Summary: While helping search your boyfriend’s room, you come across his collection of adult content that he promised to throw away. What Eddie didn’t realize was that the materials that once caused him pleasure would end up becoming his punishment.
**COMING SOON**
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“Babe, where’s the last place you’d seen it?”
You had been searching for twenty minutes, tearing apart Eddie’s bedroom to assist him in his frantic hunt for his missing guitar pick- his lucky guitar pick. The one that he couldn’t go on stage without. It was a bad omen, a tragedy, and a complete disaster if he played without it that night. So now, here you are, taking part in your boyfriend’s two-person search party.
“Jesus, I don’t know…” Eddie groans “I can’t fucking remember.”
“You know, babe, if you maybe cleaned up every once in a while like Wayne tells you to-“
“Sweetheart, I know, okay?” Eddie sighs “Can you please just spare me the lecture? Pretty please? I’m already stressed.”
“Okay, Eds.” You reply “Just calm down. We’ll find it. Have you looked under your bed?”
“No.” He shook his head “Could you? I’m gonna go check the laundry basket in the bathroom. Maybe I left it in one of my pants pockets.”
As Eddie walks out of his bedroom, you sink to the floor- getting on your hands and knees to search underneath his bed. You tilt your head to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of what was underneath his mattress- feeling around for anything that could be his guitar pick.
Your hands felt around several miscellaneous items. A few comic books that had surely ended up abandoned after Eddie had fallen asleep reading them, sending them to a graveyard housed between his wall and the mattress. The further you dug underneath the labyrinth of junk under his bed, the more disturbed you became.
Old condom wrappers from your past hookups, a beat up spiral notebook, a Dungeons and Dragons manual, dirty socks, a yo-yo, and- to your horror- a pizza box that housed hard, stale pieces of crust. You wrinkle up your nose in disgust, dragging it out from underneath the bed as you slid it across the floor. You would definitely be giving him a lecture later about how disgusting he was.
As you kept digging, you used your arm to reach further- your fingertips brushing up against something hard and rectangular. Your interest was piqued. You pressed the side of your head down onto the floor, trying to get low enough to get a peek. Down further, almost out of reach was a beaten-up black shoebox. You knew that it probably wasn’t where his guitar pick was hiding but you were curious.
You stretch the tips of your fingers, using them to inch the box closer to you so that you could grab onto it- sliding it out from underneath the bed. The lid was well-worn. You wondered what was inside, knowing that it was neither his white Reebok sneakers or his black boots. Really, it was probably where he stored his old acrylic paint sets that he used to paint his DnD miniatures.
You stared down at the box in front of you, knowing that you shouldn’t snoop through your boyfriend’s stuff. You and Eddie were completely open with each other and shared a lot in your relationship but you still couldn’t help but feel guilty about potentially violating his privacy. You should put it back where you found it. You should leave the lid closed. You should forget that you had even found it in the first place. But that damn shoebox was like a siren’s call to you.
Open me.
Open me.
Open me.
Your curiosity got the best of you. Before you could stop yourself, you pluck off the lid- setting it on the floor beside you as you peer into the box. You weren’t sure what you had been expecting but you weren’t expecting what you saw. Several copies for something called Heavy Metal.
They looked just like every other comic that Eddie owned, adorned with colorful illustrations in various art styles, genres, and characters. Just like his favorites; Uncanny X-Men, Saga Of The Swamp Thing, The Warlord, and Dragonlance for example. However, you found it odd that these ones were stuffed away in a box and not on his bookshelf where he usually kept them.
Maybe these ones were rare? You thought. But that couldn’t be it because all of his rare comics were carefully stored in protective sleeves and categorized by series- it was the only thing in his life that was organized. Why would these ones be here and not with the others?
Your eyes sweep over the cover of the issue that was on top of the stack. Pictured was an illustration of a woman. She was dressed (if you could even call it that) in a thin, barely there black fabric that only covered her breasts and her crotch- the rest of the material flowing behind her like a cape. Otherwise, everything else was exposed. You’ve never seen any of the female heroines in Eddie’s comics drawn this scantily clad. It took you aback.
Your eyes continue to sweep over the cover, ignoring the way that the heroine was wrapped up in a fierce green dragon. This was definitely on par for Eddie. However, when your eyes traveled further up, you caught sight of the text at the top near the magazine title. In yellow text it read, “the adult illustrated fantasy magazine.”
Adult.
If you weren’t intrigued before, you definitely were now.
You open the strange magazine, beginning to thumb through the pages as your eyes skimmed over the contents. You didn’t know what you expected but it certainly wasn’t what you ended up finding on the pages.
Your eyes widen in shock as you are met with comic strip pages filled with naked women. Their nude bodies drawn in crude situations and perverse sexual scenarios. The pictures were so graphic, hypersexualized, and over-exaggerated to the point that your face began to heat up. Not only did your boyfriend own one of these dirty magazines but he owned several.
Your head was reeling as you continued sifting through the box. Issue after issue after issue. Six in total. Way more than what he needed. As you lifted them out of the shoebox, you were greeted with something worse; a VHS porno tape. It lacked its cardboard cover sleeve but you could read the title on the front of the tape; Wet and Messy Vol. 2.
Was this really the shit that your boyfriend was into?
“Hey, baby, I found it! It was in the pocket of my-“
Eddie walks into the room, holding up his lucky guitar pick in triumph. When his eyes landed on you, he went speechless. The last thing he expected to see when he walked back into his room was his girlfriend kneeling on the floor with his “secret stash” box open in front of you. But as soon as he noticed the VHS tape clutched in your hand and his collection of dirty mags in a pile on the floor, his mouth went completely dry.
steddie but with wish babies aka steve wanting a baby so bad that he wakes up one morning to a little bundle on his doorstep. a perfect mix of both him and eddie, which is unfortunate because atp they're definitely not together, haven't taken steps past being flirty friends. steve has no idea if eddie even likes him beyond the flirting since eddie is like that with everyone, but now here's proof on his porch that HE likes eddie that way. he isn't prepared for a baby either despite him wanting one so bad (wanting a piece of eddie so bad if he couldn't have the man himself). cue him freaking the fuck out bc there is a BABY and now he's gotta put his money where his mouth is and bring this little thing inside and care for them. the first moment the baby gives a little yawn and blinks sleepily at him before giving a tiny dimpled smile, he knows he's fucked.
“You’re in your head again.” He whispers low enough for only you to hear. “Remember what I said. We can stop whenever. You’re safe with me.”
And hearing him say that again hit home for you. You were safe. Everything was going to be fine.
“I know.” You whisper back “I…I feel safe.”
“Good.” He says, his brown eyes drinking you in “Fuck, sweetheart. Come over here.”
You don’t hesitate- stepping towards him as his large hands grab at your waist. He guides your body to his own, pulling you so close that your chest was pressed against his. He looks down on you, his eyes full of lust and need.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He says, taking in the way you look. Your hair and makeup accentuating natural beauty that he was so enamored with. You looked soft and touchable. Kissable. You looked so fucking good. Like a goddamn dream.
“Wanna kiss you.” He rasps “That okay?”
“Please…” You ask, your eyes flickering down to Eddie’s pink lips.
He wasted no time, immediately going in for the kill as he pressed his lips against yours. Even though you had kissed before, it felt like the first. It felt just as special and passionate and intense as it had the very first time.
His lips move against yours, kissing you greedily as his hands fist the silky pink fabric of your robe. He held you so close that it felt like he was afraid you would disappear.
Your lips slot against his as you tilt your head, deepening the kiss and allowing yourself more of him. You wanted so much more. You wanted all of him. One of his hands remained on your waist as the other snakes up to cup the back of your neck, bringing you closer as he nips at your bottom lip.
Every little noise that he made fueled you, causing you to want to kiss him harder, deeper, more passionately. It fueled a fire within you that wanted to coax more of those sweet sounds from his lips. To know that he wanted you just as badly as you wanted him.
“Christ..” Eddie groans, breaking the kiss as he tries to catch his breath.
Eddie’s forehead stays pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard under the bright lights. His hands haven’t left you- one still tangled in the back of your robe, the other warm at the nape of your neck. He doesn’t pull away.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth. “You’re killing me already.”
You feel how hard he is against your stomach and your face goes warm. You tip your chin up just a little, your voice soft.
“I… I really want to.”
He meets your gaze, his brown eyes washing over you. “Yeah? Want what, sweetheart? Tell me.”
Your fingers curl lightly against his chest. “I…I want your dick. In my mouth. I can’t stop thinking about it. I wanna make you feel good.”
Eddie’s eyes darken. His hips roll forward once, slow and deliberate, letting you feel every inch of him through the fabric.
“Christ, sweetheart. Look at you. All shy and sweet while you’re telling me you want to suck my cock.” His hand slides into your hair, testing the boundaries as he grips it just enough to tilt your head back. “Do you have any idea how fucking hot that is? How hard I’ve been while I’ve been thinking about shoving my dick between these soft lips and watching you take it?”
You swallow, cheeks burning. “I want to make you feel good.”
“Then get on your knees for me,” he murmurs, already guiding you down. His other hand works his pants open with practiced ease. “Open up that pretty mouth, sweetheart. I wanna feel you take it deep for me. Want to watch spit drip down your chin while you try to take every fucking inch. Gonna fuck your throat nice and slow until you’re drooling all over me. How does that sound, baby? Hm?”
He pulls himself free, heavy and flushed, and brushes the head lightly across your lips.
Summary: Eddie got too drunk after his gig at the Hideout, and reader has to come save the day.
Content Warnings: Eddie is DRUNK (embarrassingly so), the reader is AFAB with female body parts, Eddie is handsy when he's drunk (in a good way), Eddie and reader live together
This is super short and has been sitting in my drafts for months but yolo
divider by me
You hadn't even slipped your jacket off when you got home before the phone rang on the wall. You had been out with Robin and Nancy, having dinner and seeing a movie, while Eddie had his gig at The Hideout. Usually, you'd be with him, but this girl's night had been planned for weeks, and the opening at The Hideout was only given to Corroded Coffin a few days ago. Eddie had told you it was fine, that you could miss one show to hang out with your friends.
You move towards the ringing phone, leaning against the wall it's perched on as you hold it to your ear. "Hello? Munson Household."
You hear a relieved sigh over the phone, muffled by loud music and people chattering. It's Jeff, and he's immediately rambling into the phone.
"You need to get here. Eddie's gone off the rails and he drank way too much. He keeps talking about you in ways we never wanted to hear—just, please, come get him." Jeff is barely done rambling when you hear the phone being shuffled.
"Baby?" Despite it, you smile at the sound of Eddie's voice. "I's loves you—" He sighs into the dreamily, and you can't help but stifle a laugh.
"Eddie, I'm coming to get you, okay?" You hear him whine over the phone, saying something about 'having fun.' You smile anyway, before continuing. "I'll see you soon, okay? Give the phone back to Jeff." He grumbles, but you hear the phone being passed back.
"Thank you. You are a saint." Jeff speaks before the two of you end the call. You head back to the door, slipping the shoes you had just taken off back on.
When you park outside The Hideout, the place is buzzing. There are a few groups of people lingering outside, but you push past them to get inside. You are bombarded by whichever band is playing up there now, loud drums echoing and you can feel the rhythm in your chest.
Your eyes roam the dive bar, searching for a familiar pair of eyes or that curly mop on his head. You see Jeff first and he immediately waves you over. In front of him is Eddie, gesturing wildly, no doubt telling some ridiculous tale.
Eddie doesn’t hear or see you as you approach him. You wrap your arms around him, voice soft as you interrupt his story. “Guess who?”
He turns immediately at the feeling of your touch, no doubt that he hadn’t registered your words because he looked half tempted to curse you out. His expression softens exponentially, his grin widening.
“Baby!” He slurs slightly, his arms tightening around you as he stumbles closer. “Missed you. When dids yous get here?”
You try not to laugh, your smile widening as you steady your boyfriend. Pushing him slightly to get a good look at him. Eddie preens under your gaze, already trying to lean back in to your hold.
“I just got here. We’re going home, okay?” You tell him softly, watching as he begins to frown, shaking his head in a way that resembles a stubborn child.
“But the fun is just starting—“ Eddie tries to argue, turning to reach for his beer when Gareth swipes it out from his hand, giving him a stern look.
“Honey, you look like you’ve been having fun for the better part of the whole evening.” You say softly, hands sliding up his back in what is supposed to be a comforting move. Eddie turns back to you, brown eyes wide with affection.
“But now you’re here. It’ll be even more fun.” It’s obvious Eddie is doing his best to convince you, and an amused grin falls on your lips as you shake your head.
“We should go home, Eddie.” You say softly, tilting your head in a way you know he can’t resist. You feel his large hands slide down your back and squeeze your hips, a surprised laugh leaving your lips. But before you can say anything Eddie leans down to your ear, voice deep.
“Oh, it’s like that?” He drags his nose down the line of your neck, the whiskey on his breath infiltrating your senses. Despite his obvious suggestiveness, you use this as a tactic to get home, quickly nodding your head.
“You should say goodbye. I left the car running.”
Eddie turns at your words, barely giving the boys a passing glance, just nodding at them before turning on his heels to drag you out of the bar. You laugh under your breath, doing your best to keep up with him. However, his eagerness is only his downfall as he nearly falls off the curb, causing you to laugh louder.
When he turns to pout at you, you playfully roll your eyes, wrapping your arm around his back, his on your shoulder, to steady him.
“Let’s get you to the car, ‘kay?” He follows your lead, stumbling only slightly until you get him situated in the passenger seat of your beat up red truck. When you lean inside the car to buckle him, you aren’t even shocked to feel his hand cup your ass. Your eyes shoot up to him, smacking his hand away with a laugh. “No funny business—“
Eddie whines. Like a child. With a full pout on his face.
“I’m serious, Eddie.”
“Me too!”
You roll your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips before you shut his door, walking around to the driver’s side and getting in. “Are you ready to go home now?” You glance up as you speak, only to find Eddie somehow fast asleep. A fond look overtakes your features and you twist the key in the ignition, heading home.
Summary: Insecurities after Eddie casually mentions the perfection that Chrissy Cunningham is. What if the unspoken feelings are mutual between the two?
The furious scratching of your pen halted when Eddie's voice broke through the silence.
"Do you think I could ever do Mrs. Wheeler?" Your head snapped up, disbelief flashing across your face. Eddie leaned back, blunt dangling between his fingers, smoke curling lazily around his grin. That grin always managed to look both reckless and stupid while remaining devastatingly charming.
"What." The word came out flat, sharp, your chest tightening at the audacity of his question.
He exhaled slowly, eyes glinting with mischief. “You heard me. I mean, do you think I could realistically bag Mrs. Wheeler?”
You licked your lips as you stared at the man in front of you. The old wooden table creaked as he shifted to face you fully, curls falling into his eyes. You stared at him, trying to find the right words, trying not to betray the fact that you were hopelessly and irreparably in love with him. No matter how stupid his questions could be.
"No."' you shrugged your shoulders a bit and looked at the now deflated smile on your best friend's face. A triumphant smile creeping up on your own. All this before looking down at your sheet of paper, going back to writing the essay you had been putting off, one that you would surely have to convince Eddie to do.
“Why not? Think about it- me and Mrs. Wheeler would be the hottest couple in Hawkins.” His voice carried that theatrical cadence, the voice that painfully screamed Eddie. The same one he used when narrating Hellfire campaigns, except now it was about Nancy Wheeler's mother not to mentions mikes mother.
You sighed, lips twitching despite yourself. “Okay, number one: she’s Mike’s mom. Two: she’s married. And three: she’s waiting for me to turn a respectable age so she can leave her husband and marry me.”
Eddies mouth a gap. Eddie Munson's theatrics came in full kick.
Eddie’s jaw dropped, hands flying wildly in protest. “You’re insane. She’d pick me over you any day. I’m her dream man.”
“You don’t have boobs, Eddie. Everyone likes boobs. Doesn’t matter if you’re gay or straight- boobs are boobs.”
The argument spiraled, your essay forgotten, laughter and sharp words bouncing between you. Then, in a rare moment, Eddie passed you the joint.
A rare occurrence for Eddie Munson. When he first met you, he noticed you hated the smoking. He always noticed the way your nose scrunched when he smoked, the way your eyes lingered on the burning paper. He offered every time, and sometimes you accepted. Not because you liked it, but because it felt like sharing the blunt was sharing something deeper, something intimate. Like every inhale was a kiss you’d never get to have. You hated the idea and sight of him burning up his lungs and ruining them. You constantly joked about how he would die with his lung suddenly bursting and him blowing up.
It started when life got harder, and you needed comfort, that, and you just felt that it brought you closer to Eddie as if the high bonded your souls together.
Eddie rambled on, his theatrics pulling smiles from you despite the heaviness in your chest. But then his tone shifted.
“I’m gonna need you to write down Cunningham’s name in that list thing you keep.” His gaze landed on your face once again, scanning over you as he played with his rings, his untamable curls framing his face.
Your head snapped towards him. “Cunningham? As in Chrissy Cunningham?”
He nodded, lips curling into a small, almost shy smile. “Yep. That one.”
Your brows furrowed. “She’s buying?” You had never heard of or imagined perfect little Chrissy Cunningham near Eddie, much less buying from him.
“Yeah. Shocked me too.” His grin widened, rings glinting as he toyed with them.
“And you’re selling to her?” Your voice was sharper now, suspicion lacing every word. Your eyes squinting at Eddie to see if it was one of his thoroughly played out jokes
“Yeah. We talked earlier. I was debating it, though. I wouldn’t want to ruin her.”
The words hit like a punch to your gut.
Wouldn’t want to ruin her.
Your stomach dropped. The sudden spiral of thoughts going through your head overwhelming every sense of your being. Did Eddie think you were ruined? Damaged goods because you occasionally smoked with him, always laughed with him, and lived in his chaotic orbit? Was Chrissy untouchable, pure, while you were already a damaged good? Were you a lost cause for not being an untouchable being that Eddie couldn't obtain?
You swallowed hard, his voice fading into background noise as he rambled about Hellfire.
I wouldn't want to ruin her.
wouldn't.
want.
to.
ruin.
her.
Sure, the comment was made with no malice behind it, but you knew about Eddie's middle school crush on Chrissy Cunningham. You had met Eddie in 8th grade. Well, his 8th grade your sixth. You only realized your crush on Eddie in the 8th and his sophomore year.
But the words hung in the air. You swallowed.
Did Eddie think he ruined you? Were you damaged goods now that you indulged and hung around him? Was Chrissy this untouchable being pure of sin or whatever made you ruined? Did the smoking make you broken or ruined? Did he mean to say that Chrisy was worth more to a degree, or was she held to a higher pedestal than you because she was Chrisy?
"They have no idea what's coming, I mean, I have been working on this for weeks-" Eddie, being caught off guard by the look on your face.
"Ruin her?" the slight hurt and pit in your stomach fighting hard to be masked and hidden away, or at least attempted to be hidden from Eddie.
"You think you will ruin her with weed?"' confusion took over, rather than that overbearing feeling in your chest.
Eddie froze, wincing. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean… she’s Chrissy. She wouldn’t be caught dead doing this. Not that it’s bad. It’s just… she’s Chrissy.”
He gave a half smile, still wincing as he heard his own response leaving his mouth.
"Oh." you swallowed hard trying to shake the sinking feeling in your gut.
Shes Chrissy.
You felt yourself slipping into your head and rubbed your fingers against the table. Eddie opened his mouth, closed it and swallowed.
The name echoed in your head, heavy and cruel. You weren’t Chrissy.
You smiled up at him with a tight line.
"So, at what time is your next campaign I need to know what Henderson has to say about it."
Eddie hesitated, guilt flickering across his face, but then he launched back into his rant, words tumbling out with his usual flare. You nodded, pretending to listen, eyes drifting back to your paper.
But the essay blurred, meaningless. All you could hear was the echo.
A week had passed since you had become hyperaware of Chrissy Cunningham's existence, your eyes would linger as she passed by the halls. Chrissy Cunningham’s name had become a ghost that haunted every hallway, every classroom. Your eyes lingered on her without meaning to, tracing the way she laughed with her friends, the way she seemed untouchable. Even when Eddie’s arm draped casually around your shoulders, the warmth that used to feel protective now burned with doubt. It wasn’t the same flare of happiness it once sparked it felt hollow, like a reminder of what you weren’t. You told yourself Eddie didn’t think of you as ruined, that he loved you in his own way, maybe not the romantic kind you dreamed of, but something deeper, something platonic and safe. And wasn’t that better than nothing? Better to be loved in fragments than not at all. Still, the words hung in the air. I wouldn’t want to ruin her, echoing like a curse, twisting every smile into a question you couldn’t answer.
Movie nights with Eddie were your sanctuary, the one place where the world blurred into laughter and comfort. You couldn’t always afford the tapes, but somehow Eddie always managed to pull one out of thin air, grinning like he’d just robbed the universe.
“Alright, sweetheart, tonight’s feature presentation: low-budget horror with questionable acting and even worse wallpaper choices,” Eddie announced, throwing his arms wide as if he were on stage.
You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous. Who paints their kitchen lime green?”
“The true horror isn’t the killer, it’s the interior design, blind, I tell you. All of them blind,” Eddie quipped, leaning forward with mock seriousness.
The movie played, but Eddie was louder than the actors. He imitated the protagonist’s screams, clutching his chest dramatically. “Oh no! I’ve been stabbed! Tell my story, Y/N!”
You shoved him, laughing. “You’re such a dork, Munson.”
“Correction: I’m a loser and a dork. I'm a double threat, sweetheart. We have to get my title right.” He lunged at you, and suddenly, you were wrestling on the couch, laughter spilling out of both of you. His fingers dug into your sides, tickling mercilessly, and you squealed, begging him to stop.
"Eddie Munson i mean it, stop it right-" your breathless laughs and heavy breaths being pushed out of your chest without your permission.
You flipped him, breathless, hair falling into your face, and Eddie grinned up at you, curls wild, eyes shining. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re playing with fire.” His voice dipped, teasing, but there was something in his gaze that made your stomach twist with butterflies.
You tickled him back, Eddie yelled and screeched, telling you to cut it out.
Both of you breathlessly lay there, you on top of Eddie. The floor of his trailer digging into his back. Your hair falling into your face, tickling at eddies cheek from the proximity.
For a moment, the world stilled. His eyes flicked to your lips, and you leaned down, heart pounding, breaths mingling. His lips brushed yours, soft, hesitant, electric, and you felt yourself melt into the warmth of him. The kiss lingered, the feeling electric despite your lips not connecting yet, the feelings you bottled up for so long making their way up, ready to be released with a kiss.
Then the phone rang.
You both jolted apart, hearts racing. Eddie gave you an apologetic smile, exaggeratedly groaning as he dragged himself to the wall phone. Your chest still buzzed with childlike excitement, the thought screaming in your head: you almost kissed Eddie Munson. A breathless laugh leaving your chest.
Eddie picked up the phone, his smile and frizzy hair making him look all the more breathtaking, the moment still fresh and new to both of you. You watched him smile brightly on your face, still feeling the proximity both of you shared. But then his smile faltered, voice dropping. “Wait… Chrissy, slow down. What happened?”
And just like that, the butterflies died. The pit in your stomach returned, heavier than before. Chrissy’s name hung in the air, and the comfort of Eddie’s laughter dissolved into something sharp, something that reminded you....
She’s Chrissy. You’re not.
You sat on the couch, chest heavy, the movie flickering across the screen like it was mocking you. Every scream, every chase scene blurred into background noise against the sound of Eddie’s voice on the phone. You tried not to listen, tried to let the static drown it out, but Chrissy’s crying bled through, sharp and undeniable. Each word Eddie spoke carved deeper into you.
“It’s going to be okay, Chrissy, I promise I-”
“Wait, no. Don’t apologize. You needed someone to hear you. There’s no need to-”
“Chrissy, you aren’t a burden. I promise.”
Your stomach twisted, sinking into itself as you stared blankly at the screen. The protagonist was running toward safety, the last survivor, her blonde hair catching the light, her delicate smile untouched by the horrors she lived around her. She looked like Chrissy. She looked like everything you weren’t.
“No need to thank me. Bye, Chrissy. I’ll talk to you soon. Good night.”
Eddie sighed, a small smile tugging at his lips as he hung up. His mood was dampened by Chrissy's situation, but he couldn't help the giddy feeling in him. He turned, eyes finding you on the couch, hair tangled, face half-lit by the glow of the TV. For a moment, he just stared, like he was memorizing you, before he let out a dramatic groan and flopped across the couch, sprawling until his head landed in your lap.
“Jason’s a real prick, holy crap,” he muttered, looking up at you with a grin that carried a glint of something unspoken. His eyes lingered, analyzing you, searching for a reaction you refused to give. You kept your gaze locked on the TV, pretending the movie mattered more than the ache in your chest.
“Sooooo… about that thing earlier, I think it was-”
“It’s getting late, Eds. I should head home.” Your voice was steady, but the words cut through him. His smile faltered.
“What? Why?”
“It sounded like Chrissy needed you. And we finished our movie. Besides, I need to brush my hair.”
His brows furrowed, lips parting like he wanted to argue. “You can always spend the night. I mean-”
“No, it’s okay, Eds.” You stood, brushing off your shorts, forcing a smile. “Thank you for the movie night. See you tomorrow. I hope Chrissy’s okay.”
“Wait-” His voice cracked slightly, softer than usual, but you didn’t let yourself turn back.
You left, practically running from Eddie’s trailer, the night air biting at your skin. Only when you were far enough away did you let out a tired sigh, clutching at the stitch in your side. “Shit, I really have to work on my cardio.” The words came out bitter, half a laugh, half a sob.
And still, the thought gnawed at you: did Chrissy ever feel this way? Did she ever have to wonder if Eddie Munson would choose her over the rest of the world?
You hadn’t really heard from Eddie all weekend. The silence gnawed at you, every hour replaying that almost-kiss until it drove you insane. By Monday, when he waved at you in the hallway, his small smile felt like a knife twisting in your chest.
“I didn’t hear much from you this weekend, Eds.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. I was busy.” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking away. “Chrissy really needed to talk. We kinda smoked, I showed her around town. I was gonna call, but… I needed her advice. Then Jason didn’t drive her to practice, it was this whole thing.”
Your chest caved in. That moment between you and Eddie hadn’t stopped replaying in your brain, the proximity, the way your thoughts short-circuited. And now it was all overshadowed by Chrissy Cunningham. Again.
He kept talking, voice casual. “Then the cheerleaders are having these tryouts since one of them broke her leg. They’re looking for a replacement and…”
That was when the idea hit you. If Eddie liked Chrissy so much, if he cared about her practices, maybe he could care about yours. Maybe if you were more like her, he’d look at you differently.
“I’m actually trying out.”
His head snapped toward you. “What?”
“I’m trying out to be a cheerleader.” The words felt foreign, heavy, like they didn’t belong to you. Your stomach turned, but the thought of Eddie caring about your practices the way he cared about Chrissy’s made it worth saying.
“Since when do you like cheerleading?” His tone wasn’t cruel, nor was it meant to mock you, but it stung.
“What, you don’t think I can make it?” The defensiveness hit before you could stop it, insecurity clawing at your chest.
He shook his head. “No, it’s just… I didn’t think the whole prep thing, skirts, pompoms, makeup, was your thing.”
Maybe the issue was that you weren’t feminine enough. You liked who you were, you thought Eddie did too. But in that moment, you realized he liked those things in a friend, not in a partner.
So for the next two weeks, you worked. Stretching, practicing, forcing yourself into routines that didn’t feel like yours. Eddie asked if you were sure, more than once, his voice carrying doubt you couldn’t shake. The pit in your chest grew. The feeling in your stomach continuously sank as anxiety and insecurity crept up.
Tryouts came. Everything was going well, you felt your palms sweating, your heart beating ringing in your ears. Everything was fine everything was perfectly fine, the anxiety you felt was nothing, or so you told yourself.
That was until you slipped, crashing hard onto the gym floor. Eddie was in the bleachers, you hadn’t known he’d be there. He wasn't supposed to be there. Your heart dropped when you realized he was there for Chrissy. His eyes widened, panic flashing across his face as he almost jumped from the bleachers.
Chrissy ran forward, concern etched across her features. “Are you okay?” she asked, genuine kindness in her voice a panic rising behind her. genuine concern was all that her features showed. And you understood why Eddie liked her. She was light, effortless.
But Eddie’s voice cut through, frantic. “Oh my god, are you okay? Hey, look at me.” His eyes locked on yours, wide and terrified.
Your pride burned hotter than your knee. “Yeah, I’m fine."
They continued asking, especially about your knee, the pain throbbing from it almost distracting you from the humiliation that you were currently facing. Tears burned in your eyes, you refused to let them fall as you blinked them away, anxiety making its way back up.
"That was so embarrassing. I’m sorry.” Your voice shook your heart beat overwhelming you.
Chrissy shook her head. “Don’t apologise. Don’t stand on it, you’ll hurt yourself more.”
Eddie reached out to steady you, but you pulled back. “I promise I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” he insisted, voice breaking, eyes pleading.
Both Eddie and Chrissy crowded in too close, their voices overlapping, Chrissy’s soft, careful questions and Eddie’s frantic insistence that you weren’t fine. Their concern pressed down like a weight, suffocating, leaving no room to breathe. Every word felt like pity, every touch like proof of how small and fragile you must have looked sprawled on the gym floor. Your pride burned hotter than the pain in your knee, humiliation clawing at your chest until it spilled out sharp and raw.
“Eddie, stop it! Just stop already — I get it, okay? !” The words tore from you before you could stop them, tears blurring your vision as both of them froze, their kindness suddenly unbearable.
Tears spilled down your cheeks. Eddie froze, startled. “What do you mean? Hey, hey, look at me. You’re okay.”
“Just stop.”
You turned, limping out of the gym, leaving Eddie and Chrissy behind. The parking lot was empty except for his van and a few teachers’ cars. You sat on the sidewalk, knee throbbing, tears burning. You hated being seen like this. You hated that you’d snapped at Eddie when all he’d done was care. You hated that Chrissy was everything you weren’t.
The gym doors slammed behind you, and Eddie stood frozen, heart pounding in his chest. He hadn’t meant for it to spiral like that. He hadn’t meant for you to think Chrissy mattered more. Hell, he hadn’t even come for Chrissy, he came because he knew you’d be here, because he wanted to see you try, wanted to be the one cheering you on.
But then you fell. And the look on your face when you pulled away from him, that hurt worse than anything.
He grabbed the ice pack from the nurse’s office, snagged some painkillers, and pushed through the doors into the parking lot. The night air was heavy, and there you were, sitting on the curb, shoulders shaking. Eddie’s chest tightened.
He walked over, slow, uncertain, holding the ice pack out like it was some kind of peace offering. You didn’t look at him, but you didn’t push him away either. He sat down beside you, the silence stretching between you like a chasm.
You sighed, voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”
Eddie shook his head, eyes locked on you. “Don’t be. You think I came here for Chrissy?” His voice was quiet, raw, stripped of its usual theatrics. He winced slightly as he asked.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, curls falling into his face. “ I don’t care about cheerleading, or pompoms, or whatever. I care about you. I wanted to see you out there because it mattered to you. Because you matter to me. I wasn't there for Chrissy. I was there for you”
His words hung in the air, heavy and trembling. He wanted to reach out, to steady you, to make you believe him. But he stayed still, afraid you’d pull away again.
“I know you think Chrissy’s perfect. And yeah, she’s kind, she’s sweet. But she’s not you. She’s not the one I spend every night with, laughing at dumb horror movies, wrestling on the couch, and always wondering if it's the right time to kiss you or hold you close. I mean we almost-” He stopped himself, biting his lip, heart racing.
Eddie glanced at you, eyes soft, vulnerable in a way he rarely let anyone see. “I don’t want you to change. Not for me, not for anyone. You’re already… you’re already everything.”
The silence pressed down again, but this time it wasn’t empty. It was charged, aching, full of everything Eddie couldn’t quite say.
"I'm sorry", your voice small.
Eddie’s eyes softened, his voice quiet but steady. “Don’t be. I was there for you, not Chrissy. And I’ll always be there for you.”
He swallowed hard, curls falling into his face as he leaned closer. “And you aren’t ruined. That came out so wrong. You’re the most perfect person I know, and it scared me half to death. I love you. I’m so, so, so sorry.”
Your breath caught, eyes burning as the insecurities that had weighed you down seemed to lift, replaced by something warmer, lighter. Tears welled fresh, but this time they carried relief. You smiled through them, voice trembling. “I love you, you big loser.”
You leaned in, lips brushing his, and Eddie met you halfway. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like both of you were afraid it might shatter. But then it deepened, his hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, the taste of smoke and sweetness lingering as your lips moved together. It wasn’t rushed or desperate; it was slow, tender, the kind of kiss that felt like home. Every second carried unspoken promises, every breath shared like it was something sacred.
When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his, both of you smiling through the tears. “I think I fucked my knee up. We might have to go to the doctor. And I hate cardio.”
Eddie laughed, the sound warm and unrestrained, breaking the heaviness in the air. He pressed a kiss to your cheek, grinning. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you to a doctor before you start running laps out here.”
He helped you up carefully, his arm steady around your waist, and for once the pain in your knee didn’t matter. Because Eddie Munson was holding you, and he wasn’t letting go.
Summary: Y/N Mayfield likes her life, she has good friends, an amazing sister (a not so amazing step brother), and an intense love for music. The only thing missing in her life is a love life, but that could all change soon.
Author's Note: Social Media AU! Everybody lives no body dies, Hawkins is still weird, but what else is new. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged!
Static Automatic [ an Eddie Munson x Female Reader mini series ]
✨ Summary - Confronted feelings, work and makeout's, oh my! | WC-2.4k
✨ Warnings - alcohol use
🪄 Chapter 6 / Month 4
Head is throbbing. Body is aching. Why are the birds chirping? Why is the sun so fucking bright? And how are you…in your pajamas? You shoot up out of bed immediately regretting it, rubbing the back of your neck looking around the room.
Your outfit from the night before laid out nicely on your desk chair, some aspirin and water waiting on your nightstand. There’s only one person who would be this kind and caring towards you after a night out…Smith. You sigh, yawning and kicking the blankets off.
As you exit your bedroom and round the corner to the kitchen the smell of coffee fills the room, and it makes you want to throw up. Smith is sitting at the kitchen island reading his iPad, but once he notices your presence his smile shines just as bright. “Good morning sunshine-”
You cut him off with the raise of your hand “don’t-don’t sunshine me. I don’t want to hear it, or smell anything for that matter.”
“Well,” he hops down from the stool, “jokes on you because you need to eat. I’m going to cook you some eggs, I already have your favorite tea ready to go. So just sit and relax."
“What would I do without you?”
“Suffer. Have no where to live. Contemplate the meaning of life.” You nod, taking a seat at the island and putting your head in your arms. Trying to piece together what happened last night.
The last thing you remember was Robin and Vickie, then drinking, more drinking, and then Eddie carrying you bridal style…
You shoot up again “did I get married last night? Ow.”
“Um, no hun. But like I said, relax and we’ll talk in a few.” You place your head down again almost drifting off into another state of sleep until Smith pokes you in the arm. “Eggs, bacon, tea and water. Eat as much as you can please.” Another sigh, you poke the eggs and bring them up to your mouth. “That’s it, good girl. Now,” He sits down next to you, coffee in hand, “lets talk.”
“Smith there is nothing to talk about.”
“Oh yes there is.”
“Okay,” you face him, “then what?”
“Eat.” Now you’re getting hangover-frustrated. “How was the party?”
“It was fine.”
“Did Claire show up?”
“Yes, yes she did.”
“And what happened?”
“Eddie and I made out on the couch and then we had pretend sex in the guest bedroom.”
Smith stares at you blankly, “I’m sorry, how exactly did that happen?” You recall the whole night with him, leading up to the last faded memory.
“The last thing I remember is Eddie carrying me, but it’s all a blur.”
“He called me on your way home, do you remember?”
“What? No. I must have been in and out.”
“He carried you to me, do you remember that?”
“No Smith-”
“You asked him to stay, do you remember THAT?” The thing is…you faintly do. Smith was holding you, but you still wanted Eddie. You felt safe, protected and cared for. Not that Smith wouldn’t feel the same, he’s your best friend and rock in this world. But with Eddie it felt… “You do remember, don't you?” You take a long sip of your tea. “Oh sweets-”
“Smith, stop. Please.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren't you?”
“Your pestering? Absolutely not. And with this hangover-”
“No I mean this whole thing, with Eddie. You’re really enjoying it.”
“Smith, please. It’s just until Clarie finds a new lover.”
“Mhm. Sure.” He takes another sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving you. You take another bite of bacon. The thing about Smith, he can always get anything out of you.
“Okay…maybe…fake making out with him is fun.”
“Uh huh.”
“And maybe I like the way he holds me,”
“Keep talking.”
“And I mean…he is…handsome.”
“Clearly.”
“And the way he plays guitar up on stage with the lights hitting him in the right way…” Another heavy sigh escapes your lungs, this one with realization. “Shit.”
“Shit is right, you’re falling for him.”
“I’m not falling for him…it’s just…a mindless crush until this all blows over.”
“No, you’re falling for him. And he’s falling for you.”
“What-no. Come on-how?”
“I saw the way he spoke to you last night. Calm, softhearted, the look in his eyes. He wanted to stay, but didn’t want to push a boundary. The way you guys put on the act at work, it’s too good. And you’ve been spending more ‘alone time’ together at Starcourt, the diner, around town. It’s written in the stars. I don’t know if any of his friends see it, but I do. And for the record” he places a hand on your leg, “you have Will’s and I’s support through it all. Regardless of the outcome.”
You’re suddenly not hungry anymore, pushing the plate away from you. One last sip of tea and water. “I’m going to go shower now, thanks for breakfast.”
“Alexa, play I Won’t Say I’m In Love from Disney’s Hercules!"
You flip him off walking away, “I’m not falling in love with Eddie Munson!”
The lights above the stage illuminate his face, bringing out his best features. His fingers gliding across the neck of the guitar, the way he controls the room with his voice. His hair flowing with every headbang. The small wink he gives you during your favorite song sends butterflies up throughout your whole body. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion-
“BABES.” You snap out of your trance, breaking back into reality. “Are you alright? You’re just staring at the stage.” Smith looks annoyed, his voice traced with an attitude you only got when you forgot to do your part of the cleaning of the week. “I don’t mind you fixating on your boyfriend while working but please…keep working.”
“Yeah, yeah sorry.” You flip your towel back over your shoulder and set down the glass you were cleaning, as the crowd erupts into applause as Corroded Coffin continues their set. Shaking your head to get back into the swing of things you move to the far side of the bar to deflect from…staring again.
“Enjoy your drink Sam and remember, one more and you’re cut off.” Sam gives you the thumbs up and dances away to his wife on the dancefloor. “Glad they’re doing a lot better.”
Smith joins you, pouring his mix into a glass. “You’re telling me. Our gutter talk count was up to at least fifteen. Guess he finally got the memo.” You smirk, leaning down to stretch out your back. The night has died down a bit, your shift ending in less than an hour. You couldn’t wait to go home and lay down, you could hear your bed calling your name.
“Hey girlfriend.” You shoot back up to the sound of Eddie’s voice, finding he took a seat in front of you.
“Hey boyfriend.” You lean over the bar, giving him a quick kiss. “Great performance, per usual.” You reach underneath grabbing his favorite beer, tossing the cap off and sliding it to him. He catches it with ease, cheering to you and taking a sip.
“Thank you, we’ll be back next week.” You roll your eyes, taking notice of Clarie taking a seat a few spaces down. Eddie notices as well.
“I didn’t notice her during your set, did you?”
He takes another swig of his beer, “no, weird. That’s like…a first.”
“Maybe she had to work late.”
“Hm, maybe.” She looks over at you both, giving a small wave. You both wave back as Smith begins to take her drink order. “What should we do?”
“I mean….” You look over at the dancefloor, Sam and his wife dancing widely to the music. “We could dance.”
“No no, absolutely not.”
“What do you have against dancing?”
“You will never get me to dance,” he points his beer towards you, “ever.”
You snatch it from him, taking a sip and handing it back. “Sounds like a challenge to me.”
“Like I said, never. Not even for a million bucks.”
“What about a lifetime supply of Metallica tickets?”
“You can’t use my favorite band against me!”
“Why not?!” You both laugh so hard you realize the music is fading and changing, Eddie sneaks a quick glance and sees Claire talking to Smith.
“Come and sit with me. It’s slowing down, no?” You nod, walking around and taking a seat next to him. “She still watching?” You avert your eyes while pretending to reach for a napkin, catching her look once she notices you moving.
“Yup.” Eddie places his hand onto your bare leg, you jump a bit shivers running over you once his hands touches your skin.
“Sorry if my hands are cold.”
“It’s okay. Like my grandmother used to say ; cold hands, warm heart.” He chuckles as he feels his cheeks turn pink, thank god it’s dark in this bar.
“So let me get this straight. You’re not willing to dance on a dancefloor but you’re willing to jump in a huge ass mosh pit?” Your conversation continued outside when Eddie wanted to get some fresh air so you followed, with Smith assuring you he’s ‘fine on his own for now’.
“Moshing is different. You’re just swinging your arms and legs around in a huge ass circle.”
“How is that any different?!"
“Oh shut up!” He playfully pushes you against the bricks behind you, both your laughters filling the open air. You gaze into his eyes, a moment in time you wish you could freeze with the way the moon is hitting tonight-
“Hey yall!” Claire rounds the corner, meeting you both.
“Hey Claire.” You greet nicely (as you can), sliding your arms out of Eddie’s hands.
“Sorry if I was uh, interrupting you. I was taking a phone call and heard you laughing so figured I would come say hi since I saw you both exit a few minutes ago.”
“Always welcome to join Claire.” You nudge his side, giving him a look. “Well, sometimes….you get what I mean.”
“Message received trust me.” The sounds of crickets fill the air breaking the awkward silence-
Eddie breaks it, slipping his hand around your waist, “So…who were you talking to?”
“Oh it’s funny you should ask it’s was-”
“I think I left something in the greenroom. Can you come with me?” You call on Eddie suddenly, grabbing his hand, giving a squeeze.
“Sure. We’ll be right back.” Claire follows your shadows as you head back in. “What did you forget?”
“Oh, nothing. It was just an excuse." You guide him to the couch in the hallway plopping down facing the door.
Eddie smirks, realizing your plan and taking a seat next to you. “Good one, but she is going to come find us eventually.” He grabs your legs dragging you over to his lap, spinning a piece of string hanging from your shorts. “Maybe we should give her a sudden rush of deja vu?” His hand drifts up and down your leg, soon caressing your cheek.
You look into his eyes, searching for any signs of not wanting to do this again…but finding no warnings ; The glimmer of the moon still hangs within his eyes. “Hm, I like the way you think.” He smirks, slowly bringing you to his lips. You sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck, finding comfort in his touch as his hand slips to the back of your neck. The door opens and closes a few times, customers passing by not paying any mind ; this isn't the first time they’ve seen someone make-out on one of the various couches throughout the bar. You eventually part, glancing over Eddie’s shoulder but see no signs of Claire.
“Is she there? Can you see her?”
“Um…” There’s no presence, she’s definitely not there…but- “Yeah, she is. Kinda just staring awkwardly-” Eddie doesn't even let you finish, dragging you back into the heat. Another set of footsteps walk past, the clock is ticking on the wall above you, the bathroom door opens and shuts. ; you bury your face in his neck, leaving small kisses as you murmur “you look, she there?”
Eddie picks up his head to expose more of his neck as you take notice and begin to kiss him more. God this feels so good, he barely opens his eyes and pans the hallway with no sight of her. His breath hitches as he feels you kiss his spot-
“Fuck yeah keep going.” Without even thinking you sit up and straddle his lap again, forcing a rough pull of his hair as his head falls back against the wall. Your tongues find each other with better ease, tasting the beer from earlier. His hands find your waist as your teeth find his bottom lip-
“GUYS!” You’ve never jumped higher in your life, lifting yourself off Eddie and crashing against the opposite wall. You both look over at Smith as the sound of heavy breathing fills the hallway, now completely abandoned. “I don’t mind you doing your thing as long as she’s around, which she’s not by the way. Now,” he turns his head over at you, “please help me clean up so we can get out of here. And you,” he turns back to Eddie, “your friends are looking for you. Please go entertain them.”
“Right right, yeah.” He quickly gets up off the couch and straightens himself up. He nods to you, Smith and then walks away back towards the door to meet the guys by the van. You catch your breath, leaning your head against the wall panning over to Smith. He points towards the bar, to which you begin to make your way back.
“You know she left early, right?” Smith asks as you walk through your front door.
You yawn, placing your bag on the table. “Huh?”
“Claire, she left early. I saw her follow you outside, then she came back in and just…left.” He locks the door and turns to you. “Maybe she’s finally letting up.”
“But, that doesn’t-” You stop yourself before saying anything further.
“What?”
“Nothing, just…nothing. Thinking out loud. I’m…I’m going to go shower. I feel icky.”
“Okay, I’ll go in after you. Will might still be awake so I’m going to FaceTime him.”
“Tell him I said hey.”
“Will do.”
As the warm water pulses down on your body your brain begins to rattle. The night replaying in your head. This makeout was the most intense it’s ever been, and you were almost pissed at Smith for even interrupting. You blatantly lied to keep going but…
If Smith is right and Claire did leave early, there was no reason to continue.
steve harrington x f!reader
word count: 1.2k
warnings: smut, literally porn with no plot, i just wanna fuck steve right now lol, fingering, squirting
synopsis: when the wsqk van breaks down on the side of the road, there’s nothing else to do except kill some time…
A whine tears from her throat and she tosses her head back onto Steve’s shoulder, nails biting into his thigh. He removes his hand from the apex of her thighs for a moment to grab one of her wrists to slap her own palm against her mouth before his fingers continue their assault on her clit, bringing the radio receiver back to his mouth.
“Uh negative! Negative… the uh… the eagle is not flying, over.”
His middle and forefinger finds her entrance again and bully their way through, the pad of his thumb replacing them on her clit. Tears well in her eyes and pool onto her cheeks, teeth sinking into the flesh of her palm to stifle her cry.
“W-what.. eagle.. flying.. Jesus Christ, dingus, will you speak English please, over?” Robin’s voice crackles through the receiver.
“Shit,” Steve mutters beneath his breath, a vexed but determined crease in his brow.
His fingers continue their brutal assault on her cunt— a hard and swift in and out and in and out that keeps her head reeling, spinning with words manifested by mind-numbing bliss. Her body is burning, buzzing with the ceaseless pumping of Steve’s fingers, her stifled moans a low drone in her throat. Desperate for an anchor, she reaches forward with her free hand and her palm finds the center of the steering wheel, the horn honking loud and incessantly.
“Steve? What the hell is that? Are you guys good? Do we need to—“
“We’re fine, we’re fine. Just the van is not moving so we’re toast, out of operation, no-go, stuck, over!” Steve shouts into the radio, a highly-annoyed edge to his tone. His fingers slam harder inside of her and curl, as if he’s literally digging her cum out of her.
“Mmmmmfuck, Steve!” She wails, voice still muffled by her palm.
Using the hand holding the receiver, Steve knocks her hand away from the wheel and shushes her as Robin’s staticky voice sounds from the radio once again.
“Can’t you, I dunno, like, flag someone down and charge up the engine or some—“
“Yeah, yeah, we’re on it!” Steve yells into the receiver again before tossing it aside entirely, moving her hand away from her mouth just to replace it with his lips.
He curses as his tongue swirls over hers, one hand massaging her breast, the other unceasing where his middle and forefinger thrust in and out of her cunt, his thumb rubbing sloppily over her clit. Her eyelids screw shut and all she can do is cant her hips against the heel of his palm and move her tongue along his. She moans and he moans back and it buzzes across her tongue and in her chest.
“Steve, Steve,” she mewls and their mouths inch away, just enough for him to roll his forehead onto hers. He nudges his nose against hers and her eyelids flutter open, meeting his dark, bewitching gaze. “I’m so close.”
He hums again, nodding. “Good,” he replies, pressing a kiss to her cheek, just on the side of her nose. “We’re a little crunched for time.”
Steve brings her free hand to her mouth and she parts her lips, enough for him to get his middle and forefinger through. She hums around them and swirls her tongue, panting as he works a third finger into her pussy, applying just a little more pressure to her clit.
Bucking her hips into his palm, she cries and tosses her head back onto his shoulder again, screwing her eyelids closed. Her tongue rolls mindlessly over Steve’s fingers and his mouth sucks bruises into the crook of her neck. His fingers curl and pump harder, quicker inside of her and his thumb rubs furiously at her aching clit and god, it’s just so much. She feels like a shattered mirror and all of her pieces are being plucked from the frame one by one until she’s completely and utterly broken.
Her legs feel numb and unlike her own, moving of their own accord. She’s a twitching, flailing mess in Steve’s lap and his fingers are her destruction, unraveling her until she’s completely undone.
“Come on, pretty girl,” he growls beside her ear, voice dripping with honey-like seduction. “Come on, pretty girl. About to come?”
She nods vigorously, new tears tracing back over the trails old streams left. She feels it, that tight knot at the pit of her belly trembling, unwinding at a rapid pace.
“Steve!” She moans around his fingers before he slips them out so she can turn her face into his, drawing his lips in for a kiss.
His mouth is a crescent against hers and her eyes open as much as her heavy lids will allow her. She finds he’s already staring, his eyes so dark, she can’t even tell where his irises end and pupils begin. His gaze draws her in, calling her like a siren and she a sailor.
“Coming?” Steve asks, dipping his chin to nudge her nose with his again.
The knot at the pit of her stomach is on the cusp of bursting and she nods, leaning back in for another kiss.
“Come on, baby,” he encourages against her mouth, kissing her again and again and again. “Want it all down my arm.”
She feels her orgasm all the way down in her toes, rolling like a wave all the way up her legs, washing over her hips, belly, cunt. Her chest burns and throat feels raw from screaming as she unravels, her vision white, same as the hot bliss spurting out of her, all along Steve’s forearm.
“Fuuuuck,” Steve drawls with a sound of disbelief. “You’re squirting, babe.”
She can’t even find it within herself in her current state to feel shame. All she can focus on is Steve and his fingers and his mouth and his voice and how good he’s made her feel. Her orgasm feels like it’s lasted forever, as if hours have passed before she finally comes to enough to open her eyes.
Her vision is watercolor and she blinks the blurriness away. The setting sun shines down in orange rays over them and the steering wheel in front of her glistens with liquid, and then and only then does mortification seep into her cheeks, warming her face.
“Jesus,” she murmurs, covering her face with either of her hands.
Steve laughs beside her and it only further warms her cheeks, heart thrumming with humiliation.
“Steve,” she whines and he laughs again, locking his fingers around her wrists to pry her hands away from her face. With some struggle, he finally manages to and she feels his nose against her jaw, his lips pressing warm, reassuring kisses there.
“You’re cute when you’re shy,” he says with a chuckle. “But I don’t think you understand how fuckin’ beautiful that was.”
She laughs, more at herself than at his remark. “It’s weird.”
He rolls his eyes, his kisses trailing back up her jaw to her cheek. “It’s not—“
“Helllooooo, Earth to Planet Steven, over!”
The radio receiver in the passenger’s seat crackles with life and Steve sighs, dropping his mouth back to her shoulder, pressing a kiss there.
“Duty calls,” she says and Steve laughs drily into her skin.
“Later..,” he murmurs before lifting his face, carding his fingers through her hair as their gazes lock again. “…I’ll show you how beautiful you look when you come all over me like that.”
a/n: i have no idea how i’ve gone so long without writing for steve 😭 i’ve been in such a slump lately because of college BUT thankfully after watching season 5 part one, i got a little inspo so i hope you all enjoy (even though it’s far my best work 🥲)
💫 if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or even leaving a reply! it means the world! 🫶
Chapter Warnings: (18+ minors dni) a lot of angst, mentions of drug use, alcohol use, smoking, descriptions of injury and pain, child abuse/neglect mention, vomit mentions, swearing, some negative talk about drug addiction (not a reflection of my views on addiction just so we’re clear), reader wears Eddie’s clothes but there are no descriptions of readers body or the clothes fit. 13.3k
A/N: hello (and thank u!) to anyone who has stuck around long enough to want this next chapter! Further updates will come (I promise!) I just can’t give you a realistic timeline of when, sorry! Hope you enjoy this anyway 🖤 also I will have some new fics ready to share with you very soon…
Series masterlist
————————————💌———————————
In the following seconds a montage of possibilities flash through Eddie’s mind.
All played in rapid succession, he sees himself with a handful of ways to deal with Wayne’s discovery.
He could run. Turn heel and flee. Get back in the Viper and disappear.
Eddie doubts neither Wayne or Hopper could run after him, given their respective ages and the way that his Uncle’s joints creak every time he gets out of his chair.
But Hopper’s car is outside, so there’s every possibility that he’d follow in that. Eddie would like to think that there’s enough of a friendship between his Uncle and the Chief that Hop wouldn’t throw Eddie’s ass in jail, but it’s still a possibility. Even if he doesn’t, where is Eddie going to go? Sure he could jump on a plane and hide out back home in LA, but it seems cruel. Wayne is his only family. He can’t leave things like that.
He could lie. Tell Wayne that it’s all a misunderstanding. The coke and the weed he can’t really explain away, but maybe his uncle hasn’t found those yet. If it’s just the pills he’s concerned about Eddie could say they’re prescribed, from a real doctor and not some stoner out by the lake.
The look on Wayne’s face tells Eddie that it’s a stupid idea. He won’t believe him, not without some kind of proof, and Eddie has none.
He could come clean.
He could admit it all, although he’s hesitant to even admit it to himself.
That he’s been using for years, unable to function without something to bring him up and then something else later to bring him back down. Where would that leave him? He’d face the same pressure here as he does from his bandmates back home. Wayne would want him to quit. To talk to a shrink, or worse, join some sad group of junkies where they all sit around and talk about their addictions, while a pious douchebag tells them that God forgives them, and they should let his love into their hearts.
Eddie’s never believed in God. He doesn’t need some made up man with a cloak and a beard to save him.
“Sit down Eddie.” Wayne says, breaking him from his thoughts.
With no decision made on what to do or what to say, Eddie moves on autopilot.
He nudges Ludo gently aside on the couch, taking a seat and letting the pup rest its head on his lap. At least the dog doesn’t judge him. Just licks at his hands until Eddie’s trembling fingers begin to scratch between his ears.
“You’ve got some explainin’ to do boy, so you’d best start talkin’.”
Eddie swallows the lump in his throat. Sweat beads along his forehead, his stomach cramping painfully. His knees bounce, poor Ludo’s head jiggled in time with Eddie’s anxious tremors.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” He admits quietly.
Wayne sighs. His fists are clenched in his lap, and Eddie knows that it’s taking all of his Uncle’s willpower not to lose it. He’s never been an angry man, not one for shouting and screaming, or hurling things across the room in a temper. That had been Eddie’s dad’s style.
“How long?” Wayne says bluntly.
Eddie shrugs his shoulders.
“A few years.”
“Anyone else know?”
“Gareth, Jeff, all the guys. Our management team.”
“And they never tried to stop you?”
“Th-they did. They wanted me to check into some rehab facility, but I wouldn’t.”
“Is that why you came home?” Wayne asks, his voice thick with emotion.
“So you could keep usin’ without them knowing?”
“It wasn’t just that.” Eddie insists.
“I really did just wanna spend time with you.”
“Bullshit.” Wayne snaps. Eddie flinches.
“You used me Ed. Doin’ all this shit under my roof, right under my goddamn nose.”
“M’sorry.” Eddie whispers.
“Sorry ain’t good enough. Not this time.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Nothin’. I don’t want you to say a word. You’re gonna listen.” Wayne says. He grabs the empty pill bottle and tosses it into Eddie’s lap.
“It’s gone. All of it.”
“W-what do you mean?” Eddie says, his panic spiking.
“I found it all and I flushed the lot.”
“Why were you going through my stuff?”
“You don’t get to take the moral high ground here!” Wayne barks, pointing a finger at Eddie’s face.
“I went into your room to grab your laundry, and like a goddamn idiot you left your bedside drawer wide open. It was all right there. I didn’t believe it at first, I didn’t think you could be so stupid.”
Wayne pauses, massaging the deep frown lines on his forehead.
“Then it all started to make sense. You suddenly comin’ home after all this time. The way you’ve been - drinking whisky like it’s water, all the naps in the middle of the day, the constant headaches. You lied to me Eddie. You lied to my face.”
Eddie can’t meet his uncle’s face now. He stares down at the floor, the floral pattern of the carpet seeming to dance before his eyes. Guilt threatens to consume him. He’s never seen Wayne so angry, so bitterly disappointed. All he’s ever wanted to do is make Wayne proud, repay him for all the years he sacrificed to give Eddie a better life.
Instead he’s a failure.
Eddie hates himself for it, but as much as he feels awful about lying to Wayne, he’s also worrying about what the hell he’s supposed to do now that his entire stash is making its way through the sewer pipes of Hawkins.
Half a bottle of Adderall remains in his pocket. It won’t help him sleep tonight, and at most he’s got enough for the next couple of days. But without anything to balance it he’ll be a jittery mess.
Eddie needn’t have worried about taking them. Wayne’s next words make it clear he won’t get the chance.
“You got anymore I should know about?” His uncle questions.
Eddie could lie, but what’s the point? He’s sure Wayne isn’t above making him turn out his pockets. He’s has already proven himself untrustworthy.
Reluctantly he hands over the bottle. His uncle takes it between two fingers, holding it out as though it were filthy, disgust written all over his face. Without saying a word he leaves the room, and a moment later Eddie hears the sound of the downstairs toilet flushing.
He shrinks back into the couch when his uncle returns. Ludo whines, upset by the obvious tension. At the other end of the couch Hopper shifts. He’s been quiet up to now, a silent observer of Wayne’s fury and Eddie’s cowardice.
“You uhh.. you happy for me to chime in now?” The cop asks.
“Please.” Wayne says with an exasperated sigh, lumping back down in his chair.
Hopper clears his throat, turning on his seat to face Eddie.
“Listen kid, I know you’re probably pretty pissed with us right now.” He says.
Eddie says nothing. He doesn’t have the energy to be pissed. He’s tired, he feels sick, he’s scared.
“We just want what’s best for you, hard as that might be to believe. So we’ve gotta talk about what happens next.”
“You gonna take me in?” Eddie asks.
“What?” Hopper asks in surprise. He shakes his head.
“No. I don’t see how that’ll help anyone. M’not here as the chief, I’m here as a friend. I know what you’re going through and I wanna help you.”
Eddie scoffs.
“How would you know what I’m going through?” He sneers before he can stop himself.
“Watch your mouth boy.” Wayne growls.
Hop waives his hand dismissively, as if Eddie’s disrespect doesn’t bother him at all.
“C’mon now kid. You and I both know it’s no secret I’ve had my issues in the past. The whole town knows about it, though most of them are too chicken shit to ever bring it up.”
There’s an element of truth to his words. Eddie’s heard all the rumours, about how the Hawkins Chief would show up for work hungover or half-cut most days, no one daring to question him because of his volatile temper.
“I couldn’t function without something to get me through the day. I was drinking until I blacked out every night. Snorting lines in the fucking cruiser on my way to work just to wake myself up enough to drive straight. Christ I can’t tell you how many times I emptied some low rank dealer’s pockets and the shit never made it into evidence.”
“I thought it was fine. I convinced myself I had it all under control. I wasn’t an addict, I wasn’t a junkie. That’s the lie we tell ourselves, right? That we’re different. That we could stop at any time but we just don’t wanna. It’s all bullshit. Thinking that way almost cost me everything.”
“You probably don’t remember, it was way back when you were still in school. I wrecked my cruiser.”
“I remember.” Eddie says quietly.
“You hit a tree out near Lover’s Lake.”
Hop nods.
“Right. Official report was that a stag ran out in front of me and I crashed swerving to avoid it. How anyone fell for that crap I don’t know. There was no deer. The road was clear, conditions were perfect, and I was out of my damn mind. It’s a blessing and a curse, the way people on the force used to cover for me. But I knew after that it couldn’t carry on. I radio’d Powell and he came to pick me up. Wrote out that bullshit about a deer on the crash report and had to hold my hand just to get me to sign it, I was shaking so bad. When he drove me home he told me it was the last time he’d ever lie for me. He told me to sort my shit out, or do everyone a favour and find a way to kill myself that didn’t mean I might also kill someone else in the process.”
Eddie winces. Hopper just shrugs.
“Sounds harsh, but it was what I needed to hear. I’d been a selfish asshole for too long. Everyone covering for me did me no favours. Real friends don’t lie to you like that Ed. You’re probably mad at your friends back home for pushing you to go to rehab, but let me tell you they’re the best damn friends you’ll ever have. Because they care about you enough to not stand by and let you wreck your life.”
“Do your other friends know?” Wayne interjects.
“The ones here?”
“No.” Eddie whispers.
“I… I’ve been lying to them too.”
“First step’s admitting it kid.” Hopper says, patting Eddie firmly on the shoulder.
“You gotta long way to go, but even this is progress.”
“What am I supposed to do now?” Eddie says. He looks up at Wayne, the old man’s face blurring behind the tears that pool on his lash line.
“You gonna make me go to rehab?”
Wayne scoffs.
“No.” He says, shaking his head.
“I ain’t sending you off to some place with a bunch of strangers, where you could talk your way out of it and then just go back to doing the same stuff as before. I’m gonna keep you here where I can keep a close eye on you. There’s gonna be a lot of rules Eddie, and you’re gonna stick to em.”
“Like what?” Eddie asks hesitantly.
“You will not leave this house.” Wayne says solemnly.
“If me or Jim aren’t with you then you will not set foot outside the front door. I’ve cancelled my shifts at the plant for the next few weeks so I’ll be here all the time. And Jim’s takin’ your car keys.”
Eddie doesn’t bother arguing. He knows this is a battle that he won’t win.
“You’re in for a rough few weeks.” Hop says with a grimace.
“Going cold turkey is hell on Earth kid. You’re gonna feel like you’re dying, and you’re gonna hate us for it. But once we get you out the other side of it we can begin the real work.”
“Which is what?”
“There’s a group. It’s a little ways outta Hawkins, just a few towns over. S’where I went when I got serious about staying clean. I still go now once a week. Once you’re ready I’ll be taking you with me.”
Eddie wrinkles his nose in disgust.
“Can’t I just get clean here and then leave it at that?”
“No way. You need a support system, one that’s better equipped than just me and your old man. It ain’t as bad as you’re picturing, trust me.”
Eddie’s not sure that he does trust Hop. But he’s been left with little other choice.
His stomach twists, another wave of nausea washing over him. Eddie’s eyes widen in a panic, a ringed palm clamping over his mouth. He half runs half stumbles to the bathroom. His knees crash painfully against the floor, and he lifts the lid of the toilet just in time to empty the contents of his stomach into the same bowl that Wayne had just flushed his lifeline down. Eddie wretches and gags, his shoulders heaving and tears streaming down his face.
A hand comes to rest on his back.
“S’alright son. You’re gonna be alright.” Wayne says, his voice softer than it’s been all evening. He rubs soothing circles between Eddie’s shoulder blades.
“You’d better get used to your head being in a toilet kid.” Hopper says from the doorway.
Eddie opens his mouth to tell him to piss off. He doesn’t get the chance when his stomach turns over again.
————————————💌———————————
Hell is real.
It’s real and Eddie’s in it.
Hell is this bed that he hasn’t left for days, with the exception of a handful of bathroom visits where he’s needed his Uncle’s arm around his waist just to keep him upright.
Hell is the sweat soaked sheets sticking to his skin, his body burning up despite the shivers that jolt through him violently, his limbs convulsing in seizure like movements.
Hell is the bucket on the bedroom floor that Wayne is forced to empty frequently. The last time Eddie managed to eat and keep it down was when you made him blueberry pancakes. His favourite.
Now even water has his stomach feeling like it’s turning inside out. Eddie’s weakened by dehydration and hunger, his throat burning and mouth constantly sour. He sleeps in small bursts, drifting off for what feels like only minutes before the pain has him waking.
Everything hurts. His bones ache. His head throbs. His eyelids are like sandpaper scraping with every blink.
For the first few days Eddie had the strength to put up a fight.
Hopper had been forced to stay, it took both him and Wayne to keep Eddie in his bed, to keep him from breaking out of his room. He made it out only once, pushing past them both and sprinting to the stairs, practically throwing himself down them. He scrambled to the front door, yanking with all his strength at the handle but it refused to budge. It was locked. Eddie was in the process of rummaging through the pockets of Wayne’s coat that hung nearby in search of keys when footsteps thundered down the stairs. Hopper slammed into him, sending him crashing sideways to the floor. All the air was punched from his chest, sharp pain shooting through his shoulder. The chief took his arms and dragged him up back up the stairs, Wayne doing his best to hold onto Eddie’s ankles and dodge the kicks that were aimed his way. It was a miracle they managed to get him back to his room at all, let alone with no one sustaining any serious injuries.
Eddie screamed until his throat was raw, hurling abuse at the two men with no real idea of what he was saying. He cursed them out, called them every vile name he could think of, blamed them for his pain, for the fire that burned in his veins. They never said an unkind word back. Took all the vitriol and hatred without complaint.
Then came the bargaining.
Eddie begged. Threw himself at Wayne’s feet and wept. He was going to die, he was sure of it. He couldn’t do this. He needed something, anything, just enough to dull the ache. He swore he’d quit, but he needed to taper off. If Wayne would just call Rick, let him have a handful of pills, a joint, Christ even just a shot at this point would do.
He never gave in.
Wayne sat at Eddie’s bedside while he sobbed and pleaded, shedding a few tears of his own. He wiped at the crepey skin beneath his eyes quickly, not wanting Eddie to see.
It was like Eddie was a child again. Home sick from school with some fever or bug. Wayne wiped at his clammy forehead with a damp cloth, held a glass of water to his lips when the violent shaking of Eddie’s hands meant he couldn’t do it himself. He murmured quiet soothing words in that raspy drawl of his, wrinkled hands clasping tight to Eddie’s when the boy cried out in pain. He must have hardly eaten or slept himself in those days.
Liz came by to drop off meals. She never came into Eddie’s room, a fact he’d later be grateful for. It was hardly an appropriate first meeting. But sometimes Eddie heard her voice from the hallway, Wayne slipping out for just a moment to talk to her.
Eddie was ruining his uncle’s life, he was sure of it. In the brief moments where the pain subsided enough for Eddie to have a semblance of clear thought he felt disgusted and ashamed. All these years he’d been masquerading at having his shit together. Playing some fantasy game, convincing himself that he was capable of being independent, of making good decisions. He was a rockstar, a hero and role model to thousands. He was a good man.
No.
He was just a fraud.
When the worst days finally pass Eddie sleeps. He has no idea how long he’s out for. Wayne periodically wakes him, having to shake his shoulders roughly to rouse him from unconsciousness. He pours water down his throat, tries his best to spoon a few scoops of mushy cereal into Eddie’s mouth. Then he lets him sleep again.
————————————💌———————————
On a random Wednesday morning Eddie finally makes it out of bed. Tired and aching, but no longer in constant pain, he shuffles along the hallway to the top of the stairs. Worried that his wobbling legs might give out and send him tumbling down, he chooses to sit on his butt and slide down the steps one at a time. The last thing he needs is a broken neck.
It takes most of Eddie’s strength to pull himself up when he reaches the bottom, both hands gripping the bannister tight for support as he hauls himself to his feet.
Ludo, having heard his grunts of exertion, comes scampering down the hall, circling Eddie’s legs excitedly. Eddie bites his tongue, not wanting to snap at the poor pup for almost tripping him up.
He begins to make his way to the kitchen taking baby steps, the linoleum floor cold beneath his bare feet. He pokes his head around the doorway, finding Wayne sat at the kitchen table. A steaming mug of coffee held between his hands, the older man stares out of the window at the dull grey sky and empty branches, all the trees having long shed their leaves.
“Looks like it might snow.” Eddie croaks.
Wayne flinches. Coffee sloshes over the side of his mug and puddles on the table top.
“Jesus Christ Eddie. I didn’t hear you comin’”.
“Sorry.” Eddie mutters. He approaches the table and pulls back a chair, lumping down into it and sighing in relief.
“S’a good sign you’re up and about.” Wayne comments.
“How’re you feeling?”
Eddie pauses. He stares out of the window himself for a moment. A few lonely flakes begin to drift down.
“M’alright.” He says finally.
“My head hurts. But not as bad as before.”
“That’s good. You hungry?”
Eddie nods.
“Starving.”
“Thought you might be. Let me fix you somethin’.”
Eddie wishes he had the strength to do it himself. But in the past couple of weeks he’s got used to having to accept help. He watches in silence as Wayne moves around the kitchen, putting two slices of bread in the toaster and pouring another mug of coffee. He chucks four teaspoons of sugar in it, then slides it over to Eddie with a small smile.
“Figured you needed a little boost.”
“Thanks.” Eddie mutters. The warmth of the cup is pleasant in his hands, and his mouth begins to salivate when the familiar comforting scent reaches his nose. He takes small sips, his eyes rolling back when the first drops hit his tongue. Maybe that’s why recovering addicts drink so much coffee, he thinks to himself. After so long without anything rushing in his bloodstream the sudden hit of caffeine makes his heart beat faster. It’s the closest he’ll get to a mind altering substance again.
Eddie eats the two slices of toast that Wayne passes him. They’re gone in seconds. Wayne hands him two more slices, and Eddie soon polishes those off too.
“Can I have more?” Eddie asks, crumbs falling from his full mouth.
“I think you’d best take it easy son. You ain’t eaten much for a while, don’t want to overdo it.” Wayne says.
“Give it an hour or so. You keep that down and I’ll make you more.”
Eddie wrinkles his nose. He doesn’t want to be reminded about all the time he’s spent recently with his head in the toilet bowl or a bucket. Hopper had been right about that.
Eddie leans back in his chair, the last of his coffee gone. He feels a little better now, a full stomach lifting his spirits. The room has stopped spinning, and his limbs no longer feel like deadweights he has to drag around.
Eddie breathes in deeply. Something sour hits his nose, a gross musty scent that has him shuddering. With a considerable amount of horror he realises it’s himself that he can smell.
“Oh god.” He groans.
“I stink.”
Wayne chuckles.
“I didn’t like to mention it, but yeah you do.”
“Do I look bad?” Eddie asks.
“Awful.” Wayne says. He pats Eddie on the shoulder.
“Nothin’ a shower and a comb through that mop of yours can’t fix.”
“Okay.” Eddie says, preparing himself mentally for the task ahead.
“I’m gonna jump in the shower now. Sort myself out a bit.”
Wayne nods.
“Just shout if you need help. Don’t go hurtin’ yourself.”
“I’ll be careful.” Eddie says, his chair legs scraping across the floor. He’s needed help with almost everything lately. He draws the line at showering with assistance.
Eddie could have maybe done with asking for help to get back upstairs. Climbing them feels like scaling some great mountain peak. Eddie’s sweating by the time he reaches the top, his steps heavy as he drags himself to the bathroom.
He keeps the water cool, worried that if he fills the small room with steam he might pass out. Sweat and grime runs from his pale skin, trickling down the drain. If only he could wash his guilt away so easily.
As he massages shampoo onto his oily scalp, doing his best to unpick the tangles with his fingers, Eddie’s thoughts turn to his friends.
He didn’t think to ask Wayne if you’d called. Had you, and Steve, and Robin been wondering about his sudden disappearance? He hopes to god that you don’t all think he’s left without a proper goodbye. He’s not sure he’d be forgiven.
He equally hopes that Wayne hasn’t told them to truth.
Eddie knows at some point he’ll have to be honest. It’s gone too far now, he can’t keep up the lies. But how exactly do you start a conversation like that? It’s hardly something you can drop in casually.
“Oh my day was great thanks. By the way I’m a fucking addict.”
It was probably the kind of topic that required a serious sit down. The thought makes Eddie feel sick. Imagining you all sitting awkwardly in Wayne’s front room, or maybe Steve and Rob’s place. Gathered and waiting, all confused and anxious about what he had to say. You’d all be looking at him expectantly. He’d choke. He knows he would. He stumble and trip over his words, humiliated beyond belief. He doubts he’d be able to say it without crying, which is pathetic. Just a privileged rich boy whining about how much of a stereotype he’s become.
Eddie screws his eyes closed in frustration, pressing his fists to them until bright colours spark behind his lids. The shampoo has begun to seep into his eyes and it stings, but he doesn’t turn to the stream of water and rinse them clear. There’s something about the pain that feels earned.
The worst part is he feels like he’s got no reason to be in the situation he now finds himself. It might be more understandable, sympathetic even, if he’d suffered some great tragedy - the drugs a kind of self medication. Those were the kinds of people you felt sorry for. Ones who used to escape, to hide from their pain, to block out the real world.
Eddie used for fun. Life had been one big party, until it wasn’t. Until he was the only one left standing at the end of the night, a hanger on trying to keep the celebration going when everyone else has long since had enough.
How many times had he woken in the morning somewhere unfamiliar, surrounded by people he couldn’t name? How many times had he cut up lines on a sticky table in an anonymous green room, just to be the only one snorting them, everyone else looking on with a mixture of disgust and pity? How many times had his friends had to roll him onto his side in his bunk, stuffing pillows against his back because they were terrified he’d choke on his own vomit in his sleep?
It was no kind of life. It was a joke.
And Eddie was the punchline.
————————————💌———————————
Eddie steps out of the shower, smelling cleaner but still feeling dirty. He reaches for his toothbrush, but he startles and it clatters into the sink.
There’s a stranger in the mirror.
The pale face that blinks back at him is someone he doesn’t recognise. Someone who quite frankly scares him.
He’s lost more weight. Enough that his cheekbones are sharp and sunken, the line of his jaw like a razors edge. His collarbones protrude, his ribs visible beneath the dark ink across his chest. His skin is almost grey, dull and dry, his lips pale and chapped.
Eddie realises then that he does know this person. He’s seen him once before.
Back in the trailer that he grew up in, he’d been maybe seven or eight. Eddie had been snooping. He knew Wayne had a couple of medals from his days in the military, days he preferred not to reminisce on. There was some snot nosed little twerp in Forest Hill’s, Harry or Henry, who remembers? He didn’t believe Eddie when he said that his uncle used to be more than just an ex-trucker turned plant worker. He’d called Eddie a liar.
So Eddie was searching for proof. The medals had to be somewhere, they weren’t the kind of things you threw out. While Wayne worked the late shift Eddie tore through their home. Emptying drawers and cabinets, balancing on wobbling stools to reach the highest shelves.
He never found the medals. After a while he forgot what he’d even been searching for in the first place. There was a manilla envelope stuffed in the bottom of a shoebox in the back of the closet. It wouldn’t have caught his attention if it wasn’t for one small detail. It had Eddie’s name on the front.
Edward Alan Munson written in tiny typed letters.
It never occurred to Eddie not to open it. It had his name on it. So it must have been his.
Inside there were pages upon pages of notes. Descriptions of an address he could only vaguely remember, some apartment in Lafayette. Eddie couldn’t read the big words, but some smaller ones stood out.
Dirty.
Empty fridge.
Lice.
Eddie flipped through the pages with a frown on his face. His dad’s name appeared a lot on those pages. His mom’s too.
At the back there’d been a photograph. A grainy black and white square. It was of a boy. Younger than Eddie, and smaller too. He was stood wearing only a dirty pair of baseball shorts, the drawstring pulled tight to keep them up around his narrow hips, the fabric too long and hanging past his knees. The boy’s chest was thin and fragile, every bone threatening to break through the skin. He was covered in bruises, the clear shape of fingerprints visible on his thin arms. The boy’s head looked too big for his body some how, like a lollipop balanced on top of a stick. His hair was matted and wild, dark eyes glancing up at the camera with a tearful expression.
Eddie had snapped the folder closed and stuffed it roughly back in the envelope. He locked it away in its shoe box and slammed the closet door. Then he sat in silence in the living room, staring at the blank TV screen until the outside light faded and his uncle finally came home.
Eddie never told Wayne that he’d seen it. And he never went looking for it again, not even when he was older and able to read the big words.
He didn’t want to know what they said.
The little boy from the photograph stares at Eddie now, trapped behind misted up glass. He’s taller and his hair is longer. There’s tattoos now where before had been bruises.
He still looks terrified.
It rattles Eddie. Is this who Wayne sees when he looks at him now? The tiny, trembling boy who’d been handed over to him by CPS, a child he hadn’t even known existed until they called out of the blue and said Wayne could take him or he’d go in a foster home.
Wayne had worked so hard. Eddie doesn’t remember much of those early days, too young to take much of it in, but he remembers being so frightened, living somewhere new with someone he didn’t know. Wayne had been patient and gentle, never pushing him too far. He gave Eddie the kind of love he hadn’t known before, and waited for the little boy to realise it wasn’t conditional. It wasn’t about to be taken away. He was safe.
In a daze Eddie dries himself and walks back to his room to dress in clean clothes. When he steps inside the bed has been stripped, the sheets replaced and pillows fluffed, the window open just a crack to let in fresh air. Tears sting Eddie’s eyes. Even all these years later Wayne was still taking care of him. He was still trying to make sure that Eddie knew he was loved and safe.
He heads back down stairs. His Uncle is loading the dirty bed linens into the washer, stooped over as he chucks in a heaped scoop of Tide.
“Wayne?” Eddie whispers, his voice cracking.
His uncle turns.
Before he can say a word Eddie crosses the utility room, throwing his arms around the older man’s shoulders. He chokes on a sob, pressing his face against Wayne’s shoulder so the soft cotton of his shirt can catch his tears.
“Oh. Ed, it’s alright. S’okay son, I’ve got ya.” Wayne says softly. He wraps Eddie in a tight embrace. It feels like his arms are the only thing holding Eddie together.
“I’m sorry.” Eddie cries.
“I’m so so sorry. For everything.”
“I know.” Wayne whispers.
“I know you are. And I forgive ya, it’s okay. You don’t have to be sorry anymore, alright? We’re gonna figure this out. It’s what we do. No matter what shitty hand we get dealt we deal with it together.”
Eddie cries harder. It was so easy for his uncle to forgive him. Eddie’s not sure he deserves it. He’s caused a lot of pain. Hurt a lot of people. He’s got a long way to go before the weight of guilt crushing his chest will begin to lift.
————————————💌———————————
The following days are quiet. Eddie begins to feel a little more normal, his body over the worst of the withdrawal. He can eat now without his stomach churning, and he sleeps okay despite not taking anything to knock him out.
Wayne continues to stay off work. It’s nice to have his company. Eddie and him talk, really talk, for the first time in a long time. Hours spent with Wayne in his chair, Eddie on the couch, endless cups of coffee sipped as they reminisce on old times. Eddie fills Wayne in on the details of his life the last few years. Still editing the stories a little - there was no need for his uncle to know the full extent of the debauchery. But he tells him the good stuff, about sold out shows and award ceremonies, all the kids who line up outside arenas and hotel rooms just to get a glimpse of him. How he’d felt a sense of pride for the first time, when nervous gawky teens with bad hair cuts and denim jackets emblazoned with patches would tell him that he inspired them, that they made music because of him. Wayne looks proud too.
Wayne fills in gaps for Eddie too. Tells him about meeting Liz for the first time, when they’d both been reaching for the last box of Raisin Bran on the shelf at Melvad’s, and had joked about two old people staring a brawl in the aisles for some cereal. How Wayne let her take the box and thought that would be the end of the interaction, until they stood beside one another in the checkout line, and every time Wayne raised his head she was smiling at him. Then in the parking lot her Volvo was next to Wayne’s truck. Like a true gentleman Wayne helped her load her groceries into the trunk and cracked a joke about swiping the cereal when she wasn’t looking. She’d laughed. Then to his surprise she handed him her cellphone number. The rest was history. Wayne seems almost embarrassed, shy about his obvious love for her. Eddie thinks it’s cute. Tells him as much just to watch his uncle blush like a schoolboy. Wayne promises she’ll come meet him soon, how she’s always asking about how he’s doing. But they’ll wait until Eddie’s ready. He appreciates the patience.
————————————💌———————————
One morning the phone rings, right as Eddie drains his second mug of coffee.
“Get that for me, will ya Ed?” Wayne asks, busy trying to wrestle a very excitable Ludo into his harness so they can go for a walk.
Eddie picks up the receiver.
“Munson residence.”
“Eddie?”
His heart skips a beat.
It feels like an eternity since he’d heard your voice.
“Oh. H-hi, yeah it’s me.” He says.
“How are you feeling? Wayne told me you were sick.”
Eddie clears his throat. From across the room Wayne flashes him a puzzled look, mouthing “who is it?”.
Eddie waives his hand dismissively.
“Uh yeah. I’ve not been feeling to great for the last few weeks. But I’m doing a lot better now.” He says.
He hears the quiet sigh of relief you exhale.
“That’s good. I’ve been worried about, we all have. Steve said he hadn’t heard from you either.”
“Yeah, I haven’t really been up to talking to anyone, y’know?” Eddie says. He winds the cord tight around his finger, the tip beginning to throb from trapped blood flow.
“What was wrong?” You asks.
Eddie sucks in a sharp breath. It was the question he was hoping you wouldn’t ask.
“Sorry.” You say quickly.
“That was rude, I shouldn’t… it’s none of my business.”
“N-no, it’s fine. I just… it… god.” He stammers.
“Teddy? Are you sure you’re alright?”
The nickname hits like a hammer blow. A sucker punch straight to the chest, Eddie feels his organs sting as though his ribs had cracked and punctured them. He hasn’t been Teddy in years. That name had been yours alone.
“I’m okay.” He whispers.
“But it’s just hard to explain over the phone.”
You pause. Eddie can hear you breathing softly.
“Do you want me to come over?”
Eddie glances up. Wayne is still stood by the door looking at him expectantly. Ludo whines by his feet, nudging his wet nose against his master’s leg insistently.
“Um.. yeah. That would be good. Do you think you could ask Steve and Rob to come too?” He asks. Might as well rip the bandaid off.
“Okay. Are you free tonight? Maybe we could come by after work.”
“Tonight is good.” Eddie nods.
“Alright. Well Rob’s here obviously so I’ll tell her. And I’ll give Steve a call. Shall we say seven?”
“Yep. Perfect. I’ll uh.. I’ll see you then.”
“Okay. See you later Eddie.”
He hangs up the phone silently wishing that you’d called him Teddy again.
“Everythin’ alright?” Wayne asks.
Eddie nods and wipes his clammy palms on the front of his shirt.
“I should have asked first I guess, but is it alright if my friends come over tonight?” Eddie asks.
“You’re a grown man Ed, you ain’t got to ask my permission for that.” Wayne says softly.
“I know. But it’s your house, and I know I’m not supposed to leave at the moment, so I didn’t know if-“
“Eddie.” Wayne interrupts.
“It’s okay. It’s really okay. Do you want me to make myself scarce later or stick around?”
“I… could you stay?” Eddie asks. If the conversation takes a turn for the worst he’d like to have Wayne around as a shoulder to cry on.
“‘Course I can. I can give you some space when they get here, but I’ll be around if you need me.” His uncle smiles.
“Thanks Wayne.” Eddie says. The older man nods, a look in his eyes that tells Eddie he understands that he’s thanking him for more than just this small act of kindness. Eddie’s grateful for everything.
While his uncle is out walking the dog Eddie takes a long shower. He still doesn’t look great, skinny and paler than usual, the bags under his eyes that persist despite all the sleep he’s been getting. But he’s determined to look as good as he can, wanting to prove to his friends, and maybe to himself that he’s really getting better. That in-spite of what he was going to have to admit to tonight, he was moving in the right direction, taking care of himself better than he ever has before.
It feels nice to spend time on himself like this. Eddie’s leant into the whole grungy rockstar thing for a while now. It’s not like he’s unclean or anything. But no one expected him to be prim and polished.
If he slept in his eyeliner then it always looked better the next day, smoky and smudged around his dark eyes.
His jeans were always full of rips and holes, hanging low on his hips so that the band of his boxers showed, or on the days when he didn’t bother with anything underneath the dark hair that sprouted beneath his navel peaked over. That really drove the groupies wild.
His curls were his signature - frizzy and wild. A sleazy gossip mag had once described him as ‘As untamable as his hair’.
Eddie took the headline as a compliment.
Now he piles his conditioned curls into a topknot, letting the product sink in. Pale flesh glows salmon pink beneath the steaming water, every inch of skin scrubbed with a sudsy loofah. He stays beneath the stream until his fingers and toes prune, only then rinsing his hair and stepping out.
He squeezes dollops of expensive curl cream into his palms, combing it through with his fingers, twirling and defining every strand. Brushes his teeth until his gums are sore. Rubs cream on his face that some model ex-hookup had encouraged him to buy, a French brand he couldn’t pronounce filled with ingredients that sounded like they were out of a sci-fi novel.
By the time he’s finished Eddie’s skin glows, his curls hanging perfectly without a hint of frizz. He sprays Dior Fahrenheit on his neck and then his wrists, rubbing them together even though the girl in the store tutted and said he “really shouldn’t do that”.
In his room he agonises over what to wear. It’s stupid, he knows that. He’s only seeing his friends not dressing for some big interview. But he still feels the pressure to make the right impression. If his words don’t do a good job of conveying just how serious he is about his recovery, then he wants his image to help out. In some ways it makes sense, so much of Eddie’s life these past few years has been about image. Staying relevant, staying cool, looking good without looking like he tried too hard to look good. Image wasn’t everything in Eddie’s business, but it was a bit portion of it. First impressions count, and Eddie needs this new version of himself to strike the right chords.
Clean laundry begins to make a pile on the bedroom floor, each item discarded because it’s not right. The button up is too formal, stiff and awkward. The plain white t-shirt seems too heavy a contrast to his usual all black uniform, like he’s trying to prove that that he’s pure and innocent when he’s far from it. Band shirts feel too casual, like he’s not taking this seriously enough.
After the best part of an hour, he settles on something that feels like it might do. A thin black Henley and simple black jeans, slashed at the knees but otherwise unripped. He has to tighten his belt more than usual to keep them up around his narrow hips.
When he makes his way downstairs Wayne is reading the paper in his armchair. He peers over the pages, and perhaps sensing Eddie’s anxiety he offers a small nod of approval.
“You look nice.” Wayne says.
Eddie sighs in relief.
He’s made one error though. Getting ready so early means he has nothing to do now but wait. Eddie glances at the clock on the wall. It’s a little after twelve. He’s got almost seven hours to wait before you arrive.
He picks up his tattered copy of The Two Towers. The words jump and dance across the page. He rereads the same paragraph four times without taking any of it in before he gives up and throws the paperback aside with a huff.
He drinks a coffee. Then another. And another.
By two o’clock his hands are shaking. Eddie decides that laying off the caffeine might be a good idea.
He paces back and forth across the living room, until Wayne finally tells him to stop because “you’re making me dizzy wanderin’ around like that.”
He watches TV, but not really, staring at the screen vacantly as the unconvincing actors play out their melodrama, or a guy with a wonky fringe and big teeth gets all the answers wrong on Jeopardy!, even the easy ones.
Wayne calls him into the kitchen just before six. Pushes a plate of baked ziti his way and tells him to eat up. Every mouthful sticks in his throat. Eddie manages a quarter of the meal. He shoots Wayne an apologetic look.
“S’alright kid.” His uncle says softly.
“I wouldn’t have much of an appetite either. I’ll stick it in the fridge, you can heat it up later if you want.”
Half an hour. Just thirty minutes until you all arrive. Until Eddie has to face the music.
He slips into the backyard. Ludo follows, and Eddie halfheartedly tosses a ball for him to fetch while he chain smokes three cigarettes. The one habit he hasn’t kicked. Dizzy from the nicotine, or maybe just the lack of clean oxygen Eddie heads back inside, brushing his teeth once more and squirting more aftershave on his neck to somewhat mask the smell of smoke.
Downstairs the doorbell rings. Eddie nearly drops the bottle into the sink.
He moves to linger at the top of the stairs. He can hear you all: your voice soft as you greet Wayne, Steve exclaiming in excitement at Ludo, whose claws tap on the wooden floor eagerly, no doubt thrilled to have visitors who will make a fuss of him.
“Ed!” Wayne shouts.
“Everyone’s here!”
“Coming!” Eddie calls back.
His palms are clammy as he grips the bannister. He hasn’t felt this nervous since god knows when. It’s like Corroded Coffin’s first arena show all over again, when he’d been so terrified that he threw up in the green room just moments before walking onstage.
But that got easier. It was second nature now. Eddie could walk out to thousands of strangers without batting an eyelid, not a hint of fear because he knew he could handle it. He was made for it. And if he could handle that, then surely he could do this.
Eddie descends the stairs imagining that he’s walking through a venue. This isn’t Wayne’s hallway, it’s backstage of Madison Square Garden. The family photos that line the walls are posters for Corroded Coffin’s biggest headline tour to date. The scuffed wooden floor beneath his feet is actually grimy linoleum, sticky with spilt beer and the blood, sweat, and tears of all the icons that came before him. There’s no plywood door before him, it’s a heavy draped curtain, that will part and reveal his adoring fans, all waiting on the edges of their seat to see Eddie do what he does best. To see him perform.
No one screams when Eddie steps into the room. There’s no rapturous applause, no dazzling lights, no pyrotechnics.
The living room is quiet. His adoring crowd is just three of his close friends, all sat in a row on the couch, accepting mugs of tea from his uncle. There’s no spotlight on Eddie, just the amber glow cast from the sconces, and there’s sure as hell no flames being spat up into the air.
“Hey Ed.” Steve smiles.
Eddie says nothing. He does nothing. Steve’s smile fades to a look of concern.
“You alright son?” Wayne whispers.
This is one performance that Eddie won’t master. The reviews will be terrible - “Corroded Coffin frontman blows it on stage!” He’s forgotten his cues, can’t recall the lyrics that he wrote himself, his clumsy fingers won’t play the right chords. He just stands there in silence.
“Hey.”
A gentle hand lands on his shoulder. Eddie looks at Wayne in bewilderment. His uncle’s pale eyes are kind. Always so kind.
“Why don’t you sit down?”
Eddie nods. Let’s himself be guided to his uncle’s favourite chair. You and Robin and Steve all watch, concern etched on your faces.
“You want me to stay?” Wayne asks.
“No.” Eddie whispers. He shakes his head.
“M’alright. I’ve got it.”
“Okay. I’ll be upstairs.” Wayne says. He squeezes Eddie’s shoulder once before leaving.
Robin looks over to Steve. He shares her confused expression, giving a tiny shrug of his shoulders.
“Eddie?” You say quietly.
“Are you alright?”
He nods.
Steve leans forward.
“Can you uh… can you say something man? You’re kind of freaking me out here.”
“S-sorry.” Eddie whispers. He clenches his fists on his lap, his knuckles turning white.
“Are you still sick? Because no offence but I really don’t wanna catch anything.” Robin says. Steve digs his elbow into her ribs.
“Hey! Asshole, what was that for?”
“Rob shut up.”
“You shut up!”
“I’m not sick.” Eddie says, cutting off their bickering.
“At least… I don’t have anything you can catch.”
“Wh-what?” You ask, voice tight with panic.
“What’s wrong Ed? What’s happened?”
Eddie realises too late the mistake he’s made, sees the tears already welling in your eyes and the way your tea threatens to slosh over the side of your cup from the shaking of your hands. You think he’s ill. Really ill. Like your mom.
“No! No it’s not like that.” He says quickly.
“I promise. I’m not sick, there’s nothing wrong with me, I swear.”
The tension drops from your shoulders but only slightly.
“Are you sure?” Robin says hesitantly.
“Because you look kinda… rough.”
Eddie winces.
“I’m sure. It’s… it’s hard to explain.”
“Take your time.” Steve says. You and Rob nod in unison.
Eddie kind of wishes that the seating arrangements were different. It does feel somewhat like an interview now, the three of you sat in a row staring at him expectantly, waiting for him to hurry up and spit it out.
“I… I haven’t been entirely honest with you guys. About why I came back to Hawkins.”
No one says anything. Eddie takes it as his cue to continue.
“I um, I kind of got myself into trouble back home. With the band and stuff. They weren’t happy with something I did, something I was doing. So they wanted me to do something I didn’t want to do. I came here so I wouldn’t have to do it.”
Steve tilts his head. The action reminds Eddie of when he’d tried to teach Ludo a new trick. He’d given Eddie a similarly confused look, like he didn’t understand why Eddie kept saying “shake” over and over while lifting his front paw.
“Ed, I’m sorry man, I’m really trying to follow you here. But uhh… you’ve lost me.”
Eddie sighs. He looks down at his lap, pulling a loose thread at the edge of the rip by his knee.
Time to rip the bandaid off.
“Drugs. I’m talking about drugs Steve. I’ve been using for years, a bunch of different stuff. We all did it at first, it was like.. part of the lifestyle, I guess? It was fun. Until it wasn’t. Everyone else grew up and moved on and I just stayed in one place. I couldn’t give it up like they could. I thought it was just because I didn’t want to. That’s what I told myself. But I had a problem. I… I have a problem. That’s why I came home. The guys wanted me to go to rehab, and I refused. I came here to get away from it all, I told them I was coming home to get clean. I lied. And I’ve been lying ever since. I lied to you guys, I lied to Wayne. I fucking lied to myself. And then shit hit the fan and Wayne found out and I couldn’t fucking run from it anymore. He wouldn’t let me. Yeah I’ve been ill, but it was all self inflicted. I had to detox, quit everything all at once even though I thought it might kill me. That’s why I’ve not been around the last few weeks. That’s why I look like shit. But I’m clean now. I swear, I’m totally fucking clean, I haven’t even been drinking. I’ve given it all up and I’m sorry. I’m just really fucking sorry.”
Eddie’s not sure when he started crying. All he knows is that one minute his face was dry, and the next tears were rolling down his cheeks, trickling down his throat and wetting the neck of his shirt. His chest heaves, deep sobs tearing from his throat, his shoulders shaking with the force of them. He buries his face in his hands and weeps, still mumbling apologies between gasps for breath.
Beyond the sounds he makes there is silence. No one says a word. Eddie can’t bring himself to raise his head, can’t bring himself to look at his friends. He’s sure from your silence that you’re all disgusted with him. His apologies aren’t good enough. He’s done too much damage to be forgiven.
The couch creaks as someone stands. Footsteps pad softly across the carpet. You’ll leave. You’ll all leave him here crying like a child and feeling sorry for himself.
Whoever it is that’s stood doesn’t leave. They drop to their knees beside Eddie and wind their arms tight around his shoulders. Eddie breathes in, catching the cinnamon and jasmine of your perfume. Your cheek rests atop his curls and you squeeze him tighter, your voice trembling when you speak.
“It’s okay Teddy. It’s gonna be okay.”
Eddie cries harder. Someone else holds him then, their arms folding over yours.
“You don’t have to say sorry Ed.” Steve says, his voice thick.
Robin sniffles as she too joins the fold, her hand rubbing soothing circles over Eddie’s back.
“But we forgive you.” She whispers.
“If that’s what you’re worried about, then we forgive you.”
“I don’t deserve it.” Eddie sobs.
“You do.” You murmur. You tuck your head down until your face is pressed to his neck, your breath hot against his skin.
“You do deserve it. We’ve got you Teddy. Okay? We’re not going anywhere.”
The four of you stay like that for a while. Even though your knees must ache, and it must hurt Steve’s back to be stopped over awkwardly. No one pulls away. No one leaves. You all just keep holding the fractured pieces of Eddie together.
When he exhausts himself, having cried all the tears he has left, Eddie sniffs and sits up. He blinks, your blurry faces becoming clearer. You’ve all been crying too. Mascara streaks down your face. Robin’s cheeks are flushed, and Steve’s eyes are watery and bloodshot.
Your palm is warm on his cheek. Your thumb gentle when it sweeps away the tears that linger.
“M’proud of you.” You smile.
“Everyone keeps saying that. I don’t feel like I’ve done much to be proud of.” Eddie mumbles.
“Well you have.” You insist.
“It takes a lot to admit that you need help Teddy. It’s brave to hold your hands up and say you’ve made a mistake.”
“I’ve made a lot of mistakes.”
“None that can’t be fixed.”
“And it’s not like you’ve done anything that bad.” Robin says.
“I just told you I’m addicted to drugs Rob.”
“So?”
Despite everything Eddie manages to give her an incredulous look.
“I’m serious! So you’re a musician who messed around with shit and got in over his head. It’s a tale as old as time.”
“Does anyone else find it crazy that Rob’s not totally freaking out over this?” Eddie asks.
“Alright. Look, I know I’ve given you a hard time before. But I’m not a total asshole. This is different. You’ve fucked up and you’ve admitted it. Taking drugs doesn’t make you a bad person Eddie.”
“Yeah.” Steve nods.
“And you said you’re clean now, so like… is that it? Like you’re cured?”
“Nah, it’s not as simple as that.” Eddie grimaces.
“Hop says I’ve got to join a support group.”
“Hop knows?” Steve says.
“Yep.”
“Huh. Makes sense I guess. He’s been there done that.” Robin shrugs.
“What’s the group for? Is it like therapy?” You ask. You’re still crouched at Eddie’s side, your hand having dropped from his face to curl protectively around his own.
“I think it’s kind of similar to AA? I don’t really know.” Eddie admits.
“Either way I think it’s gonna suck.”
“Maybe. But it might be good in the long run. To talk to people who understand what it’s like.”
Eddie makes a sound that’s vaguely affirmative. He’s still not convinced the group will be useful, but he’s got little choice in the matter.
“Do you feel any better now that you’ve told us?” You ask.
“Yeah, kinda. I still feel pretty crappy. It’s like… I know we’ve all just reconnected, y’know? And I don’t want to undo that.”
“You haven’t.” You say quickly.
“What kind of friends would we be if we turned our back on you over something like this?” Steve chimes in, patting Eddie’s shoulder.
“We’re not going anywhere.”
It’s a far better reception than Eddie could have anticipated. His friends were taking the news relatively well. Unlike Wayne’s quiet fury when he’d discovered the truth, none of you seem to hold it against Eddie that he’s been dishonest.
He still feels awful. Shame like a grimy layer on his skin that refuses to be washed away. But it was reassuring the hear that none of you resented him. Even more reassuring that you don’t seem to be treating him any differently now. With the secret no longer weighing him down Eddie can relax. Once the tears have dried and the topic has been sufficiently mulled over it takes no effort at all for the group to slip back into easy conversation. Steve recounts a disastrous first date that will definitely not lead to a second. Robin imitates an annoying customer who complained when her extra hot latte was too hot to drink, her voice high pitched and screechy as she waves her arms dramatically. All the while Eddie laughs, the feeling unfamiliar after so long wallowing in misery. The levity is much needed. He wishes that he could stay in this moment for a while longer, the four of you giggling on Wayne’s couch like the good old days, when you were all just kids and your problems were no bigger than passing Algebra 2.
Eventually though the realities of adult life kick in. Steve yawns, stretching his muscular arms high above his head.
“I should probably get going.” He says.
“I’ve got 9th grade volleyball first thing in the morning and those kids are feral.”
“And I should get going because Steve’s my ride.” Robin smiles.
You all head into the hallway, retrieving heavy winter coats and tugging on boots.
“You coming?” Steve asks.
You shake your head in reply.
“Not yet. I just wanna catch up with Wayne before I go.”
“Okay. See you soon.” Steve says, pulling you in for a quick hug.
“See you in the morning.” Rob smiles.
“I’ll swing by Melvald’s first thing. D’you want a croissant or a bear claw?” You grin.
“Oooh definitely a bear claw.” Rob calls as she heads out the door. Eddie waves them both off then shuts it behind them.
When he turns you’re still standing by the bottom of the staircase, trailing your fingers over the polished oak.
“Wayne’s probably fallen asleep.” Eddie chuckles.
“But I can go get him if you-“
“No it’s okay.” You say quickly.
“I might have told a teeny tiny lie.”
“Which is?”
You shrug your shoulders.
“I can catch up with Wayne anytime. I actually just wanted a moment to talk to you. Alone.”
“Oh. Oh yeah?” Eddie says, feigning as much nonchalance as he can manage. In reality his heart is hammering in his chest.
“Well uh.. shall we go sit back down?”
He watches as you reach into your pocket, retrieving a packet of Camels and a lighter.
“Actually Ed, do you mind if we go outside?”
“When did you start smoking again?” He asks, realising that his disapproving tone is highly hypocritical given his earlier admission. He’s just surprised is all. You kicked the habit back in college, claiming it was a waste of money and you hated the way the smell lingered on your skin.
“I know it’s not great. I don’t do it much, just when I’m stressed out.”
You don’t offer further explanation, just turn and walk down the hall to the kitchen. Eddie grabs his leather jacket and stuffs his feet into a tattered pair of sneakers, not bothering to lace them. He follows you out the back door into the yard.
Snow has begun to fall, starting as a light flurry but now coming down harder. It begins to settle on the lawn, the green turning white beneath a fine blanket. Ludo dashes past you both, running in circles on the lawn, his jaw chomping at the air to catch the flakes as they fall.
Eddie quickly puts up the long unused sun parasol and positions it over the rattan chairs on the patio so you can shelter from the snow.
“What’s got you so stressed?” Eddie asks, clamping the filter of his own cigarette between his teeth.
He watches and waits while you light yours, the sparking lighter illuminating your face for a moment in the dark. You exhale a large cloud on a sigh.
“I’ve been worried about you, duh.” You say with a halfhearted smile.
“I had a feeling something was up. Wayne was so vague whenever I called, just saying you were unwell and you couldn’t speak to me right now. I was starting to think that maybe… I don’t know. Maybe that you’d changed your mind.”
“About what?”
“About us. Being friends again. Things were kind of heavy last time we hung out, and I thought it might have scared you off.”
“Hey.” Eddie says softly.
“Don’t - don’t think like that. I’m glad we’re talking, I really mean that. I’m not about to disappear on you again.”
You nod, still smiling, but it doesn’t meet your eyes.
“I’m serious. Look at me.”
Eddie reaches across the small patio table to take your free hand, his fingers curling around yours that are ice cold. You finally raise your head.
“I’m not going anywhere. And even when I do, when I’m better and I can go home, I won’t walk out of your life again. So long as you’re happy to have me in it I’m gonna be here.”
Eddie’s relieved when your smile becomes more genuine. You twist your palm to face up, interlacing your fingers.
“Thanks Teddy.” You whisper.
“I meant everything I said earlier too. M’here for you. If there’s anything I can do to make life easier for you while you’re recovering then I’ll do it.”
“I know.” Eddie says. Because he does. He knows without a flicker of doubt that you’ll support him. It’s what you’ve always done, been the person that sticks by him through thick and thin. The past few years were a blip, a mistake that can be undone. He’s hopeful that eventually it will be like they never happened at all.
This feels like before. When you’d both sit outside the trailer, chain smoking and just talking. The topic of conversation never really mattered. He was just happy to have you around.
Eddie doesn’t want the moment to end. If he stays out here the spell won’t be broken, but eventually your trembling becomes too much to ignore, and truth be told he’s freezing his ass off too.
“C’mon.” He says, still holding your hand and using it to pull you to your feet.
“We’ll freeze to death out here.”
Back in the kitchen the snow that’s landed on your shoulders begins to melt, soaking into the fabric of your coat. Ludo leaves a trail of wet paw prints on the floor as he pads his way back in. Eddie reluctantly releases your hand. He searches through the cupboards, pushing aside packets of dried pasta and cans of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle until he finds what he’s looking for.
“Hot cocoa?” He asks, waving the tin at you. Your face breaks into a bright grin.
“Got any mini marshmallows?”
“Of course. I’m not an animal.” He laughs.
With two steaming mugs in hand you return to the living room. Eddie sits at one end of the couch, you at the other. Ludo curls up on the ground by your feet.
It’s quiet as you sip your drinks. Eddie watches through the window as the weather outside worsens. The wind has picked up, flurries of snow swirling in the dark sky. It lays thickly on the ground now. An idea forms in his mind. One that he should probably keep to himself, but he can’t resist speaking it aloud.
“It’s really bad out there.”
“Mmm.” You nod.
“S’gonna be a nightmare driving home.”
“The roads will be icy.” He comments.
Over the top of your mug he sees your eyes narrow with a smile.
“Sure.” You say.
“And it’s dark.”
“It is.”
“Seems pretty dangerous to drive home in that.”
You laugh then.
“Teddy, it sounds like you’re about three seconds away from singing Baby It’s Cold Outside.”
“I’m just concerned for your safety, that’s all.” He smiles.
“Well what do you suggest as an alternative?”
Eddie shrugs.
“You could stay.”
He holds his breath, waiting for the inevitable rejection. You’ve always been the sensible one. You’ll be sweet about it, smiling and shaking your head, insisting that you really should leave.
“There’s bound to be talk tomorrow.” You sing softly.
“Think of my lifelong sorrow.” Eddie sings in reply.
You laugh, kicking your foot out across the couch to nudge him.
“You’re so corny. But alright. I’ll stay.”
Eddie sighs with relief. He could pretend that he’s only glad to keep you here because the conditions outside are so bad. But he knows it’s just another lie. He wants you to stay because… well he’s not really sure. It feels comforting to know you’ll be near.
Eddie creeps up the stairs, careful to keep his footsteps light. You follow behind him, the two of you tiptoeing past Wayne’s room where soft snores grumble from behind the door. Eddie shows you to the other guest room, although you know where it is.
“Your executive suite Madame.” He whispers.
“Why thank you kind sir.” You reply as you breeze past him.
“I hope Madame finds everything to her liking. We have the finest Egyptian cotton sheets and a beautiful scenic view.” Eddie grins, gesturing to the faded floral covers and the window that overlooks Wayne’s front yard.
“It certainly is wonderful. Can I expect room service at this fine establishment?”
Eddie rolls his eyes fondly.
“If you wake me up before you go I suppose I could be persuaded to make you a coffee.” He smiles.
“I doubt you’d want me waking you that early.” You tease.
Eddie thinks he wouldn’t mind seeing as it’s you.
“I’m sure I’ll live.” He says.
Eddie grabs a clean pair of sweats and an old shirt for you to sleep in. He lingers in the doorway after you take them, tapping his fingers nervously on the frame.
“Well uh - let me know if you need anything. S-sleep tight.”
“You too Teddy.” You say softly.
————————————💌———————————
With the door closed you undress, slipping into the soft cotton sweatpants and pulling the shirt over your head. Eddie’s aftershave lingers faintly on the collar, mixed with the scent of detergent and softener. You pull the fabric up to your nose, breathing it in deeply, allowing yourself just a moment to bask in it in private.
You tell yourself that it’s for no reason other than to feel close to him, to enjoy this renewed connection between you both. Deep down you know that’s not true. A feeling stirs in your chest, one that you’ve ignored for years.
Your heart had been filled with longing and hope until that fateful evening in New York. Then it was trampled over, left bruised and hardly beating. Eddie might as well have aimed a revolver square at your chest and fired.
But you held your share of the blame. You saw the weapon in his hands. You let him press the barrel to your chest, cold metal kissing your skin. You had trusted that he wouldn’t pull the trigger.
You’d been wrong.
For years you nursed the wound. A gaping hole between your ribs, the surrounding skin charred and smoking. It got better with time but never fully healed. You’d carried the reminder ever since like a scar. Every mention of Eddie’s name, every time you heard his voice on the radio or saw his face on the glossy cover of a magazine, the carefully woven stitches keeping you together were plucked and snapped. Your heart bleeding out all over again for a boy who didn’t care.
As you lay in bed and stare up at the popcorn ceiling you wonder if it will ever be addressed - this elephant in the room. Things with Eddie were good now, better than you could have ever imagined just a few short months ago. Was that enough? Could you continue like this, rebuilding a friendship without ever acknowledging the thing that destroyed it in the first place. Whether or not you could remained to be seen. It wasn’t the time to bring it up. Eddie had enough going on without you picking at old wounds.
The spare bed is comfortable, the mattress plush and the sheets soft and warm. But sleep won’t come to you. You toss and turn, growing increasingly frustrated. Reaching over to the bedside table you pick up your Casio, pressing the button to illuminate the small screen. 12:34.
You’ll have to be up in just a few hours, heading home to change and brush your teeth before you visit Melvald’s and then go to work. You groan, burying your face in the pillow. It’ll be busy with only a couple of weeks left until the holidays. You’re already dreading all the stressed out Christmas shoppers, their snow caked shoes tracking wet dirt across the floors, the way they’ll huff and puff when you tell them that there isn’t enough time to order in that title before the 25th, or how their kids - hyped up on sugar and Christmas spirit - will run amuck in the cafe.
By the time your watch reads 01:10 you give up on sleep. You tentatively step out onto the landing, hoping you can sneak downstairs for a cup of tea and a cigarette without waking anyone. Wayne still snores in his room, a low rumble with the occasional grunt. Beneath Eddie’s bedroom door warm light spills out. Curious, you walk over and press your ear to the door, wondering if he’s still awake or if he’s just fallen asleep with the light on.
“You can come in.” A voice calls softly from inside. You flinch and take a step back, shame making your cheeks hot.
When you peer your head around the door you find a sweet sight.
Eddie is sat upright, pillows stuffed behind his back against the headboard. He holds a book in one hand, the other stroking the top of Ludo’s head, the pup fast asleep beside him. You’re momentarily thrown by the fact that Eddie is shirtless. Swathes of new ink adorns his skin beside the familiar tattoos. The black widow on his chest now sits on a fine web that stretches over his collar bone, an intricately detailed moth spreading its wings across his other pec.
“Can’t sleep either huh?” He whispers.
You shake your head and avert your eyes away from his skin. Stepping inside you close the door quietly behind you.
“What are you reading?” You ask. Eddie holds the paperback up so you can see the cover.
The Twin Towers.
“Of course.” You smile.
“Am I that predictable?” He grins.
“How many times have you read that series now? You know there’s other books right?”
“I lost count after twenty. No one compares to Tolkien sweetheart, you should know that.”
Your belly turns over at the name.
“Nerd.” You tease, hoping Eddie won’t catch the wobble in your voice.
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“You can come read it with me if you want. S’long as it’s not too nerdy for you.”
You silently will the butterflies in your stomach to settle.
“I don’t mind nerdy.” You whisper.
“Scoot over.”
Eddie does as he’s told, moving to the right side of the bed so you can slide in next to him. If he sees the way your hands shake as you pull back the covers then he’s too polite to comment.
You whisper apologies to Ludo, your jostling of the mattress waking him. His tail wags but his eyelids remain droopy, and he’s asleep again in seconds.
Beneath the sheets your bare feet brush Eddie’s leg.
“Jesus H Christ!” He whisper shouts.
“Your toes are like ice!”
“Are they?” You grin, pressing them harder against his calf. Eddie swats at you with the book, but he still pins your feet in place and traps them between his legs.
“Might as well warm them up.” He grumbles, a smile pulling at the edges of his lips.
“I don’t understand how you’re not freezing.” You say, nodding to his exposed torso.
“This guy’s like a hot water bottle.” He grins, patting Ludo’s head.
“Now get comfy, I was just getting to a good bit.”
You shuffle closer and pray that your thumping heartbeat isn’t audible. You rest your head on Eddie’s shoulder, his skin smooth against your cheek.
“Is this okay?” You ask, your voice hardly above a breath.
“Y-yeah. It’s okay.” He says softly.
Eddie clears his throat and shuffles through the pages until he finds his place again.
“Suddenly there was a great shout, and down from the Dike came those who had been driven back into the Deep. There came Gamling the Old, and Eomer son of Eomund, and beside them walked Gimli the dwarf. He had no helm, and about his head was a linen band stained with blood; but his voice was loud and strong.” Eddie whispers.
“‘Forty-two, Master Legolas!’ he cried. ‘Alas! My axe is notched: the forty-second had an iron collar on his neck. How is it with you?’
‘You have passed my score by one,’ answered Legolas.
‘But I do not grudge you the game, so glad am I to see you on your legs!’”
You can’t help but smile. You always loved to listen to Eddie reading aloud, the way his face became so animated, his voice changing for each character.
“‘Welcome, Eomer, sister-son!’ said Théoden. ‘Now that I see you safe, I am glad indeed.’” He continues.
You exhale a pleased sigh, your body warming with Eddie’s so close. Much like the puppy that lays across his lap, your eyelids grow heavy as he continues to read.
“‘Hail, Lord of the Mark!’ said Eomer. ‘The dark night has passed, and day has come again. But the day has brought strange tidings…”
————————————💌———————————
Something cold and wet presses to your cheek. Grumbling in protest at being woken, your bleary eyes blink slowly as they adjust to the daylight that spills through the curtains. Hot breath fans across your face, a lolling pink tongue tickling you when it sweeps across your cheek. You giggle, scratching the excitable pup on the back of his neck as he turns his attention to Eddie, who until now had been sleeping peacefully beside you. Ludo clambers to sit on his chest, whining when he doesn’t immediately wake to make a fuss of him.
“Jesus Ludo.” Eddie groans.
“You’re crushing me.”
Eddie sits up and pushes the dog aside.
“Does he always wake you up like that?” You say through a yawn.
“Pretty much.” He chuckles.
Eddie’s hair has turned into a frizzy nest in the night, errant curls sticking up at all angles. He rakes his fingers through the mess, shooting you a shy grin.
“How bad is it? Scale of one to ten.” He asks.
“Hmmm. I give it a six.”
A knock has both of your heads snapping to the door. Ludo jumps down from the bed, whining and scratching at the wood in hopes of escape.
It opens before either of you can say a word. Wayne pokes his head in, smiling when Ludo scurries out. He looks up, his calm expression replaced with one of horror when his eyes meet yours.
“Oh! Jesus Christ, uh.. sorry about that.” He stammers, clamping his hand over his eyes.
“Wayne, what are you covering your eyes for?” Eddie asks.
“I wasn’t expecting to see a young lady in your bed of course!”
“For shit’s sake, she’s dressed.” Eddie hisses, his cheeks turning scarlet. You feel your own grow heated, wishing that the ground would swallow you up.
“Oh, right well that’s good. I mean, it’s none of my business really what you kids get up to, but-“
“Wayne. Please, I’m begging you to stop talking.”
“Alright, alright. I’m going. I only came in to let the dog out so he could go potty. But I was gonna put some bacon on too. You wanna stay for breakfast darlin’?”
“Um, thanks Wayne but I have work this morning so I don’t know if I have time…” You say, looking over to Eddie’s bedside table and catching sight of his alarm clock.
“Shit! It’s 8:55?” You exclaim, throwing yourself out of the bed. You squeeze past Wayne and run to the spare room that you were supposed to sleep in.
“What time does the store open?” Eddie calls.
“9!” You shout back, your arms getting tangled in the sweater that you desperately tug on.
Fully dressed you’re about to run straight down the stairs to go, when you realise that you should probably at least say goodbye. You peck a quick kiss to Wayne’s cheek and give Eddie a wave.
“Sorry I’m running off like this.”
“S’fine.” Eddie smiles.
“Just drive safe okay?”
“I will. See you!”
As you hurry out the front door, a thick layer of snow crunching beneath your feet you pray that Robin won’t be too pissed that you’re late and you didn’t get her breakfast.
Wayne leans in the doorway giving Eddie an amused look.
“What?” The younger man grumbles.
“Nothin’. Just didn’t expect her to stay over that’s all.”
“It was snowing pretty bad last night, so it seemed safer than her driving in the dark. That’s all.”
Wayne shrugs.
“Eddie you don’t have to make excuses. I don’t care, you’re both grown adults. Just as long as you’re both being - ahem - sensible about things and-“
Eddie cuts his Uncle off by throwing a pillow square at his face.
“Please stop. We slept. That’s it.”
“Alright, I believe ya.” Wayne says, his tone suggesting that he absolutely doesn’t. By his feet Ludo whines louder now.
“I’m gonna take the boy out so he doesn’t pee on the carpet. Breakfast’ll be ready in twenty.”
Eddie throws himself back with a groan.
The space beside him is still warm, the pillows baring the faintest hint of your perfume. He silently prays that his Uncle will let this go, not getting the wrong idea and reading too much into things. But maybe Eddie is the one who needs to get his head straight. Because he has to admit that it was nice to have you here last night. The way you’d fallen asleep so quickly with your head resting on his shoulder, your body curled up against his when he finally discarded the book and turned off the light. He’d slept well himself, better than he can recall for a while, with his arm thrown over your waist and your face tucked against his chest. Every quiet breath you exhaled had soothed him. The softness of your skin making his heart beat just a little harder.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ cw — mentions of alcohol, steve is drunk, hes a cutie
⋆.𐙚 ̊ summary — after a night out at the bar with friends, you’re stuck with a very clingy, very affectionate boyfriend to take care of.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ authors note — hi guys! okay so i was listening to figure you out and change while writing this sue me… if there are any mistakes or typos its lowk because i can’t multitask and was singing “somethings in my mind and i’m focused on you” over and over for the entirety of proofreading this soooo. please send in any smutty or fluffy requests you have :p
⋆.𐙚 ̊ wc — 2.63k
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹ please do not copy, rewrite, or repost my works on any other platforms or pages.
the noise of the bar is an extremely chaotic blur of neon flashing lights, clinking glasses, and the loud, rambling cadence of eddie’s voice. he’s mid-story, gesturing wildly with slurred words and a drink in his hand, while nancy, robin, and jonathan laugh along in various stages of intoxication.
you’re barely registering a word of it. your entire world is centered on the heavy, warm weight of your boyfriend, steve harrington pressing into your back.
he’s slumped in the high chair, his thick thighs framing your hips, anchoring you close to him like the smallest amount of space was painful. you can feel the heat radiating through his jeans and his thin t-shirt, a steady, grounding presence. one of his large hands is splayed flat across your stomach, his palm warm and possessive, while the other loosely holds a tinted glass beer bottle against the top of his thigh.
steve is verg far gone. he isn't even pretending to listen to eddie anymore. instead, he’s tucked his chin firmly onto your shoulder, his breath hot and smelling of alcohol against your skin. every few seconds, he presses a slow, lingering kiss to the curve of your neck or the slope of your shoulder, humming a low, vibrating tune that syncs with the music pumping through the speakers.
he’s in his own little world, and in that world, you are the only thing that exists.
the hand on your tummy is pulling you a little closer while he laid a sweet kiss just below the shell of your ear, inhaling a deep breath. “y’smell so good, honey. just wanna eat you.”
you couldn’t help but laugh and squeeze just above his knee. “quit it, stevie. it tickles,” you mumbled, though there was no real bite to your words. you just curled a little deeper into him and let yourself relax against the weight of him.
as the clock hits 2 am, the group finally starts to wind down, the conversation drifting into incoherent mumbles. you shift place your drink on the wood in front of you, turning around in the small space between his legs to face him, your hands firmly planted on his thighs. you can’t help the soft, fond smile that tugs at your lips; he looks absolutely dopey, his eyes glazed and heavy-lidded, his lips parted slightly.
"hi baby," he murmurs through a smile, his voice a thick, honeyed slur. he doesn't wait for a response before leaning forward, capturing your lips in a long, clumsy, sweet kiss that tastes like beer and pure devotion.
you giggle, reaching up to brush a stray lock of messy brown hair off his forehead. "you’re a mess, baby," you whisper, glancing at his drink. "do you want some water?"
he shakes his head vigorously, like a stubborn child, a goofy grin spreading across his face. "nope," he breathes, his voice dropping an octave. "just need you."
with a clumsy movement, he sets his beer on the table behind you, freeing both arms to wrap around your waist. he pulls you flush against him, his hands meeting at the small of your back, squeezing you tight as if he’s afraid you’ll float away if he lets go. you wrap your arms under his waist and bury your face in his firm chest, laughing softly, but the laugh catches in your throat when you feel his palms slide downward.
his hands migrate lower, fingers grazing the swell of your cheeks, pressing you firmly into the space between his legs. you give his back a light, warning poke, trying to keep your voice stern despite the flush creeping up your neck.
"watch those hands, harrington," you command.
steve doesn't pull away. instead, he lets out a low, rumbling chuckle against your skin, tilting his head to pepper a trail of wet, sloppy kisses across your jawline and cheek.
"sorry, baby," he mumbles against your skin with a light chuckle, though there isn't a hint of sincerity in his tone. he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his grip tightening, his touch becoming bolder as he lets out a needy little sigh. "m’sorry... but you're jus’ so soft."
you giggle, pulling back just far enough to point a warning finger at him. your try to look stern, but it’s impossible when he’s looking up at you with those wide, adoring, glazed-over eyes. he looks so pretty when he's like this— completely undone and utterly devoted to you.
steve doesn't seem deterred by the warning. instead, he reaches out and captures your small hand in his, bringing your knuckles to his lips and peppering them with slow, loving kisses. then, with a sudden burst of clumsy energy, he hooks one arm around your waist and the other over your shoulders, hauling you back into his space. he attacks your face with big, wet, sloppy kisses, landing them on your cheeks, your forehead, and the tip of your nose.
"steve! oh my god! stop it!" you squeal, becoming a giggly mess as you push against his chest. your protests are useless. he’s like a giant, affectionate teddy bear.
"’m so lucky. y’know that?... i’ve got the prettiest… prettiest girl in the whole world," he mumbles against your skin, his voice thick and needy. his hands aren't staying still, squeezing your waist and kneading your hips, his touch possessive and warm. he just wants to be touching you, to feel every inch of you against him without a single care for who’s watching.
gently tugging his wrists off your body, you finally manage to break the spell. "alright, lover boy, time to move."
you start cleaning up the table, gathering the stray napkins and glasses, and begin ushering the rest of the group toward the exit.
when you finally return to steve, he’s still sitting there, looking sleepy and blissful, a small, dopey smile plastered on his face. you grab his hand and help him push himself off the high chair, keeping one arm firmly around his waist to keep him from tipping over. once he's steady, you guide his arm over eddie’s shoulders. the two of them are in a similar state of intoxication, leaning on each other and laughing about something only they understand.
after getting robin, vickie, nancy, and jonathan into the first taxi— thankfully jonathan is sober enough to make sure they get home safe— you guide eddie and steve into the second one. you slide in right beside steve, and he immediately claims you.
his heavy hand rests firmly on your upper thigh, squeezing gently, while his head drops onto your shoulder with a contented sigh. as eddie spends the ride chatting up the taxi driver with erratic enthusiasm, steve just breathes your sweet perfume in, drifting in and out of a light sleep.
and by the time you reach your shared apartment, the walk up the stairs is a slow process. you’re essentially a human crutch for both of the boys, carefully navigating them upward. you manage to get eddie safely plopped onto the couch— where he promptly falls asleep mid-sentence— and then you turn your attention to steve.
the moment you lead him toward the bathroom, steve’s clinginess hits an all time peak. he stumbles over his own feet a few times, leaning heavily into you, but he doesn't stop trying to touch you. he’s peppering kisses all over your neck and jaw, his lips warm and clumsy.
"mmm... home. our home," he mumbles, his voice a low vibrate against your skin. he trips slightly over the rug, pulling you down with him for a second, laughing softly into your shoulder as he clings to you, refusing to let go for even a second as you manage to steer him into the bathroom, practically dragging him by the hand.
to make things easier, you have him sit on the closed toilet lid so he doesn't tip over while he brushes his teeth. you grab the blue toothbrush, wet it, and add a dollop of the green paste before handing it to him.
he grabs it from your hands and stops, one hand hooking around your thigh to keep you close. “baby, ‘m hungry.”
“you’re hungry?” you repeated, stepping a little closer to him and gently smoothing his hair back again. “okay. what do you want to eat?”
he leaned into your touch, allowing his eyes to fall shut for a few moments. the light scraping of your nails against his scalp felt incredible. soft little sounds bubbled in his throat as he hummed in thought. “hmm.”
your hand moved to hold his chin, tipping it up so he had to look at you. “stevie, you gotta tell me what you want to eat so i can make something for you.”
with a sleepy little sigh, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against the warmth of your tummy, his arm wrapping around your thigh to pull you a little closer. “jus’ wanna be close to you, honey.”
you smiled and stepped back, bringing the toothbrush in his hand up to his mouth. “you have to brush your teeth first, ‘kay? then i’m all yours.”
steve let out a little grumble of disappointment before letting following the orders. while he's clumsily scrubbing away, you slip out for a moment to grab a couple of sets of comfortable clothes for both of you.
the second you step back into the bathroom, steve is up and on you. he doesn't even wait for you to get to the sink— he reaches out and pulls you back against him, his arms locking around your waist. as you start brushing your own teeth, you feel it— the unmistakable, hard press of him against your backside.
you shake your head, a small smile on your face despite yourself. “mm-mm,” you hummed in disapproval through the soapy mess, gently pushing at his lower stomach to create a little space while you finish up.
"change. now," you demand after swishing the mouthwash around, handing him his clothes.
steve pouts, his lower lip sticking out in a way that is far too cute for a grown man. "noo," he whines, his voice thick and groggy. "don’t wanna. just wanna be close to you."
"okay, well you can be close to me after you’re all changed, baby. i promise," you soothe, giving him a little pat on the cheek.
he lets out a little groan. the cutest thing you’ve literally ever heard. “y’said that about brushing my teeth.”
you lean up to press a chaste kiss to his pouty, spit-slicked lips. “yeah but i really mean it this time. i even promised.”
defeated but still needy, he starts stripping right there in front of you. it’s a struggle to say the least. he’s so uncoordinated that when his jeans get stuck around his ankles, he nearly face-plants into the bathmat.
you couldn’t help but burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the small room. as you pull your own shirt off, leaving you in just your sleep shorts and a lacy bra, your laughter only grows.
steve stops struggling with his clothes and looks up at you, a mischievous, drunken glint in his eyes. "oh yeah? that’s funny to you, baby?"
before you can react, he shuffles forward on his knees, grabbing the bare skin of your waist and pulling you into him. he begins peppering kisses all over your stomach and ribs, giggling into your skin as you squirm. you’re still smiling and laughing, shoving at his head and trying to slide your oversized sleep shirt on, encouraging him to hurry up and get dressed.
once you finally get him into his clothes, you lead him to the bedroom. the moment he hits the mattress, he doesn't just lie there— he reaches up and hooks his arms around you, pulling you down until you're straddling him.
your settle onto the tops of his thighs, your hands resting on his warm stomach, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. steve’s hands immediately find your hips where hem of your big shirt sits, his fingers playing with the fabric, tugging it slightly as he gazes up at you with pure, unfiltered adoration.
"you’re so pretty, honey," he whispers, his voice sounding small and sincere. "i jus’ love you so much... mmm. i miss you."
you blink, looking down at him with a fond expression. "stevie, baby... i’m right here."
he lets out a soft, sleepy laugh, leaning his head back against the pillow. he suddenly launches into a joke—something completely nonsensical and stupid about eddie’s rings or the way robin almost puked after a particularly vile shot at the bar—and it’s so unexpected and absurd that you both lose it.
you collapse against his chest, laughing so hard that your stomachs begin to ache, the two of you shaking with giggles in the quiet of your shared room.
as the laughter dies down, the atmosphere in the room shifts, turning from playful to thick with a sudden, heavy tension.
steve’s hands slide from the hem of your shirt down to the exposed skin of your hips, his grip tightening as he pulls you down firmly against him. the friction is immediate and intense, and you have to bite your lip hard to suppress a moan, fighting to keep up the stern act you've maintained all night.
you push yourself up slightly, your palms resting against his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart beneath the fabric. "not tonight, steve," you tell him softly, your voice wavering just a little. "you’re way too drunk."
he begins to whine immediately, a low, needy sound that vibrates in his chest. "baby, pleaseeee," he groans, his eyes half-closed and pleading. "need you so bad. ‘m so hard for you ‘nd i jus’... jus’ need to feel you."
you lean down, pressing a sweet, lingering kiss to the tip of his nose. "no," you whisper, though it’s more of a plea than a command.
steve isn't having it. with a sudden, clumsy surge of strength, he rolls you both over in one fluid motion. now he’s lying directly on top of you, his heavy weight a comforting pressure that pins you to the mattress. he loops his arms underneath you, locking you against him so there isn't a single inch of space between your bodies. his hips are slotted perfectly into yours, and his legs tangle with yours, weaving together like vines.
he pressed his lips to yours almost immediately—sleepy, a little clumsy, and desperately needy. every kiss is an admission of how much he craves you, his lips searching yours with a hunger that makes your head spin. by the time you manage to pull away after a few minutes, you're completely breathless, your chest heaving.
"steve," you pant, your voice airy. "it’s time... it's time to go to sleep."
"i like this," he mumbles, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble against your lips. “wanna stay like this forever.”
"i know, baby," you soothe, stroking the back of his neck. "but it's bedtime."
he doesn't move, instead leaning in for another kiss. "one more," he whispers. "for good luck."
the kiss is deeper this time, more intentional. his tongue slides against yours, tasting of mint, sleep, and lingering desire, and he sucks on your tongue with a soft, needy sound that sends a shiver straight down your spine.
finally, as the exhaustion of the night begins to truly win, he lets out a long, contented sigh. he buries his face deep into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent as he begins to drift off.
even as sleep claims him, his hands keep squeezing your waist possessively, and his hips subconsciously shift, pressing even closer to your warmth as he falls fast asleep in your arms.
Summary: your first time with steve leads to some accidental confessions.
Cw: smut, piv, kissing, pet names, confession, really cute, kinda awkward!steve, series 4 steve (cuz hes just so perfect and my fave)
Wc: 2k
you and steve had been dating for three months. 12 blissful weeks of always having flowers on your bedside, breakfast dates, sleepovers, stolen glances and practically being attached at the hip.
it was going amazing, better then you could ever have imagined. steve was sweet, caring and so attentive, basically every thing he wasn't in high school.
steve believed that the girl who put up with him, who gave him a chance after so many other girls turned him down for 'losing his charm', deserved the world.
so he gave you it.
you knew him in school, a couple years older than you, every week it seemed he had a different girl on his arm. until nancy wheeler broke his heart and he lost his charm.
but to you? having a broken heart suited him like no other.
then once he graduated, and you still had a year of school left, you lost track of where he was at.
until one year later, your graduation summer. when a lonely evening had you wondering to the video store to rent some background noise to drain out the quiet.
and steve was the one to help you find the best movie for that, cutting a deal that included some actual company with it.
you found his slight nervousness talking to you so much more attractive than his old 'charm'. when you told him, he basically shut down, turning bright read having expected you to laugh in his face at his pure attempt and walk off like all the other girls seem to be doing.
but then slowly but surely, your relationship grew from that night, steadily building over time until this point.
you'd not gone further than a long, hot make out and a bit of heavy petting. but something in the air of steve's empty living room was making you think you were about to take that next step.
maybe it was the half finished bottle of wine you definitely shouldn't have had, or the quiet patter of rain against the windows, or the dumb romcom you regretted putting on.
or maybe you were just feeling it.
and how couldn't you with your tongue down steve's throat, his warm lips locked on yours. your hips bracket his, your knees sinking into the soft sofa cushions where he sat.
one of his big hands was splayed out across your back, the other digging into your left ass cheek, moving with each shallow, unconscious roll of your hips. your hands curled into his hair, running through the long strands then pulling at the short curls at the nape of his neck.
on the floor beside you, a small pile of your clothes began, consisting of the blankets that were once over you both, your (steve's) jumper, his tshirt and your tank top.
"mm princess" steve breaks the kiss.
"huh?" you chase his lips.
"you seem like-"
"yeah" you grab his jaw, pulling him back into you.
"darlin- darlin wait a sec"
"what?- do you not..?"
"no i do" his eyes widened, frantically nodding his head.
"kay" you swallowed, waiting for him to explain why he stopped.
"just think- you don't deserve a couch for that- ya know?" he reasoned.
"steve harrington are you tryna invite me into your bedroom" you teased, already blushing.
"are you accepting?"
you surged forward to kiss him, steve gasping into your mouth at the sudden movement.
"i'll take that as a yes"
his hands snaked under your ass as he stood, deserting the wine, your clothes and the shitty romcom playing away in the lounge.
down the hall and up the stairs steve carried your body to his room, laying you down gently in the middle of his bed, not breaking your kiss until he climbed over you.
his lips press across your jaw, down your neck to your chest leaving a trail of soft purple marks on your skin until he reached the valley of your bra covered tits.
he dragged his lips over the swell of your breasts, mouthing at them before looking up at you. your lips were parted, huffing out short breaths as you watched steve.
"can i- take this off?" he timidly asked, gesturing to your bra.
"yeah" you breathed out, arching your back off the mattress so he could unclasp it.
he peeled it away from you, watching your nipples peak under the fresh air, immediately dropping his head back to latch his lips around them.
he mouthed at your tit, the other getting attention from his hand. your hips rolled up into him as your hands ran all over steve's bare back, feeling his shoulder muscles under your fingertips.
"stevie" you mewled.
noticing your impatience, he pulls off your chest, leaving your tits flushed and shiny with his saliva. he begins to trail his mouth down further, but stopped by your hands around his head.
"steve please- i don't need that"
"but-"
"just need you- please" you begged, slowly coaxing him back up your body towards your lips.
"oh yeah- yeah okay princess"
he kissed you softly once before sitting back on his calfs and dipping his fingers in the waistband of your sweatpants.
he pulls them down quickly, his breath catching when he realised your panties matched the bra he'd just thrown onto the floor.
"cmon steve"
"shh darlin- i'll take care of you" he chuckled lowly at your impatience.
you bent your knees up to your chest, using your feet to try and pull at the fabric of his own joggers.
"okay okay" he assured, shaking his head with a smile as he put your ankles back onto the bed before finally shimmying out of his own bottoms.
you bit your lip looking up at him, seeing the very obvious large bulge in his underwear. you'd seen him hard once before, then a couple times as he was changing, but it was all still so new.
"princess" he leaned back over you. "still okay?"
"yeah- yeah i'm okay.. you okay?"
"more than okay" he smiled.
you stared into each others eyes for a beat before remembering where you were, suddenly both reaching for each others underwear.
you both pulled them off at the same time, laughing as your wrists clashed and arms got tangled, finally removing the last barrier between you.
"say the word and ill stop"
"okay"
"yeah?"
"yeah"
he kissed you again, one hand sliding between your bodies to trace his fingers through your slick folds.
"so wet baby, all f'me?"
"for you"
his fingers found your hot entrance, pushing one in slowly. you gasped at the intrusion, butterflies sparking in your belly as his fingers found curled up against your spongy wall.
"steve"
"yeah darlin?"
"need you- properly"
“are you-“
“i’m sure, please”
he slid his finger out, wrapping his now slick hand around his length and shifting his hips until you felt his tip against your core.
"i'll go slow"
you swallow and nod, trying to not let yourself be intimidated by his size. he holds eye contact as he pushes in the first inch, searching for any signs of discomfort.
"keep going" you whispered.
inch by inch, agonisingly slowly, steve sank his cock into your welcoming cunt, wrapping himself in your softness, his hand finding yours. he laces your fingers together, holding them up by your head.
"god you feel- amazing"
the burn of you stretching around him bled into fiery pleasure almost immediately. your walls opening up willingly for steve, fitting him in like he was made for you.
“so big” you breathed out, mind turning all melty and warm.
“still with me?” he cupped your face in his large palm leaning over your body, his other hand tightening on yours.
“mhmm yeah” you looked back up at him, wrapping your legs around his back.
staring up at steve’s wide eyes, your chest tightened, and you knew it wasn’t from the way he was physically filling you up. although you could swear you felt him in your lungs.
“you can- move”
“yeah?”
“mhm”
“you feel so good- honestly princess i- don’t think im gonna last”
steve slowly pulls out, until just his tip is back grazing your entrance. with a shaky exhale he thrusts back in, starting up a rhythm that forced him intoxicatingly deep.
“mffh steve”
“feel good baby?”
“so good” you tilted your chin up to find his lips, whining against them.
“you sound so pretty like this- such pretty noises” his lips meet yours, kissing you lazily and gently.
steve’s hips roll in time your kiss, getting faster as your kiss deepens. your hands slip away from each other, both your arms reaching up to wrap around his neck, fingers tangling in his curls.
the hand that was holding yours runs down your body, his whole palm covering the curve of your waist, fingertips gracing your belly button, until he reaches where he disappears into you.
with his hand splayed out on your lower stomach, the pad of his thumb finds and rubs over your swollen clit. you gasp into his mouth at the sudden stimulation on your sensitive nerves, arching your back under him, pushing your chest into his.
“steve!”
“feel that baby- so full aren’t you?”
“yeah- uhh- so full”
his palm pushed on your lower stomach, against the faint bulge of his cock under your skin. the pressure between your hips doubles with steve’s hand on your belly.
“oh god- i’m so”
the tight coil under steve’s hand was tightening, quickly, your release in sight. steve could tell; the way your thighs trembled beside his hips, the way your walls tightened around his length.
“you close princess?”
“yeah- i-“
“let go for me darlin, i’ve got you”
your orgasm crashed over you at the sound of steve’s gravely words, washing over your whole body in wave after wave of pleasure, your head falling back against the soft pillow.
steve was close behind you, no longer able to hold back with the way your cunt was fluttering around him, or the beautiful sounds falling from your even prettier, swollen lips.
as he came, he dropped his head forward into your neck, lips attaching to the soft spot under your ear, mouthing at it as his climax took over.
“i love you”
you thought you were so blissed out that you were just hearing things, but when steve pulled back from your neck sharp and wide eyed, you know you weren't imagining anything.
“shit i didn’t-“
“steve?”
“no i- well- i did uhm”
red creeped up his neck, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment. you looked back up at him, chest heaving, fluttering your eyelashes in disbelief, and something warmer. relief.
“fuck- you don’t have to”
“i love you too”
the words fell of your lips softly, like a warm confession in a cold night. and to steve, it sounded like an angels personal prayer.
“you-“
“yeah”
his forehead fell against yours, closing his eyes and finally breathing steady with relief. you stayed for a moment, just breathing the same air, his nose nudging against yours with every inhale.
eventually, steve rolled of you, the loss of fullness from inside you and weight from on top of you making you whine softly.
you turned onto your side, curling into steve’s. you rested your head on his chest, listening to the still slightly fast thump of his heartbeat. his fingers found your hair, petting it gently as you shivered at the contact.
“so you seriously love me?” he whispered, almost afraid you were going to turn around as say it was a joke.
“yes- so serious” you pulled back to lean on your arm, looking at steve. “you got all scared”
“shut up” he quickly dismissed your teasing, pink tint returning to his cheeks, which you leaned down to kiss.
“i’ve almost said it before” you whispered against the corner of his mouth, feeling it curved upwards into a smirk at your confession.
“really?”
“now you shut up”
you layed your head down onto the pillow next to steve, throwing your leg over his hip so he turned slightly more into you. his arm rested habitually over your waist as yours held his bicep.
“i love you” he murmured against your lips.
“i love you” you closed the gap, kissing him until you felt dizzy.
Written for the fourth @steddiemicrofic 3rd year anniversary celebration prompt, steady | WC: 666 | Rating: E | CW: 18+ SMUT MDNI romance, explicit sexual content, orgasm control | Tags: gay!Eddie Munson, newly bi!Steve Harrington, developing relationship, Steve's a fast learner
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“Don't worry sweetheart, we'll take it steady, okay?”
Steve's never had a relationship with a guy before, so Eddie’s taking the lead. Not that Eddie's exactly had a relationship with anyone, but he's certainly hooked up with more dudes than Steve has, so he thinks it makes sense.
He takes him on burger dates and day trips, plays him songs, and buys him flowers. Steve didn't even realise that could be a thing, and Eddie loves how it always makes him turn adorably pink.
Eddie takes their physical relationship slowly too, first holding hands, letting Steve get used to the closeness, going at his pace. Then sitting closer, stroking Steve's leg, holding each other and cuddling.
Once they start kissing, however, Steve is in his element. Making out becomes their favourite thing to do, and it's Steve who encourages them to go further, asking Eddie to show him all the ways they can make each other fall apart. Eddie is only too willing to let Steve have a try at sucking him off, and he feels like a god on earth when he introduces Steve to a place inside of him that Steve's previously only heard rumours about.
So really, Eddie’s only got himself to blame for his current predicament.
“It's okay baby, we'll take it steady, yeah?”
Eddie had agreed without question, blissfully unaware of what Steve had in mind when he'd asked if they could try something different. Steve may not have been with a guy before, but he's a terrifyingly quick study, and he's blended whatever skills Eddie’d thought he'd imparted with everything he's learned from dating girls and has become a world expert in record fucking time.
He's got Eddie laid out on his plaid bedsheets, and he's been edging him to within an inch of his life by licking and kissing and sucking and nibbling enough to bring him tantalisingly close multiple times. Now, two of his talented fingers move inside Eddie, grazing that spot exactly how he showed him, Eddie whining and writhing before Steve backs off yet again. Eddie’s cock leaks as his hips buck involuntarily, and Steve smirks, triumphal, revelling in his boyfriend's disheveled and desperate state.
Eddie's a mess, hair everywhere, skin flushed and glistening as he babbles,
“Fuck, Steve. Please! Haaa!”
Steve takes just a little pity on him, wrapping his other hand gently around Eddie's turgid shaft. The thick length kicks and twitches, alive in its search for more of Steve's touch, and he gives Eddie a tiny bit more, easily gliding his thumb over the head using Eddie’s copious precum and the spit from Steve's teasing, sinful tongue that he left at least two, maybe three near-orgasms ago.
Eddie whimpers, grasping at the tangled bedsheets and barely resisting lunging for any part of Steve. That was part of their deal; this time, only Steve gets to touch.
Eddie thought it would be cute, fun even, letting Steve play, explore. But he had no idea how devilish Steve could be, and he can't decide whether this is heaven or torture. As Steve's warm, wet tongue laves lazily over his purpling head it's definitely the former, and his aching balls tighten in response. But as Steve torturously pulls away, again, he seriously reconsiders his life choices and everything that's led to this point.
But then, Steve's gaze turns hungry. His fist grips harder, his fingers slide deeper, and his tone softens as he breathes, sultrily,
“Okay, honey… now let go for me.”
Eddie barely hears all the words before a warm rush of ecstasy fills his entire being. He moans long and deep as his release finally thrums through him, cock throbbing and pulsing voluminous jets of hot, milky cum all over his belly and chest.
As it drips down to stain Steve's sheets, he slowly returns to reality. Initially playfully chastising, he's finally able to add the words he's been wanting to express for months,
“You're one devious asshole, Steven Harrington. But I love you…”
Thanks so much for reading!
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And massive thanks to all the team behind three years of these microfic challenges. It's always a joy, and we appreciate your hard work so much 🫶
⋆˚꩜｡pairing: eddie x bff!fem!reader
⋆˚꩜｡summary: After three months of listening to your best friend brag about the size of his dick, you finally decide to call his bluff.
⋆˚꩜｡tags/tw: explicit sexual content 18+ minors do not interact | no y/n, afab!fem!reader, best friends to lovers, alcohol use, light praise kink, unprotected p in v, eddie is a cocky mf, i think that’s all?
⋆˚꩜｡word count: 4.8k+
⋆˚꩜｡a/n: loosely inspired by this post right here, that has been sitting for literal years in my likes lol hope this is readable x // still on my writing break! just wanted to drop this<3
Eddie Munson was the bane of your fucking existence.
He was too loud, always yelling or laughing directly into your ear until it rang for the rest of the night. He was kind of disgusting too, forever burping in your face or wearing the same dirty socks because he’d forgotten to do the laundry again. He was annoying in every sense of the word. In fact, if you looked up annoyance in the dictionary, you’d literally find a picture of him grinning proudly at the camera.
Unfortunately, you’d grown more than used to all of it, considering he’d also been your best friend for years.
Although, lately, you’d been seriously considering giving him a different title instead. Best asshole. Best cocky motherfucker. Best creep.
Those last two had a nice ring to them, actually.
Especially considering that, ever since he’d lost his virginity three months ago, he’d developed an insufferable habit of flashing you that smug, sideways grin while going on and on about how big his dick supposedly was.
“I’m serious, sweetheart.” He leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with himself as his gaze dragged lazily over you before settling on your face again. “There’s no way someone like you could fit it.”
Ignoring the second glance he snuck down your cleavage as you leaned over the pool table, you lined up your shot with steady hands and fixed your eyes on the cue ball.
“What do you want me to say, Eddie?”
You pressed the tip of your tongue against the inside of your cheek as the cue brushed over your knuckles while you drew it back, just enough to steady the swing.
“Congratulations?”
The stick slid forwards in one smooth, measured movement, sending the cue ball snapping across the felt.
“Or condolences for never, ever finding someone willing to hop on your monstrous dick?”
One by one, the balls found their places. The striped ball disappeared into the pocket with a muted click, clean and final.
You didn’t rush to celebrate. Instead, you studied the table for a second longer, taking in the angle you’d left yourself before stepping into position for your next shot. It looked good when you leaned over the felt, cue gliding through your fingers as you lined it up.
Except it wasn’t, and the object ball caught the jaw of the pocket with a dull clack before spinning back onto the table.
“Aw, fuck,” you muttered under your breath, straightening as you stepped aside.
Eddie let out a low whistle as he took your place, that stupid, cocky grin still plastered across his face. Leaning over the table, he tapped the cue against the rail once before lining up his own shot. A sharp crack echoed through the empty bar as the cue ball connected, sending one of the solids banking neatly into the corner pocket.
“Listen, dude, I’m just saying.” Eddie shrugged as he pushed himself upright and reached for his beer.
Circling the table with your cue balanced loosely in one hand, you searched the table for what he’d left behind.
“Saying what, exactly?” you asked, arching an eyebrow.
“That it’s a genuine problem,” he replied over the rim of his beer bottle. “Remember that girl I fucked in the back of the van last week?”
Before you could even tell him to stop, he was already launching into the story.
Apparently, she’d spent half the time insisting he was too big while stubbornly trying to take all of him anyway.
You answered by leaning over the pool table once more, deliberately focusing on your shot instead of the absolute bullshit coming out of his mouth. The cue slid smoothly through your fingers before the cue ball rolled forward with a satisfying crack.
“Dude.” You scrunched your nose in disgust as you straightened. “I do not need to know all the details.”
Eddie flashed that infuriating grin again, dragging the tip of his tongue lazily across his lower lip.
“You don’t have to hear the details,” he said with a shrug. “You could always skip straight to the practical demonstration.”
And there it was.
It wasn’t the first time Eddie had held your gaze a little longer than necessary while spewing some ridiculous bullshit about taking him for a test drive. It came with years of friendship – careless, empty words tossed around for no other reason than to get a rise out of you.
But, see, Eddie had somehow forgotten who he was talking to – you. The physical incarnation of intrusive thoughts, and the only person who could match Eddie’s freak – or his stupidity.
The rest of your friend group had perfected the art of staying out of it; they’d learned years ago that the quickest way to become collateral damage was to accidentally encourage either of you.
And once one of you committed to the bit, the other treated it like a declaration of war.
Big mistake on Eddie’s part for forgetting that.
“Alright,” you said with a dramatic sigh as you pushed yourself away from the pool table. “Strip.”
Eddie’s hand stalled halfway to his mouth, the beer bottle hovering just below his lips. The cocky grin faltered for only a second before he recovered with a chuckle.
“C’mon, sweetheart.”
“I’m serious.” You raised an eyebrow. “You closed the place an hour ago. It’s just the two of us here.”
Crossing the room, you slid your cue back onto its rack before grabbing your beer from the table behind him. You tipped back the last mouthful and set the empty bottle down with a hollow thunk before turning back to him.
“So…” You folded your arms across your chest. “Strip.”
“I’m not just gonna–”
“Why not?” You tilted your head, all mock sympathy. “Afraid you’ll embarrass yourself?”
Eddie scoffed, although it lacked some of its earlier confidence. “Of course not–”
“Then fucking strip and get on the pool table.”
Eddie blinked, caught off guard for the briefest moment, before that crooked grin slowly crept back onto his face. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, the grin returning despite the lingering pink in his cheeks.
“Jesus H. Christ. You’re actually serious.”
“I’m dead serious, Eddie.” You kept staring at him, thoroughly unimpressed by the fact he still hadn’t moved. “Do I have to come over there and do it myself?” You’d barely finished the sentence before uncrossing your arms and taking a few deliberate steps towards him. “Because I will.”
“What–”
“You know, I don’t believe a word that’s come out of your mouth for the past three months.” You stopped in front of him, curling your fingers into the open front of his flannel just enough to tug him a fraction closer. Holding his gaze without blinking, you added, “So here’s your chance, big boy. Prove me wrong.”
Eddie searched your face for the punchline, but there wasn’t one.
The flirting had become second nature a long, long time ago, neither of you really able to pinpoint exactly when. Somewhere along the way, the lingering touches, the forced proximity, and the teasing words had all become part of the game the two of you played more often than not.
A game that had never gotten this far before.
And somehow, Eddie didn’t seem to mind.
A slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. Without breaking eye contact, he reached behind his back and set his beer on the edge of the table, and then his hands settled on your hips instead.
“Look, sweetheart,” Eddie chuckled, tightening his grip on your hips. “How about you take me out to dinner first, hm?”
“You already made me buy you a shot during your shift.” You shot him an unimpressed look before tightening your fingers around his flannel. With a firm tug, you slipped it off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor between you. “You’re stalling, and I’m getting impatient.”
A crooked grin spread across Eddie’s lips as he flickered his gaze up and down your face. “As you wish, sweetheart.”
His gaze lingered on yours for another beat as the tip of his tongue swept lazily across his lower lip. Giving your hips one final squeeze, he finally let go and took a few unhurried steps backwards. He winked, and then reached for the button of his jeans.
“This better be worth my time, Munson.”
Taking a few steps back yourself, you leaned against the edge of the pool table before hoisting yourself up to sit on it.
Ignoring the raised eyebrow Eddie shot your way, you hooked your fingers beneath the hem of your shirt and peeled it over your head in one smooth motion before tossing it somewhere in his general direction.
Eddie’s ringed hands stalled for the briefest moments as his eyes wandered over your frame – or, more specifically, the lacy bra hugging your chest just a little too well for his own peace of mind.
This felt vastly different from seeing you in a bikini.
Maybe it was because there was nothing casual about it. Nothing accidental about you taking your shirt off for him, on purpose.
Or maybe it was the faint outline of your nipples beneath the lace.
Whatever the reason, it was definitely not why his fingers hesitated for that split second before he forced himself to continue undoing his jeans.
Eddie’s entire shift had been so fucking loud that, by the end of it, his head had been pounding behind his temples.
Now though? The quiet was somehow worse. The low hum of the bar fridges beneath the counter and the steady ticking of the clock somewhere behind him suddenly sounded deafening. There was no music or drunken chatter to drown out the frantic pounding of his heartbeat – or the fact that you didn’t seem to have any intention of backing down.
Which, naturally, meant Eddie wasn’t about to back down either.
Swallowing past the lump in his throat and praying you hadn’t noticed, he forced that cocky grin back into place before kicking off his shoes and shoving his jeans down the rest of the way.
“Gonna take off that skirt of yours,” he scoffed as he hooked a thumb beneath the collar of his shirt, pulling it over his head, “or do you want me to do it?”
“Hm.” You tilted your head, pretending to consider the offer as the tip of your tongue swept lazily across your lower lip. “Promise not to cum the second you see my panties?”
Eddie rolled his eyes, though the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth never quite disappeared. “Real funny, sweetheart.”
He closed the distance between you with a couple of slow, deliberate steps. Curling his hands around your hips once more, Eddie lifted you off the edge of the pool table in one smooth motion, earning a startled shriek from you. He pulled you flush against his bare chest, looking at you through his lashes before a crooked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
His tongue swept lazily across his lower lip as he let his hands drift from your hips to the waistband of your skirt. Tilting his head forwards, he brushed the tip of his nose against yours while his fingers found the button.
The soft click of it coming undone echoed through the otherwise silent bar, and then came the quiet rasp of the zipper down. The sound lingered in the air for a moment before your skirt pooled around your ankles with a muted thud.
“You sure you wanna do this?” he asked quietly, his fingertips lingering against the bare skin of your waist.
His grin lingered as his hands drifted back down to your hips. Warm, calloused fingers settled against your skin before tightening just enough to lift you onto the edge of the pool table once more.
“You gonna keep stalling, or are you gonna show that supposedly big dick of yours?” you murmured, instinctively curling your legs around his waist as a smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.
Eddie scrunched his nose in mock offence, looking almost genuinely offended by your choice of words. “Don’t objectify me.”
“Isn’t that exactly what you’ve been doing for the last three months?” You shot him a flat look.
He opened his mouth like he’d already thought of the perfect comeback, only to stop himself halfway through. A dry, disbelieving laugh escaped him instead as he shook his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“…Yeah, alright. Fair enough.”
For a second, you couldn’t remember what either of you had been saying as your gaze drifted across his face. It lingered on his parted lips for the briefest moment before finding his eyes again.
Eddie had always been Eddie – loud, obnoxious, and completely insufferable. The kind of asshole who’d burp in your face just because he knew it’d piss you off, steal fries off your plate after insisting he wasn’t hungry, and somehow turn every conversation into an opportunity to talk about himself.
Somehow, standing this close to him now, with your legs curled around his waist, he also looked unfairly handsome.
You hated that realisation.
More than that, you hated the fact that your eyes kept drifting back to his mouth – and that it hadn’t gone unnoticed by them.
You could see it in the way the corner of his mouth twitched into that stupid, cocky grin, and the way he stood there looking entirely too pleased with himself, as though he’d already decided he’d won.
There was no way in Hell you were about to let Eddie win this round.
So, before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned forwards and pressed your lips against his.
Eddie froze for the briefest moment, clearly caught off guard by the sudden kiss. His eyes widened just slightly before they fluttered shut again, a quiet, almost disbelieving hum escaping him like he hadn’t expected you be the one to close the distance first.
Then, as if remembering exactly who he was kissing, that familiar confidence returned. His grip on your hips tightened ever so slightly as he tilted his head, meeting you halfway and deepening the kiss with an ease that made your stomach twist.
His lips were every bit as soft as they’d looked, and it drove you just a little bit insane how unfairly good the asshole was at kissing. The steady pressure of his mouth against yours sent warmth blooming through your chest, only intensifying when he lingered for just a heartbeat longer than necessary before finally drawing back enough for the two of you to breathe.
“I thought I’d told you to get on the pool table,” you murmured, still slightly out of breath.
Looking up at him through your lashes, you swept your tongue across your lips, unconsciously catching the lingering taste of the kiss as you slowly unfurled your legs from around his waist.
Eddie, however, didn’t seem all that eager to let go. One hand lingered on your hip while the other drifted to the strap of your bra. He gave it a curious tug before letting it snap gently back against your skin, a smug grin spreading across his face.
“Getting desperate already?”
“Just wanna get this nightmare over with,” you replied with a dramatic roll of your eyes, giving his chest of a half-hearted shove.
“Sure, sweetheart.” Eddie chuckled as he finally let go of your hip. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Turning just enough for the small of his back to meet the edge of the pool table, he hoisted himself onto it before shuffling towards the middle of the green felt. Once has was comfortably settled, he folded his arms behind his head and looked over at you with some infuriating grin.
“Gonna make me sit here in anticipation just so I can be impossibly disappointed?” you scoffed, pushing yourself away from the edge of the table anyway.
“Wanna do the honours?” he asked, arching an eyebrow as he nodded towards his boxers.
Resting one knee on the felt before the other, you shuffled closer until you found yourself sitting between his parted legs. The green felt rubbed roughly against his back, but Eddie didn’t seem to care too much about it when your soft hands trail up his thighs.
Your gaze was fixed on Eddie, studying and memorising every single twitch of his face as you skimmed your fingers against the cotton material of his boxers before pulling back again.
You reached behind and unclipped your bra, slowly pulling the straps down your arms until there was nothing to keep Eddie’s eyes from drinking you in. Just for the Hell of it, you threw the lacy material in his face with a smug grin spread across your lips.
The soft glow of the bar casted soft shadows across your exposed chest, highlighting every dip and curve. His dark brown eyes are completely on your breasts, commuting each detail to memory – perfect, with a beautiful roundness to them, and hardened nipples that nearly drove him insane. Eddie’s palms itched to touch, to feel their weight in his ringed hands, and it took all of his self-control not to reach for you, to pin you down and cave in, to Hell with this stupid game between you.
But he waited, breath held, for you to make the next move as he did his best to keep that confident, stupid smirk on his face.
Eddie’s eyes pulled away from your breasts to the red lacy bra that had fallen onto his chest. “You know I’m keeping this, right?”
“You get souvenirs and I get disappointment?” you muttered, leaning forwards. “Doesn’t sound fair to me.”
“Only disappointment that you won’t make it fit, sweetheart.”
Anticipation coursed through your veins as your fingers grazed his hips before curling around the waistband of his boxers. Eddie lifted his hip silently, letting you slide his boxers down his thighs until he kicked it somewhere to the floor behind you.
The cool air fanned his bare skin, raising goosebumps in its wake – or maybe that was just the weight of your parted lips and gaze fixed on his cock.
Jesus fucking Christ.
The bastard hadn’t been lying.
There was absolutely no fucking reason for someone’s dick – especially Eddie’s, of all fucking people – to be this big.
He was long, a little thicker than your wrist, and the tip of his cock, swollen and desperate, was a beautiful shade of pink that matched his lips almost perfectly. And his balls, holy– They were absolutely perfect. Big, and round, and slightly droopy, beautifully adorned with a bush of tight, dark curls.
The lack of reaction – which, frankly was a reaction in and on itself – merely made Eddie’s smug grin widen as you kept staring dumbly at his cock.
“So, what do you say, sweetheart?” He chuckled lowly, reaching for one of your thighs. He trailed a finger along the seam of your inner thigh, delighting in the way you shuddered. “Is it gonna fit? Or is it too big for you?”
“I–”
“It’s okay if it doesn’t,” he reassured mockingly.
The tension between you stretched taut and electric as he guided your hand to his aching length. Eddie buckled into your palm, a low groan escaping his lips at the touch of your hand – so much softer, warmer, smaller than his.
“Shut up,” was all you could muster, although it sounded low and unconvincing.
You gave him a few curious flicks of the wrist before letting go of him again. The absence of your touch was infuriating, but the feeling quickly melted away as he watched, transfixed, as you shuffled to straddle him.
“Make me, sweetheart.”
You hovered right above his cock, and impatiently pulled your panties to the side while you lined him up with your free hand. Keeping your gaze fixed on Eddie’s, you swallowed hard before taking a deep breath and sinking down on his cock in one quick move.
A strangled gasp tore from your throat – or was it Eddie’s? – as you enveloped him in your slick heat. His hands immediately reached for your hips, his head mercilessly falling against the hard pool table.
“Jesus–” His breath hitched.
You let out a broken moan as you gave yourself good few seconds to get used to the forced stretch – he’s too long and too fucking thick, hitting you in all the right places while also making you feel completely impaled.
Biting your lip to keep the broken moans from escaping, you slowly began moving your hips in languid rolls. Each drag of your slick walls along his aching cock sent shockwaves rippling through you. You’re drowning in the feeling, lost to everything but the addictive pressure of his swollen tip hitting your cervix each time you sank back down.
“I– Fuck,” you whimpered, reaching for his shoulders to steady yourself.
“Son of a–” he gritted out, voice wrecked with need. He let out a strained chuckle while digging his fingers into your hips. “If you could only see yourself, sweetheart.”
Eddie’s gaze locked with yours, pupils blown wide and dark with desire.
“I-I can take it,” you whimpered, biting your lip when he rocked up into you, meeting your rhythm stroke for stroke. “S-see?”
“You for sure showed me, sweetheart.” He shot you that cocky smile you hated, moving your hips back and forth to help you. “I’m so upset I was wrong.”
“You’re so fucking i-insufferable,” you gritted out, voice wrecked with need.
The pool table beneath you creaked as Eddie’s hips pistoned frantically while he kept guiding you. He thrusted up into your slick pussy, meeting each roll of your hips with growing urgency. The wet, sticky sounds of his cock filling you filled the silent bar, obscene and thrilling.
“That’s it, baby,” he praised hoarsely. “You were made to ride my big, fucking cock, hm?”
The way he filled you to the brim made you feel hyper sensitive, and it’s too much and it fucking hurt, but holy shit did he feel incredibly good.
Eddie watched you through half-lidded eyes, drinking in the sight of your cock-drunk expression. Your breasts bounce with each impact of your bodies, hardened nipples just begging for attention. Leaning up, Eddie captured one in his mouth, suckling greedily while he kept thrusting up in the same pace. He growled into your cleavage, biting down.
“J-Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking wet.” He breathed as his eyes trailed down to where you were connected, watching in fascination at how you were practically drenching his cock. “You take me so fucking well. Greedy pussy gripping, hm?”
With a broken whimper, you pushed Eddie back down onto the felt table, and sped up your movements. The tiny curls around the base of his cock brushed against your swollen clit with every roll of your hips, pulling broken moan after broken moan. He was balls deep inside of you, hitting that special spot, determined to melt your brain until you couldn’t even form thoughts anymore.
Eddie’s cheeks were impossibly flushed as he stared up at you with half-lidded eyes as his tongue slipped out from between his lips. You leaned forwards, digging your nails into his shoulders as you smashed your lips against his for a messy kiss of spit and clanking teeth.
“I’m c-close, Eds,” you panted against his neck, teeth grazing his sensitive skin. “S-so fucking close.”
“Already, sweetheart?” Eddie scoffed, punctuating the question with sharp thrusts. “Fucking do it then, soak my cock.”
He ground against your sensitive spots, determined to push you over the precipice as his fingers found your swollen clit, stroking it with firm, purposeful circles. His own lips dropped open, a whiny groan slipping past his lips when you whined, loud and needy – he couldn’t help it, not when you looked like this.
Arching your back and crying out his name, you kept taking every deliciously painful thrust he gave you and, in return, you made him squirm under you with every clench of your pussy. He matched the tight circles he drew with his thumb to the quick snap of your hips, feeling the friction burning in your veins until your orgasm finally snapped.
“E-Eddie! Fuckfuckfuck.” You came hard with a loud cry of his name, soaking his cock as your thighs jerked. Distantly, you could feel a slick gush trail down to Eddie’s hips, sticky and addictive.
Eddie watched your body tremble before tensing, hips frozen against his as you threw your head back with a broken cry. His pubes tickle the inside of your thighs just right,
Frantically, he thrusted up, again and again, your body bouncing with every move. His grip tightened around your thighs, nails leaving crescent impressions in your soft skin.
“W-where do you want me, sweetheart?”
“I-inside, Eds,” you pleaded, high and desperate. “P-please, I need it. Fill me up.”
“Like you’re not filled enough already,” he scoffed against your lips. “Fucking take it then.”
Pleasure crested sharp and urgent, with one more thrust, two– then bliss exploded through him, stealing his breath and scattering coherent thought. You let him bite your lip while he throbbed and spilled into you, filling you to the brim until he’s practically covered in his own seed.
You slumped forwards, burying your face in the crook of his neck as it took you a good minute or two to come back down to earth. Eddie gave your hip a lazy squeeze, a contented sigh escaping him while his other hand drifted slowly up and down your bare back. His calloused fingertips traced absent-minded circles against your skin as he tried to steady his breathing.
Eventually, you pushed yourself up just enough to look at him. Your eyes met his, still slightly glassy, and you swallowed hard before a small, almost sheepish smile tugged at the corners of your mouth.
“So…” you started softly, only for the rest of the sentence to die somewhere between your brain and your mouth.
“So,” Eddie echoed with a tired chuckle, his thumb lazily brushing against your hip. The silence that followed wasn’t nearly as awkward as you’d expected; if anything, it felt strangely comfortable. “That was definitely… worth the wait.”
Eddie’s grin wasn’t nearly as cocky anymore; it had softened into something you’d never seen directed at you before. Or maybe it always had been, and maybe you’d just never noticed it before.
“You…” You swallowed, suddenly finding it much harder to get the words out than you’d expected. “You make it sound like this wasn’t just about proving a point.”
Eddie’s gaze wandered across your face before settling on your eyes again, the corner of his mouth twitching into the smallest of smiles. “Because it’s wasn’t. Not really.”
The words were spoken so matter-of-factly that they almost caught you off guard.
Truth be told, it wasn’t as though the thought had never crossed your mind – because it had. More than once, actually, if you were being completely honest with yourself.
Somewhere between lazy movie nights, sharing his bed after one too many drinks, lingering hugs that lasted a second too long, and countless inside jokes that blurred the line between friendship and flirting, you’d wondered what it would be like to kiss him.
Actually crossing that line, though… you’d never imagined it would happen because neither of you knew when to shut up.
Eddie let out a quiet breath through his nose, his thumb brushing another slow circle against your hip. “Didn’t think you’d ever look at me like that,” he admitted.
You looked at him for a long moment before a quiet laugh escaped you.
“You’re an idiot, you know that?”
“What did I do now?” His eyebrows pulled together in mock confusion.
“Instead of telling me about…” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “…whatever this is, you spent the last three months talking about how dick was in the hopes I’d just cave.”
Eddie huffed out a laugh, averting his eyes away from you. “Sounds pretty stupid when you say it out loud.”
“Because it is stupid,” you chuckled. “And so are you.”
A tired groan slipped past his lips as he pushed himself up, not caring if the remnants of your activities stained the green felt of the pool table beneath him. The hand on your back was warm as he trailed it up to cradle your cheek.
“So…” he trailed off, his voice quieter than before. “Do you wanna–”
“Give this a shot?” you finished for him, your eyebrows lifting ever so slightly.
Your gaze drifted slowly across his face, as though you were trying to commit every freckle and crooked smile to memory. By the time your eyes had found his again, your expression had softened.
“Yeah.” You held his gaze for a long moment before your smile grew a fraction wider. “I think I’d be pretty stupid not to.”
i would LOVE something where the reader is comforting Joe! Maybe him feeling insecure or upset about something and just fully leans on the reader for support. Just fluffy needy Joe and maybe some intimacy/smut to wrap it up! You’re the best!!
thank you so much for sending this one in!!
i absolutely adored this request. the idea of joe getting home from a long press run, feeling exhausted and overworked and like he has to perform for people to like him, then getting home to reader and just... letting himself be held for a while 😭
i really hope i did your idea justice. thank you for trusting me with such a lovely prompt 🫶
get back to your heart
Joe Keery x reader
Summary: After weeks of performing for everyone else, Joe finally comes home to the one place he never has to perform at all.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, hurt/comfort, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, praise (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 10k (my longest fic yet, i had a lot of fun with this one lol)
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!
The engine idles, a low vibration through the steering wheel that you'd stopped feeling twenty minutes ago. The arrivals board has blinked through three flight status changes - landed, taxiing, arrived - and now the automatic doors cycle open and closed, open and closed, each time spitting out travellers you don't recognise. Your hands rest at ten and two, though you've relaxed your grip somewhere around the thirty-minute mark. The heating fights the cold pressing against the windscreen, and you've cracked the driver's side window an inch just to feel the January air against your cheek.
A family rolls past with matching suitcases. A man in a suit talks loudly into his phone. A woman with a toddler balanced on her hip scans the crowd, face lit with recognition, and breaks into a smile. You watch her run toward someone, watch the hug, watch the way the toddler squirms between them. You look back at the doors.
He comes through them alone.
You know his walk before you can make out his face - the slight forward lean, the way his shoulders curve in like he's trying to take up less space than he needs. His duffel hangs from one hand, dragging his arm low, and the other hand is shoved into his jacket pocket. He isn't looking at the crowd. He's looking at his feet, at the concrete, at the striped zebra crossing - anywhere but at the people who might recognise him.
A woman glances his way. Does a double take. Opens her mouth.
Joe keeps walking.
Your hand moves before you decide to move it - you reach across and push the passenger door open, a small act, a crack in the silence. The console light clicks on. His head lifts.
Your eyes meet through the windscreen.
Something in his face softens. Just a fraction. Just enough for you to see the man beneath the exhaustion, the one you haven't seen in weeks. He doesn't smile yet. But his pace quickens, just slightly, and that small acceleration tells you more than any word could have.
You watch him cross the last stretch of concrete. Watch the way his free hand comes up to push his hair off his forehead - a nervous gesture, one he does before shows, before interviews, before anything that requires him to be someone else. He does it now, in front of you, and you understand: he's still shedding the performance. Still finding his way back into his own skin.
He reaches the car and bends to toss his duffel into the backseat. It lands with a heavy thud - clothes, probably, and a laptop, and the thousand small things he's carried through airports and hotel rooms and green rooms for weeks. He straightens, meets your eyes again, and this time his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. But close.
"Hey," you say. Soft. Simple. Just your voice, no pressure behind it.
"Hey." His voice cracks on the single syllable, and he clears his throat, looking away. He pulls the door closed, and the overhead light dies, plunging you both into the dim glow of the dashboard. The seatbelt clicks into place. The silence settles around you like something physical, something you both have to adjust to.
You don't ask how the flight was. Don't ask if he's hungry, if he needs anything, if the press tour had been brutal, if the fans at the gate had been overwhelming.
Not yet.
You just put the car in drive and pull away from the curb, merging into the airport traffic with the ease of someone who's done this route a hundred times.
Beside you, Joe lets out a breath. Long. Slow. Like he's been holding it since he stepped off the plane.
The motorway unfurls in front of you, a ribbon of wet asphalt reflecting the red taillights of the cars ahead. Streetlights pass in rhythm, casting shadows that move across his face - illuminating, then hiding, then illuminating again. His profile. The slope of his nose. The dark circles under his eyes that you can see even in the fractured light. The way his fingers rest on his thigh, motionless, not tapping, not restless - just still in a way that feels wrong on him. Joe's hands are never still. They move when he talks, when he thinks, when he breathes. These hands are dead weight.
You glance at him. Look back at the road. Say nothing.
You pass an exit for a roadside restaurant you'd been to together once, months ago, before the tour had swallowed him whole. You remember him laughing at something you'd said, remember the way his knee had pressed against yours under the table. That version of him feels distant now, like a photograph of a person you used to know.
But you don't reach for the old version. You don't try to pull him back to a memory. You just drive, letting the silence be what it is - not empty, not heavy, just a space you can both exist in without performing.
Fifteen minutes pass. Maybe twenty. The motorway gives way to residential streets, familiar turns, the oak tree with the twisted branch, the corner shop with the flickering sign. Home territory. The last mile.
Joe shifts in his seat. You feel him looking at you before you see it- the weight of his gaze on your profile, studying you the way you'd studied him.
"You're not going to ask," he says. Not accusatory. Just observant, like he's testing a theory.
"I'm not going to ask," you agree.
A pause. The heating hums.
"Why?"
You consider the question. Take the last turn onto your street, the tyres crunching over gravel and fallen leaves. The headlights sweep across your garage door - closed, waiting, familiar.
"Because you'll tell me when you want to," you say. "And right now you look like you need to not talk more than you need to explain anything."
He doesn't respond. But you hear him breathe again - that same long exhale, like you've given him permission for something he didn't know he was asking for.
The garage door creaks open as you pull into the driveway, the automatic light clicking on, illuminating the cluttered space - your bike leaning against the wall, a stack of boxes you still haven't unpacked from when he'd moved in, the dusty shelf of tools he'd promised to organise. You pull in and cut the engine.
The silence changes. The absence of the road noise, the absence of movement - just the two of you, sitting in the dark garage, the engine ticking as it cools. The garage light hums overhead, fluorescent and unflattering, casting everything in a pale, washed-out glow.
Joe doesn't move to get out.
You don't prompt him. You sit, your hands still on the wheel, your gaze fixed on the wall ahead. You can feel him beside you - the heat of him, the weight of his presence, the small sounds of his breathing. You wait.
His hand moves. You see it in your peripheral vision - his fingers uncurling from his thigh, reaching across the centre console, finding your arm. His touch lands light, his palm resting just below your elbow, his thumb brushing a slow arc across the fabric of your jumper.
You turn your hand over, palm up, an invitation.
He takes it. His fingers intertwine with yours, cold from the airport, from the hours of holding nothing. His grip tightens. Holds.
"I missed this," he says, so quiet you almost miss it. "I missed-" He stops. Swallows. Starts again. "I missed being able to just... sit. And not have to be anything."
You squeeze his hand. Your thumb finds the inside of his wrist, the place where his pulse beats steadily against your skin. "You don't have to be anything here."
He nods. A single jerky motion. His jaw is tight; you can see it now - the muscle jumping along the line of his cheek, the way he's holding himself together by sheer force of will. You don't call attention to it. You just hold his hand, letting the silence do what conversation can't.
Two more minutes pass. The garage light clicks off, sensing no movement, plunging you into darkness for a beat before clicking back on. The cycle of it. The patience of it.
Finally, you hear him unbuckle his seatbelt. The sound is loud in the quiet - a sharp metallic click that signals a shift. But he doesn't move to get out. He just sits there, his hand still in yours, his gaze fixed on the garage wall.
"I'm glad you were the one picking me up," he says. His voice is rough. Tired. Real. "I don't think I could have done the small talk. The smile-for-the-camera routine. Not tonight."
"I know."
He turns to look at you, then - really look, his hazel eyes finding yours in the dim light. There is something raw in them, something unguarded, like he's forgotten to put the mask back on. You meet his gaze and hold it, letting him see that you see it, letting him know that you aren't afraid of what he's showing you.
"Come on," you say softly. "Let's go inside."
He nods. His hand slips from yours, and the absence of his touch feels like a small loss, a thread cut. He reaches for the door handle. Pauses.
"Hey."
You wait.
"Thanks. For not-" He gestures vaguely, a motion that encompasses the car, the drive, the silence, the whole evening. "For this."
You smile. Small. Warm. "Always."
He pushes the door open, and the cold air rushes in, sharp and clean, carrying the smell of wet leaves and winter. You watch him step out, watch him walk to the back of the car to grab his duffel, watch the way his shoulders straighten as he stands - not in performance, but in preparation. The small gathering of himself before the next threshold.
You unbuckle your own seatbelt and follow.
The cold hits you the moment you step out - a January bite that finds the exposed skin at your wrists and the back of your neck. You pull your jumper tighter around yourself, the wool scratchy against your palms, and round the front of the car. Joe stands at the back, his duffel slung over one shoulder, his other hand resting on the open boot as if he needs something to anchor himself to.
The garage light hums above you, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Your bike leans against the wall, a spiderweb glistening in the corner, the stack of boxes still waiting to be unpacked. You'd meant to organise them while he was gone. Hadn't found the energy. Now you're glad - the familiar clutter feels like proof that life has continued here, ordinary and unglamorous, waiting for him to return to it.
You walk towards him, your feet silent on the cold concrete. He doesn't look up until you're close enough to see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his stubble has grown past careful into something rougher, less tended to. He'd stopped shaving mid-tour, probably. You've seen the photos - the carefully curated scruff that looks good under studio lights. This is different. This is neglect. This is a man who's stopped bothering with the small rituals of upkeep because he's too exhausted.
"You want me to grab anything?" you ask, nodding at the duffel.
He shakes his head. "Got it."
You don't argue. You step back, giving him room, and watch as he closes the boot with his free hand. The sound echoes in the garage - metal meeting metal, final and dull. He stands there for a moment, hand still resting on the closed boot, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. You see the crease between his brows, the one that appears when he's thinking too hard, when he's trying to solve a problem that doesn't have a solution. It's deeper than she remember. More permanent.
You wait.
His hand drops from the boot. He turns towards you, and for a second, something passes across his face - a flicker of uncertainty, as if he isn't sure what comes next, as if the script he's been following for weeks has run out of pages. You know that look. Have seen it before, in the early days, when he'd first started staying over and didn't know the rhythm of your place yet. He's learning a new space again. The space of being home.
"The light," he says, gesturing with his chin toward the automatic sensor. "It keeps turning off."
You glance up at the fixture. "Yeah. The sensor's been acting up. I keep meaning to replace it."
"I can do that."
"You don't have to."
"I know." He shifts the duffel on his shoulder. "I want to."
It's such a small thing - replacing a light sensor. But you hear what he isn't saying: he wants to do something useful. Wants to feel like he belongs here again, like he has a role to fill beyond the one he's just left. You understand. You feel it yourself, after long trips, the need to reassert your place in your own home by touching things, fixing things, making them yours again.
"Okay," you say. "We'll drive to the hardware store tomorrow."
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. There and gone. But you see it.
The garage light clicks off, plunging you into darkness for a moment before the sensor catches your movement and clicks back on. You think about how many times you've stood here alone, waiting for the light to come back, and how different it feels with him beside you.
"Ready?" you ask.
He takes a breath. Lets it out. Nods.
"Yeah."
You turn towards the door that leads into the house - the familiar wood with the scratched paint near the handle, the one you've been meaning to repaint for a year now. You read for the knob, and behind you, you hear Joe's footsteps on the concrete, following.
The key turns in the lock. The door swings open, revealing the dark hallway beyond, the faint outline of the coat hooks, the pile of mail you'd left on the entry table. Home. Waiting.
You step inside and hold the door open for him.
The door clicks shut behind him, the latch settling into the frame with a sound you've heard a thousand times but never noticed until now. The hallway light is off - you hadn't switched it on, relying on the spill from the garage through the small window near the top of the door. It casts a thin, bluish rectangle across the floorboards, illuminating the dust motes that drift in the still air.
Joe stands just inside the threshold, his duffel still slung over one shoulder, his free hand resting on the doorframe as if he needs to brace himself against the act of crossing. The garage light flickers behind him, the faulty sensor cycling through its familiar rhythm - on, off, on - before finally settling into a steady hum.
You toe your shoes off and let your keys fall into the ceramic dish on the entry table. The sound is small, ordinary, the kind of noise that belongs to this house and this life. The pile of mail you'd left there - a utility bill, a flyer for a new pizza place, a postcard from a friend travelling in Portugal - shifts slightly under the weight. You don't look at it. You look at him.
His eyes are on the floor, on the worn boards near his feet, on the spot where the finish has worn thin from years of footsteps. His chest rises and falls with a breath that seems to cost him something. The duffel's strap cuts into his shoulder, pulling his shirt collar askew, revealing the edge of a collarbone you want to touch but don't.
You turn to face him fully. The movement is unhurried, a rotation that brings your shoulders square to his, your feet planted on the cold floor. Your socks make no sound against the wood. The house is quiet around you - the hum of the fridge from the kitchen, the distant tick of the wall clock in the living room, the small settling sounds of a building adjusting to the winter night.
You open your arms.
No words. No explanation. No "come here" or "it's okay" or "let me hold you." Just your palms turning upward, your elbows bending, your chest opening in an invitation that asks for nothing in return. The gesture is simple, almost casual - the same way you might reach for him on the couch or in bed - but there is a stillness in it that makes it something else. Something deliberate. Something offered.
He stares at your hands.
For a long moment, he doesn't move. His gaze travels from your palms to your face, and you see the question in his eyes - the wariness of someone who's been performing so long he's forgotten how to accept something genuine. His jaw works. The muscle along his cheek jumps once, twice. His hand tightens on the doorframe.
You don't lower your arms. You don't fill the silence with reassurance. You just stand there, your palms open, your breath steady, your body saying the only thing that matters: I'm here. I see you. You don't have to earn this.
The duffel slides off his shoulder.
It hits the floor with a heavy thud - the sound of clothes and a laptop and the accumulated weight of weeks on the road landing in a heap on the entryway floorboards. He doesn't look at it. Doesn't reach for it. He just lets it lie there, a discarded shell, and takes a step towards you.
The distance between you closes in increments you can measure in heartbeats. One step. His hand leaves the doorframe. Another step. His shoulders curve forwards, the posture you'd seen in the airport, the one that says he's trying to take up less space than he needs. Another step. His breath hitches - just once, a small catch in the rhythm of his breathing, the kind of sound a person makes when they're trying very hard not to fall apart.
You hold your ground. Your arms stay open. Your palms stay turned towards him, empty and waiting.
He crosses the last inch of air between you.
His body meets yours with a force that surprises you - not impact, but surrender. The full weight of him falling forward, his chest pressing against yours, his arms wrapping around your waist with an almost desperate grip, his face burying into the curve of your neck. His knees buckle slightly, and you feel him sag against you, all the tension he's been carrying for weeks finally finding somewhere to land.
Your arms close around him.
The fit is familiar - the width of his back, the slope of his shoulders, the way his head fits perfectly into the hollow of your throat. You've held him a thousand times, in a thousand different ways, but this is different. This is a homecoming. This is him trusting you with the part of himself he shows no one else.
His hands press flat against your lower back, fingers spreading, gripping the fabric of your jumper as if he's afraid you might disappear. His breath is warm against your neck, uneven, coming in jagged fragments that you feel more than hear. He isn't crying - not yet - but there is a tremble in his body, a fine vibration that runs through his muscles like a current, the aftermath of holding himself together for too long.
You rest your cheek against the side of his head. His hair is soft against your skin, still carrying the faint smell of airport air - recirculated oxygen and jet fuel and the synthetic freshness of a plane cabin. But underneath it, there is him. The familiar scent of his skin, the one you've missed in the weeks he's been gone, the one you've caught yourself searching for on his pillow when you can't sleep.
Joe's forehead finds your shoulder. The gesture is instinctiv - a seeking, a settling, a final surrender of the last defences he's been holding. His nose presses into the fabric of your jumper, and you feel the warmth of his breath through the wool, a rhythmic pulse that begins to slow as the seconds pass.
Your hand moves up his spine, fingers trailing over the ridges of his vertebrae, counting them the way you've done a hundred times before. You reach the nape of his neck, where his hair grows softer, and the skin is warm, and let your palm rest there. A grounding point. An anchor.
He makes a sound against your shoulder. Not a word. A small, broken thing, half exhalation and half sob, muffled by the wool of your jumper. You feel it more than hear it - the tremor that passes through his chest, the way his arms tighten around your waist, the way his body presses closer, as if he's trying to climb inside your ribcage and live there.
You don't say anything. Don't shush him. Don't tell him it's okay. You just hold him, your palm warm against his neck, your other hand resting flat on his back, feeling the rhythm of his breathing against your palm. Letting him take what he needs.
A minute passes. Maybe two. Time loses its edges in the dim hallway, the only light the pale rectangle from the garage window, the only sound the soft rustle of his breathing and the distant hum of the fridge. The duffel lies at your feet, a dark lump on the floor, forgotten. The pile of mail remains untouched on the entry table. The coat hooks cast a long shadow against the wall, and somewhere in the living room, the clock ticks forward, measuring time you aren't paying attention to.
Joe's grip loosens. Just slightly. His hands relax from fists into flat palms, the tension draining out of his fingers in stages. His forehead stays pressed against your shoulder, but his breathing has steadied, the jagged edges smoothing into something closer to sleep than distress.
You turn your head, just enough to press your lips to his hair. The kiss is light, barely there, a brush of warmth against the crown of his head. You let your mouth linger for a moment, breathing him in, before pulling back to rest your cheek against him again.
His hand moves. The one that had been gripping the small of your back slides around your hip, his fingers finding the hem of your jumper, slipping underneath to touch the bare skin of your waist. His palm is cold - the cold of the airport, of the car, of the walk from the garage - but it warms quickly against your body, his fingers pressing into your skin with a gentleness that feels like a question.
You answer by pressing closer. By letting your hand slide from his neck to his jaw, your fingertips tracing the line of his stubble, the sharp edge of his cheekbone, the soft skin beneath his eye. He closes his eyes at the touch - you feel the flutter of his lashes against your fingertips - and lets out a breath that seems to carry the last of the tension from his shoulders.
The duffel lies on the floor. The door is closed. The garage light has clicked off, finding no movement, and the hallway is dark except for the thin seam of light beneath the door. You stand in the shadow, two bodies learning each other again, the silence between you filled with everything you haven't said and don't need to.
His thumb traces a slow arc across the skin of your waist. A single motion, repeated once, twice, three times. A pattern. A reassurance. A way of saying I'm here without using words he doesn't have.
You let your fingers drift into his hair, combing through the tangled strands, working out a small knot near the base of his skull. He leans into the touch, his weight shifting further into you, and you feel the last of the resistance leave his body - the final surrender of a man who has finally, fully, come home.
His forehead is warm against your shoulder. His breath is slow and even, warming the fabric of your jumper. His arms are loose around your waist, no longer gripping, just resting, just holding.
You hold him back.
The duffel waits on the floor. The mail waits on the table. The rest of the house stretches out behind you - the kitchen with its unwashed dishes, the living room with the blanket still draped over the couch where you'd slept some nights, the bedroom with the bed you'd made that morning, not knowing when he'd be in it. All of it waiting. All of it patient.
But here, in this dim hallway, with his weight against you and his breath in your hair, nothing else exists. Just this. Just you. Just the slow, steady rhythm of two people breathing together, the silence holding you like a room with no walls.
His voice comes finally - rough, barely above a whisper, muffled against your shoulder.
"Can we stay like this?"
Your arms tighten around him once - a squeeze, a confirmation, a promise sealed without words. Then you pull back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding from his back to his shoulders, your fingers tracing the line of his collarbone before coming to rest on his chest. His eyes are still closed, his forehead still pressed to your shoulder, his breath warm against the column of your throat. You let your gaze travel over him - the dark crescents beneath his lashes, the slight part of his lips, the way his features have softened into something almost childlike in their surrender.
"Yes," you say. The word is quiet, barely more than a breath, but it lands in the space between you like a stone dropping into still water. "We can stay like this."
Joe's hand presses flat against your lower back, a small acknowledgement, a thank-you spoken through his palm.
You let the silence hold you for another moment - one more breath, one more heartbeat, one more second of the world reduced to the warmth of his body against yours. Then your hand moves. Slides from his chest to his shoulder, down his arm, your fingers trailing over the fabric of his jacket until you reach his wrist. You wrap your hand around it - not gripping, just holding, your thumb resting in the hollow where his pulse beats steady and slow.
"Come with me," you say.
He opens his eyes. Lifts his head. Looks at you with that raw, unguarded gaze that makes your chest ache. There's no question in his expression, no hesitation - just a quiet trust, the kind that comes from knowing he doesn't have to understand where you're going, only that you're leading.
You tug gently. A small pull, an invitation. His feet move, following your lead, his hand turning beneath yours so his fingers can intertwine with yours. The duffel lies forgotten on the floor behind you, a dark lump in the dim light. You don't look back. Neither does he.
You step past him, turning towards the living room, your fingers still laced with his. The hallway is narrow - familiar, worn, the walls close enough that your shoulder brushes against the textured wallpaper as you pass. A photograph hangs crooked on the wall, a candid shot of you at a farm shop last summer, his arm around your waist, your head thrown back in laughter. You meant to straighten it. Never have. Now it feels right, that small imperfection, that proof of a life lived without posing.
Joe's footsteps follow yours, unhurried, the soft scuff of his sneakers against the floorboards. His grip on your hand is loose but present - a connection, not a restraint. You can feel his gaze on the back of your head, on your shoulders, on the curve of your spine as you lead him forwards. You don't turn around. You let him look. Let him find his way back into this space through the shape of you.
The hallway opens into the living room, and you feel the shift in the air - the change from the narrow corridor to the broader space, the warmth of the radiator clicking in the corner, the faint smell of the candle you'd burned earlier that evening. The curtains are half-drawn, letting in the pale glow of the streetlight, casting long rectangles of gold across the hardwood floor. The room is quiet in the way only a room that has been empty for weeks could be - a stillness that feels like waiting, like the furniture has been holding its breath for Joe's return.
The couch sits against the far wall, the same one you'd bought together at a thrift store two years ago, its faded blue upholstery worn soft from use. The blanket you've been using is draped over one arm, a cream-colored throw that has pooled on the cushions when you'd gotten up for water and never folded. A mug sits on the side table, cold now, a ring of coffee staining the wood. You'd left your book face-down on the armrest, spine cracked, page marked, a life paused in the middle of a sentence.
You stop at the edge of the rug - the threadbare Persian one you'd found at a car boot sale, the one with the faded medallion pattern that Joe always says looks like a target. He'd laughed the first time he saw it. You remember the sound. Remember wanting to bottle it.
You turn to face him.
He stands a step behind you, still holding your hand, his shoulders curved in that posture you've come to recognise as his default after long days. The streetlight catches the side of his face, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow beneath his cheekbone, the way his hair falls across his forehead in tangled strands. His eyes are on you, soft and dark and full of something he isn't saying.
You lift your joined hands and press a kiss to his knuckles. The gesture is small, almost unconscious, but you feel his breath catch - a tiny hitch, a moment of surprise at being touched so gently, at being treated like something precious.
"Sit down," you say. "I'll get you some water."
He shakes his head. "Don't-" His voice cracks again, and he clears his throat, looking down at your hands. "Don't leave."
The words hang in the air between you. Simple. Bare. A confession of need dressed as a request.
You let go of his hand and reach up, your palms finding his cheeks, cradling his face with a tenderness that makes his eyes flutter closed. His stubble is rough against your skin, unfamiliar after weeks without touching it, but his warmth is the same, the fit of his face in your hands as natural as breathing.
"I'm not going anywhere," you say.
He leans into your touch, his hands coming up to cover yours, pressing your palms more firmly against his cheeks. A long exhale escapes him, carrying the last of the tension from his shoulders, and you watch him soften - watch the rigid lines of his posture melt into something pliant and trusting.
"Okay," he says. The word is quiet. Resigned in the best way, the resignation of someone who has finally stopped fighting.
You guide him backwards, your hands still on his face, your steps slow and deliberate, until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the couch. He drops onto the cushions without resistance, his hands falling from yours, his body sinking into the familiar dip of the seat you've spent hundreds of evenings on. The blanket pools against his hip, and he reaches for it instinctively, his fingers finding the edge of the fabric and holding it like an anchor.
You stand in front of him, looking down at the way the streetlight paints shadows across his features. He looks smaller here, in this room, in the context of your shared life - not diminished, but relieved of the weight of performance. The couch is too soft, the cushions too worn, and he's wearing the same band t-shirt he'd worn on the flight, the collar stretched, a small stain near the hem. He looks like he belongs here. Like he'd never left.
You move around the coffee table, your feet silent on the rug, and settle onto the couch beside him. Not too close - you give him space, let him decide how much contact he needs. But close enough that your knee brushes his, a point of connection he can choose to deepen or ignore.
He chooses to deepen.
He shifts, turning towards you, his hand finding your thigh and resting there with a weight that feels deliberate. His palm is warm through the fabric of your joggers, his fingers curling slightly, gripping the softness of your leg as if you're a fixed point in a world that has been spinning too fast.
"Can I-" He stops. Swallows. Starts again. "Can I put my head in your lap?"
The question is small, almost shy, and it undoes you in a way you don't expect. This is the same man who commands stages, who holds the attention of thousands, who has been photographed and interviewed and analysed from every angle. And here he is, asking permission to rest his head in your lap like a child seeking comfort from a nightmare.
"Yes," you say, and your voice comes out softer than you'd intended, thick with an emotion you don't try to name.
He moves slowly, the way a man moves when he's running on empty, his limbs heavy and uncoordinated. He shifts his weight, twists his torso, and lowers himself onto his side, his head finding your thigh with an accuracy that speaks of practice. He'd done this before - in the early days, when you'd spend whole Sundays on this couch, reading and talking and falling asleep in the afternoon light. His body remembers the shape of this position, the way his shoulders fit against the cushion edge, the way his spine curves to accommodate the length of the seat.
His head settles in your lap, the weight of it familiar and grounding. His hair spills across your thigh, dark against the cream fabric of your joggers, and you watch his eyes close as he lets out a breath that seems to carry the last of the day's defences with it.
Your hand finds his hair before you consciously decide to move it. Your fingers comb through the tangled strands, working through a knot near his temple with a patience that feels like a prayer. His hair is longer than it had been when he left - he hadn't gotten his usual trim before the tour, and it shows in the way it curls at the ends, brushing against his collar and falling across his forehead in waves you have to push back to see his face.
He makes a sound. A small, hummed note of contentment, the kind of sound a person makes when they're finally, truly comfortable. His hand finds your knee, his palm resting against the joint, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles on the fabric.
"I forgot what this felt like," he says, his voice muffled against your thigh. "Being cared about by someone who-" He pauses, searching for words. "Someone who isn't getting paid to do it."
You don't laugh. Don't brush it off with a joke. You just keep your fingers moving through his hair, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a rhythm you've learned from trial and error, from the nights he'd come home wired and unable to sleep, from the mornings he'd woken up with his head in your lap and asked you to stay there a little longer.
"I thought about you," he says. The words come out fragmented, like he's testing them as he speaks. "On the road. In the hotels. Between interviews. I'd lie in bed and try to remember what it felt like to just-" He gestured vaguely, his hand waving near his chest. "To just be held. Without the performance. Without having to give anything back."
"And?"
He's quiet for a long moment. His thumb stops moving on your knee. His breath evens out, slowing, deepening into something that sounds almost like sleep.
"I couldn't," he says finally. "I couldn't remember. I knew it existed. I knew I'd felt it before. But I couldn't-" His voice cracks, and he stops, pressing his face harder against your thigh. "I couldn't feel it."
You feel the wetness before you understand it - the warmth of a tear soaking through the fabric of your joggers, spreading against your skin. You don't look down. Don't call attention to it. You just keep your hand moving through his hair, your fingers steady, your touch soft.
"I'm here now," you say. "You don't have to remember. You can just feel it."
His hand finds yours, pulling it from his hair, pressing your palm against his chest. You feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt - steady, strong, alive. His fingers curl around your hand, holding it there, keeping you anchored to the rhythm of him.
"I love you," he says. The words come out raw, scraped clean of performance, bare in a way that makes the air in the room change. "I don't say it enough. I don't- I don't show it enough. But I love you. And I-" He takes a shaky breath. "I don't know how to be the person who deserves the way you love me."
You lower your head, pressing your lips to his hair, letting the kiss linger. Your thumb traces the line of his collarbone, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric.
"You don't have to deserve it," you say. "You just have to let yourself have it."
His hand tightens on yours, and you feel the shudder that runs through him - a release, a surrender, a letting go of something he's been carrying for longer than you could know. You hold him through it, your body a container for his grief, your presence a promise that he doesn't have to carry it alone.
The clock ticks on the wall, measuring time in increments that feel both infinite and irrelevant. The streetlight shifts as a cloud passes overhead, dimming the room for a moment before brightening again. Somewhere outside, a car passes, its headlights sweeping across the curtains before fading into the night.
Joe's breathing slows. Deepens. His hand relaxes around yours, his grip loosening into something more like resting than holding. His body settles against you, his weight becoming heavier, more trusting, as the tension of the last weeks slowly bleeds out of him and into the cushions beneath you.
You watch his face in the dim light - the way his features soften in sleep, the way the lines around his eyes smooth out, the way his lips part slightly as his breath evens into the rhythm of rest. He looks younger like this. Lighter. Like the version of himself that existed before the cameras and the crowds and the constant pressure to be someone other than who he is.
Your hand continues its slow path through his hair, your fingers mapping the familiar territory of his scalp, the curve of his ear, the soft skin behind it. You don't stop. Don't slow. You keep touching him, keep proving that he's here, that he's home, that the world hadn't ended while he was gone.
Minutes pass. The clock ticks. The radiator clicks and hums. The streetlight throws its steady beam across the floor, and the dust drifts in the pale light, suspended and unhurried.
His hand moves. Not much - just his fingers curling around the hem of your joggers, holding the fabric like a child holding a blanket. A small gesture. An unconscious seeking of comfort.
You cover his hand with yours, threading your fingers together over your thigh, and let your eyes close. You don't sleep - not quite - but you let yourself drift in the warm, quiet space of having him back. The weight of his head. The warmth of his hand. The slow rhythm of his breathing, syncing with yours in a cadence that feels older than words.
The book on the armrest waits to be finished. The cold mug of coffee on the side table waits to be washed. The unpacked boxes in the garage wait for another day. None of it matters. None of it exists beyond the boundaries of this room, this couch, this man sleeping in yur lap.
You press another kiss to his hair, letting your lips linger, and feel his hand tighten around yours in response - a reflex, an acknowledgement, a small confirmation that even in sleep, he knows you're there.
"Welcome home," you whisper against his hair.
You feel the shift before you hear it - a change in the weight of him, a small tension returning to muscles that had been slack with sleep. His fingers curl against your thigh, not quite gripping, just moving, a subconscious return to awareness. His breath changes, deepens, and you feel the precise moment he surfaces from sleep into the grey space between dreaming and waking.
You don't stop the motion of her fingers through his hair. Keep the rhythm steady, your nails grazing his scalp in the same slow pattern, letting him find his way back at his own pace. The streetlight has shifted, the rectangle of gold on the floor now stretching towards the wall, and the room has grown cooler, the radiator's heat fading into the winter night.
Joe's hand moves from your knee to your shin, his palm sliding down the curve of your calf, his fingers wrapping around your ankle like he's checking that you're still there, still solid, still real. His thumb presses into the bone, a small pressure, an anchor.
You look down at him. His eyes are still closed, but there's a wakefulness in his face now, a subtle shift in the set of his jaw. His lips part, close, part again, as if he's testing whether he has words ready.
"Hey," you say. Your voice is quiet, a thread of sound in the dark room.
His eyes open.
They find yours immediately, as if he'd known exactly where you would be. His gaze is soft, still blurred with sleep, but there's something else in it now - a warmth that had been buried under exhaustion, surfacing like light through receding water. He looks at you for a long moment, his hand still wrapped around your ankle, his head heavy in your lap.
"Hey," he says back. His voice is rough, sleep still clinging to the edges of it.
You smile. Small. Just for him.
He doesn't smile back. But his hand moves - sliding from your ankle up your calf, over your knee, coming to rest on your thigh. His palm is warm through the fabric, and his fingers press into the softness of your leg with a weight that feels like intention.
You watch his hand. Watch the way his fingers spread, gripping your thigh with a new possessiveness that hadn't been there in the sleepy vulnerability of the past hour. His thumb traces a slow arc on the inside of your leg, the pressure firm enough to feel through the joggers.
You look at his face. His eyes are on your mouth.
Something shifts in the air between you. The room doesn't change - the same streetlight, the same dust motes, the same ticking clock - but the quality of the silence alters, thickens, becomes something you can lean into.
Joe's hand tightens on your thigh. A small pull, a request.
You lower your head towards him, your hair falling forwards, brushing against his cheek. You pause an inch from his mouth, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, to see the slight part of his lips, the way his eyes are dropped half-closed, waiting.
"Tell me what you want," you say.
His hand slides up your thigh, over your hip, finding your waist. He tugs, a gentle but insistent pull, drawing you down towards him. You let yourself be moved, your body bending over his, your hands finding the cushions on either side of his head.
His hand comes up to your face. His palm presses against your cheek, his fingers threading into your hair, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. He looks at you like he's memorising you, like the light in this room is the only light he trusts.
"I want to kiss you," he says. "I want to feel you. I want to remember what it's like to want someone without performing it."
You hold his gaze. Let the words settle.
Then you close the distance.
The kiss starts soft - a brush of lips, a question asked through pressure rather than sound. Joe's mouth is warm, slightly chapped from the dry air of planes and hotels, and he tastes like the faint residue of coffee and exhaustion. You keep it gentle, your lips moving against his with a slowness that feels like reverence, your hand finding his jaw and cradling it the way you'd done earlier, in the hallway.
He makes a sound. Small. Lost. A noise that starts in his chest and escapes through his nose, a vibration against your mouth that you feel in your own ribs.
His hand tightens in your hair. Not pulling, just holding, like you're something precious he's afraid of dropping. His other hand finds your waist, fingers gripping the fabric of your jumper, bunching it in his fist.
You deepen the kiss. Press harder. Your tongue traces the seam of his lips, and he opens for you without hesitation, a surrender so complete it makes your breath catch. His mouth is warm and familiar and new all at once, a taste you'd been missing without knowing how much.
His hand slides under your jumper. His palm presses flat against the small of your back, his fingers spreading, pulling you closer. The contact is skin on skin, his hand warm against your spine, and you feel the shudder that runs through him at the touch.
You break the kiss. Just far enough to look at him. His lips are slightly swollen, his eyes dark and open, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that's faster than before.
"Come to bed," you say.
It isn't a question.
Joe's answer is in the way he moves - sitting up, his hand finding yours, his body turning towards the hallway without letting go of you. The blanket falls away from his lap, pooling on the cushion, forgotten. His hair is a mess, tousled from sleep and your fingers, and the streetlight catches the hollow of his throat as he swallows.
You stand, and he stands with you. His hand stays wrapped around yours, and you lead him through the living room, past the coffee table with the cold mug, past the book face-down on the armrest, past the photograph hanging crooked on the wall. The hallway opens in front of you, narrow and familiar, and you feel his gaze on the back of your head, on the curve of your spine, on the way your hips move as you walk.
The bedroom door is open. The room beyond is dark except for the thin seam of light from the hallway, cutting across the foot of the bed, illuminating the corner of the dresser and the edge of the frame holding a photograph you can't quite make out. The bed is made - you'd done it that morning, a small ritual, a gesture of hope that he would be in it tonight.
You step inside, pulling him with you. The door clicks shut behind you, and the darkness deepens, the only light the faint glow from the window where the curtains haven't been fully drawn. The streetlight filters through, casting long shadows across the floor, painting the room in shades of silver and grey.
You turn to face him.
He stands in the dark room, a silhouette against the pale light from the window. You can see the outline of his shoulders, the way his hands hang at his sides, the slight forward tilt of his posture. He's waiting. Not for permission - for direction. For you to tell him this was real.
You reach for the hem of your jumper. Pull it over your head in one motion, letting it fall to the floor. The air is cool against your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms, and you stand before him in just your bra, your skin warm in the dim light.
Joe's breath catches. Audible. A sharp intake that he doesn't try to hide.
He steps forward. His hands find your waist, his palms sliding up your ribs, his thumbs tracing the underwire of your bra. He doesn't unhook it - just touches you, his fingers mapping the curve of your breasts through the fabric, his gaze fixed on the place where his hands meet your skin.
"You're so beautiful," he says. The words are quiet, almost to himself, as if he's surprised by the truth of them.
You reach for his shirt. The hem is worn, the fabric soft from a hundred washes. You lift it, and he raises his arms, letting you pull it over his head. It joins your jumper on the floor, a pile of dark fabric in the shadowed room.
His chest is pale in the dim light. Lean, the muscles defined but not exaggerated, the kind of body that comes from movement rather than the gym. A scar you remember from a childhood accident, a thin white line near his collarbone. A scatter of freckles across his shoulders. The hollow at the base of his throat, where his pulse beats visibly against his skin.
You press your palm to his chest. Feel his heartbeat beneath your hand, strong and quick. His skin is warm, warmer than the air, and you let your hand slide down, over his stomach, stopping at the waistband of his jeans.
His hand covers yours. His fingers intertwine with yours, pressing your palm against the button of his jeans.
"I want to feel you," he says. His voice is rough, the words scraping past something raw in his throat. "I want to feel all of you. I want to-" He stops. Swallows. Starts again, his hand tightening around yours. "I want to be close to you. As close as I can get."
You unfasten his jeans. The button gives easily, the zipper sliding down with a sound that cuts through the silence. You push the denim down his hips, and he steps out of them, kicking them aside, standing in just his boxers in the pale silver light.
Joe's hands find your waist again. This time, he doesn't stop at your bra. His fingers find the clasp at your back, unhook it with a practised ease that makes you smile in the dark, and the straps slide down your shoulders. You let it fall, let it join the pile on the floor, and stand before him bare from the waist up.
His hands come up to cup your breasts. His thumbs brush across your nipples, once, twice, a touch so light it makes you shiver. He watches his own hands, watches the way your breath hitches at his touch, and you see something shift in his expression - a hunger surfacing, raw and honest and unguarded.
"I missed your hands," you say. The words come out before you can stop them, a confession you hadn't meant to make.
He looks up at you. His eyes are dark, the pupils wide, the hazel nearly swallowed by black. He doesn't say anything. He just pulls you closer, his mouth finding yours, and the kiss is different this time - harder, needier, his tongue sliding against yours with a desperation that borders on bruising.
His hands slide down your back, over your ass, gripping you through your joggers. He pulls you against him, and you feel him - hard, pressing against your hip through the thin fabric of his boxers. The evidence of his desire, unguarded, unmistakable.
You break the kiss. Step back. Your hands find the waistband of your joggers, push them down along with your underwear, and step out of them. You're naked now, standing in the dark room with the streetlight painting your body in silver, and you watch his gaze travel over you - your thighs, your hips, the curve of your stomach, the dark patch of hair between your legs.
Joe's boxers follow. He pushes them down, kicks them aside, and stands before you in the same silver light, his cock hard and waiting, the tip glistening in the dim glow.
You reach out. Your fingers wrap around him, light at first, just a touch, a greeting. He's warm in your hand, solid, and you feel the tremor that runs through his body at the contact. His head falls back, his eyes closing, his hand finding your shoulder for balance.
"I want you inside me," you say.
The words hang in the air, simple and direct, and you feel the effect they have on him - the way his breath catches, the way his cock twitches in your hand, the way his hand tightens on your shoulder.
You lead him backwards to the bed. Your knees hit the edge of the mattress, and you climb onto it; the sheets cool against your skin. You lay back, your hair spreading across the pillow, your legs parting in an invitation that needs no words.
He follows you onto the bed, his body covering yours, his weight a familiar pressure. His elbows bracket your head, his forearms taking his weight, his chest brushing against yours with every breath. He looks down at you, his face inches from yours, his eyes searching your expression for something you can't name.
"Are you sure?" he asks. The question is quiet, almost fragile, the vulnerability from earlier resurfacing.
You reach up. Your hand finds his cheek, your thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone, the curve of his jaw, the corner of his mouth.
"I've never been more sure of anything," you say.
Joe lowers his head, pressing his forehead to yours. His eyes close. He breathes you in - a long, slow inhale that seems to fill him with something he'd been missing. When he opens his eyes, they're soft, full of a tenderness that makes your chest ache.
He shifts his weight. His hand moves between you, guiding himself, and you feel the head of his cock press against you - not inside yet, just resting at your entrance, a question waiting for an answer.
You lift your hips. A small motion, a yes.
He pushes inside you.
The stretch is familiar and new at once, the way your body opens for him, the way he fills you. He moves slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust, his forehead still pressed to yours, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. You feel every increment of his entry, every ridge and vein, the heat of him spreading through you like warmth through cold glass.
When he's fully inside you, he stops. Just stops, his body still, his eyes closed, his breath shivering against your lips.
"I forgot what this felt like," he whispers. "Being this close to someone. Being-" His voice cracks. "Being wanted like this."
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. Your hands find his back, your nails tracing light patterns across his skin, feeling the muscles shift beneath.
"You are wanted," you say. "You're needed. You're mine."
Joe makes a sound - a low, broken groan that seems to come from somewhere deep in his chest — and begins to move.
The rhythm starts slow, a gentle rocking that feels more like grinding than thrusting, a back-and-forth that lets you both find the pace. His mouth finds your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your throat, and you feel the vibration of his moans against your skin. His hand slides between you, his thumb finding your clit, circling in time with his movements.
You arch into his touch, your fingers gripping his shoulders, your breath coming in gasps that match the rhythm of his hips. The pressure builds slowly, a warmth spreading from your core through your limbs, and you feel the familiar coil tightening in your belly.
He lifts his head. Looks at you. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted and wet.
"Look at me," he says. His voice is rough, a command wrapped in a plea. "Please. Look at me when you come."
You hold his gaze. Feel the weight of him above you, inside you, the heat of his body and the depth of his need. The coil tightens, tightens, and then breaks - a wave that crashes through you, your body clenching around him, your mouth falling open in a sound you can't contain.
He watches you. His eyes never leave yours, not even as his own climax builds, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, less controlled. He follows you over the edge, his body shuddering above you, his face buried in your neck as he comes with a sound that's half groan, half sob.
His weight settles on you. His breathing is ragged, his heart pounding against your ribs, his cock still inside you, softening. You wrap your arms around him, your hands cradling the back of his head, your fingers threading through his damp hair.
You both lay still, the only sound your breathing, the only movement the rise and fall of your chests. The streetlight casts its steady beam across the bed, illuminating the tangle of sheets, the curve of his spine, the way your hand rests on the back of his neck.
Joe lifts his head. Looks at you. His eyes are red-rimmed, not from crying but from the proximity of it, the closeness of the tears he's already shed and the ones still waiting.
"I love you," he says. The words are simple, stripped of everything but their truth.
You press your lips to his forehead. A kiss, soft and lingering.
"I love you too."
He lowers his head again, his cheek resting on your chest, his ear over your heart. His hand finds yours, your fingers interlocking, and you feel the last of the tension drain from his body - a long, slow exhale that seems to carry the weeks away with it.
The clock ticks in the living room. The radiator clicks. Somewhere outside, a dog barks, distant and irrelevant. The streetlight holds its steady watch, and the dust drifts in the silver light, suspended and unhurried.
Joe's breathing slows into the rhythm of sleep, his hand still holding yours, his body curled around you like you're the only safe harbour in a world that has demanded too much of him.
You press another kiss to his hair, let your eyes close, and hold him through the night.
summary : Realizing how hot your boyfriend is when seeing him working out.
warnings : explicit sexual content; 18+; SMUT; unprotected piv; oral sex (f receiving); fingering; male masturbation; no use of y/n; gentle sex; FLUFF; established relationship; pet names; (tell me if i missed some !!) possible grammatical errors; not proofread; english is not my first language
💌 lillie talks : I haven’t posted a smutty fic in almost a month ?? CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT ?? Cause i cannot. Anyways this took me so long to write for some reason, im so lazy i’m struggling writing these days. Read more of my work here : masterlist. Request are always open, feel free to ask anything !
Your relationship with Joe was perfect, even though you'd only been together for four months.
He was the most romantic man you’ve ever met and the most perfect in your opinion. He began to buy you flowers regularly, for no particular reason, it was just because he loved you. He noticed every mood changes of yours and immediately felt concerned every time your expression shift. Being in a relationship with Joe was definitely easy.
But the thing you loved the most was how respectful he was. His love language being physical touch led to gentle touches from him. Like holding your hand at every moment, grabbing your waist to move you or gently squeeze your thigh under the table during long dinner, just to check if you were okay. All this without pushing things further, he insisted that the relationship should go at your pace and that he didn’t wanted to do things you didn’t wanted to do, always waiting for you to take the first step.
Obviously, he wanted you to literally jump on him and kiss him desperately, all while begging him to fuck you — he was still a man, but a respectful one.
You felt like your relationship was perfect like this, and that sex was just a plus. Not that you didn’t wanted to have sex with him, of course you did, but right now it wasn’t your priority. Though the amount of time you’d touched yourself, thinking about his dick inside you said quite the opposite.
That evening, you entered Joe’s apartment quietly, he always left the door unlocked whenever he knew you were coming. You frowned when you opened the door and called for him but got no answer. He wasn’t in the living room, neither in the kitchen.
You gently set your bag and your coat on his couch, before removing your shoes and tossing them somewhere in the room. You ‘made yourself at home’ like Joe always told you.
You wandered around his apartment, calling his name, still having no answer. But every single room was empty, the bedroom, the home studio and the bathroom, desert. Until you heard a metallic sound coming from the end of the hallway. You slowly walked toward the room from where the sound came. The door was cracked-open and a dim light came from behind.
You glanced inside the room and saw Joe, planking in the middle of the room on a gym mat. He was shirtless, wearing just a short with the band of his Calvin Klein boxers peaking out. His headphones were tight around his head as he was whimpering from the effort. Sweat ran down his muscled and tensed back.
Your breath caught and your cheeks burned. You’d never truly realized how hot he was before. You’d already saw him half naked, multiple times, and saw him sweating on stage while jumping around and singing. But right now, seeing him working out was something else. Something you’d never seen before, and really enjoyed watching right now.
You licked your lips before capturing them between your teeth, leaning against the doorframe to get a better view through those small inches. The corner of your mouth twitched, turning into a discret smirk.
He was completely out of breath and the little sharp sound leaving his lips instantly made you think about what he could possibly sound like when having an orgasm.
Butterflies quickly found their way into your stomach, making your heart beat fastened and a weird feeling between your thighs.
When he couldn’t take it anymore, he collapsed onto the floor, his eyes shutting down while he tried to catch his breath. He then rolled on his back and finally saw you standing in front of the door. He smiled and immediately stood up, tossing his headphones aside his cheeks were flushed and his forehead dripping sweat.
You opened the door and crossed the room in few steps, before wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands landed on your hips, pulling you closer to his chest.
“Hey, baby.” He kissed your forehead, but you grabbed him by the neck to crash your lips on his. He laughed quietly between to kisses.
“Hey.” You murmured against his mouth after pulling away, smiling foolishly.
You started kissing his cheek, his jaw, going further down his neck and to his collarbone, “You shouldn’t be kissing me like that, i’m sweaty.” He laughed, his grip on your waist tightening.
“I don’t care.” You continued your way down and started kissing his hairy chest. But before you could go further, one of his hand grabbed your chin, tilting your head to make you look at him.
“What are you doing, pretty girl ?” He smiled.
You bit your lips, “Nothing.. You just look really hot right now.”
He laughed quietly, “All sweaty and panting ?” He frowned slightly.
“You’d be surprised.” He smiled completely now and leaned down for another kiss. The kiss was different, deeper and meaningful. Like you were finally crossing a line you’d never crossed before, which made no sense because you make out with Joe almost every night. But this kiss das definitely different, full of unsaid feelings and thoughts.
You pulled away for a moment, taking a time to catch your breath. His gaze was stuck in yours and you bit your lips for the tenth time.
Then you reached for his hand, tangling your fingers together. You pulled him toward you and guided him to his bedroom, which was right in front of the ‘home gym’.
When you entered the room, you turned around and closed the door, not like anyone could see you but it felt more comfortable like that. Joe’s brows furrowed, the corner of his mouth lifting. You turned back around to capture his lips in another kiss, his hand found the small of your back and pulled you closer, while his thumb drew slow circles on your skin.
He guided you back on to his bed by your waist, and pushed you down on it with his own body, his lips still stuck to yours. His breath was hot on your face, the kiss lingering longer than usual, full of wet sounds and all teeth and tongue. One of his hand started exploring your body, still not touching your ‘intimate’ parts, while the other rested behind your head, fingers stroking your hair slowly.
“Joe, please touch me.” You almost whimpered in his ear when he started kissing your neck.
He looked at you for a second, “You’re sure, baby ?” He asked quietly.
You just nodded as an answer and crashed your lips back on his. Then his hand finally slipped under your shirt and cupped one of your breast, making you gasp into his mouth. His thumb started teasing your hardened nipple, and the other moved to your face to brush your cheek gently.
You could feel his erection growing between your thighs, teasing your already sensitive clit. His hips started buckling against yours, creating an erotic friction between your bodies.
His fingers quickly found the hem of your shirt, pulling it off of you and breaking the kiss, leaving you in just a bra. His mouth lowered down, kissing your jaw and neck, before your collarbone and ending on your chest. Where he left small blue marks. His hand now moved to yours back and unclipped your bra, freeing you completely now. His mouth quickly found your nipple, making you moan and throw your head into the mattress. His other hand found your other nipple and pinched it slightly. Your hand landed on his hair, pulling on them slightly.
“Joe, please, I want more.” You whimpered again, your back arching against him.
He didn’t hesitate and started unbuttoning your pants, getting them off of you in a quick motion. You were now half naked under him, a small piece of lace covering your intimacy. But then his hand found the hem of your panties and pulled it down abruptly, making you laugh.
His fingers started moving through your folds, “You’re so wet, baby.” Your back arched again from the sensation.
Then before you could react, his mouth crashed on your pussy and his tongue started circling your clit, making you moan. Two fingers quickly joined his mouth and started pupping into you. But you wanted more, you were tired of pretending that you didn’t wanted that since you met him.
“Please, Joe.” You whined.
“Tell me what you want, pretty girl.” His fingers kept moving inside you.
“Fuck me, baby.” You begged.
He didn’t answer, just took off his pants and boxer at the same time. His thick cock was hard against his stomach. You looked down and bit your lips seeing his veiny member, already leaking precum. You reached down, your hand wrapping around him, a moan leaving his lips. You started stroking him slowly, his head fell on your shoulder as you moved your hand and him whimpering in your ear.
He gently gripped your wrist to put it aside, before grabbing himself and lining up with your entrance. He slowly pushed inside you, both of you moaning at the sensation. He slowly pulled out before thrusting back in.
“Fuck-” You whined as he started thrusting more in a steady rhythm.
His mouth found yours again while your nails dig into his back, leaving red marks. A new moan got out of your mouth at every thrust. Your walls started clenching around him, sucking him.
“You feel so good-” He moaned in your ear.
You felt your orgasm getting closer and closer. His hand flew to your clit, adding pressure on it. That was all you needed, your orgasm crashing over you as you screamed his name. He spilled inside you, painting your inside walls and moaning loudly in your ear. But he kept thrusting, shoving his leak deep inside you. And crashed over you, his breath hot in your neck.
“That was amazing, love.” He said quietly kissing that soft spot beside your ear.
You smiled foolishly, still dizzy from the action, “Yeah, it was perfect.”
He lifted his head and looked at you, smiling foolishly before kissing you again.
Few hours later, you fell asleep in his arms while he stroked your hair and kissed your temple. You definitely loved the way he sounds when having sex, and you already knew that from now on, you would do more gym exercises with him.
