summary: You only meant to write an article about the fall of King Steve Harrington. Somewhere between the interviews, the experiments, and the late-night drives, you forgot he was supposed to be your story — not the boy you fell for. ⟡ LOOSELY INSPIRED BY "HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN TEN DAYS (2003)"
pairing: steve harrington x reader
w/c: 13k (I lost the plot)
a/n: i literally fever dreamed this so im hoping it comes across good because i totally blanked out writing this haha 😭 this is all brain and vibes. thank u for reading, and reblogs are appreciated!! enjoy <3
— amazing support banner used is from @moonstoneandmoonlight!
content warnings: angst, slow burn-ish tension, emotional hurt/comfort, bittersweet longing, (one bed trope kind of), observant/highly sensitive reader, mentions of nancy wheeler, miscommunication, interrupted kisses, public confessions, steve harrington being sad and soft (yay!), reader being a stubborn high school journalist, hopeful ending, etc
▪︎ my masterlist
By the time the final bell rang, the newsroom already smelled of hot dust, old paper, and somebody’s disgusting coffee of choice.
It was not really a newsroom, not in the way you truly wanted it to be. It was a converted classroom at the end of the English hall with two long tables shoved together, a crooked bulletin board covered in deadlines, and a mimeograph machine that coughed ink onto everyone’s fingers. The overhead lights hummed with a flat, yellow patience.
Outside the narrow windows, Hawkins High School settled into its usual afternoon disorder; lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, and boys yelling too loudly because silence made them feel small. Typical behaviors.
You had spent three nights on your article.
Three nights with your notes spread across your desk, your pencil worn down to a nub, and your mother calling from downstairs that dinner was getting cold. Three nights reading through library clippings about school funding, college acceptance rates, and the way girls in Hawkins were politely encouraged toward “practical” futures while boys with half of your grades were told they had potential. You had interviewed four seniors, two teachers, one guidance counselor who had smiled at you with the concerned tenderness adults reserved for girls they planned to ignore.
It was practically perfect.
You had written it carefully. Not angrily, though you had to admit that anger had lived under every line you wrote, warming the words from dpwn below. You had made it clean, sharp, and correctly sourced. You had imagined your byline on the front page. You had victoriously imagined holding the paper in your hands and seeing proof that all the hours you spent noticing things nobody asked you to notice had finally become something real.
The reaction to it, unfortunately, had left much to be desired.
Mr. Walsh held the pages in one hand and adjusted his glasses with the other. His voice was polite enough, but it held that familiar detachment.
“It’s very thorough,” he noted with a faint nod of his head towards the article.
You knew you were absolutely dead, or rather, any hopes of seeing a cover page was.
Across the table, Mark Ellison leaned back in his chair, tapping his pencil against his front teeth. His article was a soft little thing about “school spirit making a comeback,” built around three quotes from basketball players and one sweeping paragraph about how Hawkins High had ‘survived difficult years by pulling together’. He had written it during study hall. You had watched him do it while eating chips from a vending machine. You had also watched him pay more attention to his stupid Walkman than his article.
Mr. Walsh then gave Mark’s pages a fond pat from beside you. You had to physically stop yourself from letting the steam errupt from your expression, and curled your fingers into your palm. You didn't, however, hide the scoff when the teacher told the boy his next words.
“I think this is what we need above the fold this week. Something upbeat. The town’s had enough heaviness, don’t you think?”
The room moved on. You couldn't even get another word in before everything decided it was time to start up again. That only served further in building up your irritation.
Someone asked about the sports column, someone else complained that the typewriter ribbon was fading again, and most annoyingly, Mark grinned without trying to look too pleased, which made him only look worse. You sat very still with your hands folded over your notebook, your nails continuing to press little moons into your palms.
“Maybe we can run yours inside,” Mr. Walsh added, almost kindly. You hated how he made it seem like it was somehow charitable of him to do so. After all, his excuses were always relatively the same. “It’s strong work. Just a bit… intense for the front page.”
Intense.
You looked down at your notes until the letters blurred into a block of black.
That was what they always called girls who didn't make unfairness easier to swallow for others. Intense. Difficult. Ambitious in a tone that meant unattractive. Boys were driven. Boys were promising. Boys were leaders, even when they had to borrow a pencil to write a paragraph about pep rallies. Even when half of them couldn't even write clean enough for legitimacy on papers of loose leaf.
You smiled promptly then because you knew how to make adults comfortable. You weren't so sure your face was able to hide your growing annoyance, though. It was practically humiliating in its steady routine, but you'd learned over the years Mr. Walsh was as stubborn as the donkey he was named after.
“Sure,” you gave a small exhale alongside your smile, your tone was too light to be breezy and far too sweet to be real. “Inside is fine.”
Inside was not fine.
At lunch, you stabbed your fork into a pile of cafeteria mashed potatoes until they lost their shape entirely. With a cheek resting in hand, the sight of the sullen plate reflected your own inner turmoil. Conversational chatter flattered about around you.
“He said it was intense?” One friend asked, sitting across from you with a carton of milk she had not opened. “Everything's intense to that guy. Mr. Walsh wears the same brown sweater every day and once called Pat Benatar ‘too confrontational.’”
“He didn’t say Mark’s article was intense,” you muttered with poorly disguised disgust. Your brows twitched together and your eyes flicked up in a roll. The moment replayed in your head, Mark getting far too much praise for something he spent the better half of an hour listening to Olivia John-Newton, though he'd refuse the accusation vehemently if questioned.
“That’s because Mark’s article has the emotional range of a gym sock,” your friend Stacey said from beside you. She had bright blue eyeliner, a talent for gossip, and the terrifying confidence of someone who had never once doubted she deserved to take up space. You admired her for that. “You need something undeniable.”
“I had something undeniable.” the response came almost petulant, and if you were still holding onto the leverage that you had a shoe-in for an article, you'd have refrained from saying it.
“No,” Stacey clicked her tongue, pointing her plastic spoon at you. “You had something true. That’s different. Truth makes people sleepy unless there’s blood on it.”
Leah made a face, looking down at the strawberry jam on her cake slice, and promptly pushed it forward. “Please never go into medicine.”
You tried not to laugh and failed halfway, the sound catching in your throat before it could become anything that felt good. For a moment, there was something besides that sense of annoyed displacement.
The cafeteria around you churned with noise. Trays clattered, and somebody at the far end started chanting for reasons that probably involved a dare and milk coming out of someone’s nose. You let the spark of clear judgement light through your expression as you looked over to the basketball table occupied its usual territory near the windows.
They were loud enough to own the room without having to ask, a result of years of indulged arrogance, you could only assume. Tommy H. was telling a story with both hands, his laugh sharp and performative. A few juniors watched him the way freshmen used to watch Steve Harrington.
Steve did not sit with them anymore, that was something practically everyone noticed since last year.
He sat two tables away from the old crowd, alone with a slice of pizza gone stiff at the edges. His hair was still perfect in the way that seemed less accidental the longer you looked at it, all careful lift and feathered brown shine.
His shoulders filled out his yellow polo, but they were rounded inward today, one hand pressed against his temple while he stared at a textbook he did not seem to be reading. There was a bruise near his jaw, faded yellow at the edges. His eyes kept moving toward the basketball table and then away before anyone caught him looking.
King Steve, deposed but still dressed for court.
Stacey followed your gaze. Her mouth curved before you could shove it away off of her.
“If you want the front page,” she brightened up with a revived vigor, “you have to write about the biggest tragedy in Hawkins.”
Leah, unfortunately, looked too.
“Oh Stace’, I don't think that's a good—” she was swiftly cut off by your mutual friends voice dipped in delight
“The fall of King Steve,” Stacey finished and you gasped at her.
You snorted without ceremony promptly, her words did less to entice you and more to amuse you. If there was anything you couldn't find yourself caring less to write about, it would be about anything involving Steve Harrington. “That’s not an article.”
“It is absolutely an article! It’s got everything. Popularity. Masculine fragility. Hair products.”
Leah leaned forward then, lowering her voice. She looked besides you two with a more hesitant approach, her eyes flicked to the table a few feet away from you. “Also maybe just leave him alone? He looks one spilled pudding cup away from a complete collapse.”
“That’s the point,” Stacey had taken to promptly ignoring the two of you. “What happens when a guy builds his whole identity on being wanted, and then people stop wanting him?”
The words landed before the joke did.
You looked at Steve again. He dragged a hand through his hair, then immediately seemed to regret it, patting the front back into place with a reflex so automatic it made your chest pinch in spite of yourself. If you were to compare it to anything, it would be akin to a kid being filmed for a birthday party. It held the familiar awareness of being all too stiff, even in the singular companionship of just himself.
A whole identity built on being wanted.
The cafeteria lights flashed across the windows as usual. Outside, October had pulled Hawkins into a cold, colorless stretch of afternoon. The trees beyond the parking lot shivered with half-bare branches, leaves gathered wetly along the curb. It was a domestic background that you've memorized in routine these past four years.
You pulled your notebook from your bag suddenly. Stacy's words had flicked on a small lightbulb in your brain.
Leah's brown eyes blinked wearily on you as the next few minutes were received in silence from your side, only the sound of pen to paper filling your ears. “Oh, God. Stacey, you broke her.”
You rolled your eyes at that.
“I inspired her.” Stacey gave a self assured correction, her fingers going up as if it would further solidify her point.
There was no real attention paid to your friends for the next whirlwind of time, and you clicked your pen every so often in an attempt to soften the strokes of ink.
At the top of a previous blank page, you had written:
The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king.
Stacey leaned over your shoulder and let out a delighted gasp.
“That is disgusting,” Leah immediately. Her eyes widened and she threw you a look that your promptly avoided.
“It’s not, it's anonymous… and a work in progress,” you murmured in weak retaliation, already thinking faster than you could write. “Stacy's right, it'd be a good article. How we make gods out of boys and then act shocked when they don’t know how to be human.”
Leah’s expression softened in a way you did not want to look at too closely. Realistically, you realized this might be a bit too cruel. But you were already on your verge, and no matter how absurd the idea had seemed before – you could admit held strong potential.
“And Harrington?”
You watched him push his tray away untouched, and your gaze was less detached than you had been before.
“Steve is the case study.”
You told yourself that made it cleaner, and you also told yourself a lot of things that week. Things that in hindsight, might’ve been necessary to proceed with caution.
—
You approached him after basketball practice on a Wednesday, when the hallway outside the gym smelled most strongly of rubber, sweat, and floor wax. Most of the team members had already spilled toward the locker room, their voices echoing against the cinderblock walls. Steve came out last, a gym bag slung over one shoulder, and damp hair falling looser than usual around his forehead.
He looked tired enough that the sight of him made your plan wobble. It was one thing to think this out carefully and assume control, and it was another to actually act it out.
Then, finally, he glanced up and saw you waiting by his locker.
You pushed off the wall before you could think better of it. Any further delay would only serve in faltering you more.
“Harrington,” you called out firmly, letting your voice carry the boldness you had practiced in your mirror. Though, you weren't entirely sure you properly hid the wince that came with addressing him like that. “I’ve been looking for you.”
His eyebrows lifted then, that was what you'd noticed first. His face seemed to twitch in a complicated way, his face didn't hold a smirk, not right away at least. Surprise was there first. Real surprise, open and unguarded enough to make you feel briefly cruel. Your tried not to ponder on him for too long.
“For me?” his voice held a sincere curiosity that had you irritated at repeating yourself.
“No, the other guy with gravity-defying hair and a tragic aura.”
That got him.
A breath left him, almost a laugh, you saw the movement happen in real time. He leaned his shoulder against the locker, trying to recover his balance by looking casual. His thumb hooked into his belt loop. His shining eyes flicked over your face, landed on your mouth for half a second too long, then jumped back up.
You really had to refrain from the scoff that wished to escape you.
“Tragic aura,” he repeated, his eyes twisted in a regained stability. His voice was more awkward than you remembered it being, strangely that'd been your first true thought of him. “Wow. That’s, uh… that’s new.”
You gave a low hum in response. “I’m a journalist. We notice things.”
“Is that why you’re here? To notice me?”
The line should have been smooth. You could actively hear him reaching for an older version of himself, the one who would have tilted his head and let girls do the work of melting. But his voice caught on the last word. Not much, but it was just slightly enough that you felt something in you feel successful.
You smiled, the formation stretched across your face as you cleared your throat softly. “I need help.”
Now, he seemed a bit confused, his head tilted slightly in a way that reminded you of the neighborhood poodle. You let a smile turn slightly genuine at the semblance found between the two.
“With?”
You stepped closer finally, and you stepped close enough to see the faint line where his tan had started to fade at his throat, and certainly close enough to catch the smell of clean soap beneath sweat and cologne.
“Understanding someone.” the words came out a bit hesitant, not at all like the suaveness you had practiced by standing in front of your bathroom mirror.
His gaze sharpened a little. Instinct took over him well. “Someone?”
“A boy,” you said quickly. Whatever it was that appeared in your face seemed to have gotten to him.
You saw the ghost of King Steve ever so slightly stir in movement in him. His mouth curved, one corner first, then another. It was almost unfair how quickly he could change expressions, and even worse so, that each expression of his seemed to cause your nerves to fray.
“Well, lucky for you, I happen to be an expert.”
Your eyes flickered to his, though not before you let your gaze find the small details of his face that were only exposed up close. “You do?”
“Former expert,” he amended, and something dry entered his voice. “My credentials are under review.”
You laughed before you meant to. You couldn't help it at the moment. It came out too genuine and his face changed with it. Not entirely dramatic, though. He just went still, the way people did when a sound touched some starved part of them. His own pools of hazel seemed to be too flittery for someone you were sure had done this plenty of time before. Still, against your better judgment, you kept staring into his eyeline.
You should have written that down later, a faint voice echoed through your head. Not the eyes part, you quickly denied and even got upset at yourself for supplying the image. You really should have been memorizing any small part he'd exposed, even more of the behavior you were out to conquer.
Instead, you remembered the exact angle of his shoulder against the locker, the wet curl slipping toward his eyebrow, the way he looked at you with confusion and cautious interest and a kind of bruised hope that had no place in your article.
You tilted your chin, chewing on the bottom of your lip by pure instinct. By now, you were close enough to have to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. You blinked, breaking whatever power he seemed to have had momentarily to have you swept up and cleared your throat.
Your voice was back to being confident again, since practice made perfect. “Pick me up Friday?”
His mouth caught in a faint sputter, you could tell you had caught him completely off guard. Faintly, as if it were a bodily response, you softened your smile into something smaller, tilting up at him for the silent moment.
“Friday,” he said after a beat. Steve’s voice seemed to have taken a breathless edge now. It did something all weird and wonky to you. “Yeah. I can do Friday.”
“Seven.”
“Seven,” he repeated, and appearing to remember he wasn't an apparition, Steve's body seemed to lean toward yours as he continued. “Where are we going?”
You hadn't thought that far. Instead of deciding on the spot, you bit the inside flesh of your cheek as an amused exhale escaped your lips.
“You’re the expert, Harrington. Impress me.”
You walked away before your nerve gave out. You could feel him watching you down the hall, could feel the whole plan beginning to take shape behind your ribs. You had even taken to looking through your sosters old magazines for inspiration. Hot and cold. Interest and withdrawal. Private sincerity, public disruption. All those where supposed to be tactics to reuse interest in relationships, but you figured that the same could also be said for an indirect character study.
Observe the subject under changing social conditions. Note responses. Analyze, that had been your plan split up into groups.
You were very good at making terrible ideas sound academic.
—
On Friday, his Beamer waited by the curb under a sky the color of sad, wet cement.
He got out when he saw you, which you hated because it was exactly the kind of performative gentleman routine you had expected, and also because he did it without checking if anyone was watching. That complicated your observations, causing a flutter to go through you. He wore a brown leather jacket over a striped shirt, jeans that fit him too well, and that expensive cologne that seemed built into the mythology of him.
Ralph Lauren, Stacey had said with the authority of a girl who knew these things and lived vicariously through others. It mixed with the leather and the faint sweet smell of cherry chapstick when he opened the passenger door.
"Aren't you going to get in,” Steve gave you a wounded look. His head was tilted down slightly towards you and it seemed like he was more offended you had even made an attempt to reach for the door.
You looked at the open door in his hand, feeling less like a mastermind and more like a nervous girl. “Do you do that for all your dates?”
Steve's hand went up to run the back of his neck as he let out a weak exhale, the ghost of a smile on his face. “Only the intimidating ones.”
You slid into the car after that, tucking your notebook deep inside your bag where he would not see it. The seats were cold through your skirt. The dashboard glowed amber when he turned the key, washing his face in soft light as the engine rumbled awake.
He didn't take you to Enzo’s, where everyone went to be seen. He drove past the diner, past the arcade, past the bright places where Hawkins pretended it had a pulse. The town fell away into dark stretches of road bordered by skeletal trees and damp fields. Eventually he pulled into a small overlook above the park, where the swings moved gently in the wind below and the streetlamps made small gold circles on the path.
“This is your idea of impressive?” you couldn't help the baffled tone that took over as you asked, but your voice had taken a softer lift.
He shrugged, fingers resting on the steering wheel. “You said you wanted to understand someone. Hard to do that while watching someone like Tommy try to fit an entire breadstick in his mouth.”
“You’re not friends with him anymore?” you didn't really need the answer, everyone practically knew the answer by now. But still, it's different to have someone tell you something by choice than admit knowledge by association.
His thumb moved along the stitching of the wheel. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Not really.”
“Why?”
He gave you a sideways look. “Wow. Straight to it.”
“I told you. Inquisitive.”
“Right.” He exhaled through his nose, not quite laughing. The smile on his face was soft in its hesitancy. “I don’t know. Stuff happened. I got tired. He got meaner. Or maybe he was like that, and I just stopped thinking it was funny.”
The words fell between the two of you in a hush.
You watched him in the dashboard light. Away from school, he seemed younger and older at once. Without the noise around him, without the audience, the space he occupied seemed to changed shape. He rubbed a hand over his face, then caught himself before he ruined his hair and dropped it to his lap. He did that a lot.
“You okay?” he asked suddenly, breaking you out of your trance. You quickly gave a few hard blinks to refocus, you seriously had to stop doing that around him.
“What?”
“You’re shivering.”
Were you? You hadn't noticed much besides him. “I’m fine.”
“You’re obviously not fine.”
Before you could answer, he shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped it over your shoulders. The weight of it settled around you, warm from his body, lined with the smell of him so completely that your next breath came slower than the last.
“You’ll get cold,” you said, a frown finding its way on to your face. It was a cold evening in Hawkins, the chill more prominent than usual. Your worry was quickly shoved down by him.
Steve seemed to just fidget by habit now. The muscle in his forearms tensed and gained your attention as his arms crossed against his chest. He gave a slight shove and his smile was all teeth and unintentional charm.“I’m tough.”
Now, you didn’t even bother to hide your scoff. A challenging twist of your brow appeared and you pointed out the faults in his words. “You just complained about the heater not working.”
“I’m selectively tough,” his grin stayed and was backed up by a small chuckle.
You looked at him, and he looked back, and something quiet opened in the car.
The conversation shift quickly after that. You asked questions you had meant to use later. What did he want after graduation? He did not know. Where did he want to go? Away, maybe. Or nowhere. What was he afraid of? He made a joke at first, something about being left unsupervised with fireworks, and then he went quiet long enough for the windows to begin fogging at the edges.
“I don’t think I’m good at anything,” Steve told you after that. He said it plainly, almost casually, which made it worse. It was easier to dissect him clinically when he didn't wear that expression that caused you faltering to gain back control.
You shifted toward him, eyes dragging over him. They seemed darker with the setting say, but somehow they had something stored away that made you want to push back on his words. “That’s not true.”
He gave you a look that unnerved you. “You don’t know that.”
You didn't let it get to you. You pushed through because for some reason, you felt like you couldn't stay silent. “I know you noticed I was cold before I did.”
The words had you faltering from the truth it held.
Steve gave a wry exhale, his head tilted back against his seat with his eyes on you. “That’s not a skill.”
Your voice felt firmer now. “It is, actually.”
He stared out through the windshield. Below, the park sat empty and silvered by frost. You couldn't really focus on that, not when Steve sat besides you looking less like the king you knew and more like a boy you wanted to know. You couldn't even process the words before Steve continued in. “Nancy used to say I had good instincts when I got out of my own way.”
Nancy.
There it was. The bruise beneath the bruise. It wasn't one you were exactly shocked to hear, the whole sum of Hawkins new about the romance between the Wheeler daughter and him. Still, you weren't going deny the tinge of discomfort you felt at the mention.
What? Why were you uncomfortable? You immediately shut down the thought. A hard clearing of your throat helped stabilize yourself. You had to remind yourself that you weren't here for whatever reason that your body seemed to mistake. Instead, you focused on the task at hand, or at least tried to. You should have leaned in then when his head bowed slightly. You should have gathered the quote, traced the wound back to its social function, and built your thesis brick by brick.
You settled on something else, because strangely, anything else seemed harsh. “She sounds smart.”
“She is.”
The words carried no bitterness. That threw you off. You'd have known guys to turn completely hostile after break-ups, and you couldn't even remember a time where someone from Steve’s circle stayed genuine for the moment. You'd completely expected him to talk badly about her, about the situation, and frankly just about anything and everything that came up. To place blame in everything that never warranted it.
You'd have felt more comfortable if he reacted like that. He didn't notice your turmoil.
“She’s also right,” he added, turning back to you. His hazel eyes mesmerizing in its softness. “I get in my own way a lot.”
You wanted to ask how. You wanted to ask why. What came out was a stupid joke about how his hair probably counted as a separate obstacle. “How, by looking in the mirror and not finding your face under all that hair?”
His laugh wasn’t loud, it certainly was not the cafeteria laugh you'd have known, not the old one that announced him from across the room. It was small and startled and breathless, given to you without polish. It didn't help you when he leaned back against the seat, smiling at the roof of the car, and your pulse betrayed you completely.
What happened next made you feel less like you were playing him and more like he was playing you. When he reached over to tuck a loose piece of hair behind your ear, he did it slowly enough that you could have stopped him.
You didn't. You didn't stop him.
You told yourself it was because you were playing an act.
His knuckles brushed your cheekbone, working in breaking you out of your mind. Steve’s hand lingered there, his thumb moving once over your skin, it barely had any pressure. He watched the place he touched instead of your eyes, and the careful uncertainty of it burned through you harder than confidence would have.
For one long second, you wanted him to kiss you so badly that you forgot why you were there.
Then a car passed on the road behind you, headlights cutting through the windows, and both of you shifted apart.
Steve cleared his throat, his head turning to look out the driver's side. He seemed to have looked aware of just how vulnerable the moment was, and didn't know how to navigate it. “So. Did I help?”
You looked down at his jacket wrapped around you. It made feel warm in ways you almost wished it didn't.
“Yes,” your voice came out all wrong, small and breathless. “You did.”
You wrote three pages that night and hated all of them. It was as frustrating as it was complicated. The problem was not that Steve failed your test. You found that out quickly.
The true problem was that he kept passing in the wrong direction.
—
In public, you performed coldness with the sharp dread of a person setting a match to her own sleeve. Or at least, you truly hoped it looked like that.
Monday morning, Steve found you near your locker with a bright, almost boyish smile that made you glance away before it could hit directly.
“Hey,” he leaned besides you near the locker. “I was thinking maybe after school we could—”
You shut your locker too hard.
“Can we not do this right now?”
His hand, halfway extended toward yours, stopped in the air. He dropped it quickly, trying to make the movement look natural.
“Do what?” his voice had you wanting to falter. God, since when were you this weak?
“This.” You gestured between you, impatient and vague. “The whole thing.”
People moved around you in the hallway, a current of denim jackets and textbooks and perfume. Someone bumped your shoulder. Before you could stumble, Steve stepped closer, placing himself between you and the rush of bodies. It was an unconscious movement. Protective without announcement.
Your stomach turned. You bowed your head to ignore looking into his enrapturing eyes. A warmth came instinctive in your stomach standing in such close proximity with the boy in front of you. You tried to push it down.
Keyword, tried.
His voice dropped, his head leaning down to yours in an attempt to meet your gaze. “Hey. What did I do?”
His voice had you feeling weak already. “Nothing.”
“Okay, well, I’m getting a pretty strong not-nothing feeling here.”
You looked past him toward Stacey at the end of the hall. She watched with wide eyes, silently mouthing something that might have been commitment or abort. Her hands moved in front of her in a weaving gesture. You weren't sure what she'd been trying to convey, so you only assume she wanted to to keep going.
You crossed your arms, forcing your tone to turn cold and far away. No words really landed cleanly in your head for inspiration, so you took the first ones that would stick. “Maybe you don’t have to be so… much.”
Steve blinked.
His jaw tensed with movement, your eyes drew to the action by unfortunate reflex now. He glanced down, then back up, searching your face with a focus that made your skin feel too thin and your act feel too hesitant.
“I’ll fix it,” the words came quietly. You were sure your expression was dumbfounded, sure you had been acting like this on purpose – but what did he gain from doing that? You were so rapidly expecting a textbook fit. Instead, you got patient murmurings. That was worse than any possible anger.
“I don’t need you to fix it.”
“Then tell me what you need.”
His breath warmed your forehead. His hazel eyes showed no sign of any true hostility. They were worried and confused, and there was something heartbreakingly earnest in the way he tried to solve the version of the problem you had invented. You liked that. You liked that he seemed to act like that by instinct.
And so, because of that, you almost reached for him.
You willed yourself to iron quickly. Wetting your bottom lip, you finally looked up at him. eyes. The action had you remembering just why you were so hesitant to meet his gaze, having a look that could melt anything in them. Instead, you stepped around him and walked to class with your throat tight enough to hurt.
At lunch later, you made notes that took up new space in your writing notebook.
He responded to social rejection not with aggression but accommodation. Attempts repair. Shows confusion when expected script fails. Public status seems less motivating than personal connection.
You underlined personal connection so hard the paper tore.
Even detached on paper didn't feel right.
—
The next test, as the girls had dubbed it, was supposed to be funny. You were sure it was meant to be, but it still held an underlying issue. It was Stacey’s idea, though you were the one foolish enough to do it.
The party was at some fellow senior’s house on Maple Street, loud enough to rattle the windows from the street. Steve picked you up with his hair arranged into what could only be called architecture. He seemed nervous about the party in a way he tried to bury under commentary about the radio, the road, and the fact that you were late even though you had been ready for ten minutes and had simply stood in your room wondering when exactly you had become the villain in your own story.
It was a rough start to say the least.
When you got there, he came around to open your door.
You stood and tried not to let the deep inhale of breathe be heard. The last thing you needed was to look as nervous as you felt. And quickly after that, you took one look at his carefully styled hair, and before you could lose courage, reached up and ran both hands through it. A smile found its way on your face, practiced and teasing, mirroring the girl in the catalogue of your People magazine.
The brush through his hair wasn't gentle, although his hair certainly was. Seriously, you had to ask later on what his secret was.
The structure of its volume collapsed instantly, and Steve froze. His head still remained in its bowed position from where he leaned down from the passenger seat door of his car. His brows twitched together as your hands ran along his temple. You froze too, fingers still threaded into his hair.
For one second, you waited for the familiar snap. For the old King Steve to step forward with wounded pride and a cruel mouth. The porch light hummed above you. Inside, someone shrieked with laughter. His friends, or former friends, or whatever they were now, could see you from the living room window.
Steve looked at his reflection in the dark glass of the car. He let out a small sigh, and the familiar heart fluttering charming grin appeared on his face. Steve's eyes shut for a moment but his expression didn't falter, even as a series of laughter escaped him. The sound felt warm to you, and your body responded in turn.
“Better?” Steve then fluttered his pretty eyes back open, his head tilting with curiosity. “It was exhausting keeping that up anyway.”
Your hands fell quickly, your finger tips missing the way his hair felt against your skin instantly. The joke died so completely that you could almost hear it hit the pavement.
He glanced at you, the ruined hair falling soft around his face only enhancing him. “Does it look terrible?”
“No,” you denied, and it came out too quickly. You winced at that, a small noise escaped Steve.
His mouth twitched. “That was very convincing.”
“I mean it.” you did.
He looked younger again. Not smaller, exactly. Just less fully arranged. Another strand fell over his forehead, and you had the sudden, awful urge to smooth it back with care instead of strategy.
The party behind you roared alive, and Steve heard. His shoulders tightened, but he didn't turn toward them like you thought. He looked at you instead, waiting for your reaction, which somehow made you responsible for the whole fragile moment.
You reached up and fixed one piece of hair near his temple. Something in you liked doing that.
“There,” your voice was stronger now, and your smile had turned real moments ago. “Better.”
The smile he gave you was crooked and private. It really was nothing in comparison to the rest of the party, but it lingered. You spent the next few hours trying to get him to smile like that again.
You didn't take notes that night, or any of the other future nights.
You just remembered things instead.
You remembered the blue flicker of a movie screen across his face two nights later, when he sat beside you in the theater and kept his arm over your shoulders for the first half hour because that was what Steve Harrington knew how to do. Smooth. Easy. Practiced. Then, sometime after the second reel started rolling, his fingers stopped drumming against your sleeve and settled there with a hesitant weight, not claiming, only asking.
You remembered the way he drove with one hand when he was showing off, then switched to both hands when he told you about the time he forgot about his gym clothes and his coach made him wear an extra one two sizes too small. You remembered that he kept cherry chapstick in his glove box beside a flashlight, two old cassette tapes, and a receipt from a gas station outside Indianapolis. You remembered him stealing fries from your plate at the nearby diner and pretending to be wounded when you kicked his shin under the booth.
And in the next important memory, you remembered rain.
It came hard one random Thursday night, turning Hawkins into a blur of headlights and slick black roads. Steve’s house was empty in the way large houses could be empty even before you stepped inside. It was too clean, and far too quiet. The kind of place where expensive furniture sat untouched, waiting for adults who came home late and left early.
You ended up in his bedroom because the living room felt too much like a showroom for you.
His room was warmer than you expected, messier in an unapologetically human way. A baseball glove rested comfortably on the nearby dresser. Records stacked crookedly near the stereo. A half-open drawer with socks spilling out. Hair products lined along the bathroom counter with an intensity that might have been funny if it did not now seem faintly sad. Still, you had gotten a few quips out in hopes of cracking a smile from him.
The storm rattled the windows deeper into that even when conversations died down. You sat on the floor with your backs against the thick wooden frame of his bed, sharing a blanket that smelled faintly of detergent and his cologne. It was a familiar scent to your mind now. His knee pressed against yours beneath the fabric.
Neither of you moved away.
“I used to think this place was cool,” Steve had mentioned offhandedly after a moment, looking around the space of his room.
You didn't quite follow why his tone seemed far away, to you, his words were still holding up. “It is cool.”
“It’s big.”
Your head turned to face him, a hum on your lips. “That’s usually part of cool.”
He shook his head, the slight shake of his hair reminded you of how you missed touching it. You shook your head and focused once more when he spoke again. “No, I mean… it’s just big.”
You understood what he meant.
Near his large bedroom window, thunder rolled low over the town. The room flashed pale for a second, then settled back into the lamplight.
You rested your cheek against the edge of the mattress, warm eyes pouring into yours as he mimicked your actions. “Are your parents gone a lot?”
“Yeah.” Steve then picked at a loose thread in the blanket. His next words came out short and detached, so unlike the guy you've known. “Dad travels. Mom goes with him when she’s tired of pretending she likes Hawkins.”
You didn't like how his eyes dimmed. “And you?”
“I stay.”
The word sat between you.
He laughed once, it was without humor, and rubbed at his eye with the heel of his hand. His voice held that rasped edge that sent tingles down your spine. “God, that sounded pathetic.”
“It didn’t.” The reassurance came so quick it shocked you. You attempted to play it cool, repeating the words slower.
“It did.” He looked down at his hands, the same ones you found yourself wanting to hold without the premise of a lie. “I just… I don’t know what happens when this is over. School. All of it. Everybody keeps acting like we’re supposed to know.” You didn't know what to say, it was the first time you've seen him so visibly wrecked. “College, jobs, whatever. And I’m sitting there thinking—what if this was it? What if being King Steve was the only thing I was ever good at, and I wasn’t even good enough to keep it?”
Your chest tightened, it seemed like the world was laughing at you. Her he was, sitting on his bedroom floor besides talking about his insecurities all while you were actively trying to back on them.
The article was in your bag downstairs. A draft. A title. A guillotine made of clever sentences.
“Steve,” the name came of gentle from your lips.
He would not look at you, he kept staring at a spot on the floor.
“Nancy figured it out before I did,” he went on, his voice lower now. His shoulders carried his tension clear as day. “That all the stuff people liked about me was just… noise. Parties, basketball, the car, the hair. The Harrington house. I thought that meant something. Then it didn’t, and it was—”
He stopped and didn't continue any further. You knew the signs before it came, and the room quieted down.
His throat moved, a small, forcefully restrained noise finding its way out. The rain that thudded against his window filled the silence for him. And for you.
You reached for his hand quickly.
He looked at your fingers covering his, then turned his palm upward and held on. You opened your mouth to speak, but not much came out. His grip was still foreign to you, but it was different right now. It wasn't smooth, and it didn't feel like it held any kind of plan. His grip tightened once, almost too much to be soft, but then he quickly loosened it.
You shifted closer.
That was all it took.
He pulled you into his lap with a suddenness that stole your breath, then seemed to realize what he had done a second after doing it. His hands hovered at your waist.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
You settled there instead of moving away. Your own eyes were blown wide and mirroring his. You tried to speak but it came out all airy. “It’s okay.”
His breathing changed when yours did. Steve's eyes seemed to track your face, and the air seemed to turn into something deeper.
For a moment, neither of you spoke up again. He lowered his forehead to your shoulder,then to the curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. The response that you gave was instantaneous, a rapid rising and falling of your chest went through the warmth of your body. His hands gripped your waist through the blanket, not possessive necessarily, you thought it felt more like clinging. Tethering. The storm made the windows tremble. His hair brushed your jaw.
You lifted a hand and threaded your fingers into the back of his hair. The return of the welcome feeling was pleasant in your grasp.
He went still under your touch, and for a moment. Then he exhaled, deep and unsteady, and held you closer. Your faces were breaths away now, the bridge of his nose softly touched yours.
“Hey,” your voice came out weak. It was too soft to be teasing like you'd hoped.
Steve’s eyes softened instantly. You saw it happen. You saw the moment the small, genuine grin stretched across his face. His voice came back whispered, as if scared to break the moment. “Hi there.”
When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched your face with an openness that made lying feel entirely impossible. You knew he was about to kiss you. You knew that you really should stop him. You knew the truth should come out before his mouth touches yours, before this became another thing you had stolen under false pretenses.
But you'd been stupid, and so you didn't stop him.
The kiss began softly, almost carefully. His lips were brushing yours once before returning with more certainty. He tasted faintly sweet from the chapstick he pretended not to use. The kiss felt like it was bewitching your body whole. His hand rose to your hair, fingers sinking in with a restraint that kept breaking and returning. You gave a slight laugh against his lips before calming down. You felt him trying not to rush, trying not to take more than you gave, and the effort undid you more thoroughly than any practiced confidence could have. Because it was just so him.
You kissed him back.
Not for the article. Not for the headline. Not because Stacey would demand details or because Mr. Walsh would have to admit you knew how to find a story
You wanted to, you truly wanted to..
You kissed him because his hand was warm against your back and his breath caught when you touched his face. Because the room smelled of rain and leather and laundry soap. Because his mouth moved against yours with need and care tangled together, and your whole body answered before your conscience could organize a defense.
When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. The faint flush from his skin felt nice against yours
He smiled, small and dazed. You added that of the list of expressions you liked to see on him.
“Does this mean I’m helping with your boy problem?”
A laugh broke out of you, shaky and real. You pressed your face into his shoulder to hide it. With a lightness in you chest you lifted your head up as you rolled your eyes. Your hand moved on its own account now. It slid up to grasp the side of his face, your fingers sliding against the shape of his jaw.
“Shut up, Steve.”
His arms tightened around you, and his lips found yours once again. His own lightness expressed through the laughter that filled the echoing bedroom. "Ouch, you wound me."
For a few minutes, the world narrowed to the storm, his heartbeat beneath your palm, and the terrible knowledge that you had done something you could not write your way out of.
—
The article sat unfinished for two days.
You told yourself you would kill it. You also told yourself that you had time. Then you told yourself you would revise it.
So you sat in the newsroom after school, staring at the draft title until the faniliar letters turned cruel.
The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king.
It sounded brilliant in the cafeteria. You distinctly remember thinking that. But now? Now it sounded mean.
No, mean was too light of a word. It felt cruel.
You pulled the pages from the typewriter, folded them once, and shoved them into your folder. You would tell Mr. Walsh you had changed direction. You would write something else. Anything else. A review of the cafeteria pizza. A profile on the marching band. A blank page with sorry written in the center.
The front page spot didn't seem so enticing anymore when the cost came so harsh.
You were reaching for your bag when Mark appeared in the doorway, looking over at you. You didn't bother to hide the deep exhale you gave, you whole body tensing on on instinct.
“Working late?”
You stiffened and corrected him. “Leaving, actually.”
His eyes dropped to the folder in your hand. You immediately shut the folder, not liking the look in his gaze. “Is that the mystery column everyone’s whispering about?”
“No.”
“So yes.”
You tucked it against your chest. You had truly no paitence for the boy. You had been feeling horrible all last night yesterday, well, even more so last night than usual. “Move, Mark.”
He held up both hands, smiling. You didn't like his smile. It was nothing like the comforting presence of Steve's. The thought only made your mood worsened. “Relax. I just wanted to see what was so important that Walsh was considering bumping my school spirit piece.”
“He wasn’t.” You wished you sounded as steady as you needed to, but the flicker in your voice betrayed you.
Mark noticed. Boys like Mark always noticed weakness when it benefited them. And Mark himself no doubt would revel in any chance of taking an empty shot at you.
“Come on,” he clicked his tongue in a way that made your blood boil from its condescension. “We’re all on the same staff.”
“No, we’re not.” You pushed past him quickly.
You did not know, however, that then one folded carbon copy had slipped from your folder and landed beneath the table, half-hidden by the trash can. You did not know Mark found it ten minutes later. You did not know he read it standing under the buzzing lights with his mouth slowly opening into the delighted shape of opportunity.
If you knew, you certainly wouldn't have lived through the reoccurring nightmare you've been having for the past few weeks.
You found out the next morning when Hawkins High came alive with your words.
Not the final version of your words, for it surely would've had a different result. It wasn't even the whole draft.
It was the worst version, the sharpest version.
The version written before you knew the way Steve looked when he gave away his jacket and pretended not to be cold.
Copies appeared on lockers before first period. Someone had run them fast and dirty, the ink uneven, the margins crooked. The title screamed from the top in bold type.
By second period, everyone had read it. By lunch, they were reading it aloud. You pushed through the hallway with your heart hammering so hard your vision pulsed at the edges.
A boy near the trophy case laughed. “Listen to this part—”
You snatched the page from his hand and you were sure the rhythm of your heart could be heard from miles away.
There it was.
Your article.
Your voice, sharpened into a blade that you couldn't even begin to imagine dulling.
The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king
Every high school builds a throne, though no one admits to carrying the wood to make it. We vote with our eyes, our invitations, and our laughter at jokes that are not funny enough to deserve it. We create a boy and call him a king because it is easier than admitting we are the kingdom that is faulty.
The high school god is rarely born exceptional. He is assembled meticulously. A good car. A good face. The right jacket. The right table. Enough people saying his name in the right tone until even he begins to believe there is something sacred in being wanted. These continue to enforce how sincerity rarely makes the cut.
But worship is not love. Anyone will tell you that, and those who disagree would be dumb enough to face the consequences. Popularity feeds on performance, and performance rots whatever is underneath the layer given. A boy taught to survive by being admired will eventually mistake attention for affection, control for confidence, and loneliness for proof that everyone else has failed him
When a crown falls, what remains is often not a villain, but something more ordinary and more frightening: a boy with no language for himself beyond what other people once applauded and now isolate.
Hawkins High should ask why we keep making kings out of boys who do not know how to be human — and why we act surprised when the weight of a crown crushes them to dust.
You had written every word. It would have been easier to say that Mark embellished over your words, and exaggerated for journalist effect. But he didn't, you were the one to do that. It was the worst part of the draft he could have chosen, simply because of the fact that you had left out everything you saw after.
You had also left out every human thing that would have saved him.
You found Steve in the print room a few hours later. And before you could assume any sort of hope of a clean explanation, it was shot and dead in front of you. You almost wished he hadn't gone there.
But of course he would have gone there, and of course the place where your betrayal had been made public still smelled of ink and metal and hot paper. It was proof of the now posted article that you didn't even want out. Faintly, you could hear something loud with the clacking press that someone had forgotten to turn off. Steve stood near the long table, one of the copies in his hand, the page trembling slightly between his fingers.
He looked up when you entered and you almost wished he hadn't.
His eyes were red.
Not crying, not exactly. Worse. It made your heart drop and panic spike up into you. It seemed he intended to hold back so hard that the effort had hollowed out his face.
“Steve–” you didn't recognize your voice. It was so desperate and and pleading. You opened your mouth and tried to stammer out any explanation that came into your head, but there was nothing you found coming to mind.
“Steve, please! Just listen, I–” He interrupted you and laughed, but it shook you. It wasn't like the laughter you had come to live, this one had no warmth in it. It was so unlike him and you hated it. You hated causing that.
“Was any of it real?”
You stopped short, any explanation does quickly in the tip of your tongue.
He held up the article for you to see. As if you needed to be reminded of what you'd have done, a small breath part of you mouthed off bitterly.
“When you looked at me like that. When you stayed with me. When you—” His voice caught, and he looked away, jaw tight. You immediately took to shaking your head, the implication of his words just. Because they were true. And because they weren't. “Was that just material for your front page?”
“No!”
“No?”
“It started—” You hated yourself before the words finished forming. “It started as an article, but—”
His face changed and your heart seemed perpetually lodged into your ribcage. There were some truths that did not deserve the dignity of a full explanation. Steve just exhaled out sharply, his head finally facing you. The reaction wasn't what you wanted, you wanted–no, needed to explain yourself.
He nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the floor. Steve didn't give the you the chance to continue. “Right.”
“Steve, I was going to stop it. I didn't even turn it in! I swear, I wasn't going to hand it over. Mark found an old draft, and he—”
“Don’t.” He looked at you then, and the quiet in his voice hurt more than shouting would have. The word held so much that you froze on instinct. Your eyes stung viciously as you opened your mouth but nothing came out. “Don’t make this about him.”
Your mouth closed then. You felt utterly helpless, which might have been deserved. You desperately wanted to tell him everything, wanting him to understand that it was real – is real. But your eyes, wide and frantic, just froze. He stepped closer, the paper crumpling in his fist.
“Everyone else wanted to see me for my status,” Steve began with a sharp inhale. You felt the stinging turn more prominent in your eyes, you tried to take a step forward but that was rejected when he almost flinched back two steps himself.. “The car, the parties, the game. Whatever. I got that. I was stupid, but I got it.” His breath shook. Steve’s voice cracked nearing the end, and that was the last thing you heard before your vision blurred into spots. “I thought you were the only one who didn’t care about it.”
“I did! No, I mean–I do, you have to believe me, Steve.” Your voice was surely pathetically small. Everything else seemed to turn into static silence in the empty printing room and you desperately needed to fix it. You wanted to, but you felt so utterly unsure of your next steps. You reached for him on instinct.
Steve flinched back.
The movement was small. Instinctive. As if his body no longer registered you as a comfort, and that split something open in you. You felt the first few tears fall from your lashes, each blink dropping tiny little pearls. Steve made a noise you couldn't properly translate, his eyes were on yours but they held a thousand words and emotions in a single look. His own hand twitched open and shut before being brought up to bury itself in his hair, Steve then forced his eyes shut and his head turned to the side. He couldn't decide what hurt more, being hurt by you, or seeing you hurt.
He was the one that came back sharp and strained.
“Turns out,” Steve’s voice was so rough, it could have been unrecognizable. You opened your mouth immediately to shut down whatever he would say, but he beat you to it. “you just used me for a headline.”
The press clattered behind him. A sheet slid loose and fluttered to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice cracking and stinging from feeling utterly defeated. Because he was right, you did. You did get to know him for a chance at a headline, so that was why you could only apologize. But you wanted nothing to do with that stupid article, and regret washed over you at the thought of him thinking none of it was real. Because yes, it was messy, but it was real for you. “But–fuck, Steve... please you have to understand that–” you were cut off before you could even continue.
He stared at you for a long moment, and you could see the part of him that wanted to believe you fighting with the part that had learned too many times what wanting cost.
Then he turned and walked out.
The room didn't become empty when he left, there was no relief that came with him leaving. And the room didn't become calmer in his disappearance; instead, it filled with him.
The absence of his cologne. The missing warmth of his jacket. The ghost of his hand at your cheek, careful and uncertain, before you had earned any of it. All of the little things that were so present just a moment ago were gone and let the physical trail of what happened.
You were left alone with the faint clacking of the room's machinery. And for a moment, you were so ready to run out to try and plead. To explain, to tell him every complete thing he was missing in hopes of him understanding. But you couldn't do that, not when you were already reason enough that he was hurting all over again.
With a loud curse, you found yourself feeling completely lost in a room that you've only ever compared with a haven.
—
For two days, Steve Harrington became visible to you in a way he had never been as king.
You saw him at his locker the next Friday morning, hollow-eyed and quiet, pretending not to hear the whispers. You saw him in the cafeteria, sitting with a younger boy you didn't know for exactly six minutes before the younger boy said something animated enough to make Steve almost smile. Then Steve caught sight of you across the room and the almost vanished.
That hurt like a stab to the heart.
Then came the other little things that made you feel significantly worse. He stopped coming to the parking lot after school until the buses had left. He stopped looking down your hallway. He stopped being available to your guilt.
You tried to corner Mark. He denied leaking it with the loose, oily confidence of someone who knew proof mattered more than truth. Mr. Walsh gave a speech to the staff about journalistic ethics while refusing to meet your eyes. Stacey apologized three times, then stopped because the apologies had nowhere to land when she held you while your sobs filled your bedroom. Leah sat beside you at lunch without talking much. That was the kindest thing anyone did.
By Friday afternoon, the newsroom felt smaller than it ever had for you. More suffocating.
The printing press sat under the window, still and waiting. Dust turned in the late sun. Your original ambition lay around you in stacks of paper and headline sketches and discarded layouts.
You looked at the front page proof with Mark’s article on school spirit and felt nothing.
Not disappointment. Not anger.
Nothing.
That truly scared you more than pain did.
You had thought giving up the article would be enough. You had thought killing the story would count as a moral act. But the story was already alive, crawling through Hawkins High with your fingerprints around its throat. You didn't know what to do, the words were already there for everyone that listened.
You sat at the typewriter.
For a long moment, you did not move. Shortly after a fit of tense silence, you finally rolled in a clean sheet. The keys struck hard enough to ache in your fingers.
This time, you did not write anonymously because you were clever. Or because you were trying to be witty or cruel. You wrote anonymously because the confession was not meant to redeem your name. It was meant to give him back his.
By the final bell, the flyer was everywhere, curtesy of your desperate and frantic efforts.
It wasn't approved, it certainly also wasn't polished. Id didn't become formatted with Mr. Walsh’s careful little rules. It was just a single page copied until the machine jammed twice and your hands were black with ink that you couldn't scrub off
Students grabbed them from the tables, from the lockers, from the floor where they skidded under shoes. After all, no one loved potential hidden stories more than Hawkins High
You didn't wait to watch them read. That had been the least of your priorities. There was more important things that you cared about than who read a piece of your work now, and he had been gone from your sight long enough.
So, you ran.
The hallways exploded around you with the annual end-of-week chaos of Hawkins High School. Lockers slammed open, someone yelled about a shared ride, and a freshman dropped an entire stack of books and cursed with such feeling that a teacher shouted his name from twenty feet away. The sun poured through the front doors in a white-gold sheet, way too bright after the fluorescent dimness of the hall.
Steve was not at his locker. He was not outside the gym. He wasn't by the trophy case or the pay phones or even the side entrance near the band room. Your lungs burned by the time you shoved through the heavy double doors and stumbled into the afternoon.
The parking lot sprawled ahead of you, shining under the cold sun. Cars backed out in crooked lines. Girls shouted through open windows. The air smelled of gasoline, damp leaves, and somebody’s cigarette. It was all nothing that you cared about. The one thing you did seemed to be missing from the scene. Your eyes squinted in the light as it traveled across the parking spaces of the lot, failing to find what your heart desperately wanted to see.
At the far end, the BMW’s engine roared to life.
“No,” you breathed with pure adrenaline rushing through your veins. Steve sat behind the wheel, one hand on the gearshift, his profile hard through the windshield.
Before you even knew it, you started running.
It was stupid, rushed, and entirely filled with desperation. Your shoes slapped the asphalt. You heard Leah faintly calling your name, but you didn't turn back. The wind tore at your hair. Your bag bounced painfully against your hip but you paid it no mind. You cut between two parked cars and nearly slipped on loose gravel.
“Steve!”
He did not hear you, or pretended not to. You gave a groan of loud annoyance, but it still did little to deter you.
You reached the car just as the reverse lights flashed.
Without thinking, without dignity, and definitely without any plan beyond the awful certainty that if he drove away now something inside you would never forgive you, you threw yourself in front of the driver’s side door.
The car jerked to a stop and Steve froze behind the wheel.
Through the glass, his beautifully bright eyes widened. Hurt, shock, and stubborn pride moved across his face so quickly you could barely separate them. Then his mouth tightened. You could tell he wasn't expecting your actions, and you couldn't exactly say you were the most sane person now.
The window rolled down slowly, the crank turning under his hand with mechanical, agonizing patience.
“What are you doing?” his words came loud and filled with unresolved frustration. Steve’s voice was rough. Thick in its tension. He wouldn't look straight at you. You refused to settle for that, the days spent with the familiar feeling practically left you numb and empty.
“Go back inside,” Steve’s eyes and words seemed to contradict each other. He shifted back into looking into his dashboard instead of you. “Go celebrate your front page.”
You shoved the crumpled paper through the open window. It landed in his lap.
“I don’t care about the stupid article, ” you said, breathless enough that the words broke apart. “I don’t care about the front page. Just–read it. Please.”
His jaw flexed. For a second, you thought he would throw it back at you. Then Steve looked down at the copy of printed words.
You watched his eyes move over the page.
Correcting mistakes:
There was an article circulating this week about a king. It was clever in the cruel way people mistake for intelligence when they are too afraid to admit they have been wrong.
The girl who wrote it thought she was exposing a system. She thought it clever and brilliant. She told herself the boy at the center of it was an idea, a symbol, a lesson with good hair. She thought distance made her fair and judicial. She thought observation made her honest.
Then the boy gave her his jacket when she was cold.
Then he admitted he was afraid of being forgotten, and the girl realized she had been so busy studying the crown of his that she had ignored the weight of it on his own head.
The first article was right about one thing: Hawkins High School makes kings out of boys and then punishes them for not knowing how to be anything else. That wasn't the mistake here. But it was wrong to confuse a boy’s damage with his character. It was wrong to turn trust into evidence. And it was wrong to take the softest things he offered and sharpen them for public consumption.
This is not an apology meant to earn forgiveness. This is meant, instead to fix the record.
The boy was never a god.
He was kinder than any story allowed him to be, and he was kinder than she deserved.
Steve stared at the paper.
His chest rose and fell under his yellow polo. His rings glinted where his fingers gripped the page. Around you, students slowed. A few openly stared. You could feel the parking lot turning toward you with the appetite of a place that loved spectacle.
For once, you really, truly, couldn't care.
Steve’s eyes lifted to yours, and you could weep just from that alone. “Why should I believe you?” he asked.
The question was quiet enough that no one else could hear. You stepped closer, hands gripping the edge of the open window. Your own voice want any better, it was loud and messy, and undeniably real. A breathless bount of laughter escaped you “Because I was playing a game and I lost, Steve.”
“I lost.”
His throat moved but you hadn't seen it.
“And I lost you,” you sighed with your head hanging low in shame near the open window, voice shaking now, “and I regret it. I was supposed to push you away, but every time you held my hand, every time you looked at me like I actually mattered, I—”
Your breath caught, and you forced it down in order to continue.
“I don’t care about King Steve. I don’t care about the crown or the table or the stupid front page. I want the guy who gets cold in his own car because he gave me his jacket. I want the guy who pretends he doesn’t use cherry chapstick. I want the guy who worries too much and fixes his hair when he’s nervous and acts tough until somebody he cares about needs him to be gentle.”
The words were embarrassing in their vulnerability, and it didn't help that Steve just stared at you. But even small battle wins were tremendous to those who were cautious. The defensive hardness in his face trembled.
You leaned closer, not touching him. Though God knew you wanted too. But you wouldn't take what he had not offered.
“I just want you,” you said and the words hung there in the bright afternoon.
For a second, nothing happened. That scared you. Because if even though all of this, he didn't believe you, you were sure that would break you entirely. You didn't understand how looking at him now, with his beautifully enrupturing genuine gaze and constellations of freckles so faint kissing his skin with blessings, you could have been so stupid.
Your panicking monologue was cut off when Steve let out a breath that broke halfway into a laugh.
It made you falter momentarily. You wouldn't exactly describe it as fully happy or clean. Instead, it was more ragged. Disbelieving. Full of relief that came so sudden it seemed to knock the strength out of him. He looked down at the crumpled printed again, then back at you. You saw the exact moment when whatever he had been holding together for two days came apart in his hands.
“You’re insane,” Steve held his head in his hands. The heels of his palms dragged to his eyes, and that when you noticed the concealed redness there. Your panic was a quick guest arrival as your hand hesitantly went over the threshold of the open window and found its spot tangling through his hair at his temple.
Your voice came out soft. “I know.”
“You ran in front of my car.” Steve's was returned in a disbelieving laugh. The sound on instinct made you smile.
“I know.”
“I could’ve hit you.”
You weren't quite so sure you believed that. And it seemed like neither did he fully either. The both of you stared through the air between you “You're not exactly driving donuts with your Beamer in a school parking lot, Harrington. You were going four miles an hour, max.”
His mouth twitched and your heart found its comfort. There he was. That was the boy you wanted to see, the one who was sincere and silly and all of the words in between.
The moment didn't truly feel fixed all the way, and it didn't feel so easily forgiven so neatly that the hurt could be vanished beneath a kiss. But there, beneath the bruised pride and the red eyes and the stubborn set of his jaw, was the boy from the park. The boy from the rainstorm. The boy who had laughed quietly when nobody asked him to perform.
He shoved the car door open.
You barely had time to step back before he was out, hands catching your waist. Steve lifted you clean off the pavement, and a startled sound escaped you as your hands grabbed his shoulders.
“Steve—”
“Shut up,” he rasped, but his voice broke around the smile. Then kiss that came next didn't surprise you. But it certainly didn't prepare you for it either.
It was not exactly graceful, but it was completely and utterly impassioned.
Someone in the parking lot whooped. Someone else yelled something that sounded suspiciously like “Harrington!” A horn blared because a car was stuck behind his open door. The reminder of just how crazy this whole situation was roared in your ears.
Steve didn't seem to hear any of it. You had a feeling that he did, but just pretended he didn't. That made you smile on reflex against him.
His hands held your waist with desperate certainty, then slid up your back, pulling you close enough that the cold afternoon disappeared between you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, ruining it again, and he made a sound against your mouth that was half laugh, half relief. He tasted the same sweet cherry chapstick you started buying for yourself and breathless warmth. The kiss carried every unsaid thing neither of you knew how to organize yet. Anger. Want. Hurt. Forgiveness beginning somewhere far off and walking slowly toward you.
When your feet touched the ground again, you were dizzy. It was a good dizzy, and the pounding in your side was a welcome pleasure now.
Steve rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard. His hands stayed anchored at your hips, refusing to let you drift away. Up close, you could see the faint details scattered along his neck, the tiredness under his eyes, and the careful hope he was trying not to show too quickly.
“You really printed that?” The question broke you out of your stupor. You were still so dazed from his touch that you distantly found yourself nodding. Your hands refused to leave their spot in reaching for him now that there wasn't a lie justifying it.
“Over Mark’s stupid school spirit thing?”
Your words came mechanical, as if offended he'd even question it. “Technically under it. Around it. On top of some of it.”
“I made a stupid amount of copies.” The confession came paired with you momentarily dropping your hands where they were wrapped around him to hold up the black ink stains on your fingers.
His smile spread, crooked and real enough to hurt. And you swore that it was the most beautiful sight in the world.
“Good.”
You laughed weakly, your hands finding their way back into sliding to the back of his nape. “That’s what you took from the public confession?”
“I’m processing.” His thumb moved along your jaw, slow and familiar. “Also, I liked the cherry chapstick line.”
“I hoped you would,” you felt like a cat relishing in caresses. The smile that mirrored his came quick and teasing on your mouth. His eyes stayed on yours, and his smile softened at the edges.
“You’re a terrible writer.”
Your brows lifted in instinctive defensiveness of your craft. “Excuse me?”
He brushed his thumb beneath your chin, eyes bright with that old Harrington charm, gentler now, and clearly worn in rather than performed.
“You didn’t even come close to losing me.”
The ache in your chest loosened all at once.
It would not be so easy for you to say it was gone, you would still have to apologize without speeches. He would still have to decide what trust looked like after being turned into copy.
But Steve was standing in front of you with his hair wrecked by your hands and your confession folded against his car seat. He was looking at you, really looking, not the way a king looked over a crowd, but the way a boy looked at the girl he was still willing to let close enough to hurt him.
You rose onto your toes with a soft shake of your head and grin. “Just shut up and kiss me, Harrington.”
His grin flashed.
“Yes, ma’am.”
This time, when he kissed you, the whole parking lot blurred into sun and noise and the smell of gasoline warming on asphalt. His hands were still careful. Yours were not. You held onto him with ink-stained fingerspads and a heart that learned how to be true.
summary: You'd hit an all-time low. College was supposed to expand your horizons, not land you back in Hawkins every weekend sitting at a table surrounded by teenagers, polyhedral dice, and character sheets. But your little brother’s Hellfire Club came with one major distraction: the town's resident pretty boy freak. Memorizing campaign lore hadn’t been on your syllabus this semester, but if learning how to cast a spell kept his eyes on you, you might have just ended up becoming the club's newest addict
pairing: eddie munson x older sister henderson!reader
content warnings: sibling bickering, mild language i think, kissing, make outs (?), embarrassing attempts at flirting, slow burn but fun burn, so wannabe nonchalant reader, reader's in college *year not really specified here, they're both lowk down bad, kinda pre-season 4 but could be anytime really, I've actually never played d&d so if I'm inaccurate we're blaming it on what I've learned/watched from my friends, not betaread so we ball, everyone's a loser (in a loveable way tho!!), dustin being a menace of a little brother, intense eye contact across a table, reader suffering through d&d campaign lore just for a boy (real), eddie munson being unhelpfully dramatic and handsome, mutual eventual pining, zero heavy angst cs nothing happens to him ever!… (also I was completely wrong, I thought hellfire took place in the drama club room but it's actually in the av room but when I fact checked I already put in too much work to restart 😭)
— amazing support banner used is from @moonstoneandmoonlight !
w/c: 19.2 k (he's my man I'm NOT sorry)
a/n: there's sm yapping in here omg (so much of this was written on my phone on train rides home from work so forgive any formatting mistakes), this actually so so important to me he's the loml and reader’s so me and this was just so cute it was a day dream plot for like a month now, im thinking of writing a part two because I feel attached now so if love to hear your guys opinions etc. thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!! <3
▪︎ masterlist
College was supposed to do something impressive to you.
That was what everyone had promised anyway.
Teachers, relatives, and even your mother’s friends from the grocery store who still remembered when you had braces and bangs you were not emotionally prepared to discuss. College, they said, would broaden your mind. It would make you independent. It would turn you into the kind of girl who drank coffee in the library after midnight and had complicated opinions about foreign films and never once felt the need to dig through the Henderson family fridge for leftovers.
And to be fair, you had tried.
You had moved into your dorm with two overstuffed suitcases and a confidence you had mostly assembled in the bathroom mirror. You had gone to freshman orientation events where everyone pretended not to be desperate for friends. You had learned which dining hall served the least offensive seasoned eggs. You had let a girl from your sociology class drag you to a party in someone’s humid off-campus basement, where warm beer foamed over your hand and a boy in a rugby shirt leaned too close while explaining his father’s boat.
You'd been doing just fine.
Then the first Friday of the semester came around, and by midafternoon you were already in your car, pointed back toward Hawkins with your duffel bag on the passenger seat and a weak excuse waiting on your tongue.
You missed your family, sure. That was true enough. You missed your mother’s kitchen, the particular clatter of her cabinets, the smell of something real cooking instead of whatever the cafeteria claimed was meatloaf. You missed the familiar absurdity of your little brother yelling from three rooms away instead of knocking on your door. You missed your bed, your shower, and the way Hawkins trees crowded over the roads and made every sunset feel tucked in at the edges.
Mostly, though, you missed not having to constantly introduce yourself.
The drive was warm and dull and golden at the seams. Late summer still clung to Indiana, stubborn and sweaty, with the green fields blurring past your windows and the radio crackling between stations whenever the road dipped. By the time you pulled into the driveway, your legs ached from sitting and your hair smelled faintly of sun-baked upholstery.
Your mother nearly dropped a wooden spoon when you walked into the kitchen soon after that.
“Oh my God,” she gave a startled gasp, her hand flying to her chest. “You scared me half to death.”
“That’s what you get for raising a daughter who visits,” your voice was teasing, and you moved in closer tossing your bag near the doorway.
She fussed over you immediately, which meant she kissed your cheek, criticized how tired you looked, and pushed a plate toward you before you had even taken off your shoes. The kitchen was bright and busy just like you remembered it, the counters cluttered with mail, coupons, a half-empty glass of iced tea, and one of Dustin’s notebooks left open beneath a smear of peanut butter.
You leaned against the counter and ate standing up while your mother talked at a pace that made campus feel quiet by comparison.
You listened, nodded, and answered questions about your roommate, your classes, your meal plan, your laundry situation, your sleep. It took an embarrassingly long time before you realized something was missing.
“Where’s Dustin?”
Your mother waved the spoon toward the hallway. “At his club.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “His what?”
“His club,” she repeated, already distracted by the pots on stove. “The new one. Hellfire, I think? He was very dramatic about the shirt.”
You stared at her blankly, as if she'd grown two heads.
Your mother glanced over her shoulder to look back at you. “Don’t look at me like that…I asked if there would be adult supervision, and he said yes.”
“He said yes?” the incredulity in your voice did little to settle the matter.
Your mothers voice came back light and easy. “He said there’s a senior.”
“A senior is not adult supervision.”
“Well, he seemed very confident.”
Now, your groan felt more instinctual than meant to be. It came from years of experience as an older sister, and even more so from years of experience with your brother. “Mom, Dustin is always confident when he’s wrong.”
She sighed in the long-suffering way mothers did when they knew perfectly well you were right but had already decided they were tired. You couldn't blame her, Dustin could wear down the grim reaper if properly motivated. “He’s at the high school. If you want him home before dinner, you can go get him.”
That was how, twenty minutes later, you found yourself walking through the halls of Hawkins High on a Friday evening. Your keys looped around your finger and your old familiarity with the building returning in unpleasant little flashes. The trophy case still had smudges near the bottom from kids pressing their hands to the glass. The linoleum still carried that waxy, chemical smell that never fully went away. Somewhere deeper in the building, a pipe knocked behind the wall. Your shoes clicked too loudly in the empty hallway. It wasn’t like people graduated from Hawkins to come back.
Well, those who did mostly did so to relieve their glory days, which was just code for how their life seemed miserable to what was promised to them in their adolescence.
You had expected to find Dustin in a classroom with a few other freshmen. Maybe some awkward boys hunched over graph paper. Maybe a teacher grading quizzes nearby. Something harmless. Something suitably humiliating for him.
Instead, you followed a burst of shouting toward the drama room, pushed open the door, and stopped so abruptly that the strap of your bag slid off your shoulder.
The room was dim except for a cluster of lamps around a long table. Shadows filled the corners where old set pieces leaned against the walls, and painted trees and fake stone archways stacked beside boxes of costumes. The air smelled faintly of dust, pencil shavings, cafeteria pizza, and teenage boy. Around the table sat a collection of kids you recognized only in the vague way Dustin’s stories and faint interactions over the years had given them shape: Mike Wheeler with his sharp elbows and suspicious expression, Lucas Sinclair half-risen from his chair, a couple of older boys in matching black shirts, and Dustin himself wearing the look of religious devotion he usually reserved for radios and scientific breakthroughs.
But none of them were the first thing you noticed.
The first thing you noticed was the guy standing on the table.
He was all black denim, wild curls, and restless limbs. One sneaker planted between scattered papers while the other balanced on the edge of the table with a confidence that seemed both impressive and deeply irresponsible. A ripped denim vest hung over his leather jacket. Rings flashed on his hands as he raised both arms above his head, anr his voice echoed through the room.
“And from the pit,” he thundered, “dragging its hideous body through smoke and bone, comes the Demogorgon!”
Dustin made a noise that might have been despair or joy.
You remained frozen in the doorway. Your expression surely did little to hide your clear cut judgement.
This, apparently, was “adult supervision”.
The guy spun with theatrical violence, hair shifting around his face, and caught sight of you. His performance hit a pause so clean it might have been rehearsed. One hand stayed lifted. His eyes, dark and wide and bright with the leftover spark of whatever world he had been building, swept over you from your shoes to your face.
For one brief, ridiculous second, neither of you moved.
Then he straightened, dragged one hand to his chest, and dipped into an extravagant bow from the tabletop.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, his voice still pitched for the back row, “we appear to have been visited by either a very lost substitute teacher or Henderson’s mother after a tragic de-aging incident.”
For a moment, you didn't know if he was poking fun at you, or was serious. But you didn’t get to ponder on it long before the room broke into startled laughter. Dustin whipped around at the sight of you.
Your brother’s face collapsed into horror. “What are you doing here?”
“Picking you up,” you frowned instinctively at his lack of welcome, though your voice came out flatter than planned because your brain was still busy processing the sight in front of you.
The guy on the table hopped down. He landed lightly, considering the amount of metal attached to him, then spread his arms. “And here I thought we were finally getting raided by the moral majority.”
“You wish,” you scoffed.
It was automatic, a reflex. It was the same tone you used on boys at college when they opened with something ridiculous and expected you to giggle.
His eyebrows lifted.
You expected him to do what boys usually did. Smile a little slower. Look again. Adjust his posture. Decide, all at once, that he was interested.
Instead, he grinned, sharp and amused, then promptly turned back to the table.
“Henderson,” he barked. “Your carriage has arrived. And since your carriage has interrupted a sacred encounter, your wizard is about to make a saving throw with disadvantage.”
“What?” Dustin shrieked whirling back to the man with wild curls. “That’s not fair!”
“You brought family into my lair, man. Consequences.” The use of the word “lair” had you promptly cringing. It was like you'd met an older version of your brother.
“I didn’t bring her!” You seriously were considering leaving him to walk home now.
“You share blood. Close enough.”
You stood there in the doorway, absurdly aware of your own hands, your own face, the fact that you had come in expecting pimples and braces and had instead found Dustin’s bizarre new cult leader wearing chains and screaming about monsters under stage lights.
Why did your brother keep collecting older friends? Steve Harrington had been strange enough. Robin Buckley at least made some kind of sense if you squinted. But this guy – this table-standing, denim-clad, and metal-ringed senior with a voice made for trouble was in a category of his own.
Dustin started gathering his things while complaining under his breath. You watched the older boy shuffle papers behind a cardboard screen, still grinning, still moving too much, and energy spilling off him in quick little bursts. He caught you watching and tilted his head.
“Don’t worry,” he grinned with his full face. “We only sacrifice freshmen on alternating Fridays.”
You didn't know how to respond, so you settled on a nod. “I’ll mark my calendar.”
“Please do. Formal attire encouraged.”
Dustin shoved past you into the hallway, red-faced and muttering. You followed, but not before you glanced back once.
The guy was already looking at you.
This time, his grin changed by a fraction. Not softer, exactly or even less mocking. He just seemed to be aware of your presence more than he did moments ago.
Then Dustin groaned petulantly, “Oh my God, stop being weird,” and the moment snapped shut.
You drove home with your brother ranting about unfair dungeon master abuse, and you listened with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping restlessly against your thigh.
You had been back in Hawkins less than two hours.
Already, college felt very far away.
──
The next weekend, you told yourself you were only going because Dustin needed a ride.
That was the official reason. It had weight and it had practicality. It also sounded responsible enough that your mother accepted it without question when you appeared in the kitchen Saturday afternoon wearing jeans that fit better than your usual weekend pair and a top you had chosen after pretending not to choose it.
Dustin noticed the attempt immediately.
He stood by the counter with a Pop-Tart hanging from his mouth, eyes narrowing. “Why do you look like that?”
You looked down at yourself, the feeling of defensiveness prickling up your spine. “Like what?”
“Suspicious.” he gave you a weird look through his large bites.
Now, you were the one shooting him a dirty look. “I look normal.”
“You never look normal when you’re trying to look normal.”
It was at that moment you throughly were reminded of how much of a brat your sweet little brother had become. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means everything!”
You grabbed your keys. Your voice was now entirely unamused, not to mention so was your dignity. “Get in the car, Dustin.”
He complained the entire way, partly because complaining was his primary form of communication now in his teen years and partly because you refused to tell him why you had decided to sit in on Hellfire instead of dropping him off. You told him you were curious. He told you curiosity was not an excuse to ruin the sanctity of the campaign. You told him the sanctity of the campaign met in a public school building and smelled like old curtains. Safe to say the both of you were throughly displeased with the other, though for different reasons.
By the time you reached the drama room, Dustin had worked himself into a state of preventative embarrassment.
“Just don’t talk,” he said outside the door. His curls bounced behind his ears as he whipped his head back to face you, his finger outstretched to your face.
You gave him a look, which made him falter slightly because it originated from years of wide eyed warnings glances. Sure, you'd admit you've grown more mature, but you weren't too old that you wouldn't smack your little brother upside the head in public anymore. “Excuse me?”
His wince came quick and left quicker. “I’m serious. Don’t do that –that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you act cool and make everyone weird.”
You smiled slowly, not taking this as seriously as he made it out to be. After all, how much weirder could you make a room of boys who were die-hard into fantasy roleplay? “You think I’m cool?”
“No. That’s not what I said!”
You let the breezy expression back into your face, mostly because you knew it would rile him up further. “You’re worried I’ll be too cool.”
“I’m worried you’ll be deeply annoying.”
“Same thing, coming from you.”
Dustin groaned and pushed open the door. You followed suit after a moment, pulling down the driverside mirror for a second.
Hellfire was already gathering inside, louder in daylight than it had been at dusk. The stage lights were off, the overheads buzzing faintly, but Eddie Munson — you'd gotten his name from Dustin shortly after investigation last week — managed to make the room feel arranged around him. He sat at the head of the table with one leg hooked over the arm of his chair, flipping through a notebook thick with loose papers. His hair fell forward while he read, and one ringed hand braced against his mouth. Every so often he muttered something to himself and scratched a note in the margin.
You positioned yourself near the back, leaning against a desk with the casual ease of someone who had done very well at house parties without ever learning the names of the bands on the posters.
This was familiar territory. Not the dragons or the dice, but the rest of it.
You knew how to stand where you would be seen without looking needy. You knew how to let your attention drift and return at the exact right moment. You knew what to do with your mouth, your hair, and your eyes. College boys were not complicated creatures, you learned that early on. They liked confidence. They liked the suggestion that you might find them funny if they tried hard enough.
Eddie looked up from his notebook.
You met his eyes and smiled.
Not too much, you hoped, but just small enough it wasn't mistaken.
His gaze held for half a second, then he slapped the table.
“Sinclair! If you keep trying to hide that character sheet from me, I’m adding a curse.”
Lucas froze at the shot of his name, his shoulders jumping slightly. “I’m not hiding it!”
“You’re angling it away with suspicious motives”
“I’m not—”
“Suspicious,” Eddie repeated, pointing two fingers at his own eyes and then at Lucas.
Your smile sat uselessly on your face.
Fine. Bad timing. You could blame it at that.
You waited until later, when the session ended and the boys scattered into pockets of argument. Mike and Dustin were nearly forehead-to-forehead over some rule interpretation. Lucas was zipping his backpack. Eddie stood near the table, collecting dice in a little velvet bag, and his sleeves pushed up enough for you to notice the pale line of his wrist beneath all that black.
You drifted closer.
“Intense game,” you tried nonchalantly.
He glanced up, finally looking at you directly. “You understood any of that?”
Nope, none of it. “Enough.”
“Oh, dangerous answer.” He shook the dice bag at you. “That’s the kind of answer that gets villagers eaten.”
You let your smile sharpen, your head tilted down at him momentarily. “Maybe I like danger.”
There it was, that was what's easy. Familiar. A line delivered with just enough playfulness to let him decide how brave he wanted to be. You were well versed in that language well, at least.
Eddie stared at you for one beat, and his smile made you think you'd won. So naturally, you kept quiet as his broen eyes seemed to twinkle. Then he clapped you on the shoulder.
Actually clapped you on the shoulder.
“Spoken like a true weekend chauffeur,” he grinned. There was no amount of money in the world that could have gotten you to look at your expression now. You were absolutely certain you looked like a fish with how agape you were. “Stick around long enough and we’ll get you a hat.”
You couldn't help but sputter. “A hat?”
“Official title. Henderson’s Ride. Maybe some flames on the side.”
Before you could recover, he moved past you and jabbed a finger toward Dustin. “And you, my curly-haired little menace, are not carrying eighty pounds of loot without penalties. Encumbrance exists for a reason.”
Dustin rounded on him, immediately preening under the attention. You couldn't even find it in you to turn around to look at the scene behind you. “My strength score—”
“Your strength score is not a forklift!”
The room surged back into noise after being static underwater to your ears.
You stood there with his handprint still faintly warm on your shoulder and experienced the rare, humbling sensation of being treated exactly the same as a fourteen-year-old boy. You were sure you stood there long enough for your pride to reach new levels of low.
It did not improve the following week.
You tried again, because pride had a way of mistaking injury for motivation. It was almost embarrassing how you tried. You wore your hair down and up in styles you saw new magazines, you laughed at one of his jokes even though you really didn't get it. You held eye contact while he cleaned up his miniatures, you even asked one question about his rings that would have made almost any boy your age preen.
The lackluster responses everytime made you want to groan like a child sent to their room after being denied dessert.
Eddie wiggled his fingers in front of your face. “These? Instruments of intimidation. Also useful for opening stubborn soda cans.”
“They suit you,” you said.
He smiled, his stubbornly pretty features announcing their presence even more. “Naturally. I was born with excellent taste and a tragic lack of funding.”
Then he leaned around you before you could even respond and yelled, “Wheeler, if you spill Coke on my notes again, I’m haunting your descendants!”
There it was again. No paue, no shift, no flicker of realization that you were not, in fact, one of his little sheep.
To Eddie Munson, you were not the cool college girl with practiced confidence and a decent record at parties. You were not mysterious, you were not interesting, and you were not even especially female, apparently.
You were “Henderson’s ride”.
The humiliation settled in small, irritating layers. It left you dumbfounded and irritated. Not because it wasn't true, but surely you weren't that invisible to him, right? After all, even resident freaks noticed pretty girls.
You learned quickly that Eddie noticed everything at the table; a missed modifier, a hidden snack, or any of the boy's actions no matter how little. Mike trying to fudge a roll by half an inch. Lucas muttering something under his breath. Dustin breathing too loudly during a dramatic monologue. He even noticed when the fluorescent light over the costume rack started flickering and climbed onto a chair to smack the fixture with the heel of his hand. He noticed when Gareth got quiet after a bad roll and shoved a bag of chips toward him without making it a thing. He noticed when Dustin’s voice pitched too high and redirected the table before your brother could spiral into a rules tantrum. Thus, there was the annoyance of the situation.
He noticed everything except you.
Unless you were actively discussing numbers on plastic shapes you didn't fully understand, you might as well have been part of the set dressing.
By the time you drove Dustin home that night, your hands were tight on the wheel.
Your brother hummed beside you, cheerful and oblivious, backpack between his knees.
You made it three blocks before you cleared your throat, “So–”
Dustin glanced over at you quickly, the pout on his face came too rapid for your liking. “No.”
Your scoff couldn't have been more disbelieving. “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask!”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re going to ask about Eddie.”
You almost swerved on instinct. Ypu felt a faint scrunch appear on your face. “I am not.”
“You said ‘so’ in the exact voice Mom uses before asking if I have a girlfriend.” You really couldn't help but wincing at the comparison your little brother gave, though it did feel accurate all things considered.
Still, you tried to play it cool. “That is not a voice.”
Dustin didn't let up, voice potched up with voiced displeasure. “It is absolutely a voice.”
You kept your eyes on the road. Streets rolled past in lit porch lights and dark lawns, the houses familiar enough to make you feel both older and exactly as you were when you were sixteen. “I was just wondering what his deal is.”
Dustin turned his whole body toward you, suspicion sharpening his face. “His deal?”
“Yeah. His deal.”
“He’s our Dungeon Master.”
You rolled your eyes, the dry response was only one you could get from a pre-pubescent boy. “I gathered that from the yelling.”
Dustin seemed intent on upholding the male's honor. “He’s not just yelling, he’s creating atmosphere!”
“On a table.” you were throughly unconvinced.
“That was for staging.” Your brother vehemently defended. And you couldn't quite grasp how quickly the younger boy had gotten distracted.
“Right, sure.”
Dustin frowned, already offended on Eddie’s behalf. “You don’t get it.”
You shrugged, hands opening and closing momentarily on the steering wheel. “I’m trying to.”
“No, you’re doing the thing where you act above something before you understand it.”
That landed closer than you wanted. You adjusted your grip on the wheel. Now that had to be karma for whatever hell you put your mother through when you'd became a teenager.
“I’m not acting above anything,” you breathed a exasperated sigh. “I’m asking why my freshman brother’s best friend is some guy who looks old enough to rent an apartment.”
“He is not my best friend. He’s my mentor.” the correction did little to give you any real explanation or reassurance.
You barked out a laugh quickly after that. Your brows twitched up and you willed yourself not to sigh once more. “Your ‘mentor’?”
“In D&D.” Dustin’s tone was clarifying, as if that was the part that need confirmation.
“Oh, obviously.”
“And life, kind of.”
That made you throw a disbelieving look to the passenger seat quickly. “Dustin.”
“What?”
“You cannot have a life mentor who still attends your high school.”
“He’s a misunderstood genius,” Dustin corrected with the grave conviction of a boy defending a sacred holy text. “People think he’s just loud and weird, but he’s actually brilliant. His campaigns have political structures. Moral consequences. Long-term narrative payoffs.”
You stared through the windshield, your eye twitched the longer he went on. You swore you felt a headache coming in every time you blinked. Dustin kept going, flopping back against the leather of your car seats. His legs kicked restlessly at your mats.
“And he remembers everything. Not just game stuff. Everything. He knows what kind of character choices people make when they’re nervous, and he builds around it.” He kept rambling now, and you didn't quite have it in you to say anything to dampen his conviction. Ypur brother continued on. “He takes my ideas seriously.”
Your fingers loosened slightly on your wheel at the words, you kept silent for a moment. The only sound was the faint clicking noise of your turn signal as you made a right turn.
Dustin’s voice had changed by now. His tone was still too loud but also still too deeply allergic to sounding casual unlike yours at times. But beneath the lecture was something more grounded. Loyalty, maybe. You weren't quite sure why. You guessed it was gratitude he would rather smother in terminology than admit outright.
You looked at him through the corner of your eye sight. You didn't really know the guy beyond a few meetings and what you were told but he seemed to really have an impact on your little brother. Naturally you felt curious. “He takes your ideas seriously?”
Dustin shrugged, suddenly busy with the zipper on his backpack. The metallic noise moving forward and backward, then repeating again. “Yeah. I mean, when they’re good.”
That released an exhale from you, “which is always?”
“Which is frequently.” His voice came back upholding and matter of fact, and you smiled despite yourself to him.
Then, because you could not leave well enough alone, you added off handedly, “He has nice hair.”
Dustin’s head snapped up quickly, his hair bouncing along with him. “What?”
You winced a bit, pulling up to a red light. The water bottle in the cup holder beside you suddenly felt needed. “Nothing.”
“No, what did you say?” your little brother seemed annoyingly intent on hearing it.
At final, you sighed and repeated yourself, not before untwisting the cap and taking a much needed drink of water. “I said he has nice hair.”
“Why?” your brows furrowed at that, you barely had the chance to question that before the light turned green once more.
“Why does he have nice hair?” you asked incredulously.
Dustin's voice came narrowing into your side. “Why are you noticing?”
You rolled your eyes. The conversation felt more like a weighted blanket laying on top of you the longer it went on. “People can notice hair, Dustin.”
“Not you.” the response came thoroughly sure.
“I have eyes, that makes me viable to see things.”
“You also have motives.” Now at that, you gave a disgusted noise. Sure, maybe that was true, but did you want your little brother saying that, much less probably knowing what that meant? Absolutely not.
“You’re fourteen. Stop saying motives.”
“I know what motives are!”
“Do you?” You were seriously doubting that.
He seemed sure of himself either ways. “Yes!”
“Then explain why you keep becoming friends with people old enough to vote. Steve. Robin. Now Eddie.”
Dustin threw his hands up in indignation and made a noise. “Because most normal kids my age don’t understand the intellectual weight of my hobbies.”
The question of what he thought was genuine intelligence was on the tip of your tongue but you held it in. You turned to him slowly at another red light, and he held your stare for two seconds before his expression faltered.
“That,” your lips curved in slightly, “is exactly what a weirdo says.”
Dustin's voice was boosting with loud outrage, making you smack his elbow off your console center as your ear ringed. “I’m not a weirdo!”
Your scoff came as quick as it was allowed to by mere existence. “You are absolutely a weirdo.”
“You drove home from college to spy on my club!” That, was highly inaccurate. You could protest that point at least.
So you did. Your correction came quickly. “I drove home for Mom’s cooking.”
“You dressed up.” You weren't appreciating his tone of voice at the moment.
“I did not.” You did.
Now, he was even more unconvinced. His tone continued to be just as accusing. “You wore the jeans.”
“What jeans?”
“The ‘trying’ jeans.”
You gasped, throwing a look to your side. You were highly unsure how a boy who forgot his shirts were worn inside out could be this observant. “You little creep.”
Your little brother was unbothered as he kicked back adjusting your passenger seat for the tenth time. “I live with you. I know your patterns.”
The light turned green, and you hit the gas harder than necessary while Dustin cackled into his sleeve. You ignored him and smacked his hand away when he tried to change your radio station. You didn't bother acting affected by his pout.
You should have let it go then. You should have written Eddie Munson off as a strange footnote in your brother’s already strange social life. You should have returned to campus and found a boy in one of your classes who understood when he was being flirted with.
Instead, you spent the week thinking about the words Dustin had used.
Misunderstood genius.
God-tier Dungeon Master.
And finally, takes my ideas seriously.
You thought about Eddie noticing everything at the table. You thought about his voice dropping when a player got uncertain. You thought about the careless weight of his hand on your shoulder, the grin that never stayed in one place for long, the way he treated you without reverence, without hunger, and without the usual level of calculation.
You hated that it interested you.
You hated even more that he still hadn’t looked at you properly. That affected you more than you'd ever like to admit.
By the next Friday night, your pride had become a living thing.
It paced, it scratched at the door, and it made you do something unforgivable.
You stole Dustin’s stupid spare Player’s Handbook.
Technically, stole was such a strong word. You borrowed it from his room while he was in the shower, which would have felt morally distinct if you didn’t examine it. The book was heavier than expected, its cover worn at the corners, and several pages marked with scraps of paper and gum wrappers. You carried it into your bedroom in your hands with the grim focus of a criminal and dropped it onto your desk.
For a while, you only stared at it, before you got agitated once more and then you opened it up.
The first problem was that none of it appeared to be written in English.
The second problem was that it was definitely written in English, which meant you had no excuse. You could only stare at it with furrowed brows for so long, you found out your max had been 4 minutes.
You sat cross-legged on your bed then with the handbook open in front of you, a notebook balanced on your knee, and tried to force your college-trained brain to process the words on the page: armor classes, hit dices, saving throws, spell slots, proficiencies, races, classes, modifiers, initiative. It had the density of a textbook and the emotional tone of a tax form written by wizards. You underlined things. You circled words. You wrote “IMPORTANT???” beside paragraphs you did not understand.
The sad thing was, you still had no genuine clue what any of it actually meant.
At some point, your mother knocked and asked if you wanted tea.
You slapped a magazine over the book and said, too loudly, “No thanks!”
She paused outside your door, her voice soft and curious. “Honey?”
“I’m fine.” You cooled your tone down quick.
“All right,” she hummed then, not sounding convinced. She took only a few steps in and leaned in to kiss your forehead, to which you did the same. “Don’t stay up too late.”
You stayed up until nearly two in the morning. By then, your eyes burned. Your notes had devolved from careful definitions into frantic questions: Why are there so many dice? Why does charisma do magic? What is THAC0 and why did it feel oddly personal?
You had written spellslot as one word because you could not remember if the space actually mattered or was just exaggerated. You had copied down Vvardenfell from a crumpled page tucked into Dustin’s book, not realizing it did not belong where you thought it did. It sounded impressive though, but it also sounded obscure. You wondered if it was a thing that sounded like something Eddie might look up for.
Or, look at for.
On Saturday, you walked into the club a few steps behind your excited brother armed with one good term, three questionable facts, and a level of determination usually reserved for final exams.
The session had already started. Eddie was behind his screen, hunched forward, voice low enough that everyone leaned in without realizing. Candles were not allowed in school, apparently, so he had settled for a flashlight propped behind a stack of books, throwing strange shadows up his face. His hair fell around his cheeks. His rings tapped once against the table.
You took your usual place near the back.
He didn't look over.
Fine.
You waited.
The opportunity came during a heated argument about magic. Dustin was explaining something to Mike with his entire body, hands slicing through the air and Eddie watched with the tolerance of a man deciding how soon to punish them.
You cleared your throat, for a second. No one noticed, and you cleared it again.
Dustin glanced back at you, annoyed at the interruption. “What?”
You pushed off the desk and forced your voice into casual shape. “Couldn’t you just use, you know, a spellslot from Vvardenfell?”
The room went quiet, and not normal quiet.
Dead quiet.
That should have been your first clue. Mike’s mouth opened at you but then closed with that familiar judgment you saw resemblance of his sister in. Lucas had blinked up at you as if you were a foreign subject, and even Gareth slowly lowered his pencil from his own sheet in front of him.
Dustin looked at you with an expression you had only seen once before, when your mother tried to pronounce “Walkman” as two separate words. That was the only small you had gotten before realizing that you must've said something wrong.
Eddie froze behind the screen.
For a terrible second, he did not even blink. His stillness was unnatural for what you'd studied him to be. His eyes fixed on you then, wide and unreadable. One hand remained suspended over his notes.
And you felt your confidence leave your body in a clean, efficient evacuation.
“What,” Dustin gasped horrifically and yet very softly. It was as if he were afraid of repeating your words, “did you just say?”
You lifted your chin, you were thoroughly prepared to double down. Nothing you said should be that bad, right? “I said—”
“No, don’t repeat it.” Your little brother's words came out as a desperate plea. And before you could even feel the familiar prickle of defensiveness appear, you heard Eddie lowered his screen by an inch.
Your face suddenly felt a lot more warmer than it had been.
Somewhere in the hallway, you could hear a locker slam, and the sound traveled through the walls and disappeared through the dead silence of the room.
Then, Eddie Munson laughed.
Not a polite laugh, and thankfully, not a cruel one either, which basically just had made it worse. It came out of him full-bodied and startled, it was the kind of laugh that made him knock his head back and made him grab the edge of the table. His dark curls shook, amd his shoulders folded forward. The rest of the room followed in scattered bursts, confused at first and then helpless.
Dustin buried his face in both hands.
You stood there, pride crumpling around your ankles. Still, you wouldn't let that show in a room filled with mostly teen boys that barely touched the outside world unless it was held in the comfort of neon lights and sticky arcade game machines.
“I was joking,” you tried to give what you could only hope was a breezy shrug.
“Were you?” Mike asked, the snark too familiar and you already had one teenage boy you've had enough of, you really didn't need another.
You pointed at him with your eyes, your own gaze fighting the smaller boys. “Don't.”
Eddie wiped at one eye with his thumb, he was still grinning so hard it changed his whole face. And almost against yourself, you had to admit, he had a beautiful smile. It was a real one, maybe that was why you liked it so much. “A spellslot from Vvardenfell,” he repeated, reverent now. “Gentlemen, pack it up. We have peaked.”
“It was a joke,” you insisted, suddenly very interested in the nonexistent lint on your top, picking at it between your forefinger and thumb.
“Of course,” Eddie nodded solemnly while pressing one hand to his chest. “A devastating one. The bard takes psychic damage. I may never recover.”
Dustin looked up at the ceiling and gave a whine that already had your fraying nerves ready to explode. “I’m transferring schools.”
You returned to your desk and sat down with as much dignity as a person could manage after publicly inventing nonsense in front of teenage-ish boys and the only man in Hawkins apparently immune to your entire existence.
The rest of the session blurred quickly by then.
You remembered Eddie glancing at you more than once, which should have felt victorious. And, really, it didn't. Each time his mouth twitched the slightest bit upwards, you fully wanted to disappear behind the costume rack and live there among the fake trees until your brother's graduation.
When the game finally ended, you stood too quickly. The heel of your shoe caught a bit on the edge of the desk, making a noise that you pretended didn't happen.
“I’m going to the car,” you told Dustin, motioning behind you with your hand.
“No, you’re not,” Dustin protested immediately, shoving his books into his big backpack. “Mike and I have to settle something.”
You didn't care. “Settle it in the car.”
“This is important.” Dustin didn't seem to either.
Your warning was sharper now, already wanting to disappear given the chance. “You have thirty seconds.”
“It will take longer than thirty seconds!”
You were ready to leave with or without him, and your mother would only be slightly upset knowing you left him. You could deal with her frowns and soft chastisements, what you couldn't deal with was staying here a moment longer when just you wanted to melt into a puddle just to escape.“Then make it twenty.”
Mike appeared in the doorway, passing around you promptly. “Dustin, come here.”
Dustin pointed at you and his gaze was sure, “do not leave without me.”
“I should leave without you on principle.”
“You love me too much.”
“Do I, though?”
He ran out before you could answer, his backpack half-zipped, and bouncing against his spine. The room emptied in pieces until only you and Eddie remained. That was doing you much favors either.
The silence after the club always felt strange to you. Too much sound had filled the room for too long, and when it left, the old drama room seemed larger, and full of abandoned corners. Eddie moved around the table, packing away his kingdom. Miniatures disappeared into foam trays. Dice went into bags. Notes were stacked, tapped against the tabletop, and clipped together. The heavy chain at his hip clicked when he bent to retrieve a fallen pencil.
You stayed because Dustin had your car keys in his backpack. The realization came when you had reached for them in your bag and didn't find the familiar keyring, safe to say he really didn't trust you to not leave him. You also stayed because leaving would have required walking past Eddie, and the thought of doing that while he was still visibly amused felt completely and utterly mortifying for you right now.
Mostly, though, you stayed because Eddie finally seemed aware of you. Though, on principle you would deny it if questioned.
He didn't really anything for a minute; instead, he let the quiet stretch while he put things away. That was new, you'd seen him loud, theatrical, amd quick to fill any space he entered. This quiet version of him made you shift in your seat.
At last, he said, “So.”
You stared at the floor, suddenly feeling your relaxed composure become more awkward and forced. “If you’re going to make fun of me, get it over with.”
“Tempting.”
You didn't like his tone. “Munson.”
“I’m thinking.”
The rhythm of familiarity found you before you could stop yourself. “That doesn't sound good.”
He laughed under his breath. Though, not the booming laugh from earlier; rather, it was something smaller, and closer to private. You didn't quite know how to process that. “You stole the kid’s handbook, didn’t you?”
Your head snapped up, feeling weirdly caught off guard.
Eddie’s grin tilted when your face finally came into view, and apparently told him all that he needed to know. “Oh, that is a yes.”
You forced yourself to swallow before answering, as if that gave you some sort of control. It really didn't. “I didn’t steal it.”
“Borrowed without permission?” again, irritatingly accurate.
You tried to make it sound better, and in doing so you just dug yourself deeper. “Borrowed with the assumption that permission would have been denied.”
“Lawful evil.” Eddie's voice was far too amused by now.
You didn't want to further dignify him with a response. “I don’t know what that means, and I refuse to ask.”
He came around the table slowly, not prowling or preforming, it was more like moving with a kind of very bloose ease that made you sit very still and rigid. He stopped at the desk in front of you and leaned back against it, arms folded. Up close, he looked less untouchable than he did at the head of the table. There was a nick near one knuckle. A loose thread hung from his sleeve and his eyeliner, if that was what darkened the edges of his eyes, had worn down unevenly.
“You’ve been trying to figure it out,” he said at last.
You looked away on contact and refused to admit reality. “No.”
Eddie Munson really was annoyed when he was amused. And you decided that you didn't know how to feel about that just yet.“Bad roll.”
Your voice came quickly and unimpressed, or tried to.“I hate you.”
“Another bad roll.” His grin seemed to widen, though that seemed impossible by now.
You rubbed a hand over your face, already feeling worse than you felt before. “Can we not?”
His expression shifted. Not into pity like you'd thought. That really would have been unbearable, and instead, it settled into something more carefully placed, the amusement still there but it was softened at the edges.
“You know,” Eddie started, his forearms now crossed against the other, “most people just call us freaks and keep walking.”
Your eyes dipped for a moment to see the faint black ink on his exposed skin, then immediately looked away. “ Well, I didn’t call you freaks.”
“No. You committed espionage.”
You dropped your hand and glared. That was absolutely not what you did. “I was curious.”
“You were trying to get my attention.”
The words landed too cleanly, and with an embarrassing amount of clarity.
Your mouth opened, then closed. There were several responses available to you. Denial, outrage, even sarcasm. You could have picked any of them. Your usual self would have. Your usual self would never been caught studying a fantasy rulebook at midnight because one guy in a school club had failed to flirt back.
Eddie watched you work through this with infuriating patience.
Finally, you settled on, “maybe I just wanted to understand what Dustin was talking about.”
“That too,” he added then and that threw you off just as quickly
He shrugged, oddly relaxed with your tension. “The kid worships the game. Makes sense you’d want to know why.”
The answer unarmed you because it didn't flatten you into one simple, childish motive. Eddie, who had laughed so hard at your mistake he nearly fell out of his chair, was now giving you more credit than you had given yourself.
Your fingers curled around the edge of the desk, suddenly all too aware of your limbs.
He reached into his dice bag and pulled out a single twenty-sided die. Deep red, almost black except where the light caught the edges. He rolled it between his fingers with practiced ease.
“Here,” he said as if that made perfect sense, and was explanation enough.
You looked at it, then at him. “What?”
“Take it.” that just continued to make you stare at him more wearily than you'd have liked.
“Why?”
“So the next time you want to impress me, you can use the right cursed object.”
Despite yourself, you laughed. It came out entirely too unsteady, half-embarrassed, and somewhat half-relieved. When you held out your hand, he dropped the die into your palm. It was warm from his fingers.
He leaned forward then, bracing one hand on either side of the desk. Not close enough to touch you, but certainly close enough that you noticed the faint smell of cigarettes and leather and then the spearmint gum he must have been chewing earlier. It certainly was close enough that the room seemed to narrow around the space between his arms.
“You don’t have to pretend to like the dragons, Henderson,” he hummed, his head tilting with the words.
His voice had changed now, the loud theatric volume was gone. there wasn't any thunder or mockery that was reserved for his table. It was rougher in this low, rough way that there was still enough of it that you had to hold still to catch all of it.
“If you wanted me to look at you,” his pretty brown eyes were twinkling with an unfair mischief by now, “all you had to do was ask.”
You really should have had an answer ready. You were sure of that by now.
You had answers for everything. That was part of your charm, or your defense, or whatever you wanted to call the shiny thing you carried in front of yourself so no one looked too closely. Yet with Eddie leaning there, rings pressed flat to the desk, hair falling forward, and big eyes fixed on you without the safety of an audience, every clever line scattered out of reach.
So you looked down at the die in your palm. Then back at him. At final, you decided to say, screw it, because what was the worst that could happen? After all, if all went to hell, you could just go back to letting Dustin fend for himself at carpooling home on the weekend.
“I didn’t want to ask.”
His mouth curved and he nodded with an unfair amount of faux pity. “Yeah. I got that.”
You cleared your throat and shrugged. “Seemed bad for my image.”
“Your image?” You tried not to wince at his clear entertainment of the potential prospect your words implied.
The nod that came from you was far from self assured, “I’m very mysterious.”
Eddie didn't seem to be convinced. “You asked if Vvardenfell had spellslots.”
Your eyes narrowed and you couldn't help the subconscious frown that stretched over your face. “You said you weren’t going to make fun of me.”
“I never said that. You asked me to get it over with, and I chose psychological warfare instead.”
The roll of your eyes wasn't subtle and you were glad for it. “You’re awful.”
“True.”
The word hung there, light and easy, but neither of you moved. His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, quick enough that you could have pretended not to notice if your pulse had not immediately turned traitor.
From the hallway, Dustin shouted making his voice travel quicker before him, “I heard laughing! Are you making fun of her without me?”
Eddie closed his eyes for one second, and you really, really wanted to leave your little brother here at the ruined moment.
You leaned back, exhaling through your nose.
“Saved by the gremlin,” he murmured, and he seemed to mimic your actions, or maybe that was just your wishful thinking. Or ruined, you wanted to say, but you bit your tongue.
Dustin appeared in the doorway, flushed with victory or irritation. Probably both. “We’re leaving.”
You stood, closing your hand around the die. If looks could kill, you'd have to tell your mother to prepare funeral flowers already for him. “Finally.”
Dustin looked between you and Eddie. His eyes narrowed on instinct from your expression.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” you and Eddie said at the same time, though yours came out more somber than you'd have appreciated.
Dustin’s suspicion deepened into horror. “Ew.”
“Nothing happened,” you snapped, and you were almost disappointed you were telling the truth. That was a lie, you definitely were disappointed.
“That was synchronized.”
Your tone hardened, by now your jaw was held completely with gritted tension. “Get in the car.”
“I don’t like this.” The judgemental frown on Dustin's face affirmed that.
You were practically hissing by now. “You don’t have to like it, just get in the car.”
Eddie lifted one hand in farewell, grin returning in lazy increments. You didn't even want to begin to disect that. “Study hard, Henderson.”
You pointed at him with the hand still holding the die between the closed fingers. “Don’t even start.”
You tried not to think about his voice as he answered. It wasn't a successful mission. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You left with Dustin ranting at your side, but your palm stayed closed the entire walk to the parking lot. The die pressed twenty tiny edges into your skin. All noise turned to static to the walk to your car in the parking lot, and all sights turned to a blur.
You had kept it in your jacket pocket for the rest of the week.
───
The main problem, you found, with being seen was that it made invisibility impossible afterward.
Once Eddie knew, he kept knowing.
At the next session, you tried to sit in your usual place near the back. Eddie looked up from behind his screen, spotted you, and frowned.
“Absolutely not. ”
You froze halfway into your chair, a People magazine already halfway out of your bag. “What?”
He pointed to the empty seat beside his end of the table. “New recruit sits where I can keep an eye on her.”
Dustin made a strangled noise alongside Lucas. “New what?”
“I’m not a recruit,” you immediately rejected the prospect. Sure, you'd admit you learned a few terms in hopes of impressing the guy, but a recruit? You couldn't be less interested even if you tried.
Eddie held up the matching red die you had forgotten he could identify from across the room. “Possession of contraband says otherwise.”
The sputter you gave was filled with incredulity. “You gave it to me?”
“And you accepted. Binding contract.” You couldn't help the face you made then.
“That is not how contracts work.”
“You’d know if you read the legal section of the handbook.” Eddie’s voice was gleeful and in a song-y pitch.
You were sure that had to be a joke. “There isn’t a legal section.”
“Look at you,” he grinned, pleased. “Learning.”
You should have refused omce more, and you should have stayed at the back and maintained some remaining fragment of dignity.
Instead, with Dustin staring at you in betrayed disbelief, you picked up your bag and moved to the seat beside the Dungeon Master screen.
You really were out of your depth in this situation.
The table absorbed you awkwardly at first. Mike eyed you with the distrust of someone who did not enjoy unexpected variables. Lucas seemed amused but cautious, he was always your favorite after all. Though, Dustin sat directly across from you, practically vibrating with the need to object. You couldn't help but agree.
Eddie handed you a blank character sheet and you looked at him like he'd grown ten different heads.
You looked at the paper like it’d explain itself and it looked back doing nothing of the sort. It was covered in boxes, lines, and labels that seemed designed to expose your ignorance.
“Don’t panic,” Eddie murmured under his breath besides you. His voice hitting your ears differently now that it was closer.
“I’m not panicking.” you were, and you were panicking hard.
“You’re holding the pencil too hard.”
You loosened your grip on instinct, and immediately hate the grin that appeared on his face.
Dustin leaned forward, his cherubic features exasperated, and for good reason. “She doesn’t even know what class she wants.”
“I know what class I want,” you protested with a fervor that you didn't know where it even came from.
Your little brother sounded akin to a parrot. “Oh yeah? What?”
You glanced at the sheet. Your brain offered nothing useful. Quickly then, you blinked a few times in hopes that the words might suddenly translate themselves. It didn’t help.
Eddie tapped one section with his finger. “She’s thinking.”
“Yeah, I’m thinking,” you echoed. The nod of your head was quickly stopped when you realized just how much familiar you looked akin to a baby duck and the older ones beside it.
Mike muttered with a groan then, “This is going to take forever.”
Eddie’s head snapped up, his tongue clicked quietly, almost as if it were on instinct. “Wheeler.”
Mike sat back at that, his arms coming up to cross against his chest.
You bit the inside of your cheek to hide a smile. It didn't do much to stop the slightly shocked expression from stretching across your face. You tried not think about the reaction from the moment pulled from you, or what you felt when Eddie’s hand came to pull the leg of your chair closer.
Eddie guided you through the sheet with surprising patience. You weren't expecting it, after all, it wasn't the exaggerated patience boys sometimes used when they wanted everyone to notice how generous they were being. You knew that language well enough back at your college campus. He didn't talk down to you in a condescending way that was familiar in the way men tried to explain simple things. He did not make it too easy either. Instead, he explained, waited, watched your face, and even corrected you when you guessed wrong. When wanted Dustin interrupted, Eddie lifted one finger without looking at him.
“Let the lady cook up her ideas.”
“She is not cooking. She is burning water.” That got a glare from you, but he continued. “Seriously, she actually did burn a pot boiling water one time—” he was quickly interrupted when you kicked him under the table, the heel of your shoe pressing into his knee.
He yelped and shot up slightly in his seat, that did little to ease your glare, and now, his. “Assault!”
“Consequence,” Eddie gave a simple shrug, leaning back with all the confidence you seemed to have everywhere except from where he was.
The game itself remained confusing to you, but not entirely impossible now. You learned that part of the fun was pretending certainty until the dice betrayed you. You learned that the younger wheeler argued when nervous, how Lucas got quieter when invested, and Dustin could really turn any number into a personal grievance.
You also learned that Eddie’s chaos had structure underneath it. He let the room run wild only until it needed direction, then snapped everyone back with a look, a voice, amd then caused a sudden shift in the stakes.
You had also then learned that if you asked a question softly enough, Eddie would lean closer to answer.
The first time, it was accidental. You genuinely could not even remember which die to roll for an attack. You bent toward him and whispered, “Which one is the stabby one?”
His mouth twitched, his rose tinted lips were bit back to hide amusement.
“The stabby one,” he repeated in a familiar hush of your tone.
The frown came instinctively with the feeling of being poked fun at. “You know what I mean.”
“I do, and I’m deciding whether to let that become official terminology.”
“Eddie, come on.”
His amusement stayed in his energy but he moved instantly. He reached across you to pick up the twenty-sided die, his arm brushing the back of your chair as he did so. “This one.”
His hair grazed your cheek when he leaned in. It wasn’t in any way cinematic, in fact, it was barely enough to really count it. Still, your hand paused above the table, and your fingers hovered for a moment over the die.
Across from you, Dustin went still in a way that could only be compared to a prying mantis’ steady gaze.
You rolled the die, albeit a bit hesitantly.
A nineteen apeared.
The table erupted, and the jump of your shoulders along with it. You were fully prepared to face whatever stupid bragging comment from your little brother across from you at that.
Eddie then slammed both of his hands down and went back to his theatrics. “Critical threat from the rookie!”
“I did something?” you asked, entirely startled. You scanned the table quickly to make sure it wasn't just Eddie making fun of you again.
“You did something,” Lucas said with a nod of his head, grinning.
Dustin pointed at you, clearly displeased. And of course, that was to your much greater pleasure on the win won over your younger brother. “Beginner’s luck.”
“Sounds like jealousy,” you gave a pitying nod with your lips brought together in a mocking pout.
Dustin's corrective voice came out quickly, it often did when you were right. You'd learned that ever since he could talk and you could tease him. “It is statistical outrage.”
Eddie leaned back in his chair, eyes bright, and his voice a pitch calmer now. “Roll damage, Henderson.”
You didn't know what damage to roll. So, you asked, even though Eddie had told you three minutes earlier. He leaned in again, closer this time, and showed you with a murmur meant only for you. You had to stop yourself from asking another time. Though, you weren't perfect.
After that, the accidents became less accidental.
You misplaced numbers you had already learned, which were already very little. You asked whether your character could do something obviously illegal within the rules just to hear Eddie explain why with increasing theatrical despair. You let your pencil roll off the table and watched him bend to retrieve it, then thanked him with a smile that made his fingers linger around it a second longer than necessary.
Eddie, for all his noise, was not stupid. There could be many words to describe him, but stupid wasn’t an entirely accurate one.
By the second week of this new arrangement, he had caught on.
You knew because he stopped correcting you immediately. He would wait, the watch you from behind the screen while you pretended to study your character sheet.
“Question?” he would ask, and you had to bit the flesh of your lips in order not to smile.
Your voice came back cool, you appluaded yourself on that. “Maybe.”
“About the rules?” Eddie’s came back low and questioning, you tried to ignore the faint tinge of amusement you heard In it.
“Obviously.”
“Not about my hair being in your personal space?”
You would look up, innocent expression plastered on as you asked. “Is that a rule?”
His grin would spread slowly, and you would try to repeat that as many times as you could just to see it again. “It is now.”
Your little brother suffered through this with the rigid endurance of a boy witnessing a natural disaster in his own home.
“This is disgusting,” he announced one night after Eddie leaned over your shoulder to point at your spell list. You had had to actually bite your tongue in order not to snap at him.
“You say that about everything,” you replied swiftly, throwing him a barely there glance as you kept your head tilted slightly so you could peek at Eddie through the corner of your eye.
His whine was throughly ignored by you.“Because everything keeps being disgusting.”
Eddie did not move away, that was the only win you really cared about by now. His hand rested on the table near your elbow, silver rings glinting beneath the overhead lights. “Henderson the Younger, your sister is simply pursuing an education.”
Dustin's voice came murmured. “She sure is pursuing something alright.”
“Careful,” you warned, though without looking up. The tip of one of the stored up threats already prepared on your tongue.
Dustin gagged loudly besides Mike who snickered so hard he had to hide behind his binder.
That was how the weeks changed. Slowly enough that you did not notice the shape of them until you were already inside it. Though, it was a weirdly welcome routine.
You still drove back to Hawkins every Friday afternoon after classes pretending it was for laundry or dinner or because Dustin needed you. But your bag started including the red die, your half-finished character sheet, and a notebook where your class notes competed with scribbled spell names. Your mother asked why you were home so often, and you told her college food was bad. She believed you because college food was, in fact, bad.
Eddie started saving you the seat beside him.
Sometimes he teased you in front of everyone. Sometimes, when the others were arguing, he lowered his voice and asked about your classes. Not in the empty way people asked because they wanted their turn to talk. He remembered details. The sociology professor who mispronounced your last name. The dormate who you were sure was draining your expensive shampoo. Even the stupid party with the rugby boy and the boat.
“You hate the boat guy,” he said one evening while packing up while you had been seated atop of an empty desk table.
You'd made a face at him. “I never said I hated him.”
“You called him ‘the human yacht brochure.’”
“That was descriptive.” that had been your attempt at flowery embellishment.
“That was poetry.”
You snorted and took a stack of papers from him without being asked. “Are you making fun of my academic environment?”
“Never. I deeply respect institutions that produce phrases like ‘human yacht brochure.’” Eddie’s voice would come back in dramatic tandem with the familiar twinkle in his big eyes.
In return, you learned pieces of him in the spaces between performances. He liked cheap diner coffee but complained about it every time. He taped his guitar picks to the inside of his notebook and lost them anyway. He acted insulted when people underestimated him but looked uneasy when they praised him too directly. He walked Dustin to the parking lot if the session ran late, pretending he only did it because your brother was too short to see over parked cars.
On one Friday, during a break, you found a note folded beneath your character sheet.
You looked up.
Eddie was behind his screen, apparently absorbed in drawing a map. His hair hid most of his face, but the corner of his mouth gave him away. That reaction had your brow twitching on instinct.
You unfolded the paper in your lap.
It wasnt what you were expecting. There was no lore on the white material, no clue, certainly no dramatic prophecy.
Instead, it was just a phone number, written in messy black ink, and with a crooked little crown drawn beside it.
Beneath that:
For emergencies involving dragons, spellslots, or pretty girls with wounded pride.
You stared at it until the words blurred slightly at the edges, and the smile that grew on your lips had to be bitten back by the fangs of your teeth.
Dustin leaned over, overly interested for a boy who had been fighting with you for any small noise he deemed a distraction. “What is that?”
You folded it so quickly the paper nearly tore. Though, it did little to wipe the expression from your face or the warmth that crawled and rested besides the back of your neck. “Nothing.”
He didn't seem convinced. “That didn't look like nothing.”
“It’s game stuff.”
Dustin seemed motivated now. “Show me.”
“No.” you barely looked up at him.
He leaned even further over, his head poking over your shoulder as he frowned. “Show me.”
“Roll perception,” Eddie then called without looking up. That just made it even harder to school your expression, or even worse, your reaction.
Dustin turned on him, with greater conviction. “Don’t encourage her!”
Eddie finally lifted his head. His eyes found yours, and for once his grin did not arrive right away. Instead, it built slowly, almost careful, and all while your thumb pressed against the fold in the note.
You tucked it into your pocket and tried to act like you weren't wholly aware of it.
Later, after you dropped Dustin at home and sat in your room with the door locked, you dialed the number from memory because taking out the note again felt too embarrassing. Though, it wasn't much better to amdit it only took a few glaces to memorize it either.
Eddie answered on the fourth ring.
“Munson residence,” he had answered blankly. “If you’re calling about the ritual sacrifice allegations, our official statement is no comment.”
You sat on the edge of your bed, biting your smile into the side of your thumb. “What if I’m calling about dragons?”
A pause took place for a moment.
Then his voice changed, warmth threaded through the static. That warmth seemed to transfer out from the receiver quickly. “Hey, Henderson.”
You talked for forty-seven minutes.
About nothing important at first. Then about music. Then about school. Then about how neither of you knew what counted as a normal conversation once Dustin and dice were removed from the equation. Eddie made you laugh so hard you had to press the receiver against your shoulder and cover your mouth because your mother’s room was down the hall.
Near the end, when the line had gone softer and both of you were tired enough to stop performing, he cleared his throat suddenly, “You doing anything Saturday?”
You stared at the wall as you shifted uproght on your bed, knees becoming propped up on the soft material.
“Define doing.”
“Leaving your house. With me. No freshmen. No dice unless you’re into that now.” His voice seemed less sure as he went on, and for a second you were truly wondering if he'd actually been rambling or if that was your wishful thinking again.
You pressed your free hand into your temple, as willed your voice to behave and not jump. “Are you asking me to hang out, Munson?”
His laugh sent goosebumps against your skin as you heard it ring directly into your ear.“Terrible, right? Very uncool of me.”
“Devastating.” Your tone was unconvincing.
“I can take it back.”
“Don’t.” The word came out quicker than you meant it to. And once more, you gave a faint curse as you covered the receiver to get a grip.
On the other end, Eddie went quiet. The only real sound was a faint swallow of his, that you were sure mirrored your own.
You picked at a loose thread in your blanket now, resisting the urge to scream at how your body seemed mindless in behaving to what you wished for. “I mean, yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
“Whatever,” he repeated, amusement clear as day in his voice.
You made that familiar face, though It was concealed just to you in the comfort of your room. You cleared your throat before giving a hum. “Don’t make it weird.”
He didn't seem particularly affected by the attempt at collection. “Henderson, weird is my primary export.”
You smiled at your knees.
By the time you hung up, you realized you had failed to ask where you were going, what you were doing, or even what kind of hangout Eddie Munson considered appropriate for a Saturday night with the older sister of one of his so called “sheep”.
That failure came back to punish you.
Your bedroom looked bombed out by Saturday afternoon.
Clothes covered every available surface. Your bed had disappeared beneath the wreckage of six different versions of yourself. A knit sweater that made you look studious but possibly boring. A tight black top that felt too obvious the second you put it on. A skirt you had worn to a party once and now regarded with suspicion due to the memories in them. A denim jacket you liked until you remembered Eddie’s vest and threw it across the chair in a panic.
You stood in the middle of the mess wearing jeans, socks, and a bra, holding two shirts against your chest while your reflection looked back at you from the dresser mirror with open accusation.
This was Eddie Munson.
He practically raved about being the towns outcast. He wore ripped denim and chains to school. He stood on tables. He drew crowns on phone numbers and called freshmen sheep. He might take you to a diner. He might take you to a concert. He might take you to his trailer and play music loud enough to rattle your fillings. He might not even consider this a date at all, in which case showing up too polished would make you want to walk into traffic.
You changed again.
Then again.
By the time the doorbell rang, your nerves had turned physical. They hit your stomach, your hands, the back of your neck.
You bolted out of your room, still tugging one sleeve into place, anm your socks slid on the waxed hallway floor. From the kitchen came a blur of curls, graphic tee, and pure fourteen-year-old malice.
Dustin.
“No,” you hissed as you looked down at his closer position to the doorway. “No, no, no! Dustin, don’t you dare–”
“I live here too!” he shouted back, and he was already sprinting before you could even say anything else.
You lunged for him with a precision that came from years of keeping him grounded and caught the back of his shirt. He made a strangled sound, twisted with the terrifying flexibility of someone who had not yet learned to fear injury, and planted one foot against the floor.
“Move,” you all but seethed, hopping your voice was quiet enough it didnt announce the possible situation to anyone else in close area.
He didn’t share your sentiment and yelled back. “No!”
“Dustin.”
“I have a right to know who’s at my door.”
“You know who’s at the door, you dork!”
“Exactly!”
You reached for the knob. Dustin threw his shoulder back with shocking force. Your shoulder hit the wall with a dull thud, and for one breath you were too stunned to react.
“You little—”
He yanked the door open as your cursed turned faint as you rubbed at your shoulder with a wince, and before you could even prepare yourself mentally Eddie stood infront of you on the porch.
He was leaned against the railing with his hands tucked in his jacket pockets, his hair loose around his face, and his expression caught halfway between greeting and confusion. He wore his leather jacket, of course he would, and dark jeans with one knee torn. But his shirt looked unnaturally proper, not formal, but clean cut. His hair looked slightly less wild than usual. He had probably tried, which did something inconvenient to your chest.
Eddie didn't seem to expect he sight that welcomed him, and blinked at the scene in the doorway: Dustin planted in front of him, you shoved against the hallway wall, one sleeve still twisted at your wrist.
“Evening,” Eddie settled for carefully.
“Eddie,” Dustin barked quickly in greeting, and you kicked at your brother but his unexpected jolt of adrenaline induced strength made it difficult.
Eddie’s eyebrows climbed and he blinked even slower now at the shorter boy. “Henderson.”
Dustin stepped fully into the doorway, turning himself into a small, aggressive barricade. A barricade that you were trying to shove out of the way of the doorway that was hidden to you. “Look, man. I don’t know what kind of brain damage you suffered at the table last week, but you don’t want to do this.”
You closed your eyes and was ready to just give up on pure instinct of knowing what came next.
Dustin continued with the confidence of a prophet. “She’s so not cool. She thought a saving throw was a baseball term again three days ago. And she listens to pop radio!” That had you jabbing your elbow in his ribcage, having purposefully left that out last night on your phone call. He shoved back into you as he continued. “She has a decorative pillow that says ‘dream big.’ Save yourself.”
“That pillow was a gift,” you snapped as you tried to calm whatever dignity you could in your current position.
Eddie’s face opened into delight. You saw it happen in real time. It was slow, helpless delight that appeared. His eyes flicked over Dustin’s head and landed on you, still half-pinned by embarrassment and a badly behaved sleeve.
“Is that so?” he drawled. The tone was more pointed than you'd have liked, more specifically because when asked last night you'd just given a vague answer in hopes his named artists rang any familiar bells in your head. “A pop fan?”
“Don’t,” you warned, though it felt already weak all thing consodered.
“Man.” He shook his head with grave disappointment. “My reputation in the trailer park is going to take a serious hit.”
Dustin jabbed a finger toward Eddie. “I’m serious. She’s going to pretend she understands your music and then ask if the singer is okay.”
Your voice came quick with indignation. “I did not ask if the singer was okay!”
Dustin did little to help, and you really should've known he wouldn't do anything of the sort when you'd asked him about the artists Eddie had mentioned last night. “You asked if he needed water.”
“He sounded dehydrated!” the defense came pathetically weak now.
Eddie pressed his lips together, visibly fighting for control. That did little to help you gain back your dignity.
You pushed away from the wall and advanced on your brother. “Dustin, shut your mouth.”
“I am protecting the integrity of Hellfire!”
“You are about to lose teeth.”
“You can’t threaten me in front of company.” He sounded to sure of himself for your liking.
“Wanna bet?” Your scoff came just as quick as his. Finally twisting from your position, you put your whole palm over his face and pushed back.
Dustin shrieked into your hand, muffled and outraged, while you shoved his head backward and wedged yourself into the doorway. He tried to bite your fingers. You moved them just in time and shot him a look that promised violence later.
Then you turned to Eddie and offered the tightest smile of your life.
“I’ll be right out,” your voice came a little too disheveled for your liking. “I just need to grab my bag.”
Eddie gave you a lazy two-finger salute, big eyes bright as they locke donto yours. “Take your time, Henderson. I’ll stay here and let your manager give me the full warning label.”
Dustin wrenched your hand away finally. “Good. Because there’s more–”
“No, there is not,” you turned your head back to glare furiously at your annoyance of a brother.
“There is so much more.”
You fled before either of them could continue. But if referred to in the future, you refused all admittance of the usuage of the word.
Back in your room, you grabbed your bag, stared at yourself once in the mirror, and decided there was no salvaging dignity from a situation that had begun with your little brother publicly mentioning your decorative pillow. You fixed your sleeve, took a breath, and returned to the front door.
Dustin and Eddie stood on the porch now. Dustin had his arms crossed. Eddie was listening with exaggerated seriousness.
“—and she cheats at Monopoly,” Dustin was saying and you immediately regretted leaving him alone with Eddie.
“I was eight!”
“You bankrupted me.”
Your voice was all loud and disbelieving. “You couldn’t count, how was that my fault?”
Eddie looked between you with open fascination. It was a look you'd have preffered not to show him on the first…whatever this was. “This family has layers.”
“Goodnight, Dustin,” your voice was now strained and fixed.
Dustin pointed at Eddie again. “Home by eleven.”
You stared at him with a wide eyed disbelieving look that you were sure could compete with your mother's. Eddie coughed into his fist, throughly breaking you out of your agape expression.
“You are not my father,” you scoffed, it was hard to take the words of a 14 year old boy seriously when you were already half a decade older than him.
Dustin returned your expression, arms crossed against his chest in a way that seemed less intimidating and more endearing if it wasn't embarrassing you at the moment. “No, but I am Mom’s favorite.”
You felt your eye twitch, needing to correct the wording. “You are Mom’s loudest.”
“Same thing.”
Eddie stepped backward off the porch, still grinning. His grin didn't seem to die down even slightly even when your head twisted to look at him with a glare. “For the record, I respect a strong managerial presence.”
“Don’t, encourage him,” you strained to keep a even tone, brushing past Dustin.
Dustin followed you to the edge of the porch and yelled out. “If he murders you, I’m telling Mom you stole my Walkman.”
You turned, an exasperated sigh left you as you looked up to the skin for an intervention, and when recieved by none, you just closed your eyes shut. “If he murders me, I think Mom will have bigger concerns.”
“Not if she finds out about the Walkman first.”
You didn't even bother responding to that, already walking to your driveway. Eddie came up from behind you and opened the passenger door of his van with a flourish. “Your chariot, my lady.”
You glanced at Dustin, and gave a flat tone as your hand gestured to Eddie from beside you. “See? Chivalry.”
Dustin made a gagging sound so violent it followed you all the way down the driveway. It was safe to say he was thoroughly tuned out quickly. Eddie waited until you were both inside the van, the doors shut, and the engine rumbling reluctantly beneath you, before he looked over.
He asked at last, with a grin that had you wanting to melt into his keather seats. “Decorative pillow?”
“Drive.”
“Dream big?”
Your eyes were now firmly screwed shut, as if peering into an abyss could save you from any more possible embarrassment. “Munson.”
Eddie finally put the van in gear, and had laughter tugging at his mouth. “I’m just trying to build a complete character sheet.”
Your voice was strained enough to be considered static. “You are one comment away from walking.”
“You’d make me walk from your own driveway?” His amusement did little to keep the warmth down from your body.
“I’d make you walk from another state.”
He laughed then, one hand on the wheel, and the other reaching to turn down the music before it could fully blast through the speakers. That surprised you. You had braced for noise, for chaos, for Eddie in full volume. Instead, the van rolled through the Hawkins suburbs under a dimming sky, and the music was low enough to sit beneath the conversation rather than swallow it.
You watched familiar houses slide past. Porches, lawns, bikes tipped over near driveways, and the windows lit warm against the blue evening. Hawkins looked different from Eddie’s passenger seat. Not better, necessarily but not worse. It felt looser around the edges, if Hawkins could ever be considered loose.
“So,” you asked after a quick, restless minute. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
Eddie answered quick. “Nope.”
You threw him a look from the passengers seat. You let your head lean back against the seats, feeling oddly comforted in the position of being the non driver for once. “That’s not ominous at all.”
His voice came back airy, his hands tapped against his wheel, and the faint thud of his rings made quiet noises that only appeared when you listened for them. “It’s a test.”
“For what?”
“Trust. Adventurous spirit. Ability to withstand questionable upholstery.”
You glanced at the seat beneath you. “Already failing the third one.”
Eddie’s gasp came all too familiar, dramatic and warm. “Rude to insult a man’s steed.”
“Your steed has duct tape.” your voice did little to soften, and neither did your expression.
He ammended with a shrug in his shoulders. “Battle scars.”
You smiled despite yourself and looked out the window again. Eddie drove with one wrist loose over the wheel, but he paid attention. He checked mirrors. He slowed near a group of kids on bikes. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel again in time with a song you did not know, and his rings catching the last of the light.
“You’re quiet,” he hummed after a moments rest.
“I’m assessing whether I’m being kidnapped.”
Eddie’s expression turned entertained quickly, his head tirning to you for a second before looking bavk to his path. “To a public location? Very poor kidnapping strategy.”
“Maybe that’s what makes it clever.”
He nodded, his head bobbed alongside his curls, and a exhaled left his lips. “See, this is why you’re college material.”
The road opened beyond the clustered neighborhoods, taking you past the edge of town where Hawkins thinned into trees and gas stations and long stretches of darkening field. The air through the cracked window smelled of cut grass, dust, and the faint metallic coolness that came after sunset. You let your hand rest near the window and felt your fingertips catching the draft.
After a calm twenty minutes, Eddie pulled into the parking lot of a diner you had only ever seen from the road. Its neon sign buzzed red and blue over the entrance, and a few cars sat scattered across the cracked asphalt. Through the windows, you could see booths upholstered in faded vinyl, chrome-edged tables, and one waitress refilling coffee beneath fluorescent light.
You looked over at him, clearly surpised. It wasn't necessarily the diner that shocked you, it was more so the fact that he brought you to one. After all, he didn't scream like the diner type. “A diner?”
He shut off the engine and suddenly seemed less sure of himself. It only lasted a second, but you caught it. The way his fingers tapped once against the keys before he pulled them free. The quick glance toward the building.
“I figured neutral territory,” he cleared his throated after a moment, voice still coming up a little raspy. “No kids. No dragons. Food that probably won’t kill us.”
“Probably?”
“I like to keep expectations realistic.” Your eyes rolled before you could help it, and your smile came even more instinctive.
You followed him inside.
The diner smelled of frying oil, coffee, sugar, and old smoke embedded in the walls probably from years of people ignoring signs. A bell over the door gave a tired jingle when Eddie held it open. The waitress looked up, recognized him, and pointed with her pen toward a booth near the back.
“Don’t make a mess, Munson.”
You probably did a poor job of hiding your clear surprise, but thankfully, your weren't the main focus. Eddie pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me, Marge.”
The older woman's response came weary. “You still owe me for the sugar packets.”
“They were for science.” Eddie's was all relaxed charm.
“They were for your friends throwing them.”
“Social science.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite in it. She gave you a small smile before moving on to her customers.
You slid into the booth across from him. The vinyl stuck faintly to the backs of your legs. The table had a little metal napkin dispenser, a ketchup bottle with dried sauce crusted near the cap, and a laminated menu that curled at one corner. Outside, headlights passed in brief white streaks across the window. Every so often one caught your eyes, making your head stare out the window.
Eddie shrugged out of his jacket and shoved it beside him. Without the leather and the club table and the audience, he looked different. Not smaller in any real way, perhaps just more human. His shirt was faded soft from washing, there was one curl caught near mouth, and he blew it away twice before finally pushing it back with an impatient hand.
You ordered milkshakes and fries because Eddie claimed anything else here was “a dance with the digestive devil.” Another waitress brought water in cloudy plastic cups and left you alone.
For the first few minutes, the conversation came out uneven.
You asked about his band because it felt safe. He answered with enthusiasm, then caught himself and asked about your classes. You gave him a funny story about a professor who wore the same brown jacket every lecture. He laughed, then drummed his fingers against the table,and tthen stopped when he noticed you watching.
It was strange, seeing him search for the right amount of himself to use. You certainly weren't used to it. And you couldn't exactly say you liked it, sure you appreciated he seemed to make an effort but it felt a bit too straining for you to really embrace the results.
At Hellfire, Eddie filled rooms because the room and kids expected him to. Here, with only you across from him, he seemed to test the air before tossing a joke into it. Some landed. Some didn’t. When one didn’t, he winced and covered it with another. You recognized the habit because you had your own version: a smile angled just right, a sarcastic or breezy comment delivered before anyone could tell you cared.
The fries arrived hot enough to steam. Eddie immediately dumped ketchup onto the paper placemat.
“Okay,” he said, grabbing a fry. Immediately, you were sure you weren't to interested in whatever would be done. “Educational demonstration.”
Your lips let out a small exhale “Oh no.”
Eddie’s gave a grin. “Oh yes.”
He placed one fry upright in the ketchup. It fell over just as quickly. Against yourself, you leaned in, with one hand cupping your cheek as you watched him rather that whatever he was so focused on showing you.
He frowned at it, ghe pout on his lips oddly cute. The thought was quickly shut down as you forced your eyes to avert their gaze and stare at the plate of fries. “Dustin’s wizard is drunk.”
“Already?”
“It might be a morale issue.”
You laughed, and he looked pleased enough to continue. Eddie tore a corner off the paper placemat and drew a crooked square grid with a pen from his pocket. Then he arranged fries across it, using a salt packet, a napkin wad, and one tragic pickle slice to represent enemies.
“So if this fry is Dustin’s wizard,” he began and you really tried to listen, “and this puddle of ketchup is a dragon—”
Your voice cut his explanation off quickly. “Why is the dragon a puddle?”
“Budget cuts. Stay with me.”
“I’m trying.”
Eddie's fingers then decided upon your fate soon after that. “And this fry is your character.”
“My character gets to be a fry?” Your head slightly tilted as you tried to envision the structure he was trying to compare it too.
His voice came automatic in its pace, and light in its teasing. “An elegant fry. Distinguished. Wounded pride. Great hair.”
You pointed at him, and had to display a great amount of willpower to bite back your smile. “Careful. Flattery'll get you everywhere”
He grinned and moved your fry to the edge of the placemat. “You can’t just run straight at the dragon because, one, you’ll die, and two, Dustin will write a ten-page complaint about party strategy. So you move here, flank with Sinclair’s guy, and then—”
He demonstrated by dragging Dustin’s fry directly through the ketchup.
You stared, eyes promptly wide as you gaped up at him in offense. “You just killed my brother.”
“It was an ccupational hazard.”
You didn't bother controlling the grin now, and it seemed like neither did Eddie. You leaned back against your side of the booth and hummed. “Does he know you think of him this way?”
The solenm nod came entirely exasperating. “He knows I value his sacrifice.”
You were still laughing when Eddie looked up at you through his bangs. His hand remained on the table, fingers shiny with salt. The smile stayed, but it eased into something quieter.
“You really didn’t have to do all that,” he cleared his throat after his pitch ended up smaller than he menat near the end.
You reached for your milkshake spoon, stirring though there was nothing to stir. You didn't look up right away, letting the cool mixture hit your tastebuds. “Do what?”
“Read the handbook. Show up every week. Watch a bunch of geeks yell at plastic dice.” Eddie's finger seemed to fidget restlessly, bringing your sight to the twisting of his rings that had him restless.
The exhale you gave was airy in its amusement. “You make it sound so glamorous.”
“I’m serious.” that was when you glanced up.
He was serious. That was the problem, or rather a problem. Eddie serious was harder to handle than Eddie loud. Loud Eddie gave you places to hide, but serious Eddie seemed to look at you and wait.
Your spoon scraped softly against the glass.
“My pride was wounded,” you admitted with a small raise of your shoulders.
His eyebrows lifted and you continued.
You shrugged again, trying to make it lighter than it actually felt. “I’m used to being the cool older sibling.”
“Ah.”
His lack of reaction brought that familiar prickle up your spine. “You completely ignored me.”
Eddie leaned back against the booth. For a second, his face went blank with surprise. Then he laughed, low and genuine, shaking his head.
“Ignored you?”
The laughter did little to make you feel appeased, but a small part of it made your heart stutter. You decided you would let the small part win this time. “You did!”
“I absolutely did not.”
Your words came pointed. “You called me Henderson’s ride all off-handedly.”
“Because I was trying not to stare at Henderson’s sister.” Eddie’s came as a incredulous scoff as his arms crossed against his chest, the movement tensing the muscles against the fabric of his shirt.
The words moved across the table and left the air changed behind them.
You looked down too late to hide your reaction. Heat had already climbed your neck. And your fingers tightened around the spoon, stirring thoughtlessly around your milkshake.
Eddie noticed, and of course he noticed, you had a feeling he had always noticed more than he admitted.
“You’re an actual college girl,” he decided to say after a moment, his voice a little softer. “You're like actually smart—I mean Dustin never shuts up about you—and you walked in looking—” He stopped, huffed at himself, then tried again. “You walk in looking like you know exactly what you’re doing. And I’m supposed to what? Casually flirt in front of the sheep while your little brother is sitting three feet away with the moral judgment of a tiny pope?”
You pressed your lips together, though it didn't help much. “A tiny pope?”
His words came with a somber expression then. “With braces.”
You laughed into your hand.
Eddie took that moment to reach over a steal one of your un-ketchuped fries while you were distracted. His knuckles brushed your wrist. It was brief, barely anything really. But still, neither of you moved right away.
His fingers rested on the table beside yours.
The diner continued around you. Plates clattered near the kitchen. A man at the counter coughed into his coffee. Marge refilled a cup without looking near the cashier. Neon continued to buzz against the window, none of it vanished. Nothing became cinematic or clean. Your milkshake glass left a wet ring on the table. One of Eddie’s rings were twisted to far back on one finger. Your brother’s name was still somewhere between you, ridiculous and unavoidable.
That made it worse.
Or better. You didn't quite know yet. But you decided that then and there, you wanted to find out.
You turned your wrist slightly, sp that it was enough that your knuckles touched his. Eddie’s gaze dropped then quickly. He smiled without showing his teeth, but his eyes weren't so unaffected.
“Pretty girl with a lot of pride,” he murmured, his sigh amused and almost dreamy in a way that made you unable to stare directly into his eyes for long. “Dangerous combination.”
Your breath caught, but you managed to roll your eyes. “You’re certainty impressed with yourself.”
Eddie placed a large palm over his heart and his head bowed. “Constantly. It’s a burden.”
You let your own voice become exaggerated in response. “Must be hard.”
“You have no idea.”
The rest of the date, because by then, even if neither of you had said it, the shape of it had become obvious, unfolded without the sharpness you had feared originally. Eddie told you about his band’s worst show, where the power went out halfway through a song and the drummer kept playing for almost a minute before noticing. You told him about your other roommate’s habit of labeling every item in the mini fridge, including a single slice of cheese. Eddie confessed school never really was for him, but he said it with enough practiced humor that you heard the bruise beneath it.
You did not press either ways; instead, you stole one of his fries.
He looked at you, offended. That only won him a grin in return. “Thief.”
“You stole mine first!”
Eddie’s tone was all fake hurt and offended. “Mine was romantic.”
“Mine was justice then.”
He leaned forward with a entertained look then. “You know, for someone new to campaigns, you’re picking up revenge arcs fast.”
“You’re a good teacher.” your voice seemed to be so genuine that it shut him up.
Only briefly, but it seemed to be entirely enough.
He looked down at the made up battlefield of fries and ketchup, mouth twisting at one corner. When he looked back at you, the softness there made you reach for your milkshake just to have something to do with your hands.
Long after, in the drive home, he played the radio music louder, but not too loud. You did ask if the singer needed water. Eddie nearly had to pull over from laughing.
“He sounds pained,” you insisted with a bite of your tongue.
“He’s expressing the agony of existence.”
“He should express it with tea.”
Eddie’s weary sigh was worth the small moment of weakness. “You’re killing me.”
“Hydration is important.” you didn't let up on your positioning, a shrug on your shoulders.
“I can’t believe I let a pop listener into my campaign.”
You weren't going to take all of the heat. “You gave a pop listener your phone number.”
“Moment of weakness.” His grin didn't seem to match his words.
“You drew a crown.”
“A flourish.”
You were, needless to say, thoroughly unconvinced. “A romantic flourish.”
He glanced over, big brown eyes catching green from the dashboard lights. “Maybe.”
You looked out the window because your smile felt too honest all of a sudden.
Hawkins returned slowly, first as scattered houses, then familiar turns, and then your street folded under the quiet weight of midnight. Eddie cut the headlights before the van fully stopped at the curb, leaving the interior dim and green-lit, and all hard edges softened by darkness.
The music ended. He turned the volume down until the speakers gave only a faint hiss.
For a moment, neither of you opened your door. And neither of you made a move to.
“So,” Eddie swallowed his head looking straight ahead, his hands resting loosely on the wheel now but still restless. “Did the horizon expand enough for you tonight, college girl? Or was it an all-time low?”
You leaned your head back against the seat and turned to look at him. In the low light, his face was mostly shadow: the sharp line of his nose, the curve of his mouth, and even the dark fall of his hair. Without the diner’s neon, and without his club's noise, he seemed to be waiting again. Giving you the room to decide what the night had been.
“Shut up,” you scoffed softly, but the smile softened it promptly.
His mouth curved almost as if he were in on an important secret.
“It was,” you added, then paused because saying it plainly felt unnaturally dangerous. “Surprisingly high.”
Eddie’s smile changed. It was small, even more genuine now, and entirely stripped of almost everything he usually put in front of it.
“Yeah?”
Your voice didn't come out as sharp as you'd have liked. “Don’t make me repeat it.”
“I would never.”
That made you laugh for one second, before settling with a hun. “You absolutely would.”
Eddie seemed to agree with a soft shrug of his own. “Only under extreme circumstances.”
The silence returned, but it was not empty. It sat between you with warmth in it, with the leftover buzz in your blood, and with the hum of the van and the faint chirp of insects beyond the curb.
Eddie shifted first.
He leaned across the center console slowly enough that you had every chance to move away. You didn’t. His hand came up to the headrest beside you, his thumb brushing near your temple, not quite touching your skin at first. His eyes searched your face, and for once neither of you covered the pause with a joke.
When he finalky leaned in to kiss you, it was careful for half a second.
Then you made a small sound against his mouth, startled by your own wanting, and his hand slid from the headrest to the side of your face. The kiss deepened unevenly, sweet and clumsy around the edges, interrupted once by your elbow knocking the gearshift and Eddie huffing a laugh against your lips. You laughed too, breathless, and then abeuptly reached for the front of his jacket and pulled him back.
Almost months of watching him from the edge of the room caught up all at once. The failed smiles, the handbook, the red die in your pocket, the way he had leaned over your shoulder while pretending not to know exactly what you were doing. It all gathered in your hands, in the quick tilt of his head, and in the warmth of his rings when his fingers brushed your jaw.
It became a little embarrassing how enthusiastic you were.
It became easier to forgive because Eddie was no better.
He kissed you with one hand braced awkwardly against the seat and the other careful at your cheek, restraint and hunger tripping over each other until both of you had to pull back to breathe. His forehead hovered near yours. His eyes were dark, amused, and unsteady in a way that made your stomach turn over.
The rough heel of his palm was gentle in its cradling of your face, and it was soon followed with your own hand trailing up his jaw to tangle in his hair. This time, when he leaned in, he seemed to be even more enthusiastic. His lips met against yours once more and he tilted in so deep he might’ve been trying to inhale the same oxygen as you. You followed with the same pathetic burst of energy, feeling all too much like you were back to being sixteen and discovering what kissing could be with someone you actually wanted it happening with.
“Mm, Eddie–” your sentence was over just as quickly as it had attempted to start, with his mouth pouting everytime it wasn't against yours. Eddie’s pupils were so close that you could see the way they were blow out and dilated, and the dazed smile he wore wasn't helping the stuttering in your pulse.
“That’s my name, pretty girl.” His words were murmured, the vibrations tickling you. He broke the kiss with great effort, his clear effort in wanting to hear what you're saying, but his nose trailed down to trace under the shape of your jaw. A string of soft kisses were messily placed against your exposed skin leading a faint line of goosebumps to appear as you felt an eye twitch shut at the sensation.
“Think I've gotta go inside, Eddie.” Your voice came out embarrassingly thin, and your fingers did little to loosen their grip in his curls. Your head was gently tilted upward by his continued actions as he gave a mumbled response against your skin that sent consistent shivers against your skin.
“But you just got here,” the teasing smile of his lips was felt against your skin making you shove at him lightly with a exasperated sigh, and your own smile stretched across your face. A quick look at the dashboard clock had you feeling all warm once again. “You've been kissing me for like the past five minutes, you dork.”
“Ouch. You're so cold, you know that?” Eddie's laugh betrayed him, unable to keep the amused look off his face.
Outside, Hawkins was quiet. Your house stood dark except for the porch light your mother always left on. Somewhere inside, you were sure that Dustin was probably asleep with comic books on his floor and no idea that his entire world had just become more irritating, or amusing if you were left to explain it.
Eddie’s thumb moved once near your cheekbone then.
“See you next weekend, Henderson?”
Your lips still felt warm and your skin even more so. You tried to answer normally and failed.
“Yeah,” you breathed, reaching blindly for your bag near your feet. “See you next weekend.”
He did not let you get out immediately. Not because he physically made a move to stop you, but just because he smiled at you, slow and pleased and a little disbelieving, and you had to sit there an extra second to recover from it.
When you finally climbed out, your legs suddenly felt too untrustworthy on their own.
You shut the van door as quietly as possible. Eddie waited until you reached the porch before starting the engine again. You turned at the door. He lifted his hand from the steering wheel.
You lifted yours back before you caught yourself and spun around with a regained fervor as you became all too aware of every action of yours.
Then you went inside and leaned against the closed door in the dark hallway, pressing your fingers to your mouth.
From the living room, Dustin’s voice cut through the silence.
“If you’re being weird by the door, stop.”
You nearly jumped out of your skin.
He sat on the couch in pajama pants and a Camp Know-Where shirt, hair flattened on one side, and a comic open in his lap. His eyes were narrowed to slits.
“What, are you doing awake?” you breathed a sigh at the exaggerated pulse of your heart, leaning down to undo your shoes.
“Protecting the bloodline.”
The groan you gave was entirely unimpressed. Yeah, you were convinced the teenage boy who called you to get the ladybugs out of the house in the summer would thoroughly protect your honor. “You are so dramatic.”
“How was the ‘hangout’?”
You walked past him toward the stairs. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
Seriously, you had to give him some melatonin or something next time. “Goodnight, Dustin.”
“Did he try anything?”
The dumbfounded expression you had on surely was worth a pretty penny.
Dustin held your stare for one second before raising the comic higher, hiding half his face. “I’m just asking for safety.”
“You are asking because you’re nosy.”
“I contain multitudes.”
The scoff left you rapidly. “You contain several juice boxes and attitude.”
“I know things,” he warned and you called his bluff.
“You know nothing.”
He squinted at you over the comic, and you squinted back. Then, you went upstairs before your face could betray you.
The next afternoon, you sat at the kitchen table with a blank notebook open in front of you and the red die near your elbow. Sunlight spilled across the linoleum. Your mother hummed somewhere in the laundry room, smiling at you far too pleased and knowing for your comfort. And the house smelled faintly of detergent and toast.
You had meant to work on an actual assignment.
Instead, you had written:
Elven pantheons? cleric domains?? ask Eddie about campaign gods DO NOT say Vvardenfell ever again
You were halfway through underlining the last note when Dustin walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed a juice box. He stabbed the straw through with unnecessary violence, took one sip, and paused.
His eyes moved to your notebook.
Then to your face, then quickly back to the notebook.
“Why,” he sighed all exasperated slowly, “are you looking up Elven pantheons on the kitchen notepad?”
You turned a page with great calm. “No main reason.”
“And why do you look like you just won a football game?”
You shrugged your shoulders with a self pleased smile on your face. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Dustin still seemed unimpressed with your reactions. “You have a face.”
“Most people do.”
“No, you have a specific face.”
You picked up your pencil. “Mind your business, Dustin. I’m studying for my electives.”
He stared at you for a long moment. Then his expression changed, horror dawning piece by piece.
“Oh my God.”
You wrote the word initiative in the margin, ignoring his outburst.
“Oh my God,” he repeated, louder, and then immediately cringed to himself. “You’re into it.”
Your smile was now free, “I’m into many things, little brother. As you know, I’m a complex person.”
“No.” Dustin shook his head quick. He pointed the juice box at you. “No, you are not allowed to be into my thing.”
“Your thing?”
“Yes, my thing.”
Your voice came entirely delighted now, “I thought it was a 'collaborative storytelling game'.”
“Don’t use the language against me!”
You smiled brightly and wide without looking up. Dustin then groaned so loudly your mother called from the laundry room to ask if someone was injured.
“Yes,” Dustin shouted back with a disgusted expression on his face. “Me!”
“No,” you called back out, voice calmer than his, and therefore, more reliable.. “He’s being dramatic.”
Dustin leaned over the table, lowering his voice as if he was aware pf a new secret. “This is because of Eddie.”
You tapped the pencil against the notebook, and if you were in a lesser mood, you were sure you'd male a comment on how slow his train of thoughts seemed to run for a self- claimed super- genius of a teenage boy. “What’s because of Eddie?”
“All of it. The notebook. The dice. The face.”
“I don’t have a face.” You did, and you quite liked it even more as of late.
Dustin seemed to agree. “You have such a face.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“You kissed him, didn’t you?”
Your pencil snapped, and Dustin gave a noise so loud and startled you'd think you stabbed the broken wood in him.
You looked down at the broken pencil in your hand, then up at your younger brother. He backed away, pointing at you in a sense of all knowingness. “That is a confession!”
Your voice came back just breezily enough to further spur him on. “That is just a cheap pencil.”
“That is evidence!”
You tried to brush him off off-handedly. “Dustin.”
He seemed to care less about calming down and shrieked. “You kissed Eddie Munson. My Eddie Munson!”
“Lower your voice before I deck you.” your sigh came with a roll of your eyes now, and before you could've helped it, you added. “And he's not yours.”
“You did!”
You stood so fast the chair scraped behind you. Dustin bolted around the other side of the table, juice box clutched in one hand.
“I knew it!” he shouted, now slightly jumping in place as he pointed at you. “I knew something foul was happening!”
Your voice was a soft coo now. “Come here.”
“No!”
“Dustin.”
“I am a child of divorce now. Emotionally.”
“You are a child of one mother and a sister who is about to end you.”
He darted toward the hallway. You chased him past the counter, both of you skidding in socks while your mother yelled for you not to run in the house. Dustin shrieked when you caught the back of his shirt, laughing and protesting at the same time as your forearm twisted around his neck, and for a minute the whole kitchen filled with the old familiar chaos of being home.
Eventually, he escaped by sacrificing the juice box, which burst under your foot and sent a sticky splash across the floor.
Your mother appeared in the doorway, and both of you froze promptly. She looked at the juice on the floor, then at Dustin, then at you in a way only an experienced mother could.
“I don’t want to know,” she questioned more than said at last.
“You really don’t,” Dustin affirmed her decision strongly.
You grabbed a towel and threw it at his head.
Later, after the floor was cleaned and Dustin had retreated to his room to process the betrayal, you returned to the table. Your notebook remained open. The red die sat where you had left it, catching sunlight along one edge.
You picked it up and rolled it once across the page.
It landed on twenty.
For a second, you could only stare. Then you laughed under your breath, quiet enough that no one came to ask why.
By the next day, you had memorized three more terms. Correctly, this time, you'd like to add to.the record.
You had also learned enough to know you were in trouble.
Not because of the game, although that was part of it. The game had become more interesting than you wanted to admit. There was satisfaction in understanding why Dustin got so worked up, why the table erupted over certain rolls, amd even why Eddie’s voice could pull everyone into silence when the stakes turned. There was a rhythm to it. A strange one, sure, but not entirely as childish as you had thought.
No, the trouble was Eddie.
Eddie, who called you college girl when he wanted to annoy you and pretty girl when he wanted to watch your composure slip.
Eddie, who phoned you twice that week and stayed on the line until neither of you had anything left to say but neither of you hung up.
Eddie, who looked at you across the Hellfire table with so much sitting between you and still somehow made the room feel smaller.
The campaign resumed with the party entering some ruined temple. You followed better than before. Not perfectly, you honestly doubted ever even achieving a above average rating. You still forgot which modifier went where, and at one point you asked if your character could flirt with a guard for information, which made Dustin put his head down on the table and whisper, “Please don’t make this your thing.”
Eddie looked delighted, his brow twitching up at you and smirking lazily in a way that made you had to biteback your own grin.
“I’ll allow it,” he decided after a moment.
Dustin shot upright, the display did little to take your eyes off of the older boy besides you, which of course only riled your brother up more. “Of course you will!”
“It’s roleplay, Henderson.”
“It’s gross.”
“It’s strategy,” you hummed in a easy way, which was simpler now that you at least understood parts of what even made up a good game strategy.
Dustin simply glared from where he sat. “It’s gross strategy.”
You rolled well enough that Eddie had to improvise a flustered guard. His voice went higher, then cracked on purpose. The table lost it quickly after. Even Dustin laughed before remembering he was supposed to be disgusted.
After the session, Eddie slipped you another note. You waited until you were in the car to read it, ignoring Dustin’s attempts to see.
This one had a little map drawn in the corner and a single line beneath it:
Next lesson: avoiding traps.
You smiled down at the paper on reflex by now, and Dustin groaned from the passenger seat. “Oh my God. You’re so not cool!”
You folded the note and tucked it away in your bag.
“That’s funny,” you hummed in grand effect, turning the key listening to the starting of your car engine. “I heard I’m dangerous.”
Dustin made a strangled sound and turned toward the window. The displeasure seemed to even travel all the way to his unruly hair, as he shoved back against your car seats. “This is a nightmare.”
It has been a VERY long time since I felt this way reading a fic. I'm laughing out loud? I'm kicking my feet? I'm getting secondhand embarrassment so bad that I feel like my body is physically recoiling, but the fic is so good that I have to keep reading?
You're so fucking talented. Henderson!Reader is my favorite flavor and this felt like an actual gift. Your dialogue is top notch, your characterization and descriptions are absolutely incredible. I worship the ground you walk on, you goddess. Idk if you plan on continuing this story, but if you do you will have one VERY dedicated reader.
ISO a fic that I believe was deleted on AO3 and I can’t find it anywhere, so if anyone remembers this fic or knows the author or something, pls help a girl out and get me in touch bc it’s been four years and I have never forgotten this story.
I read a fic called 86 Baby on AO3 and I have not stopped thinking about it since. Reader was an original character named Charlotte Henderson, Dustin’s older sister. She went to college on a swimming scholarship but flunked out and lost her scholarship due to PTSD from watching the events of S3 unfold, didn’t have the heart to tell her family so she’s just moved back home and is suffering in silence. Reconnects with Eddie, who calls her Chuck, and they end up being a thing.
The story was never finished, but I remember it left off with Chuck about to become one of Vecna’s victims or something? At this point I don’t even care if the author finishes it or not, I just want to go back and reread it to feel the same way I did the first time I found it. Or even just thank and compliment the author!
summary: You'd hit an all-time low. College was supposed to expand your horizons, not land you back in Hawkins every weekend sitting at a table surrounded by teenagers, polyhedral dice, and character sheets. But your little brother’s Hellfire Club came with one major distraction: the town's resident pretty boy freak. Memorizing campaign lore hadn’t been on your syllabus this semester, but if learning how to cast a spell kept his eyes on you, you might have just ended up becoming the club's newest addict
pairing: eddie munson x older sister henderson!reader
content warnings: sibling bickering, mild language i think, kissing, make outs (?), embarrassing attempts at flirting, slow burn but fun burn, so wannabe nonchalant reader, reader's in college *year not really specified here, they're both lowk down bad, kinda pre-season 4 but could be anytime really, I've actually never played d&d so if I'm inaccurate we're blaming it on what I've learned/watched from my friends, not betaread so we ball, everyone's a loser (in a loveable way tho!!), dustin being a menace of a little brother, intense eye contact across a table, reader suffering through d&d campaign lore just for a boy (real), eddie munson being unhelpfully dramatic and handsome, mutual eventual pining, zero heavy angst cs nothing happens to him ever!… (also I was completely wrong, I thought hellfire took place in the drama club room but it's actually in the av room but when I fact checked I already put in too much work to restart 😭)
— amazing support banner used is from @moonstoneandmoonlight !
w/c: 19.2 k (he's my man I'm NOT sorry)
a/n: there's sm yapping in here omg (so much of this was written on my phone on train rides home from work so forgive any formatting mistakes), this actually so so important to me he's the loml and reader’s so me and this was just so cute it was a day dream plot for like a month now, im thinking of writing a part two because I feel attached now so if love to hear your guys opinions etc. thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!! <3
▪︎ masterlist
College was supposed to do something impressive to you.
That was what everyone had promised anyway.
Teachers, relatives, and even your mother’s friends from the grocery store who still remembered when you had braces and bangs you were not emotionally prepared to discuss. College, they said, would broaden your mind. It would make you independent. It would turn you into the kind of girl who drank coffee in the library after midnight and had complicated opinions about foreign films and never once felt the need to dig through the Henderson family fridge for leftovers.
And to be fair, you had tried.
You had moved into your dorm with two overstuffed suitcases and a confidence you had mostly assembled in the bathroom mirror. You had gone to freshman orientation events where everyone pretended not to be desperate for friends. You had learned which dining hall served the least offensive seasoned eggs. You had let a girl from your sociology class drag you to a party in someone’s humid off-campus basement, where warm beer foamed over your hand and a boy in a rugby shirt leaned too close while explaining his father’s boat.
You'd been doing just fine.
Then the first Friday of the semester came around, and by midafternoon you were already in your car, pointed back toward Hawkins with your duffel bag on the passenger seat and a weak excuse waiting on your tongue.
You missed your family, sure. That was true enough. You missed your mother’s kitchen, the particular clatter of her cabinets, the smell of something real cooking instead of whatever the cafeteria claimed was meatloaf. You missed the familiar absurdity of your little brother yelling from three rooms away instead of knocking on your door. You missed your bed, your shower, and the way Hawkins trees crowded over the roads and made every sunset feel tucked in at the edges.
Mostly, though, you missed not having to constantly introduce yourself.
The drive was warm and dull and golden at the seams. Late summer still clung to Indiana, stubborn and sweaty, with the green fields blurring past your windows and the radio crackling between stations whenever the road dipped. By the time you pulled into the driveway, your legs ached from sitting and your hair smelled faintly of sun-baked upholstery.
Your mother nearly dropped a wooden spoon when you walked into the kitchen soon after that.
“Oh my God,” she gave a startled gasp, her hand flying to her chest. “You scared me half to death.”
“That’s what you get for raising a daughter who visits,” your voice was teasing, and you moved in closer tossing your bag near the doorway.
She fussed over you immediately, which meant she kissed your cheek, criticized how tired you looked, and pushed a plate toward you before you had even taken off your shoes. The kitchen was bright and busy just like you remembered it, the counters cluttered with mail, coupons, a half-empty glass of iced tea, and one of Dustin’s notebooks left open beneath a smear of peanut butter.
You leaned against the counter and ate standing up while your mother talked at a pace that made campus feel quiet by comparison.
You listened, nodded, and answered questions about your roommate, your classes, your meal plan, your laundry situation, your sleep. It took an embarrassingly long time before you realized something was missing.
“Where’s Dustin?”
Your mother waved the spoon toward the hallway. “At his club.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “His what?”
“His club,” she repeated, already distracted by the pots on stove. “The new one. Hellfire, I think? He was very dramatic about the shirt.”
You stared at her blankly, as if she'd grown two heads.
Your mother glanced over her shoulder to look back at you. “Don’t look at me like that…I asked if there would be adult supervision, and he said yes.”
“He said yes?” the incredulity in your voice did little to settle the matter.
Your mothers voice came back light and easy. “He said there’s a senior.”
“A senior is not adult supervision.”
“Well, he seemed very confident.”
Now, your groan felt more instinctual than meant to be. It came from years of experience as an older sister, and even more so from years of experience with your brother. “Mom, Dustin is always confident when he’s wrong.”
She sighed in the long-suffering way mothers did when they knew perfectly well you were right but had already decided they were tired. You couldn't blame her, Dustin could wear down the grim reaper if properly motivated. “He’s at the high school. If you want him home before dinner, you can go get him.”
That was how, twenty minutes later, you found yourself walking through the halls of Hawkins High on a Friday evening. Your keys looped around your finger and your old familiarity with the building returning in unpleasant little flashes. The trophy case still had smudges near the bottom from kids pressing their hands to the glass. The linoleum still carried that waxy, chemical smell that never fully went away. Somewhere deeper in the building, a pipe knocked behind the wall. Your shoes clicked too loudly in the empty hallway. It wasn’t like people graduated from Hawkins to come back.
Well, those who did mostly did so to relieve their glory days, which was just code for how their life seemed miserable to what was promised to them in their adolescence.
You had expected to find Dustin in a classroom with a few other freshmen. Maybe some awkward boys hunched over graph paper. Maybe a teacher grading quizzes nearby. Something harmless. Something suitably humiliating for him.
Instead, you followed a burst of shouting toward the drama room, pushed open the door, and stopped so abruptly that the strap of your bag slid off your shoulder.
The room was dim except for a cluster of lamps around a long table. Shadows filled the corners where old set pieces leaned against the walls, and painted trees and fake stone archways stacked beside boxes of costumes. The air smelled faintly of dust, pencil shavings, cafeteria pizza, and teenage boy. Around the table sat a collection of kids you recognized only in the vague way Dustin’s stories and faint interactions over the years had given them shape: Mike Wheeler with his sharp elbows and suspicious expression, Lucas Sinclair half-risen from his chair, a couple of older boys in matching black shirts, and Dustin himself wearing the look of religious devotion he usually reserved for radios and scientific breakthroughs.
But none of them were the first thing you noticed.
The first thing you noticed was the guy standing on the table.
He was all black denim, wild curls, and restless limbs. One sneaker planted between scattered papers while the other balanced on the edge of the table with a confidence that seemed both impressive and deeply irresponsible. A ripped denim vest hung over his leather jacket. Rings flashed on his hands as he raised both arms above his head, anr his voice echoed through the room.
“And from the pit,” he thundered, “dragging its hideous body through smoke and bone, comes the Demogorgon!”
Dustin made a noise that might have been despair or joy.
You remained frozen in the doorway. Your expression surely did little to hide your clear cut judgement.
This, apparently, was “adult supervision”.
The guy spun with theatrical violence, hair shifting around his face, and caught sight of you. His performance hit a pause so clean it might have been rehearsed. One hand stayed lifted. His eyes, dark and wide and bright with the leftover spark of whatever world he had been building, swept over you from your shoes to your face.
For one brief, ridiculous second, neither of you moved.
Then he straightened, dragged one hand to his chest, and dipped into an extravagant bow from the tabletop.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, his voice still pitched for the back row, “we appear to have been visited by either a very lost substitute teacher or Henderson’s mother after a tragic de-aging incident.”
For a moment, you didn't know if he was poking fun at you, or was serious. But you didn’t get to ponder on it long before the room broke into startled laughter. Dustin whipped around at the sight of you.
Your brother’s face collapsed into horror. “What are you doing here?”
“Picking you up,” you frowned instinctively at his lack of welcome, though your voice came out flatter than planned because your brain was still busy processing the sight in front of you.
The guy on the table hopped down. He landed lightly, considering the amount of metal attached to him, then spread his arms. “And here I thought we were finally getting raided by the moral majority.”
“You wish,” you scoffed.
It was automatic, a reflex. It was the same tone you used on boys at college when they opened with something ridiculous and expected you to giggle.
His eyebrows lifted.
You expected him to do what boys usually did. Smile a little slower. Look again. Adjust his posture. Decide, all at once, that he was interested.
Instead, he grinned, sharp and amused, then promptly turned back to the table.
“Henderson,” he barked. “Your carriage has arrived. And since your carriage has interrupted a sacred encounter, your wizard is about to make a saving throw with disadvantage.”
“What?” Dustin shrieked whirling back to the man with wild curls. “That’s not fair!”
“You brought family into my lair, man. Consequences.” The use of the word “lair” had you promptly cringing. It was like you'd met an older version of your brother.
“I didn’t bring her!” You seriously were considering leaving him to walk home now.
“You share blood. Close enough.”
You stood there in the doorway, absurdly aware of your own hands, your own face, the fact that you had come in expecting pimples and braces and had instead found Dustin’s bizarre new cult leader wearing chains and screaming about monsters under stage lights.
Why did your brother keep collecting older friends? Steve Harrington had been strange enough. Robin Buckley at least made some kind of sense if you squinted. But this guy – this table-standing, denim-clad, and metal-ringed senior with a voice made for trouble was in a category of his own.
Dustin started gathering his things while complaining under his breath. You watched the older boy shuffle papers behind a cardboard screen, still grinning, still moving too much, and energy spilling off him in quick little bursts. He caught you watching and tilted his head.
“Don’t worry,” he grinned with his full face. “We only sacrifice freshmen on alternating Fridays.”
You didn't know how to respond, so you settled on a nod. “I’ll mark my calendar.”
“Please do. Formal attire encouraged.”
Dustin shoved past you into the hallway, red-faced and muttering. You followed, but not before you glanced back once.
The guy was already looking at you.
This time, his grin changed by a fraction. Not softer, exactly or even less mocking. He just seemed to be aware of your presence more than he did moments ago.
Then Dustin groaned petulantly, “Oh my God, stop being weird,” and the moment snapped shut.
You drove home with your brother ranting about unfair dungeon master abuse, and you listened with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping restlessly against your thigh.
You had been back in Hawkins less than two hours.
Already, college felt very far away.
──
The next weekend, you told yourself you were only going because Dustin needed a ride.
That was the official reason. It had weight and it had practicality. It also sounded responsible enough that your mother accepted it without question when you appeared in the kitchen Saturday afternoon wearing jeans that fit better than your usual weekend pair and a top you had chosen after pretending not to choose it.
Dustin noticed the attempt immediately.
He stood by the counter with a Pop-Tart hanging from his mouth, eyes narrowing. “Why do you look like that?”
You looked down at yourself, the feeling of defensiveness prickling up your spine. “Like what?”
“Suspicious.” he gave you a weird look through his large bites.
Now, you were the one shooting him a dirty look. “I look normal.”
“You never look normal when you’re trying to look normal.”
It was at that moment you throughly were reminded of how much of a brat your sweet little brother had become. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means everything!”
You grabbed your keys. Your voice was now entirely unamused, not to mention so was your dignity. “Get in the car, Dustin.”
He complained the entire way, partly because complaining was his primary form of communication now in his teen years and partly because you refused to tell him why you had decided to sit in on Hellfire instead of dropping him off. You told him you were curious. He told you curiosity was not an excuse to ruin the sanctity of the campaign. You told him the sanctity of the campaign met in a public school building and smelled like old curtains. Safe to say the both of you were throughly displeased with the other, though for different reasons.
By the time you reached the drama room, Dustin had worked himself into a state of preventative embarrassment.
“Just don’t talk,” he said outside the door. His curls bounced behind his ears as he whipped his head back to face you, his finger outstretched to your face.
You gave him a look, which made him falter slightly because it originated from years of wide eyed warnings glances. Sure, you'd admit you've grown more mature, but you weren't too old that you wouldn't smack your little brother upside the head in public anymore. “Excuse me?”
His wince came quick and left quicker. “I’m serious. Don’t do that –that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you act cool and make everyone weird.”
You smiled slowly, not taking this as seriously as he made it out to be. After all, how much weirder could you make a room of boys who were die-hard into fantasy roleplay? “You think I’m cool?”
“No. That’s not what I said!”
You let the breezy expression back into your face, mostly because you knew it would rile him up further. “You’re worried I’ll be too cool.”
“I’m worried you’ll be deeply annoying.”
“Same thing, coming from you.”
Dustin groaned and pushed open the door. You followed suit after a moment, pulling down the driverside mirror for a second.
Hellfire was already gathering inside, louder in daylight than it had been at dusk. The stage lights were off, the overheads buzzing faintly, but Eddie Munson — you'd gotten his name from Dustin shortly after investigation last week — managed to make the room feel arranged around him. He sat at the head of the table with one leg hooked over the arm of his chair, flipping through a notebook thick with loose papers. His hair fell forward while he read, and one ringed hand braced against his mouth. Every so often he muttered something to himself and scratched a note in the margin.
You positioned yourself near the back, leaning against a desk with the casual ease of someone who had done very well at house parties without ever learning the names of the bands on the posters.
This was familiar territory. Not the dragons or the dice, but the rest of it.
You knew how to stand where you would be seen without looking needy. You knew how to let your attention drift and return at the exact right moment. You knew what to do with your mouth, your hair, and your eyes. College boys were not complicated creatures, you learned that early on. They liked confidence. They liked the suggestion that you might find them funny if they tried hard enough.
Eddie looked up from his notebook.
You met his eyes and smiled.
Not too much, you hoped, but just small enough it wasn't mistaken.
His gaze held for half a second, then he slapped the table.
“Sinclair! If you keep trying to hide that character sheet from me, I’m adding a curse.”
Lucas froze at the shot of his name, his shoulders jumping slightly. “I’m not hiding it!”
“You’re angling it away with suspicious motives”
“I’m not—”
“Suspicious,” Eddie repeated, pointing two fingers at his own eyes and then at Lucas.
Your smile sat uselessly on your face.
Fine. Bad timing. You could blame it at that.
You waited until later, when the session ended and the boys scattered into pockets of argument. Mike and Dustin were nearly forehead-to-forehead over some rule interpretation. Lucas was zipping his backpack. Eddie stood near the table, collecting dice in a little velvet bag, and his sleeves pushed up enough for you to notice the pale line of his wrist beneath all that black.
You drifted closer.
“Intense game,” you tried nonchalantly.
He glanced up, finally looking at you directly. “You understood any of that?”
Nope, none of it. “Enough.”
“Oh, dangerous answer.” He shook the dice bag at you. “That’s the kind of answer that gets villagers eaten.”
You let your smile sharpen, your head tilted down at him momentarily. “Maybe I like danger.”
There it was, that was what's easy. Familiar. A line delivered with just enough playfulness to let him decide how brave he wanted to be. You were well versed in that language well, at least.
Eddie stared at you for one beat, and his smile made you think you'd won. So naturally, you kept quiet as his broen eyes seemed to twinkle. Then he clapped you on the shoulder.
Actually clapped you on the shoulder.
“Spoken like a true weekend chauffeur,” he grinned. There was no amount of money in the world that could have gotten you to look at your expression now. You were absolutely certain you looked like a fish with how agape you were. “Stick around long enough and we’ll get you a hat.”
You couldn't help but sputter. “A hat?”
“Official title. Henderson’s Ride. Maybe some flames on the side.”
Before you could recover, he moved past you and jabbed a finger toward Dustin. “And you, my curly-haired little menace, are not carrying eighty pounds of loot without penalties. Encumbrance exists for a reason.”
Dustin rounded on him, immediately preening under the attention. You couldn't even find it in you to turn around to look at the scene behind you. “My strength score—”
“Your strength score is not a forklift!”
The room surged back into noise after being static underwater to your ears.
You stood there with his handprint still faintly warm on your shoulder and experienced the rare, humbling sensation of being treated exactly the same as a fourteen-year-old boy. You were sure you stood there long enough for your pride to reach new levels of low.
It did not improve the following week.
You tried again, because pride had a way of mistaking injury for motivation. It was almost embarrassing how you tried. You wore your hair down and up in styles you saw new magazines, you laughed at one of his jokes even though you really didn't get it. You held eye contact while he cleaned up his miniatures, you even asked one question about his rings that would have made almost any boy your age preen.
The lackluster responses everytime made you want to groan like a child sent to their room after being denied dessert.
Eddie wiggled his fingers in front of your face. “These? Instruments of intimidation. Also useful for opening stubborn soda cans.”
“They suit you,” you said.
He smiled, his stubbornly pretty features announcing their presence even more. “Naturally. I was born with excellent taste and a tragic lack of funding.”
Then he leaned around you before you could even respond and yelled, “Wheeler, if you spill Coke on my notes again, I’m haunting your descendants!”
There it was again. No paue, no shift, no flicker of realization that you were not, in fact, one of his little sheep.
To Eddie Munson, you were not the cool college girl with practiced confidence and a decent record at parties. You were not mysterious, you were not interesting, and you were not even especially female, apparently.
You were “Henderson’s ride”.
The humiliation settled in small, irritating layers. It left you dumbfounded and irritated. Not because it wasn't true, but surely you weren't that invisible to him, right? After all, even resident freaks noticed pretty girls.
You learned quickly that Eddie noticed everything at the table; a missed modifier, a hidden snack, or any of the boy's actions no matter how little. Mike trying to fudge a roll by half an inch. Lucas muttering something under his breath. Dustin breathing too loudly during a dramatic monologue. He even noticed when the fluorescent light over the costume rack started flickering and climbed onto a chair to smack the fixture with the heel of his hand. He noticed when Gareth got quiet after a bad roll and shoved a bag of chips toward him without making it a thing. He noticed when Dustin’s voice pitched too high and redirected the table before your brother could spiral into a rules tantrum. Thus, there was the annoyance of the situation.
He noticed everything except you.
Unless you were actively discussing numbers on plastic shapes you didn't fully understand, you might as well have been part of the set dressing.
By the time you drove Dustin home that night, your hands were tight on the wheel.
Your brother hummed beside you, cheerful and oblivious, backpack between his knees.
You made it three blocks before you cleared your throat, “So–”
Dustin glanced over at you quickly, the pout on his face came too rapid for your liking. “No.”
Your scoff couldn't have been more disbelieving. “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask!”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re going to ask about Eddie.”
You almost swerved on instinct. Ypu felt a faint scrunch appear on your face. “I am not.”
“You said ‘so’ in the exact voice Mom uses before asking if I have a girlfriend.” You really couldn't help but wincing at the comparison your little brother gave, though it did feel accurate all things considered.
Still, you tried to play it cool. “That is not a voice.”
Dustin didn't let up, voice potched up with voiced displeasure. “It is absolutely a voice.”
You kept your eyes on the road. Streets rolled past in lit porch lights and dark lawns, the houses familiar enough to make you feel both older and exactly as you were when you were sixteen. “I was just wondering what his deal is.”
Dustin turned his whole body toward you, suspicion sharpening his face. “His deal?”
“Yeah. His deal.”
“He’s our Dungeon Master.”
You rolled your eyes, the dry response was only one you could get from a pre-pubescent boy. “I gathered that from the yelling.”
Dustin seemed intent on upholding the male's honor. “He’s not just yelling, he’s creating atmosphere!”
“On a table.” you were throughly unconvinced.
“That was for staging.” Your brother vehemently defended. And you couldn't quite grasp how quickly the younger boy had gotten distracted.
“Right, sure.”
Dustin frowned, already offended on Eddie’s behalf. “You don’t get it.”
You shrugged, hands opening and closing momentarily on the steering wheel. “I’m trying to.”
“No, you’re doing the thing where you act above something before you understand it.”
That landed closer than you wanted. You adjusted your grip on the wheel. Now that had to be karma for whatever hell you put your mother through when you'd became a teenager.
“I’m not acting above anything,” you breathed a exasperated sigh. “I’m asking why my freshman brother’s best friend is some guy who looks old enough to rent an apartment.”
“He is not my best friend. He’s my mentor.” the correction did little to give you any real explanation or reassurance.
You barked out a laugh quickly after that. Your brows twitched up and you willed yourself not to sigh once more. “Your ‘mentor’?”
“In D&D.” Dustin’s tone was clarifying, as if that was the part that need confirmation.
“Oh, obviously.”
“And life, kind of.”
That made you throw a disbelieving look to the passenger seat quickly. “Dustin.”
“What?”
“You cannot have a life mentor who still attends your high school.”
“He’s a misunderstood genius,” Dustin corrected with the grave conviction of a boy defending a sacred holy text. “People think he’s just loud and weird, but he’s actually brilliant. His campaigns have political structures. Moral consequences. Long-term narrative payoffs.”
You stared through the windshield, your eye twitched the longer he went on. You swore you felt a headache coming in every time you blinked. Dustin kept going, flopping back against the leather of your car seats. His legs kicked restlessly at your mats.
“And he remembers everything. Not just game stuff. Everything. He knows what kind of character choices people make when they’re nervous, and he builds around it.” He kept rambling now, and you didn't quite have it in you to say anything to dampen his conviction. Ypur brother continued on. “He takes my ideas seriously.”
Your fingers loosened slightly on your wheel at the words, you kept silent for a moment. The only sound was the faint clicking noise of your turn signal as you made a right turn.
Dustin’s voice had changed by now. His tone was still too loud but also still too deeply allergic to sounding casual unlike yours at times. But beneath the lecture was something more grounded. Loyalty, maybe. You weren't quite sure why. You guessed it was gratitude he would rather smother in terminology than admit outright.
You looked at him through the corner of your eye sight. You didn't really know the guy beyond a few meetings and what you were told but he seemed to really have an impact on your little brother. Naturally you felt curious. “He takes your ideas seriously?”
Dustin shrugged, suddenly busy with the zipper on his backpack. The metallic noise moving forward and backward, then repeating again. “Yeah. I mean, when they’re good.”
That released an exhale from you, “which is always?”
“Which is frequently.” His voice came back upholding and matter of fact, and you smiled despite yourself to him.
Then, because you could not leave well enough alone, you added off handedly, “He has nice hair.”
Dustin’s head snapped up quickly, his hair bouncing along with him. “What?”
You winced a bit, pulling up to a red light. The water bottle in the cup holder beside you suddenly felt needed. “Nothing.”
“No, what did you say?” your little brother seemed annoyingly intent on hearing it.
At final, you sighed and repeated yourself, not before untwisting the cap and taking a much needed drink of water. “I said he has nice hair.”
“Why?” your brows furrowed at that, you barely had the chance to question that before the light turned green once more.
“Why does he have nice hair?” you asked incredulously.
Dustin's voice came narrowing into your side. “Why are you noticing?”
You rolled your eyes. The conversation felt more like a weighted blanket laying on top of you the longer it went on. “People can notice hair, Dustin.”
“Not you.” the response came thoroughly sure.
“I have eyes, that makes me viable to see things.”
“You also have motives.” Now at that, you gave a disgusted noise. Sure, maybe that was true, but did you want your little brother saying that, much less probably knowing what that meant? Absolutely not.
“You’re fourteen. Stop saying motives.”
“I know what motives are!”
“Do you?” You were seriously doubting that.
He seemed sure of himself either ways. “Yes!”
“Then explain why you keep becoming friends with people old enough to vote. Steve. Robin. Now Eddie.”
Dustin threw his hands up in indignation and made a noise. “Because most normal kids my age don’t understand the intellectual weight of my hobbies.”
The question of what he thought was genuine intelligence was on the tip of your tongue but you held it in. You turned to him slowly at another red light, and he held your stare for two seconds before his expression faltered.
“That,” your lips curved in slightly, “is exactly what a weirdo says.”
Dustin's voice was boosting with loud outrage, making you smack his elbow off your console center as your ear ringed. “I’m not a weirdo!”
Your scoff came as quick as it was allowed to by mere existence. “You are absolutely a weirdo.”
“You drove home from college to spy on my club!” That, was highly inaccurate. You could protest that point at least.
So you did. Your correction came quickly. “I drove home for Mom’s cooking.”
“You dressed up.” You weren't appreciating his tone of voice at the moment.
“I did not.” You did.
Now, he was even more unconvinced. His tone continued to be just as accusing. “You wore the jeans.”
“What jeans?”
“The ‘trying’ jeans.”
You gasped, throwing a look to your side. You were highly unsure how a boy who forgot his shirts were worn inside out could be this observant. “You little creep.”
Your little brother was unbothered as he kicked back adjusting your passenger seat for the tenth time. “I live with you. I know your patterns.”
The light turned green, and you hit the gas harder than necessary while Dustin cackled into his sleeve. You ignored him and smacked his hand away when he tried to change your radio station. You didn't bother acting affected by his pout.
You should have let it go then. You should have written Eddie Munson off as a strange footnote in your brother’s already strange social life. You should have returned to campus and found a boy in one of your classes who understood when he was being flirted with.
Instead, you spent the week thinking about the words Dustin had used.
Misunderstood genius.
God-tier Dungeon Master.
And finally, takes my ideas seriously.
You thought about Eddie noticing everything at the table. You thought about his voice dropping when a player got uncertain. You thought about the careless weight of his hand on your shoulder, the grin that never stayed in one place for long, the way he treated you without reverence, without hunger, and without the usual level of calculation.
You hated that it interested you.
You hated even more that he still hadn’t looked at you properly. That affected you more than you'd ever like to admit.
By the next Friday night, your pride had become a living thing.
It paced, it scratched at the door, and it made you do something unforgivable.
You stole Dustin’s stupid spare Player’s Handbook.
Technically, stole was such a strong word. You borrowed it from his room while he was in the shower, which would have felt morally distinct if you didn’t examine it. The book was heavier than expected, its cover worn at the corners, and several pages marked with scraps of paper and gum wrappers. You carried it into your bedroom in your hands with the grim focus of a criminal and dropped it onto your desk.
For a while, you only stared at it, before you got agitated once more and then you opened it up.
The first problem was that none of it appeared to be written in English.
The second problem was that it was definitely written in English, which meant you had no excuse. You could only stare at it with furrowed brows for so long, you found out your max had been 4 minutes.
You sat cross-legged on your bed then with the handbook open in front of you, a notebook balanced on your knee, and tried to force your college-trained brain to process the words on the page: armor classes, hit dices, saving throws, spell slots, proficiencies, races, classes, modifiers, initiative. It had the density of a textbook and the emotional tone of a tax form written by wizards. You underlined things. You circled words. You wrote “IMPORTANT???” beside paragraphs you did not understand.
The sad thing was, you still had no genuine clue what any of it actually meant.
At some point, your mother knocked and asked if you wanted tea.
You slapped a magazine over the book and said, too loudly, “No thanks!”
She paused outside your door, her voice soft and curious. “Honey?”
“I’m fine.” You cooled your tone down quick.
“All right,” she hummed then, not sounding convinced. She took only a few steps in and leaned in to kiss your forehead, to which you did the same. “Don’t stay up too late.”
You stayed up until nearly two in the morning. By then, your eyes burned. Your notes had devolved from careful definitions into frantic questions: Why are there so many dice? Why does charisma do magic? What is THAC0 and why did it feel oddly personal?
You had written spellslot as one word because you could not remember if the space actually mattered or was just exaggerated. You had copied down Vvardenfell from a crumpled page tucked into Dustin’s book, not realizing it did not belong where you thought it did. It sounded impressive though, but it also sounded obscure. You wondered if it was a thing that sounded like something Eddie might look up for.
Or, look at for.
On Saturday, you walked into the club a few steps behind your excited brother armed with one good term, three questionable facts, and a level of determination usually reserved for final exams.
The session had already started. Eddie was behind his screen, hunched forward, voice low enough that everyone leaned in without realizing. Candles were not allowed in school, apparently, so he had settled for a flashlight propped behind a stack of books, throwing strange shadows up his face. His hair fell around his cheeks. His rings tapped once against the table.
You took your usual place near the back.
He didn't look over.
Fine.
You waited.
The opportunity came during a heated argument about magic. Dustin was explaining something to Mike with his entire body, hands slicing through the air and Eddie watched with the tolerance of a man deciding how soon to punish them.
You cleared your throat, for a second. No one noticed, and you cleared it again.
Dustin glanced back at you, annoyed at the interruption. “What?”
You pushed off the desk and forced your voice into casual shape. “Couldn’t you just use, you know, a spellslot from Vvardenfell?”
The room went quiet, and not normal quiet.
Dead quiet.
That should have been your first clue. Mike’s mouth opened at you but then closed with that familiar judgment you saw resemblance of his sister in. Lucas had blinked up at you as if you were a foreign subject, and even Gareth slowly lowered his pencil from his own sheet in front of him.
Dustin looked at you with an expression you had only seen once before, when your mother tried to pronounce “Walkman” as two separate words. That was the only small you had gotten before realizing that you must've said something wrong.
Eddie froze behind the screen.
For a terrible second, he did not even blink. His stillness was unnatural for what you'd studied him to be. His eyes fixed on you then, wide and unreadable. One hand remained suspended over his notes.
And you felt your confidence leave your body in a clean, efficient evacuation.
“What,” Dustin gasped horrifically and yet very softly. It was as if he were afraid of repeating your words, “did you just say?”
You lifted your chin, you were thoroughly prepared to double down. Nothing you said should be that bad, right? “I said—”
“No, don’t repeat it.” Your little brother's words came out as a desperate plea. And before you could even feel the familiar prickle of defensiveness appear, you heard Eddie lowered his screen by an inch.
Your face suddenly felt a lot more warmer than it had been.
Somewhere in the hallway, you could hear a locker slam, and the sound traveled through the walls and disappeared through the dead silence of the room.
Then, Eddie Munson laughed.
Not a polite laugh, and thankfully, not a cruel one either, which basically just had made it worse. It came out of him full-bodied and startled, it was the kind of laugh that made him knock his head back and made him grab the edge of the table. His dark curls shook, amd his shoulders folded forward. The rest of the room followed in scattered bursts, confused at first and then helpless.
Dustin buried his face in both hands.
You stood there, pride crumpling around your ankles. Still, you wouldn't let that show in a room filled with mostly teen boys that barely touched the outside world unless it was held in the comfort of neon lights and sticky arcade game machines.
“I was joking,” you tried to give what you could only hope was a breezy shrug.
“Were you?” Mike asked, the snark too familiar and you already had one teenage boy you've had enough of, you really didn't need another.
You pointed at him with your eyes, your own gaze fighting the smaller boys. “Don't.”
Eddie wiped at one eye with his thumb, he was still grinning so hard it changed his whole face. And almost against yourself, you had to admit, he had a beautiful smile. It was a real one, maybe that was why you liked it so much. “A spellslot from Vvardenfell,” he repeated, reverent now. “Gentlemen, pack it up. We have peaked.”
“It was a joke,” you insisted, suddenly very interested in the nonexistent lint on your top, picking at it between your forefinger and thumb.
“Of course,” Eddie nodded solemnly while pressing one hand to his chest. “A devastating one. The bard takes psychic damage. I may never recover.”
Dustin looked up at the ceiling and gave a whine that already had your fraying nerves ready to explode. “I’m transferring schools.”
You returned to your desk and sat down with as much dignity as a person could manage after publicly inventing nonsense in front of teenage-ish boys and the only man in Hawkins apparently immune to your entire existence.
The rest of the session blurred quickly by then.
You remembered Eddie glancing at you more than once, which should have felt victorious. And, really, it didn't. Each time his mouth twitched the slightest bit upwards, you fully wanted to disappear behind the costume rack and live there among the fake trees until your brother's graduation.
When the game finally ended, you stood too quickly. The heel of your shoe caught a bit on the edge of the desk, making a noise that you pretended didn't happen.
“I’m going to the car,” you told Dustin, motioning behind you with your hand.
“No, you’re not,” Dustin protested immediately, shoving his books into his big backpack. “Mike and I have to settle something.”
You didn't care. “Settle it in the car.”
“This is important.” Dustin didn't seem to either.
Your warning was sharper now, already wanting to disappear given the chance. “You have thirty seconds.”
“It will take longer than thirty seconds!”
You were ready to leave with or without him, and your mother would only be slightly upset knowing you left him. You could deal with her frowns and soft chastisements, what you couldn't deal with was staying here a moment longer when just you wanted to melt into a puddle just to escape.“Then make it twenty.”
Mike appeared in the doorway, passing around you promptly. “Dustin, come here.”
Dustin pointed at you and his gaze was sure, “do not leave without me.”
“I should leave without you on principle.”
“You love me too much.”
“Do I, though?”
He ran out before you could answer, his backpack half-zipped, and bouncing against his spine. The room emptied in pieces until only you and Eddie remained. That was doing you much favors either.
The silence after the club always felt strange to you. Too much sound had filled the room for too long, and when it left, the old drama room seemed larger, and full of abandoned corners. Eddie moved around the table, packing away his kingdom. Miniatures disappeared into foam trays. Dice went into bags. Notes were stacked, tapped against the tabletop, and clipped together. The heavy chain at his hip clicked when he bent to retrieve a fallen pencil.
You stayed because Dustin had your car keys in his backpack. The realization came when you had reached for them in your bag and didn't find the familiar keyring, safe to say he really didn't trust you to not leave him. You also stayed because leaving would have required walking past Eddie, and the thought of doing that while he was still visibly amused felt completely and utterly mortifying for you right now.
Mostly, though, you stayed because Eddie finally seemed aware of you. Though, on principle you would deny it if questioned.
He didn't really anything for a minute; instead, he let the quiet stretch while he put things away. That was new, you'd seen him loud, theatrical, amd quick to fill any space he entered. This quiet version of him made you shift in your seat.
At last, he said, “So.”
You stared at the floor, suddenly feeling your relaxed composure become more awkward and forced. “If you’re going to make fun of me, get it over with.”
“Tempting.”
You didn't like his tone. “Munson.”
“I’m thinking.”
The rhythm of familiarity found you before you could stop yourself. “That doesn't sound good.”
He laughed under his breath. Though, not the booming laugh from earlier; rather, it was something smaller, and closer to private. You didn't quite know how to process that. “You stole the kid’s handbook, didn’t you?”
Your head snapped up, feeling weirdly caught off guard.
Eddie’s grin tilted when your face finally came into view, and apparently told him all that he needed to know. “Oh, that is a yes.”
You forced yourself to swallow before answering, as if that gave you some sort of control. It really didn't. “I didn’t steal it.”
“Borrowed without permission?” again, irritatingly accurate.
You tried to make it sound better, and in doing so you just dug yourself deeper. “Borrowed with the assumption that permission would have been denied.”
“Lawful evil.” Eddie's voice was far too amused by now.
You didn't want to further dignify him with a response. “I don’t know what that means, and I refuse to ask.”
He came around the table slowly, not prowling or preforming, it was more like moving with a kind of very bloose ease that made you sit very still and rigid. He stopped at the desk in front of you and leaned back against it, arms folded. Up close, he looked less untouchable than he did at the head of the table. There was a nick near one knuckle. A loose thread hung from his sleeve and his eyeliner, if that was what darkened the edges of his eyes, had worn down unevenly.
“You’ve been trying to figure it out,” he said at last.
You looked away on contact and refused to admit reality. “No.”
Eddie Munson really was annoyed when he was amused. And you decided that you didn't know how to feel about that just yet.“Bad roll.”
Your voice came quickly and unimpressed, or tried to.“I hate you.”
“Another bad roll.” His grin seemed to widen, though that seemed impossible by now.
You rubbed a hand over your face, already feeling worse than you felt before. “Can we not?”
His expression shifted. Not into pity like you'd thought. That really would have been unbearable, and instead, it settled into something more carefully placed, the amusement still there but it was softened at the edges.
“You know,” Eddie started, his forearms now crossed against the other, “most people just call us freaks and keep walking.”
Your eyes dipped for a moment to see the faint black ink on his exposed skin, then immediately looked away. “ Well, I didn’t call you freaks.”
“No. You committed espionage.”
You dropped your hand and glared. That was absolutely not what you did. “I was curious.”
“You were trying to get my attention.”
The words landed too cleanly, and with an embarrassing amount of clarity.
Your mouth opened, then closed. There were several responses available to you. Denial, outrage, even sarcasm. You could have picked any of them. Your usual self would have. Your usual self would never been caught studying a fantasy rulebook at midnight because one guy in a school club had failed to flirt back.
Eddie watched you work through this with infuriating patience.
Finally, you settled on, “maybe I just wanted to understand what Dustin was talking about.”
“That too,” he added then and that threw you off just as quickly
He shrugged, oddly relaxed with your tension. “The kid worships the game. Makes sense you’d want to know why.”
The answer unarmed you because it didn't flatten you into one simple, childish motive. Eddie, who had laughed so hard at your mistake he nearly fell out of his chair, was now giving you more credit than you had given yourself.
Your fingers curled around the edge of the desk, suddenly all too aware of your limbs.
He reached into his dice bag and pulled out a single twenty-sided die. Deep red, almost black except where the light caught the edges. He rolled it between his fingers with practiced ease.
“Here,” he said as if that made perfect sense, and was explanation enough.
You looked at it, then at him. “What?”
“Take it.” that just continued to make you stare at him more wearily than you'd have liked.
“Why?”
“So the next time you want to impress me, you can use the right cursed object.”
Despite yourself, you laughed. It came out entirely too unsteady, half-embarrassed, and somewhat half-relieved. When you held out your hand, he dropped the die into your palm. It was warm from his fingers.
He leaned forward then, bracing one hand on either side of the desk. Not close enough to touch you, but certainly close enough that you noticed the faint smell of cigarettes and leather and then the spearmint gum he must have been chewing earlier. It certainly was close enough that the room seemed to narrow around the space between his arms.
“You don’t have to pretend to like the dragons, Henderson,” he hummed, his head tilting with the words.
His voice had changed now, the loud theatric volume was gone. there wasn't any thunder or mockery that was reserved for his table. It was rougher in this low, rough way that there was still enough of it that you had to hold still to catch all of it.
“If you wanted me to look at you,” his pretty brown eyes were twinkling with an unfair mischief by now, “all you had to do was ask.”
You really should have had an answer ready. You were sure of that by now.
You had answers for everything. That was part of your charm, or your defense, or whatever you wanted to call the shiny thing you carried in front of yourself so no one looked too closely. Yet with Eddie leaning there, rings pressed flat to the desk, hair falling forward, and big eyes fixed on you without the safety of an audience, every clever line scattered out of reach.
So you looked down at the die in your palm. Then back at him. At final, you decided to say, screw it, because what was the worst that could happen? After all, if all went to hell, you could just go back to letting Dustin fend for himself at carpooling home on the weekend.
“I didn’t want to ask.”
His mouth curved and he nodded with an unfair amount of faux pity. “Yeah. I got that.”
You cleared your throat and shrugged. “Seemed bad for my image.”
“Your image?” You tried not to wince at his clear entertainment of the potential prospect your words implied.
The nod that came from you was far from self assured, “I’m very mysterious.”
Eddie didn't seem to be convinced. “You asked if Vvardenfell had spellslots.”
Your eyes narrowed and you couldn't help the subconscious frown that stretched over your face. “You said you weren’t going to make fun of me.”
“I never said that. You asked me to get it over with, and I chose psychological warfare instead.”
The roll of your eyes wasn't subtle and you were glad for it. “You’re awful.”
“True.”
The word hung there, light and easy, but neither of you moved. His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, quick enough that you could have pretended not to notice if your pulse had not immediately turned traitor.
From the hallway, Dustin shouted making his voice travel quicker before him, “I heard laughing! Are you making fun of her without me?”
Eddie closed his eyes for one second, and you really, really wanted to leave your little brother here at the ruined moment.
You leaned back, exhaling through your nose.
“Saved by the gremlin,” he murmured, and he seemed to mimic your actions, or maybe that was just your wishful thinking. Or ruined, you wanted to say, but you bit your tongue.
Dustin appeared in the doorway, flushed with victory or irritation. Probably both. “We’re leaving.”
You stood, closing your hand around the die. If looks could kill, you'd have to tell your mother to prepare funeral flowers already for him. “Finally.”
Dustin looked between you and Eddie. His eyes narrowed on instinct from your expression.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” you and Eddie said at the same time, though yours came out more somber than you'd have appreciated.
Dustin’s suspicion deepened into horror. “Ew.”
“Nothing happened,” you snapped, and you were almost disappointed you were telling the truth. That was a lie, you definitely were disappointed.
“That was synchronized.”
Your tone hardened, by now your jaw was held completely with gritted tension. “Get in the car.”
“I don’t like this.” The judgemental frown on Dustin's face affirmed that.
You were practically hissing by now. “You don’t have to like it, just get in the car.”
Eddie lifted one hand in farewell, grin returning in lazy increments. You didn't even want to begin to disect that. “Study hard, Henderson.”
You pointed at him with the hand still holding the die between the closed fingers. “Don’t even start.”
You tried not to think about his voice as he answered. It wasn't a successful mission. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You left with Dustin ranting at your side, but your palm stayed closed the entire walk to the parking lot. The die pressed twenty tiny edges into your skin. All noise turned to static to the walk to your car in the parking lot, and all sights turned to a blur.
You had kept it in your jacket pocket for the rest of the week.
───
The main problem, you found, with being seen was that it made invisibility impossible afterward.
Once Eddie knew, he kept knowing.
At the next session, you tried to sit in your usual place near the back. Eddie looked up from behind his screen, spotted you, and frowned.
“Absolutely not. ”
You froze halfway into your chair, a People magazine already halfway out of your bag. “What?”
He pointed to the empty seat beside his end of the table. “New recruit sits where I can keep an eye on her.”
Dustin made a strangled noise alongside Lucas. “New what?”
“I’m not a recruit,” you immediately rejected the prospect. Sure, you'd admit you learned a few terms in hopes of impressing the guy, but a recruit? You couldn't be less interested even if you tried.
Eddie held up the matching red die you had forgotten he could identify from across the room. “Possession of contraband says otherwise.”
The sputter you gave was filled with incredulity. “You gave it to me?”
“And you accepted. Binding contract.” You couldn't help the face you made then.
“That is not how contracts work.”
“You’d know if you read the legal section of the handbook.” Eddie’s voice was gleeful and in a song-y pitch.
You were sure that had to be a joke. “There isn’t a legal section.”
“Look at you,” he grinned, pleased. “Learning.”
You should have refused omce more, and you should have stayed at the back and maintained some remaining fragment of dignity.
Instead, with Dustin staring at you in betrayed disbelief, you picked up your bag and moved to the seat beside the Dungeon Master screen.
You really were out of your depth in this situation.
The table absorbed you awkwardly at first. Mike eyed you with the distrust of someone who did not enjoy unexpected variables. Lucas seemed amused but cautious, he was always your favorite after all. Though, Dustin sat directly across from you, practically vibrating with the need to object. You couldn't help but agree.
Eddie handed you a blank character sheet and you looked at him like he'd grown ten different heads.
You looked at the paper like it’d explain itself and it looked back doing nothing of the sort. It was covered in boxes, lines, and labels that seemed designed to expose your ignorance.
“Don’t panic,” Eddie murmured under his breath besides you. His voice hitting your ears differently now that it was closer.
“I’m not panicking.” you were, and you were panicking hard.
“You’re holding the pencil too hard.”
You loosened your grip on instinct, and immediately hate the grin that appeared on his face.
Dustin leaned forward, his cherubic features exasperated, and for good reason. “She doesn’t even know what class she wants.”
“I know what class I want,” you protested with a fervor that you didn't know where it even came from.
Your little brother sounded akin to a parrot. “Oh yeah? What?”
You glanced at the sheet. Your brain offered nothing useful. Quickly then, you blinked a few times in hopes that the words might suddenly translate themselves. It didn’t help.
Eddie tapped one section with his finger. “She’s thinking.”
“Yeah, I’m thinking,” you echoed. The nod of your head was quickly stopped when you realized just how much familiar you looked akin to a baby duck and the older ones beside it.
Mike muttered with a groan then, “This is going to take forever.”
Eddie’s head snapped up, his tongue clicked quietly, almost as if it were on instinct. “Wheeler.”
Mike sat back at that, his arms coming up to cross against his chest.
You bit the inside of your cheek to hide a smile. It didn't do much to stop the slightly shocked expression from stretching across your face. You tried not think about the reaction from the moment pulled from you, or what you felt when Eddie’s hand came to pull the leg of your chair closer.
Eddie guided you through the sheet with surprising patience. You weren't expecting it, after all, it wasn't the exaggerated patience boys sometimes used when they wanted everyone to notice how generous they were being. You knew that language well enough back at your college campus. He didn't talk down to you in a condescending way that was familiar in the way men tried to explain simple things. He did not make it too easy either. Instead, he explained, waited, watched your face, and even corrected you when you guessed wrong. When wanted Dustin interrupted, Eddie lifted one finger without looking at him.
“Let the lady cook up her ideas.”
“She is not cooking. She is burning water.” That got a glare from you, but he continued. “Seriously, she actually did burn a pot boiling water one time—” he was quickly interrupted when you kicked him under the table, the heel of your shoe pressing into his knee.
He yelped and shot up slightly in his seat, that did little to ease your glare, and now, his. “Assault!”
“Consequence,” Eddie gave a simple shrug, leaning back with all the confidence you seemed to have everywhere except from where he was.
The game itself remained confusing to you, but not entirely impossible now. You learned that part of the fun was pretending certainty until the dice betrayed you. You learned that the younger wheeler argued when nervous, how Lucas got quieter when invested, and Dustin could really turn any number into a personal grievance.
You also learned that Eddie’s chaos had structure underneath it. He let the room run wild only until it needed direction, then snapped everyone back with a look, a voice, amd then caused a sudden shift in the stakes.
You had also then learned that if you asked a question softly enough, Eddie would lean closer to answer.
The first time, it was accidental. You genuinely could not even remember which die to roll for an attack. You bent toward him and whispered, “Which one is the stabby one?”
His mouth twitched, his rose tinted lips were bit back to hide amusement.
“The stabby one,” he repeated in a familiar hush of your tone.
The frown came instinctively with the feeling of being poked fun at. “You know what I mean.”
“I do, and I’m deciding whether to let that become official terminology.”
“Eddie, come on.”
His amusement stayed in his energy but he moved instantly. He reached across you to pick up the twenty-sided die, his arm brushing the back of your chair as he did so. “This one.”
His hair grazed your cheek when he leaned in. It wasn’t in any way cinematic, in fact, it was barely enough to really count it. Still, your hand paused above the table, and your fingers hovered for a moment over the die.
Across from you, Dustin went still in a way that could only be compared to a prying mantis’ steady gaze.
You rolled the die, albeit a bit hesitantly.
A nineteen apeared.
The table erupted, and the jump of your shoulders along with it. You were fully prepared to face whatever stupid bragging comment from your little brother across from you at that.
Eddie then slammed both of his hands down and went back to his theatrics. “Critical threat from the rookie!”
“I did something?” you asked, entirely startled. You scanned the table quickly to make sure it wasn't just Eddie making fun of you again.
“You did something,” Lucas said with a nod of his head, grinning.
Dustin pointed at you, clearly displeased. And of course, that was to your much greater pleasure on the win won over your younger brother. “Beginner’s luck.”
“Sounds like jealousy,” you gave a pitying nod with your lips brought together in a mocking pout.
Dustin's corrective voice came out quickly, it often did when you were right. You'd learned that ever since he could talk and you could tease him. “It is statistical outrage.”
Eddie leaned back in his chair, eyes bright, and his voice a pitch calmer now. “Roll damage, Henderson.”
You didn't know what damage to roll. So, you asked, even though Eddie had told you three minutes earlier. He leaned in again, closer this time, and showed you with a murmur meant only for you. You had to stop yourself from asking another time. Though, you weren't perfect.
After that, the accidents became less accidental.
You misplaced numbers you had already learned, which were already very little. You asked whether your character could do something obviously illegal within the rules just to hear Eddie explain why with increasing theatrical despair. You let your pencil roll off the table and watched him bend to retrieve it, then thanked him with a smile that made his fingers linger around it a second longer than necessary.
Eddie, for all his noise, was not stupid. There could be many words to describe him, but stupid wasn’t an entirely accurate one.
By the second week of this new arrangement, he had caught on.
You knew because he stopped correcting you immediately. He would wait, the watch you from behind the screen while you pretended to study your character sheet.
“Question?” he would ask, and you had to bit the flesh of your lips in order not to smile.
Your voice came back cool, you appluaded yourself on that. “Maybe.”
“About the rules?” Eddie’s came back low and questioning, you tried to ignore the faint tinge of amusement you heard In it.
“Obviously.”
“Not about my hair being in your personal space?”
You would look up, innocent expression plastered on as you asked. “Is that a rule?”
His grin would spread slowly, and you would try to repeat that as many times as you could just to see it again. “It is now.”
Your little brother suffered through this with the rigid endurance of a boy witnessing a natural disaster in his own home.
“This is disgusting,” he announced one night after Eddie leaned over your shoulder to point at your spell list. You had had to actually bite your tongue in order not to snap at him.
“You say that about everything,” you replied swiftly, throwing him a barely there glance as you kept your head tilted slightly so you could peek at Eddie through the corner of your eye.
His whine was throughly ignored by you.“Because everything keeps being disgusting.”
Eddie did not move away, that was the only win you really cared about by now. His hand rested on the table near your elbow, silver rings glinting beneath the overhead lights. “Henderson the Younger, your sister is simply pursuing an education.”
Dustin's voice came murmured. “She sure is pursuing something alright.”
“Careful,” you warned, though without looking up. The tip of one of the stored up threats already prepared on your tongue.
Dustin gagged loudly besides Mike who snickered so hard he had to hide behind his binder.
That was how the weeks changed. Slowly enough that you did not notice the shape of them until you were already inside it. Though, it was a weirdly welcome routine.
You still drove back to Hawkins every Friday afternoon after classes pretending it was for laundry or dinner or because Dustin needed you. But your bag started including the red die, your half-finished character sheet, and a notebook where your class notes competed with scribbled spell names. Your mother asked why you were home so often, and you told her college food was bad. She believed you because college food was, in fact, bad.
Eddie started saving you the seat beside him.
Sometimes he teased you in front of everyone. Sometimes, when the others were arguing, he lowered his voice and asked about your classes. Not in the empty way people asked because they wanted their turn to talk. He remembered details. The sociology professor who mispronounced your last name. The dormate who you were sure was draining your expensive shampoo. Even the stupid party with the rugby boy and the boat.
“You hate the boat guy,” he said one evening while packing up while you had been seated atop of an empty desk table.
You'd made a face at him. “I never said I hated him.”
“You called him ‘the human yacht brochure.’”
“That was descriptive.” that had been your attempt at flowery embellishment.
“That was poetry.”
You snorted and took a stack of papers from him without being asked. “Are you making fun of my academic environment?”
“Never. I deeply respect institutions that produce phrases like ‘human yacht brochure.’” Eddie’s voice would come back in dramatic tandem with the familiar twinkle in his big eyes.
In return, you learned pieces of him in the spaces between performances. He liked cheap diner coffee but complained about it every time. He taped his guitar picks to the inside of his notebook and lost them anyway. He acted insulted when people underestimated him but looked uneasy when they praised him too directly. He walked Dustin to the parking lot if the session ran late, pretending he only did it because your brother was too short to see over parked cars.
On one Friday, during a break, you found a note folded beneath your character sheet.
You looked up.
Eddie was behind his screen, apparently absorbed in drawing a map. His hair hid most of his face, but the corner of his mouth gave him away. That reaction had your brow twitching on instinct.
You unfolded the paper in your lap.
It wasnt what you were expecting. There was no lore on the white material, no clue, certainly no dramatic prophecy.
Instead, it was just a phone number, written in messy black ink, and with a crooked little crown drawn beside it.
Beneath that:
For emergencies involving dragons, spellslots, or pretty girls with wounded pride.
You stared at it until the words blurred slightly at the edges, and the smile that grew on your lips had to be bitten back by the fangs of your teeth.
Dustin leaned over, overly interested for a boy who had been fighting with you for any small noise he deemed a distraction. “What is that?”
You folded it so quickly the paper nearly tore. Though, it did little to wipe the expression from your face or the warmth that crawled and rested besides the back of your neck. “Nothing.”
He didn't seem convinced. “That didn't look like nothing.”
“It’s game stuff.”
Dustin seemed motivated now. “Show me.”
“No.” you barely looked up at him.
He leaned even further over, his head poking over your shoulder as he frowned. “Show me.”
“Roll perception,” Eddie then called without looking up. That just made it even harder to school your expression, or even worse, your reaction.
Dustin turned on him, with greater conviction. “Don’t encourage her!”
Eddie finally lifted his head. His eyes found yours, and for once his grin did not arrive right away. Instead, it built slowly, almost careful, and all while your thumb pressed against the fold in the note.
You tucked it into your pocket and tried to act like you weren't wholly aware of it.
Later, after you dropped Dustin at home and sat in your room with the door locked, you dialed the number from memory because taking out the note again felt too embarrassing. Though, it wasn't much better to amdit it only took a few glaces to memorize it either.
Eddie answered on the fourth ring.
“Munson residence,” he had answered blankly. “If you’re calling about the ritual sacrifice allegations, our official statement is no comment.”
You sat on the edge of your bed, biting your smile into the side of your thumb. “What if I’m calling about dragons?”
A pause took place for a moment.
Then his voice changed, warmth threaded through the static. That warmth seemed to transfer out from the receiver quickly. “Hey, Henderson.”
You talked for forty-seven minutes.
About nothing important at first. Then about music. Then about school. Then about how neither of you knew what counted as a normal conversation once Dustin and dice were removed from the equation. Eddie made you laugh so hard you had to press the receiver against your shoulder and cover your mouth because your mother’s room was down the hall.
Near the end, when the line had gone softer and both of you were tired enough to stop performing, he cleared his throat suddenly, “You doing anything Saturday?”
You stared at the wall as you shifted uproght on your bed, knees becoming propped up on the soft material.
“Define doing.”
“Leaving your house. With me. No freshmen. No dice unless you’re into that now.” His voice seemed less sure as he went on, and for a second you were truly wondering if he'd actually been rambling or if that was your wishful thinking again.
You pressed your free hand into your temple, as willed your voice to behave and not jump. “Are you asking me to hang out, Munson?”
His laugh sent goosebumps against your skin as you heard it ring directly into your ear.“Terrible, right? Very uncool of me.”
“Devastating.” Your tone was unconvincing.
“I can take it back.”
“Don’t.” The word came out quicker than you meant it to. And once more, you gave a faint curse as you covered the receiver to get a grip.
On the other end, Eddie went quiet. The only real sound was a faint swallow of his, that you were sure mirrored your own.
You picked at a loose thread in your blanket now, resisting the urge to scream at how your body seemed mindless in behaving to what you wished for. “I mean, yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
“Whatever,” he repeated, amusement clear as day in his voice.
You made that familiar face, though It was concealed just to you in the comfort of your room. You cleared your throat before giving a hum. “Don’t make it weird.”
He didn't seem particularly affected by the attempt at collection. “Henderson, weird is my primary export.”
You smiled at your knees.
By the time you hung up, you realized you had failed to ask where you were going, what you were doing, or even what kind of hangout Eddie Munson considered appropriate for a Saturday night with the older sister of one of his so called “sheep”.
That failure came back to punish you.
Your bedroom looked bombed out by Saturday afternoon.
Clothes covered every available surface. Your bed had disappeared beneath the wreckage of six different versions of yourself. A knit sweater that made you look studious but possibly boring. A tight black top that felt too obvious the second you put it on. A skirt you had worn to a party once and now regarded with suspicion due to the memories in them. A denim jacket you liked until you remembered Eddie’s vest and threw it across the chair in a panic.
You stood in the middle of the mess wearing jeans, socks, and a bra, holding two shirts against your chest while your reflection looked back at you from the dresser mirror with open accusation.
This was Eddie Munson.
He practically raved about being the towns outcast. He wore ripped denim and chains to school. He stood on tables. He drew crowns on phone numbers and called freshmen sheep. He might take you to a diner. He might take you to a concert. He might take you to his trailer and play music loud enough to rattle your fillings. He might not even consider this a date at all, in which case showing up too polished would make you want to walk into traffic.
You changed again.
Then again.
By the time the doorbell rang, your nerves had turned physical. They hit your stomach, your hands, the back of your neck.
You bolted out of your room, still tugging one sleeve into place, anm your socks slid on the waxed hallway floor. From the kitchen came a blur of curls, graphic tee, and pure fourteen-year-old malice.
Dustin.
“No,” you hissed as you looked down at his closer position to the doorway. “No, no, no! Dustin, don’t you dare–”
“I live here too!” he shouted back, and he was already sprinting before you could even say anything else.
You lunged for him with a precision that came from years of keeping him grounded and caught the back of his shirt. He made a strangled sound, twisted with the terrifying flexibility of someone who had not yet learned to fear injury, and planted one foot against the floor.
“Move,” you all but seethed, hopping your voice was quiet enough it didnt announce the possible situation to anyone else in close area.
He didn’t share your sentiment and yelled back. “No!”
“Dustin.”
“I have a right to know who’s at my door.”
“You know who’s at the door, you dork!”
“Exactly!”
You reached for the knob. Dustin threw his shoulder back with shocking force. Your shoulder hit the wall with a dull thud, and for one breath you were too stunned to react.
“You little—”
He yanked the door open as your cursed turned faint as you rubbed at your shoulder with a wince, and before you could even prepare yourself mentally Eddie stood infront of you on the porch.
He was leaned against the railing with his hands tucked in his jacket pockets, his hair loose around his face, and his expression caught halfway between greeting and confusion. He wore his leather jacket, of course he would, and dark jeans with one knee torn. But his shirt looked unnaturally proper, not formal, but clean cut. His hair looked slightly less wild than usual. He had probably tried, which did something inconvenient to your chest.
Eddie didn't seem to expect he sight that welcomed him, and blinked at the scene in the doorway: Dustin planted in front of him, you shoved against the hallway wall, one sleeve still twisted at your wrist.
“Evening,” Eddie settled for carefully.
“Eddie,” Dustin barked quickly in greeting, and you kicked at your brother but his unexpected jolt of adrenaline induced strength made it difficult.
Eddie’s eyebrows climbed and he blinked even slower now at the shorter boy. “Henderson.”
Dustin stepped fully into the doorway, turning himself into a small, aggressive barricade. A barricade that you were trying to shove out of the way of the doorway that was hidden to you. “Look, man. I don’t know what kind of brain damage you suffered at the table last week, but you don’t want to do this.”
You closed your eyes and was ready to just give up on pure instinct of knowing what came next.
Dustin continued with the confidence of a prophet. “She’s so not cool. She thought a saving throw was a baseball term again three days ago. And she listens to pop radio!” That had you jabbing your elbow in his ribcage, having purposefully left that out last night on your phone call. He shoved back into you as he continued. “She has a decorative pillow that says ‘dream big.’ Save yourself.”
“That pillow was a gift,” you snapped as you tried to calm whatever dignity you could in your current position.
Eddie’s face opened into delight. You saw it happen in real time. It was slow, helpless delight that appeared. His eyes flicked over Dustin’s head and landed on you, still half-pinned by embarrassment and a badly behaved sleeve.
“Is that so?” he drawled. The tone was more pointed than you'd have liked, more specifically because when asked last night you'd just given a vague answer in hopes his named artists rang any familiar bells in your head. “A pop fan?”
“Don’t,” you warned, though it felt already weak all thing consodered.
“Man.” He shook his head with grave disappointment. “My reputation in the trailer park is going to take a serious hit.”
Dustin jabbed a finger toward Eddie. “I’m serious. She’s going to pretend she understands your music and then ask if the singer is okay.”
Your voice came quick with indignation. “I did not ask if the singer was okay!”
Dustin did little to help, and you really should've known he wouldn't do anything of the sort when you'd asked him about the artists Eddie had mentioned last night. “You asked if he needed water.”
“He sounded dehydrated!” the defense came pathetically weak now.
Eddie pressed his lips together, visibly fighting for control. That did little to help you gain back your dignity.
You pushed away from the wall and advanced on your brother. “Dustin, shut your mouth.”
“I am protecting the integrity of Hellfire!”
“You are about to lose teeth.”
“You can’t threaten me in front of company.” He sounded to sure of himself for your liking.
“Wanna bet?” Your scoff came just as quick as his. Finally twisting from your position, you put your whole palm over his face and pushed back.
Dustin shrieked into your hand, muffled and outraged, while you shoved his head backward and wedged yourself into the doorway. He tried to bite your fingers. You moved them just in time and shot him a look that promised violence later.
Then you turned to Eddie and offered the tightest smile of your life.
“I’ll be right out,” your voice came a little too disheveled for your liking. “I just need to grab my bag.”
Eddie gave you a lazy two-finger salute, big eyes bright as they locke donto yours. “Take your time, Henderson. I’ll stay here and let your manager give me the full warning label.”
Dustin wrenched your hand away finally. “Good. Because there’s more–”
“No, there is not,” you turned your head back to glare furiously at your annoyance of a brother.
“There is so much more.”
You fled before either of them could continue. But if referred to in the future, you refused all admittance of the usuage of the word.
Back in your room, you grabbed your bag, stared at yourself once in the mirror, and decided there was no salvaging dignity from a situation that had begun with your little brother publicly mentioning your decorative pillow. You fixed your sleeve, took a breath, and returned to the front door.
Dustin and Eddie stood on the porch now. Dustin had his arms crossed. Eddie was listening with exaggerated seriousness.
“—and she cheats at Monopoly,” Dustin was saying and you immediately regretted leaving him alone with Eddie.
“I was eight!”
“You bankrupted me.”
Your voice was all loud and disbelieving. “You couldn’t count, how was that my fault?”
Eddie looked between you with open fascination. It was a look you'd have preffered not to show him on the first…whatever this was. “This family has layers.”
“Goodnight, Dustin,” your voice was now strained and fixed.
Dustin pointed at Eddie again. “Home by eleven.”
You stared at him with a wide eyed disbelieving look that you were sure could compete with your mother's. Eddie coughed into his fist, throughly breaking you out of your agape expression.
“You are not my father,” you scoffed, it was hard to take the words of a 14 year old boy seriously when you were already half a decade older than him.
Dustin returned your expression, arms crossed against his chest in a way that seemed less intimidating and more endearing if it wasn't embarrassing you at the moment. “No, but I am Mom’s favorite.”
You felt your eye twitch, needing to correct the wording. “You are Mom’s loudest.”
“Same thing.”
Eddie stepped backward off the porch, still grinning. His grin didn't seem to die down even slightly even when your head twisted to look at him with a glare. “For the record, I respect a strong managerial presence.”
“Don’t, encourage him,” you strained to keep a even tone, brushing past Dustin.
Dustin followed you to the edge of the porch and yelled out. “If he murders you, I’m telling Mom you stole my Walkman.”
You turned, an exasperated sigh left you as you looked up to the skin for an intervention, and when recieved by none, you just closed your eyes shut. “If he murders me, I think Mom will have bigger concerns.”
“Not if she finds out about the Walkman first.”
You didn't even bother responding to that, already walking to your driveway. Eddie came up from behind you and opened the passenger door of his van with a flourish. “Your chariot, my lady.”
You glanced at Dustin, and gave a flat tone as your hand gestured to Eddie from beside you. “See? Chivalry.”
Dustin made a gagging sound so violent it followed you all the way down the driveway. It was safe to say he was thoroughly tuned out quickly. Eddie waited until you were both inside the van, the doors shut, and the engine rumbling reluctantly beneath you, before he looked over.
He asked at last, with a grin that had you wanting to melt into his keather seats. “Decorative pillow?”
“Drive.”
“Dream big?”
Your eyes were now firmly screwed shut, as if peering into an abyss could save you from any more possible embarrassment. “Munson.”
Eddie finally put the van in gear, and had laughter tugging at his mouth. “I’m just trying to build a complete character sheet.”
Your voice was strained enough to be considered static. “You are one comment away from walking.”
“You’d make me walk from your own driveway?” His amusement did little to keep the warmth down from your body.
“I’d make you walk from another state.”
He laughed then, one hand on the wheel, and the other reaching to turn down the music before it could fully blast through the speakers. That surprised you. You had braced for noise, for chaos, for Eddie in full volume. Instead, the van rolled through the Hawkins suburbs under a dimming sky, and the music was low enough to sit beneath the conversation rather than swallow it.
You watched familiar houses slide past. Porches, lawns, bikes tipped over near driveways, and the windows lit warm against the blue evening. Hawkins looked different from Eddie’s passenger seat. Not better, necessarily but not worse. It felt looser around the edges, if Hawkins could ever be considered loose.
“So,” you asked after a quick, restless minute. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
Eddie answered quick. “Nope.”
You threw him a look from the passengers seat. You let your head lean back against the seats, feeling oddly comforted in the position of being the non driver for once. “That’s not ominous at all.”
His voice came back airy, his hands tapped against his wheel, and the faint thud of his rings made quiet noises that only appeared when you listened for them. “It’s a test.”
“For what?”
“Trust. Adventurous spirit. Ability to withstand questionable upholstery.”
You glanced at the seat beneath you. “Already failing the third one.”
Eddie’s gasp came all too familiar, dramatic and warm. “Rude to insult a man’s steed.”
“Your steed has duct tape.” your voice did little to soften, and neither did your expression.
He ammended with a shrug in his shoulders. “Battle scars.”
You smiled despite yourself and looked out the window again. Eddie drove with one wrist loose over the wheel, but he paid attention. He checked mirrors. He slowed near a group of kids on bikes. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel again in time with a song you did not know, and his rings catching the last of the light.
“You’re quiet,” he hummed after a moments rest.
“I’m assessing whether I’m being kidnapped.”
Eddie’s expression turned entertained quickly, his head tirning to you for a second before looking bavk to his path. “To a public location? Very poor kidnapping strategy.”
“Maybe that’s what makes it clever.”
He nodded, his head bobbed alongside his curls, and a exhaled left his lips. “See, this is why you’re college material.”
The road opened beyond the clustered neighborhoods, taking you past the edge of town where Hawkins thinned into trees and gas stations and long stretches of darkening field. The air through the cracked window smelled of cut grass, dust, and the faint metallic coolness that came after sunset. You let your hand rest near the window and felt your fingertips catching the draft.
After a calm twenty minutes, Eddie pulled into the parking lot of a diner you had only ever seen from the road. Its neon sign buzzed red and blue over the entrance, and a few cars sat scattered across the cracked asphalt. Through the windows, you could see booths upholstered in faded vinyl, chrome-edged tables, and one waitress refilling coffee beneath fluorescent light.
You looked over at him, clearly surpised. It wasn't necessarily the diner that shocked you, it was more so the fact that he brought you to one. After all, he didn't scream like the diner type. “A diner?”
He shut off the engine and suddenly seemed less sure of himself. It only lasted a second, but you caught it. The way his fingers tapped once against the keys before he pulled them free. The quick glance toward the building.
“I figured neutral territory,” he cleared his throated after a moment, voice still coming up a little raspy. “No kids. No dragons. Food that probably won’t kill us.”
“Probably?”
“I like to keep expectations realistic.” Your eyes rolled before you could help it, and your smile came even more instinctive.
You followed him inside.
The diner smelled of frying oil, coffee, sugar, and old smoke embedded in the walls probably from years of people ignoring signs. A bell over the door gave a tired jingle when Eddie held it open. The waitress looked up, recognized him, and pointed with her pen toward a booth near the back.
“Don’t make a mess, Munson.”
You probably did a poor job of hiding your clear surprise, but thankfully, your weren't the main focus. Eddie pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me, Marge.”
The older woman's response came weary. “You still owe me for the sugar packets.”
“They were for science.” Eddie's was all relaxed charm.
“They were for your friends throwing them.”
“Social science.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite in it. She gave you a small smile before moving on to her customers.
You slid into the booth across from him. The vinyl stuck faintly to the backs of your legs. The table had a little metal napkin dispenser, a ketchup bottle with dried sauce crusted near the cap, and a laminated menu that curled at one corner. Outside, headlights passed in brief white streaks across the window. Every so often one caught your eyes, making your head stare out the window.
Eddie shrugged out of his jacket and shoved it beside him. Without the leather and the club table and the audience, he looked different. Not smaller in any real way, perhaps just more human. His shirt was faded soft from washing, there was one curl caught near mouth, and he blew it away twice before finally pushing it back with an impatient hand.
You ordered milkshakes and fries because Eddie claimed anything else here was “a dance with the digestive devil.” Another waitress brought water in cloudy plastic cups and left you alone.
For the first few minutes, the conversation came out uneven.
You asked about his band because it felt safe. He answered with enthusiasm, then caught himself and asked about your classes. You gave him a funny story about a professor who wore the same brown jacket every lecture. He laughed, then drummed his fingers against the table,and tthen stopped when he noticed you watching.
It was strange, seeing him search for the right amount of himself to use. You certainly weren't used to it. And you couldn't exactly say you liked it, sure you appreciated he seemed to make an effort but it felt a bit too straining for you to really embrace the results.
At Hellfire, Eddie filled rooms because the room and kids expected him to. Here, with only you across from him, he seemed to test the air before tossing a joke into it. Some landed. Some didn’t. When one didn’t, he winced and covered it with another. You recognized the habit because you had your own version: a smile angled just right, a sarcastic or breezy comment delivered before anyone could tell you cared.
The fries arrived hot enough to steam. Eddie immediately dumped ketchup onto the paper placemat.
“Okay,” he said, grabbing a fry. Immediately, you were sure you weren't to interested in whatever would be done. “Educational demonstration.”
Your lips let out a small exhale “Oh no.”
Eddie’s gave a grin. “Oh yes.”
He placed one fry upright in the ketchup. It fell over just as quickly. Against yourself, you leaned in, with one hand cupping your cheek as you watched him rather that whatever he was so focused on showing you.
He frowned at it, ghe pout on his lips oddly cute. The thought was quickly shut down as you forced your eyes to avert their gaze and stare at the plate of fries. “Dustin’s wizard is drunk.”
“Already?”
“It might be a morale issue.”
You laughed, and he looked pleased enough to continue. Eddie tore a corner off the paper placemat and drew a crooked square grid with a pen from his pocket. Then he arranged fries across it, using a salt packet, a napkin wad, and one tragic pickle slice to represent enemies.
“So if this fry is Dustin’s wizard,” he began and you really tried to listen, “and this puddle of ketchup is a dragon—”
Your voice cut his explanation off quickly. “Why is the dragon a puddle?”
“Budget cuts. Stay with me.”
“I’m trying.”
Eddie's fingers then decided upon your fate soon after that. “And this fry is your character.”
“My character gets to be a fry?” Your head slightly tilted as you tried to envision the structure he was trying to compare it too.
His voice came automatic in its pace, and light in its teasing. “An elegant fry. Distinguished. Wounded pride. Great hair.”
You pointed at him, and had to display a great amount of willpower to bite back your smile. “Careful. Flattery'll get you everywhere”
He grinned and moved your fry to the edge of the placemat. “You can’t just run straight at the dragon because, one, you’ll die, and two, Dustin will write a ten-page complaint about party strategy. So you move here, flank with Sinclair’s guy, and then—”
He demonstrated by dragging Dustin’s fry directly through the ketchup.
You stared, eyes promptly wide as you gaped up at him in offense. “You just killed my brother.”
“It was an ccupational hazard.”
You didn't bother controlling the grin now, and it seemed like neither did Eddie. You leaned back against your side of the booth and hummed. “Does he know you think of him this way?”
The solenm nod came entirely exasperating. “He knows I value his sacrifice.”
You were still laughing when Eddie looked up at you through his bangs. His hand remained on the table, fingers shiny with salt. The smile stayed, but it eased into something quieter.
“You really didn’t have to do all that,” he cleared his throat after his pitch ended up smaller than he menat near the end.
You reached for your milkshake spoon, stirring though there was nothing to stir. You didn't look up right away, letting the cool mixture hit your tastebuds. “Do what?”
“Read the handbook. Show up every week. Watch a bunch of geeks yell at plastic dice.” Eddie's finger seemed to fidget restlessly, bringing your sight to the twisting of his rings that had him restless.
The exhale you gave was airy in its amusement. “You make it sound so glamorous.”
“I’m serious.” that was when you glanced up.
He was serious. That was the problem, or rather a problem. Eddie serious was harder to handle than Eddie loud. Loud Eddie gave you places to hide, but serious Eddie seemed to look at you and wait.
Your spoon scraped softly against the glass.
“My pride was wounded,” you admitted with a small raise of your shoulders.
His eyebrows lifted and you continued.
You shrugged again, trying to make it lighter than it actually felt. “I’m used to being the cool older sibling.”
“Ah.”
His lack of reaction brought that familiar prickle up your spine. “You completely ignored me.”
Eddie leaned back against the booth. For a second, his face went blank with surprise. Then he laughed, low and genuine, shaking his head.
“Ignored you?”
The laughter did little to make you feel appeased, but a small part of it made your heart stutter. You decided you would let the small part win this time. “You did!”
“I absolutely did not.”
Your words came pointed. “You called me Henderson’s ride all off-handedly.”
“Because I was trying not to stare at Henderson’s sister.” Eddie’s came as a incredulous scoff as his arms crossed against his chest, the movement tensing the muscles against the fabric of his shirt.
The words moved across the table and left the air changed behind them.
You looked down too late to hide your reaction. Heat had already climbed your neck. And your fingers tightened around the spoon, stirring thoughtlessly around your milkshake.
Eddie noticed, and of course he noticed, you had a feeling he had always noticed more than he admitted.
“You’re an actual college girl,” he decided to say after a moment, his voice a little softer. “You're like actually smart—I mean Dustin never shuts up about you—and you walked in looking—” He stopped, huffed at himself, then tried again. “You walk in looking like you know exactly what you’re doing. And I’m supposed to what? Casually flirt in front of the sheep while your little brother is sitting three feet away with the moral judgment of a tiny pope?”
You pressed your lips together, though it didn't help much. “A tiny pope?”
His words came with a somber expression then. “With braces.”
You laughed into your hand.
Eddie took that moment to reach over a steal one of your un-ketchuped fries while you were distracted. His knuckles brushed your wrist. It was brief, barely anything really. But still, neither of you moved right away.
His fingers rested on the table beside yours.
The diner continued around you. Plates clattered near the kitchen. A man at the counter coughed into his coffee. Marge refilled a cup without looking near the cashier. Neon continued to buzz against the window, none of it vanished. Nothing became cinematic or clean. Your milkshake glass left a wet ring on the table. One of Eddie’s rings were twisted to far back on one finger. Your brother’s name was still somewhere between you, ridiculous and unavoidable.
That made it worse.
Or better. You didn't quite know yet. But you decided that then and there, you wanted to find out.
You turned your wrist slightly, sp that it was enough that your knuckles touched his. Eddie’s gaze dropped then quickly. He smiled without showing his teeth, but his eyes weren't so unaffected.
“Pretty girl with a lot of pride,” he murmured, his sigh amused and almost dreamy in a way that made you unable to stare directly into his eyes for long. “Dangerous combination.”
Your breath caught, but you managed to roll your eyes. “You’re certainty impressed with yourself.”
Eddie placed a large palm over his heart and his head bowed. “Constantly. It’s a burden.”
You let your own voice become exaggerated in response. “Must be hard.”
“You have no idea.”
The rest of the date, because by then, even if neither of you had said it, the shape of it had become obvious, unfolded without the sharpness you had feared originally. Eddie told you about his band’s worst show, where the power went out halfway through a song and the drummer kept playing for almost a minute before noticing. You told him about your other roommate’s habit of labeling every item in the mini fridge, including a single slice of cheese. Eddie confessed school never really was for him, but he said it with enough practiced humor that you heard the bruise beneath it.
You did not press either ways; instead, you stole one of his fries.
He looked at you, offended. That only won him a grin in return. “Thief.”
“You stole mine first!”
Eddie’s tone was all fake hurt and offended. “Mine was romantic.”
“Mine was justice then.”
He leaned forward with a entertained look then. “You know, for someone new to campaigns, you’re picking up revenge arcs fast.”
“You’re a good teacher.” your voice seemed to be so genuine that it shut him up.
Only briefly, but it seemed to be entirely enough.
He looked down at the made up battlefield of fries and ketchup, mouth twisting at one corner. When he looked back at you, the softness there made you reach for your milkshake just to have something to do with your hands.
Long after, in the drive home, he played the radio music louder, but not too loud. You did ask if the singer needed water. Eddie nearly had to pull over from laughing.
“He sounds pained,” you insisted with a bite of your tongue.
“He’s expressing the agony of existence.”
“He should express it with tea.”
Eddie’s weary sigh was worth the small moment of weakness. “You’re killing me.”
“Hydration is important.” you didn't let up on your positioning, a shrug on your shoulders.
“I can’t believe I let a pop listener into my campaign.”
You weren't going to take all of the heat. “You gave a pop listener your phone number.”
“Moment of weakness.” His grin didn't seem to match his words.
“You drew a crown.”
“A flourish.”
You were, needless to say, thoroughly unconvinced. “A romantic flourish.”
He glanced over, big brown eyes catching green from the dashboard lights. “Maybe.”
You looked out the window because your smile felt too honest all of a sudden.
Hawkins returned slowly, first as scattered houses, then familiar turns, and then your street folded under the quiet weight of midnight. Eddie cut the headlights before the van fully stopped at the curb, leaving the interior dim and green-lit, and all hard edges softened by darkness.
The music ended. He turned the volume down until the speakers gave only a faint hiss.
For a moment, neither of you opened your door. And neither of you made a move to.
“So,” Eddie swallowed his head looking straight ahead, his hands resting loosely on the wheel now but still restless. “Did the horizon expand enough for you tonight, college girl? Or was it an all-time low?”
You leaned your head back against the seat and turned to look at him. In the low light, his face was mostly shadow: the sharp line of his nose, the curve of his mouth, and even the dark fall of his hair. Without the diner’s neon, and without his club's noise, he seemed to be waiting again. Giving you the room to decide what the night had been.
“Shut up,” you scoffed softly, but the smile softened it promptly.
His mouth curved almost as if he were in on an important secret.
“It was,” you added, then paused because saying it plainly felt unnaturally dangerous. “Surprisingly high.”
Eddie’s smile changed. It was small, even more genuine now, and entirely stripped of almost everything he usually put in front of it.
“Yeah?”
Your voice didn't come out as sharp as you'd have liked. “Don’t make me repeat it.”
“I would never.”
That made you laugh for one second, before settling with a hun. “You absolutely would.”
Eddie seemed to agree with a soft shrug of his own. “Only under extreme circumstances.”
The silence returned, but it was not empty. It sat between you with warmth in it, with the leftover buzz in your blood, and with the hum of the van and the faint chirp of insects beyond the curb.
Eddie shifted first.
He leaned across the center console slowly enough that you had every chance to move away. You didn’t. His hand came up to the headrest beside you, his thumb brushing near your temple, not quite touching your skin at first. His eyes searched your face, and for once neither of you covered the pause with a joke.
When he finalky leaned in to kiss you, it was careful for half a second.
Then you made a small sound against his mouth, startled by your own wanting, and his hand slid from the headrest to the side of your face. The kiss deepened unevenly, sweet and clumsy around the edges, interrupted once by your elbow knocking the gearshift and Eddie huffing a laugh against your lips. You laughed too, breathless, and then abeuptly reached for the front of his jacket and pulled him back.
Almost months of watching him from the edge of the room caught up all at once. The failed smiles, the handbook, the red die in your pocket, the way he had leaned over your shoulder while pretending not to know exactly what you were doing. It all gathered in your hands, in the quick tilt of his head, and in the warmth of his rings when his fingers brushed your jaw.
It became a little embarrassing how enthusiastic you were.
It became easier to forgive because Eddie was no better.
He kissed you with one hand braced awkwardly against the seat and the other careful at your cheek, restraint and hunger tripping over each other until both of you had to pull back to breathe. His forehead hovered near yours. His eyes were dark, amused, and unsteady in a way that made your stomach turn over.
The rough heel of his palm was gentle in its cradling of your face, and it was soon followed with your own hand trailing up his jaw to tangle in his hair. This time, when he leaned in, he seemed to be even more enthusiastic. His lips met against yours once more and he tilted in so deep he might’ve been trying to inhale the same oxygen as you. You followed with the same pathetic burst of energy, feeling all too much like you were back to being sixteen and discovering what kissing could be with someone you actually wanted it happening with.
“Mm, Eddie–” your sentence was over just as quickly as it had attempted to start, with his mouth pouting everytime it wasn't against yours. Eddie’s pupils were so close that you could see the way they were blow out and dilated, and the dazed smile he wore wasn't helping the stuttering in your pulse.
“That’s my name, pretty girl.” His words were murmured, the vibrations tickling you. He broke the kiss with great effort, his clear effort in wanting to hear what you're saying, but his nose trailed down to trace under the shape of your jaw. A string of soft kisses were messily placed against your exposed skin leading a faint line of goosebumps to appear as you felt an eye twitch shut at the sensation.
“Think I've gotta go inside, Eddie.” Your voice came out embarrassingly thin, and your fingers did little to loosen their grip in his curls. Your head was gently tilted upward by his continued actions as he gave a mumbled response against your skin that sent consistent shivers against your skin.
“But you just got here,” the teasing smile of his lips was felt against your skin making you shove at him lightly with a exasperated sigh, and your own smile stretched across your face. A quick look at the dashboard clock had you feeling all warm once again. “You've been kissing me for like the past five minutes, you dork.”
“Ouch. You're so cold, you know that?” Eddie's laugh betrayed him, unable to keep the amused look off his face.
Outside, Hawkins was quiet. Your house stood dark except for the porch light your mother always left on. Somewhere inside, you were sure that Dustin was probably asleep with comic books on his floor and no idea that his entire world had just become more irritating, or amusing if you were left to explain it.
Eddie’s thumb moved once near your cheekbone then.
“See you next weekend, Henderson?”
Your lips still felt warm and your skin even more so. You tried to answer normally and failed.
“Yeah,” you breathed, reaching blindly for your bag near your feet. “See you next weekend.”
He did not let you get out immediately. Not because he physically made a move to stop you, but just because he smiled at you, slow and pleased and a little disbelieving, and you had to sit there an extra second to recover from it.
When you finally climbed out, your legs suddenly felt too untrustworthy on their own.
You shut the van door as quietly as possible. Eddie waited until you reached the porch before starting the engine again. You turned at the door. He lifted his hand from the steering wheel.
You lifted yours back before you caught yourself and spun around with a regained fervor as you became all too aware of every action of yours.
Then you went inside and leaned against the closed door in the dark hallway, pressing your fingers to your mouth.
From the living room, Dustin’s voice cut through the silence.
“If you’re being weird by the door, stop.”
You nearly jumped out of your skin.
He sat on the couch in pajama pants and a Camp Know-Where shirt, hair flattened on one side, and a comic open in his lap. His eyes were narrowed to slits.
“What, are you doing awake?” you breathed a sigh at the exaggerated pulse of your heart, leaning down to undo your shoes.
“Protecting the bloodline.”
The groan you gave was entirely unimpressed. Yeah, you were convinced the teenage boy who called you to get the ladybugs out of the house in the summer would thoroughly protect your honor. “You are so dramatic.”
“How was the ‘hangout’?”
You walked past him toward the stairs. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
Seriously, you had to give him some melatonin or something next time. “Goodnight, Dustin.”
“Did he try anything?”
The dumbfounded expression you had on surely was worth a pretty penny.
Dustin held your stare for one second before raising the comic higher, hiding half his face. “I’m just asking for safety.”
“You are asking because you’re nosy.”
“I contain multitudes.”
The scoff left you rapidly. “You contain several juice boxes and attitude.”
“I know things,” he warned and you called his bluff.
“You know nothing.”
He squinted at you over the comic, and you squinted back. Then, you went upstairs before your face could betray you.
The next afternoon, you sat at the kitchen table with a blank notebook open in front of you and the red die near your elbow. Sunlight spilled across the linoleum. Your mother hummed somewhere in the laundry room, smiling at you far too pleased and knowing for your comfort. And the house smelled faintly of detergent and toast.
You had meant to work on an actual assignment.
Instead, you had written:
Elven pantheons? cleric domains?? ask Eddie about campaign gods DO NOT say Vvardenfell ever again
You were halfway through underlining the last note when Dustin walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed a juice box. He stabbed the straw through with unnecessary violence, took one sip, and paused.
His eyes moved to your notebook.
Then to your face, then quickly back to the notebook.
“Why,” he sighed all exasperated slowly, “are you looking up Elven pantheons on the kitchen notepad?”
You turned a page with great calm. “No main reason.”
“And why do you look like you just won a football game?”
You shrugged your shoulders with a self pleased smile on your face. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Dustin still seemed unimpressed with your reactions. “You have a face.”
“Most people do.”
“No, you have a specific face.”
You picked up your pencil. “Mind your business, Dustin. I’m studying for my electives.”
He stared at you for a long moment. Then his expression changed, horror dawning piece by piece.
“Oh my God.”
You wrote the word initiative in the margin, ignoring his outburst.
“Oh my God,” he repeated, louder, and then immediately cringed to himself. “You’re into it.”
Your smile was now free, “I’m into many things, little brother. As you know, I’m a complex person.”
“No.” Dustin shook his head quick. He pointed the juice box at you. “No, you are not allowed to be into my thing.”
“Your thing?”
“Yes, my thing.”
Your voice came entirely delighted now, “I thought it was a 'collaborative storytelling game'.”
“Don’t use the language against me!”
You smiled brightly and wide without looking up. Dustin then groaned so loudly your mother called from the laundry room to ask if someone was injured.
“Yes,” Dustin shouted back with a disgusted expression on his face. “Me!”
“No,” you called back out, voice calmer than his, and therefore, more reliable.. “He’s being dramatic.”
Dustin leaned over the table, lowering his voice as if he was aware pf a new secret. “This is because of Eddie.”
You tapped the pencil against the notebook, and if you were in a lesser mood, you were sure you'd male a comment on how slow his train of thoughts seemed to run for a self- claimed super- genius of a teenage boy. “What’s because of Eddie?”
“All of it. The notebook. The dice. The face.”
“I don’t have a face.” You did, and you quite liked it even more as of late.
Dustin seemed to agree. “You have such a face.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“You kissed him, didn’t you?”
Your pencil snapped, and Dustin gave a noise so loud and startled you'd think you stabbed the broken wood in him.
You looked down at the broken pencil in your hand, then up at your younger brother. He backed away, pointing at you in a sense of all knowingness. “That is a confession!”
Your voice came back just breezily enough to further spur him on. “That is just a cheap pencil.”
“That is evidence!”
You tried to brush him off off-handedly. “Dustin.”
He seemed to care less about calming down and shrieked. “You kissed Eddie Munson. My Eddie Munson!”
“Lower your voice before I deck you.” your sigh came with a roll of your eyes now, and before you could've helped it, you added. “And he's not yours.”
“You did!”
You stood so fast the chair scraped behind you. Dustin bolted around the other side of the table, juice box clutched in one hand.
“I knew it!” he shouted, now slightly jumping in place as he pointed at you. “I knew something foul was happening!”
Your voice was a soft coo now. “Come here.”
“No!”
“Dustin.”
“I am a child of divorce now. Emotionally.”
“You are a child of one mother and a sister who is about to end you.”
He darted toward the hallway. You chased him past the counter, both of you skidding in socks while your mother yelled for you not to run in the house. Dustin shrieked when you caught the back of his shirt, laughing and protesting at the same time as your forearm twisted around his neck, and for a minute the whole kitchen filled with the old familiar chaos of being home.
Eventually, he escaped by sacrificing the juice box, which burst under your foot and sent a sticky splash across the floor.
Your mother appeared in the doorway, and both of you froze promptly. She looked at the juice on the floor, then at Dustin, then at you in a way only an experienced mother could.
“I don’t want to know,” she questioned more than said at last.
“You really don’t,” Dustin affirmed her decision strongly.
You grabbed a towel and threw it at his head.
Later, after the floor was cleaned and Dustin had retreated to his room to process the betrayal, you returned to the table. Your notebook remained open. The red die sat where you had left it, catching sunlight along one edge.
You picked it up and rolled it once across the page.
It landed on twenty.
For a second, you could only stare. Then you laughed under your breath, quiet enough that no one came to ask why.
By the next day, you had memorized three more terms. Correctly, this time, you'd like to add to.the record.
You had also learned enough to know you were in trouble.
Not because of the game, although that was part of it. The game had become more interesting than you wanted to admit. There was satisfaction in understanding why Dustin got so worked up, why the table erupted over certain rolls, amd even why Eddie’s voice could pull everyone into silence when the stakes turned. There was a rhythm to it. A strange one, sure, but not entirely as childish as you had thought.
No, the trouble was Eddie.
Eddie, who called you college girl when he wanted to annoy you and pretty girl when he wanted to watch your composure slip.
Eddie, who phoned you twice that week and stayed on the line until neither of you had anything left to say but neither of you hung up.
Eddie, who looked at you across the Hellfire table with so much sitting between you and still somehow made the room feel smaller.
The campaign resumed with the party entering some ruined temple. You followed better than before. Not perfectly, you honestly doubted ever even achieving a above average rating. You still forgot which modifier went where, and at one point you asked if your character could flirt with a guard for information, which made Dustin put his head down on the table and whisper, “Please don’t make this your thing.”
Eddie looked delighted, his brow twitching up at you and smirking lazily in a way that made you had to biteback your own grin.
“I’ll allow it,” he decided after a moment.
Dustin shot upright, the display did little to take your eyes off of the older boy besides you, which of course only riled your brother up more. “Of course you will!”
“It’s roleplay, Henderson.”
“It’s gross.”
“It’s strategy,” you hummed in a easy way, which was simpler now that you at least understood parts of what even made up a good game strategy.
Dustin simply glared from where he sat. “It’s gross strategy.”
You rolled well enough that Eddie had to improvise a flustered guard. His voice went higher, then cracked on purpose. The table lost it quickly after. Even Dustin laughed before remembering he was supposed to be disgusted.
After the session, Eddie slipped you another note. You waited until you were in the car to read it, ignoring Dustin’s attempts to see.
This one had a little map drawn in the corner and a single line beneath it:
Next lesson: avoiding traps.
You smiled down at the paper on reflex by now, and Dustin groaned from the passenger seat. “Oh my God. You’re so not cool!”
You folded the note and tucked it away in your bag.
“That’s funny,” you hummed in grand effect, turning the key listening to the starting of your car engine. “I heard I’m dangerous.”
Dustin made a strangled sound and turned toward the window. The displeasure seemed to even travel all the way to his unruly hair, as he shoved back against your car seats. “This is a nightmare.”
Over the past eight years, you have built a steady life in Hawkins after leaving Chicago—away from controlling parents and the ghost of a husband that left you and your son bereft. You worked hard over the years—managing young motherhood, a child with additional needs, studying for night school, working as a paralegal and finally passing the bar—to make a name for yourself as a lawyer in the small town. Life in Hawkins was steady and stable—it was everything you ran away from in Chicago. That is until a wild-haired, heavy-metal loving, D&D extraordinaire named Eddie Munson came into your son’s life.
In an Alternate Universe where you are Dustin Henderson’s mom, this slow burn, age-gap romance will be equal parts humor, heartache, hunger, and Hellfire.
Tags: Slow Burn, Forbidden Romance, Age Gap (Eddie is 20; Reader is 31), Teen Pregnancy (past), Found Family, The Unholy Trifecta (Fluff, Angst, Smut), Additional Tags to be Added to Chapters.
Chapter One | Both Sides, Now - COMING SOON
“So many things I would’ve done, but clouds got in my way.”
Running late to pick up Dustin from Hellfire finally puts you face-to-face with the cool Senior your son has been talking about for weeks. He’s somehow nothing you expected and everything you expected at the same time.
I’m actually going to reblog a thing just because this is really important.
As someone who has epilepsy and used to have several grand mal seizures a day, I’d also like to add that “offer help” can range anywhere from keeping the person calm to explaining to them where they are and what they were doing to even just telling them they should sit and rest for a while longer (lack or coordination is common, and it can be hard to walk straight or see clearly).
It’s okay for them to take up to a half hour to fully regain their bearings and sort out what they were doing prior to the seizure. Just answer any questions calmly and be there for support.
If they come around and you start to panic or shake them or ask them what the heck is wrong with them they are going to freak out and panic too.
I cannot stress it enough that this is bad.
If someone has a seizure and they come out of it, please. please stay calm.
They are likely disoriented and confused, even if it’s only for a minute or two, and you don’t want them panicking on top of that because they can have another seizure as a result.
IMPORTANT because last year a kid in my class had a seizure, none of us even knew he was at risk for them either so just cause you don’t think you know anyone doesn’t mean you don’t
I have to stress how important it is to time a seizure. If it lasts more than a few minutes, call an ambulance.
DO NOT CALL THE POLICE. I’m dead fucking serious. I had a grand mal in public once and the POLICE were called and imagine coming out of the seizure, feeling like you got smacked in the head with a sack full of bricks, confused, dazed, in desperate need of some sugar to boost low blood pressure and some DIPSHIT has called the police and I was being threatened with being ‘drunk and disorderly’. It took a phone call to my doctors office to get them to back off. The police cannot properly deal with sick people.
Offer help can be:
assuring person where they are/what time it is
getting them something to drink if they can; seizure burns so much energy and does cause a blood pressure drop
getting them safely to transport or a carer
getting them some dignity like a blanket/towel [loosing control of your bladder and bowels is fucking horrifying]
ensuring they have a way to get home. Someone who has just had a seizure should NEVER DRIVE straight after
calling emergency services if you notice any of these symptoms because they may have stroked out.
Why you shouldn’t put anything in someone’s mouth: they will choke. Yes, they may bite their tongue but I can assure you it’s less traumatic than cracking your jaw on someone’s greasy wallet or choking on a spoon.
DO NOT HOLD ANYONE DOWN. Example: someone pinned my right shoulder mid-seizure a few years back and how I have a permanently displaced and clicking shoulder. Let the person flail around, those muscles are out of control and restraining them does cause more damage to the patient and you.
People can also have seizures that look epileptic, but are rather psychogenic. I had a coworker who had PNES (psychogenic non-epileptic seizures) as a result of trauma, and I learned a lot about this from them.
Because PNES seizures aren’t caused by the same thing as epileptic seizures, they can look similar but people can be semi-conscious during them, generally do not lose full control of their bodies (bladder/bowels and other reflexes remain), and importantly, they can last longer than 5 minutes (even hours) without causing long-term damage.
The “do not call the police” point was especially vital for them, because people with PNES are more vulnerable to medical abuse by professionals who think they are “faking” because the seizure isn’t epileptic, and a person with PNES may have medical trauma from being treated cruelly by doctors, family members, etc. while seizing in the past. This study looked at stigma around PNES (also called functional seizures; I’m using PNES because its what my coworker called it):
Literature suggests that it can take years for patients to finally get a diagnosis of FS, but once they receive the diagnosis, it is often met with negative stereotypes and perceptions that lead to stigmatisation and treatment resistance. […] Moreover, with 34 of the 70 included data sources reflecting HCP [healthcare professional] stigma, one of the main themes that arose from this review illustrated the importance of HCPs’ acknowledgement and acceptance of their role in both perpetuating and reducing FS stigma. From our review it became apparent that HCPs’ negative attitudes towards patients with FS persist in the health community, often because of a lack of knowledge, general awareness, understanding and medical training with regards to this disorder
For my coworker, they expressed that one of the most important things for them was to just not be alone, to have someone verbally saying they were with them and it would be alright, and then to be supported according to their needs once the seizure ended. Their seizures were often triggered by stress, or from trauma triggers, so being treated with compassion, having their body respected, and having a calm environment during and after the seizure were very important.
Obviously if you have no other context, its best to assume an epileptic seizure and act accordingly. But to return to the graphic above, check for any kind of ID, whether a tag or medical bracelet or anything else! And do not treat psychogenic / functional seizures as less real or less important, and don’t let anyone around the person who is seizing treat it that way either.
not all of your readers are white with pin straight hair!!
“You brushed your hair” no actually, i did not. i cannot casually brush through my curls and i know damn well people with coily hair can’t either.
what can i say instead? oh i’m so glad you asked!!
“While getting ready, you got dressed and took the time to do your hair.” this keeps it vague. people with all kinds of hair take the time to do their hair whether it be blow drying, straightening, curling, or having to take 45 minutes to brush it. hell, even a bald person can take the time to put a wig on
i usually ignore things like this while reading, but the assumption that all your readers look like you is wrong and as a woc it gets tiring after a while
i don’t post this to shame authors, because i’m also guilty for including details in my writing that don’t apply to large demographics! i post this because as authors, it’s OUR job to learn how to keep things vague enough to be inclusive while still telling our story !!
Summary: Introduced to a new favorite online obsession, you are absolutely enamored with a boy from your town…who just so happens to get off on his OnlyFans. But what happens when you finally come face-to-face with him at a party and he offers you the opportunity of a lifetime…to hook-up with him on camera in front of thousands of viewers.
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•TheeBanished86 has sent you an invite link.
Your laptop pings with the notification.
Yes, you thought. Finally.
You had been waiting. Patiently. Oh so patiently.
It was your favorite day of the month; your private session with your favorite cam boy. Eddie. TheeBanished86. The object of your obsession. The man of all your fantasies. The sex god that you worshipped like a fucking prophet. These were the days that you looked forward to. Crossing off the dates on your calendar like a sick fuck. Inching closer and closer until all his attention was on you once again. Now, there was no more waiting. It was here.
You look at the clock.
6:05 pm. He was late. Only by five minutes but it was five less minutes that you got to spend with him. It was unfair. Totally and completely unfair. But you try not to dwell. He was a busy man- making horny women all over the world happy. Getting them off one at a time. You knew that you weren’t special- not in the slightest. However, being a top paying subscriber to his OnlyFans did have its perks. Private Skype sessions were one of many.
You check to make sure that your camera was off before clicking on the link to the session- wanting to keep your anonymity. As much as you loved to Skype privately with Eddie, you couldn’t bring yourself to reveal your identity to him- no matter how much he teased you for it.
The video loads, popping him up on your laptop screen. As soon as your eyes meet him on the other side of the computer, your heart began beating wildly. You had done a handful of private sessions with Eddie before but he never ceased to pull a reaction out of you. Especially when he smiled at you from the screen, his eyes watching the chat box off to the side where you would communicate with him.
“Hey gorgeous.” He flirts, staring into the webcam with his big brown eyes, straight into your soul “S’good to see you. Well, y’know, your pitch black screen. How have things been, beautiful? It’s been awhile.”
You poise your fingers on the keyboard, hastily typing out your response before pressing send, launching it onto the chat screen.
Sweetg1rl: You’re late :(
Sweetg1rl: Missed you.
You watch as his eyes scan the chat, reading your response.
“Sorry, baby. Got caught up with some stuff but I’m here now. If you want, I can make it up to you.” Eddie flirts, eyeing you through the camera “How does that sound?”
You instantly perk up, knowing exactly what that means. You got to choose how he got off.
Sweetg1rl: Yes, please ;)
You hit send, thinking quickly about how you wanted him to pleasure himself in front of you. There were so many choices. So many toys in his repertoire for your choosing. Vibrators, fleshlights, nipple clamps, O rings, vibrating strokers, massagers. A sexual playground full of toys. You thought about what would get you off the most by watching him.
“Alright, baby. What’ll it be?”
Sweetg1rl: Cock ring
Sweetg1rl: The vibrating one.
Eddie smirks as he reads your response.
“Oh yeah?” He replies, his voice deep and gravelly, causing your thighs to clamp shut in arousal- seeking out some sort of friction.
“Your wish is my command, sweetheart. Excellent choice.” He winks “Be right back.”
You watch him rise from his desk chair that he does all of his lives and videos from- a chair that you’ve fantasized about fucking him in on several occasions.
As he walks out of view, you are left to stare at the deep red silk sheets that adorned his bed in the background. Just like the desk chair, you had so many fantasies of him fucking you on top of those red sheets- feeling the cool fabric on your bare skin as he touched you in ways that made you feel like you were on fire. Drenching the sheets with your slick arousal after he made you come over and over again- what a fucking dream.
“Alright, sweetheart. This the one?” He asks, holding up the toy that you had been obsessed with ever since he pulled it out on a livestream many months ago. You couldn’t get it out of your head. The way it left him breathless as he reached his peak, coating his bare chest in his spend. The way he shivered after coming down from his high. It lived in your head rent-free and you wouldn’t dare even think about giving it an eviction notice.
Sweetg1rl: Yes, Eds <3
Sweetg1rl: Can’t wait to see you cum.
Sweetg1rl: Been thinking about it.
Eddie chuckles at your thirsty, depraved comments- completely unfazed. You knew he’d heard worse.
“You been thinking about me, baby? Wanna see me come?” He purrs, reaching down to palm himself through his black jeans.
Sweetg1rl: Mmm yes! Think about it all the time.
Sweetg1rl: Wish you were here. Need you so bad, Eddie </3
“Yeah, Sweetheart?” He asks, reaching down to unbutton is jeans “What would you do to me if I was there? Right now. Hm?”
Sweetg1rl: I’d want you in my mouth. I’d get on my knees for you. Let you cum on my face.
Eddie’s eyes widen as he reads your dirty words, pulling himself out of his jeans enough for his cock to spring out and into view- slapping at his lower stomach.
“Fuck, sweetheart. You wanna get on your knees for me?” He growls “I’d love to be in that pretty little mouth of yours, baby. Sucking me real slow. That what you want?”
Sweetg1rl: Fuck yes
Sweetg1rl: Want it so bad. Wanna watch your face as I suck you off. Want you to tell me that I’m a good girl.
Sweetg1rl: That I’m your good girl ;)
You watch as Eddie’s breath hitches on the other side of the camera, studying how your words have an affect on him.
“Oh yeah? You wanna be my good girl, sweetheart? Fuck yeah, you do. You’re horny today, aren’t you?”
Sweetg1rl: Can’t help it. You’re so hot.
Sweetg1rl: Hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Yeah? The hottest, huh?” Eddie grins.
Even after doing this type of work for a while, he never quite got used to his viewers telling him that he was attractive.
“You know, baby, it’s kinda unfair that you won’t let me see what you look like. I feel like we need to do something about that, don’t you think?”
There it was. You knew it was coming but not so soon into the session. Ever since you had stated paying for private sessions with Eddie, he always teased you about refusing to turn your camera on.
“C’mon, sweetheart, I wanna see you. I bet you’re fucking gorgeous. Wanna know who I’m touching myself to. Don’t you think that’s more than fair?”
You knew that he had a point. Maybe he did have a right to know the identity of the girl that he was getting off to. But you just couldn’t bring yourself to reveal who you were. Not when there was a chance that he possibly wouldn’t like what he sees.
Sweetg1rl: In your dreams ;)
“C’mon. What are you scared of?” Eddie questions before spitting into his palm, preparing himself.
Sweetg1rl: Idk
Sweetg1rl: That you won’t think I’m pretty.
Eddie shakes his head as he reads.
“Stop being shy. You’re probably a total fucking babe. You already make my dick so hard with the naughty things you say. Having a pretty face to look at would make it sooo much better. Can you blame me for asking?”
Sweetg1rl: No
Sweetg1rl: I guess not
“‘Course not, baby.” Eddie replies “Turn your camera on. Please? For me?”
You hesitate for a moment, your computer mouse hovering over the video button on your laptop screen. Debating on pressing it- letting Eddie finally know your identity. Allowing him to finally see you. Were you ready for that?
Summary: While helping search your boyfriend’s room, you come across his collection of adult content that he promised to throw away. What Eddie didn’t realize was that the materials that once caused him pleasure would end up becoming his punishment.
**COMING SOON**
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“Babe, where’s the last place you’d seen it?”
You had been searching for twenty minutes, tearing apart Eddie’s bedroom to assist him in his frantic hunt for his missing guitar pick- his lucky guitar pick. The one that he couldn’t go on stage without. It was a bad omen, a tragedy, and a complete disaster if he played without it that night. So now, here you are, taking part in your boyfriend’s two-person search party.
“Jesus, I don’t know…” Eddie groans “I can’t fucking remember.”
“You know, babe, if you maybe cleaned up every once in a while like Wayne tells you to-“
“Sweetheart, I know, okay?” Eddie sighs “Can you please just spare me the lecture? Pretty please? I’m already stressed.”
“Okay, Eds.” You reply “Just calm down. We’ll find it. Have you looked under your bed?”
“No.” He shook his head “Could you? I’m gonna go check the laundry basket in the bathroom. Maybe I left it in one of my pants pockets.”
As Eddie walks out of his bedroom, you sink to the floor- getting on your hands and knees to search underneath his bed. You tilt your head to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of what was underneath his mattress- feeling around for anything that could be his guitar pick.
Your hands felt around several miscellaneous items. A few comic books that had surely ended up abandoned after Eddie had fallen asleep reading them, sending them to a graveyard housed between his wall and the mattress. The further you dug underneath the labyrinth of junk under his bed, the more disturbed you became.
Old condom wrappers from your past hookups, a beat up spiral notebook, a Dungeons and Dragons manual, dirty socks, a yo-yo, and- to your horror- a pizza box that housed hard, stale pieces of crust. You wrinkle up your nose in disgust, dragging it out from underneath the bed as you slid it across the floor. You would definitely be giving him a lecture later about how disgusting he was.
As you kept digging, you used your arm to reach further- your fingertips brushing up against something hard and rectangular. Your interest was piqued. You pressed the side of your head down onto the floor, trying to get low enough to get a peek. Down further, almost out of reach was a beaten-up black shoebox. You knew that it probably wasn’t where his guitar pick was hiding but you were curious.
You stretch the tips of your fingers, using them to inch the box closer to you so that you could grab onto it- sliding it out from underneath the bed. The lid was well-worn. You wondered what was inside, knowing that it was neither his white Reebok sneakers or his black boots. Really, it was probably where he stored his old acrylic paint sets that he used to paint his DnD miniatures.
You stared down at the box in front of you, knowing that you shouldn’t snoop through your boyfriend’s stuff. You and Eddie were completely open with each other and shared a lot in your relationship but you still couldn’t help but feel guilty about potentially violating his privacy. You should put it back where you found it. You should leave the lid closed. You should forget that you had even found it in the first place. But that damn shoebox was like a siren’s call to you.
Open me.
Open me.
Open me.
Your curiosity got the best of you. Before you could stop yourself, you pluck off the lid- setting it on the floor beside you as you peer into the box. You weren’t sure what you had been expecting but you weren’t expecting what you saw. Several copies for something called Heavy Metal.
They looked just like every other comic that Eddie owned, adorned with colorful illustrations in various art styles, genres, and characters. Just like his favorites; Uncanny X-Men, Saga Of The Swamp Thing, The Warlord, and Dragonlance for example. However, you found it odd that these ones were stuffed away in a box and not on his bookshelf where he usually kept them.
Maybe these ones were rare? You thought. But that couldn’t be it because all of his rare comics were carefully stored in protective sleeves and categorized by series- it was the only thing in his life that was organized. Why would these ones be here and not with the others?
Your eyes sweep over the cover of the issue that was on top of the stack. Pictured was an illustration of a woman. She was dressed (if you could even call it that) in a thin, barely there black fabric that only covered her breasts and her crotch- the rest of the material flowing behind her like a cape. Otherwise, everything else was exposed. You’ve never seen any of the female heroines in Eddie’s comics drawn this scantily clad. It took you aback.
Your eyes continue to sweep over the cover, ignoring the way that the heroine was wrapped up in a fierce green dragon. This was definitely on par for Eddie. However, when your eyes traveled further up, you caught sight of the text at the top near the magazine title. In yellow text it read, “the adult illustrated fantasy magazine.”
Adult.
If you weren’t intrigued before, you definitely were now.
You open the strange magazine, beginning to thumb through the pages as your eyes skimmed over the contents. You didn’t know what you expected but it certainly wasn’t what you ended up finding on the pages.
Your eyes widen in shock as you are met with comic strip pages filled with naked women. Their nude bodies drawn in crude situations and perverse sexual scenarios. The pictures were so graphic, hypersexualized, and over-exaggerated to the point that your face began to heat up. Not only did your boyfriend own one of these dirty magazines but he owned several.
Your head was reeling as you continued sifting through the box. Issue after issue after issue. Six in total. Way more than what he needed. As you lifted them out of the shoebox, you were greeted with something worse; a VHS porno tape. It lacked its cardboard cover sleeve but you could read the title on the front of the tape; Wet and Messy Vol. 2.
Was this really the shit that your boyfriend was into?
“Hey, baby, I found it! It was in the pocket of my-“
Eddie walks into the room, holding up his lucky guitar pick in triumph. When his eyes landed on you, he went speechless. The last thing he expected to see when he walked back into his room was his girlfriend kneeling on the floor with his “secret stash” box open in front of you. But as soon as he noticed the VHS tape clutched in your hand and his collection of dirty mags in a pile on the floor, his mouth went completely dry.
📞·˚ ༘ ┊͙ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: one morning when you and eddie wake up after a sleepover at his trailer, you decide to show him a couple of moves you learned while taking jiu-jitsu classes.
𝓞𝓡 , you and eddie’s friendship turns into something more when you accidentally grind on him while playfighting . . .
⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: smut, inspired by this post (thought the 7th link was eddie coded) , never proofread , best friends to…? , i always have to write eddie as a yearner , grinding/dryhumping , pervy! eddie & pervy! reader , pretty filthy if i do say so myself , lots and lots of teasing and dirty talk , praise mixed with degradation , a lot of position switches too since they’re wrestling , reader licking eddie through his boxers , oral (m receiving) , spanking , fingering , p in v , some orgasm denial ig , creampie (be safe horndogs.) , pining eddie , angsty ending
eddie woke up to the sunlight spilling through the window, a slow gold that slid across the floorboards and crept up the rumpled sheets. he yawned softly, shifting to find a more comfortable angle, and the movement stirred you from sleep—a low, sleepy hum escaping your throat before you even knew you'd made it.
his eyes fluttered open at the sound. the haze of sleep cleared just enough for him to register that you were here, in his bed, your face half-buried in his pillow. something in his chest pulled taut.
“mm. morning," he murmured, his voice rough and low.
"good morning," you mumbled back, not opening your eyes. you nuzzled deeper into the pillow, your breath slow and even.
he watched you for a long moment—longer than he meant to. his gaze traced the curve of your cheek, the way your lashes fanned against your skin, the soft rise and fall of your breathing. the morning light caught the edges of your face, highlighting every small feature he already thought was beautiful, and he felt something warm bloom low in his chest.
he caught himself and cleared his throat.
“so," he said, quiet, "we didn't finish the movie."
you nodded, eyes still closed. "mhm. i knocked out on the couch."
you said it with a hint of sheepishness that made him chuckle. "i know. i tried to be quiet when i snuck away."
a lazy grin spread across his face even though you didn’t see it, boyish and unguarded in the soft light.
"wow. so careless of you," you teased, your voice still thick with sleep. "not even bothering to carry me over to your bed like a gentleman."
he scoffed, but the grin didn't fade—it softened, turned almost tender, even though you couldn't see it. "why?" he asked, voice dropping to something quieter. "why should i have to be a gentleman? it’s my room."
"cause i’m a girl, dumbass. it’s like an unspoken rule."
a sleepy smile tugged at your lips, and the sight of it made his heart stutter. he covered it with a laugh.
"oh, right. 'cause you're too dainty and delicate to sleep on the worn-out couch in my living room, huh?"
his hand found your hair, fingers threading through the mess of it, ruffling gently. you finally opened your eyes, swatting at his hand with a giggle.
“careful. i know jiu-jitsu, y’know.”
eddie’s eyes went wide, a slow grin spreading across his face as the memory surfaced. “oh, shit. yeah—you’ve been taking classes, right? you told me you’d show me some moves.”
you blinked, the haze of sleep parting just enough for confusion to settle in. “oh my god, really? i said that?”
“yeah.” he propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with that lopsided smirk that always made your stomach flip. “you said you’d show me your bjj.”
you stared at him. “my what?”
“your bjj,” he repeated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “your brazilian jiu-jitsu.”
a beat of silence, and then you relaxed, a laugh bubbling out of you. “oh. guess i did.” you stretched your arms above your head, the movement pulling your spaghetti strap tank top up just slightly. “i bet i could show you some moves right now.”
eddie’s eyebrows shot up, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. “right now? in the morning? before breakfast?”
“what’s the matter, eds?” you tilted your head, voice dropping into something teasing and sweet. “too chicken?”
he scoffed, pushing himself upright, the challenge landing exactly where you aimed it. “i’m not chicken. i’m just saying—you’re in my bed, in my room, and you wanna grapple with me first thing in the morning?”
“scared i’ll pin you?” you shot back, sitting up slowly, the sheet pooling around your waist.
his grin turned sharp, playful, his gaze dragging over you in a way that was half challenge, half something else entirely. “sweetheart, i’d like to see you try.”
“so it’s an invitation?”
“it’s a warning.” he leaned in, close enough that you could smell the sleep on his skin, his voice dropping to a murmur. “i don’t go easy on people who threaten me in my own bed.”
your heart stuttered, but you held his gaze, a smile curving your lips. “good. i’d be offended if you did.”
the second the words left your mouth, eddie lunged.
you let out a surprised yelp as he crashed into you, the both of you tumbling back onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and laughter. the sheets twisted beneath you, and his weight pressed you into the pillows for half a second before you squirmed, hooked a leg around his, and rolled.
he hit the mattress with a grunt, the breath punched out of him. "shit—"
"too slow, eds," you breathed, already scrambling to pin his wrist to the bed.
but eddie was wiry and quick. he twisted beneath you, his hip bucking up hard enough to throw off your balance, and suddenly you were the one on your back again, his knee wedged between your thighs, his hands catching your wrists and pressing them into the pillow on either side of your head.
"who’s slow now, huh?" his voice was rough, his chest heaving against yours. a strand of his hair fell loose, brushing your cheek.
you bucked, trying to throw him off, but he had you pinned good. your breath came fast, a laugh hitching in your throat. "beginner’s luck."
"beginner's—" he laughed, breathless and disbelieving. "nah, this is just talent."
"talent my ass." you twisted your hips, and he made a small, strangled sound as your thigh pressed up between his legs. his grip on your wrists loosened just enough. you shoved, and he went rolling sideways, the two of you grappling across the rumpled sheets in a mess of grunts and half-stifled curses.
"fuck—" he grabbed for your waist, but you were already moving, swinging a leg over his torso and dropping your weight onto his chest. the air left him in a sharp oof.
"gotcha."
he bucked beneath you, strong and stubborn, his hands finding your hips, fingers digging in as he tried to unseat you. "not yet, you don't."
"eddie." you pressed down harder, your thighs squeezing his ribs. his back arched, muscles straining, and you could feel every shift of him beneath you, the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. "just tap out."
"no."
you grinned, shifting your weight, and his breath stuttered as you bore down, one hand pinning his wrist to the mattress, the other pressing against his chest. "come on, say it."
“n-no, it's not happening."
he twisted again, and you almost lost your grip, your core tightening with the effort of holding him down. your hair fell forward, curtaining both your faces, and for a moment, all you could see were his eyes, dark and glittering and fixed on yours.
"tap," you said, softer now, but no less certain.
he held your gaze. his chest heaved. and then, slowly, his fingers curled against the mattress, and he tapped twice against the sheet.
a triumphant laugh broke out of you. "yes! yes." you flopped forward, your forehead dropping to his sternum, your body still shaking with the exertion. "i told you. i told you."
"okay, okay." his voice was strained, breathless, but there was a smile in it. his chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, his heart hammering hard and fast. "that was... that was pretty good."
"pretty good?" you lifted your head, propping your chin on his chest. "i destroyed you."
"you got lucky."
"i got good."
he snorted, but his hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from your face. his touch lingered, just a beat too long. "alright, hotshot. rematch."
you raised an eyebrow. "you sure you can handle another round? i’d hate to embarrass you twice in one morning."
"embarrass me?" he laughed, sitting up beneath you, and you had to scramble to keep your balance as he shifted. "i'm just warming up, sweetheart."
"mhm." you slid off him, settling onto your knees on the mattress, already rolling your shoulders. "so, same rules?"
"same rules." he mirrored you, his hands coming up in a loose guard, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. "but this time, i’m not going easy on you."
"aw, you went easy on me?"
"i went gentle. i could’ve—"
you lunged.
but this time, he was ready. he caught your wrist, pivoted, and for a second, you thought he had you. but you dropped your weight, twisted, and wrapped your legs around his torso in a move that had him grunting in surprise.
"what the—"
you locked your ankles, your thighs squeezing tight around his neck, and suddenly he was trapped, his face pressed against the inside of your thigh, his body bent at an awkward angle as you rolled onto your back, pulling him with you.
"it’s triangle choke," you said, voice strained with effort.
his response was muffled. something between a laugh and a groan.
you tightened your legs. his hand came up, slapping weakly at your thigh. once. twice.
"tap?" you asked, breathless.
he tapped again, harder this time, and you loosened your hold, letting him pull his head free. he collapsed beside you, chest heaving, a hand pressed to his face.
"holy shit."
you grinned, rolling onto your side to face him. "see? i’m pretty good.”
he let out a breathless laugh, still catching his wind. "you didn't tell me you could do that."
"figured i’d keep it as a surprise."
he turned his head, looking at you with those big, dark eyes, his cheeks flushed, his hair a wild mess. "well, it definitely worked. that was... i didn't see that coming."
"most people don't." you propped yourself up on one elbow, feeling warm and pleased and a little smug. "you okay down there?"
"define okay." he shifted, clearing his throat, and you noticed the way his gaze dropped to your thighs for half a second before snapping back up. "i think i need a minute."
"from one round?"
"from that round." he sat up slowly, running a hand through his tangled hair. "you’ve been holding out on me."
"i told you i’d show you some moves."
"yeah, but i thought you meant, like... a wristlock or something. not..." he gestured vaguely at his own neck. "not getting put in a headlock by your legs."
you laughed, bright and genuine. "you liked it."
he swallowed. "i didn't say that."
"well, you didn't not say it."
he opened his mouth. closed it. looked away, a grin tugging stubbornly at the corner of his lips. "alright, fine. maybe i liked it. a little."
"just a little?"
he looked back at you, and there was something unguarded in his expression, something that made your stomach flip. "maybe more than a little."
you held his gaze for a long moment, searching his eyes for something you weren't sure you'd find. that look in his eyes was still there, and it made your chest feel tight, so you looked away first.
there was something tense in the air, thick and unsaid. you cleared your throat.
"well, either way, you haven't pinned me down." you tried for teasing, but your voice came out a little quieter than you'd intended.
eddie scoffed, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "that’s 'cause I wasn't trying. if i did try, i would've pinned you down a long time ago."
you rolled your eyes, shaking your head. "yeah, right. you told me you weren't gonna go easy."
"i was joking," he clarified, and there was an edge of sincerity now. "if i did, i’d probably hurt you."
you snorted, not buying it for a second. "sure, eddie."
"don’t 'sure, eddie' me."
"then don't be so full of shit."
“oh, shut up.” he laughed.
“make me.”
so he did.
you two tumbled back onto the mattress, arms tangling, breath coming fast. there just the sound of your ragged breathing, the rustle of sheets, soft curses slipping out as you fought for leverage. his knee dug into the mattress beside your hip. your hand slipped against his forearm, both of you slightly slick with sweat.
then he had you.
he flipped you onto your stomach and pressed his weight down, chest against your back, the side of your face squished into the pillow. his breath was hot against your ear, ragged, triumphant.
"not so tough now, huh?" he was panting. "told you i’d pin you down."
you squirmed, thrashing beneath him, trying to find an angle, a gap, anything. but the movement dragged your ass back against him through his jeans, and he felt that unmistakable pressure.
his breath hitched. "hey—stop."
"i’m trying to get out," you shot back, still writhing.
"then—fuck—try a different way."
you didn't listen. you kept moving, kept twisting, until you heard it—a soft, low groan he couldn't quite swallow.
you froze.
then it clicked.
you went still for a second, letting the realization settle warm in your chest. and then you didn't stop. you moved again, slower this time, more deliberate—rolling your hips back against him with intention.
"jesus," eddie breathed, his voice cracking. his forehead dropped against the back of your shoulder. "you’re gonna kill me."
you didn't let up. you kept moving, slow and lazy, dragging your hips back against him like you were still searching for an escape. your voice came out sweet, breathless, edged with false concern.
"what’s wrong?" you murmured against the pillow. "getting tired, eds?"
he was quiet for a moment, just breathing—shallow, uneven, his chest heaving against your back.
"n-no," he stammered, and you felt his fingers twitch where they gripped your wrist. "i’m not tired. i can—" a sharp inhale as you rolled your hips again. "i can do this all day."
you hummed, a soft, pleased sound. "mm. if you say so."
you shifted beneath him, pretending to search for leverage, but you angled your hips deliberately this time—grinding back against him in a slow, torturous arc. his pelvis met yours, and you felt him through the denim, hot and hard and straining.
his breath stuttered.
"fuck—" it was barely a whisper, punched out of him before he could stop it.
you kept going. kept squirming. kept rolling your hips like you had no idea what you were doing, like this was just part of the game. and he let you. he didn't pull away. didn’t tighten his hold to stop you. he just stayed there, taking it, his breathing growing rougher by the second.
another soft groan escaped him, low and involuntary, vibrating against your spine.
"having fun up there?" you asked, your voice syrupy sweet.
he didn't answer. his jaw was clenched so tight you could almost hear his teeth grinding.
you moved again—slower this time, dragging your hips back in a languid, deliberate roll, letting him feel every inch of the friction. his breath caught. his whole body went rigid.
"okay." his voice was strained, hoarse. "okay, what the fuck kind of strategy is this?"
you blinked, all innocence. "i don't know what you're talking about."
"bullshit." but there was no heat in it. his voice had gone soft, almost wondering. "you know exactly what you're doing."
you turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the edge of his expression from the corner of your eye. his face was close—so close you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. his brow was furrowed, his lips slightly parted. he looked wrecked.
your stomach flipped.
"i’m just trying to get out," you said, but even you didn't believe it anymore.
eddie’s jaw clenched. he stared down at you, and for a long, heavy moment, he didn't move. didn’t speak.
his mind was racing.
the two of you had always been touching, teasing, pushing boundaries until they blurred. he’d bite your shoulder just to hear you yelp, and you'd retaliate by stealing his shirts and refusing to give them back. sometimes he'd lick your face when you were being annoying, and you'd shove him into walls, laughing. it was easy. it was fun.
but this?
this was different.
he’d been in love with you for so long he couldn't remember when it started. it had crept up on him slow, like sunrise—imperceptible until suddenly everything was golden and warm and he couldn't look away. he’d watched you laugh, watched you get frustrated, watched you fall asleep on his couch with your mouth hanging open. he’d memorized the sound of your footsteps, the way you said his name, the way your hand felt small in his when you weren't paying attention.
and now you were beneath him, grinding against him like you were trying to undo him, and you didn't even know. you were just playing. just trying to win some stupid game.
but for him, this was everything he'd never let himself have.
he swallowed hard.
"you think i give a shit?" his voice came out low, rough, but underneath it—soft. vulnerable in a way he rarely let himself sound. "i don't care if you're trying to get me to tap." his breath hitched as you shifted again. "it’s not—fuck—it's not gonna work."
he held himself still above you, every muscle coiled tight, his forehead nearly pressed to the back of your head.
"i can do this all day," he repeated, but the words came out broken, like he was trying to convince himself more than you.
you should have stopped. you knew you should have stopped. the game had changed, shifted into something heavier, something that made your skin prickle with awareness. but his voice—that soft, rough edge to it—sent a thrill through you that you couldn't name.
so you didn't stop.
you rolled your hips again, slow and deep, and you heard him choke on a breath above you.
"eds," you whispered, and there was no teasing in it now—just curiosity, just heat. "you sure you're okay?"
he let out a breathless laugh, shaky and raw.
"no," he said, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "i’m really, really not."
the sound of his voice—that broken, breathless confession—settled somewhere deep in your chest, warm and electric. it made you bold. made you reckless.
you moved again.
harder this time. slower, deeper, rolling your hips back against him with deliberate pressure, no longer pretending to search for escape. your body pressed flush against his, the friction sending a shock of heat through your veins. you felt him twitch against you, felt the sharp intake of breath that followed, and something dark and hungry unfurled in your stomach.
a low groan rumbled from his chest. it was guttural, involuntary, the kind of sound that seemed to surprise even him. his forehead dropped to the back of your head, his breath hot and uneven against your hair.
"oh, fuck," he breathed, the words barely audible, more air than sound.
you didn't stop.
you rolled your hips again, slower this time, letting the movement drag out until you could feel every inch of the contact. the denim of his jeans was rough against the thin fabric of your shorts, and the friction was maddening—not enough, never enough, but enough to make your pulse hammer in your throat.
his hands were still on your wrists, but his grip had gone slack. he wasn't holding you anymore. he was just... there. braces above you, trembling, his whole body taut as a drawn bowstring.
another roll of your hips. slower. harder.
his breath stuttered. a soft, broken sound escaped his lips—half groan, half whimper—and it sent a jolt straight through you. you felt it in your chest, in your stomach, in the space between your thighs. your skin flushed hot, your own breathing growing shallow.
you hadn't expected this. hadn’t expected him to sound like that. hadn’t expected the way it would make you feel—powerful, yeah, but also desperate. hungry in a way you didn't have words for.
you arched your back slightly, pressing your hips more firmly against him, and the sound he made in response was almost too much. a strained, shuddering exhale that turned into a low, guttural moan. his hips twitched involuntarily, pressing back against you, and you felt the hard length of him through the layers of fabric.
he was losing control.
you could feel it in the way his breathing had gone ragged, in the way his body shuddered against yours, in the way his fingers curled weakly around your wrists like he was holding on to the last shred of his composure.
you moved again—a slow, grinding circle of your hips that made his breath catch and then release in a shaky, desperate groan.
"jesus christ," he whispered, the word cracking at the edges. his voice was wrecked. hoarse. barely recognizable.
your body responded before your mind could catch up. a soft, breathy sound escaped your lips, and you felt your cheeks flush with heat. you were getting wet. you could feel it—a slick, growing warmth between your thighs that made the friction of your movements even more maddening.
you wanted more.
you shifted your hips, angling yourself differently, and when you rolled back against him this time, the pressure was perfect. the seam of your shorts pressed against you just right, and a small gasp escaped your lips.
eddie heard it.
his whole body went still for a moment, and then he let out a sound that was almost wounded—a low, desperate groan that vibrated through his chest and into your back. his hips moved against yours, grinding back in a slow, instinctual rhythm, and the feeling of him moving with you sent a shudder through your entire body.
your breath came faster now. your skin was hot, flushed, sensitive to every brush of fabric, every shift of his weight above you. you could feel the heat of his body radiating against your back, could smell the faint, familiar scent of him—cigarette smoke and worn leather and something warmer underneath.
his mouth found the curve of your shoulder.
it was tentative at first, just the brush of his lips against your skin, featherlight. but then you rolled your hips again, and his breath hitched, and his lips parted. his mouth pressed open against your shoulder, hot and wet, and you felt the faint graze of his teeth.
a shiver ran through you.
he did it again—his lips dragging across your skin, his breath hot and uneven. his hips moved with yours now, matching your rhythm, grinding against you in a slow, torturous push and pull that made your head spin.
his breathing was loud in your ear, ragged and uneven, punctuated by soft, helpless sounds that he couldn't seem to suppress. a groan here. a shuddering exhale there. a whispered curse that dissolved into a moan as you pressed back against him harder.
you were both moving now. no pretense. no game. just the slow, grinding rhythm of your bodies, the heat building between you, the sounds of his breathing filling the quiet room.
his hand moved.
it happened slowly—his fingers loosening around your wrist, sliding down your arm, trailing across your skin with a featherlight touch that made you shiver. his palm came to rest on your hip, his fingers curling against the curve of your waist.
he didn't pull you. didn’t guide you. he just... held you. like he needed something to hold onto.
his thumb traced a slow, absent circle against your hip bone, and the tenderness of the gesture, in the midst of all this heat, made your breath catch.
he pressed his forehead to the back of your head again, his breathing ragged, his body shuddering against yours.
"fuck," he breathed again, the word barely audible, wrecked and raw and reverent all at once.
you rolled your hips in response, slow and deep, and felt his whole body tense. his fingers dug into your hip, his breath caught in his throat, and a low, shuddering moan escaped him—longer than the others, more desperate, more broken.
he was completely lost in you.
and the sound of it—the feeling of him falling apart against you—was turning you on more than you had ever expected.
the shift in rhythm was subtle at first—a slight increase in the roll of your hips, a little more pressure as you ground back against him. but eddie felt it immediately. his breath stuttered, a soft, strangled sound catching in his throat.
you did it again. faster this time. harder.
his hips jerked in response, meeting your movements with a desperate, uncoordinated thrust. his hands found your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
"god," he breathed, the word barely a whisper, lost in the space between your bodies.
you moved faster. harder. the rhythm of your hips grew urgent, driven by something primal and hungry that coiled low in your stomach. the friction was maddening—rough denim and thin cotton, the heat of his body searing through the layers, the sound of his ragged breathing filling the room.
his eyes were shut.
you could feel it in the way his body moved against yours—blind, instinctual, lost. his brow was pressed to the back of your head, his lips parted, his breath hot and uneven against your scalp. his mind was blank. empty of everything except the feeling of you moving against him.
god, she feels so good.
the thought surfaced and drowned in the heat flooding his senses. he couldn't think. couldn’t form words. all he could do was feel—the slow, torturous grind of your hips, the soft sounds you made, the way your body fit against his like it was made for him.
he had imagined this before. late at night, alone in his van, when his mind wandered to places it shouldn't. he had pictured your hands on him, your mouth, your body pressed against his. but he had never let himself believe it could actually happen. you were too good for him. too bright. too far out of his reach.
but you were here. moving against him. making him feel things he didn't have words for.
and he was in love with you.
the thought hit him like a freight train, sharp and undeniable, and it made everything worse. made the ache deeper. made the heat in his blood burn hotter. because it wasn't just physical—it had never been just physical. every roll of your hips, every soft sound you made, every brush of your skin against his—it all meant something more to him.
his breathing grew ragged. shallow. his chest heaved against your back, and a low, desperate groan escaped his lips—louder than before, raw and unguarded.
your hips moved faster, grinding harder, and he felt himself losing the last thread of control.
“fuck," he gasped, the word cracking. "fuck, sweetheart—"
his hips bucked against you, chasing the friction, chasing the heat. his fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise, and he couldn't bring himself to care. all he could think about was you. the way you felt. the way you moved. the way you were unraveling him piece by piece.
i’m gonna—
the thought came too late.
his body tensed. his breath caught. and then it hit him—a wave of heat that crashed through him without warning, pulling a loud, broken moan from his lips. his hips jerked against you once, twice, as he spilled into his jeans, the release sudden and overwhelming and completely beyond his control.
he gasped. panted. his body shuddered through the aftershocks, his forehead pressed hard against the back of your head, his hands trembling against your hips.
for a long moment, neither of you moved.
the only sound was his ragged breathing, loud in the quiet room, slowly evening out as the haze began to clear.
then his lips found your shoulder again.
soft, open-mouthed kisses, warm and trembling, trailing across your skin. he wasn't thinking. he was just... feeling. trying to ground himself. trying to remember how to breathe. his lips pressed against the curve of your shoulder, the slope of your neck, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing the taste of your skin.
but then you moved.
in a flash, you twisted beneath him, your body rolling with sudden, fluid grace. he barely had time to register the shift before you were on top of him, your knees bracketing his hips, your hands pressing his shoulders down against the mattress.
he stared up at you, wide-eyed, chest still heaving. a beat of silence. then a low, breathless laugh escaped his lips.
"you’re kidding me," he said, his voice still wrecked, still rough around the edges.
you pressed down harder, and he groaned—a soft, defeated sound that melted into another laugh.
"fine. fine." he raised his hands, palms open, and tapped twice against the mattress. "i tap. you win. congratulations, you defeated me, you little shit."
a grin spread across your face, bright and victorious. but there was a glint in your eyes. a question.
"did you just... come in your pants?"
his face flushed red.
he let his head fall back against the pillow, one hand dragging down his face.
"jesus christ," he muttered, his voice muffled behind his palm.
you raised an eyebrow, waiting.
he groaned. long and dramatic and full of self-pity. then he let his hand drop, staring up at the ceiling like he was praying for the floor to swallow him whole.
"yeah," he said, the word clipped and frustrated. "yeah, i did. i fucking came in my pants. you happy now?"
a laugh bubbled out of you—bright and genuine, not mocking, but warm. surprised.
"i didn't even do that much," you said, your voice teasing, but soft.
eddie’s eyes finally met yours. there was something in them—something raw and unguarded, something that made your laughter fade at the edges.
"yeah," he said quietly. "you did."
the words hung in the air between you, heavier than they should have been. he meant more than he was saying. you could feel it in the way his gaze held yours, in the way his chest was still rising and falling too fast, in the way his hands had come to rest on your thighs—not pushing, not pulling. just... holding.
but you laughed it off, shaking your head, rolling your eyes with playful affection.
"guess i’m just that good."
the grin returned to his face, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. he was still looking at you like you were something he couldn't quite believe was real.
"yeah," he said again, softer this time. "i guess you are."
eddie’s eyes searched yours.
he told himself he was just looking. that he was just waiting for your next move, reading your body language, trying to figure out what you were going to do next. that’s all it was. just strategy.
but it wasn't.
he was looking for something else. some flicker of warmth, some crack in the playful facade that would tell him you felt even a fraction of what he felt. some sign that this meant more to you than just a game. some hint that you saw him—not just eddie the freak, not just eddie the dealer, not just eddie the guy who was convenient and willing and pressed against you in the morning.
but there was nothing.
your eyes were bright with mischief, sparkling with the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of winning. there was heat there, sure—a lazy, satisfied kind of desire that told him you were enjoying this. but it was surface-level. fun. a game you were playing because you could, because he was letting you, because it was easy and exciting and meant nothing the next day.
something in his chest cracked, just a little.
he looked away.
the ceiling was suddenly very interesting. water stains. a crack running from the corner to the light fixture. he focused on that instead of the weight of you on his hips, the warmth of your thighs bracketing his waist, the way his heart was pounding in his throat.
"wasn’t fair though," he said, forcing his voice into something lighter, something that sounded like him. "you grinding your ass up against me like that. pretty sure it's cheating."
you rolled your eyes, and he could feel the movement, could feel the shift of your weight as you adjusted above him. "i still won. plus you weren't really in a rush to stop me."
he snorted. "yeah, well. i was being polite. didn’t wanna hurt your feelings."
"uh huh. very chivalrous of you."
"i am a gentleman."
"you came in your pants."
"gentleman," he repeated, louder, and you laughed.
the sound did something to him. made the crack in his chest spread a little wider. he wanted to bottle it. keep it. listen to it on repeat in the lonely hours of the night when he was alone in his van, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell he was doing with his life.
but he didn't say that. he just grinned, letting the banter carry him, letting it be enough.
"rematch," you said, and before he could respond, you were moving.
this time, you were faster. smarter. you caught him off guard, your body twisting with practiced ease, and suddenly your legs were around his head again, your thighs pressing against his ears, and he was trapped.
"jesus christ—"
he struggled, but half-heartedly. his hands came up to grip your thighs, but he wasn't pushing. he was holding. his breath was warm against the inside of your leg, and he could feel the heat of you through your shorts, could smell the faint scent of your skin, could feel the way your body settled against his with comfortable familiarity.
but you didn't stop there.
you shifted. adjusted. your hips lowered, and suddenly you were positioned differently—not just holding him, but using him. your weight settled lower, and he felt the damp spot there, still cooling, still embarrassing.
your mouth found it.
"oh, fuckkk—"
he groaned, loud and broken, his hips bucking up instinctively as your lips pressed against the wet denim. the fabric was rough against your mouth, but beneath it, he was sensitive, aching, still trembling from the aftershocks of his release.
"fuck, this again?" he gasped, his voice muffled between your thighs.
you paused, just barely. your lips ghosted over the damp spot, and he could feel your smile against the denim.
"want me to stop?"
he knew what you were doing. you were giving him an out. a chance to say no, to retreat, to save whatever shred of dignity he had left.
but he didn't want an out.
he wanted you.
“no," he said, the word coming out rough and desperate. "don’t—don't stop."
your hands found the button of his jeans. the zipper. the sound of it lowering was loud in the quiet room, and eddie’s breath caught in his throat. he stared up at the ceiling, at the water stains, at the crack in the corner, and tried to remember how to breathe.
you pulled the denim open. his boxers were visible now—dark blue, damp in the center, clinging to him. he was half-hard again, stirred by the friction, by the heat of your mouth through the fabric, by the sheer overwhelming reality of you.
your tongue touched him through the cotton.
he moaned—a sound he couldn't control, couldn't hold back, couldn't disguise. it was raw and desperate and full of everything he was trying not to feel.
his hands found your thighs again, gripping tight, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
the wet heat of your mouth through the thin fabric. the slow, deliberate drag of your tongue along his length. the way you explored him like he was something to be savored, something to be learned. the way your breath ghosted over him between licks, cooling the spots where your mouth had been. you were basically cleaning up his release.
his chest rose and fell in uneven rhythms, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. his hands trembled against your thighs, and he couldn't tell if he was trying to push you away or pull you closer.
"f-fuck," he stammered, his voice cracking. "do whatever you want to me. i’m still not gonna t-tap again."
you laughed against him—a soft, warm sound that vibrated through the cotton and made his hips jerk.
"we’ll see about that," you murmured. “you’re pretty easy to manipulate.”
eddie groaned softly as you licked him again. “s-shit, can you just put it in your mouth already?”
you hummed against him. “that’s not something a gentleman would say, eds.”
“i don’t care,” he panted. “just… please. just put my cock in your pretty mouth, please. instead of just… eating the come while you clean me off.”
you paused, a small smile forming at your lips. “you think my mouth’s pretty?”
he swallowed hard, realizing he had to be careful with his words if he was gonna keep this up.
“y-yeah. i think you’re pretty,” he failed immediately. “whatever. come on, just suck my—“
and then your fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers.
he lifted his hips without thinking, helping you, letting you. the fabric slid down, and then he was exposed—hard and aching and damp with his own want. the air was cool against his skin, but your mouth was warm, and when you kissed him there—soft, almost tender—he thought he might die.
"fuck," he breathed, the word barely a whisper.
you kissed him again. slower this time. your lips pressed against the head of his cock, gentle and deliberate, like you had all the time in the world. like you wanted to memorize the shape of him, the taste of him, the way he gasped and trembled beneath you.
and then your tongue.
a slow, flat stroke from base to tip, and his whole body arched. a desperate, broken sound tore from his throat, and his fingers dug into your thighs hard enough to leave marks.
you gave him more.
your mouth closed around him, warm and wet and perfect, and he felt his mind go blank. there was nothing but you—the feel of your lips, the stroke of your tongue, the way your throat relaxed to take him deeper. his hands slid from your thighs to your hair, fingers threading through the strands, not pulling, just... holding.
he was panting. moaning. muttering your name like a prayer, like a plea, like a confession.
"god, you—" his voice broke. "you feel so good.”
suddenly an idea popped into eddie’s head.
he arched his back deliberately, letting out a guttural moan that echoed through the small bedroom.
“fuuuuck, sweetheart. just like that. you’re gonna make me come again. right in that pretty mouth of yours—god..." his words were calculated, designed to throw you off your game while his hands gripped your thighs tighter.
you continued your work, taking him deeper as your tongue swirled around the sensitive head. your own arousal was building from the power dynamic, from having him completely at your mercy beneath you. but you weren't expecting what happened next.
the moment your mouth finally released him with a soft pop, replacing it with your hand stroking his length firmly, eddie moved. fast and decisive. in one fluid motion, he flipped both of you over, breaking free from your triangle hold with surprising strength fueled by adrenaline and arousal.
before you could process what was happening, you found yourself bent over his knee, your stomach pressed against his thigh, your ass raised high in the air. your hands braced against the mattress, steadying yourself as shock rippled through your body.
"what the fuck, eds—"
"yeah, right," eddie growled, his voice dripping with dark amusement as he positioned himself behind you. one strong arm wrapped around your waist, holding you securely in place while his other hand hooked into the waistband of your shorts. "thought you were gonna get me again, huh?" he yanked your shorts down roughly, the fabric sliding past your hips and pooling around your knees along with your panties, leaving your lower half completely exposed to him.
his eyes darkened as he took in the sight before him—the curve of your ass, the glisten of moisture coating your inner thighs, the way your body trembled with anticipation and surprise. "holy shit," he breathed, his hand trailing possessively over the smooth skin of your rear. "look at you. all that just from teasing me, huh?"
"you’re such a good little slut for me, aren't you?" his thumb circled your entrance teasingly, feeling how wet you actually were. a low groan escaped him at the discovery. "this is what you wanted, wasn't it? to get me so worked up i couldn't think straight?"
the sharp crack of his palm against your bare flesh sent a jolt of sensation racing up your spine. you gasped, your fingers curling tightly into the rumpled sheets beneath you as the sting bloomed across your skin. a full-bodied shudder ran through you, and you whimpered—a sound that was equal parts pain and desperate need.
"eddie..."
hearing his name on your lips did something to him. something beyond the physical. the sight of you bent over his knee, your back arching involuntarily, your thighs trembling, your skin flushed pink wherever he'd touched—it hit him somewhere deep. like a punch directly to his heart.
"yeah? you like that, sweet girl?" his voice was rough and low, vibrating with barely restrained desire. his thumb traced slow circles over the reddened spot on your ass, soothing and tormenting in equal measure. "if you tap, i’ll play with you. i’ll make you feel reeealll good, i promise."
he gave you a moment to consider it. his hand rested warm and heavy on your hip, his fingers digging in just enough to remind you exactly who was in control now.
but you didn't tap.
of course you didn't. because you were competitive. because tapping meant admitting defeat. and you'd rather burn than give him the satisfaction.
eddie noticed. a slow, knowing grin spread across his face as he read your silence loud and clear.
"that’s what i thought," he murmured, his voice dropping into something darker. possessive. "my stubborn girl."
his hand lifted, hovering in the air for one agonizing second—letting you anticipate, letting the anticipation build to almost unbearable levels—before his palm came down again with a firm, resounding smack against your other cheek.
"ah—!" the moan tore from your throat before you could stop it. your hips bucked involuntarily, pushing back against him in a way that was entirely contradictory to your attempt at maintaining composure. your walls clenched around nothing, your body betraying every ounce of defiance your mind was trying to cling to.
"there we go," eddie praised, his voice thick with satisfaction. his free hand slid between your legs, his fingers parting your slick folds with ease.
the sensation of his finger dipping into your heat was overwhelming, a sudden intrusion that made your breath hitch violently. he didn't rush; instead, he used his fingertip to circle your entrance, dragging through the thick, honeyed slickness he’d already observed. the sound of his movements—the wet, rhythmic sliding of skin against skin—was deafening in the quiet of the trailer.
"god, look at you," eddie groaned, his voice cracking with a primal sort of hunger. “you're fucking drowning in it, sweetheart. absolutely soaked. every time i touch you, you just... you melt."
he pushed a single finger inside, testing your tightness, and you let out a broken, high-pitched whimper that sounded nothing like your usual self. you tried to keep your jaw clenched, tried to maintain some semblance of that stubborn pride, but your body was a traitor. your hips were practically begging for him to fill the void, tilting back toward him instinctively.
"all you gotta do is tap, sweetheart," he whispered, “just one little tap and i’ll play with you. i’ll give you exactly what you’re aching for. you think i don’t know how much you want this? i’ve known you for so long, i’ve picked up a thing or two about what makes you lose your mind."
he pulled his finger out almost entirely, only to drive it back in deeper, pushing past the initial resistance until he hit that sweet spot that made your eyes roll back in your head.
"mmmgh—eddie, please—"
“please what?" he mocked softly, though his breathing was coming in ragged, heavy bursts now. he was losing his own battle with control, his cock twitching rhythmically. "tell me what you want. tell me you can't take it anymore. tell me you're ready to tap."
despite the mounting tension, you still didn't tap. you clung to the sheets, your knuckles white, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps as you fought the urge to give in.
eddie let out a low, dark chuckle. "still no, huh? you’re really going to make me edge you? it’s just one little tap, baby."
the nickname hit you like a physical wave. the word 'baby'—spoken in that specific, low register—sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core, causing your internal muscles to clench tightly around his fingers. eddie groaned softly as he felt the sudden, desperate grip of your walls. it turned him on viciously, but it also made his heart clench with an intensity that terrified him. the raw intimacy of it, the way you reacted to him, made him want to make you feel good.
"yeah, you like it when i call you that, baby? fuck, you look so pretty like this. come here."
he shifted his weight, leaning over you more aggressively. he didn't let go of your heat, but he reached around, pressing his thumb firmly against your lips. you didn't hesitate; you leaned into it, sucking on his thumb with a desperate hunger, your whimpers muffled and wet against his skin.
"yeah, suck on that, sweet girl. drool on it if you want to," he groaned, his voice sounding strained, almost pained. "just take it. take everything i’ve got."
his fingers inside you shifted gears, moving from a slow tease to a rough, demanding pace. he was driving into you now, hitting that precise spot over and over again, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of a cliff. he could feel your body shaking, your breath hitching in a way that told him you were seconds away from shattering.
eddie pulled his thumb from your mouth. before you could even gasp for air, he slid his hand down, pressing that same thumb directly onto your swollen, hypersensitive clit. he began to rub in a fast, relentless rhythm, perfectly synchronized with the rough pace of his fingers inside you.
the dual stimulation was too much. your head snapped back, a loud, broken cry escaping your throat as the world dissolved into white noise and pure, blinding pleasure.
as waves of pleasure crashed over you, eddie kept up the relentless pressure. his fingers curled inside you, grinding against that perfect spot while his thumb circled your clit in tight, deliberate motions that had you seeing stars.
“come on, baby, you're so close, aren't you?" he taunted, his voice a mix of dark amusement and genuine wonder. he leaned down, pressing his forehead against your shoulder blade, breathing heavily. "so fucking close to coming, huh? your wet, sloppy pussy's just aching to come, yeah? not until you tap though."
he punctuated his words with another sharp slap to your ass. the sting shot through the pleasure, intensifying it to an almost painful degree. you cried out, your whole body convulsing as a second orgasm threatened to tear you apart.
"c’mon, tap. i tapped for you earlier, baby," he murmured, his voice shifting into something sweeter, almost tender despite the cruel teasing. his thumb slowed its rhythm, becoming gentler as he coaxed you. "don’t you want to come? don’t you want to come for me?"
he knew you were fighting it. could feel the tension in your muscles as you battled against your own body's demands. it was infuriating and beautiful all at once. his heart swelled with something far deeper than simple lust.
"just one tap, sweetheart. give in. let me win this round," he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear.
“please... eddie... please, i can't..." you managed to choke out, your voice cracking. you tried to pull away, to find some relief, but his hand on your hip was an anchor, keeping you pinned exactly where he wanted you. "let me... just let me come, please!"
eddie’s grip tightened. he didn't relent; if anything, he increased the pressure, his fingers curling deeper, driving into you with a newfound, predatory urgency.
"no, baby, not yet," he purred, the teasing sweetness still there mixed with raw, commanding hunger. "don’t fucking come until i tell you to. you gotta tap."
"you’re... you're such a dick!" you sobbed out, a mixture of a laugh and a cry. you hated how much you loved this. you hated that even through the haze of ecstasy, your pride was still standing, stubborn and ridiculous. "fuck, i hate you, eddie!"
"yeah? you hate me?" his thumb worked your clit with a frantic, punishing speed that made your hips buck uncontrollably. "is that right? no, you don't hate me, sweetheart. you love—“ he paused. “…this. you love being told what to do by me, don’t you?”
he leaned down, his teeth grazing the nape of your neck, leaving a mark that made you whimper.
"yeah? you’d rather i just edge you like that?" he taunted, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register that sent a fresh chill of arousal down your spine. "just drill that fucking pussy with my fingers? is that what you want? guess i should just fuck you then, huh? i’ll flip you over, pin you down, and pound you until you can't even remember your own name, let alone how to be stubborn."
the mental image was too much. your breath hitched, your lungs feeling too small for the air you were trying to pull in.
eddie’s gaze was unwavering; he watched every tremor of your muscles, every frantic roll of your eyes, looking for any sign of surrender. but even as his lust burned white-hot, a deep, aching pang of longing throbbed in his chest. he didn't just want to conquer your body. he wanted to pull you into his arms and kiss you until neither of you could breathe, to tell you everything he had been hiding behind jokes and hair-ruffling for years.
“yeah," he breathed, his voice a jagged edge of desire. "i’m gonna pump that pussy full of come. is that what you want, baby? to feel me inside you, filling you up?"
you were a broken, moaning mess. your protests had dissolved into incoherent pleas, your pride finally buckling under the sheer weight of the sensation. you were hovering on the precipice, your entire being vibrating with the need to shatter, but eddie was a master of torment. every time you reached for the peak, he shifted his rhythm, pulling back just enough to leave you gasping and empty.
suddenly, the friction stopped. the sudden absence of his fingers felt like a physical wound.
before you could even find your breath to protest, eddie moved. with a surge of strength that caught you off guard, he gripped your hips and flipped you over. you landed hard against the mattress, your legs falling open instinctively, your chest heaving as you stared up at him through a veil of damp hair.
he didn't care about the game anymore. the competition, the tapping, the teasing—it had all been burned away by a sudden, primal necessity. he needed to be in you.
eddie hovered over you, his eyes dark and hooded, looking like a man possessed. he guided himself to your entrance, the tip of his cock brushing against your slick, swollen folds. he paused for a heartbeat, his muscles trembling with the effort of restraint.
then, with one heavy, decisive thrust, he drove himself home.
"oh god—oh god, fuck," he groaned, the sound tearing from his lungs as he buried himself deep within you. the sensation of your tight, pulsing heat swallowing him whole was almost more than he could bear.
your hand immediately found his arm, fingers digging into the taut muscle of his bicep as you tilted your head back against the pillow. the sensation of him stretching you, filling you completely, sent sparks cascading behind your eyelids. a raw, guttural moan escaped your lips, his name tumbling from them without thought.
"oh fuck, eddie, you feel so good..."
the praise hit him like a freight train. his cock twitched inside you, swelling thicker as a shudder rolled through his entire body. the way you looked beneath him—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, cheeks flushed crimson, your nails leaving crescent marks in his skin—it was beautiful. devastating. everything he'd ever wanted and more.
it wasn't just the sex; it was the fact that it was you. hearing you worship him, feeling your hands clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth, sent a wave of possessive, overwhelming love through him.
"yeah?" he panted, his hips finding a slow, rolling rhythm as he settled into the depth of you. "that feel good for you, baby? take that cock, sweet girl, take it all in." his voice was reverent, almost worshipful, despite the crude words. one hand slid under your lower back, arching you slightly, changing the angle just enough to make you gasp.
he began to move. slowly at first, savoring the feel of you wrapped around him like a glove, then gradually building momentum. each thrust was deliberate, deep, pushing to the hilt before withdrawing almost all the way, only to slam back inside with a force that made the bed creak in protest. the wet, obscene sounds of their bodies meeting filled the trailer alongside your cries.
"hold onto me," he grunted, his pace quickening. "don’t let go, okay? not... not ever."
your legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper, and eddie’s control fractured further. he buried his face against your neck, breathing you in while kissing at the skin—taking in the scent of sweat mixed with your perfume—as his hips pistoned into you with increasing desperation.
"i’m not gonna last," he admitted as he pulled back, his voice cracking. "not without you. come with me, baby, please. you’ve been so good. you can come now."
as your moans grew louder, more desperate, eddie’s gaze flickered downward. for a split second, he looked at your lips—swollen and parted and glistening—and something in his expression shifted. raw vulnerability flickered across his features before he masked it with another thrust.
you noticed.
"what, y-you wanna—fuck—kiss me, eds?"
you couldn't help yourself. even now, even with his cock driving into you and your entire world dissolving into sensation, you had to tease him. had to push him just a little further.
he swallowed hard, his gaze never leaving yours. he saw the desire, the need reflected in your eyes, and suddenly, the longing that had been building beneath the physical urgency erupted. it was a desperate bid to bridge the gap between the physical act and the soul-deep connection he craved.
he closed the distance in an instant. his mouth crashed onto yours—deep, messy, and passionate. it was hungry, a furious expression of every moment of wanting, every unspoken feeling that had coiled inside him for so long. he kissed you with the ferocity of a man who was pouring every ounce of his love and longing into that kiss, trying to communicate everything he couldn't say aloud.
your initial surprise melted away instantly, replaced by a reciprocal fire.
as you met his mouth with a desperate, frantic hunger, your movements were driven by the sheer, overwhelming sensation of him—the friction, the heat, the primal urge to feel more, to lose yourself in the pleasure he was providing. you were chasing the peak, riding the wave of physical ecstasy that threatened to drown you.
but eddie... eddie was somewhere else entirely. every time his lips pressed against yours, it wasn't just about the sensation; it was almost like a prayer. he was trying to anchor himself to you even as the world blurred around the edges.
he broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches. his lips migrated from your mouth to your jawline, trailing hot, wet kisses down to the sensitive dip of your neck. his nipped at your skin, his teeth grazing you just enough to make you arch your back, his hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.
"come on, baby... come on my cock," he groaned against your skin, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that thrummed through your entire body. he found your clit again, his thumb working with a rhythmic, punishing precision that sent sparks flying behind your eyelids. "i got you, i got you. fuck, you look so pretty... you look so fucking beautiful..."
the praise, delivered with such raw, unadulterated devotion, was the final catalyst. your world fractured. a sharp, high-pitched cry escaped your throat as your muscles convulsed around him, the orgasm crashing over you in violent, delicious waves.
eddie let out a low, guttural groan, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as he felt you tremble beneath him. he didn't slow down; if anything, the feeling of you tightening around him drove him closer to the edge. "oh, fuck... atta girl. atta girl, you did so good," he murmured, his voice thick with pride and adoration. he peppered your neck with frantic, soothing kisses, trying to steady you even as his own control began to disintegrate.
his body continued its relentless, insistent rhythm, each thrust a testament to the building storm within him. his words were a low, husky promise, his voice scraping against your skin like a gentle rasp. "oh, i’m gonna come... gonna come inside you, baby, you want it? you want me to come in that wet little cunt of yours?"
your response was a desperate, whimpish nod, your voice barely audible over the thrumming of your pulse. "yeah, eds, i want it. give it to me." the words were a siren's call, beckoning him closer to the edge.
and then, in an instant, he was over it. a low, breathless groan escaped his lips as he came hard inside you, his body locking up in a spasm of release. soft curses and a string of muttered oaths accompanied the violent, shuddering convulsions of his climax.
“f-fuck, oh god, yeah…”
as you both panted, struggling to catch your breath, his gaze met yours in a fleeting, shining moment. his eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide with the aftermath of his orgasm, but beneath the haze of pleasure, a glimmer of something else lingered. something that looked almost like hope.
he kissed your shoulder as he leaned down, his lips tracing a soft, comforting path along the delicate curve of your skin. his hand rose to your hip, resting there lightly as if anchored to your very existence.
then your hand moved up to tangle itself in his damp curls, fingers threading through the long, wavy strands with a gentleness that made his heart ache.
to eddie, that gesture was everything. that simple, innocent touch told him more than any confession ever could. for one fragile, suspended moment, he allowed himself to believe—that maybe, just maybe, you saw him differently. that the connection he felt wasn't just one-sided.
but he knew better.
"come here," he whispered, his voice hoarse and tender. he tilted your chin up with careful fingers, guiding your lips toward his. the second kiss was a revelation compared to the first. softer. slower. still carrying the embers of the previous passion, but burning with something deeper—something patient and aching and brave all at once. his lips moved against yours with a reverence that bordered on worship, savoring every millimeter of contact.
you hummed against his mouth, and the sound made his chest tighten painfully.
he kissed you until neither of you could breathe, and then he kissed you some more.
but as you pulled back, a soft giggle slipped from your lips. eddie smiled softly, brushing your hair away from your face. “what?”
you shook your head, still a little breathless. “nothing. just… didn’t expect us to become fuck buddies, i guess.”
your words landed like a knife between his ribs. fuck buddies. two words that reduced everything he'd just experienced—the emotional nakedness, the quiet desperation in his own kisses—to something casual.
like it was something transactional
he kept his expression carefully neutral, but the muscle in his jaw tightened. he looked away, staring at the wall of his cramped bedroom as if it contained the answers to questions he was too afraid to ask. his thumb traced an absent circle against your hip, the motion mechanical now rather than intentional.
"yeah, me neither," he said quietly. too quietly. the words carried far less weight than the silence that surrounded them.
he expected this to happen, but it still pained him to hear how casual you were about it. he felt like an idiot for even letting himself hope.
you laughed lightly, and he forced a small smile, still not meeting your eyes. he could feel the shift between them—a subtle, imperceptible cooling, like a cloud passing over the sun. you probably didn't notice it. or maybe you did and simply didn't care.
he cleared his throat, disentangling himself slowly. the loss of contact was immediate and acute—like a phantom limb, he felt the absence of your warmth against his skin with painful clarity. he sat up on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his disheveled curls, trying to collect himself.
"so," he started, his voice settling back into its usual easy cadence—but something underneath it had shifted. a guard going back up. walls rebuilding brick by brick. "guess we should, uh... probably get breakfast or something."
he stood, stretching his tall frame, deliberately keeping his back turned to you. he needed a moment to compose himself—to push down the ache that was blooming in his chest like a bruise turning purple. he grabbed his boxers from the floor and pulled them on, the mundane act helping to ground him back in reality.
it’s fine. it’s just sex. just because you caught feelings doesn't mean she owes you anything.
he glanced over his shoulder, forcing that signature lazy grin. "unless you wanna stay in bed all day. i’m not complaining either way." the joke fell flat in his own ears, and he hoped you didn't hear it.
you didn't notice the flicker of pain in his eyes or the way his smile didn't quite reach them. as he sat back down, you simply leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the back of his shoulder. to you, it was a sweet gesture of affection; to eddie, it was a gentle twist of a knife, a reminder of how effortless this was for you while he was drowning in it.
“can’t. i gotta get home soon or my parents will freak,” you said, your voice light and cheerful. you stood up, grabbing your panties and shorts from the floor and tugging them on with a casualness that made his heart sink. eddie sat there, frozen, watching you with a longing so profound it felt physical. he traced the line of your silhouette, memorizing the way you looked in the morning light, knowing that the intimacy he’d just felt was a secret he would have to carry alone.
“fuck, where are my keys?” you asked, glancing around the room.
“probably on the dresser, sweetheart,” he answered softly, his voice lacking its usual theatrical energy.
you found them and let out a sigh of relief, stepping back into his space one last time to plant a quick, friendly kiss on his cheek. “thanks, eds. and thanks for… whatever this was,” you added with a little chuckle, the phrase 'whatever this was' echoing in his mind as a definitive label for their new arrangement. “i’ll see you later, yeah?”
you were already halfway to the door, your energy buzzing and untroubled. eddie just sat there, his shoulders slumping slightly as the silence of the room rushed back in to fill the void you left behind. he nodded, his gaze softening into something mournful.
“yeah,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “see ya.”
he waited until the sound of your footsteps faded and the door clicked shut before he let out a long, shaky breath. he sank back onto the bed, burying his face in his hands, the ghost of your scent still clinging to his skin and the crushing weight of an unrequited love settling heavily in his chest…
📞·˚ ༘ ┊͙ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: one morning when you and eddie wake up after a sleepover at his trailer, you decide to show him a couple of moves you learned while taking jiu-jitsu classes.
𝓞𝓡 , you and eddie’s friendship turns into something more when you accidentally grind on him while playfighting . . .
⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: smut, inspired by this post (thought the 7th link was eddie coded) , never proofread , best friends to…? , i always have to write eddie as a yearner , grinding/dryhumping , pervy! eddie & pervy! reader , pretty filthy if i do say so myself , lots and lots of teasing and dirty talk , praise mixed with degradation , a lot of position switches too since they’re wrestling , reader licking eddie through his boxers , oral (m receiving) , spanking , fingering , p in v , some orgasm denial ig , creampie (be safe horndogs.) , pining eddie , angsty ending
eddie woke up to the sunlight spilling through the window, a slow gold that slid across the floorboards and crept up the rumpled sheets. he yawned softly, shifting to find a more comfortable angle, and the movement stirred you from sleep—a low, sleepy hum escaping your throat before you even knew you'd made it.
his eyes fluttered open at the sound. the haze of sleep cleared just enough for him to register that you were here, in his bed, your face half-buried in his pillow. something in his chest pulled taut.
“mm. morning," he murmured, his voice rough and low.
"good morning," you mumbled back, not opening your eyes. you nuzzled deeper into the pillow, your breath slow and even.
he watched you for a long moment—longer than he meant to. his gaze traced the curve of your cheek, the way your lashes fanned against your skin, the soft rise and fall of your breathing. the morning light caught the edges of your face, highlighting every small feature he already thought was beautiful, and he felt something warm bloom low in his chest.
he caught himself and cleared his throat.
“so," he said, quiet, "we didn't finish the movie."
you nodded, eyes still closed. "mhm. i knocked out on the couch."
you said it with a hint of sheepishness that made him chuckle. "i know. i tried to be quiet when i snuck away."
a lazy grin spread across his face even though you didn’t see it, boyish and unguarded in the soft light.
"wow. so careless of you," you teased, your voice still thick with sleep. "not even bothering to carry me over to your bed like a gentleman."
he scoffed, but the grin didn't fade—it softened, turned almost tender, even though you couldn't see it. "why?" he asked, voice dropping to something quieter. "why should i have to be a gentleman? it’s my room."
"cause i’m a girl, dumbass. it’s like an unspoken rule."
a sleepy smile tugged at your lips, and the sight of it made his heart stutter. he covered it with a laugh.
"oh, right. 'cause you're too dainty and delicate to sleep on the worn-out couch in my living room, huh?"
his hand found your hair, fingers threading through the mess of it, ruffling gently. you finally opened your eyes, swatting at his hand with a giggle.
“careful. i know jiu-jitsu, y’know.”
eddie’s eyes went wide, a slow grin spreading across his face as the memory surfaced. “oh, shit. yeah—you’ve been taking classes, right? you told me you’d show me some moves.”
you blinked, the haze of sleep parting just enough for confusion to settle in. “oh my god, really? i said that?”
“yeah.” he propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with that lopsided smirk that always made your stomach flip. “you said you’d show me your bjj.”
you stared at him. “my what?”
“your bjj,” he repeated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “your brazilian jiu-jitsu.”
a beat of silence, and then you relaxed, a laugh bubbling out of you. “oh. guess i did.” you stretched your arms above your head, the movement pulling your spaghetti strap tank top up just slightly. “i bet i could show you some moves right now.”
eddie’s eyebrows shot up, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. “right now? in the morning? before breakfast?”
“what’s the matter, eds?” you tilted your head, voice dropping into something teasing and sweet. “too chicken?”
he scoffed, pushing himself upright, the challenge landing exactly where you aimed it. “i’m not chicken. i’m just saying—you’re in my bed, in my room, and you wanna grapple with me first thing in the morning?”
“scared i’ll pin you?” you shot back, sitting up slowly, the sheet pooling around your waist.
his grin turned sharp, playful, his gaze dragging over you in a way that was half challenge, half something else entirely. “sweetheart, i’d like to see you try.”
“so it’s an invitation?”
“it’s a warning.” he leaned in, close enough that you could smell the sleep on his skin, his voice dropping to a murmur. “i don’t go easy on people who threaten me in my own bed.”
your heart stuttered, but you held his gaze, a smile curving your lips. “good. i’d be offended if you did.”
the second the words left your mouth, eddie lunged.
you let out a surprised yelp as he crashed into you, the both of you tumbling back onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and laughter. the sheets twisted beneath you, and his weight pressed you into the pillows for half a second before you squirmed, hooked a leg around his, and rolled.
he hit the mattress with a grunt, the breath punched out of him. "shit—"
"too slow, eds," you breathed, already scrambling to pin his wrist to the bed.
but eddie was wiry and quick. he twisted beneath you, his hip bucking up hard enough to throw off your balance, and suddenly you were the one on your back again, his knee wedged between your thighs, his hands catching your wrists and pressing them into the pillow on either side of your head.
"who’s slow now, huh?" his voice was rough, his chest heaving against yours. a strand of his hair fell loose, brushing your cheek.
you bucked, trying to throw him off, but he had you pinned good. your breath came fast, a laugh hitching in your throat. "beginner’s luck."
"beginner's—" he laughed, breathless and disbelieving. "nah, this is just talent."
"talent my ass." you twisted your hips, and he made a small, strangled sound as your thigh pressed up between his legs. his grip on your wrists loosened just enough. you shoved, and he went rolling sideways, the two of you grappling across the rumpled sheets in a mess of grunts and half-stifled curses.
"fuck—" he grabbed for your waist, but you were already moving, swinging a leg over his torso and dropping your weight onto his chest. the air left him in a sharp oof.
"gotcha."
he bucked beneath you, strong and stubborn, his hands finding your hips, fingers digging in as he tried to unseat you. "not yet, you don't."
"eddie." you pressed down harder, your thighs squeezing his ribs. his back arched, muscles straining, and you could feel every shift of him beneath you, the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. "just tap out."
"no."
you grinned, shifting your weight, and his breath stuttered as you bore down, one hand pinning his wrist to the mattress, the other pressing against his chest. "come on, say it."
“n-no, it's not happening."
he twisted again, and you almost lost your grip, your core tightening with the effort of holding him down. your hair fell forward, curtaining both your faces, and for a moment, all you could see were his eyes, dark and glittering and fixed on yours.
"tap," you said, softer now, but no less certain.
he held your gaze. his chest heaved. and then, slowly, his fingers curled against the mattress, and he tapped twice against the sheet.
a triumphant laugh broke out of you. "yes! yes." you flopped forward, your forehead dropping to his sternum, your body still shaking with the exertion. "i told you. i told you."
"okay, okay." his voice was strained, breathless, but there was a smile in it. his chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, his heart hammering hard and fast. "that was... that was pretty good."
"pretty good?" you lifted your head, propping your chin on his chest. "i destroyed you."
"you got lucky."
"i got good."
he snorted, but his hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from your face. his touch lingered, just a beat too long. "alright, hotshot. rematch."
you raised an eyebrow. "you sure you can handle another round? i’d hate to embarrass you twice in one morning."
"embarrass me?" he laughed, sitting up beneath you, and you had to scramble to keep your balance as he shifted. "i'm just warming up, sweetheart."
"mhm." you slid off him, settling onto your knees on the mattress, already rolling your shoulders. "so, same rules?"
"same rules." he mirrored you, his hands coming up in a loose guard, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. "but this time, i’m not going easy on you."
"aw, you went easy on me?"
"i went gentle. i could’ve—"
you lunged.
but this time, he was ready. he caught your wrist, pivoted, and for a second, you thought he had you. but you dropped your weight, twisted, and wrapped your legs around his torso in a move that had him grunting in surprise.
"what the—"
you locked your ankles, your thighs squeezing tight around his neck, and suddenly he was trapped, his face pressed against the inside of your thigh, his body bent at an awkward angle as you rolled onto your back, pulling him with you.
"it’s triangle choke," you said, voice strained with effort.
his response was muffled. something between a laugh and a groan.
you tightened your legs. his hand came up, slapping weakly at your thigh. once. twice.
"tap?" you asked, breathless.
he tapped again, harder this time, and you loosened your hold, letting him pull his head free. he collapsed beside you, chest heaving, a hand pressed to his face.
"holy shit."
you grinned, rolling onto your side to face him. "see? i’m pretty good.”
he let out a breathless laugh, still catching his wind. "you didn't tell me you could do that."
"figured i’d keep it as a surprise."
he turned his head, looking at you with those big, dark eyes, his cheeks flushed, his hair a wild mess. "well, it definitely worked. that was... i didn't see that coming."
"most people don't." you propped yourself up on one elbow, feeling warm and pleased and a little smug. "you okay down there?"
"define okay." he shifted, clearing his throat, and you noticed the way his gaze dropped to your thighs for half a second before snapping back up. "i think i need a minute."
"from one round?"
"from that round." he sat up slowly, running a hand through his tangled hair. "you’ve been holding out on me."
"i told you i’d show you some moves."
"yeah, but i thought you meant, like... a wristlock or something. not..." he gestured vaguely at his own neck. "not getting put in a headlock by your legs."
you laughed, bright and genuine. "you liked it."
he swallowed. "i didn't say that."
"well, you didn't not say it."
he opened his mouth. closed it. looked away, a grin tugging stubbornly at the corner of his lips. "alright, fine. maybe i liked it. a little."
"just a little?"
he looked back at you, and there was something unguarded in his expression, something that made your stomach flip. "maybe more than a little."
you held his gaze for a long moment, searching his eyes for something you weren't sure you'd find. that look in his eyes was still there, and it made your chest feel tight, so you looked away first.
there was something tense in the air, thick and unsaid. you cleared your throat.
"well, either way, you haven't pinned me down." you tried for teasing, but your voice came out a little quieter than you'd intended.
eddie scoffed, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "that’s 'cause I wasn't trying. if i did try, i would've pinned you down a long time ago."
you rolled your eyes, shaking your head. "yeah, right. you told me you weren't gonna go easy."
"i was joking," he clarified, and there was an edge of sincerity now. "if i did, i’d probably hurt you."
you snorted, not buying it for a second. "sure, eddie."
"don’t 'sure, eddie' me."
"then don't be so full of shit."
“oh, shut up.” he laughed.
“make me.”
so he did.
you two tumbled back onto the mattress, arms tangling, breath coming fast. there just the sound of your ragged breathing, the rustle of sheets, soft curses slipping out as you fought for leverage. his knee dug into the mattress beside your hip. your hand slipped against his forearm, both of you slightly slick with sweat.
then he had you.
he flipped you onto your stomach and pressed his weight down, chest against your back, the side of your face squished into the pillow. his breath was hot against your ear, ragged, triumphant.
"not so tough now, huh?" he was panting. "told you i’d pin you down."
you squirmed, thrashing beneath him, trying to find an angle, a gap, anything. but the movement dragged your ass back against him through his jeans, and he felt that unmistakable pressure.
his breath hitched. "hey—stop."
"i’m trying to get out," you shot back, still writhing.
"then—fuck—try a different way."
you didn't listen. you kept moving, kept twisting, until you heard it—a soft, low groan he couldn't quite swallow.
you froze.
then it clicked.
you went still for a second, letting the realization settle warm in your chest. and then you didn't stop. you moved again, slower this time, more deliberate—rolling your hips back against him with intention.
"jesus," eddie breathed, his voice cracking. his forehead dropped against the back of your shoulder. "you’re gonna kill me."
you didn't let up. you kept moving, slow and lazy, dragging your hips back against him like you were still searching for an escape. your voice came out sweet, breathless, edged with false concern.
"what’s wrong?" you murmured against the pillow. "getting tired, eds?"
he was quiet for a moment, just breathing—shallow, uneven, his chest heaving against your back.
"n-no," he stammered, and you felt his fingers twitch where they gripped your wrist. "i’m not tired. i can—" a sharp inhale as you rolled your hips again. "i can do this all day."
you hummed, a soft, pleased sound. "mm. if you say so."
you shifted beneath him, pretending to search for leverage, but you angled your hips deliberately this time—grinding back against him in a slow, torturous arc. his pelvis met yours, and you felt him through the denim, hot and hard and straining.
his breath stuttered.
"fuck—" it was barely a whisper, punched out of him before he could stop it.
you kept going. kept squirming. kept rolling your hips like you had no idea what you were doing, like this was just part of the game. and he let you. he didn't pull away. didn’t tighten his hold to stop you. he just stayed there, taking it, his breathing growing rougher by the second.
another soft groan escaped him, low and involuntary, vibrating against your spine.
"having fun up there?" you asked, your voice syrupy sweet.
he didn't answer. his jaw was clenched so tight you could almost hear his teeth grinding.
you moved again—slower this time, dragging your hips back in a languid, deliberate roll, letting him feel every inch of the friction. his breath caught. his whole body went rigid.
"okay." his voice was strained, hoarse. "okay, what the fuck kind of strategy is this?"
you blinked, all innocence. "i don't know what you're talking about."
"bullshit." but there was no heat in it. his voice had gone soft, almost wondering. "you know exactly what you're doing."
you turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the edge of his expression from the corner of your eye. his face was close—so close you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. his brow was furrowed, his lips slightly parted. he looked wrecked.
your stomach flipped.
"i’m just trying to get out," you said, but even you didn't believe it anymore.
eddie’s jaw clenched. he stared down at you, and for a long, heavy moment, he didn't move. didn’t speak.
his mind was racing.
the two of you had always been touching, teasing, pushing boundaries until they blurred. he’d bite your shoulder just to hear you yelp, and you'd retaliate by stealing his shirts and refusing to give them back. sometimes he'd lick your face when you were being annoying, and you'd shove him into walls, laughing. it was easy. it was fun.
but this?
this was different.
he’d been in love with you for so long he couldn't remember when it started. it had crept up on him slow, like sunrise—imperceptible until suddenly everything was golden and warm and he couldn't look away. he’d watched you laugh, watched you get frustrated, watched you fall asleep on his couch with your mouth hanging open. he’d memorized the sound of your footsteps, the way you said his name, the way your hand felt small in his when you weren't paying attention.
and now you were beneath him, grinding against him like you were trying to undo him, and you didn't even know. you were just playing. just trying to win some stupid game.
but for him, this was everything he'd never let himself have.
he swallowed hard.
"you think i give a shit?" his voice came out low, rough, but underneath it—soft. vulnerable in a way he rarely let himself sound. "i don't care if you're trying to get me to tap." his breath hitched as you shifted again. "it’s not—fuck—it's not gonna work."
he held himself still above you, every muscle coiled tight, his forehead nearly pressed to the back of your head.
"i can do this all day," he repeated, but the words came out broken, like he was trying to convince himself more than you.
you should have stopped. you knew you should have stopped. the game had changed, shifted into something heavier, something that made your skin prickle with awareness. but his voice—that soft, rough edge to it—sent a thrill through you that you couldn't name.
so you didn't stop.
you rolled your hips again, slow and deep, and you heard him choke on a breath above you.
"eds," you whispered, and there was no teasing in it now—just curiosity, just heat. "you sure you're okay?"
he let out a breathless laugh, shaky and raw.
"no," he said, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "i’m really, really not."
the sound of his voice—that broken, breathless confession—settled somewhere deep in your chest, warm and electric. it made you bold. made you reckless.
you moved again.
harder this time. slower, deeper, rolling your hips back against him with deliberate pressure, no longer pretending to search for escape. your body pressed flush against his, the friction sending a shock of heat through your veins. you felt him twitch against you, felt the sharp intake of breath that followed, and something dark and hungry unfurled in your stomach.
a low groan rumbled from his chest. it was guttural, involuntary, the kind of sound that seemed to surprise even him. his forehead dropped to the back of your head, his breath hot and uneven against your hair.
"oh, fuck," he breathed, the words barely audible, more air than sound.
you didn't stop.
you rolled your hips again, slower this time, letting the movement drag out until you could feel every inch of the contact. the denim of his jeans was rough against the thin fabric of your shorts, and the friction was maddening—not enough, never enough, but enough to make your pulse hammer in your throat.
his hands were still on your wrists, but his grip had gone slack. he wasn't holding you anymore. he was just... there. braces above you, trembling, his whole body taut as a drawn bowstring.
another roll of your hips. slower. harder.
his breath stuttered. a soft, broken sound escaped his lips—half groan, half whimper—and it sent a jolt straight through you. you felt it in your chest, in your stomach, in the space between your thighs. your skin flushed hot, your own breathing growing shallow.
you hadn't expected this. hadn’t expected him to sound like that. hadn’t expected the way it would make you feel—powerful, yeah, but also desperate. hungry in a way you didn't have words for.
you arched your back slightly, pressing your hips more firmly against him, and the sound he made in response was almost too much. a strained, shuddering exhale that turned into a low, guttural moan. his hips twitched involuntarily, pressing back against you, and you felt the hard length of him through the layers of fabric.
he was losing control.
you could feel it in the way his breathing had gone ragged, in the way his body shuddered against yours, in the way his fingers curled weakly around your wrists like he was holding on to the last shred of his composure.
you moved again—a slow, grinding circle of your hips that made his breath catch and then release in a shaky, desperate groan.
"jesus christ," he whispered, the word cracking at the edges. his voice was wrecked. hoarse. barely recognizable.
your body responded before your mind could catch up. a soft, breathy sound escaped your lips, and you felt your cheeks flush with heat. you were getting wet. you could feel it—a slick, growing warmth between your thighs that made the friction of your movements even more maddening.
you wanted more.
you shifted your hips, angling yourself differently, and when you rolled back against him this time, the pressure was perfect. the seam of your shorts pressed against you just right, and a small gasp escaped your lips.
eddie heard it.
his whole body went still for a moment, and then he let out a sound that was almost wounded—a low, desperate groan that vibrated through his chest and into your back. his hips moved against yours, grinding back in a slow, instinctual rhythm, and the feeling of him moving with you sent a shudder through your entire body.
your breath came faster now. your skin was hot, flushed, sensitive to every brush of fabric, every shift of his weight above you. you could feel the heat of his body radiating against your back, could smell the faint, familiar scent of him—cigarette smoke and worn leather and something warmer underneath.
his mouth found the curve of your shoulder.
it was tentative at first, just the brush of his lips against your skin, featherlight. but then you rolled your hips again, and his breath hitched, and his lips parted. his mouth pressed open against your shoulder, hot and wet, and you felt the faint graze of his teeth.
a shiver ran through you.
he did it again—his lips dragging across your skin, his breath hot and uneven. his hips moved with yours now, matching your rhythm, grinding against you in a slow, torturous push and pull that made your head spin.
his breathing was loud in your ear, ragged and uneven, punctuated by soft, helpless sounds that he couldn't seem to suppress. a groan here. a shuddering exhale there. a whispered curse that dissolved into a moan as you pressed back against him harder.
you were both moving now. no pretense. no game. just the slow, grinding rhythm of your bodies, the heat building between you, the sounds of his breathing filling the quiet room.
his hand moved.
it happened slowly—his fingers loosening around your wrist, sliding down your arm, trailing across your skin with a featherlight touch that made you shiver. his palm came to rest on your hip, his fingers curling against the curve of your waist.
he didn't pull you. didn’t guide you. he just... held you. like he needed something to hold onto.
his thumb traced a slow, absent circle against your hip bone, and the tenderness of the gesture, in the midst of all this heat, made your breath catch.
he pressed his forehead to the back of your head again, his breathing ragged, his body shuddering against yours.
"fuck," he breathed again, the word barely audible, wrecked and raw and reverent all at once.
you rolled your hips in response, slow and deep, and felt his whole body tense. his fingers dug into your hip, his breath caught in his throat, and a low, shuddering moan escaped him—longer than the others, more desperate, more broken.
he was completely lost in you.
and the sound of it—the feeling of him falling apart against you—was turning you on more than you had ever expected.
the shift in rhythm was subtle at first—a slight increase in the roll of your hips, a little more pressure as you ground back against him. but eddie felt it immediately. his breath stuttered, a soft, strangled sound catching in his throat.
you did it again. faster this time. harder.
his hips jerked in response, meeting your movements with a desperate, uncoordinated thrust. his hands found your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
"god," he breathed, the word barely a whisper, lost in the space between your bodies.
you moved faster. harder. the rhythm of your hips grew urgent, driven by something primal and hungry that coiled low in your stomach. the friction was maddening—rough denim and thin cotton, the heat of his body searing through the layers, the sound of his ragged breathing filling the room.
his eyes were shut.
you could feel it in the way his body moved against yours—blind, instinctual, lost. his brow was pressed to the back of your head, his lips parted, his breath hot and uneven against your scalp. his mind was blank. empty of everything except the feeling of you moving against him.
god, she feels so good.
the thought surfaced and drowned in the heat flooding his senses. he couldn't think. couldn’t form words. all he could do was feel—the slow, torturous grind of your hips, the soft sounds you made, the way your body fit against his like it was made for him.
he had imagined this before. late at night, alone in his van, when his mind wandered to places it shouldn't. he had pictured your hands on him, your mouth, your body pressed against his. but he had never let himself believe it could actually happen. you were too good for him. too bright. too far out of his reach.
but you were here. moving against him. making him feel things he didn't have words for.
and he was in love with you.
the thought hit him like a freight train, sharp and undeniable, and it made everything worse. made the ache deeper. made the heat in his blood burn hotter. because it wasn't just physical—it had never been just physical. every roll of your hips, every soft sound you made, every brush of your skin against his—it all meant something more to him.
his breathing grew ragged. shallow. his chest heaved against your back, and a low, desperate groan escaped his lips—louder than before, raw and unguarded.
your hips moved faster, grinding harder, and he felt himself losing the last thread of control.
“fuck," he gasped, the word cracking. "fuck, sweetheart—"
his hips bucked against you, chasing the friction, chasing the heat. his fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise, and he couldn't bring himself to care. all he could think about was you. the way you felt. the way you moved. the way you were unraveling him piece by piece.
i’m gonna—
the thought came too late.
his body tensed. his breath caught. and then it hit him—a wave of heat that crashed through him without warning, pulling a loud, broken moan from his lips. his hips jerked against you once, twice, as he spilled into his jeans, the release sudden and overwhelming and completely beyond his control.
he gasped. panted. his body shuddered through the aftershocks, his forehead pressed hard against the back of your head, his hands trembling against your hips.
for a long moment, neither of you moved.
the only sound was his ragged breathing, loud in the quiet room, slowly evening out as the haze began to clear.
then his lips found your shoulder again.
soft, open-mouthed kisses, warm and trembling, trailing across your skin. he wasn't thinking. he was just... feeling. trying to ground himself. trying to remember how to breathe. his lips pressed against the curve of your shoulder, the slope of your neck, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing the taste of your skin.
but then you moved.
in a flash, you twisted beneath him, your body rolling with sudden, fluid grace. he barely had time to register the shift before you were on top of him, your knees bracketing his hips, your hands pressing his shoulders down against the mattress.
he stared up at you, wide-eyed, chest still heaving. a beat of silence. then a low, breathless laugh escaped his lips.
"you’re kidding me," he said, his voice still wrecked, still rough around the edges.
you pressed down harder, and he groaned—a soft, defeated sound that melted into another laugh.
"fine. fine." he raised his hands, palms open, and tapped twice against the mattress. "i tap. you win. congratulations, you defeated me, you little shit."
a grin spread across your face, bright and victorious. but there was a glint in your eyes. a question.
"did you just... come in your pants?"
his face flushed red.
he let his head fall back against the pillow, one hand dragging down his face.
"jesus christ," he muttered, his voice muffled behind his palm.
you raised an eyebrow, waiting.
he groaned. long and dramatic and full of self-pity. then he let his hand drop, staring up at the ceiling like he was praying for the floor to swallow him whole.
"yeah," he said, the word clipped and frustrated. "yeah, i did. i fucking came in my pants. you happy now?"
a laugh bubbled out of you—bright and genuine, not mocking, but warm. surprised.
"i didn't even do that much," you said, your voice teasing, but soft.
eddie’s eyes finally met yours. there was something in them—something raw and unguarded, something that made your laughter fade at the edges.
"yeah," he said quietly. "you did."
the words hung in the air between you, heavier than they should have been. he meant more than he was saying. you could feel it in the way his gaze held yours, in the way his chest was still rising and falling too fast, in the way his hands had come to rest on your thighs—not pushing, not pulling. just... holding.
but you laughed it off, shaking your head, rolling your eyes with playful affection.
"guess i’m just that good."
the grin returned to his face, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. he was still looking at you like you were something he couldn't quite believe was real.
"yeah," he said again, softer this time. "i guess you are."
eddie’s eyes searched yours.
he told himself he was just looking. that he was just waiting for your next move, reading your body language, trying to figure out what you were going to do next. that’s all it was. just strategy.
but it wasn't.
he was looking for something else. some flicker of warmth, some crack in the playful facade that would tell him you felt even a fraction of what he felt. some sign that this meant more to you than just a game. some hint that you saw him—not just eddie the freak, not just eddie the dealer, not just eddie the guy who was convenient and willing and pressed against you in the morning.
but there was nothing.
your eyes were bright with mischief, sparkling with the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of winning. there was heat there, sure—a lazy, satisfied kind of desire that told him you were enjoying this. but it was surface-level. fun. a game you were playing because you could, because he was letting you, because it was easy and exciting and meant nothing the next day.
something in his chest cracked, just a little.
he looked away.
the ceiling was suddenly very interesting. water stains. a crack running from the corner to the light fixture. he focused on that instead of the weight of you on his hips, the warmth of your thighs bracketing his waist, the way his heart was pounding in his throat.
"wasn’t fair though," he said, forcing his voice into something lighter, something that sounded like him. "you grinding your ass up against me like that. pretty sure it's cheating."
you rolled your eyes, and he could feel the movement, could feel the shift of your weight as you adjusted above him. "i still won. plus you weren't really in a rush to stop me."
he snorted. "yeah, well. i was being polite. didn’t wanna hurt your feelings."
"uh huh. very chivalrous of you."
"i am a gentleman."
"you came in your pants."
"gentleman," he repeated, louder, and you laughed.
the sound did something to him. made the crack in his chest spread a little wider. he wanted to bottle it. keep it. listen to it on repeat in the lonely hours of the night when he was alone in his van, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell he was doing with his life.
but he didn't say that. he just grinned, letting the banter carry him, letting it be enough.
"rematch," you said, and before he could respond, you were moving.
this time, you were faster. smarter. you caught him off guard, your body twisting with practiced ease, and suddenly your legs were around his head again, your thighs pressing against his ears, and he was trapped.
"jesus christ—"
he struggled, but half-heartedly. his hands came up to grip your thighs, but he wasn't pushing. he was holding. his breath was warm against the inside of your leg, and he could feel the heat of you through your shorts, could smell the faint scent of your skin, could feel the way your body settled against his with comfortable familiarity.
but you didn't stop there.
you shifted. adjusted. your hips lowered, and suddenly you were positioned differently—not just holding him, but using him. your weight settled lower, and he felt the damp spot there, still cooling, still embarrassing.
your mouth found it.
"oh, fuckkk—"
he groaned, loud and broken, his hips bucking up instinctively as your lips pressed against the wet denim. the fabric was rough against your mouth, but beneath it, he was sensitive, aching, still trembling from the aftershocks of his release.
"fuck, this again?" he gasped, his voice muffled between your thighs.
you paused, just barely. your lips ghosted over the damp spot, and he could feel your smile against the denim.
"want me to stop?"
he knew what you were doing. you were giving him an out. a chance to say no, to retreat, to save whatever shred of dignity he had left.
but he didn't want an out.
he wanted you.
“no," he said, the word coming out rough and desperate. "don’t—don't stop."
your hands found the button of his jeans. the zipper. the sound of it lowering was loud in the quiet room, and eddie’s breath caught in his throat. he stared up at the ceiling, at the water stains, at the crack in the corner, and tried to remember how to breathe.
you pulled the denim open. his boxers were visible now—dark blue, damp in the center, clinging to him. he was half-hard again, stirred by the friction, by the heat of your mouth through the fabric, by the sheer overwhelming reality of you.
your tongue touched him through the cotton.
he moaned—a sound he couldn't control, couldn't hold back, couldn't disguise. it was raw and desperate and full of everything he was trying not to feel.
his hands found your thighs again, gripping tight, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
the wet heat of your mouth through the thin fabric. the slow, deliberate drag of your tongue along his length. the way you explored him like he was something to be savored, something to be learned. the way your breath ghosted over him between licks, cooling the spots where your mouth had been. you were basically cleaning up his release.
his chest rose and fell in uneven rhythms, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. his hands trembled against your thighs, and he couldn't tell if he was trying to push you away or pull you closer.
"f-fuck," he stammered, his voice cracking. "do whatever you want to me. i’m still not gonna t-tap again."
you laughed against him—a soft, warm sound that vibrated through the cotton and made his hips jerk.
"we’ll see about that," you murmured. “you’re pretty easy to manipulate.”
eddie groaned softly as you licked him again. “s-shit, can you just put it in your mouth already?”
you hummed against him. “that’s not something a gentleman would say, eds.”
“i don’t care,” he panted. “just… please. just put my cock in your pretty mouth, please. instead of just… eating the come while you clean me off.”
you paused, a small smile forming at your lips. “you think my mouth’s pretty?”
he swallowed hard, realizing he had to be careful with his words if he was gonna keep this up.
“y-yeah. i think you’re pretty,” he failed immediately. “whatever. come on, just suck my—“
and then your fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers.
he lifted his hips without thinking, helping you, letting you. the fabric slid down, and then he was exposed—hard and aching and damp with his own want. the air was cool against his skin, but your mouth was warm, and when you kissed him there—soft, almost tender—he thought he might die.
"fuck," he breathed, the word barely a whisper.
you kissed him again. slower this time. your lips pressed against the head of his cock, gentle and deliberate, like you had all the time in the world. like you wanted to memorize the shape of him, the taste of him, the way he gasped and trembled beneath you.
and then your tongue.
a slow, flat stroke from base to tip, and his whole body arched. a desperate, broken sound tore from his throat, and his fingers dug into your thighs hard enough to leave marks.
you gave him more.
your mouth closed around him, warm and wet and perfect, and he felt his mind go blank. there was nothing but you—the feel of your lips, the stroke of your tongue, the way your throat relaxed to take him deeper. his hands slid from your thighs to your hair, fingers threading through the strands, not pulling, just... holding.
he was panting. moaning. muttering your name like a prayer, like a plea, like a confession.
"god, you—" his voice broke. "you feel so good.”
suddenly an idea popped into eddie’s head.
he arched his back deliberately, letting out a guttural moan that echoed through the small bedroom.
“fuuuuck, sweetheart. just like that. you’re gonna make me come again. right in that pretty mouth of yours—god..." his words were calculated, designed to throw you off your game while his hands gripped your thighs tighter.
you continued your work, taking him deeper as your tongue swirled around the sensitive head. your own arousal was building from the power dynamic, from having him completely at your mercy beneath you. but you weren't expecting what happened next.
the moment your mouth finally released him with a soft pop, replacing it with your hand stroking his length firmly, eddie moved. fast and decisive. in one fluid motion, he flipped both of you over, breaking free from your triangle hold with surprising strength fueled by adrenaline and arousal.
before you could process what was happening, you found yourself bent over his knee, your stomach pressed against his thigh, your ass raised high in the air. your hands braced against the mattress, steadying yourself as shock rippled through your body.
"what the fuck, eds—"
"yeah, right," eddie growled, his voice dripping with dark amusement as he positioned himself behind you. one strong arm wrapped around your waist, holding you securely in place while his other hand hooked into the waistband of your shorts. "thought you were gonna get me again, huh?" he yanked your shorts down roughly, the fabric sliding past your hips and pooling around your knees along with your panties, leaving your lower half completely exposed to him.
his eyes darkened as he took in the sight before him—the curve of your ass, the glisten of moisture coating your inner thighs, the way your body trembled with anticipation and surprise. "holy shit," he breathed, his hand trailing possessively over the smooth skin of your rear. "look at you. all that just from teasing me, huh?"
"you’re such a good little slut for me, aren't you?" his thumb circled your entrance teasingly, feeling how wet you actually were. a low groan escaped him at the discovery. "this is what you wanted, wasn't it? to get me so worked up i couldn't think straight?"
the sharp crack of his palm against your bare flesh sent a jolt of sensation racing up your spine. you gasped, your fingers curling tightly into the rumpled sheets beneath you as the sting bloomed across your skin. a full-bodied shudder ran through you, and you whimpered—a sound that was equal parts pain and desperate need.
"eddie..."
hearing his name on your lips did something to him. something beyond the physical. the sight of you bent over his knee, your back arching involuntarily, your thighs trembling, your skin flushed pink wherever he'd touched—it hit him somewhere deep. like a punch directly to his heart.
"yeah? you like that, sweet girl?" his voice was rough and low, vibrating with barely restrained desire. his thumb traced slow circles over the reddened spot on your ass, soothing and tormenting in equal measure. "if you tap, i’ll play with you. i’ll make you feel reeealll good, i promise."
he gave you a moment to consider it. his hand rested warm and heavy on your hip, his fingers digging in just enough to remind you exactly who was in control now.
but you didn't tap.
of course you didn't. because you were competitive. because tapping meant admitting defeat. and you'd rather burn than give him the satisfaction.
eddie noticed. a slow, knowing grin spread across his face as he read your silence loud and clear.
"that’s what i thought," he murmured, his voice dropping into something darker. possessive. "my stubborn girl."
his hand lifted, hovering in the air for one agonizing second—letting you anticipate, letting the anticipation build to almost unbearable levels—before his palm came down again with a firm, resounding smack against your other cheek.
"ah—!" the moan tore from your throat before you could stop it. your hips bucked involuntarily, pushing back against him in a way that was entirely contradictory to your attempt at maintaining composure. your walls clenched around nothing, your body betraying every ounce of defiance your mind was trying to cling to.
"there we go," eddie praised, his voice thick with satisfaction. his free hand slid between your legs, his fingers parting your slick folds with ease.
the sensation of his finger dipping into your heat was overwhelming, a sudden intrusion that made your breath hitch violently. he didn't rush; instead, he used his fingertip to circle your entrance, dragging through the thick, honeyed slickness he’d already observed. the sound of his movements—the wet, rhythmic sliding of skin against skin—was deafening in the quiet of the trailer.
"god, look at you," eddie groaned, his voice cracking with a primal sort of hunger. “you're fucking drowning in it, sweetheart. absolutely soaked. every time i touch you, you just... you melt."
he pushed a single finger inside, testing your tightness, and you let out a broken, high-pitched whimper that sounded nothing like your usual self. you tried to keep your jaw clenched, tried to maintain some semblance of that stubborn pride, but your body was a traitor. your hips were practically begging for him to fill the void, tilting back toward him instinctively.
"all you gotta do is tap, sweetheart," he whispered, “just one little tap and i’ll play with you. i’ll give you exactly what you’re aching for. you think i don’t know how much you want this? i’ve known you for so long, i’ve picked up a thing or two about what makes you lose your mind."
he pulled his finger out almost entirely, only to drive it back in deeper, pushing past the initial resistance until he hit that sweet spot that made your eyes roll back in your head.
"mmmgh—eddie, please—"
“please what?" he mocked softly, though his breathing was coming in ragged, heavy bursts now. he was losing his own battle with control, his cock twitching rhythmically. "tell me what you want. tell me you can't take it anymore. tell me you're ready to tap."
despite the mounting tension, you still didn't tap. you clung to the sheets, your knuckles white, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps as you fought the urge to give in.
eddie let out a low, dark chuckle. "still no, huh? you’re really going to make me edge you? it’s just one little tap, baby."
the nickname hit you like a physical wave. the word 'baby'—spoken in that specific, low register—sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core, causing your internal muscles to clench tightly around his fingers. eddie groaned softly as he felt the sudden, desperate grip of your walls. it turned him on viciously, but it also made his heart clench with an intensity that terrified him. the raw intimacy of it, the way you reacted to him, made him want to make you feel good.
"yeah, you like it when i call you that, baby? fuck, you look so pretty like this. come here."
he shifted his weight, leaning over you more aggressively. he didn't let go of your heat, but he reached around, pressing his thumb firmly against your lips. you didn't hesitate; you leaned into it, sucking on his thumb with a desperate hunger, your whimpers muffled and wet against his skin.
"yeah, suck on that, sweet girl. drool on it if you want to," he groaned, his voice sounding strained, almost pained. "just take it. take everything i’ve got."
his fingers inside you shifted gears, moving from a slow tease to a rough, demanding pace. he was driving into you now, hitting that precise spot over and over again, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of a cliff. he could feel your body shaking, your breath hitching in a way that told him you were seconds away from shattering.
eddie pulled his thumb from your mouth. before you could even gasp for air, he slid his hand down, pressing that same thumb directly onto your swollen, hypersensitive clit. he began to rub in a fast, relentless rhythm, perfectly synchronized with the rough pace of his fingers inside you.
the dual stimulation was too much. your head snapped back, a loud, broken cry escaping your throat as the world dissolved into white noise and pure, blinding pleasure.
as waves of pleasure crashed over you, eddie kept up the relentless pressure. his fingers curled inside you, grinding against that perfect spot while his thumb circled your clit in tight, deliberate motions that had you seeing stars.
“come on, baby, you're so close, aren't you?" he taunted, his voice a mix of dark amusement and genuine wonder. he leaned down, pressing his forehead against your shoulder blade, breathing heavily. "so fucking close to coming, huh? your wet, sloppy pussy's just aching to come, yeah? not until you tap though."
he punctuated his words with another sharp slap to your ass. the sting shot through the pleasure, intensifying it to an almost painful degree. you cried out, your whole body convulsing as a second orgasm threatened to tear you apart.
"c’mon, tap. i tapped for you earlier, baby," he murmured, his voice shifting into something sweeter, almost tender despite the cruel teasing. his thumb slowed its rhythm, becoming gentler as he coaxed you. "don’t you want to come? don’t you want to come for me?"
he knew you were fighting it. could feel the tension in your muscles as you battled against your own body's demands. it was infuriating and beautiful all at once. his heart swelled with something far deeper than simple lust.
"just one tap, sweetheart. give in. let me win this round," he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear.
“please... eddie... please, i can't..." you managed to choke out, your voice cracking. you tried to pull away, to find some relief, but his hand on your hip was an anchor, keeping you pinned exactly where he wanted you. "let me... just let me come, please!"
eddie’s grip tightened. he didn't relent; if anything, he increased the pressure, his fingers curling deeper, driving into you with a newfound, predatory urgency.
"no, baby, not yet," he purred, the teasing sweetness still there mixed with raw, commanding hunger. "don’t fucking come until i tell you to. you gotta tap."
"you’re... you're such a dick!" you sobbed out, a mixture of a laugh and a cry. you hated how much you loved this. you hated that even through the haze of ecstasy, your pride was still standing, stubborn and ridiculous. "fuck, i hate you, eddie!"
"yeah? you hate me?" his thumb worked your clit with a frantic, punishing speed that made your hips buck uncontrollably. "is that right? no, you don't hate me, sweetheart. you love—“ he paused. “…this. you love being told what to do by me, don’t you?”
he leaned down, his teeth grazing the nape of your neck, leaving a mark that made you whimper.
"yeah? you’d rather i just edge you like that?" he taunted, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register that sent a fresh chill of arousal down your spine. "just drill that fucking pussy with my fingers? is that what you want? guess i should just fuck you then, huh? i’ll flip you over, pin you down, and pound you until you can't even remember your own name, let alone how to be stubborn."
the mental image was too much. your breath hitched, your lungs feeling too small for the air you were trying to pull in.
eddie’s gaze was unwavering; he watched every tremor of your muscles, every frantic roll of your eyes, looking for any sign of surrender. but even as his lust burned white-hot, a deep, aching pang of longing throbbed in his chest. he didn't just want to conquer your body. he wanted to pull you into his arms and kiss you until neither of you could breathe, to tell you everything he had been hiding behind jokes and hair-ruffling for years.
“yeah," he breathed, his voice a jagged edge of desire. "i’m gonna pump that pussy full of come. is that what you want, baby? to feel me inside you, filling you up?"
you were a broken, moaning mess. your protests had dissolved into incoherent pleas, your pride finally buckling under the sheer weight of the sensation. you were hovering on the precipice, your entire being vibrating with the need to shatter, but eddie was a master of torment. every time you reached for the peak, he shifted his rhythm, pulling back just enough to leave you gasping and empty.
suddenly, the friction stopped. the sudden absence of his fingers felt like a physical wound.
before you could even find your breath to protest, eddie moved. with a surge of strength that caught you off guard, he gripped your hips and flipped you over. you landed hard against the mattress, your legs falling open instinctively, your chest heaving as you stared up at him through a veil of damp hair.
he didn't care about the game anymore. the competition, the tapping, the teasing—it had all been burned away by a sudden, primal necessity. he needed to be in you.
eddie hovered over you, his eyes dark and hooded, looking like a man possessed. he guided himself to your entrance, the tip of his cock brushing against your slick, swollen folds. he paused for a heartbeat, his muscles trembling with the effort of restraint.
then, with one heavy, decisive thrust, he drove himself home.
"oh god—oh god, fuck," he groaned, the sound tearing from his lungs as he buried himself deep within you. the sensation of your tight, pulsing heat swallowing him whole was almost more than he could bear.
your hand immediately found his arm, fingers digging into the taut muscle of his bicep as you tilted your head back against the pillow. the sensation of him stretching you, filling you completely, sent sparks cascading behind your eyelids. a raw, guttural moan escaped your lips, his name tumbling from them without thought.
"oh fuck, eddie, you feel so good..."
the praise hit him like a freight train. his cock twitched inside you, swelling thicker as a shudder rolled through his entire body. the way you looked beneath him—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, cheeks flushed crimson, your nails leaving crescent marks in his skin—it was beautiful. devastating. everything he'd ever wanted and more.
it wasn't just the sex; it was the fact that it was you. hearing you worship him, feeling your hands clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth, sent a wave of possessive, overwhelming love through him.
"yeah?" he panted, his hips finding a slow, rolling rhythm as he settled into the depth of you. "that feel good for you, baby? take that cock, sweet girl, take it all in." his voice was reverent, almost worshipful, despite the crude words. one hand slid under your lower back, arching you slightly, changing the angle just enough to make you gasp.
he began to move. slowly at first, savoring the feel of you wrapped around him like a glove, then gradually building momentum. each thrust was deliberate, deep, pushing to the hilt before withdrawing almost all the way, only to slam back inside with a force that made the bed creak in protest. the wet, obscene sounds of their bodies meeting filled the trailer alongside your cries.
"hold onto me," he grunted, his pace quickening. "don’t let go, okay? not... not ever."
your legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper, and eddie’s control fractured further. he buried his face against your neck, breathing you in while kissing at the skin—taking in the scent of sweat mixed with your perfume—as his hips pistoned into you with increasing desperation.
"i’m not gonna last," he admitted as he pulled back, his voice cracking. "not without you. come with me, baby, please. you’ve been so good. you can come now."
as your moans grew louder, more desperate, eddie’s gaze flickered downward. for a split second, he looked at your lips—swollen and parted and glistening—and something in his expression shifted. raw vulnerability flickered across his features before he masked it with another thrust.
you noticed.
"what, y-you wanna—fuck—kiss me, eds?"
you couldn't help yourself. even now, even with his cock driving into you and your entire world dissolving into sensation, you had to tease him. had to push him just a little further.
he swallowed hard, his gaze never leaving yours. he saw the desire, the need reflected in your eyes, and suddenly, the longing that had been building beneath the physical urgency erupted. it was a desperate bid to bridge the gap between the physical act and the soul-deep connection he craved.
he closed the distance in an instant. his mouth crashed onto yours—deep, messy, and passionate. it was hungry, a furious expression of every moment of wanting, every unspoken feeling that had coiled inside him for so long. he kissed you with the ferocity of a man who was pouring every ounce of his love and longing into that kiss, trying to communicate everything he couldn't say aloud.
your initial surprise melted away instantly, replaced by a reciprocal fire.
as you met his mouth with a desperate, frantic hunger, your movements were driven by the sheer, overwhelming sensation of him—the friction, the heat, the primal urge to feel more, to lose yourself in the pleasure he was providing. you were chasing the peak, riding the wave of physical ecstasy that threatened to drown you.
but eddie... eddie was somewhere else entirely. every time his lips pressed against yours, it wasn't just about the sensation; it was almost like a prayer. he was trying to anchor himself to you even as the world blurred around the edges.
he broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches. his lips migrated from your mouth to your jawline, trailing hot, wet kisses down to the sensitive dip of your neck. his nipped at your skin, his teeth grazing you just enough to make you arch your back, his hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.
"come on, baby... come on my cock," he groaned against your skin, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that thrummed through your entire body. he found your clit again, his thumb working with a rhythmic, punishing precision that sent sparks flying behind your eyelids. "i got you, i got you. fuck, you look so pretty... you look so fucking beautiful..."
the praise, delivered with such raw, unadulterated devotion, was the final catalyst. your world fractured. a sharp, high-pitched cry escaped your throat as your muscles convulsed around him, the orgasm crashing over you in violent, delicious waves.
eddie let out a low, guttural groan, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as he felt you tremble beneath him. he didn't slow down; if anything, the feeling of you tightening around him drove him closer to the edge. "oh, fuck... atta girl. atta girl, you did so good," he murmured, his voice thick with pride and adoration. he peppered your neck with frantic, soothing kisses, trying to steady you even as his own control began to disintegrate.
his body continued its relentless, insistent rhythm, each thrust a testament to the building storm within him. his words were a low, husky promise, his voice scraping against your skin like a gentle rasp. "oh, i’m gonna come... gonna come inside you, baby, you want it? you want me to come in that wet little cunt of yours?"
your response was a desperate, whimpish nod, your voice barely audible over the thrumming of your pulse. "yeah, eds, i want it. give it to me." the words were a siren's call, beckoning him closer to the edge.
and then, in an instant, he was over it. a low, breathless groan escaped his lips as he came hard inside you, his body locking up in a spasm of release. soft curses and a string of muttered oaths accompanied the violent, shuddering convulsions of his climax.
“f-fuck, oh god, yeah…”
as you both panted, struggling to catch your breath, his gaze met yours in a fleeting, shining moment. his eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide with the aftermath of his orgasm, but beneath the haze of pleasure, a glimmer of something else lingered. something that looked almost like hope.
he kissed your shoulder as he leaned down, his lips tracing a soft, comforting path along the delicate curve of your skin. his hand rose to your hip, resting there lightly as if anchored to your very existence.
then your hand moved up to tangle itself in his damp curls, fingers threading through the long, wavy strands with a gentleness that made his heart ache.
to eddie, that gesture was everything. that simple, innocent touch told him more than any confession ever could. for one fragile, suspended moment, he allowed himself to believe—that maybe, just maybe, you saw him differently. that the connection he felt wasn't just one-sided.
but he knew better.
"come here," he whispered, his voice hoarse and tender. he tilted your chin up with careful fingers, guiding your lips toward his. the second kiss was a revelation compared to the first. softer. slower. still carrying the embers of the previous passion, but burning with something deeper—something patient and aching and brave all at once. his lips moved against yours with a reverence that bordered on worship, savoring every millimeter of contact.
you hummed against his mouth, and the sound made his chest tighten painfully.
he kissed you until neither of you could breathe, and then he kissed you some more.
but as you pulled back, a soft giggle slipped from your lips. eddie smiled softly, brushing your hair away from your face. “what?”
you shook your head, still a little breathless. “nothing. just… didn’t expect us to become fuck buddies, i guess.”
your words landed like a knife between his ribs. fuck buddies. two words that reduced everything he'd just experienced—the emotional nakedness, the quiet desperation in his own kisses—to something casual.
like it was something transactional
he kept his expression carefully neutral, but the muscle in his jaw tightened. he looked away, staring at the wall of his cramped bedroom as if it contained the answers to questions he was too afraid to ask. his thumb traced an absent circle against your hip, the motion mechanical now rather than intentional.
"yeah, me neither," he said quietly. too quietly. the words carried far less weight than the silence that surrounded them.
he expected this to happen, but it still pained him to hear how casual you were about it. he felt like an idiot for even letting himself hope.
you laughed lightly, and he forced a small smile, still not meeting your eyes. he could feel the shift between them—a subtle, imperceptible cooling, like a cloud passing over the sun. you probably didn't notice it. or maybe you did and simply didn't care.
he cleared his throat, disentangling himself slowly. the loss of contact was immediate and acute—like a phantom limb, he felt the absence of your warmth against his skin with painful clarity. he sat up on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his disheveled curls, trying to collect himself.
"so," he started, his voice settling back into its usual easy cadence—but something underneath it had shifted. a guard going back up. walls rebuilding brick by brick. "guess we should, uh... probably get breakfast or something."
he stood, stretching his tall frame, deliberately keeping his back turned to you. he needed a moment to compose himself—to push down the ache that was blooming in his chest like a bruise turning purple. he grabbed his boxers from the floor and pulled them on, the mundane act helping to ground him back in reality.
it’s fine. it’s just sex. just because you caught feelings doesn't mean she owes you anything.
he glanced over his shoulder, forcing that signature lazy grin. "unless you wanna stay in bed all day. i’m not complaining either way." the joke fell flat in his own ears, and he hoped you didn't hear it.
you didn't notice the flicker of pain in his eyes or the way his smile didn't quite reach them. as he sat back down, you simply leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the back of his shoulder. to you, it was a sweet gesture of affection; to eddie, it was a gentle twist of a knife, a reminder of how effortless this was for you while he was drowning in it.
“can’t. i gotta get home soon or my parents will freak,” you said, your voice light and cheerful. you stood up, grabbing your panties and shorts from the floor and tugging them on with a casualness that made his heart sink. eddie sat there, frozen, watching you with a longing so profound it felt physical. he traced the line of your silhouette, memorizing the way you looked in the morning light, knowing that the intimacy he’d just felt was a secret he would have to carry alone.
“fuck, where are my keys?” you asked, glancing around the room.
“probably on the dresser, sweetheart,” he answered softly, his voice lacking its usual theatrical energy.
you found them and let out a sigh of relief, stepping back into his space one last time to plant a quick, friendly kiss on his cheek. “thanks, eds. and thanks for… whatever this was,” you added with a little chuckle, the phrase 'whatever this was' echoing in his mind as a definitive label for their new arrangement. “i’ll see you later, yeah?”
you were already halfway to the door, your energy buzzing and untroubled. eddie just sat there, his shoulders slumping slightly as the silence of the room rushed back in to fill the void you left behind. he nodded, his gaze softening into something mournful.
“yeah,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “see ya.”
he waited until the sound of your footsteps faded and the door clicked shut before he let out a long, shaky breath. he sank back onto the bed, burying his face in his hands, the ghost of your scent still clinging to his skin and the crushing weight of an unrequited love settling heavily in his chest…
Glee anon again. I just keep thinking of Brittany episode and like Eddie or Steve not seeing reader in that way until that week with the outfits and performances. And like things changing for them
Ngl now you have me thinking about if Stranger Things and Glee somehow merged into one show and I think it would have the same energy as Riverdale and that deeply scares me😂
stormborns
areudirty
dailybridgerton
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
pixelskylines
