Miss March

Fuelled by coffee, books and an unhealthy obsession with fictional men ! 30 +

[missmarch-99]

Missing you

Eddie Munson x fem reader x slight Steve Harrington x reader

Trigger warning: angst, hurt. Slight allusions to smut. Slight cheating. Minors DNI !!

My first time posting here. So here goes 😥

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

18 + below the cut

“I’m going to clear up and then get your meds baby ok, you want water or juice ?” You say quietly as everyone talks and laughs around you. He had been smiling and laughing with them all and it was like music to your ears. Seeing a little of the old Eddie had a huge smile on your own face.

“Water’s fine” he mumbles now like a sullen child as he looks away from you and you get up, kissing his cheek and start clearing away when you see Eddie wince as he moves and you are by his side checking him, fussing with his side and he glares at you

“fucks sake I’m fine.” He growls and you step back slowly, your best fake smile on as you head away pretending you don’t see the awkward looks your group of friends share.

Carrying plates into the kitchen the silence that had followed his outburst sounded loud in your ears before conversations started up again.

You stopped as you heard him laugh at some thing stupid one of the guys said and placing the used china on the counter and wept, head rested against the refrigerator and sobbed silently, a fist in your mouth to stop the noise of your heartache.

You had cried plenty when it happened and you thought he was going to die, wept openly as he laid unconscious for weeks as his body recovered and the doctors healed him. Sobbed tears of joy when he woke up and looked at you, grasping your hand like you were his lifeline.

Every tear has been for him. But these ones are for you, for your loneliness, your exhaustion, your inability to understand why he seems to hate you now.

You don’t hear someone come in until they already have their arms wrapped around you and for a second your heart sparks with hope that he is going to show you even a smidge of the affection he used to lavish you with but as you open your eyes and are met with a different set of brown eyes your heart breaks a little again.

“Oh hi Steve, sorry i’m sorry just having a little pity party for one in here” you joke but it is flat and unbelievable and and he doesn’t say anything just pulls you in holds you close. Strokes your back and makes soothing shushing noises in your ear until you can feel yourself calming down.

If someone had told you six months ago you would be stood in Steve Harrington’s arms you would have laughed in their face.

Even though he had graduated he would always be King Steve and as much as you were not unpopular you had always flown below the radar, a small group of unassuming friends, not part of any group or clique and he had no idea who you were before you had all been dragged into hell together.

Now, now you were friends, had got close in the upside down and closer still as he was the one to carry your broken boy out of that godforsaken place and visited him religiously at the hospital. He and Eddie had bonded and were close now and to you both, Steve was a good friend.

“You wanna talk about it ?” He asks as you pull away from his warmth and comfort and shake your head

“is he always like that, with you ?”

Wanting to protect his character and yourself from scrutiny but being too tired to hide the facade anymore you shrug then nod.

“I think he hates me” it comes out as a whisper, the singular thought you have been too terrified to voice and Steve sighs heavily

“honey, no he loves you.”

He had loved you.

You had met freshman year at Hawkins High, a mop of messy curls a little too long on his head, looking at anyone who came near him like he couldn’t care less but you saw something in his eyes that showed a desperation for acceptance of who he was.

You didn’t become friends straight away, classmates and you would occasionally talk but it was in sophomore year when your friend Laney developed an unhealthy obsession with Jeff, band member, fellow hellfire member and friend to Eddie that the two of you started hanging out.

When they started dating you found yourself in Eddie’s orbit. With his teasing and his dramatics and his devil may care attitude about everything, you fell hard and so did he.

The first day you sat at the hellfire table with Laney, he had grinned at you and you had rolled your eyes at your friends being gushy with each other.

“Come sit with me sweetheart, i can’t subject you to them when we can have fun.”

There was no big dramatic story of how you got together it was a natural progression from a solid, flirty friendship to the night on 4th July, watching the fireworks with the gang at lovers lake and he had looked at you as he passed you the joint and as you glanced up at him he had nervously leant down and kissed you. A soft lingering closed mouth kiss that had you blushing and your stomach swarming with butterflies.

You giggled as he pulled away and he snorted a soft laugh “oh baby you have no idea how long I have been wanting to do that.”

“Been wanting you to.” you answered and his eyebrows shot up under his bangs as he broke out into the widest smile, showing his dimple “yeah ?”

and you couldn’t stop yourself as you kissed that beautiful dimple nodding in earnest before leaning your head-on his shoulder and he put his arm around you.

His touch very rarely left you after that, walking the school halls his arm was slung casually over your shoulder, watching a movie, it was tightly around you as he stroked your side or trailed his fingers up and down the back of your arm. In the van he had one hand on your leg while he drove.

Hellfire that arm was around your middle where he had made you sit on his lap, small pecks on your shoulder or neck as he got animated during his DM duties. After a gig both arms would be used to pick you up, sway with you to a song playing only in his head. Fingers would hold your hand.

The boys in hellfire would groan. Complaining of how Eddie was obsessed and how they didn’t need to see him slobbering on you every second. Your friends after getting over the shock of you together would giggle and comment on how smitten you both were. Made for each other, they all said.

It was a night after a drive In movie with Laney and Jeff, a double date when you had plucked up the courage after weeks of heavy make out sessions that had been stopped before they went too far.

“Eddie ?” You whispered and he turned to you, still drumming his fingers to the music playing quieter than usual

“Yes baby ?”

“Can I come back to yours ?” He nearly swerved into the other lane, not that there was much traffic at this time of night but he corrected and stared back at you as you giggled “um yeah of course.”

As you had pulled up to the trailer and he had led you inside holding your hand he had held you close, breathing deep as he kissed your head.

“I’m not expecting anything you know that right ?” He asks and you nod looking up at him, chin on his chest as you smile at him.

“I know baby, and I love you for it . But I really, really need you to touch me, want you to make me feel good . If that’s ok ?”

He groaned as he leant down and kissed you, hot and desperate until you were both panting into each other’s mouths and he kissed along your jaw and to your neck. “You are so perfect, I love you, you know that don’t you ? You’re my whole world.”

He worshipped your body, his mouth would kiss every inch of you, pulling soft and dirty noises from you as he showed you over and over how much he loved you.

And he would tell you all the time

“Fucking hell I love you baby”

“How did I get so lucky to get the best girl in the world”

“How is the love of my life this fine day ?”

The day you graduated and he didn’t he had been so proud of you even though he was frustrated and embarrassed at failing for a second time but he had stood up whistling obnoxiously as you walked the stage

“that’s my fucking girl” which had resulted In you giggling with embarrassment, your parents tutting and him being escorted from the school gymnasium but hadn’t stopped him waiting with your parents afterwards and kissing you over and over again “I am so proud of you baby. I love you so much.”

Over and over he showered you with love and affection. In his unique over the top wonderful way.

When Chrissy had died and you had found him hiding in the boat shed, there wasn’t a moment that you believed that he had done anything to her. Not your sweet man. You both sat dumbstruck and terrified while the strange group of friends explained the dark history of your small town. There was no question that you would fight side by side with the love of your life.

When he cut the rope, staring up at your terrified and confused face he had looked at you with all the love in the world and you could see how scared he was as he spoke softly to you “I love you. I will always love you but I need you safe. I need to give them more time. So leave now ok ?”

“No Eddie please, not without you, please baby please come back.”

“I’m sorry sweetheart please forgive me. I love you, I love you so much. God Dustin get her out of here”

By the time you managed to get back through, injured and terrified you found him bleeding out on the ground.

He had died in your arms, your hero. But you wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t stop trying to bring him back, then his heart started beating again, erratic and weak but there and you screamed at Dustin to get Steve to carry him out.

But he wasn’t your Eddie anymore, it seemed the part of him that loved you had died in the upside down.

Even after getting his name cleared when the presumed dead chief of police came back and sorted it all. The hugs money from the government helped get you a new home together and all his medical bills paid for but nothing helped.

Steve is still looking at you, it feels like the first time someone has really seen you in months “he has PT tomorrow right ? Meet me for coffee , take a break for a bit.” You sniff and nod “yeah ok thanks.”

When everyone had left Eddie had made his way to the chair he slept in, after changing in the bathroom with you stood nervously outside the door in case he needed you.

“I need to put the cream on Eds” you said quietly, nervously as he pulled the blanket over his legs and he sighed heavily

“Fine”. Moving onto his side he lifted his shirt up, staring at the wall behind you as you massaged the awful smelling cream into his scars, when you got to the deepest one you heard his sharp intake of breath “Sorry” you mumbled and he shook his head a little eyes pinched tight “You want me to lay with you ? I can read or”

“m’tired” he cuts you off and you nod “yeah of course, it was good having everyone here though right ? All together, maybe we can make it a more regular thing.”

he shrugged already flipping through the channels on the remote and you leant down, praying that he would turn his head towards you tonight, capture your lips with his but his gaze stayed firmly on the TV

“Goodnight Eds, i love you” you kissed his cheek and walked away you thought you heard him say something but when you turned back he had his eyes closed.

Over coffee and a plate of fries, Steve has managed to talk your ear off, telling you about applying for a new job and funny things Robin had done or said.

“So are you heading back to classes soon ?” Avoiding his eye you shake your head.

Your parents had been disappointed you hadn’t gone out of state to college, when you graduated opting to stay close to Eddie while he stayed behind in school and if they hadn’t already moved out of town, begging you to go with them they would be even more so that you were dropping out of community college too.

“Taking a year out until Ed is back on his feet, payout we got will see us through until he graduates or i get a job.”

“He’s going back to school ?” He asks cautiously and you sigh “not physically, they told him he can still get his diploma if he does the work at home, Dustin brings it every week.”

Steve smiles at the waitress who refills your cups before leaning back in. “And is he doing the work ?”

Blinking away tears you shake your head “he is just so tired and PT takes it out of him. I am helping”

“You’re doing the work for him aren’t you ?”

Your guilty silence gives him his answer.

“Ok I get it, you doing the work, you taking time out of college and taking care of him. But the way he talked to you, is that a common thing ?”

You shrug “it’s fine Steve”

“No, it’s not”

Throwing a five dollar bill down you stand up grabbing your purse and he holds your wrist

“I need to go and get him.” He nods “I’ll come too.”

When you arrive he is waiting outside smoking as you pull up in Steve’s BMW

“Hi Eds sorry I am late, how was it ?” You kiss his cheek and he nods to Steve “Harrington. You bumped into each other ?”

“No Steve asked yesterday of I wanted to get coffee while you were here. Eds you shouldn’t be smoking”

He narrows his eyes “well that sadistic prick worked me too hard and I need something. “ he snaps and you shake your head as Steve steps forward.

“Eddie take it easy man she is looking our for you.” The air is thick with tension but he persevered clearing his throat as he runs his hands through that infamous hair.

“so I thought we could hang out tomorrow, everyone is coming to mine, swim, few beers ?” He asks with a grin and Eddie stares between us “you asking me or her ?” He frowns and laughs “both, you two are a package deal right ?”

He blows the smoke out of his mouth with a bitter laugh and stomps the butt on the floor.

“yep, that’s right. Sure will see you tomorrow.” Then he is walking to his van not even bothering to say goodbye or wait for you.

“Honey ?”

“So midday ? Can we bring anything ?” You ask blinking back tears and he gives you a pitying look “no just yourselves. Take care.” Then he kisses your cheek and squeezes your arm before you make your way to the van and sit in an uncomfortable silence back to the trailer.

You have cleaned the bathroom, got his meds and are now cooking dinner and he still hasn’t spoken a word to you. “So um Steve mentioned this um oil stuff he had got that is really helping with his scars form the uh you know bites he got. He gave me the name and I was thinking I would get some next time I am in town ?”

“Steve’s scars aren’t as deep as mine.” He says not even looking at you as he turns the page of his book.

“I know but can’t hurt to try right ? Steve swears by it.”

He looks at you then and you see the sheen of tears in his eyes “oh baby what is it ?”

You say going over to him and cupping his cheeks, he leans into your touch and your needy heart craves him. Leaning your forehead against his “I hate this ” he says thickly and you kiss him, his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his chin, tiny butterfly kisses all over him overwhelmed by your need for his touch as you tentatively kiss his lips he pushes forwards, putting his hand on the back of your head and pulling you into a searing kiss, his tongue against your top lip begging for more and you give it to him. You will give him everything. He tugs you into his lap and you lie next to him on his good side still kissing him as he trails his fingers down your side and you are euphoric, your brain shuts off to everything but the feel of his hands on you and then you screw up. You put your hand under his shirt, greedily wanting more of him and he freezes and you panic “oh god Eddie I am sorry, did I hurt you, what can I do ?”

He pushes your hand away. Panting still, lips swollen and pink but his eyes are dead again.

“Nothing. I’m tired” he says and turns his head away from you.

You didn’t sleep a wink, had got used to sleeping by yourself finally but now after last night and that kiss, having that small moment where everything in your world felt right before having it snatched away, the bed had felt too big and your arms had felt too empty.

Maybe that’s why you let yourself relax a little with your friends, why you drank more than you had since before Chrissy had died, and why you avoided Eddie.

He was with the boys and he had barely said two words to yiu all day. He would be relieved to not having you breathing down his neck.

“Another beer ladies ?” Steve said to you and Robin as you sat on the sun loungers soaking up the rays in your little bikini, Eddie used to be obsessed with it and you had hoped wearing it would bring back some of those feelings for him but so far he has barely glanced at you, when Steve’s eyes trailed your legs you felt instantly guilty at the frisson of pleasure it gave you. Especially as you looked up and met Eddie’s eyes who quickly looked away.

“Sure thanks Steve I am going to take a quick dip, Rob ?” She shakes her head “no I’m good”

Getting up you walk towards Eddie to check on him but stop at the last minute and get in the pool.

The water feels amazing, the slight buzz from the beer and the sun has you relaxing for the first time in months.

It continued too, as the afternoon turned to evening and you were all sat around, you now wearing a dress and sat next to Robin. The conversation was light and teasing at first but soon the conversation changed to what you had been though, but humour was used to help with the trauma. “Look I’m sorry Mike but you have no idea. Your sister using a. Shotgun to take him out is the hottest thing I have ever seen, closely followed by these two badasses as they took down those bats.of course” He nods to you and Robin and you shake your head as Eddie excuses himself. You know he doesn’t want to talk about this

“Nope, sorry. Sexiest thing was the most metal concert in the world. I forgot several times that he was doing it for our lives and just had very dirty thoughts. Of course when he cut the rope.”

Robin squeezes your arm as you are overcome with emotion and love for this little group you share your trauma with.

“I owe you big time forever. No way were Dustin with his busted ankle and me and my dislocated shoulder getting him out of there“

“You don’t owe me shit” he says shaking his head looking proud. You are so focussed on the group you don’t hear Eddie come back out.

“All I know is you, Steven Harrington will forever hold a special place in my heart”

He squeezes your knee as you hear Dustin ask “you ok ?”

Looking up and Eddie is stood looking angry but beyond that you see the pain and in a panic check your watch “oh shit. Your meds, baby I am so sorry I didn’t realise the time. I will get them.”

Jumping up you walk inside to where you have left your purse and grab his pulls and a bottle of water, rushing out you hand them to him and he takes them without a word ad you stand wringing your hands together. “I’m so sorry Ed, are you ok ? I guess I drank too much and I got distracted.”

His eyes flit to you and he mumbles “it’s fine.”

“Come on man give her a hug or something she feels awful” Steve says laughing and you want to cry as he freezes. Not noticeable to everyone else but to you it is.

“Oh god don’t encourage them Steve, we have seen enough of Eddie slobbering on her to last us a lifetime.” Mike shakes his head as Steve laughs again “yeah I remember, they have always been like that”

You and Eddie are staring at each other. Your chest hurts with unshed tears as he just stands there.

“I’m fine. Don’t be silly and don’t worry kids we won’t subject you to it tonight.” You laugh but it sounds strangled to your ears. “Bathroom” you say and turn on your heel. Making your way into the house and out the front door, sitting on the porch as you will yourself not to cry again.

When the front door opens not ten minutes later you don’t even bother to turn around “why is it always you coming to check on me ?”

He sighs and sits next to you “because I care about you.”

A sob comes out “at least someone does”

“He does, but he is so angry.“

“He won’t touch me. Won’t kiss me, doesn’t even hold my hand. He sleeps on that fucking chair in the living room and I lay every night in a double bed, missing someone i don’t think even exists anymore. “

Holding your hand while you cry he strokes your knuckles with his thumb.

“I didn’t realise how bad it was, we can help more. Give you a break or just leave him by himself sometimes and come and hang out with us . Look maybe I am overstepping but this is the first time I have seen you genuinely smile since he came round in the hospital.”

So you did, you started seeing them all more. As a group or sometimes individually, Steve was a huge support, he would come and take Eddie out too to try and get him back into things. He started doing hellfire on a Friday again and he always seemed so animated when he came back.

Tonight Steve and Robin came over and you were going to hang out, watch a movie and drink.

Eddie definitely drank, you hadn’t noticed though but after they left he was sat staring into space and when you touched his arm he flinched.

“Why did you bring me back ?” He says almost a whisper full of anger.”

And you feel your heart speed up “because I love you Eddie.”

“I have nothing to live for”

“You have everything to live for, Wayne your friends, me. ”

He scoffs nastily. Oh yeah I have you ? What as my nurse, my carer. Out of some kind of guilt or duty….”

“Eddie, no. That’s not” he cuts you off by throwing his beer bottle across the room.

“Fuck don’t you get it ? I can’t go to school, I can’t work, can’t play with the band. The whole town sees me as a murderer . I am in pain all the time and I I look like this. All because you couldn’t just let me fucking go. Why didn’t you just let me die ?”

You are sobbing and shaking, and you can feel the bile rise in your throat and the way your gut twists

“Because I love you. We can be ok baby”

He looks so tormented, the pain in his gestures nearly knocks the wind out of you as he looks away. .

“I have nothing here. Nothing is worth shit in my life anymore.”.

After another sleepless night, the two of you don’t speak all day. You make his meals and get his meds as the tension between the two of you grows so thick you are choking on it. You have got to get out of there.

Grabbing your purse you turn to him

“I am going out for a while. Movie night. Do you need anything before I go ?”

He frowns looking like he wants to say something before shaking his head and turning away from you.

You’re not even sure where you are going until your car turns into the familiar long driveway.

After holding your for nearly an hour trying to calm you down after explaining everything to him. Steve was now on a mission to make you smile..

“I still remember that day Jimmy Smith was being a total douche after your book report, you had looked so nervous and he juts kept making little satanic digs, I thought Eddie was gonna kill him and then what did you say ?”

“I said careful Jimmy, your crush on my boyfriend is showing and he really likes to sacrifice virgins.”

“You’re tipsy, not drunk. Not yet but you almost crack a smile at that memory, you remembered that day so well. Eddie had been in awe of you, you remember how you didn’t even make it out of the parking lot after school before he had dragged you in the back of his van and showed you his appreciation.

That twist of heartbreak is felt again.

“You know you always tell me these stories of back when we were at school together but how do you remember ?”

He frowns in puzzlement as he sips his rum and coke. “What do you mean ?”

“You were the king and I was nobody, pretty much invisible until I became the freaks sacrifice.”

You say in air quotes while rolling your eyes. laughing bitterly at the memories of how awful they all were to him back then but you see Steve is looking down brow furrowed looking serious.

“You’re kidding right ? You were not nobody. You were not invisible until Eddie. Just you two were so different and nobody understood so you got more attention then. But you were not invisible, definitely not to me anyway.”

The way he looks at you had you taking a sharp breath “what are you saying ?”

“I had such a crush on you. I was convinced that you couldn’t really want him but then I saw the two of you together, it was kind of unbelievable how much you loved each other. When we got thrown together in all this shit i liked Eddie after hating him for years but you. God you are like no one I have ever met but i resigned myself, it wasn’t a thing because you twowere obviously meant to be together.”

This was a shocking revelation to you, and it made you heart speed up in a way you have not felt for so long.

“I have watched him push you away and steal that spark and it is torture and I am so mad at him because all i want to do is show you how you should be treated, how you deserve to be fucking worshipped. I would give anything to be who he used to be to you.”

You are blinking at him in shock as he swallows hard “shit I shouldn’t have…” you put your hand on his arm to stop him, heady with need and he sees it. Runs his hand through your hair before gripping your neck and pulling you to him, kissing you and you let yourself melt into him, you feel like you are on fire. It is needy and wanton, breathing into each others mouths panting and moaning already and he pulls you into to his lap where you roll your hips against him feeling his hard length against you, making you gasp at the long forgotten feeling.

“oh baby you have no idea how long I have been wanting this.”

It is like someone has doused you in freezing cold water. Your mind is back at the lake a different set of lips on yours. The memory had you Pulling back and you wipe your mouth, guilt drowning you

“oh god Steve, i can’t.. what are we doing ? I have to leave I am so sorry.” Then you run out as he calls your name as you get in your car screeching away from the kerb.

Letting yourself in quietly, you are hoping he is asleep but as the small lamp is switched on and you see him, in that fucking recliner you are starting to hate you jump slightly. Nerves already jangled

“oh hi, sorry if I woke you”

His face is hard, lips set in a thin line.

“You didn’t. Where were you ?”

“Movie night remember ? I told you before I left ”

He scoffs bitterly then

“I didn’t ask what you were doing I asked where you were” you stop, stomach dropping as he stares at you jaw set.

“Steve‘s”

He laughs nastily then “and who was at Harrington’s?”

“Why are you asking me that ?”

“Because I talked to Dustin earlier and he knew nothing about it, neither did Mike or Lucas. So I called Robin and guess what, not a fucking clue what I was talking about. So who else other than my girlfriend and Harrington were at this so called movie night ?”

You are wringing your hands together, guilt is slowly being pushed out by your anger

“Your girlfriend ? Is that what I am ?”

He stared you down and you throw your arms up

“me and Steve, just me and Steve ok. I needed to talk to someone. A friend, he is my friend Eddie and yours and he has been worried about me”

Pulling himself up with difficulty, pain evident on his face but you force yourself to let him do it by himself.

“Worried about you ? I’m the one who got eaten alive, I’m the one left like a fucking cripple.”

“And I am the one having to deal with it all while you treat me like you hate me. So yeah he is worried about me. At least someone is” you shout back and he looks like you slapped him .

“did you fuck him ?”

“What ?” You sputter as your cheeks flame and his eyes harden

“Did. You. Fuck. Him ?”

“No”

“But you wanted to right ? King Steve giving you all the attention that the freak won’t. Telling you what an asshole I am, whispering sweet nothings to you. Telling you how wonderful you are, how he could treat you right. How you were always too good for me.”

“Stop it Eddie, stop feeling so fucking sorry for yourself. Everyone got hurt, everyone was traumatised. You are the only one that won’t try and move on. Steve has the same fucking injuries as you and he…”

“He what ? Tell me, tell me how much better he is than me. Admit you wanted to fuck him”

He screams in your face

“Yes, i wanted to fuck him.” You scream just as loud, louder than you have ever been in your life, scream so hard your throat hurts. then silence. the only sounds are your breathing hard and ragged and the deafening of your heartbeat in your ears.

You are staring at him expecting to be met with anger and hatred, asking how could you but instead you are looking at your boy, all soft edges, the bitterness he has held in his features since he came home is gone. He looks bewildered and frightened. Shoulders slumped as he stares around blindly like he will find the words to say written on the walls.

“Do you love him ?”

You sob then, falling to the floor as your legs can’t hold the weight of your grief and your guilt anymore.

“No. I love you. All i have wanted since i was seventeen years old is you. I didn’t sleep with him because of you, but you don’t want me Eddie, you don’t love me. I keep waiting for you to love me again like you did. It is all I want in the world.

He looks at you and the hope you see there almost makes you cave but you don’t.

“I love you Eddie, more than i have ever loved anything or anyone, more than i ever will again. But i can’t do this anymore, we are making each other miserable. I know you blame me and I am sorry it has made you hate me and I am sorry I have lost you because of it, but I am not sorry I made them bring you back. I won’t ever apologise for not letting you die”

Turning away you walk into your bedroom, it was never your shared bedroom because he hadn’t slept in here once since you moved in. That chair was his bed, away from you. You packed your small case, not having many possessions here anymore. Most of your stuff was in storage after your parents left town.

To the untrained eye it looked lived in, framed photos of you and Eddie from before ,you took your favourite one, slipping it into the case next to your makeup bag before zipping it up.

he was still sat in the same position when you walked out. He was staring at the stain on the carpet , from where he had thrown the soup you had made him early on in a fit of rage and you had desperately tried to clean it while silent tears fell down your nose.

“Where are you going ?”

You shake your head “i don’t know I need space and so do you. I will let Robin know where I am if there is an emergency.”

Steve hasn’t slept a wink. He had fucked up he knew it. Eddie was his friend and you were so screwed up right now. He never should have put you in this situation.

His spiral is interrupted by a banging on his front door. When he looks at the clock to see it is only six am he jumps up, what if it is you and you need him.

Hurriedly making his way downstairs he realises he is wrong when the heavy pounding continues and he hears a deep voice shouting “Harrington open up now.”

Sighing resignedly he pulls the door open and Eddie storms past him a scowl on his face.

“You son of a bitch I should have known.”

“Eddie wait”

“No Steve you don’t get to talk right now. I knew it, when I gave you the speech in the upside down and told you you needed to get Nancy back, told her she was still in love with you. I saw how uncomfortable you got and where your eyes went, who you looked at but I let it go. Because I honestly thought you were a good guy and you respected the fact that she is my girlfriend you asshole.”

Steve scoffed and paced away hands on his hips before he walks back to him.

“At the time I did respect that. Because at that time you deserved her. But you don’t anymore, now you are the asshole Eddie. She is miserable and hurt and it is all because of you. So yeah I kissed her and I want her because right now. I am the better man for her.”

Crack

Steve stumbles back after Eddie punches him, he is stood over him fists clenched tightly by his sides, breathing hard but as Steve sits up he watches Eddie’s shoulder sag in defeat until he is sat on the floor next to him and he starts to cry

“I know I don’t deserve her. I am so angry at what my life is and it is easy to blame her. I don’t-I don’t know how to be with her anymore, I can’t let her love me.”

You had spent three days in a motel while you worked out what to do. Had called Robin to tell her you were alive but needed space.

The morning you had decided on your next step and there was a knock at the door. Steve stood on the other side looking sad and uncomfortable

“Hi”

“Hi”you say fidgeting with your sleeves and he strokes your cheek as a tear falls down. When you look up you see the bruise under his eye and frown

“I deserved it”

You shake your head in shock “Eddie ?”

He nods “I told him a few home truths, I also told him how I felt about you and that as much as I loved him. He doesn’t deserve you.”

Your eyes flick in panic and he laughs softly “I know you don’t feel the same way. Pretty hung up on him huh ?”

You nod sadly “come in Steve. We should talk

After Steve leaves you shower and pack your bag and take the six mile drive back to the trailer and knock on the door.

Your heart aches at how bad he looks, his hair is even wilder than usual, dark circles under his eyes and a down turned mouth.

“Where were you ?”

“Motel just outside of town off the freeway.”

“Thought Harrington could splurge for better than that”

“I wasn’t with him, you know that. You hit him”

He shrugs sheepishly “he deserved it “

“He agrees”

“So you’re not with him then ? He made it pretty clear that’s what he wanted. Not many girls turn him down.”

You shake your head sadly.

“No. It was never about him. He just made me feel wanted and i don’t know like I was a person worth having around. But I knew how he made me feel is what I want, it was just the wrong boy making me feel like that.”

Reaching forward he tentatively takes your hand in his.

“So now what ?”

“I am leaving Hawkins. There is nothing here for me now. There was only one reason I stayed when I graduated.

I have set up that nurse the government guys said they would pay for and you have Wayne and the kids and Steve, he is your friend and he cares about you. They all do. Let them. Let them love you Eddie.”

“When are you coming home ?” He asks through his tears and you shake your head smiling at him sadly as your own tears are flowing now and realisation hits him like a ton of bricks.

“You’re not coming back”

It is a statement not a question and it breaks your heart how devastated he sounds. Why now does he show that he cares, all you want is to tell him you will stay but it is too late.

“No. I hope….”

What did you hope ?

“…..I hope you can be happy again, find you again. Because Eddie Munson is too special to be lost to all this grief.

My Eddie.” your voice broke on that line a sad smile through the tears and his eyes met yours tears streaming down his own face. .

“He is the best boy i know.”

[rebelfell]

missed connections┃ iii. not like the movies

modern!eddie munson x fem!reader

Even if he’s surrounded by them, Eddie doubts the likelihood that fairytale endings exist.

And if they do, they definitely aren’t for him.

18+, MDNI┃4.7k

cw: alcohol mention, allusions to casual sex, a skosh of angst. Eddie’s going through it with some life stuff, guys 🙃

prev • next

“You having tea with me this time or not?”

Mrs. Gershwin shuffled across the linoleum, her orthopedic shoes squeaking with every step until she stopped in front of her kitchen cabinets. Her unit on the ground floor of the building was the only one, Eddie was guessing, that hadn’t been updated in the slightest since it was built.

He sort of liked it, though. The yellow appliances and speckled formica countertops gave the space a certain glow. It reminded him of the house he grew up in, like the spider plants in the window and the almost-orange stain on the cabinets.

Or the light blue laminate table he sat at that was laden with newspaper crosswords from the past week, all of them left unfinished.

Even with all her groceries brought in and his job done, he could never resist sliding onto one of her kitchen chairs to sit and talk for a couple minutes. Filling in a few squares for her here and there as she chattered about her grandchildren, the latest bodice ripper she’d just finished, or whatever new ‘malarkey’ her friend Roberta from Bingo had been getting into these days.

In front of him was a bouquet of wilted flowers in a blush-colored vase shaped like a seashell, and Eddie scolded himself for forgetting, again, to bring her a replacement bouquet.

“You know I would,” he said, getting to his feet, “but I really gotta get going.”

She’d caught him, as she so often did, just as she was returning from the market up the street and he was headed out early that morning for a run.

He had plans later to meet up with Steve, so he’d wanted to get the rest of his weekend errands out of the way before that. But he was all too happy to delay in order to help carry her little wagon up the front stoop and into her apartment.

“Running off to see your girlfriend?” she huffed with a salacious smirk. 

Eddie tilted his head and reached out to pinch the velvet softness of her skin. “Gladys, come on,” he teased. “You know you’re the only girl for me.”

There it is, he thought as a smile spread along her face and pushed up her wrinkled cheeks.

“Alright, go on, then,” she said, shooing him away with a swat of her tea towel. “I know someone who will keep an old lady like me company.”

You knocked lightly on Mrs. Gershwin’s door, rapping a staccato rhythm with one hand while the other gripped a canvas bag with your monthly offerings. Vegetables from the farmer’s market, a couple of creased and faded paperbacks from the bargain bin of your favorite used bookstore, and a bouquet of flowers from her favorite florist to replace the dying ones from last month.

“S’open, baby,” she called out from the kitchen as you pushed on the unlocked door.

The kettle was already whistling as you started to unpack your tote, adding your veggies to the rest of the groceries she must have gone out for early that morning. You saw she had already swapped out her orthopedics for slippers as she shuffled across the floor and poured hot water into two teacups over two teabags to let them steep before diving into her presents.

“Who’s Mr. Bridgerton?” she asked, holding up her cheaters in front of her eyes as she examined the cover of one of the books you’d brought her. “And why is he being romanced?”

You tittered quietly to yourself and gave a shrug. “Guess you’ll have to let me know,” you said. 

To that, Gladys gave a skeptical hmph before setting the book down and returning to her task. Moving over to the table, you grasped the dried and brittle stems of last month’s flowers in your fist and tossed them in the trash on your way to rinse the vase and fill it with fresh water. 

As you unwrapped the brown paper from around the new bouquet and started to snip off the ends with a pair of scissors, your eyes landed on the scattered crosswords piled up on the table. 

“Who’s been helping you out, hm?” you asked, pointing at the squares that appeared to be filled in with different handwriting. “You got a new boyfriend you forgot to tell me about?”

Gladys’ eyes rolled as she scuttled over, setting the teacups and saucers down on the table. She plopped into her chair and pulled one towards her, blowing on the steaming liquid to cool it.

“I keep trying to catch a young man for you. But they’re too slippery these days.”

“Tell me about it,” you lamented with a slump into your regular seat at her table.

It was slightly warm underneathyour butt and you figured she had to have just been sitting there, despite always sitting on the opposite side whenever you were visiting.

While your own tea was cooling, you busied your hands arranging her new flowers and your eyes tensed, watering as you felt a yawn coming on and resisted the urge to give into it.

“Long night?” Gladys asked, nodding at your kit you’d set down just inside the door.

“The longest,” you groaned, still fighting off your exhaustion even as you spoke. “This shoot has been brutal. I’ve got plans later today, so I’m gonna try and get some sleep until then.”

“That sounds nice,” the older woman hummed. “What are you up to?”

“Shay and I are seeing that independent movie I worked on last year. It’s finally coming out,” you explained as you set the vase back in its proper spot to admire your arrangement.

“And you weren’t going to invite me?!”

Gladys huffed, but her eyes twinkled as one of them closed in a slow wink. You smirked, holding back laughter, only able to imagine the scolding you’d get if you sent her into a horror film.

You lifted her fine china to your lips, winking back at her over the rim before you took a sip.

“I don’t think it’s your cup of tea,” you said.

Eddie paced back and forth under the marquee, sulking as he checked his Casio again and looked once more up and down the deserted sidewalk.

At last, he spotted a head of floppy brown hair as Steve came around the corner and picked up to a light jog, waving his arm over his head.

“Sorry, sorry,” Steve panted as he came to a stop, out of breath from running.

One of his hands immediately came up to brush through his windswept hair. It seemed somehow messier than normal, all matted down in the back and less artfully disheveled than how he usually wore it. His belt sat crooked on his waist and his dress shirt was askew—only half tucked-in like he had to put it on in a hurry. And peeking out from under his rumpled collar was a cluster of mottled red marks, concentrated primarily around the pair of moles that sat at the base of his neck.

Eddie groaned.

“Were you fucking? Is that why you’re late?”

Steve said nothing, but his hazel eyes danced and he couldn’t help but to smirk as he shrugged his shoulders—clearly not sorry in the slightest.

“Jesus H. Christ.” Eddie rolled his eyes. “You two gotta learn to control yourselves, man. You’re gonna pull something one of these days.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Steve scoffed, a scarlet blush coloring the tops of his ears. “Let’s go.”

The movie had already started by the time they were inside, crouching low in the dark to scurry down the left-hand aisle until they found two empty seats up near the front. 

Today was just the latest in a series of recent outings Steve suggested, trying to make up for him being so… occupied lately. Eddie had gotten to pick the movie, the trade-off being Steve got to choose where they went for dinner afterwards, opting for Mexican over Chinese.

A horror movie subreddit Eddie followed loved this one—their reviews praising the story and the realism of the effects. But it was an independent film with a limited release and only playing in a handful of theaters. It took Eddie weeks to find this old cinema that even had showtimes.

Luckily, they hadn’t missed too much.

The movie was just as good as everyone had said it was, but the most gripping part came near the end. Only Eddie found it gripping for an entirely different reason than everyone else.

In one of the final scenes, one of the characters suffered a fatal blow to the head delivered by the killer. They slumpd to the ground and the camera slowly panned up their body to hold on a close-up of their face as the light left their eyes.

Eddie instantly sat forward in his seat, tension in his spine ratcheting up as everyone else’s ebbed, eyes glued to a gash across the actor’s face.

A very familiar gash. One he’d seen once before. 

In a crowded bar on Halloween.

The face of the girl he met that night came hurtling forward from the back of his mind. He must have buried her there along with most of the other disappointing events of that evening, trying to forget them. But upon seeing her, or rather seeing her handiwork, it all came back.

Including that inconvenient surge of something that sat heavy in the middle of his chest.

When the movie ended, Eddie was determined to remain in his seat, his eyes scanning the screen in search of the names of the make-up artists as the credits began their tediously slow crawlto the top. But Steve immediately got to his feet and started turning to leave. He stopped, one foot already in the aisle, and looked back when he realized his friend wasn’t standing behind him.

“Let’s go, man,” Steve whispered, giving Eddie’s shoulder a nudge. “I gotta take a leak.”

“Hang on a second,” Eddie hissed in a frustrated huff, willing the words to roll faster.

“If I hang on one more second, you’re getting a golden shower.”

“Fine,” Eddie huffed again as he stood.

Maybe it’s for the best, he thought as he followed Steve up the aisle and out of the theater. 

What would he even do if he found out her name? Look her up on Instagram? Slide into her DMs like a stone cold fucking creep?

Hey, remember me? I knocked you flat on your ass six months ago and then you disappeared? Possibly to get away from me? How’s it going?!

Yeah, that was sure to go over well.

“Damn.” 

You muttered under your breath, slouching back in your seat as you watched the credits scroll.

The lights in the theater were still down, but most of the people inside had started filing out already. Across the way, you could see the shadow figures of a pair of guys bickering as they headed up the opposite aisle and disappeared into the lobby.

“What’s up?” Shay asked. You shook your head and motioned at the screen.

“They spelled my name wrong in the credits.”

“Aw, shit,” she pouted, jutting out her bottom lip. “That fuckin’ blows.”

“Eh, whatever,” you shrugged back. “At least they spelled it right on the check.”

When the credits ended and the lights came up, you blinked into their harshness after sitting in the dark for so long. Beside you, Shay jumped to her feet and tipped her head in the direction of the side exit door that led to the alley outside.

“Ready for dinner? Chinese still sound good?”

You grinned and nodded back at her. “Always.”

A fresh basket of tortilla chips replaced the one Eddie and Steve had demolished while waiting for Robin to arrive at the restaurant a block from the movie theater. A flurry of movement by the door preceded her entrance, her short hair flying up as she whipped her head around wildly.

“Sorry, sorry!” she exclaimed, scurrying over and sliding into the booth next to Eddie.

His eyes narrowed as he studied the back of her head, honey-tinged tresses mussed and matted in a way that was suspiciously similar to Steve’s. She seemed flushed as well—even more so than the typical level of bluster he’d come to expect whenever she arrived somewhere late.

And from the way she’d reached for Steve’s water glass and started to chug it with abandon, Eddie could guess what had delayed her.

“So kind of you two to tear yourselves away from Fuck-chella,” Eddie said, holding up his drink in a cheers to Robin and Steve. The both of them rolled their eyes practically in sync.

“Our bad for being in love.” Robin jeered with her tongue stuck out, only for her eyes to dart over to Steve, who had shrunk into himself at the mention of the dreaded L word.

He stuffed a chip in his mouth, crunching it sadly.

“Sorry,” she apologized meekly. Steve waved her off, shaking his head as he started to swirl the melting ice in his margarita glass.

“But speaking of,” he said, smoothly diverting the conversation. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Eddie’s head popped up from where he was studying the menu.

“You been seeing anybody lately? Haven’t heard you mention a date since…”

Steve trailed off, realizing abruptly how long it had been since they had talked about Eddie’s love life. The last thing Steve remembered was teasing him about fucking someone in a bar bathroom on New Year’s Eve, and he wasn’t sure if that exploit in particular had been relayed to Robin yet.

The image of that bloody gash flashed in his mind again, but he just shook his head and sucked down some more of his drink.

Steve’s brow jumped, lifting nearly all the way to his annoyingly dense hairline.

“Woah. Seriously? I can’t remember the last time you didn’t have some kind of…rotation going.”

Eddie frowned at the implication, but he couldn’t exactly deny that Steve had a point.

He didn’t know where this dry spell as of late had come from. And it was still sort of awkward to think the last girl he’d been even remotely interested was Steve’s now-girlfriend.

Meanwhile, his dick was gathering more cobwebs than a retirement community for spiders.

Most of his Tinder dates either ended in vacant, disinterested goodbyes followed by un-matching with him; or semi-anonymous, detached sex that felt perfectly good in the moment, but often left Eddie with a hollow sensation in his chest he didn’t remember being there before.

Either way, no one seemed all that interested in coming back for seconds.

As for meeting people in real life, he wasn’t doing much better. Spring had sprung in full force and there was no shortage of people on the street or out at the bars. He was inundated with a buffet of pretty girls in sundresses who caught his eye on the train, or when he walked to the park with his Tuesday bagel to stretch his legs after being hunched over his desk all day.

But he felt like he knew how any interaction would go before he had even made eye contact. 

It was always the same endless loop of coffee, banter, back to her place. Or drinks, flirting, back to his place. Never to be heard from again once the condom had been tied off and tossed out.

And he wasn’t entirely sure why that didn’t seem to be enough anymore. Especially when, for the majority of his life, it had been plenty. He could flit from person to person, never having to worry about things getting too serious or having to put his heart on the line only for it to get maimed.

It worked for him. It’s what he wanted.  

Wasn’t it?

“What about Neighbor Girl?” Steve asked, giving Eddie a yank out of his head back to the table.

“I don’t know Neighbor Girl,” he scoffed. “I’m not even sure if Neighbor Girl is a girl.”

Steve’s head bobbed. “But don't you guys, like, exchange love notes?”

“Not love notes. They were just…note notes.”

“But didn’t she make you cookies?”

“They made the whole building cookies—” Eddie bemoaned loudly in frustration. “And even if that was an option, it’s not like I’m in any position to get into a relationship right now. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a little bit of a mess.”

Inadvertently, he glanced at his knuckles that still showed the faintest evidence of their meeting with Billy’s face months ago. The bruises had faded, but not yet disappeared completely.

“Who’sh Neighbor Girl?” Robin asked through a mouthful of chips, spraying crumbs on the table.

Eddie opened up his mouth to explain, but Steve jumped in seamlessly before he could.

“It’s the girl who lives in the apartment beside his that he’s too chicken to make a move on.”

“I’ve never even met them!” Eddie exclaimed. “Once in a while, I’ll smoke out on the fire escape and hear their music or something through the window, but that’s it.”

Okay, so that was downplaying. He had started taking his smoke breaks out there most evenings after an email went out to all of the tenants with a not-so-subtle reminder of the no-smoking policy.

And he’s simply…continued to do so.

He didn’t hear them every night, but he already had a playlist made up of songs he had found by Shazaming the ones that drifted out of the window beside his and caught his ear.

It was an eclectic mix, to say the least. He liked to think he could tell his neighbor’s mood based on what they played. Or at least guess their activity based on whether it was something low and chill that they could just vibe to, or something bouncy and upbeat for when they were cleaning.

“How do I make a move on someone I’ve never seen?” Eddie asked.

“Just, like, knock on her door and ask to borrow a cup of sugar,” Robin suggested.

“Yeah!” Steve added energetically. “Isn’t that how all great love stories start?”

“Great love stories or mediocre pornos?” Eddie grumbled back.

“Both,” they replied in unison.

Steve smirked and Eddie’s eyes rolled. 

“I can’t do that,” he said. “I don’t know their name or anything about them. And they work these odd hours. Sometimes I don’t hear them come in until like four or five in the morning.”

“Hmm. Interesting. So are we thinking prostitute or a werewolf? Or a werewolf prostitute?” Robin’s already-large eyes went wide with excitement. “Damn, now that’s a screenplay!”

Eddie let his head drop to the table with a heavy thunk, feeling this whole conversation leeching the will to live right out of him. When did he become such a fucking charity case?

“As always,” he groused, half to himself, “Thanks so much for all the help, Buckley.”

It had been a year since Eddie was here last.

The end-of-summer trip out to the lake seemed to be shaping itself into a real tradition. All of the younger kids came back to town for it, and it took three different cars to get them all there between passengers, chairs and umbrellas, and coolers loaded up with food and beer.

Last time, Robin was talking Eddie’s ear off non-stop about this girl who was supposedly perfect for him. Cool, funny, smart, sexy—and wanting for nothing but casual fun. It honestly sounded too good to be true, and it turned out it was. But in spite of himself, Eddie was sort of excited.

Even more so when he actually met her.

He thought it might be nice to have something that was a step up from one-night-stands and yet not have to worry about getting too attached and ending up with his heart broken. And sure, he had wondered, however briefly, what it might be like if it turned into something more.

He knew now it probably never would have.

Or it might have ended in total disaster. 

But it was the first time in ages he felt something akin to hope for his terminally casual love life. And truly, Eddie realized as he peered over the tops of his sunglasses to watch his friends splashing in the water and chasing one another with squirt guns, he wouldn’t change a thing.

Steve emerged from the lake, droplets of water clinging to his golden freckled skin, catching the sunlight and making him glitter like a Greek god. Adonis-looking motherfucker, Eddie thought, (mostly) kidding as his friend ambled over to where he sat stretched out on a towel.

“Comin’ in?” Steve asked, pulling a beer from the cooler and twisting off its cap.

Eddie just shrugged. “Maybe. In a little while.”

The top from Steve’s beer clinked against the rest of the emptied bottles sitting into their makeshift recycle bin as he flicked it in with his thumb and plopped his ass down to sit next to Eddie.

“You alright, man?” he asked. “You’ve been kind of…off all day.”

Eddie frowned, thumbing the heavily dog-eared pages of his paperback copy of The Two Towers that was barely held together by its disintegrated binding and creased and wrinkled cover. Ideally, he’d be moving on to Return of the King within a week, and it was in even worse shape. He’d be needing a new one sooner rather than later.

“Don’t mean to be,” he answered carefully. “Just been in a weird mood lately.”

“I noticed,” Steve said.

He took a long draught from the beer in his hand and let his arms rest on his bent knees while he stared out at the horizon, doing that thing where he waited for Eddie’s patience to break first.

It always did.

“My, uh…my lease renewal came the other day,” Eddie said at last, squishing his feet deep into the sand and wiggling his toes in the grainy sediment.

“Mm,” Steve hummed knowingly, “So that bell is going off in your head, then? The one that makes you pick up and run the second you start to feel even a little bit too…settled.”

Eddie scoffed, kind of hating the way his friends managed to see right through him sometimes. 

“I don’t run,” he countered. “I just…like to change things up. And I can work from anywhere, so why shouldn’t I take advantage of that?”

“Yeah. Right,” Steve deadpanned. “S’not like you live in one of the greatest cities in the world. And not like you have a bunch of really cool, awesome friends who live here too or anything.”

Eddie’s eyes rolled and he gave Steve’s shoulder a shove as he shook with laughter, making his Ray-Bans slide down the perfect slope of his nose.

He pushed them back up and took another swig of beer, inhaling sharply before his next question.

“What’s really going on with you, man? You been thinking about Chrissy?”

Eddie made a sucking sound with his tongue pressed to the backs of his teeth as he thought. “No,” he said after a minute, truthfully. “Not her specifically, more like…”

He trailed off and pulled back his bottom lip with his teeth, raking them over the slightly chapped flesh and fighting the urge to bite a stray piece of hanging skin. Beside him, Steve continued just waiting him out, giving him the benefit of the silence for him to work out his words.

“More like, if she was it for me,” Eddie said finally. “Like…what if I’m so messed up that I can’t get it together for something real? I don’t even know if I’d know something real if I saw it.”

Or knocked it on its ass at a costume party.

Steve stayed quiet for another moment, thinking. “Well, that’s fucking bleak,” he sighed.

And Eddie laughed, despite himself. Because it was. And he didn’t know when he got so emo.  

He looked up and his eyes landed on the rest of their group down by the water. A lump rose in his throat, and his chest panged with a feeling that he didn’t dare name. How…outside of everything he had felt lately. He loved all the people down there more than anything, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed the shift of everyone in his life pairing off like it was fucking Noah’s Ark.

“You guys are so fucking in love, it’s disgusting,” Eddie snorted, trying to disguise the tiny twinge of jealousy in his voice with a laugh. “And I’m real happy for you, I am. I just… I can’t picture having that again. I haven’t had a quote-unquote serious relationship in how long? I can’t be somebody’s boyfriend. I’m not, like…equipped for it.”

Steve shrugged. “I mean, if this is an equipment issue, there’s pills for that.”

Eddie smacked Steve on the arm with his book, losing his place in the pages as they dissolved into grade-school level snickers, Steve’s wet shoulders bumping his dry ones.

“You know what I mean,” Eddie muttered under his breath once their laughter subsided. “What if all I’m capable of anymore is flings and fucks?”

Steve’s head bobbed as he considered that.

“Well, that’s what you want, isn’t it? I mean, you change cities about as often as you change your lease. Makes it kinda tough to form real bonds.”

“I guess…”

Eddie’s voice grew small. Smaller, and lacking all of the boisterous energy that he typically exuded. Because damn Steve if he wasn’t right on the fucking money.

The last year in particular, his ties with his friends had deepened beyond anything he dreamed was possible a million years ago when they were just a bunch of high-school kids with no sense of the world outside their hometown. Now, he almost couldn’t imagine his life without them.

And he did like it here. 

He liked playing with the band again, he liked being within decent driving distance of Hawkins and Wayne. He liked going to weird art galleries or museums with Robin and Nancy and then taking them to see bands they’d never heard of in bars that gave away tetanus free with admission. 

He liked going over to Steve’s apartment to watch baseball with him and his girl, and then sitting out on the balcony to smoke while they watched the sunset paint the mirrored buildings and choppy river in endless shades of pink and orange ranging from pastel to neon.

He liked his apartment. He liked his quiet street and his building with the ivy covering the brick. He liked its black lacquered door and the fact that one of the brass numbers above it was upside down. He liked sitting on his fire escape that overlooked the alley and listening for the sounds of his neighbor’s music as he exhaled clouds of smoke that drifted up towards the stars.

“So…do you think Chrissy was The One?” Steve asked solemnly. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“No, I—I don’t think I even believe in that shit.”

Eddie tucked his chin to his chest and shook his head. Steve might buy into that can’t-eat, can’t-sleep, over-the-fence, World Series kind of stuff notion of love, but Eddie just…couldn’t.

There were too many variables—too many places people could be that weren’t here. And even if he did find them, what if he wound up getting hurt?

“I mean, what are the chances ‘the one’ is even out there?” he asked. “There’s billions of people in the world, and what? By some act of pure chance, they might be in the same city as me?”

Eddie’s head shook again, dismissing the thought as he kicked away some sand and then grimaced when his heel caught on a small rock.

Steve paused, looking oddly pensive as he gazed down at the water where the rest of their group was splashing around in the shallows.

His eyes were fixed, as they so often were these days, on the girl who was currently trying to dunk Robin’s head under the water. She threw her head back and laughed at the heavens, sunlight shining down on her face as a spray of water glittered in the air when Robin splashed back in retaliation.

“You know…it’s not really about finding the girl of your dreams out of the billions.”

His lips spread in a slow smile, radiating with the sort of pure devotion that could melt even the iciest of cold hearts. Eddie’s included.

“It’s about giving someone the chance to be her.”

Part IV 📖🧁

Thank you so much to my loves who are reading <3

[beasbrain]

Tear You Apart

description: you’re not supposed to get involved with the people you interview. it’s a rule you’ve never had a problem keeping, until Eddie Munson, frontman of Corroded Coffin walks into the room like a challenge you can’t ignore. he’s chaos wrapped in leather and sharp edges, used to being the one in control. you’re the journalist who sees right through him. the problem? neither of you likes losing.

pairing: eddie x you (fem! reader)

tags: rockstar!eddie munson, journalist!reader, no y/n, one shot (?), famous x not impressed, angsty smut, eddie is DOWN BAD, he likes it when you're mean to him, interview tension, bar scene, making him jealous on purpose, 90s rock vibes, messy attraction, power play, dom (ish) reader

TW: NSFW (18+) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!, PiV, unprotected, alcohol use

WC: 10.5k

A/N: this one is....kind of everything to me. i've been thinking about making a story like this for a while. while i love making series, i left this one off as a one-shot in case i never got around to it. buuut, if you do like a more toxic reader x eddie fic series thennnnn.... reblogs are always appreciated. enjoy <3

You’ve interviewed legends.

Not the kind of bands people think are big, not the ones that trend for a month and disappear just as quickly, but the kind that leave dents in history, the kind that redefine what music is supposed to sound like. 

You’ve sat across from Black Sabbath while they spoke like they were half myth, half memory, watched Mötley Crüe tear through a press room like it owed them something, listened to Metallica answer your questions with that controlled, coiled intensity that always feels like it could snap if pushed just a little too far.

And you never flinched.

That’s what people know you for, what your editor at Rolling Stone likes to brag about when your name comes up in meetings. The way you don’t soften your questions, the way you lean in instead of back, the way you can pull something real out of men who have spent years perfecting the art of giving nothing away.

Misty Meadows, they call you.

It sticks better than your real name ever did.

So when your manager steps into your office without knocking, already holding a folder like it’s something he expects you to take without question. You don’t even look up at first, just finish scribbling the last line of your notes before you speak, voice even, unimpressed.

“Unless they’ve come back from the dead,” you say, flipping your pen between your fingers, “I’m not interested in another reunion piece.”

There’s a pause. The kind that tells you this isn’t routine.

“You’re going to want this one,” he says, and when you finally glance up, he’s already sliding the folder across your desk, the name printed across the front in bold, black lettering.

Corroded Coffin. You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to. Not confusion, but recognition.

Your jaw tightens, just slightly, just enough that someone who doesn’t know you wouldn’t catch it, but your manager does, because he’s been watching you work long enough to recognize when something actually gets under your skin.

“No,” you say flatly, pushing the folder back toward him without opening it. “Give it to someone else.”

He doesn’t take it. “I insist.”

That makes you laugh, but there’s no humor in it, just disbelief, sharp and quick. “Insist all you want, I’m not doing it.”

“Misty—”

“No,” you repeat, firmer this time, leaning back in your chair, arms crossing like you’ve already closed the conversation.

“I know who they are. I know who he is. And I’m not babysitting some up-and-coming frontman with an attitude problem just because he thinks being difficult makes him interesting.”

Your manager exhales through his nose, slow, measured, like he expected this, like he was already prepared for the pushback.

“He’s not up-and-coming,” he says. “Not anymore.”

You don’t respond, but he doesn’t need you to.

“They’ve blown up,” he continues, tapping the folder lightly against your desk. “Sold-out tours, charting records, the whole thing. And every single interviewer we’ve sent in there walks out with nothing usable because he won’t play nice. Dodges questions, turns it into a joke, or just shuts down entirely.”

Your eyes flicker back to the name. Corroded Coffin. Eddie Munson.

“Sounds like a them problem,” you mutter.

“It’s a you solution,” he counters immediately. “You’re the only one who can handle him.”

That gets your attention. Not because you agree, but because you hate that a part of you might.

Your gaze lingers on the folder for a moment longer before you finally reach for it, flipping it open with a kind of reluctant precision, scanning headlines, photos, snippets of interviews that say everything and nothing all at once.

Rough around the edges. Unpredictable. Difficult. Your lips press into something almost like a smirk.

“Fine,” you say, closing the folder with a soft snap. “But if he wastes my time, I’m walking.”

Your manager’s shoulders loosen just slightly, victory settling in before you even fully commit to it.

“He won’t,” he says. You don’t answer that.

By the time you step out of your office later that afternoon, you already look the part, not that you ever really turn it off.

Your hair falls in dark waves past your shoulders, black as ink, broken up only by chunky highlights of platinum that catch the light every time you move, sharp and deliberate. Like they were put there to make sure no one forgets what you look like after you leave the room.

Your tattoos aren’t hidden, not completely. They trail down your arms and neck in a mix of fine lines and heavier ink, some delicate, some bold, disappearing beneath the sleeves of your jacket, reappearing at your wrists, at the edge of your collarbone, like glimpses of a story people don’t get to fully read.

Everything about you is intentional.

The way you dress, the way you walk, the way your gaze lingers just long enough to make people second-guess themselves before you look away, as if they were never worth your time to begin with.

Misty Meadows isn’t just a name. It’s a reputation. One you’ve built carefully, piece by piece, interview by interview, until it became something people either respect or fear, depending on how much they have to hide.

And as you tuck the Corroded Coffin file under your arm, heading out the door with that same steady confidence, there’s only one thought sitting at the back of your mind, quieter than the rest, but persistent.

You already know exactly what kind of man Eddie Munson is. The question is whether he has any idea what kind of woman he’s about to sit across from.

The door to the dressing room is already half-open when you get there, music bleeding out into the hallway in low, distorted waves, something loud and fast and a little unpolished, like it hasn’t quite decided what it wants to be yet.

You pause just long enough to take a breath, not out of nerves, but habit, the kind you’ve built from years of walking into rooms where everyone thinks they have the upper hand until you prove otherwise.

Then you push it open.

The room smells like cigarettes and cheap cologne layered over something metallic, amps humming softly in the corner, guitars propped against walls like they’ve been abandoned mid-thought, and the band scattered around in various states of half-prep and half-chaos, conversation cutting off just slightly when you step inside, not completely, but enough that they’ve clocked you.

Good.

You let the door fall shut behind you, unbothered, unhurried, your gaze sweeping the room once, taking everything in before it lands exactly where you expect it to.

Eddie Munson.

He’s slouched back on a worn couch like he owns the place, one arm thrown over the back, rings catching the dim light, dark curls pushed out of his face just enough to reveal eyes that are already on you, sharp, assessing, a little amused, like he’s been waiting for something interesting to happen.

You cross the room like it belongs to you, extending a hand just enough to be polite, not enough to feel like you need him to take it.

“Misty Meadows,” you say, voice smooth, practiced, just the right amount of detached. “I’ll be doing the interview.”

His gaze flicks to your hand, then back up to your face, dragging just a second too long to be accidental, taking in the highlights threaded through your hair, the ink along your arms, the way you’re standing like you couldn’t care less whether he cooperates or not.

He doesn’t take your hand. Instead, his mouth curls, slow and crooked, something lazy but intentional.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough around the edges in a way that feels almost curated, like he knows exactly how it sounds. “Figured it was you.”

You don’t pull your hand back immediately, just let the silence stretch a fraction longer before dropping it on your own terms, like it never mattered in the first place.

“Good,” you reply lightly. “Then we can skip the part where you pretend you don’t know who I am.”

A couple of the guys in the room snort under their breath, shifting, suddenly a little more interested, but your attention doesn’t leave him.

Eddie leans forward just slightly, elbows on his knees now, like you’ve earned a closer look, like he’s recalibrating in real time.

“You always this friendly,” he asks, head tilting just slightly, eyes dragging over you like he’s trying to place something he hasn’t quite figured out yet, “or am I just special?”

There it is. You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you let the silence stretch, just a second too long to be accidental, your gaze flicking over him in return, not shy about it, not apologetic, taking him in the same way he just took you in, like you’re assessing, filing things away for later.

Then, slowly, something like a smile curves at the corner of your mouth, quieter this time, less sharp, more knowing.

“Still deciding,” you say, stepping past him, close enough that the space between you feels intentional, like you’re aware of it, like you chose it, your attention already shifting as you set your bag down on the cluttered table, pulling out your recorder with practiced ease.

Behind you, there’s a soft exhale of a laugh, but Eddie doesn’t move right away. You can feel it. The way he watches you.

“I don’t usually get interviewers that hesitate,” he says after a beat, voice lower now, less performative, like he’s speaking more to you than the room. “Thought you’d have me figured out by now.”

You glance back at him over your shoulder, one brow lifting slightly, like the assumption almost amuses you.

“If I figured you out that quickly,” you reply, tone even, but lighter, “this would be a very short interview.”

That does it. Something shifts in his expression, not disappearing, not softening, but sharpening in a different way, like you’ve given him something to work with instead of something to push against.

“I could make it easy for you,” he offers, leaning forward just a little, forearms resting on his knees now, attention locked in. “Answer all your questions, behave, be real helpful.”

You turn fully this time, meeting his gaze without rushing it, without breaking first.

“But you won’t,” you say.

Not a question. He smiles, slower now, like you got it right.

“No,” he agrees.

Challenge accepted. 

The red light on your recorder glows steadily between you, small but authoritative, a quiet reminder that whatever this is, whatever this turns into, it’s being captured, documented, turned into something the rest of the world will eventually consume.

You settle back into your chair like you’ve done this a thousand times, pen poised, notebook open, gaze lifting to the band for just a moment before landing, inevitably, right back on him.

“Alright,” you say, voice even, professional without losing that undercurrent of something sharper.

“Corroded Coffin. You’ve gone from playing small venues to selling out entire tours in what feels like no time at all. What changed?”

It’s an easy opener, intentional. Eddie notices.

You can tell by the way his mouth curves, like he recognizes the setup, like he knows you’re giving him room to either play along or ruin it.

“People finally got good taste,” he says, leaning back into the couch, one arm draped over the back again, casual, effortless.

A couple of the guys laugh, chiming in with half-serious agreement, but you don’t write it down right away. Instead, you watch him for a second.

“Is that the official answer,” you ask, “or the one you give when you don’t feel like thinking too hard?”

There’s a quiet shift in the room. Eddie’s eyes flicker, something amused sparking there, but he doesn’t deflect this time.

“Depends,” he says, gaze holding yours, “you gonna make me think?”

You don’t look away. “I can,” you reply simply.

Then he exhales, something almost like a laugh slipping out under his breath as he leans forward, elbows on his knees again, posture changing just enough to signal he’s playing differently now.

“Alright,” he says. “We stopped trying to sound like anyone else.”

That, you write down. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” he continues, glancing briefly at the rest of the band before looking back at you, “we used to chase what we thought people wanted to hear. Bigger bands, bigger sounds, whatever was working at the time. And then we kinda just… stopped.”

Your pen moves more slowly now, more deliberate. “And that worked.”

“It worked because it was real,” he corrects, not defensive, just certain. “Turns out people can tell when you’re faking it.”

Your lips press together slightly, not quite a smile, but close.

“Careful,” you murmur as you jot that down. “That almost sounded sincere.”

There’s a low chuckle from the room, but Eddie’s focus doesn’t break.

“Don’t get used to it,” he says.

“I won’t.”

You flip the page in your notebook, shifting gears smoothly.

“Your lyrics,” you continue, “they’re darker than what’s charting right now. Less polished, more personal. Where does that come from?”

This time, he doesn’t answer right away. You don’t fill the silence. You let it sit, let it stretch, because that’s where the real answers tend to live.

Eddie’s gaze drops for half a second, fingers tapping once against his knee before stilling, like he’s deciding how much to give you.

“Life’s not exactly clean,” he says finally. “Didn’t really make sense to write it like it is.”

You tilt your head slightly, studying him, not pushing yet, but not letting it go either.

“Most artists still dress it up,” you say. “Make it easier to swallow.”

“Yeah,” he nods once. “That’s boring.” That earns him a small, genuine smile this time, quick but there.

“I’ll make sure to quote you on that.”

“Please do.”

There’s a moment where neither of you speaks, something quieter settling in under the surface of the conversation, something that feels less like an interview and more like something else.

You clear it before it lingers too long.

“Your fans,” you say, glancing briefly at your notes before looking back up, “are very… invested. There’s a kind of intensity there you don’t see with every band. Why do you think that is?”

He huffs out a soft laugh, leaning back again, but it’s different now, less dismissive, more thoughtful.

“They see themselves in it,” he says. “In the music, in us. We’re not exactly polished.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

He grins at that, just slightly. “You disagree?”

“I think,” you say, tapping your pen once against the page, eyes never leaving his, “you know exactly what you’re doing.”

That lands heavier than anything else you’ve said. You can tell by the way his expression stills, just for a second, like you’ve stepped a little closer to something he didn’t expect you to reach.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

You don’t elaborate, you don’t need to. Eddie leans forward again, slower this time, like he’s choosing it.

“And what do you think I’m doing?” he asks.

Your thumb brushes lightly over the side of your recorder, grounding, steady. Then you meet his gaze fully, unflinching.

“Keeping people at just enough of a distance,” you say, voice calm, measured, “that they want to get closer.”

His mouth curves, not wide, not performative, something smaller, something more real.

“Sounds like someone I’m talkin’ to right now.”

You don’t react right away. Just hold his gaze, steady, unwavering, before finally glancing down at your notes, breaking it on your terms.

“Maybe,” you say lightly, turning the page like nothing just happened. “But I’m not the one being interviewed.”

“Not yet,” he murmurs.

You hear it. Your lips twitch, just barely, before you press on, voice smooth, composed, like you didn’t feel the shift at all.

“Last question,” you say. “Where does Corroded Coffin go from here?”

He watches you for a second longer before answering, like he’s deciding whether to say something else instead.

Then, “Wherever we want,” he says. “We’re not really the type to sit still.”

You nod once, clicking your pen shut. “That much is clear.”

You reach forward, stopping the recorder, the soft click louder this time, more final. The room exhales around you, conversation starting to pick back up, movement returning, but for a second longer, neither of you moves.

Eddie’s still watching you. And this time, there’s no performance in it at all.

“Not bad, Meadows,” he says, voice quieter now, meant just for you. “You might actually be worth the hype.”

You gather your things with practiced ease, slipping the recorder back into your bag before finally looking at him again, expression unreadable, but not cold.

“Careful,” you echo softly. “You’re starting to sound impressed.”

He smiles at that. Slow. Certain. “I am.”

You don’t answer. You just sling your bag over your shoulder, turning toward the door like you’ve already decided this is over, like you’re done here. But just before you step out, you pause, glancing back at him one last time.

“Next time,” you say, almost offhand, like it doesn’t matter, “try not to hold back so much.”

And then you’re gone. Leaving him with just enough to want more.

The bar is dim in the way you like, not trying too hard to be atmospheric, just naturally worn in, low lights casting everything in amber and shadow, the kind of place where no one asks too many questions and no one cares if you sit alone for hours with a drink you barely touch.

You come here because of that.

Because after a day of being Misty Meadows, of being sharp and composed and just a little untouchable, it’s one of the few places where you can slip out of it without anyone noticing the difference.

Or at least, that’s the idea.

You slide onto your usual stool, ordering without looking at the menu, something simple, something you don’t have to think about, fingers tapping lightly against the bar as you wait, your gaze drifting out over the room more out of habit than interest, and then it lands on him.

Eddie’s across the bar, half-turned toward one of his bandmates, something animated in the way he’s talking, hands moving, head tipped back slightly as he laughs at something you can’t hear from here. He looks different outside the dressing room, less contained somehow, like the energy he kept just under the surface earlier has nowhere to go but out now.

For a second, you consider leaving. Not because you’re avoiding him. Just because you don’t need this to turn into something.

But then your drink is set in front of you, condensation already forming against the glass, and you take a slow sip instead, eyes flicking away like you never noticed him at all.

It’s easy enough to pretend. You’ve done it before.

You angle your body slightly toward the bar, back half-turned to the room, attention dropping to the faint ring your glass leaves against the wood as you set it down again, letting the noise of the place blur into something distant.

A few minutes pass. Maybe more. And then—

“Didn’t think you were the type to stick around after the job’s done.”

His voice is closer than you expect. Right behind you. You don’t turn right away.

Instead, you take another sip, slow, deliberate, setting the glass down before finally glancing over your shoulder, just enough to catch him standing there, hands shoved loosely into his pockets, expression somewhere between curious and amused.

“Didn’t think you were the type to follow your interviewers,” you reply, tone easy, like this is nothing, like you didn’t clock him the second you walked in.

His mouth quirks at that, but he doesn’t rise to it the way he did earlier.

“Didn’t follow you,” he says. “Been here.” You hum softly, turning back to face the bar, but you don’t dismiss him.

Then the stool beside you shifts, the faint scrape of it against the floor as he takes the seat without asking, close enough that you’re aware of him, not close enough to crowd.

“Hi, Meadows,” he says, a little quieter now, like it’s meant just for you.

You let out a small breath that almost passes for a laugh, finally turning your head to look at him properly, something lighter in your expression this time, less guarded.

“That’s not my real name,” you say, matter-of-fact, like you’re stating something obvious. “Just my pornstar name.”

He blinks, his body going completely still. 

And then you break, a soft chuckle slipping out as you shake your head slightly, like you couldn’t even keep a straight face through it.

“Relax,” you add, glancing back at your drink before lifting it again. “I’m kidding.”

Eddie’s watching you in a way that feels different now, less like he’s trying to figure you out and more like he’s just taking you in.

“Yeah?” he says, a hint of a grin pulling at his mouth. “Had me convinced.”

“I get that a lot,” you reply easily.

Another small pause settles between you, but it’s not awkward.

You tap your fingers once against the side of your glass before finally offering, a little more genuine this time, a little less Misty.

“It’s—” you start, then give your real name, letting it sit there between you without dressing it up, without turning it into something performative.

He repeats it under his breath, like he’s testing the way it sounds, like he’s committing it to memory.

“Better than Misty Meadows,” he decides.

You glance at him, one brow lifting slightly.

“Careful,” you murmur. “That name pays my bills.”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning back slightly in his seat, eyes still on you. “But this one sounds like you.”

That catches you off guard. Not enough to show it, but enough that you don’t answer right away.

Instead, you take another sip of your drink, gaze drifting forward again, a faint smile lingering at the edge of your lips like you’re deciding what to do with that.

“Don’t get used to it,” you say finally, softer now, but not pulling away. “You don’t get the off-the-record version of me that easily.”

Eddie huffs a quiet laugh beside you, something warm threaded through it.

“Funny,” he says, turning slightly toward you, elbow resting against the bar. “Could say the same thing.”

You glance at him again, slower this time. “Good,” you reply. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

And just like that, the game begins.

Then, from across the bar—“Eddie!”

One of his bandmates, loud, half-laughing, waving him over like whatever’s happening over there is more chaotic, more immediate, more them.

Eddie doesn’t look away from you right away. His eyes linger, like he’s weighing something, like he’s deciding whether to ignore it, like he’s not quite ready to let this moment go just yet.

“C’mon, man!” the voice calls again. “You’re missin’ it!”

You tilt your head slightly, glancing past him toward the group before looking back at him, expression unreadable but just amused enough to push.

“Go,” you say lightly, lifting your glass to your lips. “Wouldn’t want to keep your audience waiting.”

His mouth twitches, something reluctant in it now, something that wasn’t there before.

“Try not to disappear,” he mutters, almost under his breath, like he’s not entirely joking.

You don’t promise anything. Just hum softly, like you might, like you might not. It’s enough.

He pushes off the stool, dragging his gaze off you with a kind of effort that doesn’t go unnoticed, stepping back toward his band, the noise swallowing him up almost immediately, laughter and voices and movement pulling him right back into it.

And just like that, you’re alone again. Or, at least, you look like you are. You take another sip of your drink, slower this time, eyes fixed forward, but your awareness doesn’t dull, not completely. It never does.

You can feel it again, the shift. The attention that comes when someone new takes notice. It doesn’t take long.

“Mind if I sit?”

The voice is unfamiliar, a little too confident, a little too practiced, and when you glance to the side, there’s a man standing there, already halfway into the motion of pulling out the stool like he expects you to say yes.

You consider him for a second. Then—“Depends,” you say, turning slightly toward him, letting your gaze linger just long enough to feel intentional. “Are you interesting?”

He laughs, a little surprised, but not put off.

“I can be,” he says, settling into the seat beside you anyway. “Guess that’s up to you to decide.”

You hum, tilting your glass gently, watching the way the light catches against it before looking back at him, something softer in your expression now, something easier.

“Alright,” you concede, like you’re granting him something. “You’ve got five minutes to convince me.”

Across the bar, Eddie hears it. He doesn’t mean to, but he does. And when he glances over, you’re turned toward someone else. Closer than you were with him.

Your posture is open, relaxed in a way that feels different. The guy says something you don’t catch, but you laugh, quiet and genuine, your hand brushing briefly against his arm like it’s nothing, like it’s instinct.

Eddie stills. Not obvious. Not enough for anyone else to call him on it. But his attention locks in.

Back at the bar, you lean just slightly closer to the man beside you, lowering your voice like you’re letting him in on something, your smile curving in a way that feels a little more deliberate now, a little more crafted.

“And what do you do,” you ask, fingers idly tracing the rim of your glass, “when you’re not trying to impress strangers at bars?”

He grins, leaning in to match your energy. “Who says I’m trying to impress you?”

You glance at him, slow, measured, like you’re considering that. Then, “Because you’re still here,” you say simply.

He laughs again, a little louder this time, a little more hooked.

Across the room, Eddie exhales sharply through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair, gaze flicking away for half a second before snapping right back, like he can’t help it.

He watches the way you tilt your head when you listen, the way your smile shifts depending on what you’re given, the way you let the guy think he’s doing well, like he’s keeping up.

But Eddie knows better. He’s seen the version of you that doesn’t give anything away. And this—This isn’t that. This is intentional. Controlled. A performance. Your performance.

Back at the bar, your eyes flicker, just briefly, just enough to catch him looking. You don’t turn your head. You don’t break your conversation. But your lips curve, just slightly, into your glass as you take another sip. Like you know exactly what you’re doing. And exactly who you’re doing it for.

The conversation lingers just long enough to feel believable.

He’s talking more now, a little too comfortable, a little too confident in the way people get when they think they’ve figured you out, when they mistake your attention for interest instead of something far more temporary.

You let him. For a minute, maybe two. Long enough for it to matter.

“So what, you just go around interviewing rockstars all day?” he’s saying, leaning closer, voice dipping like he thinks it makes him sound more interesting. “That’s gotta get old.”

You tilt your head slightly, considering him, letting your gaze soften just enough to keep him talking.

“Sometimes,” you murmur, fingers tapping lightly against your glass. “Depends on the rockstar.”

He grins at that, like he’s in on the joke, like he’s earned it. “Yeah? Bet most of them aren’t as fun as me.”

His hand slides over your arm then, casual in the way men think passes for smooth, fingers brushing your skin like it’s an afterthought, like you won’t notice, or worse, like you won’t mind.

You do, but you don’t pull away. Not immediately.

Instead, your gaze drops to where his hand rests, slow, deliberate, giving him just enough time to realize what he’s done, just enough time for the moment to stretch. Then you move.

Your hand comes up, light but precise, wrapping around his wrist, not tight, not aggressive, just controlled. You lift his hand off your arm like it weighs nothing. Plop it back onto the bar between you. Your touch lingers for half a second longer than necessary.

Then you look back at him, expression calm, almost pleasant.

“Time's up. You’re not that interesting,” you say lightly.

The smile on his face falters, just slightly, confusion flickering in where confidence used to sit, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking.

You don’t give him the answer. And before he can recover—“Hey, babe.”

The voice cuts in from your other side, familiar, rougher now, edged with something that wasn’t there before. Eddie.

He doesn’t wait to be acknowledged, stepping in close enough that the space shifts immediately, presence taking up more room than it should, like he’s claiming it without asking.

Your gaze lifts to him slowly, measured, taking him in the same way you did earlier, but there’s something new in it now, something more aware.

“Thought I lost you,” he continues, tone easy on the surface, but there’s an undercurrent there, something tighter, something that doesn’t quite bother to hide itself.

“C’mon, we’ve got a table open.”

You glance past him briefly, toward the pool tables in the back, then back at him again, one brow arching slightly. “Do we?” you ask.

His mouth tilts, not quite a smile. “Yeah,” he says. “We do.”

You let it hang, just long enough to make it clear you’re choosing, not being pulled.

Then you turn back to the guy beside you, offering him a small, almost apologetic shrug that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Duty calls,” you say, like it’s unfortunate, like you might have stayed if things were different.

He blinks, still a little thrown, still trying to catch up.

“Right,” he mutters. “Yeah, sure.”

You’re already standing before he finishes, sliding off the stool with practiced ease, grabbing your drink, and downing the last of it in one smooth motion before setting the empty glass back on the bar.

Then you turn to Eddie. Close now, closer than before.

Your head tilts just slightly as you look at him, something amused flickering there, something that says you noticed everything.

“Babe?” you echo, soft, almost teasing.

He doesn’t back off. Doesn’t correct it.

“Seemed like it worked,” he says simply.

Your lips curve, slow and deliberate.

“Aw,” you murmur, stepping past him toward the back, not waiting to see if he follows, because of course he will. “Did someone get jealous?”

Behind you, there’s a quiet, low laugh. “Wouldn’t go that far,” he calls after you. But he’s already moving to catch up.

And neither of you believes that for a second.

By the time you reach the pool tables, the air shifts again, thicker back here, louder in a different way, the crack of balls against each other cutting through the music, laughter bouncing off the walls, neon lights catching on glass and metal and movement. Eddie’s right behind you.

“Oi, Munson,” one of the guys calls out, cue already in hand, grin sharp. “You finally done brooding or what?”

Eddie scoffs lightly, brushing past him, but there’s no bite in it, just familiarity. “Shut up.”

Then, with a tilt of his head toward you, “you guys remember—” he pauses, glancing at you like he’s giving you the choice.

You give your real name again. Not Misty. Not here.

“—and she’s with me,” he finishes, like it’s obvious, like it doesn’t need explaining.

“Gareth,” the same guy says, offering you a quick nod, eyes already curious, already clocking you in a way that feels more open than Eddie’s measured stare. “And that’s Jeff.”

Jeff gives you a small wave, more relaxed, but just as observant.

You return it easily, already picking up on the dynamic, the way Gareth leans loud and teasing, the way Jeff hangs back just enough to watch before he speaks.

“Teams?” Gareth asks, twirling his cue. “Or are you just here for moral support?”

Eddie glances at you, something almost challenging flickering there. “You play?”

You don’t answer right away. Just reach for a cue, spinning it once in your hand like you’ve done it a hundred times, like it’s muscle memory, not something you have to think about.

“I get by,” you say lightly. That’s all the confirmation he needs.

“Alright,” Gareth claps once, already moving to rack the balls. “Munson and—” he repeats your name, testing it, “against me and Jeff.”

“Hope you don’t suck,” Jeff adds, not unkindly.

You glance at him, a faint smile pulling at your mouth. “I won’t.”

The game starts.

Eddie breaks first, the crack loud and clean, balls scattering across the table in a messy spread, and for a second, it looks like any other casual game, like nothing’s riding on it, like it doesn’t matter who wins.

Then it’s your turn. You step forward without hesitation, leaning over the table, lining up your shot with a kind of quiet precision that doesn’t match the casual way you’ve been carrying yourself all night.

There’s a brief pause. Then, you sink it. Clean. No bounce, no hesitation, just a smooth, controlled shot that drops exactly where you want it.

Gareth straightens slightly.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Beginner’s luck.”

You don’t respond. Just circle the table, lining up the next one. And the next. And the next. Each shot is deliberate, calculated, effortless in a way that stops feeling like luck about halfway through your turn. By the time you finally step back, handing the table over, the energy has shifted completely.

Jeff lets out a low whistle.

“Alright,” he says, glancing between you and Eddie. “What the hell was that?”

Eddie’s not even trying to hide it now. The way he’s looking at you, it’s not surprise. It’s something way closer to impressed.

“Yeah,” Gareth adds, narrowing his eyes slightly, like he’s trying to piece it together. “Where’d you learn that?”

You twirl the cue lightly in your hand, shrugging one shoulder like it’s nothing.

“Playing pool with Mötley Crüe will do that,” you say, casual as anything.

“No way,” Gareth blurts, stepping closer like he needs to hear it again. “You’re serious?”

You glance at him, amused now. “Why would I lie about that?”

Jeff’s already leaning in, interest fully piqued.

“Wait, wait—okay, hold on,” he says, pointing at you like you might disappear if he doesn’t anchor the moment. “You’ve actually met them?”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head slightly. “I’ve interviewed them.”

That does it. “Jesus,” Gareth breathes, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, that’s—okay, that’s insane.”

“What are they like?” Jeff cuts in immediately. “Like, actually? Are they as wild as people say?”

“And Sabbath?” Gareth adds quickly. “You’ve done them too, right? What’s Ozzy like in person? Is he—”

“Do they remember your name?” Jeff interrupts. “Or is it like in and out, next person?”

“Have you ever had one go completely off the rails?” Gareth piles on. “Like mid-interview, just—gone?”

The questions start stacking, overlapping, rapid-fire, both of them talking over each other now, completely locked in, like they forgot the game entirely.

You laugh, real this time, holding a hand up slightly like you might try to slow them down, but not actually stopping them, not when it’s so easy, so natural to slip into this version of yourself.

Across from you, Eddie watches it all unfold. Quiet. Observing.

The way you answer without hesitation, the way you pick and choose what to give them, what to hold back, the way you shift between stories and half-truths and teasing deflections like it’s second nature.

Like you’ve done this a hundred times. Like you belong in those rooms. And for the first time tonight, he’s not trying to match you. He’s just taking it in.

“You always this popular?” he mutters finally, just loud enough for you to hear over the noise.

You glance at him, a slow smile pulling at your lips. “Only when I’m winning,” you reply.

By the time the game dissolves into something less structured, less competitive, and more just hanging around, the drinks have stacked up enough that the sharp edges of the night start to blur.

Gareth’s gotten louder, Jeff’s leaning into stories that take too long to land, and Eddie—

Eddie’s still close. Not hovering, but never far. You feel it in the way he keeps drifting back toward you, in the way his attention snaps back every time you speak, even when someone else is mid-sentence.

At some point, your glass is empty again. You don’t remember finishing it. You set it down anyway.

“I should go,” you say, more to yourself than anyone else, but Eddie hears it.

“Yeah?” he asks, straightening slightly, like the word 'go' pulled him back into focus.

You nod, pushing yourself off the edge of the table, smoothing your hands over your jacket like it’s a habit, like you need something to ground you for a second.

“Early morning,” you lie easily.

He huffs a quiet laugh at that, not calling it out, but not believing it either. “Right.”

There’s a pause, then he’s grabbing his jacket. “I’ll walk you.”

You glance at him, one brow lifting slightly, a hint of amusement cutting through the haze.

“Wow,” you murmur as you start toward the exit, not waiting to see if he follows. “Didn’t peg you for a gentleman.”

“Don’t spread it around,” he replies easily, falling into step beside you. “Ruins my reputation.”

You hum softly, pushing the door open, cool night air hitting your skin just enough to clear your head a little, the noise of the bar fading behind you as you step out onto the street.

For a while, you walk in silence. The kind that doesn’t need filling.

Your shoulder brushes his once, twice, not quite accidental, not quite intentional either, and neither of you comment on it.

“So,” he says eventually, glancing down at you, hands shoved into his pockets. “This your usual post-interview routine? Bars and mysterious exits?”

You glance up at him, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Only for the ones that keep things interesting.”

He huffs, shaking his head slightly. “Good to know I made the cut.”

You don’t answer that.

Just let it sit between you as you turn down your street, the buildings quieter here, lights lower, everything settling into that late-night stillness.

When you stop in front of your building, it feels abrupt. Like something’s being cut off before it’s ready. You turn to face him, shifting your weight slightly, keys already in your hand.

“Well,” you say lightly, gesturing toward the door. “This is me.”

Eddie nods once, slower now, like he’s taking it in, committing it somewhere. “Yeah.”

“Thanks,” you add, a little quieter. “For the walk.”

“Anytime.”

You turn then, stepping up to the door, unlocking it with a soft click before pushing it open, slipping inside without looking back right away. Because you don’t need to. You already know he’s still there. You can feel it.

And sure enough, when you glance over your shoulder—He’s turned slightly, like he’s about to head back the way you came, like he’s already made the decision to leave.

Something in your chest tightens, just enough.

“Hey.”

It stops him. He looks back.

You hesitate for half a second, fingers tightening slightly around your keys before you tilt your head toward the open doorway.

“You can come up,” you say, like it’s nothing, like it’s an afterthought. “If you want.”

There’s a pause. Not long, but enough for it to matter. Eddie studies you for a second, something unreadable flickering across his face before it settles into something quieter, something more certain.

“Yeah?” he asks.

You shrug lightly, stepping back just enough to make space for him to follow. “Yeah.”

That’s all it takes. He steps forward, closing the distance between you, the door falling shut behind him with a soft click that echoes just a little too loudly in the quiet.

The hallway up to your apartment is dim, the kind of building that’s seen better years but doesn’t bother pretending otherwise, worn carpet, flickering light at the far end, the faint echo of someone’s music bleeding through the walls. You don’t comment on it.

Just lead him up like it’s routine, like you’ve done this a hundred times, keys already in your hand by the time you reach your door. There’s a small pause as you unlock it. Then you push it open.

Eddie steps in behind you, and for the first time all night, he actually goes quiet.

Your place isn’t polished. Not in the way people expect from someone with your job.

It’s dimly lit, warm, the kind of space that feels lived-in rather than staged.

Black and deep red tones everywhere, a worn leather couch that looks like it’s seen long nights and longer conversations, records stacked in uneven piles near an old turntable, band posters peeling slightly at the corners, some framed, some not, overlapping in a way that feels intentional without trying too hard.

There’s a faint scent of incense in the air, something smoky and sweet, curling through the space, mixing with the lingering city air from a cracked window.

Your jackets are thrown over the back of a chair, boots kicked off near the door, a half-finished notebook sitting open on the coffee table like you just stepped away from it.

It’s messy, but curated. Like you.

Eddie lets out a low breath, stepping further in, eyes dragging over everything, taking it in piece by piece.

“Shit,” he mutters, almost to himself. “This is… not what I expected.”

You shut the door behind him with a soft click, already moving past him like you didn’t hear it, or like you did and just don’t feel the need to explain.

“What, you thought I lived in a hotel room?” you toss over your shoulder.

“Thought you’d be cleaner,” he admits, glancing back at you, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth.

You glance at him, unimpressed. “Disappointed?”

“Not even a little.”

That earns him a small smile, quick, gone just as fast. You move into the kitchen without asking if he wants anything, already opening the fridge, the light spilling out across the dark space.

“Beer?” you call, like it’s the only option.

“Yeah.”

You grab two, popping the caps off against the counter with practiced ease before tossing one to him without looking. He catches it easily, a soft thunk of glass against his rings.

By the time he looks back up, you’ve already taken a sip of yours, leaning back against the counter, watching him over the rim like you’re assessing something all over again. He doesn’t say anything.

Just takes a long drink, then moves further into the apartment, drawn toward the couch like it’s calling him.

He drops onto it without ceremony, limbs loose, head tipping back against the worn leather with a quiet exhale, like he’s finally letting himself settle.

“Comfortable?” you ask, tone light as you push off the counter, crossing the room.

“Dangerously,” he replies, glancing at you from where he’s sprawled out. “Might not leave.”

You huff a soft laugh, setting your bottle down on the table before lowering yourself onto the arm of the couch instead of beside him, close enough to feel his presence, not close enough to give in to it.

“Bold of you to assume you’re invited to stay that long.”

He turns his head slightly, looking up at you now, eyes a little darker in the low light, something slower settling into his expression.

“You let me in,” he points out.

You tilt your head, considering him for a second, something unreadable flickering there.

“Don’t read into it,” you say, softer now, but not pulling away.

He studies you for a beat longer, like he might push, like he might say something that tips this into something else entirely. But he doesn’t. Not yet. Instead, he lifts his beer slightly in your direction.

“To not reading into things,” he says.

Your lips curve, just faintly, as you reach for your own, clinking it lightly against his.

“Sure,” you murmur. But neither of you really means it.

For a while, it’s just the quiet hum of the room. The low crackle of a record you didn’t even remember putting on, something slow and heavy, the kind of sound that settles into your bones, mixed with the occasional clink of glass when one of you sets your beer down a little too hard.

Eddie shifts on the couch, turning slightly so he’s angled more toward you, one arm draped over the back, the other loosely holding his bottle, eyes lingering on you like he’s been watching longer than he should admit.

“So,” he says finally, voice rougher now, less performative than it was earlier, something quieter threading through it. “Where’re you from?”

You glance at him, not immediately answering, like you’re deciding how much to give.

“New York,” you say after a second, simple and easy.

He hums, like that tracks, like it makes sense. “Figures.”

Your brow lifts slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs one shoulder, but his gaze doesn’t leave you, something almost amused flickering there.

“Just explains it,” he says. “The attitude. The way you walk into a room like you already own it.”

You let out a quiet breath that almost passes for a laugh, shaking your head slightly. “Or maybe I just do.”

That gets him. A small grin tugs at his mouth, slower this time, more deliberate.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Maybe you do.”

“Family there?” he asks, like it’s casual, but it lands a little heavier than that.

You pick up your beer again, rolling the bottle lightly between your hands before answering.

“My dad,” you say. “Music production. Small stuff, nothing huge, but enough that I grew up around it.”

His attention sharpens at that. “Yeah?” he leans forward slightly, interest piquing. “That’s how you got into all this?”

You nod once, gaze drifting somewhere past him for a second, like you’re pulling from memory.

“Studio sessions, late nights, bands in and out of the house,” you explain. “I learned pretty early how to listen. How to tell when someone’s full of shit, too.”

Your eyes flick back to him at that, something pointed slipping in just for a second. He huffs a quiet laugh. “Dangerous skill.”

“Useful one.”

Eddie studies you like he’s putting the pieces together, like he’s matching this version of you to the one he saw earlier, to the one you present to everyone else.

“You’re not like the other journalists I’ve met,” he says after a moment, tone lower now, something almost thoughtful threading through it.

You glance at him, unimpressed but not dismissive. “Please don’t say that like it’s a compliment.”

He shakes his head slightly, pushing himself up just enough to sit a little closer, elbows resting on his knees, bottle dangling loosely from his fingers.

“It’s not,” he says. “Not really.”

That catches your attention. Your head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Then what is it?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just looks at you.

“Most of them,” he starts slowly, “they come in with an angle. Already know what they want you to say, already got the story half-written before you even open your mouth.”

You don’t interrupt.

“They try to get close,” he continues, voice quieter now, “but it’s fake. All of it. Just a means to an end.”

His gaze drops briefly to your hands, then back up to your face, something sharper settling in.

“You don’t do that.”

You hold his gaze, steady. “No,” you agree softly.

“And that should probably worry me,” he adds, almost to himself.

Your lips curve, slow, deliberate, something darker slipping into it now. “Maybe it should.”

He lets out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh, but there’s no real humor in it.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Problem is—” He leans back slightly, but his eyes don’t leave yours, something heavier settling into the space between you. “—I don’t think I mind.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the neck of your bottle, but your expression doesn’t shift, not in any obvious way.

“You should,” you say, voice softer now, but not lighter. “I’m very good at my job.”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes at that. Interest. Challenge. Something else.

“I know,” he says.

The air between you feels thicker now, heavier, like the low hum of the record has wrapped itself around the room and pulled everything closer.

Eddie’s still leaning back on the couch, but his posture has shifted: less sprawled, more intentional. His eyes stay locked on yours, dark and steady, that crooked half-smile lingering like he’s daring you to keep going.

You set your beer down on the table with a soft clink, the sound cutting through the quiet. Then you slide off the arm of the couch and onto the cushion beside him, close enough that your thigh presses against his. Not accidental. You don’t do accidental.

He doesn’t wait. His hand comes up, fingers threading into your hair, tugging you in like he’s the one who decides when this starts. The kiss is immediate: hot, open-mouthed, his tongue sliding against yours with that same chaotic energy he carries on stage, like he’s trying to swallow the challenge you’ve been throwing at him all night. 

One of his ringed hands grips your waist, the other sliding up your back, pulling you half into his lap as if he’s already mapping out how this is going to go.

His teeth catch your bottom lip, a little rough, a little possessive, and for a second you let him—let the heat build, let him think he’s steering.

But then his hand dips lower, palming your ass like he’s about to flip you under him, and that’s when you break the kiss with a sharp inhale.

You pull back just enough to look at him, lips wet and swollen, your hand coming up to press flat against his chest, holding him there.

“You seem to be the one in control a lot, Eddie,” you say, voice low and edged with that sharp, unimpressed amusement you wear like armor. Your fingers curl into his shirt, nails digging in just enough to make him feel it.

“On stage. With the band. With every fucking person who walks into a room thinking they can handle you.” 

Your gaze drags over his face—those blown pupils, the flush creeping up his neck, the way his breath has already gone ragged.

“Must get exhausting, always holding the reins like that.”

His throat works as he swallows, eyes flicking down to your mouth like he’s still chasing the kiss, but he doesn’t push. Not yet.

“Yeah?” he rasps, voice rougher than gravel. “You offering to change that?”

You don’t answer with words. You lean back in and kiss him again: deeper this time, filthier, but on your terms. Your tongue strokes against his, slow and commanding, while your hand stays planted on his chest, keeping him pinned exactly where you want him. 

He groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and his hands flex on your waist like he’s fighting the instinct to take over again.

You reward the restraint by shifting fully into his lap, knees bracketing his hips, grinding down once—slow, deliberate—feeling him harden instantly beneath you through his jeans.

The kiss turns messy fast. Tongues and teeth and the wet sound of mouths sliding together, his curls tangling around your fingers as you tug his head back to expose his throat.

You bite down there, hard enough to leave a mark, and he bucks up against you with a choked curse. But you don’t let him set the pace. 

You roll your hips in tight, controlled circles, dragging your core along the thick line of his cock until he’s panting into the kiss, hands gripping your thighs like they’re the only thing keeping him sane.

You break away just long enough to yank your shirt up and over your head, tossing it aside. The cool air hits your skin, and his eyes drop immediately—dark, hungry, locking onto the silver barbells piercing your nipples, the way they catch the low lamplight every time you breathe. A low, wrecked sound escapes him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, thumbs already brushing the undersides of your breasts like he can’t help it. “Those are— Jesus Christ.”

You catch his wrists before he can do more, pinning them to the couch on either side of his head. “Eyes up here,” you tell him, voice calm but edged. 

“You don’t get to touch until I say.” Then you lean down and kiss him again, slower, filthier, rolling your nipples against his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt just to feel him shudder.

You keep him like that—trapped under you, mouth devoured by yours—while you rock against him harder, using the friction to chase your own heat.

The kiss never fully breaks; it just turns sloppy, desperate, shared breaths and bitten-off groans. 

Your hands slide down his arms, nails raking lightly, before you reach between you and shove his jeans open, freeing his cock. It’s hot and heavy in your palm, already leaking, and you stroke him once, firm and slow, thumb circling the slick head until his hips jerk.

But you don’t let him have it yet. You rise up on your knees, shoving your own jeans and panties down just enough to kick them off, then sink back down—taking him in one smooth, relentless slide.

The stretch burns perfectly and fully, your pierced nipples brushing his chest as you settle. Eddie’s head falls back against the couch with a groan, but you grab his jaw, forcing his gaze back to yours.

“Look at me,” you say against his mouth. “This is for me right now.”

And then you ride him.

Not gentle. Not shared. You use him—rolling your hips in deep, grinding thrusts that hit exactly where you need, clit dragging against his pelvis on every downstroke.

Your hands stay on his shoulders, nails digging crescents into his skin, keeping him pinned while you fuck yourself on his cock. 

The wet slap of skin fills the room, mixed with the low hum of the record and his broken curses.

Every time he tries to thrust up, you slow down, clenching around him until he’s whimpering into your next kiss, lips slack and needy.

You chase it ruthlessly—faster now, thighs burning, the barbells on your nipples tightening into hard peaks as pleasure coils sharp and bright in your belly.

When it hits, it hits hard: you come with a low, throaty moan, grinding down deep and holding there, pulsing around him, thighs clamping tight around his hips. 

Your forehead drops to his shoulder for half a second, breath hot against his neck, but you don’t stop moving entirely; just slow, lazy rolls to ride it out while he stays rock-hard and trembling inside you, edged right to the brink.

You lift off him with a slick sound, ignoring the way he whines at the loss. Instead, you slide down between his spread thighs, kneeling on the floor in front of the couch, and take him into your mouth in one smooth motion—deep, no teasing, throat relaxing around the thick length of him. 

Eddie’s hand flies to your hair on instinct, but you slap it away, pinning his wrist to the cushion again.

“No,” you murmur around his cock, pulling off just long enough to speak. “You don’t get to guide this either.”

Then you swallow him again, tongue swirling, hollowing your cheeks, working him with filthy, wet strokes until his hips are twitching and his voice cracks on your name. 

You edge him mercilessly—bringing him right to the edge, then backing off with a slow lick up the underside until he’s cursing, sweat-slick and desperate, cock throbbing against your tongue.

Only when he’s shaking, voice hoarse and pleading—“Fuck, please, I can’t— I’m right there”—do you pull off completely.

You climb back into his lap, guiding him back inside you in one slick thrust, and lean in close, lips brushing his ear.

“Your turn,” you whisper, voice husky and satisfied. “Take it. Fuck me like you’ve been dying to since the bar.”

That’s all it takes. Eddie snaps.

His hands finally move—gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, flipping you both so your back hits the couch and he’s driving into you in one brutal thrust. No more restraint.

 He fucks you deep and relentlessly, hips snapping, the wet sound of it obscene as he buries himself to the hilt over and over. His mouth finds yours again—messy, biting, devouring—while one hand slides up to pinch and tug at your pierced nipples, rolling the barbells between his fingers until you arch and moan into his mouth.

“Goddamn,” he growls against your lips, voice wrecked and raw. “You’re so fucking tight— so fucking perfect like this.” He angles his hips, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision spark, pounding harder, faster, the couch creaking under the force of it. 

You let him, legs wrapped around his waist, nails raking down his back—because you’ve already come once, because you’ve already had him exactly how you wanted, and now you want to feel him lose it.

He does. With a strangled groan, he buries himself deep, hips stuttering as he comes hard, pulsing inside you, face pressed into your neck like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin.

You clench around him deliberately, and he shudders through it, whispering your real name like a curse and a prayer all at once.

For a long moment, the only sound is both of you breathing hard, skin slick, bodies still locked together.

Eddie’s weight is heavy and warm on top of you, but he doesn’t collapse completely: his arms tremble as he holds himself up just enough to look at you, curls wild, eyes glassy and utterly gone.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes, voice shot. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

You smile, slow and satisfied, thumb brushing over his swollen bottom lip. 

“Only if you ask nicely,” you murmur, pulling him down into a lazy, filthy kiss that tastes like both of you.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind you, and for the first time all night, the noise drops out completely.

Just water. Hot, steady, grounding.

You stand there longer than you need to, letting it run over your shoulders, your neck, washing away the heat of it all, the weight of his hands, the way he said your name like it meant something.

You don’t rush, you never do. But there’s a quiet awareness sitting just under your skin now, something that wasn’t there before.

When you finally step out, wrapped in one of your towels, the apartment feels different. Quieter. Softer. You pad back into the main room, running a hand through your damp hair, and stop.

Eddie’s in your bed. Not in a way that assumes anything.

He’s kicked off his boots, stretched out on top of the covers like he didn’t even think twice about it, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting across his stomach, staring up at your ceiling like he’s been there longer than he has.

You blink once. Then scoff, a small shake of your head as you move toward your dresser, pulling out something to throw on.

“Wow,” you mutter, voice dry. “You make yourself comfortable fast.”

He glances over at you, that same crooked, lazy grin pulling at his mouth, but it’s softer now, worn down at the edges.

“You invited me in,” he says simply. “Didn’t specify where I could and could not sit.”

You huff out something that almost sounds like a laugh, tugging on an oversized shirt, letting the towel drop, not bothering to hide the fact that you don’t particularly care if he looks. Which, of course, he does. But he doesn’t say anything, just watches.

You climb onto the bed after a second, slower than you need to be, like you’re still deciding something even as you do it, settling in beside him instead of sending him off the way you normally would anybody else. 

Then he shifts, turning slightly toward you, one arm sliding around your waist like it’s natural, like it’s already been decided.

You hesitate, just for a second. Then you let yourself lean into it. Barely.

“Don’t get used to this,” you murmur, eyes fixed somewhere ahead of you.

He huffs a quiet laugh against your shoulder. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

His fingers trace absent patterns along your side, slow, not pushing, which kind of says otherwise.

“I’m in town for a couple of days,” he says after a moment, voice lower now, closer to your ear. “Couple of shows lined up.”

You hum softly, not immediately reacting, like you’re filing it away instead of responding to it.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You tilt your head slightly, just enough to glance at him, something teasing slipping back into your expression.

“Guess I could consider showing up,” you say, casual, like it’s not a big deal. “If I’m bored.”

His mouth curves, eyes flicking over your face like he knows exactly what that means.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Might end up liking it.”

“Doubt it.” But there’s no bite in it.

You shift slightly, settling more comfortably against him before you speak again, voice softer, but edged with that familiar teasing.

“Though,” you add, glancing up at him, “you’re getting a little attached, Munson.”

He raises a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you continue, tone almost thoughtful now, like you’re analyzing it. “Walking me home, inviting yourself into my bed? To a gig? Starting to sound a little like you’re in love with me.”

There’s a pause, a real one this time. Eddie doesn’t answer immediately.

His hand stills slightly against your side, his gaze lingering on you in a way that feels different, less playful, more deliberate.

Then, “After that?” he says quietly, a faint smirk pulling at his lips again, but it doesn’t fully cover what’s underneath. “I just might be.”

You pause, because you didn’t expect that reaction or that answer. You just watch him for a second longer than usual, like you’re trying to decide if he’s joking, if you should treat it like one.

Then you shake your head slightly, letting out a quiet breath.

“Yeah,” you murmur, settling back against him, eyes drifting closed. “That sounds like a you problem.”

He laughs softly at that, the sound low and warm against the back of your neck, his arm tightening just slightly around you.

“So,” he starts, muffled into your shoulder. “Please tell me I don’t have any famous competition.”

Your eyes snap open, scoffing as you roll to face him, forehead to forehead.

“Seriously?” you ask, but there’s no bite to it.

His eyebrows raise, somewhere between humor, interest, and something a little sharper, a little more curious than he’s letting on.

You sigh, smiling as you shake your head, like you can’t believe this is what he’s worried about.

“Nobody impressive or memorable,” you mumble, before rolling over, back pressed into his chest.

“Oh thank god,” he exhales, dramatic, his arm tightening around you. “I was getting scared I had to compete with Vince Neil.”

“He wishes,” you mumble.

Eddie laughs, low and surprised, the sound warm against the back of your neck like he wasn’t expecting that answer, like he likes it more than he should.

“Jesus,” he mutters, nudging his nose lightly against your shoulder. “You say that about everyone, or just the ones who deserve it?”

You hum, pretending to think about it. “Just the ones who try too hard.”

His hand slides a little higher along your waist at that, fingers hooking lazily at the hem of your shirt.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, closer. “Would’ve been real embarrassing if I had to follow that.”

You roll your eyes slightly, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips, even if he can’t fully see it.

“Don’t worry,” you say, glancing back at him over your shoulder. “You’re doing just fine.”

That gets him. You feel it in the way his grip tightens just a fraction, in the way his breath catches just slightly before he recovers.

“Yeah?” he asks, softer now.

Your gaze lingers on him for a second longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering there before you turn back around, settling into him again.

“Don’t get cocky,” you add.

He huffs a quiet laugh against your skin, pressing just a little closer, his voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial.

“Too late.”

guys.... im obsessed with this.

k bye vote on the poll

do i make this a series?

yes

yes (no)

Voting ended onApr 22

[beasbrain]

No One Like You

pairing: Eddie x you (female! reader)

summary: You and Eddie take on the Hawkins Fourth of July fair: carnival games, bad decisions, and way too much sugar included. Somewhere between the chaos and the charm, he might just win more than a stuffed prize.

tags: eddie x reader, no y/n, carnival date, tooth-rotting fluff, established feelings but they won't say it, mutual pining but they're also idiots, match made in hell, he constantly checks in, hill rolling, this is so sickly sweet, i fear they're in love, reader matches his energy perfectly

TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not inquire, i mean it. unprotected sex.

A/N: gah i loved writing this one! i found this request and immediately fell in love with it. i hope i brought your vision to life<3 reblogs are always appreciated, ofc. happy reading!

WC: 7.7k

The idea comes to him as most of his best ones do, half-formed and a little reckless, while he’s lying on his back with his head in your lap, lazily tracing the frayed hem of your shorts like it’s something sacred. The window’s cracked open, letting in the thick July air and the distant hum of town already starting to buzz for the Fourth, and Eddie tilts his head just enough to look up at you, eyes bright in that way that usually means trouble in the best sense.

“You busy tonight, sweetheart?” he asks, already smiling like he knows the answer, thumb catching one of the chipped rings on your finger and spinning it slowly. “Or are you gonna let me take you on a highly questionable date to the most American thing this town’s got to offer?”

You raise a brow, dragging your fingers through his hair just to feel the way he melts a little under it, and he exhales like he’s been waiting for that exact touch all day.

“Carnival,” he adds, softer now, like he’s letting you in on something instead of pitching it. “Ferris wheel, shitty prizes, probably illegal amounts of fried food. Real romantic, I know. I’m pulling out all the stops.”

You pretend to think about it, tilting your head like you’re weighing the options, even though you’re already smiling, already leaning down just enough that your hair brushes his cheek.

“Only if you win me something,” you say, voice light but challenging, and his grin goes sharp, delighted, like you just handed him a mission.

“Oh,” Eddie murmurs, pushing himself up onto his elbows so he’s closer, so he can look at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the room, “You bet your ass I’ll win you everything.”

The carnival lights up Hawkins like it’s trying to be bigger than it is, strings of red, white, and blue tangled with blinking bulbs that make everything feel softer, almost unreal, and Eddie keeps close to you from the second you step in, fingers hooked through yours like he’s not planning on letting go for anything.

There’s music somewhere, something loud and a little offbeat, kids running past with sticky hands and too much sugar in their systems, and Eddie leans in toward you, shoulder bumping yours as he scans the booths like he’s already strategizing.

“Alright,” he says, low enough that it feels like it’s just for you, “we assess the competition first. No point in me wasting my obvious natural talent on a rigged game.”

You laugh, squeezing his hand, and he glances at you as he did back in the trailer, like the sound alone is worth everything, like he’s memorizing it.

“You’re so full of it,” you say, but there’s no bite to it, just warmth, just that easy rhythm you fall into with him without trying.

“Yeah,” he agrees immediately, nudging your shoulder with his. “But you like it.” You don’t even bother denying it.

He drags you from booth to booth, narrating like he’s some kind of expert, pointing out which ones are scams and which ones he could “absolutely dominate if he felt like it,” until you finally stop in front of a ring toss that looks simple enough to tempt him.

“This one,” you say, crossing your arms like you’re issuing a challenge. “Win me something, Munson.”

He rolls his neck like he’s about to enter a real competition, shaking out his hands, and you swear he gets more serious than he ever does about anything else, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth as he lines up the first toss.

It misses. Badly. You snort, covering your mouth, and he shoots you a look over his shoulder that’s half offended, half amused.

“Okay, first of all,” he says, grabbing another ring, “that was a warm-up. We don’t count warm-ups.”

“Of course we don’t,” you echo, leaning against the side of the booth, watching him with that same soft look he gives you.

The next one misses. Then another. And when he finally knocks one clean onto the bottle, he turns to you like he just conquered something huge, eyes wide and triumphant.

“Pick your prize,” he says, breathless and a little smug, like he didn’t just miss the first three.

You scan the options, but your gaze drifts back to him instead, the way he’s standing there waiting, hair a mess, grin softening the edges of everything sharp about him. “That one,” you say finally, pointing to a ridiculously oversized stuffed bear.

He laughs under his breath. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Alright,” he nods, like he’s accepted a challenge from the universe itself. “Big guy, it is.”

It takes more tries than he’d ever admit, more muttered curses and exaggerated frustration, but when he finally wins it, he hands it to you like it’s something far more meaningful than cheap carnival fluff, like it matters because you wanted it. 

“There you go,” he says, softer now. “Told you I’d get you everything.”

You take it, but your fingers catch his wrist before he can pull away, tugging him just a little closer.

“Thank you,” you say, quieter, meeting his eyes. “I mean it.”

Something in his expression shifts, just for a second, something softer than all the teasing and bravado, and he leans in, pressing a quick kiss to your temple like he can’t quite help it.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You keep saying stuff like that, I’m gonna start thinking you like me or something.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and he looks entirely too pleased about it.

The Ferris wheel is his idea, of course, because he claims it’s “mandatory for the full romantic experience,” and he doesn’t let go of your hand even when you’re climbing into the seat, even when the ride jerks into motion and the ground starts to fall away.

By the time you reach the top, the whole town is spread out beneath you, lights flickering, fireworks just starting to bloom in the distance, and Eddie shifts closer, arm slung behind you like it belongs there.

“Not bad, right?” he says, quieter now, like the height demands it, like the moment does.

You lean into him without thinking, head resting against his shoulder, the stuffed bear squished awkwardly between you both, and he lets out a soft laugh, adjusting so you’re more comfortable, like it’s instinct.

“Not bad at all,” you murmur.

The first firework goes off overhead, bright and loud, and for a second, it feels like everything pauses, like the world narrows down to just this small space and the way his fingers trace absent patterns against your arm.

“You know,” Eddie says after a moment, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, “I had this whole speech planned about how I’m a great date, and you’re lucky to be here with me.”

You tilt your head, looking up at him, amused. “Had?”

“Yeah,” he huffs, glancing down at you with a crooked smile. “Kind of ruined it by actually liking you this much.”

It’s said like a joke, like everything he says, but there’s something real underneath it, something you feel settle in your chest.

“Good,” you say simply, reaching up to hook your fingers into the collar of his shirt, tugging him just close enough that your foreheads almost touch. “I’d hate to think I was wasting my time.”

He exhales, soft and shaky in a way that doesn’t match his usual confidence, and then he’s smiling again, but it’s different now, less teasing, more certain. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Definitely not a waste.”

The next firework lights up the sky, colors reflecting in his eyes, and before he can say anything else, you close the distance, kissing him like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like it’s always been leading here.

He kisses you back immediately, like he’s been waiting for it, hand coming up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek in a way that’s almost careful, almost reverent.

When you pull back, just enough to breathe, he rests his forehead against yours, smiling in that soft, lopsided way that feels like it belongs only to you.

“Best questionable date I’ve ever planned,” he says.

You laugh, still close, still wrapped up in him and the noise and the light and everything in between. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”

The idea finds you both without much effort, much like everything else does when you’re together.

You take a wandering turn past the louder parts of the carnival where the noise fades into something softer, something quieter, until the glow of the rides gives way to rows and rows of sunflowers stretching taller than either of you.

There’s a hand-painted sign at the entrance, slightly crooked, warning in uneven red letters: SUNFLOWER MAZE. STAY ON PATH. DO NOT PICK THE FLOWERS.

Eddie slows just enough to read it, then glances at you, brows lifting like he’s already filing it under suggestions, not rules.

“Oh, we’re absolutely going in there,” he says, squeezing your hand once before tugging you toward the entrance, voice low and conspiratorial. “I feel like I was specifically told not to do something, and now I have to.”

You laugh, letting him pull you along, brushing past the first row where the sunflowers tower overhead, their faces turned toward the last fading light of the evening.

It smells faintly sweet, warm, like summer itself decided to settle here, and the further you walk, the more the outside world disappears until it’s just the narrow dirt path, the rustle of leaves, and him.

“You’re such a problem,” you murmur, nudging his shoulder as he leads you deeper in, turning corners like he has any idea where he’s going.

“Correction,” Eddie replies easily, glancing back at you with a grin that’s all mischief and something softer underneath, “I’m your problem.”

You hum like you’re considering it, even though you’re already stepping closer to him, your arm brushing his. “Debatable.”

“Wow,” he breathes, mock wounded, pressing a hand to his chest. “After I just won you a bear and everything.”

“You missed, like, five times.”

“Details,” he dismisses, waving a hand before catching yours again, lacing your fingers together like it’s second nature. “You still got the bear, didn’t you?”

You don’t answer, just squeeze his hand, and he notices, of course, he does, because he always does. His thumb brushes over your knuckles in that absent, grounding way.

The maze twists more than either of you expects, paths splitting and curving back into each other, and at some point, Eddie just gives up pretending he’s navigating and starts wandering instead, pulling you down whatever direction feels right in the moment.

“Alright,” he says after a moment, slowing until you nearly bump into his back, “important question.”

You tilt your head. “Should I be concerned?”

“Always,” he shoots back, glancing over his shoulder with a crooked smile. “But that’s part of my charm.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and he softens just a little at the sight of it.

“If we get lost in here,” he continues, turning to face you fully now, stepping backward as he walks so he can keep looking at you, “do you think they send a search party, or do we just become part of the attraction?”

You cross your arms, pretending to consider it. “I think they would leave you in here as a warning to others.”

He gasps, offended, and it’s so exaggerated you can’t help but laugh, the sound catching in the warm air between you. “That’s cold,” he says, but he’s smiling, eyes bright. “After everything I’ve done for you tonight.”

“Oh, please,” you tease, stepping closer, your hand sliding up to catch the front of his shirt just lightly. “What exactly have you done, Eddie Munson?”

He stills for a second, just a second, like the question actually caught him off guard, and then his expression shifts, softening into something quieter, something that feels less like a joke.

“Spent time with you,” he says simply, like it’s obvious, like it’s enough.

And it is. It really, really is.

You don’t say it out loud, but your grip tightens just a little on his shirt, and he notices that too. His hand comes up to cover yours for a second before he exhales, like he needs to shake off how soft that moment just got. 

“Alright,” he mutters, glancing around suddenly, like he’s remembered something important. “Hold on.”

Before you can ask, he steps off the path just slightly, reaching toward one of the sunflowers, fingers brushing the stem.

“Eddie,” you warn, even though there’s already a smile pulling at your lips. “The sign—”

“The sign,” he echoes under his breath, already carefully bending the stem, “is very clearly a suggestion.”

“It literally said do not pick the flowers.”

“And yet,” he says, glancing back at you as the stem gives way with a soft snap, “here I am.”

You shake your head, laughing quietly, watching as he turns back to you, sunflower in hand, suddenly a little less teasing, a little more deliberate.

“For you,” he says, softer now, holding it out like it’s something worth more than it probably is, like it matters because it’s from him.

You take it carefully, fingers brushing his, and for a second, you just look at it, at the bright yellow petals, the way it stands out against the darkening sky, and then back at him.

“You’re gonna get us kicked out,” you say, but there’s no real warning in it, just fondness.

“Worth it,” he replies immediately, not even hesitating, like the answer was already decided the second he saw you.

You shake your head again, but this time you step closer, closing the space between you until the sunflower is pressed lightly between your bodies, your free hand finding its way to the side of his neck.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he says softly, leaning in just enough that his forehead brushes yours, voice dropping like it’s just for you. “But you like me anyway.”

You smile, slow and sure, matching his energy in a way that feels effortless, like you were built to meet him right here.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “I do.”

He exhales, something in him settling, and then he’s grinning again, but softer this time, less sharp around the edges, his hand coming up to tuck a stray piece of your hair behind your ear before letting his fingers linger just a second longer than necessary.

“C’mon,” he says after a moment, nudging your nose lightly with his. “Let’s get lost a little longer.”

And you let him, hand in hand, sunflower and cheap bear tucked safely in your grip, the maze closing in around you like it’s keeping the rest of the world out, like for once, there’s nowhere else you’re supposed to be.

By the time you finally spot the end of the maze, it feels less like finding an exit and more like breaking out of something, the rows of sunflowers thinning just enough to let the outside world peek through again.

Eddie sees it a second before you do, his grip on your hand tightening as he speeds up, dragging you along behind him like he’s racing toward freedom.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, half-laughing already, “tell me you see that. Tell me that’s the end and not some sick joke.”

“I see it,” you laugh, stumbling a little as he pulls you faster, your shoulder bumping into his back. “Oh my god, slow down—” He doesn't. Because why would he?

The second you both step out into the open, out from under the canopy of sunflowers and into the wide stretch of grass beyond, Eddie abruptly lets go of your hand just to throw his arms up like he’s been delivered from battle.

“We made it!” he shouts to absolutely no one, voice echoing out into the open field. “Against all odds! Against the oppressive forces of agricultural navigation!” 

And then, without warning, he drops straight to his knees in the grass. You stop short, staring at him, the sunflower still clutched loosely in your hand as you try (and fail) to hold back your laughter.

“Oh my god,” you manage between breaths. “You’re so dramatic.”

He looks up at you like he’s been personally wounded by the accusation, one hand pressed over his heart.

“I just led us through a treacherous labyrinth,” he says, breathless and grinning, hair falling into his face. “The least you could do is acknowledge my heroic efforts.”

You take a few steps closer, shaking your head, the smile on your face softening into something a little warmer as you look down at him like this, sprawled in the grass, entirely unbothered by anything but you.

“Heroic, huh?” you tease, nudging his shoulder lightly with your foot. “Pretty sure we got lost at least three times.”

“Strategic detours,” he corrects immediately, reaching out to catch your ankle, fingers curling just enough to tug you forward a step. “Big difference.”

You let him pull you closer, because you always do, and he tips his head back to look up at you, eyes bright, something playful flickering behind them.

And then his expression shifts, just slightly, like he’s about to do something you should probably be concerned about. “Trust me?” he asks suddenly, already starting to stand, still holding onto you.

You narrow your eyes, suspicious but smiling. “That depends.”

“Wrong answer,” he says, and before you can react, he’s tugging you sideways, pulling you with him as he deliberately lets himself fall.

You barely get out a surprised laugh before you’re both hitting the grass, the world tilting as you land tangled together, his arm instinctively wrapping around you to keep you close.

“Eddie—” you start, breathless, but he’s already laughing, that loud, unrestrained sound that always pulls one out of you too.

“Too late now,” he grins, shifting just enough to hook an arm around your waist. “Commit to the bit, sweetheart.”

And then you realize what he’s doing just as he pushes off slightly with his heel, sending you both rolling.

The hill isn’t steep enough to be dangerous, but it’s enough that gravity takes over quickly, the two of you tumbling together in a mess of limbs and laughter, the sky spinning overhead in flashes of dark blue and distant neon lights.

You clutch at him instinctively, fingers fisting in his shirt as he keeps you tucked close, his laughter pressed against your shoulder, your own breaking free in between gasps for air.

“Eddie, oh my god—” you try, but it dissolves into another laugh as you roll again, grass brushing against your skin, the world blurring into motion and noise and him.

It feels endless for a second, like you’ve both completely surrendered to it, to the chaos of it, to each other, until finally the hill evens out and you slow, momentum fading until you come to a stop in a quieter, more hidden stretch of land at the bottom.

For a moment, neither of you moves. You’re half on top of him, half tangled in his arms, both of you breathing hard, laughter still lingering in the air between you like something alive.

“Well,” he pants after a second, staring up at the sky before turning his head to look at you, a crooked smile spreading across his face. “That was incredibly stupid.”

You huff out a laugh, pushing yourself up just enough to look down at him, brushing a piece of grass from his hair without even thinking about it.

“Your ideas usually are,” you reply, but your voice is softer now, fond in a way that doesn’t even try to hide itself.

“Yeah,” he admits easily, one hand coming up to rest at your side, thumb absentmindedly brushing against you. “But you keep going along with them, so…”

You shake your head, but you don’t move away, your hand lingering in his hair for just a second longer before trailing down to his cheek.

“Because they’re fun,” you say quietly. “Because you’re fun.”

Something in his expression shifts again, that same softness from earlier creeping back in, less guarded this time, more open.

“Careful,” he murmurs, echoing himself from before, but there’s no teasing edge to it now. “You keep saying stuff like that…”

You lean down before he can finish, closing the space between you, kissing him slow and easy like there’s nowhere else you need to be, like the rest of the carnival and the noise and the world above the hill doesn’t exist anymore.

He responds immediately, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, holding you there just a little longer, just a little closer. When you pull back, the world feels quieter somehow, tucked away in this little hidden space at the bottom of the hill, the distant carnival lights barely reaching you now.

Eddie exhales softly, his forehead resting against yours, his smile small but certain. “Yeah,” he whispers, like he’s answering something unspoken. “This is better.”

And for once, you don’t have anything to tease him about. You just stay there, tangled together in the grass, the sunflower somehow still intact beside you, like proof that even in the middle of all his chaos, he still manages to give you something soft to hold onto.

The grass is cool beneath you now, the kind of soft, slightly damp earth that smells like summer nights and crushed green things. The carnival noise has faded to a distant hum: occasional pops of fireworks, tinny music, laughter that feels a million miles away.

Here, at the bottom of the little hill, it’s just the two of you, the faint glow of distant lights catching in Eddie’s dark eyes as he looks up at you.

You’re still half-draped over him, one of your legs slotted between his, the oversized stuffed bear and the stolen sunflower lying forgotten a foot away in the grass. His hands rest lightly at your waist, warm through the thin fabric of your shirt, thumbs tracing slow, absent circles like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

You lean down again and kiss him.

It starts the same way it did before: slow, easy, smiling against each other’s mouths. But the second his tongue brushes your bottom lip, something shifts. The air thickens.

His fingers flex against your sides, pulling you closer, and you let him, melting into the kiss until it turns deeper, hungrier. A soft sound escapes you when he tilts his head, licking into your mouth like he’s been starving for it all night.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he breathes when you finally break for air, voice rougher than usual, a little wrecked. His eyes are darker now, pupils blown wide. “You keep kissing me like that, and I’m gonna forget we’re technically in public.”

You laugh quietly, but it comes out shaky. Your heart is hammering. You want him, God, you want him, but the thought of doing this right here, out in the open like this, makes your stomach flip with nervous heat.

“We shouldn’t…” You murmur, even as you’re already dipping back down to kiss him again, softer this time, almost apologetic. Your fingers curl into the front of his Hellfire shirt, holding on like an anchor.

Eddie hums against your lips, one hand sliding up your back, gentle but sure. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” he says quietly, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

There’s no pressure in his voice, just that raw honesty he only ever lets you see. “We can just stay right here and make out like teenagers until the fireworks are over. I’m good with that. More than good.”

But you’re already shaking your head, cheeks burning. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” you whisper. Your voice is small, reluctant, the words catching a little. “I do. I really do. It’s just… out here? What if someone—”

“No one’s coming down here,” he promises, voice low and soothing. He brushes his thumb along your jaw, tender, almost reverent. “We’re hidden. Just us. And if you change your mind at any point, we stop. No questions. Okay?”

You nod, biting your lip, the reluctance still fluttering in your chest even as heat pools low in your belly.

Eddie watches you for a second longer, like he’s giving you one last chance to pull away, then he leans up and kisses you again; slower this time, deeper, like he’s pouring every soft thing he feels for you into it.

His hands stay gentle. One stays at the small of your back, the other sliding up under the hem of your shirt to rest warm against your bare skin, not pushing, just touching. You shiver at the contact, and he feels it, smiling softly into the kiss.

You shift, straddling his hips properly now, and the moment you settle against him, you can feel how hard he already is beneath you. A quiet groan rumbles in his chest.

“Shit—sorry,” he mutters, a little embarrassed, hips twitching once before he forces himself still. “You just… you feel really good.”

You kiss him to shut him up, rolling your hips experimentally. The friction pulls a broken sound from both of you.

Eddie’s hands tighten on your waist, but he doesn’t guide you; he lets you set the pace, lets you rock against him in slow, tentative movements while you keep kissing him like you’re afraid to stop.

Eventually, his fingers find the button of your shorts. He pauses, looking up at you with dark, earnest eyes. “Can I?” he asks, voice husky but careful.

You hesitate for half a second, that nervous reluctance still there, but you nod, whispering, “Yeah… just, go slow?”

“Always,” he promises.

He works your shorts and underwear down your legs with patient hands, helping you kick them off along with your shoes. The night air feels cool against your bare skin, but his palms are warm as they smooth up your thighs, spreading you gently over him.

He doesn’t rush. He watches your face the whole time, checking in without words, thumb stroking soothing circles against your hip.

When you reach for his belt, he helps you, lifting his hips so you can push his jeans and boxers down just enough.

His cock springs free, hot and heavy against his stomach, and you swallow hard at the sight. Eddie catches your hand, bringing it to his lips to press a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“We don’t have to go all the way,” he reminds you again, even though his voice is strained with want. “Whatever you want, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

But you do want it. You want him. So you nod, leaning down to kiss him as you reach between you, wrapping your fingers around him. He hisses softly at the contact, his hips jerking up into your touch before he catches himself.

You stroke him a few times, slow and exploratory, until he’s breathing hard against your mouth. Then you line him up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your entrance. You pause there, breath shaky, that last flicker of reluctance making you tremble.

Eddie cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice soft and a little raw. “It’s me. You’re safe. We can stop right now if it’s too much.”

The gentleness in his tone cracks something open in your chest. You shake your head, whispering, “I want you. Just stay with me.”

“Always,” he breathes.

You sink down onto him slowly, inch by inch, both of you gasping at the stretch. He’s thick, and the angle makes it feel even more intense.

Eddie’s hands stay on your hips, steadying you, but he doesn’t push; he lets you take him at your own pace, jaw clenched tight like he’s holding himself back with everything he has.

When you’re fully seated, you both stay still for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in. You can feel his heart hammering against your chest.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice cracking just a little. “You feel… Jesus, sweetheart. So perfect.”

There’s a quiet anguish in his tone, like he can’t quite believe this is real, like he’s afraid it might slip away.

You kiss him to chase it away, slow and deep, and start to move—careful rolls of your hips at first, then a little deeper, a little faster as the discomfort fades into pure, liquid heat. 

Eddie groans low in his throat, one hand sliding up your back under your shirt, the other staying at your hip to help guide you when you need it. He meets your movements with gentle thrusts from below, never too hard, never rushing.

Every stroke feels deliberate, like he’s worshiping you, like he’s trying to show you with his body what he’s still too scared to say out loud.

You bury your face in his neck, panting against his skin as pleasure builds in steady waves. He smells like cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and grass. He feels like home. “Eddie…” you whimper, the sound muffled against his throat.

“I know,” he murmurs, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, your neck, anywhere he can reach. “I’ve got you. Just let go, baby. I’m right here.”

His free hand slips between you, fingers finding your clit with surprising gentleness, circling in time with your movements. The added stimulation makes your thighs shake.

You moan softly, hips stuttering, and he keeps the same steady rhythm, coaxing you higher without ever overwhelming you.

When you come, it’s quiet and overwhelming—your whole body tightening around him as pleasure crashes through you in slow, rolling waves.

You cry out against his neck, fingers digging into his shoulders, and Eddie holds you through it, whispering soft, broken praises against your ear.

“So good… fuck, you’re so good for me… that’s it, sweetheart, just like that…”

Only when you start to come down does he let himself go. A few more shallow thrusts and he’s following you over the edge with a choked groan, burying himself deep as he spills inside you, arms wrapped tight around your back like he never wants to let go.

Afterward, neither of you moves for a long time. You stay collapsed on his chest, his softening cock still inside you, both of you breathing hard in the quiet night air. His hand strokes slowly, soothing lines up and down your spine.

“You okay?” he asks eventually, voice hoarse and tender.

You nod against his neck, pressing a lazy kiss there. “Yeah. More than okay.”

He lets out a shaky laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Good. Because… shit. I think I’m in trouble.”

You lift your head just enough to look at him, brow furrowed. “Trouble?”

Eddie smiles, small and a little vulnerable, eyes shining in the dark. “Yeah. Big trouble. I’m pretty sure I just fell stupidly in love with you, and I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to go back to pretending I’m cool after that.” 

Your heart squeezes. You lean down and kiss him softly, lingering. “Good,” you whisper against his lips. “Because I think I fell for you somewhere between the ring toss and the sunflower heist.”

He laughs again, softer this time, and pulls you back down against his chest, arms wrapping around you like a promise. The distant fireworks continue overhead, but down here in the grass, the world feels small and safe and entirely yours.

And Eddie, for once, doesn’t have anything clever left to say. He just holds you, heart still racing under your cheek, and lets the quiet settle around you both like it belongs there. 

The quiet doesn’t last forever. It never really does with Eddie, anyway. 

It starts subtly, just the distant pop of fireworks growing louder again, the faint swell of music drifting back over the hill like the world is calling you both out of your little hidden pocket.

You’re still tucked against him, warm and loose-limbed, his fingers lazily tracing up and down your spine like he’s got nowhere else to be, when your stomach gives a very real, very inconvenient reminder that you have not, in fact, eaten anything besides maybe a questionable amount of soda.

You shift slightly, pressing your face into his shoulder with a small huff.

Eddie notices immediately. “You good?” he murmurs, thumb stilling for a second against your back.

“Yeah,” you mumble, but it comes out a little too quick, a little too unconvincing.

He tilts his head, trying to catch your expression, eyes narrowing just slightly. “That didn’t sound like a ‘yeah,’ that sounded like a ‘something’s about to go horribly wrong’ kind of yeah.”

You laugh softly, finally pushing yourself up enough to look at him. “I’m just hungry.”

There’s a pause, and then his entire face lights up like you just handed him the best idea he’s had all night.

“Oh, perfect,” he says, already sitting up, dragging a hand through his hair as his grin turns borderline dangerous. “I know exactly what we’re doing.”

You squint at him, immediately suspicious. “Why do I feel like I’m not going to like this?”

“Because,” he says, pushing himself to his feet before offering you a hand, “you don’t trust my genius.”

“Correct,” you reply flatly, but you take his hand anyway, letting him pull you up, your fingers instinctively lacing together again like they never stopped.

He brushes a stray piece of grass from your shoulder, quick and absentminded, then leans in just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple before tugging you back toward the hill. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’m about to make your night even better.”

“That is deeply concerning.”

The carnival feels louder now when you return, like you’ve stepped back into something alive and buzzing, lights flashing, people crowding the paths, the smell of fried food thick in the air. And then you see where he’s leading you.

“Oh no,” you say immediately, stopping short as he tries to pull you toward the stand. “Absolutely not.”

Eddie turns back to you, already laughing, eyes bright. “Oh, absolutely yes.”

“Eddie.”

“Funnel cakes,” he says, like that explains everything, gesturing dramatically toward the stand. “Freshly fried, covered in enough powdered sugar to ruin your life. It’s practically a Fourth of July requirement.”

You cross your arms, trying to hold your ground even as you smile. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“Oh?” he asks, stepping closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to let you in on something important. “Then what are you worried about, sweetheart?”

You lean in slightly, narrowing your eyes. “You look way too excited about this.”

He grins. And that’s when you know. “Oh my god,” you breathe, already shaking your head. “No. No, absolutely not. I know that look.”

“What look?” he asks innocently, already reaching for his wallet.

“The one where you’re about to suggest something stupid.”

“Rude,” he mutters, handing over the cash before grabbing the plate they give him, piled high with fried dough and powdered sugar.

He turns back to you, holding it between you like an offering. “Alright,” he says, completely serious now. “Hear me out.”

“No.”

“You didn’t even—”

“No.”

“Okay, but—”

“No, Eddie.”

He huffs a laugh, stepping closer until he’s right in your space, the smell of sugar and grease mixing with his cologne, his grin softening just slightly. “One bite each,” he tries again. “Back and forth. We see who taps out first.”

You stare at him. “…Taps out?”

“Yeah,” he nods, like this is perfectly reasonable. “You know. Can’t handle it anymore. Too much sugar. Too much greatness. First one to give up loses.”

“And what exactly do they lose?” you ask, already knowing you’re going to regret engaging.

His grin turns wicked. “Winner gets bragging rights,” he says. “And… loser has to admit, out loud, that the other one is hotter.”

You scoff, immediately reaching for a piece. “That’s not even a punishment. That’s just factual.”

“Oh, is it?” he teases, watching you take the first bite, powdered sugar immediately dusting your fingers.

You chew, then pause, eyes widening slightly.

“…Okay, that’s really good.”

“Yeah,” he smirks, taking a bite himself, way too big just to prove a point. “I don’t mess around when it comes to fried food.”

You go back and forth like that, passing the plate between you, laughing in between bites, teasing each other when one of you slows down or hesitates. By the time you’re halfway through, your stomach is starting to feel… questionable.

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “You’re slowing down.”

“I am not,” he shoots back, immediately taking another bite to prove it.

“Eddie—”

“Don’t you ‘Eddie’ me,” he says, though his voice is a little less confident now, chewing slower than before. “I’ve got this.”

You watch him for a second longer, then grin. “Oh my god,” you laugh. “You’re gonna puke.”

His eyes widen slightly, then he scoffs, shaking his head. “No way. Absolutely not. I am a professional.”

“You are not a professional.”

“I have years of experience in poor decision-making,” he argues, jabbing the fork into the last piece. “My body is built for this.”

“Your body is about to betray you.”

“Your body is about to betray you,” he shoots back immediately, but there’s a laugh caught in it now, like he knows exactly how ridiculous this is.

You both stare at the last piece. Then at each other. “…Together?” you offer, barely holding in your smile.

He considers it for half a second. “…Together,” he agrees.

You split it, taking the final bites at the same time, both of you chewing slowly, dramatically, like it’s some kind of grand finale. And then you both pause. Dead still.

“…Okay,” you say carefully. “I don’t feel great.”

“Yeah,” Eddie exhales, pressing a hand to his stomach, blinking like he’s trying to convince himself he’s fine. “No, yeah, I’m— I’m totally—”

He cuts himself off, suddenly turning away. You burst out laughing immediately. “Oh my god, you’re done—”

“Don’t—” he warns, already grabbing your wrist. “Don’t you dare leave me alone in this.”

“I’m not leaving you!” you protest, laughing as he drags you quickly away from the crowd, both of you half-running now, trying to escape the noise and the people and the very real consequences of your choices.

You barely make it to the side of the field before you both collapse into the grass again, breathless and laughing, the nausea passing just enough to make it funny instead of disastrous.

Eddie flops onto his back, groaning dramatically. “I regret everything.”

“You love everything,” you correct, dropping down beside him, still laughing. “This was your idea.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, turning his head to look at you, a slow smile breaking through anyway. “And I’d do it again.”

You shake your head, smiling as you shift closer, your hand finding his without thinking, fingers intertwining. “Of course you would.”

He squeezes your hand once, lifting it just enough to press a quick kiss to your knuckles, softer now, quieter after all the chaos. “Worth it,” he says again, like he did with the sunflower, like he means it every time.

And somehow, even now, a little sick, a little messy, covered in powdered sugar and grass stains, you know he’s right. 

The nausea fades into something dull and manageable, replaced by that easy, loose feeling that always seems to settle in after chaos, like your body finally catching up to the fact that you’re okay, that you’re more than okay.

The carnival noise hums back into focus around you, distant but inviting again, and Eddie turns his head just enough to look at you, a slow grin creeping back in like it never really left.

“Alright,” he says, pushing himself up onto his elbows, hair even more of a mess now, bits of grass still caught in it. “Round two.”

You snort, turning onto your side to face him. “If round two involves more food, I’m actually going home.”

He gasps, offended in a way that’s entirely theatrical. “Wow. After everything we’ve been through together tonight.”

“Eddie,” you laugh, nudging his shoulder. “You almost died over a funnel cake.”

“Worth it,” he says immediately, like it’s instinct, like it always is with you.

You shake your head, smiling, and let him pull you up again, your fingers slotting into his without hesitation as he tugs you back toward the lights.

The crowd feels softer this time, easier to move through, like you’ve already carved out your own space inside it, and Eddie doesn’t let go of you once, not even when he’s weaving you between groups of people, not even when he pauses to glance around like he’s looking for something specific.

And then he spots it. “Oh—oh, this is it,” he says, squeezing your hand before dragging you toward a small booth tucked between two louder attractions, half-hidden, a little crooked.

You follow, curious, until you see it. A photo booth. Old, slightly dented, the curtain hanging a little unevenly, a sign taped to the side advertising 4 PHOTOS – $1, as if it hasn’t been updated in years.

You glance at him, already smiling. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he nods, already digging into his pocket for change. “This is important. This is documentation.”

“Of what, exactly?”

He pauses, coins in hand, looking at you like the answer is obvious. “Of the best date I’ve ever been on,” he says simply. And there’s no joke in it this time.

Something in your chest tightens, soft and warm, but you don’t call attention to it. You just roll your eyes lightly, even as your smile gives you away.

“Wow,” you tease. “You say that to all your girls?”

“Don’t have ‘all my girls,’ sweetheart,” he shoots back, holding the curtain open for you with a small, crooked grin. “Just you.”

You duck inside before you can overthink that, before you can let it settle too deep, and he follows right after, the space immediately smaller, closer, the two of you pressed knee to knee on the narrow bench.

The machine whirs to life. “Alright,” Eddie mutters, leaning back slightly to look at you. “No pressure, but we have to absolutely nail this.”

You laugh under your breath. “You’re taking this way too seriously.”

“Wrong,” he says, pointing at you. “I am taking this exactly the right amount of seriously.”

The first flash goes off while you’re both still half-laughing, caught mid-movement, your shoulder bumping his. The second, he turns suddenly, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek, catching you off guard just enough that your smile goes soft instead of teasing.

The third, you grab the front of his shirt and pull him in, kissing him properly this time, slow and easy despite the ticking countdown. The fourth…You don’t rush.

You stay close, foreheads resting together, both of you smiling in that quiet, unguarded way that doesn’t need a joke to cover it. The flash captures it. And then it’s over. The machine hums again, printing, and you both sit there for a second longer than necessary, like neither of you is in a hurry to move.

Eddie clears his throat softly, glancing away just for a second before reaching over to grab the strip when it finally drops. He looks at it first, and then he smiles. Not his usual grin, not teasing or sharp, just soft.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, shifting closer, holding it between you so you can see.

You lean in, shoulder brushing his, eyes scanning over the photos, each one somehow capturing exactly how the night has felt, chaotic and warm and something a little more than either of you has said out loud.

“They’re actually… really good,” you admit quietly.

“Yeah,” he says, voice softer than before. “They are.”

You reach up, tearing the strip cleanly in half, handing one side back to him without even thinking about it. He takes it, fingers brushing yours, and for a second, he just looks at it again, like he’s deciding something.

Then, without making a big deal out of it, he folds it carefully and tucks it into his wallet.

Not loose or careless, but deliberate. Like it belongs there.

The air feels cooler when you step away from the lights, the night finally settling in properly, and you shiver just slightly without meaning to. Eddie notices immediately.

“Hey,” he murmurs, slowing, his hand slipping from yours just long enough to shrug off his jacket.

Before you can protest, he’s draping it over your shoulders, the fabric still warm from him, smelling faintly like smoke and something that’s just simply, Eddie. “You’re cold.”

“I’m fine,” you start, but it comes out weaker than you intend, your fingers already pulling the jacket closer around you.

He huffs a quiet laugh, stepping back into your space, adjusting it so it sits right, his hands lingering just a second longer than necessary. “I run hot,” he says casually.

You raise a brow. “You absolutely do not.”

“Wow,” he mutters, mock offended, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. “You wound me.”

You laugh softly, looking up at him, and something about the way he’s standing there, a little messy, a little flushed, eyes softer than usual, makes your chest ache in a way you don’t want to examine too closely.

“Thank you,” you say instead, quieter now.

He shrugs, like it’s nothing, like it’s easy. “Yeah,” he says. “Course.”

Then his hand finds yours again, not rushed, not grabbing, just there, fingers brushing until they slot together naturally. And you start walking. Slower this time.

No rushing, no pulling, just staying close, your shoulders bumping every now and then, your hands swinging lightly between you like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

“Same time next year?” he asks after a moment, voice light but not entirely joking.

You glance at him, smiling, squeezing his hand once. “Maybe,” you tease. “If you don’t almost kill me with fried food again.”

“No promises,” he grins.

You shake your head, laughing softly, leaning just slightly into him as you walk, his shoulder warm against yours, his jacket wrapped around you, the night stretching out ahead in that quiet, easy way.

And for once, neither of you feels the need to fill the silence. You just stay like that, hand in hand, leaving the lights behind together.

requested by: @mmunson86

i hope you enjoyed! let me know if you all have any other requests/ideas. ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

[clya4]

Freak Therapy

-> FREAK THERAPY MASTERLIST HERE

pairings: Eddie Munson x oc

summary: She signed up for a psychology internship expecting to babysit a few lost teenagers. Instead, she got Eddie Munson: Hawkins’ finest metalhead, three-time senior, and all-around expert in making life difficult. For eight weeks, she’ll try to “fix” him. He’ll try to survive her. Spoiler alert: neither is ready for what happens next. Eight sessions. One freak. Zero chance this stays professional.

general warnings: Mild age gap (she’s a psychology intern, he’s a three-time senior), eventual smut, sarcasm levels off the charts, slow-burn tension hotter than Eddie’s guitar riffs, questionable professionalism, emotional damage (yours and theirs), occasional nerd references.

if you want to be added to the official taglist for this fic then please let me know in the comments ⋆.

Session three - Marissa’s POV

The day I first started questioning my degree, was the first time I saw Eddie outside of school. 

Just a few days after our second session, in the least glamorous setting possible: the cookie aisle at Melvald’s, Hawkins’ proud temple of cheap questionable canned food.

It was late, almost closing. I’d started coming at that hour on purpose, because that’s when the place was blissfully empty. No risky awkward reunions with old classmates.

Outside, it was raining just enough to make the parking lot shine and the OPEN sign flicker.

I had The Aerosmith in my ears, my walkman clipped to my belt, and was deep into the back of a cookie box when I heard a soft thud and a muttered “Shit,” I looked up.

Edward Munson. In the wild.

He hadn’t noticed me,  too busy losing a box of Pop-Tarts and nearly dropping a six-pack of beer.

He bent down with a sigh, damp curls falling on his face, and of course he had to look good doing it. 

Like he’d just stepped out of a moody rock video. Damp hair, tired eyes, full tragic appeal. Evidently, that triggered something broken in my psyche. Noted...and repressed.

He pushed his hair out of his face as he made a slight wince when he stood back up. A little eye-roll at himself, with a dramatic sigh that said the universe is against me personally.

I stood there, watching my mildly alcoholic patient like the absolute professional I am, when he finally looked up. 

At first, nothing. His gaze drifted lazily past me, then froze.

He blinked once. Then twice. 

I could see the moment his brain glitched.

Slow, delayed recognition. 

Which, honestly, wouldn’t have shocked me. I wasn’t exactly recognizable: oversized sweater, jeans, sneakers, hair down, zero makeup. The opposite of how I looked at school.

I pulled off my headphones and tilted my head toward the six-pack under his arm.

“Want me to buy those for you?”

He kept staring.

And staring.

“...Jesus Christ,” he finally muttered. “You’re real.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Were you expecting a ghost?”

He rubbed his eye. “No, I just… I might’ve taken a hit before coming here. Thought you were like… a snack aisle hallucination or something.”

Charming.

He blinked again, then looked at the beers in his arm like he’d just remembered it existed.

“I’m good,” he said finally, a little dazed. “I’m... twenty-one.”

“Yeah?”

He sighed dramatically. “Yeah. Been twenty-one for, like… three very uneventful months.”

“Well, congrats,” I said. “You can now legally disappoint your liver.”

He grinned, a little crooked. “Thanks, Mom.”

I made a face.

Cool. He’s high and calling me Mom. Freud just did a backflip in his grave.

He smiled lazy “Isn’t this wildly unethical for you anyway? Offering to buy beer for your emotionally unstable patient?”

“You looked two dropped cans away from a nervous breakdown, I was just trying to protect you from that”

I said dryly, reaching for my own box of cookies and starting toward the checkout

He snorted following "Very caring of you, doc.” he said, still cradling his tragic little haul like it might betray him at any moment.

We reached the counter, where the tired cashier barely looked up as she scanned our things. Eddie paid for his own stuff, tossing a crumpled five on the counter.

As we stepped out, the rain had picked up, harder now, sharp and cold against the pavement. The kind of rain that soaks you through in thirty seconds flat.

Eddie stopped under the awning, squinting out at the lot.

“Well,” he said, brushing damp curls off his face, “this has been deeply weird. Guess I’ll see you at the next session, when I pretend this never happened.”

He gave a little mock salute and turned like he was about to jog into the downpour.

“Wait,” I said. “Do you want a ride?”

He paused. “Nah. The van’s like... two minutes away.”

Right on cue, a blinding flash of lightning split the sky, followed immediately by a thunderclap so loud it made the store windows rattle. 

I tilted my head and looked at him.

His eyes were half-lidded, a little red from the high, six-pack still clutched to his chest like a newborn, he gave the rain a long skeptical look.

“Still feeling brave? Get in the car”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, blinking at the rain. I could tell he was hesitating, not out of pride, necessarily, but that awkward mix of embarrassment and not wanting to be a burden.

So I didn’t wait.

I turned and made a run for my car, clutching my bag and grocery sack tight against me as the rain immediately soaked through my sweater. I was halfway there when I heard the slosh of sneakers behind me. 

Eddie, six-pack of beer in hand, grumbling something under his breath as he followed.

We both slammed our doors shut at the same time, breathing hard. We were soaked, hair dripping and clothes clinging.

The car filled instantly with the scent of wet denim, damp leather, and something unmistakably Eddie: joints, soap, and heat. It hit me square in the prefrontal cortex.

Right. Sure. Definitely the proximity. Or, more likely, the calendar reminder I’d seen before leaving the house.

Ovulation week.

Now I was biologically predisposed to find him attractive. Fantastic.

Must have been that, because the alternative was... unacceptable.

I turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed to life, heat stuttering through the vents. I glanced over.

“Which direction?” I asked, flipping on the wipers.

" Back lot behind Forest Hills. You can just—”

But I was already pulling out of the lot.

He looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. The six-pack sat awkwardly between his feet.

After a few beats of silence, he said "Nice car" and started fidgeting. 

First, he messed with the window lever. Then, the glove compartment.

“Uh,” he said, eyes lighting up. “You got tapes”

I glanced at him as he pulled out a stack of cassettes and started rifling through them like a kid in a candy store.

“Dude. Is this... Metallica? Black Sabbath? The Cure? Wait...Ramones? You seriously listen to this?”

“No,” I deadpanned. “I carry them around to impress emotionally unstable patients.”

He tossed me a grin over his shoulder but then something caught his eye. He pulled out a plain white cassette, 

Written across it in black marker, slightly smudged: GNR.

“GNR? What’s that? Some top-secret therapist brainwashing tape?”

I snorted. “Close. Guns N’ Roses, it's a band”

He blinked at me. “Never heard of ‘em.”

“Not surprised. They don’t have a record out yet. A friend of a friend knows one of them from L.A. That’s just a bootleg demo.”

His brows shot up. “How do you know them?”

I shrugged, a little smug. “I lived in Chicago before coming back to Hawkings. I saw them there in a tiny club, loudest night of my life” 

He tilted his head, curious as I kept talking. "...and the guitarist...god, he is incredible. Never thought that fingers could move that fast. I have a feeling they’re gonna be the next big thing " 

He turned the cassette over in his hand, charmed by my little story.

His curiosity didn’t surprise me. Mine did.

What the hell was I doing?

Chatting about underground L.A. bands and guitar solos like we were friends. Like he wasn’t technically my client, or at least something close to it.

It wasn’t even that he made me talk.

It’s that it didn’t feel like a mistake until I remembered it was.

Easy, that’s what it was. Too damn easy. God, maybe I needed more sleep. Or more boundaries. Or... friends.

“Well... call me impressed, Doc. Didn’t think someone like you would have taste. I mean, besides overpriced vinyl and Bach.”

He gathered the cassettes scattered on his legs and slid them back into the glove compartment with exaggerated care.

I scoffed. “You think I drive around Hawkins with a full orchestra on?”

“I dunno, I pictured you more... I don’t know...” He made a vague rectangle shape in the air with his fingers. “Structured, like...jazz playlist for crying.”

I laughed despite myself. “God. Is that what I seem like?”

He glanced at me again, a little sideways now. “Honestly? No. Not anymore.”

The words just... hung there. Not dramatic. Just a little too honest.

He seemed to realize it half a second too late, eyes flicking to the windshield like he could escape out of it.

Silence.

Then, with all the subtlety of a cartoon character, he turned dramatically to the dash and twisted an imaginary knob.

“Krrrk....KKKKRRRRKKK Welcome back to K-MUNSON Radio,” he said, voice deep and theatrical. “Coming to you live from a therapist’s car, where the host is stoned and emotionally vulnerable.”

He paused, then added with mock gravitas, “Up next: student-turned-shrink holds local menace hostage with kindness and good musical taste.”

I huffed a laugh, shaking my head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He grinned, eyes half-lidded, curls sticking to his forehead. “That’s what the report cards used to say.”

The windshield wipers squeaked once as the flickering sign of Maple Grove Lot came into view.

“Here?” I asked, nodding toward the entrance.

“Yeah,” he said. “You can just stop he...”

But I was already turning in, tires splashing through a puddle at the curb.

We bumped slowly down the gravel path. He leaned forward, pointing.

“That one...”

An old van sat tucked beneath a fraying tarp. Underneath it stood a man in a faded hoodie, smoking a cigarette. He looked up at the sound of the car, then narrowed his eyes toward us.

“My uncle,” Eddie said, already fumbling with the door handle. “I told you about him, right?”

Right. He had. Last session. 

I nodded.

And just like that, I felt it again...

That sharp little twist in my gut.

The realization that I’d stepped in too far without even noticing.

The air in the car went still for a moment, save for the patter of rain on the roof.

Eddie cleared his throat. “Can’t wait to see his face when I tell him you’re my therapist.”

I didn’t dignify that with a response.

I shot him a look, flat, unamused. The kind that said don’t even try me without needing a single word.

“Get outta here,” I muttered, pushing at his shoulder. It was supposed to be dismissive, but the smile snuck up anyway...traitor.

He staggered dramatically, clutching his shoulder like I’d mortally wounded him.

“Brutal,” he said. “Remind me to process this trauma next session.”

He reached down and grabbed the six-pack of beer from the floorboard and opened the door.

Rain came in sharp , carried sideways by the wind. It slapped against his jacket, tangled in his curls, and drummed against the roof with fresh intensity, like someone had turned up the volume.

He stepped out with a groan.

“Wait,” I said, leaning over.

Without thinking, I reached into the glove compartment and grabbed the Guns n' roses cassette.

It was pure instinct. Zero forethought. Definitely not something they teach you in your graduate ethics seminar.

I held it out “You’ll love them”

He paused, took it carefully, turning it in his hands.

Then he looked up at me and smiled slowly.

Not his usual cocky smirk, this one was real. Dimples and all. Unfiltered gratitude and maybe even a little awe.

“Thanks,” he said, voice softer than I’d heard it all day.

And just like that, my brain short-circuited.

I wasn’t prepared for dimples. Or maybe I hadn’t noticed them before.

I nodded, mostly to cover the fact that I was staring like a total idiot as he closed the door.

Through the fogged windshield and the smear of rain, I saw his uncle standing under the van’s awning, cigarette still in hand. 

He looked at Eddie walking towards the van, then at me.

Our eyes met through the glass and falling rain, and I gave the world’s most awkward little wave, just a quick, stiff flick of my fingers.

He didn’t wave back.

I put the car in gear and pulled out of the lot fast.

The drive home was a stormy blur, my brain running full speed.

Boundaries.

So many boundaries.

I’d broken half the ethics code in one car ride. Driving him home? Giving him a tape? Making him laugh? That shove? The smile I gave back?

I had no business being this familiar. This comfortable. This... unprofessional.

The worst was that no matter how many lines I replayed in my head -ethical, professional, logical - his smile kept cutting through all of them.

I couldn’t think past it.

The third session had technically ended twenty minutes ago.

I should have called time, wrapped things up, handed him a gentle homework prompt and sent him on his way.

Instead there I was, elbows on the desk, chin resting on my hand, listening intently as Eddie Munson described, in vivid detail, the harrowing escape of a half-elven rogue from a crumbling tower.

The desk between us had been transformed. A printed dungeon map sat atop my desk. His sketchbook, full of monsters, had become our campaign setting.

The therapy session had turned into a side quest, and it was… working.

He was engaged, animated, alive in a way I hadn’t yet seen from him.

“So,” I said, rolling a die between my fingers, “the rogue. What’s his name again?”

“Kavros,” Eddie answered without looking up, focused on adjusting the position of a small obsidian figurine.

“Right.” I tilted my head. “Why’s he always alone?”

He hesitated for just a second. “Because people get in the way. Or get hurt. Or both.”

“So he’s protecting them?”

“No,” he said quickly. Then, after a pause, “Maybe. He’d say it’s just easier”

I gave him a knowing half-smile. 

“And what’s her deal again?” I asked, gestured to the second miniature  a tall, elegant elven mage with perfectly sculpted robes and a tiny book in hand.

“She thinks logic can save the world. Bit of a flaw, honestly. But she’s smart. And brave. Always trying to keep Kavros from getting himself killed. Even if he pretends not to care.”

I tilted my head, studying the board. “And does he care?”

Eddie paused, flicking a die between his fingers. Then, without looking at me:

“He listens when she talks. That’s something.”

There was a beat.

“And, you know,” he added, casually, “maybe he finds the whole… ‘by-the-book, morally superior, annoyingly patient’ thing kind of... charming. In a maddening, infuriating way.”

I looked up at him.

His eyes stayed on the board, but that wasn’t where the arrow had landed.

It hit. Square in the center.

There it was...the confession. Barely disguised, tossed out like it meant nothing. Except it did.

Of course I’d seen it coming. The jokes, the smirks, the deflections. But this…was different.

A small, sharp truth, wrapped in character voice, flung across the table like it might go unnoticed.

Very cute.

I didn’t react and he straightened up, snapped his fingers theatrically.

“Right. Focus. You're still standing on the broken bridge, the lava’s rising, and that cursed altar behind you just started glowing.”

“Lovely,” I deadpanned. “Anything else trying to kill us this round?”

He grinned. “Roll for perception.”

I did. “Nineteen.”

He leaned in. “You see movement in the dark...just for a second. But it’s not an enemy. It’s… a child. Thin, covered in ash, hiding behind the wreckage.”

I blinked. “A child?”

“Alone. Shaking. Looks like he’s been down here for a long time.”

He said it simply, but something in his voice changed. Subtle. Quiet.

“And what does Kavros do?” I asked.

Eddie hesitated.

“He freezes,” he admitted. “He wants to move, but… I don’t know. It’s like… the kid reminds him of something. Someone.”

I didn’t say anything, just let him sit in that.

Then, softly:

“Someone like him?”

Eddie swallowed. “Maybe.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he shrugged, a little too quick. “Anyway, the mage steps forward, right? Says something brave. Says she’s not leaving anyone behind.”

I nodded, moving the piece forward. “Of course she does.”

Eddie cleared his throat. “Kavros follows. Not because he wants to. Because… if he doesn’t, he won’t be able to look at her. Or himself.”

Eddie leaned forward, eyes scanning the map like it was life or death.

“The walkway cracks beneath the kid’s feet. He screams. The whole section’s about to collapse into the lava.”

I glanced at my character sheet. “I can try a spell, something to hold it...”

“You don’t have time,” Eddie cut in, voice sharp. “Not from where she’s standing.”

I looked across the board. Only one piece was close enough.

Kavros.

“I could...” he started, then stopped, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve. “He could jump. Try to reach him before it goes.”

“But it’s a long way,” I said quietly.

He nodded. “He might fall.”

I met his eyes. “Would he do it anyway?”

Eddie was quiet for a long beat. Then he nodded once. “Yeah. He would.”

I watched him roll the dice, both hands around them like he was holding his breath.

They clattered onto the board.

He didn’t look. Just exhaled and muttered, “Sixteen.”

I smiled. “That’s enough.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah. He makes it.”

We both looked at the board. Kavros’s miniature now beside the tiny child, just as the bridge behind them gave way.

Eddie swallowed. “He grabs the kid. Hauls him back. Just in time. Everyone sees it.”

My voice softened. “What do they see?”

He hesitated. Then, “That he didn’t run. That… he gave a damn.”

I didn’t speak.

Eddie looked at me, almost defensive now. “Not for the glory or anything. Just... because someone had to.”

I nodded slowly. “And maybe… because he’s tired of only being noticed when he screws up.”

That landed harder than I expected.

He didn’t reply, but I could see it in his face, in the way his fingers flexed, restless, in the way he suddenly couldn’t meet my eyes.

I let the silence stretch, giving him space.

Then, gently: “Well, I think that’s where we’ll pause for today.” I smiled, not pushing. “No homework this week. Winter break’s almost here”

He gave a small, distracted nod, still staring at the figurines. Still somewhere between Kavros and himself.

 “You did good today,” I added, meaning it more than I probably should’ve said aloud. “Kavros too.”

That got a flicker of a smile.

He took a breath, then started gathering his things. Dices back in their pouch, maps folded, figurines handled with surprising care as he tucked them into the worn box he always carried.

Only once everything was packed, he sling the backpack over one shoulder and head toward the door.

Halfway there, he paused and turned back.

“Oh—by the way...that demo tape you gave me? Been looping it nonstop. I’m guessing your favorite track is You’re Crazy.”

I gave him a half-smile. “That’s what you think of me?”

He grinned. “No comment. But the energy fits.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “Try again. Listen closer next time.”

He took a step backward through the door, walking away but still watching me. “Fine, Doc. You win. I’ll do my homework.”

And then, with one last grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he was gone.

I sat there for a moment, the room suddenly quieter.

Something had shifted in him in that session.

That last exchange, that quiet confession - he’s tired of being noticed only when he screws up - it was honest. Raw. Braver than he realized.

And I’d seen him. Not the kid everyone dismissed as too much trouble. I’d seen the quick mind, the offbeat wit, the fragile ego hidden under all that noise. I’d seen a brilliant, infuriating, unexpectedly golden-hearted young man just starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to be invisible.

The courage it took to let someone in, even for a second.

God help me, he was extraordinary.

And if he couldn’t see it yet, fine. I could see it for both of us.

And I thought that was the end of it. A strangely tender moment before winter break swallowed us whole.

But no.

Because the next time I saw him, the noise was real, the night was spinning under the glare of stage lights, guitar distortion in my chest, and when the world tilted sideways, he was the one holding me steady.

I thought I knew - foolishly - what to expect from Eddie Munson, but I didn't.

Winter break was when everything  went to shit...in the most spectacular way.

-> READ NEXT PART HERE.

TAGLIST -

@luhhvnerve @micheledawn1975 @rosie1918posie @kellsck @strangerthingsmamareblogs @xplrnowornever @eddie-steve1986 @spikeybatt @lucydixon @undeadmfs

[missmarch-99]

The Pitt finally came to the UK ❤️

[marsuv]

What heavy metal does to you

You just had the best hookup of your life and in the morning Eddie asks you to drop him off at the High School

WC 2700

warnings: smut 18+, minors DNI, oral f receiving, protected p i v sex, unprotected piv sex in the shower

You hadn't planned on ending up here. 

The consulting gig had wrapped early—three days onsite with a client, and you'd been staring down another evening alone in a hotel room. You'd changed out of your blazer into jeans and a camisole and asked the woman at the front desk where the locals drank.

She'd looked you up and down and said, "The Hideout. Take a left on Route 4."

So here you were. Mid twenties, two gin and tonics deep, sitting alone at the end of the bar in a town you couldn't have found on a map yesterday, watching a band set up on a stage the size of a closet.

They were loud before they even started playing. The drummer kept hitting things for no reason. The bass player was arguing with someone about a cable. And the guitarist…

He was something else.

Dark curls to his shoulders, a beat-up denim vest over a Dio shirt, silver rings catching lights every time his hands moved. He had tattoos on his arms—you couldn't make them out from here, just dark shapes. He moved around the tiny stage, checking amps, tuning his guitar with the caress that made your stomach tighten. When he leaned into the mic to test it, his voice was low and warm, almost playful.

"Evening, freaks and lovely people. We are Corroded Coffin, and we are about to make your ears bleed."

Scattered cheers. He grinned—wide, wolfish, unself-conscious—and you felt it in  your knees.

They launched into something fast and brutal, all crunching riffs and bass fury, and he played.  His whole body moved with it, hair flying, fingers blurring on the fretboard, and every thirty seconds or so he'd throw his head back. 

You forgot about your drink. You forgot about the client. You forgot your flight was tomorrow.

Halfway through their set, during a solo, his eyes swept the room and landed on you.

You didn't look away.

Neither did he.

He held your gaze through the rest of the solo, fingers still moving like they didn't need his brain involved, and the corner of his mouth curled up. Not a grin this time. Softer than that.

When the set ended, you expected the spell to break. You expected him to disappear backstage, or get swallowed by groupies, or turn out to be shorter than he looked from a distance. Instead he hopped off the stage, grabbed a beer from behind the bar, and walked straight to you.

"You're not from around here."

It wasn't a question.

"What gave it away?"

"You're sitting at the bar alone and you haven't thrown anything at us yet. That's basically a standing ovation around here." He took the stool next to you, close enough that his knee pressed against your thigh. Up close he was damp with sweat, curls sticking to his neck. You studied his rings against the beer bottle when he picked it up. "Also, you were watching me like I was doing something interesting. Most people in here just want us to turn it down."

"You were doing something interesting."

He tilted his head. His eyes were brown—dark and amused. "Yeah? What was that?"

"Playing guitar like the building was on fire and you didn't care."

That smile again. The wolfish one. "That's kind of the whole point of heavy metal, sweetheart."

"Don't call me sweetheart."

"What should I call you?"

You told him your name. He repeated it, and something about the way it sounded in his voice made your skin prickle.

"Eddie," he said, offering a ringed hand. "Eddie Munson. Guitar, vocals, bad decisions."

You shook his hand. His grip was firm. He didn't let go immediately.

———

You talked for twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. He was funny—sharp and self-deprecating and quick, the kind of person who said exactly what they were thinking. He asked you what you did. You told him about the consulting, about flying into towns like this to fix problems that could've been solved with a single competent hire. He laughed and said, "Sounds like hell."

"It is hell. That's why I'm here."

"Well," he leaned closer, "glad I could be your escape."

His hand was on the bar next to yours. 

"You want to get out of here?" you said, and you meant it to sound casual, but it came out direct and low and unmistakable.

His eyes went dark. "Yeah," he said. "I really do."

Eddie turned toward the stage, where his bandmates were packing up, and called out—

"Hey! Gareth. Jeff." They looked over. "Take care of my gear. And the van. I'm—" he glanced at you, and that slow half-smile came back, "I'm indisposed."

The drummer—Gareth, apparently—looked from Eddie to you and back again. His expression said he'd seen this before.

"You owe me, Munson."

"Put it on my tab."

He slid off the stool and held out his hand.

———

You didn't make it to the parking lot.

He caught your wrist in the hallway by the bathrooms, pulled you into the dark alcove by the back door, and pressed you against the wall. His mouth found yours before you could say anything clever, and the kiss was…searing. Eddie kissed you with the same devotion he played his solo, one hand fisted in your hair. His tongue slid against yours and you made a sound into his mouth that should have embarrassed you, but his hips rolled into yours in response and you could feel exactly how much he didn't care about embarrassment either. You grabbed the front of his vest and pulled him closer because there was still too much space between you.

He tasted like cheap beer and devoured you like he'd die if he stopped. His shirt was still damp from the set. You could feel the heat of him through it.

"Your hotel," he said against your lips. "How far?"

"Ten minutes."

"Drive fast."

———

You drove fast.

His hand was on your thigh the entire drive, just resting there, his thumb tracing lazy circles that made it extremely difficult to focus on the road. He talked the whole way, something about the set and a song they'd been working on, and you heard approximately none of it because his hand kept drifting higher.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"No."

He laughed, low and delighted. "Good."

You were vaguely aware that you shouldn’t bring a stranger to your room, but then the door closed behind you and Eddie pressed you against it and every coherent thought dissolved.

His mouth was on your neck. Your hands were under his shirt, his skin hot, you dragged your nails down his chest and he groaned against your throat so low you felt it more than heard it.

"Off," you said, pulling at his vest, and he shrugged it off without lifting his mouth from your collarbone. You got his shirt over his head. He was pale and wiry,  the tattoos you'd only half-seen under stage lights were right there now—bats crawling up his forearm, something darker on his shoulder you couldn’t  identify yet. Eddie looked like trouble.

He pulled your camisole off in one motion, and when he saw you hadn't been wearing a bra, he stopped. Just stood there staring with his mouth slightly open, his chest still heaving.

"Wow," he breathed.

"Are you going to stare or are you going to do something?"

He did something.

He dropped to his knees.

Your jeans came off so fast you heard a seam protest. His hands wrapped around the backs of your thighs pulling your hips toward his face, and then his mouth was on you through the lace.  Your head hit the door hard enough that you should have cared but didn't.

"Eddie—"

He pulled your underwear down. His tongue pressed flat against you, one long slow stroke, and then another, your hands found his hair and pulled. He moaned against you like that was exactly what he'd wanted, the vibration buzzing through your entire body, and then he stopped being gentle.

His mouth worked against you sucking, and licking, two fingers pushing inside you while his tongue circled your clit. You were loud, you knew you were loud, but he kept saying encouraging words against you like your noises were the best thing he'd ever heard. Your thighs were shaking. Your fingers were knotted in his curls. He curled his fingers and pressed his tongue down at the same time and you came so hard your vision whited out, your whole body clenching around his hand, a moan tearing out of you that didn't even sound like your own voice.

He stayed there through it, easing you down with slow soft strokes. When he stood up his chin was wet and he was grinning like he'd just won something.

"Bed," you managed.

He picked you up. Actually picked you up—your body in his arms, —and dropped you on the mattress. He stood at the edge of the bed unfastening his belt, and you watched leaning on your elbows.

He shoved his jeans and boxers down. You made a sound that was somewhere between appreciation and impatience.

"You have a condom?" you asked.

He pulled one from his wallet. "I was a Boy Scout for three weeks."

"Don't ever say that again."

He rolled it on and climbed over you. For a second he just hovered there—braced on his arms, hair falling around his face, those dark eyes on yours. He was still cocky, still Eddie, but there was something underneath it. Like he couldn't quite believe this was happening.

He pushed inside you and you both swore at the same time. The stretch was perfect. 

He set a rhythm that was just this side of brutal, one hand loose around your throat, thumb stroking your racing pulse  and the other holding your thigh open, and every thrust hit deep enough to knock the air out of you. The headboard banged the wall. The bed creaked. You wrapped your legs around him and dug your heels into his back and he cursed and drove in harder.

"Fuck—you feel—" He couldn't finish the sentence. You dragged him down by the neck, scratching it in despair, and kissed him, tasting yourself on his mouth.

He shifted the angle, hitching your hips up, and you actually cried out. He felt it, heard it, saw the way your body arched and he kept that angle, driving into that spot again and again. His forehead dropped against yours, his breath ragged.

"Come on," he said against your mouth, "come on, I want to feel it—"

You came again, harder than the first time, clenching around him in waves, and he groaned your name into the crook of your neck and followed you over the edge with three more thrusts, bottoming out.

For a long moment there was just breathing. His weight on top of you, heavy and real. His heart hammering against yours.

"Fuck yeah," he said.

You just panted. 

"I mean—it was  awesome."

"Yeah."

———

Eddie disposed of the condom, collapsed next to you, and stared at the ceiling. You lay there catching your breath, sweat cooling on your skin, too wrung out to move.

"I need a shower," you said eventually.

He turned his head to look at you. That smile again. "Want company?"

———

The shower was small. Eddie was not small. You wedged yourselves in under the spray and it should have been awkward but instead it was slippery and steamy and his hands were everywhere—soaping down your back, cupping your breasts, sliding between your legs while the hot water ran over both of you. You bit his bicep playfully. 

He reached down and wrapped your hand around his cock, which hardened in your grip immediately, his head falling back against the tile.

"Again?" you asked.

"Again," he confirmed. "Definitely again."

He turned you around and you braced your hands against the tile wall. His mouth was on the back of your neck, biting gently, and then he was inside you again. Now it was different— no condom —and you moaned loud enough to echo off the bathroom tile.

The water ran over both of you. His hand snaked around your hip to find your clit, rubbing in tight circles while he thrust into you from behind, and his other arm was banded around your ribs holding you up because your legs had stopped being reliable.

It was slower this time but not softer. Deliberate. Each thrust measured and precise, filling you completely, his lips against your ear whispering things that made you clench around him—filthy things, explicit things, interspersed with your name in soft whisper.

You came with his fingers on your clit and his teeth on your shoulder.  You breathed out his name.  He pulled out a moment later,  finishing on your buttocks. The water had gone lukewarm.

Neither of you cared.

———

You slept tangled together in the hotel bed, his arm heavy around your waist, his breath warm on the back of your neck. It was the best you'd slept in months.

Morning came too soon. You blinked awake to find Eddie already up. He was sitting on the edge of the bed in his boxers, hair a catastrophic mess, squinting at his watch.

"Morning, gorgeous," he said when he saw you were awake. His voice was rough with sleep and it did things to you that were deeply inconvenient given the time of day. "I need a huge favor."

You propped yourself up on your elbow. "What kind of favor?"

He rubbed the pink scratches on his neck. For the first time since you'd met him, he looked almost sheepish.

"I need a ride. To, uh. Hawkins High."

You stared at him. The silence stretched. 

"The high school," you said flatly. You stared at him. The baby face under the wild hair, the lanky limbs, it all suddenly made sense. He probably was eighteen. Maybe nineteen if he’d been held back.

He must have read your terror —because he put both hands up immediately.

"Whoa, whoa. I'm twenty. Okay? I'm twenty. Born 1966. Do the math. This—" he gestured at himself, the stubble, the angles, "—is just what heavy metal does to you. 

You pressed your fingers against your eyelids, “I thought you were… twenty-five. At least.”

"I've been held back. Twice," he continued. "Because I was busy—" he gestured vaguely, "—prioritizing the arts. But I am a legal, consenting, tax-paying—okay, I don't pay taxes, but I'm an adult, that is the point."

He scooted closer, and his proximity still made your pulse jump even now, even in the middle of this. His face changed—dropped the showman thing, the performance. 

"I'm not a kid," he said, quieter now. "I'm just a guy who's bad at school and good at guitar and had the best night of his life with a beautiful woman who's way too smart to be consulting for people who can't figure things out on their own."

You looked at him for a long moment.

"I'm dropping you off two blocks away," you said.

He broke into that grin—the full one, the one that had gotten you into this mess. "Deal."

———

You drove him in your rental car through the flat, quiet streets following his direction and sipping hotel coffee, morning sunlight slanting through the windshield. He drummed on his knees to a song only he could hear.

Two blocks from Hawkins High, you pulled over.

He turned to you. For a second neither of you said anything.

"If you're ever back in town—" he started.

"I won't be."

"If you're ever back in town," he said again, like you hadn't spoken, "The Hideout. Every Friday and Saturday. Ask for Eddie."

He leaned across the center console and kissed you—slow this time, thorough, one hand cupping your jaw. When he pulled back, his thumb traced your lower lip.

"Thanks for the ride, sweetheart."  He said, climbing out of the car with his vest slung over one shoulder. 

"Bye, Eddie"

He shut the door. You watched him walk the two blocks to the school entrance, all loose limbs and denim and chaotic hair, utterly unconcerned with the world.

He didn't look back.

You sat there for a full minute, engine idling.

Then you laughed and put the car in drive. 

Inspired by the fact that Joseph Quinn doesn’t nearly look twenty in S4

[munson-blurbs]

Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ MASTERLIST ♫ (chapters to be added when published)

♫ chapter one: room for one more ♫ chapter two: here today ♫ chapter three: turn the lights back on ♫ chapter four: show me yours, i'll show you mine ♫ chapter five: float like a butterfly ♫ chapter six: the eye of the tiger ♫ chapter seven: offense and defense ♫ chapter eight: mind your own business ♫ chapter nine: rest for the weary ♫ chapter ten: this foolish lover's game ♫ chapter eleven: undo, undone ♫ chapter twelve: breath of fresh air ♫ chapter thirteen: street smarts ♫ chapter fourteen: burned ♫ chapter fifteen: further to fall ♫ chapter sixteen: baby, don't hurt me ♫ chapter seventeen: breathless ♫ chapter eighteen: star-crossed

[missmarch-99]

I have binged all 18 chapters and my god I am in love ! With the characters, with the writing. It is beautiful and sweet and hot as hell.

I never want it to end ❤️

[lil-quinnie]

Back to the old house

''There's too many bad memories''

Eddie Munson X Fem!Reader

wc: 2576

The front door closes softly.

The sound travels through the hallway and settles into the house like something that has decided it belongs there now. For a moment neither of you moves. Barb's mug is still on the counter, the lipstick mark on the rim bright against the ceramic.

Eddie is still by the window.

You are still sitting at the counter with your hands wrapped around your tea, though it has gone completely cold and you haven't taken a sip in several minutes.

The silence stretches, then you tilt your head slightly, studying the mug in front of you like it contains an interesting piece of data.

"Four months," you say eventually, voice light. Almost thoughtful. "Wow."

Eddie doesn't answer. His jaw tightens just slightly, the only visible reaction. You hum quietly to yourself, like you're doing some mental math.

"That's… what," you continue, tapping your finger lightly against the mug. "One hundred and twenty days?"

Still nothing.

You lift your eyes again, finally meeting him. "Was she your favorite dish?"

The words land gently in the middle of the kitchen,Eddie's head turns slowly, finally!

You lean back on the stool, studying him with a calm curiosity that would almost pass for innocent if your chest didn't currently feel like someone had parked a small active volcano in it.

"I'm just trying to understand the menu," you add mildly. "Four months feels less like a snack situation and more like… a seasonal special."

"Don't do that," Eddie says. His voice isn't angry, just tired.

"Oh, I'm absolutely going to do that," you reply, taking a sip of tea that tastes like disappointment and chamomile. "A woman walks into my house and announces she's been sleeping with my vampire roommate for a third of a year. I get at least one sarcastic question out of that."

"She didn't say sleeping."

You blink at him.

"Eddie."

He sighs. "Okay, she implied sleeping."

"Implied?" You gesture vaguely toward the door Barb just left through. "That woman did everything short of drawing a diagram."

Despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitches.

You catch it immediately.

"Don't," you say.

"I didn't do anything."

"You almost smiled."

"Dangerous accusation."

The tension shifts for half a second, the familiar rhythm of the two of you flickering through the room like something stubbornly refusing to die. Then it settles again. Your fingers tighten around the mug. You glance down at the tea.

"Did you care about her?" you ask.

The question comes out quieter than the ones before it.

Eddie doesn't answer immediately. He stubs the cigarette out slowly, the small hiss of it dying in the ashtray loud in the kitchen.

"No." The word is simple. Clean. Too clean.

You watch his hand for a moment. "Then why four months?"

Eddie leans back against the counter beside the window, arms folding loosely across his chest. He looks at you the way he always does when you ask something real, like he's measuring the shape of the answer before he gives it to you. The kitchen light catches the line of his jaw, the particular set of his shoulders, and you are very aware of Barb's mug on the counter and the four months sitting between you like furniture nobody agreed to put there.

"I needed to eat," he says.

The honesty of it lands heavy.

You nod slowly.

"That part I understand." A beat passes. You look up again. "But you could have stopped."

"Yeah."

The way he says it makes your stomach tighten.

"So why didn't you?"

For the first time since Barb left, something shifts in his expression. Not guilt exactly. Something more complicated than that. He studies you for a second, and then he exhales.

"Because staying away from you was already hard enough to risk."

The words drop into the kitchen like a lit match, the room feels much smaller than it did a moment ago.

You look at him for a long moment. The kind of look you give something you're not sure you heard correctly, the kind that means your brain is running the sentence back a second time just to confirm it arrived in the order it seemed to. Eddie holds your gaze with the particular steadiness of someone who has said the true thing and is now waiting to find out what it costs him.

"Okay," you say.

"Okay," he repeats carefully.

"So let me make sure I have this right." You turn on the stool to face him properly, folding your arms in the way that means you are about to be very reasonable about something unreasonable. "You had feelings. For me. For approximately four months."

"Approximately, yeah."

"During which time you dealt with said feelings by visiting another woman every night, sleeping with her, feeding from her, and coming home to make me coffee in the morning."

Eddie opens his mouth.

"That was a statement," you say. "Not a question. I'm building a case."

He closes his mouth.

"And this woman," you continue, with the tone of someone presenting evidence to a jury, "knew what you are. Had full information. Which means at some point you sat down with Barb and had an honest conversation about your nature, your history, what you are and what you need, a conversation that you did not have with me, the person you allegedly have feelings for, who was sleeping ten feet away from you every night."

The kitchen is very quiet.

"That's," Eddie starts.

"A choice!" you finish. "That was a choice you made. Consciously. Repeatedly. For one hundred and twenty days."

He exhales slowly through his nose. There's something in his expression that isn't quite guilt and isn't quite amusement and sits somewhere in the complicated territory between them, the look of a man who knows he's losing an argument he deserves to lose and is trying to decide whether to go down gracefully or make it interesting.

He makes it interesting.

"You found a photograph in an attic," he says back. "You were already halfway there."

"That is not the same thing, and you know it."

"You knew something was wrong with me from week one, c’mon sweetheart"

"Knowing something is wrong with your roommate and being told your roommate is a vampire are two different categories of information, Eddie, I cannot believe I have to explain this to you"

"You handled it fine."

"I handled it fine because I found out by ripping a bandage off your ribs at two in the morning, which is not the ideal discovery method, and then you handed me a letter from my dead aunt and went to hide in the garage." You gesture broadly at the general concept of him. "That's not a disclosure strategy. That's an escape plan."

The corner of his mouth moves. He catches it before it becomes something visible but you see it anyway because you have been cataloguing his expressions for four months and you know every version of that particular almost-smile. "You're finding this funny."

"I'm finding you impressive," he says, and the honesty in it lands differently than you expected, knocking slightly off the rhythm of your argument. "There's a difference."

"The bathroom," you say and the almost-smile disappears completely.

"What about the bathroom," he says, careful now.

"You know what about the bathroom." Your voice has changed, the courtroom tone gone, something underneath it that you didn't mean to let out. "Ten minutes ago. Before the door. I was" You stop. 

The word for what you were doing sits in your chest and refuses to come out in this kitchen under these fluorescent lights with Barb's lipstick still on the mug on the counter. "I was about to do something very stupid and the door saved me from doing it, and you just stood there looking at me like you knew exactly what it was."

"Because I did know exactly what it was," he says deadpan.

"And?"

"And I was waiting to find out if you were going to do it."

The question sits between you for a moment.

"Would you have stopped me?" you ask, His eyes never leave your face.

"No," he says. Simple and clear, without any of the careful distance he usually puts between himself and the true things. "I was going to let you make a decision."

He pushes off from the window, crossing the kitchen slowly until he's on the other side of the counter from you, close enough that you can smell the familiar warmth of him underneath everything else.

"Eddie." Your voice comes out lower than you intended. "She knew what you are and I didn't. She had the conversation and I found a photograph. You made coffee for me every morning for four months and you let me lie awake listening for that step and you said nothing. You're standing in my kitchen telling me staying away from me was hard and I'm supposed to just" 

The words run out before the feeling does and you sit there for a second with the gap between them, the feeling large and hot and nameless in your chest and nowhere to put it. 

"What exactly am I supposed to do with that?"

"I don't know," he says finally, and the honesty of it is the most disarming thing he's said all evening because you were prepared for an answer and not for the absence of one. "I don't know what you're supposed to do with it. I just know I'm tired of pretending it isn't there."

"That's a terrible thing to do to someone, you know?" you say "Make them get used to you like that."

His eyes drop to the counter for just a second, the length of a breath, and when they come back to yours different, something quieter and less defended, almost as hurt as you.

"Yeah," he says softly. "I'm so sorry."

The word lands and something in you cracks, just slightly, just enough, the particular crack that happens when someone says the right thing at the wrong time after a very long night, and you look down at the counter because you are not going to do this in your kitchen under fluorescent lights in front of him.

You are absolutely going to do this in your kitchen under fluorescent lights in front of him.

Your jaw tightens. Your fingers press flat against the ceramic of the mug. You breathe through it the way you've been breathing through things all evening, carefully and with great determination, and you almost have it under control when you hear him move.

Not fast. Not the way he moves when something requires speed. Just the particular sound of his boots on the kitchen floor, slow and deliberate, and then the warmth of him is right there, closer than the counter, closer than the window, close enough that you can feel it on your skin without touching and you know without looking up that he's stopped directly in front of you.

You don't look up.

His hand finds the counter beside yours.

Not touching. Just there. The way his arm used to find the back of the couch, the way his feet used to end up in your lap, the way he has been occupying the edges of your space for four months without ever crossing the line you hadn't drawn yet.

"Hey," he says quietly.

You press your lips together.

"I'm fine," you say.

"I know," he says, which is the most Eddie Munson response that has ever existed, and despite everything the corner of your mouth moves.

He's very close. Close enough that you can see the particular dark of his eyes in the kitchen light, close enough that the warmth his skin carries is everywhere now, and he's looking at you the way he looked at you from across the kitchen when Barb was still here, that unguarded thing that lives underneath all the rest of it, and you realize he's been looking at you like that for a long time and you've been pretending not to notice and you are very tired of pretending.

His jaw shifts slightly.

Something moves through his expression, quick and unguarded, there and gone, and you understand in the particular way you understand things that he became aware of something in the last three seconds that he wasn't prepared for. The proximity. The smell of your hair. The specific warmth of you after four months of very deliberate distance sitting directly in front of him close enough to touch.

His throat moves.

He stays exactly where he is for one long breath, two, the particular stillness of someone conducting a very serious internal negotiation, and then his hand lifts from the counter and finds your face, slow and careful, and you feel his thumb trace along your jaw with a gentleness that is completely at odds with everything the last hour has been.

His thumb stills against your jaw.

"I should have told you," he whispered. "About all of it."

"Yeah," you say. "You should have."

"I know." His thumb moves again, just slightly, tracing the line of your jaw with the particular unhurried attention of someone who has been wanting to do this for a long time and is done pretending otherwise. "But I'm not sorry about that."

"About which part," you say quietly.

"The coffee," he says. "The couch. The record." His eyes find yours, steady and dark and completely unguarded. "Getting used to you." Then he closes the last inch.

His mouth is warm and careful and tastes faintly of cigarettes and something underneath that is just him, and the kiss starts soft, barely a breath, the kind of kiss that asks a question both of you already know the answer to. His thumbs trace along your jaw and your hands find his hair, fingers curling there, and the moment your grip tightens something in him shifts, that careful controlled thing he's been carrying all evening finally deciding it has somewhere better to be.

Not rushed. Not desperate. The slow inevitable kind, the kind that has been building since a couch that was too small and a record on a shelf and a garage in the afternoon, all of it arriving at once in this kitchen. His hands slide from your jaw into your hair and you feel the warmth of his palms against your neck and he makes a sound low in his chest, barely audible, the sound of something finally allowed to exist, and it undoes you more completely than anything else that has happened tonight.

You pull back just enough to breathe.

Your forehead finds his.

His hands are still in your hair, warm and steady, and his breathing is different now, uneven in a way you've never heard from him before, and you stay there for a moment in the small space between you with your eyes closed and the kitchen quiet around you and four months of almost finally somewhere behind you where it belongs.

"Okay," you say quietly.

His forehead presses against yours a little more firmly.

"Yeah," he says. "Okay."

Outside the Wheeler house is very still. The fluorescent light hums its low steady hum and Barb's mug sits on the counter with its lipstick mark on the rim and none of it matters very much anymore.

His hands are still in your hair.

You let them stay there.

~

a/n: It's shorter because the writer was anxious, and I'm the writer. I really hope you're enjoying it, kisses from Mommy.

ACT 1 ACT 2 ACT 3 ACT 4

[hextoken]

The Metalwork Masterlist

eddiexfem!reader

AO3

Summary:

ArtUni!Magic AU. You do a love spell. It backfires. Horribly.

Supernatural beeings in a small english village, witches, monsters and monster hunters. Spells, blood and smut. They're both stubborn and it's complicated. Blacksmith! Eddie and Silversmith! Reader

Tags: Supernatural and horror themes, smut in later chapters, slow burn, seriously very slow burn, other characters important as plot device, witchcraft, both E and R with other people for the plot. I broke my rules for you trope. Happy ending. More added in each chapter.

Notes: I really wanted to do modern AU, but I crave magic so we got this little mix instead. It's shamelessly self indulgent, I felt like magic suits UK better so I made him run away there after Hawkins. Side characters are important for the sake of the plot, but don't worry it is Eddie x reader ending. Also 2016 pre pandemic and AI when world had a bit more colours. Written by a beetle.

Smut market with *

Chapter 1: The bullion

Chapter 2: 20/03/26

Chapter 3: 27/03/26

Chapter 4:* 3/04/26

Chapter 5: 10/04/26

Chapter 6:* 17/04/26

Chapter 7:* 24/04/26

Chapter 8: 1/05/26

Chapter 9: 8/05/26

Chapter ?:

When I finish everything I will speed it up and post probably 2x per week, but till then I give myself a bit more time for few last chapters : )

[lil-quinnie]

Back to the old house

"Cause I never even told you"

Eddie Munson X Fem!Reader

wc: 6k

There is a particular road Eddie knows by heart now.

Not the one that leads home.

The other one. The one he takes when the house has gone quiet and her light is still on upstairs and he's spent three hours on a couch that smells like her pretending he isn't aware of every breath she takes in the room above him. The one he takes when the hunger gets loud enough that being in that house becomes its own kind of cruelty and he needs somewhere to put it that isn't her.

Fifteen minutes on foot.

He's counted more times than he wants to admit.

He always tells himself it's logistics. Clean and simple. He needs to feed and Barb understands what that means and there's an arrangement in place and arrangements are easier than the alternative. He tells himself this on the road over and he almost believes it by the time he gets there.

Almost.

The guilt comes anyway. It always does, somewhere between her street and her door, settling into his chest like something with weight, because he knows what Barb feels and has known for a long time and continues to show up at her door regardless, and that is a particular kind of ugliness he doesn't have a clean word for.

She made her feelings clear three months ago.

Quietly. Without accusation. The way Barb did most things that cost her something.

I know what this is, she'd said. I just want you to know that for me it isn't.

He should have stopped then.

He didn't.

He told himself she was an adult who understood the terms. He told himself she'd said it herself, she knew what it was. He told himself a lot of things on that particular road at that particular hour and none of them were entirely false and none of them were entirely true and he kept walking anyway because the hunger was loud and the house smelled like her and he was, at the end of everything, a coward about the things that mattered most.

The light in Barb's window is on when he turns the corner.

It's always on.

That's the part that sits worst.

Barb's apartment smells like candles and something sweet and Eddie has been coming here long enough that his body knows the way without his brain having to participate.

Four months of the same door, the same light left on, the same candle on the nightstand burned down to different lengths depending on how long she waited before giving up and lighting it anyway.

That's the problem he's never let himself look at directly.

She opens the door before he knocks, she always does, and the particular way her face changes when she sees him, that small controlled exhale of relief, is something he stopped registering a long time ago because registering it would require him to do something about it and he has enough things he can't do anything about.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey."

She steps back and he comes inside and the door closes behind him and the routine of it settles over both of them like something rehearsed. Her hands find the front of his jacket. His find her waist. Four months of this and the choreography is effortless, the kind of ease that only comes from repetition, from two bodies that know exactly what this is and have stopped pretending otherwise.

Except one of them has.

The candles throw warm shadows across the room and her pulse is steady under his fingertips and she smells like the same shampoo she always uses and he knows this apartment the way he knows the layout of a house in the dark. The third drawer in the kitchen sticks. The bathroom tap runs cold for thirty seconds before it warms. The specific creak of her floorboards under his boots.

He knows all of it.

He knows none of it the way he wants to know it and that is the problem he keeps coming back to.

Her mouth finds his jaw. His throat. He tips his head back and closes his eyes.

The hunger surfaces slowly the way it always does here, not the sharp desperate thing it becomes when he's been too long without, but something warmer, something that uncoils low in his chest and spreads outward when her pulse quickens under his hands. Her breath catches and his mouth finds her neck and the first taste hits like a current, hot and immediate, and his hands tighten and the sound she makes goes straight through him.

For a few seconds there is nothing except warmth.

The hunger finally, finally going quiet.

Then her fingers push into his hair.

The gesture is so achingly familiar and so completely wrong that something in his chest cracks open without permission, because her hands are smaller than this in his head. Her hair is a different texture. The specific warmth of the body against his is the wrong warmth and he knows it and he presses closer anyway trying to drown it out, drinks deeper than he should, lets the hunger do what it does because at least the hunger is honest.

It doesn't work.

It hasn't worked in four months.

His head is full of a house that smells like coffee and old wood and her. Always her. The particular sound of her laugh at something terrible on TV, the way she reaches past him for the remote without asking, the warmth of her breathing beside him on a couch that was too small for both of them.

The ceiling of Barb's bedroom is unfamiliar.

He keeps his eyes open so he doesn't have to see what's behind them.

Barb moves against him and her pulse runs hot and quick under his hands and outside the night is dark and cold and somewhere across town there is a house with a light on that he is not in. He thinks about this. He thinks about it with her body against his and her heartbeat in his mouth and the candles guttering low on the nightstand and he hates himself for it, cleanly and completely, but not enough to stop.

He has never stopped.

That is the other thing he doesn't let himself look at.

After, the hunger settles into something quiet and Barb curls against him with the ease of someone who made her peace with the shape of this a long time ago. Her breathing slows. Her hand rests flat against his chest, over the place where his heart moves slow and irregular.

The candle gutters.

The room is very warm and very quiet.

And then, from somewhere below conscious thought, from the place where his guard has been slowly wearing thin for four months, three words surface and escape before he can stop them.

Low. Barely a breath.

Meant for no one in this room.

Barb goes very still.

The silence that follows is the loudest thing he's ever heard.

"Say that again," she says quietly.

"Barb"

"Say it again."

"I didn't.."

"Eddie." Her voice breaks on his name, just slightly, just enough. "Don't."

He closes his eyes.

She sits up slowly, the warmth leaving where her body was against his, and when he looks at her she's staring at the candle on the nightstand like if she looks at him she won't be able to say what she needs to say.

"Four months," she says.

He doesn't answer.

"Four months and I never asked you for anything." Her voice is careful. Controlled. The voice of someone holding something very heavy with both hands. "You came here and I let you and I never asked you for a single thing more than what you were willing to give."

"I know."

"Do you?" She turns to look at him now and her eyes are bright and furious and something else underneath that he recognizes and wishes he didn't. "Because from where I'm sitting it doesn't look like you know very much at all."

"Barb, stop it"

"You said her name." The control cracks, just for a second, the weight of it finally too much. "You were right here and you said her name and you didn't even notice."

The candle throws unsteady light across the ceiling.

"I'm sorry," he says. Because sorry is the only true thing he has to offer and they both know it isn't enough.

"I don't want your sorry." She gets up, reaching for the shirt on the floor, and her hands are shaking slightly which is worse than if she were screaming. "I want you to look at me and tell me what this was. Four months, Eddie. Tell me what this was to you."

He sits up.

"You know what it was."

"Say it."

The word sits in his chest like a stone.

"You know," he says again, quieter.

"I know." She pulls the shirt over her head and her voice has gone flat now, the anger burning down into something colder and more permanent. "I knew from the beginning. I just thought" She stops. Laughs, short and humorless. "I don't know what I thought. That's the stupid part."

"You're not stupid."

"No." She looks at him. "I'm not. I'm just someone who watched you fall in love with someone else for four months and convinced myself it wasn't happening."

The room goes very still.

He doesn't deny it.

That's what breaks her. Not the words. Not the argument. Just his silence sitting there like a confession neither of them asked for out loud.

Her jaw tightens.

"Get out," she says. "I mean it." 

Her voice is steady now, the steadiness of someone who has decided something. "Go home, Eddie."

He reaches for his jacket. He wants to say something, something that would make this less than what it is, something that would give her back the four months she spent waiting for a light he was never going to turn on for her.

He has nothing.

The door closes behind him and the cold hits immediately, sharp and clean, and he stands on her porch for a moment with his hands in his pockets and the sound of her voice still in his head.

Go home.

He stops at the edge of it for a moment, his hands in his pockets, Barb's voice still somewhere in the back of his skull. The cold air fills his lungs and the house sits there in the dark the way it always does, warm light in the downstairs window, the particular yellow glow that means you're still up.

He knew you'd be up.

That's the problem with knowing someone the way he knows you now. He knows your lights. Knows which one means you're writing and which one means you've given up on writing and which one means you fell asleep on the couch again with the TV still on.

That one is the living room lamp.

You're on the couch.

He stands there for a moment longer than necessary and has a very brief and very honest conversation with himself about what he's doing and why and what it would mean to walk through that door right now with Barb's voice still in his head and the guilt still sitting heavy in his chest and you on the other side of it.

He walks through the door.

The house smells like coffee and old wood and something that is just you, and he stands in the hallway for a second letting it settle over him before he hears the TV.

He should go upstairs.

He doesn't go upstairs.

The living room is dim, just the lamp and the low flicker of the TV, and you're exactly where he knew you'd be, legs tucked under you on the couch, a blanket pulled up, your eyes on the screen with the particular unfocused look of someone who stopped watching a while ago and hasn't admitted it yet.

You glance over when you hear him.

Something in his chest does the thing it always does when you look at him like that, like he's just a person who lives here, like it's the most natural thing in the world that he walked through that door, and he thinks about Barb's face when she said I watched you fall in love with someone else for four months and he thinks about the road between her apartment and this house and the fifteen minutes he's counted too many times and he sits down on the couch.

He doesn't know what else to do.

"You're back early," you say. Not accusing. Just noting.

"Yeah," he says.

You look at him for a second, that particular attention of yours that notices things he'd rather you didn't, and then you look back at the TV without asking.

That's one of the things about you he's never been able to account for. The way you know when not to ask.

The movie is already halfway through, some terrible thing with bad lighting and worse dialogue, and he doesn't know what it is and doesn't ask and after a moment his arm finds the back of the couch the way it always does, not around you, just there, and the lamp throws warm light across the room and outside the wind has picked up against the windows.

The guilt sits in his chest and he breathes around it.

You pick at a loose thread on the blanket.

The credits roll eventually, some instrumental track playing too loud for the quiet of the room, and neither of you moves to turn it off.

"She left you the house," you say.

He glances over.

"Nancy."

"Yeah." Your fingers still on the blanket thread. "That's a lot to leave someone."

"It is."

A beat of quiet, the wind against the windows, the low hum of the TV settling into static. He can feel the question before you ask it, the particular quality of your silence when something is working its way to the surface.

"Were you two ever…" you start, and then stop like you've decided the question costs too much.

He heard all of it.

"Ever what," he says.

"Nothing." You shake your head. "Forget it."

"You already started."

"And I already stopped."

He tilts his head, watching you with the patience he has learned specifically for you, the particular stillness of someone who knows that pushing makes you close off and waiting makes you talk.

"Were we ever what," he repeats.

You look at the TV like it has something interesting on it.

"Involved," you say. Like the word costs nothing. Like you haven't been sitting with it for a while.

The silence that follows is two seconds too long.

"No," he says.

Something in your shoulders loosens before you can stop it. He watches it happen, that small involuntary release of tension, and he catalogues it the way he catalogues everything about you now, quietly and without comment.

He notices.

You hope he doesn't.

"There was something," he continues, and your shoulders do the opposite thing immediately, "a long time ago. Before I knew her properly."

You look at him now despite yourself.

"A crush," he says. "The kind you get when someone looks a certain way from far away and you don't know yet who they actually are."

"And then you knew her."

"And then I knew her." His voice settles into something certain. "She became one of the best people I've ever met. Completely insufferable. Something like a sister." A pause. "In that order."

You look back at the TV.

"Okay," you say.

"Okay," he repeats, one degree too amused.

"I was just curious."

"Very curious," he agrees.

"It's a reasonable question."

You glance at him sharply. He's already looking at you with that expression, the one that means he's been three steps ahead for a while, and something in your jaw tightens.

"Don't," you say.

"I haven't said anything."

"You're about to."

He tilts his head slightly.

"Why do you want to know, trouble?"

There it is.

The question lands in the middle of the room and takes up more space than it should and you feel it, the particular weight of it, not teasing, not the easy provocation he usually reaches for when things get close. Just the question, quiet and direct and patient, and underneath it something that has been living in this house for four months without a name.

You look at him and realize, properly, how close he is. Close enough that the warmth his skin carries is something you can feel without touching. Close enough that if you shifted even slightly your knee would find his. His arm is still along the back of the couch and the weight of it behind your shoulders is something you've stopped being able to pretend is accidental.

Your pulse does something unhelpful.

Your fingers tighten on the blanket thread.

He waits.

"I live with you," you say finally. "I'm allowed to be curious about your history."

"You are," he says. "A very normal thing to be curious about."

The wind pushes against the windows again. The lamp flickers once. The TV hums its low static and the room has gotten smaller somehow and the inches between you feel less like distance and more like a question that has been sitting here all evening waiting for someone to answer it.

"It passed," he says quietly. "Whatever it was. A long time ago."

"I know," you say.

His eyes don't move from yours.

"Do you."

Not a question.

Your throat moves.

"Eddie."

"Yeah."

The lamp throws warm gold across the side of his face and his arm is still behind you and he is looking at you the way he looks at you when he's stopped pretending he isn't and it is the most destabilizing thing that has ever happened in this living room.

"Shut up," you say.

His mouth curves. Just slightly. Just enough.

Outside the wind goes quiet for a moment, the house holding its breath, and his eyes are still on yours and you are so tired of looking away first.

"Goodnight," you say, unfolding yourself from the couch.

He doesn't stop you.

The hallway is dark and familiar under your feet and you are almost at the top when you hear him, very quiet, almost to himself.

"Goodnight, trouble."

You don't stop walking.

But something in your chest loosens in the dark where he can't see it, and you carry it upstairs with you, warm and unnamed, and lie awake for a long time listening to the house breathe.

It's a Thursday afternoon when you run out of things to do.

This happens sometimes. The particular restlessness that comes when the writing isn't working and the book you're reading stopped being interesting two chapters ago and you've made coffee twice already and reorganized the same shelf of the bookcase for the third time this week and the house has run out of ways to absorb your attention.

You've been aware of the garage for about twenty minutes before you admit it.

The sounds of him working have been drifting through the house all afternoon, the occasional clank of metal, the low sound of something being dragged across concrete, the particular silence that means he's concentrating. You've been pretending not to notice with increasing effort and decreasing success and eventually you put the book down and think, with great intellectual honesty, that you are about to go bother Eddie Munson because you are bored and he is there and those are the only reasons.

This is a completely normal thing to do.

You are roommates.

You grab your mug.

The garage door is half open and the light inside is warm and yellow against the grey afternoon.

You see the tank top first.

Eddie is leaning over the engine with his back partially to you and he is wearing a tank top and this is, objectively, information you were not prepared to receive on a Thursday afternoon when you came out here for entirely innocent reasons. His shoulders are bare and the ink starts at his collarbone and spreads down his arm in dark patterns that you have technically been aware of in the abstract, you knew he had tattoos, everyone knew he had tattoos, but knowing and seeing are apparently very different things and right now you are seeing.

You stand in the doorway with your mug.

He hasn't heard you yet.

His forearm flexes when he reaches deeper into the engine, the muscle pulling taut under the ink, and his fingers wrap around something and tighten and you watch his hands with the particular focused attention of someone whose brain has temporarily stopped producing useful thoughts.

He has good hands.

You've been noticing this with increasing frequency and increasing inconvenience for approximately six weeks and you are extremely tired of it and it is significantly worse right now with his sleeves not in the way and the warm garage light catching the lines of his forearms and honestly you came out here to be annoying and instead you are the one being ambushed and that feels deeply unfair.

He turns slightly to reach for a different tool and the line of his neck comes into view, the particular curve of it, the vein there visible and slow and steady, and something in your chest does a thing you choose not to examine.

You lean against the doorframe.

"You're staring," he says without looking up.

"I'm standing in a doorway."

"You've been standing in that doorway for a while."

"I just got here."

"You've been there for at least two minutes."

You open your mouth. Close it. Step inside.

The garage smells like motor oil and something warm underneath that is just him, and you lean against the workbench beside him with your mug and watch his hands move over the engine because apparently you are fully committed to making this worse for yourself.

Up close the tattoos are more detailed than you can process in one look. Dark lines and shading that disappear under the edge of his tank top and reappear on his collarbone and you are looking at his collarbone right now which is a thing you are doing and you should probably stop.

"What are you doing out here?" he asks.

"Nothing."

"You came to the garage for nothing."

"I was bored."

"Mm."

His fingers tighten around a bolt and the muscle in his forearm moves and you look very deliberately at the wall.

"The house is quiet," you say.

"Mm."

"I finished my chapter."

"That 's my girl."

You pick up a bolt from the workbench and turn it over in your fingers for something to do with your hands.

"Eddie."

He looks up. And that is always the problem with asking him to look at you. He does it completely. His full attention lands on you like something physical, warm and unhurried, and up close his eyes are very dark and there is a smear of grease along his jaw and the vein in his neck pulses once, slow and steady, and you had a complete sentence ready and it has gone entirely missing.

"What," he says quietly.

"I." You set the bolt down. "Nothing. Never mind."

He doesn't look away.

"You came out here," he says, "stood in my doorway for two minutes, and said nothing."

"I said several things."

"You said you were bored."

"That's a thing."

"That's not why you came."

The workbench is behind you suddenly. Or he moved. You're not entirely sure which because your spatial awareness has done something deeply unhelpful and the distance between you is considerably less than it was a moment ago and his eyes haven't moved from yours and the tattoos on his forearm are right there and the garage is very warm and very small.

"I came," you say, with great dignity, "to ask if you wanted tea."

Eddie stares at you.

"Tea."

"It's cold." You gesture vaguely. "You've been out here all afternoon. It's a completely normal thing to offer someone."

"You already have a mug."

"Yeah! This is mine mug."

"So you came to offer me tea without bringing tea."

"I was going to make it after I asked, dumbass."

He looks at you for a long moment. His head tilts slightly and the vein in his neck shifts with the movement and you look at his face very deliberately and he is doing that thing where his expression stays completely still but his eyes give everything away, and the corner of his mouth lifts just slightly.

"Sure," he says. "Tea sounds good."

"Great." You push away from the workbench. "I'll just." You gesture toward the house. "Go make it."

"Yep." "Good."

"Very efficient."

"Eddie…"

"Masterful hospitality."

"I'm going inside now."

"I'll be here," he says, already turning back to the engine, and his shoulders shift with the movement and the ink moves with them and you are looking at his shoulders again and then you are walking back to the house with your empty mug and your dignity mostly intact.

Mostly.

The kettle fills slowly under the tap and you stand there watching it and think about the vein in his neck and his fingers tightening around the bolt and the tattoos disappearing under the edge of his tank top and you think about a lot of things you spend most of your waking hours actively not thinking about.

The tea takes four minutes to make.

You bring two mugs back to the garage.

He takes his without looking up, his fingers wrapping around the mug, and you lean against the workbench and drink your tea and watch him work and the afternoon settles around you both, grey and quiet and completely ordinary.

Nothing happens for a long time.

And somehow that is the most tension filled nothing that has ever existed in this garage and you are going to need to go reorganize that bookshelf again when you get back inside.

This big house has one bathroom upstairs and this has never been a problem before.

You're not sure exactly when it became a problem, somewhere between month two and month three, around the same time the kitchen stopped being neutral territory before nine in the morning and his jacket started ending up on your chair without either of you noticing. The bathroom just quietly joined the list of things that had shifted without announcement.

Tonight, however, it’s an immediate, charged problem because you are both trying to occupy the same small space at the same time, caught in the unpredictable current of the house’s evening routine, and the bathroom feels suddenly, suffocatingly small.

“You’re entirely in my way,” you bite out, your voice rougher than it should be simply because his shoulder is six inches from yours. “I need the sink.”

He shifts, not away, but just enough for his arm to brush yours, a low-voltage contact that makes your entire body hum. “I’m currently using this spot,” he murmurs, his gaze lingering on your face before dropping deliberately to your mouth.

You bracket him with your hands, palms flat against the cool marble counter behind his hips, shrinking the space to absolute zero. “There are two taps.”

“There’s one mirror,” he counters, his eyes meeting yours in the glass with an expression of such practiced, infuriating innocence that you want to scream, and you have to use your hip to shove past him to grab your toothbrush.

He allows himself to be moved, approximately two inches to the side, which is nowhere near enough room, and he knows it, and he is absolutely, deliberately enjoying the tight, breathless proximity.

This is the thing about living with Eddie Munson for four months. He takes up exactly as much space as he wants to and has never once apologized for it.

You brush your teeth with great dignity.

He brushes his with great amusement.

The mirror is small enough that you can see both of you in it if you're standing this close, which you are, which means you can also see the way his shoulder almost touches yours and the specific angle of his jaw and the ink on his collarbone where his shirt has shifted and you are looking at the mirror very carefully and not at any of those things.

"You've got," he says, and gestures vaguely at the corner of his own mouth.

You check the mirror. There's a small dot of toothpaste at the corner of yours.

"Oh my god," you mutter, reaching for it.

His thumb gets there first.

It's nothing. A half second of contact, the pad of his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, casual and unhurried the way he touches things that belong to him, and then his hand drops and he goes back to his own sink like it didn't happen.

Your brain, however, does not go back to anything.

You stand there with your toothbrush and look at his reflection in the mirror and he's doing something completely ordinary with his hair and his eyes find yours in the glass for just a second, that particular quality of attention that you've been cataloguing for four months, warm and dark and completely unguarded, and something in your chest makes a decision that your brain hasn't signed off on yet.

You turn around.

He turns at the same moment, the small space between you disappearing completely, and you are very close, closer than the couch, closer than the garage doorway, closer than any of the almosts that have been accumulating in this house, and his eyes drop to your mouth for just a second.

Just a second.

Your hand comes up.

Finds the front of his shirt.

The fabric is soft and warm under your fingers and his breathing has changed, just slightly, just enough, and his eyes are back on yours now and the bathroom is very small and very quiet and you are about to…

The knock at the front door cuts through the house like something sharp.

You step back immediately.

Your hand drops from his shirt.

Eddie blinks once, something shifting behind his eyes, and you cannot look at him right now, you absolutely cannot, so you look at the floor instead and clear your throat and say something about getting the door that doesn't come out entirely as words and leave the bathroom with as much speed as can be reasonably described as walking.

The stairs are very loud under your feet.

Your face is very warm.

Behind you, the bathroom is very quiet.

The porch light catches her in yellow, a woman about your age, dark blonde hair damp at the ends from the earlier rain, a jacket pulled close against the night air. She's pretty in an uncomplicated way, the kind of pretty that doesn't seem to require any effort, and she's looking at you with an expression you can't immediately read.

Something between recognition and resignation.

Like she knew this was coming.

Like she came anyway.

"Hi," you say.

"Hi." Her voice is steady. "I'm looking for" She pauses. Looks at you more carefully. "You're her, aren't you."

It isn't a question.

Behind you, the hallway is very quiet. Then his boots on the floor.

He appears at your shoulder and the moment he does the woman's eyes move from you to him and something passes across her face, quick and controlled, the kind of expression someone makes when they've practiced not making it.

"Barb," he says quietly.

Not surprised. Not quite.

You look at her and then at him and something in the air between the three of you settles into a specific shape that you don't have a name for yet but recognize instinctively as the kind of thing that changes the temperature of a room.

"Come in," you say.

Eddie goes very still behind you.

Barb blinks, something flickering across her face at the invitation, there and gone. Then she steps inside.

The kitchen feels smaller with three people in it.

Barb sits on one of the counter stools with the careful posture of someone who is working very hard to appear comfortable, her jacket still on, her hands wrapped around the mug you put in front of her without asking. The tea is still steaming. She looked at it for a moment when you set it down, something brief and unreadable moving across her face before she picked it up.

Eddie is at the window. He hasn't sat down. He won't, you understand instinctively, because sitting down would mean settling in and he has no intention of doing that. He lit a cigarette the moment he positioned himself there, his back half-turned to the room, his eyes on the dark outside.

You have your own mug. Your hands need something to hold.

"Can I," Barb starts, reaching into her jacket pocket.

"Sure," you say.

She pulls out a slim cigarette, dark and thin, and lights it with a small silver lighter. The first curl of smoke reaches you almost immediately and it's nothing like Eddie's, nothing like yours, sweet and heavy and medicinal in a way that coats the back of your throat.

You say nothing.

You take a sip of tea instead.

The silence stretches for a moment, the three of you in this kitchen that smells like clove and tobacco and the ghost of the kettle that was still warm when everything changed, and then Barb sets her mug down and looks at you directly.

"I've been seeing Eddie for four months," she says.

The word seeing lands with a specific weight. You keep your face neutral.

"Okay," you say.

"Every time he leaves at night." Her eyes move briefly to Eddie at the window, then back to you. "He comes to me."

You already knew this, some part of you knew this, but hearing it said out loud in your kitchen by a woman with damp hair drinking your tea is a different thing entirely. Something hot moves through your chest and you name it quietly and privately and do not let it anywhere near your face.

"How did you two meet?" you ask.

The question seems to surprise her slightly. She expected something else, you realize. Anger, maybe. Tears. Something that would make this easier to sit inside.

"Through a mutual friend," she says. "A long time ago."

"She knows what I am," Eddie says from the window. Factual. Flat. Not looking at either of you.

You look at him for a moment. The back of his jaw is tight, the cigarette held loosely between two fingers, smoke drifting toward the dark glass.

You look back at Barb.

"And you're okay with that," you say.

"I was," she says carefully. "I understood what the arrangement was."

"The arrangement," you repeat.

Barb takes a slow drag of her cigarette and exhales toward the ceiling and you watch her decide how much to say and how to say it.

"He feeds from me," she says. "Has been, the whole time. And we" She pauses. "It became physical. Every time."

The volcano in your stomach does something specific and volcanic.

You take a sip of tea.

"Every time," you say.

"Every time," she confirms, and her voice is steady but her eyes are doing something they weren't doing a minute ago, moving between you and Eddie and back again, recalibrating something.

"She came to me," Eddie says from the window, still not turning around. "I didn't pursue her."

"That's true," Barb says, with a faint edge that suggests it is true and also not the point.

"And I told her it was purely feeding," Eddie continues, the same flat tone, "which is what it was."

"At the beginning."

"That's what it always was."

The words land without heat, without cruelty, just the bare shape of a fact, and you watch Barb receive them. Her jaw shifts slightly. She takes another drag of the clove cigarette and the sweet heavy smell fills the kitchen again and you breathe through it quietly.

"I developed feelings," Barb says, directing it at you now rather than him, like she's made a decision about who she's actually talking to. "That wasn't part of the agreement. I know that." A pause. "But four months is a long time."

"It is," you say.

She looks at you for the first time since she sat down, the careful composure of her doing something complicated around the edges.

"You're not what I expected," she says quietly.

You don't ask what she expected.

She takes a breath.

"Last week he said something." Her voice is careful now, measured. "While we were together. He said—"

"He said my name," you say.

The kitchen goes very quiet.

Barb stares at you.

"He said it in his sleep once too," you say, which is not entirely true and not entirely false, and you watch the information move across her face like weather.

Eddie has turned from the window. He's looking at you with an expression you haven't seen on him before, something that doesn't have a name yet, and you don't look at him for long because if you look at him for long the volcano is going to become a problem.

Barb sets her cigarette on the edge of your ashtray.

She wraps both hands around her mug.

And then it happens, the thing you didn't see coming, the thing that cracks the careful composure she walked in here wearing like armor. She looks across the kitchen at Eddie, just a glance, automatic, and he is looking at you, not at her, at you, the way he always looks at you, that particular quality of attention that you've been cataloguing without meaning to for four months, warm and unhurried and completely unguarded.

He isn't even aware he's doing it.

That's what breaks her.

Not the conversation. Not the truth being laid out on your kitchen counter. Just him, looking at you the way she spent four months waiting for him to look at her, effortless and automatic, like you're the thing his eyes find when they have nowhere else to be.

Her throat moves.

She looks down at her mug.

When she looks up again her eyes are bright and she blinks once, twice, and you watch her put herself back together with the quiet efficiency of someone who has had practice, and something in your chest does a complicated thing that has nothing to do with the volcano and everything to do with the fact that you are apparently the kind of person who feels sorry for women who come to your house to blow up your evening.

"I'm sorry," Barb says. To you, not to him. "I shouldn't have come."

"You needed to," you say.

She looks at you for a moment.

Then she picks up her cigarette, takes one last drag, and stubs it out cleanly in your ashtray. She finishes the tea. She stands, pulling her jacket closer, and she doesn't look at Eddie again because she's made a decision about that too.

"Take care of yourself," you say.

Barb pauses at the kitchen doorway.

"You too," she says quietly.

The front door closes behind her a minute later. Soft. Final.

You sit with your mug.

Eddie hasn't moved from the window.

And the silence between you is the loudest thing in the house.

a/n: So guys, did you also hold your breath or was it just while I was writing? Please comment what you thought, I need your opinion to survive. Love you all <3 Divider by: @mieluno

ACT 1 ACT 2 ACT 3

[missmarch-99]

I did absolutely hold my breath ! I am enjoying this so much

[lil-quinnie]

I would rather not go

Back to the old house

"And you never knew how much I really liked you"

Eddie Munson X Fem!Reader

wc~5035

Two months is long enough for routines to form without anyone agreeing to them out loud. Coffee appears on the counter every morning before you wake up or the sign of smoke drifting lazily through the kitchen while Eddie leans against the counter like he’s been awake for hours.

You never asked for any of it, It just… happened.

Which is why the kitchen feels wrong when you walk into it that morning. Your mug sits exactly where it always does, coffee already poured the steam still faintly rising and a fucking cigarette resting beside it on the edge of the ashtray.

Your brand not his.

Your name is written on a folded note under the mug, 

Out. Back soon.

That’s it, no extra explanation.

You stare at it for a moment longer than necessary before setting it back down. People don’t owe you a morning routine just because you got used to one.

You drink the coffee anyway, but today it had a sour taste. By the afternoon the quiet hadn't gone away. You sit on the couch with your laptop balanced on your knees, angled deliberately away from the front window.

Not because you’re watching the driveway, shut up, the light is just better here.

You write half a paragraph, delete most of it. The cursor blinks patiently like it expects you to know what happens next but unfortunately, you don’t.

After a while you close the laptop with a sigh.

Two months in this house and there are still doors you haven’t opened, rooms you haven’t explored.

The house is bigger than it looks from the road, hallways stretching farther than they should, corners of the house that still smell faintly like dust and old wood. The attic door waits at the end of the hallway, you’ve passed it every day since moving in, you just never had a reason to open it.

Until now.

The ladder creaks when you pull it down, it smells like cardboard and warm dust, sunlight slipping through the small roof window and catching particles in the air.

Boxes are stacked everywhere, old furniture, a broken lamp and a trunk that probably hasn’t been opened in twenty years.

Near the wall, a stack of photo albums sits crooked under a layer of dust. You crouch beside them, brushing the top one clean before opening it.

Most of the photos are exactly what you expect, Nancy younger, with some friends, you see your mother and your uncle Mike,and some friends you could still recognize.

You turn to another page, and then stop, you could listen to the beats of your heart from outside your chest.

Nancy stands on the front steps of the house, She can’t be older than twenty. Her hair is shorter than you remember, her smile wide and her big bright blue eyes, beside her…you lean closer to see better.

The boy standing next to her has one foot resting on the step, arms crossed loosely, dark hair falling into his face.

He looks eighteen too, maybe nineteen.Your stomach drops because the boy in the photo looks exactly like Eddie.

Not similar.

Exactly.

The same crooked grin.

The same eyes.

You stare at it longer than you mean to, people can look alike. Families repeat faces or the best excuse ever,coincidences happen.

But the longer you look at the photograph the harder it becomes to pretend that boy isn’t Eddie.

Downstairs, the front door opens, boots hit the floor in the hallway.

“Hey trouble,” Eddie calls casually from below.  “You still alive up there?”

“Yeah,” you call back quickly. “Just… exploring.”

A quiet laugh floats up the stairwell.

“Dangerous hobby.”

You slide the album back into the stack before climbing down. Eddie is leaning against the wall when you step off the ladder, his eyes lift immediately.

Then he smiles.

“…wow.”

“What.” You blink.

His hand lifts toward your hair, fingers brushing lightly through it before pulling away with a thin strand of cobweb.

“…attic,” he says simply.

Your face heats instantly. “Oh my god.” You brush at your hair.

He flicks the web away, watching you with quiet amusement. “You been up there long?”

Your stomach tightens

“Couple minutes.”

His gaze lingers on your face for a second longer than necessary, like he´s trying to decide if he could believe in you or not.

You notice it then, the marks. Dark bruises along the side of his neck, barely hidden by the collar of his shirt.

Your stomach twists before you can stop it.

Well.

Good for him.

You cross your arms casually, leaning against the doorway like the sight means absolutely nothing.

“Are you busy this morning?” you ask lightly.

Eddie’s eyebrow lifts.

“Why.”

You tilt your head toward his neck.

“Oh, I don’t know. Just looks like someone had a productive day.”

A slow smirk spreads across his face.

“You jealous, trouble?”

You roll your eyes immediately. “Please.”

You push away from the doorway.

“I’ve been stuck in this house with you for two months. I should probably start meeting new people anyway.”

That makes him pause, just for a second. His gaze sharpens slightly.

“Oh yeah?” he says.

“Yeah.”

You shrug like the idea barely matters.

“Healthy. Expanding my options.”

The corner of his mouth lifts again.

“Nice,” he says slowly, reaching for his keys. “Good news.”

You look up.

“There’s a show in town tonight.”

~

The bar is smaller than you expected, low lights and dark wood compounding the room, a band tuning their instruments near the stage.

Eddie orders wine, you don’t argue. The red is warm and dry, the second sip easier than the first anyway.

He stands closer than necessary, up that close you notice something you didn’t see earlier.

Dark bruises along the side of his neck. You´ve tried to keep your face neutral but, how?

“You know,” you say casually, “most people try to hide that.”

your manicured finger pointing for the hickies, his eyebrow lifts and half of a smirk emerging in his lips

“That.”

A slow smile touches his mouth while you roll your eyes and sip your wine, with disdain. 

“You jealous?.” He leaned in slightly, getting closer to your face; his cologne mixed with the smoky scent of his cigarette made everything even more difficult.

You take another sip of wine.

“I'm just curious.” before you finish speaking a guy beside you leans against the bar.

“You new here?”

“Yeah.” you said with the most sweet voice you had and Eddie shifts slightly closer beside you.

“She moved out by the Wheeler place,” he says calmly.

The guy glances between you.

“Oh. With him?”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away.

“Yeah, that's where I live too.”

The guy nods and drifts away.

“Do you really need to do that?”

“Do what?”

You glance at his neck again.

“You really stuck on that,hum?”

“You didn’t even try to hide, Jesus."

Later the band slows into something heavier, the crowd presses closer. Eddie’s hand settles lightly at your waist when someone bumps into him. You turn your head to say something. He leans down at the same moment.

The corner of your lips brushes his, so soft for barely a second. The room keeps moving, the music loud,the people drunker than before but the space between you goes completely still.

Eddie doesn’t move, his hand tightens slightly and his eyes drop to your mouth. Then lift slowly again. For the briefest moment his gaze goes darker than you’ve ever seen it, his breath catches and suddenly Eddie steps back.

“We should go,” he says quietly.

You stare at him. “What?” 

He looks at you again, carefully. “Before those options you mentioned start tonight.”

You swallow.

“Afraid of competition?”

His mouth curves faintly.

But his eyes don’t.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Tonight I am.”

And for a moment he isn’t looking at you like your roommate. He’s looking at you like he’s starving for you.

Something tightens low in your stomach before you can stop it. And suddenly the bar feels a little too warm. Neither of you moves toward the exit right away.

Eddie sets his glass down slowly, his eyes fixed somewhere past the stage. The band has shifted into something quieter now, softer, and the crowd around you has thinned without you noticing. Somewhere between the music and the low lights the bar has stopped feeling like a bar and started feeling like a waiting room.

You look at him.

He doesn't look back. But his jaw is set in a way that means he's very aware that you are. You grab your jacket from the back of the stool, Eddie glances over, something unreadable crossing his face for just a second before he nods and reaches for his keys.

The cold air outside hits immediately, sharp after the warmth of the bar. You walk to the car without talking. He unlocks it without talking. The engine turns over and the radio comes on low, some song neither of you registers, and the lights of town disappear slowly in the rearview mirror.

The music on the radio plays low enough to become background noise and the headlights cut through the dark road like a tunnel of pale yellow light.

You last about fifteen minutes.

The wine settles warm in your stomach and the rhythm of the road pulls slowly at your eyelids until the fight becomes pointless. Your head tips against the window and the cool glass presses against your temple as sleep wins.

Eddie notices immediately. He glances over once, watching the way your breathing evens out and the tension in your shoulders finally lets go like your body trusted him enough to shut down for a while. He exhales quietly through his nose and focuses back on the road.

“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath. “That was a bad idea.”

By the time the house appears between the trees the sky has turned fully dark. He parks the car slowly and the engine ticks softly as it cools, the sound loud in the quiet night.

You don’t wake.

Eddie sits there for a moment longer than necessary, his hands resting loosely on the steering wheel while he looks at you. Your hair has fallen forward slightly and catches the dim porch light outside the windshield, soft and warm.

He steps out of the car and walks around to your side before opening the door. You stir faintly but don’t wake when he slides one arm behind your back and the other under your knees. He lifts you carefully and your weight settles against him immediately, your head falling against his shoulder like it belongs there.

Your breath is warm against his neck.

For a moment he closes his eyes.

Inside, the house is quiet except for the soft creak of the stairs under his boots. He carries you upstairs and pushes your bedroom door open with his shoulder before laying you down carefully, pulling the blanket over you with a quick, efficient movement that feels almost rehearsed.

He doesn't stay.

He steps back from the bed almost immediately, like the distance matters more than he wants it to. For a moment he just stands there in the doorway, looking at you in the dark. Your breathing is slow and even. Your hand has curled slightly against the pillow where his shoulder used to be.

He looks away first.

The front door closes quietly behind him a minute later. He stands on the porch for a second, hands in his pockets, the cold air hitting his face while the night stretches out in front of him. The tree line is dark. The road is empty.

He starts walking. No destination, there never is when the hunger starts rising like this, not as a physical need but as something alive inside his chest that tightens every time he gets too close to you. Every time you laughs. Every time your pulse quickens and he can hear it...

The abandoned gas station appears through the trees the way it always does, like it knew he was coming. A truck sits crooked beside the building, the metal still ticking with leftover heat from the engine.

Eddie stops.

He hears them before he sees them.

"…told her she owed me," the voice slides through the words, thick with alcohol. "After I was done with her she thought she could just…"

The second man laughs.

Eddie closes his eyes for a second.

Okay then.

He steps into the dim spill of light from the building and the first man turns, half-blind with drink, trying to focus.

"You lost, kid?"

Eddie tilts his head slightly.

"Something like that."

The distance between them disappears before the man can process the movement. One second he's leaning against the truck, the next he's slammed against the metal hard enough to dent it, the bottle shattering on the pavement, the cheap smell of alcohol mixing with the first trace of fear in his sweat.

"What the f—"

Eddie's hand closes around his throat before the sentence can finish.

"Relax," he murmurs quietly. "You won't feel much."

That part is true. The man struggles for a few seconds, pure instinct, before the venom in Eddie's blood does what it always does. The muscles give. The resistance drains away. The heart still beats but slower now, slower with every second, while Eddie drinks and the metallic smell floods everything.

He drinks until the heart stops.

He only realizes he went too far after he already has.

He releases the man. The body slides down the side of the truck and folds onto the pavement without any dignity, and Eddie stands there looking at it for a moment, the taste of blood still in his mouth, the hunger quiet now but not gone.

It never goes completely.

He's turning to leave when the knife hits.

Pain cuts clean across his ribs, more surprise than agony. Eddie stumbles back a step while the second man freezes, the knife still in his hand, his eyes going wide when he sees Eddie's face in the dim light.

"Oh shit—"

He doesn't finish.

The second death is different from the first. Faster. Angrier. Like something inside Eddie gave up pretending it was in control.

When it's over the road is silent again.

Eddie stands at the edge of the light for a moment, one hand pressed against the cut in his side, blood soaking through the fabric of his shirt. The hunger is gone. But the thing in his chest, the thing that started the moment he closed the front door behind him, that's still there.

"Yeah," he mutters into the dark. "Great idea Wheeler."

He starts walking back toward the house with blood on his hands and the taste of metal in his mouth, and he tries very hard, with everything he has, not to think about you.

It doesn't work.

When he returns to the house the lights are off and the place feels still in that strange way it sometimes does at night, like the walls themselves are listening. He heads straight to the sink, turning on the water to wash the blood from his hands.

“…Eddie?”

Your voice comes from the hallway.

He freezes for half a second before turning, you appear in the doorway with your hair messy from sleep and one sleeve twisted halfway up your arm.

“You left,” you say quietly.

“Needed air.”

Your nose wrinkles slightly, your eyes move slowly over him and then stop.

“Your shirt.”

Eddie glances down and notices the dark stain spreading along his side.

You step closer immediately.

“Did you get hurt?”

“Nah! Just a scratch.”

“That’s not a scratch.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“You’re a mechanic.”

He smiles faintly.

You stare at him for another moment before sighing and walking toward the cabinet.

“Sit.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You’re bleeding in my kitchen.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding in my kitchen,” you repeat calmly while pulling the first aid kit from the shelf. “Which makes it my problem.”

He laughs quietly but obeys, dropping into the chair while you set the supplies on the table.

“Shirt off.”

His eyebrow lifts. “Careful.”

You stare at him until he sighs and pulls the shirt over his head.

You pour alcohol onto the gauze and lean closer to the cut.

“This is gonna sting.”

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs while watching you instead of the wound, “I’ve had worse.”

You press the gauze against the cut and he flinches slightly.

“Uh-huh,” you mutter.

“Big tough mechanic.”

You clean the wound carefully, your fingers warm against his ribs while Eddie watches you the entire time.

He smiles faintly.

“You worried about me?”

“I’m worried about the floors.”

You finish the bandage and press it gently into place before stepping back.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he says quietly.

You cross your arms. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

“Peace offering.’’ He said, pulling the already rolled joint from his shirt pocket

You pause.

“…is that what I think it is?”

Eddie shrugs lightly. “Emergency medical treatment.”

You stare at him.

“For who?”

“For both of us,” he says, already grabbing the rolling papers from the counter like he’s done this a thousand times in this kitchen.

You hesitate for about two seconds, then you sigh. “Fine.”

The living room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the TV when Eddie turns it on. Some ridiculous late-night movie is already halfway through, the kind that clearly had a budget of twelve dollars and a dream.

He drops onto the couch and gestures for you to sit, he lights the joint and takes the first drag before handing it over.

“Doctor’s orders,” he says.

You take it.

“Your medical license should be revoked.”

The movie is terrible, absolutely terrible.

Within ten minutes you’re both laughing at scenes that are clearly meant to be dramatic but somehow involve terrible acting and even worse special effects.

At some point Eddie disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a bag of chips and two cans of coke.

“You’re unbelievable,” you say.

“You’re welcome.”

You steal the chips anyway, the joint passes back and forth between you while the movie continues in the background, neither of you paying much attention anymore. You laugh again at something stupid on the screen and lean back into the couch.

The house feels different tonight, warmer somehow.Laughter fades into quiet and the movie keeps playing in the background while your eyelids grow heavier.

Eddie notices the moment your voice stops responding. Your head has tilted slightly toward him, your breathing slower now.

“Seriously?” he mutters quietly, but of course, you don’t move.

He could go upstairs, he probably should.

But he stays.

The TV flickers softly across the room while the house settles around them, old wood creaking in the quiet night, your breathing is steady and for the first time in longer than he can remember, Eddie feels something in his chest loosen.

He doesn’t sleep, not really. But he lies there until the sky begins to pale outside the windows, listening to the quiet rhythm of your breathing beside him. And for once the hunger stays quiet.

Morning comes slowly to the Wheeler house.

The TV is still on, flickering pale light across the quiet living room while some ridiculous late-night movie plays to an audience that stopped watching hours ago. The first grey light of morning slips through the curtains and settles across the couch.

You wake up warm, for a moment you stay still, your mind slowly piecing together why the pillow feels wrong and why something solid is pressed against your back.

Your hand is resting on something that rises and falls with slow, steady breaths.

Then it clicks.

Eddie.

Your eyes open slowly, you’re very much wrapped around him or maybe he’s wrapped around you, It’s very hard to tell.

One of his arms rests loosely across your waist while you’re tucked against his chest like this somehow became the most natural sleeping position in the world. His other arm is bent under his head, the couch barely big enough for both of you.

Your first instinct is to move. You don’t. Because the moment you shift slightly you feel something else.

He 's awake.

His breathing doesn’t change, but there’s a small tension in his arm now, the faint flex of his fingers against your side like he’s been aware of you waking for a few seconds already.

You tilt your head just enough to look up.

His eyes are open, staring at the ceiling. His voice comes out low, rough with ‘’sleep’’.

“How long have you been awake?”

Eddie shrugs slightly under you.

“A while.”

Your eyes narrow.

“A while?”

He glances down now, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly.

“Didn’t want to wake you.”

That answer does something strange to your chest. “You stayed,” you say quietly.

Eddie doesn’t answer right away, his arm shifts slightly where it rests around your waist but he still doesn’t move away.

For most of the night he listened to your breathing, your heartbeat. The smell of your skin had been everywhere, close enough that every instinct he had should have been screaming at him to move away.

For the first time in longer than he can remember, the hunger stayed quiet.

“You snore,” he says finally.

Your mouth drops open.

“I do not.” You shove his shoulder and sit up, the warmth between you disappearing as the morning light fills the room.

"You absolutely do."

Neither of you moves right away.

The morning light is filling the room slowly, grey and soft, and the TV is still murmuring in the background, the late-night movie replaced by early news, some anchor talking about weather patterns in a voice too calm for this hour. Your hair is a mess. His is worse. The blanket has ended up mostly on your side and neither of you has mentioned it.

It should feel strange.

That's the part that sits with you while you stare at the ceiling for a moment, aware of the warmth of him still beside you, aware of the exact amount of space between your shoulder and his. Two months of shared coffee and cigarettes and bad habits and somehow this, waking up tangled on a couch that was barely big enough for one of you, feels like the most natural thing that's happened since you moved in.

You're not sure what to do with that.

Eddie sits up first, running a hand through his hair, and the moment breaks cleanly the way mornings always do.

"Coffee," he says. Like it's a full sentence. Like it explains everything.

He gets up quickly, heading to the kitchen and already grabbing everything necessary to prepare the sacred coffee. The kitchen smells like coffee a few minutes later.

You lean against the counter while Eddie pours two mugs like nothing unusual happened at all.

You lean against the counter while Eddie pours two mugs like nothing unusual happened at all. The TV continues murmuring from the living room, the late-night movie now replaced by the morning news.

“…and in other news this morning,” the anchor says calmly, “two men were found unconscious near an abandoned gas station just outside Hawkins late last night.”

The words drift through the room casually, Eddie hears them immediately. It’s small, barely noticeable, but his shoulders go still for half a second.

The anchor continues.

“Authorities say both victims were suffering from severe blood loss and dehydration. Doctors say they are expected to survive.”

“…blood loss?” you repeat quietly.

For a fraction of a second his throat tightens and his tongue drags lightly across the inside of his teeth before he forces himself still.

Then he takes another sip of coffee, your eyes drift back to him. “…busy night?” you ask casually.

Eddie glances up, your gaze lingers and something else clicks.

“Hold on.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“What.”

“Your neck.”

Eddie blinks once. “What about my neck?”

You tilt your head, studying him more carefully now.

Last night the bruises were dark, the kind of marks that take days to fade and now there’s nothing.

No discoloration.

No shadow of them.

Just skin.

Your arms cross slowly.

“…those hickeys are gone.”

Eddie’s mouth curves. “Oh wow,” he says lightly. “You really are stuck on that.”

“I’m not stuck on it.”

“You pointed them out the second we walked into the bar.”

“Because they were obvious.”

“And now you’re inspecting my neck in the morning.”

You stare at him.

“You jealous, sweetheart?”

The word lands wrong this time, something tightens in your chest.

“That’s what you think this is.”

He shrugs, your jaw tightens.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re reading way too much into”

Before he finishes the sentence your hand shoots forward and grabs the hem of his shirt. Eddie barely has time to react before you pull it up. your knuckles brush warm skin, your heartbeat jumps.

Right in front of him.

For a split second his body reacts before his brain catches up, the sound of your pulse filling his head like a drum. Then he forces himself still, you rip the bandage away,gauze drops to the floor. The skin underneath is smooth, no cut, no scar. No sign that a fucking knife ever touched him.

The kitchen goes quiet.

Your hand is still resting against his ribs.

“…you got stabbed last night,” you say quietly.

Eddie doesn’t move.

“You were bleeding in this kitchen.”

You lift your eyes to his.

“And now it’s gone.”

Your fingers tighten slightly in his shirt.

“And the hickeys disappeared overnight.”

You tilt your head.

“So either Hawkins has the world’s most impressive regenerative medicine program…” Your voice goes flat. “…or you're some kind of monster.”

The room goes completely still, Eddie looks at you for a long moment and exhales slowly.

“…yeah.” The word lands softly. "I am sorry"

You expected denial. A joke. Some sarcastic deflection that would buy him another few seconds to dodge the truth.

Instead he just admits it.

“You’re serious?” you ask.

Eddie watches you for a moment before answering.

“Yeah.”

The kitchen suddenly feels smaller.

“You lied to me.” His jaw shifts slightly.

“I avoided the conversation.”

“That’s not better.” Your voice comes out sharper than you meant it to.

Eddie leans his hip against the counter, trying to look relaxed, but something in his shoulders stays tense.

“You were digging through Nancy’s attic.”

You blink.

“So you knew I saw the photo.”

“Of course I knew.” Your stomach drops a little at how easily he says it.

“And you just… waited?”

“I was giving you time.”

“To what?”

He meets your eyes again.

“Figure it out.” The silence stretches.

“Or,” you say slowly, “you just hoped I wouldn’t.”

Eddie doesn’t answer. For the first time since the conversation started, his eyes shift away.

“You’re not scared?” he says quietly.

“I’m not stupid!" His gaze lifts again.

“You probably should be.” You tilt your head slightly. "Scared"

“Should I?”  The morning news still murmurs softly in the living room. Something about weather patterns now, the anchor’s calm voice completely disconnected from the quiet tension filling the kitchen.

Eddie pushes away from the counter grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair and slips a hand into the pocket before pulling out an envelope. The paper looks old, folded.

He holds it out toward you.

“Nancy told me to give you this,” he says. “When you asked the right question.”

You hesitate before taking it. Your fingers brush his for a brief second, his skin is warm against yours, your name is written across the front in Nancy’s handwriting it’s almost too much.

Eddie exhales quietly.

“I’ll be in the garage,” he says after a moment.

For a second it almost feels like he’s giving you space, or he just doesn’t want to watch.

You slide a finger under the seal, the paper inside unfolds with a soft crackle.

The first line reads:

If you're reading this, it means you finally stopped letting Eddie lie to you.

You stare at the sentence for a moment, Nancy’s handwriting is unmistakable.

First things first.

Hello.

I wish I were there to explain this in person, but if you're reading this, it means the timeline went the way I expected.

And it also means Eddie finally ran out of excuses.

You probably have a lot of questions.

Most of them will have to wait.

For now there are two things you need to understand.

First: Eddie did not choose what he became.

Something followed him back from the Upside Down.

You grew up hearing stories about Hawkins.

Most of them are true.

Second: Eddie has been protecting this house for a very long time.

Longer than anyone realizes.

This house has always been… unusual.

When I realized what it was connected to, I understood two things very quickly.

It could not be left empty.

And Eddie could not face it alone.

Holly always said you were the brave one.

I suppose we’re about to find out if she was right.

Take care of the house.

Trust Eddie.

He’s been guarding this place longer than you’ve been alive.

And despite what he pretends, he’s very good at it.

a/n: I'm completely obsessed with this story, sorry! I'm having so much fun writing it. Tell me what you think, it's my first story of this kind... (and sometimes I smoke a lot of weed), so i rlly need your opnion

[missmarch-99]

Oh I am loving this ! Can’t wait for more 😊

[lil-quinnie]

~⋆ I would rather not go ⋆~ pt2

Back to the old house

Eddie Munson X Fem!Reader

wc~ 5007

You wake up to a voice that isn’t his.

It’s not loud, not enough to drag you out of sleep like an alarm but it’s there in the house in a way that makes your brain sharpen instantly, a soft laugh slipping through the floorboards and up the staircase like a hand under a door.

For a second you just lie there staring at the ceiling, letting the sound settle into you, letting your body decide what it means before your mind can make it reasonable.

Morning laughter, in YOUR kitchen.

You tell yourself it’s none of your business, better, you tell yourself Eddie is a menace with a mouth and too much confidence for a man who smells like oil and cigarette smoke.

You sit up anyway and you go downstairs because the alternative is hiding, and you refuse to hide in a house you technically own.

The kitchen smells like coffee and something sweet, like toast or pastry, the kind of smell that makes a home feel lived in even when grief still sits in the corners. The window is cracked open, the air is cool.

She’s there.

Not in a dramatic way, not posed like she’s waiting to be discovered, just existing like she belongs, y´know?  Bare feet on the wood floor, one of Eddie’s mugs in her hand, Eddie’s black tank top on her body, the one cut low on the sides, hanging off her shoulder like it’s casual. Her hair is messy in that post-sleep way that’s supposed to look effortless and sure it does.

And Eddie is by the counter with his back half turned, pouring coffee like nothing about this is unusual, his eyes land on you, his mouth twitches like he’s enjoying himself in a way that immediately makes you want to throw the nearest object in him.

Not because she’s there but because he’s watching you see her. “Oh,” she says, bright, like she’s just met a neighbor. “Hey.”

You blink once,then nod.

“Morning.”

Your voice is steady, which feels like an achievement.

Eddie picks up a second mug without asking and pours you coffee like you’re already part of the kitchen choreography whether you consented or not. He slides it toward your usual spot.

“Didn’t know you had a roommate,” she says, lightly, not cruel, but curious.

You take a sip of coffee, immediately regret it because it’s too hot, then swallow anyway because you refuse to cough in front of an audience. Eddie’s laugh is quiet, kind of pleased.

The girl’s eyes flick between you and him like she’s watching a scene that has better writing than her morning plans.

“I should go,” she says, already crouching to grab her shoes near the door. She digs in her bag, pulls out her phone, makes a face. “Class in twenty minutes.”

Eddie hums like he heard her from far away.

She pulls on her sneakers, stands, then tugs at the hem of the tank top, the fabric shifting like it’s hers to adjust.

“I’ll bring it back next time,” she says, smiling. “The shirt.”

Next time?! The phrase lands inside your ribs, sharp.

Eddie’s gaze lifts, meets yours, and in that look there’s a half second of something that isn’t apology or guilt, just awareness, like he wants to see what you do with it.

“Don’t bother,” he says easily. “I’ve got like, five of them.”

You hate that your brain supplies the image of him buying five identical shirts like he expects them to keep leaving his body. She laughs, waves once, and slips out into the morning like she never left a mark at all, like she didn’t just turn your kitchen into a test you didn’t study for.

The door closes.

Silence settles in the space she left behind. You stand with your mug in your hand, the warmth of it suddenly irrelevant.

Eddie leans back against the counter across from you, arms folding loosely, expression infuriatingly calm, like the day is going exactly the way he likes.

“You’re up early,” he says.

He tilts his head, eyes sliding over you in that slow, deliberate way that makes you feel too visible in a robe.

You narrow your eyes. “Do you always have company?”

He smiles, “I wouldn’t call her that.”

You exhale sharply through your nose, the closest you get to a laugh. “She knows where the mugs are.”

“She has eyes,” Eddie says. You just take another sip of coffee just to have something to do with your hands.

“Mm,” he agrees, like it’s a compliment. “But you didn’t stab anyone. I’m proud.”

“I wasn’t going to stab her.”

“Shame,” he says, almost wistful. “Would’ve been kind of hot.”

You choke on your coffee, just a little. 

Enough that you have to turn your head away, Eddie laughs under his breath.

“You did that on purpose,” you mutter.

“Everything I do is on purpose,” he says, too casual.

You glare at him. “Do you even hear yourself?”

He pushes off the counter, takes one step closer, the air feels tighter like the kitchen is smaller than it was five seconds ago.

“Are you jealous?” he asks, almost conversational, like he’s asking if you want sugar.

You scoff fast because it’s reflex.

“Of what, exactly?” He shrugs, one shoulder lifting.

“Of my sparkling personality.”

You hold his gaze, refusing to blink first. Eddie’s smile softens into something smaller, quieter, like he’s thinking a thought he doesn’t. Then he walks away, disappearing down the hallway toward the garage like nothing about what just happened requires explanation, like he didn’t just plant something heavy and inconvenient in the middle of your morning.

You stand there in the warm kitchen with your coffee going bitter on your tongue, staring at the empty doorway and realizing, with the most irritating clarity, that you weren’t jealous of her. You were jealous of how easy it was for someone to slip into his orbit and leave with something of his, even if it was just… a shirt.

You try to work that afternoon,you really do.

You clear the dining table like you’re preparing for something serious, laptop open, notebook beside it, coffee close enough to reach without looking. Now it just feels like waiting for the creativity to wash your brain and drip to your fingertips.

You start a new sentence, fingers hovering over the keyboard, mind blank in that stubborn way that feels less like writer’s block and more like your brain refusing to cooperate out of spite.

Outside, metal clanks. You ignore it. Type three words. Delete them.

A car engine starts, low and rough, the sound vibrating faintly through the floorboards like the house itself is paying attention. You stare at the screen harder, like you can force the words out if you just look aggressive enough.

Voices outside, you keep typing until a laugh changes the pattern of the conversation , worse, a female laugh. You exhale slowly, press backspace, delete the half sentence you didn’t even realize you wrote wrong, then sit there staring at the blinking cursor like it personally offended you.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter.

You stand up anyway.

Not because you want to look, because the window happens to be right there.

The garage door is open.

Sunlight cuts across the concrete in long warm stripes, dust floating in the air like the whole place is caught between work and laziness. Eddie is leaning over an engine, with his sleeves pushed up, forearms tense, hands moving with that easy precision he has when he’s doing something he knows too well.

A girl stands near the workbench, talking, smiling too much, her hands moving while she explains something you can’t hear. Eddie says something back and she laughs like he just told the funniest joke she’s heard all week.

You narrow your eyes at the scene without meaning to.

He wipes his hands on a rag, straightens, and leans against the car like he’s not even working anymore, like this is just how he stands when the sun hits him right. The girl steps closer, holding out her phone, showing him something on the screen.

Their heads tilt toward each other, too close for your liking, may I add. You look away immediately,you tell yourself you’re going to the kitchen. You don’t go to the kitchen, back to the fucking window it was, your jaw tightens before you can stop it and the fucker looks up.

Right. at. the. window.

You step back so fast your chair scrapes against the floor, the sound loud enough to make you wince.

You stand there for a second, heart beating harder than it should, like you just got caught doing something illegal instead of something stupid. Neither seconds after that, the back door opens. 

“You're stalking me,” Eddie says, voice amused

“I’m working.” you hissed

You hear the fridge open, bottles clinking, the soft thud of it closing again. leaning against the frame like he’s inspecting a project that’s going badly.

“You write anything,” he asks.

“No.”

He smiles. “Shocking sweetheart.”

You glare at the screen. “Your garage is too loud.”

“My garage has always been loud.”

He steps closer anyway.

You can feel him there without looking, the way the air shifts when he moves, the faint smell of oil and smoke and something warm that never quite leaves his clothes.

“You’ve been at the window all morning,” he says.

You look up, annoyed enough to forget to be careful.

“So what if I did.”

His mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to smile.

“So what,” he repeats. “You are keeping track of my schedule now.”

“You’re insane,” you mutter.

“And you…You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

He laughs softly, pushes off the doorframe, and walks fully into the room, slow, like he has nowhere else to be.

“You’re terrible at pretending” he says.

“And you’re terrible at not flirting with everything that moves.”

His eyebrows lift.

“Everything?”

“Yes, everything!”

Then, without warning, he grabs the hem of his tank top and pulls it over his head in one easy motion, the fabric catching for a second on his hair before he yanks it free and tosses it straight at you.

It lands on your laptop with a soft slap. You stare at it, then at him.

Then back at it.

“What is wrong with you,” you say, voice breathless than you meant. Eddie just laughs, completely unbothered, standing there shirtless like this is a totally normal response to being accused of flirting.

“If it’s about the fucking shirt,” he says, “take the shirt, sweatheart.”

You blink.

“One: don't call me that, and two, I didn’t say it was about the shirt.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He walks past you toward the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge, popping it “You look stressed,” he adds, taking a long drink. “Thought I’d help.”

“You’re not helping.”

“I am,” he says. “You were staring holes into the garage door.”

He glances back at you, slow, eyes dropping to the shirt in your hands before coming back up.

“You were,” he says quietly. “Territorial. I like it”

Your stomach flips, hard and stupid.

“You’re full of yourself.”

He smiles, pleased with himself in that way that makes you want to hit him and also not move at all.

“Keep it,” he says, heading back toward the door. “Since you’re so invested.”

Then he pushes the door open and disappears back toward the garage, leaving the house suddenly too quiet again, the tank top on your hands like proof of something you don’t want to define.

You stand there for a long moment, staring at it, brain already replaying the way his hands moved when he pulled it off, the way he knew exactly what he was doing.

~

You leave the house earlier than usual the next morning.

Not because you’re productive mostly because staying there feels like sitting too close to a fire you don’t trust yourself not to touch.

Eddie is already in the kitchen when you come downstairs, leaning against the counter with a mug in his hand, cigarette between his fingers, the window cracked open just enough to let the smoke out and the cold in.

He looks up when he hears you.

His eyes move over you once, slowly, like he’s checking if something changed overnight. “You’re dressed,” he says.

You grab a mug without looking at him. “I have work.”

He hums softly, watching you pour coffee like the act itself is suspicious.

“Running away from the garage noise?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Or running away from me?”

You look at him flatly over the rim of the mug.

“You are not that important.”

His mouth curves like he doesn’t believe you for a second. You take your bag from the chair, sling it over your shoulder, and head for the door before the conversation can turn into something else.

“You’ll survive without me,” you mutter.

He takes a slow drag, eyes still on you.

“I will try.”

You hesitate for half a second with your hand on the knob.

“Coming back?” he asks, casual, but not careless.

You open the door.

“Unfortunately.” 

His quiet laugh follows you outside.

~

The café is warm and quiet, smells like burnt espresso and sugar, the kind of place that should make it easy to think. You pick a table in the corner, open your laptop, take a sip of coffee, and stare at the blinking cursor like it personally betrayed you.

Your brain supplies the image of Eddie leaning against the doorway, shirtless, grinning like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You press backspace harder than necessary.

“This is stupid,” you mutter.

Someone laughs at the counter and your head lifts automatically, like your body expects it to be him even though that makes no sense at all. You shift in the chair, cross your legs, uncross them again, your foot bouncing under the table like you have too much energy and nowhere to put it. Every time your mind goes blank, it fills with him.

His voice. His hands. The way he said you’re gonna have to get used to me like it wasn’t a joke.

You close the laptop, you’re thinking about the house, about the stupid couch in the back you’ve never actually seen up close and how unfair was him cohabitanting your head also for free.

You get home late enough that the sun is already low, the light warm and soft over the porch, the garage door still open but quieter now.

You go inside without looking that way, straight upstairs and to the shower, like you’re trying to wash the day off your skin along with the irritation that never really went away.

When you step back into your room, the shirt is still there.You don’t even pretend you’re not thinking about it. You pick it up, pull it over your head, the fabric sliding down your skin, loose and warm, the smell faint but there, enough to make your stomach tighten before you can stop it.

You throw your robe on over it,you only mean to go downstairs, you definitely don’t mean to walk toward the back of the garage.

The closer you get, the warmer the air feels, the light from the lamp in the back cutting through the darker space like a secret you’re not supposed to know about.

He’s in the back, exactly where you imagined, stretched out on the couch with the guitar across his lap, one leg bent, one arm resting behind his head, the lamp throwing warm light over his shoulders, over the line of his neck, over the slow movement of his fingers on the strings.

Smoke curls in the air.

He stops playing before you say anything, for a second he just looks, like he forgot what he was doing, like the sight of you in his shirt standing in his space wasn’t part of the plan.

His gaze drops once, slow, taking in the hem of the shirt, the robe, your bare legs, the damp hair still clinging to your neck.

Then back to your face, the corner of his mouth automatically lifts.

“Well,” he says quietly. “You found my secret room.”

You lean on the doorframe, pretending your heart isn’t beating harder than it should. “I just came to tell you I got back.”

He hums, setting the guitar aside without looking at it, eyes still on you. “Good,” he says.

His gaze moves again, slower this time. “That shirt looks better on you.”

Heat rushes up your neck instantly.

“It’s just a shirt.”

He snorts softly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, close enough now that the space between you feels smaller without either of you moving.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Doesn’t look like just a shirt from here.”

You step inside anyway and sit on the arm of the couch instead of next to him, pulling the robe tighter around your legs without thinking.

His eyes follow the movement immediately, of course they do.

He watches you for a second too long, then drags his tongue over his lower lip absently before reaching for the joint again, like he needs something to do with his hands.

“You come all the way out here just to say hi?” he asks.

You meet his eyes. “Maybe.”

His smile changes.

“Careful,” he says quietly. “You keep doing that and I’m gonna start thinking you missed me.”

Your legs press together without you meaning to, you lean back slightly, forcing your voice to stay steady.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He leans closer instead of backing off, close enough now that the warmth coming off him feels real, solid, impossible to ignore.

“Too late,” he murmurs. “You’re in my shirt. In my secret room. Looking at me like that.” His eyes drop again. “You’re not helping your case, sweetheart.”

You force yourself not to move. “I’m not looking at you like anything.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, like he doesn’t believe a word you say. You glance around the room instead, anywhere but his face, anywhere but the way he’s still leaning forward like he forgot personal space exists.

“I just wanted a cigarette,” you mutter.

He tilts his head.

“You walked all the way to the back of the garage for a cigarette.”

“Yes.”

“You know you could’ve asked in the kitchen.”

“I didn’t see you in the kitchen.”

His mouth curves slowly, like he caught something you didn’t mean to show.

“You were looking for me?” You roll your eyes.

“I was looking for nicotine.”

He reaches to the side, grabs the pack from the table, opens it, then pauses.

“…I’m out.”

You stare at him.

“You’re kidding.”

He shakes the pack once, upside down, nothing falling out, then tosses it back. “Got weed.”

You hesitate for half a second, his eyebrow lifts slightly.

“You smoke?” He smirks. “Of course you do.”

He reaches for the joint again, taps the ash into an empty soda can, then holds it out toward you without getting up.

You slide off the arm of the couch and sit next to him this time, closer than before, the cushion dipping under your weight, your knee brushing his thigh for a second before you pull back like it didn’t happen.

You take the joint from his fingers, your hand grazing his for just a second longer than necessary, the contact small but enough to make your stomach tighten.

You inhale, cough a little, glare at him.

“This is strong.” He laughs softly.

“You’re dramatic.” You hand it back, and this time he doesn’t lean away when he takes it, his shoulder brushing yours, warm through the thin fabric of the shirt.

Neither of you moves.

For a while you just sit there, passing it back and forth, the guitar forgotten, the room warm and quiet except for the low hum of the radio somewhere near the workbench.

It feels… normal.

You glance at him sideways. “So,” you say, voice softer now. “If we’re stuck living together for a year…”

He looks at you, slow, interested.

“We should probably have rules.”

His mouth twitches “Rules.”

“Yes.”

“That sounds like you.”

You nudge his arm lightly. “I’m serious.”

He leans back, stretching his arm along the back of the couch behind you, not touching, but close enough that you feel it anyway.

“Alright,” he says. “What kind of rules?”

You take the joint again, buying time.

“Like… knocking.”

He snorts.

“Are you planning on walking into my room a lot?”

You ignore the way that makes your chest feel.

“And… guests,” you add.  “If you’re gonna have people over.”

He glances at you, amused.

“Are you jealous already?”

You choke on the smoke. “I am not jealous.”

“You sound jealous.”

“I sound reasonable.”

He watches you for a second, like he’s enjoying this more than he should.

“You want me to give you a schedule?” he asks.  “Color code it?”

You shove his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re cute when you’re mad.”

You freeze.

He freezes too, like the words came out before he decided to say them. Silence settles for a second, heavier than before.

He’s already looking at you, too close now.

The lamp behind him throws warm light across his face, across the line of his mouth, across the way his eyes drop for half a second to your lips before he looks back up.

Your heartbeat picks up without asking permission.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

His arm is still behind you on the couch, your knee still brushing his leg, the air thick with smoke and something else that makes it hard to breathe normally.

“You should probably stop looking at me like that,” you answer.

His jaw tightens slightly, like he’s trying not to smile.

“You started it.”

“You took your shirt off first.”

He laughs under his breath. “That’s not fair.”

Neither of you looks away. For a second it feels like the whole room tilts forward, like something is about to happen whether you want it to or not, his head lowering just a fraction, your hand tightening in the fabric of the robe, the distance between your faces suddenly too small, too warm, too…

A loud metallic bang echoes from the front of the garage. Both of you jump slightly, the moment snapping in half. Eddie exhales hard, dragging a hand over his face like he just woke up from something.

“…shit.”

You blink, heart still racing, suddenly very aware of how close you are, how you never meant to sit this close, how your legs are still pressed together like you forgot how to move.

He stands up first, running a hand through his hair.

“I should check that.”

You nod, a little too fast. “Yeah.”

You stand too, pulling the robe tighter around yourself even though the room is warm. He looks at you one last time before turning away, expression unreadable for a second, like he almost says something and decides not to.

“Try not to steal anything while I’m gone,” he mutters.

You roll your eyes, grateful for the normal tone.

“I already took your shirt. What else is left.”

He smirks without looking back.

“You’d be surprised.”

He disappears toward the front of the garage, leaving the lamp on, the couch warm, the air still thick with smoke and the feeling that if the noise hadn’t happened, neither of you would have stopped.

You stand up slowly, tugging the robe tighter around yourself even though the air is still warm, still heavy with smoke and something else you don’t want to name.

“This was a terrible idea,” you mutter to no one.

You turn off the lamp before you leave, the garage falling back into shadow as you step into the cooler hallway, the sudden change in temperature making your skin prickle like you walked out of sunlight. You climb the stairs without turning the lights on, moving by memory more than sight, the familiar creak of the third step greeting you like it always did, like the house itself knows you’re back even if you still don’t feel like you belong here yet.

Your room smells faintly like your aunt’s perfume when you open the door, the scent soft and familiar, comforting in a way you didn’t expect the first night but don’t question anymore.

You drop the robe on the chair, crawl under the covers still wearing his shirt, the fabric warm from your skin, the collar slipping slightly to one side when you turn on your back.

You stare at the ceiling for a long time, you press your lips together, pulling the blanket higher like that might stop the thoughts from happening.

“So annoying,” you whisper.

Your eyes close before you realize you’re tired.

The last thing you feel is the strange, steady comfort of not being alone in the house anymore, even if the person downstairs is the exact reason you can’t sleep normally.

~

Downstairs, the garage light clicks on again. Eddie stands in the middle of the room for a second like he forgot why he came back.

The guitar is still on the couch where he left it, he picks it up, drops into the cushions, and strums a few quiet notes, the sound low and uneven, his fingers moving automatically while his head stays somewhere else entirely.

He stops after three chords. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

He tries again. Wrong note. Wrong rhythm. Wrong everything.

He lets the guitar fall back against the couch and drags a hand over his face, exhaling slowly like he’s been holding his breath for the last hour without noticing.

“This is not happening,” he says to the empty room. 

He leans back, staring at the ceiling, one arm behind his head, the other hanging off the side of the couch, the joint burning out slowly between his fingers without him touching it.

He looks toward the house. Not the door, the whole fucking house, as it was a person. Like he can see through the walls if he wants to.

“You had to do this,” he mutters.

No one answers.

His jaw tightens, the faintest hint of something older than his usual sarcasm flickering across his face before he looks away again.

“You couldn’t just let me be miserable by myself, Had to involve your God damn niece too.”

He sits up, reaching for the guitar again, then stops halfway, shaking his head like he already knows it won’t help.

“Fuck you, Nancy Wheeler,” he says quietly. The name hangs in the air longer than the smoke,he looks toward the ceiling this time, like he knows exactly where the old bedroom is, like he knows exactly who’s sleeping up there, like the distance between the garage and the second floor doesn’t mean anything at all.

His expression softens for half a second.

Not angry.

Not amused.

Something worse.

“…you planned this,” he murmurs.

The lamp flickers once, the light dipping just enough to make the shadows shift along the walls, the house settling around him with a low, familiar creak.

Eddie exhales through his nose, leaning back into the couch again, staring at nothing.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Real funny.”

The night air is cold, sharper than the house, the kind of cold that makes everything clearer whether you want it to or not. He walks without hurrying, hands in his pockets, boots quiet on the pavement once he leaves the streetlight behind.

He already knows where he’s going, he’s known for a week.    Maybe longer.

The bar on the corner is still open, neon flickering, music low, the smell of beer and cigarettes drifting out every time the door opens. Eddie leans against the wall across the street, watching the entrance like he’s just another guy killing time.

He isn’t.

A man comes out a few minutes later, loud even when he’s alone, keys jangling in one hand, phone in the other, laughing at something on the screen.

Eddie watches him walk past the car, the alley, the point where the streetlight stops reaching. He pushes off the wall,and follows.

The man turns the corner, still talking to himself, not noticing the second set of footsteps behind him until a hand closes on the back of his jacket and pulls him hard into the dark between two buildings.

The sound that leaves his throat doesn’t even have time to become a shout. Eddie pins him against the brick, one hand over his mouth, the other already at his neck. For a second he just holds him there, breathing.

“…should’ve stayed home,” he mutters.

The man struggles once.

Twice.

Then Eddie’s head dips, teeth pressing into skin with the same reluctant precision he always uses, like the act itself is something he’s done so often it doesn’t need emotion anymore.

When he pulls back, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, expression flat, almost bored, like the worst part isn’t what he did but the fact that he had to do it at all.

His eyes are darker now, the color bleeding slowly back as he breathes, steady, controlled, waiting for the hunger to settle enough that he can pretend to be normal again.

“…still hate this,” he murmurs.

He looks up at the sky, then down the empty street, then in the direction of the house without meaning to.

His jaw tightens again.

“…and now I gotta go back to that,” he mutters and walks home.

Inside, the garage light is still on.

Upstairs, you turn in your sleep, pulling the blanket closer, his shirt twisting around your leg as you roll onto your side.

The house creaks softly, old wood shifting, pipes ticking, the sound of a place that refuses to stay empty. Eddie stops at the bottom of the stairs, looking up for a second longer than he should.

“…this is a bad idea,” he says quietly.

-

a/n:I've never written a story in this style before, so your opinion is VERY important for me to be able to continue. Tell me what you think. Kisses from Mom.

[entrenoussir]

Grilled Cheese - Eddie Munson x Reader ~ One Shot

Your friend Eddie Munson loves getting under your skin - but maybe it's about time you got under him instead.

Authors Note - apparently I dabble in one shots instead of sleeping now. enjoy this truly self-indulgent smut because I was thinking about Eddie's rings he always wears. <3

CW/TW: smut, oral (f receiving), bantering, sexual tension, kitchen counter shenanigans, no use of y/n, Eddie's shameless idk what to tell you.

"You cannot be serious.” You remarked, leaning back against the rough brick of the theater wall, arms crossed over your chest as you watched Eddie Munson pace ina small circle in front of you. "You’re telling me that the third act - the part where the protagonist literally sacrificed his soul to save the world - was lazy writing?"

Eddie stopped pacing and whirled on you, the heels of his boots scuffing against the ground. He held his hands out, palms up, as if appealing to the cosmos for some back up. "It wasn't lazy, it was predictable. Which is arguably worse.”

“How is that worse?”

“It’s the narrative equivalent of Wonderbread, sweetheart. Empty and plain with zero nutritional value.”

“Hey, I love Wonderbread.”

“Not important -”

“Rude -”

“Point is that he had the dagger! Right there! Why summon some ancient evil when you can just stab the guy?"

"Because the dagger was broken, idiot," you countered, trying to keep the grin off your face. Your friend took some fantasy movies far too seriously. "Did you even watch the movie?”

Eddie scoffed, stepping closer. He was invading your personal space, something he’d been doing a lot lately. "The dagger being broken is a plot contrivance designed to force the melodrama. It’s cheap. And stupid. And I hated it."

“You’re bitching like a little baby.”

“Am not.”

"It’s called tension, Eddie. Something you wouldn't know tension if it walked up and bit you on the -"

"Excuse you, my lady - but I know tension," Eddie cut you off, his voice dropping an octave as he took another step forward, quickly eliminating the remaining distance between you until you had to tilt your chin up to look him in the eye.

The air between you, usually filled with the comfortable static of your bickering, suddenly felt… Thick. Charged. It was like the atmosphere right before a thunderstorm. It clung to you, heavy and electric against your skin.

Eddie reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. The touch lingered, his ringed knuckles grazing the line of your jaw. It wasn't the first time he’d touched you tonight, or even this week, but this felt different. Far less accidental or platonic. More intentional. And he didn’t drop his hand to his side.

"I know plenty about tension," he murmured, his dark eyes locking onto yours, searching for something you couldn’t quite place. Or that you didn’t want to. "Like… Right now. For example."

Your breath hitched in your throat, just slightly. Maybe if he notices, you could blame it on the cool, nighttime air. Though you knew it would’ve been a lie. You stood your ground, refusing to step aside. "Is that so?"

"Mhm." Eddie smiled, but it wasn't his usual manic, energetic grin. It was softer at the edges. Still charming, but infinitely more likely to get you into trouble.

“Smartass.”

"Oh, come on. You're standing there looking at me like you wanna throttle me, but… Your pupils are huge. I can see ‘em from here."

“Well, you’re in my face.”

“They’re still way too big.”

"Maybe it’s the adrenaline," you lied smoothly. "From the movie. The chase scene."

"Right. The chase scene," he teased, his thumb traced the curve of your jawline to just under your lower lip. Your pulse skyrocketed, and you wondered if he could feel it. He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that sent a shiver down your spine. "Adrenaline sure makes you do crazy things, doesn't it?”

“Such as?”

“Makes you say things you don't mean. Do things you shouldn't." There was a challenge in his tone. A question hanging in the air between you, unspoken but loud. 

How far are we gonna take this?

You narrowed your eyes at him, masking the flutter in your stomach with a practiced smirk. You weren't quite ready to fold. Not just yet. Maybe you wanted to see just how far Eddie Munson was willing to push before he remembered that - up till recently, apparently - you were nothing more than his good friend. 

"You're projecting, Munson." You rolled your eyes. "Just because that scene had you gripping the armrests like a terrified toddler doesn't mean the rest of us were affected in any way whatsoever."

Eddie laughed. It vibrated in his chest and seemed to transfer straight to yours, given your proximity. He didn't move away. Instead, he got closer, bracketing your hips with his hands, placing them on the wall on either side of your body. He wasn't quite touching you, but he made a fairly effective cage. The smell of his leather jacket, mixed with cigarette smoke and some sort of woody cologne enveloped you.

"Terrified toddler?" He raised an eyebrow. "I'll have you know, I was… Invested."

"Invested." You repeated, the word tasting dry on your tongue. You glanced down at his hands for half a second, then back up to his eyes. He knew what he was doing, and so did you. Let him see that you weren't oblivious to the shift your conversation had taken. "You were sweating. I think you still are."

"I run hot," he said without missing a beat. His gaze drifted down to your mouth, then back up, darker this time. "You know that."

"Do I?"

Eddie leaned in closer, his nose almost brushing against yours. You could feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek. Don’t do anything stupid.

"Yep. I think you know a lot of things about me that you don't let on. And I think," he paused, his eyes flicking over your face with an intensity that made your knees want to buckle. "That you liked the movie a lot more than you're saying. You’re just arguing to be difficult."

"I'm always difficult," you whispered back, testing the weight of the moment. You didn't pull away from the wall or push his arms away. You simply watched him.

"Yeah, I know." Eddie’s voice dropped to a husky murmur. "That's the problem."

He held the pose for a heartbeat longer, the space between your lips minuscule, before he finally pushed himself off the wall with a groan. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair, effectively breaking the tension but leaving the aftermath of it swirling in the cool alley air.

"Come on," his tone returned to its normal volume and cadence. Though the playful glint in his eye hadn't faded. "Let's get you home before you start analyzing the cinematography of the goblin caverns."

You pushed yourself off the wall, legs feeling a little unsteady beneath you. "I already have notes, actually."

"Of course you do," he laughed, bumping his shoulder against yours - harder than necessary, definitely on purpose. "God forbid you just enjoy a moment."

"I enjoy plenty of moments," you said, shoving your hands into your pockets to hide the fact that your fingers were trembling slightly.

"Do you?" He glanced at you sideways, a smirk playing on his lips. "Do you really?"

You didn't answer as you matched his pace on the sidewalk, the city lights flooding your vision. Wondering how much longer you could keep up this act before one of you broke and did something.

The Hideout was… Sticky. Loud. And it smelled exactly like one would expect it to - stale beer and questionable life choices.

But watching Eddie onstage was worth it. He truly transformed when he had a guitar in his hands. The goofy, rambling guy who argued about movies or planned DnD campaigns vanished, replaced by some confident force of nature. When his eyes locked onto yours from behind the mess of hair mid-guitar solo, you felt it like a physical tug.

By the time his band had finished their set,  the adrenaline buzzing in your veins had nothing to do with the music and everything to do with the way Eddie had been looking at you.

Friends don’t look at one another like that. Do they?

He found you at the bar afterwards, breathless and grinning, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Did you see that solo?”

“I heard it, yeah.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Did you hear the way I nailed that transition?"

"It was adequate," you shouted over the lingering noise of the crowd, fighting a smile. "If you like that sort of thing. Very… Enthusiastic."

"Adequate?" He laughed incredulously, grabbing a bottle of water from the counter. "I poured my soul out for you people, and all I get from you is adequate? You wound me."

"Someone’s gotta keep your ego in check, Munson.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, it's a full-time job."

“Sounds exhausting. I hope you’re at least getting good benefits.

Eddie took a swig of water, his eyes never leaving yours. The post-show energy was slowly simmering into something else. Something heavier.

After a moment, he glanced down at the top you were wearing - some skimpy, backless number that felt appropriate for a dive bar and nowhere else. You weren’t even sure why you’d worn it. To tempt fate? Or a very specific lead guitarist?

"Also, since you're my dedicated ego manager," he started, stepping closer so the two of you didn't have to shout anymore. "You should probably come back to my place. We need to debrief. I think there were structural flaws in the second set that require immediate action. Over grilled cheese."

You raised an eyebrow. "Grilled cheese? It’s one in the morning."

"That’s the best time to eat it." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Besides, I found my VHS copy of that one movie you hate. We can watch it, and you can tell me exactly why I’m wrong."

“I thought you hated my movie analysis.”

“What on earth would give you that idea?”

“The time you told me god, I hate it when you do that - can’t you just enjoy the movie.”

“Don’t act like you don’t also have totally bullshit opinions on movies sometimes.”

Eddie shrugged. “A broken clock is right twice a day, sweetheart. Now. Sandwiches?"

You knew you should go home. That friends didn't usually go back to each other's places at one in the morning for grilled cheese and movie critiques when the air between them was already thick enough to choke on. But… Fuck it.

"Fine. But if you burn mine, I'm leaving."

"Deal."

Back at his trailer, the atmosphere shifted. Almost imperceptively at first. It was just the two of you in the dim light of the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound. You’d hoisted yourself up onto the counter, needing the height to feel less vulnerable. The air was cool against the exposed skin of your back, raising gooseflesh along your spine. 

"Ah, grilled cheese," Eddie announced, pulling a pan out from a pile of dishes in the drying rack. He moved with a kind of restless energy, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel to expose the tattoos winding up his forearms. "The breakfast of champions. Or their midnight snack. Whatever."

"Are you going to burn it?" You asked, watching him slap butter into the pan.

"I thought the deal was that I don’t burn it.” He scoffed, flipping the butter knife with a flourish. "Besides, I’m a culinary master. Have a little faith.”

He turned to grab the cheese, and you shifted your weight, turning slightly to reach for a glass of water you’d left near the edge. The movement stretched your back, arching it.

Eddie glanced up and stopped. The sound of the butter sizzling in the pan was suddenly the only audible sound in the small space.

"You know," his voice dropped, losing the playful lilt. "You’ve been distracting me all night."

You froze, your hand hovering over the water glass. "I was just sitting in the corner."

"Yeah." He turned fully toward you now, abandoning the stove. He walked over slowly, the heavy tread of his boots muffled by the linoleum. Your throat felt dry. "I kept looking at you. Wondering."

"Wondering what?" You turned your head to look at him, your heart rate picking up speed.

"Wondering how you’re not cold," he murmured, stopping at the end of the counter beside you. His gaze burned a trail down your neck. "There’s like, no back on that thing. It’s just… skin."

“I think it’s called a halter top.”

“Why?”

“Dunno. It’s… Breathable.” You managed, though your voice was thinner than you intended.

"Breathable." He repeated thoughtfully. Slowly, he raised his hand, his fingertips brushing against your shoulder. "It’s dangerous."

"Dangerous?" You tried for a scoff, but it came out as a breath. "It's a shirt, Eddie."

"Is it?" Eddie leaned in, his face hovering inches beside yours, as you tried to face straight ahead. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his gaze go to the expanse of your back. "It looks like an invitation."

"An invitation to what?"

"To touch." He said it so simply. So matter-of-factly. Then, he did it.

But he didn't use his palm. He used his knuckles. The chunky silver rings he always wore were freezing cold, a contrast to the now rather feverish heat of your skin. He dragged them down the center of your spine, slowly.

Agonizingly slowly.

The sensation was violent. It was a line of ice that sparked nerve endings you didn't know you had. Your back arched instinctively, a sharp intake of air hissing between your teeth as your body chased the touch.

"Eddie," you gasped, your fingers gripping the edge of the counter. "W-what are you doing?"

He didn’t respond, and his hand didn't stop. It traveled lower still, tracing the dip of your spine. The metal rings brushed your skin in a drag that was oddly erotic. He repeated the action upwards, watching your reaction carefully. When he reached the base of your neck, he paused, his thumb flicking the flimsy tie that barely held the fabric to your body. 

“Eddie…”

With a slight shift, his fingers slid around to your side, his rings biting into your ribcage as he pulled you down and off the counter, so you were pressed flush against him. Looking up, he was so close you could see the flecks of gold in his brown irises.

The contact was electric. You could feel the hard planes of his chest, the solid muscle of his thighs. You were suddenly overwhelmed by his touches, and the way he seemed to swallow you up. Your hands landed on his waist to steady yourself, fingers twisting into the fabric of his flannel.

“I think… This is probably a bad idea.” You breathed, trying to keep the upper hand, but you were drowning in him.

"And I think," Eddie whispered, "that you’re already trembling."

"I'm cold.”

"Liar. I think it’s been established that you aren’t." He smirked, a wicked, knowing tilt of his lips. He brought his other hand up, threading his fingers through your hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back further, exposing your throat. He leaned in, his nose tracing the line of your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. "You’re burning up.”

“I’m sure you wish you had that effect on me, Munson.”

“Pretty sure I do.”

You could feel his heartbeat against yours, or maybe it was just your own that thundered in your ears. He was right. The air in the kitchen was stifling, heavy with the smell of butter and… Him. You were trapped between the counter and the hard line of his body, and you didn't want to move.

"This is a bad idea," you repeated, but your hands were pulling him closer, not pushing him away.

"Probably the worst one we've ever had," he agreed, his lips brushing against the sensitive spot just below your ear. He pressed a kiss there, light as a feather, but it made you shudder. "But I'm done thinking, aren't you?"

"Maybe, I - Mhm.” His teeth grazed your earlobe.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze dark and stripping away every defense you had. Not that you had many. He moved his hand from your side, trailing his fingers back up your spine, slower this time, dragging the cold metal of his rings over every inch of skin he could reach.

"Say yes." He murmured, sounding rough and almost desperate. If you’d wanted him to, he probably would’ve gotten on his knees and begged. “Please.”

The tension in the room pulled tight as a bowstring. Ready to snap. The sizzle of the burning butter in the pan had turned to an aggressive hiss, but neither of you cared. You were lost in him. The cold metal on your skin. The feeling of his body against yours. And above all, the undeniable, terrifying fact that you wanted him to ruin you.

"To what? Grilled cheese?" You teased weakly, your lips hovering inches from his.

Eddie let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-growl. "To hell with the grilled cheese."

The next instant, he sealed his mouth over yours.

Eddie’s kiss was hungry. Far from the sort of tentative exploration that most first kisses between two people normally have. It felt as though he’d been waiting for the feeling of your lips on his for months - if not years. The searing kisses were erotic in their intensity, tasting of the lingering sweetness of the soda he’d had on stage. His teeth pulled at your lower lip, and you gasped into his mouth. Your hands fisting into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.

"Up," he commanded against your lip. Not waiting for you to comply, he gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh as he hoisted you onto the counter. You winced slightly as the edge hit the back of your thighs, but the pain was swallowed instantly by the pleasure of him settling into the cradle of your hips.

"Eddie," you breathed, breaking the kiss to look at him. His pupils were blown wide, his lips swollen as yours were.

His hands carefully slid under the hem of your top, his palms cool and rough against your ribs. "God, you feel like a fever."

Eddie pushed the scrap of fabric up, and you raised your arms, letting him pull it over your head. It landed somewhere on the floor, forgotten instantly. You felt only him. The grip of his hands. The way his eyes raked over you like he was starving.

"Lie back for me." The timbre of his voice dropped to that low, rumbling register that made your thighs clench.

"Eddie, the counter? Really? I-" Your voice lacked a great deal of conviction.

"I'll make it worth it." He winked, nudging your knees apart. "Lie back. Please."

The addition of the word, spoken with a mock-polite tone, sent a confusing jolt of heat through your veins. You leaned back, your elbows hitting the laminate surface, watching him through half-lidded eyes.

Eddie didn't waste a moment of your time. He dragged his knuckles down the center of your chest, over the swell of your breasts, the metal rings sliding temptingly across your smooth skin. It seemed like your friend - friend? Can we still use that term? - was a fucking tease. Probably should’ve called that one.

"Lift your hips.” 

You obeyed, arching your back as he deftly unbuttoned your pants and tugged the denim down your legs. The scrap of lace that could only loosely be referred to as underwear was also quickly removed as Eddie tore through them with a quick snap.

“Hey!” You protested as he shoved them in the back pocket of his jeans. “I liked those.”

“So did I, sweetheart.” He grinned.

You shivered as the air hit your center, but before you could process the exposure, his hands were back on you.

"Look at you," he whispered, sounding a little awestruck. He ran a finger down your center, and you bit your lip to resist an unbidden moan escaping you. Make him work for those noises. "And you tried to tell me I had no effect on you."

"I'm a lot of things, but not - oh my god -" The air was stolen from your lungs as his thumb found your clit, circling it slowly. Maddeningly.

"No?" He smirked, leaning down to press a kiss to your inner thigh. "What's the word, then?"

“Don’t make me say it.”

“Oh, but I’d really love it if you did.” Eddie lightened his touch, and your hips bucked, seeking a return of the friction that he was trying to cruelly deny you. “Say it. What are you?”

"Desperate." The word tore from your throat as he reapplied a little more pressure with his thumb. 

Sure you were probably setting feminism back a few decades, but the suffragettes of old had probably never experienced the skilled ministrations of a metalhead guitarist named Eddie Munson. You assumed.

"Good." He lowered his head, his breath ghosting over your exposed skin. "Me too."

The first drag of his tongue against you was slow. Torturous. He licked a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit, savoring the taste of you. You cried out, head falling back against the counter. Your hands tangled in his hair to anchor yourself, for all the good it did you.

"Eddie, fuck -" Your hips bucked against him involuntarily. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your entire body.

"Stay still," he murmured, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. "Lemme take care of you."

"I don't need -"

"Yes, you do." He smirked, a wicked, arrogant tilt of his lips. “And lucky for you, I’m a gentleman."

Put that tongue back to work, or I’m going to scream.

"A gentleman?" You scoffed breathelessly. "You're eating me out on your kitchen counter."

"Semantics. A gentleman," he insisted, "knows that the lady always comes first."

Before you could retort, he buried his face between your thighs again. He wasn't as gentle this time. It felt like he was trying to devour you, working you with a furious precision, alternating between broad, flat strokes that made your toes curl and tight, flicking movements against your clit that had you seeing stars.

You could feel the pressure building low in your body. A tight coil of heat that wound tighter with every pass of his tongue. You arched your back, a broken moan finally tearing from your throat as he slid a finger inside you, crooking it just right to hit that spot that made your vision blur.

"Oh, god -"

“He’s not here, sweetheart. Lucky us.”

You gasped as he sucked against you, your thighs trembling around his head at the sensation. "Eddie, please."

"Please what?" He mumbled against you, not lifting his head. "Use your words."

"M-more," you begged. God? If you are there - please never let him remember that I begged for him at any point. "I need more."

He happily obliged, adding a second finger, stretching you, filling you while his mouth continued its assault on your clit. The stretch was intense, a burning pleasure that bordered on pain. And you loved it. Admittedly, you also didn’t mind the way he took control. The way he seemed intent upon making you fall apart.

Then the coil snapped. Your back bowed off the counter, a desperate, gasping groan tearing from your lips as your release crashed over you. It washed through you in waves, stealing your breath and your reason,leaving you limp and trembling. But Eddie didn't stop. He worked you through it, his fingers slowing, his tongue gentling, drawing out every last aftershock until you were begging him to stop, pushing at his head with weak hands.

"Enough," you gasped, your chest heaving. "T-too much."

"Never too much," he muttered, pressing one last, chaste kiss to your oversensitive clit before lifting his head. His hair was a wild mess from your fingers and he looked positively feral. Proud, even. "You taste like sin."

"That cannot possibly be true."

"Agree to disagree, gorgeous." He leaned over you to capture your mouth in a searing kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue, and it sent a fresh jolt of arousal through your body. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the hard line of his erection pressing through his jeans. “Didja have fun?”

“Yeah.” You admitted against him, only slightly begrudgingly. 

"I told you. I'm a gentleman."

You laughed breathlessly. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're a wreck," he teased, his hand sliding up your side to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple. "Hmm. I think I like you like this."

"Oh?" You challenged him, lifting your hips to rub against him, feeling his breath hitch. 

Eddie groaned, his forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder. "You're gonna be the death of me."

"You started it." You nipped at his earlobe, your hands sliding under his t-shirt to trace the muscles of his back, scraping his skin with your fingernails. "Take me to bed, Munson. The counter is hurting my ass."

He looked almost surprised as you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder as he picked you up with ease and carried you toward the bedroom.

It was dark, illuminated only by the faint orange glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds and the lighter he flicked to light a clove cigarette sitting in an overflowing ashtray. He dumped you unceremoniously onto his mattress, which was a chaotic pile of black sheets and mismatched pillows, smelling faintly of sandalwood and the distinct scent that was just… Him.

Before you could even sit up, Eddie was crowding over you, crawling up the bed like a predator stalking its prey. He had stripped off his flannel and his t-shirt at some point between the kitchen and the hallway, leaving his upper half bare. Your eyes traced the ink winding around his arms, the definition of his collarbones, the scattering of hair that trailed down his stomach and disappeared into the waistband of his jeans.

"Like what you see?" Eddie teased, noticing your gaze.

"I'm evaluating." You propped yourself up on your elbows. "This lighting is terrible."

In one quick motion, he caught your ankles, dragging you down the bed until he could bracketed your thighs with his hips. "You're staring."

"Hard not to when you're, like, looming over me. Fucking Christ."

Eddie grinned, reaching for the button of his jeans. "You're mouthy tonight. I like it."

"I'm always mouthy."

"Yeah, but tonight it’s really doin’ somethin’ for me, not gonna lie." He shucked his jeans and boxers in one efficient movement, kicking them off the side of the bed.

Your breath hitched as Eddie finally settled over you, his skin hot against yours. He was heavy, solid, and the reality of your current situation hit you like a punch to the chest. You’d rarely considered the possibility of being naked and aroused underneath Eddie Munson. You reached up, your hands tracing ink on his chest, your fingers tangling in the chain hanging around his neck.

"You talk a big game for a guy who tripped over his own shoes earlier." You murmured, trying to regain some semblance of control.

He laughed. "Don't pretend you didn't like the view."

"I tolerate it."

"Tolerate this." Eddie growled, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss. He ground his hips against yours, his length sliding through the wetness left over from your earlier tryst, creating a friction that made your toes curl.

"Condom?" You managed to gasp against his lips. “Unless you’d like to be a father?”

He froze for a fraction of a second, then cursed, reaching over to the nightstand. He yanked the drawer open so hard the whole bedside table nearly tipped over. He fumbled around inside, his movements jerky and desperate.

You watched him briefly struggle with the foil packet in the dark. "If you drop that, I'm walking home."

"I'll have you know that I’m a professional." He finally ripped it open with his teeth. "Watch and learn."

You watched, silently appreciating the way his forearm muscles flexed as he rolled it on. All those hours practicing Metallica songs seem to have paid off.  When he turned back to you, his expression was serious, the playfulness replaced by a surprising intensity and seriousness. 

"You sure about this?" Eddie asked, his voice rough.

"Eddie," you sighed, reaching up to pull him down by his shoulders. "If you aren’t inside me in the next seven seconds, I'm going to strangle you with the underwear you ruined earlier.”

“Seems a little dramatic, sweetheart.”

“I sweat to God, I’m going to scream.”

"Good," he murmured, positioning himself at your entrance. "That’s the idea." He pushed inside you in one smooth, deep stroke.

Your head fell back, a broken moan tearing from your throat as he filled you. It was a stretch. A burning, pleasurable fullness that stole the air from your lungs. There was a brief moment of pain that thankfully gave way to a heavy, pleasurable sensation. He paused, his forehead resting against yours, breathing ragged.

"Okay?" His voice was tight.

"Move," you commanded, digging your heels into his lower back. "Just move. Please."

You  didn't need to tell him twice. The rhythm he started was slow and deliberate, dragging his hips back before sinking deep again - stealing the breath from your lungs with every stroke. It was maddening. And perfect.

"You feel incredible.” He groaned, his face buried in your neck.

"You're just saying that because you're inside me," you teased, though your voice was breathless and trembling. 

"I'm saying it because it's true." He lifted his head, his eyes locking onto yours. It made the scenario that much more intimate.

“Bet you say that to all the girls.”

"I - fuck, sweetheart. You're so w-"

You covered his mouth with your hand. "Don’t ruin the moment with something gross, Munson.”

“Why, got something against me being happy you’re soaked for me?”

“Ew.” He hit a spot inside of you that made stars burst in the corner of your vision. “I’m always s- nevermind.”

He stilled, his eyes widening slightly as he caught your heat-of-the-moment slip. You glanced away. 

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late." Eddie smirked, a wicked, arrogant tilt of his lips. "I'm never letting you forget that."

He picked up the pace, his movements becoming harder, faster. The bed frame was hitting the wall with a rhythmic thump. The sound was obscene in the quiet room. You met him thrust for thrust, the friction building a brand new coil of heat low in your belly.

Then, you felt it.

The cold, sharp bite of metal against your breastbone.

Eddie had braced his weight on one arm, bringing his other hand up to palm your breast. The heavy silver rings on his fingers were somehow freezing cold against your fever-hot skin. He squeezed, his fingers digging in, and the rings gently pinched your nipple, sending a shockwave of sensation straight to your core.

"Jesus fucking Christ," you gasped, your back arching off the bed. "Do that again."

"What? Oh." He did it again, slower this time, deliberately dragging the cold metal over the sensitive peak, closing it between the rings. "This?"

"Yes." You were practically panting now, your body thrumming with the contrast of temperatures. "Your rings… They're cold."

"Mhmm. I know," he murmured, watching your face intently. "You like it?"

"I love it." You reached up, grabbing his wrist to hold his hand against your chest. "D-don't stop."

"Wasn't planning on it." He leaned down, taking your other nipple into his mouth, his tongue and teeth hot while his fingers continued their torture on the other side.

The dual sensations - the heat of his mouth, the cold of the rings - was delicious. You cried out, your hips bucking up to meet his, desperate for more friction, more depth. Just more of him.

"Damn, you're so responsive," he groaned, releasing your nipple with a pop. "I love how you react to me."

"I'm reacting to physics." You managed, though it came out as a breathless moan. "Thermodynamics.”

“Babe, you’re so sexy when you’re sayin’ big words I don’t know.”

“It - It’s h-hot and cold -”

"Shut up," he laughed, his rhythm faltering slightly. "You're ruining the moment."

"You love it." You tightened your legs around his waist, grinding against him, feeling the brush of his pubic bone against your clit with every thrust. "You love that I talk back."

"I do," he admitted huskily. "I love that you're stubborn and difficult. And that you're close. I can feel it."

He was right. The pressure was building again, insistent and overwhelming. You could feel the hot wave creeping up on you, threatening to shatter you for the second time that evening.

"Eddie," you gasped, your fingers clawing at his shoulders. "I need -”

"I've got you, sweetheart."He shifted his weight, bringing his hand between your bodies. He found the apex of your center, his rings hitting the bundle of nerves just as his thrusts became punishingly deep.

You saw white. The combination of the varying sensations and deep friction was your undoing. A cry that was half his name, half a sob fell from your lips, your body shaking with the force of it. You felt him tense above you, his rhythm breaking as he followed you over the edge. He buried his face in your neck with a guttural moan.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your combined breathing, ragged and loud. The air smelled of sex and sweat and clove cigarettes. It was somehow just right. 

Eddie collapsed beside you, flinging an arm over your midsection. You turned and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, fingers tracing the ridges of his spine. 

"Okay," you breathed. Eddie turned his head to press a kiss to your shoulder. "I take it back."

"Take what back?"

"I called you adequate earlier" You murmured. "And that… That was definitely not adequate.”

Eddie gave a weak laugh. "No. It wasn't."

“It far exceeded my expectations, thank you Mr. Munson.” You grabbed his hand and shook it as though you were brokering a business deal. “Much appreciated.”

Eddie lifted his head, grinning down at you, his hair a wild halo around his face. "I think we might need to double check my adequacy at some point. Just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke. You know. For science."

"I think science can wait," you said curling into his side, resting your head on his chest. "I'm exhausted. "

He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer, his hand stroking your hair. "Me too."

You lay there in the quiet, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the steady thump of his heart. It was comfortable. Right, even.

"Eddie?"

"Yeah?"

"You still owe me a grilled cheese."

He groaned, dropping a kiss onto the top of your head. "Go to sleep."

[elegantpaperoperatormaker]

Drunk in Love

Gif by @/bi-loser, dividers by @/diviniyae

FWB!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: After a few too many drinks, secrets start to mean less and your skin starts to hum Eddie’s name, whether you feel it or not. He answers the call.

Word Count: 6.3k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, PiV unprotected semi-public sex, secret friends with benefits, cream pie, cum eating, little bit of oral (fem rec), dirty talk, drunk!Eddie POV, jealousy, possessiveness, panty stealing, begging, testosterone-off, small physical altercation (not R), desperation station, PDA, switch!Eddie, mild public embarrassment, dubcon (alcohol consumption; one-sided drunk sex), established relationship, Eddie is down horrendously, drunk!horny!Eddie abuses endearments, R wears a skirt (for easy access)

Song Rec: Drunk in Love by Beyoncé

A/N: Happy (almost) Valentine’s Day <3 Also, SURFBOAR— SURFBOAR— 

Masterlist

Submission Guidelines

Eddie feels good. 

Actually, he feels better than good—

He feels amazing.

The alcohol in his bloodstream is rushing, warming him from the inside out, leaving him flushed in the face. 

The smoky bar is playing old Judas Priest tracks. 

He’s drunk enough to not care how badly he’s losing the bet—the one he made thinking Steve would easily beat Robin at a billiards game. How was he supposed to know she was some kind of a whiz at Pool?

He’s got his girl to his right and the two bickering boneheads in front of him. 

A couple of beers, some smooth vodka, great music, and friendly competition.

What’s not to love?

Although, you do keep inching away from him every time he gets close. He’s not loving that new development.

Somewhere in the back of his mind—before the three pints and the two shots—he recalls your hushed voice in his ear, outside the bar. It was low and sultry. Scratchy and strained, but not like how it gets after a long day of talking. No—

It was the type of strain that happens when you’ve spent too many hours screaming his name. When too many breaths have torn from your chest, ragged and pressed out by the strength of his hips.

That type of strain is his favorite…. But you had said something then—

You leaned close. The music from the bar was leaking out into the muggy, open air of the parking lot. There was noise from the road nearby. Fast cars, rubber peeling off of wet asphalt—

Wet asphalt emanating heat and earthy scents—

And there was you. He could smell you, too. His favorite scent. The perfume you always leave traces of, like love notes he finds well after you’re gone. Proof of your existence in his bed, near his clothes, on him. 

You leaned close. Yes, because of the noise—the music, the cars. 

And your mouth brushed the shell of his ear and he shuddered. You laughed. Sweet and teasing. You laughed. 

He shuddered again, or maybe he was just vibrating with excitement—he could never tell around you. Then he felt what you were saying before you even said it. Your kiss-bitten lips curved so delicately around every syllable. 

You called his name. 

His favorite shape your mouth makes…

Well, that, and the stretch of—

No. No, you said something. His name. That’s what you said.

That and something else.

What was it?

He closes his eyes, trying to relive the moment— Your mouth against his ear, your hot breath on his skin, his name on your lips…

Fuck, he can’t remember. And damn it, you won’t let him touch you.

You just took yet another shuffle-step to the right. He didn’t even realize he was leaning into you until you did that 

Come to think of it, what you said before probably had to do with why you’re not letting him touch you now. 

Usually you love it. You welcome his zealous exploration. He knows that, you tell him through the prettiest sighs—

And what you said—well, it felt important at the time. You dropped his hand to say it, so it must’ve been. 

But as the golden glow of the hanging light fixture shines down on you, your hair glinting with every movement, his patchy memory no longer seems all that significant.

The sound of dense resin knocking together draws his attention to the table, the green surface missing one less solid colored ball. 

“Yes!” Robin calls out, pumping her fist victoriously.

“Shit!” Steve curses at the same time, stamping the butt of his wooden cue on the floor. 

 “Oof, rough go, Steve.” You smirk, pretty as a picture.

Eddie wishes you’d look at him like that. 

Subtly, he brushes his arm against yours—the one that’s holding your beer. His eyes practically roll at the heat rippling across your soft skin.

But you move away at the first contact. That’s really starting to get on his nerves. Because what, is he radioactive or something? What’s so bad about him wanting to hold you?

You lean forward. “Maybe if you—” 

“No speak from the opposition!” Steve shouts stiltedly, sending an accusatory finger your way. His eyes flit from you to the table as he strategizes his next shot. “I will not let your womanly wiles corrupt me—”

“Mm, I would,” Eddie purrs lowly, floating into your orbit. His leisurely efforts are abruptly halted, though, when you jab a knuckle into his side.

Steve paces, wearing a chasm into the chipped, creaky floorboards of the old dive bar. “If you had bet on me like you should’ve, then maybe I’d hear you out. But since you’ve left me scorned, I’d like to keep my dignity intact, thank you.”

“For now,” Robin simpers, sending you a side-long glance. “Or wait, do we think he had any to begin with?” 

“Mmm, jury’s still out—” you shrug, lips curled like you’re trying not to laugh at the frazzled man’s brewing tantrum.

Eddie giggles, “Dignity…Steve.” The words feel heavy on his tongue, like he’s dragging each syllable out a second too long. 

Steve grumbles—something about trading. Or maybe ‘trait-or’? Eddie doesn’t know, he’s too busy weathering the turn of the earth now that you’re looking at him again. It’s been forever since he’s held your attention, and he was nearly at the point of begging. 

It’s not just your eyes on him, though. You’re smiling, too. It’s that knowing smirk he loves. The kind that makes his knees weak and his pants feel tight. 

But then your lips twitch, smile faltering as you peer down at his finger hooked in the waistline of your skirt. And suddenly, you turn to him, shifting your hip out of reach. He opens his mouth, a complaint on the tip of his tongue when you force a half-drank bottle of beer into his outstretched hand with a terse, “Hold this.”

Straightening up, he gathers himself, prepared to shoulder any task for you—no matter how trivial. His responding, “Okay, baby,” is drowned out by Steve’s loud cheer after finally pocketing a ball. 

You turn back to Robin and Steve, leaving Eddie chasing after your gaze. “I’ll get the next round.” And just like that, you’re gone. 

He jogs after you, the floor feeling uneven as he stumbles through groups of people. You’re leaning against the bar, waiting for the drinks when he arrives, looming over you with heaving breaths. 

“Oh, baby, y’look so pretty tonight,” he grunts, wrapping an arm around your waist, trailing his lips up your neck. 

You whip around, hand shoving against his chest until he stumbles back a few paces. His eyes widen, stinging from the pain of rejection, and he feels minuscule under your cold glare. 

When you swallow, glancing somewhere behind him, he has to stop himself from moving into your eyeline. Because damn it, if you’d just look at him longer than a second—

“You need to stop,” you hiss. 

His head jerks back, the burn of nausea twisting low in his gut. “Wha—”

“You said you’d be good, Eddie.”

He is being good! He’s being so good! All he’s done tonight is stare at you and touch you—you love when he does that!

He opens his mouth to argue, but you cut in before he gets the chance to start. 

“You said you’d behave! So you better start now, or we’ll have to leave,” you grit out, stepping back from him once more. 

Following your movement, his overheating body crowds you against the bar. “No, please, don’t make us leave, baby,” he hurries, grabbing at your hips. “‘M havin’ so much fun, don’t wanna go—”

Your shoulders drop, you lean into him, and he almost closes his eyes, certain your lips will find his.

“Okay, then be-have,” you admonish, then turn to collect the drinks left behind by the busy bartender. 

Eddie decides he’d much rather have gotten a kiss than a warning.

Sliding out of his embrace, you march back to your party, a grumbled, “Just friends, Eddie. You promised they wouldn’t know—” fading the further you flee. 

And he feels like he just stepped into the Twilight Zone because what the hell? Why would he say that? That doesn’t sound like him at all—

“Thank God, gimme that,” Steve swipes a bottle from your arms, chugging it. He jabs a finger in Robin’s direction. “This woman wants me dead.” 

She snorts, then looks at you with an unimpressed glint in her eyes.

“Missed another shot?” you ask, brow quirked. 

“Multiple,” Robin confirms. 

“It is just not your night, is it, Steve?”

Before the beleaguered man can answer, Robin cuts in, elbowing him. “It’s never his night. That’s basically his whole thing. He’s, like, the personification of a Monday.”

Steve snaps, “Okay, that’s enough outta you. Just take the damn shot.”  

A loud clack, then a muffled thump into leather, and Robin laughs manically. 

Eddie watches you lean over the table, passing the girl her drink. Inch by inch, your skirt rises the more you reach, and his head drops to the side, weighed down by curiosity. 

He thinks of the black panties you shimmied on before coming here. He watched you then, just like he watches you now. Watched the way you wiggled the flimsy fabric over your ass, how the material covered your freshly fucked cunt so delicately. 

The same black fabric peeks out from beneath the hem of your skirt, only now, there’s a wet splotch between your folds, and he knows exactly what soaked through.

You straighten up—too soon for his liking—but Eddie’s still staring. Still leering at that cursed skirt. It’s never done him any good—always hiding you away. Then again, maybe it’s done him a world of good. It’s been the catalyst to many a sweaty tryst, that’s for sure. But right now, it’s useless fabric obstructing his favorite view. 

In the back of his mind, he vaguely registers the bickering going on around him, the music blaring. But his focus is divided between the sight of your upper thighs and the stirring in his pants. 

He reaches down to adjust himself, then quickly remembers the beer in his hand. The condensation beading down the glass has seeped into his skin, pruning his fingers. He doesn’t remember why he’s even holding the thing to begin with. 

Setting the bottle on a nearby table, he shuffles closer to you. You’re talking to Steve, and he’s not quite sure what you’re saying, but he hears you choke on your words the moment he presses against you. There’s a hiss of breath that sounds like his name, but his mind goes blank as tingling pleasure prickles up his spine, almost a relief of pressure. Or the temptation of relief. 

The feeling is small, but it’s intoxicating. Even more than the alcohol in his bloodstream. Because now he’s drunk on you. On what could be if he just bent you over and—

You cough, clearing your throat as you take a step forward—right up to the Pool table. Eddie grunts, grabbing your hips and dragging you back against him, this time with a stronger, steadying grip. 

“No, that doesn’t count as a mulligan— Hey! Ed, what the hell are you doing?”

Steve’s question falls on deaf ears, and your elbow digging into his ribs does nothing to deter his mission. Because the heat is building. In his flushed cheeks, in his muscles. Even lower. Incendiary friction sparks something dizzying and all-consuming. 

“Dude, at least let her breathe. No need to hover—”

He’s laughing, but Eddie doesn’t think it’s funny. Not when you slip from his hold, yet again, now an arms-length away. Too far. 

Your palms are planted on the glossy, oak edge of the table as you huff out something that sounds like it would’ve been a chuckle if it hadn’t collapsed halfway up your throat. “Think he just gets weirdly clingy when he’s drunk. Don’t know why I’m the victim, though—”

There’s a sharpness to your tone. It’s dulled by his inebriated ears. Undeterred, he closes in on you. “You’re so pretty, baby.”

The words slip out easily. Your shocked reaction only makes Steve laugh harder. 

“Jesus Christ, you’re really three sheets to the wind, dude—” 

Eddie ignores him, but then watches as he turns to you.

 “Does he think you’re someone else?” 

The question makes Eddie’s chest rumble. As if you could be anyone else. As if he could want anyone else this badly—

Wrapping his arms around your rigid frame, he can feel your ribs expand on the breath you draw in. Before a response tumbles past your lips, he squeezes you. Quick and firm. It’s the only warning he can manage without ripping fabric or leaving teeth marks on your delicate skin.

Because he knows what you’d say. He’s starting to catch onto the lies. And he’s not in the mood to play pretend anymore.

“How many has he had?”

Robin’s voice sounds distant as Eddie finds himself beside you again—not far, this time, but shucked off all the same—monitored under your eagle eyed gaze. When she calls your name, stealing your attention for…something about going home or taking a home, he can’t find it in him to care. Not about Robin’s itch for theft or Steve’s quiet, regarding stare.

He can smell your perfume. It calls to him, whispers of heat and closeness. Of the subtle change in the chemical makeup when you begin to warm beneath him, when his sweat mixes with yours. The evil scent pulls him in until his nose is running along your neck. You don’t jump nearly as much as you have been. He’s breaking you down. All he has to do is persist.

You reach across your body, finding his chest and he almost giggles at the half-hearted shove you give. Like it’s just for show. Like you don’t really want him gone. Then your fingers curl around the flimsy material of his shirt and he’s certain you don’t want him gone. How could you push him away if you’ve got a hold on him? 

With a groan, he presses his straining length against the underside of your other wrist, your palm still planted firmly on the edge of the table. It’s a slow, focused grind; his knees nearly buckle. Pushing harder as his own hands slide down your arm, he keeps you in place.

“Fuck, Eddie, st—”

“Holy shit, he’s like a cat in heat,” Steve mutters, cutting you off in what Eddie deems a particularly grating tone. It does nothing to aid the coiling need he’s trying to sate. 

Tension bleeds from your muscles in a slow-burning drip as your form sways just the slightest bit in his direction. He can feel you fighting the urge to melt into him. He’s waiting. Patiently. As patiently as he can without compromising his own desires.

Then, your chin tips and you whisper a lackluster, “Eds, seriously, not here—” over your shoulder. 

“Okay, what the fuck, man.” 

A large hand lands on his bicep, pulling him away from you. His heartrate spikes. 

A calamitous anger rages inside, catching like a wildfire through his veins. It feels like integrity but tastes like possession.

Whipping around, he smacks the arm away, blindly knocking the culprit back. 

“Dude! Actually get the fuck off her—”

“Steve, it’s fine!”

Your sharp tone slices through the fog in his mind; it settles the devastation inside, canning it for another time. He stares at your back as you move between him and a very angry-looking Steve. Chest all puffed out, the ex-jock is the picture of chivalrous defense, and he can’t help but grin. 

If the good knight only knew the things you’ve let Eddie do to you…

“Yeah, Steve,” he drawls, his heavy-lidded gaze sliding from the incensed man to you, the one-woman garrison emboldened by altruism and bolstered by sweetness. He inches closer; a shadow encroaching on the light, a predator going in for the kill. “She said it’s fine.”

His palms hover over your skin, consuming and reveling in the heat. Up your arms, around your shoulders, and back, he maps out your body, admiring the winding curves he’s traversed many times before. The simmering rage of the man in front of you only encourages his quiet appreciation. 

Slowly, delicately, he leaves a chaste kiss where your neck meets your shoulder. 

You tremble, blinking like you mean to steel yourself. 

And his grin widens. “See? She likes it—”

Steve snaps into action, but Robin is quicker, throwing her arm out in front of him. At the same time, you grab Eddie’s wrist, yanking him after you. 

“That’s it, I’m taking you home.”

He lets you drag him away, tossing a smirk over his shoulder. Steve tries to ask if you’re sure and you only let out a clipped, “See you guys later,” in response.

Eddie can’t help but congratulate himself on yet another successful victory. You’re his. You’re choosing him, again. A room full of people and you’re taking him home. 

He somehow feels both stone-cold sober and wasted beyond belief, all from your fingers digging into his pulse. And the alcohol. There’s that, too. 

Weaving through meandering patrons, the exit sign comes into view. You’re talking, but he can’t hear you. The words float ahead, jostled and spliced by the whining guitar riff peeling from the surrounding speakers. He hears the anger, though. It doesn’t bother him.

Once the door closes behind him, the stuffy bar now in his rearview and the night air filling his lungs, he drops his weight back, no longer moving so willingly.

You grunt, but otherwise seem unfazed. Only tightening your grip and continuing your lecture—

“—at fault. I mean, seriously, we fucking agreed! It was mutual! We said we didn’t want the dynamic to change, then you down a few too many, and now all of a sudden, you’re measuring dicks with Steve. I mean, you might as well’ve just pissed on me—it was too fucking obv—”

Pebbles kick up beneath his skidding shoes as he finds his balance. 

“Oh, sure, make this harder than it has to be. You’re great at that—”

The last word catches in your throat as he pulls you the opposite way, back to the bar. You stumble, trying your best to resist, but he’s moving you easily.

“Eddie, what the fuck did I say? If you can’t behave, we’re leaving. We’re not going back— Agh—”

Pressed against the brick wall of the building, hidden in the alley beside it, your complaints fall to unintelligible nonsense as Eddie attacks your neck, lips ravaging any sliver of skin he can find. His body envelops yours, keeping you still with a force he can’t find it in him to tame, especially for the sake of propriety. Not now. Not after waiting so dreadfully long. 

“E-Eddie, slow d-down, Jesus—”

“Can’t,” he grunts, finding his way to your mouth, mumbling like a wanton man. “I need you, baby. Need you so fuckin’ bad—” His hips jut forward, searching for reprieve from the miserable strain of his jeans. 

When your back arches, he sinks his talons in, blunt nails biting and fingers digging as he clings onto you. Because in this moment, you’re the only thing keeping him from falling off the face of the earth; he feels it racing beneath his feet. Your eyes on his, the taste of your lips—it slows everything down. 

“Shit, you’re so pretty. So, so pretty—” 

Every word is mindless, slurred, but true. Inhibition has long-since died a silent, restful death inside him, buried somewhere low, near the hearth that never stops burning for you. 

His hands grope and grab at anything they can reach—your ass, your thighs, your arms, your breasts. Anything. All of it keeps him here for one second more. Grounded in your softness. Steady on your terrain. 

“Eds, we—we have to go,” you gasp, pliant beneath his roving touch. He closes the gap, tongue tangling with yours in a sloppy, searing kiss that makes his mind whir and his ears fill with a fizzing sound.

“Nuh-unh, wanna stay,” he pants, nipping at your pulse point, feeling your blood rush. “Wanna stay with you.”

His hands slip beneath your skirt as you hold onto his shoulders. You give a weak push when his fingers pull at the gusset of your panties, but it’s not nearly enough to deter him. 

“We can’t st—ay, fuck— You’re drunk, Eddie. I don’t even know how you’re hard right now.”

He hums, straightening to his full height and pressing you harder against the wall. His breath comes fast; he can’t seem to catch it as he watches you. 

How is it not obvious?

“‘S you,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your temple. “‘S all you. Makin’ me burn…. Makin’ me want you so damn bad it hurts.” 

You swallow, lashes fluttering as you lean into his gentle touch. “I’m sorry I hurt you…but we can’t do this. Not he—”

“You don’t want me?” His voice is brittle. Breaking. 

A night full of small rejections comes to a head as the weight of your words—sincerity and conviction threaded through every syllable—crashes into him, a frenzied tidal wave leaving wreckage in its wake. 

He only manages to retreat half a step before you’re pulling him back, arms wrapping around his neck. 

“I do want you,” you rush, pressing imploring kisses onto his rosy cheeks, tiny promises sealed with sticky lipgloss. “I always want you.”

His vision blurs as he peers down, frizzy curls hanging low in his eyeline. Confusion is a bitter thing as he finds the hem of your skirt. There’s mercy in the feeling of the grooved stitch beneath the rough pads of his fingers. 

“Even now?” he asks, low and timid for the first time tonight. 

Your arms release him, trailing down the sinewy plane of his chest. You lift his shirt only an inch—just enough for your nails to find his flushed skin, enough to feel him twitch as you explore so freely. 

“Always.”

He pauses, searching for something in your gaze. Or, maybe something in the silence. And it’s the silence that answers. 

With a hurried breath, he tears at your panties. It’s a quick, controlled rip, and he stuffs the fabric into his back pocket. 

You gasp, but he drops before you get the chance to scold him. His jeans do little to mitigate the sting of gravel as his knees hit the ground. He hikes your thigh over his shoulder, disappearing under your skirt. 

“Ed— Oh, God!”

His face drags through your folds, nose catching on your clit as his tongue sinks into you, plunging as deep as it’ll go. But the thundering ecstasy of finally tasting you—and himself—is cut short when you tug at his hair with a force far too sharp to be pleasurable. He groans, missing your heat as you haul him up to his feet. 

“Eddie! We can’t do that here,” you bite out, glancing behind him. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

The worry in your brow catches on something inside him, and if he had the right words, he’d make it go away. But there are no right words, only burrowing panic and gnawing desire so deep, it’s almost torture.

“Please, baby, I’ll be good,” he pants, pawing restlessly at your body. “I swear to God, I’ll be good. Just— Just let me— Ah, Jesus!” His forehead falls to your shoulder and he hangs onto you, a firm grip on your ass as he pulls you into him. The movement is meant to alleviate, to save his sanity, but all it does is remind him of your denial, of the space he can’t close, and the release he can’t reach.

Your fingers begin to soothe his scalp. He matches his breathing to yours; in and out, in and out, in and out. 

Curious and tender, you mutter, “It’s really that bad?” 

He shakes his head, lifting it to meet your concerned gaze. 

You don’t understand. You can’t possibly know what it feels like. This dull ache. Persistent, like a gnat in his ear, it’s been with him all night, made worse by you. Your perfume, your soft touch, the glimmer in your eyes. The distance, the act, the canyon between words and truth. 

It’s all a great pain. An infection that’s been festering for hours. You have the medicine and you won’t give it to him.

His voice cracks, “So bad. I’m achin’ for you, can’t you feel it?” His hips jerk forward as he waits for your response, but the silence is too loud. He can’t stand it. 

“You’re just so pretty…” Dazed, his eyes rove over your wrinkled top, fabric askew and showing more skin than you started the night showing. “‘N so soft.” Ducking closer, he rumbles out a drawling, “Mm, you smell so good.”

Again, you look behind him, somewhere just over his right shoulder and he sways, chasing your gaze. 

“And you can’t wait ten minutes to get to your apartment?” you ask, eyes narrowed. 

He sags against you, a whine crawling up from deep within his throat. “No…. No more. I’ve been waiting all night. I can’t— I—”

“Okay, okay, I get it. I hear you. Just— Hey, Eds, look at me—”

Your palms cradle his head and he can smell the lavender hand soap he put in his apartment just for you.

“Be quick,” you whisper, tipping your chin to hold his attention.

He perks up, swallowing harshly as he stares at you, trying to decode the two simple words. But you might as well have spoken another language because his mind is running circles around the meaning, never through. 

“Hey—” Your eyes dart downward, stall there, then you close the distance. 

It’s messy and wet and he can still taste you on his tongue—smell you smeared on his skin—but you don’t seem to mind as you deepen the kiss, your mouth parting around a moan. It’s over too soon, though. 

A delicate string of spit connects him to you as you pull back.  “Take what you need, ba—”

He’s moving before you even finish the endearment, hands racing across your body, tugging at fabric, kneading skin—anything he can touch. His jacket is around your shoulders in no time, protecting you from the rough brick. The cuffs on his belt clang as he unfastens the homemade contraption, the button of his jeans next.

“Oh, thank you, baby,” he breathes into your mouth, using his full weight to trap you against the wall. “Thank you, thank you—shit! You’re so good to me,” he whimpers, bucking his hips as he frees his length, wrapping a hand around the base until it throbs beneath his unyielding grip. “So fuckin’ good to me. Wanna be good to you, too.”

He fumbles a bit, struggling to move while still trying to maintain every point of contact he can. Once he manages to pick up your thigh, hitching it onto his hip, he guides the blunt tip of his cock through your slick folds. A soft mewl escapes you and the sound only makes him twitch, a stream of sticky precum dribbling from his slit. 

“Wanna be inside you. God, I always wanna be inside you—”

Your voice cuts him off, strained with a familiar need as your forehead falls to his. “Please, Eddie— Please just fuck me already, I can’t—”

His body responds before his mind even registers the plea, jerking forward until he’s buried deep inside you. A resounding groan echoes through the empty alleyway, drowning out your shrill cry. Though, you have enough sense to slam a hand over your open mouth, muffling the lewd noise

He, however, is too drunk to care. Drunk on the alcohol humming in his bloodstream. Drunk on the feeling of your walls squeezing him so tight, he could count your heart rate just from the pulse of your pussy alone. 

“Ohh, my—fuck! Jesus, fuck—you’re tryin’ to kill me, you’re tryin’ to kill me,” he babbles incessantly, squirming from the pressure. 

Your hand drops to his shoulder, holding onto him so tightly, your fingers pinch. “E—ddie, shh—ah!” 

Torturously slow, he pulls out. Your cunt clings to him, contracting—almost a proper plea to stay—and yet, you seem to revel in the drag of his length. He knows you feel it. The thrum of his veins, the curve that stretches you, the thick ridge that catches on your entrance. 

With just the tip inside, he shudders, his head hanging as he stares downward. The bright neon sign on the corner of the building beams, making his cock shine with your arousal.

He pauses. 

Then, his hips snap forward, marking the start of a suffocating rhythm as he forces the breath from your body with every thrust. He moves wildly, a frenzied pace with one intention, and one intention only. 

“Oh, God, oh, shit, baby! You feel s’good.… Takin’ such good care o’ me—thank you! Thank you— S’sweet to me—” he pants, slipping a large, heavy hand behind your neck until your gaze drops, joining him as he watches himself disappear inside of you. “Ah, look at that— Mmm, so pretty when you’re full o’ me.” 

The wiry hair at the base of his shaft begins to stick to his skin, weighed down by the mess he’s making out of you. Glimmering slick forming a milky ring, droplets splashing from the strength of his thrusts. A giddy chuckle rumbles through his chest, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he admires just how wet you are. How wet he makes you.

The sound of his leather jacket scratching against the brick fills his ears as he falls against you, muscles straining. Your eyelids droop low, but your gaze hasn’t moved from where he’s fucking into you. His mouth finds yours, lips gliding as he hungrily swallows your every moan. 

Sweat beads at his hairline, and his nails sink into your thigh, drawing you impossibly closer. Because he needs more. He needs all of you. Your walls are pried apart by his thick length and it’s still not enough. 

He lets go of your neck, pushing two fingers into your mouth. “Suck.”

His breath turns ragged and you finally look at him, your eyes dark and glossy as your lips reach his knuckles, your cheeks hollowing out in that way that always makes his knees buckle. His hips jerk, rhythm shifting at the memory.

He can feel the flames spreading, overtaking the hearth, but he’s not ready yet. He’s not done with you. 

His fingers fall from between your lips as he reaches below, pressing tight circles into your clit. You choke on your breath and the sharp sound makes him grin.

“Yeah, there you go, sweetheart. Fuck—you’re so tight! Squeezin’ the life outta me— God, I know you wan’ it—cum for me. Soak my fucking cock,” he grits out, watching your eyes roll with rapt attention. “Mark me, baby, drown me—”

“F-Fu— Eddie!” 

Your back arches and you go rigid; he knows you’re on the very edge. He knows you. He knows the exact high your voice reaches before you come undone, and even though you’re trying not to, he knows you’re losing yourself.

“Give it to me,” he drawls, practically purring at you. “Give in, baby. Please, I know you need it—”

“Shh, shh, we have to—b—e quiet! You have t—o keep it d— Oh, God!”

Your cunt clenches around him, tighter than he can handle after suffering from your denial for so long. You're moving against him now, convulsing and chasing after the pleasure like an ebbing wave. His body starts to curl inward, but he tries his best to keep a good enough pace. Your moans ring in his ear as he drives into you, shivering at the obscenely wet sounds.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! F-Feels so— God, ‘m g-gonna fill you up, baby. Hm? You wan’ it? Wanna feel full o’ me? Wanna hold it for me? You’re always so good at it—”

His breathless words seem to have no effect on you as you settle limply, held up by his frame and the wall at your back. You give no indication that you heard him, there’s only the flutter of your lashes and the lull of your head against the brick. His palm presses against your neck, just enough to keep you still, to hold your far-out gaze. 

“You listenin’? Hm?” he pants, landing a firm kiss on your slackened mouth. “Y’gonna empty my balls for me, baby? Know you love to feel me drippin’ outta you.”

Your cunt responds with a weak pulse. He chuckles, only to be cut off by his own sputtering groan as a particularly deep stroke shoots right through him. You whimper, and he knows he’s the only thing keeping you from buckling to the ground as your arms struggle to wrap around him.

“E-Eddie…”

Static buzzes in his mind as you mewl, soft gasps hiccuping in time with his pounding thrusts. His hand drops low, splaying just beneath your navel. Then, he presses, relishing the catch in your breath. 

“Ah, there I am,” he mutters, going dizzy at the feeling of his cock-head nudging his palm. “Here, right? Y’gonna keep me here, baby?”

You nod, letting out a frail, broken sound that tells him all he needs to hear. You want it. Need it, even.

His eyes roll, balls pulling taut as his rhythm falters. “Oh, f-fuck! Jesus Christ, you’re made f’me—you are,” he grunts, nosing against your neck. “Fit together so nicely. Hmm, made f’me, made to be full o’ me—”

Your face crumbles as you clench around him once more, another orgasm rolling in, quiet as a tide, and this time it’s softer. He can still feel you shake, but there’s a dragging sense of freedom. Of letting go.

And you drag him with you. Under the tide. Under the surface where everything sounds fuzzy and he feels weightless. 

“Jesus—fuck! Ah, shit!”

He gives one final, deep thrust, burying himself inside your heat as he spills into you. Waves of pleasure crash through him, so overwhelming, his hips stall. He shivers, almost violently, and his words tumble out, barely loud enough to be a whisper. “God, baby, thank you. T-Thank you. Shit—you’re so good to me.” 

He stays like that—arms wrapped around you, your fingers in his hair—for a while. It’s only when you shift, repositioning yourself against the wall, that he picks his head up. Indulging himself in your gentle kiss. His languid lips speak a sweetness far greater than his words could manage at the moment.

“I feel better now,” he mumbles, letting himself explore along your jaw, lazy and sated, but needing to taste you all the same. 

“Yeah, I bet,” you snort, tucking his hair behind his ear, then twisting a damp curl around your finger. 

With much reluctance, he finally pulls out, both of you wincing at the loss. He fixes himself quietly, buttoning his pants again and hiding his smile as he notices you squirm. You adjust his jacket over your shoulders and smooth your skirt. His eyes follow the movement and all he can think about is how much he wishes he could just sit on the ground beneath you and watch himself leak out of your pretty pussy. 

But then you clear your throat, motioning to the end of the alley and he offers his arm. You smirk, shaking your head as you accept his offer. As he passes under the neon sign that says, “Bar,” he stares at the entrance to the building.

“Mm, I wan’ a beer,” he hums wistfully, starting to veer off course.

“Unh-unh!” Both of your hands circle his bicep, yanking him back. “No, we’re leaving. I’m taking you home.”

“But—”

“No ‘but’s.” You continue to drag him further away from the bar, heading toward his van. “You’re going home, then you’re going to sleep. And tomorrow, you’re gonna call up Steve and apologize for trying to fight him.”

Eddie’s face twists up, a sharp scoff falling from his lips. “‘M not apologizing. He was trying to touch you—”

“No,” you utter pointedly, digging into his back pocket—ignoring his quiet, “Hey, buy me dinner first”—and pulling out his keys. “He was not, that was you. He was trying to stop you because he thought you were being a perv.”

“I was being a perv,” he grins, watching you unlock the van. You shove him into the passenger side and he gracefully complies, settling in a haphazard huff. His eyes follow you through the windshield as you speedwalk around to the driver side door, which he reaches across the console to open for you. 

“An unwelcome perv,” you amend, climbing into the seat. You check the mirrors first, then turn the key in the ignition. Eddie sighs contentedly as the van rumbles to life, the tape he mixed for you already filtering through the stereo. 

He leans close, looming over you. With exaggerated slowness—a test, a toeing of boundaries—he drags two fingers up your thigh, beneath your skirt, until he feels the sticky combination of his cum and your slick smeared against your skin. “Knew you liked it,” he purrs lowly, sucking the digits clean. 

Your breath comes quicker and shakier as you give him a sidelong glance. “You’re disgusting.”

His grin stretches into something wolfish, something predatory and ostensibly clear-headed, despite the glossy look in his eyes and the sway in his body. Quickly, he makes another swipe between your legs, this time relishing the hitch in your throat as he grazes your warm, puffy folds. He shrugs, admiring the milky gleam on his fingers before taking them into his mouth once more. “Chef’s gotta taste his own food.”

With that, your trembling hand lands on the gear shift and the van jolts into reverse. 

A/ N: Guys, is this anything? Let me know🧎‍♂️It’s been in the drafts since October🥀  Also, it's the one year anniversary of me writing fics :) One year ago (almost to the day), I posted this rambling drabble. Since then, my work has improved so much, and I’ve gotten to talk to so many of you about your Eddie thoughts which is all I ever wanted from this.  Thank you for reading my silly, not-so-little ramblings. Thank you for making this an enjoyable space to create in. Thank you for always showing up to my ‘Is anyone interested in…’ posts with 110% enthusiasm. And thank you for talking to me about my writing. I think that’s what I appreciate the most—how much I get to connect with y’all over what I’ve worked so hard on. I love reading your reactions to my fics, I cherish them so deeply. I’m also glad you feel comfortable with me and enjoy my writing enough to want to hear my thoughts on your Eddie ideas. I love this space and I’m glad you guys are always down for a little chitty-chat.  Thank you for sticking around and taking an interest in my work and especially me as a person <3 Love you guys <3

Taglist: @meetmeatyourworst @ratsematary @american-idiot-jpg @kill3ill @justalotoffanfiction 

@stargirlsugar @thepinkpanther83 @losingmygrasponreality @slaytheusurper @dangerousnbeautiful 

@sophsthebest @ali-r3n @urfavfujoshi @tlclick73 @joonbread

@bellalillyrose @bigboymoozz @am0iur @pastelpoppies @somethingvicked

@aratheegreat @november-moon-longing  @cheesesandwichsanto @avenjames-anderson @munsonzgf

@iheartgrayson @cowboylikemunson @skyfullofsong123 @thepurplelovewitch @l-r-fernandez 

@ceciclarke  @fairylights-throughthemist @hippiegoth97 @daveythorntonslocker @wolfqueenxxx 

@kelsiegrin @ashly1576 @seedlingghost @alexxavicry @wheel-of-hyperfixation 

@aliviovy @samslvrgirl @emberaxllian @emxxblog @spiidergwenn 

@crybabyddl @pretendthisnameisclever @kozume-ko @kiria-ria @walleloveseve

[munson-blurbs]

Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: The Death's Echo concert was supposed to be the performance of a lifetime. But it wasn't only Eddie's life that changed that night. (3k words)

♫ CW: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p in v, slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, allusions to classism, fluffy confessions

♫ A/N: The penultimate chapter! One more after this (and then maybe an epilogue?).

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter nineteen: fight for your right

The air at The Garden thrummed with excitement. Your own heart beat loudly against the backstage pass that dangled from a lanyard around your neck. 

“This is insane.” Nora’s eyes were wide as she took in the stadium. The show was sold out; hordes of fans wearing matching Death’s Echo t-shirts flashed their tickets as they hurried to their seats. 

Ben was just as awestruck, nearly colliding with another concertgoer carrying a beer in each hand. He swiped at where a few droplets of beer landed on his forearm. 

Eddie had mailed the tickets and backstage passes along with a very explicit note detailing how he wanted to spend his free time in New York. 

Rented a suite…penthouse…California King bed…kiss you all over…worship you like I’ve been dreaming about…

Your whole body heated up at the thought of it. That letter was currently tucked away at the bottom of your underwear drawer, far away from prying eyes. 

One of the ushers, a short woman in a fitted pantsuit and the skinniest stilettos you’d ever seen, led the three of you backstage. 

Led you to Eddie. 

He sat on an amp, fingers idly plucking at the strings of an electric guitar. Staring straight ahead at nothing, his mind somewhere far away from Madison Square Garden, he mouthed the words to a song you didn’t know. 

“Hey.”

Eddie blinked, taking an extra beat to focus on his surroundings. He managed a small smile when he saw you standing there. 

“Heiress. You made it.” He stood up, wiping one hand on his black jeans. His gaze flicked over to your friends, flanking either side of you. “Nora. Boris.”

Ben sighed. “It’s Ben,” he lamented. 

You offered Ben a sympathetic look before placing your hands in Eddie’s. His palms, slick with sweat, held you like a lifeline. 

“You okay, Eds?”

Eddie nodded reflexively, but his deep brown eyes told a different story. 

You gently tugged Eddie to the other side of the green room, leaving Nora and Ben to peruse the bar and talk to the rest of the band. 

A spring in the back of an old chair dug into you when you sat down. “Talk to me.”

“S’nothing,” Eddie mumbled, twisting a silver ring around his middle finger as he sat in the chair across from you. “Just pre-show nerves.” But his inability to look at you gave away his fear.

You weaved your fingers with his. “No more secrets,” you reminded him. “I’m not gonna run away.”

Eddie drove his free hand through his wild curls. They’d been styled to look effortless, but you could smell the hairspray from a mile away. 

“I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

You froze, your breath halting in your lungs. 

Eddie took one look at the way you’d gone still and immediately clocked his mistake. “No, no. Not you, Heiress. I still wanna do this. Us,” he clarified. You felt your body relax with each word. 

“I meant…I don’t wanna do this tour anymore. Not with them,” he glanced over at his bandmates, “and not with these bullshit songs that have no fucking meaning behind them.”

“I thought you wrote your own songs.” He’d kept those papers, the ones you’d accidentally almost turned in for a final assignment. 

Eddie shook his head. “They don’t use ‘em.”

Your heart sank at the notion of his words remaining unheard, just ink on a page without anyone to witness their beauty. 

“We’re out there singing about ‘fuck the establishment’ and ‘fuck the system,’ and then this morning, they started fuckin’ laughing at this homeless guy asking for change.” Eddie shot his bandmates a glare, though it went wholly unnoticed. “And then they go buy shit they don’t need. They don’t even care.”

He took a shaky breath, his eyes holding equal parts disappointment and rage. “I can’t go out there and play along with whatever fake anarchist bullshit they’re gonna spout off tonight.”

“Then don’t.”

Eddie blinked in surprise at your suggestion. 

“That’s your expert therapist advice?” He balked. “Jesus, Heiress. You’ve gotten rusty in these last few weeks.”

You gave him a little shove. “I’m serious. Stop going along with it. Fuck them, fuck the record company…” you wiped where his eyeliner had smudged under his waterline, “and fuck anyone who forces you to conform to their stupid expectations.”

Eddie’s face lit up at that. “You’re perfect.” Cradling his face in your palms, he stared at you with complete reverence. 

If you could have bottled the comfort of his thumbs gently dragging against your cheeks, you would’ve been the happiest woman in the world. For a few untainted seconds, you let his warm touch lull you into a sense of ease. 

“No matter what happens tonight,” you said, your voice soft yet steady, “I’m here, and I’m yours.”

Eddie brought his lips to yours in a searing kiss, stealing the breath from your lungs. It was as though you were the only two people in the room, lost in each other’s taste, until a wolf-whistle pierced the air. 

“Fuck’s sake,” Eddie grumbled. His glare locked on Ben, who guiltily lowered his index finger and thumb from his mouth. 

Eddie scrambled to his feet, his fists clenched at his sides. “What the hell is your problem, man?”

Ben put his hands up in surrender. “I was joking, man,” he stammered, glancing at you and Nora for help.

“Well, it’s not funny,” Eddie snapped. “Just admit that you’re jealous.”

“Eddie—” you started. 

“Whatever issue you’ve got with me is one-sided, Eddie.” Ben cut in, rolling his eyes as he spoke. “I’m not trying to steal your girlfriend.”

Your eyes darted between the two men as they volleyed retorts back and forth. 

“And I’m supposed to believe you…why?”

“Because I’m more likely to flirt with your drummer,” Ben flung back. 

Eddie’s brows furrowed. “But Todd’s a…oh.” His cheeks reddened in realization. He looked at the drummer, who was applying more gel to his mohawk. “Honestly, you probably shouldn’t. He’s a total douchebag.”

“That’s my type,” Ben said wryly. 

A disembodied voice crackled over the PA system, reminding Death’s Echo that they had thirty minutes to showtime. Onstage, the opening act was warming up the crowd. 

“I gotta go warm up.” Eddie pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek. Your skin tingled at his barest touch. 

As much as you hated to let him go, you knew you couldn’t keep him here. He had to be a rockstar alongside Todd the Douchebag Drummer and Fiona, the latter of whom was eyeing Eddie like he was a cut of filet mignon.  

Not that you could blame her. Still, an unfamiliar possessiveness filled your lungs and made each breath laborious. 

“I hate her,” Nora hissed in your ear. “I hope she shits herself tonight.”

You bit the inside of your cheek in a feeble attempt to stifle your laughter. It wasn’t quick enough, because Eddie caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. 

“Tonight is for you,” he mouthed, his lips moving exaggeratedly to ensure you could read them. 

“I can’t wait,” you mouthed back. 

You weren’t sure what Eddie had meant when he told you that tonight was for you. You’d assumed he would give a kickass performance; a small, romantic part of you considered that he’d debut some sort of love song. 

But four songs in, when Eddie slung his guitar over his shoulder and stepped up to the mic, you knew that this was something bigger. 

“This is usually the time when I ask everyone to yell out what they wish they could destroy.” The audience cheered, but Eddie waved his hands to cut them off. 

“I’m gonna do something different tonight.” A buzz of confusion filled the arena. Even the other members of the band—Todd, Fiona, and the bassist whose name you couldn’t remember—exchanged nervous glances. 

Eddie squinted through the stage lights until he saw you standing in the wings. He gave you a quick nod, a silent I’ve got this, his fingers gripping the microphone even tighter. 

“It’s my turn.” His grin turned wicked as the crowd egged him on. “And I want to destroy the contract I signed to tour with this stupid fucking band.”

There was a collective gasp, one that included you and your friends. 

“And these posers might say they’re ‘against the system.’ That they’re 'anti-establishment.” Eddie hooked air quotes around the words and pitched his tone into something obnoxiously nasal. “But they are the fucking system. 

“See Todd?” He pointed to the scrawny drummer, who promptly ducked behind his drumset. “He says that poor people should ‘just get jobs.’ And Howie?” So that was the bassist’s name. “He likes to throw his trash on the ground because ‘the janitors will clean it up anyway.’”

Eddie made a sweeping gesture towards his ex-girlfriend and back-up guitarist. “But it’s the incomparable Fiona Weis who refuses to drive anywhere unless it's in a limo.”

From all the way in the wings, you could see Fiona’s body tense, her jaw steeling in place as Eddie exposed her. Nora and Ben both shook with laughter, but you were too engrossed in the scene to do anything but gawp.

The crowd was going wild, booing and flipping off the three offending band members. Eddie, however, wasn’t done.

“But I’m not innocent, either.” Eddie sighed directly into the microphone. “Because I just played along. Acted like they weren’t giant fucking assholes. I thought that maybe I could pretend hard enough to fit in. I guess…I guess that makes me a poser, too, huh?” He laughed dejectedly.

“So let me be clear: My name is Eddie Munson. I grew up in a trailer park in Hawkins, Indiana. My mom died and my dad walked out, and my uncle raised me. We lived paycheck to paycheck, but he gave me the best life he could.

“I probably got fifteen seconds before security drags me off this stage, but before I go, I just want to say this.” Eddie looked directly into the audience as he spoke. “If people ever glared at you when you used food stamps to pay for groceries, or if the mailman ever rolled his eyes when he delivered your welfare check, I fucking see you. And if you make fun of people because they wear hand-me-down clothes or eat ketchup sandwiches, you’re just a cog in this capitalist machine, and you can eat shi–fuck!”

Two beefy security guards hoisted Eddie up and carried him offstage. The microphone feedback shrieked as it hit the ground, but it was barely audible over the audience roaring their approval.

EDDIE! EDDIE! EDDIE!

The chanting still rang in your ears as Eddie tugged you down 34th Street. Your feet nearly flew off the sidewalk until he stopped you in front of an ornate building.

“What are we–”

“I told you.” Eddie nudged his nose against yours, kissing you right in the midst of all of the foot traffic. “I got us a penthouse suite for the night.”

Your eyebrows pinched together. How was he going to afford a penthouse suite? He’d just publicly quit his job, which meant the record company wouldn’t be footing the bill. 

The concierge stood behind a teak desk that probably cost more than your parents paid for the entire motel. His face was drawn, lines around his lips that signified a heavy smoker. Sure enough, the scent of tobacco overwhelmed you as you approached.

“Reservation for Munson.” Eddie slapped a platinum credit card down on the countertop with enough force to make the other man flinch. 

The concierge cleared his throat, taking note of Eddie’s smeared eyeliner, ripped jeans, and t-shirt with the sleeves methodically torn off. “Yes, Mr. Munson. Of course.” Even as he swiped the card, he never stopped looking at Eddie. 

Instinctively, you wrapped your hand around Eddie’s exposed bicep. In your own syrupy customer service voice, you asked the concierge. “Is there a problem with my boyfriend’s card, sir?”

He shook his head. “Not at all, miss.” He handed the credit card back to Eddie, along with a set of room keys. “Elevator is down the hall and to your left.”

The second the elevator door slid shut, your lips were on Eddie’s. 

“You,” you said, already toying with his belt buckle, “were such a badass tonight.”

Eddie laughed against your mouth, the hum reverberating through your body. “All thanks to you.” His thumb brushed the underside of your jaw. “Every time I think about you, I just wanna…be better, y’know? Be a man you deserve.”

You shook your head. “You don’t have to prove anything to me,” you said, the soft reassurance speaking volumes.

Eddie’s pants were already unbuttoned, your dress zipper already tugged halfway down your back, when the elevator dinged and bumped to a stop. It was a race to the suite, Eddie swearing under his breath as he fumbled with the key.

The moment the lock clicked, his hands were all over you again.

“Thought you said we’d take it slow this time,” you teased.

“Well, that was before we were racing against the clock.” When you looked at him in confusion, he explained, “record company’s gonna realize they never confiscated my card sooner or later.”

“Worse comes to worst,” you paused to nibble at his lower lip, “we go back to the motel and continue there.”

Eddie scoffed and unzipped your dress the rest of the way. “Last time we did that, Phyllis made bed-squeaking noises when she saw me.”

“We should probably fix those bedsprings,” you acquiesced.

“We should probably have sex far away from Phyllis.”

Fair enough, you thought, but you didn’t have time to verbalize it before he was pressing you to the wall.

“Oh, Heiress.” Eddie hissed, grinding his hips against you. “Fuck, I–I want you. I need you. Y’know how many nights I laid awake in that tour bus, hard as a fuckin’ rock, just thinking about this?”

Slipping your hand into his boxers, you gently stroked his growing length. “I thought about you, too,” you confessed. “Thought about you kissing me–”

“Where?” Eddie cut in. “Where did you think about me kissing you? Here?” He pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead. “Or here?” To your neck. “Or…here?” He pulled down your dress until it pooled on the carpet in a heap and kissed your bare breasts.

Your fingers might have left indents in the cream-colored wallpaper. A moan floated out of your throat as Eddie kissed down, down, down…

“Eddie!” You gasped, barely cognizant of him draping your leg over your shoulder. He kissed your clit, pulling back with a triumphant grin when you whined.

“Huh. Looks like it was there.” He smirked and kissed between your legs once again. His tongue brushed against you, torturously slow. 

This was his way of rushing things? At this rate, you’d be a puddle on the floor before you even got him naked.

Eddie mumbled something incoherent, practically making out with your pussy. He was on his knees for you, worshipping you like you were a deity standing before him. Like he wasn’t the actual rockstar who had just flipped off the music industry in front of a gigantic audience.

Your leg began shaking, desire taking a stronghold as you remembered his biceps flexing when he gripped the mic stand. For the first time in weeks, you came not just at the idea of him, but at the feel of him, too. 

“Mmm. There…y’go.” He groaned at your fingers tangling in his curls. “Gonna rip my hair out, honey.”

“S-Sorry.”

“Didn’t say I hated it.” His lips, shiny with your arousal, turned up in a smile. Or maybe he’d been smiling the whole time. Given his position, it was hard to tell. “Bed?”

You nodded, unable to form words. In record time you were on your back, Eddie completely stripped of his clothes. Only a guitar pick necklace dangled from a chain around his neck. 

He hovered over you, leaking cock in hand, but he didn’t move any further.

“You okay, Eds?” The sudden urge to cover yourself in the duvet rushed over you.

“Yeah. Yeah, I just…” Eddie let go of himself and kissed you, his lips soft and tender. “I didn’t wanna say this now–like, with my dick out, but I…I love you, Heiress. And I don’t wanna waste another second with you not knowing.”

You propped yourself on your elbows and kissed him again, laughing when you felt his erection pressing into your thigh. No, this was definitely not the ideal place for a love confession: A hotel room that you could be evicted from at any moment while your boyfriend was hard and about to enter you. 

To you, there was no better time.

“I love you, too, Eddie.” Your chest rose and fell with each heaving breath you took. “I love you so much that it’s kind of ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous, huh?” He lowered himself, pushing into you with the utmost care. His eyes didn’t leave yours, watching to ensure that he brought only pleasure and comfort. “You wanna know something ridiculous?”

He didn’t wait for your answer before continuing. “All I could think about besides this,” he gestured to your body and the way he was seated inside you, “was that shelter idea. Using H-Harrington’s money to…to…”

“Later.” Your fingertips dug into the flesh of his ass, drawing him deeper and silently urging him to thrust. “Talk later, okay? Right now…let’s just focus on this.”

“This.” Eddie found a rhythm that made you both sing, a tempo that kept you in sync. “I…I can do this.”

Your bodies danced in unison, chests so close that you couldn’t tell his heartbeat from your own. I love yous punctuated each wanton moan, each gasp for air, each sweat-slicked movement.

He loved you. Eddie Munson loved you. No caveats, no asterisks, no ‘buts.’

Just you, Eddie, tonight, and the promise of an open future.

--

[corroded-hellfire]

YOU TELL ‘EM EDDIE

hmm Todd is such a good name for the drummer, I wonder where you got that from

TELL ME YOU LOVE ME WITH YOUR DICK OUT EDDIE ITS ALL GOOD

Note to self: have sex far away from Phyllis

[thepromiscuousfinger]

[chaifootsteps]

#Please little bird

[meriwetherwrites]

I love that the modern-day tumblr post equivalent of chain emails only requires me to reblog a relatively pleasant image instead of forward an email to a bunch of my friends and family members to quell my raging anxiety.