description: you know those men that say "i don't want kids?" yeah, this isn't one of them. this is about eddie munson willingly attending tea parties in a feather boa and considering it the highest honor of his life.
pairing: stepdad!eddie x singlemom!reader
tags: stepdad!eddie, no y/n, girldad!eddie, so much fluff your eyes will water and your teeth will fall out, domestic fluff, zero plot all vibes, he is in fact the father that stepped up, rosie is his everything, she calls him dad, baby dad ain't shit, yes he lets her paint his nails and do his hair, oh my god this is the cutest shit ever, eddie is so girl-dad coded
TW: slight angst, tooth rotting fluff
WC: 7.5k
A/N: requested by my dearest @bitterestwillow hope you enjoy queen <33
(soft girl-dad eddie is my apology after "I Told You Things"). this shit made my eyes water and my feet kick the entire time while writing. i know having a kid isn't everyones ff cup of tea but i promise, it's worth it. let me know what you guys think :)
reblogs are always appreciated, friends <33
“Excuse me, sweetheart,” a voice from behind stops you mid-step.
You look up from the sea of plumbing fixtures with a sigh already halfway out of your chest, one hand gripping the shopping cart while the other clutches a list that might as well have been written in another language. PVC elbows. Pipe thread tape. Half-inch coupler.
Somewhere between watching a three-year-old full-time and trying to keep a roof over both your heads, you'd apparently become the designated handyman too.
You turn to find a man with long curls spilling over a faded Metallica shirt and a worn flannel rolled up to his elbows, exposing an array of tattoos.
He points toward the floor, "I think these are yours."
Your eyes immediately drop to the little cardboard box of screws that had apparently slipped from your arm, scattering across the concrete. Before you can bend down, he's already crouched, gathering them one by one.
"Oh my God, thank you," you mutter, already embarrassed. "Today's just... one of those days."
He stands, holding the box out to you. "Trust me, I have a lot of those."
Before you can answer, the tiny voice from your shopping cart pipes up.
"Mama forgot apples."
You look over at your daughter, whose legs are happily swinging from the front of the cart as if the world isn't actively trying to kick your ass.
"We're not at the grocery store, bug."
"I know."
"So..."
"I still wanted apples."
The man snorts, trying to hide it behind his hand, and you can't help smiling despite yourself. He glances at the collection of fittings in your cart before looking back at you.
"So... you remodeling your house or planning on flooding it?"
You hold up the wrinkled list. "My kitchen sink won't stop leaking."
He nods once. "And you got sent here with that list?"
"My landlord told me it'd be an 'easy fix.'"
His face immediately says everything. "Oh..."
"What?"
He scratches the back of his neck. "I mean... no offense to your landlord, but he's either lazy or doesn't know what he's talking about."
You laugh, genuinely this time. "Could be both."
"Probably both."
He steps beside your cart and gently picks up one of the connectors you'd grabbed. "You don't actually need this one."
"No?"
"Nope."
He swaps it for another. "And this thread tape is garbage."
"It is?"
"It's the cheapest stuff they make."
"I picked it because it was the cheapest stuff they make."
He smiles. "Fair enough."
For the next ten minutes, he walks beside you through the aisle, explaining everything in terms that actually make sense instead of sounding like a repair manual. He never talks down to you, never makes you feel stupid, just casually points things out with an easy patience that surprises you.
Your daughter has apparently decided he's the most fascinating person she's ever seen.
She leans over the cart. "Mister."
He looks over. "Yeah?"
"I like your hair."
He instinctively reaches up to touch it. "Thanks."
"You look like a lion."
You slap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing.
He pauses for a second before grinning. "I've been called worse."
She nods thoughtfully. "I have a unicorn."
"That's awesome."
"It's pink."
"My favorite color."
Her eyes widen. "No way."
"Way."
She gasps dramatically and immediately begins digging through the pile of toys she'd somehow accumulated in the shopping cart.
You rub your forehead. "I'm so sorry."
"For what?"
"She adopts people."
He glances down at the little girl now proudly presenting him with a stuffed dinosaur that has clearly seen better days. "I'm being recruited?"
"I'm afraid so."
He accepts the dinosaur with complete seriousness. "An honor."
Your daughter beams. Mission accomplished.
After another few minutes, he places the final item into your cart. "There."
You stare at the contents. "So... this should actually fix it?"
"Should."
You hesitate, then smile sheepishly. "You don't happen to know how to install it too, right?"
The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, and you immediately regret them.
"Oh my God, forget I said that."
He laughs. "No, actually..." He rubs the back of his neck. "I do."
"You do?"
"Spent enough years fixing my uncle's trailer. Not licensed or anything, but I know what I'm doing."
You study him for another second. "And what's the catch?"
"The catch?"
"Nobody just offers to fix a complete stranger's sink."
His eyebrows lift. "I wasn't exactly offering."
"No?"
"I was kind of waiting to see if you'd ask."
You laugh. "So now that I have?"
He pretends to think. "Hmm..."
Your daughter kicks her feet again. "Mama makes yummy grilled cheese."
He looks at her. "She does?"
She nods emphatically. "And tomato soup."
You cover your face. "Honey..."
She points at him. "He can come over."
He immediately raises both hands. "For the record, I support stranger danger."
"He doesn't look dangerous."
"I appreciate that very much."
She studies him another second. "You got nice eyes."
His ears actually turn pink. "Thank you."
Then she sticks out one tiny hand. "I'm Rosie."
He shakes it with complete sincerity. "I'm Eddie."
She smiles like she's known him forever.
You don't know what possesses you to trust him. Maybe it's the way he talks to your daughter like she's a real person instead of a nuisance. Maybe it's because he's spent the last fifteen minutes helping you without expecting anything in return.
Or maybe it's because, for the first time in what feels like years, someone looked at you and didn't see a burden. He just saw you.
"So..." you say carefully. "If you're sure..."
He shrugs. "I'll fix your sink."
"And if it turns out to be a bigger problem?"
"Then I'll tell you honestly."
"And if you can't fix it?"
"We'll order pizza and pretend we never touched it."
A laugh slips out before you can stop it. "That's a terrible plan."
"It's worked for me before."
Rosie is already nodding enthusiastically. "I like pizza."
He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I think she's on my side."
You smile. "I think she’s usually on the opposite of mine."
Neither of you could've known then that the sink would be fixed in under twenty minutes. Or that he'd stay another three hours because Rosie insisted on showing him every stuffed animal she owned.
Or that he'd come back the next weekend because she'd proudly announced she wanted to show him her coloring book.
Or that months later she'd accidentally call him "Dad," clap both hands over her mouth in horror, and burst into tears because she thought she'd hurt his feelings.
And years after that, if anyone ever asked Eddie Munson when he met the love of his life, he'd grin and tell them it happened in the plumbing aisle because a stubborn little girl needed apples and her exhausted mother didn't know the difference between a pipe coupling and a garden hose.
2 years later…
By the time you pull into the driveway, your shoulders are aching from wrestling grocery bags in and out of the trunk, and your patience has been thoroughly tested by the woman in front of you at the checkout who insisted on writing a check in the year 1998.
You manage to hook three bags over one arm, another two over the other, and nudge the front door closed behind you with your hip.
The house is quiet for approximately three seconds, then you hear it: a tiny burst of giggling. Then another. Then Eddie's voice, dramatically lowered into what can only be described as a very serious royal accent.
"I'm terribly sorry, Your Majesty, but Sir Teddy Bear has informed me that the strawberry scones have been stolen by dragons."
Rosie's gasp is so loud you hear it from the foyer. "No!"
"I'm afraid so."
"The pink dragons or the green ones?"
"The pink ones."
She sighs dramatically. "They're always doing that."
You quietly set the grocery bags on the kitchen counter before peeking around the corner into the living room, and your heart almost physically stops.
The coffee table has been pushed against the wall, a floral blanket spread neatly across the rug with every stuffed animal Rosie owns arranged in a perfect little circle. Tiny plastic teacups are balanced precariously in front of each guest, alongside mismatched toy plates covered in invisible desserts.
And sitting right in the middle of it all...is Eddie.
He's cross-legged on the floor, his long curls pulled into two horribly uneven pigtails secured with glittery pink scrunchies. Rosie has somehow convinced him to wear a feather boa, an oversized plastic pearl necklace, and a paper crown that's hanging halfway off his head.
He still has a black band tee and jeans on, of course. The tiara somehow makes it look even cooler.
Rosie notices you first. "Mama!"
She jumps up and nearly spills an imaginary cup of tea all over herself before sprinting toward you, wrapping herself around your legs.
"Eddie's having tea with us."
"I can see that."
She beams proudly. "He knows all the rules."
You glance over at him as he lifts the tiny plastic teacup with absolute dignity. "I've been informed that my pinky needs to stay out."
Rosie immediately corrects him. "It stays up."
"My apologies."
He raises it another inch. "Better?"
She nods approvingly. "Much."
You can't stop smiling. "What exactly am I looking at here?"
Rosie grabs your hand and starts dragging you toward the blanket. "We're princesses."
Eddie quietly adds, "I'm Princess Sparkles."
You bite your lip so hard it almost hurts. "Princess Sparkles?"
He nods solemnly. "I wasn't given a choice."
Rosie immediately spins around. "You picked that one."
He freezes. "...I was given a choice."
She points a tiny accusing finger at him. "You said it was the coolest one."
"It was."
"You said sparkles make everything better."
"They do."
"So you wanted it."
He looks over at you with complete resignation. "I have no defense."
Rosie climbs right back onto the blanket before patting the empty spot beside her. "Mama, sit."
You carefully lower yourself onto the floor, smoothing your jeans beneath you. Immediately, Rosie starts pouring from an empty plastic teapot into your equally empty cup.
"This one's raspberry."
You take a sip with complete seriousness. "Oh my goodness."
She smiles. "It's yummy."
"It's delicious."
Eddie clears his throat. "If I may..."
Rosie nods graciously. "You may."
He lifts his cup. "I detect notes of raspberry with... perhaps a hint of gasoline."
Rosie frowns. "No."
"No?"
"No gasoline."
"My mistake."
She leans over and whispers loudly enough for everyone to hear. "It's strawberries."
He nods in understanding. "Ah. An excellent vintage."
She looks unbelievably proud of herself.
The tea party continues for another twenty minutes, complete with imaginary cookies, a lengthy debate between Bunny and Mr. Dinosaur over proper table manners, and Rosie insisting everyone sing happy birthday to a stuffed giraffe whose birthday appears to have been invented on the spot.
Eventually, she crawls into Eddie's lap without thinking, settling there like it's the most natural place in the world. He absentmindedly smooths a hand over her hair while continuing an entirely serious conversation with the stuffed giraffe.
"And how old are you turning today?"
Rosie answers for it. "Six."
"Oh wow."
"But not really."
"Oh."
"It's pretend."
"Right."
"You're bad at pretending."
"I'm learning."
She reaches up and gently fixes one of his crooked pigtails. "There."
He smiles. "Thanks, sweetheart."
Your chest aches. Not because of anything dramatic. Not because of all the nights you sat awake wondering if Rosie would grow up wondering why she wasn't enough for someone to stay. It aches because she no longer wonders.
She has Eddie. The man currently accepting fake tea from a five-year-old with the same reverence most people reserve for expensive wine. The man wearing a plastic tiara without a single complaint. The man who never once made her feel like she wasn't his.
He catches your eye from across the blanket, so you smile at him softly. He smiles back.
Then Rosie reaches up and shoves another glittery necklace over his curls. "There."
He looks down. "What does this one make me?"
She grins so wide her cheeks puff out. "My daddy."
Silence settles over the room for just a heartbeat. Eddie doesn't hesitate; he just looks up at her with the gentlest expression you've ever seen and presses a kiss against the top of her head.
"My favorite title I've ever had."
Rosie simply nods like that was the obvious answer all along before returning to her tea.
By the time Rosie is tucked into bed, complete with three stuffed animals, one bedtime story, a glass of water she absolutely won't drink, and a solemn promise that you'll check for monsters under the bed even though she's well aware monsters don't exist, the house has settled into that quiet only late evenings seem capable of producing.
The dishwasher hums softly in the kitchen. The television is on low volume, neither of you really paying attention to whatever old movie is playing.
You've long since changed into one of Eddie's old shirts, sleeves swallowing your hands, and he's stretched out on the couch with his legs kicked over the coffee table, one arm lazily draped around your shoulders while the other balances a bottle of beer against his knee.
You're tucked comfortably against his side, your own beer untouched for the last fifteen minutes because somehow you've become completely distracted tracing absentminded circles against his forearm.
Neither of you says much; you never really have to. Comfortable silence had become one of your favorite languages together. After almost two years, it isn't awkward anymore; it's simply home.
Eddie presses a kiss against your temple before taking another sip of his beer. "Can I ask you something?"
You tilt your head up. "When have you ever waited for permission?"
He grins. "Fair."
He looks back toward the television for another moment before his expression softens. "You don't have to answer."
Your fingers stop moving.
"But..." He shrugs. "I realized the other day I don't actually know what happened."
You don't have to ask; you know exactly what he means.
He keeps his voice careful. "Rosie's dad."
For a second, all you do is stare at the condensation rolling down your bottle. It's funny. People assume single mothers talk about it all the time. In reality...you spend most of your life trying not to.
After a quiet moment, you let out a slow breath. "I was married."
You feel Eddie's arm tighten ever so slightly around your shoulders, but he doesn't interrupt.
"We got married young."
You smile faintly, though there's no humor in it. "I thought that was what you were supposed to do."
He stays quiet.
"So we got married, got an apartment together, talked about vacations we'd never actually take because money was always tight."
You laugh softly. "We used to argue over whose turn it was to buy toilet paper."
Eddie smiles. "The truly romantic stuff."
"The glamorous side of marriage."
Your smile fades. "When I found out I was pregnant... I was terrified."
You look down at your hands. "I remember sitting in the bathroom, staring at the test, thinking there had to be a mistake."
"And then?"
"And then I got excited."
Your voice comes out almost embarrassingly quiet. "I started making lists. I looked at baby names. I started clipping little nursery ideas out of magazines. I remember standing in the grocery store crying because I walked past baby socks."
A tiny laugh escapes you. "They were so little."
Eddie reaches over and quietly intertwines his fingers with yours, and you squeeze them.
"I couldn't wait to tell him."
You stare at the floor.
"He didn't cry. He didn't smile. He just looked at me."
The silence stretches.
"I remember asking him if he was okay. He just stood and told me he'd be back later."
You swallow. "He wasn't."
You blink a couple times before continuing. "He started coming home less. He worked late. He stopped touching me. Hell, he stopped looking at me."
Your voice remains remarkably calm. "I found lipstick on one of his shirts."
Eddie's jaw clenches.
"I asked him about it." You laugh quietly. "He told me I was hormonal."
"A month later, he asked for a divorce."
Eddie finally looks down at you. You don't look angry anymore; you just look tired.
"He actually used the words..." You smile bitterly. "'I think we've grown into different people.'"
He says nothing.
"So I signed." Your thumb rubs absentmindedly over the bottle label. "A week later he moved in with someone else."
"A girl barely old enough to drink." You let out another humorless little laugh. "My mother called it trading in for a younger model."
You look toward the ceiling. "I think she was trying to make me laugh."
"Did it?"
"A little."
Your eyes drift toward the hallway leading to Rosie's room.
"He never came to appointments. He wasn't there when she was born. He didn't call. He didn't write. He never met her."
Eddie's entire face has gone still. "He knows about her?"
You nod once. "He just... didn't want her."
The words hang in the room. Simple, matter-of-fact. Far crueler because of it.
You shrug one shoulder. "It took me a long time not to think there was something wrong with me."
Your voice cracks for the first time. "Then I worried there was something wrong with her."
Eddie turns immediately. "There isn't."
"I know that now."
"But at three in the morning with a newborn who won't stop crying and bills stacked on the counter..."
You smile through watery eyes. "You start asking yourself questions you know aren't true."
Without saying a word, Eddie reaches over and gently takes your beer from your hand before setting both bottles on the coffee table. Then he wraps both arms around you, like he's trying to hold every broken piece anyone else ever left behind.
You bury your face into his shirt, and he presses his cheek against your hair. After a minute, he quietly says, "Can I tell you something?"
You nod.
"The first day I met Rosie..."
You smile despite yourself. "The hardware store?"
"The hardware store."
He chuckles softly. "When she held out that stuffed dinosaur and told me his name was Mr. Pickles..."
You laugh through your sniffle. "It was Mr. Sprinkles."
"Oh." He grins. "See? I wasn't listening."
"You absolutely were."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
"I was busy because this tiny little person had just informed me that dinosaurs eat grilled cheese."
"They do."
"They absolutely do." He kisses your forehead. "I remember thinking..."
"...that if I ever got lucky enough to have a kid someday..." His voice lowers. "I hoped they'd look at me the way she did."
You close your eyes.
"And then I kept coming over." Another kiss against your temple. "And somewhere along the way..."
He shrugs against you. "...I stopped imagining some hypothetical kid."
"It was just Rosie."
You feel your throat tighten and he smiles into your hair. "I don't know the first thing about biology. I don't care whose eyes she has. I don't care whose nose she has. I don't care who signed what paper or what his last name was."
He gently tips your chin up until you're looking at him. "I've been hers since she handed me that beat-up stuffed dinosaur."
You can't stop the tears anymore, and he wipes one away with his thumb.
"And for the record..." His voice is impossibly soft. "The biggest idiot in Indiana walked away from you."
He gives you that crooked little grin that still makes your heart flutter after all this time. "Worked out pretty great for me, though."
You laugh, sniffling. "Yeah?"
"Oh, absolutely."
He starts counting on his fingers. "I got the prettiest girl I've ever met."
You roll your eyes. "Mm-hmm."
"I got a kid who thinks dinosaurs eat grilled cheese."
"They do."
"They absolutely do."
"And..." He leans over to steal a quick kiss. "I got invited to tea parties."
"A real privilege."
"The highest honor."
You smile into another kiss. Then he rests his forehead against yours and murmurs so quietly you're not sure he even meant to say it out loud.
"I didn't step up because someone else stepped out." His thumb brushes your cheek. "I stepped up because I fell in love with you."
"And somewhere along the way..." His smile softens into something almost impossibly gentle. "...I fell in love with her too."
You don't answer; you just lean into him until he's practically swallowing you whole with one of his hugs.
The familiar rumble of Eddie's van pulls into the driveway just as Rosie finishes painting approximately half of your thumbnail and almost all of your finger.
She leans back with a look of absolute pride. "There."
You hold your hand up to admire the aggressively uneven layer of bright pink polish coating your nail and cuticle alike. "It's beautiful, bug."
"I know."
She nods very matter-of-factly before dipping the tiny brush back into the bottle with all the confidence of a seasoned professional and absolutely none of the precision. The front door creaks open a second later.
"I'm home!" Eddie calls.
Rosie's head whips toward the foyer so quickly she nearly launches the polish across the living room. "Daddy!"
She abandons your half-finished manicure entirely and hops off the couch, bare feet slapping against the hardwood as she sprints toward him. You hear him laugh before you even see him.
"Whoa, whoa, easy there."
You round the corner just in time to see Rosie wrap herself around one of his legs. Eddie looks exactly like he always does after work at the shop.
His curls are tied back in a loose bun that's already halfway fallen out; there's grease smeared across his cheekbone and forearms, his old band shirt is stained with oil, and his jeans look like they've survived some kind of explosion underneath a car.
He crouches down anyway. "Hi, sweetheart."
She immediately wrinkles her nose. "You're dirty."
He looks down at himself. "...Little bit."
"A lot bit."
"Maybe a lot bit."
She reaches up and pokes a streak of grease on his arm with one tiny finger. "Ew."
He gasps dramatically. "Excuse me? This is artisan-grade mechanic seasoning."
"It looks yucky."
"It probably is."
He scoops her up anyway, careful to keep his hands away from her clothes as much as possible before carrying her over to where you're standing. His tired eyes immediately soften the second they land on you.
"Hi, pretty girl."
You smile. "Hi yourself."
He leans down, stopping just short of kissing you. "I'm gross."
"I noticed."
"You sure?"
You grab the front of his shirt and kiss him anyway, grease and all. When you pull away, he looks almost offended. "I literally smell like motor oil."
"And?"
"And you kissed me."
"I happen to like motor oil."
He grins. "Liar."
Rosie wedges herself between the two of you. "You both smell funny."
You snort. "Thanks, Rosie."
"You're welcome."
Eddie presses a quick kiss to the top of her head. "I'm gonna go shower before I contaminate the entire house."
She watches him head toward the hallway before suddenly remembering something incredibly important. "Wait!"
He turns. "Yeah?"
"I'm painting nails."
His eyebrows lift. "Are you now?"
She proudly holds up the tiny bottle. "And after Mommy's..."
She points directly at him. "...I'm doing yours."
He looks at you, and you very helpfully shrug. "I don't make the rules."
He presses a hand dramatically to his chest. "I've been selected?"
"You have."
He smiles at Rosie. "You got black?"
She blinks. "What?"
"Black nail polish."
She looks down into the little plastic basket of colors before digging through every bottle with increasing concern. "No..."
He sighs dramatically. "Of course."
She brightens. "I have sparkles."
He looks at you, and you bite your lip. He already knows he's doomed. "Well..."
He says carefully. "...dealer's choice."
Rosie gasps like she's just been entrusted with the nuclear launch codes. "Really?"
"Mhm."
She nods once with complete seriousness. "I know exactly what to do."
You exchange a look with Eddie. He mouths, Help. You smile sweetly. Absolutely not.
Twenty minutes later, he's freshly showered, hair still damp around his shoulders, wearing an old pair of gray sweatpants and one of your favorite oversized Sabbath shirts. He sits obediently on the living room floor while Rosie carefully arranges her entire nail polish collection around him. You curl up on the couch behind them, pretending to read while secretly watching everything.
Rosie picks up one bottle, sets it down. Another, sets it down. Then…she finds it. The brightest, loudest, most offensively glitter-infested neon purple imaginable. You physically have to cover your mouth.
Eddie eyes it suspiciously. "...That's the one?"
She nods enthusiastically. "It's princess purple."
"Oh."
"And sparkles."
"I see."
"And hearts."
"I can... also see that."
"And glitter."
"I definitely see that."
She beams. "It's pretty."
He looks at her, then at the bottle, then back at her. Without another word, he extends both hands. "Do your worst."
Rosie giggles so hard she almost falls over. For the next half hour, she paints with absolute artistic freedom. The polish ends up on his fingers, his knuckles. One suspicious streak somehow appears halfway up his thumb.
She pauses every few minutes to inspect her work before adding another layer. When she's finally done, she grabs both of his hands and holds them up proudly. "There."
Eddie examines them with complete sincerity. "...Rosie."
She waits expectantly.
"I think these are the coolest nails I've ever had."
Her entire face lights up. "Really?"
"Oh yeah." He wiggles his fingers dramatically. "I've never looked more fabulous."
She immediately launches herself into his lap for a hug. He catches her without hesitation, wrapping one arm around her while being careful not to smudge his fresh manicure. You watch them from the couch, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
Rosie pulls back just enough to admire his nails again. "I made you pretty."
He gently tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. "You always do, sweetheart."
She yawns a huge, sleepy little yawn, the kind that scrunches up her whole face. Eddie notices instantly.
"You getting tired?"
She shakes her head, then yawns again. "No."
"Mhm."
"I'm not." Another yawn.
He smiles knowingly. "Sure."
She curls herself against his chest anyway. Within maybe three minutes, she's completely asleep. Eddie looks over at you, careful not to move too much.
His hands are still decorated in violently purple glitter polish. His stepdaughter is slightly drooling on his shirt. His hair is still damp. He looks happier than you've ever seen another human being.
You quietly reach over and lace your fingers with his. He glances down, then back at you.
"So..." You whisper. "You gonna keep the nails for work tomorrow?"
He looks at his hands, looks at Rosie, looks back at you, and smiles. "Absolutely."
"You know the guys are gonna make fun of you."
He shrugs. "They can."
You raise an eyebrow. "They won't bother you?"
He looks down at the little girl asleep against his chest and gently kisses the top of her head.
"I'd let this kid paint my entire face green if it made her smile."
He glances back at his sparkly purple fingertips. "As far as I'm concerned..."
He wiggles them proudly. "...these are the coolest damn mechanic hands in Hawkins."
The house has long since gone quiet.
The dishes are done, the lights downstairs are off, and somewhere outside, rain taps softly against the bedroom window. The fan hums overhead, filling the room with the kind of gentle white noise that always seems to lull everyone to sleep.
Rosie had insisted on one extra story tonight. Then one extra hug. Then one extra glass of water. Then one extra kiss for Mr. Sprinkles. Then another for herself. If you give a mouse a cookie, or whatever they say.
By the time you'd finally pulled her bedroom door closed, she'd already been halfway asleep.
Now you're curled beneath the blankets with your head resting on Eddie's chest, absentmindedly tracing lazy circles against his side while he combs his fingers through your hair. Neither of you is talking anymore, the exhaustion of the day settling comfortably over both of you.
His lips brush the top of your head. "You asleep?"
"Almost."
"Liar."
"Mhm."
"You drooled on my shirt."
"I absolutely did not."
"You absolutely did."
You smile into his chest. "I think you're making things up."
"I would never."
"You literally convinced Rosie last week there were raccoons that delivered pizza."
"There could be."
"There aren't."
"You don't know that."
You laugh quietly, the sound muffled against him. "I love you."
He doesn't even pause. "I love you more."
"You can't prove that."
"I can."
"How?"
"I made you grilled cheese with the crusts cut off yesterday."
"I didn't ask you to."
"You didn't have to."
You shake your head, smiling to yourself. You don't know how much time passes before a tiny knock sounds against the bedroom door. Three little taps, then another.
Then the knob slowly turns. The door opens only wide enough for a small face to peek through. Rosie's eyes are watery; her little bottom lip trembles when she spots the two of you.
"Mama?"
Your heart immediately softens. You sit up before she's even finished speaking. "What is it, bug?"
She clutches Mr. Sprinkles tighter against her chest. "I had a bad dream." Her voice is so quiet you almost don't hear it.
You hold your hand out. "C'mere."
She doesn't hesitate. Bare feet shuffle across the hardwood before she climbs onto the bed, crawling right between the two of you without so much as asking permission, as though she'd done it a hundred times before.
Maybe she has. You immediately pull the blankets over her little shoulders while Eddie scoots closer from the other side, making sure she's tucked safely between you.
Rosie simply curls into your side, one hand reaching across until it finds Eddie's sleeve. She hangs onto it tightly. You smooth her hair back from her forehead.
"Wanna tell us about it?"
She shakes her head. "It was scary."
"I know."
"There was a loud noise."
You gently rub circles against her back. "But you're here now."
She nods once, then another sniffle. "You guys are here."
"We are."
"And we're not going anywhere."
She wiggles a little closer until she's practically glued to both of you at once. Eddie quietly reaches over and tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear.
"You know what's nice about bad dreams?"
She looks up at him with sleepy, curious eyes. "What?"
"They end."
She thinks about that. "They do?"
"They always do."
"And then you wake up."
She nods slowly. "I woke up."
"You did."
"And then I came here."
"You did."
"And now you're with us."
Rosie looks down at Mr. Sprinkles before whispering, "He got scared too."
Eddie leans over to inspect the stuffed dinosaur with complete seriousness. "He seems pretty brave to me."
"He was pretending."
"Oh."
"He didn't want me to be scared."
Eddie smiles softly. "I think he did a pretty good job."
Rosie considers that before giving the dinosaur a little kiss on the nose. After another quiet minute, she yawns. One of those enormous little yawns that seems far too big for someone so tiny.
You can't help smiling. "Tired?"
She immediately shakes her head, then yawns again. "No."
"Mhm."
"No."
She curls up even smaller anyway, one hand still tangled in your pajama sleeve now, the other resting against Eddie's arm.
You feel Eddie's hand find yours over the blankets, his fingers lacing through yours without a word. Rosie's eyes are already drifting closed. Just before she falls asleep, she mumbles something so quietly you almost miss it.
"I'm happy."
You glance across at Eddie, and he's already looking at her.
"What made you think of that, sweetheart?" he asks softly.
Her eyes never open. "I like when we're all together."
Your throat tightens instantly.
She nestles deeper beneath the blankets. "I like my home."
A few seconds later, she's asleep; completely, peacefully asleep.
You and Eddie don't move; you don't dare. He looks over at you in the darkness, and there's something in his expression that says everything words can't.
You reach over the little lump of blankets between you and rest your hand against his cheek. He turns just enough to press a kiss into your palm.
this shit actually made me ugly cry from pure content
And penguins lack large terrestrial predators, so their reaction to humans tends to be, “HELLO STRANGE GIANT PENGUINS, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? DO YOU HAVE ANY FISH?”
There is an international treaty that says we’re supposed to stay 6m away from penguins, and it’s really difficult because no one told the penguins, and they all desperately want to wander up and say hi.
A moment of silence for the seven minutes in heaven quizzes I took in seventh grade to figure out which boy from Naruto fate wanted me to make out with in a closet. (All of them. I read the results for all of them)
Smutty roleplay, D&D and some bratty banter. Noticed there’re not many D&D themed stories on him.
“Still think it’s just ‘kids playing pretend’?”
He closed the distance in two lazy steps, backing you up until your shoulders hit the cold cinderblock wall. Eddie planted one hand beside your head, caging you, then caught both your wrists and pinned them above your head. The metal of his rings was cool against your pulse points; your heartbeat kicked hard enough that he could feel it.
Story Warnings: Smut! Minors DNI! Fingering, oral f receiving, protected p in v sex.
Word count 4800
You hated Hawkins the second your father dropped you off at your grandparents’ creaky Victorian on the edge of town. Fresh off their nuclear divorce—Dad screwing his secretary, Mom drowning in martinis—you’d been shipped here like unwanted luggage. “A fresh start,” they called it. You called it exile.
Week one at Hawkins High and you already had the mean-girl clique half-wrapped around your manicured finger. Jason Carver’s girlfriend, Chrissy’s replacement cheer squad, even a few basketball guys—they loved your designer heels and sharp tongue. But the metalhead with the wild curls and those stupid, huge puppy-dog eyes kept staring at you in the hallway like you were a new monster to catalog.
Eddie Munson.
Secretly you loved it. Oh, you hated how much you did.
You labeled him “desperate for attention” to your new friends when he staged a protest against music censorship in the cafeteria, voice echoing through the room as he waved a confiscated PMRC pamphlet like a battle flag. The whole school watched him get dragged to the principal’s office still yelling about “fascist parental overreach.” You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.
“Freakshow runs a full-on satanic cult in the basement,” Jason warned you at lunch, leaning in like he was sharing classified intel.
You snorted loud enough for half the table to hear.
“Cute. With those big brown puppy eyes? Sure they sacrifice virgins there”
The table laughed. Jason smirked.
“Bet you twenty bucks you wouldn’t last ten minutes down there.”
Your gaze sharpened.
“Bet accepted. I’ll go tonight. I’ll sit in, watch them play pretend, and report back. I’m perfectly safe cause I don’t qualify”
That afternoon you cornered Eddie in the hallway outside the drama room. He was unlocking the door, guitar case slung over his shoulder.
You planted yourself in front of him, arms crossed, chin high.
“Munson.”
He blinked. Those ridiculous doe eyes widened for half a second before the lazy smirk slid into place. He twirled the keyring around one finger like a tiny baton.
“City transfer,” he drawled, spreading his arms in an exaggerated welcome. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Come to confess your undying love for my hair, or are you just here to grace us peasants with your presence?”
You didn’t smile.
“I want in on your little game tonight. Heard it’s a cult. Figured I’d see for myself how pathetic it actually is.”
Eddie tilted his head, rings tapping softly against the doorframe. His grin widened, slow and theatrical.
“You want to join Hellfire?” He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, clearly enjoying this. “You sure about that, princess? We don’t usually let rich bitches crash the vibe.”
“Scared I’ll out-roll you?” you shot back, stepping closer so your shoulder deliberately brushed his. “Or scared I’ll point out how sad it is that you still play make-believe?”
Eddie’s eyes sparkled. He drummed his fingers on his bicep, rings clinking.
“Terrified,” he said, voice dripping sarcasm. “Absolutely shaking in my boots. But hey—if the city girl wants to slum it with the freaks…” He swept one arm toward the open door with a mock bow. “Enter at your own risk. Sit at the table. Roll when I say. And if you open that pretty mouth to shit on the game again, I’ll kick you out faster than you can say ‘daddy’s wallet.’”
You brushed past him, shoulder bumping his on purpose.
“Deal, freakshow.”
So you went.
The drama room was actually cozy. Six pairs of eyes glared when you sauntered in wearing your tightest jeans and a cropped cashmere sweater.
Eddie, sprawled in his throne like a metal king, just smirked. He flung himself back dramatically, arms draped over the armrests.
“Dungeon Master’s ruling,” he announced, voice booming with exaggerated flair. “She stays. Sit down, your highness. Let’s see if the city girl can handle a little fantasy.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Besides… I’ve already got the perfect role for you.” His grin was pure chaos.
He slid a fresh character sheet across the table: half-elf sorceress named Vespera Nightshade.
Eddie’s smile turned wicked.
“She’s a virgin sacrifice in tonight’s plot. The cult needs pure blood to open the gate. She’s the offering.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Subtle.”
Eddie spread his hands over the table.
“Just trying to match your expectations." He leaned in, voice dropping to that velvet DM timbre. “So tonight? You get to be the pure, untouched victim who dies beautifully because she thought she was too good for the table. The party tries to save you… but the dice decide.” He tapped the table twice with his pencil like a wand. “Roll, princess. Try not to die immediately. It’s bad for morale.”
The room went quiet.
You stared at him and for the first time since you’d arrived in Hawkins, something shifted under your skin.
You picked up the d20. The die felt heavier than it should in your palm.
Eddie watches you from across the table.
“Roll initiative, princess.”
You roll.
The die clatters across the scarred wood.
Everyone leans in.
It settles.
Eddie’s grin spreads slowly. He leans back in his throne, clearly loving this.
“Eighteen,” he announces. “Not bad for a first roll. The cultists drag you toward the altar…”
Every roll became a performance. Every description dripped with theatrical venom wrapped in velvet.
When Vespera tried to persuade the cult leader, you rolled a natural 3.
Eddie threw his head back with a dramatic laugh, then leaned forward, eyes locked on yours.
“The high priest laughs in your face—ha!” He slammed a hand on the table for emphasis. “Your sharp tongue means nothing here, little sorceress. Your blood is the key.” He twirled the pencil like a blade. “The chains tighten around your wrists. You feel the cold stone altar against your back…”
You leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “I cast Fireball.”
Eddie’s grin widened, clearly loving every second.
“Roll for concentration. The chains are enchanted. DC fifteen—which, for the record, is generous.”
You roll.
The die bounces once… twice…
Dustin cranes his neck.
It settles.
Eight.
Eddie studies the die for a moment, then leans back slowly.
“Eight,” he says, mocking. “That’s… tragically not enough.”
The spell fizzles. The cultists chant louder. The blade hovers over your throat.
He keeps going, voice dropping to a whisper that fills the room.
“Roll a constitution save to stay conscious through the pain.”
You roll again. 14.
“You feel the first cut—shallow, teasing. Blood trickles down your collarbone.” Eddie leans even closer. “The high priest leans in… ‘Beg, Vespera. Beg for your life.’”
Your cheeks burn. You slam your palms on the table.
“I don’t beg.”
Eddie’s eyes glitter with pure delight.
“Then you die.”
He describes it in excruciating, beautiful detail—the blade sliding in, blood pooling on the stone, Vespera’s last breath, the gate roaring open.
Your stomach drops. Actual tears prick your eyes before you can stop them.
“Whatever,” you mutter, grabbing your bag. “This is stupid.”
You bolt before the session ends, not looking back.
The weekend was a slow-motion car crash. You spent Saturday at the quarry with Jason and the crew, nursing a warm can of beer and wearing your most expensive sunglasses to hide the lack of sleep. When Jason laughed about "Munson’s little freak club," you joined in, but your voice sounded weak and fake even to your own ears.
You’d tossed and turned in your grandparents' guest bed until the sheets were a tangled mess, your hand sliding down your stomach, hovering at the waistband of your silk shorts as you heard Eddie’s voice in your head, the velvet rasp he used when Vespera was on the altar.
“Beg, Vespera. Beg for your life.”
Monday morning the clique cornered you by the lockers.
“So? How was the virgin sacrifice club?” one girl cackled.
You forced a laugh. “Kids playing pretend. Eddie Munson narrates fantasy stories. Total loser.”
Dustin heard every word.
You’d spent the morning laughing too loud with the cheer-adjacent mean girls, tossing your glossy hair, dropping barbs about “small-town losers” and “pathetic dice-rolling virgins.” But every time your eyes met Eddie in the hall, you looked away first. Fast.
He knew why.
After the final bell, he didn’t bother with subtlety. He waited until you slipped into the narrow side corridor behind the gym—shortcut to the parking lot where your fancy black car waited. The hallway was empty, lights flickering overhead menacingly, the distant thump of basketball practice muffled through the walls.
Eddie stepped out from the shadows of the vending machines, blocking your path.
You froze mid-stride, chin lifting on instinct. “Move, Munson.”
He didn’t.
Instead he closed the distance in two lazy steps, backing you up until your shoulders hit the cold cinderblock wall. You sucked in a breath but didn’t push him away. Eddie planted one hand beside your head, caging you without quite touching, then caught both your wrists in his free hand and pinned them above your head. The metal of his rings was cool against your pulse points; your heartbeat kicked hard enough that he could feel it.
“Still think it’s just ‘kids playing pretend’?” he asked, voice low, rough around the edges. “Still gonna stand there and tell everyone Hellfire’s a joke?”
Your lips parted, but no sound came out at first. You tried for defiance. “Sure it is. You couldn’t run a cult if Satan himself gave you the starter kit.”
Eddie’s mouth curved—slow, dangerous. “Funny. Last night you cried when your character died. Actual tears, princess. I watched them roll down those perfect cheekbones while you pretended it didn’t matter.”
Your face flushed scarlet. “You killed her on purpose, made it impossible to win.”
“Did I?” He leaned in until his mouth was a whisper from yours, voice dropping to that velvet DM timbre. “Yes. And you enjoyed the game. You liked sitting at my table. Eagerly rolling those dice. Liked the way my voice got when I described the blade hovering over Vespera’s throat. Loved being my virgin sacrifice in the center of the story.”
Your thighs pressed together involuntarily. Eddie noticed. Of course he did.
He let his free hand slide down—slow, deliberate—over the curve of your hip, along the edge of your too-short skirt, until his palm cupped you. You jolted.
“Eddie—”
“Shh.” He pressed the heel of his hand right against your clit, firm enough to make you gasp. “Let’s see how much you hated it.”
He rubbed once—slow circle—and felt the heat of you even through the fabric. Another pass, and the lace was already damp.
Your head thunked back against the wall. “Stop—”
“You’re soaked, princess.” His voice dropped to gravel. “All because I called you pure. Virgin. Sacrifice. You clenched every time I said it. Don’t lie to me—I can feel how much you want this.”
You were breathing hard now, chest rising and falling, nipples tight against your thin sweater. Your wrists flexed in his grip but you didn’t pull away.
“Admit it,” he murmured, rubbing again, watching your eyes flutter. “You loved the game. You love that I know exactly what gets under your skin. And you’re still a virgin because no one’s ever made you feel like this—like you’re the main fucking quest.”
Your lips trembled. “Fine,” you whispered, the word cracking. “I liked it. I liked the stupid game. Happy?”
“Not yet.” Eddie slid his fingers under your underwear, teasing, not entering. “I’m offering to lift the curse, princess. Right now the demon’s still got his claws in you—making you ache, making you wet just thinking about it. I can fix that.”
You swallowed. “How?”
He released your wrists—slowly, giving you every chance to shove him off. You didn’t.
Instead Eddie brought his hand up between you, the two fingers that had just been gliding through your folds shining with your arousal. He held your gaze, lifted them to his mouth, and licked them clean with slow, deliberate drags of his tongue, tasting you like you were dessert.
You made a broken little sound in your throat.
Eddie leaned in and kissed you hungrily, with teeth and tongue, sharing the taste of your slick with you, letting you feel exactly how much he wanted this too. When he pulled back, your lips were swollen, eyes glassy.
“Trailer,” he rasped against your mouth. “Tonight. After dark. No games, no audience. Just you, me, and the best damn campaign of your life.”
You laughed, but it came out shaky. “You think I’d let you—”
“I think you’re dying to.” He brushed a thumb along your jaw, barely there. “Come on, brat. Tell me to fuck off and I walk away. Or tell me yes… and I’ll make you scream my name louder than you screamed those spells last night.”
You stared at him for a long heartbeat—chest heaving, cheeks flaming, thighs still trembling.
Then you grabbed the front of his Hellfire shirt, yanked him back down, and kissed him harder than before.
“Yes,” you breathed when you broke apart. “But if you’re not as good as you talk, Munson, I’ll ruin you.”
Eddie grinned against your lips, feral and triumphant.
“Challenge accepted, princess.”
He stepped back, letting you breathe, letting you feel the empty space where his body had been.
“Eight o’clock. Don’t be late.”
You smoothed your sweater with shaking hands, trying to reclaim some composure. But the damp lace and the taste of him on your tongue made that impossible.
You walked past him on unsteady legs, toward the parking lot.
Eddie watched you go, already counting the hours.
imagine a nice divider here
Eight o’clock sharp.
The sun had dipped below the treeline, painting Forest Hills trailer park in that bruised purple twilight Hawkins did so well. You sat in a fancy car two streets over, knees pressed tight, manicured nails carving half-moons into your palms. You’d parked a couple of blocks away and forced yourself to walk the last stretch, high heels clicking too loud on cracked asphalt.
All afternoon you’d psyched yourself up in your grandparents’ guest bathroom mirror—lipstick reapplied three times, hair flipped until it looked artfully tousled. The outfit: black skinny jeans hugging every curve, cropped black tank under an oversized leather jacket “borrowed” from your dad’s old closet pre-divorce fallout. Expensive. Untouchable.
But inside? Your stomach was staging a full rebellion.
You’d told the mean-girl clique after school, casual as anything, that you weren’t hitting the mall with them cause you were heading to the freak’s trailer tonight.
“To buy weed,” you’d said, rolling your eyes when one arched a perfect brow. “What else would I want with Eddie Munson? Guy’s basically a walking dispensary. I need something to make it through the week.”
They’d laughed. Called you brave. Told you to pack pepper spray if he tried anything weird. You smiled like you were in on the joke, but the second the bell rang you bolted to the bathroom and dry-heaved acid and nerves.
Now here you were.
Eddie’s trailer crouched at the end of the row, porch light flickering like it was auditioning for its last scene. The van sat crooked in the gravel, side door still sporting that faded Corroded Coffin sticker. Heavy, slow bass leaked through the thin walls—throbbing like a heartbeat.
You stopped at the top step. Your hand hovered over the screen door. You could still bolt. Pretend this never happened.
The door flew open before you could knock.
Eddie leaned in the frame, shirtless, jeans slung dangerously low, hair wild like he’d been raking his fingers through it for an hour. A joint dangled unlit from his lips. The black ink of his tattoos stood out stark against pale skin in the low light, the demon head on his forearm snarling at you. He dragged his gaze over you, slow and shameless, then smirked around the paper.
“Thought you might chicken out, princess.”
You crossed your arms, summoning every ounce of ice-queen energy you’d worn all week. “Please. I’m here, aren’t I? You gonna let me in or make me stand in the mosquito buffet?”
He stepped aside with exaggerated gallantry, sweeping an arm wide like a game-show host. “Mi casa es su casa, your highness. Watch the amp cords—don’t want you snapping an ankle in those death-trap heels.”
Inside it smelled like incense, weed, and him: leather, smoke, faint patchouli sweetness. The place was controlled chaos—a guitar leaning against the couch, vinyl stacks on the floor, a half-finished D&D map sprawled across the coffee table like battle plans. A single lamp cast warm gold over everything.
Eddie shut the door. The click felt final.
You stood frozen just inside, jacket still zipped like armor.
He didn’t crowd you yet. Instead he sauntered to the tiny kitchenette, grabbed two beers from the fridge, popped the caps with his lighter in one fluid flick, and offered you one.
“Liquid courage?” His voice softened, just a notch quieter than the hallway bravado.
You took the bottle, fingers brushing his. Cold glass. Hot skin. The cool metal of his rings pressed against your knuckles for a second. You didn’t drink yet.
“I told them I was buying weed,” you admitted, staring at the label like it held cosmic answers. “My… friends. The ones who dared me to your stupid club in the first place. Figured it was the only excuse that wouldn’t get me roasted for the next month.”
Eddie leaned back against the counter, watching you with those too-knowing puppy eyes, drumming tattooed fingers on the bottle. “And is that all this is? A little rich-girl rebellion to spice up the country-club monotony?” He tilted his head. “With a perfect alibi?”
Your throat worked. You set the beer down untouched.
“No,” you whispered. Surrender.
Eddie pushed off the counter, closing the distance slowly until he was right there. Not touching. Just close enough that his heat reached you.
“Then tell me why you’re shaking, sorcerer.”
You laughed, short and nervous. “I’m not shaking.”
“Liar.” He reached out slow, caught one trembling hand, and turned it palm-up. He traced your lifeline with his thumb. “Right here.”
Your breath caught.
“I’ve never…” You swallowed. “Gone this far. And you… you talk like you’ve got everything figured out. Like you already know how this ends.”
Eddie’s grin softened, almost gentle. He lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to the center of your palm, lips brushing over the spot his thumb had just traced.
“I know how I want it to end,” he said quietly. “With you on my bed, legs spread, saying my name like a prayer instead of a curse. But only if you want it too, princess.”
Your eyes fluttered shut for a second.
When they opened, the brat flickered back.
“Fine,” you said, steadier. “But if you suck at this, Munson, I’ll ruin you.”
Eddie laughed, low and delighted, finally closing the last inch.
“Deal.”
Eddie kissed you slow, exploratory, letting you set the pace. One hand cupped the back of your neck while the other slid under your leather jacket to your waist, rings grazing bare skin. You melted faster than you’d admit, fingers curling into his bare shoulders, tracing the edge of the dragon tattoo.
When you broke apart, both breathing hard, Eddie rested his forehead against yours.
“Still nervous?”
“A little,” you admitted.
“Good.” He nipped your bottom lip. “Means it matters.”
He took your hand again and tugged you gently toward the short hallway.
“Come on, princess. Let’s lift that curse properly this time.”
Eddie didn’t rush. He let you walk ahead, his hand resting light at the small of your back, over the bare skin where your cropped tank rode up. Shivers ran down your spine.
The bedroom door was cracked, dim amber light spilling out. His boot nudged it wider. Messy bed, black sheets half-tucked. Guitar picks scattered like confetti on the nightstand. Silver handcuffs dangling casually from the headboard like decoration.
Your step faltered.
Eddie pressed up behind you, the warm skin of his chest against your back, lips grazing your ear.
“See something you like, princess?”
You swallowed. “You’re really leaning into the ‘satanic freak’ aesthetic, huh?”
“Only when it makes pretty girls nervous.” He slid both hands to your hips, fingers hooking belt loops, rings pressing into denim as he tugged you back so you felt exactly how hard he was. “You’re shaking again.”
“I’m not.”
“Perhaps” He nuzzled your neck, breathing you in—expensive perfume and nervous sweat. “Bet if I slid my hand down those fancy jeans right now, you’d be dripping. Just from walking into my lair.”
You tried to scoff, but it came out a gasp when his fingers dipped under the waistband, teasing the elastic of your panties.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he murmured. “Tell me you didn’t spend all weekend thinking about my fingers circling your clit while you pretended to hate it.”
“Shut up,” you whispered, hips rocking back instinctively.
Eddie chuckled—low, dark, the sound vibrating through you. “That’s what I thought.”
He walked you forward until your thighs hit the mattress, then spun you to face him. His hands slid under your jacket, pushing it off, then found the cropped tank, dragging the fabric up slow over peaked nipples.
“Look at these,” he said, voice rough with appreciation. He thumbed one gently, silver ring catching your skin. “So fucking sensitive.”
Your head fell back on a shaky exhale. “You talk too much.”
“And you love it.” He leaned down and flicked his tongue over one nipple—quickly, gone before you could arch. “Admit it.”
You grabbed fistfuls of his hair, yanking his head back to glare. “You’re so cocky.”
“Confident,” he corrected, grinning wide. “And right.”
He kissed you harder—tongue claiming, one hand kneading your breast, the other popping your jeans button and dragging the zipper down torturously slow. When his hand slipped inside, still over your panties, he groaned against your mouth.
“Soaked through already.” His finger pressed your clit through lace, rubbing slow circles. “Is this all from teasing? Or were you wet the whole walk over, replaying what I said about lifting your curse?”
“Both,” you moaned, hips chasing his hand. “Fuck… Eddie.”
“There she is.” He pulled his hand free just as your thighs trembled, ignoring your whimper. “Not yet, princess.”
He pushed you gently onto the bed. You bounced softly, legs slightly parted, chest heaving.
He dropped to his knees, hooked his fingers into your jeans and panties, and dragged them down. He stopped to take off your heels Cinderella-style, until you were bare, trembling, and glistening.
“Spread wider,” he ordered, voice dropping into full Dungeon Master velvet. “Let me see how desperate my little virgin sacrifice is.”
You hesitated—pride versus want—then slid your thighs apart slowly.
He purred. “Now… tell your DM what you want first. Fingers? Mouth? Or should I edge you until you’re begging me to break that curse with my cock?”
You stared up at him, lips parted, flushed.
Quiet, almost shy: “Your mouth. Please.”
Eddie’s grin turned sinful.
“That’s my sorcerer.”
He didn’t dive in. He kissed the inside of one knee… higher… planted deliberate open-mouthed bites that skirted everywhere except where you ached.
Your hands fisted the sheets. “Eddie… please…”
“Shh.” He nipped your thigh crease. “The demon doesn’t rush. He savors.”
He dragged one slow lick along your seam, not parting you yet.
You whimpered.
“Tell me how bad you want it, Vespera,” he murmured. “Beg your Dungeon Master to taste how wet you are for him.”
Your resolve cracked.
“Please,” you gasped. “Please lick me… fuck, Eddie, I need your tongue… please…”
He groaned like victory.
He spread you with his thumbs and dragged his tongue from your entrance to your clit in one long, devastating stroke.
Your back arched with a cry.
Eddie flattened his tongue, broad and hot, lapping slow before sealing his lips around your clit with a gentle suck, then harder. Your hands flew to his hair, yanking; he groaned into you, the vibration shooting through your whole body.
“Fuck… Eddie… right there…”
He pulled back just enough, lips shiny. “That’s it, princess. Let me hear you. No one’s around. Scream if you want. Let the whole park know the city brat’s getting devoured by the freak.”
He dove back in, tongue flicking fast while two fingers slid inside slow, stretching, curling against that spot. His rings were still on as he pumped lazily.
“You’re clenching so fucking hard already,” he murmured against your folds. “Been waiting for someone to spread you open and worship you properly, haven’t you?”
Your thighs shook. You tried to close them, but he hooked his arm under one knee and pinned you wide.
“No hiding.” He thrust his fingers harder, faster—curling ruthlessly while sucking your clit like he’d pull your soul out. Your back bowed, a broken sob tearing free.
“Come,” he commanded. “Break for me. Let me taste how much you needed this.”
You shattered—thighs clamping his head, hips bucking, his name ripping out of you raw and endless. Eddie licked slower, gentler, drawing out every aftershock until you whimpered, oversensitive.
He crawled up, the predator victorious. You were boneless, chest heaving, cheeks streaked with tears you hadn’t noticed.
Eddie kissed them away and got back to your mouth so you tasted yourself. You moaned, nails digging into his back.
He rolled on a condom, twirling the packet like a prop.
“Ready to lose that V-card, princess?”
You wrapped your legs around his waist. “If you don’t hurry I’ll sacrifice you instead.”
“Good.” He murmured. “Because the campaign isn’t over.”
He grabbed your wrists and guided them above your head to the headboard slats
“Hold that,” he ordered, full DM timbre with low, commanding menace. “Tonight you’re not a spoiled city brat. You’re Vespera Nightshade, half-elf sorceress, freshly resurrected by dark magic… still bound by the demon’s curse.”
Your breath hitched. You could play.
“And what curse is that, oh mighty Dungeon Master?”
Eddie leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “The curse of unrelenting need. Your body betrays you. Every resistance makes the heat worse. You’re dripping for the one who holds your leash.” His fingertip dragged down your center—sternum, navel, stopping just above your mound. “Tonight… the demon demands tribute again.”
You arched at the barest touch.
“Roll for willpower, Vespera.” He nipped your earlobe. “DC 18. Fail, and you beg.”
You let out a breathless laugh. “I don’t beg.”
Eddie’s grin went feral. He slid down, kissing and biting a path—collarbone, underside of your breast, lower—till he settled between your thighs. He blew cool air over your clit.
“Roll. Or I edge you until you cry real tears.”
You squirmed. “Fine… fuck, no dice.”
“Use your imagination, baby. What’d you get?”
Your hips jerked. “Nineteen.”
He crawled back up, caging you, his cock brushing your inner thigh.
“The demon appears before you,” he growled in character, rough with want. “Towering. Horned. Hung like sin. One chance to break the curse: surrender completely. Spread your legs. Let him claim what’s his. Or ache eternally, untouched, denied.”
Your thighs trembled. You hooked a leg around his waist and pulled. “You’re such a dramatic asshole.”
“Say the words, Vespera.” He notched himself at your entrance, teasing—hot and thick. “Beg your Dungeon Master to fuck the curse out of you.”
You glared, defiant, your hips rolling for more. “Make me.”
Eddie laughed, delighted, and pushed in slow, inch by inch, groaning. “Holy shit—you’re so tight.”
The brief sting melted to liquid heat.
“That’s it,” he hissed, finding a slow, steady rhythm. “Still pretending you don’t love being split open on demon cock?”
“Eddie…”
He snapped his hips deeper, the bed creaking beneath you. You were close already, shaking. “Eddie… fuck… move…”
“Wouldn’t stop for anything.”
He fucked you deep, careful but strong.
“Come for me, Vespera. Break the curse. Scream for your Dungeon Master.”
You shattered—thighs clamping, his name ripping out of you raw. Eddie followed, burying deep, spilling with a guttural curse, hips jerking.
You collapsed together, tangled, panting, sweaty.
After a long minute, Eddie lifted his head, grinning like he’d rolled a natural 20.
“So… best campaign ever?”
You smacked his chest weakly, breathless. “You’re insufferable.”
“Yeah.” He kissed your forehead, soft. “But you’re coming to the game next time. I’ve got a whole new module planned. I'll have you resurrected. Never done it for anyone.”
Afterward, you lay tangled, your head on his chest. You glanced down and felt your cheeks burn. “Eddie, your sheets—”
He followed your gaze, then looked back at you, completely unbothered. “Princess. They’re black. Your secret is safe”
You bit his collarbone lightly. “Shut up, and cuddle me.”
this is part two, click here for series masterlist
description: it's the summer leading into your senior year, and you decide to spend summer break with your best friend and roommate, violet munson. and of course, her dad. what starts as harmless flirting turns into something a little more...interesting.
pairing: dilf!eddie x reader (fem!reader)
tags: dilf!eddie, 21 y/o reader, no y/n, best friend's dad, age gap romance, eddie being jealous, girl dad eddie, eddie and violet are literally twins, single dad eddie, shameless flirting, metalhead x metalhead, emo/goth reader, domestic fluff (like fr), violet munson being an instigator, steve has a wife and daughter?, summer vibe
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not interact!!, age difference, mentions of toxic family dynamics
WC: 6.5k
A/N: AGH part two is finally here!!! sorry fics have been coming out slower than usual, between summer classes and work i've been BUSSYYYYY!! buuut, i'm so excited to hear what you guys think<3
reblogs are always appreciated :))
The annual start-of-summer lake day was apparently sacred in Hawkins. You discovered this at exactly eight-thirteen in the morning when a bikini top smacked you directly in the face. You jolted awake with a startled noise, immediately sitting upright as Violet stood in your doorway looking entirely too awake for a college student on summer break.
"Rise and shine."
You squinted at her through messy hair. "What time is it?"
"Lake day time."
"That's not a real time."
"It is in this house."
You groaned and flopped backward into the mattress. Unfortunately for you, Violet Munson had never been known for mercy. An hour later, you were sitting cross-legged on a kitchen stool nursing a cup of coffee while Violet packed enough snacks to survive a small apocalypse.
The house was quiet in Eddie's absence. He'd left for work before either of you woke up, disappearing sometime around six in the morning after leaving a note on the counter reminding Violet, "be there around four. please try not to drown anybody."
You'd stared at that note for far longer than necessary. Not because his handwriting was attractive, that would be ridiculous.
The front door opened dramatically, snapping you out of your lovestruck focus on Eddie’s chicken scratch. A blonde girl walked inside without knocking, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, and a set of car keys dangling from one finger.
"Please tell me somebody made coffee."
"Kitchen," Violet called.
The girl immediately rounded the corner before stopping when she saw you. For a second, she simply stared, then she looked at Violet. Then back at you.
"Huh."
"What?" Violet asked.
The girl pointed. "This is the roommate?"
"Yep."
"Huh."
"What does that mean?"
The girl shrugged. "Nothing. Just expected someone different."
She extended a hand toward you. "Harper Harrington."
You shook it. "The Harrington?"
She sighed dramatically. "Unfortunately."
The rest of the group filtered in over the next half hour, the same way Harper had; no knocking, no warning, just casually wandering into the Munson house like they owned part of it. By the time everyone finally piled into their respective cars, you'd met enough people to completely lose track of who belonged to who.
Apparently, that was another Hawkins thing. Everybody's parents knew everybody else's parents, everyone had grown up together, and somehow half the town seemed related through friendship if not blood. It was oddly comforting in a way you weren't used to, a kind of community that only seemed possible in places where people stayed.
The lake itself ended up being far prettier than you'd expected. Hawkins might've been small, but the water stretched wide beneath the summer sun, sparkling between the trees while boats drifted lazily across the surface.
The group immediately claimed a familiar patch of shoreline, unloading coolers and folding chairs with the efficiency of people who'd been doing this every summer since birth.
Before you'd even finished laying your towel out, somebody had already started music, somebody else had started a volleyball game, and Harper was loudly accusing one of the others of cheating at something.
Hours slipped by surprisingly fast after that. You swam, floated on your back in the lake, got dragged into a game of beach volleyball despite repeatedly insisting you sucked at sports, and somehow ended up sharing a giant bag of chips with Harper while she filled you in on years of Hawkins gossip.
By mid-afternoon, your skin was warm from the sun, your hair was damp from swimming, and for the first time since arriving in Indiana, you weren't really thinking about anything at all. Well, almost anything.
"Your eyes keep going to the parking lot."
You looked over at Harper. "What?"
She smirked. "Nothing."
Immediately suspicious, you narrowed your eyes. "Harper."
Before she could answer, a familiar roar of an engine echoed through the trees. And suddenly, half the group perked up. "Oh, they're here."
You turned instinctively toward the parking area, a big mistake. Huge mistake, actually. Because there, climbing out of the old van with a cooler balanced against one hip, was Eddie.
For a second, your brain didn't quite process what it was seeing. Then it did, and unfortunately, that made things significantly worse. Gone was the grease-stained work shirt you'd seen him leave in every morning.
Instead, he'd changed into a pair of faded black swim trunks hanging low on his hips and absolutely nothing else. His curls had been pulled back into a messy bun at the nape of his neck, exposing the tattoos crawling across his shoulders and chest, and the late afternoon sunlight caught against every silver ring still decorating his fingers.
Sweet fucking Jesus. You suddenly understood every poor decision women had ever made throughout history.
"Wow." The word escaped before you could stop it.
Harper followed your line of sight, then she looked at you, then back at Eddie. Then at you again. "Oh."
Your stomach dropped. "Oh no."
"Oh," Harper repeated, sounding somewhere between inquiry and suspicion.
Across the beach, Steve appeared from the passenger side, carrying enough bags to feed a football team. Beside him was a woman with dark hair and oversized sunglasses, effortlessly beautiful in the way that made you immediately understand why Steve Harrington had spent years getting himself into trouble.
"That's my mom," Harper informed you.
"She's gorgeous."
"I know. It's annoying."
Steve immediately spotted the group and lifted a hand. "Alright, move. Important people are here."
"Nobody asked you to come!" one of the kids yelled back.
Steve looked genuinely offended. "That's a terrible thing to say to the guy carrying burgers."
The entire group immediately changed sides.
"Welcome, Steve."
"Great to see you, Steve."
"We love you, Steve."
His wife snorted. "You people are shameless."
Meanwhile, you were doing your absolute best not to stare at Eddie. Unfortunately, Eddie wasn't making that particularly easy.
He'd abandoned the cooler near the picnic tables and was helping Steve unload supplies, muscles flexing every time he lifted something. The man wasn't even showing off. He looked completely unaware of the fact that he was walking around looking like every romance novel cover come to life.
Or maybe he was aware, because halfway through carrying a folding table, he glanced up. And immediately caught you staring. Fuck.
His eyebrows lifted, and the corner of his mouth twitched. Then, the bastard winked. You nearly swallowed your own tongue.
You snapped your head back to the lake, Harper immediately tilting her head. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you replied on impulse. She hummed in response, but it didn’t quite sound convinced.
Before you could formulate a solid response to her lack of one, Eddie finally started walking toward the group. The closer he got, the worse the situation became.
Up close, you could see the faint tan lines across his shoulders, the tattoos wrapping around his arms, the way a few escaped curls had fallen loose around his face despite the bun. It should've been illegal for a forty-year-old father to look like that.
Thirty-nine. Not that you knew that, or thought about it. Or remembered constantly.
"Hey, sweetheart." His voice alone was enough to make your stomach flip.
You looked up and immediately regretted it. Because now he was standing directly in front of you, still shirtless, still damp from whatever shower he'd apparently taken after work, and still looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Hey."
Eddie's eyes drifted over you slowly, taking in your swimsuit, your sun-kissed skin, and your damp hair. The look lingered just long enough to make heat crawl up your neck before he finally grinned.
"Looks like you're surviving Hawkins."
"Barely."
"Mhm."
Eventually, Steve decided he'd had enough of everyone picking at chips and snacks.
"Alright, listen up!" he shouted from beside the grills. "Food's done, and if you little gremlins don't come eat now, I'm not reheating anything later."
A chorus of complaints immediately followed.
"We're literally walking over!"
"Relax, dad!"
"You're not my dad!"
Steve pointed a spatula threateningly. "I could've been."
His wife rolled her eyes from where she was arranging burger toppings. "Ignore him. Everybody grab a plate."
The entire group migrated toward the picnic tables in a noisy mass of towels, sunscreen, half-finished conversations, and dripping lake water. Harper immediately stole a burger before Steve could finish serving everyone, earning a dramatic gasp from her father that she completely ignored.
You found yourself settling onto the end of one of the benches while everyone else naturally fell into conversations that had clearly been going on for years.
Maya and the twins were arguing about something that happened last summer. Harper was making fun of a guy she'd apparently gone to school with. Logan was telling some story that required absolutely zero context for everybody except you.
You smiled when appropriate and laughed when everyone else laughed. But after a while, you started feeling it, that subtle little distance.
Nobody was being unkind. Quite the opposite, actually. Everyone had gone out of their way to include you throughout the day. But there was still a difference between being welcomed into a group and having years of inside jokes and memories with them.
You were still catching up. Still learning names, stories, histories...still the new person.
For a moment, your thoughts drifted back home. To being the odd one out at family dinners. To sitting quietly while everyone else talked around you. To feeling like there wasn't really a place carved out for you anywhere, so you picked at your food.
The feeling only lasted a minute, maybe less. Because suddenly a shadow fell across the table, then Eddie slid onto the bench beside you.
"Hey."
You glanced over. "Hey."
He balanced a paper plate on one knee and took a bite of his burger before speaking again.
"You look like you're plotting something."
You snorted. "I promise I'm not."
"Mhm."
"What?"
Eddie tilted his head slightly. "You got quiet."
"I'm okay."
"I know."
His voice was soft enough that nobody else would've heard it over the surrounding conversations.
Then he nodded toward the group, "They can be a lot."
You laughed quietly. "That's one way to put it."
"Trust me, sweetheart. I've known most of these idiots since before they could drive."
"Feels like everybody here has known each other forever."
"Pretty much."
Eddie picked at the label on his beer bottle. "Harper was born when Vi was little. Maya's parents live three streets over. Logan practically grew up at my garage. Steve's wife still makes fun of me for a haircut I got in nineteen ninety-three."
You laughed. "What was wrong with the haircut?"
"Oh, it was terrible."
"Really?"
"It was magnificent."
"Those are two different answers."
"Both can be true." His shoulder bumped yours lightly, and you couldn't help smiling.
The conversations around you continued, but somehow they felt less overwhelming now. Maybe because Eddie wasn't trying to force you into them. He wasn't doing the awkward introduction thing or drawing attention to the fact that you were newer than everyone else.
"You know," he said after a minute, looking out toward the water, "when I first moved into Wayne's, I barely spoke for an entire summer."
You blinked. "You?"
"Hard to believe, I know."
"Impossible, actually."
Eddie grinned. "Seriously. I was awkward as hell."
"No way."
"Way."
You studied him skeptically. Just before this, the man had an entire picnic table laughing at half of what he said. "You're lying."
"I'm not."
"You expect me to believe you were shy?"
His grin softened slightly. "Not shy."
He looked down at his beer. "Just didn't think people wanted me around."
The admission surprised you enough that you didn't answer right away. Because for a second, you caught a glimpse of something underneath all the confidence and sarcasm; something younger.
Eddie glanced over and immediately noticed your expression. "Hey."
"Hm?"
"Don't get all sad on me."
You laughed. "I'm not sad."
"Good."
Then he reached over and stole one of your fries, again.
"Hey!"
"Occupational hazard. Gotta make sure it’s not poison."
"That's not what that means."
"It does if I say it does."
The Hideout was somehow even more charming now than it had been in all the stories Violet told. Maybe it was the nostalgia baked into the place. The old wooden bar, the dim lighting, the neon beer signs buzzing softly against the walls.
Maybe it was because half the people inside seemed to know Eddie by name. Or maybe it was because every few minutes someone would stop by your table to greet either Steve, Eddie, or both, and you'd get to watch them slip so naturally into the lives they'd built here.
You, Harper, and Violet had claimed a booth near the back while Steve and Eddie wandered over toward the dart boards with beers in hand. A local band was setting up in the corner, tuning guitars and testing microphones while conversations drifted through the crowded room.
Meanwhile, across the room, Steve lined up a shot at the dart board while Eddie leaned against the wall beside him. The dart landed with a satisfying thunk.
"Ha."
"Congratulations," Eddie deadpanned. "You're winning against a mechanic."
Steve ignored him. For a minute, they stood there in comfortable silence, watching the girls at the booth. Harper was talking animatedly about something while Violet argued with her. You sat between them, laughing at whatever ridiculous story was being told.
Then Steve glanced sideways. "So."
Eddie sighed immediately. "No."
"I didn't even say anything."
"You were about to."
Steve threw another dart. "You gonna tell me what's going on there?"
Eddie looked offended. "Nothing's going on."
"Bullshit."
"Steve."
"Eddie."
The older man took a sip of his beer, and Steve pointed subtly toward your booth.
"You talked to her almost the entire barbecue."
"We were talking."
"You were talking."
"That's what I said."
Steve stared, and Eddie stared back. Neither moved, then finally Steve sighed.
"I feel like I'm watching a train derail in slow motion."
"Jesus Christ."
"Eddie."
"What?"
"That's your daughter's best friend."
"I know who she is."
Steve rubbed his face. "I liked you better when your bad decisions only affected you."
Eddie barked out a laugh despite himself. "Nothing's happening."
Steve looked like he wanted to believe him, then his expression changed when his eyes drifted toward the bar. Eddie followed his gaze and immediately wished he hadn't.
Because sometime during the conversation, Violet and Harper had wandered over to grab another round of drinks. You'd stayed behind at the booth, scrolling through the jukebox selections alone.
Unfortunately, somebody else had noticed. A guy. Young, mid-twenties maybe. Definitely closer to your age than Eddie's. The guy leaned casually against the edge of your booth and said something.
You smiled politely, and the guy smiled wider. Eddie's jaw tightened instantly. Steve saw it happen in real time.
"Oh no."
"I'm fine."
"You are absolutely not fine."
"I'm completely fine."
The guy sat down at your booth, across from you, knee brushing yours slightly under the table. Steve physically winced.
"Oh, that's bad."
"I'm gonna go say hi."
"You don't know him."
"I know enough."
"Eddie."
But Eddie was already moving. Across the room, you were only half paying attention to whatever the guy was saying.
Something about being from Indianapolis. Something about visiting family. Something about your tattoos. Honestly, he seemed perfectly nice.
Then suddenly his expression changed, and you frowned.
"What?"
The guy glanced up and immediately looked nervous. A familiar tattooed arm draped itself across the back of your booth, then another appeared on the opposite side, boxing you in completely.
"Oh," Eddie said pleasantly. "There you are, sweetheart."
The guy looked between the two of you. "Oh."
Eddie smiled, but not his real smile. The dangerous one. The one you'd already learned meant trouble. "Sorry, man. Didn't realize somebody was sitting here."
The guy stood up so fast he nearly knocked his drink over. "No, no, you're good."
"Mhm." Eddie never stopped smiling.
The guy made a very quick decision. "Well. Nice meeting you." Then he practically disappeared into the crowd.
The second he was gone, you looked up at Eddie.
"Eddie."
"What?"
"What was that?"
He looked genuinely confused. "I came to say hi."
You stared, and he stared back, for approximately three seconds. Then you started laughing, because somehow that was even less convincing than whatever excuse he'd intended to use.
"You are ridiculous."
"Maybe." His grin softened, then he brushed his fingers briefly against your shoulder. "Just checking on you."
The warmth in his voice immediately ruined any chance of staying annoyed.
"You're impossible."
"Been told that."
A few minutes later, after you'd disappeared toward the restroom, Eddie eventually wandered back to the dart boards, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Steve was waiting with a beer in hand and a flat expression.
Eddie immediately knew. "No."
"Seriously?"
"What?"
"Seriously?"
Eddie grabbed another dart while Steve pointed toward the booth.
"The kid practically evacuated."
"He left."
"You ran him off."
"I didn't run him off."
"Eddie."
"He made his own choices."
Steve laughed in disbelief. "You are forty years old."
"Thirty-nine."
"That somehow makes this worse."
Eddie threw his dart. Bullseye. "Don't."
Steve stared at him for a second, then looked toward the bathroom where you'd disappeared, then back toward Eddie. Then finally sighed. "You're screwed."
The second you came back from the bathroom, Eddie was waiting. Not in an obvious way, not standing outside the door like some lovesick teenager. Just leaning casually against the dart board wall with a beer in one hand and entirely too much amusement in his eyes.
The second he spotted you weaving through the crowd, his face brightened ever so slightly. A tiny thing, small enough that most people wouldn't notice it.
"Sweetheart."
You rolled your eyes as you approached. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Whatever this is."
Eddie grinned. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."
"Liar."
"Prove it."
You opened your mouth, then closed it, because annoyingly enough, you couldn't. Which only made his smile wider.
"That's what I thought."
"You're insufferable."
"And yet."
"And yet nothing."
"And yet you're still standing here." You hated when he had a point, especially when he looked so pleased about it.
The dart board behind him sat abandoned now, Steve having wandered off to join his wife and Harper near the booths. A few empty lanes sat open, and before you could stop him, Eddie was already pulling a set of darts from the board.
"You ever play?"
You eyed them suspiciously. "Not really."
"Oh."
The grin returned, the dangerous one. "Perfect."
Immediately, you groaned. "No."
"Yes."
"Eddie."
"C'mon."
The next thing you knew, a dart had been pressed into your hand. Five minutes later, you were learning very quickly that Eddie Munson was the most distracting teacher alive. Because at first, he genuinely tried, for all of about thirty seconds.
"You wanna hold it like this."
His hand settled over yours; warm, calloused, and large enough to completely engulf your grip. Your stomach betrayed you immediately, then he stepped behind you, which was somehow worse.
"Oh, my god."
"What?"
"You know exactly what."
"I am literally teaching you darts."
His voice was directly beside your ear, maybe lower, and definitely rougher. You hated him.
"You stand like this."
His hands settled briefly on your hips, “adjusting”, supposedly. The problem was that neither of you seemed particularly focused on darts anymore.
Your heart was pounding loud enough that you were worried somebody else would hear it while Eddie leaned slightly closer.
"Relax."
"I am relaxed."
"You just missed the board entirely."
You looked, and the dart was currently embedded in the wall. "...Okay."
Eddie barked out a laugh, the sound vibrating straight through your chest. "See?"
"Shut up."
"Can't."
His hand slid down your arm, adjusting your grip again. You were beginning to suspect the lesson wasn't real.
Across the room, Steve looked up from his booth and immediately regretted it. "Oh, for the love of God." His wife followed his gaze, then immediately started laughing.
Meanwhile, Harper and Violet were sitting across from one another sharing fries. Harper watched the dart situation unfold for approximately thirty seconds, then another thirty. Then finally turned toward her friend.
"Can I ask you something?"
Violet didn't even look up from her food. "You already are."
"Does this not bother you?"
For the first time all night, Violet's attention shifted toward the dart boards. Toward you. Toward her father. You were laughing at something Eddie had said. Head tipped back, smile huge, the kind of laugh that made your entire face light up.
Violet's expression softened immediately, and the sarcasm disappeared for a second. "Honestly?"
Harper nodded. Violet watched you for another moment before speaking. "No."
Harper looked surprised. "Really?"
"Nope."
Her fingers traced the rim of her drink absentmindedly. "That's probably the happiest she's looked in years."
Something in her tone made Harper pause. "What do you mean?"
Violet was quiet for a second. "Freshman year."
Harper waited.
"There was this guy."
Immediately Harper winced. "Oh."
"Yeah."
The response alone said enough. "Bad?"
"Not physically." Violet sighed. "But he spent two years making her feel like everything about her was too much."
Her eyes drifted back toward you, toward the smile currently plastered across your face.
"He hated her music,” she laughed softly. "Hated her clothes. Hated her tattoos. Thought she was dramatic every time she had feelings."
Harper frowned. "What a dick."
"Exactly."
The relationship had ended almost two years ago now, yet Harper noticed something sad in Violet's expression anyway.
"She hasn't dated since."
Across the room, Eddie was currently saying something that had you doubled over laughing. Whatever it was made him grin too. The look on his face wasn't subtle, not even a little.
And for some reason, instead of making Violet uncomfortable, it made her chest feel warm.
Because she remembered crying with you in your dorm room, remembered helping you pick up the pieces afterward. Remembered all the nights you'd insisted nobody would ever actually want all of you.
Not the loud parts. Not the messy parts. Not the emotional parts. All of it. Yet there you were, laughing, flirting, happy, for the first time in forever.
Harper followed her gaze, then smiled. "Oh."
"Yeah."
Violet grinned into her drink. "Besides."
"What?"
She looked back toward her father, then toward you and smirked that usual Munson smirk. "My dad's obsessed with her."
Across the room, Eddie's hand settled briefly against the small of your back as he helped you line up another throw.
Harper burst out laughing. "Obsessed is an understatement."
A couple hours later, the Hideout had gotten significantly louder.
The local band had long since started playing, conversations were being shouted over music, and somehow your group had managed to push three tables together into one giant mess of empty baskets, beer bottles, and half-finished stories. Steve's wife had eventually given up trying to keep everyone organized, settling instead into laughing at the chaos from a safe distance.
You, unfortunately, were drunk. Not blackout drunk, not Violet-at-the-lake drunk, but definitely drunk enough that everything felt pleasantly fuzzy around the edges.
Unfortunately, Eddie seemed to be in exactly the same boat, which was proving dangerous for everyone involved, especially you. Because sober Eddie at least attempted restraint. Drunk Eddie apparently thought personal space was a government conspiracy.
By ten-thirty, his arm had somehow become permanently draped across the back of your chair. Every time he laughed, he leaned into you. Every time he told a story, his hand found your shoulder, your arm, the small of your back. The man seemed physically incapable of existing more than six inches away from you.
And the worst part? You weren't exactly discouraging it.
"You are so full of shit."
Eddie pressed a hand dramatically over his heart. "That hurts, sweetheart."
"You're lying."
"I'm embellishing."
"That's just lying with confidence."
Steve nearly choked on his drink. "Jesus Christ, she's got your number."
"I don't like this," Eddie muttered.
"You love it."
"Maybe."
The answer came so fast that the entire table immediately started laughing. Harper physically dropped her head onto the table. "Oh, my god."
"What?" Eddie asked.
"Nothing."
"It was definitely something."
Across from you, Violet was grinning into her drink like this was the greatest show she'd ever witnessed. "He's not even trying anymore."
"I'm sitting right here."
"I know." The grin only got bigger.
By eleven-thirty, Steve had finally announced that he was taking his wife home before Harper somehow got herself banned from the establishment.
"I've done nothing wrong."
Steve pointed. "You started three separate arguments."
"I won all three."
"Goodnight, Harper."
The group slowly began breaking apart after that. Goodbyes were exchanged. Tabs were closed. Chairs scraped across the floor as people gathered their things. You stood up and immediately regretted it as the room tilted slightly.
"Oh."
Eddie looked over. "Oh no."
"I'm fine."
"You almost walked into a table."
"The table moved."
"The table did not move."
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously at the furniture, and Eddie started laughing so hard he nearly doubled over. Ten minutes later, you were outside in the warm summer air waiting while Steve finished saying goodbye to someone.
The night was quiet compared to the noise of the bar. Crickets chirped in the distance while streetlights cast soft yellow pools across the pavement. You were halfway through explaining a very important theory about why raccoons probably conversed through telekinesis when Eddie suddenly crouched in front of you.
"What're you doing?"
He pointed at your shoes. "You can't walk."
"I can absolutely walk."
To prove your point, you immediately stumbled. Eddie looked at Violet, and Violet looked at Eddie. The two of them started laughing.
"I hate everybody."
"No, you don't."
Then, before you could argue, Eddie hooked an arm behind your knees. You squeaked as the ground beneath you disappeared. "Oh, my god."
"There we go."
"Eddie!"
Suddenly you were being carried like it was nothing. One arm beneath your legs, the other supporting your back. You stared at him, and he stared back.
"What?"
"You picked me up."
"Congratulations."
"You're carrying me."
"Mhm."
"Why?"
"Because you're drunk."
You considered this. "Fair."
Violet made a choking noise behind you. When you looked over, she was laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes.
"What is wrong with you?"
"Nothing."
"You look insane."
She pointed. "No, you look insane."
The walk home wasn't particularly long, but apparently that didn't matter. Because every time you suggested being put down, Eddie refused, every single time.
At one point, you wrapped your arms around his neck and rested your cheek against his shoulder. The man practically preened.
"Look at him," Violet whispered.
"Oh my god," Harper whispered back.
"He loves this."
"He absolutely loves this."
Eddie ignored both of them, or pretended to. The smile he was trying to hide said otherwise. By the time the Munson house came into view, you'd gone completely boneless against him, warm and sleepy from the alcohol and the summer air.
"Comfortable?"
"Mhm."
"Good."
You hummed contentedly. Behind you, Violet immediately gagged.
"Dad."
"What?"
"You're gross."
"Am not."
"Are so. You carried her two miles."
"It was half a mile."
"You know that's not the point."
Eddie just laughed, then adjusted his grip slightly and carried you up the front steps anyway. By the time you got inside, Harper was heading toward her own car parked down the street. She paused halfway down the driveway, pointing between you and Eddie.
"I'm not saying anything."
"Good," Eddie called.
"But I'm thinking a lot."
"Harper."
She grinned. "Night, lovebirds."
Then she disappeared before either of you could throw something at her. The second the front door opened, Violet immediately announced, "I am going to bed before one of you says or does something that permanently changes my brain chemistry."
You barked out a laugh. "You are so dramatic."
Violet looked toward the ceiling as if she were asking God for patience. "Goodnight." Without another word, she disappeared down the hall, and a few seconds later, her bedroom door slammed.
Eddie finally set you down on the couch like you were something fragile, which was ridiculous. You immediately sank into the cushions with a satisfied sigh.
"Oh."
His mouth twitched. "What?"
"This couch is amazing."
"It's literally a couch."
"It's a really good couch."
"You're drunk."
You pointed at him. "So are you."
"Yeah." At least he was honest.
Eddie snorted softly and dropped down onto the floor in front of you, resting his arms across his knees. The position put him directly between your legs. Not touching, but close enough that your foot bumped his shoulder.
The soft yellow kitchen light caught the amber in his eyes while he looked up at you. God, the man was unfair. His curls had mostly fallen out of the bun by now, loose strands hanging around his face. His cheeks were flushed from alcohol and laughter, eyes warm and heavy-lidded.
You were in trouble.
"So."
You narrowed your eyes. "So."
Eddie grinned. "You're drunk."
You gasped dramatically. "The audacity."
Eddie laughed, head tipping back slightly, and suddenly you understood why everybody in Hawkins liked him so much.
It wasn't just that he was funny. It was that he laughed with his entire body, like he genuinely enjoyed existing, like he enjoyed being around you. The thought made your stomach flutter.
"You know," you said after a moment.
"Oh boy."
"You scared that guy away."
Eddie immediately looked innocent. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Liar."
"I'm serious."
"You practically chased him out of the Hideout."
His grin widened. "He left on his own accord."
"Mmhm."
"He did."
"Eddie."
The man actually had the nerve to shrug. "He seemed like a smart kid."
You laughed. "Oh, my god."
"What?"
"You were jealous."
His eyebrows shot upward. "Jealous?"
"Very."
"Of a twenty-something wearing boat shoes?"
You burst out laughing since the immediate answer told you everything. "Aha."
"No."
"That's not a denial."
"It is."
"It was a terrible denial."
Eddie rubbed a hand over his face, trying and failing to hide a smile. "You are exhausting."
"Because I'm right."
"You're not."
"You totally are."
The two of you stared at each other, then Eddie sighed dramatically. "Maybe I didn't love him talking to you."
Victory. You pointed immediately. "I knew it."
"Oh, don't look so proud of yourself."
"I am."
"You shouldn't be."
But he was smiling again, the soft kind this time, the one that made your chest feel warm. His eyes drifted across your face for a second before he spoke again.
"You know what my problem is?"
"What?"
Eddie leaned back slightly against the couch. "I forget how old you are."
You blinked. "What?"
"I spend all day talking to you and hanging out with you, and it feels normal." His voice had gotten quieter. "Then some guy your age walks over, and suddenly I remember you're twenty-one."
You stared at him, because there wasn't really a joke hidden inside that one. Eddie looked away first, shaking his head. "Forget I said that."
"No."
His eyes returned to yours. "No?"
"No."
"I like talking to you." The confession left your mouth before you could stop it.
Eddie's expression softened instantly. "Yeah?"
You nodded. "Yeah."
Something warm flashed across his face, like you'd handed him something precious.
"Good." The word came out almost embarrassingly gentle.
For a second neither of you spoke, neither of you seemed particularly interested in breaking whatever this was. Then Eddie glanced upward, down the hall towards Violet’s room. And a mischievous grin slowly appeared.
"Oh."
You immediately recognized that look. "What?"
"I just realized something."
"Eddie."
"If you become my girlfriend—"
"Oh, my god."
"—Vi is gonna be so annoying about it."
You laughed so hard you nearly fell sideways off the couch.
You were still smiling when you looked down at Eddie. He was resting his arms on the couch cushion beside your legs now, chin tilted upward as he watched you.
"You know," you said quietly, "I think Harper's gonna make fun of me tomorrow."
Eddie snorted. "Harper's gonna make fun of me tomorrow."
"Fair."
"Steve definitely is."
"Oh, absolutely."
The thought made you laugh again, and Eddie smiled immediately at the sound. God. There it was; that damn look again. The one he'd been giving you all summer. The one that always felt like he was seeing something in you that nobody else quite did.
Neither of you spoke, just slowly drifted closer until the distance between you felt ridiculous. Then Eddie's hand settled lightly against your knee. A question, not a demand, just an invitation.
You answered by leaning forward first. The kiss was soft, almost embarrassingly sweet compared to the way you'd started things the first night. Just Eddie smiling against your mouth halfway through it because apparently he couldn't help himself.
"Hi," he murmured.
You laughed. "Hi."
"Thought about doing that all night."
"You're impossible."
"Been told."
His thumb traced absentminded circles against your leg while he looked up at you. For a second, neither of you spoke. Then the thought slipped out before you could stop it.
"Would you actually want that?"
Eddie's brows knit together slightly. "What?"
You suddenly felt nervous, which was stupid, but there it was anyway. "The girlfriend thing."
"What?"
You shrugged awkwardly. "Earlier."
When realization dawned, something softened in his face. "Sweetheart."
The nickname came out quieter than usual. You looked away first, which only made him smile.
"Yeah."
Your eyes snapped back to his. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." There wasn't even a second of hesitation.
His hand slid over yours. "I wouldn't joke about that."
Your stomach did an embarrassing little flip. "Oh."
"Yeah, oh."
You laughed softly, and Eddie squeezed your hand once. "So?"
"So?"
He grinned. "Would you?"
You immediately narrowed your eyes. "Oh, now who's asking questions?"
"Me."
"You can't just reverse it."
"I absolutely can."
You laughed despite yourself, then looked down at your intertwined fingers. At the rings on his hand. At the way he was watching you.
"I'd think about it."
Eddie barked out a laugh. "You'd think about it?"
"I would."
"That's cold."
You nudged his shoulder with your foot. "Shut up."
"I'm serious."
"You should be grateful I'm considering it at all."
His grin widened. "Considering it."
"Mhm."
"Well."
The look that crossed his face immediately made you suspicious. "What?"
Eddie stood slowly, still holding your hand, still smiling. "I might have a way to improve my chances."
"Oh, do you?"
"Mhm." Eddie’s grin turns wicked as he tugs you up from the couch by your hand, pulling you flush against his chest.
“You’ve been teasing me all damn night in this little skirt,” he murmurs, voice dropping low. “Then some college prick thinks he can talk to you at the bar? Nah. I think it’s time I remind you exactly who this pussy belongs to.”
He doesn’t give you time to respond. Instead, he walks you backward down the hallway, kissing you hard, tongue claiming your mouth while his hands slide under your skirt and grab two handfuls of your ass. The second his bedroom door shuts, the switch flips completely.
“Clothes off. Now.”
You move fast, but apparently not fast enough. Eddie spins you around, bends you over the edge of his bed, and yanks your skirt and panties down in one rough motion. He kicks your legs wider, drops to his knees, and buries his face in your cunt from behind without warning.
“Fuck— Eddie!”
He eats you like a man starved. Messy, loud, and filthy. Long drags of his tongue, sucking hard on your clit, then fucking his tongue into you while his grip on your hips keeps you pinned exactly where he wants you. You’re already shaking by the time he pulls back, lips shiny.
“Think that little boy at the bar could eat this pussy like that?” he growls, standing up and shoving two thick fingers into you. “You think any of those college boys could make you drip down their chin the way you do for me?”
You moan helplessly, pushing back on his fingers. He curls them perfectly, stroking that spot that makes your knees buckle. He flips you onto your back on the bed, strips his shirt off, then yanks his belt open. His cock springs out, hard and leaking, but he doesn’t fuck you yet.
Instead, he reaches into the nightstand and pulls out the black vibrator.
“Eddie—”
“Yeah, baby?” His smile is dark, predatory. “Gonna make you so fucking sensitive you forget any other man exists.”
He clicks it on and presses the buzzing head directly against your swollen clit. At the same time, he pushes his cock into you in one slow, deep thrust. You cry out, back arching hard.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, bottoming out. “So goddamn tight. This pussy was made for me.”
He starts fucking you in hard, steady strokes while the vibrator stays glued to your clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming — his thick cock stretching you open, dragging against your walls, and the relentless buzz making your thighs tremble violently.
“Look at you,” he taunts, voice rough as he leans over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other keeping the vibrator exactly where he wants it. “Taking my cock so fucking well. You’d never go back to some twenty-one-year-old loser after this, would you?”
You shake your head frantically, moaning loudly.
“Say it.”
“I—I wouldn’t,” you gasp. “Never— fuck, Eddie—”
He clicks the vibrator up a setting, and your eyes roll back.
“That’s right. Because no college boy is ever gonna fuck you like I do. None of them are gonna make you come so many times you can’t even speak. None of them know how to ruin this pretty cunt the way I do.”
He fucks you harder, hips snapping, the wet sound of you obscene in the room. The vibrator never leaves your clit, and you come the first time with a broken cry, clenching around his cock so hard he curses.
But he doesn’t stop. He keeps the vibrator pressed tight, keeps thrusting deep, drawing out every aftershock until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and twitching.
“Too much— Eddie, please—”
“You can take it,” he growls, leaning down to bite at your neck. “You’re gonna come again. Gonna soak my cock while you’re crying for me.”
He angles his hips just right and turns the vibrator even higher, and the overstimulation hits like a freight train. You’re sobbing his name, nails raking down his back, legs shaking uncontrollably as another brutal orgasm rips through you.
Only then does he pull the vibrator away, toss it aside, and fuck you like he’s trying to claim you completely. Deep, punishing strokes. His hand wraps around your throat tight, and high enough to hold you there while he stares into your eyes.
“Say you’re mine,” he demands, voice wrecked. “Say you’ll be mine. Let me take care of you all fucking summer. Hell, however long you’ll let me.”
“I’m yours,” you moan, voice hoarse. “I’ll be your girlfriend, whatever you want—fuck, I’m yours, Eddie—”
He kisses you filthy and deep, then buries himself to the hilt and comes hard, groaning your name against your mouth as he fills you. For a minute, the only sounds are your ragged breathing.
Eddie pulls out gently, then collapses beside you and immediately pulls you into his arms. His hands are soft now, stroking down your back, pressing kisses to your sweaty forehead, your cheeks, your lips.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice gentle again.
You nod, still trembling. “Yeah… Jesus Christ.”
He chuckles lowly, tucking your hair behind your ear. “Good. Because I meant every word. I want you to be mine, not just for the summer.”
You smile against his chest, pressing a kiss over one of his tattoos.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think I want that too.”
Eddie’s arms tighten around you, and for the first time all night, his smile is soft.
description: it's the summer leading into your senior year, and you decide to spend summer break with your best friend and roommate, violet munson. and of course, her dad. what starts as harmless flirting turns into something a little more...interesting.
pairing: dilf!eddie x reader (fem!reader)
tags: dilf!eddie, 21 y/o reader, no y/n, best friend's dad, age gap romance, girl dad eddie, eddie and violet are literally twins, single dad eddie, shameless flirting, metalhead x metalhead, emo/goth reader, domestic fluff (like fr), gruncle wayne, violet munson being an instigator, stepmom jokes get too real, friends to lovers (?)
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not interact!!, age difference, mentions of toxic family dynamics
WC: 5.9k
A/N: this one goes out to my dearest @bitterestwillow... hope you love it bestie🥰 i could actually make one-million parts to this, dilf eddie is my obsession bruh omgomgomg. reblogs are always appreciated <3
a slight note: going forward with requests, i will be replying a few at a time to pace myself and not lose track/forget. i see you in my inbox and i'm not ignoring you! just trying to balance requests, series, and my own fic ideas. i appreciate you all so much for trusting me with your ideas!! much love<33
“You’re going to absolutely hate it here.” Your roommate, Violet, says, nodding towards the Welcome to Hawkins Hell sign.
“You’re such a delight, y’know that?” You retort, taking a puff of your cigarette.
“I’m just saying! Why you agreed to spend the summer with my dad and I is beyond me. Hawkins is literally the most boring town on the entire planet.”
“‘On the entire planet’ is a stretch, Vi. I’m sure it can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, it so is. I mean, look at that,” she motions towards the line of storefronts. “This town is stuck in the 70’s, terminally. We have to drive 20 minutes to get decent coffee. It’s deplorable.”
You roll your eyes and shake your head, exhaling a plume of smoke out of the window. Was spending your entire summer break in small town Indiana your idea of a perfect summer? No, not by a long shot.
But it was by all means better than going back to your house, dealing with your dad, and that witch of a step-mom. So, summer break in Hawkins with Violet and her dad seemed like the lesser of two evils.
Besides, Violet was your best friend. You two met eachother freshman year due to random roommate assignments, and clicked off the jump. The second she started hanging Dio and Iron Maiden posters up, you knew you’d be thick as thieves.
Not just because of the music, either. Violet looked like she’d crawled straight out of a metal magazine and into your dorm room. Dark curly hair always messy in an intentional sort of way, tattoos peeking out from under shredded band tees and leather jackets, no matter the weather.
And somehow, you matched her freak perfectly.
The two of you moved through campus like a matched set; all dark clothes, tattoos, cigarette smoke, chunky silver jewelry, and enough attitude to make frat boys cross the street.
People always assumed you’d known each other forever. Maybe because you looked like alternate universe versions of the same girl.
Or maybe because Violet Munson was so painfully, undeniably her father’s daughter. And here you are, the summer into your senior year, and you’re closer than ever, living together for all four years.
“Alright, here we are. Home sweet shithole,” she mutters, pulling into her driveway.
Her house was not a shithole by any standard. It was a quaint, brick bi-level house with a dark blue door and bushes lining the sides. Sure, the lawn was a little overgrown, but that’s to be expected of a single dad who works long hours as a mechanic.
The driveway’s littered with evidence of him, too. A toolbox near the garage. Empty beer bottles sitting on the porch railing. A faded Corroded Coffin bumper sticker slapped crookedly onto an old cooler.
You snort softly as you climb out of the passenger seat. “Yeah, this is devastatingly awful, Vi. I may never recover.”
“Shut up,” she laughs, popping the trunk.
The summer air is thick and humid, wrapping around your skin instantly. Cicadas scream somewhere in the trees while Violet digs through her bag before triumphantly holding up a joint between two black-painted nails.
“Oh, thank God,” you sigh dramatically.
“Priorities.”
You lean against the hood while she lights it, the flame briefly illuminating the silver hoop through her nose. She takes the first hit before passing it over to you without a word.
It was easy with Violet, always had been.
You inhale slowly, letting your shoulders finally relax for what feels like the first time in months.
“Y’know,” Violet says, exhaling smoke toward the sky, “my dad’s gonna love you.”
You bark out a laugh. “You say that now.”
“No, seriously. You’re literally his exact type.”
You nearly choke. “Vi?”
“What?” she grins. “Hot goth women with emotional issues and nicotine addictions. That’s basically his demographic.”
“Ew, Vi!”
“I’m just being honest!”
Before you can respond, the low growl of an engine cuts through the quiet, and Violet immediately glances toward the street. A black-and-white van pulls into the driveway beside you both. Older model, and loud as hell.
“Speaking of the devil,” Violet mutters.
Your eyes widen slightly. “Shit, should we put this out?”
Violet looks genuinely confused. “Why?”
The driver’s side door swings open before you can answer. And oh, okay.
You expected an older guy, maybe tired-looking. Greasy coveralls. Generic middle-aged dad energy.
Not…him.
Not Eddie stepping out of the van in a black sleeveless Metallica shirt, grease smeared along his tattooed forearms, dark curls sticking to his forehead from the heat.
Late thirties, maybe early forties, sure. Still, unfairly hot.
“Hey, hon,” he calls toward Violet before his eyes land on you. They pause, just for a second too long.
Violet smirks immediately, clocking it. “Dad, this is the roommate I’ve been telling you about. Y’know, the one with functioning brain cells?”
“Mm.” His gaze flicks over you again, amused. “Heard a lot about you.”
You open your mouth to respond, suddenly very aware of the joint between your fingers.
Eddie notices too. Without missing a beat, he steps forward, plucks it right from your hand, and takes a drag like it belongs to him.
“Gotta make sure it’s not poison,” he says casually, smoke curling from his grin.
Up close, he smells faintly like motor oil, cigarette smoke, and something woodsy underneath it all. Cologne, maybe. Or just him. Unfortunately for you, it works.
“So,” he says, handing the joint back to you this time instead of Violet, “you’re the famous roommate.”
You snort softly. “Famous feels generous.”
“Nah, trust me. I’ve heard plenty.” He points toward Violet with his chin. “This one calls me every other day bitching about classes, professors, existential crises—”
“Okay, wow.”
“—and somehow your name always comes up.”
Violet flips him off immediately. “You’re obsessed with me.”
“You’re my kid. Kinda legally obligated.”
He grins when she groans dramatically, and for a second, it clicks so clearly it’s almost stupid.
The resemblance. Not necessarily in exact features, though they definitely share the same eyes and dark curls. It’s the energy. The sarcasm. The loud personality packed into black clothes and silver jewelry.
Violet really is just a female version of him, which suddenly explains a lot.
Eddie turns his attention back toward you.
“But seriously.” He gestures vaguely around the neighborhood. “Why the hell’d you agree to spend your summer in Hawkins? If Vi didn’t already mention, sweetheart, this town sucks.”
You take another drag to buy yourself a second.
Because going home meant screaming matches and slammed doors. Because your dad somehow always found a way to make you feel seventeen again in the worst possible sense. Because your stepmother looked at you like something inconvenient she accidentally stepped in.
Instead, you shrug one shoulder casually. “Figured I’d switch it up this summer.”
“Mm.” That’s all Eddie says, just that soft little hum.
But his eyes linger on you for a second too long, like he hears the thing you’re not saying anyway.
Thankfully, Violet cuts in before the moment can settle too heavily. “Dad, tell her who’s coming over later.”
“Oh, right.” Eddie pushes off the van slightly. “Gruncle Wayne’s coming for dinner.”
You blink. “...Gruncle?”
Eddie immediately looks offended. “You never heard of a gruncle?”
“No sane person says gruncle.”
“It’s efficient!”
Violet laughs around her next hit before explaining, “Wayne’s technically my great uncle, but he’s basically my grandpa, so. Gruncle.”
“And he practically raised me,” Eddie adds, softer this time. “My uncle Wayne’s a good guy.”
There’s something fond in his expression when he says it.
You smile slightly. “Okay, gruncle’s actually kinda cute with context.”
“Thank you,” Eddie says dramatically, pointing at you. “See? She gets it.”
“Oh my god,” Violet mutters. “You found one person willing to entertain you, and now you’re never gonna shut up.”
“Correct.”
Eddie takes the joint from your fingers again before you can protest, bumping your shoulder lightly with his own as he does it. Still enough to make your stomach do something embarrassingly stupid.
“C’mon,” Violet says eventually, nudging off the van. “Before my dad starts his old man routine and lectures us about unloading the car.”
“I heard that,” Eddie calls behind you both.
“Good.”
You laugh quietly, grabbing one of your bags from the trunk while Eddie takes the heavier suitcase before you can argue. “Oh, I can—”
“Nope.” He shuts the trunk with one hand. “Guest privilege.”
“You say that now.”
“Sweetheart, I survived raising her.” He jerks his head toward Violet. “Nothing scares me anymore.”
“Wow.” Violet dramatically places a hand over her heart. “And in front of company.”
The inside of the house feels exactly like you expected, somehow. Warm lighting. Faint smell of coffee and cigarettes lingering in the air. Records stacked beside the stereo. Band posters framed on the walls like actual art pieces.
The kind of house where people actually exist in it instead of just passing through. Which weirdly makes something in your chest ache a little.
Violet leads you down the hallway while Eddie disappears toward the kitchen, already calling out something about beer and Wayne coming over “starving as usual.”
Then Violet swings open a door dramatically. “And here,” she announces, “is your luxurious guest suite.”
You step inside and immediately laugh. The “guest room” is really just a room someone shoved a bed into and hoped for the best.
There’s a full-length mirror leaning against the wall, an old wooden chair covered in clothes, and approximately six guitars scattered around the room alongside amps and tangled cords. Cases were shoved beneath the bed, and picks littered the nightstand.
You turn slowly. “...Jesus Christ.”
“I told you,” Violet grins. “My dad has a guitar hoarding problem.”
A voice pipes up from behind you instantly. “They are lovingly curated.”
You glance back to find Eddie leaning against the doorway now, beer bottle in hand. His eyes flick toward the guitar case slung over your shoulder, then back to you.
“Wait,” he says, straightening slightly. “You play?”
Something about how immediately excited he sounds makes you smile. “A little.”
“A little,” Violet repeats mockingly. “She’s being humble. She’s good.”
“Oh shit.” Eddie points at you like this is groundbreaking information. “You didn't tell me that!”
“You literally met me twenty minutes ago.”
“And you decided to withhold that valuable piece of information.”
Violet gestures vaguely around the room. “Unfortunately, there’s no space left for your guitar because my father and I are addicts.”
“Hey,” Eddie says defensively. “Half this stuff is yours.”
“Yeah, because you fed into my addiction.”
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
Violet snorts while Eddie grins into his beer bottle, and again, that warmth settles over the entire house so naturally that it almost catches you off guard. Like this is just what they’re like.
Loud, sarcastic, comfortable with each other; a real family. It makes your chest feel weird in a way you don’t want to unpack right now.
“Well,” Eddie says after another second, pushing off the doorway. “Make yourself at home, sweetheart. Wayne’ll be here in an hour, and if Vi didn’t warn you already, he’s gonna interrogate you lovingly.”
“I’ll prepare myself emotionally.”
“Good plan.”
His eyes flick toward you one last time before he disappears down the hallway. And the second he’s gone, Violet whips and pulls you toward her room so fast it’s genuinely alarming.
“Oh my god.”
You narrow your eyes immediately. “Don’t.”
“You think my dad’s hot.”
“I do not—”
“You absolutely do.”
“Violet.”
“He stole the joint from you, and you let him.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” She throws herself dramatically onto her bed. “Honestly? Respect.”
You scoff, sitting beside her. “Your father is like forty.”
“Thirty-nine.”
“That does not help your case.”
“It kinda does.”
You grab one of her throw pillows and smack her with it immediately while she cackles. “You’re insane.”
“And you wanna fuck my dad.”
“Oh, my god.”
“I’m just saying—”
“It’s all fun and games until I become your stepmom or something.” The words leave your mouth entirely on instinct.
Then Violet sits bolt upright so fast it’s horrifying, and her eyes widen. Then slowly, slowly, a grin spreads across her face so evil it should honestly be studied professionally.
“Oh,” she says. “Oh, this summer is about to be so interesting.”
“You’re a sick individual, y'know that?”
About forty-five minutes later, the house smells like takeout pizza, cigarette smoke drifting in from the open kitchen window, and whatever cologne Eddie sprayed on himself after his shower.
Not that you noticed, at all. Heh.
You’re perched on the counter beside Violet, nursing a beer while she digs through the fridge for ranch. Eddie’s leaning against the opposite counter in a fresh shirt now, curls still damp at the ends from his shower, tattoos on full display beneath pushed-up sleeves.
Which feels targeted, honestly.
Then the front door swings open. “Hellooo!” a voice calls.
“Kitchen!” Violet yells back instantly.
Heavy footsteps echo through the house before an older man appears around the corner carrying a twelve-pack under one arm.
Wayne looks exactly how you imagined he would, somehow. Weathered Carhartt jacket despite the heat, graying beard, tired kind eyes. The sort of face that looks permanently worn in from years of hard work and little sleep.
The second Violet sees him, she hops off the counter. “Gruncle!”
“There’s my girl.” Wayne smiles immediately, opening one arm for her to hug him. “Missed me already?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Brat.”
He presses a kiss to the top of her head anyway before finally noticing you standing there beside Eddie.
Wayne pauses, looks between you and Violet once, then twice.
“What are you two, siamese twins?”
You burst out laughing instantly. Because honestly? Fair.
You and Violet are both standing there in shorts and oversized band tees, tattoos exposed, silver jewelry glinting beneath the kitchen lights like matching warning labels.
“Basically,” Violet says proudly.
Wayne shakes his head fondly before stepping toward you. “Wayne Munson.” He offers his hand. “Nice to finally put a face to the name. Heard about you for years now.”
You shake his hand, smiling. “That bad, huh?”
“Nah.” He jerks a thumb toward Violet. “If she keeps somebody around longer than a semester, they’re usually alright.”
“Wow,” Violet says flatly. “Love the faith in me.”
“You ate glue in second grade.”
“That was one time.”
Wayne ignores her completely, attention turning back toward you. “Where you from, sweetheart?”
“Chicago.”
“Oh, big city girl,” he nods knowingly. “What’d Hawkins ever do to deserve that?”
“She lost a bet,” Eddie says from beside you.
You snort into your beer. “I’m starting to think everyone in this town’s contractually obligated to insult Hawkins at least once an hour.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Eddie says seriously. “It’s tradition.”
The kitchen settles into easy conversation after that. Wayne telling stories about Eddie as a teenager while Violet heckles both of them relentlessly from the counter.
Eddie threatening to expose childhood stories in retaliation. Beer bottles clinking against countertops while some old metal album plays low through the speakers in the living room.
And it’s strange how quickly you settle into it. Like you’ve been in this kitchen before. Like, there’s already a place carved out for you between all their sarcasm and noise.
At one point, Wayne glances toward you while Eddie and Violet argue over music in the other room.
Then he leans slightly closer. Quietly, conspiratorially, he says, “Good luck surviving those two.”
You grin into your beer. “Think I’ll manage.”
By midnight, Violet is fully unconscious. Not dead, despite Eddie checking twice. Just absolutely obliterated by the combination of beer, pizza, and insisting she could “totally outdrink” both you and her father.
Which apparently she could not.
“She gets that from you, by the way,” you whisper as Eddie throws a blanket over her sleeping form, sprawled diagonally across the bed.
“Absolutely not.”
“She literally fell asleep holding a breadstick.”
“That’s called efficiency.”
You laugh quietly while Eddie shakes his head fondly at his daughter before shutting her bedroom door most of the way behind you both.
Wayne headed home an hour ago after dramatically claiming he was “too old for this shit.” The TV’s off. The kitchen cleaned up except for a couple of empty beer bottles sitting beside the sink.
You linger awkwardly for a second in the hallway, then reach into your pocket for your cigarettes.
“I’m gonna go outside for a minute.”
Eddie glances toward the pack in your hand and nods knowingly. “Yeah, me too.”
Of course he is.
The night air is cooler now, wrapping around your bare arms and legs as you step out onto the front porch. Crickets hum loudly in the grass while somewhere down the street, a dog barks once before going quiet again.
Small town silence, the kind you’re still not used to.
You sit on the porch steps while Eddie leans against the railing beside you, flicking his lighter open. The flame briefly catches across his rings and tattoos before he cups it toward your cigarette first.
A gentleman, unfortunately.
“You know,” he says after a second, smoke curling from his mouth, “you’re handling Hawkins suspiciously well so far.”
“I’ve only been here like six hours.”
“And yet you haven’t tried to flee.”
“Maybe I’m waiting until tomorrow.”
“Smart.”
You grin faintly, staring out toward the dark street ahead of you. For a minute, neither of you says anything. Just smoke quietly beside each other while the porch light buzzes overhead.
“So what’s the real reason you came here?”
You glance toward him automatically. “Hm?”
“The real reason.” He gestures vaguely with his cigarette. “Because no offense, sweetheart, but no twenty-one-year-old voluntarily spends their summer in Hawkins unless they’re hiding from something or recovering from something.”
You try to cover it with a laugh. “You always interrogate your daughter’s friends like this?”
“Nah.” His eyes meet yours then. “Just you.”
Your stomach does something deeply irritating. You look away first, exhaling smoke slowly. “My family’s just… a lot.”
Eddie stays quiet, not the impatient kind of silence either. The kind that waits.
You shrug one shoulder eventually. “My dad remarried a couple of years ago. She hates me, I hate her, my dad pretends none of it’s happening.”
“That sucks.”
You glance toward him again. “Yeah. It does.”
He nods once like he understands something you didn’t fully say out loud. Then, because apparently he can sense when you’re getting too vulnerable, the corner of his mouth tugs upward.
“Well.” He takes another drag. “Good news is you’re safe here.”
Your brows lift slightly. “Safe?”
“Yeah.” He gestures toward the house behind you. “Vi likes you, Wayne likes you, and I already decided you’re tolerable.”
You laugh softly. “That so?”
“Mhm.”
“You decide that before or after stealing my joint?”
“That was actually the deciding factor.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. Eddie watches you for another second before speaking again.
“Plus,” he adds casually, “you’re pretty.”
You cough once, glaring immediately while Eddie grins outright now.
“Oh my god,” you mutter. “You flirt like a divorced dad.”
“I am a divorced dad.”
“Were you ever even married?”
“Details.”
You laugh again before you can stop yourself, and Eddie’s expression shifts slightly when he hears it. Like he enjoys making you laugh a little too much already.
Which feels dangerously good. Especially when he looks at you like that beneath the dim porch light, cigarette between his fingers, curls falling into his face while the entire town sleeps around you both.
“For real, though,” he says quietly. “Thanks for being good to my kid.”
The sincerity catches you off guard enough that you blink at him.
Eddie shrugs one shoulder, eyes drifting toward the house behind you. “Vi acts tough, but she’s always had a hard time letting people in. Most people don’t really… stick around.”
“She’s my best friend,” you say simply. “I don’t know where I’d be without her.”
Eddie looks back at you then, and whatever he sees makes something warm settle into his expression.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I can tell.”
Then Eddie clears his throat slightly, the teasing glint returning to his eyes before the moment can get too heavy.
“Still think you’re trouble, though.”
You scoff immediately. “Me?”
“Mhm.” He points at you with his cigarette. “You walked into my house lookin’ like… And now my daughter’s already smoking weed and passed out drunk.”
“She was smoking weed before I got here.”
“Yeah, but now she has an audience.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” Eddie says, stepping closer just enough for his shoulder to brush yours lightly again, “you’re still out here talking to me.”
Your stomach flips in the most humiliating way imaginable, especially when he smiles afterward.
You should probably move away; that feels like the smart thing to do here.
Instead, you stay exactly where you are, cigarette dangling loosely between your fingers while Eddie sits close enough now that you can feel the heat coming off him in the cool night air.
Which is maybe a problem. A huge one, actually.
Because he’s your best friend’s dad. Because you’re living in his house all summer. Because Violet would absolutely lose her mind if she knew the way her father was currently looking at you.
And worst of all, because you really, really want him to keep doing it. You exhale slowly, trying to gather at least one coherent thought.
“I dunno if we should do this,” you admit quietly.
Eddie’s brows lift slightly. “Do what?”
“You know what.”
His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Sweetheart, all I’ve done is compliment you and steal your weed.”
“You’re flirting with me.”
“Guilty.”
You groan softly, rubbing a hand over your face. “Eddie.”
The way his name sounds coming out of your mouth makes his expression shift for half a second.
Then, casually, as anything, he says: “What, you worried about becoming Vi’s stepmom?”
Your eyes widen so fast it’s honestly embarrassing. Eddie immediately breaks into a grin.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. “She told you?”
“Nope.”
“Then how do you—”
“The walls in this house are paper-thin, sweetheart.” He takes another drag from his cigarette, clearly enjoying your horror. “And you two were not exactly quiet.”
You physically cover your face with both hands. “Oh my fucking god.”
From somewhere behind your palms, you hear Eddie laugh. Entirely too pretty sounding for a man his age, honestly.
“I’m gonna die,” you mumble.
“Nah.”
“I need Violet to actually kill me with her bare hands immediately.”
“She’d probably just ask if she needed to leave the house for us.”
You lower your hands just enough to glare at him. “That is not helping.”
“Sorry,” Eddie says, still visibly amused. “Just tryin’ to make you feel better.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“A little.”
The porch light catches the silver in his rings when he reaches over and gently pulls your cigarette from your fingers before it burns too close to your skin.
The gesture is so absentmindedly caring that it almost does you in completely. Then he hands his back, and your fingers brush his.
And suddenly neither of you are smiling quite as much anymore. Eddie looks at you for a long second before speaking again, quieter this time.
“Listen,” he says. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable.”
You shake your head immediately. “You’re not.”
That answer comes out a little too fast. His eyes flick down to your mouth for the briefest second before back up again.
“Good,” he murmurs.
Your heart stumbles over itself. Because there’s something almost unfair about the way he looks at you right now. Like he’s trying very hard to behave himself, and failing a little.
“You’re trouble,” you whisper.
Eddie smiles slowly.
“Sweetheart,” he says softly, “you walked into my house looking like that. We’re way past figuring out who the trouble is.”
The porch conversation lingers for a couple more minutes. Eddie’s looking at you like he’s already decided how the rest of the night is going to go, and you’re pretending your thighs aren’t pressed together under the thin fabric of your sleep shorts.
You don’t remember who moved first. Just that one second you’re both standing there, the next his mouth is on yours; slow at first, like he’s giving you an out, then deeper when you grab the front of his shirt and pull him closer.
He tastes like smoke and mint and something that makes your head spin. His hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw, rings cool against your flushed skin.
“Inside,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough. “Before I bend you over these steps like a fucking animal.”
You laugh breathlessly, but your pulse is hammering. He walks you backward through the quiet house, one hand on your waist, the other pushing open the door to his bedroom at the end of the hall.
The second it clicks shut behind you, the restraint snaps.
Eddie kisses you like he’s starving; tongue, teeth, hands everywhere. He peels your tank top off, groans low when he sees you’re not wearing a bra. His mouth is on your tits immediately, sucking hard enough to make you gasp, one hand kneading the other while he backs you toward his bed.
“Been thinking about this since you stepped out of that car,” he admits, voice gravelly. He pushes you down onto the mattress and drops to his knees between your spread thighs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Look at you. Fuck.”
He doesn’t tease. He yanks your shorts and panties down in one rough tug, spreads your legs wider, and buries his face in your center like a man on a mission.
You choke on a moan.
He eats you like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else, long, filthy licks from your entrance to your clit, sucking your clit into his mouth with obscene wet sounds, tongue fucking into you while his hands pin your hips down.
His curls tickle your thighs, nails digging into your skin, and when he groans against you, the vibration shoots straight up your spine.
“Eddie...fuck—”
He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny, eyes dark. “Taste so fucking good, sweetheart. College boys ever eat this pretty pussy like this?”
He dives back in before you can answer, two thick fingers sliding into you, curling just right.
You swear under your breath, hips grinding against his face. He doesn’t let up. Not when your thighs start shaking. Not when you’re whimpering his name like a prayer.
He sucks your clit hard and curls his fingers again, and you come so suddenly it punches the air out of your lungs, back arching off the bed.
He keeps licking you through it, gentler now, until you’re twitching and oversensitive.
When he finally pulls back, his chin is glistening. He wipes it with the back of his hand like it’s nothing, then stands up and strips his shirt off. The sight of him, tattoos, scars, that happy trail leading down into his jeans, makes your mouth water.
He grabs something from the nightstand drawer. A sleek black vibrator. Your eyebrows shoot up.
Eddie smirks, climbing over you. “Not competition, baby. Just gonna make you feel even better.” He kisses you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, while he works his jeans open. His cock is thick, flushed, and beyond what you had imagined. He strokes himself once, twice, watching your face.
“You sure?” he asks, suddenly serious for half a second.
You nod, pulling him down. “Yes. Please.”
He lines himself up, then presses the vibrator against your clit on the lowest setting, the buzz making you jolt.
He pushes in slow, inch by inch, until he’s buried to the hilt, stretching you open in the best way.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “So fucking wet for me.”
He starts moving. Deep, rolling thrusts that make your toes curl. The vibrator stays pressed to your center the whole time, buzzing steadily while he fucks you.
Every stroke grinds it harder against you. You’re moaning loud enough that you’re glad Violet’s passed out cold down the hall.
Eddie’s experienced; there’s no other way to say it. He knows exactly how to angle his hips, when to speed up, and when to grind deep. He watches your face the entire time, drinking in every reaction.
“Nobodies fucked you like this, huh?” he rasps, voice wrecked as he snaps his hips harder. “Don’t eat you like this? Don’t make this pretty pussy cream all over their cock?”
You shake your head, nails digging into his back. “N-no, Eddie, fuck—”
He clicks the vibrator up a setting, and you nearly scream. The combination is devastating; his thick cock dragging against your walls, the relentless buzz on your clit, the way he’s looking at you like he wants to devour you whole.
He leans down, mouth against your ear. “Gonna make you come again. Want to feel you squeezing me when you do.”
You do, hard. The orgasm crashes over you so intensely that your vision whites out for a second. Eddie fucks you through it, cursing under his breath, pace turning punishing.
He pulls the vibrator away only when you’re whimpering, then flips you over onto your stomach like you weigh nothing. He pulls your hips up and sinks back into you in one smooth thrust, hand reaching around to circle your oversensitive clit with his fingers.
“Again,” he growls. “One more, sweetheart. Give it to me.”
You’re a mess. Face buried in his pillow, ass up, drooling and moaning while he rails you from behind. The wet slap of skin, his low groans, the way he keeps telling you how good you feel, how perfect you are, it all sends you spiraling again.
When you come the third time, clenching around him like a vice, Eddie finally lets go. He buries himself deep and comes with a broken groan of your name, hips stuttering, body shuddering against yours.
For a long minute, the only sounds are both of you trying to catch your breath.
Eddie pulls out carefully, then collapses beside you and pulls you into his chest. His hand strokes down your back, lazy and soothing.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead. “You’re gonna kill me this summer.”
You laugh weakly, still floating. “Good thing you’re experienced.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Damn right.”
You wake slowly to warmth and the faint smell of cigarettes. For a second, you’re disoriented. Heavy blankets. Morning light spilling gold through half-open blinds. A tattooed arm wrapped loosely around your waist.
Then everything from last night comes rushing back at once.
Oh. Oh, fuck.
Before you can spiral too hard, lips press softly against your shoulder, then your neck.
“Mornin’, sweetheart.” Eddie’s voice is rough with sleep.
You turn your head slightly to find him propped up on one elbow beside you, curls an absolute disaster, dark tattoos disappearing beneath the sheets pooled low on his hips. It’s deeply unfair that he still looks this good at six in the morning.
“You have work,” you mumble sleepily.
“I know.” He kisses you once more, quick and lazy this time. “Tryin’ very hard to be responsible about it.”
“Mm. Don’t.”
Eddie laughs softly under his breath like he can’t help it. “Dangerous thing to say to a man already running late.”
You grin against the pillow while he leans down to kiss you properly this time. Slow enough to make your stomach flip all over again. When he pulls back, he brushes his thumb along your cheek once before sighing dramatically.
“Unfortunately,” he says, “car engines wait for no man.”
“Tragic.”
“I know. I’m devastated too.”
You watch him drag himself out of bed, immediately mourning the loss of warmth while he pulls on jeans and a black work shirt.
He catches you staring when he turns around. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You were checking me out.”
“I absolutely was not.”
“Sweetheart, I’m forty, not blind.”
“Thirty-nine,” you correct automatically.
Eddie points at you immediately. “See? You know the number now. That’s intimacy.”
Eventually, you force yourself out of bed too, tugging your pajamas back on while Eddie disappears into the kitchen. By the time you walk out there, he’s pouring coffee into two mugs.
The domesticity of it hits you like a truck.
Eddie, standing in his kitchen in work boots and rolled sleeves, making you coffee like this is normal. Like this happens all the time.
He glances over when he hears you, then visibly pauses.
“What?” you ask suspiciously.
His mouth twitches. “Nothin’.”
“Eddie.”
“You put your shirt on inside out.”
You look down immediately. Fuck.
“You could’ve told me sooner!”
“Nah.” He slides a mug toward you, smirking into his own coffee. “This is way funnier.”
You flip him off while fixing it properly, and Eddie just laughs again before checking the clock.
“Shit. Okay, I really gotta go.”
He downs the rest of his coffee, grabs his keys off the counter, then pauses beside you on his way to the door. For a second, he just looks at you.
Then he leans down and kisses you once, quick but warm enough to make your face heat immediately afterward.
“Behave while I’m gone,” he says.
“You first.”
Eddie grins. “Impossible.”
Then he’s gone.
You linger in the kitchen for a while after, nursing your coffee and trying very hard not to think too deeply about the fact that you just spent the night in your best friend’s dad’s bed. Which works for approximately twelve minutes.
An hour later, Violet finally shuffles into the kitchen looking half-dead.
“Morning,” she rasps.
“Morning.”
She grabs orange juice from the fridge before narrowing her eyes at you suspiciously over the carton.
You immediately tense. “What?”
“…Nothin’.”
“Violet.”
She squints harder, then her eyes slowly widen. “Oh, my god.”
Your stomach drops instantly. “What?”
“You fucked my dad.”
You nearly choke on your coffee. “I did not—”
“Your shirt’s on backwards, genius.”
You look down. Again?!
“Oh my fucking god.”
Violet bursts out laughing so hard she physically has to lean against the counter.
“You’re an idiot,” she wheezes.
“I hate this house.”
“No, you don’t.”
You bury your face in your hands while Violet continues cackling like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to her.
Finally, muffled through your fingers, you groan: “Why are you being so weirdly okay about this?”
Violet shrugs, still grinning. “Because I genuinely don’t care.”
“You should care!”
“Why?”
“Because that’s your father!”
“And you’re my best friend.” She takes a casual sip of juice. “Honestly, this is kinda ideal. Now, if you marry him, you legally can’t move out of my life.”
You stare at her in horror.
Violet points at you immediately. “Also, to be clear? I called this the second he stole your joint.”
“I’m leaving.”
“No, you’re not.”
“…Probably not.”
“Exactly.” She grins wickedly. “Besides, this is funny as hell for me personally.”
“You are a sick individual, Violet Munson!”
“Yeah, yeah. Take a number.”
personally? i am HERE for this fic. lawd knows i love me a good older man, and an older eddie? phew.
Summary: You’ve grown weary of your virtue, and, unfortunately for Eddie, you’ve hatched a plan to lose it to a stranger tonight. But why are you telling him this if not to extend an open invitation to foil your plans?
Word Count: 15.9k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, angst, fluff, PiV unprotected sex, condom removal during sex, loss of virginity, virginity talk and shame around still having it, lots of yearning, teasing, cream pie, fingering, oral sex (fem rec), nicknames (sweetheart, sweets, pretty girl, etc.), dirty talk, arguing, best friends to lovers, jealousy, possessiveness, mention of vomit (not R or E), bad first time (not R), mention of a hypothetical junk-punch, one instance of R described to have breasts with a little weight to them, if I missed anything lmk!
Song Rec: Pavlov’s Bell by Aimee Mann
A/N: I herald his beginning. I herald your end. I herald…experienced!eddie. It’s been a while since I’ve posted a oneshot, and I tried something new with how I wrote this, so pls lemme know how you guys feel about it <33333 Born from this ask!
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“So, what do you think?” you eagerly ask.
Eddie’s sitting across from you in the small metal chair, his fingers threaded as they rest on the laminated wooden table in his trailer. His expression is still—frozen. He’s not too sure what to make of your plan.
Honestly, he’s waiting for you to laugh and tell him it was just a joke. A very unfunny, crass joke.
But you don’t, and after what feels like an eternity, he manages a response.
“That is the worst fucking idea I’ve ever heard, sweetheart, and I listen to every single one of Gareth’s ‘million-dollar-cashgrabs.’”
He shakes his head with careful subtlty—like any sudden movement will scare you into actually committing to this plan.
Disbelief clouds his features, heavy and foreboding like the sky before a summer squall—
The nerve. The gumption. The audacity so potent on such an unassuming young woman.
You want to lose your virginity to a stranger and you’re, what, warning him first?
It’s like you want him to disrupt your plans.
He watches you roll your eyes, all pursed lips and impudence.
“Oh, seriously?” you sass. “Calm down. It’s really not that big of a deal.”
Eddie practically chokes on his scoff, and the strangled sound ripples over your body, drawing out the look he knows well. Annoyance—it forces you to sit up straight.
You squirm in your seat for a moment, like a million tiny ants are marching up your spine, dancing over the tension in your shoulders. And he knows…the argument is imminent, but not before he speaks his piece—
“Not that big of a deal? Sweetheart, stubbing your toe is not that big of a deal. Forgetting to check the mail is not that big of a deal,” his voice raises as he gestures wildly, feeling like a Bible Belt preacher wailing about temptation of the flesh. “Losing your virginity? To a stranger? That’s a pretty big-fuckin’-deal!”
Again, you roll your eyes—blatantly disregarding the way his head cocks and his own eyes narrow in warning. He hates when you do that. When you brush him off so easily, like he’s dust on your pristine shoulder—
A quiet chuckle leaves your lips as you avert your gaze, suddenly finding the speckled laminate far more interesting.
Like a puppy hearing an unfamiliar noise, Eddie’s head cocks back the other way, trying to figure out what exactly he said that has you laughing. Usually he loves the sound, but he doesn’t like the tone of this one. There’s something deeply derisive buried beneath the nonchalant surface.
“I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the joke there, sweets. Care to clue me in?” he rasps, goading you.
A jeering smirk pulls at your lips, like you’re finding his simmering temper and deepening voice increasingly amusing.
After another soft huff—a sound that could almost be mistaken for a scoff—you level him with a penetrating look, your smirk slowly splitting into an incredulous grin.
“Sorry,” you start, but a chuckle bubbles up your throat, catching on the clearly insincere apology. “Sorry, I just find this whole thing very funny.”
Eddie sucks his teeth as he watches you shrug dismissively—no longer backing down, no longer avoiding his darkening gaze. He lets your words sit in the air, hoping their stuffy bitterness will suffocate you into surrender, but instead, they seem to brandish your skin like armor.
And just like that, out comes your most dangerous weapon: your self-satisfaction.
From all his years with you, he knows, when your complacency reaches an all-time high, there’s almost no way to change your mind. You’ve already doubled down once, and you’re about to batten down the hatches. Because more than anything, he knows you hate being wrong and hate it even more when you’re told you’re wrong.
And through festering nerves and itchy discomfort, Eddie realizes he just shot your idea down and danced on its grave.
Of course, he wouldn’t have had such a strong reaction if it weren’t such a sensitive topic. But you don’t know that. All you’ve heard so far is you’re wrong, and I know more than you.
It’s moments like these where Eddie curses his motormouth—his almost comical inability to shut up, or, god forbid, consider what he means before he opens his trap. And until he finally learns his lesson, he figures he’s doomed to live with his foot in his mouth for all eternity.
With you shifting in your seat, and time ticking against him, he knows this bomb is going to need an extra delicate defusal. But he’s not certain he can remain level-headed about this subject matter.
Not when it’s you.
Not when damned images of a faceless man caressing you plays in technicolor through his mind. Because sometime ago, somewhere along the night drives and the lazy days, his wires got crossed. And now those wires are sparking, threatening to burn him through and through.
Maybe you’re not the bomb, after all.
“Oh, you find it funny, do you?” he questions, nodding his head.
“Well, yeah. You’re sitting here trying to tell me that, what, losing your virginity is supposed to be special?” you mockingly ask, your features alight with mirth. It’s like you’re a bloodhound catching a scent—the scent of sweet, sweet hypocrisy.
Eddie opens his mouth to answer your rhetorical question, because…yes.
For you?
Yes, it should be special—
“You know what? I want you to go look in a mirror and say what you just said to me, and see if you don’t laugh too.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he argues, jerking his head back. Your words might as well have physically manifested themselves into a slap because that’s how they feel, acidic and seeping into his skin with a sting.
“Please! You remember telling me about your first time? You came to school the next day bragging to me and the Hellfire guys about hooking up with some older chick in the bathroom at the Hideout! Remember that? You wore it like a badge of honor!”
He had taken you in as a freshman, just like he did every lost soul. Battling off the stifling monotony of high school together, it was no surprise you developed a crush on him. He was—is—so sweet. So funny. So unlike anyone you had ever met.
He would play the fool just to make you laugh, but he’d defend your honor in an instant. Your very own protection against the venomous cheerleaders and mouth-breathing jocks.
When he would get himself going about something or other, marching along the tops of the lunch tables, it was like staring straight into the sun. You bloomed under his gleaming rays, flowering and reaching toward his warmth with every wild grin, every silly headshake, every teasing joke.
He was addicting, and you would come bounding into lunch every day itching for a fix.
Then you were a sophomore and Eddie was a senior—for the first time.
One day, he came in with a new story to tell, and no amount of sunshine could restore your wilting leaves, your shriveling flowers. No amount of water could satisfy the buds that never got to grow and now never would—
Every prideful sentence—every dirty detail boasting the changed man he had become—acted like a rain of pesticide on your delicate ecosystem.
It was a level of desecration you couldn’t undo if you wanted to.
And you weren’t sure you were even strong enough to try.
Because it became clear that day, he wasn’t yours. He wouldn’t be yours.
You couldn’t see him the same after that. The chemicals contaminated the image, degrading and defacing the likeness.
He wasn’t the man you used to dream about every night.
He didn’t look like he once had—so soft, so sweet. A man able to rot your teeth right out of your skull if you allowed him the honor.
A man so saccharine and delicate, like candy floss.
But maybe it was the image of him that was delicate—not truly him.
After all, your tears melted the wisps pretty easily.
All that was left was piles of sugar—too wet for consumption, and not in the right form—and a crash unrivaled by any confectionery you’d ever had.
White, hot anger seeps from every pore in Eddie’s skin, replaced by the shocking chill of a memory he’s tried very hard to forget.
He feels like throwing up—
This. This, right here, is why he’s vehemently opposing your plan. This feeling constricting his chest, like not enough fresh air in the world could inflate his lungs—
He thought the experience was cool at first. He thought he was being totally “metal.”
But he was just being used.
The woman never asked his name, and when he tried to talk to her, she crudely told him to focus less on talking and more on fucking. It was a mortifying experience. He almost wasn’t able to finish from the sheer embarrassment of it all, but eighteen year old hormones were a thing to behold.
And despite what he would have everyone around him believe, he still cared way too much about what people thought of him. So he strutted into lunch the next day, hopping up on his soapbox to spread the good word of his monumental conquest. High from the excitement of the boys, he embellished most of the story.
And now, here you are, sitting in front of him, smug as can be, thinking you’re proving your point with his own hypocrisy.
But he’s not a hypocrite.
He’s just a liar.
He has lied to you about a lot of things and, funnily enough, all those things seem to be crawling out of their grassy graves, hungry to take a chunk out of him.
Because as much as you may think you’ve cornered him with a “gotcha” moment, your reminder of his past transgressions only makes him all the more passionate about how you should spend your first time.
He can’t let you feel how he felt.
Not you.
You deserve better than empty touches and unfeeling words.
“You wore it like a badge of honor!”
Your voice echoing in his mind has a sentiment never meant to be revealed tumbling past his lips with frightening ease—
“Yeah, and I lied!”
Slowly, your self-satisfied smile falls off your face. Confusion overtakes your confidence.
Capitalizing on your stunned silence, Eddie continues—
“That first time was fucking awful! I felt like shit. I only acted like it was good because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do…. Because I was stupid and young.” He utters the words with disdain, mortification and frustration mixing low in his gut until he feels more flammable than ever.
“It wasn’t good,” he repeats, a frown etched tightly into his features. “It just made me feel…empty.”
Your silence weighs heavy on his shoulders; selfishly, he steals a glance at you, at the crease in your brows and the way you seem to be reflecting. He can almost see you reliving that day in your head, searching for any twitch of an eye, any too-quick-to-fall smiles.
But he’s a good liar. Always has been. Even when it comes to you.
The idle hum of electricity coursing into the yellow bulb above him acts as the soundtrack to your response.
“Well, I don’t plan on doing it in the Hideout bathroom, so I think we’re good there,” you shrug.
Eddie purses his lips; he knows it’s deliberate. What you’re doing, it’s purposeful, and you’re doing it to piss him off. Because you’re pissed off.
Your eyes narrow at his, challenging him in the silence of the trailer.
A huff of air escapes through flared nostrils—he’s refraining.
But you’re killing him.
Sometimes you can be so difficult, but he wouldn’t stick around if he wasn’t addicted to the agony of trying to figure you out.
That’s half the fun of every conversation he’s had with you.
You push his buttons more than any woman he’s ever met, but you’ve twisted him up so bad, the only time he feels normal is when you’re looking at him. Doesn’t matter if it’s with anger or fondness or humor.
You’re a paradox he can’t sort out because you’ve made him like this—wires crossed and incendiary feelings—but you also have a way of fixing him. Though, it’s usually just to mangle him all over again.
And he’d like to be your only victim. He’d like to burn in only your pyre, if given the chance.
If given the chance.
If given the chance, he’d like to put a stop to this. And with the quasi-warning you’ve granted him, he feels this is as good a time as any to poke as many holes in your plan as he can—
“What’s the rush? Why now?”
He can see in your eyes, you’re taken aback by his question as your challenging gaze turns suspicious. “What do you mean, ‘Why now?’ Because I want to, that’s why.”
Your argument is slipping; petulance curls off you in plumes as thick as smoke. And the scent is sweet to him.
Eddie settles back in his chair, sliding his hips down—looking the epitome of leisure and apathy, he hopes. Though, unable to fully transform while walking the repressive tightrope, his left hand fiddles with the rings on his right—a nervous tick he hopes you’re too annoyed to notice.
“Well, yeah, but why not yesterday? Why not a month from now?” He shrugs, feeling flinty resentment sharpen his edges as he continues the onslaught of questions, now bordering on antagonistic. “Why not prom night a few years ago? Isn’t that where all the girls go to lose it? You went, you had a date. You could’ve.”
Your eye twitches.
“Because I didn’t want to, jackass. I’m ready now. I want to now…”
Instead of responding, Eddie just raises his brows, feeling unimpressed. Your words sit in the air, floating in between you both as they grow stale.
The soft whistle of the A/C unit and the ticking of the old clock on the wall make him feel like he’s trapped in this liminal space where conversations never truly end because nobody’s point ever actually gets made. Like he’s just meant to sit here, staring at you, both waiting for the other shoe to drop, but nothing comes. Because that’s not how the game is played.
Unfettered, Eddie continues to look at you, as though you’re something to be watched—consumed. A separate entity he can’t touch, but he can play the part of an onlooker, waiting for disaster to hit.
You squirm and shuffle in your seat. He observes. Waits. Gives you the space to tell on yourself because he knows you’re not strong enough to resist it.
Your eyes sporadically flit from his to random places in the trailer as you avoid his patient gaze.
After a few seconds, it appears the opened cereal box and empty beer cans across the room become a bore to you.
Slowly, your far-out gaze drops down the kitchen counter, landing on the floor, sliding to the side, and back up the table until it rests on his joined hands, fingers threaded, rings bulky and glinting in the dull glow of the humming bulb.
He sees the exact moment you buckle under his unyielding attention—the moment you give up. Your shoulders deflate the smallest amount, free of tension and low from submission. Your chest collapses under the expression of a deep, silent sigh.
“I’m tired of being a virgin,” you mutter, shame darkening every syllable. “I just want it over with, I don’t care anymore.”
Eddie purses his lips again, nodding, because he understands the feeling. He remembers the pressure. “And you don’t wanna wait to lose it to someone you love?”
You don’t respond. Don’t look at him. All you do is laugh. Just a quiet, humorless chuckle. A few notes of melody that tell him you’ve got a well of emotions, thoughts, and opinions on the subject that you’ll have to spare him for time’s sake.
But Eddie’s not in the business of letting you off easy. As much as you can be difficult sometimes, he can be far worse.
He can talk, and talk, and talk for hours. Stall forever if he needs to.
Suddenly, he sits up, hunching his shoulders forward, determined. “I think you should wait…. For someone you love,” he implores.
You roll your eyes again, as though he’s spinning you an opulent fantasy and swearing it’s true.
He crosses his arms, mirroring your own movement—
“Thank you for your input, I’ll take it into consideration.” You shoot him an insincere smile before looking up at the ceiling of the trailer, as if thinking, only to return your gaze to him seconds later. “Okay. I’ve considered it. And I’m choosing to ignore it.”
Eddie bristles, sucking in a quick breath to bolster his impending rebuttal, but you don’t even let him—
“I don’t know if you've noticed, Eddie, but there’s a distinct lack of guys lining down the block, waiting to woo me. And that’s fine, it’s whatever,” you shrug, shaking your head like you couldn’t be less bothered. “I can’t make someone love me. But this, I can control…”
You snort, mordacious words spewing from your perfect lips. “One thing I know about men is they may not be quick to love, but they’re certainly easy to seduce.”
Eddie shifts angrily in his seat. Not quick to love?
As if that could be true. Who in their right mind—
Part of him wants to yell at any guy who’s ever rejected you, but the other part—the dark, untamable ego—wants to jump up in celebration, in smug satisfaction that he’s not having to duel for your devotion.
But he doesn’t do either because love is awful.
It’s like staring into a mirror and all his worst flaws are staring back.
Right now, his selfishness is glaring at him, and yet, he can’t seem to care. That’s the worst part.
He should be good. He should be better for you. Should want to be better for you. It’s what you deserve. But you’ve done something irreversible to him.
And love is fickle.
Because, unfortunately, he can relate to you on one thing—the woes of not being able to make someone love you.
The pain of wanting it and not getting it.
If he could….
If he could get it…
If he could make someone love him—if it were possible—he wouldn’t be stuck here listening to you plot how you’re going to lose your virginity to some guy. Instead, he’d be half-way to the bedroom by now, your hand in his, and a million sweet kisses waiting for you.
But love is fickle.
“Okay, fine. Yeah, guys are easy, but you can’t lose it to a stranger. That’s probably the worst way to go about it,” he complains, regarding you with almost-pleading eyes.
You pause for a moment, your eyes narrow at the earnest display of caution on his face. But then you must remember this is the face of a liar, because—
“I mean…people hook up with people all the time. Some even after they’ve just met at a bar,” you pointedly argue, pinning Eddie to the spot with a time-hardened gaze.
His lip curls as he regrets ever opening his mouth that day in ‘84.
If he had known it would give you the perfect shield, allowing every argument he lobs at you to bounce off and hit him square in the chest, he would have never said a word. In fact, he has half a mind to create time travel just to go back and kick eighteen year old Eddie’s ass—
“And besides, I’m not doing it with a stranger. I was thinking of asking Jimmy Royston,” you shrug, focusing on the chipped nail polish you can’t seem to stop picking at. “I sat next to him in Chemistry, like, all of junior year.”
For the first time in what feels like forever—well, at least since you told him your plans for later—Eddie laughs. A boisterous, belly laugh that echoes around the trailer, the sound bouncing off the smoke-stained wallpaper and hitting every surface in sight.
Too busy wiping tears from his eyes, Eddie misses the way your face sours, your lips curling into a dangerous sneer.
He starts a few sentences that immediately devolve into gibberish and giggles when he pictures you and Jimmy Royston so much as speaking. God, his stomach hurts— He always did sat you were the funnier one out of you and him.
A terse ahem draws his attention back, and he tries to stop his body from shaking with heaving laughter.
“Oh, sorry. Phew! I needed that, I needed that.” He wipes some escaped tears off his cheeks. “Ohh, thank you, sweetheart, that was very funny. Thank you,” he says with a breathless grin, smoothing his shirt and rubbing his sore abdomen.
Staring at him with a heavy brow, your expression remains still—
When your facade doesn’t crack—when you don’t smirk and revel in how hard you made him break, like you usually do—Eddie’s smile drops off his face, replaced by unabashed incredulity.
You’re serious. You truly mean to tell him…Jimmy Royston is your man of choice? The guy who vomited all over himself in ninth grade when he had to dissect a frog in biology is the one you want to lose your virginity to? Jimmy ‘Puke-y’ Royston?
What’s more, your choice is based on a year of being lab partners? Really? Eddie has known you since freshman year—known of you since elementary school—and you’re choosing an acquaintance over him?
Not even an acquaintance—an obligatory desk-mate. How romantic. Touching, really—
He can’t help but imagine how that conversation would go. “Hey, Jimmy, remember me from Chem? Stoichiometry, am I right? That shit sucked. Anyway, do you wanna fuck me?”
All of a sudden, he starts considering whether he could win in a fight against the short, slim guy.
Who knows? It may come to that if he fucks this up and fails to convince you never to leave his trailer—especially not for Jimmy Royston.
“Sorry, you wanna have your first time with your eleventh grade chem partner? Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Eddie wails, a crazed, bemused look in his eyes as he leans forward over the table that separates you two.
You groan loudly, rolling your eyes so hard your head lolls back. “Oh, what now? You don’t want it to be a stranger, I said it’s not gonna be. Now you don’t want it to be someone I know? Seriously, Eddie, you’re grasping at straws here.”
“Someone you know? Jimmy is someone you know?” he scoffs, his brows lift so high they disappear into the messy curls of his bangs.
When you don’t say anything else, only pursing your lips and avoiding his fiery gaze, he nods fervently, his frizzy locks swaying softly with the movement.
“Yeah, well, of course. You guys go way back,” he mocks. “You know what, while you’re at it, why don’t you call up Chris Trilcek? You were paired up for that final presentation in world history freshman year. Bet he’d be a hoot-and-a-half in the sack, and I’m sure he’s free!”
“Oh, do you think I should?” you ask, staring off to the side of his frazzled face like you’re actually considering his teasing suggestion. “I mean it’d be nice to have options in case Jimmy isn’t up for it…”
Before Eddie has a chance to figure out if you’re being deliberately obtuse again, you’re up, leaving him to stare at the empty space across the table as you rifle through the junk-drawer in his kitchen.
Inside the deep drawer, stray batteries and an impressive rubber band ball roll about as you dig through a shocking amount of take-out menus. Once you find what you’re looking for, you make your way back to Eddie, plopping onto your chair, letting the item drop from your hands and onto the table with a loud thump.
Quickly, you split the phone book open, flipping through the flimsy pages to get to the ‘R’ section.
“What the f—”
Eddie shakes his head wildly, slamming his hand down on the binding of the book before he drags it to him and away from you—away from your deft, searching fingers.
“Hey!”
You reach across the table to pull the White Pages back, but before you can get your hands on it, he shoves the book off the surface like an attention-seeking cat. It goes flying, falling to the floor of the trailer with a loud, hollow thud.
“Hey! I need that, asshole!” you yell, vexation turning your tone shrill.
You stare into his eyes for a moment, annoyance cooking your insides like a stew as you’re met with utter indifference and what looks to be a hint of smugness. You’re going to kill him.
Stuck in another stand-off, neither of you move until you make the mistake of glancing at the ground, noting the landing spot of the heavy book, splayed out—frail pages folding under the weight of itself in haphazard creases. Eddie follows your gaze and that’s all it took to give away your next move.
In a flash, you turn, bending down, and reaching to the floor. Eddie matches your hasty movements as you both tumble out of your seats, trying to beat the other to the book. The very tips of your fingers brush the laminated cover when he lurches forward, pushing the book out of your grasp once more.
“Ugh!” you shriek as you scramble toward it, at an advantage because, though he got it away from you in that split-second, he still pushed it to your side of the room—further away from him. You feel a brush of wind against your bare skin as he swipes at your ankle, trying to catch the limb to drag you back to him, but you’re too quick. You get a hold of the book and stand up, rushing over to the yellow landline by the door.
“Fuck!” he shouts, clambering after you. The noises of you vigorously flipping through the pages and the click of the phone coming off the hook only seem to add to his panicked fervor.
Eddie comes to an abrupt stop behind you, his body nudging you closer to the wall with his nearly-uncontrolled speed. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, his chest warms your back as he breathes heavy.
Right as you’re about to start typing in the number you found for the Roystons, the phone lodged between your ear and shoulder disappears—yanked free, and slammed back onto the hook by a large, ringed hand.
Another annoyed groan tears from your throat as you feel his body loom ever-closer behind you. Hunching your shoulders, you turn away from his right hand—the one that guards the phone—to protect your precious White Pages. But it doesn’t work—
His left hand—the one you hadn’t noticed was resting on your hip—ambushes you from the other side.
Quickly, Eddie firmly presses the pads of his spread fingers onto the thin page you were reading from, and balls his hand into a tight fist, effectively ripping the delicate paper from the book, trapping it beneath his iron grip. In a fit of rage, you whirl around, leveling him with a sharp glare.
He backs away from you, fist still closed around the paper, shielding it from your inevitable reach. Slamming the book onto the side table beneath the phone, you march toward him.
“Eddie, what the fuck?” you yell, matching his retreating steps with your confident stride. When he runs out of space, you corner him against the far wall and the couch, zeroing in on his fist.
Eddie lifts his hand high above his head, fully aware of how silly this game of life-or-death keep-away is. But he’ll be damned if you get that fucking phone number.
As you reach for the crumpled paper, he uses his body to block you—leaning back when you lean forward, stretching and giving you more of his body to reach over. You grunt and mutter obscenities at him, balancing on your tip-toes, but nothing helps. You can’t reach it. He’s never been more overjoyed at his lanky stature than in this moment—
Giggles freely escape his grinning mouth while he watches laser-sharp focus and irritation mar your face as you shove him, trying to get him to break and finally give you the page. He’d never admit it to you because you’d probably junk-punch him—especially right now—but he’s loving the way you’re all over him.
Your touch is everywhere as you reach and pry for the bane of his existence. Not to mention you smell amazing. He has to stop himself from curling into your roving hands, but he must remain sturdy. For both of your sakes.
“Sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t think you’re tall enough to ride this ride,” he goads, utterly drunk on you.
You let out the loudest groan he’s ever heard from you, leading him to snicker some more. But he soon regrets his overconfident teasing when you give up on aiming directly for his hand and instead start pawing at his arm.
A sharp chop to the inside of his elbow sends shockwaves of dull pain through his nervous system as you use your full body weight to pull down on his raised arm, now partially crumpled from your assault to his joint.
In a moment of desperation—your body hanging from his flexing bicep, slowly but surely bringing it to your level—Eddie shoves the ball of paper into his mouth and releases the tension in his arm, dropping it to his side. The sudden slack causes you to nearly fall over, but before you do, he wraps his arms around your waist, catching you.
Your irate features melt into a look of disgust as you squirm out of his arms.
“Ew! Egh! That’s so gross, Eddie!”
“Mmm, phone book,” he taunts through a mouthful of White Pages.
“You know, that was your phone book, right? You just lost yourself a whole two pages of R’s,” you say, raising a brow.
“Don’t care.”
His petulance is muffled by the crumpled paper in his mouth, and he can’t help but cringe at the taste. Paper. It just tastes like paper. But old.
Suddenly, he sidesteps your body and crosses the room, heading back to the kitchen to throw the page away. He can feel the thin material softening from his saliva and it’s making him want to scrub his mouth out.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you watching him as he spits the wet slop into the garbage, sees the way you carefully step toward the phone again.
“Ugh, you’re a child.”
He pauses from scrubbing a towel over his tongue—attempting to clean any remaining pieces of paper from his mouth. “And you’re a brat.”
You huff at his declaration. “Am not!”
“Are too!” he rebuts, dropping the towel and coming out from around the counter.
“I’m just trying to tell you you’re gonna regret it! I’m on board with the ‘virginity is a concept’ train—hell, I’m the conductor! My point is, sure, it’s a concept, but it’s a concept with feelings attached to it. And feelings get all confusing and…feelings-y,” he rushes out, frustrated at how he can never find the right words when you’re around. “You might not believe it now, but if you go through with this, you’re gonna feel pretty shitty afterwards.”
He ends his spiel by crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the counter, staring at you. He’s said his piece.
You watch him for a moment, then—
“Great. Thank you for the wisdom, Gandalf. But how ‘bout you go share that with someone who cares? I’ve got a ‘T’ name to call.”
You turn around, pick up the phonebook once more, and flip through a few chunks of pages to get to the right section.
Eddie lets out a loud, defeated sigh as he lets his arms drop to his sides. “You’re really not gonna give this up?”
Scoffing, you shoot him a glare from across the room before looking back down at the list of names. “Exactly which part of ‘I’m gonna lose my virginity tonight’ did you not understand?”
He sucks his teeth as he watches your finger find Chris’s last name, your hand already reaching for the phone.
Fuck it—
“Fine. If you really wanna lose it to someone, and you don’t care who, then lose it to me,” he shrugs, crossing his arms again.
He glances away from your now-still figure, your shoulders so high, they’re nearly up to your ears.
Forcing a level of indifference he’s never quite been capable of—especially not when it comes to you—he stares downward, as if the well-worn carpet beneath his feet could ever be more interesting than the woman whose second home is his subconscious.
You’re pretty sure you can hear the fibers unfurling beneath his shifting feet. Or maybe it’s your feet. Maybe it’s your heartbeat in your ears, not his. Everything is a little confusing and you can’t seem to look away from the wall. It feels like a safe place to rest your unseeing eyes.
Your arm aches and you retract it from where you were reaching for the phone—you hadn’t made it, you were half-way there when he said it.
Carefully, you turn your head to him, trying to figure out if this is some shitty joke he’s spouting just to piss you off or if he has well and truly lost it. But his face is devoid of any humor and he looks as sane as he ever did—which was never a lot, but no different to now.
More than anything, he looks almost vulnerable as he avoids your shocked gaze.
“What? Eddie—” you start, already exasperated because you’ve decided that, even though he appears to be completely serious, he must be joking, “if this is another way for you to try and–”
“It’s not.” He shrugs his shoulders again, finally meeting your eyes while shoving his hands into the back pockets of his ripped jeans. “You win. I capitulate to her majesty.”
You raise a brow at the medieval lilt and his waving bow to you, but before you get to reprimand him for the joke, he continues—
“If you’re gonna go have sex with someone you feel nothing for, then why not feel nothing for me?”
You almost want to laugh at his “foolproof” logic, but the familiar pain in your chest is accompanied by something else. Something almost warm. Like rays of sun fighting through cumulonimbus clouds.
Damp dirt, new leaves, and fertilizer.
He’s offering something you only ever dreamed of like it never crossed your mind.
Like it would mean nothing.
An agreement. A one-time deal. No strings attached; an easy fix to your problem.
But what if you want strings?
Does he want strings?
Strings do get messy when left untied. All the criss-cross feelings and knotted touches.
But it’s him—
“Eds—”
Like he’s been burned by your solemn tone, Eddie cuts you off in a hurry. “At least it’d be with someone you know. Like really know…. Someone who cares about you—about your experience.”
The fragility in his eyes makes you want to console him. To tell him you believe every word. That you’re sure he would be good to you.
Because he looks like him—
The soft, sweet man you saw all those years ago. The one you prayed to at night like a deity, asking for a few more seconds of his hand on your lower back, or more moments of just you and him. More laughter, more affection, more time. More, more, more.
All the little things that molded you into a reverent devotee in the first place.
Asking for every small thing to bolster your faith.
And now, he’s finally offering something much larger.
Reaching for you with a divine gift.
How could you possibly say no?
Criss-cross feelings, you remind yourself.
Strings to tie your heart down, could be useful—
Fuck it.
Slowly, you set the phone book down and make your way over to his spot against the kitchen counter. Stopping right in front of him, you look up with hesitant curiosity.
You’ve never really been this close to him. Not with this much on the table.
Mindlessly—shamelessly—you glance at his lips before succumbing to the cloudy glint in his eyes, the darkness that falls like a veil over his once-lively irises.
There’s something there, you find.
Something else that swirls deep in the molten shade of brown.
Something you want to know more about.
Your hands hang uselessly below you, resting against your body as you nervously fiddle with your fingers. The pointed tip of your tongue glides along the soft skin of your lips, leaving your mouth parted—like a siren call to his.
You couldn’t be any closer to him. Butterflies flutter in your stomach as you feel the soft puffs of air from his wanton mouth. But you won’t move anymore.
You leave yourself for him. He can have you if he wants.
A sacrifice.
Eddie’s eyes rove over your face, looking down at the way you’re almost reaching for him, but it’s as if you won’t allow the touch. Won’t allow the crossing of some imaginary barrier you’ve built.
Steadily, he lifts his hands—crosses the line—trailing his fingers up your neck like a ghost of a touch, until he settles his gentle grip on either side of your head. Stealing a moment from Time itself—just a second, a blip, like he’s plucking a ripe berry to savor in the thousand milliseconds he’s stolen—he smooths his thumbs over your temples, granting himself the selfish gift of feeling you.
His eyes consume all, admiring the dainty flutter of your mascara-blackened lashes, the softness of your skin—he marvels at the feeling.
Simmering from the heat of your body, he tries to memorize all your prettiest features, seen through an advantage he’s never had before. To be this close. To never be again.
He’s going to make it worth his while. He has to.
A lowly victim to your gravitational pull, he finds himself leaning toward you, like light toward a collapsing star. And there’s no escaping you, not when you so easily warp the fabric of his being with frightening ease.
Loud in his straining ears, he hears the slight hitch in your breath when he nearly brushes his lips with yours, but he loses himself before he can truly feel you. Instead, he plants a cowardly, chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth.
Simply not enough, but more than he could have ever dreamed of getting. Another bittersweet paradox.
“D’you want this?”
He’s so quiet, but he can feel the way you shudder against him. The way you feel him, his words mumbled devoutly into your skin.
“I wanna lose my virginity,” you whisper confidently, like it’s the only thing you're absolutely certain of.
Eddie tries to fight the way his face falls, but he can’t seem to manage it when your words serve as a reminder of how little this all matters to you. Or, at least, how little you care who you lose it to.
But, ever-observant, you notice, and he catches the worry as soon as it draws your brows together.
“T-To you…” you amend. “Can I?”
The frail uncertainty in your voice feeds the fire deep in Eddie’s gut, like bone-dry wood being thrown into the hearth on a years-long winter night.
The flames, once dim and hopeless, time-weathered and starving, roar back to life.
Subtly, he nods, relishing the way you relax. Bound to your request, he allows his palms to glide down your form, taking his time to explore the new terrain until he grabs ahold of your soft hands.
Side stepping your body, he gently pulls you to his room. His backwards strides are confident—a sign of comfortability in the home he’d call yours, just the same as he’d call it his. After all, these walls have seen nearly every iteration of his care for you. From acquaintances to friends to—
Neither of you speak as he guides you around his frame—you, now in front of him, and him, leaning his weight against the bedroom door until it clicks shut.
Wayne is on a fishing trip for the weekend with some buddies from the plant, but he’s not particularly known for remembering to pack everything, and Eddie is keen on protecting your modesty and ensuring your comfort. Like you deserve. Like he knows he can—better than anyone.
He drops one hand from yours only to lock the door. Once he’s certain there will be no interruptions, he walks you back toward the bed until you’re standing right in front of it.
Dropping your other hand, he reaches up and gently smooths the hair near your temple again, addicted to the way your eyes flutter. His hands slide down your figure until he’s toying with the hem of your t-shirt—his t-shirt, the one you stole in tenth grade and never gave back.
His selfishness befriends the possessive fiend he fights back daily, because you’re moving through the world marked by him. And in this moment, Eddie wonders if you really could have let another man touch you in the shirt that whispers his name against your soft skin.
Heat thrums just below your surface, boiling and bubbling, nearly spilling over when you feel him tugging at your shirt, silently asking for permission. His hands wait patiently.
You don’t respond. Don’t know how to speak. Nerves rattle against your ribcage. Or maybe it’s your heart testing its prison, looking for a way out as it pounds and pounds and pounds—
“Can I take this off?”
His low mutter—almost a monosyllabic slur of sound—registers a second later in your hazy brain. You nod, forcing your lungs to expand, but nearly choke at the faint scent of his cologne.
It’s familiar. Piercing, clean, and rich—
You remember the day he got it. When he dragged you to the mall, forcing you to smell every option. He bought the one you liked the most. Even when he wasn’t too sure about it. You remember warning him about the price tag, about how he should pick one he really likes if he’s going to splurge on it. But he wouldn’t hear it—
“Words.”
A confused hum creeps up your throat as you greedily bask in his scent, feeling the world move in slow motion around you. His unending touch carves canyon-like ripples into the tissue of your mind.
When you manage to focus on his eyes, there’s a level of fondness in them that has you grabbing onto his wrist for support.
“Wanna hear your words, sweetheart. Y’gotta tell me what you want.”
Understanding washes over you like cool hose water on a hot summer day. Quickly, you open your mouth to ask him—no, beg him—to undress you, but before a single word can crawl out from between your parted lips, you feel his warm fingers dancing along the delicate skin of your waist, leaving a wave of goosebumps in their wake.
Your breath catches, and you shudder because he’s both hot and cold—
His attention warms you; his touch leaves you shivering from a chill that is so frigid it begins to manipulate your frayed nerves, tricking you into feeling the burn as if it were born from the bluest flame and not the calloused hands of your best friend—
“I— I, um…”
You shake your head as you try to remember what you were about to say before the words ran away from you and into his arms, stealing whatever desperate sentiment you meant to express. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to figure it out, to fill in the blanks—like a cipher missing its key.
His thumbs are drawing little shapes into the soft skin beneath your shirt, aiding and abetting the thieving words. The unfamiliar affection makes your abdomen twitch and your core pulse with need.
Before you get the chance to draw up some semblance of sanity, Eddie leans into you, effectively shrinking your entire world to just him. He’s everything you feel, everything you smell, everything you see, everything you touch, everything you…want to taste.
You so desperately want to know what flavor his kisses are—
Bitter smoke from the habit he can never quite kick? Malt sweetness from the beer he loves to drink? Cool mint from the gum he always carries around?
Would you grow ravenous at the first hint of Marlboro Reds? Would you crumble under the eager pressure of his lager-soaked tongue? Would your mouth water at the lingering scent of menthol on his breath?
You’re trapped in his thrall the second he closes in on your space. His head tips to the side, running his lips along your warm cheeks, your jaw. You shiver at the soft brush of his mouth—an action you’re painfully aware is not meant to be shared among friends. No, this kind of touch is reserved for lovers only—
“What do you want, sweetheart? Want me to touch you? Want me to hold you?” he murmurs, heavy gaze locked on the way your lips part, and you quietly pant. Your head bobs toward his mouth, body leaning into his arms, drawn to the heat of him.
You hear the sharp intake of breath, feel his nose nuzzling your hair. Then, as if fighting for control, his hands flex, only to grab onto your hips and drag you tight against him, like he lost the battle. Or maybe he surrendered. The way he hangs over you, almost relieved at the closeness leads you to believe it’s the latter.
Emboldened by his body against yours—all growing hardness and twitching muscles—your hands paw at his abdomen, his waist, kneading and pulling him impossibly closer.
“What do you want, baby?”
You bite back a whimper at the new endearment.
Because that’s reserved for lovers too—
“I want…W-Wan’ you. I wanna be…be with you,” you mumble breathlessly, mindlessly.
In a huff of impatience, he pulls your top over your head. You hear the way he swallows back a groan and you wish he wouldn’t have.
With expert dexterity, he removes your bra, and this time, he doesn’t hold back. You practically bloom under his attention—his wide, hungry eyes, his almost pained rasp of humming appreciation.
His hands slide up the sides of your body, featherlight fingers following the length of your ribs, brushing inward as he traces the skin just below the curve of your breasts.
Your wandering hands fiddle with the hem of his shirt before slipping under the material, flexing and groping at his toned abdomen. You pull at his narrow waist, a wordless plea for him to touch you more.
But he seems uninterested in your needy silence and you remember his instructions—
“Eddie, please. Please, touch me. I need you…. Wanna feel you.”
“Whatever you want,” he agrees, nodding.
Electricity prickles and dances across your skin like invisible lightning as he finally slides his hands over your sensitive breasts. Gently kneading the weight, he smooths his thumbs over your pebbled nipples. You gasp at the sensation, the way it directly triggers the heat twisting and turning low in your core with a quickness you’re not accustomed to.
Leaning down, Eddie attacks your jaw and neck with greedy, open-mouthed kisses. His nose nudges you zealously, like he’s devouring your delicate flesh and still aching for more, so you tilt your head away, eager to provide.
You tug his shirt up his body, but quickly realize you’ll need him to break away from your neck to get the material over his head. You lightly push on his abdomen, and he begrudgingly stops his assault, understanding what you’re looking for.
With a level of speed you’ve never once seen him use, he peels his shirt off, balls it up, and blindly tosses it somewhere in the corner of the room.
Unabashedly, you ogle his body in a way you’ve never allowed yourself before. Your heavy-lidded gaze is first drawn to the pick hanging just below his collarbones, sitting perfectly against his pale skin. Then, your eyes drop, admiring the tattoos that litter the expanse of his chest.
You’ve only ever seen them a few times—mostly at the Hawkins pool on hot summer days, and once when you walked in on him changing. You remember how you couldn’t get the image out of your mind. The contrast, the searing visage of inky-black against milky-white, pressed into skin like a pretty decoration meant to be admired.
And like a set path guided by nothing but desire, your eyes track down, down, down his body—all heat and hardness. Your mouth waters when you catch sight of the tuft of coarse hair trailing from his navel to whatever lies beyond the waistband of his jeans.
Whatever lies—
But you already have an idea; you feel him pulsing against your stomach, you felt him twitch when you whimpered moments ago.
All heat and hardness.
Drawing you from your trance, Eddie’s deft fingers fiddle with the button on your jean shorts, making quick work of the fastenings and dragging the material down your legs. He drops to his knees, peering up at you with something in his eyes so…raw that it has you grabbing onto him, your balance escaping you.
With your hands on his strong shoulders, you watch with rapt attention as he removes your shoes and socks, then he gently cups one ankle, lifting it and helping you out of the leg of your shorts before doing the same to the other. His touch is so soft—so gentle—you think you might cry.
Barely anything has happened yet and he’s taking such good care of you. You shudder to think how this would have gone had you called up Jimmy or Chris.
Nobody could compare to Eddie.
Feeling weightless, heavy, high, and stone-cold sober all at once, you meet his eyes.
“You look…” he pauses, swallowing harshly, “you’re so beautiful.”
Your ears ring at the hidden sentiment between those three words. A million extra meanings you can’t catch, but you heard them like a whisper in the wind—real and slipping through your fingers the moment his hungry lips grace your skin once more.
Large hands squeeze the backs of your thighs, and you feel the tickling brush of his frizzy curls against your bare legs.
Wet, searing kisses travel upward, his hands slide in tandem with the needy affection. He holds you with a type of reverence you couldn’t have foreseen—as if you could have ever foreseen this. He moves along your body like you’re allowing him, not like he’s the one doing you a favor.
You sigh when you feel the heat of his breath over the place you need him most. He’s stopped at the apex of your thighs, panting like a desperate man, blocked by a flimsy slip of fabric that you’re certain he could shred to pieces with the way his eyes have darkened.
“C-Can I?” His strained voice breaks through the music in the room, disrupting the melody of syncopating gasps and pants.
It feels like the world is moving as you stay perfectly still, staring down at him, his arms wrapped around your legs, fingers greedily curling in the waistband of your panties. You find yourself thankful for his steady, obedient grip.
Underneath his wanton gaze, you feel the weight of roles reversed. It’s like it’s his first time, the way he’s looking up at you like your permission will fix him. Your touch will mend something broken.
With wide eyes and parted lips, you nod. “Y-Yes. Please, Eddie.”
A sound torn from deep within his chest rumbles out, reverberating around the room, bouncing off of every wall and hitting you like a spell. Low, where his breaths warm you, a fiery enchantment unfurls in volant tendrils like ink in water.
Suddenly, Eddie drags the thin material down from around your hips, another appreciative groan rips from his throat as he watches the gusset of your panties fall last, stuck to your wet folds. A delicate string of arousal clings to the fabric, unable to part from it.
You watch his efforts slow, his lids grow heavy like he can’t control the need. Then, he presses his face between your thighs, the very faint graze of his tongue leaves you trembling.
With one targeted swipe, Eddie’s tongue snaps the silky string, catching what he can with overwhelming zeal.
“Want more,” he mumbles into your heat. “Sweets…”
“Yes,” you interrupt, already drowning in desperation. “Need you—”
He growls and pulls your panties the rest of the way down your legs before his large hand lifts one of your thighs to sit on his shoulder, allowing him easier access to your soaked core. He hums brokenly—a lewd sound of appreciation.
The second he drags the flat of his tongue through your dripping folds, your gasps devolve into messy moans, but the sound only seems to encourage him more. With foreign ferocity, he devours you.
“Oh, god, Eddie,” you mewl, hips twitching against his face, hands threading through his fluffy hair for balance.
Vibrations from his responding groan move through you, tearing you apart until you’re nothing but wanton shreds. Your knees almost buckle beneath you, but he presses into you. Harder. More persistent. The force sends you falling backward onto the bed, your hands hurry to break your soft descent.
Your hips hang off the edge of the mattress—one foot still planted on the ground, the other dangling over Eddie’s right shoulder. His hands grope and knead the fat of your thighs as his tongue eagerly laps up your arousal like a man starved. Your arms give out from under you, sending your back barreling down to the untucked sheets on his mattress.
You’re panting and burning up; the heat of his breath meets the warmth of your folds, creating a smoldering furnace where his mouth dances over you. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, and one you think no other man could ever replicate.
Your hips react ardently to every twist and flick of his tongue, the talented muscle toying with you until you’re shaking and whining and bucking against his mouth for more.
The moment you feel the tip of his tongue draw tight circles around your swollen clit, your head flies back in ecstasy. Your hands wander the space around you for something to grab, first, trailing over your breasts with a teasing squeeze before reaching for the sheets beside you. But it’s not enough. The material is so thin, you can’t get the grip you need.
Like he can sense the desperate energy rolling off of you in tidal waves—like he knows the feeling—Eddie grabs your hands, momentarily sacrificing his fragile skin to your clawing, pressing, sinking, crushing—
Your thoughts are plucked from somewhere high in the ether and placed back into your head the moment you feel his dragging touch, then, softness. Peering down the winding, curving terrain of your body, you meet his dark eyes, see the way he’s moved your restless hands into his hair.
The whine falling past your lips is drowned out by his aching growl deep within your wet folds. He tightens his grip around your hands before letting go, encouraging you to hold onto him—to use him.
And you do.
You tug him closer, grinding your core against his mouth until you arch at the dull pressure of his tongue breaching your entrance, pressing into you powerfully, exploring untouched territory you wish could be marred by his ministrations. Like a token to memorialize this moment in time. Something that says you’re his—
Quickly, your hips start to lose their rhythm against his face, recklessly twitching and squirming with every break he takes from fucking you to flicking your clit with searing precision.
“Eddie, Eddie, I’m gonna— Please, Eds, I—”
Not even bothering to pull away, he moans his pleas right into your pussy. “Give it to me, baby. Mmmph, give it to me, sweets. Taste so fuckin’ good—”
The tone he’s using, the way he pauses after every other word to slurp and lap at your quivering folds, almost makes it feel like he’s not even talking to you. Or maybe not just you. But it’s like he’s speaking directly to your weeping cunt, pleading for more—more arousal to devour, more fluttering pulses to tickle his tongue.
Your brows contort in pleasure as tears prick at your waterline—almost there, almost there.
Suddenly, you miss the pressure of his mouth for a split-second while you hear a sucking sound, then your chest wracks with desperate sobs as you feel him slip a single finger inside you.
“Oh, god! Oh, fuck!”
His other hand holds your hips down, blunt nails sinking deeper into the surface of your skin as electricity speeds along a high-strung coil—crackling and tight—just below his large palm. But the coil soon snaps when he starts to drag his long, thick finger against your velvety walls, thrusting in and out—gentle yet firm in his actions.
“Eddie, Eddie, oh, fuck!”
Unmade and raw, all you can do is babble incoherent whines and pleas as he teases you even past your orgasm, his tongue working your clit until it throbs to the beat of your racing heart.
When your legs start shaking from overstimulation, you finally gather enough strength to push on his head—appealing for mercy.
Like he’s not ready to part from you just yet, Eddie doesn’t yield to your push, though he does begrudgingly grant you reprieve. But he stays between your legs, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s not just breathing deeply to catch his breath. The way he inches infinitesimally closer, the way he won’t let your thighs close—it’s like he’s reveling in your heady scent—
“Fuck, you’re so pretty when you cum. Squeezin’ my finger so hard. God, this was just one, baby,” he boasts, utter glee defiling his already dirty words.
You whimper. One finger, and you felt so full.
In response, he garnishes your twitching pelvis with wet, sloppy kisses, like he’s searing a promise into your skin—
His hands do their best to hold your hips down, allowing him to take a tour of the tops of your thighs, the divot where your folds meet your legs, your mound—soaked and slobbered on by his overzealous mouth.
Peering down your body, open-mouthed and desperate, you nearly mewl at the way his eyes are glazed over. He looks drunk on the taste of you. Completely and utterly wasted. What’s more, his face is covered in you.
All the way up to his nose, his skin shimmers in the light, glistening with your juices. But he doesn’t seem ashamed of the indecent display. Instead, he seems proud. Proud to wear you on him—like a badge of honor.
“Eddie, please. I want more,” you whine, breathless from the come-down.
“Pretty girl,” he purrs, nuzzling your thigh, “so desperate. Am I turning you to the dark side already?”
You shudder at his smug grin, but you can’t find it in yourself to care about his overly-inflated ego. Your mind is mush, and all you can think is his name prefaced by the dangerous word “my.”
“Please,” you mewl.
His grin widens, and you note the hunger no longer hidden in the dark brown of his irises. Because he’s not aiming for decency anymore. Not in the way he’s eyeing you like you’re a meal and he’s famished, and not in the way his words are rife with untapped desire.
“Alright, pretty.” He pats your thigh before backing away from you. “Up on the bed.”
It’s a soft order. A gentle command as he grabs your forearms and helps you scoot your hips all the way onto the mattress before letting go, allowing you to shuffle to the top of the bed.
Once your head hits the pillow, he watches you settle into place, shoving the untucked sheets out from beneath you and off to the side. Without taking his eyes off of your movements, he works to remove his jeans, shoving them down his legs, along with his boxers.
Now that your moans have ceased, the room is so quiet, he can hear your sharp intake of breath when his hard cock bobs free from its constraints. He bites his lip at the subtle shock shifting across your face. It’s flattering, but more than anything, he’s leaking at the thought of fitting inside you.
“That’s— You’re—”
Every one of your sentences seems to die on the first word, and he watches your thighs clench as your focus stays on his thick length.
Heat warms Eddie’s cheeks as he tries to stop the smile from overtaking his face. He shouldn’t be like this—he should be calm, cool, and collected, but clearly exceeding your expectations has him feeling a myriad of things. Giddy, confident, smug…eager.
Mindlessly, he wipes a hand down the lower half of his face, gathering your slick arousal on his palm, then collects the precum pouring from his ruddy tip, and spreads the combination of juices over the expanse of his thick cock. He grants himself a firm, teasing squeeze as he steps toward you, but quickly detours to the bedside table to rifle through the top drawer.
“I’ll make sure it feels good, don’t worry. You’re gonna help me with that,” he says lowly, then stills his searching hands as he looks to you for a nod of agreement. When you give it to him, he smiles fondly. “Good girl.”
A quiet huff of amusement escapes him when he hears your strained whimper—the way you so obviously try to keep yourself quiet, but can’t help it.
He’s starting to catch onto what you like. How you like to be spoken to. And your responses are addicting. The clench of your thighs, the pulse of your walls. The need that crawls up your throat like it’s fighting its way out of you.
He desperately wants to know what else his words can elicit. Or maybe even try something more than his words—
His body warms as he wonders what you’ll sound like when you’re wrapped around him. His mind conjures its best guess at the noises you’ll make when his thrusts knock the air out of you, like sweet rasping melodies meant to torture him.
He wants to know just how shrill your cries will get when you’re nearly there, searching for just a little bit more.
But most of all he wants to hear the sweet words that will slip past your loose lips, your mind too cockdrunk to stop the affection you’ll share. The secrets you’ll spill. God, he’s aching to hear you.
If he could, he’d lock you in his room and run experiments on you for a week straight—just to find out what makes you tick. He’d take you apart piece-by-pretty-piece, just to put you back together again. He’d hold you tight and play with you passionately, like you were his favorite toy.
His.
Drawn from his thoughts by your shifting body, his attention diverts to the box of condoms he manages to find deep in his bedside drawer. He tears at the paperboard and pulls one out, showing you the foil packet before ripping it open—
“Safe sex,” he declares, sliding the oily-feeling latex out of the wrapper.
His wry smile widens to a goofy grin when you giggle at his words, easing the tension.
“Stupid,” you mutter, knocking your shin against the side of his thigh as he hovers near the head of the bed, putting the condom on.
Once he’s done, he crumples the wrapper in his hand, glancing over at you before throwing it on the cluttered surface of the nightstand. “You sure you wanna do this?”
You roll your eyes, smirking. “Yes, Eddie. You already ate me out.”
That leaves him frowning—
“Sweetheart, just because we did that doesn’t mean you have to continue. We can be done. Nothing more needs to happen if you don’t want it to.”
You remain silent, only staring up at him with so much…something…in your gaze, it makes him want to fold in on himself like the discarded foil. And he thought the ease with which you crossed his wires was bad—
“I know,” you mutter softly. “But I want to. With you. Will you…. Will you take care of me?”
Eddie’s breath hitches, and there’s a stinging feeling behind his eyes—one he knows all too well.
You sound so small, so nervous. As if he could ever deny you something that was meant to be yours. His care. His devotion.
“‘Course I will.”
He nods one too many times, entranced by the way you seem so delicate under his watchful eyes.
Delicate because you’re asking him to take care. In the way he’ll touch you. The way he’ll guide you. The way he’ll—
Slowly, he steps closer. You scoot to the side, making room for him to knee his way onto the bed.
His hands brush your ankles, featherlight affection smoothing up your legs, stopping at your knees. With the utmost reverence, he gently parts them, settling between your thighs.
“You look so pretty like this. I mean…you look— Well, you look…pretty all the time,” he nervously amends, eyes flitting over your face, but never any lower.
He wants you to know he means you. You’re pretty. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Not because you have a gorgeous body, but because you are gorgeous.
You shift beneath him, avoiding his gaze and, instead, focusing on pulling him to you. Softly. Needily.
He follows your guidance, leaning over you until his hands land beside your head. And just like before, he’s memorizing the moment. Every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every quiet breath from your pleasure-bitten lips.
Below, you glance to the side, find his wrists, and wrap your hands around each one, as if grounding yourself in his touch. Only then—when his pulse beats wildly against your fingers—do you meet his eyes.
Wandering palms—soft and unfamiliar in their affection—travel the length of his arms, pausing over black ink, then continuing up until they reach his biceps. He shivers as you hum, squeezing the corded muscles that lay twitching restlessly beneath heated flesh.
“You’re pretty, too,” you murmur, sliding your palms back down and rubbing at his wrists.
Eddie chuckles, then swallows. “No, I’m not.”
The subtle twitch of your brows, the split-second peek at the budding frown that says you disagree has him beating you to your rebuttal—
“Not like you.”
His heart leaps in his chest as your hands suddenly drag his face to yours, like you’re about to kiss him with overwhelming need. But you don’t complete the motion.
And neither does he.
Because he’s not sure he can come back from all of this if he kisses you.
If you allow him to have you in that way—
He’s not sure he’s strong enough. Not enough to feel you like that, to close his eyes and claim your lips like they belong to him, and then go about his life like he never felt it. The beat of your heart against his, pounding in nerves and want. The truthful desire dancing from your mouth to his.
He couldn’t go back to living a lie. To live like he doesn’t think about you every single day. Like he doesn’t wonder what you’re doing when you’re not with him. Like he doesn’t do the most mundane shit and spends the whole time thinking about how much better it would be to do it with you.
So he doesn’t kiss you. He can’t. Not when you’re not his to keep.
Instead, he leaves a delicate, chaste brush of an almost-kiss to the corner of your mouth. Again.
Another cop-out from a coward.
You struggle to contain your disappointment, resigning yourself to the fantasy in your head. The imagined taste of his tongue tangling with yours. And with wanton hands, you reach for his hips, subtly pulling him closer.
“Need you,” you mutter, hearing the hitch of his breath as you whisper the plea against his mouth.
“Fuck— Okay.”
You watch as he reaches for his length. Taking a strong grip, he guides the thick tip along your slick folds, gathering your wetness.
The raw combination of moan and a sigh leaves your lips—an accidental slip portraying just how much you’re aching for him.
“It’s gonna feel a little weird, like…pressure. Okay? But you gotta let me know if it hurts, sweets, you hear me?”
Your fluttering eyes, panting mouth, and rolling hips aren’t enough of a response, apparently, because his voice grows firm.
“Hey, pretty girl, you with me?”
“Mhm,” you whine, nodding your head.
“What did I tell you?” he asks, smoothing a thumb down your temple before tapping three times.
“Um, you— you said, um, if it hurts, I'll tell you.”
“Good girl.”
His muttered praise leaves you mewling, inching your hips closer to him, looking for more—yearning for it.
Your mind devolves into pure static as he presses his thick tip into you slowly. Through bleary eyes, you see his teeth sinking deep into his lower lip, like he’s fighting to maintain his composure. For a moment, you wonder what it must look like from his point of view—the way your folds open up to him, welcoming the intrusion, ready to wrap around him in a vice grip.
“Oh, god. Mmm.”
Your features crumble at the sensation of dull pressure—exactly what he warned you about. It doesn’t hurt, it just leaves you wanting more, like you’ll find reprieve once he’s fully inside you.
“How you doin’, baby? Need a break?” he rasps, kneading your thigh gently.
“Need more.”
“Fuck, y’want more? Wanna feel more o’ me?”
You whimper and nod, your heart racing as his slurred words drag you down into the flaming pit of desire.
Your mouth parts in a silent gasp when you feel him press deeper inside of you, his stiff length sliding past your walls. Your ribs contract and expand in raucous breaths the moment you see just how much of him is left. He’s just barely got the tip in—
As your gaze creeps up his body, you realize Eddie hasn’t looked down once, not to where you’re connected. You wonder if it’s self-preservation or if maybe it’s part of his care for you. The way he watches your face intently, like he’s monitoring every slight change in expression leads you to believe it’s the latter. Probably both, really.
But you’re thankful he’s looking, because he immediately notices when the pinch in your brows shifts from pleasure to a wince of discomfort.
His hand is on your face in a second, smoothing the crease between your brows and petting your hair soothingly.
“Baby, you okay? Is it too much? You feelin’ pain?”
You shake your head stubbornly, sucking in a deep breath, leaving your mouth open and panting as your gaze stays glued to the sight of him inside of you. You notice it’s not just the tip, he also gets impossibly thicker through the middle of his length, and you’re sure that’s what you’re feeling now—
“Hey, look at me.” His thumb catches your chin, guiding your eyes to meet his. “I can make you feel good, but I need you to help me out. Tell me what you’re feeling.”
Something flashes in the molten color of his irises and he leans down, brushing his lips against your cheek. You practically preen as he grants you a sweet kiss, and part of you—the rotted, selfish part—wonders if feigning pain would allow you to finally taste him properly, all smoky mint and dancing tongues—
“Let me make you feel good, baby,” he implores.
“‘S just a pinch, ‘s just— It’s fine,” you placate, rubbing your hands gingerly down his sides.
“Alright, we’re gonna wait here, and you tell me when I can move, or if you wanna stop. But in the meantime, try to relax all your muscles. Sometimes we get all tense, even when we don’t mean to.”
You nod hesitantly, taking a few more deep breaths, making a conscious effort to drop your shoulders and let your muscles rest. After a full minute of breathing, resting, and leaning into his soft palm on your warm cheek, you nod again.
“Okay, you…you can move now.”
But he doesn’t. Not yet. As if trying to discern the truth, Eddie just studies you for a moment. Then he moves, inching further into you.
When your jaw goes slack at the feeling of fullness, you hear a rumble of sound, like a groan that’s been cut off too early, and you have half a mind to ask him if he needs a break. But before you get the chance, your words catch in your throat as he rests lower on you.
“Pretty girl,” he coos, his hot breath tickling your ear, leaving your cunt pulsing with need.
Then a hiss—the kind that sounds like it’s bordering on pain, but is only one degree away from pleasure—escapes his lips, and you realize just how tightly you were squeezing him.
Then, suddenly, he bottoms out, the firm, jolting movement forcing all air from your lungs.
“Oh, good girl,” he huffs out, voice strained. “You’re doin’ so good for me, taking me so well. How’s it feel, sweets? Think you like it? Wan’ more?”
Struggling to turn pitiful mewls into actual words, you nod your head fervently, reaching down to press your palms against his hips. “Mmm, wan’ more. Please, Eddie.”
For the first time, he glances down, and you hear him choke at the sight. Electricity prickles across your delicate skin, and the sting of your teeth sinking into your lip does nothing to disrupt your giddy hum as you try to push him away.
In the dark shade of his eyes, you can tell he recognizes your movement as a very desperate, unsuccessful attempt at getting him to pull out—to chamber a thrust. And he seems utterly amused—
“Oh, baby, did you want something? You wanna do the work? Help me out like a good girl?”
Something deeply raw and needy peels from your throat in response, and you silently rejoice when he pulls back, aiding your efforts. Unfortunately, it’s only a couple inches because—to your burgeoning frustration—he’s following your guidance, and your arms don’t reach nearly as far as you need.
But you’ll take anything right now; desperation is cooking your nerves and boiling your insides.
So you sink your nails into his hips and pull him back to you with a sudden yank.
Your mouth drops open at his shallow thrust, unintelligible noises of debauched need tumble past your parted lips.
Clawing at his soft skin, you struggle to set up another thrust. “Please, please— I need more.”
“More? But you’re doin’ so well all by yourself,” he condescends, eyes twinkling with hunger as he lets you push and pull him. “Look at you go, pretty girl. Makin’ yourself feel so good. What an independent little woman.”
His teasing shakes you to your core because it’s so him. It’s your best friend, just in a new scenario with unfettered access to your body and pleasure. God, you’ve allowed him too much power—
“Eddie! Please! I’m— I need it. I need you…”
Amusement washes from his face and you pout as he pauses, as if admiring a view. Then he ducks down.
“Whatever the princess wishes,” he murmurs lowly, lips brushing against the heated skin of your cheek, syrupy sweet affection dripping from every word. Gently, he pulls out, nearly all the way.
The mewl that was halfway out of your mouth catches like a lock clicking into place. A loud, desperate cry comes out in its stead—a reckless, candid response to the deep gut-punching thrusts barreling into you. They’re not hard, not rough, but firm. Controlled. Resolute.
Like he wants you to feel it. Feel him.
You chase your breath in his rutting hips, surrendering to the affection he’s searing into you with every pass of his stiff length against your pulsing walls.
Red streaks paint his milky-white skin, blooming beneath your hurried hands like a casualty of your desire. Curses, groans, and harsh gasps fall from his slackened jaw. Heat bubbles deep in your core, rivaling the warmth of the salacious words he whispers into your flesh.
“Shit, you feel so good, sweets— Oh, god, wan’ you to be— Fuck!”
Tears flood your waterline as you stare at the ceiling, features permanently fixed in shattered pleasure. Your mind struggles to hold onto the hitch in his breath, the unfinished sentence you’re dying to hear. But the sensations are overwhelming. Every nerve in your body is sparking—all livewires itching to explode.
All you can say is his name, all you can feel is him, and yet, it’s still not enough—
“Eddie, n-need m-more, ple—aseee!”
“Ah, fuck, baby, I know. I got you—”
Eddie glides his tongue over the pad of his thumb before reaching between your legs and circling your swollen clit.
And suddenly, it’s like lightning has struck the furnace deep in your core, shooting high voltage shocks up your body until you grow so hot you’re almost cold. A sensation of fullness takes over, like you’re mere seconds from bursting.
Delirious with passion, your hand flies down to stop his movements—to stop what you know is coming.
“H-Hold on, I— Eddie, I need to— I wanna feel you! Please, please, let me—”
Your needy sobs have him slowing down until he stills inside of you, chest heaving and damp with sweat.
“What— You can feel me. Aren’t you feelin’ me, sweets?” He reaches his hand up to the space just below your navel, pressing in only slightly.
You whine from the pressure, and your cunt flutters around him in rhythmic pulses like it’s trying to entice him back into movement.
And, God, you can feel him—
He’s burrowed his way deep inside you, but it’s still not enough—
“No— Yes, I— Oh, god, I c-can feel you. I just—” Your words melt into a whimper as you squeeze your eyes shut. The feeling of warm wetness slides down your cheek.
You’re vaguely aware of a dip in the bed on either side of your head, and as you blink away the blur, you realize Eddie has dropped to his elbows over you, caging you in.
His lips trace the track of the tear in reverse, starting first beneath your jaw, then up the expanse of your face. But his mouth doesn’t open—it’s not a trail of kisses. Just a soothing glide of soft pink, collecting salt water.
“What do you wanna feel?” he asks patiently, like he’s ready to bring your deepest desires to fruition.
When you don’t respond, he brushes his lips against the thin skin of your eyelids in short, delicate kisses.
“I’ll do anything for you, baby. Just tell me what you want—”
The raw truth of his statement rings in your ears along with a prayer in the shape of your name—reverent, impassioned, desperate. The tone has you questioning when the god became the devotee.
Your eyes flutter open as you peer up at him.
“Wanna feel you. All of you. I don’t want— I don’t want anything in between,” you whisper, your gaze flitting between his earnest attention and his glistening lips, wet with your tears.
Eddie’s mouth parts slightly, a look of quiet shock mixing with curious disbelief as he tilts his head, like he’s observing you for any lapse in conviction. But there’s none to be found. You’re certain you want this. So he gives a single nod, yielding to you.
Before he can even shift his weight, you’re already pushing at his hips again. He lets you move him until he slips out, then your eager hands reach for his hard cock, sheathed in thin latex.
The calm Eddie found since ceasing his thrusts starts to dissipate as he watches your movements with rapt attention.
Acutely aware of the expansion of his ribs on every breath in, the scent of sex and your perfume permeating his olfactory receptors has any semblance of control quickly leaving his body.
The sensation is like a loss of inhibitions. Like he’s gorged himself on you and now he’s utterly wasted. And he knows from personal experience, he doesn’t make the best decisions when inebriated—
The reminder that he’s here for you—that he’s supposed to be the one guiding you—is hard to hold onto when you’re expertly drawing him back into you, teasing yourself with the thick, ruddy tip of his cock, painting your folds with dribbling precum.
He shudders at your wrecked moan, your eyes smoked out with hunger and desire and nothing else as you leer at his flexing length.
“F-Fuck, sweetheart, are you sure about this?”
You only hum in response, deep in focus.
“Unh, unh, look at me.”
Eddie’s thumb catches just beneath your chin, drawing your attention to his hardened features. The moment your far-out gaze focuses on him, he struggles to ignore the way your pupils have almost eclipsed any trace of color in the iris.
But then your attention falters, your eyes slowly glide down to his mouth, your lips parting like a call to him—
He adjusts his grip, his thumb and fingers digging into your cheeks.
“No, up here, pretty girl.”
Tipping your chin up, he manually fixes your gaze to his.
“Are you sure you want this?”
As if words are too difficult to drum up, you whimper imploringly.
And all it takes is one warning tilt to his head and you’re righting yourself. Forcing the words to come—
“Yes! God, please. I need you…”
Satisfied, Eddie nods, taking a moment to revel in just how gone you are for him.
“Okay.”
Another pitiful whimper escapes your closed mouth as you push harder into his grip—wanting, asking.
Knowing exactly what you’re missing—a quick learner in the language of your desperation—a smirk curls at his lips. “Good girl—”
Then he sinks into you in one quick, deep thrust that carves a half-scream, half-gasp from your chest.
His shoulders drop at the feeling of your wet heat, your greedy walls, hugging every square inch of his cock, gripping onto him like a lifeline.
“Oh, fuck, baby. Shit, y’gotta stop squeezin’ me like that. You’re not gonna give me enough time to pull out,” he mutters, dragging his hips back and slamming into you, starting a brutal pace.
Tears flood your waterline once more as you cry out for him, your hands touching, groping, and grabbing every bit of muscle you can get ahold of.
Your knees drop open as your hands blindly reach for his hips, pulling him in for impossibly deeper strokes.
“I’m— E-Eddie, I—”
“I know, baby. I know,” he chants, holding on desperately to the last shred of his sanity.
Ducking lower onto you, he shifts his weight to reach between your thighs and circle your clit. With an open-mouthed pant, he watches as your eyes roll back, your loud moans drowning out the vulgar sound of skin slapping.
His gaze flits across your face, memorizing your pleasure-shocked features like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to see this particular crease in your brows, this heavy-lidded trance. Panic fills his bloodstream as he realizes it might very well be the last time—
And if it’s the last time, maybe he’s allowed to be selfish. One time. Just this once—
“Fuck it,” he breathes out, dipping down until his mouth capture yours, swallowing every last moan.
Your palms fly to the sides of his head, dragging him further onto you until the range of motion in his hand severely shrinks under his own rutting hips. You lick into his mouth like you’re trying to taste yourself. Overwhelmed with desire, he begins to lav his tongue into you the same way he devoured your cunt earlier.
Your responding mewls leave him trembling, and he worries over the tightening in his abdomen, the coiling heat deep in his gut. He starts to pull away, but he feels pressure at his hips. You’ve wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles, leaving him no way of escaping your hold. Fuck, you’re going to be the death of him—
“Baby, we can’t— I gotta— I need’ta pull out,” he slurs against your mouth.
“Please don’t,” you whine, spit-slick lips haphazardly forming around the pitiful plea.
Eddie feels his chest crack open with raw, tortuous longing. Hips faltering to a grinding rhythm, he lets his shoulders sag under the pressure of wanting—the weight of possession. All it would take to claim you, all it would take… is just to let go. To make you his.
He’s not strong enough—
“Please don’t,” you repeat, gliding your hands down his damp skin until you still at his lower back. With a foggy mind driven by the most basic desire to claim—or rather, be claimed—you muster all your strength and press your palms hard into his spine, dragging him to you.
Following a groan that sounds suspiciously like a surrendering cry, Eddie pulls his hips back just enough to shallowly thrust into you. They’re firm, breathtaking strokes that feel like he’s trying to permanently burrow beneath your flesh, and his mouth glides over yours in a messy, blind display of drunken need. It’s a thorough loss of all space and you revel in it.
Eddie’s thumb starts circling your clit with renewed vigor, sending spasms shooting down your legs so strong that your ankles unhook. Like two magnets repelling each other, they go flying to the bed, twitching and convulsing.
Deep in your core, you feel a magmatic pressure that just builds, and builds, and builds, until something snaps—
Arching into him, you cry out as your body goes weightless, and your mind floats into the ether once more.
His groans, his grunts, the smacking of skin on skin—every sound echoes as you move further away from your mind. Vaguely, you’re aware of his faltering thrusts, his hungry lips devouring. Your mouth might be moving in tandem with his, or maybe you’re babbling incoherently, it’s unclear—all your senses are fried.
All you’re certain of is the sinking of your body. Deeper than the mattress, deeper than the floor. Down, down, down—you’re dragged into the pit of sated desire while your soul soars high above you.
“Ah, s-shit, baby— I—”
By the time you find your way out of the depths—crawling back to him—you register the tail end of shivers wracking his entire being. His arms haven’t loosened around you and his softening cock is still twitching and flexing inside of you, goaded by every pulsing constriction of your warm walls.
Nosing into your cheek, Eddie pulls back for a second, just to get a look at you—to memorize.
What he sees is exactly what he expected—
Something he could never forget.
Something he could never be normal about.
In your eyes, in soft pants, in the flutter of lashes over mascara smudged skin—he sees you.
Just you.
A glutton for punishment, he licks his lips, savoring the taste of you before dipping down for more. One more.
Like he’ll never live long enough to see you walk out of his room—his sweat staining your skin, his spend safe inside you—he kisses you, slow and rottingly sweet. Swallowing every sigh, stealing every breath—he prays to you with selfishness in his heart.
“I felt something,” you mumble against his mouth, pressing your hands to his shoulders.
Ignoring the ache in his chest—the kind that blooms when space starts to grow between his body and yours, like a weed whose roots never truly die—he forces a laugh that crumbles to dust in his throat.
“Well, yeah…. God, I hope so,” he huffs, all strained amusement and bitter jokes.
A small smile pulls at your lips. “No, I mean.… I mean— You said, um, earlier, you said…”
While you struggle to find the words, his touch seems to act as a hindrance to your search. Your breath hitches and your eyes flutter as he smooths his thumb over your sweat-soaked hairline.
“You said if I was gonna sleep with— If I was gonna f-feel nothing with a stranger, then I should…feel nothing with you.”
Realization dawns on him, almost at the same time he decides this conversation shouldn’t take place with him inside of you—
“Maybe we should—”
“No!” You stop his movements, pressing your fingers into his hips before he can slip away. “Please, don’t! Don’t— Don’t go.”
Eddie watches your features soften from panic into an amalgamation of nerves and reserved urgency. The mess of emotions darkening your once-twinkling eyes are enough to stop his movements, but he still wishes every square inch of him could liquify and seep through the floor of the trailer until he reaches the earth. Maybe then he could be free of your dominance over his heart—
“Okay. Okay.” He nods, placating.
Shifting above you, his attention oscillates between your wide-eyed stare and the space on your neck he kissed like he owned it. Then, as if he suddenly forgot how to behave like a human, he sucks his teeth and fumbles to respond—
“What, uh, what did you feel?”
Your nails sink into him with a pinch, but by the way you seem lost in your own head, he doesn’t think you’re aware. Then—
“W-What— Um, did you…feel…anything?”
He stares for a moment, considering your evasion of the question, but then he looks to your neck once more.
A million thoughts zoom through his mind like advertisements on big city buses. He can’t discern all of them, but one has YOU written in what he’s certain is your handwriting. Another says everything in posh, looping cursive. A third one is void of any advertisements, and unfortunately, that’s the one that stops for him—
“I don’t think it matters,” he mutters, avoiding your frown. “It’s— I’m not the one who lost their virginity.”
You cock your head to the side, the kind of movement he knows means you’re not letting him slip by. “Yes, it does.”
Your tone bites at him, scrambling the illusion until he’s a clear picture of vulnerability, bare under your hardened gaze.
“I just mean, it matters more how you felt. If you— If I made you comfortable. Doesn’t matter how I felt,” he tries, wondering how likely it is that he could be struck by lightning indoors, on a sunny day—
Because you’re looking at him like he’s eighteen again. Like he’s stupid and boyish and easily breakable. But there’s something else in your eyes—
Something that makes him feel almost mendable.
“No, but it does matter how you felt. How you feel. It matters. I care how you feel. I wanna hear what you think,” you implore, holding onto his wrists beside your head. You press the pads of your fingers into his pulse and he worries you’ll feel it before he says it—
“But did you—”
“Yes, I felt good. Yes, you did a good job taking care of me. Yes, I felt safe. Now how did you feel?”
“I feel like— I don’t want you…to…” He closes his eyes, hanging his head. “I feel like I wish you were mine,” he says, letting a humorless chuckle float out of his mouth and electrocute the air with tension. “And I feel like calling up Jimmy and Chris just to curse them out for being the ones you thought of first.”
In the loll of his admission, something shifts in your features, and every molecule of air leaves his chest like you just rolled a grenade at his feet, unpinned and already three seconds deep into the fuse delay.
As if you have nothing better to say, you pluck the lowest hanging fruit—
“Well, technically you suggested Chris,” you half shrug.
Charged silence fills the room like rushing water until he blinks at you.
“Okay.” He begins to back away, ignoring your grasping hands.
Your face falls. “No, I’m sorry! I— That was a joke! ‘M sorry, it was stupid—”
“Okay,” he repeats flatly, peeling your fingers from his bicep. He pulls out of you smoothly, pretending not to hear the low whine deep in your throat—
“Eddie, no! Don’t— I love you!” you utter quickly, as if the words will act as a balm upon his burning skin—the skin that broils under your touch. And for a moment, he almost accepts it. He’s so selfish with you—
But when your eyes grow wide, like you hadn’t meant to let something so damning slip past your lips, he realizes the truth—
He was right.
He doesn’t leave you to explain yourself—doesn’t wait for you to quantify the secret.
“It’s okay,” he answers your worried gaze. “I told you, sex has weird feelings attached to it. Things get said in the heat of the moment, it’s all good.”
Hopefully, if he repeats the sentiment enough, he’ll start to believe it too.
But instead of appreciation, he sees indignation warp your face.
“I’m sorry, where have you been? The heat of the moment was five minutes ago,” you huff, eyeing him like you can’t even begin to comprehend his level of delusion. “True, I didn’t mean to say it just then. But I felt it. I have felt it. For…” you laugh, a humorless sound that grates Eddie’s heart, “years.”
And suddenly, he feels like he got his wish—
Every muscle in his body has turned to mush, every nerve is frayed, every wire is uncrossed—
“I’ve—” you pause, then scoff. “Like, Jesus Christ, Eddie! Do you know how long—”
He melts into you, his lips on yours, his hands on your face, holding you right where he needs you most—
Swallowing your surprised moan, he takes your needy grip in stride—every bite of painted nails against pale burning flesh, every tug and drag, seeking a closeness he craves to sate.
“I don’t care,” he slurs against your mouth, too intoxicated to hear how much time he’s missed out on. Then he pulls back a fraction of an inch, instead deciding he wants to know every single detail—even the painful bits—
Even if just to hear you talk—
“Well, I do care,” he amends. “I just—”
You peer up at him through heavy lids and a teasing grin, and he feels too far from you.
“Not right now,” he drawls, unable to think past ‘I love you, too.’
A/N: Please say nice things about this, it took so fucking long lmao.
Well took me fucking long enough but HOT DAMN! This was one of the best things I’ve read in a long time- the figurative language, the yearning, the dirty talk, the dynamic between these two… it’s all so fucking glorious🫠
You have outdone yourself with this one, dear. Hell yeah.
SUMMARY in which your now ex boyfriend cheats on you with his so called 'work wife.' your solution? getting back at him with his new girlfriend's newly dumped ex, steve harrington. you'll get your revenge for sure.
WARNINGS 18+ MDNI cheating, teamed up revenge dating, fake dating, toxic exes, rom com, rightfully petty reader w/ attitude, angst, fluff, smut every chapter you’re warned lol, steve and reader are both idiots who eventually fall in love, adult language, smoking/drinking, inspired by olivia rodrigo’s “get him back”
WORD COUNT ?
CHAPTER ONE 18+
CHAPTER TWO 18+
CHAPTER THREE 18+
AUTHORS NOTE: hello! this will be a small mini series, i am still very much focusing on 'i'm your man.' it's just good for me to have several projects to go back and forth on whether it's series or one shots, so that way i'm not forcing myself to write something i'm not in the mood for.
Summary: You and Eddie coexist through the summer of '94.
Word Count: 6k
A/N: Sorry it's been an entire year since an update! I had a baby! Hope you enjoy revisiting our idiots in love. Smut is on the horizon, I promise.
Divider was created by the lovely and talented @hellfire--cult❤️
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10
“I’m so so so sooo sorry-”
“Yeah, you’d better be! We were looking everywhere for you guys, where did you go?”
“Well, we started out at Jupiter with you guys, obviously. Then we started arguing about something, I can’t remember what it was, but it was too loud in there so we went outside and things got heated in a bad way, then heated in a good way, and then we were kissing-”
“You were what? I thought he drove you up a wall!”
“Well, he did… until I experienced how good he is at making out against one.”
You could practically hear Kate twirling the cord of her phone around her finger as she recounted the events of the night before. You and Eddie had searched for Kate and Gareth after the show at Jupiter House ended and waited for over an hour before ultimately deciding that they must have found their own entertainment for the evening. Kate obviously knew the way back to your apartment, so you both figured they would turn up at home eventually. After waking up and still seeing no sign of them, you were incredibly relieved to hear Kate’s voice when you’d answered the phone.
Kate was still talking when you heard the sound of the shower shutting off. “Eddie, they’re okay! I have Kate on the phone right now.”
The bathroom door burst open, revealing a sight you most definitely were not mentally prepared for: Eddie, clad only in a bath towel tied low enough that you could see his pelvic bones, his skin still glistening from the shower and his hair falling in heavy, wet coils to his shoulders. You could see tattoos that you’d been unaware of until now, and you had the dreadful feeling that now that you’d seen them, you wouldn’t be able to get them out of your head. You wouldn’t be able to get any of this out of your head.
“Is Gareth there?” he asked, holding out his hand for the phone.
You sputtered something that sounded like a combination of ‘yes’ and ‘sure’ and wound up sounding like “yerr”. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice as he grabbed the phone from your hand. His hand was still wet, which meant that now your hand was wet. From his shower water. The same water that was currently dripping from his slick black curls down into the valley between his shoulderblades…
Whoa! Nope! Don’t go there, brain!
You preoccupied yourself with the dirty dishes in the sink while Eddie ripped Gareth a new one through the phone.
Summer, 1994
May
Moon-silver light flooded your bedroom, giving your popcorn a strangely colorless hue even though it was practically doused in butter. You stuffed a few kernels in your mouth as Casablanca played on the small screen of your TV. Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman smiled merrily at each other while driving through the streets of Paris, and even though you knew how short-lived their romance would be, you still watched with rapt attention as if for the first time.
Across the apartment, Eddie watched the same scene on his own TV for what was the first time. Every emotion he felt while he watched Rick’s face fall at the sight of Ilsa’s vague breakup letter was evident in his own expression, free to fully feel in the safety of his own room.
“Well I definitely don’t like her.” Eddie said when the scene broke to commercial, his voice loud enough to carry through his own open door and into yours.
You swallowed your popcorn. “You need to keep watching, she had her reasons.”
Eddie made a face. “And those reasons are good enough to justify leaving him in the rain at the train station in the middle of Nazi occupied France?”
“Well he’s about to escape Nazi occupied France. If anything, she knows he’s about to be safe.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t know why.”
You shrugged and plucked an extra-buttery piece of popcorn from your bowl. “If you talk through the whole movie, you’ll never know either.”
You could hear Eddie’s sigh from across the apartment, then the sound of the floorboards creaking as he padded barefoot into the kitchen, undoubtedly to grab a snack.
“I’m just saying,” Eddie continued, opening the fridge to grab a half-eaten log of chocolate chip cookie dough. “She could’ve at least made the letter a little less vague. To tell her he isn’t even allowed to ask why he can never see her again? It’s disrespectful at that point.” He opened the silverware drawer without looking, grabbing a spoon and shutting the drawer with his hip.
It was incredible how quickly a person could memorize the little things about a home- like the location of a spoon or the exact direction in which to point a TV antenna. In only two short months, Eddie had made a home here. There were now traces of him in the living room, in the kitchen. A leather jacket, carelessly tossed, now sat draped over a throw pillow on the couch. Icarus now had a favorite spot in Eddie’s bedroom (curled up into a ball on top of Eddie’s pillow). Eddie’s favorite cereal was now always in stock. You’d even fallen back into humming along with his old metal tapes that he would play while he sketched flash pieces in his bedroom.
“Give her a chance to explain.” you said. “People deserve the benefit of the doubt.”
Eddie paused, his spoon freezing halfway through the chocolate chip cookie dough log. “They do, huh?”
There was a pause on your end, and the silence spoke volumes. “Yeah.” you said, your voice high and soft, “they do.”
And you did think that. You had always thought that, even now.
You couldn’t see the kitchen from your bedroom, but you saw the glow of the refrigerator flash across the wooden floor as Eddie put the cookie dough away. You heard his bare feet padding back to his room, his mouth undoubtedly savoring his spoonful of cookie dough while he struggled to come up with a response.
He never made one, though. The next time he spoke up was to say that Ilsa was lucky that Rick was such a nice guy, and that he didn’t think she deserved him.
June
A little bell rang upon your entry into The Ink Shop. The wooden floors were worn and slightly sticky from years of cheap cleaner, and the sparse overhead lighting did very little to brighten up blazing red walls. Funnily enough, however, it all added a certain charm to the place, lending the tattoo parlor a lived-in hominess that made you sigh as you inhaled the strange combination of incense and disinfectant.
“Can I help you?”
A receptionist with very intricate eye makeup and a lip ring looked up at you with a bored expression, one of her sharply drawn eyebrows raised in a question.
You pulled Eddie’s notebook out of your canvas tote to show her as you explained, “I’m dropping this off for Eddie?” Your words pulled up at the end of the sentence, hoping she’ll point you in the right direction.
Wordlessly, she jerked a thumb at the doorway to your right. “Third on your left.” she sighed, going back to a drawing in her notebook that she’d been working on when you’d walked in. You nodded your thanks, making your way down the dimly lit hallway. Framed flash sheets of everything from elaborate dragons and tigers to tribal patterns and Chinese letters lined the walls, and there was so much for you to look at that you forgot to count how many doorways you passed as you made your way down the hall. Luckily for you, however, the telltale sound of metal music led you directly to your destination.
Unluckily for you, however, Eddie wasn’t alone.
“I’m telling you, an eyebrow piercing would look so hot on you, Eddie.”
The saccharine voice coming from the studio room made you stop dead in your tracks. You pressed yourself against the wall beside the doorway, hoping no one in the room had seen you yet. It definitely occurred to you that hiding and eavesdropping on whatever conversation was going on in Eddie’s workplace was inappropriate to say the least, but all you could think about was the fact that there was a decidedly female-sounding voice in there that was basically calling Eddie hot.
You didn’t like the ugly feeling that had bubbled up into your chest when you’d heard that.
You heard Eddie’s low chuckle in response, and it made your heart skip a beat at first- he used to chuckle like that in high school with you.
“Yeah? You’re not just saying that because it’s been slow today and you’re bored?”
His voice didn’t sound as flirty as hers… but it was there. The underlying tone of someone who knew he was being flirted with and wasn’t shutting it down by any means.
“Well, it is slow and I am bored.” she replied, “But I said what I said. A little bit of metal in your face can take a guy from hot to seriously sexy.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh totally. A good-looking guy can catch my eye, but when you add a couple piercings? I just melt. And don’t even get me started about when he opens his mouth to laugh and I see a tongue piercing-”
That was when you walked decidedly into the room with Eddie’s sketchbook held aloft. “Brought it!” you interrupted, a little louder than was necessary.
Was it petty? Absolutely. Did you have any right to get in the way of Eddie’s love life? None whatsoever.
That didn’t change the fact that hearing another woman talk to Eddie- your Eddie- that way made you want to flip a table.
Eddie’s eyes widened a bit at your abrupt entrance, but his face quickly brightened into the smile he always wore when you were around. He greeted you by name, thanking you for bringing him the sketchbook on such short notice.
“I’ve got a client coming in less than an hour and I doubt they would have trusted me to get started without showing them the mock-up sketch first.”
You smiled and shrugged, shoving your hands into the pockets of your jeans. “I’m glad I was home when you called, then.” You glanced sidelong at the woman who’d been picturing Eddie with a tongue piercing only moments ago.
She was pretty, in a pixie-like sort of way. Young, petite and sprightly with short pink hair, and she almost seemed to sparkle since the light was glinting off piercings on several parts of her body. She had piercings decorating her ears, her eyebrows, her nose, and in her belly button, which was shown off by the cropped Black Sabbath shirt she wore. Her full bottom lip was pierced as well, and she toyed with the silver lip ring with her tongue before asking, “So, you two live together?” she asked, her tone acidic in contrast to how sweet it had sounded earlier.
You could embrace the assumption she was on the verge of making. It would be so easy to nod your head, to smile and say ‘Uh-huh! Two months now!’ and let her think he was spoken for.
He wasn’t, though. Eddie Munson was a free man, free to flirt with whomever he wanted, and who were you to get in the way of that? You had absolutely no right to be jealous.
“Just for the time being.” you said, trying to come across passively about the subject. “He’s subletting a room in my apartment. Right, roomie?” You looked back at Eddie, expecting to see him nodding in agreement, grateful that you hadn’t ruined his chances with Piercing Girl.
What you saw, however, were lips pressed together into a solemn line and eyes coldly avoiding yours. “Yeah,” he confirmed, and it sounded like a bit of his usual mirth had disappeared from his voice. “Just crashing there for a bit.”
“Well then,” Piercing Girl said, the lilting flirtation lighting up her voice once more, “I’ll leave you two to talk about…whatever roommates talk about.” Her eyes flicked to you as her lips curled into a grin that, in your opinion, looked a little too smug. “Will I see you tonight? You never come out for drinks with the rest of us.” Her lip ring glinted as she pouted at him.
Every fiber of your being wanted to glance at him, silently question him with your eyes and hopefully convey to him that you would very much like it if he did not see her tonight, but you kept your eyes on a flash sheet you were pretending to look at on the wall.
Eddie gave her a noncommittal nod and a half smile. “Yeah, I’ll try and make it out tonight.”
That seemed to pacify Piercing Girl, who regarded you with a once-over before making a show of looking unimpressed with what she saw. “Nice to meet you.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
You mirrored the look. “Same to you.”
The stereo was the only sound in the room after she left. You ached for a reason to say something- anything- so you asked about the music.
“I like this song, who sings it?”
Eddie looked at you reproachfully. “Come on, I taught you better than that. You’re telling me you don’t recognize that voice?”
You did, but you couldn’t quite place it. You pressed your lips into an apologetic smile, shrugging. Eddie sighed, walking over to the stereo and picking up a CD case that sat on the table beside it and handing it to you. On the cover of the case a set of angel wings sprang from a woman’s back, the tips of the wings ignited in red-orange flame. Across the top of the image were the words Black Sabbath.
“That came out earlier this year,” Eddie explained. “I know you seemed to like Ozzy back in the day, so if you want to borrow that you’re welcome to it.”
He hoped you would. Eddie so hoped that you would smile and nod and that he would come home to hear you blasting Back to Eden from your bedroom, because then he would have something to bond over with you again. He would have a thing to share with you, a new connection between the you and him that had spent a decade becoming different people than you both were in high school. All of the things that you’d both shared way back then had grown sour with age, no thanks to him.
His heart sank when you handed the CD case back to him. “I don’t really listen to that stuff anymore.” You said quietly. “Thanks, though.”
You muttered something about needing to get home, that Icarus needed to be fed soon. “You should go out tonight.” you added on your way out. “Buy that girl a drink or something, she seemed pretty into you.”
It was the last thing he’d wanted to hear you say, but he pretended otherwise with a half-hearted chuckle. “Yeah, I’ve been getting that impression.”
You shrugged, giving him an encouraging smile over your shoulder. Be an adult about this, you thought, you want him to be happy. “You should go for it, she seems like your type.”
You didn’t wait for his response, didn’t want to hear him confirm that yes, she was his type and that she probably recognizes Black Sabbath within the first few seconds of every song they’ve released, and even though he wasn’t yours and you weren’t even sure that you wanted him to be yours, that hurt to think about.
Eddie had still been holding on to his foolish hope- that maybe he hadn’t fucked up beyond repair, that it might be possible for the two of you to rekindle what had felt so right and so perfect on that night so long ago, when he’d held you close and softly sung White Christmas in your ear.
But after hearing you confirm to him that you’ve more than moved on, you’re encouraging him to move on, and smiling while you do it… well, Eddie now knew where you stood.
July
“You’re moving in together?” you asked Kate incredulously. “You’ve only been official for two months, Kate, don’t you think that’s a little bit fast?”
You were both sitting in a quaint little coffeehouse that you used to frequent when the two of you still lived together. At first, you’d assumed that Kate had suggested this place for nostalgia’s sake, but now you understood that she’d been hoping the comforting atmosphere would soften your reaction to the news that Gareth would be moving in with her as soon as next month.
Kate smiled, unable to contain her obvious joy about sharing the news with you. Shrugging, she replied, “It is, I know, but it just makes sense! His cousin has been dropping hints that he may be overstaying his welcome on their couch, and being long distance has been honestly so hard. He basically has nothing keeping him in Chicago right now, so moving in with me just makes sense!” She reached across the little table you were sitting at and gave your hand a squeeze. “Please be happy for me.”
Your eyebrows knitted together with worry, but you gave her a reassuring smile nonetheless and returned her hand squeeze. “Of course I’m happy for you. You’re right, it does make sense- he doesn’t want to take advantage of his cousin’s generosity, and if he tried to find his own apartment here, who knows how long it would take and how much money he’d need to spend.”
“That’s exactly what I said!” Kate exclaimed, nodding her head eagerly.
You busied yourself with pulling the spent tea bag out of your steaming cup of oolong and began drizzling honey into the ceramic mug.
“However,” you began cautiously, “as your best friend, it would be my duty to voice my concerns if I had any and I happen to have one-”
“You’re worried we’re going to rip each other’s heads off?” Kate was raising an eyebrow that matched her wry smile.
You sighed in relief, thankful that she said it before you had to. “Yes! Oh my god, Kate, the two of you can hardly go an hour in the same room without arguing. How on earth are you going to manage living together without killing each other?”
“Simple.” Kate shrugged, and her wry smile morphed into a devilish smirk. “We’ll find other ways to take out our frustration with each other.”
“Ew.” You grimaced. “Was putting it that way really necessary?”
Kate laughed and sipped her coffee. “No, but your face was funny after saying it so I regret nothing. And seriously, Gare and I have talked about this. We know that… heated discussions are a potential problem for us, so we’re going into this fully prepared to listen to each other, practice healthy communication skills, compromise when necessary- all of it. We’ve thought this through, I promise.”
You stared her down sidelong, skeptically appraising her for any signs of doubt, but you came up empty- Kate seemed completely sincere and confident that she was making the right decision.
Stirring a little vortex of honey and tea in your mug, you removed your spoon and held up your cup for a toast. “To you and Gareth, then. May cohabitating make your relationship even stronger and bring you closer together in more ways than just physically!”
Kate clinked her coffee mug against yours. “Mostly physically though, I need that man bad…”
“Down, girl.” You rolled your eyes as Kate cackled into her coffee. “You should’ve gotten that coffee iced, I think you’re getting a little too hot over there.”
August
One month later, Kate and Gareth’s one-bedroom apartment was packed to full capacity. Once Gareth had officially moved all of his things from his cousin’s house, Kate had immediately begun planning a “home-warming” party.
“Because it isn’t a house,” she’d said matter-of-factly, “it’s an apartment. But that doesn’t make it any less of a home!” When you’d brought up the fact that she’d already been living there for several months, she’d sighed and said that until Gareth moved in, it just hadn’t felt like home yet.
Hence, the home-warming party.
Theirs was a standard-sized one-bed apartment for New York City, which meant that five people was pretty much the cap that could fit in the living room before it started to feel cramped in there. You had only been expecting four at first, until you arrived to see Eddie sitting in an armchair with Piercing Girl curled up in his lap.
Eddie had done exactly what you’d encouraged him to do- he’d gone out to drinks with his coworkers last month and bought a drink for the cute pink-haired girl that did the piercings at the Ink Shop. It wasn’t until the earliest hours of the morning that he’d gotten home that night. You didn’t ask him how things had gone the following morning, but you’d gotten your answer when he came home a few nights later with a pair of little silver studs in his eyebrow.
You were trying very hard to appear nonchalant about the whole thing, but your traitorous heart couldn’t help but flood your person with loathing the moment you saw her so much as look at him. Your small form of rebellion was that even though you were sure you’d heard Eddie mention her name at least once, you refused to commit it to memory. To you, she was Piercing Girl.
“I swear I didn’t know he was bringing her.” Kate told you after pulling you aside into the kitchen. “He only mentioned it to Gareth earlier today, and I only just found out when she showed up with him on our doorstep. If you want to go home, I can tell them you were feeling sick-”
You waved the idea off. “Please, he’s an adult, if he wants to bring his girlfriend to social events, he has every right to do so.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think anyone would blame you if-”
“Oh my god, Kate,” You cut her off, smiling and laughing into the words. “We were in high school, and technically we never even dated. We went on one date. It’s fine, I promise! He’s moved on, I’ve moved on-”
“You’ve moved on?” Kate raised an interested eyebrow. “With who?”
You smiled, happy to change the subject. “Do you remember that guy from work I told you about a while back?”
“The guy who moved to another department?”
You nodded. “Well that department just got relocated to our same floor, so we’ve been seeing a lot more of each other lately, and he asked for my number last week-”
Kate looked ecstatic, and she opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by Gareth, peaking his head into the kitchen.
“Are you two gonna stay in the kitchen all night, or would you do us the honor of continuing this conversation in the living room? I’m starting to feel like a third wheel in my own home.”
You both complied, following Gareth into the living room. You made an effort to sit as far away from Eddie and Piercing Girl as possible, keeping your eyes on Kate as you continued telling her about Paul from work.
“He took me out for coffee on Saturday, and Kate, I had such a nice time. He’s sweet, he listens to whatever I have to say- he just seems so stable. I feel like that’s so rare nowadays.”
Kate smiled widely, grabbing a bottle of wine from a bar cart in the corner and pouring a couple of glasses for the two of you. “Paul sounds so great, I can’t wait to meet him!” She handed you a glass before glancing at Eddie and Piercing Girl, who were still tangled together in an armchair on the other side of the living room. “Would you like anything, Valerie?”
Valerie. So that’s her name. You were almost disappointed that you knew it now. Knowing her name made her seem more real. Something closer to permanent.
You allowed yourself to look at her now. She was scrunching her nose up at the wine, asking if they “have anything a little sweeter”. Your eyes flicked over to Eddie, and they found him staring right back at you.
As soon as you’d made eye contact you were breaking it, cheeks heating as you lifted your glass to your lips and taking a healthy swig. You didn’t know why he’d been looking at you like that… there’d been so much intensity in his gaze, and you were absolutely clueless as to why it’d been there.
You struck up a conversation with Gareth in an effort to brush that gaze off. You asked him how he was settling in, what kind of job he would be searching for now that he was moved in, etc. The five of you all made pleasant small talk within your own individual conversations, and it was about an hour and a half later when Eddie and Piercing Girl -Valerie- were standing up to leave.
“I have a thing in the morning, so I can’t stay out too late.” she’d said, excusing herself from the party as Eddie offered to walk her out. It hadn’t taken more than a second after the door closed for Kate to drop her polite smile and roll her eyes.
“Oh my god, is she, like, twelve?” Kate scoffed.
“Be nice.” Gareth warned her, but there was a glint of mirth in his eyes when he said it.
Kate shrugged, looking offended. “I was being nice! But good God, Gare, why did Eddie keep her out so late, isn’t it past her bedtime?” You snorted, unable to keep your laughter under wraps any longer.
“Maybe that’s why she had to leave early,” you said, “she didn’t want to miss the bus tomorrow morning.”
Kate was laughing too now, and Gareth seemed resigned to the fact that defending Eddie’s choice in bedfellows was a lost cause. “She’s twenty, you two, being young isn’t a crime-”
“TWENTY??” Kate gasped. “I’ll tell you what’s a crime, Gareth, it’s serving alcohol to twenty-year-olds! God, I knew she was young, but not that young, Gare, why didn’t you tell me?!”
And then they were at it- this was a common occurrence with these two, and you knew from experience that once Kate and Gareth started arguing, the best course of action was to get out before they started trying to get bystanders to take sides. You excused yourself about ten minutes into their argument, eager to flee the scene, and passed Eddie in the hallway on your way out of their apartment. He looked at you, confused.
“The children are fighting.” you explained, and Eddie nodded in immediate understanding.
“Guess we’re going home then.” he sighed, falling into step with you as you resumed your stride down the hall toward the stairs.
You nodded. “Guess so.”
Silence between the two of you fell as you both made your way out of the building, and Eddie was fighting for his life to keep it that way. He couldn’t stop replaying what he’d heard you telling Kate earlier when he’d caught the tail end of your conversation as you’d both entered the living room.
‘He just seems so stable. I feel like that’s so rare nowadays.’
Stable. So that was what you were interested in now, Eddie thought bitterly. There had been a time when you’d been into him, but Eddie wasn’t exactly the first thing that came to mind when one thought of the word stable and he knew it. Evidently, he wasn’t the kind of guy you wanted anymore- you wanted someone reliable, someone stable. That stupid shred of hope he’d been holding onto was long gone now. What a joke. Who was he kidding- the most reliable thing about Eddie was that he would always, certainly, without a doubt fuck things up.
“So who’s this guy at work?” Eddie asked against his better judgement as you both exited the apartment building. Hot as the air had been that day, the night air was refreshingly cool against his face as it played with the curls that brushed his collarbone.
You were taken aback by the question for a moment, glancing at him with a raised eyebrow as if to say Since when do we talk about each other’s love lives?
“Um,” you started, keeping your eyes on the sidewalk ahead of you. “His name is Paul. He works in accounting, and we got coffee the other day. He’s nice.”
Eddie waited for you to elaborate, then laughed softly through his nose when you didn’t. “That’s it? That’s all there is to know about Paul?”
He could tell you were rolling your eyes- he didn’t need to see it, because he knew what you sounded like when you did. “Well, I’m only just starting to get to know him, aren’t I? I’m sure there are plenty of interesting things about him that I’ll learn as we see more of each other.”
“I don’t know…” Eddie mused. There was an edge to his voice that made you bristle. “I feel like a guy named Paul probably doesn’t get much more interesting than that.”
Now you looked at him, your eyes fiery in a way he was ashamed to admit thrilled him to see. He loved seeing you get like this- impassioned, vibrant and protective.
“Eddie, don’t be mean. You don’t even know him!”
“Well neither do you, according to that very bland description!”
You were approaching the stairs leading down to the subway, and you started down the steps ahead of him without hesitation, continuing the conversation loudly over your shoulder. “What names would make your list for interesting people, then? Valerie?”
Did he detect a vaguely jealous tone in your voice? Eddie was grinning widely now, the salt in your voice feeding the hungry beast in his chest regardless of whether it was right or not. The idea of you being jealous of Valerie drove him wild in a way that he was liking very much.
Eddie shrugged, following you closely as you marched through the late-night crowd and pointedly avoided eye contact. “Oh Val’s very interesting.”
“Is she?” you sniffed. “What is it that interests you, her determination to set off every metal detector within a mile of her? Or does she just bring out a different side of you? Does she make you feel young again?”
Eddie scoffed, “That’s a little agist of you, roomie. Also, weren’t you the one who told me to buy her a drink in the first place?”
“Yeah, well that was before I knew she was too young to order one for herself!”
The conversation hung in the air as the two of you stepped into the subway car and found a spot to stand. As the doors began to shut, Eddie muttered, “I’d rather she be young than boring.”
You knew he was talking about Paul… but you couldn’t help but let his words punch you in the gut when it felt like he was talking about you. Who were you when compared to someone like Valerie- with her piercings and pink hair and her twenties only beginning, unhindered by the jaded realities that you’d become all too familiar with in the eight years since you were her age?
Of course he wanted someone like her. Someone exciting.
“You might be right, okay?” You bit out, looking up at Eddie. You were both standing around the same silver pole, his hand holding on to it a few inches above where your hand was currently gripping that same pole hard enough to turn your knuckles white. “Paul may not be the most interesting person. He might have been raised by a boring family in a boring suburban town and played some lame sport in high school and majored in accounting at some lame college- but he’s nice to me, Eddie. He listens when I talk, and he likes me, and I’m sorry if it makes me boring too, but right now that’s enough for me.”
You’d held his eyes that whole time, your intensity and his matching each other with equal fervor, almost as if both were trying to sift through the words you’d both been saying out loud and get to the nuggets of truth that lay beneath it all. Now, however, yours dropped down and to the side, pretending to find something to look at on the wall as you punctuated your rant with a slightly quieter “...And I don’t need your approval.”
Eddie’s acidic grin was gone now, his lips instead pressed together in a grim, tight line. You weren’t sure if he noticed, but you were watching his reflection in the window. His eyes never met yours in the reflection, but they never left your face as you avoided his gaze. He felt instantly ashamed for ever taking any kind of pleasure in your jealousy- he had no right. He held no valid claim to your affections, your jealousy, your loyalty; he didn’t deserve anything from you. He was lucky you let him back into your life at all.
He was lucky to have whatever you gave him, and you were right- you didn’t need his approval.
“I’m sorry.” Eddie said softly. You turned to look back at him, keeping your expression guarded. He continued, “You don’t. You’re right- I don’t know Paul, but I don’t have to, it’s none of my business and it isn’t up to me to decide if he’s good enough for you. Even though-” a bit of intensity returned to his dark brown eyes. “-I don’t think anyone ever will be. Good enough for you, I mean. Nobody.”
Eddie always had a way of doing this- of making you so angry, and then suddenly doing or saying something so sweet that you just had to forgive him. Even after ten years, he was able to weasel himself back into your good graces.
So of course, now you were smiling up at him.
Eddie sighed, smiling back at you as if the relief that came from knowing you weren’t upset with him anymore was a weight lifted off his shoulders. “I want you to be happy.” he sighed. “Does Paul make you happy?”
You nodded. “It’s still really early, but I think he could, yeah. He seems… dependable. Something solid. The idea of something like that feels right to me.”
His heart was throwing itself against his ribcage like a stir-crazy gorilla at the zoo. It took everything he had to not throw himself at your feet and beg for a chance to be something solid for you, to be a dependable figure that could sew himself into whatever life you made for yourself and never leave. Let me be that for you, his heart cried out- all promises he would happily make but had little faith in himself to keep.
“Yeah,” Eddie said. “Yeah, Paul sounds like a nice guy.”
“Valerie seems nice too.” You amended, “I’m sorry I said what I did, it was rude of me to judge.”
“Trust me, I’m judging myself.” Eddie said, running a hand down his face as his eyebrows knit together. “I don’t even know what I’m doing with her, we’ve got nothing in common other than a workplace.”
“Oh no,” You did your best to sound sympathetic despite the fluttering feeling in your chest. “But wasn’t she wearing a Black Sabbath shirt that day when I dropped off your sketchbook? I thought she’d share your music taste, at least?”
Eddie snorted. “Pretty sure she picked that up from a thrift store because it ‘fit her vibe’.” He said the last part with air quotes, eliciting a conspiratorial laugh from you. “When I asked her about the shirt for the first time, she said she couldn’t remember if Black Sabbath was a band or a horror movie.”
You gasped, hardly containing your giggling now. “Eddie!”
“I know.” Eddie groaned, laughing ruefully along with you “I need to cut her loose. It’s just… I could tell she was into me, and I mean who doesn’t like to feel wanted, right? I guess I didn’t really think about it much further than that. Does that make me shallow?”
You looked at his sheepish grin and nudged him fondly with your elbow. “Nah. But you are if you keep dating her knowing she’s more interested than you are.”
“That’s fair.” Eddie nodded in agreement. “She deserves better than that.”
“So do you, though.” You reminded him. “You’re a good person, Eddie. I want you to be happy, too.”
You make me happy, he thought. He didn’t dare say it out loud, but he said it with his eyes as he gazed at you under the fluorescent lights.
“Okay then.” He said, “I promise to be happy-” With his left hand holding on to the pole, he lifted his right hand up and stuck out his pinky. “-if you promise to be happy.”
You grinned, feeling a familiar warmth spread through your chest as you hooked your own pinky with his. “I promise to be happy.”
And you both meant it- you were promising here and now not to get in the way of the other’s happiness. And if ‘happy’ for the other person meant cheering them on from the sidelines, watching them be happy with someone else, then that was what both of you would be willing to do.
Just two idiots on the subway making a pinky promise.
description: everyone in hawkins thinks you and eddie munson are already married. honestly? you can’t even blame them. between the shared garage, the constant flirting, and the way he cannot help but stare, it’s getting harder and harder to pretend there’s nothing going on between you.
pairing: mechanic!eddie x mechanic!reader (fem!reader)
tags: mechanic!eddie, eddie x you, no y/n, coworkers to lovers, unresolved sexual tension (until...), small town romance, flirtationship, mechanic core aftercare, old married couple energy, fucking on a '67 impala, workplace romance, tension tension tension, whimpering eddie, teasing each other mercilessly
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not interact!!!!, PiV, unprotected, needy eddie
WC: 4.1k
A/N: requested by my beloved @bitterestwillow I HOPE YOU ENJOY QUEEN AHHHHHHH. reblogs are a writer's best friend <3
yes, i had to use this gif for this fic...it does something to me idk......
The bell above the garage door jingled as Mrs. Patterson dug through her purse for her checkbook, glasses sliding halfway down her nose, while you leaned against the counter with a rag tucked into your back pocket.
“So,” you said, tapping the invoice with your pen, “the rattling sound was your serpentine belt. Thing was practically shredded.”
The elderly woman gasped softly. “Oh, dear.”
“Yeah, but you caught it before it snapped completely, which is good. We replaced the belt, topped off your coolant, changed the oil, and Eddie patched that little leak underneath your radiator.” You smiled reassuringly. “She’s good as new now.”
Beside her, Mr. Patterson squinted out toward the garage floor where the familiar sound of classic rock echoed through the open bays. “Which one’s Eddie again?”
Almost on cue, Eddie emerged from beneath a lifted pickup truck with grease smeared across his cheek and curls shoved back with a bandana.
Sweat darkened the collar of his black tank top, coveralls hanging around his hips, while he carried over a sweating tray of lemonade cups.
“There you are,” he said, setting them carefully on the counter. “It’s too damn hot outside not to hydrate.”
Mrs. Patterson practically lit up. “Well, aren’t you sweet?”
“Tell her that more often,” Eddie said, jerking his thumb toward you. “She’s mean to me.”
You rolled your eyes. “I told you to stop using the good shop towels to wipe down your van.”
“They’re towels.”
“They are expensive towels.”
Mr. Patterson laughed under his breath while Eddie handed them their drinks with an exaggerated flourish.
“Anything for my favorite customers.”
Mrs. Patterson smiled fondly at him before looking back toward you. “That husband of yours is such a gentleman.”
You nearly choked on your own spit.
Eddie froze for exactly one second before slowly turning toward you with the most insufferable grin imaginable.
“Oh?” he said. “You hear that, sweetheart?”
“Oh my God,” you muttered immediately.
The poor woman looked horrified. “Oh! I’m sorry, I just assumed—”
“No, no,” Eddie cut in smoothly, leaning against the counter. “Please continue. This is the best day of my life.”
You shot him a glare while he looked seconds away from laughing himself unconscious.
Mrs. Patterson pointed knowingly between the two of you. “You’ve got the look.”
“What look?” you asked suspiciously.
“The ‘been in love for years’ look.”
Eddie outright cackled. You grabbed the invoice and shoved it toward them. “Okay! Your total is—.”
The elderly couple left smiling to themselves while Eddie leaned against the counter, watching you with entirely too much amusement. The second the door shut behind them, he pushed off the counter and followed you toward the office.
“Husband, huh?” he mused.
“Don’t start.”
“I personally think it has a nice ring to it.”
You dropped into the squeaky office chair with a dramatic groan. “You’re unbearable.”
Eddie leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest. “And yet you keep having me back every morning.”
“You work here.”
“Semantics.”
“Hey,” Eddie said suddenly.
You looked up, and he tossed something shiny toward you, and you barely caught it before it hit your face. Your keys, the little keychain Dustin made you years ago, swung between your fingers.
“You left ‘em by the toolbox again.”
“Oh.” You blinked. “Thanks.”
“Mmhm,” he hummed smugly. “Good thing your husband’s lookin’ out for you.”
You pointed toward the door. “Get out.”
Instead of leaving, Eddie just grinned wider, sunlight pouring in behind him from the open garage bays.
“Say it once.”
“No.”
“C’mon, sweetheart. Just one little ‘thank you, my husband.’”
You threw a balled-up receipt at his head while his laughter rang through the entire garage.
By noon, the July heat had turned the garage into a furnace.
Every bay door was rolled open, old fans rattling uselessly in the corners while the smell of motor oil, hot pavement, and cigarette smoke clung heavily in the air.
Foreigner blasted low from the radio perched near Eddie’s toolbox, occasionally cutting out whenever someone used the compressor.
You were bent over the hood of a Mustang, wiping grease from your hands while talking to a customer, your laugh carrying across the shop floor. And across said shop floor, Eddie was staring. Not subtly, either.
Steve had noticed immediately, mostly because Eddie had been holding the exact same wrench for nearly three minutes without moving.
Steve slowly lowered his sandwich. “Jesus Christ.”
“Hm?” Eddie hummed absently.
“You are down catastrophically bad.”
That got Eddie to blink. “What?”
Steve pointed dramatically across the garage where you were explaining something with animated hand gestures, sunlight catching the sheen of sweat on your skin.
“You’ve been staring at her this entire time.”
Eddie scoffed, finally looking away. “I have not.”
“You absolutely have.”
“I’m working.”
“You’ve been holding that wrench upside down.”
Eddie glanced down, and sure enough, he was.
“Shut up.”
Steve barked out a laugh and leaned back in the lawn chair they’d dragged outside for Eddie's lunch break. It was honestly kind of ridiculous to witness at this point.
Everyone in Hawkins knew something was going on between the two of you, except apparently the two of you.
The lingering touches, the teasing, the way Eddie always magically appeared beside you whenever some asshole customer got too flirty.
The way you unconsciously reached for his cigarettes to steal one straight from his mouth…and the constant staring, especially the staring.
Steve watched Eddie’s eyes drift right back over toward you again.
“Oh my God,” he groaned. “There he goes again.”
Eddie ignored him completely. You’d just looked up from the engine bay, pushing hair from your forehead with the back of your wrist, and the second your eyes met Eddie’s from across the garage, you smiled.
It was quick, maybe two milliseconds, but enough to make Eddie smile back immediately without even realizing it. Steve made a loud fake gagging noise.
Eddie finally tore his eyes away. “What is your problem?”
Steve stared at him incredulously. “Dude. I genuinely thought you two would be married by now.”
Eddie choked on his drink. “What?”
“I’m serious,” Steve continued. “Like three years ago, I would've put money on it.”
Eddie rubbed the back of his neck, trying very hard to act unaffected while heat crept up beneath the grease on his cheeks.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “Hasn’t happened.”
“Why not?”
Eddie began to argue, but froze up. Because honestly? He didn’t fucking know.
Somewhere along the way, the flirting had become second nature. So had the late nights at the garage together. So had sharing fries at the diner after closing. So, had you climbing into the passenger seat of his van without asking. So had you wearing his flannels whenever the shop got cold in winter.
It had all become so normal that crossing the line felt weirdly terrifying. Steve watched the gears turning in Eddie’s head and sighed dramatically.
“You’re both idiots.”
“Says you.”
“I’m serious.” Steve pointed between him and you across the garage. “She might as well have personally invented beer by the way you stare at her. It’s honestly kinda sad, man.”
Eddie snorted. “That’s dramatic.”
Steve deadpanned, “You literally stopped mid-cigarette yesterday because she walked by in shorts.”
“That is such a lie!”
“It is the truth.”
Before Eddie could argue, your voice cut across the garage.
“Munson!” Both men looked over.
You stood beside the Mustang with your hands on your hips. “You gonna come help me, or are you too busy staring at me again?”
Steve immediately burst into obnoxious laughter while Eddie nearly dropped his beer. And from the way you smirked before ducking back under the hood, you absolutely knew what you were doing.
The next morning was somehow even hotter.
By ten a.m., the air inside the garage already felt thick enough to chew through, every fan working overtime while the sun beat down through the open bay doors. You had your coveralls tied around your waist, a cropped tank clinging to your skin with sweat, as you worked under the hood of a Jeep.
And Eddie was being an absolute menace. It started innocent enough; he’d complained dramatically about the heat for twenty minutes straight before finally yanking his shirt over his head with a frustrated, “I’m gonna die in this godforsaken town.”
You had looked up at exactly the wrong moment. Because suddenly there was just, Eddie. Shirtless. Hair tied back messily at the nape of his neck. Grease streaked across his stomach and chest. Dog tag and guitar pic hanging against tan skin. His jeans slung low on his hips while he wiped sweat from the back of his neck with a rag.
And the worst part? The asshole noticed immediately. You looked away so fast you nearly smacked your head against the underside of the hood. From somewhere across the garage, you heard another mechanic whistle loudly.
“Ohhhh,” he sang. “How the tables have turned.”
“Shut up, Mark,” you muttered.
Eddie, meanwhile, looked entirely too pleased with himself. For the next hour, he became absolutely insufferable. Needlessly stretching, standing too close, asking you to hand him tools he absolutely could’ve reached himself.
At one point, he bent over the engine bay beside you, and you caught the smell of gasoline, cigarette smoke, and his cologne and nearly forgot your own name.
“Wrench?” he asked casually, but you evidently handed him the wrong one.
Eddie bit back a grin. “Sweetheart, this is a screwdriver.”
Heat flooded your face. From behind him, Mark made an obnoxious gagging noise, and you narrowed your eyes.
Fine. If Eddie wanted to play this game? Two could absolutely play. Play a stupid game, win a stupid prize, right?
About twenty minutes later, Eddie was halfway underneath a truck when he heard your laugh ring across the garage.
That’s not unusual. However, what was unusual was the guy you were laughing with. Some customer leaned against the front counter while you smiled up at him, twirling a socket wrench lazily between your fingers.
Eddie immediately rolled himself out from under the truck on the creeper.
“What’s that?” Mark asked innocently from nearby.
“Nothing,” Eddie muttered.
“Looks like jealousy.”
“Not jealous.”
“Mhm.”
The customer laughed at something you said, briefly touching your arm, which caused Eddie to sit up straighter. Then the asshole smiled.
“Oh,” Mark murmured. “He’s flirting.”
Eddie stood immediately.
Mark burst out laughing. “THERE he is.”
Before Eddie could storm over there and make an idiot of himself, the rumble of an engine pulled into the lot. All three of you looked over automatically, and then Eddie froze.
“No fucking way.”
The car rolling slowly into the garage was gorgeous: black paint gleaming beneath the sunlight, chrome shining, low growl of the engine unmistakable.
A 1967 Chevy Impala. The entire garage seemed to pause.
Even you looked impressed. “Well,” you said softly. “Would you look at that?”
The driver climbed out, explaining something about rough idling and overheating, but Eddie barely heard a word. Because holy shit, it was pristine.
You walked slowly around the car, fingertips dragging lightly over the hood appreciatively. “She’s beautiful.”
And unfortunately for Eddie? The way you said it sounded dangerously similar to the tone you sometimes used with him. Mark caught the look on Eddie’s face and immediately started grinning.
“You alright there, big guy?”
Eddie ignored him entirely, stepping beside you near the Impala. “Think it’s the thermostat,” he murmured, eyes flicking toward you instead of the car.
You glanced up, and there it was again: that stupid tension. Especially when your gaze dipped briefly down his bare chest before snapping back up. A smug little grin tugged at his mouth.
“Oh, now who’s staring?” he asked quietly.
You held his gaze for a long second before reaching forward and grabbing the grease rag tucked into the back of his jeans. Eddie blinked, then watched you slowly wipe your grease-covered hands on it while maintaining eye contact.
Mark made a strangled noise somewhere behind him while the customer looked wildly confused. And Eddie? Eddie looked like he was about two seconds away from losing his mind entirely.
By the time the sun finally started setting, the garage had gone quiet.
The OPEN sign in the front window buzzed faintly before Eddie reached up and flicked it off with grease-stained fingers, plunging the office into dim golden light. Outside, cicadas screamed into the warm Indiana night while the last of the heat clung stubbornly to the concrete floors.
Most nights ended like this lately. Just you and Eddie lingering hours after closing, claiming there was still work to finish when really neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave.
The Impala sat in the center bay now, hood propped open while you leaned halfway into the engine compartment with a flashlight between your teeth. From the radio near Eddie’s toolbox, a slow rock song crackled softly through static.
And across the garage, Eddie was still shirtless, still. All damn day.
You tightened something with your ratchet a little harder than necessary before finally glancing over toward him. He was bent over the workbench this time, curls falling loose from his hair tie while sweat gleamed across his shoulders under the overhead lights.
Honestly, it was getting ridiculous.
“You know shirts exist for a reason, right?” you called.
Eddie didn’t even look up. “Do they?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.”
You rolled your eyes, ducking back under the hood. “Pretty sure OSHA would have a field day with you.”
That finally made him laugh. Then you heard the scrape of his boots as they crossed the garage floor. A second later, Eddie appeared beside you, leaning against the Impala with crossed arms.
Still shirtless, and still oh-so-very smug. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he asked innocently. “You don’t like what you see?”
You made the mistake of looking at him fully then. Big mistake, because up close was somehow worse.
Grease streaked across his stomach, forearms flexing where they crossed over each other, and his stupid hair half falling out of the tie from working all day.
Your eyes dipped for half a second too long, and Eddie caught it immediately with a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Oh my God,” he murmured. “You do.”
You snapped your gaze back to the engine. “Shut up.”
“Nah.” He leaned closer. “C’mon, tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Mhm.”
“You’re sweaty.”
“Thought girls liked that.”
“I don’t.”
“Liar.”
Heat crawled up your neck as you tried very hard to focus on the engine instead of the fact that Eddie was standing close enough for his knee to brush yours every few seconds.
“You’ve been staring at me all day,” he said softly.
You scoffed. “You wish.”
“You handed me a screwdriver this morning because you were too busy looking at my chest.”
“That happened one time.”
“And then you wiped your hands on my jeans while making eye contact with me like a psychopath.”
A smile tugged at your mouth despite yourself. “That was funny.”
“It was hot.”
Your ratchet slipped loudly against the engine, then silence. Then Eddie laughed quietly under his breath. You pointed the flashlight at him threateningly. “Don’t.”
But Eddie just leaned further over the hood beside you until your shoulders bumped.
“You know,” he said casually, “if this is your way of admitting you’re into me, there are easier methods.”
You snorted. “Into you? Please.”
“Sweetheart, half this town thinks we’re married already.”
“That’s because old people are nosy.”
“That’s because you look at me like that.”
You frowned. “Like what?”
Eddie’s eyes flicked slowly over your face, enough to make your stomach flip and your face burn pink. “Like you want to kiss me every time I open my mouth.”
Eddie’s grin faltered just slightly when you stepped closer instead of backing away.
“Oh yeah?” you asked lightly.
His eyes flicked over your face. “Yeah.”
You crossed your arms, leaning against the Impala beside him now, shoulder brushing his bare arm. “What about you, huh?”
Eddie blinked once. “What about me?”
“You think I don’t notice?” you continued, voice quieter now. “The staring. Following me around the shop all day?”
“That is not—”
“You literally almost dropped a transmission last month because I called you pretty.”
“That was one time.”
A smile tugged at your mouth. “Mhm.”
Eddie opened his mouth to argue again, but you stepped even closer first, close enough now that he had to tilt his head down to look at you properly. And suddenly, he wasn’t smirking anymore.
Interesting.
“You wanna know what I think?” you murmured.
Eddie swallowed visibly. “What?”
You reached up slowly, fingers hooking around the chain of his dog tags. The sharp inhale he took was immediate.
“Oh, you like this way more than I do.”
His eyes went dark instantly. “Careful,” he said softly.
“Or what?”
Eddie laughed once under his breath, disbelieving almost, like he couldn’t decide if you were trying to kill him on purpose. Then, the tension snapped like a fan belt under too much strain.
You tugged harder on Eddie’s dog tags, pulling him down until his mouth crashed into yours. He groaned into the kiss; raw, needy, and immediately pliant.
His hands hovered at your waist like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch, even after years of circling this exact moment. You solved that for him by grabbing his wrists and planting his grease-streaked palms firmly on your ass.
“Kiss me like you mean it, Munson,” you growled against his lips.
Eddie melted. His mouth opened for you instantly, tongue sliding hot and desperate against yours while you backed him up against the Impala’s fender.
He tasted like cigarettes and the beer he definitely should not have had earlier, and he whimpered, actually whimpered, when you bit his bottom lip and sucked it between your teeth.
“Fuck… sweetheart,” he panted when you finally let him breathe. His cock was already straining against the front of his coveralls, obvious and aching. You shoved a hand between you and palmed him roughly through the fabric. Eddie’s hips jerked forward into your grip with a broken sound.
“Close the hood,” you ordered, voice low.
Eddie blinked, dazed. “Wh—”
“Now.”
He scrambled to obey, reaching over and slamming the heavy hood of the Impala shut with a solid thunk that echoed through the empty garage. The second it latched, you pushed him back, hopped up onto the glossy black hood, and spread your legs in invitation.
Your coveralls were already half-off, tank top shoved up, work jeans unbuttoned, and yanked down your thighs along with your underwear in one impatient motion. Eddie’s eyes went wide and dark, pupils blown as he stared at your exposed pussy glistening under the overhead lights.
“On your knees,” you said, hooking a boot behind his shoulder to drag him forward.
He dropped so fast his knees probably bruised on the concrete. The first drag of his tongue was tentative, almost reverent—then you grabbed a fistful of his messy curls and ground against his face, and Eddie moaned like he’d been waiting his whole life for this.
He licked broad and sloppy, sucking your clit between his lips exactly how you liked it once you told him, “Higher—there, fuck, just like that.”
His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, but he never tried to take control. Every time you tugged his hair or rolled your hips, he whimpered gratefully into your cunt and doubled down, tongue fucking into you while his nose rubbed perfect circles against your clit.
Sweat and grease streaked his bare chest; his cock was leaking a wet spot through his coveralls. You came hard on his tongue, thighs clamping around his head as you rode his face through it, moaning his name loud enough that it probably carried out the open bay doors.
Eddie kept licking you through the aftershocks like he couldn’t bear to stop. When you finally pushed his head back, his chin was shiny with your slick, lips swollen, eyes glassy and adoring.
For a second, you thought he was going to stay soft, sweet, and submissive, but then he grabbed your hips, spun you around, and bent you over the warm hood in one rough motion.
“Eddie—” you started, but he was already kicking your feet apart.
“Please,” he whined, voice cracked and needy as he shoved his coveralls and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It slapped heavily against your ass, dripping wet. “Need to be inside you—fuck, I can’t wait anymore.”
He didn’t give you time to answer. He lined up and pushed in with one desperate thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The broken whimper that tore out of him was pure filth.
“Oh my god—oh fuck, you’re so tight,” he gasped, forehead dropping between your shoulder blades. His hips jerked forward again, shallow and frantic. “Feels so good… so fucking good—”
You gripped the edge of the hood, moaning as he started fucking you harder. He was still whimpering and panting with every thrust, but he had you pinned now; big hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, cock driving deep and relentless.
“Eddie—shit—”
“I’m sorry, I just—fuck—” He sounded wrecked, voice cracking as he slammed into you again, the car rocking under the force. One hand slid around to rub messy circles over your clit, too desperate to be coordinated, but perfect anyway. “Can’t stop…wanted this for so fucking long—”
You pushed back against him, and he sobbed a moan, pace turning sloppy and needy.
“Please—please let me come inside you,” he begged right in your ear, hips snapping faster. “I’ll be good—I'll be so good for you, just—fuck, I’m so close already—”
You clenched around him on purpose, and his rhythm stuttered, another broken moan spilling out as his cock throbbed inside you.
He came with a loud, shattered moan, hips jerking as he pumped deep inside you, shuddering and whimpering through every pulse. Even after he finished, he stayed buried in you, breathing hard against your neck, cock still twitching.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, voice hoarse. “I think I just died.”
You laughed breathlessly and gently tugged his hair. “Good,” you murmured.
You sat on the edge of the workbench, now wrapped loosely in Eddie’s discarded flannel, while he rummaged through one of the lockers near the tiny office bathroom.
“You alive over there?” he called.
“Mhm.”
“Liar. You sound deceased.”
You laughed tiredly, resting your cheek against your shoulder as you watched him move around the shop, half-dressed and still unfairly attractive. Honestly, it should’ve annoyed you more. Instead, your chest felt warm.
Eddie finally turned around, holding a towel triumphantly over his head. “Ha! Told you I left one here.”
“You keep towels at the shop?”
“Sweetheart, sometimes engines explode on me.”
He crossed back over toward you, hair falling loose around his face again now that the tie had disappeared somewhere in the chaos.
Up close, you noticed how pink his cheeks still were, how his lips looked swollen from the relentless eating and hungry kisses.
“C’mon,” he said gently, nudging your knee apart so he could stand between them. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
The bathroom attached to the office was tiny and honestly kind of terrible. Half the lightbulbs buzzed, the water pressure sucked, and the shower curtain had little motor oil stains near the bottom from years of mechanics rinsing off after long shifts. Still, with Eddie in there with you somehow, it felt strangely intimate.
You stood beneath the spray, rinsing soap from your arms while Eddie sat on the little built-in ledge beside you, lazily rubbing shampoo through your hair with surprising gentleness.
“There’s no way you know how to do this,” you mumbled.
“I’m multi-talented.”
“You use dish soap on your hair sometimes.”
“That is slander.”
You snorted softly while he carefully worked his fingers through the ends of your hair. His touch slowed after a minute, fingertips brushing lightly along the back of your neck.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
The softness in his voice caught you off guard, and you turned slightly to look at him. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
Then he reached forward, wiping a little mascara smudge from beneath your eye with his thumb. “Pretty girl,” he murmured.
You leaned against the tile wall while Eddie stood close enough for the warm water to run down both of you at once. Then, after a long, quiet moment, he grinned suddenly.
“So.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “What?”
“You think fucking on an Impala counts as our first date?”
anywayy... hope you all enjoyed ;) dean winchester fic coming later today if you're interested MUAHAHAHA
description: he’ll get on his knees for you behind closed doors, call you his queen like it’s the only truth that matters. but at school? you’re just another cheerleader he rolls his eyes at, and you’ve had enough of being his secret.
pairing: eddie x you (fem!reader)
tags: eddie x you, no y/n, weekend lover energy, angst, hurt/comfort, secret relationship, dom!eddie smut, public denial private devotion, possessive!eddie, soft!eddie, "my queen", (all behind closed doors, of course)
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do NOT interact!!!!, PiV, unprotected, pet name
WC:7.9k
A/N: requested by @pierrotandsam i hope i did your request justice!! thank you all for your continued support, I LOVE YOU RAHHHHHH!! reblogs are always appreciated <33 enjoyyyyyuhhhhh
The first time you notice it, it almost feels like a mistake. Because the night before, Eddie had you pinned against the thin wall of his trailer, palms warm at your waist, voice low and reverent like he was saying something sacred.
“C’mere,” he murmured, pulling you closer like you belonged there, like you’d always belonged there. “My queen shouldn’t have to ask.”
He said it so easily, like it was fact. Like it was truth. Like you were something worth kneeling for.
And then, school comes. Fluorescent lights. Lockers slamming. The stale, over-perfumed air of Hawkins High School presses in on you from all sides.
You see him before he sees you. Or—no, that’s not right. He does see you.
You catch it, just for a second. His eyes flick up, lock with yours, and then slide right past you like you’re just another body in the hallway.
Like you’re nothing.
Your stomach drops so fast it makes you dizzy. But maybe it’s just a thing. A one-off, a weird morning, Eddie being Eddie.
Right?
You try again at lunch.
He’s at his usual table, boots kicked out, Hellfire Club crowding around him, loud and messy and unapologetic. He’s mid-rant about something; D&D, probably, hands moving like he’s conducting his own chaos.
You hover for half a second, just long enough to be seen. He notices you this time, you know he does. There’s that flicker of recognition again.
Something softer underneath it, something that belongs to you and you alone. And then it’s gone.
“Jesus,” he scoffs loudly, leaning back in his chair like you’re part of the scenery he’s criticizing. “The pom-pom parade’s getting more annoying every day.”
Laughter. Not yours, never yours. Your face burns, but you don’t stop walking. Years of practiced composure keep your spine straight, your expression neutral, your steps steady.
Like it doesn’t matter. Like he doesn’t matter. But it does. It really fucking does.
Because that night? That night he opens the trailer door before you even knock. Like he’s been waiting, like he always is.
“There you are,” he breathes, and it’s different now; soft, relieved, and almost desperate.
His hands are on you instantly, pulling you inside, the door slamming shut behind you like it’s sealing something sacred off from the rest of the world.
His forehead presses to yours, curls brushing your cheeks, his voice dropping into something quiet and worshipful.
“They don’t get to look at you like I do,” he murmurs. “They don’t get to have you.”
Your hands find his jacket, clutching tight.
“Then why do you act like you don’t even see me?” you ask, and it comes out smaller than you mean it to.
That pauses him. His grip tightens, and his jaw sets just a little.
“It’s different there,” he says finally. “That place? It’s a joke. A performance. I’m not playing their game.”
Your laugh is sharp, but quiet.
“But you are,” you say. “You just don’t realize it.”
Instead of pulling away, he leans in closer, always closer. Like, proximity can fix what distance breaks.
“You think I don’t mean it?” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek like you’re something fragile. “In here? With you?”
You don’t answer, because that’s not the problem.
He presses a kiss to your temple. Your cheek. Your mouth. Soft, reverent, careful like he’s trying to convince you through touch instead of words.
“You’re mine,” he whispers against your lips. “My queen. That doesn’t change just because we step outside.”
But it does.
Because tomorrow morning you’ll be back under those lights, and he’ll look through you again like you’re nothing but everything he claims to hate.
You wake up earlier than you ever do. Not because you have to, but because you want to.
The room is still dim, the kind of soft gray light that makes everything feel slower, like the world hasn’t fully decided to start yet.
You lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling, Eddie’s voice from last night looping in your head in a way that’s equal parts comforting and infuriating.
“My queen.”
Your jaw tightens.
“Yeah,” you murmur to yourself, pushing the blankets off. “Okay.”
If he wants to act like you don’t exist out there, fine. You’re not going to beg for attention. But you’re also not going to pretend you don’t care what he sees.
The closet takes longer than it should.
You pass over your usual outfits, the safe ones. The ones that fit neatly into the version of you everyone already understands. Pleated skirts, clean lines, soft colors that make people smile at you in the hallways.
Not today.
Your fingers land on a pair of ripped jeans you barely wear. They’re not extreme, not enough to raise eyebrows, but different enough that it feels like you’re stepping just slightly outside the lines.
You pull them on. A top next. Fitted, but not loud. It sits just right against your waist, the kind of thing you don’t usually reach for unless you’re trying to feel something.
You hesitate, then grab your Converse. That part makes you pause the longest, because it’s not random.
You remember him, sprawled across his mattress, tapping the side of your shoe once, absentminded, like it was a thought he didn’t mean to say out loud.
“Way better than those preppy things you wear,” he’d said. “More you.”
You didn’t ask what that meant.
Your hair is the last thing. Usually it’s styled, controlled. Pulled back into something intentional. Today, you let it fall. Loose, soft, and slightly imperfect; exactly how his hands always leave it.
You catch your reflection in the mirror, and for a second, you don’t move. It’s still you, just a version that feels a little closer to the one he sees when it’s just the two of you.
The halls of Hawkins High School are louder than usual. Or maybe you’re just more aware of it.
Every step feels deliberate, like you’re walking into something instead of just through it. You can feel the difference in how people look at you, subtle shifts, double takes that don’t quite linger long enough to mean anything.
You don’t look for him right away; you don’t want to. But your eyes betray you eventually, flicking toward the far end of the hall, and there he is.
Leaning against the lockers like he owns the place he claims to hate, Dustin beside him mid-sentence, animated as ever. Eddie’s not really listening, not fully.
His attention drifts, lazy and unfocused, until it lands on you and stops. It’s small, so small you almost miss it, but you don’t.
His eyes take you in like they always do when it’s just the two of you. Not just looking, but seeing.
The jeans. The shoes. Your hair. You watch the recognition hit. The quiet, almost involuntary flicker of something softer. Something that belongs to last night.
Your heart stutters, just once. And then it’s gone.
He straightens slightly, like he caught himself doing something he shouldn’t.
“Dude,” Dustin is saying, still talking, completely unaware. “I’m telling you, if we just—”
Eddie cuts him off with a short laugh, louder than it needs to be.
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, pushing off the lockers as the two of them start walking right toward you.
Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him.
You look anyway. For half a second, your eyes meet again, and this time, he rolls his. It’s exaggerated.
“Unbelievable,” he says, not even lowering his voice as he passes you, shoulder brushing just barely against yours. “It’s like they all share the same brain cell. New costume, same act.”
Dustin snorts beside him, quick and thoughtless. “Right? It’s like—”
Their voices fade as they keep walking. You don’t turn around. You don’t stop. You just keep going, steps steady, posture perfect, like nothing just shifted inside your chest.
Because you know that look he gave you before the eye roll. You know it wasn’t real, but it still stings more than it should.
The trailer door swings open before your knuckles even finish their second tap. Eddie doesn’t say hello. He doesn’t need to. His hand closes around your wrist, and he yanks you inside, the door slamming shut hard enough to rattle the walls.
The second the latch clicks, he’s on you; mouth crashing into yours like he’s been starving for the taste of you all day.
“Fuck, there she is,” he growls against your lips, walking you backward until your shoulders hit the flimsy kitchen counter.
His hands are everywhere at once, sliding under your shirt, palming your waist like he needs to remind himself you’re real. “My queen. My fucking queen.”
You barely get a breath before he’s kissing down your jaw, your throat, teeth grazing the spot that always makes your knees weak.
He drops to his knees right there on the worn linoleum like it’s the most natural thing in the world, hands sliding down your thighs, reverence in every touch.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, pressing his face against the front of those ripped jeans, inhaling like your scent is oxygen. “You walked around school looking like this for me, didn’t you?”
His fingers trace the frayed rips at your knees, then higher, thumbs pressing into the soft skin of your inner thighs. “Every single person who looked at you today wanted you. And none of them gets to have you. Only me.”
A soft, needy sound escapes you as he mouths over the denim, hot breath soaking through.
He looks up at you from the floor; dark eyes, glassy with want, curls wild, that cocky public mask completely gone. Here, he’s only yours.
“I saw you in the hall,” he confesses, voice low and rough as he pops the button on your jeans. “Nearly lost my goddamn mind. Jesus Christ, princess… you looked like sin. Like you’d let me ruin you right there against the lockers if I asked.” He drags the zipper down slowly, eyes locked on yours. “So perfect.”
He tugs your jeans and panties down in one motion, helping you step out of them.
Then he leans in and kisses you right at the apex of your thighs, soft at first, almost chaste, before his tongue parts you with a hungry groan.
“Eddie—” Your hand flies to his hair, gripping tight.
He hums against your cunt, the vibration shooting straight up your spine. “Taste so fucking good, like you were made for my fucking mouth.”
His hands grip your ass, pulling you closer as he devours you—long, filthy strokes of his tongue, sucking your clit like he’s trying to pull every sound out of you.
“Nobody else gets this. Nobody else gets to hear you moan like that. Just me.”
Your legs start to shake. He notices immediately, rising just enough to lift you onto the counter, spreading your thighs wide so he can bury his face again.
Two fingers push inside you without warning, curling just right, and your head falls back against the cabinet with a thud.
“That’s it,” he praises between licks, voice muffled and worshipful. “Ride my face, baby. Use me. You looked so goddamn pretty today.”
He pumps his fingers faster, tongue flicking relentlessly against your clit. “Come for me. Let me taste how much you need this.”
The orgasm hits you hard—white-hot and overwhelming. You cry out his name, thighs clamping around his head as he works you through it, groaning like your pleasure is the best thing he’s ever tasted.
He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling and oversensitive, only then pulling back with a slick shine on his chin and a dazed, adoring smile.
He stands, kissing you deep so you can taste yourself on his tongue, hands already working his belt open.
“Bedroom?” he asks, voice wrecked.
You shake your head, pulling him closer by his shirt. “Here. Now.”
Eddie laughs, low and delighted, lifting you off the counter and turning you around so your chest presses against the cool surface. He kicks your legs apart, lining himself up.
“Good girl,” he breathes against your ear as he pushes in, thick, slow, perfect. “Always so wet for me.” He bottoms out with a broken moan, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Only I get to know how you fall apart. Only I get to call you mine.”
Then he starts moving, deep, possessive thrusts that make the trailer creak, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks no one else will ever see.
Every snap of his hips is deliberate, like he’s trying to press the truth of you into your bones. The angle has you gasping, chest pressed tight to the counter, his mouth hot against the back of your neck.
“Fuck, listen to you,” he groans, voice wrecked. “All those pretty little sounds just for me. You take me so well, princess. Like your body was made for this cock.” He angles his hips and hits that spot that makes your vision spark white. “That’s it, right there.”
Your fingers scrabble for purchase on the countertop as the pleasure coils tighter. Eddie doesn’t let up. He reaches around to rub tight circles over your clit, mouth never leaving your skin; kissing, biting, whispering filthy praise between every thrust.
“Come on, baby. Come on my cock. Want to feel you fall apart while I’m still buried inside you.” His voice drops lower, almost reverent. “You looked so fucking good today. Drives me crazy knowing they all saw you and still don’t know you’re dripping for me every night.”
The words tip you over the edge. You cry out, clenching hard around him as the orgasm crashes through you.
Eddie curses, hips stuttering, and follows right after, burying himself deep with a guttural moan, spilling inside you while he holds you.
For a long moment, the only sounds are your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the fridge. Then he’s gently pulling out, turning you around, and kissing you slow and deep, like he’s sealing every word he just said into your mouth.
Later, you’re tangled in his bed, sheets twisted around your bare legs. Eddie’s sprawled on his back, one arm hooked around your waist, pulling you half on top of him.
His fingers trace lazy patterns up and down your spine, curls splayed across the pillow, eyes half-lidded and soft in the low lamplight. He looks peaceful and content, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
You try to match it. You press a kiss to his chest, right over the tattoo there, and murmur, “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling under your cheek. “Only for you, sweetheart. My queen deserves to be worshipped properly.”
His hand slides down to squeeze your ass possessively. “Especially after walking around school looking like a goddamn wet dream in those jeans.”
You smile against his skin, even as something tightens in your chest. You trace one of his scars with your fingertip, keeping your voice light. “Yeah… it was fun seeing you try not to stare.”
It comes out casual. Playful, even. Like you’re totally fine with it. Like the memory of him rolling his eyes in the hallway doesn’t still sting.
Eddie hums, clearly buying it, and presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Had to. Can’t have the sheep thinking I’ve gone soft. But trust me, the second I got you through that door…”
He trails off with a low groan, rolling you both so you’re underneath him again, caging you in with his arms. His eyes are warm, adoring. “Best part of my whole shitty day.”
You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently like you always do when you want him closer.
“I know. It’s okay.”
But it’s not, not really.
Because even now, wrapped up in him, warm and safe and wanted, you can already picture tomorrow: fluorescent lights, slammed lockers, the way his gaze will slide right past you again like you’re nothing.
Like this, his mouth on your skin, his voice calling you his queen, the way he fucks you like you’re sacred, doesn’t exist the second you step outside this trailer.
You bury your face in his neck so he won’t see the way your eyes sting. He holds you tighter, completely unaware, murmuring more soft praises into your hair until his breathing evens out.
You stay awake a little longer, listening to his heartbeat, your mind slipping off, wondering how much longer you can keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.
Game days always feel louder.
By the time you step into Hawkins High School, the whole place is buzzing; hallways packed tighter, voices higher, everything charged with that restless, anticipatory energy that comes before a Friday night game.
And you? You’re back in uniform. It fits like it always does. Clean lines, bright colors, everything about it is designed to be seen. It’s the version of you everyone recognizes, and the version he pretends to hate.
You catch a few looks as you move through the halls, smiles from teammates, nods from people who only acknowledge you on days like this.
Lunch is worse. It’s crowded, loud, suffocating, and you don’t even mean to look for him this time, you really don’t, but your eyes still drift. And there he is.
Boots up on the bench, leaning back like he owns his corner of the cafeteria, Hellfire Club gathered around him in their usual chaos.
He’s mid-story, hands moving, voice animated, until a group of cheerleaders passes by the table. Until you pass by. His gaze flicks over, just once. You feel it; you always do.
And then, “Man,” he says, loud enough for his whole table to hear, leaning forward with a smirk that feels practiced. “They really roll out in those uniforms like it’s some kind of holy procession or something.”
A couple of the guys laugh. Someone mutters something about pom-poms. Eddie shakes his head, scoffing, like the whole thing is beneath him. Like you’re beneath him.
Your grip tightens around your tray, and you don’t look over again. You don’t give him that. But the words stick anyway.
“Holy procession.”
You almost want to laugh. Because if anyone treats something like religion, it’s him.
Practice is worse in a quieter way.
The field stretches out under a dull sky, the air crisp, biting just enough to keep you alert. The rest of the team moves through warm-ups, chatter echoing across the track as your coach calls out instructions.
Eventually, they’re sent out to start running drills.
“Track. Let’s go,” someone calls.
You hesitate.
“Be right there,” you say, already stepping back toward the building before anyone can question it.
No one does, they’re too busy. You’re grateful for that.
The halls are quieter now, most people already filtering out toward the field, the distant echo of the marching band bleeding faintly through the walls.
Your footsteps feel louder than they should as you head toward the locker room, heart still a little off from everything earlier.
You just need a second, just a minute to breathe. The door creaks when you push it open.
Dark, mostly. The overhead lights are off, only a soft strip of yellow from one corner casting long shadows between the rows of lockers. It’s empty, or at least, it looks empty.
You don’t think twice. You step in, letting the door fall shut behind you, already reaching up to adjust your hair, your uniform. And then, hands.
They catch your waist from behind, pulling you back into a solid chest before you can even gasp properly.
“Missed me that bad?” his voice murmurs low against your ear.
Your breath stutters. Of course, of course it’s him.
“Eddie—” you start, but it comes out more like a breath than a protest.
His grip tightens just slightly, not rough—never rough—but insistent, like he already knows you’re not going to pull away.
“You didn't stop by at the end of the day,” Eddie mutters, nose brushing along the side of your neck, his voice softer now, edged with something almost accusing. “Had me thinking you were avoiding me.”
A quiet, disbelieving laugh slips out of you. “Maybe I was.”
That makes him pause, only for a second. Then his hands slide up, slow and certain, like he’s relearning you by touch alone, thumbs grazing over the sides of your uniform.
“Yeah?” he murmurs. “Didn’t seem like it last night.”
There it is, that tone. The one he always uses when it’s just the two of you. Like the rest of the world peels away, and he gets to be this version of himself again. Yours.
Your eyes close for a second despite yourself.
“That was last night,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t answer that. Instead, he turns you slightly in his arms, enough to get a better look at you, his gaze dropping, lingering in a way that feels almost reverent again.
“God,” he exhales, softer now. “You look—”
He doesn’t finish it, he doesn’t have to. His hand comes up, brushing a loose strand of your hair back, fingers catching just briefly like he doesn’t want to let go.
“My queen,” he adds under his breath, like it belongs here. Your chest tightens.
“You have a funny way of showing that,” you murmur.
He frowns, just slightly, like he doesn’t like the tone, like he doesn’t understand why this isn’t enough.
“Why do you keep doing that?” he asks, quieter now. “Dragging that shit in here.”
“Because it matters.”
You don’t raise your voice, you don’t pull away. But you don’t melt into him either. And he notices, you can tell he does.
So he does what he always does when something feels too real: he leans in and closes the distance.
His lips brush your neck, slow, lingering, and intentional in a way that makes your breath hitch despite everything.
“Let me make it up to you,” he murmurs against your skin.
Your hands hover at his chest, unsure. Because this? This is the part you want, and the part that hurts.
His grip tightens slightly at your waist, like he’s anchoring you there with him, like nothing outside this room exists. For a moment, you let yourself lean into it, just a little. Just enough to remember what it feels like when he’s not pretending.
By the time you make it back to the field, the lights are on. The game energy has fully taken over now, music blaring, people crowding into the stands, everything loud and overwhelming and public.
You rejoin your team near the track, slipping back into place as if nothing happened.
“Hey—oh my god, finally,” one of the girls says, grabbing your arm lightly. “Coach was about to send someone in for you.”
“Sorry,” you say automatically. “I just needed—”
She cuts you off, eyes suddenly narrowing. Not suspicious, but excited.
“Wait,” she says, leaning closer. “Hold on, turn your head.”
Your stomach drops. You don’t move.
“Wait, no—stop—” you start, but she’s already gently tilting your chin, just enough.
“Oh my god.” Her face lights up instantly. Pure delight.
“Shut up,” she whispers, grinning. “You have a hickey.”
Heat floods your entire body. “It’s not—” you try, but your voice falters.
“Finally,” she laughs softly, squeezing your arm. “I was starting to think you just weren’t interested in anyone. This is so good.”
“Good," you echo.
“You deserve to be happy,” she adds, softer now, genuinely warm. “Like, actually happy.”
Your throat tightens. Because to her, this is simple. Sweet. Normal.
You force a small smile.
“Yeah,” you say, even though it doesn’t feel true. “Something like that.”
She beams, completely satisfied, already turning back toward the rest of the team.
And you just stand there for a second. The noise of the crowd swelling around you. The mark on your skin is still warm, proof of something that only exists in the dark.
Something no one, not even the person who gave it to you, would ever admit to in the light.
The game ends in a blur of noise; cheering, music. The sharp echo of the band still ringing in your ears as people spill out of the stands, bodies moving in every direction, voices overlapping until it all becomes one steady hum.
You go through the motions. Smile when you’re supposed to. Clap when everyone else does. Stay just long enough that no one questions it.
And then you leave. The parking lot is quieter on the far side, tucked away from the main rush.
Stadium lights cast everything in this hazy glow, long shadows stretching across the pavement as you make your way to your car. You just want to go home.
You barely make it to the driver’s side before you hear it.
“Hey—hey, wait.”
You freeze, and you don’t turn right away. You don’t give him that immediately.
But you hear his footsteps, quick, uneven, like he almost slipped past you tonight and is trying to catch up before you disappear completely.
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath as he gets closer, glancing over his shoulder like he’s checking for witnesses. “You walk fast.”
Eddie looks different out here. Not softer, just restless.
His eyes flick around the lot again, shoulders tight, like even being near you out in the open is something he has to manage carefully.
That’s what does it.
“What?” he says, noticing the look on your face, trying to play it off with a crooked grin. “No ‘hi, Eddie’? I come all the way out here—”
“Why are you looking around like that?”
It cuts him off, clean. He blinks.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Your voice isn’t loud, but it’s not soft anymore either. His expression shifts, something defensive creeping in almost immediately.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” you say. “Like you’re gonna get caught doing something wrong.”
He huffs out a short laugh, running a hand through his hair like this is all ridiculous.
“Okay, and? What, you want me to roll out a red carpet in the middle of the parking lot?” he jokes, stepping a little closer. “Make a big announcement? ‘Hey everyone, look who I—’”
“I don’t want to be your secret anymore.”
For a second, he just stares at you, like he’s waiting for the punchline.
“You’re joking,” he says.
You don’t answer, and that’s when it clicks. The grin fades, something sharper takes its place.
“You’re serious?” he asks, voice flattening.
“Yes.”
It’s simple, honest…and apparently, completely unacceptable. He scoffs, stepping back like you just said something offensive.
“Are you kidding me right now?” he mutters. “This is what this is about? After everything?”
“After everything?” you repeat. “You act like I don’t exist. You talk about me like I’m—like I’m a joke.”
“Oh, come on,” he snaps, the edge in his voice coming out fast now. “Don’t act like you don’t know what that place is. It’s high school. It’s bullshit. None of it’s real.”
“It’s real to me.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be.”
You swallow, shaking your head slightly.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
He laughs again, but there’s nothing amused about it now.
“Right. Because what, you want me to suddenly start hanging around your little cheerleader squad?” he says, gesturing vaguely toward the field. “You want me to play nice with the same people who wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you’re implying.”
“No,” you push back, frustration finally breaking through. “I’m saying I don’t want to feel like something you’re ashamed of.”
His expression hardens, jaw tightening like he’s been cornered.
“I’m not ashamed of you,” he says, but there’s something off about it now. “I’m just not stupid.”
Your stomach drops. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m not about to screw myself over because you suddenly decided you need a public fucking announcement,” he snaps. “You think your friends are gonna be cool with this? You think your precious little image survives that?”
You stare at him. Because that wasn’t about protecting you, that was about protecting him.
“You don’t even hear yourself,” you say quietly.
“Oh, I hear myself just fine.”
“Do you?”
Because you don’t think he does. You don’t think he realizes what he’s actually saying.
Or, maybe he does.
“Look,” he says, running a hand over his face, clearly irritated now. “If this is gonna turn into some dramatic thing, I’m not doing it. I told you what this is.”
“What it is?” you repeat.
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Something real. Something that’s ours. Not for everyone else to pick apart.”
“Then why does it only exist when no one else is looking?”
“Because that’s the only place it works,” he says.
That’s the thing you can’t unhear. You nod slowly, even though it feels like something inside you is caving in.
“Okay,” you say. Just that.
He frowns slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to give in that easily.
“Okay?” he repeats.
“Yeah.”
You open your car door. “I get it.”
“Wait—” he starts, but there’s no real urgency behind it. Not enough.
Not like there should be. You pause just long enough to look at him one last time.
“I don’t want that,” you say. “Not like this.”
Something flickers across his face, too fast to hold onto.
“Then that’s your problem,” he mutters.
And that? That’s the final cut. You don’t say anything else. You just get in the car, slam the door, and leave.
Monday feels colder. Not literally, just the kind of cold that settles under your skin, the kind that comes from deciding something and sticking to it.
You don’t wake up early this time. You don’t overthink your outfit. You don’t stand in front of the mirror trying to see yourself the way he does.
The halls of Hawkins High School are the same as always: loud, crowded, and predictable. But you’re different in them now.
There’s no hesitation in your steps. No scanning the room without meaning to. No quiet, traitorous hope that maybe today he’ll look at you differently.
You don’t look for him at all. And somehow, that’s exactly why you feel it. That awareness, like someone’s eyes are on you.
You know who it is before you even confirm it.
You don’t give in right away. You keep walking, steady, focused, refusing to let your head turn.
But it lingers, that feeling of being watched. Eventually, your eyes flick; just barely, just enough to catch it in your periphery.
Eddie, leaning against the lockers like always. But he’s not talking, not really. Dustin is mid-sentence beside him, hands moving, voice animated…and Eddie’s not listening.
He’s watching you. Not casually, not like before. There’s no smirk. No eye roll, no performance.
You don’t slow down, and you don’t give him anything. You just keep walking like he’s part of the wall behind him. And for the first time, it throws him off.
You can feel it even without looking back.
Lunch is worse for him, but better for you. Because you sit with your friends, laugh when something’s funny, respond when spoken to, and fall into your usual rhythm like nothing is missing.
Like he isn’t missing.
And that? That’s new.
From across the cafeteria, Eddie notices it immediately. You’re not glancing over, not even once.
Not hovering at the edges of his awareness. Not giving him that half-second of attention he’s gotten so used to taking for granted. It shouldn’t bother him, it really shouldn’t.
This is what he wanted, right? Separation. Control. No complications. So why does it feel like something’s off?
“Dude, are you even listening?” Dustin asks, snapping his fingers once in front of his face.
Eddie blinks, dragging his gaze away from you like he got caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’m listening.”
“You’re not,” Dustin says flatly.
Eddie shrugs it off, leaning back in his seat, trying to force himself back into the conversation, back into the version of himself that makes sense here.
But his eyes keep drifting against his will, back to you.
You laugh at something one of your teammates says, head tipping back slightly, hair falling the way he always liked it, and something in his chest tightens.
Because you look…fine. Better than fine, actually. Like you’re not waiting for anything. Like you’re not missing anything. Like you’re not missing him.
And that doesn’t sit right, not at all.
You feel it again, that stare. You try to ignore it, you really, really do. But something in you—something stubborn, something tired—finally snaps.
You look up across the room, right at him. And when your eyes meet, there’s no softness. No hesitation. No flicker of last night, or the night before, or any of it.
Just a look: sharp, cold, and cutting.
The kind that says more than words ever could. Because it’s not angry in the way he expected. It’s not loud or emotional; it’s final.
Like you’ve already decided something he hasn’t caught up to yet.
You don’t hold eye contact, and you don’t give him time to recover. You just look away, like he doesn’t matter. Like, he’s not even worth the energy it takes to stay mad.
That’s when it really sinks in.
He fucked up.
And he doesn’t know how to handle that, not even a little.
He waits longer than he should; that’s the first mistake. Not days, but just enough time to convince himself it isn’t urgent, that you’ll come around, that you always do.
Except you don’t.
Your house looks the same as always. Warm lights on, quiet street, the kind of place that feels stable in a way his life never has.
Eddie sits in his van for a minute, then another. Hands tight on the steering wheel, jaw clenched, running through what he’s going to say and hating every version of it.
Because none of it sounds like him. None of it sounds right.
But leaving feels worse, so he gets out.
The knock on your door comes later than you expect. You almost don’t answer it, but something in you already knows. So you open the door anyway, and there he is.
Standing on your porch like he doesn’t belong there, like he knows it.
“Hey,” he says finally.
You don’t return it.
“Why are you here?”
“I—” he starts, then stops, running a hand through his hair. “Can we talk?”
You hesitate for a second. Then you step outside, pulling the door mostly shut behind you like you’re not inviting him in.
“Talk,” you say.
He nods, like he expected that.
“Look,” he starts, pacing once like he needs the movement, like standing still makes it worse. “About the other night—”
“Which part?” you cut in. “The part where you said it only works if no one knows about me, or the part where you said it’s my problem?”
He exhales sharply, nodding like he’s bracing himself.
“Yeah. That,” he mutters. “That was—” He huffs out a breath. “That was shitty. I know that.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he adds quickly.
“You said it like that.”
“I know.”
“And you meant it enough to say it.”
That corners him.
“I panicked,” he admits, quieter now. “You said you didn’t want to be a secret and I—” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I got defensive. I said shit I shouldn’t have.”
Your arms cross over your chest.
“And the way you act at school?” you ask. “Was that panic too?”
He flinches.
“No,” he says. “That’s just… how I deal with that place.”
“So humiliating me is how you deal with it?”
“I’m not trying to humiliate you—”
“But you are.” Your voice cracks just slightly.
“You think I don’t notice?” you continue, quieter now but sharper. “The comments, the eye rolls, the way you act like I’m everything you hate? You think that just… doesn’t matter because you call me your ‘queen’ and act like you care when no one’s around?”
His chest tightens at that.
Because hearing it out loud makes it sound exactly what it actually is.
“Yeah,” he mutters, almost to himself. “That sounds bad.”
“It is bad, Eddie.”
“I didn’t think—” he starts.
“I know,” you cut in. “That’s the problem.”
“I thought what we had was enough,” he says, softer now. “Just us. Away from all that shit.”
“It’s not,” you say. “Because I have to go back there every day and pretend you don’t matter. Pretend I don’t matter to you.”
“You do matter to me,” he insists, stepping closer again.
“Not in a way that counts.”
That stops him fully. Because he knows what you mean, and he doesn’t have a way around it.
“I don’t want something that only exists when it’s hidden,” you continue, your voice quieter now but steadier. “I don’t want to be something you tuck away when it’s inconvenient.”
“You’re not—”
“I am.”
Silence again. This time, he doesn’t try to fill it. Instead, he's looking at you like he’s finally seeing the full weight of what he did.
And it’s not pretty.
“I can fix it,” he says finally, a little desperate now. “I can— I don’t know, I’ll—”
“What?” you ask. “What are you going to do, Eddie?”
He opens his mouth and nothing comes out. Because he doesn’t know, not really. Not in a way that feels solid enough to promise.
Your shoulders drop slightly, like something in you just settles.
“Yeah,” you say quietly.
That one word feels like a conclusion, not a question.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer now. Real this time. “I really am.”
“I believe you.”
And for a split second, something like relief flickers across his face.
“I don’t want to be,” you admit, your voice finally wavering. “But I can’t do this. Not like that.”
He runs a hand over his face, frustrated now, pacing again like he’s trying to outrun the feeling.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re really gonna walk away from this?”
You shake your head slightly. “I’m walking away from how you treat me.”
“Can I… fix it?” he asks eventually, quieter now.
“You’d have to change how you show up for me,” you say softly. “Not just when it’s easy. Not just when no one’s looking.”
He nods, quick. Almost too quick. “I can do that.”
“Maybe,” you say.
“Then prove it,” you add, stepping back toward your door.
He stands there for a second, like he wants to say more. Like he should say more.
But nothing he has right now is enough. So he nods once, and lets you go inside.
Eddie doesn’t sleep, not really.
He tries. God, he tries: flipping over in his bed, staring at the ceiling, running every word you said back through his head like maybe if he hears it enough times, it’ll change.
It doesn’t, it just sits there, and not in a way that counts.
By the time the sky starts to lighten, he’s already up. Already dressed, already out the door before he can second-guess himself.
The bell above the door jingles softly when he pushes into the small café you mentioned once—offhand, like it didn’t matter, like it was just a passing detail. It wasn’t.
He remembers the way you said it; the little smile you didn’t mean to show.
“Iced coffee there is actually good,” you’d said. “And they have these chocolate croissants that are insane.”
So he stands there now, awkward as hell, hands shoved in his jacket pockets while he waits his turn like he doesn’t quite belong in a place like this.
“Uh—yeah,” he says when it’s his turn, clearing his throat. “Can I get… two iced coffees. And—” he hesitates, then adds, “those chocolate croissant things?”
The girl behind the counter nods, already moving. “Anything else?”
He pauses. Then, quieter, “Yeah. Can you, uh… make one of the coffees extra sweet?”
Because that’s how you take it, he remembers that too.
The flowers feel like overkill, he knows that. Standing outside a small shop with a bouquet in his hands, he almost laughs at himself.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You’re really doing this.”
But he doesn’t leave them. He doesn’t put them back. Because if he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it right.
By the time he gets to Hawkins High School, the halls are already filling. And for once, Eddie doesn’t hang back. He doesn’t slip into the background. He doesn’t wait until no one’s looking.
He walks in like he’s got somewhere to be, mostly because he does.
You’re at your locker when you hear it.
“Move—sorry—excuse me—yeah, my bad—”
That voice.
Your stomach flips before you can stop it. And when you finally turn, you almost don’t process it. Because it doesn’t make sense, not at first.
Eddie is standing right there. In the middle of the hallway, in full view of everyone.
Holding: coffee, a paper bag, and a bouquet of flowers that look wildly out of place in his hands. Your brain stalls.
“Hi,” he says. Simple, like this isn’t the most insane thing he’s ever done. Like he didn’t just shatter every rule he’s been following since this started.
The hallway is quiet in that subtle way; people pretending not to stare while very obviously staring.
You blink.
“…what are you doing?” you ask, because it’s the only thing your brain can come up with.
He huffs out a small, nervous laugh.
“Trying not to screw this up again,” he says honestly.
And then, he steps closer. Not hesitant, not checking who’s watching.
Just walking straight up to you like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“I, uh—” he starts, holding out one of the iced coffees. “Extra sweet. Like you like it.”
Your hand moves before your brain catches up, taking it from him automatically.
“You remembered,” you say quietly.
He nods.
“Yeah. Turns out I remember a lot of things I should’ve been paying attention to sooner.”
Your throat tightens. Before you can respond, he holds out the paper bag.
“And these,” he adds. “Chocolate croissants. Or… croissant. I don’t know. I got two in case I said it wrong.”
A couple of people nearby actually laugh softly at that. You don’t even notice; you’re still staring at him.
Because this isn’t him. Or maybe it is, just a version you’ve never been allowed to see out here.
“And—” he exhales, then holds out the flowers, suddenly a little less confident. “These felt like a good idea at the time.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“They’re… a lot,” you admit.
“Yeah,” he says immediately. “I figured. But I already bought them, so...”
There are still people watching. And for a split second, you expect him to fold. To pull back or make a joke to ruin it, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he shifts the flowers into one hand and reaches for you with the other; gentle, careful, and very much public.
His fingers lace with yours like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like it’s something he’s always been allowed to do.
“Hi,” he says again, softer this time, like the first one didn’t cover it.
Your heart stutters.
“Hi,” you echo.
He studies your face for a second, searching, checking, making sure he hasn’t misread anything.
“I meant what I said,” he adds quietly. “About fixing it. About showing up.”
You glance down at your joined hands, then back at him.
“You’re… definitely showing up,” you say.
He huffs out a small laugh.
“Yeah, well. Figured if I was gonna do it, I shouldn’t half-ass it.”
“You called me your queen,” you say, a little teasing now, a little testing. “You gonna say that out here too?”
A couple of people nearby go very still. This is the moment, the one that would’ve broken him before.
Eddie doesn’t even hesitate. He leans in just slightly, close enough that his voice drops, but not so quiet that it disappears.
“Yeah,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “That doesn’t change just because people are watching.”
Your breath catches. The hallway doesn’t matter, the people don’t matter, the whispers don’t matter.
Because for the first time, he’s not treating what you are like as something that only survives in the dark.
He’s choosing you. Right here, in the light. And it’s not perfect.
It’s a little messy, a little awkward, very Eddie, but it’s real.
Had to make a hurt/comfort comeback after Doll Parts, sorry!? i have a double-header coming tonight, keep your eyes peeled 👀
You’re telling me they’re making a movie about a girl who gets romantically involved with members of a boy band and those members are played by Roderick from DWK and the voice of Hiccup? And it takes place in 2011?? Did Tumblr write this film?!?
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