I love being a loser girl like yesss!!! omg go stay in your bedroom all day and listen to music, watch movies, read fan fiction, ughh this is the life!!
My nephew, he may look dangerous, but he didn’t do this. It just… ain’t in his nature.My nephew is innocent. He’s still missing.I’ll put up as many posters as I need until he’s found.
Eddie is a very multi-faceted person. He has so much personality it’s kind of like he has hundreds of them. He can be bossy and sweet, sour and dour, diffident or occasionally aloof, but most of the time he’s loud and funny. He likes to make you laugh, hates himself whenever you cry, even if he had nothing to do with it.
In contrast, you can be simple. You’re patient and gentle the large majority of the time, and people assume that you’re the peace to Eddie’s chaos, but he’s the only person you can be angry in front of. You won’t let your guard down with anybody who isn’t him. The first time it happens, you’re expecting him to get freaked out—you’ve portrayed this docile image to him and you’re a fraud, because now you’re spiteful and seething, furious at someone and without the wherewithal to hide it.
You’re expecting his big eyes to get bigger, widened with confusion, or squinting with disgust, but Eddie kneels on the bed in front of you and takes your hands. They’re burning, and shaking, and he frowns when he feels it. Worse when he follows the path of a tear down your cheek.
“Sorry,” you choke out, wishing you could hit something.
Eddie just furrows his brow. “Do you need me to kill somebody?” You laugh weakly. “I can do it. I’ve never killed anyone before, but it can’t be that hard, and if it stops you from feeling like this–”
“I’m being awful, sorry.”
He waddles closer to you on his knees and pulls your hands, your palms going flat against his stomach. His gaze is unflinching. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is normal. Did I know you had it in you? No. But I don’t need you to be sorry.”
He wipes the tears off of your cheeks and doesn’t take it personally when you descend into a rushed rant, desperate to get the words out before they burn your throat, lodged against your larynx like hot lava. And he doesn’t pretend to be scared of you, or make jokes about being on his best behaviour. He pets the side of your face with his hand, drying the lingering tear tracks there, grinning. Likes being there for you, in the face of anything. (And he really will kill someone for you, that part wasn’t a joke.)
when people are like "i didn't come here to make friends" i'm like thats sooooo unrelatable. i am always on the look out for some girl friends. I would be in that hunger games cornucopia like "your ex boyfriend did WHAT."
Eddie cleared his throat, gesturing wide as he cintinued. "The year, good friends, was 1999. And we were all partying, as it were, like it was 1999."
"I don't know why you bother complaining, there's no point," Nancy said through a bite of burrito. "You can't stop him."
Eddie spoke louder. "Right the middle of this glorious revelry, one Steven Josephine Harrington..."
"Definitely not my name," Steve sighed.
"...says, 'do you think Prince really thought the world was gonna end when he wrote this?', effectively throwing a bucket of icy water over the entire proceedings of partying."
"Technically that was Dustin," Robin pointed out."
"Well, yes, it did cause sudden and disastrous exestential dread in his dear younger brother, which could only be remedied by a swift slap to the face."
"I maintain you didn't need to hit me," Dustin grumbled.
"Now, the point, dear readers, is that instead of remembering that day as what it was...which is to say, the day Stephanio Gertrude Harrington ruined a party for the first time in his life."
"Still, not my name."
"Or the day that Dustin had a meltdown over the computer robots. Or the one where Nancy threw up in a potted plant, making Robin laugh for an hour and a half straight before declaring hed undying love for Nancy—”
“Hey! I’ve always been on your side on this, Munson!” Robin protested.
“—we somehow ended up with today being The Day That We Forever Make Fun of Eddie. And I demand an explanation."
The righteous indignation on his face sets all four of them off; Steve can't breathe he's laughing so hard. Every time he almost masters himself, he catches sight of Eddie again, incredulous and red in the face, arms crossed as he perches on a kitchen chair.
Eddie huffs as he obviously begins to lose the higher ground. Just when it’s starting to really piss him off, Steve stands up and places both hands on his shoulders.
“That, my love, would be because you, on the infamous day of the end of the world, decided that the perfect solution to all our troubles was to strip down to your boxers, climb onto the roof, and play air guitar to 'Waiting for the End of the World' while singing loudly. And you didn't stop when Mrs. Wheeler appeared in the driveway."
Eddie's mouth fell open. "I don't even—"
"You were wearing Batman boxers," Robin added, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "I have photographic evidence."
"And when Mrs. Wheeler asked what the hell you were doing," Dustin continued gleefully, "you told her you were 'sending a message to the aliens' to spare our house during the inevitable invasion."
Eddie's face burned hotter with each revelation. He vaguely remembered the boxers, a Christmas gift from Steve and the comfiest underwear ever, but the rest was a blur of tequila shots and Y2K paranoia. He’d never actually demanded this explanation before, never asked for a reminder of what had happened. He’d taken his yearly ribbing with chagrin. He didn’t know why he was forcing the issue now, except perhaps that he’d just turned 40 and seven years suddenly felt like a long time to not remember why you were being made fun of.
"Look," Steve said, squeezing Eddie's shoulders gently, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “We can ease up on the teasing. No one did an excellent job of being responsible that night.”
“Speak for yourself,” Nancy laughed. “I’m personally never letting him forget that he threw his Christmas sweater with the jingle bells on it to my mom and demanded she put it on 'for safety'.”
“Steve, I love you and only you," Eddie sighed, clutching Steve's forearms solemnly. "The rest of these people are dead to me. Or are my sworn and mortal enemies from this day forth.”
“That’s fine,” Robin shrugged, refilling her glass. “I have the only copy of the photos. I think I'm safe.”
Your crush on Steve Harrington was your secret shame in high school. He was a douchebag, and you steered clear of him on principle. Now, you're both a little older, both maybe a little changed, and those principles aren't enough to stop you
cw: smut mdni, very one-sided enemies-to-lovers, sex as a power play, reader is telling herself she doesn’t want this the whole time so I feel the need to clarify everything really is consensual (and it’s given explicitly) but please be careful with yourself if that might be triggering for you
Steve Harrington x fem!reader ♡ 1.8k words
The ride to Steve Harrington’s house is silent. The streets are quiet in the way that small towns get after ten pm, like Hawkins itself is forcing you to do some reflection. There’s still time to back out. You just can’t decide if you want to.
You should, on principle. You don’t want to be attracted to Steve Harrington. He was a dick when you were in high school, and it was your curse to think that he was handsome then, too, but aside from your nonexistent social standing your convictions kept you from doing anything that would let Steve know you thought so. (He probably wouldn’t have noticed even if you hadn’t tried so hard to keep it to yourself. You were one of the masses, then.)
You don’t know where your convictions have gone now. At the party tonight, it was the same old Steve—stupid cocky grin, and stupid hair grown out just a little bit longer, and a stupid cool jacket on his stupidly broad chest. You think you’re probably about the same too, with a few years’ maturity and confidence tacked on. But something about you must be different, because unlike in high school Steve hadn’t stopped noticing you since you reached past him for a beer.
It shouldn’t have mattered. Who cares if Steve Harrington is giving you attention all of a sudden? He’s still a world-class douchebag, and a playboy, and the genes bestowed upon him at birth are still totally unfair. You ignored him. When he came over to you, you were short and rude while he tried to make conversation. You were totally uninterested, and then somehow you were on a punishingly quiet drive on your way to his place.
The awkwardness doesn’t last long. You go inside, Steve says something about drinks in the fridge if you want one, and you’re tangled up on his couch in thirty seconds flat.
You kiss Steve roughly, meanly, unsure if you’re trying to punish him or yourself. Steve opens his mouth to you and lets you take what you want, his hand climbing up your side. When it slips under your shirt to cup your bra, you snatch his wrist.
“No,” you say, firmly. “Yours first.”
To your surprise, Steve doesn’t so much as blink at the demand. He stands to rip his shirt over his head, and—you’ve got to give him credit for his efficiency—his jeans fall to the floor a moment later.
You tilt your head. Steve Harrington, a boxers guy. Interesting.
You don’t give him any time to ask the same of you. You tug him back down onto the couch, taking in a startled breath when Steve fits his knee in between your thighs.
“You’re so pretty.” He breathes the words into your mouth like a secret. Hot indignation flows through you. Of course he would think you need that from him. Every girl wants to hear that Steve Harrington thinks they’re pretty, don’t they?
You push your tongue past his teeth to shut him up.
Steve makes a sound—he moans—and your eyes fly open. Steve doesn’t seem self-conscious in the least. In fact, he does nothing to keep his boner from pressing into your stomach as he worms a hand between you, fingering the button of your jeans.
“Can—” He opens his eyes, catching you watching him. Your cheeks flame, but Steve only asks, “Can I?”
You rub your lips together. They have the strange, tingly feeling of having been thoroughly kissed. Instead of answering, you say, “You can’t tell anyone about this.”
You know how it goes with Steve. He hooks up with someone, and the next day Tommy H and Carol and everyone from your class are talking about it—just the fact that they had sex if they’re lucky, the weird birthmark on their butt if they’re not. It doesn’t matter that you’re not in high school anymore. The gossip network in Hawkins still runs the same. You won’t be talked about as another one of Steve Harrington’s conquests.
“Okay,” Steve says.
You frown at him. “I’m serious. You can’t say anything.”
“Yeah, I won’t,” Steve agrees. “So, can I?”
You stare at him a moment longer, unsure whether you should threaten him or something. That went way too easily. After a moment, you grind out, “Fine.”
Steve undoes your jeans, wriggling his fingers under the soft cotton of your underwear. He wets his lips and concentrates for a second, and you jolt out a small gasp when his thumb lands directly on your clit.
“Y’okay?” Steve checks, his mouth going for the exposed bit of clavicle over the collar of your shirt.
“Mhm.” Even the short hum wavers. It’s humiliating.
You don’t want Steve to have this power over you. You won’t give him that, won’t let him make you all weak and whiny just because he’s good with his hands. You shouldn’t even be here. But you are, and you’ve already committed to this, so there’s only one way you can think to make things even.
Steve grunts when you press your hand to the shape of him, feeling him through his boxers. His mouth grows more fervid on your skin. Not meaner, to your disappointment, only sloppier. Wet, open-mouthed kisses that won’t leave much of a mark and yet have you tilting your head to the side for more anyways.
You rub against him more purposefully in retaliation, and then Steve chokes out a gasp, twitching away from you.
“Wait—” he pants. “I want—I really want to eat you out. Is that okay?”
You blink up at him. You feel sure you’ve heard him wrong, but every way you play it back, Steve doesn’t say anything different.
“Okay,” you hear yourself reply.
“Okay.” Something about Steve seems to relax, and you can’t find any reasonable explanation for that, but then he’s sitting up and taking the waist of your jeans in his hand. “Okay, here, let me help.”
It shouldn’t surprise you that Steve is good at getting girls’ pants off. You do appreciate that he makes it easier than it would have been for you to do, though, and he takes your underwear with them so there’s nothing in between you when he swings your legs up over his shoulders and gets to work.
Instantly, your teeth are buried in your bottom lip. You reach for something—anything—to steady yourself, your fingers curling around the corner of a frustratingly plush throw pillow. Jesus fucking Christ, who taught him this?
Steve adjusts you as he goes, hiking you up further on his shoulders, palming your buttcheek and moving it to give himself more room. After a while, when your brain is fuzzy and you can feel your heartbeat in Steve’s mouth, his hand starts to make its way up your torso again. Brown eyes turn up to yours, asking.
“Fuck it,” you mutter, furious with yourself. Your bra comes off with a few uncomfortable twisting movements, and then Steve’s hand is diving under your shirt, cupping your breast purposefully.
You swallow a moan. Steve doesn’t bother.
He moans again when you burrow your fingers in his hair—it’s a nice texture, regrettably—to urge him closer. His sounds reverberate up through you like the knoll of a bell. You tremble as he tightens his grip on you as though to keep you steady.
“Fuck,” you whine. It feels cruel, the combination of who Steve is and what he can apparently do to you. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction. You don’t.
Tears prick your eyes. Your voice becomes a breathless, unchecked outlet for your nonsensical stream-of-consciousness.
“Wait—I’m gonna—shit, Steve—”
Steve hums questioningly into your cunt—though you think he knows, the asshole—and the last of your self-control shatters.
The journey back to reality is a slow one. You think you say a few more nonsensical, probably embarrassing things, which you’re lucky enough not to hear. You definitely curl your fingers in Steve’s hair like you’re trying to tear it out at the roots. When the wave of bliss washes away from you, dread and despair are waiting to take its place.
You’ve just let Steve Harrington between your legs. You whined at him, and you came for him, and you just took him at his word that he wouldn’t turn around and be all Steve Harrington about it. You must be a new breed of idiot.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“Hey.” A warm hand rubs the outside of your thigh. “Everything okay?”
When you open them again, Steve Harrington is still beneath you. And…right.
Listen, you don’t know if you’re going to let him put his dick in you (you definitely want to, but that might be a psychological problem you should deal with at another time). You do know, however, that as spiteful, and selfish, and generally unpleasant as you can be, you’re not going to leave here without getting Steve off. You give as good as you get.
Without answering his question, you meet Steve’s eyes and reach for his boxers. Only, they’re already wet.
Your brain buffers.
Steve’s expression twinges, and it’s something not quite sheepish. It’s almost shy. And you can’t—it doesn’t. It doesn’t make any sense.
You doubt you have a track record like Steve, but you’ve had sex before. Some times better than others, definitely improving as you got older. You know what it’s like to come so hard you can’t see, and to make guys come even harder, and what some don’t like and what they all universally enjoy and everything in between.
You’ve never had one get off from giving you pleasure before.
Just your luck that it’d be Steve fucking Harrington.
Steve wets his lips, and you’re not lucid enough yet to keep your eyes from dropping to the movement. The symmetry of them—plumpness given as liberally to the top as it is to the bottom—is just as insanely attractive as it always has been.
“I might need a minute,” he admits, “if you want to keep going. Can I, uh, get you something to drink?”
You think maybe you should have one. Your mouth is a desert. You try to picture yourself in Steve Harrington’s kitchen. Will he fuck you there, if you let him? In a place like this, they probably have a maid. You’re going to want to clean up after yourself, but Steve probably won’t have any reservations about you sitting naked on the counter, or even using the angle to make sure you beat him to the punch this time around. Or maybe, you’ll get your something to drink and he’ll wrap your legs around his waist and carry you to his bed. The thought of it—Steve’s bed, with all its associated mythology—doesn’t feel so intimidating as it did when you arrived.
You bite the inside of your lip, watching him sit up from between your legs. Steve’s mouth is still wet with you. “Sure,” you hear yourself answer.
hey lovely hope you’re doing well!! was wondering if we could get a clark hurt/comfort fic, maybe of him and reader having an argument and she accidentally flinches and clark being absolutely horrified and groveling on his knees to apologise. just some real soft and gentle clark cause we love soft and gentle men in this house 🤍
sidenote: love your writing, always excited to read whatever you post xx
thank you for your request :⋆ fem, 1.2k
ambiguous themes of past abuse
It’s not about politics, or your interrelationship dynamics. It’s not about chores, or work, or money. The argument started when Clark was in a bad mood and you a worse one, and nobody called time out, so you’re fighting and getting angry at each other for sounding cruel, and Clark just– he laughs. He laughs at you. You’re saying, “I don’t understand why you’re making this into an argument when we both know you’re not prepared to listen to me,” and he laughs loudly and sharply. He is suddenly very tall.
His hand hits his belt buckle and the sound makes you flinch. It’s not as full-bodied as it could’ve been, more a cringe into yourself with your head snapping sideways and downward. You don’t keep your head down, you straighten up and clench your thighs, eyes squinted nervously at his hand, and his belt.
You do not believe Clark would ever take that belt off and hurt you with it. Clark wouldn’t lay a finger on you. He couldn’t. It’s not how Clark Kent was built to function. Your heart skips, though, and he goes very still.
“Is that funny?” you ask.
“What– of course not.”
His voice has lost all of its colour. Any anger or annoyance has gone pale, leaving him with a voice like a man in the sun, parched for water. He clears his throat, his eyebrows pinching down again into a shade of fury you really don’t like.
He softens again.
It’s not his fault, but you’re on edge. You cross your hands over your chest and fawn, because you– you don’t know, Clark won’t hit you and you know he won’t hit you but you don’t want him to hit you, which comes first.
“Can we just forget about it?” you ask, eyes flitting again to his belt.
“Jesus Christ, sweetheart,” he says, and he turns around and heads into the kitchen.
When he comes back less than ten seconds later, he’s not wearing his belt, and your eyes begin to feel hot at their stems.
His hands are at his sides, not raised but obviously empty. He crosses the room and stands in front of you, and he takes your face into his hand slowly. You’re inclined to let him. You love him, dramatically but also intrinsically, and it means you trust him even when your brain sees a pattern it shouldn’t have. You feel silly, and his gentle action lets your heart rest.
Clark really wouldn’t hurt you.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
“For what?” You match his volume, and his weak tone.
“Sorry beyond words.”
“It’s okay, Clark. You just– I don’t like to be laughed at, you know that.”
“It was cruel, but it’s not why I’m sorry now. Gosh, can you forgive me?”
You don’t have time to think of the answer as his hand lowers, his thumb rubbing your cheek, and Clark takes a knee in front of you. He’s so tall it doesn’t actually make him small, but it puts him at eye level now, and his agony is plainly written. He looks so guilty. You aren’t sure what to do in the face of his reaction. You squirm back in your seat but cover his hand on your face to keep, worried he’ll pull away.
“You can’t laugh at me,” you say, your voice growing tight as though there’s fingers pressing against your windpipe, “you know I can’t stand it, you made me feel stupid.”
He squeezes his eyes closed. “I’m sorry.”
“We need to be able to talk about things without it turning into such a mean argument, Clark. I’m sorry, too, for not stopping it.”
“Honey, you’re right, but you– you know you just looked at me like you thought I was gonna hurt you, right?”
You fall silent.
Clark’s eyes are squinted in pity, or softness, or a place between those two things. “I didn’t mean to scare you, and I wasn’t trying to emphasise anything to you, not my belt, and not my stance, none of it. I never, ever meant to scare you, and I’m so sorry. I never want you to feel scared like that when you’re with me.”
“Clark…”
“What, honey?” he asks, still so quietly.
It always feels like this, feeling cornered, explaining why. If you accept his apology you admit that he’s right, that he scared you, that your brain found a pathway and followed it to failure.
You will not cry. You bite your cheek so hard you taste blood, because this will not become a thing. “Clark, it wasn’t like that.”
“Baby, I saw you. I could see how much I worried you.”
“No,” you say, your jaw tough like you’ve been chewing on cud all day, “I just wasn’t expecting the noise.”
He is quiet for long enough to make you nauseous.
His hand slips down your cheek, retreating in a half-curled fist on your thigh. Any other moment, you’d expect him to sound incensed, he gets so passionate, but right now his voice doesn’t go above a murmur. “I’m sorry I got mad at you, and I’m sorry you were mad at me.”
You wish he were sitting on the sofa. Let you fold into his lap, cry against his thighs. This is now how you’d like to be positioned, yet Clark seems insistent he stay there just below you, patient and quiet if squirmy, wanting to say more and worried he’ll overwhelm you.
You know your Clark.
“Do you think you’d hit me?” you ask softly.
“Never.”
“You swear?” you ask, like it does anything at all to be promised.
Still, Clark rubs each of your thighs nicely with the flat breadth of his palms. “I swear. I shouldn’t have let myself get agitated, and I was careless. I know you need a soft touch– please, just listen.” You close your mouth. “You need a softer touch sometimes, it is not a shameful thing to need. I didn’t say it to embarrass you.”
“Well, what if you did hit me, Clark? It’s not like I could stop you.”
It feels mean after you’ve said it, like the insinuation that he’s going to do just that, hurt you because he can and you can’t stop it, but Clark doesn’t take it that way, he just lets his hands travel up your legs. He’s sunken further into the carpet, reduced and reduced until he’s practically got his forehead on your knees.
“I won’t let anybody put their hands on you, least of all me,” he says quietly, his eyes just a little wet.
You say sorry the only way you can—you press your face to the top of his head and breathe in the smell of his hair. “I know you wouldn’t,” you say.
“I won’t laugh at you again.”
“Laugh at me, Clark, what does it matter? What a stupid argument.”
Clark is sorrier than he needs to be, maybe. While he did make you flinch, it wasn’t that your nervous system held any evidence against him, it was pure fight or flight at a bad time. You ask if he can sit on the couch, if you can curl into his lap, and Clark doesn’t make you feel bad for needing to be touched nicely while your heart flips up and down.
He doesn’t wear a belt for days, until you tell him it’s alright.
Eddie Munson, who looks feral enough some days that you’d believe he chomps down on rare beef without chewing, is actually only still alive because of sweet potatoes.
When he'd first arrived on his doorstep, three foster families in and nearly silent, Wayne had been pretty focused on just keeping him alive. There wasn’t a lot of extra cash floating around most weeks, but what he had, he spent on random treats he assumed kids liked. Colourful packages of cookies, cereal boxes with insanely dressed cartoons on them, and pastries that somehow tasted decent from the toaster.
Eddie wouldn’t eat any of them.
Wayne was at a loss. He’d thought, at 40, that he was never gonna be a father. Hadn’t prepared his life for the care and feeding of another living being. He didn’t even have a cat. There were things that people…like him. Well, they just weren’t meant to have families of their own. It was fine. He’d filled his life differently. But it meant that when his idiot kid brother fucked up once again, and his son had started floating around the universe, well. It didn't matter that he wasn't really ready. Wayne was hardly going to let that stand.
And Eddie wasn’t weak. He was hilarious and caring, a little firecracker of a kid who knew what he liked and wasn’t afraid to tell you. Wayne was enamoured; every day with an eight-year-old was an adventure he’d never anticipated having.
But he could not get the kid to eat.
He’d pick at anything Wayne handed him, politely taking bites every now and again. He was obviously eating enough to stay alive, but there was no excitement about food. None of the kid staples seemed to work.
Finally, in desperation, he just sets Eddie loose in the grocery store and tells him to pick whatever he wants. He anticipates regretting this choice. But Eddie, who is never shy, comes back with a single produce bag of lumpy, small sweet potatoes.
“These are my favourites,” he says quietly, placing them in Wayne’s basket. “Orange taters. Don’t know how to make ‘em, though.”
“No problem, kid,” Wayne says, baffled. “I’ll show you. We can make them together. Want anything else?”
“Nah, you cook good. Just missed orange taters.”
This is how Wayne discovers that his sister-in-law had never cooked anything that wasn’t frozen or from a box. A tiny detail, but it explained so much about Eddie’s relationship with food.
“Orange taters it is,” Wayne said, grabbing a few more.
That night, Wayne sliced up the sweet potatoes, tossed them with a little oil and salt, and roasted them until the edges caramelized. Eddie’s eyes lit up when Wayne set the plate in front of him. The kid devoured them, asking for seconds before Wayne had even sat down with his own portion.
After that, sweet potatoes became a staple. Wayne learned every possible way to prepare them; mashed with a little cinnamon, cut into fries, baked whole with butter melting into their centers. Eddie would eat anything if sweet potatoes were involved. Wayne started sneaking other vegetables alongside them, watching as Eddie’s hollow cheeks filled. Watching as Eddie opened up, taught Wayne how to freely be exactly who you were. Watching as Eddie took over cooking, preparing more vegetables than Wayne had ever known were available, like a five-star chef, dragging home library books of new information.
Seventeen years later, he can’t help but remember that little boy in the grocery store as he watches Eddie nervously fly around the kitchen of their little townhouse. It’s home now; now that his son had come back to him, now that he knew life was even more complicated than he’d thought. It was nice. Big enough for a family of two.
“You know he already likes you, right?” he teases, grabbing a second mug of coffee as Eddie flourishes a towel.
“Unc. Please. Not now. This is the most important meal I have ever cooked.”
“Sure,” he snorts. “Cuz that kid ain’t gonna say yes if he doesn’t like the pot roast. He already lives here.”
“Wayne,” Eddie says seriously, freezing.
Wayne raises his hands. “Sweet potatoes are burning.”
He dips out of the kitchen before the tea towel hits him in the back. He knows that everything will be fine. He’s excited, actually, to have both his kids in the same place. Cuz Steve Harrington, who’d never had much of a family of his own either? Yeah.
Eddie’s not normal about your stomach. He’s not particularly normal about anything, to be fair, but the way he feels about this is something beyond mere enthusiasm or keenness or admiration.
This is more… zealous.
It feels like he’s a religious fanatic, like a military extremist, like a radical activist.
When you first get up in the morning and the hem on your shirt has rolled a little and you’re in those sweatpants he loves, the ones that are already a bit big on you and only get bigger after you’ve slept in them, he kind of loses his mind.
They get slouchier, baggier. Hang lower on your waist to reveal that sliver of your navel that makes Eddie’s rational human brain go bye-bye and lets the primal monkey side of him run rampant.
He loves to stand behind you and run his fingers along the waistband, just one dipping behind the elastic to tease the impossibly soft skin there. He lifts your shirt up a little higher and runs his palm across your belly, relishing in its expanse and the way it flexes with the breath you draw in.
He traces aimless lines and amorphous shapes, things that might make letters to an alien species, and writes a sonnet about all the ways he adores you. His other hand comes across from the other side, just rubbing the warm skin underneath your shirt, almost like he’s trying to scoop some of it up to carry around with him all day.
His lips nuzzle the back of your neck, the frizz of his bedhead tickling its nape, making you shiver.
But instead of squirming away, you flex in.
woke up and my stomach looked cute, thought somebody ought to appreciate it 😌
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