferable, Munson charm.
But its the only place you know will serve you with nothing more than lint in your pocket.
You posted up at the near-deserted bar, downing two beers in half as many hours, staring into the middle distance contemplating the impossible.
A movie star hated you. A movie star you’d never met, who had sucked face with half of Hollywood—professionally or otherwise—and who lived in a mansion with nine bedrooms, and who pulled in millions of dollars at the box office…hated you.
That was the only conclusion you could draw from this information, right? It couldn't possibly be an issue of space. They were inviting the entire goddamn universe as far as you could tell.
So it had to be you. Unless…
Distantly, you register the song on the jukebox changing and the opening chords of melancholy piano playing over Bonnie Tyler’s gritty voice, making you reach for your beer and chug.
“Hey there, Bright Eyes.”
The voice of Steve Harrington might have been the last one you wanted to hear right now, and yet it’s exactly what filled in your ears. You rolled your eyes purely out of instinct as he walked over, and it caused a single traitorous tear to roll down your cheek. You swiped at it, praying he didn’t see.
“Whoa, whoa. What’s with the water works?”
He slotted into the stool next to you and a wave of his scent washed over you, the aroma made up of something gourmand and surely expensive. A few stray pieces of chestnut hair fall forward into his shining eyes as he leans his elbows on the bar and tilts his head to get a look at you.
“Just allergic to your cheap cologne,” you sniffed, the bitterness of your insult undercut by the creak of your voice. Steve’s lips quirked in a small smile.
You knew well as he did, he never wore anything cheap.
With an overdramatic sigh, he clutched his hand to his heart and wobbled in his seat as he leaned far back like he’d been struck there. It made your chest pang, thinking how that was one of Eddie’s bits—except he probably would have fallen right to the sticky floor just to make you smile.
“She wounds me, Peg,” Steve lamented when he caught the bartender’s eye. “Can we get another round over here, please? And a couple shots?”
Steve might have been the only person on the planet who could charm a smile out of ever-surly Peg. It was a small one, barely eking out, but it was there. She retrieved another beer for each of you and then placed down two shot glasses, which she filled with brown liquor that sloshed over their rims as she slid them over. Pretending not to be pleased when Steve winked at her.
“Alright. Come on, now. Out with it,” he said, pushing one of the shots in front of you.
Reluctantly, you picked up the glass and stared down it for a second like it was the barrel of a gun before knocking it back. The liquor burned down the center of your chest, like a knife slicing you down the middle. It made your throat spasm with the need to cough, but you forced it back.
“It’s not a mistake,” you said gravely after a long pause. Steve’s lips automatically pursed.
“What’s not?” he asked.
“My Save the Date isn’t lost,” you sighed heavily and pushed your empty glass away. “They didn’t send one, because I’m not invited. Because he doesn’t want me there.”
For once in his life, Steve was silent. Speechless. He stared at the side of your face until he made a sucking sound with his tongue behind his teeth.
“Nope. There’s no way that’s true.” He shook his head. “He actually said that?”
“Not in so many words,” you muttered.
Steve’s strong brow pinched, his handsome features furrowed, tongue poking against the inside of his cheek and then slipping out past his lips as he tussled with that bit of information.
“I don’t buy it,” he said, shaking his head again. You rolled your eyes.
“He said she doesn’t want me there. Except I’ve never even met her, so clearly it must be him.”
Your words started to wobble the longer you spoke, and you had to swallow the rest before they came spewing out of you like that shot nearly did. Steve picked up his beer and stared at it, his lips still pursed as he thought. It was the most pensive you’d ever seen him.
“Well…maybe she’s intimidated,” he offered after a long pause, punctuated by a swig of beer.
“She’s got a fucking Oscar, Steve,” you snapped. “In what universe would I intimidate her?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you and he were like conjoined twins your entire lives? If he’s told her anything about his life before California, you can be damn sure your name came up.”
You scoffed, rapidly blinking your eyes as more tears stung behind them, threatening to spill over. Most of the town, much like Steve, thought if they ever saw a Save the Date with Eddie’s name on it, yours would be the one written alongside it.
But you and Eddie were just friends.
Nothing more.
“He’s not—”
“Right, right,” Steve sighed, waving his beer back and forth, his eyes rolling back, “he’s not, you’re not, there’s nothing going on, yadda yadda.”
“Well, there’s not,” you snarled sourly. Never had been, never would be. “We’re just friends.”
Steve’s brow arched. “You and I are friends, and you wouldn’t be sitting here cutting your whiskey with tears if you weren’t invited to my wedding.”
“Like anyone would ever marry you,” you sniped.
The skin around Steve’s hazel eyes crinkled with a smile, seemingly pleased he managed to draw out that little attitude you always saved just for him.
“Well, then it sounds to me like there’s only one thing left to do,” Steve said.
You turned your head with a questioning glance and watched as he pushed his own shot in front of you. With a resigned sigh, you wrapped your hand around it and knocked it back.
Another slice right down the middle.
“C’mon, champ. Time to get you home,” Steve said, lifting one of your limp arms and draping it over his stupid broad shoulder to help you to your feet, bracing you against him as you swayed.
Last call had long since come and gone. And between Steve’s credit card and Peg’s soft spot for you, you had most definitely been over served. The formerly near-empty bar was now completely deserted—tabs all closed, stools all placed on top of tables, drunks all carted away for the night.
With one notable exception.
“No,” you whined weakly against Steve’s chest as he hoisted you up. “Don’wannagohome.”
“Well, you can’t stay here,” he said, shooting Peg a grateful smile en route to the door.
You grumbled some more as you tried to get your feet to cooperate in spite of your brain’s decision to abandon them. “Steve, really—please, not home. Anywhere else. Anywhere.”
Even in your current state, you knew you couldn’t be trusted within dialing distance of your phone. You would almost certainly say something you regretted, and maybe even moreso, you were terrified to see whether or not Eddie called.
Honestly, it was tough to say which would be worse—returning home to a slew of missed calls and texts you didn’t trust yourself to answer; or the just as unbearable absence of them.
Steve helped you walk across the gravel parking lot to his car and opened up the rear door. With what little control you had left of your limbs, you climbed into the backseat and tried not to think too much about how many girls he’d had back here in much more compromising positions.
The world went horizontal as you slumped over on your side and you pinched your eyes shut in a vain attempt to stop it from spinning like a merry-go-round. The car jostled as Steve climbed into the driver’s seat up front and cranked the engine, revving it to get heat flowing through the vents.
“Steve?”
Your voice is tiny. Quiet as a pin dropping in the dark as snow began to fall outside the windows. Steve’s head swiveled to look back at you and his jaw clenched at the sight. Your head hung off the edge of his backseat, your neck barely able to hold it up. Your face was lit only by the lone streetlight overhead that reflected off the wet trails of tears streaming down your cheeks.
“Yeah?” he asked.
You inhaled a stilted breath, bottom lip quivering. It’s the smallest you’ve ever felt.
Smaller even than when you were a little kid and fell off of the shoddily constructed “treehouse” you and Eddie made together, thinking it was the worst pain you’d ever feel in your whole life.
More tears leaked out of your eyes, dripping off your chin. With a shaky exhale, you finally asked the question that had been running rampant around the inside of your head all night.
Longer, actually. If you were really being honest with yourself.
“Is he really gonna marry her?”
Steve made as little noise as possible as he shuffled down the hallway, passing the guest room after stopping at the door to listen for the sound of your gentle snoring on the other side.
You’d agreed to sleep at his house without nearly as much cajoling Steve anticipated, even going so far as to whisper a quiet thank you to him as you pulled the comforter up to your neck.
To say you were in a rare state last night would be putting it lightly.
He had never seen you so upset in all the time he’d known you and he could count the number of times he’d seen you cry on one hand, with four fingers left over. If there was a list of people you would have chosen to confide in about all this, Steve wouldn’t have made the alternates.
And yet it was his shoulder you cried on as he helped you inside his parent’s house. His was the name you gurgled out as you tried desperately not to vomit up everything you had drunk on an empty stomach. His was the hand that rubbed your back when you finally curled up in bed.
How things would go this morning, though, Steve didn’t have the faintest idea.
He’d just put the coffee on to brew when his parent’s landline started to ring and he sprinted into the living room to snatch up the receiver. No one ever called that number anymore except for a few former clients and colleagues of his father’s who hadn’t got the memo the Harringtons had long since relocated to the city, leaving both Hawkins and their son in the rearview.
“Harrington residence,” Steve chirped.
“Hey, man. It’s Eddie.”
“Oh. Hey. How, um…how are you?”
“I’m, uh…I’m okay. Listen,” he sighed, “I have kind of a weird favor.”
Eddie promptly launched into his rendition of what happened, giving Steve an abridged version of the events he had heard your side of last night. Eddie hit most of the same points as you, but he didn’t give much more than a vague explanation of what exactly had upset you to begin with.
And he ended it all with a heavy, labored sigh.
“I’ve been calling all night trying to reach her, but she isn’t picking up. I just need to know she’s ok. Can you…I mean, would you mind going over there and checking on her?”
Steve’s tongue pushed against his teeth. “Ahhh…so, here’s the thing. She’s actually here.”
“Here?” Eddie echoed. “Here where?”
“At my place. With me.”
The line crackled as Eddie fell silent on the other end. Like he couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard. Like Steve had suddenly started speaking a foreign language.
“She’s with you?” he said finally. “She’s there?”
Before Steve could answer, he caught some movement out of the corner of his eye. He zeroed in on your form as you shuffled down the hallway into the kitchen to pour yourself a cup of coffee.
You actually looked a lot more cognizant than he expected. There was still some mascara smudged beneath your eyes, but the black trails left on your cheeks had been washed away. A curious look on your face, you held up the coffee pot and raised a brow, wordlessly asking if he wanted a cup.
Steve’s thumb came up to his lip and he took the nail between his teeth, gnawing on it.
He was positive you had no idea who was currently on the phone. You would have run over and yanked the receiver out of the wall if you did. As it is, you just stared back at Steve blankly.
The plan forms rapidly in his head—not really a plan, per se, more like a nebulous outline of one. And before he knows it, or before he can think better of it, he’s inhaling sharply into the phone.
“Yeah,” he said firmly, eyes still locked on yours. “We’ve been seeing each other.”
letting this one out of the vault because a) I like it and I can do what I want, and b) idk, I guess it’s sort of my goodbye. I don’t feel particularly inspired to write anything new, and I haven’t in quite some time. I originally saw this as a series, but I’m going to say there won’t be any more of this coming.
i'm not leaving leaving, i'll still be scrolling and reading when I can, but I feel like it would be disingenuous to act like any day now I'm gonna be cranking out a new series or updates.
I truly love everything i’ve got to make on here, and I'll never forget the feeling of creating them, the words flying out of my fingers, scenes taking shape in my head faster than I could get it down on the page. I'll never not miss it, I think. And I'm so grateful for all the people I've gotten to know through our writing and all the stupid, silly fun we've had <3
Again, I'm not going anywhere, I just felt like it was something I needed to say. Love-love-love-love you, mean it.
actually in the beautiful rolling hills of my mind jonathan and eddie fucking is troublesome because they definitely both assumed the other was gonna top. so that's kind of awkward. which turns into bickering until they decide to just do hand stuff quick and dirty to get it over with. and it isn't even satisfying cause they pissed each other off. they will never again meet eyes for more than .5 seconds at a larger friend group function and no one but nancy will ever notice this.
Make the Ko-Fi, Dathie. You deserve your admirers and lovers of your work showering u in treats 💘
stop you're too sweet! 😭💞💞 i'm gonna try to hold off a little longer and see if it works out cause it might be alright but i appreciate knowing that y'all support me like that 🖤🖤🖤
guys. Guys please you're allowed to say big boy words. please we cannot keep just rolling with the sanitization of every space on the internet ok. you're allowed to say suicide. you're allowed to say porn. they're not bad words, they're just words.
also by ''censoring'' the words with silly spellings you're actually making it much harder for people to filter out. please just say Sex you don't have to call it woohoo like it's the fucking sims. i promise the Word Police aren't going to arrest you
fate, up against your will (unwillingly mine) | chapter 8
eddie munson x goth!reader.
based on the plot of 10 things i hate about you. in his desperation to go out with chrissy cunningham, jason carver makes the freak of hawkins an offer he can't refuse.
summary: carver lays out his least sensible demand yet. 4.8k words
warnings: no warnings for this one!
a/n: chapters from here on will be a little shorter—i've decided to cut the rest of the story into smaller parts, so we're looking at 12 chapters rather than 10 now! as always, lmk if you wanna be added to the taglist.
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8
fic directory
─── ⋆⋅🔮⋅⋆ ────
“…What the hell is wrong with you?”
Every face in Hellfire beams a different sentiment straight into Eddie’s tired eyes. Gareth, the first to react, is clearly outraged—he decides to take the question as rhetorical. Doug seems to be halfway immersed in his typical processing state of deep, philosophical perplexity, his soda can stalled on its way towards his mouth. Jeff is reservedly curious; expressive of a fuller understanding that probably reads as mild bemusement to the others. And Val, with one thin eyebrow quirked, looks somewhere in the realm of detached skepticism.
The version of Friday night's events that Eddie grudgingly recounted was, naturally, heavily abridged. Even if it wouldn't be a huge breach of trust and act of general assholishness to detail the extent of your suffering and the blushing, mind-altering closeness that came from it, every fiber in his body compels him to guard it like a new toy in the hand of a spoiled child. Tight-fisted, blindly possessive, not far from neurotic—for no one else to tarnish with their grubby hands or even fucking look at. He couldn't even bring himself to mention the kiss.
“You mean, she invited you upstairs—into her bedroom—and you said no?”
Lips sucked between his teeth, Eddie gives one decisive nod.
Gareth's entire face crumples—the horror of confirmation evidently too much to bear. “You’re out of your mind. She hates your guts every other day. What if that was your only chance?”
Eddie's entire face tightens. “My only chance to do what, man?”
That gets him an eye-roll. “To—”
“Don’t answer that,” Val advises sharply—or it might’ve been more of a threat.
“...I mean, he kinda has a point,” Doug chimes in, and goes pale as every pair of eyes lands on him.
Jeff's eyes narrow in a squint. “Does he?”
Dougie balks and throws a nervous glance towards Eddie as he finally sets his soda down. “Not— Well— It’s just, I thought you really liked her.”
Eddie can't admit to him that he really, really does; the roiling guilt in his stomach flares up again and blocks his throat.
“Why the hell do I even hang out with you dweebs?” Val groans. “She was drunk. Maybe he was trying not to be a total dickhead asshole.”
Eddie knew he was doing the right thing—which is why it sucked so incredibly bad to do it—but hearing Val corroborate the fact definitely helps him breathe a little deeper.
“He said she sobered up!”
“Sober and sobered-up are two different things."
"Yeah, but she invited him."
"Exactly," Val drones, gesturing broadly towards Eddie; speaking a little louder than he would prefer. "She only barely tolerates him for weeks on end, and suddenly, she wants him in her bedroom? She clearly wasn't thinking straight." And, with an apologetic glance: "No offense."
Only a little bit taken; Eddie has a hard time believing it himself.
"Maybe it was a test," Doug suggests.
“Well, how did she react?” Jeff interjects, addressing Eddie directly enough to catch him off guard.
"Huh?"
"When you declined."
I don't know is what first comes to mind, misleading though it may be. It's not like he saw your face as he said it. But the regrettable truth of your feelings on the matter is clear as day; if not from the way you hissed at him and slammed two doors as you went, then certainly from the treatment he received bright and early this morning. Waiting at your locker felt like a step too far, so he didn't—instead, he ran into you by accident, walking down the hall in opposite directions. He startled at the sight of you, peeping out your name on instinct, but the encounter didn't faze you in the slightest, nor did you spare him a glance. Far beyond the silent treatment, it was like he simply didn't exist, and his heart sinks a few inches in his chest at the memory.
Eddie sighs. “…She’s, uh— she’s pissed again.”
Gareth’s head falls mournfully into his hands. Across the table, Val's keen eyes press into a squint, like she's put together on her own that he isn't telling the full story. At least she seems to be the only one.
"What are you gonna…?"
Dougie's question trails off, and it takes Eddie a moment to process that everyone's eyes have drifted pointedly over his shoulder with an array of baffled expressions. As soon as it does, a beam of wishful thinking his him right between the eyes, and he whips his head around to find—
Jason Carver. Looming murderously over him.
For what feels like a full minute, Eddie can only gape at him, heart pounding, projecting telepathically the burning question, What the fuck is fucking wrong with you, you demented asshole? on a never-ending loop. Thankfully, in the continued stubborn dormancy of his psionic powers, this remains a screeching inside thought until Carver deigns to break the menacing silence.
"We need to talk."
…He's going to beat his ass. This is the instinctual assumption, but Eddie brushes it away just as quick. Not here and now, with an entire cafeteria full of witnesses, in perfect view of all the lunch ladies. Now, he's going to escort him somewhere else to beat his ass—that's a much more rational thought, but his logical mind has a hard time believing that, either. There are plenty of opportunities throughout the school day to isolate and bludgeon him more discreetly and avoid the half-hearted reprimand that might come with being caught doing so, and right here and now might be the least ideal of them all.
Plus, technically speaking, he's outnumbered. Jason came alone (though his fellow sportsmen across the room aren't exactly out of reach), and Eddie's got every warrior of blazing spirit and questionable prowess in Hellfire right here beside him. So, no, Carver isn't here to hurt him. He's here—personally, unexplainably, and wildly incriminatingly—to piss him off and psych him out.
Eddie takes a deep, deep breath and stands up from his seat.
"Eddie?"
"What the—?"
"Can it," Eddie blurts out on instinct, loud enough to cut short the uproar. He attempts to show with his eyes that there's no cause for concern, but it's anyone's guess how it lands. His face isn't quite as good at lying as his mouth is. "…It's fine. Just…give me a minute."
Another little outcry begins as Eddie turns to follow, and the last thing he hears before the angry throbbing of his head drowns out all other noise is the firm deescalation of Jeff's steady voice.
"Hey, it's cool. Ed can handle himself."
It sort of works on Eddie, too. He can handle himself; whatever bullshit Carver's cooked up for him today is nothing he hasn't learned to deal with.
He leads him straight outside, along the brick-faced exterior to a lower-traffic end of the school, on the far side from the parking lot out front. Eddie can't keep his head from twitching around the same way it always does when he's keeping this unsavory company out in broad daylight. Your lunchtime whereabouts aren't nearly as consistent and predictable as his own—you could be fucking anywhere.
When the distance or location has satisfied Jason's incoherent needs, he stops in place, turns around, and stares. It isn't an angry look, or at least not any more so than the typical sneer that he wears in Eddie's presence. More than anything, it strikes him as analytical; combing through Eddie's intense yet fiercely suppressed discomfort in search of…something.
Eddie swallows thickly. He considers asking how things are going with Chrissy, just to pop the disturbing tension bubble building in pressure around them, but whether or not it serves the proper function probably depends on the answer to that question, and after the abrupt and careless parting that Eddie all but fostered on Friday night, he figures it's probably best not to risk it. Instead, he waits; chewing on his cheek, staring right back at him with the steadiest eyes he can manage.
"…I'm taking Chrissy to prom."
Eddie blinks. "…That's uh— That's great, man," he offers blandly, hoping to God this isn't leading where it almost certainly is.
Carver's eyes turn shifty. "…She doesn't know it yet," he goes on pointedly. "But I'm gonna ask her, and I already know what she's gonna say."
Eddie's head falls forward; he ducks his chin in a reluctant nod. Jesus fucking Christ. If he couldn’t even sell you on the party, how the hell is he going to make prom seem like a remotely attractive proposition? Let alone a convincing desire of his own in the first place. Evidently reading his mind, Carver lets out a harsh breath through his nose and takes a generous step forward that whips Eddie's head right back up in alarm.
"I don't want the two of you there spreading your disease any more than you do. But I'm taking her to prom. …Stand in the corner all night for all I care, but you're gonna convince her cousin to go with you, and you're gonna stay the hell away from us."
He barely stifles a scoff—as if Eddie's the one prone to stalking and bothering him.
But there's something odd about this; about Carver. This doesn't feel like the same raging, superior asshole who waved his inexhaustible cash in his face and taunted him for trying to cling to some semblance of morality. He seems…strained. Too plainly desperate to entertain his usual power trip.
"…Prom is gonna be a hard sell," Eddie dares to nudge back.
"Obviously."
"And, I mean, you and Chrissy are juniors. …I'm just saying, there's always next year. Her cousin probably won't be much of an obstacle once she's graduated."
Jason squints his eyes at him like that's the dumbest shit he's heard all week. "We're going this year to plant the seeds for homecoming court in the fall, which'll give us a good shot at king and queen for next year's prom," he lays out irritably. "But I don't expect you to comprehend this sort of thing." He's right not to; he really fucking doesn't.
Eddie didn't realize that Carver's plot to date Chrissy was such a serious, multi-year endeavor. He figured he'd be off the hook come graduation—assuming he manages to graduate, a question he's been avoiding like the plague lately—but the thought of getting dragged around by the nose by this maniac indefinitely spills a cold, concentrated drop of panic into his guts. If it didn't end when he started dating Chrissy, nor will it when he takes her to prom, and maybe not even when you and him cease to attend the goddamn school, then when the hell will it?
He's so caught up in pondering this dark, depressing spiral, that he doesn't even notice Jason taking out his wallet until he's waving a sickly green wad of cash in his face.
"Take it."
Eddie's stomach, churning and quivering, finds room to drop even lower. He glances around and over his shoulder on instinct and rapidly shakes his head. "No, man, I don't— I still have—"
"It'll cover the cost of tickets," he speaks over him. "More than that. A…tux rental, corsage—"
"Seriously, Carver, I don't need it, I don't—"
He just speaks louder, drowning him out. "You're not gonna try and tell me that you can't afford it, or that you—"
"I can afford it," Eddie insists with building stress, "and I don't—"
"I don't care!" Jason shouts—the sound of it seems to echo off the wall, and Eddie hopes it wasn't audible from the inside. "I'm sure you have more than enough drug money stuffed under your filthy goddamn mattress to take that basket case to prom. I don't care. I'm not giving this to you out of the kindness of my heart. This is a contract, Munson. You accept it, and you do what I say."
For a moment, Eddie can only focus on his breathing, in and out and in and out, doing everything in his power not to blow a gasket of his own in retaliation. He can barely open his mouth before Jason cuts back in—seeing right through him.
"There's no backing out of it," he mocks. "…You're in too deep, and you know it. You think I don't know how you feel about her?"
And then Carver reaches out, grabs a fistful of his shirt collar to yank him in closer, and spits the words right in his face.
"You're taking her to prom. So take. The goddamn. Money."
Pulse pounding at his temples, Eddie snatches up the hateful cash and crushes it in his fist. As soon as Jason lets go of him, he scuttles back a few steps to regain some breathing room and stuffs the contract into his right pocket.
"You've got…serious fucking issues, man," he mutters through is teeth, and it's a verifiable miracle that that's all he says.
Carver's scoff almost sounds like a laugh. "Coming from you, that's goddamn hilarious."
Then, Eddie makes the silly mistake of taking that as the natural conclusion of this hellish interaction and tries to swiftly escape. He should know by now that he isn't free to go until he's been dismissed.
"I'm not done," Jason snaps. Eddie stops in place; tips his head back in disbelief and turns back halfway. "…I want you to stay the hell away from Chrissy."
He squints his eyes shut to mask the way they roll—like he hasn't heard this one before.
"Don't look at her. Don't speak to her. I know you aren't stupid enough to touch her. If she steps into a room, you leave that room. You understand?"
His teeth grit so hard that they slip, and his mouth drops idiotically open. "Might be kinda fuckin' hard, y'know, dating her cousin."
"I'm not joking with you, Munson. You don't get it."
Whatever that means. "Maybe you don't get it."
Abruptly as a trigger pull, Jason snaps. He lunges at him, grabs two violent handfuls of his vest collar, and, as Eddie cries out in shock, he shoves him up against the brick wall hard enough to bounce his head off of it; sharp knuckles digging in beneath his collarbones, keeping him pinned down.
"Fuck!" Eddie's hands fly up as if to cradle his head, but he can't. They wrap tight around Carver's wrists instead, his rings clinking against the face of his watch, but as hard as he pulls, they won't budge.
"Listen to me," Jason snarls, wide-eyed. "…Chrissy isn't like you. Chrissy isn't even like her. I don't care what…perverted, satanistic bullshit you and your girlfriend do behind closed doors, but if either of you…taint a single goddamn hair on her innocent head, it'll be the last thing you ever do."
Eddie's eyes blow wide open. He's made sense of the ridiculous situation he's found himself in largely by referring to its perpetrator as a lunatic, a madman, a psychopath, and a nutjob, among other colorful names, but the truth is, Eddie never really thought he was anything more than an entitled, thick-headed, power-hungry asshole—the kind that this school (and Hawkins at large) is absolutely swimming in. But right now, in this moment, lightly concussed or not, he starts to wonder for the first time if Jason Carver really is every bit as deranged as he seems.
"I got it, man," Eddie hisses through the pounding of his head. "Fucking—Christ, I got it!"
Frigid eyes sweeping over his face, Jason rips his hands away from him and, once again, stares. With pure, sick disdain, he stares and stares until Eddie knows he won't be able to fend off the urge to shout at him for much longer, and finally, with both hands stuffed into his letterman's pockets, Carver turns and leaves like he was never there at all.
What Eddie should probably do is go back to the cafeteria to make sure his friends can see definitively that he's made it out of his abduction alive and well, but as wound up and nauseated as he already is, with this stabbing pain in his (thankfully not split-open) head, nothing in the world sounds more aggravating than trying to explain why Jason Carver felt so comfortable ominously demanding his presence in the first place.
Instead, he heads back to his van; fishes Piece of Mind out of the glove box and sets the stereo as loud as he can without risk of some meddling staff or faculty member banging on the door and shouting at him to turn it down; spreads himself out in the back of his van with his face stuffed in a scratchy old blanket, and waits for the buzzing and pulsating and the piercing goddamn bomb sirens in his brain to calm down. Or, for the lunch bell to ring. Whichever comes first.
…
Eddie spends the entire last ten minutes of sixth period halfway out of his chair, primed and poised to eject himself out of it as soon as the last bells cuts through Mrs. Howell's sleepy monotone. Restless as he is, he manages to anticipate it—he's already standing when the bell rings, and he makes it most of the way to your desk before anyone else has even left their seat.
You know he's there, obviously—there's no subtle way to throw your entire body across the room with the speed and urgency that he just did—but as he stands before your front-row desk, you don't even look up from it, taking your sweet time to pack your things back into your bag. When he says your name, you don't even twitch.
"…I'm sorry," he tries. "For treating you like that, being an asshole, but…I guess you know that already."
You ignore him entirely. Eddie nods to himself.
"Yeah, I kinda figured you'd, um…not wanna talk to me. Deserved, totally, I get it. It's, um… I mean, fuck me, right? You don't have to talk to me. But I can…explain myself, when you're ready. If you actually wanna…hear it. Or, y'know, I could just…skip ahead to the groveling, if that would— If you'd— If you want that. Sorry, my head's a little…" He gestures vaguely at himself, and doesn't bother to explain beyond that.
Still nothing whatsoever, but you are waiting for him to finish, he notes. Eddie purses his lips and sighs and sets a piece of ripped paper, folded in half, onto the desk in front of you. Your downcast eyes drag towards it without enthusiasm.
"…That's my number," he explains. "In case you ever…wanna talk, outside of school, or if you…need anything. Seriously. I work on Tuesday, Thursday, and…Saturday nights, and, uh— Hellfire meets on Fridays. But if you call after, like…ten-thirty, eleven on any night, I'll be there."
Your moody stare flits a little higher; nowhere near his face, but maybe enough to meet eyes with the undead Eddie on his Iron Maiden tee. Then, without a word, you slap your palm down onto the desk, crumple the piece of paper in your fist, and slip out of your chair to join all the other students filtering out of the room. The closest thing he gets to a goodbye is the swift brush of your arm against his as you go.
And despite it all, Eddie smiles. He really wasn't sure you'd actually take it.
This time, when Eddie spots Jeff leaning against his van from across the parking lot, it’s a sight for sore eyes—his entire body sags in relief. Keeping all of this bullshit swirling around in his mind alone has had it on the verge of caving in.
He doesn’t bother with pleasantries.
“I’m fucked, Jeff,” he announces as he unlocks the van.
Jeff cocks his head aside with a thin smile. “Yeah, I…kinda figured.”
Inside, Eddie turns the music off for once. His tired eyes flicker compulsively around, catching on any flashes of green that streak through his line of sight; watching out, probably needlessly, for anyone approaching, sneaking up on him. Just in case Jason decides to teach him even more of a lesson than he already did—to make sure this week's "request" really hits home. He even watches for you, in the near-impossible event that you've changed your mind on your vow of silence and decided to roll in like a storm cloud and verbally (maybe physically?) rip him a new one, but that's probably more in the realm of romantic fantasy than vigilant self-preservation.
"What'd Jason want?"
Eddie forces a tense exhale through his nose. "…Prom."
"Shit," Jeff breathes.
"Yeah."
“What you said at lunch,” he goes on. “About the party, and everything. ...Is that really what happened, or…?”
“Mostly,” Eddie sighs. “I mean, she was— It isn’t— Christ, it doesn’t matter. But this shit is getting…serious, Jeff. Like really fucking serious.”
“What do you mean?”
“She likes me," he drops, one finger tapping against the wheel like a woodpecker's beak. "A lot, I think, for some fucking reason, and I like her—a lot. I’m not pretending with her, not in the slightest. And I…don’t know what the fuck to do about it.”
He doesn't seem overly concerned. “Well, this isn’t the first time you’ve pissed her off. And if she really likes you so much—”
“No, it’s not that.” Eddie feels awful for treating you like that, sure, and yeah, you're pretty mad at him, but after everything else that happened that night, he isn’t especially worried he’ll lose you entirely over it. “It’s…Carver.”
“What about him? Is he still paying you?”
Eddie winces at the reminder—the cash in his pocket is singeing his thigh. “…He got what he wanted, y’know? What this was supposed to be about. He’s dating Chrissy Cunningham. But it’s…not enough for him, I guess, and he's out of his fucking mind, and he won’t— He’s not gonna cut me loose until he’s satisfied, but I don’t even know if that’s possible, and I just want it to end. More than…fucking anything, I want it to be over. I mean, fuck, Jeff, if I…piss him off badly enough, and he says 'fuck it all' and decides to tell her…”
Jeff's face drops into a deep frown. “You haven’t told her yet?”
A pang of startled irritation whips Eddie right in the side of his battered head. “...No, I haven’t told her," he spits, shoulders tensing up. "Jesus, how the fuck would I even—?”
“If you’re worried about Carver telling her your business, you already know what you gotta do, man,” Jeff reasons—he makes it sound so simple. “He can’t hold that over you if you tell her yourself."
On a few separate occasions now, Eddie has wanted desperately and tried and failed to tell Wayne about the situation and solicit some older and wiser advice to put it all into perspective. What always trips him up is the deep, stomach-churning terror of sparking one simple thought in his uncle's head: he really is his father's son. He wouldn't say it aloud; it wouldn't even show on his face, but Eddie would know that it's there, and once it's taken root, there's no pruning it. Jeff's ear is helpful and does a lot in maintaining his sanity, but he isn't living through it all the way that Eddie is—he doesn't know you the way that Eddie is growing to. And because of that, because no one but him can see every piece of this nightmarish puzzle, he's pretty much resigned himself to figuring it out on his own.
So Eddie doesn't have to think about it; he drives himself crazy trying and failing to talk himself out of it every night, and not even Jason's unhinged extortion can do much to change his mind—it only digs his grave all the deeper. What's really hard is psyching himself up to expose this private shame of his to the light of day.
“...I don’t think I can.”
“What do you mean?”
“...It’s too late. If I was ever going to tell her, I should’ve done it— I should’ve done it fucking weeks ago, man.”
Jeff only stares at him, puzzled. Eddie braves a quick glance before staring firmly out the window.
“I mean, Chrissy is her cousin, and— and she cares about her,” he goes on; eyes glazing over, head spinning as words fly off his tongue like tape reel. “A lot. Enough to suffer that…miserable fucking party just so she could go. If I had told her upfront about Jason’s batshit fucking plan, maybe she would’ve gone along with it—for Chrissy’s sake—and we would’ve laughed about how fucking stupid it all was and split the fucking money and maybe we still could’ve hung out and shit, but instead I was a stupid, selfish fucking dirtbag, and I—”
“Eddie, man,” Jeff interrupts. “I get it. Shit could’ve gone way differently, but it is what it is. The best thing you can do now is just tell her the truth. …The deal, the way you feel about her, everything. Cause if you don’t come clean and she finds out on her own, it’s gonna look a hell of a lot worse for you.”
It's not what he wants to hear, not at all. He just doesn't get it.
“...She trusts me,” Eddie gasps. “Do you realize how…fucking insane it is that she trusts me? If I tell her, that’s it. It’s not— She’s never gonna— I’m fucked, Jeff. If I tell her, it’ll be over, and I can’t…do that.”
Jeff just gives him a look. Sympathetic, skin-crawling.
“I mean, I wouldn’t fucking forgive me, man." It rings out low and thick, caught halfway in his throat; he tries to subtly clear it out, worried Jeff would mistake him for choked up. "…How the hell could I expect her to?”
“You can’t. But you can give her the chance to.”
"…And even if Carver did try to tell her, why the hell would she believe him?" Eddie goes on. "It's not like we signed an actual goddamn contract. He doesn't have any more proof than I do."
Unless Chrissy is in on it, it occurs to him, and his blood runs instantly cold. But she couldn't be, right? There's no way that sweet Chrissy could be involved in deceiving you like this, not just to date Jason fucking Carver, and why the hell would he take such a risk by telling her? But Eddie doesn't know her, and if there's one person who's testimony you'd implicitly trust, it has to be hers. If you really are the only one that doesn't know, then Eddie has…utterly no leg to stand on. No insurance, no leverage. He's well and truly fucked.
"…Sure," Jeff grants. "Fine. Maybe she doesn't believe him. Maybe he never even tells her.
“But, I mean…are you really gonna be able to just…hide that from her, forever? You’re gonna look at her face every day, remember how the hell it all started, and wish to God you had just told her, man.”
Eddie's hands wrap tight around the steering wheel. He bites down hard on his lip; the only thing restraining him from asking his dear friend to please get the fuck out of his van right now. Jeff goes mercilessly on.
“You don’t think she’ll realize at some point that you’re keeping something from her? Sorry to say, but…it’s pretty goddamn obvious when you’re brooding over something, Ed.”
Eddie rolls the fuck out of his eyes. He gets the sense that Jeff has to fight back a snicker.
“...I mean, subtlety just isn't your thing.”
“Got it, Jeff," he grits out. "I got it.”
"I'm just saying, man," punctuates his irritating case.
"…Whatever," Eddie decides. His brain is in no state to reassess right now either way. All he can think about is laying face-down on his bed, passing out for a few hours, and then waiting like a sucker for a phone call that isn't coming. "…Maybe. But I can't tell her shit until I convince her to speak to me again, anyway."
"Alright," Jeff relents with a laugh. "And how are you gonna do that?"
Eddie heaves out a sigh and rubs the heel of his palm against his pounding temple. "…I've got a few ideas."
-
thanks for reading! feedback is always welcome 💞 if you liked my story, please like/comment/reblog!
okay hold on 😭😭 lets not turn dathie's blog into discourse central, i am stressed out enough as is. obviously i'm always a proponent of don't like don't read and block and move on, but when an instance of genuine lesbophobia is implicated, ppl are allowed to be upset about that. any instance of a lesbian character (note, a character with no free will beyond the author's—not a real life person with all the contradictions and fluidities and free will therein) being depicted as having sex with a man and enjoying it is way too close to the "correction" trope for comfort, particularly when not written by a lesbian themselves, which is why i will not be reading it and will be blocking the author, and i encourage those of you who would be upset by that to do the same.
I just read a fic where someone wrote about robin (a canon lesbian) having sex with eddie and i'm a little disgusted, is it too bad? am I a bad person?
HUH⁉ um definitely not, that sounds very disturbing and super lesbophobic
