Three Goblin Art
Sade Olutola
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
PR's Tumblrdome
YOU ARE THE REASON
𓃗
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
izzy's playlists!
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
cherry valley forever
Today's Document
Not today Justin
almost home
One Nice Bug Per Day
Origami Around
tumblr dot com
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
blake kathryn
Kaledo Art
taylor price
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Portugal
seen from Italy
seen from South Africa
seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from Poland
seen from Kenya
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@digwhatudug
greetings and salutations
welcome! my name is lizzie (or liz, or libby), please make yourself at home—unless you’re a minor, then i kindly ask you to move along. blank/ageless blogs will be blocked.
some things about me! i'm 23. my pronouns are they/she. i'm fairly new to tumblr. i used it way back in the day but i'm much more familiar with twitter now and i'm still adjusting (so please bear with me.)
i'm multifandom! my main fandoms are stranger things and marvel— more specifically eddie munson, steve harrington, robin buckley, matt murdock and bucky barnes. some of my other fandoms include the batman, star wars, and the last of us. i also enjoy wallows (peep the user), harry styles, and djo.
my writing? i used to write fanfiction for a couple years as a teen and was super into it. I lost motivation for it for a long while but i've recently become inspired and i'm taking another stab at it. nothing to share yet, everything is still very bare bones but i hope to share something soon!
#94 sTEEEEEB
oh i am SO excited about this one. it's been too long since i've written for our boy steve 🫶
#94 - "JUDAS" BY LADY GAGA
“I couldn't love a man so purely, even prophets forgave his goofy way. I've learned love is like a brick, you can build a house or sink a dead body."
warnings: smut, oral (f receiving), fem!reader (or at least mentions of wearing lip gloss and a dress), use of whore as an insult, sort of enemies to lovers? sort of forbidden love? honestly the plot is only half-baked i just wanted porn. 18+, minors dni.
wc: 2.8k+
“If your daddy finds out about this, he’ll kill us both.”
It’s spoken through muffled syllables, lips tight against your neck as you feel his stubble scratching the sensitive surface of your skin.
Your hand travels up, fingers combing through soft and wavy hair as you whisper out, “If he finds out, and he won’t.”
Bold words and sharp assumptions given your current predicament. Steve Harrington, heir to the Harrington Estate, hovering over your body. The son of the man your father hates most in the world, and he’s currently spinning a secret language across every inch of your bare skin. A painting of harsh kisses and fading teeth marks, his hands gripping every inch of the forbidden enemy below him.
The weight of him against the center of your pelvis is almost heavier than the weight of all the choices leading you up to this moment.
How many times had you been warned to play nice as the two of you had been raised in the same shark-infested waters? How many forced smiles had been almost-politely exchanged at galas? How many times had your mother rambled on about how that Harrington boy was nothing but trouble?
Not enough times, apparently, as your mother’s voice is the last on your mind as your nails scratch slowly down the center of Steve’s back, relishing the way he shivers and twitches under your dancing touch.
“What would they say if they saw you like this?” he chuckles, lifting his head to look you in your eyes, a gentle hand coming up to caress a line from your temple and down your cheek, “Their little princess, consorting with the enemy’s son?”
All the late nights spent listening to your father pace and complain about the Harrington business being in competition with his own. All the cursed names under the sun spit out in lieu of their actual names, muttered during late dinner arrivals.
“What about your parents, hm?” you sigh out, letting your palms press flat against his bare chest, running up to wrap shaking fingers around his throat. Not quite choking him, but simply a warning: if you wanted to, you could press the cherry red of your nail deeper into his skin. Draw blood, leave a mark. You won’t, but you could. “Their little golden boy, upstairs and on his knees for the little whore of the party.”
His eyes widen. Clearly, no one had realized you’d overheard Claire Harrington’s comment when your family had entered the current gathering buzzing below.
He rolls his eyes, “My mother’s a prude. Any woman wearing any dress above the knees is a whore.”
He returns to all his mitigations, his plump lips fiery against your skin as they continue on their previous trail. Over your jugular, across your collarbones, settling into your sternum. Entirely unbothered and still focused on one thing only.
“You’re right,” you breathe out wistfully, leaning your head back, a smug grin overtaking your face as he trails lower, “Besides, you’re not even on your knees yet.”
“I could be.”
He moves quickly, uncaring in his actions as he fumbles to lift up off the bed. The expensive comforter behind your back twists and scrunches in protest as he drops down to the ground, knees landing hard enough that it surely had to hurt. His hands grip your hips through the entire process, dragging you right with him until your legs are fully off the bed and your clothed center dangles right at the edge of the mattress.
“Is this how you want me, honey?” he grins up at you, shaking thighs bracketing each side of a shadowed face, all intentions twisting into something sinister by the dim lighting, “On my knees, begging for you?”
“I do. But I don’t hear much begging, Harrington.”
Sinister no longer covers it once the initial shock wears off.
“Oh?” he hums, hands creeping up your legs. His fingers tap against your ankle before sliding up a few paces, the rhythm going steady as his palms travel up, up, up. “Allow me to fix that, baby.”
His fingers dig into the meat of your upper thighs, tugging you even closer. You have no choice but to throw your arms out behind you as you partially collapse backwards, your entire body now shaking as you keep yourself held up to be aligned with his mouth. Every breath, almost mimicking laughs as he baits you, fans across the wet spot forming at the center of your lace crotch.
“Please,” he breathes out just as his nose presses against your mound, taking a deep breath, “Please, let me just taste you, honey. I bet you’re so sweet, so sweet,” you let out a little gasp, hips bucking a bit at his expert words, “You like that, yeah? You gonna be sweet for me, honey? Gotta live up to that pretty little name, don’t you?”
He knows how to get you riled up. He knows every string that laces your entire body, how to tighten and how to cut them loose. He’s had plenty of time to mesmerize this dance – a dozen different galas before to pull you into empty rooms, a hundred different nights to sneak away to indulge in you under pseudo names in the nicest hotels a few towns over. He can anticipate every jerk of your hips when his lips start to brush over your clit, even with fabric keeping his skin from yours. He knows which hand needs to keep a firm grip on your thigh, massaging it slowly as his thumb brushes closer and closer to the sensitive inner skin. His free arm works on autopilot as he throws it across your hips, planting you flat to the mattress as you mew out and he presses his tongue flatly against your weeping slit.
His spit, your wetness. It all becomes the same within the intricate lace pattern separating him from your cunt currently.
“I can taste it already, you know,” he keeps up the sweet talk and you feel his grin as he lets his cheek rest against your inner thigh, fluttering his lashes up at you, “Are you this easy for every golden boy walking around downstairs, pockets stuffed full of daddy’s money?”
The gala downstairs. You had entirely forgotten, transported into only this moment here and now with Steve.
Both your families, undoubtedly avoiding each other like the plague. His mother still gossiping about how short she thinks your dress is, your father snickering about the lacking details in Arthur Harrington’s suit. Bitter champagne on the tongue and even more bitter feelings on the brain.
Your father would kill you if he knew what you were doing up here.
Fraternizing with the supposed enemy.
“Golden boy?” you gasp out, trying to swallow down any desire. It’s a useless battle. “And what’s so golden about you right now? All the hickeys I left on your neck, or that wet spot on your pants from how excited you’re getting at just the sight of me?”
You don’t tell him how you’ve never taken an interest in any of the other sons of other supposed empires. You don’t mention how the rest of them hardly got more than a scoff from you all these years.
You don’t tell him how he’s become your one and only betrayal to the blood running through your veins.
He surprises you with a smack to the cunt.
“I don’t remember you being so mouthy during the last charity event.”
Your head rolls back with your laughter, “Guess I’m just in a mood tonight.”
“Is that so?” he questions, voice almost singing as he reaches up to the waistband of your panties. One finger hooks between it and your skin, pulling it out taut from your skin, “Guess that makes two of us.”
The snap after he lets go can be heard only in this room, only between these four walls. It’s sure to leave a mark.
“God,” it’s meant to be a groan of annoyance, but it’s more of a whine that leaves your glossy lips, “Just put your goddamn money where your mouth is or I swear to fucking God-”
Steve Harrington is many things. A brat, a golden boy, a nepo-baby to the highest degree just like yourself.
And he’s also an excellent listener.
You don’t feel his fingers tearing through the side strips of your underwear – all you suddenly feel is the slightest of cool breezes, and then his hot mouth on you.
Eager, wanting, patient. Within seconds, his tongue’s mitigations go through a myriad of options, and he’s more in tune with your body than you are yourself. He finds the pace you need quickly, finds the pressure and just how much enthusiasm would be your deal breaker tonight. Long and steady strides from slit to clit, firm but gentle with you as he tugs you nearly off the mattress and right onto his waiting lips. A dog at your windowsill, offering all he can give as he laps at you. A man on his knees, worshiping a divinity beyond comprehension.
Familiar politics no longer matter when he’s slipping two fingers into you and curling them harshly, lips locked around your sensitive clit.
“Mmm,” he hums against you, nuzzling even further against your heat. As if he might be able to bury himself there. As if he might be able to force you to feel his sudden devotion from the press of his nose against your sensitive bundle of nerves, “I was right.”
You open your mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a whimper as your hands try to snake down for his hair once more.
Right about what?
A silent question he must hear from your breathless begging for more.
“Sweeter than I remember,” he mumbles, unable to stop himself from beginning to kiss your cunt, tongue flicking out and making your body jump, “Always so sweet for me, baby.”
Your back arches at every curl of his fingers, legs somehow thrown over his shoulders in the daze until your heels are digging into his back. You need him closer, you want him closer.
There’s no such thing as too close. Not when he worships you like this.
Reciting prayers as his tongue circles your clit, raising you to a precipice that should damn your bloodline. When he has you teetering on the edge like this, it’s hard to not remember the thrill of it all. If someone, anyone, were to walk in and catch the two of you – you both lose everything.
He’s worth it. When he has you falling over the edge, body washed over in ecstasy only thought to exist in Heaven, he’s worth the damnation.
You don’t try to muffle the chants of his name as your hips jerk in rhythm with his tongue as you both ride out your high.
“Jesus,” you gasp out one final curse, still tasting his name on your tongue as your body falls limp against the mattress.
It takes Steve a second to crawl back up next to you, his knees surely sore as he grins, “Not quite. Steve, or Harrington, or golden boy will do just fine.”
You open your mouth, unsure if you even have energy left within your buzzing mind for a snarky retort, when a heavy knock sounds at the door.
“Hey, who’s in here? Upstairs is meant to be off-limits!”
You panic as Steve only rolls his eyes, turning his head towards the door as you try to sit up and find your discarded panties, still unaware that your golden boy had ripped them off.
“It’s Harrington!” Steve calls back, voice unwavering, “I’ll be down in a minute.”
His name works like magic.
No retorts, no further risk of trouble. There’s a whisper of some grumbles, and then receding footsteps, and still no sign of your panties.
“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, looking on the bed wildly, “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Are you lying on my panties? Move-”
You’re cut off by his snickers.
“What’s so fucking funny, Harrington?” you whisper harshly, standing with your arms crossed and glare set on the boy with a bit of wetness still shimmering on his chin. “Did you hide them, you asshole? Because if you did-”
“I ripped them, honey.”
Your arms drop immediately, a sharp breath taken, “Excuse me?”
“I,” he sits up, “Ripped,” he’s back on his knees, scooting across the bed, “Them.”
He stops just short of your reach, boyish charm radiating with smug satisfaction.
He has a nice smile. If it weren’t the anger simmering in your chest at finding out that he’d ripped one of your nicest pairs of lingerie, you might even tell him that.
“Fuck you,” you spit out. Or at least, you mean to. It’s more of a cross between spitting venom and a sigh of surrender.
He has a really, really nice smile.
“Later,” he laughs back, finally standing from the bed, pulling scraps of lace fabric out of his pocket just enough for you to catch sight of, “For now, we’ve got to go show our pretty faces downstairs, yeah?”
He has a nice laugh, too.
“What about my underwear?” you scoff, pulling down your dress until it brushes the top of your knees anyways.
“Only whores have panty lines. I saved you another snarky comment from my mother, if anything.”
He’s nice. He pisses you off, he infuriates you, but he makes you feel nice. It’s not just the afterglow of the orgasm he’s given you without any demand of returning the favor, it’s not just the glint in his eyes as he teases you and shoves his hands shyly in his pockets.
There’s a flash of something more in the air between you. A time and place where you met and your fathers weren’t at each other’s throats. An existence where you meet him out at some overcrowded bar rather than extravagant ballrooms, and you’d never heard of his last name until he tells it to you on a third date. A world where you bring him home and your parents' only first impression is all his charm that he puts into overdrive during dinner, no whispered rumors over wine tainting the image before them.
A lifetime where Steve Harrington is merely a salvation, and not also a sin.
“You’re right,” you smoothly reply, even if the words choke you. The invisible smoke only you clearly see between you and the boy who couldn’t be nice, who couldn’t be a simple salvation despite the way he elevates you to godhood time and time again. “You are buying me a new pair of those, though, Harrington.”
You almost say his name the way you would in that make believe space that isn’t quite here, isn’t quite now. Where a name is just a name.
“I’ll have them wrapped up with a bow and everything for you next time… honey.”
He almost says your name instead of some lewd nickname in place of what has been taught to be venomous to him.
He opens the door like a gentleman, he instructs you to return to the main showroom, he advises you to grab a glass of champagne to excuse the flush in your cheeks. No crowded bars, no proper dinners with your parents, no third dates.
It all evaporates like smoke and mirrors as you join your parents’ sides downstairs, tugging at the bottom seam of your dress and grabbing a crystal flute with a forced smile. You don’t even turn to look in the direction of his descent when he also joins his family.
But salvation remains. Even when faced with the reminder of damnation by the look on your father’s face.
“Can you believe that boy?” he gruffly asks, glaring in their direction, “Just waltzing back in here, like he hadn’t rudely disappeared for a good thirty minutes. Those Harringtons know no manners, I tell you.”
You hum in lackluster agreement, studying the rim of your glass, ignoring the twist in your chest.
“Where did you run off to, though, honey?” the nickname makes your back straighten up, memories of chills running up your spine as you glance up at your father suddenly.
“Oh, no where,” you flail a hand about, keeping steady breathing, playing an act you’ve rehearsed a million times, “I’d just heard a rumor that the Richardson’s garden fountains were larger than ours, and had to see for myself.”
“Were they?”
They have no idea.
“Not even close,” you laugh. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see your laughter has attracted the attention of a certain pair of warm brown eyes and wavy brown hair, set with hidden devotion only privy in private rooms. “What did I miss?”
Steve was right. If your father ever did find out, he was going to kill you both.
The Batman (2022) dir. Matt Reeves
are you scared yet?
welcome, ghouls and freaks, to my take on the infamous kinktober. follow along with me for the next five weeks as we go through all the dirtiest of fantasies (as well as some softness, because it's me) that october and this season can bring. no fictional character is safe, no kink unturned.
let's get horny spooky, friends.
WEEK 1: VAMPIRIC DESIRES
everyone knows i love a vampire, but just how much love can we show one of the best metaphors of all time for all-consuming love? let's find out.
WEEK 2: IS IT TOO MUCH?
because everyone loves a classic over-stimulation kink. but just how far can we take it?
WEEK 3: THE HUNT
category is: primal play. what better way to spend a perfect october evening than to be chased through the woods with your lover, heart pounding as you, the prey, feel the predator creeping closer and closer?
WEEK 4: SWEET LIKE CANDY
trick or treat! it's your lucky day: you get a treat. a brief intermission from all the smut, just to focus on all the possible cute scenarios we could get into with our favorite fictional characters.
WEEK 5: SOMEBODY'S WATCHING ME
did someone order voyeurism, with a side of threesomes? no? well, i did.
hello???
excuse me while i struggle to act normal at work rn
september love (e.m.)
eddie finds you awake on the first night he's home from the hospital, and wonders what you're thinking.
pairing: eddie munson x reader
warnings: mentions of canon ending of season 4, except eddie didn't die. mentions of hospital and medical procedures (in passing). sort of sad, sort of not. a little bit of angst? hurt/comfort. religious imagery (specific mentions of heaven).
wc: 1.7k+
an: this was just some sort of weird rambling upon seeing the poem mentioned above at like 11 pm? 1 am? who knows. time is a construct. also, reader is compared to a 'violent' dog/animal during eddie's recovery, and if you like this metaphor/vibe, then i strongly suggest and urge you to go read @myosotisa's fic Half Life. she does it far more beautifully than i ever could, and it is one of my favorite fics. ever.
Your head is on his chest.
Your temple and your ear are flush with the soft cotton of his wrinkled t-shirt, the one he insisted upon sleeping on his first night home, and it’s all you can think about. The smell of week old laundry, the stubborn linger of a cologne gifted too long ago to remember the worn name of. A steady heartbeat that still pumps along a little too slow for your liking. The rise and fall of each promised breath that you force your lungs to pace themselves with. Just enough heat radiating off of him to keep you warm, here in bed, here in the dim light of twilight as he rests.
No tubes and no IVs to worry about. No nurses barging in every ten minutes. No beeping of a dozen machines to be your symphony tonight.
No, you don’t need a machine now to keep track of his heart rate. You’ve learned to do that entirely on your own; your heart has learned how to match his with each dulled thump against the skin you cling to through this dingy old t-shirt.
It can’t be long after 3 AM, the moonlight almost as bright as a rising sun as it peeks itself in through the curtains of the window, as if whispering to check if you might still be awake.
And you are. And all you can think about, is your head on his chest.
It’s been over a month since you’ve had this type of moment with Eddie. A moment where you’re truly, sincerely, utterly alone with him. Privacy had become a delicacy that you weren’t aware of the fragility of. You hadn’t understood its importance until you had to bask in its absence, always on edge for the next body to walk into the room and take the air out of your lungs. Always anxious for the next sound of news, always worried for the next shoe to drop.
You’d forgotten what it had felt like for Eddie to twitch his fingers along your spine in his sleep, and for you to be the only witness to his quiet worship, even unconscious.
Your lips part, and you almost consider whispering hard truths into the trembling night air. There’s a million and one dying words cementing your tongue to the roof of your mouth, and you know that every single one you could even manage to utter would only make you sound like a broken record.
I’m sorry this happened to you.
I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.
I’m sorry I couldn’t prevent it.
All things already said to him when he had been drifting in and out of consciousness in that hospital bed. All apologies already buried between muted sobs as you’d clutched his knuckles a little tighter than you should have, a little too selfish in the moment to wonder if it might be hurting him. The only thing on your mind had been keeping him, holding him, feeling him. He was alive – he was alive. And for the first seven nights of his endless rest, all you could wonder is for just how much longer that desperate prayer could ring true.
Would he leave you again? Would he lose the fight?
You can’t recall without bias which one of you had been the true wounded animal in that little room, scented with burning bleach and cacophonies of nearby patients just beyond the curtains.
Eddie, looking up at the police who had finally come once he woke, eyes big and teary as he’d tried to wrap his head around his new reality.
You, baring teeth and claws at them in the end, ready to bite hard at anyone who got too close.
It wasn’t just the police. It was everyone.
It was the same juxtaposition between the two of you at those nurses who would interrupt the nights, always frowning so dutifully at the sight of your carefully curled figure at Eddie’s side. When friends and family came to visit, and they all had the same look of disbelief. As if they were about to tell you that you had imagined it all; he hadn’t survived, he hadn’t come back to you, you were imagining it. You’d been all bark and awaiting bite towards Steve Harrington and the newly revived Jim Hopper, all the same. Their figures bore no difference to you when it came to protecting what was so holy to you. Him, Eddie, here and alive. Eddie, who slept enough for the both of you those nights. The pain in your back from all the uncomfortable hours spent in that little chair at his bedside was insignificant, all the headaches you’d endured from the smell of iodine that still clung to the air after every surgery were pitiful attempts at the Universe removing you from him.
If you could, you might try to recall your reaction when Dustin Henderson had babbled on through tears as to what had happened to Eddie when the two were left alone. His final act of heroism, or so he thought.
But you can’t. Right here, right now, you aren’t capable of living in the past. You’ve been haunted enough these last few weeks, and all your numb mind can handle is counting the beats of his heart. Like the rhythm of a song – 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. Staccato verses that you sometimes whisper in time, getting worried when they don’t follow the infallible metronome you’ve set for him.
“You’re still awake.”
The murmur of his voice is a drink of cold water, startling in the dark greys and blues wrapping the two of you up.
You lift your head ever so slightly against your better judgment, “Go back to sleep, love.”
“Touche.”
You can see his grin even through the shadows. It’s weak, not yet quite as vibrant as it once had been, but it’s there. He’s still alive. He’s still grinning.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” The pads of his fingertips are more intentional against your spine now, longer strokes and mindless shapes, “I’ve got a penny in my pocket if you tell me.”
His words are only slightly slurred. Probably residual of the pain medication they’d prescribed him.
“I wasn’t thinking about anything,” you say, and you mean it.
You hadn’t been thinking. You had just been listening to his heart and his breaths, feeling the weight of him beneath you.
Little things you had taken for granted once upon a time. Never again, your soul aches as you let your head drop back to his chest carefully. Never again.
“You’re just laying awake, not thinking about anything, at…” he trails off, turning his cheek and squinting in the direction of the alarm clock across the room. The glow is dim, and you know you’ll have to change the batteries soon, “Four in the morning?”
4 AM. Last you had checked, it had been 3 AM. You hadn’t even noticed an hour had passed.
“Is that really so hard to believe?” you smile up at him, and it’s just as sincere as your words had been. When his honey brown eyes meet yours, warmth drizzles down your entire being. Across your brain, down your spine, wrapping around your limbs. You could spend an eternity here, simmering in his warmth, content to your heart’s fullest capability.
You’d almost lost him. You’d almost lost this warmth.
You take a second to memorize his features. Studying him as if you didn’t already know every curvature, every freckle, every winkle better than you knew your own soul. You’re looking at him as if you may never look at him again, and he can tell.
He doesn’t have to say that he gets it. His hand simply wanders up to cup your face, basking in you as you were him. Two souls, intertwining over overlapping legs and synchronized heartbeats, and he doesn’t have to say a word.
The moment his fingers card into your baby hairs, you’re turning your mouth quickly to that warm palm. One, two, three kisses. Quick pecks, rapid succession. A secret language that you know he, and only ever he, can begin to understand.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
It drowns out all sorrow, all guilt, all hauntings. Your cracked lips, and the feeling of those lines across his palms. If there is a Heaven, it’s not somewhere in a pearly gated kingdom above. There are no hark angels and there is no bearded man awaiting.
It’s here. It’s now. It’s 4 AM, in bed with your lover, getting to experience moments you’d come so close to losing for eternity.
Do the poets know? They must. All the love, all the adoration, in both your bodies is too abundant for them to not feel it. To not write about it.
“Go back to bed, love,” you repeat almost a perfect imitation of your first command when he had awakened, and this time, his eyelids flutter with your words, “I’m not gonna disappear between now and sunrise. I promise.”
“No,” he quickly whispers back as his eyes fully shut, and your palms smooth out the wrinkles of the shirt to feel the ridges of scars hidden for now. Scars he’s ashamed of, for now. Scars you’d one day show all the love in the world to, sacred proof that he came back to you, only once he was ready. One day. “But you’re looking at me like I might.”
His words are heavy in the shades of violet now sinking into the room. But the moon is high in her sky, and the crickets are chirping to the East, and he’s right.
You’re terrified the daylight will steal him from you. You’re terrified the new day might tear away all that you’ve sunk your teeth into.
“I’m not going to,” he mumbles around a yawn, arms slowly encasing you, pulling you in closer, “I’m not going anywhere. Yeah?”
He’s back with that warmth, coaxing you right back into heavenly notions with him. You let him; he baits you, and you follow.
“Yeah.”
It’s a sigh. Of hopefulness, of relief, of belief.
This time, the I love you is more than a prayer repeated in your mind. And he somehow manages to say it back, just as he begins to slip back under. Still holding you and hands still twitching where they rest against your back.
Let daylight come. You aren’t capable of worrying about it, or stressing about all that has happened. You aren’t capable of thinking about anything right now, because only one thing matters as your temple and ear find his heartbeat once more.
Your head is on his chest.
eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @mediocredreams @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin
@ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87
@thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea@kellsck
@cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking
@witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore
@mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog
@vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria@loveryanax@stylexrepp
@princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills @babez-a-licious @josephquinnsfreckles
@writinginthetwilight @trixyvixx @kittydeadbones @munson-addict @bluejeangenies
@cryingglightningg @joannamuns9n @missmarch-99 @rhirojo@findmeincorneliastreet
hi, bug! i’ve been one of your many avid readers for a long time but it’s my first time submitting a request for your summer fic fest 🥹 could i pretty please request for jealous!mean!eddie x ditzy/sunshine!reader where he sees her ex trying to win her back? ahhh thank you ily! ❤️
thank you for requesting angel, ily :D here's a sorta part 2 to this fic! — eddie doesn't realize he's been taking you on dates until your ex shows up (jealous!grumpy!eddie, friends to lovers, brief allusions to smut | 1.3k)
bug's summer fic fest (ꈍᴗꈍ)
When Eddie took you to Benny’s Burgers that Saturday evening after your heart got broken, he fully intended for it to be the last. That was until the next Saturday came around, anyway, and he found himself hungry and thinking of you. So, sharing a milkshake at the diner became a two-time deal, begrudgingly so.
The third time was a total accident, and he’d like that on record. Eddie had come alone that day. You made a stupid joke about him stalking you when you just happened to be there, too. (Both of you were secretly hoping the other would show, of course, but neither of you would admit it out loud.)
After that, it just started to feel like tradition. Eddie didn’t feel right going to the diner without you, so he never did. Instead, he buys you dinner once a week, sits with you in your designated booth by the window, and pretends all of it is something he has to do. Because it’s much easier than acknowledging that a lifetime of Saturday evenings with you still wouldn’t be enough.
“Can I have some of your fries?” you wonder through a distressingly large mouthful of cheeseburger.
Eddie scowls. “You said you didn’t want any.”
“I didn’t,” you shrug innocently then swallow down the too-big bite. “But yours look really good…”
“Too bad,” he scoffs and chucks a fry into his mouth. “Get your own.”
You slouch against the pleather seat with your features screwed in a gentle pout. It takes Eddie a record-breaking three seconds to slide his basket of fries across the table to you.
He huffs all dramatically about ‘cause he wants you to know he’s annoyed. You rise again, beaming anyway, because you know most of it’s just for show.
Eddie watches with his brows pinched in confusion as you methodically pick a single fry from the batch. His frown deepens when you dip it into your milkshake.
“Don’t taint the ice cream, weirdo,” he protests, exhaling sharply through his nose in place of a laugh.
You giggle through your mouthful at the screwed look on his face. “It’s good!” you insist. “Here— Try one.”
Eddie grimaces when you pluck another fry from the basket and scoop it into the milkshake. He flinches when you threaten to hand the monstrosity over to him. “I think I’m good, actually.”
“Try it.”
Your giddiness makes him smile despite himself. He concedes with a heaving sigh. “This is the last time I take you anywhere, you know that?” he grouses, mostly muffled as you feed him the ice cream-covered fry.
You smile to yourself, wider than you realize, and swipe your palms together. You’re pretty sure he’s said that to you every time he’s brought you here — yet, for some reason, he still shows up at your doorstep at seven o’clock every week.
“Yeah, I know,” you hum with a fond sigh. “But it tastes good, right?”
Eddie’s pretty face is swirled and largely emotionless. You can’t tell if he’s disgusted or amused. “It tastes like… a potato covered in chocolate ice cream,” he deadpans.
“Wow. You’re a genius, Eds,” you muse from across the table. You cross your arms along the top of it and fight back a smile. “Can’t believe it took you two whole years to graduate.”
“Don’t push it—”
He’s interrupted, first, by the overwhelming smell of cologne (pine and lavender, achingly so) — and then by a deep and obviously forced laugh. “It didn’t take you long, did it?” a strangely familiar voice wonders aloud, deep and smooth like honey.
Your head whips at the same time as Eddie’s, both of you wearing similar looks of confusion. A tall boy with nice hair and expensive clothes (an obvious King Steve clone) stands at the head of the table. Your table.
Josh O. from fucking Mr. Mundy’s.
You force a breathy laugh of palpable confusion. “What?”
“Nothing. I was just… wondering why you never called me back,” the boy shrugs and crosses his toned arms over his equally toned chest. His smile is lopsided and perfect; his teeth are slightly crooked and perfect, too. It’s fucking annoying.
“But I guess I have my answer now, right?” Josh O. from Mr. Mundy’s continues with another hearty chuckle. “Trying all the flavors of Hawkins, aren’t we, sweetheart?”
Eddie’s chest burns, and not in a metaphorical way. The red-hot embers there set his ribcage aflame, turning himself into a wildfire of withheld rage. His nostrils flare with it as his dark eyes flit from the asshole towering over the booth, to your cowering form, and then back to the asshole again.
He seethes quietly and waits for you to stand up for yourself. The moment never comes.
“She didn’t call you back because you’re a fuckin’ douchebag,” Eddie blurts for the both of you, still chewing at the monstrosity he’s wildly unsure of — which he can barely taste now, through his blinding anger and all.
Josh O. from Mr. Mundy’s pretty smile ebbs only slightly. He squints his glittering eyes and long lashes, fluffy brows pinching softly in confusion. “I’m sorry. Who are you again?” he wonders with a cynical laugh.
Eddie’s answer is immediate and equally venomous. “The asshole taking your girlfriend on a date, tough guy,” he mocks.
The boy scoffs. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Were you sayin’ that the night you were tryin’ to cop a feel in your car?”
You shift uncomfortably in the booth. The cracked pleather sticks to your clammy skin. You feel the tension pressing on both sides of you until you can hardly breathe. “Eddie, stop—”
“—You know, it’s real impolite to touch people without permission,” Eddie continues despite your plea, features pinched in a faux-sympathetic pout. “Didn’t your mommy ever tell you that?”
Josh O. from Mr. Mundy’s scoffs, both amused and distantly muddled. He laughs softly to himself and steps back from the table. “You’re a fuckin’ freak, man,” the boy murmurs as he leaves.
“That’s funny,” Eddie calls after him anyway. “Your mom says that, too.”
“Eddie.”
The boy relaxes in the booth once he’s gone. His rigid shoulders deflate slowly with a drawn-out sigh. He motions across the table with a pale, ringed hand. “Can I have my fries back, or are you gonna eat ‘em all.”
His effortless deflection is almost admirable.
“I’m gonna eat ‘em all,” you joke in an instant.
“Figured,” Eddie deadpans. He reaches for the basket in front of you and plucks a couple from the dwindling pile. He pinches them into his mouth, wipes his salty hands on his jeans, and pretends nothing ever happened.
You swallow hard and avert your gaze. You cradle the cold glass of your milkshake with one hand and stir at its melting contents with the other. “Thanks for that… By the way.”
“Don’t mention it,” Eddie shrugs. “Like, seriously. Don’t. It’s gonna make everything weird if you do.”
“Okay,” you nod firmly, then glance at the boy beneath your lashes. A mischievous smirk curls at the very corner of your mouth. “So… This is a date now, huh?”
“Shut up,” Eddie frowns and takes his fries back. “It just slipped out.”
“So what? That’d make this our… Fourth date? Fifth?”
“Fourth,” he corrects.
Your smile widens. “Most guys usually get laid by then, don’t they?”
Eddie scoffs through his mouthful. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, sweetheart,” he quips in an audibly sarcastic monotone.
The rest of the quote-unquote date plays out like normal. You make mindless conversation while you finish your burgers, sharing a milkshake between you while you steal Eddie’s fries.
You don’t tell him that you wouldn’t mind if he felt you up in his van — that you’d happily let him, if he asked; and Eddie doesn’t tell you that he goes to sleep dreaming about it most nights.
What if reader's friends convince her to go on a date with another guy, and this guy is an absolute jerk? I think reader would call Eddie and ask her to come pick her up - why is every guy an asshole? Except Eddie of course 🖤
ty for requesting :D — grumpy!eddie rescues you from a bad date then offers to take you on a better one (friends to lovers, hurt/comfort ish | 1k)
bug's summer fic fest (ꈍᴗꈍ)
The sunset matches the color of your Slurpee. A fiery red and orange hue, like the mango and strawberry concoction in your cup. You sip from the plastic straw and pretend to taste the sky in your mouth — pretending not to notice the pounding bass of Eddie’s van as he peals into the parking lot.
You sit on the curb and keep your eyes trained on the cracked pavement under your feet. All cool. Like you hadn’t called him for help at all.
“You could’ve been more specific about where you were, you know?” Eddie shouts, punctuating his question with the slam of the car door. His worn sneakers scuff the concrete with each of his rushed strides. You’d almost think he was actually worried about you.
“I told you I was at the payphone by the Seven-Eleven,” you shrug, tilting your chin to look up at the boy when he stands ahead of you.
“There’s four of those,” he argues, with his lanky figure looming over you. He pushes his leather jacket off his sides (which he wears in spite of the summer heat) to put his hands on his hips. “Seriously. I counted ‘em all in the half hour it took me to find you.”
You squint up at him, hardly apologetic after the shit day you’ve had. “Well, sorry for not being more clear,” you spit in a cynical monotone.
“Apology accepted,” Eddie shrugs. He huffs and sits on the curb next to you while you slurp audibly at the slushie in your fist. He leans over to knock your shoulders with his. “What happened?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Figured… Can I have some, at least?”
He’s only partly surprised when you hand over the drink without protest. He takes it in his ringed fist, looks inside to observe its content, then sips at the red straw (trying to ignore the nagging thought that your lips have been where his are now). The strawberry-mango mixture melts quickly on his tongue, foreign and sweet. “’S nice.”
You scoff like you’re owed the compliment. “Right? I let Josh try some earlier, and he said it tasted like shit. I was like, you know what, this is my final fucking straw.”
Eddie’s face screws. He wipes dramatically at his mouth with the back of his hand, hopelessly trying to erase the other asshole’s DNA. “Are you serious?” he mumbles, all annoyed ‘cause you hadn’t thought to warn him beforehand. You don’t seem to understand his meaning, though, as you shrug lazily in response.
“Well, him trying to feel me up in his car was my actual final straw. But then he hated my all-time favorite Slurpee, and I didn’t even want to look at him anymore. I just told him to leave me here.”
The only thing Eddie hates more than putting his mouth where Josh’s has been — other than the thought of Josh taking you on a date at all — is the idea of Josh not treating you right. His chest burns with a withheld rage.
“Are you talking about fucking Josh O.?” he scoffs and passes the styrofoam cup back to you. “Like, the moron from Mr. Mundy’s, Josh O.? That’s who Steve set you up with?”
“Unfortunately,” you grumble and take another sip, more casual about the subtle spit-swapping than the boy beside you had been.
“He was basically setting you up for failure, then. You know that, right?”
“I just wanted a free meal,” you confess quietly.
Eddie squints. His eyes flit from your profile, to your fidgeting hand punching holes in the ice with your straw, and back to your profile again. “Well, did you get one?”
“Yep. We split one burger at the diner.”
A laugh sputters from his pink mouth.
Your head whips to glare at him. “It’s not funny.”
Eddie props his elbow on his knee to hide his smile behind his ringed hand. “I mean… It kinda is, though. ‘Cause even I could buy two meals for us, and I’m basically the brokest fucker in this town.”
“Are you offering?”
His brows pinch. “Offering what?”
“To buy me a burger,” you say in a mousy voice, pretending to be innocent as you peer at him beneath your lashes, all doe-eyed.
“What?” Eddie scoffs through the sparkling in his chest. As a self-proclaimed metalhead, there was absolutely nothing metal about confessing to stupid crushes. “No.”
“Well, it sounds a lot like you’re offering,” you tease before wrapping your lips around the straw of your drink.
“Well, this sounds a lot like talking for someone who doesn’t wanna talk about it,” he mocks.
Your eyes narrow in annoyance. You part from your Slurpee and mumble through the ice on your tongue. “I wasted my quarters on you,” you deadpan.
Eddie rolls his eyes. He rises from the curb with a huff, wincing at the distant ache in his long legs. “C’mon, weirdo. Let’s go,” he urges, towering over you again.
You shake your head, gaze averted, suddenly shy. “I’m okay here.”
“Let’s go.”
“I’m serious, Eds. I don’t feel like going home right now—”
“I’m not taking you home,” he scoffs like it’s obvious. Your eyes flit back to his, suddenly hopeful again, and he tries not to cower. “I’m taking you to the diner. So I can get you a real meal.”
You seem particularly moved by the uncharacteristic act of kindness. “Really?”
“Yes, really— I don’t want you to starve to death,” he grouses, feigning annoyance ‘cause it’s easier than facing his real feelings in the face. “Now, let’s go before I change my mind.”
He walks off ahead of you on long legs, leaving you behind to catch up. But, because he isn’t a total asshole, he opens the squeaking passenger side door for you.
“Can I get a milkshake, too?” you wonder with a scrunched nose, helping yourself onto the cracked pleather seat.
“Don’t push it,” Eddie squints. He goes to shut the door, then catches the pretty pout pinching your features. “Fine,” he groans before slamming it shut.
you mentioned summer storms with Eddie or something one day in a random post and I haven't stopped thinking about it so
can I get a midsummer's night with LOTS of 🍓🍓🍓🍓 about that? Thank you very much Ghost 💞
OH I'VE BEEN WAITIN FOR THIS ONE!!!! it took on a life of it's own, forgive me.
summer storms
warnings: honestly just tooth-rottingly cheesy. tried to add alllll the fluff. not edited.
wc: 1.2k+
come enjoy a sweet summer treat with me <3
It was your favorite part of the summer. You couldn’t stand the heat half the time, you couldn’t bear all the bugs that would make their arrival known through incessant bites you’d only notice after spending the day out, and you could cry at even the simple memory of every sunburn you’ve ever endured in your lifetime. There was a lot to hate about the summertime – but this? This was one of the good parts.
The moment you’d seen the ominous clouds on the horizon, you’d known where your night was going to end up. One howl of the wind against your living room window, and you knew your plans for the night.
All roads led to the Forest Hills trailer park when the summer storms started rolling in.
In your youth, all through high school, there’d been plenty of scoldings about how the trailer park isn’t the safest place during these storms, dear. Endless lectures on how you and your solace in the form of a best friend should just spend those stormy nights at your own house, inside sturdy walls and within an infallible AC. But they didn’t get it; there was something in the way you’d experience a storm at the Munson trailer that couldn’t compare to home.
“It’s so hot,” Eddie whines from where he stretches out on his bed, all windows thrown wide open to let the dusty and humid winds slip their way in. Petrichor and discount cologne was swirling around you, wrapping its tendrils around your ankles and wrists alike as you were starfished out on the surprisingly cleaned bedroom floor of Eddie Munson.
He’d spent the day embarking on his weekly cleaning spree – you’d spent the day holed up in Melvard’s for an unbearingly long shift.
“I wish it’d just rain already,” you murmur, turning your head to catch a glimpse out the open window. The sky was a mirage of deep tones, rusted oranges laced with all the dirt being kicked up by the winds and navy blues painting the clouds that had built up to hold all the moisture adding to the smothering heat, “At least then all this misery would be worth it.”
Eddie sits up only to throw himself onto his stomach, head hanging over the edge of the mattress to smile down at you, “Wanna bet on how long it’ll take?”
“Take to what?”
“Rain, dumbass.”
“Don’t call me a dumbass, asshat. How was I supposed to know what you-”
You’re cut off by the sound of rolling thunder, coming in waves along with a particularly strong gust of wind that makes all of Eddie’s posters whip against the walls they were pinned to. It’s enough to shut you both up as the echoes of the entire trailer rattling surround you.
“Jesus,” Eddie whistles lowly, head lifting up to look outside for a few moments. When his eyes return to yours, they're full of mischief. “Fuck the bet, wanna race?”
“Eddie, start being more specific, or fuck off,” you groan just as he leaps up, hopping off his bed with unexpected speed.
All he cries out over his shoulder as lightning strikes in the sky waiting outside is, “Loser has to wash a load of Wayne’s jeans!”
That gets you up. Not because you wouldn’t do it if Wayne asked nicely, and not because you were going to let Eddie make you do so, but simply to further chastise the boy now running away from you.
The first droplets of rain begin to fall before either of you make it out of the trailer front door.
Eddie only loses due to him slipping while passing by the kitchen, socked feet gliding out from beneath him until he grabs onto the counter hastily to prevent any injury. You pass him with a wide smile, yanking the door open hard enough that if Wayne had been home, he probably would have had a few choice words to say to you.
But Wayne isn’t home. It’s just you and Eddie, the boy who makes summertime an endless brew of storms in your chest and mind alike, and the rain.
You fly down the rickety porch steps of the Munson’s trailer just as you’ve done a hundred times before, Eddie just behind you. Neither of you make a deciding comment on who won; you’d been outside first, but Eddie’s feet hit the dirt properly just as yours did when he decided to jump right over the steps you were trampling down.
It’s all wild joy and childish wonder as the two of you begin to run about and spin around beneath the droplets that have picked up into a downpour. Eddie’s hands find your wrist, and he’s throwing you about with him, making you dizzy with absolute giddiness as gravity drags you in a wide circle. Your Melvard’s polo soaks through to the bone. Eddie’s curls begin to stick to his cheeks.
Neither of you care.
A childlike exuberance, and youthful oblivion, that you only ever feel with Eddie. You don’t think you would have let anyone else drag you out into the middle of a storm with such ease. But it’s hard to say no to him when there’s so much happiness fizzing beneath your skin, and you’re pretty sure all the thundering actually belongs to your chest as you feel his fingertips press deeper into your wrists.
You’ve loved him for a while now. Always have, always will.
It happens in slow motion. You swear somewhere between the crackling of the lightning and his crinkling eyes, you can see his lips forming the words, you’re pretty.
You didn’t hear it, though. Couldn’t have over the water clogging your ears.
“What?” you call out, leaning forward with all your giggles, trying to ignore the feeling of your bare feet sinking into the mud below.
Eddie just pulls you forward, and over another gust of wind that makes you both shiver, says it once more with his whole chest, “I said you’re pretty!”
You’re not. You’re really, really not. You’re a mess. Wet hair and slick skin, bleary eyes and aching smiles. Probably closer resembling a drowning rat than anything poetic or worth yelling to the sky about.
But not to Eddie, not as he looks to the sky, and all he can do is laugh at himself.
“I’m not pretty-” you start to laugh back, shaking your head at his foolishness.
“You are,” he interrupts quickly, his hand only leaving your skin long enough to brush back his damp bangs, exposing a forehead you’d certainly thought about kissing on more than one occasion. Running his fingers through curls you’ve tried to find every excuse in the books to play with. Scrunching up his nose that you’d pictured pressed into your neck in the dead of night numerous times as the two of you slept peacefully. “You really fucking are. It’s a damn crime, half the time, too. Always taking my breath away and shit.”
You don’t know what spurred it all on. The petrichor that had lingered in the air, the feeling of the rain on his skin, the comfort of the storm and its promise of a night spent together. But his confessions are rolling out faster than the drips racing down the windows of his trailer, and he’s looking at you with big brown eyes, and all you really know is that it doesn’t matter what spurred it all on.
All that matters is he’s said it.
“Do something about it, then,” you gasp out.
You’re almost worried the storm has carried the words away, that he hasn’t heard you, until he does something.
He kisses you, and it tastes just like the rain. Your favorite part of summer.
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE (2005) dir. Joe Wright
ATTENTION: YOU HAVE BEEN INVITED TO A SUMMERTIME WRITING EVENT!
hey you. yeah, you. has the summer heat got you down? have you been looking for all the right vibes in all the wrong places?
same.
which is why i invite you to join me, your friendly neighborhood ghost, in a wonderful and excellently vibey event to cure all that summertime sadness and turn it sickeningly sweet.
through the month of july and august, i will be talking requests based on guidelines listed below, with the only real theme being summer. i'll be writing for all our favorite fictional crushes, so just follow the rules, submit a request, and vibe with me <3
IN ORDER TO BEGIN, you'll first need to pick your poisons: the muse, and the flavor.
for this event, i will be writing for the following characters:
♡ eddie munson (stranger things)
♡ steve harrington (stranger things)
♡ robin buckley (stranger things)
♡ astarion ancunin (baldur's gate 3)
♡ gale dekarios (baldur's gate 3)
once you've chosen the lover of your summertime fantasies, you're going to need to choose your flavor of sweetness. for these dog days, our menu includes:
♡ strawberry: fluff
♡ blueberry: hurt/comfort
♡ lemon: smut
♡ blackberry: angst
with your muse and flavor now chosen, you must choose what time of day you'll be enjoying your summer sweet treat. we have two options for this category, with two different sets of rules, so please read carefully!
summer solstice: the solstice that marks the onset of summer, at the time of the longest day.
if you submit a summer solstice request, you are requesting for a longer fic, 2k words minimum. these requests will take me longer, and should be reserved for more descriptive/specific requests. when you submit one, you will need to include a full description of what you are looking for.
i.e.: "could i please have a strawberry summer solstice with eddie munson, where reader and eddie meet for the first time at a bonfire and spend the entire night getting up to sheenanigans like stealing wine from others, skinny dipping in lover's lake, star-gazing on the shore, and eddie ends up walking reader home at the end of it all?"
you must have a description of what you are looking for in the request for this specific type. if you give nothing for me to go off of, i can't write you the minimum of 2k words of sweetness! this is for anyone who may have a specific vision for a story, but can't execute it/find it across the appropriate tags already.
midsummer's night: the eve of the longest day of summer, marked as the shortest night of summer.
if you submit a midsummer's night request, you are requesting for a shorter fic, under 2k words (500-1k words most likely). these are requests i will be able to fulfill more quickly, and work best for anyone who wants to submit but doesn't have a very specific idea in mind!
i.e.: "could i please blueberry lemon midsummer's night with astarion? maybe including an argument about a recent fight or something where one of them nearly got hurt!"
these requests have a lot more leniency, and will be more about what my mind will conjure from vague descriptions! try to avoid giving too many details when requesting this kind - if you have a more specific vision, just hit me with a summer solstice (and some patience) <3
alright. whew. now that we've gotten through all the guidelines regarding requests, feel free to drop into my inbox and let the party begin! again, i'll be taking these requests and fulfilling them all the way through august.
if there's a specific character you want to see not listed on here but i have expressed interest in before (i.e. joel miller, spencer reid, karlach from bg3, etc.), feel free to still request them but be wary that there's no guarantee i will fulfill the request!
as always with these events, be sure your requests abides by my rules, and once again, please be patient with me. these type of events in the past have spurred on enough responses i don't get to even half of them, but i'm prolonging this over two months to try and ensure i can get a bulk of whatever lovely ideas you all send in written! <3
aight. okay. let's party on, for real now. happy summer, y'all!
foolishness and all
summary: your boyfriend puts your love to the test when his heart is set on a certain unsightly purchase.
pairing: eddie munson x gn!reader
warnings: jar jar binks. not edited, i was laughing too hard.
wc: 1.8k+
a/n: this is the product of a very insane conversation that occurred in the middle of the night last night with @emmaisgonnacry, @lokis-army-77, and @emma-munson. forever sad we can't get the jar jar watch </3 (but at least emma got the darth maul one!) ((thank you for making me laugh until i cried last night, friends.))
“If you buy that thing, I’m breaking up with you.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m getting the watch.”
“And I’m getting a new boyfriend.”
You glare at your boyfriend for several beats of tense silence, narrowing your eyes as if it’ll do anything to change his mind. His heart is already set – there’s no stopping what’s about to happen.
“Edward Munson,” you stress, hand shooting out to hold his wrist, but he’s already whipping it out of your reach, “That thing is hideous. We’re shopping for a nice watch for Steve’s wedding, not that.”
“This thing has a name, sweetheart,” Eddie smiles toothily, tilting his head tauntingly at you, “And I think it fits the theme perfectly.”
“In what fucking world?”
You're whispering harshly now, trying to keep from causing a commotion in the middle of the store and garnering any more unwanted attention. The workers had given you strange enough looks when Eddie had first laid eyes on his prize, his little yelp of excitement seemingly startling them.
The less people who witnessed the atrocity on Eddie’s wrist currently, the better.
Eddie goes against that wish entirely, holding his wrist high in the air for the entire mall to see at this point, “In my world. He did say it was meant to be open for interpretation-”
“Not like this.”
“And my interpretation is buying this absolutely priceless Jar-Jar Binks watch.”
The thing looks down at you, almost as if it’s laughing at you just as Eddie was right now.
Part of you wonders if it’s all a bit – something Eddie noticed set you off, and he’s now making it into an entire catastrophic situation solely for his own enjoyment at your irritation. But part of you also knows that even if it is a bit, Eddie Munson will commit wholeheartedly to it.
It doesn’t matter if it’s a joke or not. He’ll be leaving this store as the owner of that watch, and the thought mortifies you.
“Please,” you finally resort to begging, feeling a bit childish as you give a pitiful hop to reach his wrist. It’s useless. He only stretches higher, shirt riding up to expose that strip of pale skin beneath the fabric. Your eyes catch on it momentarily, but you force yourself to not get distracted, “Eddie, baby-”
“Nuh uh,” he’s quick to shake his head, taking a full step back from you, “Nope. That baby shit isn’t working on me this time. I’m buying it. End of discussion.”
Fine. The sweet talk route didn’t work. That’s fine.
You had more than one weapon in the arsenal.
Before he can even think to step any further away, you reach out and hook your finger through one of his belt loops, giving a tug that further exposes the band of his boxers all while forcing him closer to you.
You’re back on your tip-toes, no longer reaching for the watch, but to let your lips barely graze over his as your whispers, “What if I ask you not to very, very nicely?”
That has him faltering. Complete hesitation as he takes a deep breath and visible gulp, arm beginning to drop ever so slightly.
“I would… I’d…” he trails off, clearly losing focus as your lips stay hovering just out of touch, “I’d probably… I-”
“Probably not buy it – right, handsome?”
And just as quickly as he’d fallen victim to the game you’d started playing, he’s pulled from it.
He leans back as far as he can with your finger still clinging to his pants, scrunching up his nose, “I see what you’re doing. Not fucking fair. It’s only thirteen dollars, anyway. I bet if Steve was here right now, he’d tell me to get it.”
“He wouldn’t!” you whisper-yell, giving up and pulling back as well, “It’s his wedding, Eddie. He told us to get something nice to fit in with the black tie dress code,” you can see him ready the argument of interpretation once more, and nip it in the bud, “No amount of interpretation can ever qualify the head of Jar-Jar Binks turned into a watch as something that fits into black tie attire.”
He’s not convinced. Not of the point you’re trying to make – no, you know he agrees with you and is just being a little shit at this point – but of not buying the watch.
“What if I just bought it?” he barters, “Maybe I don’t wear it to the weddin-”
“There’s no maybes about it. You can’t wear it to the wedding. You’re one of the groomsmen.”
He lifts his other hand just as the one adorning the eyesore finally drops to be eye level once more, “Fine! Fine. I won’t wear it to the wedding, but I’m still getting it.”
It’s a compromise. Or as close to a compromise as you and Eddie were going to get to right now.
With his wrist finally lowered, you can finally get a proper look at the thing. It’s Jar-Jar’s head with a band to mimic his skin, no clock in sight until it’s flipped open. The inside might be even worse though. Vivid font curling to spell out Jar-Jar, a light orange background with darker swirls, and the world’s smallest sliver of a screen to display the digital time.
It absolutely blows your mind that anyone thought it was a good marketing idea. But then again, people like your boyfriend exist. He was the intended audience, not you.
“It’s not even that cool,” you weakly still try to fight the losing battle, gingerly grabbing for the wrist this time with your free hand. Your finger hasn’t left Eddie’s belt loop, now resting comfortably in it, just growing fond of the closeness rather than weaponizing it against him.
And maybe as a way of keeping him from running up to the counter to complete the purchase. Maybe.
“It’s the coolest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” he proudly proclaims, right there in the middle of the Radio Shack, never having looked more satisfied with himself, “It can just be a conversational piece. I promise, I won’t break out the secretly evil little shit-”
“What?”
“Unless the occasion actually calls for it.”
“I’m sorry, can we go back to where you just called Jar-Jar secretly evil?” you ask, more perplexed than concerned at this point.
He was getting it. You were hating it. You had bigger wars to win with the man before you at a later date, surely.
His grin makes you regret asking, “Oh, you haven’t heard the theory about Jar-Jar being a Sith lord, have you?”
Your finger slips from his jeans, and your eyes nearly roll out of your head.
“Go buy that thing. I’m waiting in the car.”
“Wait, babe, no!”
“Nope. I’m not listening to this.”
You turn from Eddie to walk away, making sure he can’t see the corners of your mouth twitching with a smile you’re so desperately fighting, but it’s no use when he grabs onto your elbow to spin you back around.
“Eddie, I’m not-”
You’re interrupted with his lips on yours, an unexpectedly genuine kiss ensuing. The kind that reminds you why you’d ever deal with someone who wants a Jar-Jar Binks watch, the kind that reminds you why the occasional embarrassment Eddie purposefully puts you through in public is all worth it.
All the butterflies, all the sweetness, all the tenderness. The way his thumb traces over your skin as his hand stays wrapped around your elbow, the way his other hand comes up to cradle your cheek. You can still taste whatever sour candy he’d bought moments before walking into the store all over his tongue and lips, hiding his last cigarette from hours ago.
It’s a good enough kiss to forget the entire interaction that had just occurred.
When he pulls away, you’re a little breathless, all fluttering eyes glazed over as you look up at him, “What was that for?”
His smile could melt your entire existence. Turn you right into a puddle of all the love you struggle to contain, just for him.
“Just because,” he shrugs, but then he continues on, “And for putting up with me. Thank you for that.”
“I don’t put up with you,” you say immediately, and mean it.
Even when he’s being insufferable. Even when he’s still wearing the goddamn Jar-Jar Binks watch. You don’t put up with him – you love him. Foolishness and all.
Your finger returns to his belt loop, and this time, you tug him in for another kiss. Something short and sweet, something just because.
“You know,” he mumbles against your lips, arm wrapping around you so you can’t leave him just yet, “They have a Darth Maul one, too…”
Your hand comes up between the two of you, only a slight struggle, just for you to smack him in the center of his chest, “You can only have one, Munson.”
“We could match!”
“I am not wearing that thing.”
He throws his head back and cackles, a certain glee only born of being with the one you feel safest with flooding his features. All those wrinkles in the corners of his crinkled eyes, the stretch of his lips that bring on the appearance of dimples you could bury yourself in if given the chance. A boy made up of stardust and felicity. Your boy made up of every good thing that could have ever existed in this lifetime.
You’d rather bicker over the useless things with him a hundred times over than ever live a life without him.
“It’s fine,” he finally sighs dramatically, “I’ll just wear the Jar-Jar Binks watch to our wedding one day.”
Our wedding one day.
Your heart just about explodes, and the only thing you can do to not choke up is smack him even harder.
Our wedding.
It has a nice ring to it.
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” you tell him instead.
There’ll be plenty of other moments to talk about that. Now, when he still wears the ugliest watch you’ve ever laid eyes on, is not the time.
“Gotta catch me first,” he teases as he slowly backs away, a twinkle in his eyes that makes you question if he knows how you’d secretly felt about that joke. That makes you question if he and Steve Harrington had really only been shopping for Steve’s rings for the last year.
He doesn’t even run to the counter, knowing that you won’t be chasing him. You’re content to stay back and wait. You’ll always wait on him, really.
Even if it meant waiting for the day he wore that goddamn watch on your wedding day, because at the end of it all, you’d probably let him. You’d even wear the Darth Maul watch to match if he insisted.
You’d let him wear whatever he wants, and you’d wear whatever he insists upon, because at the end of the day, it wouldn’t matter – it’d be enough to simply marry the dork that just tripped on his way up on the counter while giggling over a watch on his wrist, and know that he’s yours, forever.
eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @mediocredreams @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin
@ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87
@thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea @kellsck
@cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking
@witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore
@mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog
@vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria @loveryanax @stylexrepp
@princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills @babez-a-licious @josephquinnsfreckles
@writinginthetwilight @trixyvixx @kittydeadbones @munson-addict @bluejeangenies
@cryingglightningg @joannamuns9n @missmarch-99 @rhirojo @findmeincorneliastreet
join my taglist!
kissing lessons
summary: you and robin have already shared several firsts as best friends: your first time holding hands, your first time cuddling someone, your first time flirting. so what's a little platonic kissing?
pairing: robin buckley x fem!reader
warnings: lots of sapphic pining, yearning, etc. assumed unrequited love. hopeless crushing. doing romantic things and claiming they're totally platonic when they very much are not. mentions of reading trying to conform to the 80s standards by dating a boy. reader is explicitly female (which should be given since robin is canonically a lesbian)
wc: 3.4k+
a/n: this one was a long time coming. it's based off of my own first kiss, loosely.
Being best friends with Robin Buckley has always been about growing – together.
Life has a plethora of lessons for young souls to learn in time, and some of those lessons were simply hard. The first time you picked up a musical instrument and attempted to play your very first note, and it sounded atrocious. Nothing like the movies, more difficult than you could have ever imagined. The first time you walked the halls of your high school, and the terrifying first wave of panic at the realization you’d need to learn the map of the lands in order to navigate that maze for the next four years. The first time you walked into a classroom all of two minutes late, and the first shatter of embarrassment in your chest as every eye in the room turned to you. The first time you trip over your own laces on your way to Chemistry, the first time you impulsively cut your hair with the kitchen scissors, the first time a boy asked you out as a joke, and the first time someone asked you out genuinely only to fumble over every single word. Your first school dance, your first time cooking pasta from scratch, your first time attending a concert without a chaperone.
Firsts, firsts, firsts. Life is simply full of them, and they never get any easier or kinder, but having a best friend at your side certainly makes it all bearable.
Robin Buckley was that rock for you. And you, for her.
It’s sort of how you got into this mess to begin with.
“It’s going to be weird, isn’t it?”
“It’s not going to be weird unless we make it weird, Robin.”
“How can I not make it weird? Where would my lips even go?”
You’re both lucky that no one is home to hear all the shrieking currently occurring in your small bedroom. Only the posters on your wall and your teddy bear you’ve had since you were five are witnesses to the current predicament occuring.
Robin had been the one to suggest it, in all fairness. Graduation was next week, and there had been a lot of reminiscing flying about. All the firsts, all the hopeful lasts, and all the fatal moments you needed to drag by the hair to the backyard and bury six feet under.
The topic of conversation had veered pretty erratically, turning left towards that one stubborn B left on Robin’s postcard as a result of her refusing to attend her assigned tutoring for Geometry last year, and then sliding right as you’d huffed about that one girl who had been an absolute menace towards you sophomore year when you’d botched your improv solo at a band concert. But in the last five minutes, it had finally straightened out – it had finally begun to follow the trail of a line of remembering that no one else would ever be allowed to know outside of you and Robin.
You’d brought up the first date you’d ever gone on. A ridiculous milkshake outing with some guy in your freshman English class that had left you feeling more confused than starry eyed or lovesick as the books promised.
The date that had caused Robin Buckley to offer to hold your hand at random, in private moments, the week leading up to it. Just so you’d know how it felt. Just so you could figure out how to best intertwine your fingers with someone else’s without feeling terrible foreign about it all.
It had been platonic. You both swore it had been, shrugging carelessly as you’d let your palm meet your best friends.
And you’d felt more every time your skin brushed hers than you had the entire night with that boy. Spent the entire date wishing it was Robin’s knuckles bumping yours when you’d reached for that damn strawberry milkshake.
“Against mine, I’d hope.”
The dissection hadn’t ended at the hand-holding. Next, the two of you had wistfully recalled the sleepover in which you’d first decided to learn how to spoon one another. Robin had read about it in a magazine, you’d never had firsthand experience, and it just felt right to suggest. Robin had rambled for a good five minutes before you’d tugged her back into her bed and commanded her to just lay there as you figured out where you arm should go as your body curved along the back of hers.
It had been nice. Really nice.
You’d never gone out on another date after the Great Milkshake Catastrophe, as the two of you had called it. Robin claimed none of the boys at school could handle her eccentricism. Both of you, young girls fumbling about the world, starving for touch completely unaware. You told yourselves everyone cuddled with their friends. You told yourselves it was normal.
But then, you’d switched positions, Robin being the big spoon as the teen magazine had described, and you swore your heart had burst when her arm wrapped around your waist and her fingers slotted between your own against your abdomen.
You’d fallen asleep in that position. Awoken to Robin’s face pressed right into your chest as you’d spread out on your back. Ignored the flaky drool stain left behind on your skin when she’d finally joined the living once more. Pretended like you both hadn’t had the best rest of your lives as you’d clung to one another through fading dreams and subtle snores.
It was normal, right? It had to be, because it was nice, and it had become a part of your normal sleepover rituals.
Friends used each other’s boobs as pillows all the time, as Robin had defended.
“Yeah, but, well-” Robin cuts off in her current stricken rambling, throwing her hands out around the air between you two, “What about when it’s more than just pecking? You know? All that gross shit, where tongues get involved and spit is exchanged and, oh God, should we be sucking on some mints right now or something? Oh my God, what if you’re allergic to my chapstic-”
Gross shit.
The not-so-clever code word the two of you used whenever describing any sort of romantic interactions. Kissing, making out, sex. The things all of your peers were regular experiencing, sometimes even displaying in public, that the two of you only turned your noses up to.
You didn’t want to suck the face off of Connor in your fifth period pottery class. The only person you could imagine on the receiving end of that that didn’t make your stomach turn was sitting right in front of you now, eyes wide and cheeks flushed as she clearly panicked.
“I’m not allergic to passion fruit Lip Smackers, Robs.”
The switch to a passion fruit flavor was new. Robin had been using the strawberry flavor religiously prior, but had recently offered it to you with the excuse of your obsession with strawberry flavored things.
And now, you’d been using it daily. Trying not to think about how many times her lips had been on it prior to yours. Trying not to think about how many ways you could twist it into some sick secondary kissing metaphor, to have your lips slick with the same sticky substance as hers had been so many times before.
Tried not to think about what Robin Buckley’s lips tasted like, period. Easier said than done when the thought crosses your mind every time you lick your lips moment after application, getting the faux sweetness all over your tongue.
“You could be. And how would we even know? I can’t even drive! If you start to have an allergic reaction, I can’t even take you to the hospital! We don’t have a c-”
You can’t do it anymore – any other day, you relish in the sound of Robin’s voice as she’ll squeal on and on about everything and anything. But not today.
You cut her off with a kiss.
The very same kiss you’d both timidly agreed upon when you’d both realized graduation was next week, and neither of you had had your first kiss.
The same deal as the cuddling. The same deal as the hand-holding. The same deal as all the pick-up lines and flirting you’d try out on each other, the same deal as all the sweet ‘love notes’ you’d write for one another and slip into backpacks and binders alike.
The same deal as that fluttering in your chest every time she looked up at you at the local pool, eager to see if you’d witnessed her flip beneath the water. The same deal as all the nights you’d cried into your pillow after being pestered about if any boys at school caught your eyes, because you knew they hadn’t and they never would. Your eyes were already too busy, completely captured by the sight of the brunette now pressing her lips against yours.
None of the boys at school could ever compare.
Passion fruit and strawberry mingles within the short peck, freckled cheeks and nose smashing against yours in the most awkward fashion possible. It could be weird; it should be weird.
It’s not.
When you pull away, Robin is completely stunned into silence for quite possibly the first time in her life. And her lips are shining with some of your residual spit, and her cheeks are the perfect shade of rose that no actual flower could capture.
Mother Nature herself could never replicate the girl in front of you. The girl you’d been best friends with for six years now, the girl you’d pined relentlessly for for just as long.
Only you’d just recently realized it. Somewhere between the lip smackers exchange and the movie night in which you’d intertwined your legs on the couch and felt the weight of her between your hips as she’d passed out.
Looking at her now sort of feels like realizing it all over again. Sort of like looking out over a precipice, and taking a deep breath, because you know you’re leaping off the cliff. No scared looks over your shoulder, no hesitation as you throw your foot out into mid-air.
The kind of rush you’ve never felt with a boy, and never will.
“Was that…” she whispers, voice hoarse before she clears it, batting her gorgeous lashes and taking the shakiest of breaths, “Was that good?”
“I dunno,” you lie, “I think we should try again.”
It’s like a dance, you soon realize. Following her steps, guiding her with your own. She slides her way up closer, and you press your back against your headboard. Her hands are shaking when they brush your outer thighs, and your blood is racing as you tug on her elbows to guide her to straddle your lap.
You both had said, after all, you needed to learn to be better kissers. That you couldn’t leave high school without having shoved your tongue down someone’s throat at least once. Your words, not hers.
Your desperate attempt to make sure that someone was Robin Buckley. Your pitiful attempt to have the one thing you don’t think you’ll ever be allowed to hold.
The weight of her on your lap is nice. The feeling of her lips returning to yours is nice. The way neither of your hands know where to go as you let your lips linger together a few seconds longer than the first time is nice.
It’s far nicer than Connor from English could ever make you feel. It’s far nicer than that poor boy at the diner ever was, though he tried his best.
You’re the brave one, when it’s all said and done. You’re the first one to let your palms settle at her hips, squeezing ever so gently to feel the softness beneath slot perfectly into your hold. You’re the first one to timidly include tongue, parting both your lips, trying to ignore the shivers running up your spine as all you can taste now is passion fruit lip smackers.
Even with your own lip balm, you know your lips are horribly chapped. Dreadfully thirsty and desperate to absorb all the love you know isn’t yours to claim at this moment. Chapped lips, quivering hands, shaking breaths. Unsure movements and the ringing question in the back of your head of am I doing this right?
Is she feeling what I’m feeling?
Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t. But she’s kissing you back. Her tongue is meeting yours in movements that are nothing like the movies, shy baps that you both will probably laugh about later. Kitten licks to test the waters.
And then there’s the retreating. The rock of her body as she settles her weight closer to your knees, and her tongue is put away in favor of just letting her lips slot between yours in slow and lazy movements. You can feel every deep breath she takes through her nose between the kisses, you can smell her perfume seeping into your psyche every moment she spends so close to you.
The only lesson being learned right now is that you were an idiot. You were an absolute fool, and you are absolutely in love with your best friend.
“Better?” she questions when she pulls away entirely, and you try not to whimper. Try not to show her how badly you want this, need this.
You hate the silence and you nearly wish she’d start babbling again. You wish she’d give you a reason to kiss her and shut her up, if for nothing more than to taste passion fruit and yearning all over again.
You’re quiet for a few beats, staring at her as your chest heaves and your heart begins to twist up into terrible shapes. “I… Yeah. Yeah. I think we’re getting the hang of it, don’t you?”
“Oh, absolutely,” her nervous smile breaks, and you wish she wouldn’t continue the thought, but she does, “You’re gonna be a pro in no time, breaking boys hearts left and right when you kiss them like that.”
You don’t want to break a boy’s heart. You want to break hers – you want to entirely implode her heart the way she has yours, and have the honor to know it was mutual. A mutual destruction you both dove into headfirst. You only want to kiss Robin like this, forever. You only ever want to know how right her hand feels in yours, not some guy who can’t even choke out the right words to invite you to the cinema.
You want, and you want, and you want.
And just as you bite your tongue, decide against pouring out all your affections all over your bed sheets and pulling her right back into you again, desperate to share air with her and only her, you can hear your front door slamming over.
Robin has never moved so quickly in her life. Jumping off your lap, leaping to the edge of the bed as a feverish blush overtakes her entire body. As though she might be embarrassed, as though she might be regretful.
You still haven’t moved from your position, back sticky with sweat against the headboard, when your parents walk past your open door and say hello.
They probably don’t even hear your sad and quiet excuse of a returned greeting, too enraptured by Robin’s own excited quip of saying hi.
Your parents love her. Adore her in a way parents should care for their child’s closest confidant. They treat her like their own daughter, and Robin’s parents do the same for you. Once a month, your mothers meet up for mimosas over brunch and probably giggle about how lucky their girls are to have one another.
You get it. You love her too. But certainly not in the way you should love your best friend.
They finally leave, and Robin is quick to turn to you, eyes shining with all the stars and sunshine the Universe could have to offer, “That… um, thank you.”
“For what?” you laugh breathlessly, finally shifting forward, looking down at your thighs that had served as a temporary home to the girl who holds your heart, trying to swallow down any shame and all that rapid longing.
“For… you know,” she smiles, a secret for the two of you to only ever keep, never sharing with the world. Selfishly, you almost enjoy the sentiment, “I’m sorry I was acting so weird about it before. You were right, it didn’t have to be weird unless we made it weird. I’m lucky to have you as my best friend, you know? And like I said, if you’re…. You know, doing that with boys, you’re going to be a certified heartbreaker. The world isn’t ready for my best friend. Besides! Another thing checked off the list, right?” she pauses, and you swear the smile has gone sad, but you can’t risk the projection, “Now we can both say we’ve done… that… before graduation! And-”
You speak before you can think better of it, interrupting her entirely, “I think I need more practice.”
She stops in her tracks, eyebrows raising wildly and eyes turning to saucers, “What?”
“I think…” your head reels, desperate to come up with an excuse to kiss her again. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually. “I think I need more lessons, yeah? Like, I don’t know. More practice,” Oxygen evades you in desperation, giving your best puppy dog eyes, system in overdrive as you stare at her lips and your voice drops to a careful whisper, “My parents are out of town next weekend… Maybe we could try again then? Same time?”
You swear her smile shifts, and you hadn’t even noticed the ingenuity in it previously until she dazzles you with one that must be real. As if you’ve just made her year, lightened her load, offered over your first born to the darling girl.
“Well….” she moves her eyes across the room, focusing on a polaroid photo of the two of you pinned to the wall above the desk, “I mean, we did say lessons, plural. I can see if Steve will cover my shift on Saturday night if that works?”
Am I doing this right?
“That definitely works.”
Is she feeling what I’m feeling?
“Perfect. It’s a…. date, then.”
“It’s a date.”
It’s not. Only to you, never to her.
But it’ll be enough. It’s enough to know next Saturday, she’ll be back here, in your bed and in your lap, getting that passion fruit chapstick all over your lips and shaking your chest from the inside out until it’s ready to burst.
One day, you might be the brave one, when it’s all said and done. You’ll tell your best friend all the ways she feels so nice, and all the ways you want to capture that niceness in a bottle for the rest of your days. You’ll tell her the way you have no interest in the boys at school and how you’re cursed to forever be the heartbroken, never the heartbreaker, and only ever at her hand. The very same one clasping yours as she stands at your front door, thanking you vaguely once more, grinning ear to ear as she gives you three tight squeezes that are completely lost on you.
Today’s not the day, though. Today is the day where you spend the night in your self-made cage, face buried in the pillow, noises somewhere between desperately muffled screams of frustration and dry sobs of torture leaving your lips as you picture the way she’d looked after the kiss. Her eyes softly shut, her lips still puckered, her neck entirely exposed as she tilts her chin back to look at your ceiling through her eyelids. Picturing the way that next time, you’ll try to convince her the two of you should learn the art of neck kisses. Picturing the way that next time, maybe you’ll grab her hips a little harder or let your hands wander a bit farther to her thighs.
Tonight is the night you have no idea amongst your pity party, that Robin Buckley is on the other side of town, experiencing the exact same turmoil as she longs for the girl who tastes like her gifted strawberry lip smackers – the very same one Steve Harrington berated on her to get rid of when she’d vomited out all the ways she hates fake strawberry flavoring, but you love it, and she’d convinced herself if she bathed herself in enough of it, you might just want her the way she wants you.
Tonight’s not the night, though.
One day, the kissing lessons will simply be kisses. One day.
ghost's taglist: @emmaisgonnacry @figmentofquinn @bebe07011 @barbedwirebats @ayooooo0
@neverlearnedcivility @munson-enthusiast @digwhatudug @wow-cam @daddysmodifiedprincess2
@cancankiki @gothmingguk @nix-rose @thesesuggestedblognamesbegreat @chevelle724
@madaboutjoe @take-everything-you-can @josephquinnsfreckles @thebanisheddreamer @water-loos
@dailyobsession @whenshelanded @happy-and-alone @alwayslindie @royale1803
@onegirlmanytales @whyamiheresomeonehelp @mrsjellymunson @live-love-be-unique @hazydespair
@gothvamp1973 @kennedy-brooke @kittydeadbones @hollysleeps @hellojameshowyadoin
@munsonzgf @browneyes8288 @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @siriuslysmoking @mandyjo8719
@d64d-n0t-sl66p1ng @acenby-weirdo @hazydespair @royale1803 @batkin028
@ninejlovebot @charliewb1996 @imwaytoolazyforthis @definitionwanderlust @idkitsem
join my taglist!
mind blown (eddie munson x fem!reader)
summary: when you get a certain achievement while playing baldur's gate 3, it catches your boyfriend's eye.
pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader
warnings: slight spoilers for baldur's gate 3 game, TALK OF MONSTER FUCKING/TENTACLES, you literally have the option to fuck a monster in the game and that is the premise for this one-shot. it isn't described in great detail, but is a background bit. and eddie makes fun of you for it. a lot. oral (f receiving, insinuated m receiving at the end). use of nickname "good girl". minors dni.
wc: 3.5k+
a/n: for anyone who was forced to witness me rizz the emperor on my last bg3 stream - consider this my... apology? half the time i was writing this i couldn't take it seriously so please laugh with me.
also, shout out to @hellfire--cult for the best possible divider EVER.
ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: MIND BLOWN!
You don’t even notice when the notification pops up in the lower left corner of your screen. It’s the smallest of blips, hardly signified by the quiet ding from your Steam account in a pitiful attempt to congratulate you for the monstrous crimes you were currently committing on your screen.
But hey, you’ve got to experience the entire game, right?
“What the fuck,” you whisper to yourself as you click on the second dialogue option, eyes locked on your screen is disbelief in your own actions, “What the fuck.”
2. Take its tentacle in your hand, invite it in.
You watch in absolute awe as, who would have guessed, your Tav takes the tentacle in their hand, inviting the Mind Flayer in.
Oh, you’re not seeing Heaven for this. You’re getting kicked straight to Hell, receipts pulled up of this very moment in your lifetime. That time you only cackled when your younger sibling broke their wrist? Fine. That time you let a door slam shut on some random grandma? Forgivable.
But making your video game character fuck the tentacled-should-be-enemy? No, yeah, you’re heading straight to the flames.
“Oh. My. God.”
You really, really, really should have noticed the achievement notification. Should have considered the fact that this was an achievement at all. Should have considered that your achievement would be public. Should have noticed who was currently online, and who would be getting the notification of your sins.
Should of thought of your boyfriend, in the living room, playing the very same game on your shared gaming laptop that had been reduced to solely allowing the two of you to play Baldur’s Gate 3 at the same time.
But you’re too entranced by tentacles and embarrassment and shit, is this kind of hot? Is The Emperor kind of hot? to think of any of this until it’s too late.
One moment, you’re leaning far more forward than you had realized, drawn into the screen as your mouth hangs wide open in that continued naivety of disbelief that the game actually allowed this, and the next, two hands are landing on the back of your chair and shaking you out of the trance.
“Shit!” you can’t help but scream, scrambling wildly to yank off your headset with flailing hands. A few of your knuckles connect with something hard, and you spin quickly to find Eddie standing there with a hand clutched over his nose, “Oh my God, baby, I’m so sor-”
“Are you fucking the mindflayer?” he all but yells, not looking to be in an ounce of pain even as he continues to shield his face where your hand had blatantly smacked him. His eyes catch the screen in the same trance you had just been under before yelling out, “Holy shit, you’re fucking the mindflayer!”
“It’s not what it looks like-”
“You are literally fucking the space squid right now.”
“I didn’t mean to-”
“You’re fucking a glorified piece of sushi right now. You are literally-”
For the second time in the span of what hasn’t even been a full minute, your hand slaps Eddie’s face. This time, it’s more purposeful, slamming your palm right over his mouth before he can continue what you can’t even be sure is teasing.
And you’re missing the entire scene. Thank God for learning to quicksave as a reflex, you suppose.
“Eddie, I swear to God, do not speak another word when I drop my hand,” you threaten, no real violence behind your words as he glowers at you. You can see all that mischief swirling behind the look he gives you, every possible bad idea to ever exist in this Universe manifesting in those big brown eyes as they stare widely into yours. “Do you understand?”
He nods. Your mistake for trusting him, you suppose.
The moment your hand has dropped from him, it reveals that giddy smile, dimples screaming for your instant regret before he even opens his mouth to say, “Play it again.”
“Excuse me?”
“Go ahead,” he waves towards the screen where the scene is beginning to wrap up, your current companions interrupting the moment in horror. If you had still been entranced, you would have been an absolute mess. But all your focus had been stolen away to the boy towering over you, “Reload the save. Replay the scene for me.”
Your brows furrow as you cross your arms, shaking your head, “No.”
“No?”
“No,” you repeat yourself more firmly, leaning into your stubbornness, “I am not replaying the scene for you after you just made fun of me for partaking in it.”
Eddie wastes no time pouting as he throws himself down onto the bed nearby, looking at you with unimaginably forced disappointment, “Come on. You’re no fun.”
You hate how cute he looks right now. Bottom lip jutted out for dramatic effect, legs splayed out to straddle the corner of the bed. He leans back on his arms, torso elongating as you watch him take every steady and expectant breath. He looks determined.
Unlucky for him, you’re just as stoic in your decision.
“C’mon,” he whines softly, changing his approach when he realizes the cocky exterior isn’t chipping away at that set look on your face, no faltering in your decision to ignore his request, “Please? We both know that I’m not going to be fucking the squid, so this is my only chance to see the-”
“He’s not a squid,” you groan, starting to turn your chair to face the screen again and continue your gameplay, “Might I remind you just how hot my guardian was prior to the whole tentacle reveal? You can’t even blame me for succumbing to this, you know.”
His lips press together tightly, biting back a grin.
“Your guardian was very hot. But, pray tell, baby, why did you choose to fuck the tentacled version?” You’re not having this conversation. You blatantly refuse to, picking your headphones back up and beginning to slip them over your ears when Eddie’s hand shoots out to stop you, “Wait. I have an idea.”
“I’m not reloading the save so you can see the scene, Eddie-”
“What if…. I technically don’t watch the scene?”
You halt all movement willingly, headphones still hovering in midair even as Eddie takes his hand away. “What do you mean?”
He leans forward, elbows digging into his thighs, sly smile shimmering on his lips as he finally abandons the god-forsaken pout. He’s radiating pride as he simply asks, “Wanna have your mind blown in real life?”
Your entire body flushes with heat, starting to actually get embarrassed that Eddie wasn’t letting this go.
“With God as my witness, if you do not stop making fun of me for this, I will kick you out of this room and lock the door.”
“I’m not making fun of you,” he says slowly, inching off of the bed, dropping to his knees on the carpet of your shared bedroom, “Not in the slightest, sweetheart. I’m making you an offer.”
You eye him cautiously as he slowly makes his way closer to you. When he’s nearly tucked under your desk, you’re quick to bring your knees up, still terribly weary and unsure of where he’s going with this.
“What do you mean then, having my mind blown in real life?”
Eddie’s smile has gone downright salacious as he easily fits himself under the desk that holds your computer, situating himself perfectly so that if you were to drop your legs back down, he’d be kneeling prettily between your knees.
“Reload the scene. And drop your legs, yeah?”
He says it so casually, nonchalance dripping from his tone as if he’s just asked you to pass him salt or inquired about the weather rather than the actual request he was insinuating. It has your knees pressing more tightly together, your chin dropping on top of them as you stare down at him in the cramped space.
“Are you… are you seriously suggesting what I think you’re suggesting right now?” you question, each word falling from your mouth slowly.
It had been a while since either of you had really gotten your hands on one another. Not on purpose, of course. The two of you had simply fallen victim to the immersive game, spending most of your free time either playing your individual campaigns or joining one another on a multiplayer one. Afternoons melted away from gameplay, and the two of you were usually already to the point of exhaustion once you’d end up in bed together. There had been a certain lack of affectionate touches, suggestive squeezes of your thighs and faux-innocent kisses of the neck. And neither had noticed, minds equally preoccupied on thoughts of pixelated characters and harrowing journeys over a screen.
You can’t remember the last time either of you outright suggested sex.
“Deathly serious,” you can see the shine of his teeth as he flashes them in the dark space. You continue to hesitate until he quickly adds on, “Only if you want to, of course. If not, I can always fuck off and leave you to Squidwar-”
“I want to,” you interrupt, ignoring the new nickname for the Mind Flayer that he had started to taunt you with. You carefully let your feet slip off your chair, avoiding knocking him in the face with your ankles. He aids you, a careful hand running from the back of your knee and down your calf as he guides your legs to rest on his shoulders. The fact that you had started gaming without pants was suddenly very helpful.
“Good girl,” it’s sort of ridiculous, the way his words cut right to your core, nearly making you let out a small gasp. Your body is suddenly very aware of just how long the accidental bout of celibacy had been, “A few rules before we begin. You’re going to reload the scene, and really watch it this time. Headphones and all, got it?”
He places a chaste kiss to your inner thigh, and this time, you can’t bite back your little gasp. It only elicits a chuckle from him as you eagerly nod. You could care less about the game at this point, but you can’t seem to find the words to tell him this.
“If you stop focusing on the scene, I stop eating this pretty little pussy.”
If you weren’t so light-headed from the way his breath hits your clothed core currently, you’d probably see just how ridiculous this entire scenario was. It was downright laughable. Even a little shameful, honestly. By no means was it the weirdest situation that you and Eddie had turned into a game of sex, but it was certainly up there.
God, you were in love with a fucking weirdo. And it made you just as weird, if not weirder, as he was.
He gently slaps at your knee, forcing your attention to focus back on him, “Got it?”
“Got it,” you manage to choke out just as his hands begin to trail up to your hips, playing with the lace of your panties teasingly.
You lift yourself ever so slightly off the chair as he slips your underwear off, bringing the fabric down agonizingly slow. He has to shuffle plenty, guiding your limbs around just to finally remove the garment, but you hardly pay attention to all that awkwardness. Your Tav is still on the screen, awaiting instruction just as you were.
When Eddie finally has your panties off, knees back to hanging on his shoulders, you can hear him let out a soft groan at the sight of you.
“Fuck,” he sighs gently, leaning his cheek against your knee ever so slightly, “The tentacles really do it for you, huh? Already fucking soaking-”
“Shut up about the tentacles,” you groan out, throwing your hand back in exasperation, “For the love of God, please shut up about the-”
“Ah, ah,” he tsks, pulling farther away from you, “Might I remind you the whole point of this is all those tentacles on your screen right now, baby? Maybe I should have you hook up your speakers instead of your headphones just to make sure I can hear the entire scene.”
You’d honestly forgotten about the scene at this point. It was the least intriguing part of your evening now.
When you stay quiet, biting your lip to avoid making anymore smart ass remarks that would only prolong what you desperately wanted, desperately needed, he finally takes it as his cue.
That damn grin, dimples and all, look up at you with all the ill intent in the world as he gestures for you to slip on your headphones. You do it immediately, and just before you’ve fully engulfed your ears with them, Eddie says, “Now, please do the honors, and hit F8 for me, doll.”
Immediately, the only noise you can hear is the ambience from the game. One swift punch of your F8 key pauses it entirely, sudden music replacing it as the reload screen appears on the computer. Eddie waits, staring up at you for a few moments, probably having memorized just how long these damn reloads take from how much the two of you save scum in the game (Ironic, given during your first playthroughs, he’d scolded you endlessly for save scumming rather than just trusting the dice and letting it all play out.)
After a few beats of stillness, you can see the scene prepared and ready for you to begin to click the options again to initiate the scene in your peripheral. Your eyes are still locked on Eddie’s, though.
He makes no move to move any closer to you, though, still smirking before he finally mouths ‘watch the game’.
It’s only once you do as you’ve been told that he has his mouth on you.
He starts slowly as you distract yourself with the screen, peppering kisses along your knees and inner thighs, working his way towards your pussy. Teasing you, taunting you, dangling what he knows you want so badly that it aches and has you spasming around absolutely nothing. It takes more effort than you could care to admit to focus your vision on the dialogue options, and even more to remember which one is going to initiate the goddamned scene.
When your shaking hand reaches for the mouse and finally clicks the correct option (thank God), his mouth finally hovers over your slick folds.
Whatever the Emperor says falls on ringing ears. Subtitles are useless, the words blurring together on the screen when his tongue takes its first stride across your core.
Your knuckles are paling from how tightly you grip your poor mouse, and you almost consider what you would do if this situation leads to you breaking such a vital piece of the shared gaming setup, but Eddie’s mouth is quick to distract you. You feel the vibrations of the hums falling from his lips just as they trail to wrap around your clit, forming suction as he gives one harsh suck that has your mouth falling open in a silent gasp. Your eyes can barely manage to stay open as you blindly click for the next dialogue option being presented.
Kiss the tentacle and hope that it’s an erogenous appendage.
Not quite the same path you’d taken before, but it’ll get the job done. Especially when Eddie’s fingers are digging into the flesh of your thighs even harsher, pressing himself even harder against you as his tongue dances over your sensitive bundle of nerves. Kitten licks, but every single one sends a bolt of electricity up your spine.
The sound that comes from the Emperor in the game doesn’t matter to you, completely overridden by the audible groan you can just barely catch from Eddie as your headphones begin to slip off.
Was that… a good sound?
You hadn’t noticed you’d breathily recited the words you read across the scene until movement below the desk catches your eye, and Eddie is nodding into your cunt more eagerly than the character on the screen could ever be capable of.
It’s the type of eagerness that has you whimpering, the kind of enthusiasm that guides one of your hands away from the keyboard and down to tangle into the roots of Eddie’s curls.
He’s going to be the death of you.
His grip tightens until he’s tugging your hips hard enough to bring you further slumped down in your seat, letting your thighs cradle either side of his head. His nose bumping your sensitive clit as his tongue circles teasing against your entrance. Once, twice – and then it dives in, pushing you to arch your back, a soft cry leaving you as you yank at his hair.
With a heaving chest, you find yourself reciting another line of words from the screen despite making no move to click any options, “Do it again. Please, God- do it again.”
He lifts to look at you at that, smiling wide with glistening lips and chin alike, “God? Oh, you’re making me blush, babe.”
“Eddie-” you start, but a smack on your thigh from one of his ringed hands effectively shuts you up.
“Play the game, and I’ll do it again.”
Your hand smacks against the mouse, and you must click the right option, the exact command you’d just demanded of Eddie, because the scene continues on.
You’re not watching the screen. Not consistently. Your eyes can’t stop flickering down to your boy, to his dark eyes shining up at you as he keeps his face buried between your thighs, the only thing giving away his current grin being the slightest crinkle beside those eyes.
The entire sequence from before is simply playing out, just as before, but your mind stays on the feeling of Eddie’s tongue on you. When he releases one of your thighs and brings his fingers into the mix, stretching you out far more fully than his tongue had, you’re preening beneath his touch. Gasps, moans, whimpers, sobs – they all fall from your lip as he knows just how to work you. All the right touches to bring your neglected body to the precipice, practically worshiping you on his knees as the brightness of the screen exposes your face to him. Eyes tightly screwed shut, mouth wide open, lips swollen from poor attempts to keep your noises down through biting them.
It only encourages him further. Only has him forgetting entirely about the game as well, the only goal on his mind being making you cum on his tongue.
And you do.
In hot waves, broken calls of his name, both hands tugging mercilessly on his hair. Your thighs are squeezing his cheeks tightly as you clench down on his fingers.
Somewhere between all the whispers of his name, numerous squeaks of please falling from your mouth, he slows down. He gives you a chance to bask in the after-warmth of it all, your entire body buzzing as you catch your breath. You truly, genuinely hadn’t expected to cum that quickly. But it had been a while, and if anyone knew your body well enough to get you off in record speed, it was the man currently still seated on sore knees with a winning grin on his face.
“Your headphones aren’t even on anymore, you cheater,” he teases, sounding just as out of breath as you felt.
You detangle your fingers from his hair, retracting your hands just far enough for one of them to flip him off, “Shut up.”
Your eyes are still closed, head leaning back almost painfully as the headphones cut into your neck. If you could live in this moment forever, you probably would.
He presses forward, placing a quick peck to your sensitive core that makes your legs try to squeeze together instinctually, “Make me.”
At those two words, you finally open your eyes, slowly lolling your head towards him, eyes narrowing at the challenge.
“Get off the floor and onto the bed, and I will.”
You don’t have to tell him twice.
The entire process somehow manages to remind you just how ridiculous the situation was. Watching Eddie clamber clumsily out from beneath your desk, cheekily flashing you the set of panties he’d taken off of you that he shoves into his pocket. Eyes glued on him as he flops himself down onto your shared bed, still looking far too proud of himself.
Your heart swells as you look at the absolute idiot, knowing he was yours.
“Well?” he asks expectantly, raising his eyebrows as he shimmies his shoulders jokingly, “You gonna make me or not, sweetheart?”
You’re quick to start to jump out of your chair, just eager to be close to him again, deciding the game could wait until tomorrow. Just as you do, however, Eddie puts up a hand, biting back an even wider smile.
“I’m only reminding you because I won’t hear the end of it otherwise,” he drawls, slowly pointing a finger back towards the desk, “Don’t forget to press F5.”
You roll your eyes, but you do as he says.
It works. It’ll save you time next time you reload the game – allowing you to skip the entire encounter, considering the way you’ve discovered there are far more fun ways to have your mind blown.
Now, however, it was Eddie’s turn.
eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin
@ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87
@thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea @kellsck
@cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking
@witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore
@mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog
@vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria @loveryanax @stylexrepp
@princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills @babez-a-licious @josephquinnsfreckles
join my taglist!
(please let me know if the tagging worked!!)
OMG CONGRATS ON 1K!!! you clearly put so much work and love into your writing and i’m so so glad you’re getting the recognition for it!! you’ll be at 2k before you know it 😉
might i request a forest green with our boy eddie and “work song” by hozier :)
thank you so much!!! <3 and i cannot even fathom that right now haha 1k as it is is just so wild to me. thank you for all your continued support i appreciate you so so much my friend <3
1k celebration - requests for this are now closed, but you can still send in general requests! just check out my rules first <3
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────
Eddie Munson had had enough brushes with Death to last him a lifetime.
After the Upside Down, he came to realize he didn’t want the adventure he’d spent his entire youth craving. He was satisfied with only being a hero in fiction; facing danger head on in real life wasn’t the fun he’d dreamt of, nor the adrenaline he’d craved. No, Eddie Munson had danced with Death, hand in hand, and he never wanted to meet the dark shadows of it again.
So he moved away from Hawkins. When it was all said and done, when everyone was safe and the entire group began to take the timid baby steps of moving on, Eddie packed up his van and drove as far as his tank of gas would take him. To a bigger city, to a fresh start. He found new routines as he clung to his roots that mattered. He’d call and talk to people back home endlessly, whether it was checking up on Wayne or giving Henderson advice to deal with the newest waves of bullies at Hawkins’ High. He’d gotten a shitty apartment on the less desirable side of town, as it was all he could afford. He’d gotten a job as a bartender, working away his nights in a place that reminded him of the nostalgic Hideout back home. It was there that he had met you.
On a slow Tuesday night, you’d come through the doors of his establishment, all smoke and mirrors and blood red lipstick. At first glance, he told himself to stay away. Because you carried yourself the way Death did – something to be craved, something to be wondered, something to be better idealized at a distance.
But then you sat down on a stool at his bar, and your smoke had swirled its way around him before it tucked itself down his throat and evaded his lungs. All your shadows beckoned to him as he had to lean in to hear your order over the loud music playing. He thought he should stay away, but something about the way you smiled to him with only those darkened eyes overrode his better senses.
That was only the first night.
He expected to see you every Tuesday and Thursday night. The entire room would suddenly darken, blanketed in your presence the moment you’d walk in. The fellow patrons felt it, the other bartender sensed it, and Eddie always knew it. You took your whiskey neat, you only wore shades of maroons on your lips that stained glasses, and your smoke always consumed him in an exhilarating manner. Eddie wanted you, badly.
And so he had you. Because, as it turns out, you also wanted him.
Fast nights of passion followed. He’d wrap himself up in your smoke in alleyways rather than his sheets after long shifts until, eventually, it escalated to taking you back to his place. He’d find retribution between your plush thighs, pulling prayers from your lips as if he were the God that should be worshiped. As if you weren’t the deity that had brought the man to his knees from the moment you’d walked into that bar. He built an altar at your hips and devoted his Sundays, his Tuesdays, his Thursday, to you. And as his infatuation blossomed into something more, as he waved away the smoke and saw you for the bones and skin you truly were, he began to realize something; you were not Death. You were something vivacious, a live wire that sparked an indescribable feeling within him that he’d spend the rest of his days chasing. He had been wrong - you were not only to be idolized at a distance. With your armor of smoke dissipating around him, with your softness bleeding out across his sheets in the early morning hours and your kisses turning saccharine sweet even with bitter alcohol still on your tongue, he had been wrong. Dreadfully wrong.
When his days turned from glimpses of worship to daily occurrences, when you started to find purchase in the coffee in his kitchen on lazy mornings and joined him in the shower for nothing more than the chance to wash his hair, he realized this was not a matter of death. It was a matter of life. You saw his scars, both physical and mental, and you’d pressed your healing lips across them with the promise of staying. Hawkins was no longer home – you became the place he’d rest his head at the end of the day. You soothed the ache in his bones, you scared away the night terrors, you cared for him as he cared for you.
You were not Death as he once foolishly thought. And with you in his life, he finally came to accept that Death was not something he could avoid. One day, the shadows he’d resented would claim him. One day, his candle in this lifetime would flicker out, his flame sent into billowing smoke with a whisper. And he knew, with certainty, if his time came before yours, if his flame was extinguished to nothing more than trails of weak smoke while yours continued to flicker brilliantly, his smoke would find yours. The ashes of who he once was as he walked this earth would be carried home to find you, and it would not be Death that earned his final dance.
It would be you.
“you took your whiskey neat”
cried to work song live tonight, then laid in my hotel bed and cried over this
𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮.
rockstar!eddie x assistant!fem!reader
✶Tossed to the wolves of touring lifestyle, you'd had enough of Corroded Coffin's backstage antics one night after a show, and try to escape to the bus for fresh air. Eddie follows.✶
NSFW — 18+ drug/alcohol mention/use, eddie spits whiskey in reader's mouth, sexual themes, crude jokes, enemies to lovers vibes, secret soulmates au
[wc: 8.8k]
↳ standalone gift oneshot for the i will wait series written by @abibliophobiaa, @blueywrites, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, @fracturedarkness
The methodical chaos—the mechanical creep of soundscape under the drums punching through your body, building to something bigger—ended forty-nine minutes and twelve seconds ago, and like the suspended chords he loved so dearly, you were left with a sense of foreboding.
Stage lights dimmed off. You were on the clock. Showtime.
Babysitter. Handler. Assistant who knew better than to offer him water.
Nerves holstered your shoulders. Unease twisted your stomach. Your ears rang, your teeth ached. Your jaw clenched in throbs off tempo from your heartbeat running wild on the adrenaline feeding the racing pulse hammering in your chest.
The concert was over, but the noise never stopped.
Inside the venue’s backstage room, abrasive bursts of laughter collapsed in excited chatter after an individual cocked back an object, and threw it.
The true night began.
A mostly empty beer bottle smacked its intended target in an echoey clang, and fell in a spray of foam. Fine. You could handle that. Then someone grabbed a plastic chair with metal legs, hoisted it over their shoulder, and chucked it, stumbling after the trajectory in the sloppy way drug-encouraged drunkenness would imply. A cacophony of too-loud cheering was caught on tape by a sound engineer’s personal Sony camcorder, flattening himself against the wall to capture the reaction to the CRT TV dropping from its shelf in the corner, stage live feed long since dead. On its fateful descent, it clipped the edge of an EXIT sign, which now dangled by its chord like a pinata, becoming the next target.
The beige brick room dampened outside interference and amplified the rest, living between yours ears alongside the snappy demands, rude remarks, and crude jokes. Spoken down to, disregarded like caked dirt between boot treads. Anxieties buzzing, looming a presence at the back of your mind, always. On edge.
Shouts, thuds, broken glass. People had the sense to duck, and cower. A side table was lifted, and heaved in a barbaric yell. Beer bottle after beer bottle after beer bottle. Chair legs ripped off, slick from the boozy bubbles coating the floor, and hurled at the red blinking sign. A lamp from another room. An ugly trash can. A hairdryer. The telephone you used to make a phone call thirty-two minutes and forty-three seconds ago; ripped from the wall with its receiver, and added to the clutter of projectiles. A bucket of melted ice, nailed head-on, splashing two dots of cold water on your cheek.
Expendable bottles were gone, but the riot didn’t stop. Another case was ripped into. Hard liquor traded hands. White powder stung noses, earning bloodshot eyes. Rewards. Rowdy shoving. Boys will be boys behavior.
An unopened Pabst whizzed past your head, slammed like a bullet into the mirror on the opposite wall, launching itself in a jet of built-up pressure across the room, ending its route at the toe of your heeled shoes seemingly just to ruin your wool-blend Express pencil skirt with hoppy liquid.
Eddie kicked the can away.
He circled his thumb and forefinger up the sides of his nose, and sniffed hard. “Want some?” he asked as he leaned on the wall with you, posture lax and open in all the ways your crossed arms weren’t. You cut your glare to the clear bottle he offered you. His grip obscured most of it, but you could see a worrying amount of whiskey had already been drunk when it crested the sides between his middle and ring finger.
Remembering to answer, you shook your head. The amber liquid sloshed with his tut, “Suit yourself,” and two deep gulps bobbed his throat.
You weren’t opposed to drinking when around him, but you learned your inebriated lesson four stops ago when the bill from the hotel totaled a stomach dropping amount, and as much as alcohol made it easier to tolerate Eddie in particular, your sluggish tongue slurring over an authoritative reminder of the early start to the morning to make it to the next city on time only fueled his defiant attitude. Pink puckered skin marked the stitches he snipped out of his upper arm with a pair of nail scissors after he and Gareth decided to smash the Hilton’s wine glasses for fun, and was surprised when a sliver of glass bit him back. Under his stringy bangs was an angry red scab from yesterday’s mic throttle to his forehead at the end of a verse, screaming his voice to the point of cracking with emotion. Other self-destructive tendencies coated his knuckles in dried blood.
It was a lot to deal with.
Today’s toll was one ruined guitar, a broken bass after the fretboard was stabbed into an amp, a bent hi-hat stand, and a completely deboned keyboard; keys removed thoroughly by the sole of someone’s boot scraping them clean off in the midst of performance. Blowing off steam, Eddie called it. Boys will be boys, one of the returning tour managers shrugged at you.
So far, it was one of the lighter days of tour—
You flinched.
A loud pop flickered through the room. One of two fluorescent lights shattered, and the tube swung down from the ceiling, becoming the next victim to a corner store ham sandwich being thrown at it.
Staying as small as possible, the emotional support water bottle in your hand crinkled as you hiked your fists further up your biceps, eyeing the camera man in the corner. Your employer tilted his head at the sight too, admiring, perhaps, the scene of two guys puffing on cigars. They stood behind two young women dressed in short jean skirts and hot pink tops, leering over their shoulders as the camcorder zoomed in on the obvious body parts a crowd of men would be interested in. The cigars bounced in their mouths as they spoke an unheard instruction in the chaos surrounding you, and the halter tops came off, breasts dropping to the tune of their girlish giggles. The men cupped their palms around the assets, and bounced them as if they were weighing fruit. From their gross laughs, it appeared they were rating the groupies, and the ladies were just happy to be on camera, pouting their lips and arching their backs.
You drew a line from their tits to Eddie’s gaze, hating the sick kick of anticipation knotting your stomach, aware you shouldn’t care for an entire phonebook’s list of reasons if he was watching them with interest. But with clarity, you realized he wasn’t paying them attention at all. His lazy smile was aimed over the rim of his bottle, full lips moving in a goad to the mass of crew members clogging the doorway.
More property ready to be damaged entered over their heads. A couch. An entire fucking couch was carried, stood on its end, and lobbed at the sign, breaking loose a length of red and yellow wires. But it still held strong. Tenacious thing.
Two grown men wrestled beside you. Their sleeveless shirts tangled, riding up to show purpled bruises on their backs—one from a mic stand thrown at him, the other from who fucking knows what. At least Gareth’s was in the shape of a crescent moon.
You shifted closer to Eddie to get away from their kicking feet, and relaxed the frustration from your brows before he commented on it. He, likewise, was bumped into by his friends, but his stature didn’t waver. That’s just how it was. Your bodies were near enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his hot skin, but the moment his sticky elbow made contact with your nice blouse—forever marking it with oily sweat—he earned an apology from Jeff who fell into him, meanwhile you were increasingly worried about receiving a tennis shoe to the ankle.
Exhaling an overdue sigh, you glanced sideways at Eddie to gauge if this was an appropriate time to remind him he should shower and get ready to greet the fans waiting outside the venue, but your breath crumbled to a groan. An eager grin cracked his face, almost manic if it weren’t for his heavy-lidded brown eyes. An idea.
He stepped forward. Everything that wasn’t his tight lips on the bottle of whiskey was ignored; downing what he could in a long swallow, and shaking off his pinched features as it burned past his gritted teeth. He raised the rest over his head, and aimed. Perfectly. The sign smacked the wall from the force behind his pitch, spinning wildly on its cord, slinging the front EXIT display clean off, and dropping lower from the ceiling, ready to sever ties. Shouts for its demise pounded your headache. Many palms clapped the back of Corroded Coffin’s frontman. He held out his hand to his audience, and a fresh bottle of whiskey was produced into his grasp.
Intuitively, employees shuffled to avoid his uncoordinated steps backwards, but you didn’t have the luxury of options, thus he misjudged the distance to the wall and ran into it, and you.
Your poor toes were the first to scream out, stuck under his heavy heel. His elbow jutted into your stomach, digging the sharp corner of your laminated backstage pass into your sternum. Even better, his shoulder mashed your nose, and you didn’t twist your head in time to keep your mouth from coming in contact with his bare tricep, getting a lick of stale salt on your inner lip, and a whiff of boy scent assaulting your nose after his deodorant stopped working hours ago. Too much of his weight depended on you to keep him upright, so you grunted out, “Fucking—Eddie,” and pushed him when others wouldn’t. Laying your hands on him in annoyance when no one else dared. He wouldn’t remember it in the morning, anyway.
Eddie followed his stumble through, and spun around. “Whoops!” he said to you in a smile—a viciously sincere thing, betraying his status over you with a genuine shine to his heavy eyes. So innocent behind his sleepy blink, long lashes fluttering, fine lines creasing at the droopy corners from the happy grin teasing his dimple into coming out, freckled nose bathed in hues of pinky red darker than the places he chewed on his bottom lip. He appeared so earnest, so charming despite his current condition, that when his dilated pupils swallowed the rim of bitter coffee brown, you lapsed in staying alert, becoming enamored by his ability to steal the noise from the room when his gaze swept your expression in a slow study. Tender, almost. If he were anyone else.
That’s why it hurt more when the comradery in his features were a trick of the light, and you were reminded of your position as his paid bitch killjoy.
The uncorked bottle of whiskey made itself known under your nose. “Want some?” he asked with kindness he did not possess, easing into a higher register to lift the question to you. Knowing. Mocking.
You swatted his hand away, and answered flatly, “No.”
It was coming. You didn’t have to be looking at him to see his face slide into dull neutrality, dry mouth and wicked tip of his tongue swiping over the back of his teeth. The displeasure was felt. Living, breathing. Fracturing your resolve like the second lamp thrown against the wall.
“Y’sure? You look like you could use a drink to loosen that stick up your ass, and have a little fun.”
Maybe it was the fact Eddie’s day started with him bitching at you for waking him up, when yours started hours earlier, rebooking his hotel rooms after being banned from the chain after last week’s incident. Maybe it was his snide tone when he demanded coffee, and you glanced at the lobby’s carafe on instinct, only to be immediately humiliated in front of the interviewer who was sitting opposite him, festering an indignant response under your skin all day. You weren’t even intending it to be for him, you weren’t stupid enough to serve him such pedestrian coffee, you were thinking about getting it for yourself. Stupid fuckhead. Maybe it was the hours you spent oscillating between enjoying the travel to new places you’d never been, and wondering if the price of him getting this riled up whenever he pleases was worth it. Maybe it was the nauseous haze flogging the room from the cigars. Maybe it was the channeled aggression from the three guys who flipped over the fold out tables for no reason, sending plastic cups of backwash tequila across the floor. Maybe it was the collateral damage the venue was going to seek. Maybe it was the three days of disaster challenging your professionalism. Or maybe it was Eddie’s next comment which pushed you over the edge.
“If alcohol doesn’t do it for you, there’s prob’ly some guy who hasn’t left the parking lot yet, maybe he can loosen you up.” And to further imbue disrespect behind his comment, he leaned in and feathered the low dip of his raspy voice over the shell of your ear, speaking so quietly the syllables had trouble catching, “But if you fuck ‘im on the bus, I wanna watch.”
The sign snapped and crashed onto the heap of damp valuables, inciting a louder celebration from those participating.
You dropped your water bottle where you stood, and skimmed past Eddie on your way out. A firm departure with seething eyes aimed straight ahead. Chin strong, moving past him with a message. “Go to hell.”
And your backbone faltered when the mass of roadies blocked your exit. Security guards with big bodies jumped, rejoicing. Lanky lighting techs downed their beers and threw them over the small crowd with no aim. Your shoulders collapsed, tucking your arms to yourself. Avoiding elbows, meaty arms with enough muscle to floor you, testosterone laced boys will be boys behavior with a heavy dose of uppers. A wall of men who ignored your plea spoken so loud in your voice which did not carry.
But they obeyed the tattooed arm beside you. Minded the obnoxious rings when rapping on a man’s arm. Heard the hoarse voice commanding them all into a single file line for you to squeeze by, “Give her some room,” and their big bodies were already hugging the other side of the hallway with a laughed apology—to him, not you.
You shuffled out as dignified as possible, knees stiff and weight focused on the balls of your feet to avoid slipping on the tile. It was embarrassing enough as is being trailed with a bottle at your back—a far cry from a heroic palm guiding you forward—and his need to overtake you in a single stride. Eddie shot his other hand out and pointed down an unoccupied corridor, in essence blocking you from leaving. Not that you had much fight left in you to argue after being awake for twenty-one hours, thirteen minutes, and fifty-two seconds. You followed the lead he set for you.
Scarce lighting shone down on the two double doors leading outside, leaving the alcove he chose cast in a darkness your eyes had to adjust to. Musty warm air from the arena swept your face. A cleaning crew attacked the stands, creaking along the seating tiers. Sweeping, chucking empty cups. The pressure on the small of your back drove you to an open area near the instact and working EXIT sign allowing you to discern the back of the stadium, and his face.
Eddie’s features were glazed in a gentle omen of red.
There were thousands of scenarios churning in your mind at the situation of being stuck alone in a dark corner with a drunken man, but his slight smirk put you at ease, ironically.
The source of the painful knots between your shoulders spoke, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He then had the gall to crowd you to the dusty drywall, and rest his arm atop your head, caging you there. Treating you as a nuisance. An insect. A little bee. A bug caught in his sticky trap. Gazing down at you with reptilian cold pupils behind his happily hooded eyes, substances battling in his body. Dangerous to no one but himself.
You squinted. “No?” The questioning lilt wasn’t intentional, but you had no idea what he was getting at.
He cocked his hip out with a dramatic sigh, and dropped his head forward to stare at you through his lashes, mouth hung loose. Waiting, waiting, waiting; acting as if he were the pinnacle of patience when you refused to play into his game, making you the bad guy. But worry not, he upheld the onus to inform you, his assistant, in a tone wallowing from the dregs of flat boredom with an edge of irritation and touch of patronization for having to spell it out for you, “I’m hungry.”
A polite, professional sneer lifted your upper lip. “Okay? Food should be here soon. I called it in a half hour ago.” About when the band came off stage, and Harry gave his honest opinion on their sloppy performance, while Eddie gave notes to the sound tech about Jeff’s mic not picking him up during Down In It. “Should be here in a few minutes.”
“What’d you order?”
Apprehension tensed through your back, perceived by his forearm mussing up your hair as the instinctual emotion stood you taller, defiant; knowing why his glinty grin taunted a show of teeth.
Pizza on Fridays. Texmex on Saturdays. Chinese on Sundays. That’s how it was every weekend. The consistency ensured you didn’t mishear him earlier when he requested his usual lo mein. “You asked for Chinese food,” you stated evenly, strongly. One step ahead of him.
“Mm.” Eddie scrunched his nose as he pretended to think it over. “Not feeling it today. I want pizza,” he said, the last word suffocated inside the bottle lifted to his lips, taking a long draw as your exhausted brain snapped to condescending him.
“So eat a cheese wonton and use your imagination.”
Utter elation gleamed in the steady eye pinning you in the crimson gloom, head tipped back to drink and drink and drink, cheeks sunken from sucking in liquor, pursing his lips around the glass rim from the smile he tried to suppress after succeeding in getting a rise out of you.
Your blood could only simmer for so long. Rolls of pent up anger, of festering disdain at his ability to find any opportunity to get under your skin, of fatigue from being ‘on’ for nearly twenty-four hours, stone in your gut from the constant passing glances when you were seen with Eddie; it all met its limit. You just wanted to leave. Your path to the hallway was blocked by the smooth contour of his bicep. Ducking under would mean an introduction to his armpit, and you weren’t thrilled by the idea of flattening yourself to the wall to slip by the untamed forest of black wiry hair. It would also be an admission of defeat, even further affirming your role as his spineless assistant to boss around. You could choose the other way and go around him, avoiding him all together, but there was no pride in that, either.
“Can you move your arm?” you asked, giving him the option despite better judgment when sudden pin pricks of uh-oh spiked your senses when he lowered the bottle.
A glistening line of whiskey traced his puckish smirk. Never menacing, but never a good sign. For a long moment the ghosts of the arena haunted the space in distant noises. Caresses of other humans around. Feedback other than the clutch on your heartbeat, and his troubled exhale into a strong inhale through his nose. Big breath filling his chest. Held. You took note of Eddie’s dimpled chin and the beads of water building at his lash line, and finally, he moved.
A sticky circle stamped the soft underside of your jaw, sliding his spit along your skin as he used the rim of the glass bottle of whiskey to lift your chin up, up. Stretching your neck, tipping your head back to the relaxed length of muscle along his forearm. Barely time to register the cherry-red halo striking the ends of his frizzy curls, or the ramping excitement overriding his already ruined impulse control.
Shy, you severed the intense eye contact when his face drew near.
Blank black soundless vortex rushing in your ears.
Drip, drip, drop.
Tiny splashes, one after the other, thumped on the locket of your lips. Mouth softly shut from the pressure under your chin. Tapping, tapping. Beat, by beat. Two, three, four, before your confusion determined what the sensation was, and the astringent scent cut its way to your sensitive nose.
You froze. Body clenching tight, fists sweating, nervous saliva pooling under your tongue too difficult to swallow. Jaw clamped shut and rejecting the liquid pooling at your lips, flooding it to the corners of your mouth, tickling the peach fuzz at the edges in tall walls of surface tension until, at last, they swelled, broke, and crashed. Thin streams flowed down either side of your neck, absorbed by your white blouse’s collar and trickling to the top of your bra cups, skirting to your cleavage. Brain overloaded. Clocked out. Warring with disgust, shock, and disappointment at the pathetic way you curled your fingers in some frustrated gesture at his actions, but ultimately, wrenched his tank top into your grip, and submitted.
You parted your lips, and Eddie poured.
Liquor, warmed from his mouth, filled yours. Burning, burning; drowning under the surge of spirits setting a blazing trail to your stomach, piquing a noise from you which would only draw the attention from those curious as to who the couple was fucking in the dark corner of the arena. You blocked the deluge from choking you with your fat tongue; rising onto your tiptoes while bending at your weak knees in the same involuntary whine as you tensed and squirmed—conflicted. Twisted your hands into the top of his shirt where the ribbed knit stuck to his chest, fabric damp with sweat and cool to the touch. You lurched him forward without thinking, locked in a panic. He complied. Easily.
Body to body, lazy weight on composed. Rubber soled boots dragging along the outside of your simple heels in a stuttered slide. Nudging the introduction of his bare legs against your skin; his hairy shins and the scraggly strings from the ripped hem of his shorts brushing the sides of your knees. Feeling his heavy arm flex as the front of his hips met you in the same stunted bursts as his steps, going from the man who frowned when you approached him, to the one who pressed himself between your thighs, causing the bulk behind his zipper to rock against you as he found his footing and stood tall, keeping his mouth aimed above yours, forgiving what spilt over your cheek in his stupor.
Dried salt and earthen dirt, embroidered texture of the fabric scraps he sewed onto his tank top rubbed your knuckles. The smooth pads of your thumbs landed above the neck hole as you centered yourself, tracing the duality of chilly perspiration on the heated skin of his sleek pecs, feeling the layer of muscle shifting underneath. Notes of oakwood barrels stroked your tongue before the sour punch of rye stung water to your shut eyes. You peeked through the wetness. Just to see.
His powerful lungs exhaled at a trained rate he could sustain in time with the runnel leaving his gently puckered lips paused above your own. Bangs stuck to his forehead. Sleepy faraway gaze. Calm, serene against the circumstances which had you questioning why you weren’t spitting the liquor back in his face. The scrunch of concentration between his brows was your last blurry sight before you were desperate for darkness again, letting your eyelids fall closed, lashes marrying.
Toofulltoofulltoofull.
The difference in your mouth size was apparent. Whiskey primed the inside of your cheeks, filling their fleshy stretch, stressing the brim of what you could hold. He’d only begun to dribble what had run hot and thick over his tongue when you untwisted your achy fingers from his shirt and served three warning taps in the vicinity of his heart. Feathery prods, like silk over the sparse hair growing in the valley between his pecs.
But, due to unforeseen circumstances, he forgot to stop.
Either you wormed yourself into stretching taller against the wall, or he leaned down. Perhaps both were true. Maybe you went rigid from the impending threat of irreversible stains on your new Liz Claiborne blouse, and maybe he shifted when the nuances of your hips slid against his own, dragging upward and reminding him of the cradle he had you in.
Richly flushed from booze, the tip of his nose thawed your thoughts as it grazed past your own, mashing a hint of tenderness you rarely witnessed from him to your cheek. By accident, of course, like the wet mid of his hair skimming the edge of your jaw where the bottle remained notched to your chin; amber glass a stark contrast from the plush give of his bottom lip flirting across yours.
Dry chapped against chapsticked satin.
The unintentional touch happened so fast, too quick to explore.
Mmm! Another antsy noise from you which rang sweet when amplified by the empty pit of coiled wires in the stadium. Mouth overfull. Stomach gripped, lungs clenching for unhindered breath. Realty checking in.
You put strength behind your forearms on his chest, shoving him and whirling your face away, keeling over what room he gave you to struggle through the largest gulp of your life, losing some of the liquor in the process, as evident by the splash on the concrete floor. Beyond brave, you drank it down, coughing, sputtering, and shuddering through the aftertaste for what felt like minutes. Huffing. Heaving. Working through the flood of drool coating your tongue, momentarily resting your dewy forehead on the thick vein drawn down his bicep by the red light, trying not to puke. Your shoulder pressed to his sternum. His heart beat, loud.
You used your sleeve to attack the wet streaks on your chin and cheeks, mopping up your pinched expression as the nausea of chugging his disgusting rye whiskey churned what patience you had for him. “What the—?”
“Hey, try not to waste any,” he commented dryly.
Voice raising, “What the actual hell is wrong with you?” You picked your head up from the crook of his elbow to pin him with your vehement glare. But the flash of temper at his drunken antics faded to the messy background of emotions when you remained in his pinion. Slotted between him, the wall, and the bottle.
Eddie’s nose bumped the bridge of yours. He pulled back slightly, and lowered the bottle. Still, his voice was one half of a sigh seeking its counterpart over your lax jaw and weak scowl. “Lotta stuff,” he answered. Still, your hands remained bound in his shirt. You couldn’t let go. Why couldn’t you let go? You couldn’t let go as the center of your bottom lip tingled like the buzzing wings of a bumble bee. Why didn’t you spit out the whiskey in his face? It was gross, revolting. Why did you swallow it?
Licks of black pepper and clove stayed on your tongue. Inhales went stale with his tangy scent, acrid and musky after giving his all on stage. His sweat clung to your fingers, mixed with the sheen on your forehead. When he breathed, his belly fought for the space between you, pressing into your stomach. Existing in the proximity you’d never seen the other in before; enabling you to hear the intimate loll of his tongue moving the spit in his mouth before he spoke.
Appearing more sober than before, with a strange amount of alertness in his glassy gaze trained on the minute changes of your features, he said, “You’re going to have a miserable time on tour if you keep being this up tight.” He angled away to sip from the bottle held by its long neck in three of his thick fingers. Rolling his lips inward, his throat bobbed a fierce line in the EXIT sign glow. “I was trying to work that permanent twist out of your panties. Get you to loosen up, have some fun.”
Just like that, the frustration was back. His words, his tone, his lack of apology for being a royal pain in the ass.
“You make me miserable,” you told him. For good measure, you pinched the sensitive underbelly of his tricep in case your voice didn’t carry the anger from the last hour of putting up with his shit.
He mumbled, “Ow,” probably not feeling the pain with how much alcohol was in his system.
Restraining yourself from reacting bigger, you tightened your fists and tried not to shake him. “I can’t relax, because the second I do Corroded Coffin gets stacks of lawsuits rammed up it’s ass, and you and I both know I’m hired damage control,” for you, you didn’t finish, getting too hot in the face to want to stand in your sticky clothes any longer, squishy inner thighs humid from being pressed together by his legs, shoes numbing your ability to feel the floor. “Would it kill you to stick to a schedule? Get cleaned up, meet some fans? Do the normal thing?”
The weight of his body returned, dropping the tension from his shoulders to curve them towards you, forcing your palms flat to his ribs. Another cage.
Unfortunately, his answer was a slow smirk. The bad kind. Sultry, and saccharine; dark like his purposefully narrowed coy eyes. “Kinda like it when you’re angry,” back to mushing his words together. “Lemme guess, you’re not even wearing panties to be twisted. You’re just naturally this…” Bitchy. “Pleasant.”
You pinched his tricep until you knew it hurt, until the roots of your hair tugged at your scalp from his forearm slipping away, and you used the space created to wedge past the areas of him which tempted a flicker of want in your core after a noticeable drag against your hip. “Don’t follow me.”
“C’mon, are you really..?” A pause. “Wait—!”
A productive conversation was a fruitless, futile thing.
You silenced the voice in your head telling you there was genuine remorse in his innate reaction to call for you. As if he were done pretending to be drunker than he was just to push things too far. Like he really cared you were walking away, in essence giving him permission to continue his night how he wanted.
No heavy thudded steps chased after you. The double doors were up ahead. You leaned into opening them past the heavy gust of hot air pushing back, and you stepped out to excited faces falling flat in disappointment when it was just a lady in a blouse and skirt reeking of booze, not a member of their favorite band printed on their bleach-dyed Corroded Coffin t-shirts.
~~~
When the tour bus doors next hissed, it wasn’t a single body stomping vibrations through the overly large vehicle on their way to pore over the details for the next show, it was a steady flow of those who called the beast their home. Most slung themselves in the couches at the front, talking shop around the kitchen table. Some infiltrated the fridge for beer. Another used the bathroom which was too close for comfort, especially in the recycled air blowing through the vents.
A body approached, and you curled your toes in as he passed.
Eddie’s heavy black boots stopped in the aisle of bunks. The soles squeaked as he turned, creaking leather as he sank his weight to one side. Stalling, facing you before he sat heavily on his bed. As he did so, two sharp pops drew his attention. Checking behind him, the privacy curtain was stuck under his ass, and the plastic rings meant to hold it up were snapped into pieces. You avoided putting your gaze on his person as you watched him solve this mystery, and returned to the paragraph you were scrawling in your notebook, moving your pen across the lined page.
Two of the last three days were journaled down, catching up from the hectic weekend, and venting through your emotions by reliving them. Darker ink bloomed where you carved the tip of your pen through your explanation of your hurt feelings and the general flippancy you were subjected to by one person in particular. The roadies and other members of the band got less screen time than the star of the show in your tirades. He knew this, too, looking from across the aisle at your clumped lashes, spying the water spots on the pages when he was standing. He sat forward, much like you, but his thighs were spread with his hands in between them, palm open to whittle a nervous thumb in the cupped center, having the decency to appear ashamed.
Your clothes were folded beside you, undecided if you wanted to trash them or wear them in defiance.
“Do you want me to apologize?” he asked, not quite enunciating due to his uncomfortableness.
Unable to mask it, you blinked rapidly before opening your eyes wide, not withholding the contemptuous sigh released from deep within. You gripped your notebook harder, bending it, rumpling the pages to hide what you etched behind your tight hands. Who the fuck asks if they need to apologize?
Eddie’s washed curls fell forward with his hung head, nodding to himself.
He got up, and left.
Anger scored your face. Draped by your headache was your furrowed brows, flared nostrils, twisted pursed lips zipped up tight from saying anything you’d regret—a lesson he could do with. Your pajamas were the makings of nine heavenly clouds after being dressed in stiff business attire all day, but the blisters on your ankles stung. Your joints throbbed. Your muscles wore sore. Your spine cried every time you moved.
Tomorrow you’d start doing the stretches the stageside crew showed you that kept them limber. You made a note to fit this in your schedule, bypassing the silly daydream of stopping at a bookstore in the next city and reading up on a yoga guide for more pose ideas than what the guitar techs could teach you, aware the chance you’d find time away from your boss to pursue your own self-interests was slim.
Flipping a new page, you dated it in the corner, began your introduction, and started on the third day of spilling your heart out.
Your pen was mighty interrupted.
It’s difficult to say what came first: the mouth watering rush of saliva, or the passionate rumble of your empty stomach yearning for the white takeout box placed in your lap by the bruised hand sporting cuts from punching Gareth’s drum platform during the one of the more self-loathing songs.
A pang of humility gentled his nature.
The four-fold top was open, revealing your favorite noodle dish with extra green onion and sesame seeds sprinkled on top, plastic fork stabbed through the middle. You lifted the container to swipe the oil stains off your mid-sentence rant, shaking free the beads of condensation collecting on the sides. The cardboard had gone soggy after being nuked in the microwave, burning through to your fingertips, but you held your dinner nestled in your palms, regardless.
It didn’t come with extra green onions or sesame seeds, those would have to be found on the side and added, along with the sauce to keep it from drying out.
Eddie made it exactly how you liked.
Hunched in the minimal space between bunks, you stared at the long stem of a bean sprout sticking out from the swirls of noodles, processing his gesture. Beneath that, your journal was splayed open to a slew of harsh sentences. Lower, directly across from your bare toes was Eddie’s boots. Higher, one of the metal aglets of his laces was stuck behind the leather tongue. Fresh socks clung the bottom of his calves. You listened to him peel back the curtain before sinking to his bunk, and trailed your study over the silvery scars on his knees. Moving up, you spotted a fresh beer in his hand, maybe one or two swigs taken. His elbows rested on his thighs, body folded over, leaning in, mirroring you to some degree.
The harsh overhead lighting brought luster to the bright golds, rich reds, and deep strands of chestnut through his dark hair brushing the shadow of his clavicle over the black shirt clinging to him, hugging the slope of his stooped shoulders.
Finally, you met the depth behind his eyes communicating what he couldn’t.
The apology lasted just long enough for your consideration, and then he lifted the crinkly wrapper tucked between two of his fingers. “You want this?”
You shook your head at the fortune cookie. “You can have it.”
“Nice,” he whispered. The unassuming planes of his cheeks lifted enough to allude to the dimple on his left side, and bracket his mouth in smile lines. He was still drunk, you assumed. A merry blush persisted across his nose, and his eyelids were as sleepy as the bags beneath them. But there was a youthful glee under it all as he tore into the cellophane. A glimpse at someone from long ago; not the rockstar before the start of touring who would pull laughs from you, but further, before the conditions of fame chewed him up, spit him out.
You wondered if Chinese takeout was a rarity in his boyhood, a special treat saved for when he left his hometown on trips to the city.
Eddie flicked the wrapper to the floor—annoyingly—and ducked at an odd angle to lay his upper half into the cozy nook of extra pillows he made you buy on the first night of being on the road. He stowed his beer at the apex of his clenched thighs, fitting the cold bottle snug against the packed seam guiding your eyes to the hill of his zipper, provoking hot blooded thoughts. His shirt rode up as he brought his arms above him, fanning the thick trail of hair out from under the hem, impossibly soft in appearance, auburn tinted, growing less dense on the sides of his belly. He cracked the crisp wafer in half, and you watched his stomach tense on the snap.
Squinting in the dark, Eddie depressed the button on the tiny reading light with his knuckle, and unfurled the paper from half the cookie, scanning the faded red text.
He snorted.
Choosing a mystical-sounding rasp not far from his real one to invoke the guise of a palm reader in a smoky lounge reeking of incense sticks, he read the fortune aloud while waving his other hand about, “You will be successful in love,” he said. His wrist went limp, and he tucked his chin to congratulate you. “Lucky you.”
No amount of plastic forks shoved in your mouth would rid you of the smile tightening your eyes. “Lucky me,” you echoed, full of wryness. The food, amongst other things, worked wonders to lift your mood. You weren’t as much buzzed from the shots sloshing in your stomach as you were queasy, and greasy noodles filled the tumultuous void stupendously.
He stuffed the crunchy cookie in his mouth, and turned the fortune paper over, speaking through the gnash of crumbs, “Your lucky numbers are 35, 26, 56, 10, 32, 52,” he continued.
“Uh-huh.”
The noise across the rest of the bus was at a level you could endure. Shooting the shit at an appropriate volume, or nodding along to the conversation. The driver would give the signal soon, and the boys would, or should, go to their bunks.
While you ate, Eddie stayed laying with his legs off the bed, head crooked against the wall due to the narrow space. He held the fortune above him. Reading it, sometimes. Thumbing the edge other times, or rubbing the texture of the stiff paper across itself. Staring, staring, unblinking from whatever he was thinking as he wrung a hand around his face; eliciting a sense of comfort from the audible stroke of his knuckles scratching over his stubble.
You scraped the bottom of your container, and put aside your notebook to gather your trash, two feet planted to make your way to the kitchen. At the last second, a glint caught your eye, and you bent over to pick up the wrapper Eddie dropped, tossing it in the takeout box, too.
“While you’re down there, be a doll and take off my boots.”
“No.”
His disgruntled groan followed you to the front of the bus.
The guys gave you a mixed reaction of curious glances and uninvolved nods as you stuffed your garbage in the overpacked bin. Jeff in particular made a point to look from you to his best friend’s legs, though you didn’t have much of an answer to whatever he was searching for.
A goodnight wave would have to do, and you were back at your bunk, folding the sheets down in preparation for the dreamless state you wished to be in. You sat on the mattress, eyes closed and spine somewhat neutral. The structure of the bunks were unforgiving, but the small crawl space could feel cozy at times, like a blanket fort made from couch cushions. Except, the house moved throughout the night, and angry honks woke you up on occasion. Not to mention you were a light sleeper from the stress of a car crash, or being dumped onto the floor.
The fortune paper flitted. Regarding you over the imposed suggestion between his legs, he informed you, “It says here the best way to relieve some of that tension you’re always carrying around is by taking a ride on a nice, fat—”
You snatched the beer bottle from between his thighs, big fake hard-on standing tall. He startled from the sensation, darting his eyes from the phantom trace against himself, and hailing you with a sputtered laugh through his cheek-aching smile, denying you the reward of taking him off guard by covering his mouth with his hand.
“I earned this,” you said about the drink.
“Yeah?” he goaded, pleased at your forwardness.
In a valiant attempt to show off, you tipped the mildly hoppy bitter back. Two pulls in, you thought better of it. Not quite a chug, but he lost the war with his grin, pearly teeth shining behind the thumbnail he strummed over the center of his bottom lip, eyes almost closed entirely in a bout of crinkles.
You pulled your lips off the bottle; off his spit and off his drink, off his glass cock, and were emboldened by the confidence of his playful disposition to rib on him openly, like the guys would when his pendulum mood swung to the good side. You lamented in a dramatic sigh,”Maybe my love life will be so successful, I'll get swept off my feet, and be free from the burden of listening to your sloppy guitar plucking all night.”
His expression lurched towards impressed. Overacting with his mouth agape in surprise, lips curled over his teeth, and splaying his hand on his chest. With how he propped himself up on one elbow, his shirt stretched flush against his pecs, accentuating the two round shadows at the ends of the metal bars through his nipples.
Right, you remind yourself, able to forget their existence through most of his wardrobe choices, he has pierced nipples.
Your body ran hot at the memory from two short hours ago where you were inexplicably thrusted into a situation where you could’ve felt the jewelry by accident, pressed against a wall. Now you were able to think through the adrenaline, and acknowledge having another person’s touch on your skin did more harm than good for the loneliness lurking within, calling it to the surface.
The notebook beside your pillow drew your glance.
Eddie stabilized your position in the conversation, not letting your sudden reservation deter him from seeking retribution for your insult. “Think y’drank too much honey, there, Bee. That one stung below the belt.”
The moment it took for you to register the low leech of a tease sneaking its way through his croaky, whiskey-hoarse words was a long one. Longer was his heavy palm falling to demonstrate where exactly your insult hurt him, cupping and grabbing the afflicted area. “You wound me!” he dramatized, demonstrating the limits his fatigue green shorts flattered, cotton fabric scrunching under his grip, then slouching flat on the release. Longer, still, was the distance between the gaudy ring on his middle finger and the tip of his short nails, thick digit landing on the tattered seam splitting him down the middle. Letting go, he rested his hand above his belt.
Everything about him was victorious. Champion eyes glinting rum colored; a shade you’d never seen on him, and almost missed with your observance stuck lower, trapped by his overt flirtations.
His belly rose and fell with a sympathetic hum devised to rattle you.
When sober, the invitation to crude insinuations began and ended with intangibility. A calculated smile to fluster you when caught admiring how his tattoos twisted over the muscles in his upper arms when he leaned on his keyboard, a sentence spoken in the morning before his voice warmed to its comfortable register, a tossed comment in the midst of conversation with his band mates and the effect it had on you shifting uncomfortably just outside the ring of amity—quarantined behind the scope of his single-handed gesture pumping an obvious motion, pretending you were absorbed by the timetable schedule for the band inside your folder, appearing busy and decidedly not desperate to either be included or released from the task of being present, even when hot needles of sweat stressed the lack of consideration for your feelings with each sorry expression cast in your direction. You were his worker bee, paid to wait on him, and his teasing was rarely physical beyond an appropriate knock on your bicep for your attention in the off chance he didn’t snap his fingers at you like a dog. Or a tap on your knee under the kitchen table to get you to stand so he could leave; a light pressure which you could replicate days later with your own knuckles. His daily indifference was born of spite, and his drunken actions were bred of the same annoyance, bottle-deep perspective viewing you as the one who was ruining his night. Assuming he continued to push his tolerance with more drinks after you left the green room, his bold teasing made sense, you supposed, too unrestricted to deny himself the fun of riling you up.
The right thing to do would entail divorcing yourself from this conversation, and bringing up his conduct tomorrow. The wrong thing to do would involve taking another swig of his beer. The right thing to do would require reminding him of his meeting with Murray in the morning, who had a shorter fuse than anyone in the music industry. The wrong thing to do would include lobbing the bottle in his bed. The right thing to do would demand not giggling at Eddie’s poor reflexes when he made a bigger mess of the ale spilling on his blanket.
Eddie seized to catch it, but his hand-eye coordination was not up to par. He scrunched his eyes closed at the last second, jolting into a crunch with his chin tucked in an inordinate amount of wrinkles, and hands turned with his palms out, more keen on keeping the bottle from hitting his face than truly catching it. Which was a plausible excuse for his boot kicking your bunk in the process, and overall lack of poise as he brought his hands together after the beer had already bounced off his belly, and rolled where the bed dipped around him.
The wrong thing to do would consist of you running your knuckle along your shameless grin, prodding the flesh against your teeth as he dropped his head back and emptied the bottle onto his softly cradled pink tongue, thank you for sharing the drink, every last boozy drop.
Recognition curved the groove of his mouth.
Boys will be boys behavior.
“Here,” he said, rolling forward with his arm extended. The glass bottle in his hand drew your immediate wilt, but before you advanced too far into your frown, he alleviated your ire with the two fingers pointing at you, fluttering the damp paper between them. “You believe in this sorta shit, don’t you?” Despite the mock, you knew better than to refute his claim, not having the chops to sound convincing. Not that you really had faith in the mass produced slip of paper, but the affirmation that you’d find your soulmate one day produced a sense of ease before bed. Even when the word ‘successful’ was blurred from a drop of beer.
You placed the fortune in your notebook, feeling the ache of an unfinished entry.
At the front of the bus, the driver stamped up the stairs and gave the signal he was going to start moving soon, cuing the subliminal bedtime. The unbelonging technicians left, and the rest of Corroded Coffin stretched from the stiff cushions lining the booth seats around the table. As they picked up after themselves, Eddie untied the top set of his laces, and kicked his boots off, leaving them in the aisle along with the empty beer bottle.
He rolled onto the edge of the mattress to rip back his sheets and shoved his legs under, hesitating from drawing the curtain when he browsed the end of your bunk, where your feet moved under a pile of belongings placed atop your covers. “I’ll send your clothes to the dry cleaners tomorrow.”
Not an apology.
“You mean you’ll send me to the dry cleaners tomorrow,” you corrected, and his face smoothed flat from the accidental snub.
Harry moved between you two. Jeff divided the conversation further. Gareth cleaved whatever rapport you had with Eddie when he snorted at the two of you facing each other in your bunks, cuddled up like a sleepover.
Thinking harder as his peers climbed into their beds, Eddie relaxed onto his forearm supporting his upright posture, and sank into the jut of his shoulder, spinning his hand in the same flippant way the scrunch between his brows appealed to the snark loading in his throat. “I’ll just give you my wallet then, mm?” he offered, gravelly voice dusted with insincerity. “Then you can buy all the white blouses, and black skirts your pretty heart desires.”
Someone snorted again. It sounded like Gareth.
“And, uh,” Eddie endured as the plastic rings tinked across the metal bar, leaving a generous window visible from the top of his shoulders to his wild hair spread about his pillow palace, limp curtain hanging pitifully, “if you’d be so kind, don’t watch me sleep.”
“I won’t,” you said, and it sounded so sad. So soft, and faint, no bite behind it. No zest, no strength. Just confusion, though you understood the events leading to the pendulum swinging the other direction.
You closed your curtain, too.
The tour bus rumbled before sighing its characteristic hiss and chugging forward, pitching its cargo inside. You swayed in your nook. Laying on your back meant you experienced every roll of the tires cutting corners in the parking lot, but you weren’t ready to turn over yet. Your mind was swarming with cluttered thoughts. There were things you could be doing other than peering out at the depressing darkness where the dim ambient light didn’t pierce. You could brush your teeth, stow away your pocketbook before the pens rolled out, pick up the bottle before it tipped over and played pinball down the aisle all night. Your journal entry could be finished, you could sit up and read a book like Eddie, you could do some of those stretches for your hips and back. You could cry, you could count sheep for the next four hours and forty-seven minutes, you could cry some more; wet face wiped raw by the stiff sheets, and mouth buried in the unfeeling comforter to muffle the squeak of air leaving your lungs when you couldn’t suppress the emotions lodged in your throat any longer.
You could do many therapeutic things.
Instead, you pressed your knuckle over the center of your lower lip, replicating the pressure, and thought about the fortune.
took a whiskey shot at hozier tonight, half of it ended up on my chest and i was immediately brought back to this
twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)
"NIGHT TIME RELIGION"
EXTRA CONTENT- "BEYOND THE HOURS"
→ pairings: modern!college!eddie x college!fem!reader → warnings: strong language, upside down does not exist, minors dni → wc: 2.3k+ → a/n: just a simple, sweet glimpse into what our favorite idiots' nighttime routine is like. probably got a little too poetic with it, as always <3
enjoy the main story's masterlist here
“You fell asleep again.”
It’s not a question, just a mere observation. Eddie doesn’t even put any emphasis on the key word there, that it had happened again, as he glances up on you sprawled out on his couch.
“Nuh uh,” you childishly rebuke, ironically squeezing your eyes shut tighter as you let your cheek nuzzle deeper into the page of the textbook you’d been taking notes on, “I’m… I’m wide awake.”
Every word painfully slurs with your next, voice mostly muffled. If he hadn’t been so close to you from where he was sitting on the floor, he probably wouldn’t have been able to make out what you’d just murmured.
It only makes him laugh softly as he focuses back on whatever piece of equipment he’d brought into the apartment that belongs to his bike, “Sure you are, sweetheart.”
The coffee table is spread with hand towels and paper towels alike as Eddie fiddles with the hunk of metal. You hadn’t even prodded him about what it was he was fiddling with; you were too busy, knee deep in your studies as you’d made yourself comfortable in his living room.
It was a normal routine now – something cozy, something domestic. Instead of being holed up in your dorm these days, you found yourself occupying apartment 2C far more frequently than you’d ever admit to anyone else. Half the time, the two of you didn’t even have plans. It wasn’t about elaborate date nights or purposeful hangouts anymore; these days, the two of you simply enjoyed one another’s presence. It was enough to just know he was there with you, in the same room, as the two of you were occupied with your own individual tasks. Sometimes, he would be reading a book as you wrote your essays. Sometimes, he’d steal your laptop to shop for new bike parts and accessories online as you caught up on your favorite TV shows. There had been plenty of phone calls with Nancy in which Eddie had let you simply rest your head in his lap, hands mindlessly carding through the scalp of your hair as he tried to offer assistance to his best friend’s daily troubles and rambles.
It was nice, and it was normal, and it was something the rest of the world would have to pry from your cold, dead hands.
The apartment could have easily become something akin to a prison after the bet, but it hadn’t. Instead, somehow and someway, you and Eddie had turned it into a proper sanctuary.
You no longer spent lectures daydreaming about returning to your dorm; your mind much preferred longing to return to Eddie’s room, to picture falling face down in his bed, where the pillow on the right side had begun to smell of your shampoo rather than his cologne.
“It’s getting late,” he sighs when he hears you go silent again. He’s not annoyed by any means. If he had it his way, he’d probably curl up on the couch with you for the rest of the night, content to fall asleep to the view of your face smoothing out in peaceful rest. But he knows if he leaves you be, you’ll wake up with an aching back and an attitude that makes even Harrington cower. He puts down his project for the night, wiping his hands on a damp paper towel before he reaches blindly behind himself to give you a few taps on your rear, “C’mon, we need to get ready for bed.”
You swat his hand away, and it only makes him grin, “It’s not that late. Plus, I’m comfy.”
“It’s half past eleven, baby.”
And oh, do you shoot straight up at that.
Your eyes are finally wide open as you look at him wildly, face struck with confusion, “Excuse me?”
“I said, it’s half past ele-”
“When the Hell did it get so late?” you fumble with yourself as he slowly gets up, making a show out of stretching all his limbs. You don’t even grow distracted when his arms reach well over his head and tug up his shirt, exposing that sliver of stomach that would normally entice you, “I swear to God, it wasn’t even ten like…. Ten minutes ago.”
“Ten waking minutes ago, maybe,” he teases, holding a hand out for you, “Time flies when you’re napping instead of studying.”
It’s hard for him to not smile so softly down at you right now, even as he watches the defeat take hold. Your entire outfit is compiled of his clothes, yet another t-shirt you’d snagged from him along with a pair of sweatpants that he can’t even remember the last time he’d worn them. Your hair is messy, falling out of the convenient style you’d fashioned in it hours before when you’d declared you needed to focus. Your shoulders sag, the corners of your mouth inch downward, and all he really cares about right now is getting you in bed so he can wrap himself up around you.
Your eyes dart between his outstretched hand and your textbook, still open on a page that you’d embarrassingly drooled on, “I know we joked about celebrating when I aced my finals, but can we still get milkshakes when I absolutely flunk them?”
The way you manage to melt his heart is impeccable. He doesn’t even have it in him to be snarky, or to make another menacing jokes, “Of course we can.”
That seems to make your decision. You finally reach out and take his hand, clearly trying to be dramatic as you pull on him with the entirety of your weight, almost as though your end goal was for him to actually end up beside you on the couch rather than to be standing beside him.
If your goal is the former, you fail miserably. He doesn’t budge beneath your drag, only leaning forward to grab your other hand and properly haul you off the couch.
“Oof,” you huff out as you collide with his chest from the force, letting your face smash into him and making no move to pull back, “Can’t you just carry me to bed? Is that an option?”
He almost says yes. Almost.
“We won’t even make it down the hall,” he chuckles, taking slow steps back, guiding you right along with him, “I may or may not have also dozed off at some point. Jury’s still out on that one.”
“Is it?”
You’re hardly lifting your feet, shuffling your way along, letting him walk you deceiving to the bathroom rather than the bedroom. He has no idea if you’ll be capable of doing your full skincare routine, but at the very least, he has to get you to brush your teeth. If he didn’t, he’d never hear the end of it.
“It is indeed,” he finally stops walking backwards, deciding it might become more dangerous rather than just dragging you along, “Probably won’t get a ruling until morning, so we might as well brush our teeth now, doll.”
He’s trying to sweeten the deal. Coaxing you with adoring pet names to keep you in motion.
“Ugh, effort,” you crunch your nose as you say it, and it’s clearly more for show than anything now. You’re fully conscious, capable of getting yourself to the bathroom sink where both your toothbrushes now sit side-by-side in a glass cup, but you don’t let go of his hand just yet.
His palm is warm, and right now, all you really wanna do is curl up in that heat.
Eventually, though, you let go. The two of you stand in the mirror as you go through the motions of wetting your toothbrushes, applying the toothpaste – all the boring, mundane actions that are more habit than conscious choices. But interspersed in the habits you’ve gathered over your years of life are new ones, minimal but vital after the amount of time spent together. Proof of the way this nighttime routine had become something of a religion between the two of you, something to be offered and to be shared rather than simply going through the motions.
The way Eddie carefully rolls the end of the toothpaste tube before passing it to you, simply so it’s easier for you to get your share of it. The way you leave the water running after you’ve wet your own brush just so Eddie can also do so. All the sneaky glances caught in the mirror as the corners of your mouths foam up. Every ridiculous face, every nimble bump of your hip to his, the way he sticks out his very white tongue at you before he spits out into the basin – new things that have all become the normal, but still settle warmth in your chest.
Things that water a garden of vinery and blooms that no longer only belong within the confine of your bones, but his as well.
A shared garden of memories and comfort. Growing, flourishing, nurturing one another.
You lean down to spit right before him, and when you take a second too long, he tugs on a strand of your hair, trying to move you. And even as tired as you are, you find it within yourself to be a little shit as he so lovingly mumbles out around his toothbrush, lingering until he’s bumping you with his hip with purpose.
Passing the floss back and forth (or more like you shoving the floss into his hands before he can try to argue against it), using the same paper cup to sip mouthwash out of – something so bland that you used to do it alone, now something to enjoy with him.
You kind of love it. You kind of love him.
“Should I wash my face?” you question, leaning in closer to the mirror and poking at your cheeks, checking your skin for any blemishes you can find.
Eddie only moves behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and making the entire ordeal far more difficult as his chin rests on your shoulder, “Not if you don’t feel like it. Besides, it’s gonna make your nose cold, and then you’re gonna press it all over my damn neck and-”
You cut him off with a joking glare, reaching up to flick at his nose, but he’s quick to pull his face out of your reach. Smiling widely, showing off those fresh and minty pearly whites.
“If my cold nose bothers you that much, I could just stay on my side of the bed tonight,” you scowl, even though you were already taking his advice and calling it a night, twisting out of his hold to flick the lightswitch and exit the bathroom.
He’s still stronger as he keeps his arms in place, only twisting himself around to face the door frame right with you, whining in your ear, “No.”
He drags out the ‘o’, his voice slowly growing more quiet the longer he draws out the vowel. At some point, it’s less than Eddie has ended the protest, and more that he’s just run out of breath.
His arms only leave your waist for the two of you to get dressed in proper pajamas. Well, what you both consider proper pajamas.
You, left in only his shirt and underwear, and Eddie simply in his boxers.
There’s no more sarcastic comments or lazy banter, although you certainly expect it. You’re almost holding your breath for it, right up until Eddie’s lifting his comforter and eagerly motioning for you to climb into bed first. Not one smartass remark about ladies first that could easily backfire on him as you shoved him into the bed before you.
No, he waits until the two of you are lying on your sides, facing one another, not quite touching when his face breaks into a radiant smile.
“What?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him, overly suspicious of his random burst of happiness.
“You call it your side of the bed.”
At first, you don’t get it, “What?”
“You called it your side of the bed,” he repeats with the utmost emphasis, finally throwing his hand out in search of your own, pulling it up to eye-level so he can toy slowly with each of your knuckles.
“Is it not?” you’re whispering like two children at a sleepover, your feet finally drifting to toe at his calves. If they’re too cold for his liking, you don’t know. He doesn’t flinch or complain, only spreads his legs ever so slightly so there’s a space left for you to fill as you intertwine limbs.
“It is,” he confirms, nodding a little, finally slotting his fingers between your own, “Just nice to hear you say it out loud.”
And suddenly, you get it.
It’s your side of the bed. It’s your toothbrush resting beside his. Your textbooks and laptops are still on his couch, you have a sticky note with a reminder for yourself to buy more milk put up on the fridge, there’s now a space for your shoes at the front door right beside his daily boots – slowly but surely, you’ve whittled out spaces for yourself here, with him.
Even when you’re not here in this apartment with him, your presence remains. Someone could walk in, and they still see traces of you. You exist here, constantly, right along with Eddie.
“Yeah,” you whisper back, finally scooching closer. He immediately shifts so that you can cuddle into his side, your head resting against his chest and your ear pressed to listen to his thrumming heartbeat. A perfectly carved out space for you even here, between this sheets, against his skin, “It’s nice to say out loud.”
Not a routine, but a religion. Something to worship in the quiet hours between the sound of quiet snores and a noisy coffee maker you already have plans to replace as a Christmas gift to Eddie. An apartment turned altar, with offerings from both of you, to all that has and could become.
You whisper your final prayer, just as you do every night, even when you think Eddie might already be fast asleep, “G’night, Eddie. I love you.”
He’s not already asleep.
“I love you, sweetheart.”
eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog @vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria @loveryanax @stylexrepp @princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills @babez-a-licious @josephquinnsfreckles
join my taglist!
twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)
"THE FIRST DATE"
EXTRA CONTENT - "BEYOND THE HOURS"
→ pairings: modern!college!eddie x college!fem!reader → warnings: strong language, upside down does not exist, minors dni → wc: 7k+ → a/n: the very long awaited first date. this was requested by several people. wahoo! also, fair warning for second-hand embarrassment. i think eddie munson is the only person who drag me dancing around a bowling alley and i wouldn't smite them on the spot.
enjoy the main story's masterlist here
EDDIE: What about a fancy dinner date?
YOU: boring.
YOU: and too traditional. when were you even born, Munson? the 60s???
EDDIE: Ha. Ha. I don’t see you making any worthwhile suggestions, sweetheart.
YOU: i don’t have to make any suggestions, old man. YOU’RE supposed to be wooing ME
God forbid anyone walked in on you at this moment.
You were like a high schooler, lying on your stomach with your feet kicking up into the air as you stared at the screen, happily bantering with Eddie over text. All the butterflies, all the blissful jitters, all that dopamine rush that comes with school girl crushes – every single cliche was present and was in full force as you discussed the details of your first date with him. You used to scoff (albeit with hidden longing) at all the romance movies that you truly believed had overplayed all the giddiness, but now you got it. It was disgusting, the way he had you wrapped around his finger so easily, the way he had turned you into a heart-eyed shell of the woman you once were in the matter of a week.
EDDIE: So you have a thing for older men is what you’re telling me.
YOU: i NEVER said that.
EDDIE: Didn’t have to, sweetheart. I can read between the lines.
Over the last week, since the two of you had won the bet and you had won over with insistence on him properly asking you out, Eddie had been tossing around date ideas as he tried to plan this very first occasion. The only time you had even seen him was when your entire group met up, the latest outing having been for brunch on Saturday under the guise celebrating the one week anniversary of you and Eddie surviving twenty four hours together without killing each other.
Didn’t stop him from calling and texting you. And it clearly hadn’t deterred him from losing his mind over doing right by you with this entire first date ordeal.
YOU: i don’t even have the energy to explain to you how many times you have proven to not do that in the past.
EDDIE: I’ve read between the lines in the past!
YOU: you most certainly have NOT
EDDIE: I was able to read when you wanted to kiss me that night. That’s reading between the lines.
And so the giddiness rears its head, full fledged as heat swarms your body and your cheeks ache from your smile.
YOU: i hate you
EDDIE: No, you don’t
YOU: i do. i really do.
EDDIE: You’re such a shit liar
You nearly jump out of your skin when there’s a knock on your dorm’s door, annoying and persistent as it taps out some random rhythm that must be a song of some sort. But whatever song it is, you can’t recognize it as you stand, walking over to answer.
“Did you forget your key aga-” you begin, assuming it was just your roommate. You’re shocked to see Robin and Steve standing there, “What are you guys doing here?”
“We had a study date, in case you had forgotten and not seen our hundreds of texts,” Steve huffs, quickly crossing his arms.
You hadn’t seen their texts. Most of your screen time had been a bit preoccupied with a certain metalhead.
“Oh, shit,” your face falls as you open the door wider, side-stepping and motioning for them to come in.
“Yeah,” Steve snarks as he comes right in, Robin hot on his trails and seeming in a far more pleasant mood as the boy mocks you, “Oh, shit.”
Robin stops beside you as Steve helps himself to a seat in your desk chair, “Don’t mind him. He’s just cranky because he has to get A’s on all his mid-terms to keep his 3.0.”
“I am not cranky-”
“You are!”
“Am not!”
“You so are,” Robin continues to egg him on, choosing your bed as her resting place.
Your phone bounces a bit from the way she throws herself down on the sorry excuse for a mattress, and you recall how you had yet to reply to Eddie. Fuck.
“When did we even make these plans?” you ask, genuinely confused as you shut the door. You already miss the peace and quiet of being alone, free to preen at your phone and giggle to your heart’s content at the world’s worst flirt over text.
“Saturday,” Steve groans, throwing his head back.
“It was after brunch,” Robin clarifies, lifting herself up from how she was lounging amongst your blankets, “I mean, you seemed a bit distracted when you agreed, but… We did text you about it.”
You had been distracted. Eddie had managed to quietly ask the waitress to include your tab with his so he could pay for it without your knowledge, and you’d spent the entire time torn between being upset with the boy and absolutely fawning. It was a bit pathetic, looking back at it – the fact that those were the only two options your mind had presented you with. You’d scorned him over the phone later that night, and he had only laughed. You swear you can still hear it now, having heard it several times since – a low chuckle that rattled into the caverns of your chest, that bounced amongst vines of affection and willed open blooms of adoration just a little bit wider.
Part of you was still waiting for the wilting. For the other shoe to drop, for all of what had been exposed and had been planted to vanish from your grasps. That first Monday morning, you’d even woken up worried it had all been a dream.
“I’ve been busy,” you lamely try to excuse your radio silence.
“Busier than normal?” Steve’s brows quirk up, leaning back in your chair that emits a squeak of protest, “Or have you just been busy with new friends?”
Your lips twist and your nose twitches in confusion, “New friends? What the Hell are you going on about, Harrington?”
Robin fully sits up now, watching with piqued interest.
“Eddie,” Steve gets straight to the point, his previous sour mood finally melting slightly, “You can’t honestly tell me that nothing changed after that night.”
It was something neither of you had really discussed. Steve had seen you two, knew that a lot had truly changed based off of the way you’d tossed him right into the middle of the mess there at the end, but you and Eddie had never said anything about being together. Not to your friends, and not even to each other.
“Just because I don’t want to tear his head off his shoulders anymore doesn’t mean we’re spending every waking moment together,” you force your best scowl, as if that wasn’t exactly what you had yearned for all week.
Eventually, it had to wear off. That’s what you told yourself – at some point the initial rose tones would fade less vibrant, and Eddie’s intense occupation of your mind would lessen with the hues.
“I can’t believe it, but I am siding with Stevie on this one,” Robin finally contributes, “I mean, you guys won’t even tell us what happened that night.”
“Nothing exciting,” you’re quick to lie, “Just… I don’t know. Boring stuff. Getting on each other’s nerves, sitting around on his couch,” that gets a bitter scoff from Steve that almost makes you freeze up. Damn Eddie for teasing him with the truth about the couch, “Nothing worth making a big deal over. Like I said, we just learned to… to… tolerate each other.”
Tolerate was an interesting way to put spending hours on the phone together each night, sometimes falling asleep while still on the line.
Steve still looks as though he’s recalling all of Eddie’s annoying taunts from that night while Robin only grins salaciously.
“Tolerate each other?” she mimics you, leaning forward and pressing her palms into the edge of the mattress beside her knees, “Babe, have you two even said a single mean thing to each other since that night? I think he even smiled at you on Saturday. You’re practically married with two and a half kids already.”
He had smiled at you – multiple times. And each one had struck the most delicate of daggers right into your chest, lighting you aflame under his attempted clandestine attention. Every time those big, brown eyes had met yours from across the table, the ache you’d started to hold for him had only doubled in size. By the end of that morning, when the day had technically started to bleed out into the afternoon, you were nothing more than a vessel of pining for the boy that you hadn’t even gotten the chance to brush against amongst your friends.
“Whatever,” you murmur as you reach out to snatch up your phone, “I never even understood the whole half kid thing. Like, how the fuck do you have two and a half kids?”
“I’m sure Eddie would be more than happy to show you,” Steve teases despite his still half-traumatized look.
You’re quick to reach out a hand to whack the back of his head, “Shut up. Are we gonna keep sitting here while you two try to pry something that doesn’t exist out of me, or are we going to go study?”
Steve’s grumpy mood returns as he rubs the back of his head, him and Robin standing in sync to exit the room.
But before the three of you exit the dorm, you check your phone one last time, having to bite down on that girlish grin when you see two new text message notifications.
EDDIE: It’s official. I’m a genius.
EDDIE: Say, are you free tomorrow night?
—
Tomorrow night couldn’t come fast enough. A shift at your job, one too many hours spent sitting through lectures, ensuring a night of studying with Steve and Robin — all petty distractions, roadblocks on your path to the most highly anticipated first date of your life. Eddie wouldn’t even entertain you with details, only telling you to dress fairly comfortably and to put on your best game face.
And you did. To some extent, you really did.
But you’d finished getting ready hours in advance, something you blamed on nerves, and having that much time to kill with such nerves was dangerous.
Simple makeup turned a bit more extravagant, you had tried on nearly every outfit in your possession, you’d even eyed your hair curler on more than one occasion.
Comfortable. What the Hell was that even supposed to mean?
Your only solution had been to text the man of the hour himself, something to busy your thumbs instead of twiddling them or involving them in taking your date night look several steps over just comfortable.
YOU: okay, so. can you define ‘dressing comfortably’?
EDDIE: According to Google, “dressing in a way that makes you feel at ease in your body” :)
YOU: fuck off. you know that’s not what i meant.
Still no clues. He wasn’t caving so easily to your pestering. You should have known better, considering he’d been professionally dodging any questions or inquiries you had regarding the date for the last twenty four hours.
EDDIE: Don’t overthink it, sweetheart.
That certainly didn’t help. Not even in the slightest.
You don’t even reply to his text, already back to pacing your dorm before you finally cave to an impulsive decision you’d been grappling with for hours now.
There was a newish, sporty skirt in the bottom of your drawers. It was comfortable, it had built-in shorts, and it looked damn good on you. The hem fell right around mid-thigh and always flared in an overly satisfying fashion when you’d spin while wearing it. The material of the pleats was nearly impossible to wrinkle. It wasn’t overly soft against your palms as you still nervously smoothed it down once you’d shimmied it on, but you still repeated the motion in hopes of soothing some of your nerves.
You’re sure it’s the wrong option until Eddie sees you in it.
He texts when he’s on his way and you find yourself bounding outside to wait for him far too early to be reasonable. He hadn’t even arrived until after your back had nearly become one with the brick exterior of the dorm building's front wall, leaning into the scratch of the clay on your shoulder blade a welcome distraction until you heard the roar of a motorcycle engine.
You nearly grow dizzy from the sudden rush of nerves.
This is really happening. You’re about to go on a date with Eddie, the first time of what you hope will be many to come.
“Took you long enough, Munson,” you snark loud enough for him to hear as he clicks the Yamaha’s kickstand into place right by the vibrant red curb. There’s a sign not even a full foot away from where he’s standing that clearly spells out NO PARKING.
Oh.
Oh.
If you hadn’t already been riddled with nerves, your knees would have gone weak at the sight of him.
Since when is that dressing casual and comfortable?
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I keep you waiting?” he shoots right back as he lifts the helmet off his head, and something inside of you clenched tightly at the sight with no plans to unwind any time soon.
Dark wash jeans plaster his legs, heavy combat boots smacking against the pavement as he walks to meet you halfway. The black shirt he’s donning isn’t extravagant, but something in the way that t-shirt material stretches across his chest has you burning from the inside out. He’s even gone so far as to tuck the shirt into the jeans, his black leather belt on show as he hugs the helmet below his bicep. And his normal leather jacket — you don’t believe you’ve ever seen it look better, ever seen it fit his shoulders so snugly. He’s dressed to perfectly match the all black bike, the image of a bad boy straight out of every cheesy movie you’d ever seen.
The only thing that breaks the illusion is the boyish grin pulling the arrival of his dimples along with it as he watches you push off the wall. His eyes are sparkling as you approach him, a constellation of hope and new beginnings twinkling right before you.
He’s not sorry that you waited on him. Not in the slightest. Especially when those starry eyes travel over your appearance.
You have to force yourself to tsk, because otherwise you might end up just another pile of ash for the poor landscapers to sweep up, “Haven't you heard it’s rude to keep a lady waiting?”
You stop in your steps just far enough to catch the way his eyes take you in. Drinking slowly. Following the trace of the just fancy enough tank top that you’d chosen to balance the skirt. Lingering on the plush of your inner thighs, barely peeking out the bottom of your chosen outfit for the night.
You almost start to feel self conscious until he lets out a little sigh, nearly a whimper as his eyes trail back up to find yours.
“I’m sure I have,” he chokes out, composure momentarily vanished as you distract him so easily, “But aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
“I could say the same about you.”
You’re like a shark. If you stop swimming in the upstream flirtations, you’ll drown instantaneously in his big brown eyes.
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” you swear you see a hint of a blush across the highs of his cheek bones and sides of his neck as he holds out the helmet for you, “At least with me, it will.”
“Even the top secret location of this date?” you ask as you take the helmet, considering putting up a fight. You still hated him not wearing one for your expense, and you weren’t exactly eager for any sort of helmet hair, “Do I have to wear-“
He knows the end of your sentence before you even finish, “Yes. No exceptions; you have to wear it every time you ride.”
“Every time?”
“It’s for safety.”
“Isn’t it sort of unsafe for you to go without one?”
“You’re wearing the helmet,” he sighs, nose twitching with indignation as he holds staunchly onto the position, “And to answer your other question, no. I guess flattery will get you almost everywhere, but it’s a surprise.”
You fiddle with the chin straps, looking down as you feel his gaze burning the top of your head from this angle, “Fine. But we really should just get me my own helmet. You need to wear one, too. And…” you look back up, pausing before you properly put on the piece of safety equipment, “It’s a little oversized. You know, considering it was meant to fit your big head first.”
He narrows his eyes, still lit up with a sort of playfulness you haven’t grown accustomed to being on the receiving end of.
You like him quite a bit more than you bargained for. A lot more than five hundred dollars, or twenty four hours, ever would have summarized.
“We can go helmet shopping another day.”
We. Not just him, not just you. But you and him. A unit. A couple.
“It’s a date,” you whisper just before you slide on the helmet. You completely miss the wildfire that the ghost of a blush has finally become. You completely miss the way that your talk of you two together, you two as a couple with a future, affects him just as his has an effect on you.
Helmet hair is worth it, you decide, once you’ve saddled onto the bike behind him and he revs up the engine once more. You’re not as shy as you had been on that fateful night the week before, quick to wrap your arms around his middle and let your chest press hard against his back. The leather crinkles against the contact, the heat of him radiating, and you think you could spend forever like that.
You’re almost upset that you can’t smell his cologne through the helmet. That once terrible scent of boy.
Every curve and every slow stop is another excuse to cling to him tighter, every red light a reason for him to turn his head and catch a glimpse of you with a small grin that never once falters. You swear at one of the lights, when he revs his engine in a particularly rowdy fashion right as the light turns green and takes off particularly fast, you can hear his laughter over the loud wind mingling with the roaring engine. You know you can feel it, vibrating in his chest right along with your own that gets lost in the chaos of the unusually busy Tuesday night street.
When he pulls into the parking lot behind the older building, you catch sight of the neon sign out front and find yourself laughing again.
“Bowling?” you question, yanking the helmet off less than gracefully as he stands off the bike you’d just swung yourself off of, “You’re taking me bowling?”
He takes the helmet from you, suddenly looking a bit shy as he averts his gaze, “Not just any bowling. It’s… It’s the coolest bowling alley you will ever go on a first date at.”
“You say that to every girl you bring here?”
You’re just teasing him, trying to poke fun rather than succumb to all the fluttering that bruises your inner chest and stomach. But then he has to ruin your fun, strike a match and set you aflame so adroitly.
“Only the prettiest ones.”
You should continue the banter, challenge him on just who else fell into that category, but you can’t. It’s in that glimmer of his eyes and the indent of his dimples, the way he looks at you as he slowly rises and somehow softens his gaze all while keeping a threat of a bite beneath the tone. His eyes tell you that you are, without a doubt, the prettiest girl he’s referring to. That in this moment, you begin and you end his world, and not even the commotion of traffic or nip in the air that creeps up as the summer sun sets can deter his attention being set solely on you.
But his tone suggests something far more dangerous. He says it like you’re a prey, an unattainable catch that he’ll be chasing for the entire night. A wicked growl to that voice you’ve been falling asleep to over the phone far more than you care to admit in just a short week.
He says it like he’s going to ruin you. As if he hasn’t already injected himself into your veins, as if he isn’t the gasoline drowning and raging the burn within you.
But he keeps up the gentleman persona in the short walk up to the door of the establishment. Holds out his hand for yours to fit perfectly into, guides you to the inner sidewalk as cars fly past and the only thing between you and them is him.
The hunt is on from the moment he opens that door for you.
“Ever the gentleman,” you muse, voice hardly above a whisper as you brush past him and finally catch that smell of boy.
You think you’d drown in his cologne now if he gave you the chance. Bury your face in his chest, wrap your arms around him and press any inch of your own bare skin to his.
“Always,” it would have been a weak response if he’d only said it and nodded his head, but he takes it a step further. Right as you pass him, entering the brisk AC, his hand ghosts over the expanse of your lower back. Fingertips nimbly brushing right above the band of that skirt, grazing your tank top just hard enough for you to feel it and shiver.
It doesn’t stop there. The back and forth, the chase, the hunt.
The way he makes sure your knuckles brush his as he hands you your shoes, even more brushes of his palm flat against your lower back repetitively, the way he insists on a heavier ball that makes his arms strain and muscles display. Over the chatter from the bowling alley’s fairly nice bar and the music trickling out of the overhead speakers, you’re sure that your heartbeat has joined the ranks of audible noises to echo the nice haunt. You’re positive he can hear every thump, can pinpoint the exact moments that poor aching muscle inside your chest begins to race.
You go for a smaller weighted ball. You don’t think you could handle anything heavier with your current case of weak knees.
“Only an eight pounder?” Eddie tuts at you as you approach your designated lane again, “Come on, sweetheart. You can do better than that.”
No, I can’t. Your fault, really.
“I have weak arms,” you try to defend yourself as you rotate the red ball in your hands.
His favorite color. It hadn’t been intentional, but the swirling shades of stark scarlet and deep maroons is a nice touch.
“Poor baby,” he teases, leaning into you as you deposit the ball right behind his own ball on the track where it already rests.
A twelve pounder. A smoky quartz design, black base swirling with misty white and gold accents. Far prettier than yours by a landslide.
And fitting for the pretty boy you’re faced with when you turn to watch him shedding his leather jacket onto the bench a few steps away.
“Not all of us are some big, strong macho man,” you scowl insincerely, moving to sit beside him and follow his lead in switching out shoes, “I’m betting now that by halfway through the game, you’ll be caving and begging to use my ball, Munson.”
You’re looking down as you casually say it, one shoe already half off and unaware of just how close he had gotten until his hand reaches over. Not even a second later, he has your chin pinched between his fingers, gentle as it guides you and forces you to look at him, “Careful. Bets seem to be awfully dangerous when it comes to the two of us.”
Damn him. Damn him, damn him, damn him.
The graze of those fingers against your jaw leaves a trail of ash, burning that lingers and thrums beneath your skin, heart officially skipping beats rather than merely speeding up. You’re coming to realize that when it comes to keeping up with Eddie Munson in his element, in all his charm and flirtatious banter, you’re a bit hopeless.
He has you trapped under his thumb — metaphorically and literally.
“Are you always this flirtatious with all your dates?” you spit out against your better judgment.
Why do I keep bringing up his previous flames? Do I really care? Do I really want to put myself through the torture of hearing about all of the girls, or guys, he’s wooed before me?
The same glittering eyes, the same hidden smirk from earlier. “Only the prettiest ones.”
“You keep saying that,” you mumble, chin pressing into his fingertips against their hold, “Just how many pretty dates have you had?”
The pride softens in an instant. His gaze is less sharp, grin less predatory as he raises his eyebrows.
“Does it really matter?”
You can’t help it. Your mind races ahead of you before you can stop it; you’re plagued in an instant with images of how many dates, how many other people he had indulged in over the year you two had wasted hating each other. You try to recall overhearing him describe any of those dates, try to remember if Nancy ever mentioned Eddie passing up one of the hangouts for a romantic endeavor.
You come up empty handed, but it doesn’t stop the overthinking.
“I guess not,” you feebly answer, unable to tear your eyes from him.
I guess not is really code for it matters so much more than I care to admit. An impossible riddle you can’t even expect him to pick up on.
His hand falls from your chin and finds home on your bare knee, warm palm swallowing it up. He gives it a squeeze, and you wonder for a moment if maybe he can read your secretive language. Maybe he’s seeing right through your overconfident front, maybe he has felt every racing of your pulse.
Maybe, he’s as nervous as you are.
He opens his mouth to say something, but you don’t think you can bear another moment of this new intimacy. It had been easier when the two of you were on a ticking clock, confined to his apartment and parameters of a bet that never really mattered. Vulnerability had less of an edge when you could yearn and pine to see it flourish in the real world — but now, here it was, twisting away within you both a week later and pricking away as the stakes at hand come to light.
“Are you ready for me to absolutely demolish your ass at this game?” you joke.
“Demolish me? That’s some big talk for someone using an eight pound ball, babe.”
“It’s not about how much you’re packing, pretty boy,” you scoff, “Just that you know how to use it.”
He smiles slowly, but the quick squeeze of his hand tells you the vulnerability is here to stay. He feels that cutting edge too, and he’s not shying away.
He leans right into it, just as he does your personal space, “Bring it on.”
—
“You’re cheating!”
“I’m not!”
“You are! Who the fuck gets three strikes in a row?”
Eddie strolls back towards you, self-satisfied smirk curling his lips and his hips swaying with arrogance as you continue to pout at his sudden show of sportsmanship, “I believe the answer is me, sweetheart. Wanna see me make it four?”
“I hope you just jinxed yourself,” you scowl as you hop up off the couch and Eddie swaggers right past you, hardly affected by the palm you smack into the center of his chest for good measure, “I hope you roll nothing but gutter balls the rest of the game, you prick.”
“Like you have been?”
“Burn in Hell.”
Eddie’s cackle echoes through the fairly busy alley. It wasn’t overwhelming, the lanes of either side of yours staying empty, the only other groups several ways down. So far, the date has been good. Even if Eddie was wiping the floor with your severe lack of skill.
Both of you had opted for Cokes rather than alcohol, Eddie had ordered some sort of platter with onion rings and mozzarella sticks that the two of you had easily been devouring between turns. Playful banter had been kept up easier than breathing, barking words without bite being snapped back and forth loud enough for the entire establishment to hear the two of you being exceptionally childish.
At some point, your nerves had melted. And you didn’t even need a lick of alcohol in your system for it to happen.
“Try to aim for the pins this time,” Eddie continues to taunt you from where he’s spread out on the brown faux leather bench you’d been taking turns warming the seat of.
Your fingers slide into the holes of your ball with ease, courtesy of the grease from all your snacking, “Try shutting the fuck up.”
More of his laughter sounds off, and you nearly trip on your walk up to the markings on the linoleum wood flooring. It’s a nice sound; a beautiful response to words that could easily read identical to how the two of you used to fight. But these aren’t fighting words, they’re words passed between two… two… friends?
Is that how you should continue to classify this? Were you and Eddie really still just friends?
The sound of your ball stuttering in hops across the beginnings of the lane replaces his laughter
No. Easy question – there wasn’t a doubt in your mind that the two of you were definitely not friends. Not enemies, not friends – something different and something unspoken. And for the remainder of this date, you could live with that.
Eddie sucks in an audible breath, letting the air whistle between his teeth as your ball veers at the last second and misses the pins entirely. Again.
“Th-”
“Don’t,” you interrupt him, spinning on your heel and holding up a warning finger. It’s harder to hold in your own grin when Eddie’s already smiling into his fist, leaning his elbows onto his thighs as his big eyes peer at you, clearly amused, “Don’t say a word.”
His knuckles dig further into his mouth.
“I meant to do that.”
His eyebrows shoot up, still not speaking.
“It takes real talent to avoid pins like that.”
He leans over a bit further, and you swear you hear him emit a snort from behind that damn fist.
You open your mouth to continue with the bit when the clattering of your ball returning to the ball rack comes from behind you. Eddie only shrugs cheekily as he finally drops his fist to grab for a mozzarella stick, his smile contained but those damn dimples still flashing you brilliantly.
Without taking your eyes off him, you hold up a warning finger for emphasis once more, trying to bite down any signs of your own amusement as you take a few steps back in the direction of the rack and repeat yourself, “I meant to do that.”
“Sure you did,” he muses before taking a bite of the mozzarella stick smothered in marinara sauce.
“I did.”
“I believe you.”
“I-”
It seems the Universe is in the business of interrupting you two. As if it seems all that hope and potential flourishing in the space between you two and decides that simply won’t do. As if it’s too much.
Maybe it is. But maybe, just maybe, you’re enjoying too much.
Suddenly, before you can even finish your sentence or grab for your ball, the lights of the alley have dimmed. A few spotlights over the alleys themselves light up, erratically waving patches of light over the shining floor as the music that had been playing overhead cuts out to be replaced with some poor employee’s voice.
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen-” you and Eddie share a confused glance, “-The time is officially ten o’clock, meaning nineties night has officially begun! Have fun, and enjoy yourselves as we throw you back to the decade of Nirvana and Beanie Babies for the rest of the night with these straight jams.”
Your face scrunches up in a comical cringe before the buzzing static of the speaker can even cut out and the beginning lines of Say My Name by Destiny’s Child begins to play.
You aren’t entirely sure of how it happens. Maybe it’s all the playfulness in there, in all that electric teasing at the tip of Eddie’s tongue and all that hopelessness bubbling up in your chest as it dawns on you of the fact you were finally on a proper date with Eddie. Maybe it’s simply a good night for you to continue to make a fool of yourself, and Eddie sees it as a chance he’ll always be right there with you, prepared to make a scene as he follows your lead.
He stands up to approach you where you’re still rooted beside the rack, matching your own grin that blooms genuinely at the sound of the song.
It was one of your favorite’s. A small fact about yourself you don’t think you’ve ever told Eddie – that you can remember.
It’s small, at first. Just mouthing along to the first verse as he moves towards you, recognizing that excitement lighting up in you, shimmying his shoulders ever so slightly. He looks like an idiot – he’s absolutely your idiot.
“Did you know it was nineties night?” you mumble as he gets closer, shaking your head slightly.
“Stevie might have mentioned something about you enjoying nineties nostalgia,” he drawls, still taking sure steps towards you.
“Did you ask him for advice for our first date, Eddie?”
“No,” he scoffs quickly, finally close enough to grab you gently by your hips. He’s nowhere near manhandling you, but it’s still reminding you of the game, of the hunt, at play. You’re his prey and he’s officially making his move. Carelessly, nonchalantly. “He mentioned it ages ago. When they were trying to convince me you weren’t all bad.”
Your smile widens, “Was this around the time I threw a glass at your head, by chance?”
“Maybe.”
The dulcet instrumental of the song continues on overhead, beginning to pick up in beat, making you nod your head along as Eddie finally starts to tug you closer.
You’re in public, and you both should know better than to make absolute fools of yourselves, but it doesn’t seem to matter when all you can really see is him.
Your friends had also spent ages trying to convince you that Eddie wasn’t all bad, but you’d always known that much. You’d seen glimpses of the good in him from that very first night. When he’d made you feel welcome, when he’d given you a life-preserver to cling to when you’d felt most out of your element. You knew that Eddie Munson was one of those people who had a hardwired habit of trying to make people feel welcome.
Even in a room full of people, when you’d be non-stop embarrassing yourself endlessly.
All his jests had been further proof, but when he sees your rock on your heels as you enjoy the music, he takes it a step further. He grabs one of your hands with his free one, keeping a hold of your waist, encouraging all your giddiness over the song. Every single person in the establishment could be staring at the two of you – you didn’t care.
When he starts dramatically mouth along to the chorus of the song, swinging you around slightly, it takes very little provocation for you to join in with him.
You both could’ve taken a step further, and properly sang along in the most obnoxious voices possible, but you don’t. There’s still the slightest blanket of security there as Eddie keeps the antics mostly silent, reserving his dramatic reenactments of vocal runs for your eyes only. Even yanking your hand up close to his mouth, as though it was a microphone, as he swings you around again. You quickly become a giggling disarray, hardly able to keep up your own footing, eyes squinting with joy and what must be the messiest and ugliest smile possible showing off all your teeth. The type of smile and laughter you’d normally try to hide on instinct. The kind of smile you cover up.
But you can’t, because Eddie is keeping his sturdy grip on your hands with his own, and he’s drinking in every second of your joy. He’s vibrant as he watches the way he’s entertaining you. Shamelessly staring, making his antics falter.
“Baby, say my name,” he purposefully sings along dramatically, quietly but terribly off-key.
You can’t help but let out a snort, “Eddie, you’re an idiot.”
He ignores you, and continues to give you your own private concert, switching rapidly between singing the main song and the backup vocals, which only makes your stomach further ache with laughter.
This is what you’d been yearning for the last year. This silly side of him, an absolute fool who couldn’t care less about the stares of others.
The seductive side of him was enticing. The honest version of him nice. But this side of him? Carefree, rowdy, indiscreet? It may be your favorite yet.
Only the sound of a nearby teen couple mocking you two break the moment, just as you’ve begun to jokingly whisper-sing back into Eddie’s pretend microphone made of your joined fists. They make what must be vomiting noises, and you catch the tail end of one of them jokingly poking a finger towards their outstretched tongue as you finally sigh deeply.
You should probably feel embarrassed. Later on, when you find yourself in bed later tonight and attempt to find some rest, you’ll probably ruminate and burn yourself alive with all the embarrassment. But not right now; not with your boy still in front of you, smiling just as desperately wide as you were.
His dimples would probably consume him if you let him go on any longer.
“Eddie,” you choke out through residual laughter, tugging your hands free as the song starts to fade out. You make no move to remove yourself from him, though. Your arms find home around his shoulders, hands splayed just below the nape of his neck, “People are staring.”
“Good,” he snipes back, finally dropping the act but not the glee, “Probably entranced by how pretty you look right now.”
“Pretty? I probably look like a loser. They’re probably already engraving a trophy for world’s ugliest smile-”
“Oh, don’t do that,” his forehead falls against yours, rolling his eyes, “Shut up and take the compliment. I love your smile.”
There’s something unspoken there. He loves your smile, yes, but he’s also been denied of it for a very long year. It’s the first step of making it up to you, making up for lost time.
Making a fool out of himself, just to see that goddamn smile.
With your arms around his neck, his forehead pressed against yours and the tip of his nose bumping yours, the game of bowling is all but forgotten. Even the teens, still side-eyeing the two of you, can be pushed aside in your mind.
All your insecurities of the night that have crept in the shadows become insignificant. You don’t care how many dates Eddie has been on before you, you don’t care that you’ve clearly become a prey caught in his web. You don’t even care about the way you’re losing.
It’s the perfect first date. When one of his hands wander, playing with the hem of your skirt, knuckles and rings brushing against bare skin, it’s perfect.
“Hey,” you whisper, “I’ve got a question.”
“I have an answer.”
“You sound very sure there, big guy.”
“I am sure,” he pulls his face away just a bit, but his gentle touch against your thigh lings. The other hand stays warm against your lower back, keeping you pressed up against him, “What’s up, sweetheart?”
Not enemies, not friends – something different and something unspoken.
Hearing him say it out-loud will still be nice, though.
“Does this mean we’re official?” you breathe out, trying to cling to all your bravery and not let it slip away, “Like – God, I sound like a high schooler right now – does this mean we’re… you know…”
“Dating?” he’s grinning, unable to hide his giddiness.
“Yeah. Dating.”
The hand tracing circles on your exposed outer thigh rises up to your cheek, brushing along it as he tucks a bit of your hair back. You swear you see it shaking out of the corner of your eye.
“I sure would like to be,” it was shaking. You know it surely, because his voice is as well. Vulnerable and honest, just how you like him, “We don’t have to tell the others, we can take it slow, but-”
“But we’re dating.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement – an affirmation. You and Eddie Munson, the man you swore you hated just over a week ago, were dating.
He only nods, and you consider the way that his dimples might just swallow you whole instead of him.
Not enemies, not friends – lovers. It has quite the nice ring to it.
“Well, in that case,” you finally pull away, dropping your arms slowly and letting your fingers catch on the chain of the necklace he currently wears. A red guitar pick, something you’ll surely learn the story behind soon enough. “Better go and roll that fourth strike, boyfriend.”
His head rolls back, and a joking groan falls from his lips as his neck stretches and nearly distracts you momentarily, “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re making fun of me, you little shit.”
Another laugh falls from your lips as you step around him, quirking an eyebrow. Perfect first date, indeed.
“Get used to it, Munson.”
“I plan to, Sweetheart.”
eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog @vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria @loveryanax @stylexrepp @princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills @babez-a-licious @josephquinnsfreckles
join my taglist!
