no life express

she/they 18+ - MINORS DNI - i beg of you - fic recs from ramennoodlie -

[noodlie-reads]

if u think i’m pretty . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ lay ur hands on me

tallie/noodlie  • mid-20s • latina • really into literature

side blog to reblog fics onto; sometimes i write things

bc the only thing i like more than supporting fic authors

is keeping my thirst posts away from anyone who knows me irl

need help finding what you’re looking for?

↡ ↡ ↡ tag guide below ↡ ↡ ↡

currently have recs for:

adrian chase ♡ bruce wayne ♡ clark kent ♡ dick grayson ♡ emilia harcourt ♡ jason todd ♡ tim drake

one shots/drabbles = *insert name* recs

multichap fics = *insert name* fic recs

generic character x you = blorbo recs

visions that plague me = noodlie thinks about: *insert name*

just wanna drool over someone = awooga *insert name*

miscellaneous = noodlie thoughts

honorable mention:

damian wayne is under “dami baby!!!!” bc that’s my son & he’s only 3 apples tall

[noodlie-reads]

hello it’s been awhile!

3 things:

1) just rewatched Superman bc I needed a pick me up, as things are bleak rn, and I am still very in love with Clark Kent

2) i’m going to start working on jealous type again in February🥹

3) ty for your patience and all the love my writing is still getting ily and i hope you’re safe and healthy

[kittyflanders]

Tangled ; Eddie Munson x Reader

summary: One lazy summer day, Eddie discovers something new about you when his rings get tangled in your hair.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 1.5K | female reader, established relationship, smut, use of pet names (princess, sweetheart, baby, etc.), light praise, no use of y/n, hair pulling kink, soft dom Eddie if you squint, fingering, p in v, doggy style.

a/n: this was an anon request! I hope you enjoy, wherever you are! divider by @/strangergraphics!!

fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

It started out innocently. Really. It did. 

A warm, summer breeze drifts through the trailer. The two of you sit on his mattress, sheets strewn about, and your bodies snuggled together like the lovebirds you are. Wayne’s out of town, so you’ve been spending as many nights at his house as you can, sleeping in his bed and waking up in his hot, bare arms. You wouldn’t trade that feeling for the world, if anyone offered. 

Today, you’re lazily thumbing through a copy of Teen Beat. He’s sloppily sketching out ideas for his next campaign with his left hand, and absent-mindedly, the ringed fingers of his right hand play with strands of your hair, twirling them around his digits. A sudden pain erupts over your scalp, sending a bolt of electricity right to your core. Feeling sudden resistance, Eddie panics, pulling his hand away, which pulls your hair harder. He’s snagged a knot on one of his rings; specifically, the pig. 

“Shit-shit-sorr–!” 

As he yanks away, you tilt your head back to lean into him, a lewd, high-pitched moan falling from your mouth. So lewd, that Eddie freezes mid-pull, and looks at you, brows high on his forehead. You immediately clap your hand over your mouth, as if that could take it back. 

“What… was that?”

“Ummm… I… it hurt.” 

He smirks, his full pink lips spreading across his teeth. “That didn’t sound like it hurt, princess.”

In one strong movement, Eddie has you on top of him, straddling him. Like a serpent, his hand slowly slithers up your spine, to the nape of your neck and into your hair. He makes a fist in the soft tresses and tugs softly, not enough to hurt, but enough to elicit another reaction from you.. The reaction is similar; your eyes roll back in your head, and your thighs squeeze his as you try to clamp them together. A desperate little whining sound comes from your mouth, and Eddie, beneath you, is absolutely beaming. 

“Someone likes their hair pulled, I see.” He has that dominant, theatric voice he uses in campaigns. Damn him.

You scramble, trying to defend yourself. “I do not! It's just… I was…” 

“Uh-huh, you were uh-huh.” He teases and tugs again, a little bit harder than before. This time, you bite your lip, your hands finding and gripping his bare shoulders. 

“Eddie, stop…!” You plead, though it sounds as fake as it feels. He’s too smart to believe that. 

The look in his pretty, chocolatey brown eyes says everything; he’s not going to let up until you admit it. He grips your hair at the back of your skull, tugging it tight and pulling your head back slightly. Your jaw drops, your eyelids fluttering shut. Between your legs, you can already feel the telltale throbbing, the damp heat accumulating. His voice is low and lusty, something he knows is a weakness of yours. He could get you going just by talking, but when he uses that particular voice… you’re done for. 

“Sweetheart, c’mon… look at you. You’re practically coming undone just like this. You know you don’t need to be shy around me…” He pulls again, and you whimper. 

“Eddie….” you mewl, squeezing your eyes shut tightly. You feel his free hand tap your jaw a few times, bringing you back to him. He knows that you close your eyes to avoid dealing with things – another way you can’t weasel out. 

“Ah-ah. Eyes on me, baby.” 

You lock eyes with him, and your resolve crumbles. He’s giving you that look, the one that oozes mischief, playfulness and hunger, the one he gives you right before he pounces on you, tackling you to the bed. 

You take a big breath, and say it all in one breath. “Okay, fine, that felt really good and it turned me on. Happy now?” 

“Immeasurably.” 

Eddie brings your body closer to him, guiding you right to his waiting lips. You’re glad you’re already on your knees, because the kiss that he plants on you is enough to bring you there if you weren’t. It’s loaded with a newfound hunger; he loves finding out things about you. Even though you two have been dating for a few months now, he always thinks you’re like a little puzzle box, spring loaded with secret compartments that hold more untold secrets. The hair pulling was one of them. 

“Let’s put it to the test, shall we?” 

He drums out a little rhythm on the fullness of your hips, urging you up off him. You flop over backwards onto the bed, onto your elbows, and watch him as he crawls on all fours towards you. As he does, he frees his swelling erection. Only clad in a pair of plaid boxers, he doesn’t have much to shed. Neither do you, for that matter, as you’re in a cute little nightgown and nothing else. Eddie pushes the satin up your thighs, revealing your glistening cunt. 

“Sweetheart, sweetheart…. Look at this.” He runs a single finger along your slit, and your body shudders. “Such a mess.” 

Though he doesn’t need any help getting himself hard, one hand wraps around his cock, pumping it slowly in and out of his fist as he gazes over your body. There’s something so… domestic about the way you’re looking at him, waiting for him to fuck you. He exhales through his nose, smiling, and leans forward to press a kiss to your bare stomach. His finger ghosts a path down your tummy, all the way to the soft mound between your legs. Gradually, he teases your entrance, spreading your arousal over your folds until you’re coated in it.  He brings his thumb down over your clit and traces it in tight circles, pleasuring you until your thighs start to quiver – his favorite thing. Quivering like a scared little bunny in his hands… drives him crazy. You blindly reach for his forearm, feeling for the warm skin. God damn guitar players…. Their stupid nimble fingers….

“Turn around, pretty girl,” he hums.

You’re more than eager to complete his request, flipping over onto all fours. You lower yourself back down onto your elbows and in doing so, stick your ass up for him to admire. Tenderly, Eddie reaches forward to gather all your hair into a ponytail before giving it a firm tug. Your whole body spasms with pleasure; your cunt throbs and your back arches up into a tantalizing curve. 

“Fuck,” Eddie grunts from behind you, lining the leaking, flushed tip of his cock up with your waiting slit. The head nudges your folds, twitching against them in anticipation. You brace yourself, taking fistfuls of the sheet below you. “Ready, baby?” 

You nod against the mattress.

“Words, princess. We talked about this.” 

“Mhm…. please fuck me, Eddie. I wanna’ feel you…” 

That’s all he needs. He sinks himself inside of you, until his torso is pressed against the firm curve of your ass. The feeling of his cock is always enough to get you off – it always does. But when Eddie tightens his fist around your ponytail and yanks it hard, you let out a moan that is loud enough to rattle the trailer’s windows. He finds his rhythm easily, rutting his hips furiously against your ass and keeps a firm grip on your hair, almost using it as leverage to pull into you. 

“Fuck, fuck… oh my god…. Oh my god, Eddie!!” 

He pulls harder, and a melange of pain and pleasure erupts at the crown of your head – you swear you’re seeing stars at this point. 

“You like that, baby? Huh?” Eddie asks, breathlessly. 

“Yeaaaah…!” A pressure builds above your sopping cunt, feeling white hot. The room is filled with the sounds of skin against skin, and the wet, slick sounds of your cunt as Eddie buries himself inside you. The air is heavy with the scent of sex and you’re breathing it in deeply, each of your breaths laboured and loud.

“Fuck yeah, baby… oh fuck…” 

Eddie thrusts hard, burying himself to the hilt and pulls back out, admiring the way your pussy clenches around him like it’s trying to pull him back in. His cock aches, you know it does, because the few seconds spent away from your cunt, you can hear him stroking himself, nudging your entrance with the cockhead. He’s trying not to come. He’s edging himself. Something he only did when he was really worked up. 

“I’m gonna’... Eddie, I’m gonna’ come… fuck me.” 

Wasting no time, Eddie sheaths himself back inside, and presses his stomach against your back, angling his lips next to your ear. He pulls hard on your hair, and you bend your neck back, screaming out in ecstasy. Hot, erotic tears prick the corners of your eyes as Eddie pulls, fucking into like his life depends on it. When he finally speaks, it’s a hissed whisper, and sends a chill down your spine. 

“You like that, huh? My good girl likes her hair pulled, doesn’t she?” 

“Yes, yes! GOD! YES!” 

Your cunt clenches around him like a vice, warm and slick, as your orgasm washes over you. Eddie feels it – but he doesn’t stop thrusting. He chases his own orgasm, humping you feverishly, and in doing so, pulls another screaming two orgasms from you. He laughs breathily as his thrusts slow, hips rolling against the curve of your ass. You can hear the smile in his laugh, and collapse against the sheet. 

“I learn something new about you every day, princess. Every damn day.”

[sweartochangetheworld]

Safe Space.

Pairings: Eddie Munson X Reader.

Word count: 12.3k

Summary: When Dustin, your roommate, makes the decision to move out and in with his girlfriend, he decides to take matters into his own hands when it comes to finding you a new roommate. Only too bad for you, it’s the messy Metalhead you can’t stand.

Warnings: 18+ content. MDNI. No use of y/n, reader hates Eddie, the feelings mutual. You both are jerks to eachother. Close proximity. Passive aggressive comments. Very brief light spice (if you squint enough). Jealousy. Enemies to lovers.

Authors note: I just really love enemies to lovers. And close proximity. Why not have both? Again, sorry for weird formatting. Blame tumblr.

—

Today was the day. Little Dusty-bun was finally moving in with his girlfriend. His room had been packed for over two weeks. Him living out of a duffle bag in the meantime. He was so excited and didn’t know where to put that energy, so he decided to put it to good use and get a head start on packing. Now, you stood with him in his empty room, your arm lazily thrown over his shoulder.

“I can’t believe you and Suzie are finally doing this.”

He beamed a bright smile and took in the view. “I know. And later today, I get to pick her up from the airport.”

You could practically feel the excited vibrations radiating off of him. “Well then, let’s hurry up and get your shit to your new place and start unpacking, that way she has some sort of home to walk in to.”

You didn’t want to rain on his parade, but you knew with this day finally being here, that means the day Munson moved in was literally right around the corner.

—

Dustin hovered in your bedroom doorway, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.

You were sprawled on your stomach, a pencil in one hand and a half-mangled cassette in the other, trying to rewind the tape your Lasonic boombox had tried to eat.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he finally asked, voice pitched just a little too high, nerves bleeding through.

It startled you, but you set the cassette down and rolled onto your back to look at him. “What’s up, Dust?”

He sighed, then stepped fully into the room and perched on the edge of your bed like he wasn’t sure he belonged there.

“Safe space?”

You raised an eyebrow. Safe space. The phrase you and Dustin invented for the heavy stuff—the conversations that pressed on your ribs until you let them out. Living together meant bumping into each other’s moods and misunderstandings on a near-daily basis, and neither of you wanted to repeat the early days of slammed doors and passive-aggressive Post-it notes. So you came up with a code. A truce flag.

You straightened, crossing your legs, hands looping loosely around your ankles. “Of course. You have it.”

“Promise you won’t get mad?” He offered his pinky, holding it out like a peace offering. You hesitated, then hooked your finger gently around his.

“Okay. Spill.”

He inhaled. “I’m moving out. Suzie’s coming to Hawkins in two months…and we’re getting a place together.”

The squeal escaped before you could stop it. You surged forward and pulled him into a hug. “Dustin! That’s amazing! I’m so happy for you!”

He laughed, but only for a beat. His gaze dropped to his sneakers. “Yeah, well… try to keep that same energy.” He scrubbed a hand through his curls. “We re-signed our lease recently. I’m not gonna screw you over and make you pay for everything alone. So I started looking for someone to sublet. Someone to take my half.”

“Okay…?” you prompted.

He winced. “And the only person I could find was Eddie.”

Your stomach plummeted. You let yourself fall backward, arms spread, sinking into the mattress like it might cushion the blow. “Dustin. Please tell me you didn’t already make it official.”

“Yeah…” He gave you a sheepish, guilty little smile. “Also, I… already spoke to the landlord. Eddie moves in the day after I leave.”

You don’t know what it was about Eddie, but he just rubbed you the wrong way. Too loud, too chaotic, too… just unserious about life. You and Eddie had a few classes together. You were a freshman when he was a junior. And somehow, you two still walked the stage together.

You only knew him because of Dustin. Being friends with Steve— for some odd reason, that boy always had a gaggle of children around him. It just so happened, you took a liking to the short one of the group. It also just so happened, that short one took a liking to that particular metalhead you couldn’t stand.

It wasn’t some big secret either. Whenever you two were around each other, sparks flew. And not in the good way. It was like throwing water onto a grease fire. Any opinion you had, he’d fight you on it. Even when it aligned with his own. You wore a band tee? He’d spend X amount of time telling you why they were sellouts. Think a movie is good? It’s just a rip off and the acting in it sucks. Wanted to order food? Immediate goes into how it’s disgusting and would kill you at a young age.

As if he was treating his body like a temple.

You have never seen someone chain smoke the way he did. Never met someone who constantly kept rolled joints in an altoids tin, that felt the need to smoke before any occasion. Not to mention the amount of underage drinking, which just continued and got worse after he turned 21.

And now? Now you’re gonna have to share your personal space with him. You and Dustin did a fantastic job of existing in each other’s space. No one was uncomfortable in the common areas, no one got upset if the other felt like shutting themselves away in their room. And now you already know you’re going to be in your room when you’re home. Anything to stay away from him.

—

A week later, and you’ve determined Dustin was the best roommate you’ve ever had. You’ve also determined, you’re gonna kill him the next time you see him.

You’ve been trying to avoid Eddie. You tried to swap pleasantries when he first showed up in his shitty van that was two seconds away from shitting the bed. He just grumbled past you, taking a box to his room.

Part of you had wanted to get along, to ease any guilt Dustin may had been feeling, but fuck that guy.

He comes and goes at all hours, slamming doors, stomping his dirty combat boots. The house will probably reek of skunk for the next 10 years. He leaves his strands of hair stuck to the shower wall, one morning you went in and there was even a picture drawn out in them. Your leftovers that mysteriously go missing, as if he’s not standing five feet in front of you, grin plastered on his face, while eating out of a takeout container that clearly has your name written on it. The fact he will use up all but one tablespoon of milk or all but one square of toilet paper, just to avoid buying more.

The only good things that come out of this? Cheaper rent and his loud music. Sure, there are a few songs you don’t like, or even never heard, but about ninety percent, you can sing along to and even name the band.

You liked him most when he’s sleeping, that’s for sure.

—

“Oh, come on, he can’t be that bad.”

You huffed, shifting your phone to the other ear as you sank deeper into the couch cushions, searching for a comfortable position and finding none—much like your current living situation.

“Robs, this is just the tip of the iceberg. How am I supposed to survive nine months of this?”

“Why didn’t Dustin talk to you first about who your potential roommate was? He didn’t even ask me! I would have left Doofus to live with you. Eddie could’ve moved in here.”

You groaned and dropped your head back. “You think it’s too late to arrange that?”

Before she could even start her dramatic rant, the unmistakable jingle of keys hit the front door. You shot upright, panic flaring.

“Gotta go,” you rushed out, hanging up before she could answer. You didn’t want to openly talk shit about him. Besides, you’d be on the phone with her all night if you did.

Eddie stepped inside, a grocery bag dangling from one tattooed hand, his hair a mess like he decided to stick his head out the window as he drove down the highway. He kicked the door shut behind him, boots thudding louder than necessary—as if the universe wanted to remind you that yes, you lived with this.

He spotted you on the couch and groaned under his breath. “Oh, good,” He muttered. “You’re home.”

You rolled your eyes and focused on your phone's screen, as if to look busy. “And you’re loud. But yes, people tend to be home at ten PM when they have to work the next morning.”

He raised a brow like you were the unreasonable one. “I walked in the door. The fuck you mean I’m loud?”

You ignored him, reaching to grab your book off the coffee table.

He scoffed, moving past you, the faint smell of the crisp outside air and cigarettes trailing behind him. “Right. I’ll try to enter my own home more gently next time, princess.”

“That would be appreciated.” You mumbled, finding it hard to concentrate on the words in front of you.

Eddie rolled his eyes and disappeared into the kitchen, cabinet doors opening and closing with a little more force than necessary. Because of course he had to make a point.

—

Days passed like that—small, stupid battles that stacked on top of each other until the air in the house hummed with irritation. The exact thing you used ‘safe space’ to avoid.

You walked into the living room to find him sprawled across the entire couch, one booted foot planted firmly on the rug, the other was propped up in the cushion, headphones on as he tapped a drum solo on his thigh.

“You know,” You said as you crossed your arms. Eddie slid one headphone down. “most people take their shoes off when they decide to be lazy on the couch.”

His eyebrows lifted and there was a faint smile on his lips.“You think I’m like most people?”

“Not even a little.”

He chuckled and put the headphone back on. “Then stop expecting miracles, sweetheart.”

—

You got up early for work. Only to find he’d used the last of the coffee. You stared at the empty canister for a solid five seconds before yelling, “MUNSON!”

He appeared in the hallway, towel around his waist, hair dripping, utterly unbothered. “What?”

“You used all of it.” You slammed the canister on the counter and turned to face him.

“Oh.” He shrugged. “My bad.”

“That’s it? ‘My bad’? This is literally the one thing I look forward to in a day.”

“You’ve got dramatic little princess energy, you know that? Also, that’s really sad.”

You threw a spoon at him. He dodged it. You scowled. He laughed.

—

He accused you of stealing his lighter.

You accused him of eating too loud.

He muttered something about “high-maintenance gremlins.”

You called him a “sentient pile of laundry.”

You both slammed doors.

—

You came home to find he’d left his jacket on the floor again, only after you had tripped on it, sending your drink and dinner flying onto the hardwood floor.

You grabbed it, marched to his room, and threw it at him.“Put your crap where it belongs!”

Eddie blinked, sitting at his desk. “It was where it belongs. Until you threw it.”

“Do you ever clean anything?”

“Do you ever not nag?”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Do you ever relax?”

The silence stretched. You glared at each other.

He smirked first. “Didn’t think so.”

You flipped him off on your way out.

—

Somewhere along the line, the snide remarks became the language of the house.

Eddie walked in late one night, tossing his keys into the bowl by the door. “You left your shoes in the hall again. Almost broke my neck.”

You left them there on purpose. Like a taste of his own medicine. “Damn,” You said sweetly, not looking up from your book as you sat on the couch. “So close.”

He snorted. “You’d miss me.”

“Oh baby, don't tease me with a good time.” You finally glanced up and caught the way he paused.

Just a flicker. Barely there. But you saw it.

“Oh?” he drawled, sauntering closer, shrugging off his jacket. “Didn’t know my potential death was…” he quickly looked your body up and down. “exciting for you.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the sudden tightness in your chest. “Please. Not everything’s about you.”

He leaned a hip against the arm of the couch. “Feels like it is sometimes.”

“You’re delusional. I just miss my peace.”

“Mmm.” His gaze swept your face—too slow, too deliberate. “If you say so.”

He pushed off the couch and walked past you toward the kitchen. But he glanced back once.

—

You found Eddie in the kitchen one morning, shirtless, hair damp, coffee mug in hand.

You froze mid-step. He noticed. Of course he noticed.

“Morning, princess.” He said, smirking into his mug.

“Put a shirt on.” You snapped, walking past him.

“Why? Am I distracting you?”

“You wish.”

He chuckled low in his chest. “Oh, I don’t have to wish.”

You accidentally bumped his shoulder on your way to the fridge. Accidentally. Probably. But he didn’t move. Just followed you with his eyes as you moved.

He let you brush against him, let your arm skim his, let your breath catch. He heard it. You knew he did. He didn’t call you out on it. Which somehow made it worse.

—

The hot water ran out mid-shower. Your scream echoed down the hall.

Eddie knocked on the bathroom door, laughing. “Cold shower? Tragic.”

“I swear to God, Munson-“

“Maybe you should’ve woken up early. My shower was amaaazzzing.” He sang-song the last word before he continued laughing.

You quickly wrapped a towel around your frame before ripping the door open.

His laughter died in his throat as he stared down at you. Water droplets running down your body. His eyes were wide and you could see his Adam’s Apple bob when he tried to swallow.

“I just want one morning that isn’t impacted by you.” You pushed past him, purposely hitting him with your shoulder as you walked to your room.

—

Movie night on the couch—because Robin forced both of you to “bond,” supervised by a mutual friend who bailed five minutes in. Using poor Steve as an excuse.

“He sent me the code word! The one we use when we have to rescue each other from a date!”

You and Eddie ended up on opposite ends of the couch. But the couch wasn’t that big. Your leg brushed his when you stretched out.

You pretended not to notice. He didn’t move away. He raised an eyebrow at you instead.

“You’re twitchy.” He whispered.

“You’re annoying.”

Then, softer, almost in a way you had never heard from him before. “Tell me if you want me to move.”

You swallowed. “No,” you said too quickly. “You’re fine.”

He hummed, like he knew exactly what that meant. And he did not stop stealing glances of you for the rest of the movie.

—

You were cooking dinner. Eddie came up behind you to reach a cabinet above your head.

He could’ve asked you to move. He didn’t.

He stepped in close—body warm behind yours, his arm lifting over your shoulder, chest brushing your back. Every muscle tensed.

“Relax,” he murmured. “Just grabbing us plates.”

“You could ask me to move.” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, you could practically hear the smile in his voice. “I could’ve.”

You couldn’t breathe for a long moment after he walked away.

—

The snide comments didn’t let up. But now they landed differently. Now they lingered. Now they pulled. Now every argument felt like the wind-up to something else—something heavier, hotter, inevitable.

You threatened to throw his boots out the window. He called your bluff.

Which was, in hindsight, a mistake on his part. Because if there was one thing Eddie Munson hadn’t learned yet, it was that you never made a bet with someone who’d rather die than back down. After that, you had to make good on your promise.

You got one boot successfully out your bedroom window, but before the second even made it to the sill, he caught you.

“I swear to God, Eddie. If I trip over these fucking boots one more time-”

He rounded the corner right as you bent down to grab them, his shadow falling across you. He looked bewildered for a moment, then irritated, then somehow amused all at once.

“You’ll do what?” he demanded, crossing his arms like he was the morally superior one here.

You stopped and stared at him, one dirty boot dangling in your grip like a weapon. Your fingers tightened around it.“I’ll throw them out the window.”

“Oh, please.” He rolled his eyes, leaning a shoulder against the wall like he wasn’t taking this seriously at all. “You wouldn’t fucking dare.”

And that—that—was the moment everything in you shifted. Because your heart jumped a little. Theatrically offended indignation.

He dared you. He actually dared you. He didn’t know you at all.

You stood there, silent, staring at each other for several long seconds. Your brain raced.

He thinks you’re bluffing. You might be a lot of things, but a liar was not on that list. You’re about to become the most dramatic bitch alive.

You didn’t even have to think of your next move. You bolted. You darted to your room, Eddie’s left boot pressed tight to your chest as you sprinted like you were carrying a precious relic instead of his dirt crusted boot.

“You son of a- get back here!”

He was immediately chasing after you, his footsteps thunderous behind you, him sliding on the hardwood floor in his socked feet as he took a corner too fast. You reached your bedroom door and slammed it shut, twisting the lock with a satisfying click. A barrier. A victory.

“Don’t you fucking do it!” He yelled from the other side.

“Shouldn’t have dared me!” You shouted back, feeling triumphant and slightly unhinged.

You yanked the window open, shoved up the screen, and oh—you felt powerful. Like a chaotic goddess holding one smelly offering above the mortal world. And as if Eddie could hear your intentions through the wood, his tone flipped fast.

“Wait-wait, no. Don’t!”

Just for a moment before he returned back to normal with a threat. “I’ll pick your lock if you don’t open this fucking door!”

He sounded genuinely distressed about a boot. That only fueled you. And out it went. You tossed the boot with dramatic flair. It cartwheeled through the air like a tragic, airborne pigeon and disappeared from sight.

You heard Eddie’s footsteps immediately retreating—full sprint, no hesitation—clearly heading for the kitchen to find something to make good on his lock-picking threat.

You used that brief window to slip out of your room and run straight for the living room, aiming for the remaining boot in plain sight. But before you could reach it— Arms wrapped around you from behind.

He lifted you clean off the floor, trapping your arms beneath his like you were a wayward toddler being removed from a display of breakable items.

“I’ll make sure they’re not in your way!” he growled, spinning you around as you kicked your feet helplessly. “Truce! Seriously-truce!”

“Let me go!” you yelled, twisting, half laughing, half still pissed and half… something else. Something irritatingly aware of how solid he felt around you.

Your original anger faltered. It was hard to maintain righteous fury while being held like a wriggling, angry cat. Somewhere between your attempts to wiggle free and his grip tightening to keep you from escaping, your annoyance fizzled and you thought about how ridiculous this whole scene was.

“Agree to the truce and I will!” His voice was breathless, frustrated, close to your ear.

You could feel his chest against your back. Could feel his breath. His laughter that he was trying to stifle as he set your feet back to the floor.

“Fine! Truce!” you snapped.

His arms loosened immediately—and then, the bastard lifted you.

“Eddie-Eddie, don’t you-” He tossed you onto the couch like you weighed nothing. You bounced once, hair flying into your face, dignity nowhere to be found.

He didn’t even look back at you as he headed to the front door to retrieve the tragic boot that had just experienced flight for the first time in its life. You watched him go, heart still racing, cheeks still warm, breath still uneven.

—

It started stupidly. Most of your fights did.

This time, it was the laundry—his band tees draped over the back of the couch for the third day in a row. He treated the living room like it was just an extension of his bedroom.

“Are you actually incapable of putting your clothes in the washer?” you snapped, snatching one up.

Eddie glanced over from the armchair, eyebrow raised. “I wasn’t done wearing that. It still has life left in it.”

“But do you have to keep it in the middle of the living room?”

“Yeah?” He shrugged. “Didn’t know you were the laundry police.”

“Jesus-you’re such a slob.”

He laughed sharply. “And you’re such a pain in my ass.”

You threw the shirt at him. He caught it easily, smirk slipping into something sharper.

“You act like you’re perfect,” he said, pushing up from the chair. “Like everything you do is some gold standard everyone else has to follow.”

“Oh, please. At least I’m not a walking tornado. This place would be a disaster if I didn’t stay on top of it!” you snapped, dragging your hands through your hair in frustration. You jabbed a finger toward the couch, where his crumpled clothes and empty chip bags laid. “Look at this mess! How do you live like this?”

“News flash: you don’t own the place,” he shot back, voice sharp and low. “You don’t get to control everything.”

“I’m not trying to control everything,” you fired, stepping closer, chest rising with every breath. “I just don’t want to live in a pigsty!”

“Oh, here we fucking go,” he muttered, dropping his arms to his sides and closing the distance between you. His presence was overpowering, like a storm rolling in. His gaze pinned you, dark and unrelenting, and for a moment your words caught in your throat.

You mirrored him instinctively, stepping forward until there was barely any space between you. The air felt thick, charged, almost vibrating. Your pulse spiked, your stomach flipped.

“You spend all god damn day complaining about me,” he said, voice low, steady, almost hypnotic, “but you never leave. Ever notice that?”

Your stomach dropped, heat crawling up your neck. “What’re you getting at?” you asked, trying to keep your tone steady—but your voice betrayed you, trembling slightly.

“That maybe you don’t hate me as much as you pretend to.” He said, just close enough that you could see the faint flicker of something dangerous in his eyes, hear the rasp in his voice, smell the faint trace of cigarette smoke.

Your breath caught—not because he was right, but because he was too close. Too deliberately bold.

“Fuck you.” You whispered, your voice barely audible, tight with frustration.

His jaw clenched slowly, the muscles under his skin flexing in a way that made your chest thrum.

“Is that what you need to calm the fuck down?” He asked, voice husky, dragging the words out like a challenge.

Your heart hit your ribs like it was trying to escape. He exhaled hard, running a hand through his messy hair, shaking his head as if he was trying to rid himself of the magnetic tension that had just pulled taut between you.

“Forget it. I’m done with this bullshit.” He said finally, his voice rougher now, layered with something you didn’t dare try to decipher.He grabbed his jacket and flung the door open with a sharp slam. The sound reverberated through the small house, rattling the frames on the wall.

And just like that, the space he left behind seemed impossibly empty. Around you felt too quiet, too still.

Your chest ached, a weird hollow sensation lingering in your stomach. You hated that it bothered you. Hated that your thoughts couldn’t stop replaying the heat of him so close, the raw edge in his eyes, the way your heart had betrayed you with the way it was beating.

You sank onto the edge of the couch, clutching a throw pillow, wishing fiercely that he would come back—or that you could stop thinking about how you wanted him to.

—

The tension hung thick for days—no talking, just clipped movements and avoidance, both of you orbiting around the fight but not touching it. The silence weighed more than the yelling ever did.

You did notice though. There was a small trace of effort. You came home from work, dishes were done. Absolutely no clothes on the floor. Even the dirt by the front door was swept up.

You smiled at the sight of the living room. It was quiet, untouched, almost peaceful. It was the first moment of normalcy in months. And with him being gone, the thought of finally taking a hot shower made your entire body sag with relief.

You grabbed your towel from your bedroom and made a beeline down the hallway, practically jogging before the universe could take the opportunity away from you.

The bathroom was empty. Gloriously, mercifully empty. You shut the door behind you, tossed your clothes into a pile, and stepped under the spray.

The hot water hit you instantly. The steam curling around your shoulders, heat sinking into your muscles, loosening everything that had been tense. Tense from work, tense from your living situation.

You let your head fall back, eyes closed, throat exposed to the warmth. You exhaled slowly, deeply. For a moment, everything melted away and went right down the drain.

No arguing and shouting. No stomping around. No slamming doors. Just water. Just heat. Just you.

When you finally stepped out, the entire bathroom was filled with thick steam. The mirror was completely fogged, nothing but milky white and your faint, blurred outline behind it. Droplets ran down your arms and legs as you wrapped your towel around your chest, tucking it tight beneath your arm.

Your hair dripped down, sending little shocks of cold down your spine as you reached for your lotion on the counter. You propped a leg up on the closed toilet seat and pumped a few spurts of lotion into your palm.

That’s when the door swung open. No knock. No warning. Just a sudden burst of cool air and Eddie’s loud voice, mid-sentence.

“Hey! Do you know where-”

He stopped looking over his shoulder and looked straight ahead, at you. He stopped breathing. You did too. The silence hit so fast and so hard it felt like the whole world stalled.

Eddie’s eyes went wide before they flicked down your body for a fraction of a second. A reflex. An instinct. He jerked his head away so violently his hair whipped over his shoulder.

“Shit-fuck-sorry!” he yelped, spinning so fast he nearly lost his balance. He bolted for the hallway, or at least tried to. He immediately slammed his shoulder against the doorframe with a loud ‘fuck’ upon impact.

You quickly put down your leg and stared, chest rising and falling too quickly, heart pounding against the towel. You had to physically stop yourself from reaching out and asking if his shoulder was okay.

He froze again—back to you, one hand gripping the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him upright, other hand gripping the now injured shoulder.

“I swear,” he stammered, voice embarrassingly rough, “I thought you were in your room. I didn’t hear the shower over my music. The door wasn’t locked and-fuck-I’m leaving, I’m-”

You saw his fingers tighten around the wood until his knuckles turned pale. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped—lower, rougher, something pulled taut beneath it. “I didn’t mean to… see anything.”

Your fingers pinched the edge of your towel, pulling it tighter against your skin. “It’s not like you barged in with me naked. I’m in a towel.”

That strangled sound he made—somewhere between a short laugh and a dying man’s gasp—made heat crawl up your neck. “Oh my god,” he muttered under his breath, “I’m gonna die from embarrassment.”

“You? Embarrassed?” you teased, softer than you meant to. “Now that’s new.”

Another beat passed. Another shared breath you weren’t supposed to share. You watched the back of his neck, the curve of his shoulders, the puff of curls hanging in a pony tail. You couldn’t see his face—but his ears…

Red. Cherry red. Ridiculously red.

“I’m in a towel,” you said again, gentler this time, almost careful. “It’s fine.”

His voice cracked—barely, but enough. “No. It’s not.” He was finally able to collect himself enough to retreat to his room, immediately closing his door behind him.

He wasn’t thinking about the laundry. Or the argument. Or his pride. Or your temper. Not anymore. Seeing you like that—bare, quiet, vulnerable—had knocked something loose in him.

And the worst part? You felt it too. Even from across the room. Even with nothing but a towel and three feet of steam between you.

Something had changed. And neither of you knew how to step back from it.

—

Things were quiet the next morning. As the cliche’s would have it: almost too quiet.

Not tense like before. Just… cautious.

You passed Eddie in the hallway, both of you slowing at the same time, both pretending you weren’t doing it. “Bathroom’s all yours.” You said, voice steady.

He nodded, eyes flicking everywhere but your towel-covered memory. “Thanks.”

His voice was still a little rough. You didn’t comment. He didn’t make a joke.

Your hands brushed as you passed each other. Both of you pretended not to notice.

—

A few days later, you found a sticky note on the coffee canister.

Didn’t drink the last of the coffee. It’s yours. I’ll grab more on my way home. —E

Your chest warmed, annoyingly so.

Later that afternoon, he came home shivering from the cold, jacket soaked from unexpected rain. You tossed him a towel without looking up.

You had found yourself caught in it earlier and knew having a towel close by might be handy for him. “Dry off before you get mud everywhere.” You muttered.

He caught it easily. A small smile tugged at his mouth.“Thanks, Princess.”

Your eyes snapped up. He looked like he regretted it instantly. Or maybe he didn’t. Hard to tell with Eddie.

You pretended to ignore the heat that suddenly consumed your face.

—

He was digging through a cabinet on the top shelf. He had himself propped up on the counter, balanced on his knees to actually see the contents he had shoved in there weeks ago. You walked in just as he cursed under his breath.

“What? Too short to reach the cabinet?” you teased, grabbing a mug from a lower shelf instead.

“I’m not short,” he muttered, shifting as he rummaged deeper. “Just needed to get on my knees for a better view.”

You smirked and cocked your eyebrow at the comment. He blinked and straightened up, letting what he said fully sink in. A full two seconds of absolute stillness. His eyes widened.

“Oh my-no. No. That’s not- I didn’t mean-shit.” He scrambled off the counter so fast he nearly slipped. “Not like-NOT in that way. I meant the cabinet. The cabinet, Jesus.”

You moved to the coffee maker, trying to contain your laugh. “Sure. The cabinet.”

He groaned into his hands, face burning red. “Shut up.” he muttered.

“You’re the one announcing your favorite positions at eight in the morning.”

He made a noise that could only be described as a mortified whine.

—

It was after midnight when there was a soft knock at your bedroom door. Not loud. Not insistent. Just a quiet, tentative tap.

You sat up in bed, hair tousled, pajamas messy, and opened the door to find him standing in the dim hallway light. His hair stuck up in every direction like he’d just wrestled it into place himself, and his sweat pants hung low on his hips. For once, he looked… almost vulnerable. He cleared his throat.

“Safe space.”

You blinked. Your eyes narrowed slowly, head tilting to the side.

Because that phrase—those two small words—weren’t casual. They weren’t something people just tossed around.

“Uh-Dustin told me to say it,” Eddie blurted, raising both hands slightly like you might accuse him of something. “He said it’s what you guys used to say before a serious talk? Or something?”

A slow breath slipped out of you. You had never mentioned that to Eddie.

Safe space was what you and Dustin came up with during the worst moments of living together—when emotions got knotted, loud, sharp, or messy, and you needed to clear the air before it built into something ugly. It was the verbal permission to pause the bullshit and talk like adults.

The phrase that meant: Okay. No walls. No defensiveness. Say what you need to say.

And Eddie standing here now saying it because Dustin taught him? It made something warm unfurl low in your chest.

You nodded once. Then stepped toward him, closing a bit more of the distance than strictly necessary.

“Okay,” you said quietly, meeting his eyes. “Go on. You have it.”

He swallowed, gaze flicking to the floor before looking up again. “We’re out of light bulbs in the hallway closet,” he said, voice casual but low, but carrying this strange weight—as if he wasn’t sure if that qualified as a ‘safe space’ topic or not. “My lamp burnt out.”

You stared. Then blinked. “Oh,” you murmured, processing. “Okay.”

His shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug, sheepish. “Didn’t wanna… wake you up just to ask. But Dustin said if I ever needed to bring something up without us turning it into a fight, I should use that phrase.”

You almost laughed—but it came out softer, warmer, closer to a breath than an actual sound. “Eddie,” you said gently, “you don’t need a code word to ask for a light bulb.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. “Yeah, well… figured better safe than sorry. You bite.”

You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe.“And you bark.”

He smirked, but it was tired and soft, the kind of smile you didn’t see from him often. “Guess we’re even, then.”

For a heartbeat, the air felt strange between you. It wasn’t charged, an insult or sharp reply weren’t hiding behind your teeth. You just motioned with your head for him to come in while you dug around your closet for that extra box of bulbs.

His eyes scanned the room slowly, taking in your walls, the chair piled with your clothes, the soft blanket thrown over your bed. Everything looked small and familiar under the dim light.

“You keep it warm in here,” he said quietly, almost as if he didn’t want to break the hush of the night.

You shrugged, feeling the heat creep up your neck. “I like it warm.”

He hummed, a low, thoughtful sound that vibrated in the quiet. “Yeah. I noticed.”

Outside, rain pelted against the windows, drumming in the night, and distant rumbles of thunder made the room feel smaller, cozier, like the storm had pressed you both into this tiny bubble of calm.

You hesitated longer than you intended, fumbling slightly as you handed him the small box of bulbs. Your fingers brushed his just a little. You didn’t pull away immediately. Neither did he.

For a moment, you both simply stood there. No arguing. No snide remarks. No bickering. Nothing but the soft hum of the storm and the way your breathing seemed louder than usual.

He cleared his throat, almost nervously. “Thanks for the bulb.”

“Anytime,” you whispered before thinking better of it, your voice barely above the soft creak of the floorboards.

His eyes lingered on yours for a moment longer than necessary, warm and uncertain, like he was trying to figure out how much he could say without ruining this quiet spell.

Then he stepped back toward the doorway. His movements were slower than usual, deliberate, as if he didn’t want to leave this space, this moment, too quickly.

When he finally exited, he paused in the hallway for a breath, glancing back at you once, just once, like he wasn’t entirely ready to let the night, or even this new found gentleness between you two end.

The soft roll of thunder rattled the windows as he disappeared down the hall.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open again, and his voice floated in, casual but low.

“Hey… you wanna watch a movie? Storm’s wild enough that I could use the company.”

You blinked at the doorway for a moment, then smiled to yourself. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I’ll join.”

—

You were both in the kitchen at the same time, bleary and hungry. You opened the fridge. He grabbed a pan. The two of you moved like people who knew each other’s rhythms without meaning to.

He tapped your hip lightly with two fingers. “Move.”

You looked over your shoulder at him, raising a brow. “Say please.”

He huffed, dramatic and put-upon, like you’d asked him to sacrifice a limb. “Please,” he muttered, dripping sarcasm all over the word.

You didn’t budge. His eyes flicked to yours, irritated but amused—his version of surrender.

You slid out of the way and, without thinking, said, “Good boy.”

The spatula in his hand slipped. Just a little. Just enough. Then turned his head toward you, not fully—just enough that you caught the expression he didn’t have time to mask.

Surprise. A flicker of something warm. Something hungry. Something that made your pulse stumble. He swallowed hard, throat bobbing.

“Fuck off,” he said automatically, but there was no bite. Not even a dull edge. It came out soft. Almost stunned. And then his eyes dropped to your lips. Not accidentally. Not even for a full second. Just long enough that heat unfurled low in your stomach and your breath caught. You could’ve sworn you felt your heartbeat pick up.

He jerked his gaze away like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Shoulders stiff. Jaw tight. Electric tension rolling off him in waves. Eddie straightened, clearing his throat loudly—too loudly—like he needed the sound to drown out whatever had just happened inside him.

Like one tiny piece of praise from you had cracked him wide open. And you noticed it. Every last second of it. You both pretended nothing happened, just continued making dinner.

You reached for something on the top shelf this time—a container of spices—and couldn’t quite get it. Eddie stepped up behind you, chest brushing your back, arm reaching past your head. The same thing he did when he tried to annoy you by invading your personal space.

You froze when you realized it didn’t bother you. His breath warmed your neck as he murmured,

“You’re too short for that.”

“That’s my line.” You whispered.

“Yeah,” His voice low, “but it hits different when I say it.”

He retrieved the jar and handed it to you. You didn’t have a good grip on it and the jar slipped from your fingertips. He caught it with one hand, placing it slowly in front of you.

Too slowly. Way too slowly. You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t. Could only focus on the fact you were pretty much pinned between him and the counter top. Your heartbeat was practically in your throat. there was no denying the rush of blood that went to your face.

“Thanks.” You managed.

He didn’t move for a long moment. Then, finally, he stepped back.

—

You were wiping down the counter when Eddie walked in behind you, singing under his breath. Singing. Not his usual half-muttered guitar riffs, not the dramatic metal falsetto he used when he wanted to annoy you—no. Actual singing. Light, easy, almost cheerful.

He tossed his keys in the bowl, the metal clinking softly, and when he looked up, he flashed you a grin—small, quick, completely unguarded. The kind of smile he didn’t hand out to people unless he forgot to be defensive.

Something in your chest tripped over itself. A weird flip. An actual flip. Your heart shouldn’t be doing gymnastics, not over him.

You stared at the countertop so intensely it felt personal.

No. Nope. Absolutely not. Not doing this. You do not think Eddie Munson is cute. You are immune. End of discussion.

You dropped the towel. It hit the floor with the quietest little “thup,” but to you it sounded like a gunshot.

He glanced over, eyebrows pinching. “You good?”

You nodded too fast. “Yep.”

Oh great. Now you were lying.

You bent to grab the towel, hoping your hair hid the blooming heat rising up your neck.

—

You found him in the living room later, hair tied up in the messiest bun imaginable, curls escaping everywhere. His sleeves were shoved to his elbows, showing the ink on his arms, and he had a laundry basket sitting in front of him. What caught your attention, though—what stopped you mid-step—was that he was actually folding clothes.

Neatly. Like a person who cared about corners lining up and fabric lying flat. You watched him for a second too long, your brain stuck loading.

He noticed. Of course he did. A slow smirk slid across his face as he shook out a t-shirt and folded it with one smooth motion.

“What?” he asked, voice a little smug.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, crossing your arms like that would protect you from the sight in front of you. “Just shocked you’re… acting domesticated.”

He scoffed, tossing a balled-up pair of socks into another pile. “Thanks for domesticating me, I guess.”

He meant the cleaning. Obviously. But your brain—traitorous, filthy, embarrassing—took it… elsewhere. Your pulse jumped. Your face heated like you’d stepped too close to the oven.

His eyebrows rose, amusement flickering across his expression. “You okay there?”

“Peachy,” you managed—except your voice cracked so awkwardly you sounded like a teenage boy discovering hormones.

His grin widened. You bolted. You actually fled the room like a coward, heart slamming, ears hot, mind screaming at you.

Get it together. You do not think Eddie Munson is hot. You absolutely—definitely—without question—do NOT. You might. And that was a problem.

—

He fixed the kitchen cabinet door. The one he broke a while ago, slamming it during an argument. You came home to find him crouched on the floor, screwdriver between his teeth, hair falling into his eyes.

He looked… Ugh. He looked good. Focused. Capable. Strong forearms. Stupid veins. You leaned against the doorway without meaning to. Watching the way his muscles flexed.

He glanced up, eyes bright. “Check it out.” He opened and closed the cabinet gently—proud like a kid showing off art from school.

“Good job.”

He blinked, surprised. “Are you—complimenting me?”

“It won’t happen again.” You snapped automatically.

He grinned. Your stomach dropped.

Oh no. Oh no no no you did not just get flustered because he smiled. You hate him. You hate him…Right?

—

You walked into the kitchen at two AM and found him sitting on the counter, eating cereal out of the box with his hand. Except… he looked up at you softly. Not mocking. Not smirking. Just… warm. The way you would look at someone you actually cared for.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’ve been weird lately.”

You sputtered. “I’m not- I’m totally normal.”

He nodded slowly. “Sure. If you say so.”

He offered the cereal box. You took it. Your fingers brushed. He didn’t pull away. Your heart did the thing again. That stupid little stutter.

You went back to your room clutching the cereal box like it would save you from whatever it was you were feeling.

—

He left his hoodie draped over the back of the couch. Just a hoodie. No big deal.

Except you picked it up to move it and it smelled like him. Like laundry detergent and that faint spicy cologne he started using recently. You felt the sudden need to bring it to your cheek. You flung the hoodie across the room like it burned you.

—

Eddie was cooking again. He had a pot simmering, a wooden spoon in his hand, hair tied back, sleeves rolled up. He turned when he heard you walk in.

“Dinner’ll be done in ten,” he said casually. “If you want some.”

You blinked. “Are you feeling okay?” you blurted.

He laughed. “What, I can’t cook for us?”

For us. Your brain did a hard reset. You stared at him and the thought hit you. Hit you like a good damn eighteen wheeler barreling down the freeway. You didn’t hate him anymore. You weren’t even close. And the worst, most terrifying part? You were attracted to him. Like painfully attracted. Like wake-up-thinking-about-his-stupid-smile attracted. Maybe even liked him?

You sat down at the table slowly, trying to keep your face neutral.

Eddie glanced over his shoulder at you, confused. “You good?” he asked again.

You swallowed. “Not even a little bit.” you whispered as you ran your hands over your face then through your hair.

He didn’t hear you. Thank God.

—

You knew you were asleep. You just had to be asleep. ‘Cause how else would you two have ended up like this?

You were pressed against him, your back hitting the hallway wall with a soft thump as he moved in close, closer, chest to chest, his breath hot and uneven against your mouth.

“Been trying not to do this,” he whispered, voice low, wrecked. “But you make it fucking impossible.”

Your fingers curled in the front of his shirt — not pushing him away, but dragging him in.

And God, the way he kissed you— Deep. Hungry. just enough to ruin you. Like he wanted to taste every inch of your mouth.

His hands slid up your sides, squeezing your waist, thumbs brushing the bare skin under your shirt. Your whole body arched into him instinctively, a quiet gasp breaking between kisses.

He moaned softly— that low, needy sound you’d heard him make when stretching in the mornings— but this time it was right against your throat, vibrating into your skin. And you melted, tilting your head back, letting him kiss down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

His thigh pushed between yours, lifting you slightly, and your hips rolled without you thinking, chasing the pressure with a moan.

Eddie’s breath stuttered. His fingers dug harder into your hips.

“Fuck-” he murmured against your skin. “Is Princess so impatient that she can’t even wait until we make it to a bedroom?”

Your body kept moving anyway— instinct, heat, gravity — your fingers sliding into his hair, tugging just enough to make him hiss. He dragged his mouth back to yours, kissing you harder, hand slipping beneath your shirt, calloused fingers slowly trailing until they cupped your braless breast.

You whispered out his name, desperately close to a plea. He smiled against your mouth, before letting out a satisfying hum.

“Say it again.”

You did. You said it like a confession, like it meant something. His forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard, eyes dark and warm and wanting.

“Yours or mine?” His voice was so low, you could feel it vibrating through your chest.

“Yours is closer.”

He made a low sound—half laugh, half groan—and lifted you like you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around his waist and could suddenly feel how hard he was between you. His full length pressing deliciously against your heat. You moaned and rolled your hips into his. He moaned into your neck as he bit down, then gently ran his tongue over the now tender skin. He started to walk you backwards down the hallway. Your hands clung to his shoulders, his hair brushing your cheek, his breath hot against your neck.

Something in your chest fluttered, ripped through your bloodstream until every inch felt like it was on fire. You didn’t question it. You didn’t think. You didn’t doubt. You just kissed him harder.

He didn’t waste any time. The second his bedroom door hit the wall he had you on the bed, following you down, kissing you like he couldn’t get enough, like he couldn’t breathe unless he was touching you.

His hips pressed into yours—firm, deliberate—and you gasped into his mouth. He swallowed the sound like it did something to him.

“Jesus,” he muttered against your lips, “you’re so-fuck-come here.”

He slid his hand under your ass and gripped it tightly, pulling you towards him as your bodies rocked together, slow at first, then more desperate, more aligned, more right. Him between your thighs, your hands in his hair, his mouth on your neck.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t believe this was finally, finally happening.

“Been wanting you for so long,” he whispered against your skin, causing goosebumps to form. “You have no idea…”

The world tunneled down to him—you, him, the heat building between you, the way his body moved like he was trying to get impossibly closer. Your breath hitched, your heart stuttered—

“I want you,” he whispered. “I want you to wake up.” He continued.

Wait. Wake up? Wake—

You jolted upright in bed. Heart pounding. Breath ragged. Skin hot like you’d been kissed everywhere you hadn’t actually been kissed. For one disoriented second, you looked around for him. For Eddie. For the body that had been pressed to yours in the dream like he couldn’t get close enough.

But your room was empty. Dark. Silent. You pressed a trembling hand to your face. “Oh my God.”

Your pulse was still racing. Your body still buzzing with phantom touches. Your lips felt swollen, tingling, like they remembered him even if it was all in your head.

“Oh my God.” You whispered again, flopping back into the pillows. You squeezed your eyes shut. But that only made the dream replay in perfect, infuriating clarity. His hands. His breath. His voice in your ear as he moaned. You slapped a pillow over your face and groaned.

“This is so bad.” Because it wasn’t just a dream. It wasn’t random. Or harmless. Or meaningless. It was everything you’d been refusing to acknowledge for weeks, shoved right into the center of your subconscious and lit on fire.

You liked him. You liked Eddie Munson. You threw the pillow off your face and stared at the ceiling, breath still uneven.

“Shit.” There was no denying it anymore. No pretending. No hiding. Your stupid traitor heart had made it official. You were completely, undeniably, dangerously attracted to your roommate.

“Okay. Fine. I like him.” It felt like admitting defeat in a war you didn’t remember signing up for.

But you made a plan.

A rational, reasonable plan. First of all, you do not tell him, under any circumstance. Secondly, do not let him find out, no matter the cost. And lastly, do not act weird about it. Beautiful. Foolproof.

Later in, in the kitchen—You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to focus on the counter.

Eggs. Coffee. Focus on breakfast. Do not think about the dream. Do not think about Eddie. Do not think about anything. Ever.

“Something smells like smoke,” Eddie said casually, glancing at the toaster. You jumped at the sound of his voice, forgetting for half a second that you actually had to face the star of your dream at some point. Your cheeks heated immediately, and you prayed he didn’t notice the way your pulse had spiked.

He stood there, hair in a messy pony tail, no shirt, and low sweat pants that allowed for your eyes to spot the little trail of hair under his belly button that disappeared under the waist band. You closed your eyes to focus on anything but him.

“Uh… toast?” you said, a little too sharply, voice cracking. Smooth. Totally smooth. Definitely not betraying that you’d just imagined him all over you less than an hour ago.

He cocked a brow at you. “You okay? You look… flushed.”

You forced your attention to your coffee mug, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping you sane. “Yeah. Totally fine. Just… uh… hot in here.”

“Right,” he said, voice low, eyes glittering with something you could not identify, and you instantly wished you could disappear. You felt your stomach twist. You’d been trying so hard to stay rational, reasonable, and emotionally repressed, and now he was standing there in the middle of your kitchen, that stupid smirk on his face.

—

You were walking past him in the hallway when he brushed against you—barely, accidentally, lightly. You stopped breathing. He didn’t. But he did glance back at you, frowning slightly. “You jumpy today?”

“No,” you said, jumping again when he reached to move your hair from your face. “Why are you touching me?!”

“I-your hair was in your lip gloss.”

“Oh.” You stood there like an idiot. He stood there looking at you like he was trying to figure out a scrambled up Rubik’s cube. You fled to the comfort of your room.

—

It was movie night. Neutral ground. Safe territory. After Robin ditched after the first movie night, you and Eddie came to the agreement that you could survive in each other's company to watch the newest movie release when it was available for rent.

You were on opposite ends of the couch, legs stretched out. Halfway through the movie, he shifted—stretching his arms over the back of the couch, shirt lifting just enough to show a waistband and a hint of tattoos.

Your eyes betrayed you. Betrayed you so hard. He noticed. Oh, he noticed. And his smirk was slow. Dangerous. Knowing. You snapped your gaze back to the screen like it had personally offended you. He didn’t comment. But he didn’t look away for a long time either.

—

It was late. You tried to pass each other in the narrow doorway between the kitchen and hall. Too narrow. He moved one way. You moved the same way. Then the other way. Still matched.

He laughed softly. “We’re real smooth, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to seem unaffected. “Shut up.”

But when you tried to pass again, his hands came out—landing gently on your hips to steady you. And you froze. He didn’t let go immediately. He didn’t move away. His eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second. Half. A. Second. Your lips parted without permission. The air went thick, hot, electric. He leaned in, just a little. You leaned in, just a little.

Then he blinked and spun you two around, like he’d caught himself doing something dangerous. “Sorry,” he muttered.

You whispered, “Yeah.” Both liars

—

You weren’t doing anything scandalous.

Just talking to a guy at a bar. A guy you barely remembered the name of. A guy you honestly didn’t care for. A guy whose hand kept making contact with your arm or your hip. Too comfortable, scooting closer as he ordered you another drink.

Eddie wasn’t even supposed to be there.

Steve and Robin— the original pair you had came with— invited him. Said you two needed time away from the house.

Once he showed up and saw the nameless guy, his whole attitude changed. He walked toward you slowly, each step deliberate, like he was wrestling with himself the entire way. His jaw was tight—so tight you could see the muscle twitch.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, eyes locked onto yours like he couldn’t look anywhere else. He didn’t spare even a flicker of attention for the guy sitting beside you. “We’re heading out.”

You lifted a brow, unimpressed but definitely not unaffected. “Oh, are we?”

The guy next to you let out a shaky laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

Eddie barked, “I’m not her-“ But then he looked at you. Really looked. At the eyebrow you raised like a challenge. At the tiny smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. At the fact that you didn’t deny it.

Didn’t correct him. Didn’t rush to clarify. And you watched it happen—like watching a switch flip behind his eyes. His posture straightened, shoulders settling into something sure, something territorial.

“I’m not her boyfriend,” he continued, voice dropping into something low and dangerous, “but I don’t like how you’re touching her.”

The guy’s hand snapped back like he’d been burned. “Dude-my bad-” he stammered, palms up, backing off like he was afraid Eddie might actually bite. “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”

You swallowed hard, pulse stumbling, mouth parting to say something—anything.

“Let’s go.” Eddie said, cutting you off. Not sharp.

Not commanding. A plea dressed up as annoyance, flimsy and transparent. It tugged something deep in your chest.

Wordlessly, you got up and followed him, the two of you slipping out into the cool night. The bar door thudded shut, muffling the music, leaving the world strangely quiet except for your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

A few steps down the sidewalk, you reached out and grabbed his arm. “Eddie. What the hell was that?”

He spun so quickly you nearly collided with him. His eyes were wild—stormy with frustration and something else, something raw and unguarded that made your stomach twist.

“I don’t-” He scrubbed both hands through his hair, gripping the roots like he needed the pull to keep himself grounded. “I don’t know what’s happening, okay? You’ve been weird, and now I’m being weird, and it’s-fuck-it's messing with my head.”

Your heart plummeted, hitting somewhere near the pavement. He stepped closer. Then closer. So close you felt the heat radiating off him, felt the tremor in his breath, uneven and uncertain. So close you could smell the faint trace of smoke on his jacket and the warmth of whatever cheap beer he’d nursed inside.

His voice dropped to something quiet, brittle, painfully honest. “Tell me I’m imagining this.” His brow furrowed, desperation bleeding through. “Tell me there’s nothing between us.”

You opened your mouth. But nothing came out. Your silence—your wide eyes, your trembling breath—spoke louder than anything you could’ve said.

His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin as he stared at you like you were the thing he couldn’t solve, couldn’t walk away from, couldn’t ignore if he tried. His gaze fell to your lips. Slowly. Helplessly. Like gravity had him by the throat.

“Shit,” he whispered, barely audible. “Okay.” And when he leaned in this time, it wasn’t slow. It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t careful or questioning or unsure. It was impact.

His mouth hit yours like he’d been holding himself back for too long and something inside him finally cracked. His hand cupped your jaw, before sliding into your hair. His other hand slid around your waist, pulling you in so suddenly your breath caught in the space between you.

Your lips parted on instinct. Not from surprise. Not from hesitation. But because there was no resisting him.

The first brush of his mouth was warm, desperate, almost rough, and then he deepened it, kissing you like he needed it, like he’d been starving for the taste of you. Your arms wrapped around him. Your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, knuckles brushing the warmth of his back underneath.

He let out a low sound against your lips—something frustrated and hungry all at once—and tilted his head to deepen the kiss further. His lips moved with yours in a rhythm that felt learned, familiar, like your bodies had known this would happen long before either of you would admit it out loud.

The world narrowed— to the pressure of his mouth,

the heat of his breath, the way his nose brushed yours with every shift, the soft scrape of his lips when he chased you again, and again, and again. There was no space. No air. No logic. Just him. Just the months of tension snapping at once— a collision, inevitable and consuming, the kind you don’t come back from.

—

You didn’t talk about it. You didn’t even look at each other. The morning after the bar felt wrong the second you stepped into the kitchen. The air was too still, too heavy, like the entire house had stayed awake all night holding its breath.

Eddie walked in a moment later. He didn’t hesitate—not even a flinch of surprise at seeing you already there. He just moved around you with surgical precision, like you were a piece of furniture he’d memorized the placement of. He grabbed his favorite mug and poured his coffee, then walked right back out.

Not a glance. Not a nod. Not a single, damn word. You stood there holding a box of cereal like an idiot, blinking at the doorway he disappeared through.

Fine. Fine. If he wanted to pretend nothing happened—if he wanted to ignore the kiss that had practically set the world on fire—great. Perfect. Wonderful. A return to normal. Except it wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

—

It couldn’t go back to normal.

Because every time he passed you in the hall, his jaw tightened like he was physically holding himself together. Because every time you tried to start even the smallest conversation or ask a simple question—

“Do you need the bathroom before I shower?”

“Are you using the dryer?”

“What were you thinking for dinner tonight?”

He cut you off with one-word answers and a stiff nod.

Because every time your eyes accidentally caught, he looked away first. Not with the usual irritation. Not with that playful, smug glint that drove you insane. No—this was different. Hidden. Shuttered. Like he was guarding something so fragile he was terrified even eye contact might crack it open. And maybe the worst part—the part that twisted low in your stomach—was that you felt it too.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was full. Loud. Pressurized. Like the space around you was holding the shape of that kiss, pretending it wasn’t sitting between you like a live wire. And both of you pretending you weren’t too afraid to touch it.

—

You dropped your keys. They hit the floor with an embarrassingly loud clatter, and before you could bend down, Eddie was already crouching to get them. His fingers brushed yours—barely, a ghost of a touch. But it was enough. Electric. Immediate. A hot, sharp spark shot through you so fast your ribs felt like they were glowing from the inside out.

His eyes flicked up. For a second—just one—everything in him froze. Then he stood abruptly, tossing the keys onto the table with far more force than necessary. They skidded, clattering against the wood like they were mad too. “Can you not?” he snapped.

It knocked the breath out of you. “Can I not what? Fucking… exist near you?”

He scoffed, yanking his jacket off the hook like it had personally offended him. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Oh, please.”

“No, seriously.” He shoved his arms through his sleeves, frustration rolling off him with enough heat to warm the whole damn apartment. “You don’t stop being mean to me for five goddamn minutes, and then you act confused-moping around when I give you space?”

Your throat tightened immediately. Like someone had grabbed it from the inside. “I’m not being mean.”

He laughed once—sharp, humorless, painful.

“Yeah, sweetheart. You are. It’s your favorite hobby.”

The words hit harder than you expected—right in the center of your chest. God, you deserved that. You had been difficult. Cold. Defensive. You’d blamed him for taking up space you weren’t willing to admit you liked having filled.

“I haven’t been mean to you in days,” you said, voice cracking. “And I’m not moping. I didn’t even say anything this time. You started it.”

Eddie froze, his expression flickering—guilt, maybe, or surprise—like he hadn’t expected your voice to sound like that. But he didn’t take it back. He just turned toward the door, grabbing the knob like he needed to leave before he said something he’d regret.

“What’re you? A fucking child? You started it?” he muttered. He started to pull the door open. “Forget it.”

And something inside you cracked open—sharp, aching, desperate. Pride snapped in half. Shame curled up your spine.

“Safe space!”

The words ripped out of you before you even had a moment to think it over.

He didn’t turn around. But he stopped where he stood. Shoulders tight enough to snap. “Go on… you have it…” his voice was low, almost defeated.

You swallowed. Hard. “Your favorite band is Dio. Although, you love everything about metal. You love music so much you actually go out of your way to learn about every genre.”

He didn’t move. Not even an inch. You took a shaking step toward him.

“You sing and play guitar in a band. Corroded Coffin.” Your voice softened. “But you sound best when you’re singing stupid songs in the shower. Or when you think you’re alone in the house—walking around, singing to yourself.”

His hand slipped off the doorknob. Slow. Heavy. Like he couldn’t hold it anymore.

“I hear you,” you whispered. “You’re really good.”

He turned painfully slow, stopping halfway, just enough for you to see the shock on his face. You kept talking because you had to. Because the words were spilling out of all the places you’d kept them locked away.

“My favorite is when you’re singing about whatever you’re doing at that moment. Making up lyrics as you go. It’s stupid and funny and-“ your voice cracked “-weirdly sweet.”

He glanced away, his cheeks unmistakably pink. You stepped closer.

“You’re a really good artist. The kind of good you hide because you don’t think anyone will take it seriously.”

His jaw tightened. But his eyes softened.

You swallowed. “And you make the best lasagna I’ve ever had. Like-annoyingly good. I think about it at random times of the day. And get so excited when I come home from work and it’s all I can smell.”

He blinked like he didn’t know how to process any of this. Another step.

“I’ve realized you’re scared of thunderstorms. You pretend you’re not, but you always hover around me when it’s storming. Asking me to watch something with you or showing me a song you recently found.”

Your breath shook. “You make your coffee with a splash of half and half and three teaspoons of sugar. Every morning. And I-“ The next breath caught in your throat.“-I’m sorry I’m such a bitch to you. I am. But I would love to get to know you. The real you.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to bend the air. He turned fully now, eyes wide, chest rising and falling like he’d run miles. “…You would?” he asked, voice barely there.

You nodded. “I would.”

His eyes flickered—disbelief, relief, confusion—all tangled up. A broken, disoriented laugh slipped out of him.

“Shit.” He dragged a hand over his face. “Shit.” You stepped closer. He shook his head once, like clearing static from a radio. Then he looked at you. Soft. Open. Terrified.

“I didn’t think you liked me,” he confessed. “Not even after all this time living together. Even after I started putting in the effort.” Your whole body went still.

“I didn’t think you liked me either,” you breathed. “But please don’t think your effort went unnoticed.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth. Your heart fumbled a beat. Then—rough, hoarse, almost pleading— “Can I… get to know you too?”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then you took one step. And he took one too. Another. Another. The air snapped hot between you, charged like the second right before lightning strikes. When you finally reached him, his breath brushed your cheek. His hand hovered near your waist like he was scared to touch you, scared you’d pull away.

His fingers landed lightly on your hip. He exhaled—shaky, relieved, wrecked. “I’ve wanted to kiss you again since the bar,” he murmured. “It’s been driving me insane.”

Your pulse jumped. “Then why haven’t you?”

He didn’t answer with words. He cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he did the other night, and pulled you into him like he’d been starving and you were the only thing left in the world that tasted like relief.

This kiss wasn’t messy or frantic like the one outside the bar. This one was deep. Slow. Certain. His mouth warm and searching—learning you, savoring you.

Yours answering without hesitation, without a single wall left standing.

His other hand slid around your waist, pulling you fully against him, and a quiet sound escaped him. Your hands curled into his shirt as if grounding yourself in him had become instinct. He kissed you again. And again. And again—each one softer, like he was memorizing the shape of you. When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, he whispered.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart…” He huffed a quick laugh, letting the smile linger. “Why didn’t you tell me you liked me?” he asked quietly.

You let out a breathy laugh. “Because you were… you. Loud and messy and annoying and—”

“Don’t forget handsome,” he said, barely smiling.

You rolled your eyes, but your voice was soft. “And handsome.”

Eddie looked at you like he was seeing the universe rearrange itself in real time.

“And why didn’t you tell me?” you whispered.

He groaned faintly. “Because I thought you hated me. I thought you were just… tolerating me.”

“Tolerating you?” you echoed softly.

“You almost broke me with that speech, you know.” he murmured. “In a good way but also… fuck, I didn’t know you saw all that.”

Your chest tightened. He wasn’t hiding the vulnerability. He wasn’t covering it with jokes. You placed your hand over his chest, right where his heartbeat pounded.

“I wasn’t trying to break you,” you whispered. “I was trying to make you stay.”

His breath hitched. “…I would’ve stayed if you just asked me to.” He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, breath brushing your cheek. “Come here,” he whispered, pulling you back into his arms.

And eventually—without rushing, without pressure—you ended up in your room. Still kissing. Still learning each other. Still gentle. It wasn’t about heat—not really. It was intimacy. Familiarity. Relief. At one point, he pulled back, breathing hard, thumb on your cheekbone.

“Tell me if this is too fast.” He said softly. Your answer was a whisper against his jaw.

“It’s not.”

He smiled at the sound. Dimples on full display. You didn’t have sex that night. You just kissed until your lips were swollen and your hearts felt too big for your ribs. You fell asleep tangled together—his arm around your waist, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck. And for the first time in months… you suddenly didn’t mind who your roommate was.

—

Morning came slow, like the world was reluctant to interrupt you. You woke to the weight and warmth of him before anything else. His arm slung heavy around your waist, his face buried in your pillow, lips parted, breath brushing the back of your shoulder. His hair was a complete disaster, curls sticking up in every possible direction, and somehow it made your chest ache in a way you weren’t prepared for.

You shifted just enough to look at him. He blinked awake almost instantly, eyes finding yours like they’d been waiting under his lashes the whole time.

“…Hi,” he rasped, voice sleep-rough and impossibly soft.

Your smile pulled up slow, full of something warm and terrified. “Hi.”

He didn’t smile back, not at first. He just looked at you as if he was memorizing something he didn’t want to risk forgetting, like he thought if he blinked you might disappear. His fingers tightened at your waist.

“…Are we doing this?” he asked finally, voice low enough it almost wasn’t sound. “For real?”

You could feel your heart beat thumping in your chest so hard, you were worried it would try to burst out of your ribs any second now. You swallowed, nodded. “If you want to.”

He slowly smiled and he didn’t answer with words.

He leaned in, cupping your cheek with one warm palm, and kissed you.. It was as if he was sealing something.

Like he was saying the thing he didn’t know how to say out loud yet.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against your chin for a second, like he needed the grounding. Then he nuzzled into your neck, voice muffled against your skin.

“I really fucking want to.”

The laugh that escaped you was quiet, helpless. You slid your fingers into his hair, gently untangling one of the wild curls.

“Good,” you whispered, letting your thumb brush the back of his neck. “Because… so do I.”

He exhaled shakily, the kind of breath someone lets out when they’ve been holding a truth too tightly for too long. Then, against your collarbone, soft and almost shy, he murmured.

“Then you’re my girl now.” Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to claim you.

Your heart didn’t just melt— it turned molten, spilled warm through every rib. You tilted his chin up with your fingertips until he met your eyes again.

“Yeah…” you breathed, smiling like you couldn’t stop if you tried. “I think I am.”

His eyes softened in a way you had never seen. Then he pulled you impossibly closer, burying his face in the curve of your neck again, holding you like morning sunlight and like he wasn’t letting go for anything.

And for the first time, it felt real. It felt like the beginning.

Looks like you owe Dustin an apology… maybe even a thank you.

[noodlie-reads]

hello my loves🤍

a little update on where I’m at with jealous type:

I’m having a month from hell :) I got hit by a semi-truck, broke up with my boyfriend, don’t make enough by myself to keep my apartment, and I’m looking into a lawsuit for harassment in the workplace, wrongful termination, and lack of compensation🤠

so, I haven’t written shit for the next part lmao but I wanna just let y’all know I’m not abandoning the fic and I def didn’t forget about it. I’m just gonna take a few weeks to get my shit back together and settle down and I’ll be back at it🤍

Hope everyone’s doing well! Much love🥰

[ghost-proofbaby]

sit next to me (please) [eddie munson x fem!reader]

you've always hated touch, avoided it ardently - until he came along.

warnings: use of she/her pronouns for reader, touch-avoidant reader, lots of yearning, talk of personal boundaries, readers becomes touch-starved for one (1) man, consumption of alcohol and weed, very slow burn.

word count: 11.2k+

a/n: this was originally titled "would that i" and i believe that i wrote it while listening to the hozier song, craving some super soft eddie all those moons ago. sorry that i tried to bury this one in the graveyard, y'all. i self-projected like all hell onto this reader as well lmao

dividers by @saradika-graphics

How one person can be such a walking contradiction, no one knows.

There is a softness to you. It bleeds out of you, endless and endearing to all those around you. The way you’ll converse with friends with shining eyes, the way you close doors with care, the way you treat your favorite novel like a newborn babe. With both all the inanimate and animate objects around you, your touch is ever warm, ever tender. Like the sweep of a thin curtain sheet in a summer's breeze, or plush grass beneath calves in a verdant spring. Your touch is something to experience, and that was where the dichotomy came into play.

Your touch was deeply sought after, and was a rarity all on its own.

You were amongst the softest people in your friend group, and yet, rarely did you find yourself to be particularly physical. Your petal affections were usually restricted to affirmative words and acts of kindness. Your friends knew that if they needed words of encouragement, you should be the first person they ran to. If they needed a hug, however, you were not. 

It’s not because you were cruel or against the displays of physicality. You were just awkward with them. You would turn frigid over the brush of another’s skin against your own. You’d tried to change over the years, offering more goodbye hugs, more spontaneous playing with Nancy’s hair or high fives exchanged with Steve when you kicked one of the younger boys’ asses at the arcade. You tried. But it was hard — something had rooted itself in you long ago that continued to choke you and limit just how much you could handle when it came to another’s touch. 

When Robin joined the group, she tried to warm you up more to it. Despite warnings from the group, whispers of she doesn’t like that, she’d continued to offer you her friendly physical affections as long as you reassured her it was fine. It worked, to an extent. You would now at least return the hugs received (even if it took you a few moments to do so), and you wouldn’t hold your breath at a friend’s head on your shoulder or lap. It was all baby steps — timid movements in the right direction, an accomplishment of letting your softness flow through your fingertips as you tried to adjust. 

Argyle also tried to wear you down. A casual arm around your shoulder in greeting, frequently sitting close enough to you on movie nights that your side would press into his as you both enjoyed the pizza he’d brought. You still froze, still struggled to thaw, but you never shooed him away. You’d only exchange a secret smile with him, a private acknowledgement between you two that you knew what he was trying to do, and it was okay. Maybe it would work. Robin had, after all, made some baby steps. Maybe Argyle could help you take fuller strides. Maybe, just maybe, this could propel you. 

The night you drunkenly braided Argyle’s hair had been a memorable success, but it never progressed past that. The roots remained, the timid natured reigned, and so your friend group simply celebrated what little victories they’d earned and moved on.

They’d accepted you may never be a touchy person. And that was fine — all that you lacked in physical touch, you more than made up for in every other avenue in expression of your fondness. 

Until Eddie.

The moment he’d joined your circle, Argyle and Robin were already exchanging knowing looks. Eddie was touchy; the boy was practically starved for it. Overexcited hugs as greetings and the way his hand would reach for the nearest shoulder when he was overcome with joy for the small things. He couldn’t sit alone during movie nights, he’d often lounge with his legs stretched out over the nearest laps, he’d jokingly cuddle into people without a second thought.

And even more than that, his touch was wild and burning. Embers never to be contained. He was overwhelming, they all knew this and so did he, and they feared that if he attempted to embark on the same journey that they had that he may scare you away. That all the baby steps in the right direction would become leaps backward, sending you right back to where you started. 

They couldn’t have been more wrong.

You’d first noticed that Eddie treated you differently, more restrained, during a movie night. Argyle on one side, a small empty space on the other. You’d witness everyone endure Eddie’s cinematic cuddles on multiple occasions, and amongst your roots had bloomed buds of wistfulness. A strange yearning every time he’d tuck his face into the neck of whichever friend was nearest, jokingly squealing how he needed them to protect him. They saw him as a pest (a lovable one, but still) — and you’d never wanted to be pestered more in your life. 

That small space beside you was the last open seat. You thought surely, he’ll sit here. You were optimistic at the likelihood of Eddie sharing your space, of feeling his curls tickle your cheek and neck, at his breath on your shoulder. For the first time in your life, you were painfully giddy at the prospect of someone touching you. When he entered the room with Jonathan, carrying bowls of popcorn and loudly telling everyone to turn on the horror movie chosen for the night, your entire body had buzzed. You would have leapt off that couch and crawled inside his chest right then and there if it wouldn’t have been so startling to not only him, but your entire circle.

He took one look at the empty seat, a pitiful excuse for space, and had paled.

Please sit next to me. Please, please, ple-

“Spread your legs, Harrington,” Eddie had suddenly bursted out, throwing himself on the floor in front of Steve at the opposite end of the couch, “I’m using your knees as collateral from Krueger.” 

He chose the floor over sitting at your side. And it ached. 

You were unaware of the spiel that Robin and Argyle gave him, the staunch warnings from Nancy, the (sort of) joking threats from Steve and Jonathan. Eddie Munson had been warned off from touching you, was obeying those warnings, and it just left you miserable. 

You didn’t get it. You didn’t understand — his choices nor your feelings. 

But that night, the burn of Argyle’s arm brushing your shoulder from where it laid along the back of the couch became overwhelming. Until you’d scooted yourself into that space you’d carved out for Eddie, and pouted, like a goddamn child.

Argyle assumed it was just a bad day for touch.

No one realized the yearning blooming within you. You’d never wanted to take a baseball bat to Steve Harrington’s shins more than when you watched Eddie Munson wrap his fingers around them and bury his cheek against them. 

The second time, it stung even more.

Months passed and the yearning never faded. You told yourself, over and over, this will pass. This is temporary, and it will pass. 

But it didn’t. The more time you spent with Eddie amongst your friend group, the more you craved the same casual touch from him that he extended to everyone else. He wouldn’t even brush past you in enclosed spaces — he treated you like a traumatized dog, bound to snap and bite him if he made the wrong move.

You fucking hated it. You hated that you hated it.

You’d gone years without needing touch, so you cursed that unexpected sting in your chest that night at the bowling alley. When Eddie rolled his first strike (and reported it was his first ever), he’d hugged everyone.

Everyone but you.

When it came to what should have been your turn for a bear hug, your mind was buzzing with adrenaline. This was it. You pictured him wrapping his tattooed arms around your chest, lifting you at least a little bit, swinging you a little due to the force of his affection. You were convinced his high off of the strike was going to make him forget his mission to never touch you. Maybe he’d be embarrassed after. Maybe you could finally offer a small smile that said it’s okay, I’m okay with it.

He only stopped dead in his tracks, arms freezing for a second before they dropped, his lips pressing tightly together before he let them spread back into a smile, and only lifted his brows at you excitedly. 

That’s it. That’s all.

Fuck. 

“That was pretty metal, Eddie,” you tried to egg him on, bouncing on the soles of your shoes a little, practically begging him with your eyes to just hug you. 

He’d been bashful, grinning and hiding his face behind a random curl, nodding, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it was.” 

If you’d known of the talks behind your back then that had ruined that moment, you would have wrecked absolute havoc on your friends. The need, the yearning, the want became impossible to handle. You used his strike as an excuse for him to cover your turn, saying he was on a roll right after exclaiming that if you didn’t go to the bathroom right that second, you’d piss yourself.

When you were alone in the stall, you’d silently screamed and tugged at the roots of your hair. 

You wanted him to touch you. You wanted him to catch you off guard in larger than life hugs. You wanted to feel every emotion that thrummed beneath his skin and you wanted to breathe in his cologne, to finally know how sturdy his chest felt beneath his shirt and if his rings really were as cold as Nancy always complained. 

You’d finally returned to the group, not able to have a full breakdown in the bathroom without worrying your friends with your absence. Subtly, you’d tried to tuck yourself into Robin’s side when you returned, sitting down a bit closer than you normally would have, just to fill the void. It was almost as if you were encouraging her to reach an arm around you, to let you curl up and press a cheek to her collarbone. Try to alleviate the need for human touch clawing its way through you.

“You okay, babe?” she questioned suspiciously when she felt you squished entirely up against her. There was plenty of space on the bench, there was no reason for your proximity.

No, you wanted to scream, I’m not okay. There is an itch beneath my skin right now that can only be scratched by the affectionate touches of the metalhead sitting across from us who’s joking with our friends, completely unaffected and unaware. He won’t even look me in the eye. And so now I’m trying to get you to just touch me, to just put a goddamn arm around me, to do anything to fill the gaping hole inside of me. But you can’t. 

It was an unfair situation to every single party and bystander involved.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lied. 

You can’t, because the only person who can fill this gaping void inside of me is Eddie.

You were the farthest from fine. You were in flames. And no one would understand it, least of all you, because this wasn’t like you.

You didn’t crave touch. You didn’t need it to survive. So, what the hell was this that you were feeling? 

The craving for Eddie’s touch evolved into something more, and that’s when you knew that you were surely in trouble. 

Audible denial only worked for so long. Festering, longing, and yearning could only be withheld for so long until suddenly, with your mind on fire and your bones aching to the core, you realized that it was more than wanting Eddie to reach out for you. The want became a two way street. More often than not, you find your hands to be fists at your side, shaking with the effort to not bridge the gap. 

After a year of friendship, he had had no choice but to occasionally brush past you. Touches that must have been fleeting to him, but lingered for you. They’d settle into your skin, tender like a fresh bruise, ghosting over you at night when you couldn’t sleep. It was more than just touch, at this point. You wanted everything from Eddie. The denial of his touch had led to you missing out on more than just hugs and movie night cuddles — Eddie didn’t joke with you as much as he did the others, didn’t always turn to you in crowded rooms for comfort, wouldn’t call you up if he was up late and bored like he would Nancy, Steve, Robin, Argyle, fucking everyone in Hawkins except you. The distance was unbearable.

Because you did. You did look for him at every quaint hang out. You did seek him out in every room you entered and you did resist the urge to call him when sleep evaded you. You could imagine his voice over the line, a lullaby over the receiver as he’d ramble about his day. It was like a poison, infecting those roots you’d long since made friends with rather than try to dig up. 

You were fucked. Plain and simple. You had a big, fat crush on Eddie, and for once in your life, you’d learned of the panging hunger to be touched. 

“Does Eddie have a girlfriend?” you asked as you sat with Robin at a diner, having completely zoned out with the conversation between her and Steve, lost in your daydreams, “Or boyfriend? Just- Is he single?” 

Both of your friends went dead silent, staring at you in awe.

Robin cleared her throat, but remained choked up until Steve spoke, “Uh, yeah. He’s single. Why?” 

The way your eyes darted down to the table of the booth you three occupy gave it away.

Robin suddenly squealed, “Oh my gosh! You have a crush on him!” 

“Do not!”

“Oh, you so do!” she grinned wildly, leaning in close, “Tell us everything — now.” 

“Eddie?” Steve’s nose scrunched up, “Really?” 

“I don’t have a crush on him!” you uselessly defended yourself, “I just- Look, no, I know that look. You can’t tell him or meddle, Robin.” 

“How would I tell him or meddle if you don’t have a crush on him?” 

Steve was still confused, and Robin’s eyes glittered with mischief. You would have been better off keeping your mouth shut. 

You noticed the way Steve had gone silent, pointedly sipping on his coke rather than looking you in the eyes. As if he had something to say.

“What is it?” you asked him, furrowing your brows, already defensive. A stark contrast to the light-heartedness you usually treat your friends with, “You’ve got something to say. Say it.” 

“I just…” Steve sighed, looking off into the distance, “I don’t know. It’s a weird pairing, y’know?”

Your stomach threatened to sink. “What does that mean?”

“You two are just… different,” he continued on, and your stomach really did sink. Right along with your heart, “I mean, he’s really big on physical touch — it’s definitely his love language. And you…”

You don’t like being touched. You actually hate it. Avoid it ardently.

The unspoken ending to that sentence could have shattered your bones that day. You knew. You knew.

You stayed silent, unsure of what else to say. You couldn’t find the words to explain the yearning that invaded your chest all those moons ago, you couldn’t physically bring their hands to your chest and force them to feel the hunger that had begun to eat you alive. You couldn’t scream at your friends, I can change! I can change! I can change!

“I think they’d make a cute couple,” Robin finally broke the tense silence. Steve looked a bit regretful, but you both knew he was right, “Besides, touching is overrated.” 

To emphasize her point, she scooted away from Steve until she sat on the very edge of the vinyl seat they shared, a narrow air of separation between them. 

You smiled and laughed, and so did Steve, but the fact of the matter still remained.

Your roots have been there since the beginning of time. And maybe, they ran so deeply that you were a fool for thinking you could ever excavate them. 

“I need your help.” 

Robin looks up at you shocked. You’d never looked quite so determined, so one-track minded as you did in this moment, right in Steve Harrington’s kitchen. 

“You need my help?” she nearly yells, fumbling with the empty bowl she was about to fill with chips, “Are you sure you need my-“

“Positive,” you cut her off, “I need your help because you didn’t laugh in my face when I said I liked Eddie.” 

Her shock fades, an awful trace of pity in her eyes as she looks at you, “Oh, hon — Steve wasn’t laughing at you. He’s just a dingus, y’know? Doesn’t always think before he speaks, but he has the best of intentions-“

You wave a hand, physically dispersing her words into the air. That conversation at the diner last week didn’t phase you anymore. In fact, it fuels you the more you think about it.

“I know, I know,” you reassure her, walking closer so you can lower your voice, “But he was right. And I’ve been thinking a lot about it.”

“That sounds dangerous. Whatcha’ been thinkin’ about?” 

This is it. Now or never. Once you say it outloud, even to just Robin, it was cemented in fact.

“It’s not that I don’t like being touched,” you blurt out, heart racing at the admission, “I just… I don’t know. I’m not used to it. It wasn’t something normal growing up. And… okay, no, this is not meant to be a depressing deep dive into my childhood,” you pause and scowl at the way her face contorts with even more pity, “I’m fine. There’s nothing to be done to change what’s already passed. My point is, I don’t want to stay this way. I don’t want people treating me delicately. I’m tired of you guys not feeling like you can just- fuck, I don’t know, hug me. Like you can throw an arm around me while we joke around like you do Jonathan. Like you can’t take the seat beside me at the booth instead of Steve. Like you can’t be clingy and beg me to play with your hair like you do Argyle when everyone’s smoking.”

Throughout your speech, the pity transforms. With each word, you only grow more passionate, because it dawns on you just how much you miss out on. Your friends love you, you love them — that’s not up for debate. But sometimes, you see those small touches between them, and you feel like an outsider looking in. 

“I know I freeze up and I know I get awkward,” your voice finally chokes up, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to silently curse yourself for finally letting all these larger than life emotions wrap around you, “I know you guys think I’m better off if you leave it be. But I’m not. I’ll never get over it if you guys don’t push me. I’ll never get used to it if no one ever touches me.” 

“We know!” Robin starts enthusiastically, reassuredly, “We know that! And me and Gyle really do try, but we just don’t want to make you uncomfortable-“

“Do it,” you stop her in her tracks, eyes not wavering from hers, “Make me uncomfortable. Put your head on my shoulder, even if it makes my breathing stop for a couple seconds. Grab my hand when we cross a street, even if my palm’s clammy. I can’t grow without a little discomfort, Robs.”

There’s a standstill in the air. A realization settles deep in your bones — growth. That’s what you were craving. Eddie had opened up something entirely new for you, cracked open an age old wound in your chest you’d been unaware of. It left behind a hole, and you’d been so preoccupied with yearning to fill it, you hadn’t seen that the solution was the most obvious one: you had to outgrow the hole. Not fill it with others, but with yourself. You couldn’t live forever as nothing more than roots, buried deep beneath soil and always hiding in their solitude. Eventually, you had to bloom. 

“Okay,” Robin nods slowly, taking in your words and the deep breaths that are following. It’s obvious how much this means to you, how much it’s been bothering you, “You’re right. But… you’ve just gotta promise us, if we get overbearing, that you tell us-“

“Not just you and Argyle,” your mouth goes dry. Because this is where the road was leading the entire time, this was the end destination in mind for the entire drive of this conversation, “I want… everyone to do it. I know Nance, Jon, and Steve aren’t as big on the whole touchy thing as you and him but…” your voice finally breaks, and you can’t look her in the eyes now as you whisper, “Eddie is.” 

There’s a light behind Robin’s eyes that you’ve never seen before, but you can’t even bear witness to it, eyes zeroed in on the shiny packaging of the chips on the counter, “So this really is about Eddie?” 

You could keep denying it. Pretend like the boy hadn’t watered the first sprout that caused this entire revelation, like he hadn’t been the first to shine a light on all the things you’d ignored for years. But he was. He had built a fire inside of you without even realizing it, just by tending his own embers. 

You take a deep breath, “It’s like it burns him to touch me. Even just shuffling past me. I don’t think he’s ever sat beside me when we all hang out. I don’t… I don’t even know what he really smells like, Rob. Besides the weed and cigarettes when he smokes with you guys. How fucked is that? I’ve known him for a year and I couldn’t even tell you what kind of cologne he wears. Isn’t that… that’s weird, right?” 

“You know the things that matter, though, don’t you?” 

It hadn’t occurred to you, that perspective on the matter. “I… guess?”

“Tell me about him. Tell me about Eddie.” 

The others will be worrying about how long you two are taking in here soon. Eddie will probably be arriving with Argyle soon. But Robin waits patiently until your eyes finally find hers again, and she lifts her brows, encouraging you to tell her about your mutual friend as if she’s never met him. 

And so you do.

Once you start rattling off the minute things you noticed, they pour out of you, watering away at that once withered crush. You tell her about his favorite music, an easy thing to know about Eddie when he’s so loud and passionate about it. You tell her the first song he ever learned on guitar, Little Things by Willie Nelson. It had been encouraged by how much his Uncle Wayne enjoyed the singer. And he’d learned it on a worn acoustic guitar from his uncle. He’d never even performed it in front of the man, always either too choked up or too embarrassed for an audience. You tell her how his favorite subject in school was history, because it always gave him ideas for his DnD campaigns. His favorite color is red, deep and pulsing and eye-catching. The same shade of his electric guitar, lovingly nicknamed Sweetheart, but actually named Elvira. He’s a picky eater, probably the pickiest of your group, and yet also will eat just about anything the moment you propose it as a dare. He knows what he should do to take care of his curls, he just doesn’t, probably due to preferring to take his showers at night. He’s complained of falling asleep with wet hair more times than you can count. He had a lisp as a little kid. He buys a new mug for Wayne every Christmas, and the man acts surprised every year, as if he never saw it coming. He likes sour candy best. He hates movies where the dog dies. He loves musicals, and he would sooner die than admit that to the rest of the group. 

All devilish details that Eddie had revealed to you at some point or another, over drinks and over quick cigarettes. Over random bursts of trust and rare moments alone.

By the time you’re done with your rant, Robin is just smiling.

“God, you really like him,” she murmurs, looking across your forlorn face, as if each piece of him that you’d handed over willingly had actually been forcibly torn from you. As if it hurt to share him. 

You take another deep breath, and you can breathe a little bit easier, but you still feel the wisps of your roots still dug stubbornly into surrounding ground, “Yeah. I really like him.” 

A plan is devised. It turns out Robin was the perfect person to approach about this, because she has no shame — she’s willing to seem like a ‘bad friend’ for the sake of helping you reach your goal.

The first step is to guarantee that no matter what, Eddie sits next to you during the movie. 

The best way to accomplish this is to not make it a seat only beside you as you had that first time he’d rejected you, but between you and another person. Because then, if Eddie was still adamant on not indulging you, he’d have someone else to cling to. For now.

The second step would be for you to leave for the bathroom right before you all started the movie. Leave the room, leave all your friends to be gathered without you so that Robin could make an executive call with them all. She would bring up the fact that they all should try to push you a bit more with the entire notion of physical touch, that it’d be good for you, that you’d brought it up casually rather than as dramatically as you really had. 

During her explaining of this part of the plan, you discovered the conversations already had behind closed doors about this topic and you. 

You couldn’t even blame your friends. You were irritated, but it would pass. They couldn’t change it now, but Robin could help undo what those seemingly beneficial conversations had done. The distance it had created between you and Eddie.

“Who should be on the other side of Eddie?” you ask once you two have your plan and full bowls of snacks. 

“Me,” Robin declares, “I have a plan there, too. We’ll sit side by side at first, take up enough space on the couch so that Eddie thinks he doesn’t have a seat. Just trust me and play along when the time comes, yeah?” 

You nod.

There’s a knock at the door, perfect timing as you and Robin sat down the bowls of snacks on the table, ignoring Steve’s expected complaint of how long you two took. He runs off, going to let Eddie and Argyle in, as Robin takes her seat on the couch. 

Nancy and Jonathan are curled up on the loveseat. Steve had been sitting at the end of the couch that normally could easily seat four. Argyle’s favorite recliner was wide open, and you both knew he’d be jumping into it once he came to the basement. Everything was set perfectly.

Robin manspreads, an entertaining sight but one that forces you to try and do the same, lounging across the remaining space of the couch as casually as possible to make it seem as though another person could absolutely not fit.

You pray to God her plan works.

“Hello, brochachos!” Argyle yells as a greeting when he bounds down the stairs, immediately tossing a box of snow caps in Nancy and Jonathan’s directions before doing exactly as you and Robin had predicted, “Oh, fuck yeah! You guys saved my favorite chair for me!”

He specifically winks your way, as if you had been the one to do so. And you had, technically, but you appreciated that small effort to greet you specifically. 

You smile at him, shaking your head lightly as he throws himself down roughly. You can only imagine how on board he’ll be with Robin’s suggestion.

Argyle’s energy had you wondering if the boys had even smoked as they usually did before arriving, his eyes hardly pink rimmed and his smile not quite as dopey as usual. It became clear that they had smoked, but one of them had likely babysat their shared joints, when Eddie descends into the doorway behind Steve.

He’s all half-lidded eyes, lazy grin, comfort wrapped up in a worn band shirt and sweats. 

Yes, you wanted to break this stubborn boundary of yours with all your friends, but as you earned your first glance from Eddie, you knew that he would be the greatest reward. You don’t even care if the crush aspect of the entire ordeal never comes to fruition; you’d just like to imagine burying your face into his warm chest like you are now, and not feel weird about it. Not worry if he’ll push you away or be uncomfortable, or taken off guard, by it.

“Hey, losers,” he greets in a rough voice, no doubt gravelly from how much he might have smoked. 

You share a quick look with Robin, worried. High Eddie was always extra affectionate, but wouldn’t it be wrong to use that against him? Maybe you two should try another night, postpone the plan for another movie nigh-

You hadn’t even noticed that Steve had taken his original seat back and Eddie was glancing around the seating arrangement, seemingly lost, until Robin was suddenly shoving at you, “Babe, I love you, but scooch. C’mere, Eds. I’m in a cuddly mood.” 

And oh, that hurt. Which is why you suppose she didn’t tell you what exactly this part of the plan was. That hurt needed to break through your face, even if only for a moment, so that when you left the room, it made sense to discuss. 

Argyle catches that micro-expression the moment it graces your features. Even furrows his brows in response. Eddie even opens his mouth to argue, but you move too quickly for anyone else to comment.

You fumble with pulling up your body, scooting over as she requested until there was an Eddie-sized space left between the two of you. When Robin opens her arms wide, Eddie has no room to argue. 

“Well, if you insist, Buckley,” he teases, stepping carefully, hesitating for a second as he glances back down at you. Even through pink tinged eyes, you catch a flash of concern. “I’m always down for some cuddles with my favorite girl.”

And that also stings, reverberates like a slap to the face that had landed just a little too harshly. 

Robin scoffs, muttering a stern correction of, “Platonic cuddles, dipshit,” just as Nancy also laughs from where she’s tangled with Jonathan.

“Didn’t you say I was your favorite when I bought you a coke last week?” 

He probably did. He constantly made those jokes with Robin and Nancy. He never made those jokes with you. 

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t about respecting boundaries for Eddie. Maybe he just didn’t like you-

“You both wound me,” he sighs out as his body lands directly in that space you and Robin had organized, clearly favoring being close to Robin so that his thigh wouldn’t rub against yours, “I’ve officially changed my mind.” 

It almost happens in slow motion. Slowly, carefully, he lazily turns his head towards you, lips half lilted as his eyes sparkle in your direction, tongue darting out between his teeth before he drawls, “You’re my favorite, now.” 

For the first time in a year, you’re very clearly smelling his cologne, and the look in his eyes is setting you ablaze. The softness you are so used to bargaining out is being returned, an expression so delicate being aimed at you that you don’t know what to do with it. Senses overwhelmed with something woodsy, something musky, and something yearning. 

“How charming,” Nancy muses, leveling you with a soft and amused look. Not nearly as gooey as the look Eddie had given you, but still adoring, “Don’t listen to him. Clearly, he says that to everyone.”

“Yeah, but I mean it this time,” he argues. 

“Sure, you do,” Steve laughs from his end of the couch, “She’s not gonna go grab you a soda just because you’re kissing ass.” 

“Hey, you know what?” Argyle sits up in his chair, leaning towards you and pointing his finger in your direction, “You really are my favorite, and I’m a man of my word.” 

“I’m not getting you a soda, either, Gyle,” you flatly joke, narrowing your eyes.

He pours briefly, but shrugs, “Fair enough. I meant it, but fair enough.” 

On a limb, you stretch out a hand, and deliver a gentle smack at his hand still hanging limply in the air between you two. Robin is watching on proudly as Argyle looks taken back.

“Shut up,” you giggle, shimmying in your seat to get more comfortable. 

Eddie looks wildly around the room, completely stunned, wearing a look of betrayal, “What, you guys don’t believe me? She really is my favorite!” 

Lord only knows you were melting into the cushion of that couch. You weren’t used to this amount of attention, certainly not from Eddie, and certainly not so clearly in front of your friends.

If you could hardly handle his words of affection, how would you handle his touches of affection? 

“I believe you,” you finally say. Something in your mind screams at you, tells you now is your chance. All you’d have to do is shift your knee, and you could bump it to his in a joking manner. The perfect excuse. The perfect guise. You stare at your two knees for an eternity, though, and before you know it, the moment has passed. 

The ache echoes out across the hollow of every bone inside your body as he smiles, satisfied with your response before everyone moves forward with conversation.

You hate yourself. You should have bumped your knee to his. 

You don’t hear a single word exchanged amongst your friends. All you can hear is the roar in your ears that scorns you for another missed opportunity. 

Now is as good as ever to enact the second phase of the plan. 

“I’m gonna head to the bathroom before we start the movie,” you announce, standing a bit suddenly but trying to keep your voice even so it doesn’t seem to Eddie that his words had made you uncomfortable. They didn’t. They’d only fed that hunger, making you suddenly need more. It was your own stupid indecisiveness, what you didn’t do, that was upsetting you. 

Robin looks up knowingly, “Sounds good. Don’t miss me too much, babe.” 

Babe. Another thing your friends sometimes didn’t include you in — all the pet names, all the terms of endearment. It makes you smile. 

If anyone thought you might be rushing out due to the entire conversation that had just taken place, that smile would erase all their fears.

“I always miss you, baby,” you cockily reply, making a joking kissy face in her direction to seal the flirtatious manner of the interaction. 

Steve looks pleasantly surprised, Argyle is clearly mentally cheering you on, and Nancy looks plainly proud. 

But Eddie is looking up at you, doe eyes almost… sad. 

You try not to think of it too hard. 

You try to take your time once you reach the top of the stairs, rushing up but slowing as you walk to the bathroom.

You didn’t really need it, obviously, and you highly doubt anyone will be listening in on your footsteps above once Robin proposes the entire debate of it treating you so fragile anymore. In the middle of the hallway, your mind is made up. Instead of continuing on to that bathroom, instead of hiding away and feeding into the panic attack currently brewing despite your full faith in Robin, you retract to the kitchen.

This is what you wanted. You want more than to just offer soft words and soft motivation, you want more than to be seen as the friend with a heart of gold, as the pedestal Argyle constantly puts you up on so eloquently. You want to be felt as it, too. 

To give Nancy well-deserved hugs when another one of her publications receive recognition, to give Steve’s hand a firm squeeze when he’s confiding in you about his home situation and the loneliness that follows. You want Robin to hide her face in your shoulder for safety during jumpscares and you want to occupy that recliner with Argyle when you both decide to succumb to snacking while your friends endlessly debate where you should all have dinner, making whispers of commentary jokes before Jonathan would decide to sit on the arm and join you two in the audience as he gave up the battle for Nancy’s sake.

You want Eddie to touch you. You don’t even care how at this point. You want brushing shoulders and knocking knees, you want knuckles bumping into each other on the street and you want him to cling to you when it gets late and he’s tired, but not too tired to keep himself surrounded with his favorite people. You want to truly be his favorite. Favorite person, favorite hug, favorite conversation. 

God, you want it so bad that your seams nearly burst. Your composure nearly breaks. 

What if he doesn’t want that? 

The moment your footsteps on the stairs have vanished, Robin springs into action.

“Okay, group meeting,” she says, clapping to garner everyone’s attention. Eddie jumps slightly at her side, Steve offers her a side-eye, and Nancy shifts her entire body in Jonathan’s arms to look at her fully, “We need to talk about her.” 

She doesn’t even have to say your name.

Unfortunately, Argyle takes it the wrong way, nearly leaping out of his chair, “Her? Nah, dude, we need to talk about you. Why would you shove her around like that? I bet if you had just asked politely, she would have cuddled yo-“ 

“Oh, I know she would have.” 

Everyone’s attention is now sharper on Robin.

“Yeah? Then why did you just toss her to the side for Ed-“ Argyle starts up again, and once more, Robin is quick to interject.

“Because she needs the push,” a slight lie, but small enough in the grand scheme of things, “We’ve gotta stop treating her like she’ll shatter if we touch her.”

Nancy finally moves to full sit up, face full of concern, “Robin, I get what you’re saying, but she’s never been the touchy type. And that’s okay. We’ve never minded.”

“What if she minds?” Robin persists. She hasn’t failed to notice Eddie’s silence, and turns to him, focusing her attack and determination, “Have you ever even sat beside her before tonight?” 

Eddie’s eyes widen, “You guys told me to take it easy at first! And I did, but I- it would just be weird now to change, wouldn’t it?” 

It’s in the way he says it. Not just as if he’s keeping your best interests in mind, but as if it pains him to say it. As if the worst possible thing would be to admit that things should stay the same.

It’s Robin’s in. A falter in his cool guy exterior he only seems to care about maintaining for you.

“She wants it to change,” Robin quietly confesses. Another half-truth, “Me and Argyle never fully got through to it, but we also… we just gave up on it. Like he was saying, if I pushed tonight, she would have said yes. But Eddie has never pushed her.”

“Where are you going with this, Robs?” the one person who could blow this speaks up. Steve, the man who had been there at the diner and heard your practical confession to liking Eddie.

Don’t blow this, Dingus.

“I think we take the leash off of wolf boy, here,” she jabs a thumb in Eddie’s direction, “Lay him on her.”

“I don’t want to make her uncomf-“

“You won’t. And if you do,” Robin remembers your speech from earlier. Those wet eyes and the way your voice cracked at the prospect of growth, “It’ll be good for her.”

He’s not convinced.

So Robin pushes, because she made a promise to you to aid in this self-gardening journey, and damn it she was going to keep her promise, “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. You being the dog in this metaphor might be the wrong choice, considering how she looks like a kicked puppy every time you don’t sit next to her.” 

A bit harsh, but the truth. You were always brimming with such hope when Eddie entered the room, only to wilt when he kept up the same exhausting routine of avoiding you. 

“She does?” he’s clueless, a goddamn blinded fool, “I- Gyle, does she really?” 

Eddie looks to his friend for backup, but Argyle only shrugs from his seat, “If you don’t give the poor dudette a hug tonight, I am. If Birdie here is being honest, and she wants it, then I’m first in line. She’s way gentler on my scalp than all of you.” 

“You just want your hair braided by her again,” Jonathan pipes up finally.

“So?” Argyle defends, “That shit stayed. My little skittish friend does not come to play when it has to do with hair.” 

They all fall silent, holding their breaths and listening for a moment if you’re heading back down to them. 

The house is a ghost town from above.

“I’m just saying,” Robin finally whispers, keeping her tone low and gentle, almost defeated, “We can’t put her in a box. She told me she’d like the change, so I’m changing. She’s a big girl. She can handle it. Besides, she smells really good.” 

Robin gives Eddie a pointed look at that, and sees the pink that rushes over the bridge of his nose and up his neck.

You had no idea. No fucking idea. But she did. She’d watched Eddie withhold himself, she’d caught the longing glances, and she’d listened to his endless rambles about you. 

“Okay,” is his quiet reply just before your footsteps sound on the stairs. 

When you appear in the doorway, you’re holding three cans of coke.

“I bring gifts for taking so long,” you offer, holding up one of the cans as you cradle the other two in the ditch of your arm, extending it to Argyle as you pass by him.

He takes it greedily, appreciation loud and unfiltered, “Thank you dudette! At least someone here loves me.” 

You turn your eyes wide as moons, almost comical, fighting back a smile, “Oh? Were they being jerks while I was gone?” 

“You have no clue.”

A warning glare comes from Robin.

Even if you were in on the plan, it was dangerous territory. 

When you approach the couch, Robin sees the first sign of the plan working when Eddie doesn’t shift out of the comfortable position he’d sunk into. He isn’t jumping to leave an entire cavern for you. He’s leaving just enough space for you, enough that when you sit, you’re closer to him than you were before the bathroom.

Baby steps. Silently, she is screaming at him to keep it up, all while your brain bursts into flames.

He didn’t flinch away. He didn’t shift to be further from me.

Whatever Robin had said was working.

“Movie time?” you ask as you settle into that comfortable space, the unfamiliar yet indulgent warmth of Eddie’s body heat now wrapping around you. 

Your roots stretch, apprehensive, but desperate for that sunlight. 

It’s one of your group’s usual scary movies. You enjoyed horror, and could handle your own pretty well. If you ever got too scared, you’d usually cling to pillows or blankets that you were left with rather than another person as the rest of the group would. But there were no pillows, no blankets, no security cushions aside from the boy sitting between you and Robin. 

When you hand him his coke, his fingers brush yours, and you don’t pull back immediately. Baby steps.

When the first tense moment appears on screen, Eddie mutters a soft “shit” and jumps a little, leaning more into your space rather than Robin’s, lifting some of his curls to curtain his eyes.

You glance at him rather than the screen, narrowing your eyes in the dark, “Does that really work?” 

Eddie looks at you quickly at your whisper. Normally, everyone scolded him to be quiet during movies, never entertaining his small comments.

You weren’t the only one taking baby steps tonight.

Tentatively, he drops the curl blocking his vision, before grabbing a thicker one, boyish grin as he offers it to you shyly, “Wanna find out?” 

“She’s here!” Argyle shouts as he opens the front door to you, hardly giving you warning before he’s leaping forward and gathering you into his arms, nearly crushing you into a hug.

Warmth. Tender. Softness.

Argyle’s hugs are always bone-crushing, and always welcome. And they always linger as he leaves his arm around your shoulder to guide you into the foyer and shut the door behind you two.

“She is?” another voice shouts as she comes barreling out into the entryway, greeting you with an excited squeal as she rushes forward to pull you out of Argyle’s arm.

Robin. 

She’s dressed up for the night — an impressively well put together Robin outfit, complete with yellow spanx and a black mask across her eyes.

“Jesus, Robs,” you laugh as she tightens her arms around you, almost as if she was trying to crush any bones that survived Argyle, “I can’t breathe.” 

“Don’t care,” she mumbles into your shoulder before pulling back, “Nice costume.” 

A bat onesie. Cheesy, but comfortable, and warm enough to battle against Hawkin’s autumn chill. It’s even complete with a headband that has two small, perky ears attached to it, peeking out between tufts of your hair atop the crown of your head. 

“Thanks. Wait till you see the killer fake teeth I packed.” 

“Eds will be pissed if your fangs are better than his,” Argyle notes as he starts to walk into the living room. You follow, Robin close behind, to find the rest of your friends all waiting.

A scary movie is already on the TV, a classic slasher revealed by the high pitched scream that rings out into the room from it. There’s a few indoor decorations about — plastic jack-o-laterns and fake webs that will no doubt give Steve hell when he tries to take them back down — and you can see a punch bowl on the counter by where Nancy and Jonathan reside. 

And the man of the hour is lounging on the couch, a high mountain of pile already in front of him on the table as he munches on a family pack of candy corn. 

“Eddie, isn’t the candy supposed to be for trick or treaters?” you question teasingly as you make a beeline for him. His previous focus on the movie vanishes, full attention now on you.

He’s dressed like a vampire. If the cape didn’t give it away, that small blood line marked from his lower lip in a shade of lipstick you would guess he borrowed from Nancy does.

“I am a trick or treater, sweetheart,” he retorts, popping more candy into his mouth for emphasis, “Besides, Harrington has full-sized candy bars.” 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

He snaps his jaw closed jokingly, the clicking of his teeth making you huff out a laugh as you collapse next to him. 

That woodsy cologne is there, one you’re so happily familiar with these days. 

Unlike Argyle and Robin, he doesn’t greet you with an overwhelming hug, or palpable excitement. His way of greeting is more subtle. His arm slowly lifts, going to rest on the back of the couch behind you, but quickly falling to your shoulders when you waste no time scooting closer into the space he’s opened up in his side.

You fit kind of perfectly. Like a void always meant to be filled. 

“So, Dracula,” you hum, warning your beating heart to slow from its racing when his palm cradles your shoulder farthest from him, “What are we watching?” 

Baby steps were a thing of the past for most of the group. They had become great leaps of faith after that fateful movie night. The way Argyle and Robin had crushed you was normal now. Passing touches and flirtatious jokes were regular between you and your friends. They had seen your boundary for what it really was, a roadblock, and bit by bit, they had broken it down. 

Eddie’s hesitation isn’t because he can no longer touch you. His hesitation whispered of something more, something different, something still delicate. Just as delicate as the fragile wings of the butterflies in his stomach that fluttered to life every time you entered a room. 

They weren’t new. And you still didn’t know they existed — that they had always existed. From the first moment he’d met you.

“One of the Halloween movies,” he tells you, leaning down to keep the conversation more private.

You felt his breath on your ear.  A new touch that happened more frequently now. One you sought after almost as vehemently as you had those first few points of contact. 

“Oh?” you play along, staying hushed, “How fitting.” 

“Very.” 

“I’m surprised you didn’t make them put on a vampire movie. You know,” you cut off, and motion to his costume. You bump your knee to his as you do it, “Given your attire.” 

“Zee night iz ztill young,” he puts on an obnoxious accent meant to mimic Dracula himself, pronouncing all his ‘s’s as ‘z’s.

You only smile, wide and generous and soft and tender, before you lift a hand to punch at the flared collar of his cape. You don’t even hesitate, not even when your knuckles brush the side of his neck.

“Pretty killer, right?” he jokes, trying to ignore the warmth flooding his cheeks.

“Very,” you hum in approval, hand dropping as you lean back into the heavy warmth of his arm around you. You almost reach the hand up to his bottom lip to trace that makeup there, slightly smeared and edges rugged already from his snacking, but you do withhold yourself at that line, “I like the makeup.” 

“Yeah?” he lights up with pride, “You know, I did the eyeliner all by myself.” 

You squint pointedly, leaning in just an inch closer to inspect the feathered charcoal on his waterline, “Really? Very impressive, Eds.” 

“Stop flirting,” Steve demands as he leaves the kitchen, “You’re going to give him a bigger head than he needs.” 

You both break apart slowly, letting space settle between you two and slowly fading back into the real world and out of that little bubble between you two. Eddie’s arm remains — his palm never leaves you, going so far as to give you a playful squeeze as his finger trails down your bicep.

A pathway of spring roses feels as though they bloom along that trail. Vibrant, full of life, open to possibility. When it came to you, Eddie had one Hell of a green thumb. 

“Stop ruining the fun, big boy,” Eddie looks up at your friend, poking his tongue out as his nose scrunches. Adorable. Painfully so.

Steve is dressed as Batman. His mask is discarded somewhere on the counter beside the punch bowl.

“We have plenty of time for fun,” Steve waves off the comment, coming to stand in front of the TV with his hands on his hips, “Am I forgetting anything? I have candy for any kids that come knocking, we’ve got punch thanks to Nance, I ordered our pizza-“

“You better have ordered one with pineapple,” Eddie interrupts, tilting his head sideways in your direction, temple brushing against one of your fake ears, signaling how it was your favorite. You burrow yourself deeper into his touch.

Steve subtly ignores him, “-I have the big speakers set up if we wanna listen to any music in the backyard. Am I missing anything?”

Predictably, he wasn’t. Steve always thought of everything.

The last few months had been nice. Finally getting to enjoy Eddie’s touch had been more than you ever planned for, reveling in the way the boy was so gentle with you even as he finally gave in. Once he started, it was as if you both could finally breathe. A weight had lifted from Eddie’s shoulders just from the simple adjustment of now getting to sit beside you at every function, his bouncing knee always pressing into yours. It had become a silly tradition for him to offer to share that wild head of hair during scary movies, demanding if someone else tried to sit beside you during horror movies in particular that you needed him and his curls to protect you. 

You had gone from yearning for touches, yearning for that contact, to your friends arguing over who would be indulged that night. 

They had taken it slower than you thought you wanted (save for Robin), but in the end, it had all worked out. You didn’t freeze anymore. Your aversion to touch had slowly, slowly, withered away with each hug, with each clasp of their hands on you, with each casual cuddle session they pulled from you. You no longer felt like an anomaly. And it wasn’t that your friends had ever meant to make you feel like an outsider, but it felt like finally being let into a club you’d mourned being left out of for years.

The day that Eddie had grabbed your hand during a casual conversation amongst everyone while out for lunch, letting his thumb trail back and forth over your knuckles in a soothing motion, you’d nearly cried.

Something so delicate yet so telling. A quiet action of affection you’d spent so long telling yourself you couldn’t have. Back rubs during hugs, letting Argyle braid your hair in return, resting your head onto Robin’s shoulder instead of only vice versa. They were all things you’d denied yourself of for so long. You regret it, but you couldn’t change anything in the past, only the now.

And now, you had the boy who had first sprouted such affectionate want within you wrapped up against you, leaning into you for comfort as he started to ignore Steve again.

“Wanna go out back and smoke while he mother hens?” 

He doesn’t have to ask you twice. 

You both slip away out the back door unnoticed, a new banter sparking up between Robin and Steve being enough distraction to allow it. Eddie wastes no time digging into his jean pockets once he’s outside, throwing the cape out widely before he pulls out his pack of cigarettes. 

“Want one?” he offers, flipping it open in your direction.

You just smile, shaking your head, “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.” 

You’d never really said that before to anyone in your group, only politely declining up until now. A small detail, but Eddie looks pleased to learn it all the same.

“Huh,” he curiously hums, pulling his own cigarette from the carton before tucking it back away, “I never knew that.” 

“I’ve never really told anyone,” you shrug.

“It is some big secret?”

“Nope.”

“Hmph.” 

This hum is muffled by the tip of the filter in his mouth, his hands now busy patting down his body for his lighter. 

“What?” 

His lips struggle to stretch around the tip of the cigarette without dropping it, solely from how wide his smile is, “I like learning new things about you.” 

For every thing you had once spewed at Robin that night, Eddie had learned of you tenfold. 

It was far past learning how your fingers fit between his or the smell of your perfume. He’d wanted it all; to know the inside workings of your mind, to be privy to all of your beautiful thoughts. The softness set in stone inside of you bled far past what could be felt in your fingertips or the care that shook your hand when you’d brush back stray curls out of his eyes. It fed deeper into you, into parts of you that Eddie could spend hours exploring without once growing bored. 

“You say that like I’m interesting,” you murmur half-heartedly, suddenly reaching out beneath his cape and tucking into his back pocket he could have sworn he already checked. His breath is the one that catches at your arm brushing against his waist from the reach, his body is the one that freezes up entirely just from proximity. A change of roles that you had never seen coming, but he’d always figured existed. You never understood the effect you had on him, and that was in part his fault. 

You produce his lighter like magic.

“You are interesting,” he insists as he plucks the lighter from you, flicking it three times to get a steady flame to burn the tip of his cigarette to life, “Don’t sell yourself so short, batty.” 

“Batty?” you snort, not moving away from him, even as he blows a thin and ghostly stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

He can only shrug, wrinkling his nose, “Yeah, I didn’t like it either. Had to give it a chance, though.” 

In the quiet solitude of Eddie nursing his cigarette and you watching the trees rustle with the last remnants of daylight, something sharper invades the soft space you two seem to brew whenever together. Between your innards that are gentle by nature, and Eddie’s silken attitude not only in actions but attitude towards you, the spaces occasionally left between you two were always something dulcet. Calm. Welcoming. You’d come to discover that maybe, that’s why you’d always yearned to burrow yourself so deeply into those spaces. It was a feeling of comfort and a feeling of home that you had always seemed out, but never found that fit quite as right as these moments.

“Hey Eddie?” you ask aloud as he finishes off the cigarette, stomping it out on the ground with his boot.

“What’s up?” he answers, making no move to go back inside.

You always liked these moments alone best. From the very beginning. Even before he felt comfortable enough to step closer to you, shoulder to shoulder with you now. He’s trying to squint and see what you’re finding so interesting in the array of colorful leaves in the distance, slowly being covered in blue shadows rather than golden light, without asking. 

You liked that. You liked it a lot; the way he always seemed to seek out your perspective on things. “Can I ask you something?”

“You just did-“

“Fuck off,” your hand flies up, and smacks his shoulder. You never would have done that before. But you do now, relishing that contact even in the briefest of moments. The freedom to reach out and touch.

Once he stops laughing, clearly amused with himself, he turns to face you. Whatever he had been searching for in the trees is long gone, and your focus has moved onto him now, so it’s futile.

“Ask away, sweetheart.”

A deep breath for bravery, and you’re blurting out, “Did you really only avoid touching me when we met because... the others… they told you not to?” 

He wasn’t expecting that question. The crease between his brows makes that clear. You almost take your thumb to it, try to smooth out the worry. But you’re not quite there yet. Maybe one day you would be. 

It’s not as loaded of a question as he thinks it is. It’s cute to watch him assume it is, though. 

“I mean,” he starts his words slowly, carefully, “I guess.”

“You guess?” 

“I guess,” he repeats.

Your smile is sending him into a tornado of emotion. He almost curls his hands into fist, just as you used to do. 

When you broke down your boundary, it had split a crack through his dam. He knows he can reach out and touch you. He knows you’ll accept his physicality without complaint now. It doesn’t make it any less scary. 

For the same reason you don’t press your thumb into his eyebrow crease — having a crush just makes you hesitate like that. 

“I’m obviously a touchy guy,” he throws his arms out, aimlessly, and when they return his side, they almost nick yours. You wish they would brush yours, “But… between you and me, I always get nervous around pretty girls.”

The world slows. It doesn’t stop, it can’t stop for two youths who are trying to explore new and giddy feelings — but my God, can it slow to an absolute crawl, if only for the two of you.

“You think I’m pretty?” you tease, swallowing down just how much those words mean. You always have to remind yourself it’s worth it; being just friends is worth it now that you’ve learned the exact brand of cologne he wears and recognize the weight of his arm around you. 

“The absolute prettiest,” he breathes out, “I always have. Even if they hadn’t told me to hold back, I would have- Hell, I still do,” the Autumn air makes him honest, makes him brave, “I am- I would be- I just- It’s terrifying, the thought of fucking it up because you turn my brain to… mush.” 

Your eyes lift up to his forehead blanketed in his bangs, squinty and entertained, “You’re telling me it’s all just soup in there right now?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

Your friends are inside. There is candy to eat until your stomachs ache, and hugs to partake in until your bones have been crushed and pieced back together by threads of platonic affection.

Right now is anything but platonic. And it is time for something else to break, not your bones and not your boundaries. Something more. 

“I’m pretty sure your hand on my shoulder when we first met would have ended my entire world,” he confesses, starting the first crack.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. If you had hugged me every time you saw me, I don’t know if I would have ever found the nerve to leave my house.”

Another crack.

“And if I sat next to you every time we went out for dinner?”

“Wouldn’t have been able to eat a bite, I’m afraid.”

A spiderweb of cracks, all widening.

“And if I had laid my head on your shoulder during movie nights?”

“What the Hell is a movie?” he jokes, chuckling a bit nervously now, “Who knows? Certainly not me, certainly not when my favorite girl is curled up next to me.” 

One more crack, and the entire thing will finally shatter. You’re begging it to shatter. 

You bite your tongue on any remark about still being his favorite, because since that goddamn night, he’d never said Robin or Nancy were his favorites again. Never. He’d meant it. You were his favorite. 

“And if I just…” you pause as you step forward, leaning in slowly, and it takes everything in Eddie not to turn and run as your lips brush over his cheek as you whisper, “Kissed your cheek? Right here, right now?” 

He doesn’t respond, your lips press together and then press down. 

It shatters with a resounding snap that must be heard across Hawkins. Across Indiana. 

One moment, your lips are on his cheek, and the next, they’re on his lips. He turns his head quickly before any doubt or nerves or roots can interrupt the moment. 

Endless. Endearing. Warmth. Tenderness. Soft.

His lips are soft. So goddamn soft.

His hands are foreign things for a second, as if he’s in shock that he’d actually done it and kissed you. But they come back to life when your own lift to his neck, wrapping behind his neck and beneath the collar of that cape, pulling him in even closer to you. 

He kisses you. And kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Till you’re both dizzy and it doesn’t matter that the earth won’t stop spinning long enough for you two to live in this moment. 

It should be unfamiliar, especially to you, but it isn’t. It’s as if the two of you have done this dance before. In another life, in another world, on another Earth far away from here. Your lips know his in this lifetime, and they will know his in the next — this first meeting only allows for a sigh of relief in the Universe, and in you. 

He paused the kisses briefly, palms cradling your face with care and intention, “Do you know,” he places his lips onto yours one more time, as if fearful that spending too much time apart will let you vanish, “how often,” another kiss, deeper this time, “I’ve wanted to do this?” 

A final peck. A period to the end of a sentence that the two of you had taken your time writing.

“No,” you laugh earnestly, fingers digging into the soft skin at his nape, reveling in the slip of his curls between your knuckles, “Maybe you should tell me about it.” 

“Tell you about all the times?” he’s leaning back in, lips brushing against yours. Just a touch, but it shakes you to your core, “All the times I wanted to touch you, hold you, kiss you?” 

You capture his lips in yours, unable to resist anymore. You’ve spent months resisting — his lips and kisses, his touches and brushes, his warmth and sunshine. You’re done resisting.

“Every,” you pull back and catch the glint in his eyes. He’s done, too, the rubble of the shatter, “Single,” you peck one cheek, “Last,” you peck the other, now rosey, “One.” 

You finally kiss his lips again. Your fingers tug harshly on his curls, and his mouth falls open at the unexpected sensation. Instead of taking this any further and starting something you’d never want to end, you do the adult thing — you nip at his bottom lip, a bite of adoration that leaves him with a sting to remember. 

“Fuck,” he sighs out, chasing after you, but your hands press into his chest to keep him into place, “I- Sorry, was that too much?” 

“Too much?” you laugh breathlessly, shaking your head immediately. Once upon a time, it might have been too much. But now, it wasn’t enough. “No such thing, not with you.” 

“Careful,” his hands came up to cover your fists balled into the front of his shirt, moving so that his cape brushes against your sides now, “I’m known to be quite a handful, sweetheart.” 

You snort and grip his shirt even harder. “God, I sure hope so. You’ve been holding out on me, dracula.” 

“Oh, have I?”

His smirk and your smirk are perfect mirror images of each other. 

“You have.”

[noodlie-reads]

as a fairly touch-averse person, this made me cry

[wonderlanderings]

Swan Song

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: mechanic!eddie munson x fem!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.4k 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: mechanic!eddie munson x fem!reader 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: fluff, not proofread sry 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Eddie experiences love at first sight, twice. First with your car, and then with you.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱

𝐚/𝐧: figured it's only fair to also post the Eddie fic I've been working on. Wanted to make this longer but couldn't really figure out my thoughts about it, so maybe I'll eventually write a second part.

The sound cuts through the humid garage air, a discordant note even against the thrashing backdrop of Master of Puppets. It isn't a roar or a growl—it’s a phlegmy, sputtering choke, the mechanical equivalent of a last gasp. Eddie freezes, a greasy carburettor float dangling from his fingers like a captured insect. His head tilts, the gesture all predator, zeroing in on the source of the distress signal.

What in the seven hells is that? And more importantly, who is the maniac driving it?

With a sigh that is half-genuine concern, half-anticipation of a beautiful disaster, he wipes his hands on a rag so stained it’s more oil than fabric. He ambles toward the open bay door, the Indiana sun hitting him like a physical blow. And then he sees her.

Parked at a crooked angle, as if it had given up mid-manoeuvre, is a late-70s Pontiac Firebird. Or a ghost of one. The paint has long since surrendered its fierce, predatory red to a sun-bleached, melancholic pink. It’s a patchwork of Bondo and primer, its surface a constellation of rust spots spreading like a disease. The passenger-side mirror is held on by a frankly artistic crisscross of duct tape, and the sound emanating from under the hood is a symphony of pure, unadulterated agony. It’s the kind of sound that makes the fillings in his teeth hum in sympathetic pain.

A genuine, profound pang twists in his chest. He approaches slowly, as one would a wounded animal.

"Jesus, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice low, his words meant for the car alone. He reaches out but doesn't quite touch the flaking paint on the fender, a gesture of respect. "What did they do to you?"

As if in protest, the driver's side door opens with a shriek of tortured metal that rivals the engine's death rattle. 

A pair of legs swing out, nice legs, his brain supplies, a detached, operational observation from a subsystem he isn't currently prioritising. His main focus is still locked on the dying engine, now clicking and ticking ominously as it cools—the sound of a bomb that has, against all odds, not gone off, but is seriously considering it.

His eyes finally flick up from the wounded beast of a car to its driver, and the prepared lecture on automotive malpractice dies on his lips. 

All that is left was the image burned onto his retinas. The frustrated, adorable little frown creasing your forehead as you slam the door shut with a definitive hip-check. The way you smudge a warrior’s stripe of grease across your cheekbone, pushing a stray hair out of your face with the back of your wrist, utterly unaware of the mark you are making—on the car, or on him. There is a fierce, capable energy in the way you plant your hands on your hips and glare at the steaming hood, a look that could wither a lesser man and seems ready to intimidate the hunk of metal back to life through sheer force of will.

The revelation hits him like a dropped wrench. He’s been so, so wrong. This isn’t abuse. This is a testament. The car is a fighter, a survivor, a beast clinging to life through grit and duct tape. And you? You’re its perfect, furious counterpart. It’s Valkyrie. A goddess of righteous mechanical anger.

The oily rag hangs forgotten from his limp fingers. The carburettor float in his other hand suddenly weighs a thousand pounds, an anchor trying and failing to tether him to the reality he knew just seconds ago. His usual arsenal of quips, smart-ass comments, and performative charm evaporates into the gasoline-scented air, leaving his mouth desert-dry and his mind a blissfully, utterly blank slate. For the first time in his life, Eddie Munson has absolutely nothing to say.

Jesus fuck.

He’s moving before his brain has even finished the command, his boots carrying him forward on autopilot, the filthy rag still clutched in one hand like a weird, grimy flag of surrender. He must look like a spectre emerging from the gloom of the garage bay—all dark hair, scuffed leather, and an intensity in his eyes that usually makes people nervous.

"Hey," he calls out, his voice a low, raspy thing that scrapes out of him, rougher than he intended, colored by the sudden, frantic hammering of his heart. You jump, spinning to face him, and those eyes—wide and startled—locked onto his. They’re the exact colour of… shit. He doesn’t know. Something he could get lost staring at for a while, maybe forever.

He clears his throat, desperate to sound like he knows what he is doing. "Sounds like your timing belt is about three thousand miles past a prayer," he says, gesturing vaguely with the rag toward the car's hood. "And your valves? They're not just singing, sweetheart, they're performing a full-blown, tragic opera. A swan song with a lot of... spitty percussion."

You blink, that adorable, confused little crease forming between your brows. God, it’s cute. "I… I just know it's making a terrible noise," you admit, and the frustration in your voice is so genuine it makes something protective and stupid stir in his chest. "It keeps stalling at red lights. It's… embarrassing."

"Yeah, no kidding," he says, but he’s smiling now, a quick, lopsided, and hopefully disarming thing designed to put you at ease. He takes another step closer, close enough to smell the faint scent of perfume over the top notes of gasoline and hot metal. "Don't take this the wrong way," he starts, tilting his head toward the ailing Firebird. "But it's a cardinal sin. A crime against automotive history, to let a classic like this suffer such an… undignified fate." He rakes his free hand through his hair. "So, what's the story? You rescue her from a scrapyard? Inherit her from a misguided enemy? Give me the dirt."

And that’s when your face changes. The fierce frustration melts away, replaced by something soft, wistful, a little sad. It’s a look that hits him harder than any glare. You place a hand flat on the hot, dusty hood, a gentle, almost reverent pat that does something funny and tight to his insides, like a wrench tightening on a bolt right behind his ribs.

"It was my dad's," you say, and your voice is softer now, laced with a memory. "He loved this stupid car more than… well, almost anything. I don't know the first thing about…" You wave a helpless hand at the entire engine bay, a gesture that encompasses your entire mechanical ignorance. "...any of this. I just know I can't be the one who lets it die."

Oh.

Oh, no.

The realisation doesn’t just hit him in the chest; it lands like a piston to the gut, knocking the air clean out of him. This isn't just a cool car; it’s a relic. A memory on four bald tires. It’s a sacred trust handed down by some faceless, brilliant man who loved his daughter enough to leave her his favourite thing. Suddenly, fixing it isn't just a mechanic's job, or even a chance to impress a pretty girl. It’s a fucking mission. A quest.

"Right. Okay," he says, and his own voice sounds strange to him, gone all serious and stripped of its usual theatrical flair. He clears his throat, scrambling to sound like a competent professional and not like a man who has just been emotionally sucker-punched by a beautiful woman and her heartbreakingly broken-down Firebird. "No, that's… that's heavy. In a good way. A really cool way." He takes a deliberate step back, giving you space, giving the car the respect it suddenly deserved. "Look, I'm Eddie. I, uh, I fix things here." He thumbs over his shoulder toward the garage. "Why don't you pop the hood for me? Let me just… take a quick look. No charge," he adds quickly, seeing the immediate flash of financial anxiety in your eyes. "Just a diagnosis. Scout's honour. Well," he corrects with a faint, recovering smirk, "Hellfire honour. It's marginally more binding."

He sees the relief wash over you, so potent it’s almost a physical thing. A smile breaks through your worry like sunshine cutting through storm clouds, and it’s aimed right at him. And in that moment, Eddie Munson knows with an absolute, terrifying, and exhilarating certainty that he is going to move heaven and earth, he is going to beg, borrow, and maybe even steal parts, he is going to make this glorious piece of shit purr like a perfectly content kitten if it is the very last thing he ever does.

The following week has been a masterpiece of manufactured reasons, and Eddie Munson is an artist in denial. A “hard-to-find gasket” meant your Firebird occupied his bay for three gloriously distracting days instead of one. A “test drive to ensure the timing is perfect” stretched into a twenty-minute cruise where he talked your ear off about harmonic balancers, mostly to hear you laugh and ask, “So it’s like the car’s doing yoga?” And now, as you arrive for the keys (and the criminally low bill he’s concocted), he’s leaning against the repaired driver's side door, a new, desperate plan sparking behind his dark eyes.

The main issue is fixed, but his mind has been busy. He’s compiled a mental catalogue of every little thing that could be better. A faint squeak from the brake pedal that doesn't affect performance but could be silenced. A tiny patch of surface rust near the wheel well, a future problem he could preemptively slay. The way the dashboard lights flicker just so—a quirk he’s grown fond of, but one that deserves proper wiring. It’s a list of flaws he wants to lavish attention upon, just like he’s starting to catalogue your smiles: the small, polite one; the wide, surprised laugh; the soft, sideways grin you get when you’re thinking.

“So she’s running smooth,” he says, his voice a little rougher than usual. He holds out the keys, a deliberate move that makes his fingers brush against yours. The contact is brief, but it sends a jolt, simple and electric, straight up his arm. He sees your breath catch, just for a second, and it fuels him. “But, uh… you got a sec?”

You nod, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear in a gesture that feels infinitely more intimate than it should. “Of course. What’s up?”

He pushes off the car, his body thrumming with a nervous energy he usually channels into a guitar solo. He gestures to the Firebird like a game show host presenting the grand prize. “The heart’s strong now. But the old girl… she’s still got so much potential. We could—oh man—we could detail her, get that paint shining again. I know a guy who can re-chrome the bumpers for a six-pack and a favour. And the interior…” He leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially as if sharing a secret. “God, the seats just need a little love. Some conditioner, some stitching… they’d be good as new.”

His enthusiasm is a live wire, his hands painting the picture of the car’s glorious future in the air between you. He can see the longing bloom in your eyes, the way you look at the car not as a broken thing, but as a piece of your past waiting to be restored, a connection to your dad he is desperate to help you preserve.

But then he sees it—the subtle shift. The soft light in your eyes dims, replaced by the practical, weary shadow of reality. The hesitation clouds your expression, and it feels like a door closing.

“Eddie, that sounds… incredible, really,” you say, and your voice is so genuine it almost hurts. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted for it. But I can’t possibly afford all that. You’ve already done too much, and this bill…” You gesture to the paper in your hand, a paltry sum that didn’t even cover the new parts. “It’s not nearly enough. I can’t let you do more for free.”

But somehow, with a combination of wild hand gestures, passionate declarations about the "soul of American muscle," and a vulnerability in his eyes that you’ve never seen before, he convinces you. His argument is a masterpiece of flimsy excuses: he’ll do it in his free time, it doesn’t even count as work, he’s become artistically invested in the project of restoring such a beautiful machine. (It’s a terrible, transparent lie, and you both know it. The real project he’s invested in is you).

You hesitate, chewing on your lower lip as you look from his hopeful, eager face to the car that holds so many memories. The practical part of your brain is screaming. The other part, the part that’s been enjoying his ridiculous stories and the way his face lights up when he explains things, wins out.

“Okay,” you say, and the word feels momentous. Eddie’s entire posture shifts, like a puppet whose strings have been pulled taut. “Okay, you’re insane. But… okay.”

The relief and triumph that floods him is so potent it’s dizzying. Yes! He’s in. He’s still in the game.

Then you take it a step further, effectively short-circuiting his brain. “But if you’re going to be donating all this free labour,” you continue, a faint blush on your cheeks, “the least I can do is provide the workspace. And… maybe some food. So. Why don’t you just come over to my place? My garage is a mess, but it’s dry. And you won’t have to close up the shop here every night.”

Come over to my place.

The phrase echoes in his skull, followed immediately by a wave of sheer, unadulterated panic. Your space. Your world. This was more than he’d dared hope for. He’s been trying to extend his time with you in his domain, surrounded by his things, his rules, his mess. Now you’re inviting him into yours. It feels infinitely more intimate.

He tries to play it cool, shoving his hands in his pockets to hide the fact that they’re suddenly shaking. “Yeah? Your place? Uh. Yeah. Sure. That… that works. More efficient.” He’s nodding a little too fast. Get it together, Munson. “Just, uh, tell me when. I’ll be there.”

He’s already mentally planning his outfit. And trying to remember if his good band t-shirt is clean.

[noodlie-reads]

in real life i really do think if you gave me an irl version of any of my blorbos i wouldn’t fumble that shit like my hubris truly knows no bounds

unless it’s a girl blorbo, i’ll get scared and fucking blow it bc I am Useless™ around women

[luminoustarlight]

— THE BOX SET MASTERLIST

Starcourt Productions has been a prominent figure in adult entertainment since 1982. With shining male performers such as Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson, they’re in need of a new female star.

Eddie’s been performing for several years now and he’s never felt anything remotely romantic for his partners. That is until you come along.

originally published march 2023. this series is complete

series rating: mature/explicit | pairing: pornstar!eddie munson x newbie!reader | wc: 33k

read on ao3

Tape 1 - The Girl Next Door (8.5k)

Tape 2 - Good Girl, Dirty Desires (9.1k)

Tape 3 - Anything For His Girl (14.2k)

Epilogue - Starcourt's Star Couple (1.5k)

◂ back to eddie masterlist

[luveline]

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary You're having trouble sleeping and pot seems like the only solution. Good thing your dealer, Eddie Munson, knows of another method that he's willing to to teach you. You get more than you bargained for when he tells you what he gets off to every night - you. [8.8k]

warnings 18+ only smut, fem!reader, eddie teaches you how to masturbate, p in v sex, light praise kink, mutual pining/lusting, lots of kissing, dirty talk, weed ment, aftercare, they are not so secretly infatuated with one another, eddie is a soft dork but also dirty <3 r implied as dressing very femininely

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Eddie kneels outside his trailer. 

You stop at the lip of the grass and wonder what he's doing. His back is to you, covered by a band shirt familiar even from this angle and riddled with rips and moth holes. You're about to call out to him when he speaks. 

"You're hot, huh, sweetheart?" Softer than you've ever heard him. "Why don't you go inside? Escape the heat, yeah?"

You approach slowly, footfall smothered by the lush green underfoot. He's scratching behind the ears of a tabby cat. 

"It's so hot out! The sun's gonna cook you," he says, whisper-shouting.

Like the tabby can understand what he's saying it stands, stretches tall and then slinks off into the trailer. "Good girl," Eddie says, standing up. 

"Are you collecting strays?" you ask lightly. 

He turns to you, surprised but not scared. "Don't worry, you're still my favourite." 

Good girl. His words ring loud between both ears. "I'm not a stray." 

"Uh-huh. What's my shy girl want today?" You spin on your heel and Eddie starts laughing. "Sorry, I'm sorry! Come on, you'll like what I have!" 

"You know I can't talk to you when you get like this," you tell him, pouting from over your shoulder. 

He pushes a mess of black curls behind his ear and beckons you forward. "Come on," he says, sing-song. "Let daddy set you up."

"Jesus Christ," you mutter, following Eddie into his house unhappily. 

You hate when he gets in this mood, not because he's ever really made you uncomfortable, but because you like to be teased, and he knows it. Or he likes watching you squirm. Either way, it's dangerous territory. 

"How much did you want?" he asks. 

The cool inside of his trailer is a blessing. You hold your naked arms away from your skin and try to take a deep breath of cool air. "I have thirty dollars. So… however much that is." 

"Babe, what the fuck do you want so much for?" he asks, glancing over his shoulder at you incredulously. 

You follow him into his room. "Do you not have it?" you ask, tracing posters you've seen upwards of ten times by now. Eddie's a good dealer – reliable, sweet, and prone to freebies without any pervy requests in place. 

He once swapped you an eighth for a cheap charm bracelet. He wears it now, the silver delicate and entirely too sweet for his metalhead appearance. It looks good on him, anyhow. 

He pulls open the usual lunchbox you hadn't noticed sitting on one of his amps and pulls out more pot than you've ever seen at one time. "Don't I?" 

"Woah."

"Uh-huh. Ern't she preddy?" he asks in a drawing southern accent. 

You hold out your hands and he lets you take it. When you open the zip lock bag, the smell isn't awful. The buds are thick with green fuzz, and your eyes water. 

You pass it back to him. "How much can I have for thirty?" 

"For you? Half." 

"Don't do that, Eddie. Gimme what you'd give anyone else." 

"But you're not anyone else, babe. You're my favourite customer." 

"I'm gonna put you out of business," you say, lightly chiding. "Can I sit down?" 

He hums and nods and you sit cross legged at the top of his bed. His bed sheets are pushed away and the space is cold. His pillow under your hand is colder. 

Eddie doesn't bother weighing it. You roll your eyes at him but also feel amazingly happy, because it's a lot of pot for not a lot of money, because his favouritism speaks for what you hope might be a small crush. Still, when he passes you the new bag you feel guilty. 

"Eddie, I can't take that. I know that's more than thirty." 

His eyebrows jump. "I don't care. What's the point in doing this if I can't give pretty girls a little something extra?" 

"I don't know. To make money?" 

He holds out the bag. You don't take it. "Fine," he says, sighing.

"Thank you." You watch him fish three or four bigger buds out of the bag. He presents you with a much more reasonable amount, his hands stained with the smell. "Thank you," you say again.

"Yeah. Wanna stay and watch a movie?" 

You've known Eddie since middle school. Classmates, not really friends, not not friends, though ever since you've started buying a small kinship has blossomed between you. 

"What movie?" 

"Whatever you want." 

You nibble the inside of your lip. "You'll roll up for me?" 

"Sure will." 

So you end up on Eddie's couch with the tabby cat that isn't his purring heavily on your lap as he rolls a couple of joints for you. You won't smoke anything until tonight so Eddie drops them into your newly acquired ziplock bag with papers and the leftover bud. 

He sniffs. "So, you're not sleeping?" he asks knowingly, straightening out with a groan and disappearing out of view into the kitchenette. You're a total overthinker. Pot helps you calm down.

"I'm sleeping." 

"After toking up." 

"There's…" You scratch the vibrating cat behind its ears, frowning to yourself. "Worse things to do." 

"Better ones, though. Hey, do you want a drink?" 

You say no and he brings you a glass of water anyways. His hands smell strongly of hand soap and faintly of weed as he passes it to you. You take it carefully, wary of disturbing your cuddle partner. 

"Like what?" you ask.

"Cranking one out, for starters." 

You wince, afraid to bring the lip of the glass to your mouth in case you choke on it. "Anything else?"

"Running?" Eddie suggests, sitting with you but leaving a more than comfortable gap between your legs.

"Not my thing," you murmur. 

It's weird, but anything above murmuring feels like shouting in the calm of his home. The movie plays on the TV and the cat purs, Eddie spreads his legs out and slouches into the cushions, his face surrounded by dark hair. He smiles at you like he always does, amicable if slightly flirty. 

"Maybe pot is your only option," he says mournfully. He pulls a lock of hair in front of his face and his eyebrows pinch together. "Make sure you brush your teeth after though. Or you'll get bad teeth."

"Bad teeth?" 

"Smoking ruins your pearls." 

You put down your glass of water and weave your fingers into the cat's rough fur. Eddie is really nice. Really really nice. And he probably likes you, so… what's the worst that could happen, by asking? 

I'm only asking, you decide. 

"Eddie," you say softly, disrupting a big tobacco rant that he'd started. "What- when you say cranking one out, that's-" 

"You know." He holds his hand above his crotch and squeezes the air. You feel a terrible heat start to collect in your abdomen. "Five to one? Uh- Nulling the void?" He grasps for words at your lost expression. "Making soup?" 

His voice goes high. You think he's as embarrassed as you are, and you're not gonna ask again. You giggle. "Oh, right." 

He drops his hand heavy against the seat of his pants and leans back. "Crank one out and sleep like a log." 

"That works for you?" you ask tentatively. 

"Every night." 

You sink down into the couch and hide your face in cat fur. Eddie starts asking about how your job is, a genuine, earnest interest that further cements your next decision. You clear your throat. 

"Eddie, can I ask you something?" He grins and waves his hand. "When you," you wince, "'make soup', do you just- how do you…" You slink down so far you're almost falling off of the couch. "How do you make yourself-" You gesture to your pelvis and then screw your hand into a fist, self-conscious.

He blinks. "Finish?" 

You look at the chain around his neck rather than his face. "Yeah." 

"Are you asking me because you want to know how I do it, or because you don't know how to do it to yourself?" 

You rub your cheek with your shoulder. "The second option." 

"Shit," he mutters. 

"Sorry, you don't have to- I just thought-" 

Eddie sits up. He looks more serious than he had before but not any less patient, elbows braced on his knees and head propped up in his hand. He parts his fingers over his lips. 

"You don't know how?" he asks. 

"I must've missed that lesson in sex ed," you try to joke. It comes out awkward. Eddie laughs anyways, a huff of breath. 

"Lucky you, I've sat through sex ed three times." He grins brilliantly, but his joking tone softens when he sees your hesitant expression. "If you wanna know, I'm happy to tell you." 

"Are you sure?"

"We're friends, right? What are friends for?" You don't miss the sarcastic twist to his words or his ironic smile. 

Friends like you and Eddie likely aren't meant to be giving one another lessons on masturbation. But really, he's the only person you know who you could ask and wouldn't feel totally looked down on. Eddie's nice to his core, but better – he doesn't judge. 

You struggle to know what to ask. 

The cat chooses this moment to wake and jump off of you, strutting out of the trailer's open door and back into the sunlight without so much as a grateful look back. 

And now you're alone with him. 

"How's your anatomy?" he asks. You shake your head slowly. "You know, grade wise? Are we passing? B? B-? C?" 

"I don't know what you're talking about, Munson." 

"Do you know what's what?" he asks concisely.

You sit up and press your knees together, suddenly very aware of your 'anatomy'. "I think so." 

He purses his lips for a few seconds before shrugging. "Alright. We can work with that." Eddie pushes his cheek into the couch and looks at your face unflinching as he says, "You know what your clit is?" 

You cringe. Full body. 

Eddie shrugs. "What? That's what it's called. You don't have to be embarrassed about it." 

"I know what it is." 

"And you can't make yourself-" 

"No." 

He doesn't miss your frustration. "Hey, hey, it's fine. Some people think that it's, like, a magic on-button, but it's not. There's a whole process." 

"How do you know?" you ask genuinely. 

His answering smile is wolfish. "I'm in a band, babe. Fucking a guitarist is like, a bucket list thing or some shit. Girls will tell you exactly what they want if you're willing to listen." 

Something about his knowing look has your heart skipping a beat. Maybe two. He pushes his hand across the couch and you're not sure if it's on purpose or accident, only that he's leaning in, a small smile on his face. 

"And I'm a damn good listener." 

You meet his eyes and know what he's offering. He waits, ring heavy fingers splayed wide in the space between you. It's the sight of them – thick, long and adorned in string-wrought calluses – that tips you over the edge. 

He's already pulling back with a reassuring smile on his face, lips parted to likely say something too nice when you interrupt him. 

"Will you teach me?" you ask quietly. 

A split-second of surprise is quickly overtaken by enthusiasm. "You're not high, are you?" 

"No." 

He gets up to close the door and starts for his room. You linger on the couch uselessly and he doubles back, hand on the wall. "Are you coming?" 

The noise from the TV fades as you walk down the hall and into his room. Your socked foot nudges into a tower of books close to the door and you reach out to steady them. Eddie pulls the sheets back into place and flicks on the lamp. He pauses by the stereo before turning that on, too. 

A song you don't recognise starts to play. Eddie climbs up onto his bed and stands there for a second, suddenly very tall. "You wanna take off your jacket?"

"It's a cardigan." You peel the thin white cotton off of your shoulders and shift from foot to foot, unsure of yourself. 

Eddie settles on his knees, pulls off his rings. "It's pretty. Come here," he says, holding out his arms. 

You slide onto the bed cautiously, naked calves rubbing against the sheets. You feel as though every sense has been dialled to eleven; you're thinking about every brush of fabric, every small sound that they make. 

Eddie takes one of your hands and you sit with one leg crossed and the other hanging off the edge of the bed, surprised at his soft touch. He soothes your hand and brings it to his lap, eyes on your now-bared shoulders. 

"You dress real pretty." He says it with his usual dramatics, though there's enough sincerity there to make you smile. 

You look down at your delicate clothes thoughtfully. "You think so?" 

"Mh-hm. It suits you," he says as he drums his thumbs against the back of your hand. 

He pushes one palm up the length of your arm and pulls it towards him at the same time. You've never been touched like this before and you want it bad, shuffling towards him with a shameful speed. He takes it in stride, hand bumping up the hill of your shoulder. His index finger slides under the skinny strap of your top and tugs at it playfully. 

"You look sweet. Really sweet," he says, his voice more hushed than before. His eyes drop to your thighs. "You'll have to take those off, though."

"My shirt too?" you ask weakly, eyebrows pinched up at the starts. 

"Not if you don't want to." You hesitate. He takes your thigh into a big hand and gives you a small shake. "It's okay. Take your time. Or, if you changed your mind, that's totally cool." 

"No, I haven't," you deny, voice trembling with a mixture of nerves and anticipation. You kick your legs out in front of you one at a time and ease your shorts over the slopes of your thighs and calves, pushing them off of his bed with your feet. 

“If you change your mind at any point-“

“I’ll tell you,” you say, nodding as you pull your knees together. 

Eddie manoeuvres so he’s close, twisted toward you with his hand braced by your thigh. The cold metal of the charm bracelet you'd swapped him bites into your skin. If you leaned back and he leaned forward, he could kiss you. You think maybe he has the same idea as his eyes dart to your lips. 

They linger. 

He blinks and it’s gone. 

“I’m gonna rub your leg,” he says quietly, “and when I get to the inside, I’m gonna touch you. Okay?”

As he says it, his hand moves onto your thigh. Down to your knee.

Slowly, so slowly, back up. His fingers caress the inside of your thigh. He pauses. 

“‘Kay,” you whisper. 

His fingers flex over your flesh as he draws in. Then, like a shock, his fingertips press to your underwear. 

“I’m not surprised,” he says steadily, fingers brushing over your cunt, ghosting but never truly touching where you want him to. 

“By what?” 

“That you wear such cute panties.” He strokes the hem with the tip of his finger and you hold your breath as he slides it under the elastic, running the fabric over his digit gently. “S’exactly the kind of thing I pictured you wearing.”

“You’ve pictured them?” 

He looks up from his teasing and your panties snap into place. You gasp on instinct and his eyes narrow, his lashes kissing in the corners. “Does that bother you?” he murmurs. 

You shake your head. His lips quirk up, a smugness that makes your heart race ever faster. 

"Do you do anything like this with yourself?" he asks. 

"I'm never this nice." 

"That's a crime," he says, and he laughs loud, momentarily shattering the distilled atmosphere that had settled over you both. "Thighs like these and you don't touch them?"

"Is that what you do?" you ask, insecure.

"No, but it's different. I don't need to get warmed up like you do." 

"Warmed up?" you whisper. Having to ask these questions feels so embarrassing. 

Eddie being so soft about it makes it easier. "Relaxed," he whispers in turn, laughing towards the end.

His thumb rubs the elastic of your underwear and drifts slowly inward until he's pushing over your folds. You gasp and it's slightly startled, sounding too close to panic for Eddie, who's hand flinches away. 

"Didn't like that?" he asks. 

You rush, "It's okay. Surprised." 

One big hand holds your thigh, the other strokes your cunt. He's a little firmer now, pushing the breadth of his thumb over your panties until he touches something very sensitive. "Here?" He pushes up a little higher and your breath catches. He makes an almost inaudible cooing sound and flattens his hand, rubbing the length of your cunt without finesse. It feels good anyway. It surprises you how much you like it. 

He pinches your panties.

"Ready to take them off?" he asks. 

"Yeah." 

You lift your hips and peel your underwear down, folding your legs to pull them off of your ankles. You clutch them in your hand, unsure. 

Eddie sits back and pulls you towards him. You let him manhandle you with a small gasp, his hands pressing into the soft of your tummy. You can't see his face anymore. 

"Alright," he murmurs, pulling your thigh over his lap and spreading you wide. His voice is loud in your ear because of his proximity, and you resist the temptation to turn your face to his.

"Let's just-" he works your underwear out of your hand and tosses them aside. 

His hand lands on your knee and moves down fast. 

You lean back heavily into his chest with your hands pulled to your sternum. 

"Eddie," you say, "what do I do?" 

He hums. "Touch yourself." 

You seize up and he's quick to soothe, fingers closing around the crook of your elbow.

"Hey, I'm gonna show you. I'm gonna show you," he repeats. He pulls at the lip of your cunt and spreads you open, groaning softly. You wouldn't hear it if his lips weren't so close to your face. "How'd you have a cunt this sweet and never touch it? I mean, fuck." 

His fingertips whisper past your pubic hair like he's going to say something more, but he only asks, "Hand?" 

You put your hand into his, the back to his palm. 

He sets it to your thigh. "Do what I did before, okay? Slowly…" He drags your hand up and down the length of your thigh. 

Your heart is racing. Every time you crawl close to your cunt the burning longing to be touched, to touch yourself, and to have him touch you intensifies. 

Eventually he pulls your hand to your clit. "You're so sensitive. Is it always this bad?" he asks sympathetically when you jump, tickled at the feelin. 

"I haven't tried in a while." 

"Oh, I see." Eddie encourages you to push your fingertip into the bead of your clit, drawing slow circles. "Poor baby. Just desperate to have someone take care of you." His voice is so low, so ridiculously soft, you find yourself sinking into his hold. He squeezes the crook of your elbow with one hand, the other still guiding your ministrations. You bite your lip at the sensation that's begun, the tiny spark of pleasure.

"Here, let me-" He lifts your hand away from your clit and you whine involuntarily. "Shh, sweetheart, I'm only gonna give you something to work with." 

You turn your head to him and watch as his mouth opens. He sucks the very tip of your finger between his lips, the heat of his tongue a momentary flash. When he pulls it back, your finger shines with his spit. 

Your eyes are half-lidded, watching through the crush of your lashes as he presses it back to your clit. "How's that? S'that better?" he asks, crooning. His tone sports an underlying mockery, a light-hearted teasing that's slowly turning intense. 

It is better. It's different. Your fingertip searches for purchase against the slick skin and struggles to find it, the wetness allowing for freer, faster movement. 

You push a second finger against the first. 

Eddie stops helping. You pause, confused. 

"No, you got it, sweetheart. You keep going," he reassures, grabbing a hold of your thigh again. He teases the dough there, never cruel but maybe close, fat moulding under his fingers as he squeezes. 

Your breathing builds with pleasure. Still, it's hot enough; there's no sign of an oncoming climax, no tightening coil in your tummy. You huff with exertion and frustration. "Eddie, it's not working." 

"I'm not done." He sounds almost stern. Your stomach flips. "You have to think about what you want." 

"What I want?" 

"What turns you on." 

You think of his hands and their rings. His happy trail. 

His voice. Good girl. 

You slam your eyes shut.

Eddie gives you another mean squeeze. "What do you think about, when you-" 

You don't let him finish. "What do you think about?" you ask, too loud. 

He stills. His nose pushes into your shoulder, his hair tickling your skin as he asks, "Are you sure you wanna know?"

Your breath catches. Your fingers stutter where they work into your clit and Eddie starts you right back up again. His lips brush your shoulder. 

"Yes," you say, gasping as pleasure like little shocks of heat shoot to your core. 

The hand at your elbow starts to rove, tickling your arm as he strokes downwards. "You first," he murmurs, teasing your wrist. You swear you can feel his smile against your shoulder. 

You breathe in through your nose. "Uh, I think of- of somebody…" You try, but you just can't say it. 

Eddie's fingers push down your crease. Stop right before your entrance. "Is this okay?" 

"Yeah." 

"Mmm…" He circles your entrance. "Now what does a pretty girl like you think of when she's touching herself?" You don't think he wants an answer. His middle finger brushes across the slick well and pushes in. You squirm and he holds you in place. 

There's something very hard digging into your spine. 

"Something sweet as you… Let me guess. Boy next door comes around to mow the lawn, you invite him in for a drink, one thing comes to another-" He pushes his finger in deeper. "And he's fucking you.

"That sound about right?" 

You shake your head. His own perks up where it rests on your shoulder. "No? Huh." 

Your circles have grown slow and staggered, distracted by his touch as he eases his ring finger in beside his middle. "Something more romantic? Wedding night, love of your life. Guy that's gonna treat you like a diamond. Way a girl like you deserves." He pushes in, stretches them out. You moan as he curls them, as his arm works back and forth. "Gives it to you gentle." His movements slow to match.

And sure, that sounds nice. But it's not what you think about. 

"No," you manage to get out through shallow breaths. 

"No? You don't want it gentle?" 

"Not- not all the time." 

"How about right now?"

"Please." 

Slowly, slowly, the shape of Eddie's hard cock against your back starts to move in time with the thrusts of his hand. He pushes in deep, fingers searching emphatically for the sweet spot, the thing that's gonna make you- 

"Fuck," you whimper. 

His cock jumps. You feel it. 

"You keep rubbing that pretty little clit of yours, sweetheart." 

You do as he asks. You're desperate enough now that you imagine you'd do most anything he says, your climax a tangible, physical possibility. Your tummy feels heavy and aching with want, worse when he probes deeply and marks your sweet spot again. His lips press to your shoulder, soft enough that you worry you're imagining it. 

"You see what I'm doing here? See what fingers I'm using?" he asks. You open your eyes reluctantly. His wrist turns. You watch his fingers sink into the gummy heat of your cunt. "Tight little hole's just pulling me in, fucking clinging to me, baby, she's greedy." 

You gasp, a hiccup of scandalised sound. 

"Want you to try, okay? You gonna do that for me?" 

"Yeah, Eddie." 

"Good girl." You moan, you don't mean to, but he's fucking into your quick and your finger pushes into your clit roughly. Eddie revels in it. "You like that? You like being called a good girl? I fucking knew it." 

You frown and start to turn to him. He presses his cheek to your head so you can't, stuck looking down the length of the bed at your trembling legs. 

"You looked so flustered, standing all sweet and quiet by the van out front with your thighs squeezed together. You think I didn't see that shit?" 

You're limp against him, thighs spread wide as you work into your clit, chasing this new feeling. You can hardly breathe, every exhale a keening moan that has you shame-faced and weepy. You roll your hips to meet his fingers, his hand slapping against your cunt with a slick slap. 

"You looked so sweet. Y'always do." He turns his lips to your ear and curls into you until your squealing. "Guess looks can be deceiving." 

You're so close, so close. Tendrils of heat curl heavily at your core. "Eddie, I'm- I'm-"

"You wanna cum?"

"Yes," you pant. 

He pulls his fingers from your cunt and you're so confused that you stop, your climax slipping away in seconds. 

"Sorry, but you have to do it yourself. This is all pointless if you can't get there on your own," he says. 

Your chest heaves. "That's mean. You're mean." 

"I never claimed otherwise. Here, middle and marriage, babe." He guides your hand to your entrance. You push your fingers inside, your tongue between your lips in concentration. Your fingers aren't as thick as his, they don't feel quite the same, but Eddie pushes your thumb into your clit. "Move your wrist. Feel that? Feel how soft you are? How fucking warm you are?" 

You're not nearly as good as he was but every clumsy touch feels electric. You push your thumb into sweeping circles and pant your frustration aloud, feeling close to tears. 

"You wanna know what I think about, when I jerk off?" he asks unexpectedly.

You nod, your head moving back into his collar. He rubs the lengths of your arms leisurely, his lazy demeanour in total juxtaposition to your desperation.

"There's this girl that comes to see me," he starts, coloured by a smug amusement. "Sweet thing, soft-spoken, always wearing these pretty clothes looking like something straight out of the movies.

"I think about a lot of things. Her thighs-" One of his hands falls to your thigh in time, massaging, "fuck, just wanna bury my face in them and never come out. Pull down those cotton shorts she's so partial to with the dainty stitching and-" He laughs and his lips part over your shoulder. His teeth scratch up, up, up. "Make her fucking cry my name. Feel those thighs tense up around me." 

You're so close your entire body shudders. You slow without meaning to, holding your breath in wait for Eddie to finish his story  

He gives you one final push. "Always wondered if she sounds as pretty as she looks when she cums." He kisses the small graze he'd given you mere seconds ago and everything is blue-white with heat. "Gonna clue me in, sweetheart? Gonna cum for me?" 

Your eyes close hard and you breathe out, an exhale ragged and weak and mewling. You don't moan so much as sob without tears, tensing up in Eddie's arms as bliss blooms. You pull your hand from your sopping cunt and feel your walls contract around nothing as you cum.

He pulls you close, throbbing cock pressing hard into your back. "Fuck," he hisses, hands placating where they lay. 

You go lax, head tipping back as you suck in air that had felt elusive moments ago. 

Eddie rubs your arms without saying anything. You cover his hands and try to summon up words. 

"Just as pretty as you look," he murmurs. 

He's so fuckng nice. So fucking nice, and what? He thinks about you when he jacks off? Since when? 

You sit up and drop your chin to your chest, panting still. 

"You okay?"

After a few seconds you smile and turn to him, intent on saying, Yes, thank you, and maybe something with more gratitude, something silly, just something. But you can't speak.

His face is close. 

Eddie brings a hand to the slope of your rising shoulder, follows a line to the curve of your neck. You look to his eyes and find him staring at your lips unabashedly. 

He pulls you into him. You close your eyes. 

Eddie Munson tastes like lots of things as he kisses you.

Cigarettes, unavoidable. Under that, sugar. Something sweet but heavy as bourbon vanilla. Your lips part and close in tandem with his, slow and hungry. Your heart races and your fingers are still wet as you twist in his arms and take his face into your hands. 

You climb up onto your knees and Eddie doesn't know what to do with you. 

He smiles so hard he has to pull away. Not smirking, smiling, a cheek-aching, too-happy smile that softens everything in your chest. 

You rub a shaking thumb over his cheek. You don't know if it's because of the post-orgasm rush of hormones or because he just kissed you and now he's smiling like he might do it again. 

He does. He kisses you and grabs your waist. His fingers mess with the hem of your shirt and he breaks the kiss short to say, "Take it off?" 

You sit back on your knees, feel the mess of wet between your legs spread as you grab at the edge of your shirt and pull it up. Eddie helps though he doesn't need to, and just like that you're shirtless. 

"Oh my god, I can't believe this is happening," he says, voice weak in what you suspect is one of his dramatics. 

He slides his hands up your sides and stops just below your breasts. His thumbs grace the undersides and his brow puckers. "Fuck," he mouths appreciatively. 

You flush head to toe. "Yours, too?" you ask gently. 

Eddie reaches back to pull off his shirt. His hair's in total disarray and he runs his hands through it, biceps flexing with the movement, torso taut. The black ink of his tattoos move with him and your eyes eat up every single one. 

He catches your eyes where they linger on the volley of bats. "You like that one?" 

"I've always liked that one." 

He grins and it's honey thick, hands at the small of your back and tugging. You spread your knees wide on impulse and find yourself flush to his chest, his arms locking you into place as he dives in for another kiss. Again you're surprised at how deeply he kisses you, how it ebbs and flows from slow to fast like he's both savouring and gorging himself on your closeness. 

You've never been kissed like this. You're weightless. You feel every contiguity between you, the hot and wet of his mouth, the crook of his elbow against the nape of your neck, your nipples peaked against his chest and the length of his dick pushing up into your aching cunt. 

"Fucking pretty," he says, pulling back just enough to kiss the corner of your mouth, your chin. He kisses your jaw over and over and over, lips pulling into crescents and then the same word. Pretty. 

His mouth opens wide at your throat, teeth scratching lightly as it closes. He sucks your skin between his lips and rolls it, hand spreading wide and palm flat at your shoulder blade. Steadying. . 

"That's cute," he says when he pulls away, lips shining. 

"What?" you ask, hand drifting up. You poke at the quick-forming contusion.

He nudges it aside with his face as he moves in to further mark up your neck. "You're so fucking pretty," he says, each word separated by a nipping kiss. 

His hands are everywhere.

Everything is warm and you can't breathe. You plant your hands at his shoulders and push away from him, and he stops you from falling flat on your back, levelling you with a worried glance. 

"Is it too much?" he asks. 

"No, I'm just hot. Really hot." You take a big breath and wipe your face with the back of both hands. 

"That's true," he says, leaning back against the wall. His hands fall to your thighs. "Are you okay?" 

You drop your hands abruptly and can't believe the fondness you're feeling. "You're pretty, too," you tell him. Honest if very shy; meek, entirely sincere. "I'm okay. I want…" 

"You want?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. 

"I have this fantasy," you begin. 

Eddie widens your legs to move from under them. It doesn't surprise you when he comes to lie on your chest, holding his weight off of you with an arm at the side of your ribs. His hair falls and hides the room from view. All you can see is his face, and it's beautiful. 

"Tell me about it." 

"It's- okay. It's…" You drift off as he dips down to kiss your collar, only chaste pecks but enough to distract you. "It's kind of like this." 

"Yeah?" His breath warms your chest. More ditzy kisses.

"I get here and you're coming out of the shower-" 

"Tasteful." 

"With a towel low on your hips," you add pointedly. It's useless, his sarcasm has pinned you spot on. "And you- you touch me." 

Eddie kitten licks the skin he's just nibbled and looks up. "Like this?" 

"Like this." 

"And after that," his hand moves between you to the zipper of his jeans, the sound of metal clicking metal ringing through the room, "what do I do?" 

"You push me down into the bed, and-" You feel the fabric of his jeans rub your thighs as he pulls them down. "You…" 

"What do I do, sweetheart?" 

"You push my legs up and you fuck me," you confess.

He scrambles back towards his nightstand, a hand on your ankle that says, I'm not going far. "How do I fuck you? Am I rough?" 

"Not at first." 

There, in his hands, the red plastic of a condom wrapper, bright as a maraschino cherry. He holds it up and you nod. 

"Not at first," he murmurs, ripping open the condom, hissing as he pulls it over his weeping cock. It's big – not too thick, but big, surrounded by a thatch of dark curls trimmed neat. "But eventually?" 

He rolls it on tight and then there's nothing but this admission of your guiltiest fantasy. You spread your legs without thinking and he pulls you towards him, thumb collecting slick where it's pooled and pushing it up towards your entrance. What's left on his fingers he smears over the length of his shaft. You watch him rub at the head and sigh. 

"Eventually," you agree. 

His cock rubs up against you as he leans down and pinches your chin between his fingers, lips parted from a sharp gasp and opening further. "Can I fuck you? Is that what you want?" 

You nod voraciously. 

He gives you a very firm kiss at the highest point of your cheek. "In words." 

"Yes, you can fuck me. That's what I want," you say without hesitation. 

"You tell me if I do something you don't like," he says, lining up. 

"I will," you say earnestly. 

Eddie pushes your leg up towards your tummy and holds it there. "Good girl," he praises, and pushes in.

You're already worked open by his hand, your own hand and your climax, and still it's a snug fit. You cross your arm over your chest with your lips bitten hard to stop from making what you anticipate to be a very great and mortifying sound. He takes it slow, real slow, towering over you with his brows furrowed just slightly and his back arching. Every move he makes is accompanied by a careful thrust of his hips. He's rhythm in motion. 

"Fuck," he mutters, more than once. He's halfway when you feel that stretch, your pulpy walls accommodating him with little complaint and a lot of pleasure. 

You drop your head back against the bed sheets and hug yourself. 

Eddie reaches for your hand where its cracking your breast absentmindedly and squeezes your fingers. "How's that?" he asks. "How's that feel?" 

You close your eyes. "S'good, Eddie." You lay out your own roll of expletives as he pushes in ever deeper. "You're really- oh," you gasp, "really deep." 

"You should see it, babe, pretty pussy gripping my every fucking inch." He leans down and his cock fills another inch of you. Your fingers ache with how hard he's squeezing them, and you look up to find his eyes on yours. "I'm gonna fill you up, okay? You gonna be a good girl for me and take it?" 

You blink and your lashes feel heavy with tears. "Yeah. I can take it. I can take it." 

"I know," he says, hovering over you, close enough to hug if you wanted to. 

He grabs your side and his thumb pushes into the soft swell of your breast, his grip tightening as he fits those last inches of his cock inside you. You rub your cheek against his bedsheets, your head fuzzy from being so full. He takes your bared neck as an opportunity and ducks into the juncture of it and his face fits there like it was made to, his nose bobbing against the column of your throat as he starts to fuck into you. His hips roll, a mess of his sticky pubes kissing your clit. 

This close you can smell him, the heavy scents of pot and smoke, the sweet nutty smell of oil clinging to his hair. Sweat, as you imagine you smell of too, and sex. The room is filled with it, the smells and the sounds of his thighs thudding into yours. 

"Eddie- Eddie," you whimper, muffled by the sheets beneath you. 

He pushes in deep and rubs his nose into your skin emphatically. "What's wrong, hm? What's got you all wound up?" 

You wrap your arms around his back. You're not sure if you're allowed to but you're hardly thinking ahead – you can't. Every thrust, every movement he makes is at the forefront of your mind, commanding all of your attention. The tickling of his hair against the side of your face. The skipping of the chains of his necklace where it teases your neck. 

"Babe?" he asks, pulling back to turn your head. He stills inside you. 

You protest, loud and completely unlike yourself. "Eddie, don't stop. Please don't." Your hands push into his shoulder blades. He ruts in at your request, thumb rubbing your cheek. "Feels so good," you say. You trip over your praise, voice breaking. 

He starts up again, whispering, "Do you want me to hold your leg up, pretty girl?" and, "Taking me so well- taking it so fucking well," and, worse, "Fuck, sweetheart, just like that," when you tigthen around him. 

You weave your fingers into the messy crush of black curls surrounding his face, careful not to tug as you covet the back of his head and nape of his neck, scratching his scalp lightly with one hand as the other strokes his side. 

Your moans become a half-sobbing sort of mess, quiet and desperate, drawn out of you with every tap of his cock into your soft spot. When he finds it he can't not search for it, rutting into it over and over until you can't produce anything but an unintelligible stream of babble and happy sighs. 

He laps lazily at your neck, the stretch of skin dampened and stinging from love bites. He thrusts in hard and hits something sweet that has you clinging to him. 

"You smell good," he says into your skin.

Your hips ache with pleasure. "I must taste pretty good," you say. What, with how he's willing to nibble on you like this. 

He squeezes your neck and narrows his eyes at you playfully. "I intend to find out." He moves down until your lips are a hair's width from touching. "Bet you taste as sweet as everything else."

You lift your chin and kiss him, dedicating your affections to his top lip. He groans into your mouth, hips moving slow and thrusts shallow when suddenly they're not. His cock drags out slowly and slams in deep, his pelvis hitting into yours. 

You keen into the kiss, gentle and at odds with his fucking. His fingers find your ear and his thumb follows down the shell until he's pinching your earlobe, a split-second touch that melts you into putty. He pulls away from the kiss and inhales loudly, his fingers under your ear and pushing your face to the side so that he can wade in from a new angle.

You curl your fingers around his wrist and let yourself be kissed and fucked and touched. Anything he wants to do, he can do. 

Eddie breaks the kiss.

"What did I taste like?" you ask breathlessly. 

He traces an invisible teardrop down your cheek with the back of his pinky finger. "Oh, sweetheart," he says quietly, lowering his lips to the shell of your ear. "That's not where I meant." 

Another hard thrust. You gasp at the dull aching spreading through your tummy and Eddie softens slightly, not so deep but just as fast, faster, his cheek to your cheek as he works you open. His rugged panting in your ear is everything you need. You force your hand between your body and Eddie's and search for the wet mess of your clit, chasing quick circles into the swollen bump. 

Eddie realises what's happening and his fucking turns desperate. "You gonna cum again? Shit- keep touching, I'll get you there, fucking promise you." He's hardly pulling out an inch before he's rutting back in, kicking up the speed until all you can feel is pleasure again. 

Eddie slows down as you cum, moaning as you tighten around him. He pushes away from you to kneel between your legs again, eyes locking onto your cunt obstinately, his panting loud as he drags his cock in and out. 

"Insane," he mumbles, hands coasting down your legs until he's grasping the fat of your thighs and pulling you back onto his cock. "You're insane." 

As if proving it, his hands rove the hills and troughs of your torso, your skin clammy underhand, his hips moving mindlessly. You cover your mouth with the back of your hand and blink back into focus. 

"Are you close?" you ask him, whispering. 

You're lucky he can hear you with the music he's playing and the sounds of your slick hole being stretched. Eddie tucks a lock of sweat-dark hair behind his ear and his eyes pause in their reverential searching to meet yours. 

He peels your hand off of your mouth and holds it. 

"Fucking teetering, babe. Been close ever since I felt you wrapped around my fingers." He pulls your hand and you take it as a cue to try and sit up. Eddie helps you into his lap, your thighs straddling his thighs, slipping down his length until you're stuffed to bursting. 

You hide your face in his shoulder and he rubs your back. "You're okay," he says sympathetically, "I got you. You just sit pretty, there's a good girl." 

You wrap your arms around his neck and try your best to bounce on his cock as he thrust up into you, a steady pace that turns sloppy. You rake your hands through his curls and kiss at the curve of his neck down to the slope of his shoulder, dizzied and cock-drunk, totally fucked out. You hum into your kisses with every prodding of his mushroom tip against your deepest spot, rambling nonsense at him in a way you hope is making a difference. 

"Fucking me so good," you mumble, equal parts tearful and euphoric, lips wet and spreading a shine like frost in the sun over his lean shoulder. "So good, Eddie. Thought about this too much." 

"Yeah?" he asks, sounding like a different person. Voice rough as hewn stone and hands bruising where they grip you, his heavy sack slapping into you with every sluggish rock of his hips. "Good as you pictured? M'I fucking you like you wanted?" 

"Better," you say sincerely. 

"Fuck, sweetheart," he says, and he's close, you know he is.

You roll your pelvis in circles and try your hardest, aflame as you plead, "Cum for me, please? Please, Eddie, wanna feel it." 

Despite your shy intonation Eddie goes rigid. He fucks in with one final thrust that sends shocks deep to your core and spreading out, cutting your happy little gasp short as he pulls your head tight to his neck. His hips twitch underneath you and he's making sounds that are going to haunt you, whiney, begging moans over your head. 

Eddie's tight hold on you slowly loosens. You're breathing fast, finally out of motion. Your thighs burn where they're spread over his lap and you squirm unintentionally. 

He pulls your neck back from his shoulder and looks over your face, concern lining the soft set of his eyes. He cups your cheek in question. 

"I'm okay," you say softly. "I'm more than okay. That was amazing." 

"It was amazing," he agrees, caught off guard.

"Yeah." 

You shift backwards and the two of you wince at the sensitivity. You ease your legs open and Eddie pulls out, pumping the sticky shaft once. His eyes flutter closed. 

You move off of his lap and turn to the side so you can stretch out your aching legs. Eddie follows suit, collapsing off of his knees and onto his back, the pillow behind him keeping him propped up. 

You watch him ease the condom off of his cock curiously, White cum has smeared and drips down the length of him, his pubes tangled by a mixture of your slick and his. 

He spots you watching and smiles. "What, sweetness? What are you thinking about?"

"I made you cum." 

His eyebrows jump but quickly smooth. "I think I went blind, for a second." 

You giggle at his hyperbole and he pulls you down against his chest, your side pressing into his navel. Your cheek to the space shy of his heart. 

His hand comes to rest on your forehead. 

"Do you really think about me?" you ask, knowing the answer. 

"Every night." 

You close your eyes and hide your smile in his skin. He chuckles and wraps you up in one arm, his hand a firm pressure as he massage the dipped plane of your back. 

Nestling your cheek into his chest, you say, "I think about it, too. All the time." 

"Uh-huh. Maybe we can make some more of those racy thoughts a reality. What was that one about me coming out of the shower?" 

You like this casual conversation and decide to try and make him laugh, stretching your words out low. "Well, you're coming out of the shower, and your towel slips open-" There, his bumping laughter at your over the top salaciousness. 

"That's awful. Most cliche, overdone, cheap porno concept ever," he chastens. 

"I never said I was creative." 

"What happens after that?" 

"The towel gets swept away by a sudden gust of wind, so I have to cover you. With my body." 

He bursts. There's no other word to describe it, his back arches with the force of his laughter and he holds his fist to his mouth, shaking and giggling like an idiot. 

"Where's the wind coming from?" he questions incredulously. 

"I don't know! The window?" 

"Oh my god," he says. He hooks his hand under your arm and pulls you up his chest, dotting a fond kiss to your forehead as you near. "And after that?" 

"Well, I told you that part." 

"Right, we hook up, but after that." 

You clench your fists, insecure. "After?" 

He brings the hand that isn't loving the length of your back to your face, stroking the skin under your chin with the backs of his index and middle finger, the flat of his fingernails sliding gently in a soothing back and forth. 

"I guess it's kind of like this," you answer eventually. 

"Does fantasy Eddie get another kiss, too? Or does he- do they stop, afterwards?" 

"It's a fantasy. The kisses never stop," you tell him. Adrenaline must linger in your veins; you can barely speak.

His expression becomes impassive, and a lull in the conversation blossoms. He searches your face for something and you don't know what, but he must find it, because he dips down and kisses you chaste on the lips. 

Your hands are back to tentative as they explore his neck. Your fingertips grace the curves of his throat and then sink behind, into the dampened mess of his hair. 

He stays chaste, dainty kisses, pulling back to dot them against your lips over and over. 

"Eddie," you say softly, "what are you doing?" 

"It feels like kissing," he says, tone a mirror of your own. 

You huff a laugh against his lips and kiss back. 

Later, after more kisses than you could ever count and an hour dozing on his chest whilst his hand rubbed circles into your tired back, you get dressed into your clothes that he likes so much and slip your goodie bag into the belly of your strappy purse. 

"Don't go over the top with it, alright?" he says, watching the green bud dissappear.

Jeans back in place and still bare-chested, Eddie sits on the end of his bed and scratches the back of his neck. You give him a grateful smile. "No, I won't. I actually think I might sleep really well tonight without it." 

He smirks. "I bet you will." 

Eddie walks with you to the front porch. You'd linger if you didn't have to go, and you're pretty sure he'd let you. There's a fraction of awkward silence.

"See you later," you say, walking sideways down one step, another. 

Eddie catches your hand. It takes you a second to realise what he's done: forced your crumpled thirty dollars back into your hand. Your heart misses a beat and you feel your stomach plumet – you hadn't fucked him for the free pot. 

"Eddie-" 

"My girl can't pay for her own supply. That's not happening." 

You take one step up. "Your girl?" 

He has the good graces to look nervous. "If you wanna be." 

You don't know how to answer. He looks pretty like this in the last dregs of sunshine, big brown eyes waiting patiently for you to say something, hand clutching his elbow. It doesn't feel entirely real. 

You step on tip toes and work your hands behind his neck to kiss his cheek before rubbing your forehead against his chin. "I'll come by tomorrow?" you ask hopefully. He relaxes under your weight.

"Any time you want. I'll take you some place nice, if you're up for it." 

You set back on your heels and pull away. "You don't need to go all fancy on me, Munson." You're happy to get stoned and eat burgers on the couch.

He looks you up and down, eyes catching on the flanks of your thighs before he takes in your face. His smile is almost dorky when he says, "No I- I think I do. I'll see you tomorrow, pretty girl." 

You nod with an aching smile and are a little ways away when he smugly calls, "Sleep well!" 

After the lesson he just gave you, you're sure you will. 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

thank you for reading! | my masterlist

please reblog if you enjoyed, I promise it makes a big difference! ♡

[buckygasm]

Johnny eats you out like he's making love to your pussy. There, I said it.

He's all soft words and gentle touches. He holds your legs hiked up, plush thighs pressed into the soft of your chest. He's been between your thighs for fifteen minutes now, tongue warm and wet against your soaked folds.

you're not even close to cumming. He's taking his sweet time with you. testing your patience, tortureously slow.

the sheets lie crumpled near your hips where'd youd twisted your hands into the ceam fabric until Johnny'd pulled one of them to the top of his hair, urging you with a hum into your heat to weave your fingers through the dishelved mess of blonde.

His large hand rests at the backs of your knees, holding them still as you threaten to writhe beneath him. So far you've been good; quiet moans and gentle scratches at his scalp when his tongue slips passed your folds to stroke your walls juuust the way you like it.

Johnny strokes two heated fingers over and through your folds. his index and middle gathering your wetness as he runs them up and down the length of your pussy. he spreads the lips of your cunt, revealing your swollen button and Johnny swears he starts salivating at the sight.

"Got the prettiest pussy ever, y'know that?" he peers up at you, holding your legs to the side so you can see him. his cheeks are a rosy pink and your juices shimmer along the flushed skin of his jaw and up around his swollen lips.

a moan rips up your throat at the sight. you're a whimpering mess. face hot and hair stuck to your temples, chest rising feverishly. You nod your head a little bit, eyes heavy and lidded. you're not even sure what you're agreeing to.

"Oh, y'knew that?" caramel brows raise derisively. He shakes his head, "Course y'did. My smart girl." he smirks up at you as he sinks back down against the comforter between your thighs.

Johnny circles his finger against your clit, watching the way your lips fall apart and your eyes flutter shut against your cheeks, pulling the prettiest moans from your lips.

He swears he's gonna cum from that alone.

When you manage to open your eyes again, his big baby blues are on yours, head cocked to the side, studying the way your breath hitches when he slips his pointer and middle finger into your heat. You push yourself up onto your elbows, and Johnny presses your thighs higher up towards you.

"Hold this fr'me," he smiles, placing a kiss to your forehead.

You spread yourself for him at the globes of your ass, knees tucked to your chest.

"Thats my girl."

Johnny lies onto his stomach, wrapping his hands around your hips to hold you steady.

"Hey, sweetheart." He presses a kiss to your clit.

you whimper, chin trembling and lips pouted. your eyes are wide and watery. your palms are beginning to strain from where you spread yourself open for him so you move them to hold the backs of your thighs again sighing softly.

He looks up at you again, slowly licking a fat wet stripe up the very middle of your pussy before slipping his middle and index into your heat, gathering your wetness on his digits, he pulls them from your swollen folds and slides them into his mouth, eyes never leaving yours.

you're fucking lightheaded at the sight.

"Oh, Johnny. Please — please, m'bein' good," you pant, painted toes curling and eyes following his hand once he's finished licking your juices from his fingers only to stroke them up and down your folds teasingly.

"Wan' more, haa— please, please, please."

Johnny moves to sit back on his haunches.

"Shh-shh-shh," His brows furrow as he spreads the lips of your cunt again, scissoring your clit between his index and middle. "Don't I always take care of my girls?"

you nod, whimpering tearfully.

Johnny slides his hand up the soft back of your thigh, squeezing gently continuing up to meet your hand holding the backs of your knees together still.

"That's right. Daddy always takes care of you." his large hand, warm and calloused, slips between your palm and the bow of your knee and holds your hand there.

He pulls his hand from your pussy to cup your chin, leaning over and pressing a peck to your lips before sinking his fingers into your cunt. He keeps his eyes on your own as he strokes your inner walls. Calloused tips of his fingers curling and grazing your heat just right.

"Thats a tight pussy, baby."

Bottom lip between your teeth, you smile up at him coquetteishly. brows furrowed and pupils blown.

"God, you are just the sweetest thing, arent'ya," he coos, angling his hand so that he reaches that spongey patch the way he wants.

"Johnny—" you gasp when he grazes your clit with his thumb and presses down against the inside of you in that delicious way that sends your mind reeling, struggling to hold on. "Oh, fuck."

Johnny nods down at you smugly, and you nearly sob when the cool silver of his watch slips down his wrist some and gently rests against your heated folds.

the veins of his arm bulge under the amber ceiling light. blue and red running up his forearm. He's so beautiful like this, biceps bulging under the white fabric of his compression top, wrist deep in your pussy, whispering sweet words to you as he circles your clit.

"Y're so pretty," you coo, tightening your hold on your knees to squeeze his hand against yours. He squeezes back.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm," you nod. toes curling and head falling back with a moan when he heats up his fingers against your velvet walls.

"Daddy thinks y'r pretty too."

you squeal.

"Prettiest thing he's ever seen."

"M'cuming!" you cry, and Johnny is just as quick to pull his hand away from yours to cup the base of your neck, pulling you in as he presses a kiss to the middle of your brow. He strokes you through it, fingers pumping in and out of your pussy leisurely.

"Thaaats it," he whispers against your clammy skin, "Oh, there we go."

you're trembling beneath him. walls contracting around his digits and tremors shivering through your thighs and jaw.

"That was a big one huh?"

Something about the way he says it -- so gentle and so sweet after your high -- you're reduced to sobs. breath catching in your chest and your knees knocking against his chest as you drop them, reaching for him.

Johnny scoops you against him, wrapping your legs around his hips and pulling you up to sit on his lap, rocking you from side to side.

his name is a choked and watery wine in your throat. you're grasping onto him like he might up and disappear any moment.

"Hey, hey, hey," he turns and presses a kiss to your temple, "M'right here. m'not goin' anywhere. I got you."

You cry it out for a little longer. shivering deep breaths in his arms and letting him wipe the tears from under your eyes. Once you're breathing again and your grip on his arm losens a tad, he pulls back to look at you, pushing your hair behind your ears.

"Lemme see that pretty face. Hi, baby."

you giggle, sniffling tearfully.

"Hi."

"Y'wanna get some Lucky Charms and watch some TV?"

you both nod at one another.

"Mhm, please."

"Yeah, that sounds pretty fun, huh."

[fandomwritesstuff]

Experiment 1

Pairing: Johnny Storm (FFFS) x Fem!Reader Summary: Sue wants you to run an experiment on Johnny just to see what he would do if you ignored him for an hour. The catch? He doesn't know about it Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut (unprotected P in V, rough[if you squint, little slap but that's it], breastplay, oral F receiving) (let me know if I missed any) A/N: Watched the new movie and have been working on this and some others about our boy Johnny. I love Joe Quinn. I also feel much more confident with this smut than my previous try so hopefully y'all like it too. Also open to suggestions/requests just know I go back to college soon and will be busy lol Word Count: 5,582

Sue was out of her mind. 

There was no other explanation for her suggestion, in your humble opinion. 

She wanted to run an experiment on her own baby brother. Without his knowledge. 

It felt wrong. It would be crossing so many ethical boundaries. 

“You don’t have to do it. I just… Reed made a comment and it got me thinking.” Sue spoke softly after taking a sip from her coffee mug. 

“Ignoring him though? I just don’t want to hurt him.” You told her, dragging a finger back and forth on your own mug. You hadn’t known Johnny long, but it was pretty easy for you to read him like a book. You knew his attention seeking habits came from a deep rooted insecurity–ignoring him could do some irreversible damage.  Despite that, here you were, contemplating it–like a hypocrite. 

You stared into your own coffee mug. Watching the ripples of the hot drink, hoping for it to give you some sort of sign. Something to settle the internal debate that you were having. 

“I know, but he’s used to the three of us ignoring him. The experiment wouldn’t work, which is why I’m asking you… But you don’t have to do it–if you’re uncomfortable with it. We could even cut it down to just an hour. 30 minutes if you still feel that’s too much.” 

The room was still for a moment as you thought about it. You had been Sue’s lab assistant for a little over a year now. She treated you like family as did the others–except maybe Johnny who constantly flirted with you as he did others. However, if Sue really believed that things would work out in the end, who were you to deny her? 

“I’ll do it, but under some conditions.” You told her, eyes meeting hers for the first time in a while. 

“Name them.” She spoke with a small smirk. The resemblance between her and Johnny was never clearer. 

“You’re taking the downfall. I won’t have him angry at only me for this.” You demanded, giving her a knowing look.

“Fine, I’ll take the majority of the blame. Full honesty though, the idea was Reed’s joke. What else?” 

“You two can’t be in the lab. I think the results will be skewed with anyone else in the lab. I also would probably break in less than five minutes.” 

“True. Especially if I’m there. He’ll read me like an open book.” Sue conceded with a small shrug. 

If you were honest, it wasn’t just that, though. You couldn’t deny your curiosity. Johnny was impatient and loved attention. Would he give up after a while of no response or would he continue to try? Would he make it impossible for you to ignore him or would he just walk away? Without Sue or Reed present, would he be more forward in his intentions–give into the tension between you two? Millions of similar questions rattled around your brain as you thought of different scenarios. 

Johnny had always been a flirt, but with you it seemed to teeter on the edge of more. You never really let it go anywhere–scared to lose the position that you worked hard to earn. However, this seemed like an opportunity to push your relationship over the edge. A way to test if he was serious or truly just flirting with you like all the other women. 

“Any other conditions?” Sue asked after a moment, pulling you from your thoughts. She gave you a smile, as if she knew what you had been thinking about. 

“No, just–don’t judge me if I can’t ignore him for half an hour let alone a full one.” You spoke, looking into your nearly empty mug. You then watched her place her hand on your own, stopping your finger from dragging back and forth once more. 

“We won’t. You have the right to back out at any point. The last thing I want is to hurt either of you.” She told you and you nodded. 

“Right.” 

--

Going to work the next day felt different–tense. There was an anxiety that you hadn’t felt before walking into the building. Stopping by the kitchen and grabbing yourself a drink, you greeted Ben who was on his way out for a walk.

“There you are, I just wanted you to know that I moved some stuff around so the lab will look a little different than you’re used to.” Sue spoke as she stepped into the room.

“May I ask why?” You spoke, as you started to make your way to the lab. 

“I know Johnny can be a hot head and Reed believes he’ll… you know.” Sue spoke with a strained smile.

“What does he-” You stopped suddenly. Sue’s smile turned into a grimace as she didn’t want to think of her brother in the situation Reed believes will happen. 

“I’m not doing… that… in the lab.” You spoke with a glare. She gave you a small nod before pushing you along to her lab. 

“Right, well. I got some new samples from Mole man. Still looking into that agricultural center that doesn’t need high powered artificial light.” She spoke with a roll of her eyes. 

“Alright, you just want me to see how the samples are coming along?” 

“Yep, avoid any natural light. My blinds should all be closed and I’ll see you tonight. You’ll stay for dinner right?” Despite asking it like a question you knew that it wasn’t. 

“If everything goes alright, then yes. I’ll be there for dinner.” 

“Perfect. Good luck!” She spoke and left you to your own devices. 

The silence in the lab after the door shut behind her, was one part calming, one part anticipation, and the last part pure anxiety. 

It felt like there was a ticking time bomb in the room, ready to go off when exposed to enough heat. Your heart rate accelerated, and for once you couldn’t blame it on Johnny himself–or his insistent flirting.

Starting on your work, you tried to focus on the samples that Sue had left you. Despite that, you found yourself glancing at the door, waiting and slightly dreading the moment that he would walk in. 

It was a few hours later, as you started to get into a rhythm with looking at the samples, that the door opened. You jumped, nearly dropping the plant that you were carrying. 

“Jumpy today, are we?” Johnny joked as he approached the station you were working at. “Different setup today, hmm?”

Setting the plant door, you kept your focus on the desk as you took a deep breath. You didn’t want to look at him, knowing he would have a stupidly handsome smirk on his face. Didn’t want to see his bright blue eyes that had such a welcoming heat in them when he looked at you. You knew the minute you met his gaze you would be cooked–burned through. So you did the only thing you could and continued your work. 

You looked up at the clock, and wrote down the current time to keep a semblance of Johnny’s time in the lab. 

“So what’s the focus today, beautiful?” He asked after a moment, leaning over the opposite side of the table, to look at your notes. You had to bite your tongue to keep from answering him. Instead you glanced at the clock and made a mental note to record once he stopped looking at what you wrote. Little did he know the real focus was actually him.

“New plants for Mole man, huh? He’s still set on getting rid of the artificial light set up?” He asked, moving away from your notes and over to the set of plants. 

You kept your silence as you grabbed your notes and moved over to the microscope. Jotting down the timing of his questions, you then flipped to a different page to sketch the cell patterns of the new plants. You would be damned if your guilt stopped you from doing any work.

“Can I get you anything? Coffee, a snack–my fantastic company?” He joked and you had to bite your lip from laughing. You knew if you looked at him he would have a shit eating grin on his face–proud of the stupid joke that he had totally used before, and continues to use because Reed hates it. You knew just a few seconds of eye contact and you would've been laughing whether you wanted to or not.

Flipping back to your original note page, you made a note after glancing at the time. You fear that your lack of response may cause him to become suspicious, causing the experiment to not last the full half hour, let alone the hour.

You stared at it for a moment, guilt rising for a moment before flipping back to your new page. 

“No reaction, really?” He asked, and you could tell he was starting to get confused now. He dragged a hand through his hair, a nervous habit you noticed after a couple conversations with him. You took a deep breath, knowing your guilt would only get worse before everything was over. Taking one last glance at the clock, you noticed that it hadn’t even been another minute. 

As you leaned into the microscope, Johnny noticed your glances toward the clock. His eyes darted between you, the clock, and the notes that you moved to the opposite side of your body. Questions were spinning around in his head now. 

“What are you hiding? Why do you keep glancing at the clock?” He asked a forced laugh coming out. It was a calming technique you knew he used. He explained that he didn’t get as mad if he could force himself to find it funny–a way to keep his cool for a moment before exploding.

You mentally cursed yourself for making your glances too obvious. Biting your tongue, you felt your guilt clawing at your stomach. You felt uneasy–felt rude for continuing. It hadn’t even been ten minutes and you felt yourself ready to combust. 

However, the scientist in you pushed forward. Part of you wanted to see what he would do from here. He hadn’t left yet, which was a good sign, but his confusion was clearly building and with it, his temper. 

Johnny came around the other side of the desk. The temptation to look at him only grew as he strategically placed himself in line of the clock, meaning you no longer had a clear shot of the time. He moved close enough that you could smell his cologne and the natural scent of smoke that seemed to follow him no matter how he tried to cover it. 

“Still no answer, huh? What’s going on, beautiful?” He asked, trying to stay playful despite his frustration. You shut your eyes, and took another deep breath. Your emotions were forming an all consuming pit in your stomach. You were starting to regret agreeing to this. 

Unable to look at the clock, you had no idea how much time had passed. What felt like five minutes was probably only mere moments before you reopened your eyes to look at the sample in front of you. You found yourself humming a song to try and ground yourself into your work.

In the moment that it took to regroup, you hadn’t noticed Johnny moving. That was until you felt your notebook snatched out from under your hand. Ripping yourself away from the microscope, you saw Johnny had already flipped to the original page of notes that you had been writing on.

Your eyes went wide as he glanced between you and the notebook. The gears in his head were turning and you could see the second that everything clicked into place. The fire in his eyes burned brighter as he glared at you. 

“An experiment? About me–Ignoring me?” He questioned. You wanted to answer, but your voice seemed to be lost. Opening your mouth resulted in no sound coming out. 

“Still testing on me, sweetheart?” He asked, dramatically dropping your notebook onto the desk. He then started walking closer to you, but with each step he took forward you matched it with one step back. You glanced at the clock, it hadn’t even been 15 minutes since he entered the lab. 

In the second that you looked away, Johnny caged you into the chalk board behind you. Your breath came in rapid bursts as your eyes darted between his. Your nails scraped into the paint of the wall, searching for a perch that wasn’t there. 

Your brain was moving a million miles an hour. You knew that Johnny would never hurt you–but this was a side of him you didn’t know. He was unpredictable and your brain decided that it was the appropriate time to make a slide show of every way that it could see this playing out–every way that he could burn you. The pit of emotions from before felt even more consuming now that you had been caught and the guilt was gnawing at you from the inside out. 

“Did Sue put you up to this?” He asked with a frown on his face. Still unable to find your voice you only nodded. 

Unable to meet his stare any longer, your eyes drifted to a random point beyond his shoulder. It felt like his eyes were burning a hole through you–melting you to your core. You couldn’t stand the burn any longer. 

Johnny’s hand came up to grip your chin and return your eyes to his. 

“Uh-uh, none of that sweetheart. You’ve overlooked me enough for one day don’t you think?” He asked with a smirk, though you knew he wasn’t looking for an answer. “Good luck ignoring this.” 

With that, his mouth crashed to yours. Your eyes slid shut and his hand quickly moved to the back of your head, preventing it from hitting the wall. His fingers curled into your hair, helping him angle your head and you couldn’t help the moan that spilled into his mouth. 

He wasn't gentle–not that you wanted him to be. It was messy, and oh so hot. Your lips felt the heat that Johnny was barely controlling from the anger coursing through him.

Pressing you into the wall, Johnny’s other hand found your waist as your hands found purchase in his shirt. You could feel him simmering under his clothes–his shirt slipping from your grasp as your palms became sweaty. You then wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer. A smirk formed on Johnny’s lips as he pulled away to trail open-mouthed kisses down your neck.

Johnny's hands moved to the front of your blouse, gently tugging on the collar as he pulled away from the sweet spot on your neck that had you whimpering. 

“You can tell me to stop at any time.” He told you softly, tugging your shirt out of the skirt you had tucked it into. He grabbed your shirt collar once more and you knew what he planned to do. His eyes met yours for a moment, giving you a chance to speak up–to stop him. He was still smirking, knowing the effect he was having on you. 

When you stayed silent, he tore your shirt open, buttons flying everywhere, and revealing the lacy red bra you wore underneath. He then pushed off your shirt and lab coat, letting them pool at your feet. Your arms instinctively moved to cover yourself, but Johnny stopped you with a scoff. 

“None of that, doll.” He spoke as he used one hand to pin your wrists above your head. “I wanna get a good look at you.” He trailed his free hand down the side of your breast. He pressed into you and you could feel the effect you were having on him through the jeans he was wearing on your hip. 

“What a gorgeous color on you.” He said softly before cupping your breast in his hand and gently massaging it. Your nipple hardened and Johnny pinched it causing you to moan once more. 

He then released your wrists and made to remove your bra, letting it fall to the floor before kicking it out of his way. He grasped your breasts as his mouth returned to your neck–sucking a mark onto your sensitive skin. He then trailed open-mouthed kisses down your chest before latching onto one of your nipples, sucking it into his mouth. Your back arched, pressing closer to him as he used his teeth to tease your sensitive bud.

“You like that?” He asked, releasing your nipple with an audible pop. He then repeated the motions with the other. You gripped his arms, knees weak from the pleasure coursing through your body. Johnny clearly knew what he was doing to you when he released your nipple with a chuckle. 

“Come on, let me hear you.” He told you. Mewling, you could feel the desire building in the pit of your stomach. You wanted to rub your thighs together to get some kind of friction, but couldn't from where he pressed into you. His leg was just at the right spot to stop you from grinding on him as well. 

As if he could read your mind, he kneeled down in front of you. Your hands slipping from his arms. His bright blue eyes met yours as you looked down at him. His hand moved to the zipper of your skirt. 

“This what you want, doll?” 

You nodded and with no hesitation, Johnny pulled the zipper down and let your skirt drop. Seeing the matching lacy panties he groaned in appreciation. 

“You may be refusing to talk to me now, but you'll be screaming my name shortly.” He taunted before placing kisses around your waist as he tucked his fingers into the band of red. You threw your head back as he oh so slowly lowered them with a patience you didn’t know he had. 

“Soaked already, beautiful?” He asked rhetorically with a smirk.

Once they were gone, Johnny pressed you tightly into the wall, placing one of your trembling legs over his shoulder. His other hand held your waist for a moment, squeezing slightly to bring your attention back to him. He was smirking as you looked at him. 

“Let's see you ignore this.” He taunted and then blew hot air directly onto your wet bud before flattening his tongue against you. He then wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked. Dragging his fingers up your leg, he teased you for a moment before plunged one finger in. 

You moaned, shutting your eyes.

“Yeah? You liked that?” He asked, before sliding in a second one. His teeth grazed your bud, fingers not moving much–massaging your walls, setting your nerves alight, while searching for the spot that would have you coming undone.

“Johnny!” You moaned as he found it, throwing your head back against the wall. It was the first time you said his name since he came into the lab–it wouldn't be the last. One of your hands found his hair, gripping it tightly as if it were a life line.

You felt him chuckle, vibrations sending more sparks through you as he sucked on your clit. 

“Can't ignore me now, can you, sweetheart?” He taunted, pulling away from your clit with a wet pop. A smug smile on his face as he curled his fingers once again to massage the spot that had you seeing stars.

He then attached his mouth to you once more and set a brutal pace with his fingers. The pleasure sent a wave of heat through your entire body. You could hear the squelch of your juices especially when he added a third finger.  He used his heat to help you relax as he stretched you out with his long fingers. Your hips bucked, and he used his other arm to hold them to the wall behind you. 

“Johnny, I-” You couldn't finish your thought as you looked down and met Johnny's eyes. 

The image of him would be forever burned into your mind as one of the hottest things you had ever seen. His attention solely on you, working you, pushing you to your edge. The desire–the fire burning in his eyes for only you. 

“Let go for me, I got you. Eyes on me, sweetheart. Wanna see you fall apart for me.” He mumbled against you–understanding what you couldn't say. 

He alternated between sucking and lapping at your core. Not looking away, you felt your walls clench around his fingers as you came with a cry of his name. 

His arm held your steady as he continued his ministrations–working you through your orgasm. He drank you in as your hand fell from his hair–it now sticking up at odd angles from where you had gripped it.

“I got you, beautiful.” He whispered as he pulled his fingers away from you. He then helped you back to your desk. You felt the cold metal dig into the back of your thighs, sending a shiver down your body as he pressed into you. A whimper fell from your lips as he placed himself between your thighs, his stiff member brushing against your sensitive folds. His fingers moved to press against your lips.

“Open.” He commanded. Eyes staring into yours.

You do as he says and he places his fingers in your mouth for you to clean. 

“Suck.” He commanded with a smirk on his lips. Obeying once more, you also used your tongue to lick at your arousal–not once breaking eye contact. 

You have never seen this side of Johnny before. Gone is the golden retriever who would come in at random times–wait at your beck and call for an ounce of attention. The man with a boyish charm that would do anything to make you laugh or please you.

Before you now was a man who commanded your attention–no longer needing to ask for it. This was the man who got what he wanted no matter the cost. He would watch you fall apart over and over again with a sadistic smirk on his face knowing he was the one who brought you there. He would melt you from the inside out and you would thank him. 

“Good girl.” Johnny commented as he dragged his fingers from your mouth. He then kissed your parted lips. His tongue danced with yours and he groaned at the taste.

“Johnny, please.” You mumbled as he pulled away, dragging his hand slowly down your body. He chuckled and then moved a couple of steps back. When you attempted to follow, he tsked and shook his head. 

“Turn around for me.” He ordered as his hands moved to remove his own shirt. 

You found yourself between wanting to watch him and wanting to follow his orders. With how far you already pushed him, you weren’t sure you wanted to know what he would do if you disobeyed. 

At a snail’s pace you turned to face your desk, keeping your head over your shoulder so you could see what Johnny was doing. He stripped himself of his shirt and met your eyes. Holding them for a moment, he raised an eyebrow. 

“Just can’t take your eyes off me, can you, my little flame?” He teased and you felt a rush of heat flood your cheeks.

His little flame. Pet names were nothing new, but hearing him call you his was. The desk in front of you suddenly seemed very interesting–Johnny’s look becoming more intense by the second. You felt ready to combust just from his eyes roaming over your body. 

Your senses felt like they were overcharged. You could hear Johnny shuffling around behind you. The sound of him undoing his belt buckle had you squeezing your thighs together. Your eyes squeezed shut, wishing for him to hurry up and do something. 

“Legs apart for me, doll.” He chided with a gentle kick to one of your ankles–forcing you to widen your stance. Your forehead pressed against the desk as your hands clenched into fists. 

“Just look at you.” He spoke after another moment. “You don’t even know what you do to me.” 

His hand drifted lightly over your left hip as he stepped closer to you. He took a sharp intake of breath as if just the sight of you made him forget how to breathe for a moment–or you took his breath away. 

“You know, with this little experiment of yours, I’m half tempted to try my own. Maybe test how long it takes for me to get you to cry my name.” He leaned over you now, his voice right next to your ear–breath hitting the shell of your ear.

“Instead of that, how about you tell me what you want, hmm? Until then…” He paused, trailing his hand up your body, just shy of anywhere you wanted him. “I’ll be the one ignoring you.” 

Your breath hitched and your eyes widened as Johnny pulled away. He was still close enough and you glanced over your shoulder to see the smirk on his face. The smug aura radiated off of him, like the heat he constantly produced. 

“Johnny, please.” You pleaded, pushing your hips back, trying to get any friction. 

“You’re cute when you beg.”

Looking away, you rested your forehead on the cool desk in front of you–a poor attempt at cooling yourself down. 

“Touch me, please.” You pleaded. 

“I already am, sweetheart. You gotta be more specific where should I touch? How?” He asked and his hand rubbed up and down your side once more.

Your frustration was building. Dragging your hands through your hair, you pulled at your roots before straightening your arms and looking fully over your shoulder at Johnny. The smirk was still there and he raised an eyebrow at you, pushing you over the edge. 

“Fuck me, please, Johnny.” 

“You know, I wanted a little bit more. But I'm too impatient and I want you now.”

You then felt him line himself up with you and slowly push in. You felt like bliss and you fell forward on your arms as you let out a loud moan. His warmth felt like heaven, and you pushed your hips back meeting him in his thrust. 

“Better than I ever could’ve imagined. Just perfect” Johnny groaned as he tentatively set a quick pace. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you into him with the snap of his hips. 

“How’s that feel, sweetheart?’ He asked after a deep thrust. You felt like you were melting from the inside out. He was hitting all the right spots and you never wanted him to stop. His hand trailed down the side of your hip, moving to your clit and started rubbing circles. 

You lost your words as a moan of his name tumbled past your lips. You gripped the edge of the desk, grounding yourself in the moment. Allowing you to feel each drag of his cock inside of you as you clenched around him. 

Suddenly, you felt a sting on your clit as Johnny lightly slapped it. 

“I asked you a question, better answer me before I stop.” He scolded as he slowed his pace slightly. “Tell me how it feels.” He demanded.

“So good. So good, Johnny.” You mumbled, leaning on your elbows, to glance at him over your shoulder again. 

His hair now stuck to his forehead, sweat building on his brow. The passion in his eyes was bright–almost glowing like when he used his powers. 

“Yeah, you like that, doll?” He started rambling to himself, and really you should have known that he would’ve been a talker. You subconsciously wanted to test how long he could stay quiet during sex. Before you could dwell on that thought, Johnny increased his pace. 

His hand resumed the circles on your clit as his other trailed up to grab your breast. His fingers alternated between rolling your sensitive nipple between two fingers and massaging your sensitive skin. 

Everything was overstimulating and you could feel the knot of your orgasm forming. You could hear the squelch of your juices with each snap of his hips, evident of the pleasure coursing through your veins. 

“You’re mine, little flame. Fucking perfect for me. Made just for me.” He mumbled as he leaned over you once more, pressing his weight into you. “Say it for me. Please tell me you’re mine.” He begged softly in your ear. 

“I’m your’s. Just your’s, Johnny.” You moaned out, clenching around him once more–tension growing, teetering on the edge of snapping.

“Not gonna last much longer if you do that again, baby.” He groaned. 

“Me neither, cum with me. Please, Johnny.” You begged.

“God, you’re beautiful when you beg. So beautiful.” He groaned and kissed your neck, shoulders, and back. His lips trailing to wherever he could reach without removing himself from you. His hand trailed up to your neck, turning your head to face him. He then kissed you, again. This time it was more messy, less coordinated, but you wouldn’t complain. Anything to get closer to him–to his fire if pleasure.

It seemed that now that Johnny had you, he wasn’t going to ever let you go–not that you wanted him to. You would gladly drown in his fire–willingly burn with him to create a brighter flame. You would be the fuel to his match. You never wanted to be without him. 

“I love you,” He spoke after pulling away with a groan. His hips accelerated and soon you were coming undone around him with a cry of his name. 

Johnny wasn't much longer, with a couple more snaps of his hips you felt him unload into you. He gave a couple more thrusts before slowly pulling out. He helped you turn around and sit on the desk as your legs felt like jelly. He trailed kisses around your neck and face as he stood between your legs once again.

You moved a hand to grab his face. The look in your eyes was questioning. Did he mean that, or was it just a heat of the moment thing? Would he come to regret saying that? Did he say that to everyone he’s been with or was it just you? Your thoughts racing.

“Only you, sweetheart. Wanted you since day one. I love you.” He spoke, seeming to understand the gears turning in your head.

“Johnny, I love you, too.” You spoke, tears welling into the corner of your eyes. You pulled his face to yours, kissing him softly for the first time. His arms wrapped around you and you moaned at the warmth surrounding you. Johnny pulled away with a smirk. 

“Does this mean I get to try an unsanctioned experiment on you at some point?” 

“I got something better.” You spoke and he raised an eyebrow. “Try to explain this mess to your sister.” The desk you were sitting on was out of line with the others. The writing on the board next to you was smeared, and you weren’t sure what she had written on it before. Notes had also been scattered on the floor and you were afraid of what you were currently sitting on. 

Johnny groaned, throwing his head back after looking around the room. 

“I’ll have H.E.R.B.I.E. come clean up-”

“Don’t scar Herbert with this.” You scolded hitting him lightly on the shoulder.

“Oh, he’ll be fine. I’ll help.” Johnny promised but you knew he wouldn’t.

“What brought this on? I know you said Sue put you up to this, but why?” Johnny asked after a moment of silence.

“Some joke Reed said got her thinking. She wanted to see if you could handle being ignored for an hour without walking away.”

“Well, I didn't walk away.” He spoke with a smirk, beaming with confidence.

“But I didn't ignore you for an hour.” You retorted hoping to knock him down a peg or two.

“I know, I'm impossible to ignore.” 

You rolled your eyes, his ego yours to deal with now. Not that you would change it. However, there was something you had to know.

“Have you really loved me since day one?” You asked, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

“Pretty much, the first time I saw you, I knew you would either be it for me or ruin me.” He explained and you tilted your head. “Well, you were really pretty and my sister picked you out of who knows how many people so I knew you had to be special. So I started falling right then, if this didn’t work out, I think it really would've hurt.” He spoke softly, eyes drifting from yours at times. 

“What about you, how long have you loved me?” He asked in a teasing voice. 

“Probably since the second month that I was here. You came in with Herb and my favorite snack prepared. It was a really small gesture but at the time I had only told you once before what my favorite was. The fact that you remembered something so miniscule was really touching to me.” You spoke, eyes falling to your lap before meeting his once more. 

“You’re telling me we could’ve been doing this for almost a year now? Instead of me only constantly flirting with you?!” 

“I guess we have some catching up to do.” You joked. 

“And some other experiments to try.” He spoke, wiggling his eyebrows.

[clarkskink]

CAN YOU STRETCH ME OUT COACH ??

WARNINGS: dry humping, recording ? (security cam saw you)

⌞LEXY'S NOTES : and if i add wally into one of the workout routines then what (i’ll proofread in the morninggg)⌝

❁ my reqs are open! look at my guidelines before sending one!

MASTERLIST

fitness coach!dick that first meets you when you sign up for a gym membership. he’s talking to his best friend wally at the front desk when you walk up. you’re all smiles as you ask about the gym, and what amenities are given here.

when you’re offered a tour of the facility, fitness coach!dick offers to take you before wally can even grab the map and info sheet.

fitness coach!dick that ignores the amused look the redhead sends him and focuses his whole attention on you. you explain that you’ve only used the gym that’s on your universities campus but it’s too packed lately. you have to wait 20-30 minutes for each machine and even then, all the college students are super judgmental to new people in the gym community.

fitness coach!dick that assures you that you won’t have wait times for the stair master or whatever machine you normally use. he emphasizes that all the workers here are excited to help, whether it be new gym members or ones they’ve had for years!

fitness coach!dick that can’t get enough of you. you guys have been going back and forth throughout the whole tour. laughing at his jokes and hitting his arm when he lets out a particularly loud snort.

when you both finally reach the front desk, you’re sold. between the large ‘women only’ area and the super hot tour guide, you know you’ll enjoy your time here. you make the down payment and promise wally and dick you’ll be back on monday bright and early!

as you go back to your car, you hear fitness coach!dick yell out a “wait!” and you turn towards him. “here’s my card in case you’re ever interested in a personal trainer for more one on one time. im happy to help in anyway you need.” he rushes out with a cute red flush to his cheeks.

“i can even show you my instagram in case you want to see my clients and their progress too.”

fitness coach!dick that gets a follow from you when he’s finally home from his shift. he’s quick to click follow back, as he scrolled through your post before calling it a night.

fitness coach!dick that becomes your personal trainer come monday morning!

personal trainer!dick that sets an alarm for 3 am, and asks wally if he can open today. he doesn’t want you to think he was desperate for getting there 2 hours before your first session, and needed an excuse if you were to ask why he was there so early.

personal trainer!dick that nearly cums in his shorts seeing the cute workout set you’re wearing. it’s only the first session and you’re already trying to kill him.

you tell him that you know the basics but don’t have a set in stone routine or anything so you’re really open to whatever ! he came with a plan, and didn’t want to look like a fool in front of you so you’re all set for the next 2-3 hours.

personal trainer!dick that starts you off with stretches. he doesn’t want you to get hurt during the workout and the best way to warm up your body is by stretching obviously!!!

everything starts off fine, until he has you bending in this ridiculous arch. you couldn’t exactly get the positioning right and wanted his help before you ended up hurting yourself. “hey, dick. can you help me out please”

personal trainer!dick that audibly gulps once he looks up from the dumbbell rack, and sees the way you’re bent over. his eyes trace over your backside. seeing how the leggings you’re wearing stretch over your pussy so enticingly that it’s taking everything in him to not let out a groan.

the color of the set really accentuates your skin tone, but the cross cross of the waistband give your ass the nicest pump, as it clings to each curve. and not only does your ass look amazing from this position, but the way he watches the flesh jiggle back and forth as you move around trying to complete the stretch, has him completely memorized.

and personal trainer!dick knows how inappropriate it is to look at his client this way, but who knows when will be the next time someone as captivating as you walks in through those doors. so leaning into his lustful thoughts, he murmurs out words of encouragement.

‘just like that, sweetheart’

‘perfect form’

‘let’s try another move, so i can really help stretch you out’

and when personal trainer!dick sees you still at his last comment, he knows the gears are finally turning in your head. and when you shyly ask him with a bat of your eyelashes to help you try out this one stretch that normally loosens you up, he’s quick to comply.

it has you standing up straight, and bending down to touch your toes. but it’s been a…while since you last moved your body like this. so you ask for a little assistance. telling him to stand behind you and push down on your back until you feel your fingertips trace the top of your shoelaces. personal trainer!dick that feels you start to rub your ass onto his growing tent after the third or fourth toe touch. he knows you don’t actually need his help, but he’s ultimately tired of this cat and mouse game you’ve been playing with him this morning.

instead of pushing down onto the middle of your back. he lays his hands on the curve of your waist and starts to time his thrusts with the tilt of your hips. once a steady rhythm was set, his left hand slowly travels down, hot trail following his heavy hand, until he cups you through your pants. “your slutty pussy is leaking, baby. ‘s like you were dying for me to touch you.” he murmured in your ear. personal trainer!dick that is basically throbbing in his pants from the moans and whimpers you’re letting out..

if someone where to look into the room, it would look like a cheap porno with the way you guys are humping at each other like rabbits. personal trainer!dick that rubs the seam of your leggings just right, and watches as you cum in his arms from the sensations. he’s not far behind, tightening his grip on your ass before panting heavily in your ear as the front of his shorts become stained from his release.

personal trainer!dick that makes sure he asks wally for the security footage from your session and ignores the “hey, i wanna see” whines from the boy. he makes sure he wipes the video from the database as soon as it’s saved onto his phone. he can’t lose his job and his new fave client all in one day.

personal trainer!dick that sends a picture of him holding his dick between his thick thighs. cum spurted all over his lower abdomen. paired with a video that very obviously shows how your first session went.

hot trainer 👅

video.mp4

think i just found my new fav porno

wanna make a part 2, lol?

copyright © 2025 clarkskink. all rights reserved.

[noodlie-reads]

jealous type - part five

college au; in which you learn a lot about 2000’s party boy core!dick grayson… and wally’s got skill issues???

jealous type - masterlist

2.8k - no use of y/n, no physical descriptions of reader ofc

warnings: heavily suggestive at the beginning, mostly just the 3rd paragraph

a/n: my god i’m so sorry this took so long😭 work’s been kicking my ass but tysm for being patient with me🥹

-`✦´-

you learned a lot about dick grayson that night.

there are things you could’ve guessed, like him being a total consent king or even that he’s a big fan of eye contact.

then, there are… the details. the things you wouldn’t have let yourself guess.

for example, you learned that if his mouth isn’t busy littering you with kisses or pleasuring you, it’s busy showering you with praises and compliments. you learned that he responds very well to your nails lightly scratching at his scalp as you hold onto his hair, as well as when you claw at his back with feeble attempts to ground yourself. you also learned that the rumor celeste had heard was deeply correct.

you even learn that dick grayson is a massive post-sex cuddler. that, you probably should’ve been able to guess. but, it was a pleasant discovery, nonetheless.

afterwards, your body had been in a state of weightlessness. you’d felt sleepy and energized at the same time. it was the kind of satisfaction that you think would come with the most thorough full body massage of all time.

it was tension relief.

unfortunately, you didn’t linger in it as much as you would’ve liked. as you both lay in his bed, listening to the sounds of your breathing go from labored to restful, your mind had recovered enough to form coherent thoughts. and, with those thoughts came… concerns. apparently, your relaxation is contingent on your brain being out of office. figures.

against your own wishes, you worked up the courage to break the silence and burst the bubble of peace that had found its way around you. though, you really didn’t want to.

“so…” you started, moving your head from dick’s chest to the pillow beside him, in order to get a good look at him. he turned his head to face you, eyes gleaming with a content fondness you weren’t sure if you’d ever seen anywhere else. you continued, “listening to flowery masturbation instructions really does it for you, huh?”

his fondness shifted into amusement, a light chuckle filling the space between you, until he took you in further and caught the apprehension that you’d been trying to cover. when did dick grayson get to know you so well?

“you okay?” the question was gentle, but anxious. like he was worried you’d call this a mistake. you wouldn’t, though. you could never.

“yeah,” you assure. “i just… uh… ugh,” you groaned, before turning onto your back, eyes on the ceiling. you didn’t want to face him for this part. what you wanted to ask felt embarrassingly un-chill. “i don’t wanna be all ‘what are we’ because i know this isn’t that, but, also, like… what now?”

something you were learning about yourself: when you weren’t sure, you needed him to be.

unfortunately, you don’t get an answer because your phone chose that moment to start its incessant buzzing. shit, you’d thought, celeste.

before she’d left for the weekend, you two had agreed that reunion pizza would be in order when she returned. for obvious reasons, it had slipped your mind.

you scrambled out of bed with a mumbled “one second” and started rifling through discarded clothes until you found your phone. your suspicions were confirmed; it was cel.

“um, hellooooo,” celeste had greeted you. you cringed as you made your way back to bed. you sat on the edge, rather than lay back down. dick moved closer to trace absentminded patterns on your waist. it was nice. intimate. you forced yourself to stop thinking about it.

“hey, cel,” you tried to make your voice sound normal, “sorry! i was, uh- well- dick and i were watching bridgerton and-”

“oooh! say no more. i can literally never tear myself away from that show. lost track of time, huh?”

“exactly that,” you giggle out, relieved to not have to explain how you lost track of time. “did you still wanna grab a slice?”

“yeah! i’m still like ten minutes out, i think. but, actually, it works out perfect if you’re with dick ‘cause wally was asking to pick me up from the train station anyway! we can, like, double date!”

“i don’t think that’s an… apt description, but yeah i’ll ask him if he wants to join.” was it an apt description? no. dick had offered casual sex. nothing more. assuming more would be presumptuous and, if you actually did want to date him, potentially disappointing if he wasn’t on the same page. not that you cared if he wanted to date you…

“semantics,” she huffed, “you know the one, right?”

“of course,” you smiled. you and celeste had made a ritual of going to a tiny pizzeria tucked beside the train station. it was your spot.

you exchanged ‘love you’s and ‘see you soon’s before hanging up the phone.

“c’mon,” you said, turning toward dick, “we’re getting pizza.”

his mind had been turning while you were on the phone, agonizing over your question. what you thought you were signing up for was entirely different than what he’d wanted this to be. what would he even say? “hey i know you probably just wanted to do the exact thing that i brought up before but what i really want is for us to be a couple”? that felt… incredibly unfair. he couldn’t do that to you.

“what happened to ‘i’ll ask him’?” he’d responded with a sly half-smile, just in time. at least he’d been paying some attention.

you were already redressing yourself when you responded, “oh, you’re right! how could i be so rude.” your tone was mocking and playful and everything he liked about you, “my dearest, darlingest, dick! would you be sooo, so gracious as to join celeste, wally, and myself on our outing?”

it was his turn to roll his eyes at you, but he responded with an equally dramatic affirmative.

-

the car ride had been… almost tense, but not quite. quiet, most definitely. it was a comfortable silence, but one that held the weight of procrastination. you both knew there was a conversation to be had, boundaries to be set. but, with you and dick sharing the impression that the other wanted nothing but a, for lack of a better term, ‘friends with benefits’ situation, neither of you knew how to start.

you would rather sit on a hot grill than come off as needy or, god forbid, desperate.

and dick could confidently say that he’d rather die than make you uncomfortable by ambushing you with his feelings.

so, silence. not even a playlist to fill the otherwise still air. just space for you both to reflect and consider.

not that you minded, to be quite honest. you appreciated that dick seemed to always know what you needed. and the time to process was exactly that.

-

now, though, you and dick sit across from celeste and wally, the older boys having taken their seats toward the outside of the booth. celeste is filling you all in on how her weekend went with her parents. and, everything is mostly normal. you respond here and there, and the boys contribute too, but your mind continues to float elsewhere.

truthfully, it’s not your fault! how could you ever focus when dick is sitting closer than usual? you don’t even know if it’s that much closer than you're used to or if you’re now just hypersensitive to every brush of his hand and the way his thigh is pressing against yours just below the table. either way, it’s deeply distracting. he’s deeply distracting.

when he rests his hand on your thigh, you think you might pass out. when his thumb starts moving in what should have been soothing little circles, you swear your heart stutters. surely, though, you’re being subtle? right? you’re making a truly concerted effort not to let your eyes or touches linger… you’re even hyper aware of how you’re eating your pizza.

it seems, however, that your efforts to appear normal are for naught when, with his slices long gone, dick decides to excuse himself to use the restroom. you hum in acknowledgement, not looking up from your plate. once again, trying desperately to appear normal.

but, as dick gets up, his hand comes to rest on the side of your head furthest from him. he gently holds you still as he presses a tender kiss into your hair, near the crown of your head. then, with a simple “be right back” he vanishes.

you freeze momentarily, celeste and wally frozen along with you. you manage to recover quicker than the other two, opting to casually busy yourself with drinking some of your water. water that dick had insisted upon, saying you needed to hydrate more. you’re almost positive it was really a form of aftercare, given your prior… spirited activities. but, that’s neither here nor there.

“what was that about?” celeste speaks up, a cheeky little grin gracing her features. fuck me, you groan internally.

“what was what about?” you feign ignorance, avoiding eye contact as you take another bite of pizza. when you finally look up, celeste is looking at you with a face that can only be described as an invitation to be fucking for real. you shrug, “i dunno, it’s dick! he’s always touchy, isn’t he?”

“touchy? sure, sometimes,” wally cuts in, “but i don’t think he’s ever kissed me on the head like that.”

“well, that sounds more like a skill issue to me than anything, wally,” you quip, applying a smug smirk to your lips. celeste giggles, despite herself.

your target gasps, “i’m wounded! you’ve wounded me!”

“you’ll heal,” you playfully dismiss. but, celeste’s eyes remain trained on you, all-knowing and all-dissecting. you think about kicking richard under the table when he gets back.

“you’re funny, babe,” she leans in, her smile warm, yet warning, “but you know funny doesn’t hide shit from me.”

your eyes flick between her and wally. both smug, but he doesn’t appear nearly as dialed in. you consider, for a moment, that you might be screwed.

thankfully, dick renters the booth and celeste leans back into her seat upon his arrival. you’ve escaped… for now.

“whoa…” dick says as he settles in, “i sense a vibe shift. what’d i miss?” of course he’d surveyed the scene on his way back and of course he’d catch the slight tension that had thickened the air.

luckily for you, you think fast: “just wally whining about how you never look at him during or something…”

wally plays along with mock outrage, “i told you that in confidence!” you see why celeste likes him. she just smiles, knowingly, and shakes her head. your attempts to deflect never get past her.

“wally, baby,” dick comes through for the bit, as per usual, “i told you, you’ve gotta stop bringing that up in public.”

the conversation finds its way back to more mundane topics, but you find yourself only half invested. the other half is stuck on wally and celeste’s implications. that, coupled with dick’s use of the pet name ‘baby’ in reference to wally, had finally allowed you to clock that, as flirtatious as he is, there was one pet name he’d consistently been calling you… one that you’d yet to hear him use for anyone else. which, of course, would only strengthen wally and cel’s theory.

but, you can’t let yourself ruminate on it. you can’t let yourself entertain the notion that you might be… what, special to him? not romantically, anyway. he cares about you, definitely, but it’s not like that. surely, he’s called other people–

“angel?” he’s leaning toward you now, looking both intrigued and concerned, “you okay?”

your head turns toward him with haste, eyes wide, “huh? oh! yeah, yeah… fine. just, uh… tired? i guess.” you can tell by the way his eyes soften that your excuse has been bought. “but, i’m good. really.” you add with a softened expression of your own.

“let’s get you outta here, then, hm?” dick replies, ever the problem solver. from the corner of your eye, you don’t miss the way celeste analyzes the interaction as she simultaneously and absentmindedly nods at whatever wally’s saying. you choose to ignore it. that’s a problem for future you.

current you is allowing dick to play knight in shining armor, as he smoothly finds the right lull in the conversation to suggest that it’s time to head out.

you and celeste exchange hugs before you part ways, you to dick’s car and her to wally’s. before she releases you, she says with heavy implication, “call me later? ‘kay?” your response comes in the form of a nod and a tight-lipped smile. she’s so gonna grill you… hard.

you and wally exchange a friendly half-hug and you tell him to get your friend home safely ‘or else.’ he chuckles, but says, “always!”

then, it's just you and dick back in his car again. alone. he’d opened the door for you again. something that he’d consistently done, but now felt different somehow. dick’s fiddling with his phone, but stops to break you from your thoughts.

“hey, why don’t we listen to some of your music?” he suggests.

you look at him, shocked, “m-my music? why? whatever you play’s chill.”

he hands his phone to you with a shrug, “you’re always stuck listening to my stuff. ‘s not fair.” you hesitate, but concede.

you take his phone with a roll of your eyes and swiftly pull up your spotify profile before offering the device back to its owner, “there. you choose.”

dick’s brows raise, not expecting the opportunity to explore your playlist portfolio so freely. he takes the phone back, ready to oblige. he doesn’t scroll much before an amused smile begins to play across his lips.

“cutesy slutcore?” he questions, with a grin.

“that one’s public?!” you nearly whine upon realizing what you’d done.

“it is! don’t change it, i’ll be revisiting that later–” you groan as he finishes, “–let’s do… vibey. vibey sounds good right now.”

you decide you can allow it and nod, giving him the okay. he presses ‘shuffle play’ and readies himself to drive as madison beer’s “make you mine” starts thrumming through the speakers. you can’t help but hum along, he can’t help but listen to you instead of the song. but, the peace doesn’t last long. everyone’s catching onto you tonight, it seems.

“so what was actually going on while i was in the bathroom?” dick interrupts your humming.

you sigh, “just cel and wally being… well, cel and wally.” he waits for you to continue, so you do, “that little kiss on the noggin you gave me put me in the line of fire.”

his smile is small, but full of mischief, “my bad, angel. wasn’t thinking about the consequences of my actions.”

“uh-huh…” you chuckle, non-believing. “you’re just lucky i’m quick on my feet. a celeste interrogation, i can handle. adding wally into the mix? i could’ve died!”

dick laughs at that, “i’ll thank my lucky stars, then.”

the song has changed by now, there’s a moment where it’s just kehlani’s voice filling the silence. but, one of your thoughts from earlier re-enters your mind. 

after a moment of deliberation, you decide to start with: “you call me that a lot. angel, i mean.”

your companion steals a quick glance at you, before refocusing on the road. after a moment of consideration, he responds, “i do.” nothing more.

“but, you don’t call other people that?” you ask, though it’s more of a statement. you already know the answer.

“i don’t,” he affirms what you’d already noticed. he seems slightly on edge, like he doesn’t know where this is going. you notice the way his fingers tighten and untighten around the steering wheel. he’s nervous.

“i like it,” you blurt out, wanting to comfort him. you almost feel foolish, but the way he visibly unclenches makes you think he needed to hear it. “i’m just… curious. as to, like… why?”

his brows furrow and his lips purse ever so slightly, as he thinks about his answer. he knows why, of course he does. his hesitation stems from how honest he wants to be with you, given the current… situation. then, he remembers wally’s advice. tell the truth.

“the day after the party i woke up like half a second before you. and, the way the sun was hitting you and you looked so peaceful… i thought you looked like an angel.”

his answer almost knocked the wind out of you. an angel? dick grayson thought you looked like an angel. dick grayson woke up to post-party you, who you’d thought looked like a mess, and saw an angel. and decided to refer to you as such for the foreseeable future.

how crazy that the smallest things can feel the most intimate…

and what on god’s green earth are you supposed to do with that?

-`✦´-

a/n: yes “cutesy slutcore” and “vibey” are real playlists on my spotify dw about it🤧

hope y’all enjoyed🥹

tags: @angelicp0etry, @chuuya-san, @kommanders, @sakiigami, @celestialnightwing, @smurfelle, @asapkeepmerockyyy , @prongsletmoony, @luvkeii444

[pookalicious-hq]

i need a minute... hockey!player dick grayson

masterlist

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ... hockey just became your favourite sport after #10 Dick Grayson would not stop flirting with you the whole time. .tags: Dick Grayson x reader, college/uni au, american sign language, modern era, hockey!player dick grayson word count: 12k

To be honest, hockey wasn’t your favourite sport. You knew how the game worked — the pace, the hard collisions, the way every cheer rattled through the stands — but you’d never gone out of your way to attend more than a couple of games.

But today wasn’t about you; it was about the kids.

You shifted the scarf around your neck — thick, knitted, borrowed from one of the volunteers — and blew into your hands for warmth as the chill from the rink crawled through the plexiglas.

Thirty kids. Four supervisors. One of the loudest arenas you’d ever been in.

A little chaos, sure, but the good kind — the kind that came with bright eyes and flying hands as they signed excitedly about the lights, the music, the giant scoreboard overhead. You were busy helping one of the younger ones spell out TITANS with her foam fingers when two boys started arguing — good-naturedly — over which team had the better jerseys.

‘The red ones look faster,’ one signed.

‘The white ones look cooler,’ the other shot back.

You grinned and signed, ‘How can clothes be fast?’

That got a wave of laughter through the group, hands flickering bright and fast, their joy catching like wildfire.

You tugged your phone from your pocket when it buzzed — a message from Donna:

Donna: front section D, three rows up. i see you and your sticky kids. also your scarf looks cozy. i want it.

You: come down and get it then 😭 pretty sure i already have snot on me.

Donna: babe stay away from me. kori and rachel finally got here. they were definitely fucking in the car.

You snorted quietly, glancing toward the section Donna mentioned. Sure enough, she sat a few rows up, wedged between a redhead in a bright orange scarf and a girl with dark hair and an expression that screamed please fuck off. Donna caught your wave and shot you a wink, laughing before turning back to the rink.

The arena lights dimmed slightly, pulling your attention to the ice.

The boards gleamed under the spotlights, the surface flawless and untouched. The crowd’s roar softened into a low hum of anticipation. Then came the music — low bass first, then the full sweep of drums as the announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers:

“And now — your starting lineup for the Gotham Titans!”

The crowd erupted. The kids around you practically vibrated, half of them jumping from their seats. You laughed, steadying a few little shoulders so no one tumbled forward as the first players burst onto the ice.

White jerseys, blue accents, numbers catching the light. The sound of skates carving into the ice filled the air — crisp, rhythmic, hypnotic. Each player had their own little flourish, looping around, tapping gloves, testing their sticks against the boards. You could feel the pulse of the crowd through your chest, through the glass.

“In goal — Damian Wayne!”

“Number 27, defence — Roy Harper!”

“Number 45, right wing — Jason Todd!”

“Number 19, left wing — Wally West!”

“Number 11, defence — Conner Kent!”

The cheers grew louder with each name, the sound rolling through the arena like a heartbeat. The players flew past the boards, their skates carving deep, confident lines through the ice.

You didn’t follow hockey much, but you knew this team — everyone in Gotham did. The Titans weren’t just good; they were dominant. League champions two seasons in a row, a roster full of prodigies and headliners. Bruce — your boss for the arena gig, somehow — wasn’t just the owner, but the coach. Which meant a handful of his sons played for him, the tabloids’ favourite circus act.

You’d heard the names before — Grayson, Drake, Todd, Wayne — whispered in the office halls, mentioned in emails you weren’t supposed to read. The Titans were a dynasty, and Bruce treated them like one.

Now, watching from just a few feet away, you understood why. They moved like a single current, players weaving around each other with a precision that looked effortless. The kids beside you chanted “Ti-tans! Ti-tans!” in unison, the sound soft but full of life, echoing through the bass of the arena.

One of the girls tugged at your sleeve, signing: Which one is your favourite?

You signed back, I don’t know yet. I’ll tell you after I see who falls down first.

That got another ripple of laughter through your section.

Your scarf slipped loose again as you leaned over to help a kid pick up their poster, and when you straightened, the players had begun circling closer to the glass. The numbers on their jerseys blurred past — 27, 11, 45, 20 — each one a streak of white and motion.

“And finally—” the announcer’s voice cut through the din, drawn out for drama, “—your captain, number 10 — Dick Grayson!”

The crowd roared.

You flinched slightly at the noise, grinning despite yourself as the last player shot out from the tunnel in a flash of white and blue.

He cut across the ice like it belonged to him — fast, easy, blades slicing clean through frost. His stride had that kind of unstudied confidence that came from years of repetition; muscle memory turned art. The spray off his skates caught the light like glitter. The kids gasped when he pivoted sharply near center ice, flicking the puck toward the net in one smooth motion. It clanged off the post with a clean, metallic ring you could almost feel through the glass.

The section around you went wild — kids throwing their hands up, trying to sign ‘did you see that?!’ all at once. You laughed, nodding, eyes tracking him as he looped around again. There was something in the way he moved — something alive, like he was having the time of his life out there while everyone else was still catching up.

Number 10 coasted by once. Twice. On the third pass, his gaze caught yours.

At first, you didn’t think it was possible. There were hundreds of people in the stands, dozens pressed to the glass. But his head turned just enough — helmet tilted, blue eyes beneath the visor — and the moment stretched. Long enough that you knew.

Then came the grin. Wide, easy, devastating.

Your stomach did a tiny, traitorous flip.

He slowed as he approached your section, stopping so close you could see the frost building along the edge of his glove. Then, with the same smooth showmanship that made the kids squeal, he lifted his stick and tapped the glass. Once. Twice. A teasing, rhythmic knock that echoed through the Plexiglas.

The kids went feral. Hands flying, faces bright, all of them trying to sign at once — ‘he saw us! he saw us!’

You pressed your hand to your chest in mock offence. 'No, no, he smiled at you guys,' you signed exaggeratedly, but that only made them more chaotic, bouncing in their seats, shrieking silently with laughter.

Number 10 laughed too. You could see it, even through the helmet — the tilt of his head, the curve of his mouth. He pointed at one of the upside-down posters the kids had made, then at you, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it.

You mouthed, show-off, knowing he couldn’t possibly read it, and yet — his shoulders shook with quiet laughter. Like maybe he understood anyway.

Then, just as easily as he’d appeared, he pushed off again — a streak of motion and frost disappearing into the weave of players.

The kids lost it, trying to recount what happened in bursts of signs so fast even you had to laugh, nodding along as they insisted the hockey guy smiled at you. 

You shook your head, warmth blooming somewhere deep in your chest.

Across the ice, Number 10 had already joined his team in a passing drill, helmet off now. His hair was dark, damp with some sweat, curling a little at the ends. He looked lighter than you’d expected — like someone who didn’t just carry the weight of being captain, but loved it.

The announcer called another name. The crowd screamed. The game hadn’t even started yet, but your pulse had already synced to the rhythm of the rink.

Your gaze caught on the back of his jersey again — the bold lettering clean and sharp against white.

GRAYSON.

Number 10.

And when he glanced your way one last time — just once, quick — you pretended you didn’t notice.

Someone tapped your shoulder. You turned to see a staff member in a black jacket, headset crooked against her cheek.

“[Name], right? You’re up in two minutes,” she said. “You can bring three kids for the ceremonial puck drop.”

You thanked her than signed quickly to the kids, 'Three of you with me.' Tiny hands shot into the air immediately. 'Alright, you, you, and you. Let’s go make history,' you said as you signed, guiding them out of their seats.

You could feel the cold hit your cheeks as the tunnel opened onto the rink. The lights were blinding at first — brilliant white reflecting off the ice, shimmering across the boards. The crowd noise became a dull, vibrating roar in your chest, muffled slightly behind the Plexiglas, but enough that you could feel the pulse of excitement radiating through the arena.

The kids clutched each other’s hands as you led them through the side of the rink, then onto the carpet expanding onto the ice. Their mittens brushed your coat sleeve, tiny fingers gripping tight, full of nervous energy. You knelt for a second so you could sign slowly, clearly: ‘Two of you will stand on either side. One of you will drop the puck. I’m behind you the whole time. Just watch and smile.’

The youngest’s eyes went impossibly wide. ‘We… get to drop it?’ she signed.

‘Yes,’ you signed back, exaggerating each motion for clarity.

A flush of pride warmed your chest as you watched the kids straighten, shoulders back, puffing out their little chests. You could tell they were nervous, shy even, but their excitement buzzed through the air, almost visible, like sparks along the ice.

From the corner of your eye, Number 10 skated forward. Helmet off, dark damp hair curling at the ends, a faint sheen of sweat catching the arena lights. His shoulders were relaxed, moving with the effortless ease of someone who didn’t just carry the weight of being captain but genuinely loved the game. Every stride was fluid, precise, yet playful, like he could have been dancing across the ice instead of leading a professional hockey team.

His blue eyes scanned the kids first — wide eyes, trembling hands, tiny mittens clenching and unclenching. Then his gaze flicked to you, just for a heartbeat, and his smile softened. It wasn’t the show-off grin the crowd expected, loud and performative. This one was quiet, almost shy, a small curve of his mouth that felt intimate, like a secret only you were meant to see.

The announcer’s voice boomed across the arena, warm and commanding:

“Please welcome our special guests of the Wayne ASL program! They will be performing the ceremonial puck drop tonight alongside Home team Captain Dick Grayson and Visiting team Captain Spencer Boyle!”

The crowd erupted, a tidal wave of cheers bouncing off the rafters. The kids jumped, hands shooting to their mouths, wide-eyed giggles escaping despite themselves, trying and failing to act like grown-ups in front of thousands. Your chest swelled, tugging the scarf higher around your neck against the cold, and you laughed with them, fingers flying as you signed: ‘You guys got this!’

Dick crouched slightly, blades scraping softly on the ice, fist-bumping each child in turn. One little boy froze for a split second, then grinned ear to ear when Dick’s gloved knuckles tapped his mitten. The girl next to him followed, bumping her knuckles gingerly, and Dick’s eyes flicked to her with a soft, approving curve of his mouth, like he couldn’t believe how earnest and cute they were.

And then the opposing captain glided in — tall, blond, impossibly charming — and winked at you.

You shifted your gaze politely to the puck in your hands, heart beating faster than the music in the arena. You could feel the electricity in Dick’s glance — the quiet sharpness of someone noticing everything, his head tilting just enough, a soft smirk on his lips, like he already knew exactly what was happening and found it… amusing.

The kids arranged themselves, standing with careful concentration on either side of the one holding the puck. You crouched behind them, hands hovering just above their shoulders, guiding without touching unless needed. You could see the tiniest tremble in the youngest’s fingers, the way the middle child’s mouth pressed into a determined line, the way the oldest’s shoulders stiffened with concentration. You beamed at them, heart full — this was their moment, and you were just lucky enough to be there to see it.

The ref gave the nod. You watched the little hand drop the puck — it clacked against the ice with a satisfying ring that echoed under the lights. The two captains mimed a playful skirmish, tapping sticks lightly, spinning around once before standing, amused and graceful.

The crowd roared, and the kids shrieked, hands flailing, faces lighting up in joy and disbelief. You bent down to sign encouragement, laughing with them, feeling that warm burst of happiness in your chest, almost overwhelming. 

Dick crouched again, hands on his knees, watching them like they were fragile little wonders, a soft, almost tender smile on his face. You could see the way his eyes lingered, tracking each movement, his lips twitching in quiet amusement at their wide-eyed awe. He tapped his stick against the ice, an unspoken good job that made the kids beam brighter than the floodlights overhead.

You helped herd the kids off the red carpet, brushing snow and ice crumbs from their boots. Their chatter in sign language was frantic, overlapping — ‘did he see me? did you see that? he smiled! he waved!’ Your own cheeks hurt from smiling, but you didn’t care. They were alive, radiant, and part of something bigger than themselves.

And when you glanced back, heart still fluttering, you saw him again — Number 10, Dick Grayson, standing there just for a second longer than necessary. Helmet off, eyes soft and bright, a smile that wasn’t meant for the crowd but somehow for you.

Your pulse stuttered. You turned quickly, signing instructions to the kids again, trying to act like you didn’t notice, but you did.

And he definitely did.

The carpet rolled up behind you as you guided the kids back toward your seats. Their little mittens were sticky with sweat and ice, cheeks flushed from the chill and excitement, and their chatter was constant, frantic, full of signs and wide-eyed gestures.

‘Did he smile at us?’ one signed.

‘Did he really look at me?’ another asked.

You laughed, tugging your scarf tighter around your neck and crouching to sign with them. ‘He saw all of you. All of you did amazing. I’m so proud of you,’ you signed, actions full of warmth. Their faces lit up like someone had turned on a spotlight in their chests, and you couldn’t stop the grin spreading across your own face.

“You did it! All of you!” you signed to them again, sweeping your arms wide. The youngest practically bounced in place, then grabbed your hands and spun in a tiny victory dance. You laughed, letting her go, feeling a little of your own exhilaration tumble out.

From the corner of your eye, you spotted Donna waving frantically from a few rows up. Her grin was wide, bright — that effortless mix of mischief and affection you were starting to recognize as her signature. She leaned over to point at you, mouthing something you couldn’t read over the roar of the crowd. 

She leaned back, and you noticed the two girls with her — Kori and Rachel — each wearing wide, slightly skeptical smiles, clearly amused by your animated waving. Donna’s phone was out, probably already snapping pictures of your triumphant little crew, and she caught your glance and winked.

“Alright, kids,” you signed again. ‘Time to get back to your seats before the game starts. But remember — you just made history.’

The kids groaned dramatically, half wanting to linger, half desperate to sit and recount the experience. You helped herd them down the steps, their tiny feet clomping on the polished concrete, mittens occasionally brushing against yours. You kept glancing toward the bench, partly out of habit, partly because… well, you weren’t sure why.

Dick Grayson was there — leaning slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees, helmet off, gloves dangling from his fingers. His dark hair curled damply at the edges, still wet from the skate, a few strands sticking to his temple. From where you sat, you could see the faintest flush across his cheeks, that sharp focus in his eyes.

His gaze looked casual, easy even — but you could tell he was tracking everything. The movement on the ice, the coaches shouting from the bench, the buzz of the crowd. And maybe, occasionally, the way your laughter cut through the noise when one of the kids got a sign wrong and made everyone giggle.

You helped them all back to their seats — thirty little jackets and blankets and gloves — their chatter bubbling nonstop in overlapping sign language and whispered exclamations. Tiny hands still pointed toward the ice, miming the puck-drop over and over, their faces flushed with excitement. You crouched to keep up, signing fast, laughing with them, your heart swelling in that slow, aching way that happiness sometimes does.

Once they were settled — mittens still clutched in small fists, hot chocolate sloshing in paper cups — you sank back into your seat. Your scarf brushed your cheeks, still damp with melted ice from your walk across the rink. The chill seeped up from the concrete floor through your boots, the kind of deep, crisp cold that lived in your bones but didn’t quite bother you anymore. You were rink-side — right against the glass, just to the left of the home team’s bench — close enough to see the tape on their sticks, the scuffs on their helmets, the breath fogging out beneath their visors.

The goalie’s crease was to your left, his pads squeaking faintly as he stretched. The boards were low enough that you could lean forward and smell the faint metallic bite of the ice. Every so often, the cold would press through your jacket in a wave — sharp, fleeting — before the hum of the crowd and the warmth of the kids’ excitement drowned it out again.

Your phone buzzed.

Donna: remember that time, like… ten years ago, when we were at my ninth birthday party? You smiled, thumbs flying.

You: yeah?

Donna: remember that kid who threw up the cake cuz he ate too much?

You froze.

You: no. you’re fucking joking.

Donna: nope. that was my old neighbour. Dick Grayson. Number 10.

Your thumb hovered midair. The same kid who had thrown up pink frosting all over Donna’s Barbie cake was now skating literal circles around grown men — captain of the Gotham Titans, crowd screaming his name, jawline sharp enough to cause structural damage.

You: when the fuck did he get hot?

Donna: it was a miracle tbh.

You bit back a laugh, setting your phone down before you accidentally snorted out loud.

Warm-ups had ended. The lights dimmed to a cinematic low, painting the ice in blue and silver. The announcer’s voice echoed through the speakers, deep and booming, bouncing off glass and steel. The sound wasn’t just loud — it vibrated, right through your chest. The crowd’s roar rose to meet it, a single heartbeat made of thousands of voices. The smell of popcorn, hot pretzels, and cold beer swirled in the air.

The kids froze mid-sign, eyes wide as the team emerged from the tunnel again — a rush of white and blue and thunderous noise.

And there he was again.

Number 10.

You felt it immediately — that pulse of energy that hits the air just before the puck drops. The tap of sticks on boards, the rasp of blades carving across the rink. The players shouted to each other, voices muffled under helmets, the scrape of movement fast and constant. You could see it all perfectly from your seat, the bench to your right alive with motion. Coaches leaning forward, players pacing, one tapping the boards in encouragement.

Dick was everywhere. One moment crouched low for a faceoff, the next gliding backward, scanning the ice with that same sharp, predatory awareness. His movements were precise, efficient — but there was something almost playful underneath it, that kind of ease that came from someone who loved every second of what they were doing. He skated like gravity wasn’t a rule, only a suggestion.

The kids were in awe, bouncing in their seats, signing too fast for you to keep up. ‘He has it! He’s got it again! He’s passing! He’s—oh my god, he’s back!’ Their faces glowed from the light reflecting off the ice, each one lit with unfiltered joy. You laughed, trying to sign along, your breath fogging faintly against the glass.

And then —

A crack like thunder shattered the rhythm.

You jumped. The glass rattled under your palms, vibrations jolting up through your arms as a player in black slammed shoulder-first into the boards right in front of you. The thud reverberated through the air, deep enough that it hit your ribs. For a heartbeat, the world shrank — sound and motion collapsing into that single point of collision.

And there, in the middle of it, was Dick.

He had the other player pinned, stick caught between them, his whole body angled low and sure. You could see the concentration etched into every line of him — his jaw clenched, breath fogging against the glass, eyes cutting sharp beneath the visor. His gloved hands twisted for leverage, his shoulders flexed, and even through all that padding and fabric, you could feel it — the raw strength coiled in his frame, the control behind every shove.

The kids squealed, half thrilled, half terrified, and you couldn’t move — couldn’t even breathe properly — because then he turned his head.

And looked at you.

It was barely a second, maybe less, but it landed like a hit. His eyes met yours through the thin layer of glass, blue and bright, and then—he smiled.

Not the practiced grin of a captain. Not the camera-ready smile. This one was smaller, crooked at one corner, wild in a way that said yeah, I saw you jump.

Your heart tripped over itself. This guy is fucking insane, you thought, and the words felt like an exhale.

Because he was.

He laughed as he ripped the puck free, spun, and bolted down the ice like a spark caught flame. The crowd roared. The boards shook again as he passed the puck, fast and clean.

You exhaled finally, realizing you’d been holding your breath, laughing breathlessly as the kids slapped their hands against the glass in delight.

When the whistle blew for the line change, Dick coasted toward the bench. He slowed as he passed your section, helmet tilted slightly, mouth curved in something softer — like he’d left a part of that grin just for you.

You looked away first, pretending to fix the kids’ blanket, pretending your pulse wasn’t hammering loud enough to hear.

You signed to them,  ‘He’s insane. Totally insane.’

Their laughter sparked around you, quick and bright, and as the sound filled your chest, you realized you were smiling too.

And maybe — just maybe — that warmth wasn’t from the scarf anymore.

You were in trouble.

The first period blurred into rhythm — the kind that left you breathless without realizing why.

The puck dropped again after an icing call, and the sound of it hitting the ice snapped through the air like a spark. The Titans took control fast. You could feel it — their energy, their coordination, the way the entire game bent around their speed. Every pass was clean, deliberate; every formation broke apart and reformed like a heartbeat.

And right in the middle of it, him.

Dick moved like gravity didn’t apply to him — cutting through defenders, pivoting on sharp edges that carved perfect crescents into the ice. The cold radiated through the glass, brushing over your skin in little bursts each time he swept past. You’d thought maybe the novelty would wear off — the ridiculous, pulsing awareness of him — but it didn’t. If anything, it grew.

The kids were bouncing in their seats again, shrieking when he nearly got a shot in. The goalie barely got a glove on it, the puck ricocheting off with a sharp crack before the defence scrambled it away. The crowd roared, a wave of voices rising, then falling back into a hum of restless energy.

You leaned forward instinctively, elbows braced against the ledge of the glass. The cold bit through your sleeves, numbing your forearms, but you barely noticed. The ice glowed under the bright lights — that perfect, artificial blue — and every time Dick came near, that glow seemed to find him first.

He skated backward at one point, checking behind him as he called for a pass. For just a second, his head tilted — and his eyes caught yours again. Quick. Unassuming. But deliberate. Like it was habit now, like he couldn’t not look.

You pretended to focus on the game, but your pulse had other ideas.

‘Watch—watch, he’s got it again!’ one of the kids signed frantically toward the ice.

You followed their gestures just in time to see Dick take the puck up the boards, moving with that same impossible grace. He ducked around one defender, then another — too quick to track — before sending a clean shot toward the net. The goalie lunged. Caught it.

The crowd groaned, collective disappointment rippling like static.

Dick laughed. Actually laughed, smacking his stick against the glass in good-natured frustration before gliding back to center. His grin was pure mischief — bright, reckless — and your stomach flipped so hard you nearly dropped your jaw.

He looked back once more as he passed, helmet tilted, expression unreadable but lingering just a little too long.

And then the whistle blew.

The kids were still vibrating beside you, replaying every move with quick hands and even faster words. You tried to match their energy, to keep up with their retelling, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. To the way he leaned on his stick, catching his breath, hair damp under his helmet, mouth curved in that infuriating smile.

He skated back toward the faceoff circle, ready for the next play. The puck dropped. The Titans surged forward again.

You should’ve been watching the game. You were. Mostly. But every shift, every line change, every blur of motion on the ice — your gaze kept finding him.

And somehow, every time, he found you right back.

Intermission came quickly. The pace the Titans were setting felt almost cinematic — a blur of movement and precision that barely gave you time to blink. By the time the horn sounded, your shoulders were tense from leaning forward too long, and your cheeks were warm despite the cold curling around the rink.

The kids were buzzing, practically vibrating in their seats, signing at you in overlapping bursts — ‘Did you see that pass? Number 10 almost scored! He’s so fast!’ You laughed, tugging one girl’s jacket zipper higher when she shivered. ‘There,’ you murmured as you signed, patting her shoulder. ‘Better?’ She nodded, mittened hands shooting back up to sign something about how she ‘wanted to skate like that one day.’

“Yeah,” you said softly, smiling. “You and me both.”

Then, instinctively — stupidly — your gaze found him again.

Dick was by the boards near center ice, slowing to a glide as the last few seconds of play ticked down. Helmet still on, visor pushed up, that easy grin flashing under the harsh lights. But then you noticed — he wasn’t skating toward the bench.

He was facing someone.

The other team’s captain, taller, bulkier, standing stiff and squared up like he had something to prove. From this distance, you couldn’t hear what was being said, but you could read the body language clear as glass. Dick leaned in just enough to say something — casual, offhand. The smile didn’t waver.

The other guy didn’t smile back.

If anything, the glare he shot Dick could’ve burned straight through the ice.

You shifted slightly in your seat, heart thudding faster than it should. The air felt colder suddenly, or maybe that was just the tension pulsing between the two of them. You didn’t know what Dick had said, but whatever it was, it had landed perfectly. Because he looked amused. He was grinning like he was genuinely enjoying himself, like the guy’s rage was the best entertainment he’d had all night.

The captain said something sharp — you could see the way his jaw clenched, his hands tightening around his stick — and Dick just tilted his head, eyebrows raising in that infuriatingly calm way that said, Really?

And then it happened.

Dick’s eyes flicked up, cutting across the rink, and found yours through the glass.

You froze.

The moment hung suspended — you, seated just to the left of the home bench, scarf still loose around your neck, the faint reflection of the rink lights trembling across the glass between you.

And then, while the other guy was still fuming, Dick said something else. Something short. Something that made the other captain’s expression twist tighter.

Because Dick was pointing at you.

You blinked, disbelief punching through your chest as his gloved hand gestured casually in your direction — like it was nothing, like you were just part of whatever joke he was spinning. He turned his head back toward the other player, that grin softening into something unbearably smug.

And before you could even process what the hell just happened, he was gone.

He pushed off from the boards and skated toward his bench with that same effortless glide, bumping shoulders with one of his teammates, laughing about something you couldn’t hear. The other captain was still staring after him, absolutely seething.

You sat there, half-stunned, pulse tripping over itself as you realized he’d done it on purpose.

He’d looked right at you — pointed — because he knew you were watching.

The glass still hummed faintly from where he’d passed, and you swore you could feel the echo of his grin somewhere in your bones.

One of the kids tugged on your sleeve, snapping you back to earth. You blinked, exhaled. “Sorry, hun” you said with a small laugh, signing, ‘What’s up?’

She pointed to the ice, where the zamboni was beginning its slow crawl out of the tunnel. ‘He’s funny,’ she signed, giggling.

You looked back toward the bench just in time to see Dick removing his helmet, shaking his hair loose, that boyish grin still tugging at his mouth as he talked to one of his teammates.

Yeah. Funny.

And completely, hopelessly insane.

You shifted in your seat, the sudden realization hitting you: all that excitement, the hot chocolate, the racing around with the kids—it had consequences.

“Maggie?” you called out, loud enough to be heard over the hum of the crowd.

She looked up from her clipboard a few rows down and smiled. “Hey, what’s up?”

“I need to hit the washroom,” you said, standing and brushing snowflakes of ice dust off your scarf. “Could you watch the kids for me for a sec?”

Maggie grinned and gave you a thumbs-up. “Got it. Go!”

Relieved, you waved briefly to the kids as you passed, their excited chatter spilling over like a river of tiny, uncontainable energy. You ducked past the crowd, the chill of the concourse hitting you in contrast to the rink’s warmth, the distant echo of the game following faintly through the walls. Intermission hadn’t even started for you yet—you were already planning how to catch every moment.

The washroom was quieter, the hum of the fluorescent lights a sharp contrast to the steady roar of the arena outside. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and winter coats, a sterile pocket of calm after the storm of noise and energy you’d just walked out of. You slipped into a stall, letting the metal door clatter shut behind you, and exhaled slowly, trying to steady your racing pulse.

The game. The kids. The chaos.

And Dick.

God, you could still see the grin he’d thrown your way before the last whistle — the curve of his mouth against the glass, the way his eyes had flicked up just to find yours. You didn’t know what the hell to do with the way your chest fluttered.

When you were done, you pushed open the stall door—

 —and froze.

Donna.

She was leaning against the counter like she’d been there forever, arms crossed, one brow arched, wearing that familiar grin that could slice through any moment.

You screamed. A short, sharp yelp that bounced off the tiles. “Holy—what the—!”

Donna burst out laughing, bright and unbothered, the sound echoing against the cold walls. “Relax, it’s just me, babe,” she said, rocking lazily on her heels.

You pressed a hand to your chest, the other braced against the counter for balance. “You scared the absolute shit out of me,” you muttered, half-laughing, half-glaring.

She only grinned wider. “Boo.”

“Yeah, hilarious,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “So, you just… lurking in the women’s restroom now? Standing here waiting for me to finish pissing?”

“Yep.” She tilted her head, unbothered. “I saw you leave your seat, and knowing you and your tiny-ass bladder, I figured I’d catch you before you snuck off.”

You groaned, leaning back against the counter — but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “Good to see you too, I guess.”

“Always a pleasure,” she said, her grin softening as you reached for a paper towel.

You dried your hands, then leaned forward to wrap her in a hug — warm and quick, the kind that said you’d missed each other but didn’t need to say it out loud. “So, what’s new with you—”

She cut you off, grabbing your forearms and tugging you back, her fingers firm but affectionate. “Shut up,” she said, eyes bright, grin turning wicked. “We’re not talking about me right now. We’re talking about whatever you and Wonderboy have going on.”

You blinked. “What—”

“Don’t ‘what’ me.” Her tone sharpened just slightly, though she was clearly enjoying this. “Look me in the eyes and tell me nothing is happening or gonna happen with you two.”

You froze, pulse kicking up again. “Donna—”

“Because I’ve been watching,” she went on, words tumbling out with gleeful precision. “I can’t see your face, but I can see his. And holy shit, he’s practically eye-fucking you every time he skates past. Don’t even try to tell me you’re not noticing him noticing you.”

Heat flared across your cheeks so fast it made you dizzy. “I—I don’t even know him! I mean—he’s—he’s good on the ice and—”

“You mean hot.” She didn’t even blink.

Your mouth opened, then closed.

Donna’s grin softened, though her gaze stayed piercing, like she was reading every unspoken word in your expression. “You’re glowing, babe. Don’t fight me on this. Every time he looks your way, your face lights up like you’re under a spotlight.” She reached into her back pocket, flashing her phone screen for a second. “And yes, I got video. Of the way you practically melted during puck drop.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Oh my god. Delete that. Immediately.”

“Absolutely not.” She was laughing now, but her voice gentled, teasing with just a thread of care woven in. “I just wanna know—are you gonna do something about it? Or are you gonna sit there pretending you’re not totally gone for the guy who keeps staring at you mid-game?”

You sighed, tilting your head back toward the ceiling. The hum of the lights seemed louder now, matching the thud of your heartbeat. “I don’t know,” you said, voice low. “It’s—complicated.”

Donna gave you that look — the one that was all empathy wrapped in chaos. “Everything’s complicated. That’s not a reason to hide from something that makes you smile.”

You stared at her for a long second, the truth of it sinking in. Then: “Okay. Obviously, I’m gonna see where it goes. I mean—he’s… wow, okay. Super fine. And, yeah. I definitely notice.”

Her grin bloomed like she’d just won something. “There it is.”

You shook your head, laughing. “You’re the fucking worst.”

“I know,” she said, looping her arm through yours as she started toward the door. “But I’m also right. Now let’s go, before the next period starts and he scores some miracle goal just to impress you.”

You nudged her shoulder, still smiling despite yourself. “You’re insufferable.”

She smirked, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “And you love me for it.”

And yeah. Maybe she was right.

You and Donna were still leaning against the counter, arms brushing, when she leaned closer, eyes sparkling with that impossible grin.

“I’m so excited to be an aunt,” she said, voice dropping conspiratorially. “You better give me credit for this on your wedding day — I can already picture your baby, and it’s gonna have your eyes and his athletic ability, I’m talking D1 baby. Holy shit, you hafta tell me how he is in—”

You choked on your laugh, waving a hand in mock protest. “Donna, stop—”

And that’s when the faint sound of a toilet flushing echoed through the room.

Both of you froze mid-movement. Your eyes met hers, wide and panicked. Before either of you could react, the bathroom door creaked, and an old woman emerged from a stall, moving with surprising decisiveness for her age. She shuffled right between you and Donna and went straight to the sink, scrubbing her hands in silence.

Donna’s lips twitched in an attempt to hide her laugh. She was shaking slightly, trying so hard not to snort. You? You were screaming internally. Every time you dared to glance at her, her barely-contained grin made your chest hurt with laughter, and you quickly averted your eyes, pretending to dry your hands while your heart hammered.

The silence — except for the old woman’s deliberate scrubbing — stretched on, each second feeling like an eternity. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, she turned toward the door.

But before she could leave… she paused.

“I’ve lived a long life, from what I’ve heard, sounds like you met your husband today, young lady,” she said over her shoulder, voice carrying that casual authority only an old lady can wield, then she exited, the door clicking closed behind her.

You both froze, staring at each other for a heartbeat, and then the dam broke.

Donna doubled over, laughing so hard she had to lean against the counter for support. You covered your face with both hands, hiding your own uncontrollable laughter, your shoulders shaking, trying not to inhale too sharply and ruin your composure completely.

“Oh my god,” Donna wheezed, finally straightening a little, tears in her eyes, “even she knows. ”

You pressed a hand to your chest, trying to catch your breath. “I’m never coming back here. Ever.”

“You’re lying,” she said immediately, smirking. “You’ll be watching his games for the rest of your life. She said so, lady wisdom. Can’t fight fate.”

You groaned, laughing again, shaking your head, because of course, this was Donna — and of course, this was exactly how every interaction with her went: chaotic, impossible to stay composed, and somehow, entirely perfect.

The start of the second period was just as electric as the first, maybe even more so. This time, the away team’s net was closer to your section, which meant the Titans would spend most of the period charging up your side of the ice because they were dominating on offence. The smell of cold metal, sharp leather, and melting snow from the players’ skates filled the air. Your scarf pressed a little tighter around your neck, partly from the chill, partly from the anticipation buzzing through your chest.

Dick Grayson was everywhere again, center ice, orchestrating the offence like a conductor. Every pass, every sprint, every feint drew your attention — you couldn’t look away, even as you tried to keep up with the excited chatter and signing of the kids beside you.

He had more opportunities this period, skating closer to your section multiple times, giving you glimpses of that impossible grin whenever the puck slid his way. You caught the way his dark hair curled damply at his temples, the way his gloves flexed as he gripped the stick, the effortless power in every stride.

Then it happened.

He skated hard toward the net, weaving through the defence like it was a warm-up drill. The puck squirmed loose in front of the goalie, and Dick leaned in, trying to nudge it past. One of the opposing defenders, caught in momentum, collided with him just slightly off-balance. Dick stumbled forward — and for a heart-stopping second, it looked like he was going down. But instead, he ended up leaning into the goalie, almost landing on him in a tangle of white and blue.

The arena erupted in shouts and gasps. You froze, eyes wide, heart in your throat. The other team’s players immediately skated toward him, glaring daggers at the chaos he’d caused.

Dick, though, didn’t flinch. His body language shifted from playful agility to calm command, shoulders squared. He raised his hands slightly, a signal that he didn’t want trouble. He wasn’t reckless — he was a captain, after all. Maintaining control was part of his job.

But the other team’s captain wasn’t having it. He skated up, practically nose-to-nose with Dick, voice sharp, accusing. Dick leaned back just enough, trying to defuse it, his expression polite but firm. “Hey, it’s fine. No harm done, relax.”

The captain shoved him — lightly, but enough to break the line of decency — and Dick’s jaw tightened, a flash of annoyance crossing his features. His eyes, however, never left the captain’s as he stayed calm, poised.

And then the captain spoke again. This time, it was personal, aggressive, testing boundaries. Dick’s composure snapped.

The captain swung at him, catching the side of his helmet. Time slowed, the sound of impact resonating in your chest. You flinched, gripping the edge of the glass as if it could anchor you.

Dick didn’t hesitate. His fist met the captain’s with precision, sharper and stronger than the first swing. The hit rattled the other man, leaving him staggered. The refs blew their whistles immediately, skating in to separate the two. The arena roared with a mixture of cheers, gasps, and whistles, your heart thundering along with it.

Both captains got a minor penalty — each was escorted to the penalty box on opposite sides of the ice. You watched as Dick skated over, shoulders squared, helmet still slightly crooked, hands raised in a mock “peace” gesture toward the stunned opposing captain, a flash of humour in his dark eyes. He leaned against the glass of the penalty box, exhaling slowly, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, clearly enjoying the mix of chaos and control.

Your scarf brushed your cheek as your hands trembled against the glass. The kids beside you were bouncing in their seats, signing rapid, excited updates as they tried to process the action: ‘He hit him! He’s in the box! Wait he’s smiling?!’ You laughed breathlessly, half from excitement, half because the sheer audacity of it all was dizzying.

Even from the penalty box, Dick’s eyes found yours again. Just a flash — mischievous, knowing, soft — and you felt your stomach twist. He wasn’t just controlling the game on the ice; he was controlling the moment, making sure you saw it.

The other captain was glaring from his own box, scowling, clearly not appreciating the humour in the situation, while Dick leaned back against the glass, helmet tilted, fingers tapping on his stick, like he’d just won a private little victory.

Dick sat in the penalty box for five minutes, helmet slightly crooked, gloves resting on his knees as he watched the ice like a general observing a battlefield. From your spot, just a few feet from the glass and to the left of the home team bench, you could see him scanning every pass, every shift, every movement, quietly calculating and waiting for his moment. Even stationary, he exuded presence — the energy of a player who could change everything, and you were acutely aware of it.

The Titans weren’t floundering without him. You could see #45, Jason Todd, weaving dangerously close to the goal, nearly scoring on one slick move that had the puck slipping past the goalie’s pads but just narrowly blocked. And #11, Wally West, was a blur of speed, tearing down the lane, stick swinging, fighting for control like a flash of lightning across the ice. The crowd roared every time Wally streaked past the glass near your section. You were half-signing to the kids, half gripping the glass, breathless with excitement.

But you could tell — even from your vantage point — that the team was holding back just slightly. They were strong, yes, coordinated, even impressive. But the spark, the chaos, the edge, the raw unpredictability, that was missing.

Then, the penalty clock expired. The buzzer sounded, and Dick leapt from the box, skating onto the ice with that effortless glide that made it look like he was floating. His eyes immediately locked onto the puck, the players, the flow of the game — and suddenly, the Titans were another beast entirely.

Every pass was sharper, every shift faster. He moved like he was conducting an orchestra, and the other players responded instantly. Todd fed him the puck; Wally streaked past the defence to open lanes; the whole team seemed energized by his presence, as if the air itself shifted.

You barely had time to blink before Dick was charging, puck at his stick, weaving through the defense with a fluidity that left the opposing team scrambling. Your hands pressed against the glass, heart hammering, kids beside you squealing and signing frantic updates: ‘He’s got it! He’s going! Go, go, go!’

And then, after just about two minutes back on the ice, it happened. He wound up, maneuvered past a defender with a smooth pivot, and fired a shot — clean, precise, unstoppable. The puck slammed into the net on the opposite side, the arena erupting around you.

The glass shook from the force of the crowd’s cheer — a deafening, thunderous wave that rolled through the arena. You saw the net ripple, the red light flash, and then Dick — Number 10 — throw his arms up in triumph. His stick clattered against the ice as his teammates swarmed him, helmets knocking together, gloves pounding his back.

A victorious grin split his face, wide and radiant, and he looked every inch the captain in that moment — confident, magnetic, glowing under the harsh rink lights. He did a small victory lap, cutting tight, effortless turns in front of the boards, spinning the stick in his hand before tapping it against the glass where the fans pressed up. You saw him point to someone in the stands — then to you.

He caught your eye as he coasted past your section, skating backward for a second just to hold your gaze. The grin softened into something smaller, private — and then he lifted his glove and waved at the kids, a playful salute before flicking his stick against the boards in front of them. They jumped, half in shock, half in delight, almost falling out of their seats.

Your chest tightened. You pressed your hand against the cool glass, laughing with the kids but barely hearing yourself. He didn’t just score; he reminded everyone why he wore that captain’s “C.” Every move he made radiated control and heat— the kind that pulled every eye in the rink toward him.

You tried to focus on the chaos — on the red jerseys swarming him, the echo of skates cutting through the ice, the ref’s whistle blowing somewhere — but your gaze kept finding him. The way his shoulders rose with his breath, how his hair clung to his forehead beneath his helmet, the smirk that lingered even after the team began to skate back toward the face off circle.

The kids beside you were bouncing off the seats, pointing, signing, shrieking, and you laughed with them, trying to match their energy but failing spectacularly. You didn’t care — you were too busy watching Number 10 work his magic.

Two minutes on the ice and he had shifted the entire rhythm of the game.

And maybe — just maybe — the rhythm inside your chest, too.

The buzzer wailed through the arena, long and triumphant, and the crowd erupted. The scoreboard glowed 4–1 in bright red numbers, and the Titans bench emptied in seconds — gloves tossed, sticks clattering, helmets coming off as they swarmed the ice.

You were on your feet before you even realized it, clapping, laughing, the kids around you losing their minds. They were banging on the glass, waving their foam fingers, shouting the players’ names — and you matched their joy, dizzy from the noise and the light and the sheer thrill of it.

It was chaos in the best way. Jason Todd — #45 — had his helmet off and was yelling something over the noise, his grin wild and unrestrained as Dick slung an arm around him, shaking his shoulders. Wally West skated past, hair plastered to his forehead, fist-bumping Damian Wayne — the youngest player on the roster — who looked like he could explode from pride and was failing to seem nonchalant. You could tell it was his first big goal, and the way the older players mobbed him, cheering and ruffling his hair as he pushed their arms away made your chest ache in the sweetest way.

The ice glittered under the lights, scuffed and slick, reflecting every streak of red and white jersey. Helmets and sticks were scattered everywhere, the sound of laughter carrying up through the boards. You couldn’t help but grin when Dick finally took his helmet off — hair damp, cheeks flushed, that smile still unwavering.

He looked… free. Unshakeably happy in a way you hadn’t seen since—well, maybe ever.

He skated lazily in a wide circle, tapping gloves with his teammates, and then glanced toward your section again. Just a flicker of recognition, but enough. His eyes met yours for half a second through the glass, and you swore his smile tilted up just a bit higher — the kind of smile that wasn’t for the crowd, or the cameras, or the team.

The kids caught it too. ‘He looked at you!’ one of them shook your arm, pointing. ‘He waved earlier and now he’s—!’

You tried to play it off, laughing, shaking your head — but your heart wasn’t exactly cooperating.

Around you, the announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers, congratulating the Titans on another win, calling out the scorers in order — Grayson, Todd, Grayson again, and Wayne. Each name drew another round of cheers. The team lined up to shake hands with the opponents, sportsmanlike as always, even as the other team still looked sour from the loss.

When it was over, the Titans gathered at centre ice, raising their sticks to the crowd. The arena thundered with applause. You lifted your hand too, clapping until your palms stung, your smile stretching wide and real.

And when Dick finally skated off, helmet in one hand, stick in the other, you could still feel that pulse of energy — the echo of the game, the sound of his name shouted in celebration, the sharp, bright heat of being part of it.

By the time the ice cleared and the crowd began to file out, the kids were still absolutely electric — all chatter and bouncing energy and half-signed, half-yelled excitement about the goals. You and Maggie had to practically herd them down the stairs, matching their pace but keeping them from tripping over each other in their excitement.

The woman from before — the same one who’d brought you both down for the puck drop — was waiting by the rink entrance, clipboard tucked under her arm and a proud, practiced smile on her face. “You guys ready to meet the team?” she called, and after you interpreted it for the kids, that was all it took. They went feral.

You laughed, exchanging a quick glance with Maggie, who looked equally delighted and mildly terrified. Together, you led the group through the lower concourse — concrete floors, the faint chill of the rink still seeping through, the sharp tang of ice and sweat and fresh tape heavy in the air.

Every few feet, one of the kids asked, ‘Do we get to talk to them?’ or ‘Can we take pictures?’ and Maggie would sign back with patient, excited nods, her grin never faltering. You added your own reassurances, your heart thudding harder than it should’ve.

It wasn’t just about meeting the team. It was about seeing him again.

The hallway leading to the locker rooms was narrower, quieter — only the hum of overhead lights and the distant echoes of laughter and clattering sticks from behind the double doors at the end. A few staffers passed by, congratulating each other, the faint smell of coffee and detergent lingering under the sharper bite of ice and gear.

You stopped where the woman gestured, just beside the frosted glass door with the TITANS logo across it. “You’ll be able to go in soon,” she said, smiling knowingly. “They’re wrapping up interviews and a quick debrief.”

You nodded, adjusting your coat, trying not to look like you were waiting for one person in particular — but your pulse betrayed you anyway.

The kids lined up near the wall, fidgeting, signing excitedly to each other about who they wanted to meet first. You leaned back against the opposite wall beside Maggie, who caught your eye and raised a brow, that teasing look already forming.

“What?” you whispered.

She just smirked. “You’re doing that thing again.”

You frowned. “What thing?”

“That thing where you look calm but your shoulders are literally up to your ears,” she said, fighting a laugh.

You groaned softly, glancing toward the locker room doors again — still closed, the low murmur of voices carrying faintly from the other side.

“I’m fine,” you muttered.

“Uh-huh,” Maggie said, clearly not believing a word.

The sound of loud laughter broke through from inside, a mix of familiar voices, the clatter of sticks hitting the ground, someone yelling, “MVP! MVP!” followed by more laughter.

You caught yourself smiling, helplessly.

The woman with the clipboard checked her watch and said, “Alright, just a few more minutes.”

You exhaled, steadying yourself. The kids were practically vibrating with anticipation, whispering about autographs and selfies, while you tried not to think too hard about the fact that in a few minutes, Dick Grayson be right through that door — still flushed from the game, still glowing from the win, still with that grin that had your entire heartbeat out of rhythm.

The wait felt longer than it probably was, but when the lady with the clipboard finally reappeared, she was carrying a small stack of glossy cards — the Titans logo stamped bold across each one, the team colors gleaming under the overhead lights.

“Here,” she said, handing them to you and Maggie. “Each kid gets one — the players will sign them. Just makes it easier than chasing down stray paper.”

You smiled, taking the stack and nodding. “Perfect, thank you.”

Then came the small flurry of passing them out — tiny hands reaching eagerly, some signing thank you! so quickly you could barely keep up, a few kids bouncing on their heels from sheer excitement. The energy was contagious. Even Maggie looked like she might start vibrating.

You tucked the last few extra cards under your arm, glancing toward the locker room doors again as the muffled laughter inside grew louder, sharper — the kind of post-game joy that buzzed right through the walls.

“They’re ready for you,” the woman said finally, smiling as she pushed one door open and stepped aside. “You can bring them in. Stay to the side near the benches, and let the players come to you, okay?”

You nodded, heart thudding once — twice — way too hard for something this normal.

Turning back to the group, you signed quickly to get everyone’s attention, clapping once for focus. The kids quieted almost immediately, eyes wide and shining.

“Okay,” you signed and spoke at the same time, making sure everyone could see your hands. “We’re going in to meet the players now. You can wave, say hi, ask for a picture, and give them your cards so they can sign them.” You smiled, exaggerating the expression to keep it bright and easy. “If you need help, just grab me or Maggie, or one of the volunteers, okay?”

Dozens of little nods, some enthusiastic, some nervous. You could practically feel the room’s pulse — excitement rippling from one kid to the next, fingers twitching in anticipation, eyes darting toward the open door.

“Alright then,” you said softly, signing ready?

The chorus of ready! hands flew up so fast it made you laugh.

You pushed the door open wider, holding it as Maggie ushered the first few inside. The air changed instantly — warmer, thicker, carrying that post-game blend of sweat, detergent, and faint cologne. The sound hit next: laughter, conversation, the clatter of skates against tile, someone blasting music from a speaker in the corner.

The Titans locker room was a whirl of movement — helmets and sticks piled neatly near benches, towels draped over shoulders, players half in uniform, half out. The blue-and-black team logo stretched across the far wall, bright against the gray tile.

The moment your group entered, the noise shifted — laughter softening into surprised, delighted greetings. Players straightened, waving and calling out as soon as they spotted the kids filing in. Jason Todd lifted a hand, grinning wide. Wally was already kneeling down by the bench, waving exaggeratedly. Even Damian, barely taller than some of the kids, nodded stiffly before the corner of his mouth twitched up.

The kids responded instantly — a flurry of movement and signing and giggles as they waved back, some clutching their autograph cards so tightly they were starting to bend.

It was chaos — sweet, bright chaos — and for a split second you almost forgot to breathe.

Right. You had to thank someone. Before you completely made a fool of yourself gawking at professional athletes and one in particular whose eyes you could already feel on you.

You found him near the far end of the room — Bruce Wayne, unmistakable even out of a suit, standing beside one of the assistant coaches. He caught your approach before you even spoke, his posture as composed as ever, presence filling the space without trying.

You smoothed your scarf and smiled. “Thank you so much again for this opportunity,” you said, voice steady even as the words felt small next to him. “The kids had such an amazing time, Mr. Wayne. And—” you nodded toward the team, toward the burst of laughter near the benches, “—congratulations on the win.”

Bruce’s expression barely shifted, but you caught the faintest hint of warmth in his eyes as he inclined his head. “Thank you for being such an asset to the Wayne ASL Club,” he said, voice low but certain. “The kids clearly adore you. It’s the least I can do.”

You blinked, surprised by the sincerity under the formality, and smiled. “That means a lot. Really.”

He gave a curt nod in reply, the kind of acknowledgment that said more than it looked. “Enjoy yourself,” he added, then stepped aside as another coach came up beside him to talk strategy or scheduling or something that sounded very Bruce Wayne.

You turned back toward the group, relieved to breathe again — only to catch sight of a familiar figure leaning casually against the wall near the benches, still in full gear, helmet off, hair damp and curling just a little from sweat.

Dick.

He was laughing at something one of the kids had signed to him, crouched down so he was eye-level, hands moving in an attempt to sign something back. It wasn’t perfect — far from it — but the kids were eating it up, giggling, correcting him, showing him the right shapes with their fingers.

And he was actually trying, focused in that way he got when he wanted to get something right, his smile crinkling at the corners as he nodded along.

You couldn’t help it — your heart did that stupid fluttering thing again.

Maggie caught your glance and smirked knowingly before walking off to help another volunteer hand out Sharpies.

You were about to check in with Maggie when you felt a small tug at your coat. Then another.

Two of the youngest kids — a little girl with pigtails and a boy with a crooked name tag — were looking up at you, wide-eyed, signing come here! as fast as their little hands could move.

You blinked, amused, and crouched slightly so you could see them better. “What’s up?” you asked, hands already moving with the rhythm of the words.

The girl pointed toward one of the players by the far bench — #12, bright green hair messy from where his helmet had flattened it, freckles scattered across his nose, grin wide and boyish.

Garfield Logan.

He was already crouched down in front of a couple of the older kids, holding out his glove for high-fives, clearly mid-story about something ridiculous if the way he was gesturing wildly meant anything.

You followed the tug on your sleeve as the two little ones half-dragged, half-guided you over to him.

“Hi,” you started with a smile, gesturing a small wave when he looked up. “These two want to ask you a question.”

Gar leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grinning. “A question? Shoot.”

The girl pointed right at his hair, eyes huge. The boy started signing something fast and excited, hands moving in an unsteady blur. You caught enough of it to understand: ‘How did you get your hair that color?’

You bit back a laugh and translated, “They wanna know about your hair. Specifically—how it’s green.”

“Ohhh,” Gar said, mock-serious, glancing between them. “That’s classified info.”

The kids gasped as you interpreted his words. The girl covered her mouth dramatically.

You leaned in slightly, playing along. “Classified, huh?” you said, hands moving quick as the kids watched you interpret. “So you can’t tell us?”

He tapped his chin, pretending to think. “Well,” he said finally, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret, “if you eat enough broccoli—”

‘No way!’ the boy jumped, signing ‘liar!’ so fast you almost snorted trying to keep up.

Garfield laughed, tilting his head. “Okay, okay, maybe it’s just dye. But broccoli definitely helps.”

The kids dissolved into giggles, and you found yourself laughing with them, the tension of the day bleeding out of your shoulders.

Gar handed each of them his marker, signing their cards with exaggerated flair — huge looping letters, a little cartoon doodle beside his name. When he was done, he winked and handed the cards back. “Tell everyone else the secret, yeah? Broccoli power.”

You translated, and the kids immediately nodded, serious-faced, like they’d just been entrusted with top-secret information.

Gar laughed again, watching them go, and then looked back up at you. “You’re really good with them,” he said, tone softening slightly. “They’re totally glued to you.”

You smiled, shrugging a little. “They’re easy to love.”

His grin widened. “Yeah, I can see why he likes you.”

You blinked, the words catching you off guard, warmth creeping up your neck before you could stop it. “Who?” you asked, even though you already knew.

Gar’s grin turned downright mischievous—but before he could answer, a low throat-clear sounded behind you.

You turned, and there he was. Dick Grayson, half suited down from the game, helmet tucked under one arm, a faint flush still on his face from exertion. His hair was damp, curling slightly against his forehead, and there was that same infuriatingly warm smile he always seemed to have when he saw you.

“Hey,” Dick said lightly, his voice still rasped from the rink and the cold air. His gaze flicked from you to the kids, softening immediately, like the chaos around him didn’t exist for a moment. Then, as best as he could, he signed toward them: ‘happy?’

You crouched beside him, smiling, and translated for the kids in real time. ‘He’s asking if you’re having fun,’ you signed, fingers moving quickly to match the excitement radiating off them. The kids’ faces lit up instantly, eyes wide and bright, hands flying as they signed back: ‘Yes! So much!’

Dick’s dark eyes followed each little gesture, and he crouched fully to their level without hesitation. He tried to sign back, but his fingers fumbled slightly—close, but not quite there. The little boy with the mittens tilted his head in confusion, brow furrowed. The tiny girl beside him scrunched her nose and laughed softly, sensing something wasn’t quite right.

You leaned closer to Dick, brushing lightly against his hand as you caught his fingers mid-motion. The faint scent of his cologne—woodsy, fresh, just faintly sweaty from the game—hit you, and for a second your brain short-circuited. “Almost,” you said softly, guiding his hands into the correct shape. “Like this.”

He studied your movements intently, eyes flicking between your face and your hands, then mimicked you again. “Like this?” he asked, fingers twisting slightly but landing perfectly this time.

You nodded, smiling, and gave him a little thumbs-up. “Perfect.”

You turned back to the kids and interpreted the corrected sign. ‘He says: ‘I got it now! Do you all have cards!’’ The kids squealed, little hands waving as they signed back excitedly: Yes! Yes! Please!

Dick’s grin widened, a mix of mischief and pride, and he picked up a marker to start carefully signing. You narrated for the kids in real time: ‘He says Garfield will sign your card first, then he’ll move to you next. Look at how focused he is—he wants it to be perfect for you.’

The kids leaned forward over the benches, tiny noses practically pressed to the edge, their mittens slipping off their hands in excitement. One little boy grabbed your arm and signed something quickly. You turned to Dick, “He says you’re really good at signing, and he likes that you’re trying.”

Dick’s grin softened, warmth flickering in his gaze. He look back toward the boy and smiled, “I’m learning from the best,” and you translated, letting the kids erupt into delighted giggles and squeals again.

Garfield, still dyed streaks of green in his hair, leaned in to see what the commotion was, laughing softly

You interpreted for him too, and the kids immediately bombarded him with questions and requests. ‘Can I see your hair?’ one little girl signed. Garfield mimicked brushing his hair back and shrugged, and you narrated it all, the kids collapsing into fits of laughter.

Dick, still crouched beside them, caught every reaction. He waved to each kid as he signed, signing slowly so you could interpret exactly what he was doing. One by one, he checked in with them, signing simple phrases like ‘good job’ and ‘so happy you’re here’, and you kept the energy flowing, hands flying as you translated every little bit.

The locker room was alive with chaos and warmth—the scent of sweat and detergent mingling with the faint, sweet tang of energy drinks and post-game adrenaline. Markers squeaked, laughter echoed, and you felt a bubble of pure happiness around you, watching him interact with these kids, trying his best, fumbling at first, then nailing it, their joy mirrored in his grin.

The kids, still buzzing with excitement, suddenly tugged Garfield off toward the next group of signatures, little hands practically dragging him along. You and Dick were left standing near the bench, the echo of tiny giggles fading behind you.

He straightened a little, brushing his dark hair back from his forehead, and tilted his head toward you. “I’m Dick Grayson,” he said, voice low but carrying easily over the background noise, a small, playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Nice meeting you here.”

You blinked, caught off guard for a fraction of a second, then smiled warmly, extending your hand as you introduced yourself. 

He gave a small nod, but his grin lingered, eyes sharp and curious. Then, almost casually, he added, “Yeah… actually, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

You froze mid-handshake, eyebrows shooting up. “Oh? Really?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest.

“Mm-hm,” he said, tilting his head slightly, dark eyes glinting. “Apparently you’re one of the few employees Bruce actually likes. And a person Donna talks about a lot.”

You felt your cheeks heat instantly, the corner of your mouth twitching with both amusement and mortification. Your fingers itched to fidget, to smooth your scarf, anything to buy yourself a second. “God. What does she even say?” you asked, eyebrows climbing higher, trying to keep your voice steady but failing slightly.

“All good things,” he said, smirk widening just slightly, almost conspiratorial. “She says you’ve got… a presence. The kids adore you. And apparently, you’re my type.”

Your chest stuttered, heat blooming across your face and down your neck. You tried to blink, to look anywhere but him, but his dark eyes pinned you effortlessly. The words hung in the air, electric, and all you could think was Donna, thank you for the beautiful assist.

Within a second, you composed yourself—this wasn’t the first time you’d had a conversation like this. So you smiled, eyebrows raised, and spoke.

“What is your type, Grayson?”

He smiled, eyebrows drawn in mock concentration at your question. “Someone who wears a pink scarf, who can teach me how to sign, someone I’ve been waiting to grab the attention of since a certain nine-year-old birthday party… someone very beautiful. Something else too… shit, I forgot.”

You laughed.

“Well, was she right?”

At that, Dick’s eyes widened as he grinned, full and unabashed. “So far, yeah. Completely.”

God, he was your type too. Dark hair that he swept back from his face. Blue eyes that weren’t the freaky piercing kind. A smile that almost made all your worries fly out the door. 

Yeah, thank you fate.

“[Name]!”

Nevermind.

You turned to find Maggie across the room, and with all the post-game noise, she just signed quickly, ‘Group picture?’

You nodded back, brushing imaginary lint off your scarf and clearing your throat, then took a step toward the center of the room. The kids immediately turned their attention to you, little faces lighting up with excitement. Their eyes were wide, sparkling, and it was like you were standing at the center of a mini solar system — the gravity of their attention pulling everything else out of focus.

Even the players paused, glancing over at you with curious expressions. You could tell they didn’t understand the rapid-fire signs you were throwing out, but they were watching anyway — the way you moved, the energy you radiated, the way your hands seemed to dance in perfect rhythm with your smile. You felt like the room had shrunk down to just you and the kids, the rest of the world reduced to background blur.

Turning toward them, you raised your hands, signing clearly while speaking at the same time so everyone could follow along:

‘Okay, everyone! We’re going to take a group photo!’ you said. ‘The kids will line up in two rows, the players stand behind you. Try to smile and—’you gestured to the kids—’keep your hands where I can see them, yeah?’

The kids immediately scrambled into position, some tugging at one another, some bouncing excitedly on their toes, their tiny faces glowing. You walked among them, adjusting a scarf here, a jacket there, whispering encouragements and translating signs back and forth. ‘Perfect! That’s a great smile!’ ‘Yes! Look right at the camera, honey!’

Behind them, the Titans were watching, their arms folding, helmets still in hand, leaning casually but paying close attention to your instructions. Dick, of course, was crouched down to their level again, his grin softening as he mirrored your motions to help the kids understand what you wanted. You noticed him sneak glances at you between directing a child or two—his smirk like a secret only the two of you shared.

You clapped your hands lightly to get the group’s attention again. ‘Alright! Players behind, kids in front. Everyone ready?’

Hands went up. Nods all around. You could feel the excitement hum like electricity in the air. Even the kids who had been shy before were leaning forward, mimicking the motions you’d taught them, eyes shining.

‘Okay!’ you signed to the players and spoke aloud. ‘Stand nice and tall, put your hands on your knees if you need, and… big smiles, everyone!’

One of the younger players, Damian, tilted his head in confusion, and you walked over quickly to show him how to line up. “Perfect! That’s it,” you said softly, encouraging. You could hear the faint rustle of jerseys, the soft tap of skates adjusting on the floor, the way everyone was finally settling into place.

Dick, still crouched at the front, glanced at you again, eyes dancing with mischief. You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. This—this chaotic, bright, warm mess of people, laughter, and hockey magic—was exactly why you loved these moments.

“Ready… everyone?” you signed and called aloud. “Three… two… one…”

The camera flashed, and the room erupted in cheers. You laughed, clapping your hands, and Dick shot you a wink before standing back with the players, letting the kids bask in their glow.

You were crouched down, helping the kids wave goodbye to the players, signing each of their excited little goodbyes, translating as best you could, keeping them on task while they jabbered and mimed in their own frantic, adorable way. “Yes! Say bye! That’s it! Big wave!” You laughed, tugging a mittened hand gently to make sure everyone’s motions were visible.

The players grinned, waving back, calling soft hellos, pats on shoulders, or thumbs-ups, letting the kids bask in the post-game glow. Some of the younger ones were practically bouncing, shouting “thank you!” over and over. You kept up with them, translating, correcting little hand shapes, repeating words and phrases so everyone felt seen.

Finally, the last kid waved, a tiny little spiral of fingers, and you stood, brushing imaginary lint off your pants, finally letting yourself relax. The locker room had quieted slightly; the players were starting to gather their gear, pockets of conversation forming as they packed up.

And then — that familiar voice, smooth and just low enough to make you turn your head instinctively.

“You still got some of those cards?”

You froze mid-motion, hands hovering over the last kid’s Titans card. You blinked, then glanced up. Dick. Standing there, leaning slightly against the wall, helmet tucked under one arm, that grin you’d be thinking about for the rest of the night in full force.

“Yeah,” you said, heart picking up speed, trying to sound casual. “Why? You want one?”

He smirked, tilting his head, eyes bright and teasing. “Yeah, actually.”

You shrugged, letting the card slip out from under your fingers and into your hand. “Alright, one for you,” you said softly, extending it.

He held up a Sharpie you hadn’t noticed before, and before you could think too much, he passed it into your hand. “Could I get your number with it?”

The words hit you like a slap of warm air. Your fingers fumbled slightly with the card, the Sharpie, trying not to look completely flustered.

You blinked, then tilted your head, smirk tugging at your lips despite yourself. “You—” you laughed, a little breathless, “I should’ve known you wouldn’t do this halfway”

He leaned closer, eyes glinting, playful and confident, and nodded once. “Yep. Just… I figured, since I’ve been annoying you on the ice all night anyway, might as well bug you off the ice too.”

You bit back a laugh, shaking your head, but you felt your pulse spike. Slowly, deliberately, you took the Sharpie and wrote your number on the card, hands trembling slightly because he was right there, smiling down at you.

Handing it back, you kept your eyes locked on his, letting the teasing edge linger. “There. Don’t lose it.”

He accepted it with that grin that made your knees go a little weak, tucking it carefully into his pocket. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said softly, eyes flicking toward the kids for a fraction of a second, then back to you. “Thanks… for this. For cheering me on tonight.”

You shrugged lightly, smiling, feeling your chest tighten just enough. “Anytime, Grayson. Let me know when the next game is.”

He laughed, low and warm, before turning toward the door, giving the kids one last wink and wave. But when he looked back at you, that grin stayed. Full. Unapologetic. Completely his.

You couldn’t stop smiling.

Hockey would definitely be your favourite sport from now on.

a/n: would you believe me if i said based off of my own experiences?ANYWAYS might be turned into a mini series!

[noodlie-reads]

how safe of a space is this?

bc the other night i had a wet dream about ron swanson??? and i cant stop thinking about it like i’m so???

…why does this feel like confession💀

forgive me father for my subconscious hath sinned

[noodlie-reads]

jealous type ⊹‧₊˚ ☾. ⋅⋆.✩‧₊˚. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹

no girl enjoys trying to tough it out for a party boy; everyone wants you and you love all the noise

slowburn, college au; in which you go from a reluctant party-goer to... something more????? & dick is a party boy with a heart of gold

started from head canons that were inspired by a playlist

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five (coming soon) - to be continued…

-`✦´-

taglist:

@angelicp0etry, @chuuya-san, @kommanders, @sakiigami, @celestialnightwing, @smurfelle, @asapkeepmerockyyy , @prongsletmoony, @luvkeii444

lmk if u wanna be added :3