It Had To Be You
Pairings: Eddie x Ex-ChildhoodBestfriend!Reader, Eddie x Popular!Cheerleader!Reader
Summary: You and Eddie Munson used to be inseparable as kids—best friends who did everything together. But high school changed things between the two of you. You climbed up the Hawkins High social hierarchy and became a cheerleader, started hanging around the "right" people, lived up to everyone's expectations. He became the freak of Hawkins, the drug dealer, the guy most people weren’t exactly itching to be around. Naturally, you drifted apart from one another. One night, however, when he finds you heartbroken at a party and brings you back to his trailer, unspoken sentiments bubble up to the surface and the two of you finally confront the truth about your feelings.
Word Count: 13k
Notes: angst/comfort, fluff, smut 18+, mentions of eddie being bullied, mentions of insecurities?, societal pressure, reader gets cheated on (not by eddie), reader is lowkey the villain in their backstory but it all ends well I swear, you WILL feel extremely bad for eddie :(( , mention of a past physical altercation (reader slaps someone lol), SO MUCH YEARNING. it’s yearning central over here, oral (f receiving, brief m receiving), protected p in v, praise, pet names (sweetheart, baby)
A/N ⚠︎: this took SO long and I really hope the amount of effort was worth it. WE’RE AT 200 FOLLOWERS YIPPIE!!! thank you guys <333 I hope you enjoy! mwah♡
The bass coming from inside the house is loud enough for Eddie to be able to feel it vibrating through the soles of his worn Reeboks. He counts the crumpled dollar bills in his hand. This is his last sale of the night—some senior whose name he didn't quite catch and who seemed to be in a rush—either too eager to get back inside the party and engage in some more small talk or possibly afraid of being caught buying drugs from Hawkins’ resident freak. Fine by Eddie. The faster he can get out of here, the better.
House parties aren’t his scene. They've never been his scene. Honestly, they might be somewhere in his top five list of personal hells. Too many people, too much noise, too many reminders that he exists on the very fringes of Hawkins High's social ecosystem. He’s here for business, plain and simple. Make his rounds, sell his product, get the hell out before someone decides to make his night more difficult than it has to be.
He shoves the wad of cash into his back pocket, the senior already hurrying back inside with a very unappreciative 'thanks'. Then Eddie heads down the sidewalk, away from the pulsing lights and drunken laughter spilling out of Tyler McKinney's massive picket-fence house. His van is parked a few blocks away. He’s learned a long time ago not to park too close to these things. Plausible deniability and all that.
The October air is crisp, just shy of cold, and Eddie's breath puffs out in small clouds as he walks. The sounds of the party fade behind him, replaced by the quiet suburban night—distant dogs barking, the rustle of leaves, the occasional lone car passing by down the main road.
He’s already looking forward to the rest of his night now that the peskier affairs are all taken care of. He might sample a fair share of his own product, practice that one tricky guitar riff he’s been trying to get the hang of… he probably couldn’t think of a more relaxing way to spend his time if he tried. And after a long night of "business", Eddie really just wants to relax.
He’s almost arrived at his van when he sees it. At first, it’s just a silhouette on a bench near the sidewalk, hunched over, small and alone. But as he gets closer, the streetlight begins to illuminate a very familiar side profile that makes his heart do something complicated in his chest.
You.
Of course it’s you.
Eddie slows his pace almost instantly at the realization, uncertainty warring with concern. You’re crying. He can see your shoulders shaking, can hear the quiet, hitching breaths escaping your throat even from a few feet away. Every instinct screams at him to just keep walking.
You run in completely different circles now. Have been for years. But you used to be good friends—really good friends, actually. Best friends, if Eddie's being honest.
You went to the same kindergarten. Eddie still remembers how you two met for the first time and he doesn't think he'll ever forget.
Some of the kids were playing house together in the classroom while Eddie watched from the sidelines, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his worn shirt that was a few sizes too big on him. He observed their easy, seamless interactions—how much fun they seemed to be having, how naturally they fell into their roles. The mom, the dad, the older and younger kids. Everyone had a part to play and knew how to play it.
Eddie, intrigued and desperately wanting to fit in, gathered up all the courage in his tiny five-year-old body and approached the group. His voice was small when he asked if he could play too, if there were any family members left that he could be.
The other kids gave him a look—not quite mean, but not exactly welcoming either. It was the kind of look Eddie would become intimately familiar with over the course of his life. One that assured him he wasn’t quite welcome in someone’s space.
"All the roles are taken," one of the kids informed him matter-of-factly. They didn’t seem to feel terribly bad about it. "Maybe next time."
Eddie's face fell, but he tried again. "I could be the dog?" he offered hopefully, big brown doe eyes sparkling with a dim, hopeful glint. "Every family needs a dog."
But everyone had already turned back to their game, dismissing him without another word. So Eddie just stood there, watching them play, feeling that familiar ache of being on the outside looking in. He knew he wasn't really like the other kids. It wasn’t a very easy concept to grasp for a regular five year old, but Eddie also wasn’t exactly like every other regular kid his age. His home life was rough. He was too loud, too expressive, too hyper and too bad at following the rules. But knowing all of that didn't make the rejection hurt any less. He gave up after that, quietly sulking by the very edge of where all the fun was happening.
That's when you stepped out of the group.
You'd been playing the youngest child, Eddie remembers—wearing a bright yellow dress. You walked right up to him with a big fat smile on your face that made the hopeful glint in his eyes reappear.
"We can play if you want!" you offered all cheery, like you were much happier at the prospect of playing with him, a kid you didn’t know, instead of all your close friends. "Do you want to go swing?"
Eddie was dumbfounded, unable to quite believe that someone was choosing to play with him, let alone that they were the one to come up to him first. But he was also really excited and practically vibrating with joy.
"Really?" he asked.
"Yes," you confirmed, already heading toward the playground. "Come on! I can swing really high. I bet I can go higher than you."
"No way!" Eddie protested, following you eagerly.
And so you went swinging together, laughing and challenging each other to go higher and higher, and by the time the teacher called everyone back inside, Eddie had found a new friend.
From that day on, you two were inseparable. You did everything together—shared your snacks at lunch, partnered up for every recess, defended each other from the meaner kids. You were one of the few kids who didn't care that Eddie's clothes were too big or that he sometimes smelled like cigarettes from his dad's smoke. You laughed at all his jokes, listened to all his hyper tangents and made-up stories about dragons and adventures. You made him feel like hanging out with him was actually fun. And you absolutely thought it was.
Following that, elementary school was pretty easy. You were just kids, after all. Nobody really cared about who hung out with who.
Middle school was a notch harder, though you stuck together. Sure, you started getting prettier, catching the attention of some of the popular kids who wanted you to sit with them at lunch. And yeah, Eddie, on the other hand, got even weirder, louder, more defiant, and more willing to embrace the "freak" label that was already starting to stick to him like glue. Regardless, you stayed by his side through it all. And he stayed by yours.
Eddie particularly remembers one day in eighth grade. You were walking together in the hallway between classes when Matthew Hayes—captain of the middle school basketball team and already a certified asshole at thirteen—stepped in front of you both.
"Hey," Matthew said, looking at you with that suave, try-hard smile that made Eddie's skin crawl. At the time, Matthew was probably one of the biggest pricks he thought he’d ever had the displeasure of knowing.
"You're coming to my birthday party this weekend, right?" He continued, ignoring Eddie right beside you, seemingly pretty damn sure of himself and convinced that you were gonna say yes.
You shifted your books in your arms awkwardly, polite but uninterested. You didn’t even know the guy that well anyway, so you thought it probably wouldn’t be much of a bummer if you ditched his birthday. "I’m sorry. I don't think so. Eddie and I were going to—"
"Wait, you're actually friends with this loser?" Matthew cut you off and laughed, gesturing at Eddie like he was something pesky stuck to the bottom of his shoe. "Come on. You're way too pretty to be hanging around with Munson the Freak. I mean, everyone knows his dad's in jail and his uncle's trailer trash."
Eddie felt his face burn with shame and anger, his hands clenching into fists. He'd heard worse before—was already used to worse, honestly—but it still stung. Maybe it stung particularly bad that time because you were right there to witness it, and he didn’t want you to think less of him. He was about to tell Matthew to fuck off, detention be damned, when you were already moving. Your shoes clacked a short few steps in Matthew’s direction.
The slap that followed echoed down the entire hallway. Matthew stumbled back, hand flying to his already reddening cheek, eyes wide with shock. The conversations around you died instantly and everyone turned to stare at the scene before them with bewilderment.
"Don't ever talk about him like that again," you said, voice shaky but firm. "Eddie's worth a hundred of you, and if you can't see that, then you're even dumber than your stupid face already makes you look."
Matthew looked between you and Eddie, jaw clenched, face twisted with humiliation and rage. "You're going to regret that, you bitch." He scowled and his voice dripped with venom. But you didn’t look the slightest bit intimidated.
"No, I'm not," you finalized matter-of-factly, grabbing Eddie's hand and marching away with your head held high, leaving Matthew and his stunned friends in your wake.
Of course, you got in massive trouble for that stunt. Principal's office, call home to your parents, detention for a week, the whole nine yards. Your mom was furious. Not at Matthew for what he'd said. She wouldn’t hear you out about any of that. She was furious at you for causing a scene and for jeopardizing your reputation—for "acting out". Still, you never once apologized. Not to Matthew, not to your parents, not to anyone except Eddie for what was said about him.
"He deserved it," you told Eddie later, sitting next to him on the curb outside school while you waited for your mom to pick you up. "And I'd do it again."
Eddie looked at you. He looked at the stubborn clench of your jaw, the lingering rage still sparkling in your eyes, and felt something shift in his heart. Something more intense than friendship, though he didn’t really have the words or courage to admit it to himself, let alone to you, back then.
"You're kind of badass, you know that?" he said, awed.
You grinned in return. "Yeah. I know."
That moment felt important, like proof that nothing could come between you. That you'd always choose each other, no matter what anyone else thought or said. Eddie really wanted that. He was fairly certain you did too.
But then high school happened.
Suddenly, the social hierarchies that had been forming in middle school became concrete and immovable. You tried out for the cheer squad on a whim and ended up making it, which put you in proximity to the popular crowd—the pretty girls, the jocks, the kids whose parents had money and influence. They welcomed you with open arms, eager to claim someone as smart and pretty as you as their own. You liked making new friends and it’s not like you could’ve kept your position in the cheer squad without getting along with the rest of the team, so you didn’t mind joining their clique.
At first, you tried to balance both worlds, because you really didn’t wanna lose Eddie. You'd sit with him at lunch sometimes, wave to him in the hallways, defend him when your new friends made snarky comments about him. But the pressure from your new peers was starting to become relentless. It was fairly subtle at first: a raised eyebrow here, a pointed comment there, but steadily grew stronger and more frequent.
Why do you still hang out with him? You do know what everyone says about him, right? You're going to ruin your reputation. You're better than that.
And slowly, so slowly Eddie almost didn't notice it happening, you started pulling away. The lunch table visits became less frequent, then eventually stopped altogether. The hallway waves became more hurried. Your defenses of him became quieter, then went silent.
Your parents were thrilled with your new friend group and your new image. They started talking about your future—college, career, finding a nice boy from a good family. The hard truth the world pressured you into swallowing was that there was no room in a vision like that for someone like Eddie Munson.
And you were so young and impressionable, desperate to please everyone, and so afraid of being different and not appealing to as many people as possible. Once the popular crowd had taken you in, it felt wrong to try to leave. It was easier to drift away because of that. It was easier to pretend that your friendship had happened to two entirely different people.
Eddie hated it. He understood, in a way. Had even seen it coming at one point, really. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that when things seemed too good to be true—in this case, your bond—they usually really were. But partially understanding didn't make it hurt any less.
By sophomore year, you barely spoke with each other. You'd pass each other in the hallways—you with your cheer uniform and your perfect friends, Eddie with his leather jacket and his outcast status—and exchange the briefest of acknowledgments. A small smile or a tiny nod. Just enough to acknowledge that you'd once meant something to each other, but not enough to bridge the chasm-sized disconnect that had grown between you.
He told himself that he was fine with it. That people outgrew each other, that it was natural, that he didn't need you anyway and maybe he took you for someone you never really were. Maybe deep down it was always gonna turn out like this and you were always gonna grow apart. He told himself that you were just kids. You didn’t quite understand the implications of being best friends with someone like him at the time because you were young and naive, but now that those were clear and you finally realized that being associated with him would grant your reputation a massive hit, you saw a chance to bail and took it. It really, really hurt. But he couldn’t exactly blame you for it.
He had other friends, obviously. He had his bandmates and Hellfire—a decent amount of people who understood him and made his life a little easier. They had the same interests, likes and dislikes and probably matched his personality more than you ever did. But none of them really ever managed to fix or replace that void he felt in his heart whenever he saw you walk past him in the halls. Late at night, alone in his room, he'd think about kindergarten and middle school and the way you used to smile at him like he was someone worth being nice to, and he'd wonder if you ever thought about it too.
A loud sniffle snaps Eddie out of his thoughts. Suddenly, he finds himself back in the situation at hand and he’s standing just out of your peripheral vision like an awkward idiot, unsure of how to really proceed.
You probably don’t want Eddie "the Freak" Munson seeing you like this. He shouldn’t get himself involved. He really should just walk past you and pretend he never saw anything.
But then again, it’s you. And no matter how much time has passed since you last spoke and you've drifted into your world of pep rallies and popularity while he's sunken deeper into his reputation as Hawkins' resident drug-dealing metalhead, he's never been very good at not paying attention to you. And he’d be a prick if he just ignored you while you’re clearly hurting.
He approaches slowly, one hand shoved in his jacket pocket while the other grips his now empty lunchbox, trying to make himself appear as non-threatening as possible.
"Hey," he says softly once he’s close enough. "Uh— you okay?"
You startle, head snapping up, and Eddie's chest tightens instinctively at the sight of your tear-stained face. Your mascara has run in dark tracks down your cheeks, your eyes are red and puffy, and you look so absolutely miserable that it makes his throat tight.
"Oh," Your voice is rough, thick with tears and surprise. You wipe quickly at your face, trying and failing to compose yourself. "Eddie. What are you—I didn't think you'd be here."
"I'm not. I mean, I was, but I'm leaving." He gestures vaguely back toward the party. "Just had some, uh... business to take care of."
You nod, understanding immediately what kind of business he means. You don’t look judgmental of it, though—just tired. So, so tired and sad.
"Are you okay?" he asks again, even though you clearly aren’t. He’s lost. He doesn’t know what else to say. For a moment, the awkward tone in his voice really makes him regret not having just walked past you.
"I'm fine," you say automatically, but your voice cracks on the word and fresh tears well up in your eyes. You tilt your head downwards and try to wipe away at the dampness before it drips. "Sorry, I'm—God, this is really embarrassing."
"Hey, no." Eddie moves a little closer. He doesn’t feel quite confident enough to sit down next you on the bench just yet. "It's not embarrassing. What happened?"
You remain quiet for a long moment, clearly debating whether to tell him or not. Eddie waits, his gaze warm and never rushing, even though the cold night air is seeping through his ripped jeans.
Finally, you let out a shaky breath. "I caught Brad making out with Ashley Cunningham. Upstairs. In Tyler's parents' bedroom."
Brad Morrison. Captain of the basketball team, all-American golden boy and not-so-secret-preppy-asshole—your boyfriend for the last six months. Eddie saw you two together in the hallways a lot. Him with his arm around your shoulders, you with your perfect smile. You two were practically the image of Hawkins High's ideal couple.
He hated every second of it. Not because he had any right to, of course. You hadn’t been his friend in years. But that didn’t stop the bitter twist in his gut every time he saw Morrison's hands on you. He wondered if you were happy, if Morrison treated you right, if you ever, amidst it all, thought about the two kids who used to be inseparable back before everyone else told you that you couldn't be.
Guess he has his answer now about the "treating you right" part.
"Jesus," Eddie breathes, a little taken aback by your admission, but definitely not surprised. He avoids your gaze awkwardly, looking at the bushes surrounding the bench instead. "I'm sorry. That's... that's really shitty."
"Yeah." You laugh, but it’s watery, sad and the least bit amused. "The worst part is I'm not even that surprised? Like, I knew he was an asshole. Everyone knows he's an asshole. But he's the right kind of asshole, you know? The kind everyone approves of." You wipe at your eyes again, smearing your mascara further. You sniffle again when you realize how ridiculous you must be sounding. "God, I'm sorry. You don't want to hear about any of this."
"No, I do." Eddie insists softly, finally gathering up the courage to sit down on the bench beside you—close but not too close, maintaining a respectful distance. "I mean, if you want to talk about it. I'm a pretty good listener. When I'm not talking too much, which is, you know, most of the time, but—"
You laugh, a small but real chuckle this time, and Eddie feels a small spark of victory in his chest. He likes that sound.
"Yeah," you say, looking at him with something warm in your eyes and a wobbly grin on your face. "I know."
The words come out of you in a fond, almost reverent manner, and Eddie has to avoid your gaze again. He only hums faintly in return. He can’t even believe it, but he’s nervous. You make him nervous in the best and worst ways.
You two sit in silence for a moment, the distant thump of the party bass from a good few blocks away providing a strange rhythm to the otherwise quiet night. You’re clearly not ready to spill your emotions just yet, so he doesn’t push.
The silence is admittedly a little awkward, because what do you say to someone who used to be your best friend in the entire world and now barely acknowledges you in the hallways? There’s also something unspoken sitting in it. Like both of you aren’t talking about something you absolutely should talk about.
"Hey, uh—it’s getting cold out here. Maybe you should be getting home?" Eddie asks eventually. His tone is careful. He doesn’t want to imply that he’s getting bored of being here with you. He just doesn’t wanna overstay his welcome on this bench, especially when he’s uncertain of how to really offer any comfort other than a measly 'I’m sorry'. That and the fact he just feels incredibly awkward still.
Your brows furrow slightly and a sad look makes its way back on your face. He watches carefully. "I... I came here with Brad. I don’t have a ride home anymore."
"Right," Eddie acknowledges empathetically. He should’ve guessed. "Okay. Well, I can give you a ride home if you want. Your house isn't far, right? Still on Maple?"
"Yeah, but..." You bite your lip, looking genuinely distressed. "My family's out of town this weekend. They went to visit my aunt in Indianapolis. And—and I don't have my keys with me because I was supposed to stay at Brad's tonight after the party, and now..." You trail off, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill in genuine stress over the situation you’ve gotten yourself into.
Eddie's brain is working overtime, trying to figure out a solution that won’t make this weird or uncomfortable. You clearly can’t go home. You probably have friends at the party you could stay with. But given the state you’re in, he’s guessing you don’t exactly want to go back in there and face the world, let alone potentially your cheating ex.
"You could crash at my place," he offers cautiously after a brief moment of silence, watching your reaction. "I know it's probably not your first choice, and you can totally say no, but Wayne's working the night shift so you'd have the couch to yourself. Or—shit, no—my room, I mean. I mean you can have my room, I can take the couch. Whatever makes you comfortable. I just—" He runs a hand through his hair nervously. "I’m guessing you probably don’t wanna go back in there to those assholes." He gestures vaguely toward the direction of the distant music.
You’re looking at him with an expression he can’t quite read. Surprise, definitely gratitude, and something tender he desperately hopes he’s not just deluding himself into seeing.
"Are you sure?" you ask quietly, surveilling his eyes for any sort of reluctance. "I don't wanna… impose."
Eddie shakes his head. "You're not imposing. I'm offering. Come on," he encourages, already standing back up with a slight grunt. He feels a newfound wave of confidence after you don’t immediately reject his offer. "It’s nothing fancy—I mean, you know that already. But better than staying out here all night, right?"
You study his face for another long moment, then nod and smile. "Yeah. Yeah—thank you, Eddie."
"Don't mention it."
The drive to the trailer park is quiet. Eddie half-expected it to be as awkward as the silence on the bench, honestly. But much to his surprise, it isn’t. Not really. You sit in the passenger seat, staring out the window, occasionally wiping at the lingering dampness under your eyes. Eddie focuses on driving and gives you space to just be.
He's turned a cassette tape into the deck, and Judas Priest’s "Dreamer Deceiver" plays quietly through his blown speakers. Not exactly cheerful music, but you haven’t asked him to turn it off yet, so he takes that as a good sign.
"I remember this song," your soft voice sounds out over the low music suddenly, startling him a little. "You were obsessed with it in, like, eighth grade."
Eddie glances over at you, surprised. He hadn’t expected you to recall a past memory of him, let alone with such a gentle, reverent tone in your voice. It catches him off guard. "You remember that?" he asks incredulously, eyes focusing back on the road ahead, his mind completely elsewhere.
"Of course I remember." You’re looking at him now, your profile illuminated by the headlights. There’s a small smile on your face despite the dried tear tracks on your cheeks. "You made me listen to it like a hundred times. Said it was going to change my life."
"Did it?"
"No," you admit, and Eddie grins sheepishly. "But I listened anyway. Because you were so excited about it." Your tone turns quieter, like you’re confessing something you’ve never told anyone before. Something warm, nostalgic and simultaneously painful blooms in Eddie's chest.
"I didn't think you'd remember stuff like that," he says, trying his hardest to focus on the road in front of him and not the way his heart stutters in his chest at your admission.
"I remember a lot of things." Your voice is soft, almost sad now. "Like that time you taught me how to play chords on your guitar," you reminisce, quiet for a moment after that. But then the memories catch up. "Or when we built that fort in my backyard out of sheets and lawn chairs. And when you convinced me to skip school with you to go to that record store in Indy."
Eddie’s surprise molds into something more fond and nostalgic. "We got in so much trouble for that," he recalls, grinning at the memory, smile lines carved around the corners of his mouth.
"So much trouble," you agree, chuckling. "My mom grounded me for two weeks. But it was worth it. That was a good day."
"Yeah," Eddie says, feeling something heavy settling in his stomach. "It was."
The two of you fall quiet again as Eddie pulls into the trailer park, navigating the familiar dirt roads to his and Wayne's trailer at the end. The lights are off, which means Wayne is definitely at work, and Eddie's old van looks even more beat-up than usual parked under the flickering front door lamp.
"Home sweet home," Eddie says in his familiar theatrical tone, trying for levity as he kills the engine. "Like I said, it's not much, but—"
"Eddie." You turn in your seat to face him fully. "You don't have to apologize for anything. Thank you for this. Really. You didn't have to help me at all."
"Yeah, I did," Eddie says honestly. "I couldn't just leave you there."
Something flickers across your face—that same expression you gave him earlier when he offered you to spend the night. Then you’re flashing him an appreciative grin, opening the passenger door and stepping out into the night, and the unreadable expression passes as quickly as it came.
Inside, Eddie flicks on the dim trailer lights and immediately starts apologizing for the mess even though it really isn’t that bad. Some of Wayne's mugs are in the sink, Eddie’s campaign notes are scattered across the small coffee table, and a few magazines and books are piled on the couch.
"Seriously, it's fine," you say, looking around with what seems like genuine interest and distant familiarity rather than judgment. "It's really cozy."
"That's a nice way of saying small."
"I said cozy," you insist honestly, though you flash him a small grin over your shoulder. You turn your attention over to the bookshelf by the entrance, trailing your fingers along the spines. You recognize some of the books from years ago—thick fantasy novels he’s read about a million times now.
Eddie watches you. When he realizes he is, he moves into the kitchen instead. "You want something to drink? I think we have Coke, or water, or... actually, I think that's it. We're not great at keeping the fridge stocked."
"Water's good.”
Eddie grabs two glasses, fills them with tap water, and hands one to you. You accept it gratefully, taking a long sip, and Eddie tries not to stare at the way your throat moves as you swallow.
You set the glass down on the coffee table as he’s sipping on his and sit down on the old couch, tucking your legs underneath you. Your skirt rides up slightly in the process and Eddie very deliberately looks away, focusing on literally anything else in the room.
"You can sit," you say, patting the cushion next to you with an amused grin. "It’s your couch."
Eddie does as you say, maintaining what he thinks is a respectful distance. The couch is old and sunken in the middle, though, which means you both kind of slide toward the center. Your knee bumps against his.
"Sorry," he mutters awkwardly, starting to shift away.
"It's okay." You don’t move your knee. You seem to be loosening up a little in his space, growing a little more accustomed after all this time. "This is nice. Just sitting. Not having to pretend to be having a good time."
"Yeah, McKinney’s parties are real ragers," Eddie says dryly, looking down at the now empty glass in his grip. "Nothing says fun like watching drunk jocks play beer pong badly."
You snort in agreement. "You've never even seen Brad try to play beer pong before. It's embarrassing."
His expression sours slightly at the mention of Brad, but his eyes seem to soften when the snarky insult leaves your mouth. "Not missing much then."
"No," you agree again quietly. "Not really."
Eddie picks at a loose thread on the rip in his jeans, going silent and trying to find the right words for what he wants to say next. "Can I ask you something? And you can totally tell me to fuck off if it's too personal."
"Okay," you answer, sitting up a little straighter in anticipation.
"Why were you with him?" Eddie looks at you now, genuinely curious. "Brad. Like, you knew what he was like. Everyone knows what he's like. So why?"
You’re quiet for a long moment, staring down at your hands in your lap. When you finally speak, your voice is small.
"I guess because it's what I'm supposed to do."
"What?"
"Y’know, date guys like Brad. Be friends with girls like Chrissy and Melissa and the rest of the cheer squad. Get good grades, look pretty, smile at the right people, go to the right parties." You look up at him, and there’s something unbearably raw and honest in your eyes now. "That's what's expected of me. It’s what my parents want, what my friends want, what everyone around me wants. I'm supposed to be perfect. The perfect daughter, the perfect student… the perfect girlfriend to the perfect guy." You say the last part with clear disdain, like it’s the aspect that bothers you the most.
"That sounds exhausting," Eddie mutters earnestly.
"It is," you reply. "It's so exhausting, Eddie. And the worst part is I don't even know who I really am anymore under all of it. I don't know what I actually like versus what I'm supposed to like. I don't know who my real friends are versus who's just around because I'm on the cheer squad and dating the basketball captain."
Eddie's heart aches. He can’t relate to what you’re saying at all and never will. A few years ago, he might’ve called these first-world problems. However, he can’t help but believe the exhaustion in your voice. You sound genuinely tired. He wants to say something profound, something that will make it all better, but what comes out is:
"I know who you are."
You look at him, surprised. "What?"
"I know who you are," he repeats. "I mean, what you used to be like. Before… y’know, all of that. Like, you used to spend hours building these… elaborate backstories for your stuffed animals. You cried when we watched E.T. even though you'd seen it like five times already. You were the girl who always shared her lunch with me in elementary school when I forgot mine." He’s on a roll now, years of stored-up memories spilling out all at once. "You defended me against those eighth-grade assholes who tried to flush my D&D dice down the toilet and—and you always told me I was going to be a famous musician someday and actually meant it."
You’re looking at him like he just stabbed you in the stomach. Your lips part, your eyes shining with fresh tears. You can’t help the bittersweet smile your lips curl into. "You remember all that?" It’s your turn to ask now.
"Of course I remember. That stuff matters. It’s real." He gestures vaguely toward the window, in the general direction of the rest of Hawkins. "All that other stuff… the perfect grades, the perfect boyfriend, the perfect image—that's just... that's all bullshit. That's not you." His tone is low and impossibly soft.
You stare down at your lap, opening your mouth to say something, but all words seem to fail you at the moment. The wave of nostalgia hits you all at once and acts as a sour reminder of all you’ve lost. Of the real, genuine friendship you ditched for bullshit that won’t even matter in the long run. You never wanted to lose Eddie. You never wanted to hurt him, you could never wish him pain. But you got so caught up in the shining promise of popularity that you ended up hurting him anyway. You feel so incredibly stupid.
"I miss it," you say suddenly, fiercely. "I miss you. I miss being friends with you. I miss not having to worry about what people think or who's watching or whether I'm acting the right way. I miss when things were simple."
"Me too," Eddie admits, his voice rough. "I miss you too. Like, all the time. I see you in the hallways and I want to talk to you, but I figure you probably don't want the freak bothering you in front of your friends."
"Don't call yourself that," you say sharply, sternly. "You're not a freak, Eddie. You're really not. You’re just... you're you. You're honest and creative and always so expressive and you don't give a shit about what anyone thinks, and I've always—" You stop abruptly, looking away, breath hitching in your throat.
"Always what?" Eddie's heart pounds in his chest.
"I've always admired that about you," you finish quietly. "Even when we stopped being friends. I always thought... God, I wish I could be that brave."
"You think I'm brave?" Eddie laughs, but it comes out shaky. "I'm terrified like ninety percent of the time."
"Really? Of what?"
Right now, of this. Of you and how much he’s never stopped caring about you, even after everything that’s happened.
But what he says is: "I dunno. Of ending up alone, I guess. Of never getting out of this town and being exactly who everyone thinks I am and nothing more."
You turn to face him fully now, pulling your knees up to your chest. "You're going to get out, Eddie. You're talented as shit. And you’re smart, even though you pretend not to be. You're going to do something amazing someday."
"Yeah? What about you?"
"Me?" You look taken aback by the question.
"Yeah, you. What do you want? Not what your parents want or your friends want. What do you actually want?"
You’re quiet for a long moment, really thinking about it. "I wanna move away," you confess finally. "Study something cool. I wanna go to a college far away from here where nobody knows me and I can just start over. Be whoever I want to be and not have to live for others anymore." You pick at a thread on the couch cushion. Eddie realizes that that’s coincidentally also exactly what he wants for himself—to move far, far away from Hawkins and start fresh—and he tries not to mentally harp on the fact that your future plans seem to match up.
"I want to date someone who actually cares about me and who sees me as more than just…arm candy. I wanna date someone who—who makes me laugh and doesn't make me feel like I have to be perfect all the time."
Eddie's throat goes tight. "That doesn't sound like too much to ask for."
"No? Tell that to my parents. They're already planning my future for me. Indiana State, probably. Close enough to visit every weekend. Marry someone 'appropriate.' Have, like, six kids." Your voice is bitter. "No room for what I actually want."
"That's bullshit," Eddie says bluntly. "It's your life. You should get to live it how you want."
"Yeah." You nod subtly. "You’re already pretty much doing that now, aren’t you?" You point out, smiling a little.
He hesitates a little. "Yup," he replies. "And look where it got me. Twenty years old and still in high school, living in a trailer and dealing pot." Eddie leans hard against the back of the couch. "Really living the dream." He snorts, but it’s self-deprecating.
"You're…happy though," you say, brows furrowed. "Aren't you? Like, actually happy. Not pretend happy."
Eddie considers this. Is he happy? His life is objectively a mess by most standards. Most people don’t exactly aspire to be in the position he’s in, and if he were someone else, he probably wouldn’t either. But he has his music, his friends, his interests, his freedom to be exactly who he is without apology or remorse. He is happy in that regard.
"I guess," he admits honestly. "Most of the time, yeah. I'm happy. Could be better, could be worse, but... I'm me. And I guess I'm okay with that."
"I want that," you retort softly. "I wanna be okay with just... being me."
"You can be," Eddie says. "I mean, it's not easy. People are going to have opinions. Your parents… they might be disappointed. Your friends might bail. But at the end of the day, you're the one who has to live with your choices. Might as well make 'em count."
You’re looking at him with such intensity now that Eddie feels pinned in place. Like hearing him say those words frees you from years of forcing yourself to conform. "When did you get so wise?"
"I'm not wise. I'm just stubborn and I don’t care what people think anymore." He grins.
You smile in return, and God, Eddie loves that expression a lot. He’s missed it more than he'll probably ever let himself acknowledge.
"I'm sorry," you say suddenly, because you feel that you’re due for a shit ton of apologies towards the boy beside you.
"For what?" He knows for what.
"For what?" you echo, incredulous. "For all of it. For ditching you. For… for choosing my reputation over you because I was worried about what others would think." Your voice cracks and you sound the most distraught you have all night. Which is a lot, considering the fact that you just got cheated on. "All of that was more than insanely shitty of me. You were my best friend, Eddie. You were—you are—amazing. You really are. You’re funny and you’re nice and you do your own thing despite what everyone else thinks. I’m just… I’m a coward. I was trying to fit in with the crowd and I threw everything we had away because I was scared and dumb and stupid and I thought that being popular mattered more than being happy, but I was wrong. I don’t think I could’ve been more wrong. You deserve someone who’s always there for you and who wouldn’t have done any of that bullshit I did. And—and I know that nothing I say now will ever make up for even a fraction of it and I’m not asking you to understand, let alone forgive me, but I just need you to know. I need you to know that I’m so, so sorry, Eddie."
Eddie doesn’t interrupt you once. He’s dumbfounded, really, eyes wide as he takes everything in. Yeah, what you did sucked. He won’t deny that or the fact that you hurt him. And he probably won’t every forget any of it, but he can hear the emotion and honesty oozing out of your words and all of a sudden, he feels that his only option is to forgive you.
"Hey, no." Eddie reaches out without thinking about it, taking your hand in his ring-clad, warm one. "We were kids. People change, they drift apart. It happens."
"Yeah, but not like that. I don't want us to drift apart anymore," you say fiercely while a tear drips down your cheek, gripping his hand tighter, also without thinking about it. "I really miss you. I know I don’t have the right to, but I do. I miss everything about you. You’ve always been there for me. You’re, like, the only person who knows the real me instead of the version of myself I perform for everyone else. You’re the realest person in this whole shithole town."
Eddie's heart is doing gymnastics in his chest. "I miss you too. Like, constantly. It's actually kind of pathetic how much I think about you." He admits, a sheepish grin on his face.
"Really?" You’re smiling now, even through the waterworks.
"Yeah. I see you in the hallways and it's like... I don't know, it's like I remember how we used to be and for a few seconds, the whole world gets a little brighter? Which is corny as hell, but it's true." He’s rambling now, nervous energy spilling out. "When I see you with Morrison or your cheer friends or whatever, there's this part of me that's happy because you look happy, but there's also this part that's just... sad. Because I remember when I was the one who made you smile like that. And I know I shouldn’t be feeling that way anymore. You're not mine—" he quickly corrects himself. "—my friend, and you haven't been for years, but I can't help it. I've never been able to help it when it comes to you."
You’re staring at him, lips slightly parted, eyes wide. Eddie realizes he's definitely just said too much, crossed about fifteen different lines, and there’s no taking it back now.
"Sorry," he mutters with embarrassment, starting to pull his hand away. "That was—I shouldn't have—"
You tighten your grip, not allowing him to retreat, and keep his hand in place. "Eddie."
"Yeah?"
"I think about you too. Like, so much." You’re leaning closer now, and Eddie's brain is short-circuiting. "Seeing you in the hallways gives me this… urge to just stop and talk to you. I’ll be stuck at some boring party with Brad and his friends, and all I can think about is how much funnier everything would be if you were there instead. But I don’t have the right to think about any of that because we haven't been friends in years and whose fault is that? Mine. It's my fault."
"It's not—"
"It is. I chose wrong, Eddie. I keep choosing wrong. Consistently. Wrong friends, wrong boyfriends, wrong everything. Because none of them are..." You trail off, and the silence between you is suddenly charged.
"Aren't what?" His voice comes out barely above a whisper.
"None of them are you."
The world narrows to just this: your hand in his and your eyes on his. Eddie can see every detail of your face and he takes them in amidst the quiet of the trailer—the smudged mascara, the earnestness in your gaze, the way you’re biting your bottom lip nervously.
He should say something. Do something. But he’s frozen. He’s terrified that, if he moves, the spell will break and you'll realize what you’re saying. Or, more specifically, who you’re saying it to. But you don’t pull away. Not in the slightest. Instead, you lean in, slowly, giving him every opportunity to pull back, to laugh all of it off as the emotional aftermath of a shitty night. Eddie doesn’t pull back.
Your lips meet his tentatively. He should be surprised. He should be fully taken-aback due to the unexpectedness of the situation. But he’s mostly just completely and utterly relieved. He kisses you back with years of pent-up wanting and missing you.
It’s gentle at first. Your free hand comes up to cup his cheek, and Eddie makes a sound he should probably be embarrassed about, his own hand sliding into your hair carefully, like he’s scared of hurting you with the gentlest of touches.
You taste like salt from your tears and something intoxicatingly sweet underneath, and Eddie thinks dimly that he could die right now and be perfectly happy about it.
When you finally pull back, you’re both breathing hard. You stay close, noses barely nudging, and he can feel your smile less than an inch away from his lips.
"Was that okay?" you whisper.
"Are you kidding?" His tone is incredulous. "That was—yeah. That was extremely okay."
You laugh, soft and breathy, and kiss him again. This time it’s deeper, more certain, and Eddie feels like every nerve ending in his body was on fire. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he gives in willingly, wrapping his arms around your waist. His grip is still painfully gentle.
Time stops meaning anything. Time seems like it’s never meant anything at all. There’s just you and him and the years of distance and want evaporating with every touch and soft sound you make against his mouth.
When you finally break apart for air again, you stay in his arms, tucked against his chest, and Eddie holds you like you’re something precious. You are, to be honest. You’re a treasure he’s lost and found again and is never letting go of.
"I don't wanna go back," you say quietly against his shoulder after a while of silence. "To pretending. To being someone I'm not."
"Then don't," Eddie says simply. "Stay here. With me. Fuck what everyone else thinks."
You pull back to look at him, and there’s hope in your eyes. "You make it sound so simple."
"It is simple. Not easy, but simple." Eddie brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, feeling less hesitant to touch you now. "You get to choose what you want. Who you want. Everything everyone else says is just noise. It doesn’t matter." Eddie's heart is pounding so hard he’s sure you can hear it. "And if you choose me, I'd say you're making a terrible decision, but I'm too selfish to talk you out of it."
You chuckle, pressing your face into his neck and shaking your head. "You're not a terrible decision, Eddie."
"I sell drugs in the school parking lot and I’m on my third senior year. I'm probably the literal definition of a terrible decision."
"No," you say, pulling back to look at him again. Your eyes are bright, clear, more certain than he's seen them all night. Or ever, maybe. "I don't care. I'm so tired of doing what I'm supposed to do. I want to do what makes me happy. And you..." You cup his face in both hands. "You make me happy. You always have."
Eddie can’t help himself. He kisses you again because he can’t not, because you’re looking at him like he hung the moon and he needs you to know that you’re so much brighter than any star.
"Stay," he murmurs pleadingly against your lips once you pull away. "I know I just said that I was a terrible decision but stay. Not just tonight. Please. I know it's scary and complicated and everyone's going to have an opinion about it, but I swear to God I will spend every single day making you happy."
"Eddie—"
"I'm in love with you," he says, the words tumbling out before he can even think of stopping them. "I have been for years. Maybe since we were kids, I don't know. I tried to move on, but I can't because you’re the only girl I’ve ever wanted. And if you walk out that door tomorrow—or even right now—and decide that this was just a moment, just the aftermath of a shitty night, that would suck but I'd understand. I just need you to know. I love you. It’s you, it's always been you, and I don't think that's ever going to change."
You really can’t help yourself. You’re crying again, but you’re smiling too—the biggest, most genuine smile he's probably ever seen on your face.
"I love you too," you whisper. "Fuck, Eddie, I love you too. I have for so long. I’ve always just been too scared to admit it."
"And now?"
"Now I'm still scared," you admit, laughing shakily. "But I'm more scared of messing up and losing you again. I really, really don’t want that."
The warm glow of the trailer’s dim lights highlights your features. Your arms are around his neck, crickets chirp outside the trailer walls, and Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever felt more at home.
You kiss him again. Soft at first, but it deepens, shifting into something more urgent. It reflects years of wanting, of holding back, of pretending not to feel what you felt—all of it comes pouring out in the way your fingers tighten in his hair and the way Eddie's hands grip your waist like you might dissolve into thin air if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.
"Eddie," you breathe against his mouth, and the sound of his name in your voice like that—all desperate and wanting—makes something in him snap.
He kisses you harder, pulling you closer until you’re practically in his lap. You go willingly, shifting to straddle him properly, your skirt riding up as you settle against him. Eddie's hands slid up your sides, feeling the warmth of your skin through the thin fabric of your top, and you gasp into his mouth.
"Is this okay?" he manages to ask, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His hands freeze right over your ribs, right below—
"Yes," you say immediately. "Yes. Don't stop. Please don't stop."
He listens. He kisses you like a drowning man gasping for air, like he’s trying to make up for every moment of the past few years in a single night. Your hands are everywhere—in his hair, on his shoulders, sliding under his jacket to feel the warmth of him through his shirt. Every touch feels purposeful and like you’re trying to memorize him by feel alone.
When his hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your top, you make a sound that goes straight through him. You arch into his touch, and Eddie groans.
"Oh, Jesus. You're killing me," he says roughly. He means it.
You chuckle, and then you’re kissing him again, rolling your hips against his in a way that makes Eddie see stars. He can feel every inch of you pressed against him—the softness of your thighs bracketing his, the way your chest rises and falls with each breath, the heat of you even through layers of clothing. It’s overwhelming in the best possible way.
Your hands find the hem of his shirt, fingers slipping beneath to trace the lines of his stomach, and Eddie shivers despite the warmth flooding his body. No one’s ever touched him like this before—with such tenderness and simultaneously desperate need. It’s like you can’t get close enough, like you wanna crawl inside his skin and live there forever.
"Can I—" you start, tugging at his shirt, and Eddie nods frantically before you have to elaborate.
He helps you pull it over his head, tossing it somewhere beside the couch, and then your hands are on his bare skin and Eddie forgets how to think. You trace the lines of his ribs. Your gaze trails upwards to a new, unfamiliar patch of ink right over his heart—something that looks like a snarling demon’s head.
"This new?" you ask softly, fingers tracing the slightly crooked design. You’ve seen him shirtless before at various public pool outings, but the marking seems entirely unfamiliar to you. "Never seen it before."
"Yeah," Eddie replies, his voice rough. "Got it, like, a year ago." He gauges your judgement of the design.
"I like it." You lean down, pressing a kiss to the tattoo, then to his collarbone, then up the side of his neck in a trail that makes Eddie's hands tighten on your hips.
"Your turn," he insists before you can kiss further, and you pull back to look at him, pupils blown wide.
"Yeah?"
"Only if you want," he adds quickly, backtracking self–consciously. "We don't have to—we can stop—"
You silence him with another breathless, intense kiss, then reach for the hem of your top. Eddie's hands cover yours.
"Let me?" he offers.
You nod in reply, raising your arms, and Eddie carefully peels the top up and off, revealing smooth skin and a white lacy bra that, despite its striking simplicity, somehow makes his mouth run dry. You’re so achingly beautiful that it actually hurts to look at you. His eyes wander along the curve of your waist and the way your chest seems to rise and fall with every panting breath.
"Hi," you say, looking at him and smiling a little nervously. You feel self-aware under his gaze.
"Hi," Eddie echoes, chuckling. You‘re so cute. "You're so—God, you're so beautiful."
You shake your head sheepishly and bite back a beaming smile, thinking he’s only trying to butter you up. "Eddie—"
"No, I mean it. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Have been since we were kids. I used to think it wasn't fair, you know? That someone could be that pretty and that smart and that funny. Like you got all the good qualities and the rest of us just had to deal with it."
You can feel your face heating up increasingly and all you can do is laugh, though it comes out a little shaky. "Stop..." You don‘t want him to stop. You could listen to him flattering you forever.
"Never." He pulls you back down into a kiss, skin against skin now, and the feeling of it makes both of you gasp into each other‘s mouths. Eddie's hands roam your back, feeling the realness of you in his arms after years of not daring to even dream about this exact moment.
You kiss him deeply, slowly, like his trailer is a capsule and you have all the time in the world. Your hips roll against the now obvious stiffening bulge in his jeans and Eddie groans into your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip the flesh of your thighs.
"Eddie," you breathe when he pulls back and leans up to kiss sloppily down your throat, on a mission to find the exact spot that makes you shiver. "Eddie, I want—"
"What?" He pulls away to look at you, wanting to hear you say it. "What do you want, sweetheart?"
Sweetheart. You gulp at the pet name. You could absolutely get used to hearing that come out of his mouth. "You," you admit. "I really want you. Please."
Eddie's heart is pounding so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs. He shifts, carefully lifting you with him as he stands up from the couch. You wrap your legs around his waist automatically, giggling against his neck as he carries you down the short hallway to his bedroom with surprisingly sturdy arms.
"Very smooth, Munson," you tease.
"I have my moments," he grins, shouldering open his bedroom door. He’s suddenly very aware of the mess that is his room—clothes strewn across the floor, dice scattered on the nightstand, sheets crumpled up and bed unmade—but you don’t seem to care whatsoever, so he forces himself not to either.
He lays you down on his bed gently and you look up at him with a painful amount of trust, love and want. This is real, he realizes. This is actually happening.
You reach for him and he leans in, covering your body with his, kissing you slow and thorough and pouring every ounce of passion he has into it. Your legs wrap around his waist again, pulling him even closer. He feels a spark in his chest at the taste of your mouth and the softness of your skin and the little sounds you make when he kisses that spot just below your ear.
His hands, calloused from years of strumming guitars, tremble as they reach up to frame your face for a moment, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. He can feel the damp tracks of earlier tears. The sight of you half-naked in his bed, surrounded by band posters, scattered cassette tapes and an ashtray overflowing with butts on the nightstand is a real, physical manifestation of every daydream he’s ever stifled in his mind.
He kisses you again, even deeper. His lips travel from your mouth, down the column of your throat, feeling the frantic pulse there. Eddie’s taking his sweet, sweet time, his hands sliding down, fingers sneaking underneath your arched back to reach for the clasp of your bra. He hesitates for a fraction of a second, searching your sparkling eyes for any sliver of hesitance. When he only finds certainty, his fingers fiddle with the clasp. He struggles for a few moments, tongue poking out in concentration, before finally clicking it open.
Then he pulls the straps down your shoulders and frees you of it fully, tossing it aside to join the chaos on his floor. The sight of you, bared to him in the dim light from his bedside lamp, literally steals the air from his lungs. He just stares, drinking you in, his expression one of reverent awe.
"You’re so pretty," he praises again because he finds himself simply unable not to.
You look away shyly, feeling both utterly exposed and appreciated under his gaze. "Thanks."
Eddie smiles. Slowly, he lowers his head, his mouth finding the swell of your breast, his tongue tracing a slow, worshipful circle before closing his lips around your nipple. A low groan vibrates in his chest. His other hand slides down your side, over the curve of your hip, gripping the fabric of your skirt. He bunches it in his fist, dragging it upward, his knuckles brushing against the skin of your inner thigh teasingly.
His mouth is hot and insistent on your skin, his teeth grazing your nipple with a thrilling edge that makes your back arch off the bed. A choked-out gasp escapes you, your fingers tangling in the wild curls at the nape of his neck, holding him there desperately.
"Oh, shit—Eddie…"
He releases your peaked bud with a soft, smacking sound, his dark eyes lifting to meet yours. They’re blown wide, almost black with want, but there’s so much vulnerability swimming in them. He kisses a burning, worshipful trail up your sternum, back to your mouth, and swallows the sound you make when he nips at your bottom lip.
He pulls away again and his hands, trembling slightly, finally focus on the waistband of your skirt. His rings are cold against your heated skin when he slides the fabric down your legs, casting it aside like the measly blockage it is. He moves with a sudden, desperate grace, trailing kisses down the center of your stomach, his tongue flickering against the sensitive skin of your hip bone, until he reaches the waistband of your panties.
He rids you of those as well and shifts, kneeling between your thighs and draping your legs over his shoulders. He finds you glistening wet with arousal. The cool air of the trailer kisses your exposed skin for only a second before his mouth replaces it. He leans down, his dark curls spilling over your lap, shielding the rest of the world away. When he first tastes you, a mix of a groan and a sigh vibrates in his throat.
"Fuck," he breathes against you, the curse going straight through your core. His hands spread your thighs wider, palms pressing firm against trembling muscles. His tongue swipes a slow, experimental stripe through your folds, and the taste explodes across his senses. A ragged groan tears from his throat as he does it again, deeper this time, nose bumping against your aching clit.
You squirm on the mattress at that, fingers tangling in his wild curls. He moans against you, the sound sending fresh tremors through your body. "Eddie—"
"Shh. Let me," he murmurs into your pussy, lips finally sealing around your clit to suck gently. His ring-clad fingers dig into your hips, holding you as still as he wants you while his tongue flicks rapid circles. Every twitch of your muscles feeds him.
His eyes flick up to watch you, lashes low as your thighs quiver around his ears. The sight unravels him completely—Hawkins High’s prettiest cheerleader and his former best friend whom he‘s been in love with forever, drunk on his mouth. He doubles down, dragging his tongue through your soaking wet folds deliberately, speeding his movements up a little. Every nerve in his body screams to devour. But he‘ll be patient, he‘ll allow you to bask in the feeling.
"That’s it," he rasps, pulling back just enough to watch his own spit glisten on you. His breath fans over your swollen flesh. "Oh, Jesus Christ. Look at you," The word scrapes raw from his chest. He sounds genuinely awed. He seals his mouth over your clit again, his tongue fluttering rapid-fire against the sensitive bud until your back bows off the mattress.
Your fingers tighten in his hair, almost yanking with overwhelm. He groans—half pain, half triumph—and presses two fingers against your entrance.
"O–Oh! Please—" you whimper, and the sound goes straight to his cock, straining against his jeans. He pushes his digits in slowly, knuckles twisting as he curls them upward and rubs, his mouth never leaving your clit. Every thrust of his fingers matches the rhythm of his tongue, stretching you just shy of enough.
He feels it the second you tip—there‘s a flutter around his fingers and a loud hitch in your breathing. Eddie pins your hips down with his forearm, refusing to let you buck away, and swallows every pulse of your climax like communion. Only when you go boneless and fully pliant against the mattress does he ease off, pressing soft, reverent kisses to your inner thigh. His fingers slip out of you with a lewd squelch.
"So good, baby. You taste so good," he praises, dragging the back of his hand across his slicked mouth. He kneels between your trembling legs, hands trembling as he reaches for his belt buckle impatiently.
Before he can undo the belt completely, your hand quickly covers his, stilling the frantic motion. His eyes snap to yours, wide and startled. For a moment, he‘s terrified that he‘s gotten too ahead of himself. His breath catches as your fingers gently push his aside. Both to his surprise and major relief, you take over the task of undoing the worn leather.
The metal teeth of his zipper sound unnaturally loud in the quiet trailer. He’s holding his breath, watching you with a mixture of awe and disbelief. When you hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and boxers, pushing them down over his hips just enough to free him, he flinches slightly, a soft, choked sound escaping him. He‘s still kneeling on the mattress while you bow forward, his scent filling your senses completely.
"Sweetheart, you don‘t gotta—"
His protest is weak, half-hearted. He’s fully hard, his cock flushed and straining against his stomach. You can see the rapid pulse in his throat, the way his knuckles are white where they grip the edge of the mattress.
You press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his navel. He jerks as if he’s just been shocked.
"You deserve this," you whisper against his skin, your breath ghosting over him. "Just let me."
He lets out a shuddering exhale, his head falling back as he squeezes his eyes shut. "Shit," he breathes, the word full of surrender. He shifts on the mattress and guides you along gently until you switch positions—his back against the headboard, you kneeling in between his legs.
You don’t take him into your mouth all at once. You start with the tip, a slow, tentative lick that has his entire body tensing already. A low groan rumbles in his chest. You swirl your tongue around the head, tasting his musk, before taking him deeper, inch by careful inch. Your hand wraps around the base, stroking in time with the shallow bobs of your head. You look and feel like a goddamn dream. There‘s no other way to describe it.
His hand reaches up, hovering near your hair as if afraid to touch and take control. "Christ..." he groans. His hips give an involuntary, tiny thrust, and he immediately stills them, a pained sound in the back of his throat. "Shit—sorry, sorry—"
You only hum encouragingly in response, the vibration against his dick making him curse again. His fingers finally sink into your hair. Not to guide you, but to simply hold on. You can feel the tension coiling in him, the way his muscles tremble with effort. You work him with your mouth and hand, learning his rhythm and the places that make his breath catch. Just as he feels himself begin to teeter on that edge, he pushes you off of him carefully. He‘s gasping and his dick is throbbing to an almost painful extent. As much as he loves the wet heat of your mouth, he really needs to finally be inside of you.
Without another word, he pulls you up until your lips meet again in a messy, desperate clash of teeth. He groans into your mouth, his hands coming up to cradle your face, and his thumbs stroke your cheeks in a way that is gentle enough to contrast with the frenzy in his kiss. Your shared taste is the most intoxicating thing he’s ever known.
He doesn’t speak anymore. Words have failed him. Instead, he moves with a sudden, decisive urgency, rolling you gently onto your back amidst the rumpled sheets. His jeans and briefs are kicked the rest of the way off, landing somewhere on the floor with a soft thud. He leans away from you and opens up the top drawer of his nightstand, fishing out a packaged condom lurking in there. You try not to work yourself up over the prospect of him having had other girls in this exact same position before.
He tears the wrapper open with his teeth, slipping it on his shaft. He settles between your thighs properly then, his weight a welcome anchor. The hard, heated length of him presses against your soaked entrance, and you both gasp at the contact.
He braces himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours. His hair forms a dark curtain around you, and his expression is one of raw reverence.
"Look at me," he whispers, his voice rough as gravel. "Please. I need to see you."
You do as he says and look straight into his eyes, an immediate grin making its way onto your face. He looks incredibly gorgeous like this, the pale moonlight bathing his features in a bluish hue.
You’re about to comment on how pretty he is, but then he’s already pushing forward, stealing the air from both your lungs. The feeling is overwhelming, a perfect, stretching fullness that makes your eyes flutter shut for a second before you force them open, locking back onto his gaze. He’s watching you with an intensity that borders on painful, cataloging every flicker of sensation that crosses your perfect face.
He bottoms out, hips flush against yours, and goes still, trembling with the effort. A bead of sweat traces a path from his temple down to his jaw. He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling against yours.
He whispers your name in a ragged sigh. He dips his head, pressing his forehead to yours, his eyes squeezed shut. "You feel... shit, you feel so good. Like heaven." He‘s not even exaggerating. The way your velvety walls clamp down on him has him cursing under his breath before he‘s even started moving properly.
He begins rolling his hips. It’s not a frantic, pounding rhythm, not yet. Instead, it’s deep, rolling thrusts that grind against every sensitive sweet spot inside of you. Each stroke is deliberate. The only sounds in the room are the faint creak of the mattress and your shared, panting breaths.
His mouth finds yours again in a searing kiss, then trails down your jaw to your neck, where he sucks a mark into your skin that both of you know will bruise. He wants it to. He wants to see physical proof of you choosing him marked onto your skin. One of his hands slides down to grip your hip, his fingers digging in possessively, while the other tangles in your hair.
The trailer's thin walls do little to muffle the sound of the old springs groaning under the weight of years of repressed wanting. Slowly but surely, Eddie‘s movements shift from that reverent, slow grind into something more desperate. Every time his hips slam home against yours, there’s a fleshy, heavy sound that echoes in the small room and drowns out the distant crickets as well as the blurring memories of Tyler McKinney’s bullshit party.
He pulls his head back, his dark curls matted with sweat against his forehead, and he just stares at you. His eyes are wide, glassy with a mix of pleasure and pure, unadulterated shock around the fact that this is actually happening.
He rasps out your name. "F–Fuck, you’re... you’re so fucking perfect. I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind." He’s not just talking about the physical sensation, though the way your slick pussy grips him with every pulse is enough to make his vision blur. He’s talking about the fact that it’s you. The girl he‘s always loved and whose proximity he stopped thinking he‘d be in ever again anymore. And now you‘re underneath him in his bed, being pounded like your life depends on it.
His hands slide from your hips, rings cold against your skin as he pins your wrists above your head. He’s not being rough to be mean; he’s being rough because he needs to feel you and know that this isn't some fucked–up hallucination his brain is making up. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing the skin right where your pulse is hammering. He keeps leaving dark blossoms of color because he truly doesn‘t give a shit about the possible later fallout. He thrusts deeper, harder, his body tense with the unadulterated want of staying inside you forever.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he pants, his pace quickening until the bed is practically dancing with your movements. His body is trembling, his muscles corded and straining as he tries to maintain some semblance of control. But the way you’re looking up at him with your glassy, unfocused eyes is breaking him bit by bit. "Oh, shit— talk to me, sweetheart. Please, fuckin'–." He’s pleading. He just really needs to hear your voice.
Your jaw slacks. You can feel your orgasm coming on. That and a creeping, gnawing guilt for how you’ve hurt him with your decisions. You can physically sense the weight of every time you chose a preppy asshole over your best friend pressing down on you. It all comes crashing down along alongside the pleasure and it’s an overwhelming, suffocating tide of emotion that forces the air from your lungs in a high-pitched sob. You reach up, your fingers digging into the sweat-slicked skin of his shoulders, pulling him down until his ear is pressed against your lips.
"I love you, Eddie," you chant, the words tumbling out of you in a frantic, vocal flood that matches the pulse of your body tightening around him. "I love you. I love you... I’m sorry, I’m sorry—" The apology is a raw, strained thing that cuts through the haze of the moment. You’re crying now for likely the millionth time tonight. You repeat the words over and over, desperate for him to hear the genuine, undeniable regret coarsing through you. You’ve been such a coward, hurting him when he’s always been there for you. And the fact that he’s here, towering over you, holding you and making you feel things you‘ve never even dreamt of feeling before, makes the tears flow even quicker.
Eddie lets out a groan that serves as a visceral reaction to your words. Hearing you apologize—hearing the girl who was the only bright spot in his miserable childhood say she loves him while she’s coming apart under him—is simply too much. He doesn't want your apologies; he wants you. You‘re all he‘s ever wanted.
He redoubles his efforts, his thrusts becoming heavy and punishingly deep like he‘s trying to physically drive the guilt out of you, his teeth sinking into his own bottom lip to keep from sobbing himself.
"Don't—shit, don't say you're sorry," he gasps, his voice cracking as he catches your face in his hands, his rings biting into your skin. "Just stay. Just—ah—stay with me." He’s right on the edge now, his body vibrating with the force of his own impending peak.
He can see you unraveling, the apologies catching in your throat and your eyes searching his for a forgiveness he already gave you the second he saw you crying on that bench. He needs to push you over that final precipice. He needs to drown out your regret with a pleasure so absolute that you won't be able to remember anything except how fucking good he‘s making you feel.
He shifts his weight, one arm braced beside your head to keep from crushing you, while his other hand slides down through where your joined bodies connect. His calloused fingers find your clit, sensitive and swollen from your earlier orgasm, and begin to work it ruthlessly.
"Cum for me," he pleads, his voice a whiny vibration that shivers down your spine. "Give it to me. Need’a feel you cum around me—God, please. Cum with me, sweetheart."
You’re continously repeating his name now, your apologies melting into a frantic, breathless litany of "Eddie, Eddie, please." The combination of his weight on top of you, the depth of his length inside of you and the relentless friction of his fingers over your most sensitive spot is the final straw.
You arch your back, your fingers clenching so hard into the muscles of his shoulders that your nails leave crescent indents into his skin. The release hits you unlike anything ever has before. It’s a blinding explosion of sensation that radiates from your core and, even if only momentarily, washes away the lingering sting of those years of silence. You’re shaking, your walls spasming around him in tight, rhythmic pulses that feel like they're trying to pull him even deeper. Eddie watches it all and doesn‘t blink once, his eyes wide and glassy, relishing in the sight of you completely undone by him.
That tight, desperate clenching of your body shatters his own fragile restraint. He thrusts and buries himself as deep as he can possibly go, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as his own climax rips through him. It’s a stellar, exhaustive release, every ounce of his longing and frustration and love pouring out of him and into you. He’s gasping for air, his body heavy and trembling as he collapses against you, careful to shift his weight to his elbows as to not crush you but needing the contact, needing the reassurance that you’re still there, beneath him, real and breathing and finally, finally where you were always supposed to be.
The following silence is thick, interrupted only by the sound of two sets of lungs trying to remember how to work. Eddie doesn't move for a long time, hiding his face in the curve of your neck. He feels the cooling dampness of your tears and sweat, and then he pulls back just enough to look at you. His expression is familiarly soft. He reaches up, his fingers brushing a stray hair from your forehead. Your hair is a mess, your makeup completely smudged from earlier tears and kisses, and you've never looked more perfect to him.
You have a shit ton of things to talk about. You have to figure out how you‘re going to be moving forward—whether or not anyone will know about you, whether or not you’re fully ready to escape the confines of peoples’ expectations and the sparkling reputation you’ve constructed around yourself yet. What you do know, though, is that you‘ve learned from your mistakes, and you want Eddie by your side through it all. You‘re sick of having to pretend otherwise.
You know it had to be him. Despite everything, it was always going to be him.
© linkykirby. All content is original and written by me. Please don’t repost, copy, or redistribute my work without explicit consent.
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divider creds: @/dollywons @/cursed-carmin
