Origami Around
#extradirty
art blog(derogatory)
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pixel skylines
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occasionally subtle
noise dept.
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let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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Not today Justin
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@strawberrysodaslut
𝔀𝓮𝓵𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮 🍓
❛ ━━━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫･━━━━━━━━━ ❜
❛ ━━━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫･━━━━━━━━━ ❜
just a writer who whores for fictional dead men who were born decades or even centuries ago…
❛ ━━━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫･━━━━━━━━━ ❜
➵ boundaries <- must read before requesting!!
➵ who i write for
➵ masterlist
➵ taglist
➵ gif blog
➵ library blog
➵ AO3
➵ wattpad
❛ ━━━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫･━━━━━━━━━ ❜
no but seriously why are they all dead?
❛ ━━━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫･━━━━━━━━━ ❜
RIP Eddie Munson, you would’ve loved me.
rina sawayama come back i miss you
here's where to find it on windows 10
Ugh, it was in mine. It's off now.
IT GETS WORSE
I had to turn this off, but it's something that allows Windows and anyone using your device to generate text/images.
LOBOTOMIZE YOUR MACHINES
AI is a freacking plague, I share this for any windows user.
House of the Dragon is my personal ragebait and i’m still on season one can SOMETHING go my bby girl Rhaenyra Targaryen’s way that doesn’t involve fucking her uncle PLEASE i beg of you
i will NOT spend another 8 seasons trying to watch a blonde baddie succeed and struggle bc of MEN and their MEN nonsense
lounging around with bestfriend!eddie
keep thinking about lounging on the couch with bestfriend!eddie, both tired after a long week of work. his body leans up against your side, which you welcome, gently guiding his head to rest near your neck, where your hands automatically move to rove through his curls. your fingers push through tousles of thick plush hair, making him groan in response, and settle into you further.
"feels good, sweetheart," his voice is a deep whisper against your throat.
"mhm," you hum, your softness matching his. "your hair's so fluffy, eds. you'll never cut it, right?"
he lets out a soft snort, "no, no. would never do that to you. know it's basically your favorite thing about me."
you smile, your cheek landing on his crown, "is not."
"you supervised my last trim."
"that was just emotional support, thank you very much."
"emotional support for you." he grins, moving a hand up to thumb with your shirt collar. "would you even still love me without it?" his face morphs into a phony frown, wide brown eyes on display for you.
"oh shut up, drama king, you know i would." you tease him, "would you still love me if not for the amazing back scratches i supply?"
he lets out a sigh, head falling back against the crook of your neck, pretending to ponder it. "i s'pose so. guess you're stuck with me."
"yeah, guess i am." you hand moves down to his shoulder blades and you start your light scratches, just because he brought it up, and also because he's a brat.
"wait a sec-" he slurs out, "can you go underneath my shirt? please? 'ts a more immersive experience that way."
totally a brat.
"yes king eddie, i'll do as you please" you roll your eyes, eating it right up. he knows it, too.
"thanks, sugarpop. you're the best."
and within a few minutes, his body is jello against yours, and you can't help but let out a quiet laugh when you notice him already drooling against your chest.
divider by @/strangergraphics
a complete re-do┃e.m.
eddie munson x shy!reader
on a night back in hawkins, you decide to drop by an old not-haunt just to see how your old not-friend eddie is doing.
what’s the harm in that?
18+ MDNI┃7.2k
cw: fluff-fest with angsty undertones. reserved/wallflower reader feat. some deep-seated insecurity (they say write what you know, y’know?) and flashbacks to a shitty first kiss that is for sure most definitely not ripped directly from sarah lore 👀
eddie is the Flirtmaster Supreme, I made him too smooth for his own good, truly. r wears a dress, uses she/her pronouns, drinks alcohol, and smokes weed (badly).
You might have guessed Eddie Munson would wind up running the Hideout.
He’d worked there throughout high school, possibly even before then. It had only added to the shroud of mystery and intrigue surrounding him—a source of endless fascination for you and the rest of your former classmates.
Well, okay, maybe that was just you.
Back then he was a lowly barback, bobbing and weaving around the same group of drunks every night, clearing empties and wiping down sticky tables, attempting the Sisyphean task of keeping the bathrooms clean in exchange for his band being allowed up on their so-called stage.
Now he was acting manager and in the process of buying out the original owner so she could retire. He made a lot of changes already—not that you’d ever dared set foot in here during your tenure at Hawkins High back in the day. But you (rightfully) assumed it was your average hole in the wall, with barely any light coming through the dirt-streaked windows; all the walls papered so thoroughly with stickers and graffiti you couldn’t guess what color they were; furniture so rickety and shoddily built it fell apart if you so much as looked at it wrong.
The space was still divey, but he’d changed up some of the decor and added some light fixtures over the bar so people could actually see what they were drinking. He’d swapped out the older standing tables for black vinyl booths that lined the walls, leaving the middle open for shows.
He’d also managed to construct an honest-to-god stage in the corner with lights, and a sound system and everything. At present it was empty, but according to the fliers tacked up on the door quite a few bands were slated to play there over the next couple of weeks. His own included.
And it seemed the interior wasn’t the only thing that had been updated.
His height still afforded him the same gangly frame you remembered from high-school, but he’d filled out slightly with more muscle and a bit of softness around his formerly bony hips—which you were most definitely not checking out as he spun a bar key on his middle finger and slipped it smoothly into the back pocket of his black jeans.
You had fully been expecting just to slide onto one of the newly refurbished stools that ran along the side of the bar and drink in relative anonymity. Instead, you were stunned to find recognition in Eddie’s eyes as he turned to greet you and your name fell easily from his lips.
Like he’d been saying it for years.
“This is a surprise,” he said, leaning casually on his side of the bar.
Your mouth dropped open, but not to speak. You just blinked back at him in silent stupor.
His arms were turned out, his sleeveless tank showing off the sinewy muscles wrapped around them and the same tattoos you must have wasted hours of class time staring at. He’d cut it off at the bottom,its curled hem barely skimming the top of his handcuff belt, and your mouth watered at the thought of him reaching for something over his head to reveal a sliver of his pale stomach and the tantalizing patch of sparse hair that swirled just below his navel.
“You know me?” you asked, still blanched with confusion.
“‘Course I do.” He gave you a warm smile, deep dimples forming on either side of it. “I think I only passed Old McDonnel’s class because you let me copy your notes every morning.”
He paused and took a long moment to let his eyes wander appreciatively up and down your form. You felt your thighs press, grateful for the oak shield that hid your reaction from his view.
“Don’t you know me?” he purred.
Jesus. You thought you might slide right off the freshly re-upholstered seat under you.
“Oh– I…um,” you cleared your throat, “Yeah, of c-course I do. You’re Eddie. Eddie Munson.”
“Ding ding,” he grinned. “Remembering my name gets you a drink on the house. Whad’you like?”
He pushed off the bar and tipped his head at the rows of bottles lined up behind him, never taking his eyes off yours. They glinted like shards of onyx under the warm glow of the pendant lights.
“A rum and ginger?” you replied sheepishly, praying he didn’t think you were too lame for not going with the typical whisky. But Eddie just shot you a wink as he reached for a clean glass.
“Mm, something sweet with a little bite? Sounds about right for you.”
You’re glad to have a moment to collect yourself when he looks down to scoop some ice out of the bin, because you were not remotely prepared for this onslaught of charm. You also weren’t sure where he got the idea that there was any bite to you at all, but the implication alone makes your body buzz watching him pour out the liquor and then spray in your mixer with the soda gun.
He placed the drink down in front of you, bubbles effervescing as he set a lime on the rim and juices dribbled down its side. He then waited, expectant smile on his lips as he watched you take your first sip. Only when you had, giving an encouraging nod and a quiet thanks, did Eddie finally tear his eyes away, seemingly remembering the rest of the people in the bar existed.
In a flash, he’d done a quick check with the scant number of other patrons, closing out one’s tab and replenishing another’s drink before he returned to his spot in front of you.
“So, what brings you in?” he asked. “You moved, right? Haven’t seen you around.”
“Y-yeah, I left for school and just…stayed away,” you chuckled. “I’m here for my dad’s birthday.”
Eddie plucked a maraschino cherry from a jar he produced seemingly out of thin air and dropped it into your drink, giving you another smile as he licked sticky red juice from his thumb.
“Sounds festive,” he hummed, veins in his hand bulging as he screwed the lid back on the jar.
Fucking christ on a cracker.
Was he trying to kill you?
“Well, I guess…” you cringed inwardly at the words before they even left your mouth, “I guess it’s sort of my birthday too? They’re a couple days apart, but we always mash ‘em together.”
“Oh, shit. Way to bury the lede, sweetheart!”
Eddie leaned on the bar again, folding his arms under his chest this time so his eyeline was level with yours and he could lean a little further forward, edging his way into your space.
“It’s not a big deal,” you insisted. “I don’t really celebrate it.”
“Well, that’s no good.” He shook his head. “You’re definitely worth celebrating.”
Pure fire rose in your cheeks at his leading tone, and you felt your brain whirring trying to think of a response. Thankfully, a rumbly and disgruntled voice from the end of the bar called out for some attention and saved you from yourself. Eddie’s expression soured and his eyes rolled as he straightened up to full height.
“Wha-a-at?!” he brayed loudly, shooting you a sly wink when he caught your wide-eyed gaze.
Your panic turned out to be unfounded, the owner of the voice giving up a wry chuckle, evidently not phased in the slightest by this outburst. The older man huddled against the wall simply smirked and snarked about how he needed to ‘quit flirting long enough to serve some drinks.’
“Bah! You’re just jealous, Ray,” Eddie scoffed, flapping a hand at him that turned into a warning finger. “And I better not catch you trying to sneak her out from under me, alright? She’s mine.”
This time, it wasn’t just your cheeks that caught on fire. Your entire body was searing, engulfed by flames, tingling as if you’d been dunked in a vat of magma. And your mind was blank—devoid of any thought aside from those two words flashing like a neon sign on a loop in your head:
She’s mine. She’s mine. She’s mine.
It had to be a bit. Just an off-handed comment he threw around without giving any thought to who it was being prescribed to. Even so, you allowed yourself to bask briefly in the satisfaction.
It made something stir deep within your gut. Some slumbering giant who had lain dormant for so long you were certain it had fallen into legend. A creature you tended from a young age, only to seal it away in a cavernous tomb before it could grow too large to contain—strong enough to decimate whole villages in a single strike.
But now it was awake. And making itself known by the ache at the crux of your thighs.
“Can’t believe you weren’t going to tell me it was your birthday,” Eddie chuckled as he came back to you with a teasing smile. “You’re really racking up the free drinks tonight, huh?”
You sputtered on the sip you’d just taken of the cocktail in front of you.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to—”
He held a hand up to stop you, the other reaching blindly behind him to grab a bottle of rye he used to top off Ray’s drink. “Nope, uh-uh, don’t wanna hear it,” Eddie insisted. “It’s actually illegal for me to charge for a birthday drink. Unless, of course, you wanna see me in handcuffs?”
He leaned into your space again, lowering his voice for that last part.
His brow lifted in a suggestive arch, disappearing behind his scraggly bangs, and you felt like you might rip off a hunk of your stool you were gripping the seat so tight.
Was this real life?
Was Eddie Musnon…flirting with you?
The thought alone sets off a second heartbeat between your legs, practically throbbing.
Absolutely not, you answered yourself. He is a bartender and you’re at his bar. All he’s interested in is a good tip. Don’t be that guy at the strip club who thinks a lap dance ‘means something.’
“N…no,” you answered him meekly (also lying), “wouldn’t want that.”
Eddie nodded, still smiling as he grabbed a glass and started to dry it with a towel. Conveniently, remaining in the same spot in front of you.
“So, how’s the visit so far?” he asked.
“It’s good, um…just kind of strange being back,” you hemmed, hands wringing in your lap.
Eddie pulled his lower lip back with his teeth. A look you couldn’t quite name flickered in his dark eyes and he shrugged, his chin dropping to his chest as he watched his hands dry another glass.
“Yeah, well. You took off so fast after graduation I’m surprised you didn’t break the sound barrier.”
He kept his head bent, focused on his task, but he couldn’t stop his gaze darting up to watch you through the fan of his thick lashes. You felt your breath catch when your eyes met, and promptly looked away. You took another sip of your drink, mostly sucking air through your straw while you stared at the ice, and couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking of the same thing you were…
Graduation night. The bonfire in the woods. The rows of trucks and cars parked haphazardly along the edge of the forest with their headlights shining into the treeline as the class of ‘86 reveled in the bacchanalia of their newly minted freedom.
The last high-school party any of you would ever attend.
You couldn’t say what ultimately possessed you to go. Maybe you’d been emboldened by the fact that it was most likely the last time you’d ever see any of these people again. Maybe it was just good timing that your friend from yearbook had offered you a ride seconds after you overheard some jock confirm with Eddie that he’d be there selling that night. Maybe you wanted, for once in your entire high school career, to do something a little bit reckless and decidedly un-like yourself.
Or maybe it was just the pure, unbridled hope you might run into him there.
Eddie’s lips parted to speak again, but he was cut off by a group of younger guys who had come in and immediately started asking him about drinks and where the darts were for the dartboards.
And while he dealt with them, you found yourself drifting back into the memory of that night…
Clutching the ringed hand he offered as you clumsily tried to navigate the roots that sprawled on the forest floor; making your way towards the outermost edge of the party. Still close enough to the blaze to be scantly lit, but far enough that no one would notice you with The Freak, standing behind the thick trunk of a tall, imposing oak.
You leaned back against it, the rough bark biting into your bare back and snagging slightly on the gauzy material of your sundress. You had talked yourself into buying the revealing garment by reasoning that no one would ever even see the spaghetti straps and the nakedness of your arms and shoulders and collar bones under the bulky cover of your emerald green robe.
But now, with Eddie’s gaze drinking in the sight of all your gloriously exposed skin, you were oddly pleased you hadn’t had enough time to change in between coming home from the dinner with your parents and rushing back out the door when you spotted your friend’s car pulling into the driveway.
The firelight flickered, reflecting in his eyes that were as black as the shadowy woods at his back, and you literally felt every thought in your head being obliterated. You tried to will yourself to speak but couldn’t manage so much as a squeak, having used up all your boldness to approach him at the fire and ask if he had anything to smoke. Stomach tying itself into knots with every word.
With a slow smile, Eddie pushed back the curtain of his long hair and revealed the joint he’d tucked behind his ear. He held it out in a quiet offering, but you made no move to take it from him.
“I, um…I don’t know h-how,” you admitted, heart thumping relentlessly against your ribcage.
“That’s okay,” he said before placing the joint in between his lips instead. God, his lips…
Your pulse jumped, temples throbbing so hard you could scarcely breathe while he dug around in his jacket pocket looking for a lighter. He took a couple short, shallow puffs to get it going and a cloud of its earthy smell imbued your senses, blending with the sharper scent of the bonfire.
He then pinched it in the middle and held up the smaller end to your mouth.
“Just…take it slow,” he murmured, heavy-lidded gaze transfixed somewhere on the lower half of your face. “Don’t inhale too hard.”
You nodded, even though you barely registered the words he was saying you were still so deeply distracted by his lips, and the fact that your own were now so close to his fingers. Trembling like a leaf and desperately trying not to look like you were, you touched your mouth to the paper.
Oh fuck, mother bitch, that burned—
Tears immediately sprang in your eyes and you sputtered, trying to smother the cough as it burst forth and failing. It came out in a relentless string of dry hacks, your nose stinging and your throat tightening as you whipped your head sideways to avoid spraying spittle directly in Eddie’s face.
“You’re okay, you’re okay,” he soothed, the tiny smile he was trying to hide coming through in his voice as he rubbed his hand across your back in a wide circle, coaxing you through your fit.
Not that you could even enjoy the sensation of his warm palm on your bare skin.
He kept it up, though, until you were able to catch your breath and stand up (somewhat) straight.
“So-sorry,” you wheezed, giving your chest a solid thwap trying to clear your throat.
“Nah,” Eddie waved off your apology, grinding the lit end of the joint into the bark of the tree before he placed it back behind his ear. “It’s really fine. Happens to the best of us. Honest.”
You felt yourself slump against the trunk in an attempt to hold yourself up. It was tough to say if the dizzy, floating feeling in your head was due to the singular hit you’d taken off that joint, or just a reaction to Eddie’s very presence. He’d stopped rubbing your back, but hadn’t yet moved away from you. Still standing close enough you were breathing in the smell of his cologne.
Slowly, his hand came up to the side of your face and he pressed the pad of his thumb to the skin just beneath your lashes, swiping away a stray tear that leaked from the corner of your eye.
In that moment, everything had seemed to slow practically to a standstill. No more breeze rustling the tree branches overhead, no more drunken teenagers stumbling into one another, no more beers sloshing out of plastic cups and splattering on the soft earth. The scope of the entire world had narrowed down to you and Eddie and the negligible number of inches between you.
“You want, uh…water? Or anything?” he asked, his thumb still idly stroking your cheekbone.
Your head shook slowly, barely conscious of the moment, your eyes never leaving his. He gazed back at you, soft and endearing, the corner of his mouth crooked up. Looking at you almost like he knew all the things you’d been thinking as you laid in your bed at night. Like he’d seen you touch your fingers to your lips in the softest, barely-there brush, imagining it was his mouth.
His shoulder shifted and you felt his other hand on your hip, gripping you purposely. Deliberately.
All at once, it was too much. The heavy pounding of your heart in your chest too rapid, turning from anticipation to terror. You felt like you were behind the wheel of a racecar whose speed had climbed too high without you noticing, teetering on the verge of spinning out of control.
Almost hearing the screech of tires, you slammed down on the brakes.
“I-I have to go.”
With the ghost of his hand’s warmth still on your cheek, you slipped out of the space in between the tree and his body. In short, uneven strides you stumbled back to the party and gripped your friend’s forearm as hard as you could when you found her, insisting ‘we need to leave.’
And seeing the wild, panicked look in your eyes, she didn’t dare argue.
You wished he kissed you that night. You thought about it for weeks afterward, reliving every step in your head, pinpointing every humiliating second.
It was a fool’s errand, honestly. From the moment you approached him, you should’ve known.
Eddie Munson had plenty of girls to kiss. Plenty of girls whose pits didn’t sweat and whose knees didn’t buckle at the thought of someone getting close to them. Who didn’t tremble with full-body shakes like a neurotic chihuahua when someone put a hand on their hip.
You and he weren’t even friends. You’d never had so much as a real conversation.
The best you could muster was a timid ‘you’re welcome’ whenever he’d returned your notes after copying them, or a small wave when your eyes unwittingly met his across the cafeteria.
He talked, sure. But he could talk to anybody. He could debate a brick wall if the occasion arose. Any time he’d spent making idle chatter with you was surely just an attempt to fritter away a couple hours of class time. And you’d hung on his every word, barely offering a pittance in return.
“Sorry about that,” Eddie grumbled.
He slid back into his place in front of you just as the door behind you smacked closed. The group of guys who came in left just as quickly, evidently unimpressed with his selection of Scotch.
Truthfully, you couldn’t say you were sad to see them go.
“You okay?” he asked, his head dipping to catch your eye. “You want water, or…”
Your eyes flicked up to meet his as he trailed off, his face clouding with some strange expression as his fingers drummed on the surface of the bar. His gaze was suddenly distant, almost as though he too was recalling the last time he’d asked you that. Impossible as that was.
“N…no,” you exhaled the sharp breath you were holding. “I’m alright.”
Eddie nodded, his head bobbing longer than was necessary as if to a song that only he could hear before he grabbed a pint glass and filled it with water anyway, setting it down in front of you.
Even without that group of guys to deal with, Eddie got annoyingly busy after that. Annoying to him, at least. He grimaced every time somebody called him away either for a refill or to order.
The bar wasn’t crowded, by any means, but there was a consistent flow of people who needed him, demanding the attention he seemed antsy to direct somewhere else.
You got down to the last of your drink, and just as you were debating whether you should commit to another, a new one had appeared in front of you, delivered with a wink and a smirk from a dark-haired blur as he moved past you on his way down to the other end of the bar.
Smiling around the straw, you snuck a glance at Eddie and found him already looking back at you while he counted out l change. Your neck twinged with the urge to turn away, embarrassed at being caught, until you remembered he was the one who’d been caught looking at you.
And he didn’t seem embarrassed at all.
The small rush petered out and Eddie came back to you, letting out an exaggerated ‘whew!’ as he dragged the back of his hand across his brow.
“That almost felt like work,” he groaned.
Maybe it was the rum going to your head, but you couldn’t help giggling at the terrible joke, a hand coming up to cover your face when a soft snort unwittingly escaped through your nose.
Your eyes met his again, twin pools of espresso just about twinkling at the sound.
The bar was much emptier now, and quieter too. It wasn’t like it had been loud before, but now its silence felt sort of daunting. The kind of silence that made you feel anxious about how to fill it.
Thankfully, Eddie was adept as ever at defeating awkward pauses.
“You know…there’s a bunch of stuff I never knew about you,” he said after a few minutes.
“Really?” you scoffed. “Like what?”
“I don’t know, lots of things,” he chuckled. “What about, like…your first kiss?”
Your fingers tensed around your glass. And you thought if you were a little stronger, it might have cracked open against your palm when every muscle in your face went still as stone.
You hated thinking about your first kiss.
Simply put, it was a mess. Brought on by a lethal mix of green apple vodka and your self-esteem at a record low. Sloppy and clumsy and too-quick. Over before you even had your bearings.
He just…attacked you. Pushed his face into yours, barely aiming. Like he was in a hurry to get it over with. Like you could’ve been anybody with a mouth and it wouldn’t make any difference.
It was a guy who was sort of friends with (and sort of wanted to fuck) your roommate. One you’d go with to parties or out to the bars. But he’d only ever engaged with you after he’d been drinking. Sober, you were lucky to get so much as a cursory greeting—assuming he got your name right.
The night it happened, you'd gone out with a big group and he’d been pestering you.
Not flirting, not as far as you could tell, just irking. Stealing sips of your drink, reaching behind you to pick up the hood of your sweatshirt and pull it up over your head, tugging on your sleeves, poking you, reaching behind his friend sitting in the middle seat of the cab to tickle your ear.
Then you got home and he started texting, asking for—no, telling—you to come over.
And to your credit, you tried to discourage it.
Begging him off with next time, some other time, another time. Because maybe if he could muster some of this enthusiasm when he was sober, you might find yourself a little more amenable to the idea. But then he hit you with the words you had no idea would still haunt you even years later:
honestly, it’s now or never.
You’d panicked. It had taken this long to find someone who was even willing to kiss you—who knew how long it would be before you could find another? Before you’d ever have another chance. So…you did it. Told him to meet you outside your dorm, and kissed him. And then he left. Because of course he didn’t just want to make out. But at least you had enough sense to shut that down.
You shook your head, mouth dry and your throat suddenly too tight for your words to get out.
“It, um…it was nothing to write home about.” you answered, staring at your lap.
Eddie, mercifully, either didn’t notice the immediate shift in your demeanor, or he simply elected to ignore it. “Okay, screw your first kiss,” he said daringly. “Tell me about your best one.”
Your fingers traced the edge of your glass, running down the ridges of the facets, freezing at his question. All ofthe air in your chest rushed out, leaving the cavity constricting as you struggled to breathe normally. The molten brown of Eddie’s eyes scanned over your expression, his features wrinkling with concern when he saw the pained look that came over your face.
“I don’t wanna do that,” you said quietly.
Something in your tone made Eddie’s gaze soften. He dropped down to his elbows, leaning in a bit closer and lowering his voice to a murmur. Something just for you to hear.
“How come?” he asked.
“Because I…” Your throat tightened in a thick, dry swallow and you had to take a swig of your drink before you could go on, “...because I’ve never really had a good one.”
The admission hangs in what little space there is between your faces. As soon as the words left your lips, you wished you could take them back. Suck them back into your lungs and rewind the whole evening until your feet carried you back out to the parking lot and over the gravel where your car was parked, back to your room at your parents house where you belonged.
“Never?” Eddie frowned.
And you can’t say if it’s the softness in his voice or the confusion in his eyes, but you keep going. Trying to shrug it off, trying not to sound so sad and pathetic. Broken and weary.
“They always kinda rushed it,” you said. “I didn’t get a chance to breathe or think, they just—”
“No drumroll,” Eddie finished for you.
His expression seemed to curdle like he’d just smelled something sour, his jaw ticking in a hard set frown. The veins in his arms stood out slightly as his grip tightened on the bar towel he’d been using to dry some glassware while you talked.
“That’s awfully disappointing,” he sighed, twirling the towel between his hands and then snapping it lightly against the edge of the bar with a soft tap. “Sometimes the lead-in is the best part.”
“Yeah, well,” you shrugged and swept the back of your hand across your cheek just to be sure you weren’t crying. “Clearly, I pick a lot of winners.”
Eddie chortled at that, his chest rising in a short puff. “Any of ‘em still live ‘round here?” he asked. “Gimme some names, I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Oh, no,” you shook your head rapidly, “this was in college. I never—”
You winced, cringing inwardly at what you’d been about to reveal: that you had gone most of your adolescent life without kissing anyone. That the thing most people had knocked out by the time they were pre-teens, you hadn’t managed until you were well into your twenties. And even when you did, it was always so dissatisfying. Lacking.
You let out a joyless laugh, glancing down at the drink in front of you. “I mean, nobody around here was ever interested, so—”
“Bullshit.”
“Huh?”
“I’m calling bullshit, sweetheart,” Eddie echoed himself, the sing-song words laced with a leading tone. “I know for a fact someone liked you.”
“Oh, really?” you scoffed in disbelief as you went to take another sip. “Like who?”
That devilish smile twisted up the corner of his lips again, and he tilted his head. “Me, for one.”
Your sinuses erupted with pain as you nearly shot ginger ale out of your nose. You blinked furiously and your hand shot up to cover your face.
“Yo—you what?” you sputtered, still half-choking.
“Always thought you were cute,” he shrugged. “Got a thing for smart girls.”
You felt your stomach drop, plummeting to the dingy floor underneath your feet.
Jesus. Were you really so pathetic that Eddie Munson had to dream up some imaginary crush just to make you feel better? This was a level of rock bottom you’d never imagined hitting. With a trembling hand, you reached for a napkin at the same time Eddie offered you one, your fingers meeting briefly when you took it, static crackling in the air and tingling where you’d touched.
You dabbed under your nose, still burning from the threat of fizzy ginger ale shooting through it.
“I wasn’t that smart,” you muttered, mostly to yourself. “Trust me.”
Eddie’s mouth popped open to respond, but he didn't get the chance. From the same spot he had not moved from all night, Ray’s voice cut through the low music playing over the sound system.
He said something about his chariot being on the way and having to cash out—assuming that Eddie actually wanted to get paid that night. The pair of them traded a few more friendly barbs you were starting to glean were par for the course for these two, and as Ray settles up it dawns on you.
Aside from him, you’re the only one left in the bar.
While you were distracted with Eddie, everybody else had steadily filtered out until it was down to just the three of you. And once Ray was gone, it would be just you and him. All alone.
Once he’d paid, Ray slid off of his stool and Eddie came out from behind the bar to help him over to the door. The two of them chuckled together as Eddie held it open for him and then pulled it firmly shut once they said their goodbyes.
But then, instead of returning to his side of the bar, he sidled up next to you instead.
You fought the instinct to jump when Eddie appeared at your side, the closest he’d been to you all night. His scent was even stronger, sweat and musk mingling with the aromas of bitters and liquor. It made you feel woozy, swaying on your stool like you’d taken a shot of 100-proof him.
“I need a break,” he said, nodding in the direction of the back door then tapping the pack of smokes rolled into his shirt sleeve that sat on his shoulder.
You blinked back at him mutely.
Was that your cue to get lost? If you weren’t here, would he be able to close up and go home? If he genuinely wasn’t going to charge you for your drinks, you had no tab to settle.
You could just tip him and go. Get out of his hair. God, his hair. His beautiful, beautiful hair.
“Oh…kay,” you said slowly, mentally flogging yourself for remaining in your seat when he was so clearly trying to get rid of you. But you couldn’t find the will to stand—not when you were being pinned down by his devilishly handsome smile and his penetrating, all-consuming stare.
He chuckled, letting his head fall to rest his cheek on his shoulder, his eyes shining as he smiled at you and then nodded at the back door again.
“Come keep me company, sweetheart.”
The back of the Hideout wasn’t all that different from the front.
Aside from the dumpsters and the wooden crates stacked next to them, it was nearly identical. And rather of an assortment of cars parked across the gravel lot, it was Eddie’s van pulled up next to the loading door, alongside the cinderblock structure.
A single flood light shone down on the two of you as he pushed the door open, brandishing his free arm with a flourish as though he was escorting you into a castle rather than an alley.
You giggled at the display, recalling how he used to do the exact same thing when you were leaving the one class you had in common—hanging back after the bell had rung so you and he were walking out at the same time, then scurrying ahead of you to grab the door and hold it before it closed.
Hugging yourself despite the balmy night air, your eyes darted about nervously, looking anywhere but at him, already mentally preparing an excuse for not taking a cigarette when he offered one.
Except Eddie didn’t even reach for his pack.
“So…” he said, spinning abruptly to face you, “I’ve been thinking about something.”
“Really?” you asked. “What’s that?”
“I just…” he sighed and tipped his head back, exhaling up to the sky. He brought his eyes back down and you swore tiny pieces of the moon had landed in them. “I think you deserve a good kiss.”
You stared back at him, speechless as you’d been when he recognized you the moment you came into the bar. Beneath you, your legs had started to tremble and you felt your breathing get heavier. Your shoulders tensed, thinking any minute you’d be hearing the blare of your alarm clock.
“Oh,” was all you could say.
Eddie licked his lips thoughtfully, taking a careful step closer to you. “And I,” he started with a thick swallow, “would really like to give you one.”
You felt your eyes widen, about ready to pop out of their sockets. The ‘YES’ you wanted to scream gets lodged so tight in your throat you think you might actually choke, mouth dropping open.
“Is that…okay?” he asked, tilting his head at you as he parsed your expression. It was more than okay. It sounded like a dream come true.
You took the deepest breath you could manage, chest shuddering with the effort, and nodded
“Okay,” Eddie said, letting out a breath of his own, as if he had been holding it. “Good.”
He took your hand in his and carefully brought it up to the nape of his neck. He helped you thread your fingers into his hair and encouraged you to grasp his curls firmly at the root. Your breathing hitched as his touch trailed over your knuckles and down your forearm to your elbow.
“Don’t be scared to hold on tight,” he burred low in your ear. “I like it when it hurts a little.”
Your grip tensed as his hands settled on your hips, squeezing gently as he backed you up to the brick wall. It felt gritty and cold against your back, but you couldn’t find it in you to care one bit.
Eddie’s hands squeezed again, sliding them up a little higher to your waist.
“Fuck, are you beautiful…” he murmured, his eyes flitting wherever they were able at such close proximity. The slope of your nose, the curve of your jaw, the graceful lines of your neck.
His voice was so soft, so adoring, you felt your knees liquifying. You wanted nothing more than to believe him implicitly, but you couldn't stop the little seed of doubt deep in your gut that quivered beneath the earth from peeking out through the undergrowth until it had sprouted.
“Really?” you whispered, hating how mousey you sounded. How timid and unsure.
He brought one of his hands up to cradle the side of your face. Your eyes fluttered closed, leaning in to the warmth of his palm, interrupted only by the cool bite of his rings that dissipated when they warmed to the temperature of your skin.
Still, you couldn't help but shiver when your eyes opened to find Eddie's gaze focused so intently on yours, squinting in a bemused sort of way.
“Do you honestly not know?” he asked you with a slow grin. “You really don’t see it?”
All you could do was shrug. You didn't think you were, like, hideous or anything. But you had never been particularly impressed by your looks. And no one had ever looked at you or acted like you were some ethereal being who'd fallen to earth just to grace these mere mortals with your face.
Well, at least not until now.
“Eddie, you…”
He shook his head, stopping your words on their way out of your mouth. Like somehow he’d heard the ‘don’t have to do this’ you’d been thinking.
“I know,” he whispered, close enough that his breath hit your skin in a soft puff. “I want to.”
He took a long moment, letting the edge of his thumb brush along the high points of your cheek. His gaze only grew more intense, his face inching closer as his eyes began to flutter closed. You felt your foot hovering over that imaginary brake pad, threatening to slam down on it just like it had all those years ago. But it never does.
You don’t let it.
His nose touched your face before his lips, its rounded tip pressing into the apple of your cheek before your mouth melds with his. It’s the softest, slowest, most tender kiss you ever experienced. He lets you have all the time in the world to think about it, to notice the ways his movements ebb and flow, his jaw and mouth all working together.
To feel the way his chest expands, taking the deepest breath of you he can and holding it inside his lungs like he can’t stand the idea of losing whatever part of you he just inhaled.
You have all this time to think, but your head has never been so empty. No, not empty. Quiet.
It’s as if sound itself ceases to exist. Not even your own rapid heartbeat pounding in your ears is enough to break through the pure peace of finally, finally getting to kiss Eddie Munson.
There’s no more cars whizzing past, speeding down the two-lane highway. There’s no more hum of the exhaust fan or relentless buzz of the bare bulb flickering over the back door.
There’s just…nothing.
Nothing but the feel of Eddie’s mouth tenaciously exploring yours, dragging every second out into a minute and savoring like it’s something precious—something he’s scared he’ll never get again.
He doesn’t dare pull back when your lips part with a quiet click, just stays right there with his face close to yours and his shaky breath expelling. It’s only as the world slowly leaks back into focus that you realize his fingers are trembling against your waist and his bottom lip is quivering.
“That was…wow.”
You can’t help but laugh gently at his words, dizzy with the elation that went straight to your head. His eyes flit across your face, his brows lifting in a silent request for more.
Your nod is shaky, but lacks no enthusiasm. And it’s all the permission he needs to dive back in.
He takes you faster this time, clutching you harder to pull you tighter against him. There’s a latent strength in his arms, a tension coiled in his corded muscles he’s working so hard to restrain.
Don’t, you wanted to scream at him. Don’t stop, don’t hold back, I want it all—
God, you wished you could will the words to leave your throat. They sat there, lodged firmly in your esophagus, practically cutting off air supply.
Eddie moved his hands upwards to cup your face, squishing your cheeks just a little as he cradled them tenderly in his calloused palms.
You hummed into his mouth, excited and anxious all at once, and Eddie sucks in a breath through his nose. Like he’s not gonna let something stupid like breathing get in the way of this.
You break apart just shy of your lungs bursting, the both of you panting heavily into one another’s mouths, trying to catch your breath. He blinks heavily, dazed and delirious as he asks,
“When’s your birthday?”
“Wh…huh?”
“Your birthday,” he repeated, still panting, “was it today?”
You tried to think—a Herculean sort of effort when you could still taste Eddie’s lips on yours—and finally sifted something from the primordial ooze he’d turned your brain into.
“N-no. It’s, uhh…” It took you a second to remember what day it even was. “It’s tomorrow.”
“Thank god,” Eddie grinned and breathed out in relief. “I want to take you out.”
“Out?” You blinked a couple times, brow pinching together. “Out…where?”
“Like for a date, out,” he couldn’t help but snicker. “Movie. Dinner. General revelry?”
Warmth exploded in the middle of your chest. “You…you’re not working?”
“Peg’ll cover for me,” he said assuredly. “If it’s for something important.”
“And I’m…” you looked back at him, hope shining in your gaze, “...important?”
He smiled at you again, eyes all peaceful and dreamy as he reached up to trace the side of your face, sweeping the tips of his fingers from your temple to the bottom of your chin.
“If you even have to ask,” he sighed and shook his head, “I didn’t do my job right.”
And then his mouth is on yours again, his hand sliding back to cup the nape of your neck, holding you in place as he kisses you deeply. It’s not, not a sweet kiss, but it’s not just sweet. There’s a little something more to it this time. Something dizzying and breath-stealing and…hot.
You feel his body press up against yours fully before he remembers himself, but the loss of heat and pressure makes you mewl pitifully into his mouth. No. Don’t. Stay, you want to beg.
Your hands moved out of their own volition and grasped fistfuls of his shirt, tugging him back into you. His laugh rumbles low in his throat and you can feel him smiling into your next kiss.
A smile that doesn’t dim one bit when you part.
“Should we, um…” you heard your own giggle, the twitterpated reaction semialien to your dazed and dopamine-addled brain. “Should we go back in?”
Eddie let out a tiny noise that sounded dangerous close to a whine. “What for?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” you tittered, “just to be sure you’re not being robbed blind or something?”
You glanced at the door, imagining the bar filled with big disgruntled men ransacking the liquor on the other side, descending into chaos with no one to stop them. Eddie’s teeth flashed in a grin, dark chuckle stuttering in his chest, a mischievous edge to the sound you remembered well.
Normally hearing it right before he did something particularly devious.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he exhaled, letting his forehead rest against yours, “the door’s been locked and the sign’s been off since Ray left.”
big time snuggles for reading my lil indulgence 😌 this one is for the bad-kiss-havers, we deserve a re-do. love you, mean it!
hey siri how do i inject this into my veins
something about eddie being so soft with an insecure reader makes me wanna cry everytime girly deserves to be treated like that <33
10ThingsIHateAboutYou
description: you’re Hopper’s daughter, which means one thing: no dating. ever. unfortunately for Eleven, that also means she can’t date either, unless you do first. cue Mike and Dustin coming up with the worst (best) idea possible: paying Eddie to take you out. too bad you’re the last person in Hawkins who’d ever fall for it… right?
pairing: eddie x you (fem!reader)
tags: hoppers daughter! reader, enemies to lovers (or something like that...), punk x menace, you hate everyone but him (eventually), he falls first, persistent idiot x guarded girl, sibling dynamic with el, soft eddie munson, we love a mean girl with a soft center, slight angst
TW: deception/manipulation, mild angst
WC: 12.2k (sorry not sorry)
A/N: i just re-watched 10 Things I Hate About You for the millionth time and immediately caught inspo. it's taking everything out of me to not make this a series but i stay doing that to myself. reblogs are always appreciated :) enjoy!!!! <3
The road is quiet in that late-afternoon way Hawkins always seems to settle into, golden light stretching across the pavement, your window cracked just enough for the wind to tug at your hair and carry in the faint smell of something burning from someone’s backyard.
You’re halfway through a cigarette you probably shouldn’t be smoking when you see them up ahead, two figures walking a little too close together to be accidental.
You don’t even have to squint to recognize Eleven in that oversized flannel she stole from your closet three weeks ago and never gave back.
You slow the car just slightly, not enough to be obvious, just enough to take it in. She’s looking up at Mike like he hung the goddamn moon, and he’s talking with his hands like he always does when he’s nervous, their shoulders brushing every few steps like it’s something they’re still getting used to but don’t want to stop.
It’s… harmless, objectively. Soft, even. The kind of thing most people would smile at.
You don’t.
You flick the ash out the window, press your foot back on the gas, and drive right past them without so much as a glance in their direction, because whatever this is, it’s not your problem. Not yet.
By the time you get home, Hopper’s truck isn’t in the driveway, which means you’ve got a small window of peace before the nightly interrogation disguised as dinner.
You take it without hesitation, tossing your keys on the counter and kicking your shoes off like the house belongs to you, because in every way that matters, it does.
El walks in about twenty minutes later.
You hear the door before you see her, the soft creak, the careful steps like she’s trying not to be noticed, which is almost funny considering the fact that she is, quite literally, impossible to ignore.
You’re leaning against the counter, flipping through some old magazine you found under a stack of mail, when she finally steps into the kitchen, pausing when she realizes you’re there.
Like a deer caught in headlights that doesn’t quite understand what a car is yet, but knows it should probably be afraid of it.
You don’t look up.
“You walk home?” you ask, voice casual in a way that’s almost too deliberate.
“Yes.”
You hum, turning a page. “Must’ve been a long walk.”
She doesn’t answer that, and for a second, you think she’s going to drop it, retreat, let it go the way you just did out on the road. But then she shifts, something in her posture tightening, like she’s bracing herself.
“I was with Mike.”
You glance up finally, one slow look that says everything you’re not bothering to put into words, and she lifts her chin just slightly under it, defiant in that quiet way of hers that almost makes you respect it.
“Congrats,” you say flatly, tossing the magazine back onto the counter. “Want a medal or are you just sharing?”
Her brows pull together. “You saw.”
“Yeah,” you shrug, reaching for the fridge like this conversation couldn’t matter less. “Hard to miss the whole hand-holding, walking-like-you’re-in-a-romance-movie thing.”
“It is not a movie,” she says, sharper now, stepping closer. “It is real.”
You close the fridge a little harder than necessary, turning to face her fully now, leaning back against the counter like you’ve got all the time in the world.
“Then maybe you should be smarter about it.”
Her eyes narrow. “You think you are smarter?”
“I know I am.”
You can see it in the way her jaw sets, the way her hands curl at her sides like she’s resisting the urge to do something she’ll regret.
“You don’t understand,” she says, voice tight. “You don’t even try.”
You let out a small laugh, not kind, not cruel, just dismissive. “Oh, I understand plenty. I just don’t care.”
That’s the wrong thing to say.
You know it the second her expression shifts, something hurt flashing across her face before it hardens into something else. Something a little more calculated, a little more familiar to you than you’d like.
“You are alone,” she says quietly. “You push everyone away.”
You go still.
“And now you want me to be alone too.”
There’s a moment where you could back off, could soften it, could remind her that you won't say anything to Hopper.
“If you end up alone,” you say, voice even, “it won’t be because of me.”
The front door opens before she can respond.
Hopper fills the doorway like he always does, presence first, everything else second, shrugging off his jacket and glancing between the two of you like he already knows he walked into something he doesn’t have the patience for.
“Why do I feel like I missed a fight?” he mutters, heading toward the kitchen.
You push off the counter, grabbing your keys again. “Because you did.”
“Hey—”
“I’m going out,” you cut him off, already moving past him. “Don’t wait up.”
“Dinner’s in twenty—”
“Then eat it without me.”
You’re halfway out the door when El’s voice cuts through the air, quiet but deliberate.
“I was with Mike.”
Slowly, you turn back.
Hopper frowns. “You were what?”
El doesn’t look at you. She keeps her eyes on him.
“We were walking together. We are… dating.”
Hopper’s expression darkens. “No, you’re not.”
El’s chin lifts. “Yes. We are.”
You watch it unfold like a car crash you could’ve prevented but chose not to. Something almost detached settles over you as Hopper starts pacing, running a hand over his face.
He's already gearing up for a lecture that’s going to last longer than either of you has the patience for.
“I told you, no dating,” he says, voice rising. “You’re too young, you’re not—this is not happening.”
El’s gaze flickers, just briefly, toward you.
And then, like she’s made a decision. “Just because she does not date doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, because I don’t want to.”
Hopper looks between the two of you, something clicking into place in that stubborn, overprotective brain of his, and you can actually see the moment the worst possible idea forms.
“…Fine,” he says.
“If she wants to date,” he continues, pointing at El, “then the rule changes.”
“Dad—”
“No dating,” he says firmly, eyes locking onto yours now, “until you do.”
Silence. You stare at him, and he stares right back.
And then you laugh, full and sharp, like this is the funniest thing you’ve ever heard.
“That’s not a rule, that’s a death sentence for El.”
“And why would that be?”
You roll your eyes. “Please. I would never date the neanderthals in this school if they were the last living organisms on earth.”
Hopper crosses his arms, satisfied. “Then I guess nobody’s dating.”
El’s lips press together, trying and failing to hide the smallest hint of disappointment.
You point at her. “This is on you.”
The next morning feels heavier for her in a way she can’t quite name.
Hawkins High hums the same as it always does, lockers slamming, voices overlapping, sneakers squeaking against the tile.
Eleven moves through it like something slightly out of place, like the rhythm doesn’t quite match her steps.
People notice her before she notices them, and then they look away just as quickly, conversations dipping, shoulders angling.
A group of girls by the lockers goes quiet when she passes. One of them mutters something under her breath, not loud enough to repeat, just loud enough to land.
El doesn’t react outwardly, but her jaw tightens, her hands curling into the sleeves of her sweater as she keeps walking, eyes forward, because she’s learned that looking back only makes it worse.
She doesn’t understand all of it, but she understands enough.
She finds Mike and Dustin near their usual table, both of them mid-conversation, Dustin animated as always, Mike nodding along like he’s only half paying attention until he spots her.
His whole face changes. “Hey,” he says quickly, standing up like he always does, like it’s instinct now. “Hi.”
El slows when she reaches them, glancing briefly at Dustin before looking back at Mike.
“Hi.”
Dustin leans forward immediately, eyes flicking between them. “Okay, so, I feel like something happened because you look like you just came back from, like, emotional warfare—”
“El, did you get in trouble—” Mike starts, already bracing.
“It is worse,” El cuts in.
Mike’s brows pull together. “Worse than what?”
“Hopper made a new rule.”
Dustin groans immediately. “Oh, that’s never good. Last time there was a new rule I wasn’t allowed in your house for, like, a month—”
“He says I cannot date,” she continues, voice steady but tight, “until she does.”
Mike blinks. “Until… who does?”
El doesn’t have to say it. Their heads both turn slightly, almost in sync, scanning the cafeteria like they expect to spot you immediately.
Dustin’s mouth falls open. “You’re kidding.”
“I am not kidding.”
Mike runs a hand through his hair, already stressed. “That doesn’t make any sense. That’s not even fair.”
“It is not fair,” El agrees, sharper now. “It is stupid.”
Dustin nods emphatically. “Super stupid. Like, impressively stupid. Like, I didn’t even know you could make a rule that stupid—”
Mike cuts him off. “Okay, okay—wait.” He looks back at El. “Why would he do that?”
El’s expression shifts, something more complicated flickering there. “Because she does not date.”
“…At all?” Dustin asks.
El shakes her head. “She said she would ‘never date the neanderthals in this school.’”
Dustin lets out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s… harsh. I mean, not entirely inaccurate for some of the male population here, but still. Harsh.”
Mike doesn’t laugh; he’s busy thinking.
“I want to be with you,” she says quietly. “Not in secret. Not like… like something bad.”
Mike looks at her, and whatever frustration he had a second ago shifts into something more determined. “Yeah. I know. I want that too.”
Dustin straightens, eyes lighting up just a little, that familiar spark of an idea forming, whether anyone asked for it or not. “Okay, wait. Wait, wait, wait.”
Mike groans. “Dustin—”
“No, hear me out,” he insists, pointing between them. “If the rule is that she has to date someone, then all we have to do… is make that happen.”
Mike stares at him. “You say that like it’s easy.”
“I’m not saying it’s easy,” Dustin says quickly. “I’m saying it’s… possible.”
El tilts her head slightly. “How?”
Dustin leans in, lowering his voice like he’s about to propose something highly illegal, which, in his mind, is probably half the appeal.
“We find someone who’s willing to go out with her.”
Mike blinks. “And why would anyone do that?”
Dustin pauses, considers. Then slowly, a grin spreads across his face, the kind that usually means trouble. “…Incentive.”
Mike’s eyes widen. “Oh no. No, absolutely not—”
“It could work!” Dustin presses. “Think about it, man. We just need one guy, right? One guy who’s not completely terrified of her—”
“That’s already a short list,” Mike mutters.
“—and who doesn’t care about her whole… thing,” Dustin continues, gesturing vaguely. “Someone who’d do it for the right price.”
El watches them, confusion knitting her brows. “You want to pay someone to date my sister?”
Mike winces. “When you say it like that—”
“That is what you are saying.”
Dustin shrugs. “I mean… yeah. But it’s not, like, real dating. It’s just…strategic.”
El looks between them, uncertainty flickering, but underneath it is something stronger.
“If it works,” she says slowly, “the rule will change.”
Mike hesitates, then nods. “If it works… yeah.”
Dustin claps his hands together once, already scanning the cafeteria like he’s picking from a lineup.
“Okay. So. Who do we know that’s got a high tolerance for danger, questionable decision-making skills, and absolutely nothing to lose?”
There’s a pause. And then, almost simultaneously, both boys have the exact same thought.
Across the room, at a table that feels more like its own territory than part of the cafeteria, sits Eddie, boots up on the bench, laughing too loud at something one of the Hellfire guys just said, completely unaware that somewhere behind him, a very bad idea has just found its target.
They don’t move right away.
For a second, both of them just stand there, watching from a distance like they’re about to approach a wild animal that might be friendly but could just as easily bite.
Dustin shifts his weight from foot to foot while Mike very clearly considers abandoning the plan entirely.
“This is a terrible idea,” Mike mutters under his breath.
Dustin doesn’t disagree. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. But it’s also the only idea.”
Mike glances back at Eleven, still standing by the table, watching them with that quiet, unwavering expectation that makes it very hard to say no to her.
He sighs. “…Fine.”
The Hellfire table is loud in a way the rest of the cafeteria isn’t.
“Wheeler. Henderson,” Eddie drawls, leaning back slightly, a grin already forming like he can smell trouble from a mile away.
“To what do I owe the pleasure? You here to finally admit my campaign last night was amazing, or—”
“We need a favor,” Dustin blurts, cutting him off.
That gets his attention.
Eddie’s brows lift, interest piqued, grin sharpening into something more curious as he slowly lowers his boots from the chair.
“A favor,” he repeats. “From me.”
Mike crosses his arms, trying to look more confident than he feels. “Yeah.”
Eddie glances between them, taking in the tension, the way neither of them looks entirely sure about what they’re about to say, and it only makes him more entertained.
“This should be good,” he says, gesturing lazily. “Go on. Enlighten me.”
Dustin steps forward like he’s presenting a business proposal. “Okay, so. Hypothetically—”
“Oh, we’re starting with hypotheticals,” Eddie hums.
“—if someone,” Dustin continues, ignoring him, “needed you to, I don’t know, go out with someone—”
Eddie snorts. “Henderson, you’re gonna have to narrow it down. My dance card is shockingly empty.”
Mike cuts in, faster this time. “We’ll pay you.”
Eddie goes still for half a second, definitely caught off guard, like he wasn’t expecting them to skip straight to that part.
“…You’ll what?” he says, slower now.
Dustin nods, serious. “Pay you.”
Eddie lets out a short laugh, dragging a hand down his face as he leans forward onto the table, eyes flicking between them like he’s trying to figure out if this is a joke he hasn’t been let in on yet.
“You’re offering me money,” he says carefully, “to go on a date.”
“Yes,” Mike says.
“With who?” Eddie asks, already half amused again.
Mike hesitates.
Dustin doesn’t.
“Hopper’s daughter.”
Eddie leans back in his seat, something thoughtful creeping into his expression now.
“…That Hopper’s daughter,” he repeats.
Mike nods. Eddie’s gaze drifts, almost unconsciously, across the cafeteria. It doesn’t take long to find you.
You’re not hard to spot, not because you’re loud or attention-seeking, but because people give you space without meaning to, a quiet radius that forms around you wherever you sit.
You’re leaning back in your chair, one leg crossed over the other, completely uninterested in anything happening around you.
Like the entire room is background noise you’ve already tuned out. He’s never talked to you, not once. But he knows you. Everyone does.
The attitude. The sharp tongue. The way you look at people like you’ve already decided exactly what they are and found it lacking.
He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at them.
“…You want me,” he says slowly, “to go out with her.”
“Yes,” Dustin says again, like repetition might make it sound less insane.
Eddie exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly as he leans back, running his tongue over his teeth in thought.
“You guys have a death wish or something? I mean, I’ve seen the way she looks at people. I’m pretty sure I’d burst into flames on contact.”
“You won’t,” Mike says quickly. “Probably.”
Eddie shoots him a look. “Reassuring.”
Dustin leans in. “Look, it doesn’t have to be real. You just have to take her out a couple times, make it believable, and that’s it.”
“Why?” he asks.
Mike hesitates. El answers from behind them.
“Because I want to be with him.”
All three of them turn.
El stands a few steps closer now, her gaze steady as it moves from Mike to Eddie, something earnest and unfiltered sitting right at its center.
“Hopper says I cannot date until she does,” she continues. “So she must.”
Eddie’s expression shifts, just slightly, and he glances back at you again. You haven’t noticed him. Or maybe you have, and you just don’t care.
Either way, it does something strange in his chest, something he doesn’t quite have a name for. He looks back at Dustin and Mike.
“…And you’re paying me,” he says.
Dustin nods eagerly. “Yes.”
Eddie taps his fingers against the table, thinking.
“You do realize,” he says after a moment, “this is gonna blow up in your faces, right? Like, spectacularly. Possibly with casualties.”
“Probably,” Mike admits.
Eddie huffs out a quiet laugh. Then, almost absently, his eyes flick back to you one more time, alone at your table.
He tilts his head, something like a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“…Alright,” he says.
Mike blinks. “Wait—seriously?”
Eddie shrugs, pushing himself up from the chair, grabbing his jacket like he’s already halfway committed before he’s even finished deciding.
“What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good cause.”
Dustin grins. “And the money.”
Eddie points at him. “And the money.”
Then he glances back at you, eyes narrowing just slightly, like he’s studying something he doesn’t quite understand yet but very much intends to.
“…Plus,” he adds, almost to himself, “I’ve never met a dragon I didn’t want to try and charm.”
Mike groans. “Please don’t call her that to her face.”
Eddie’s grin widens. “No promises.”
The bell cuts through the cafeteria, sharp and final, and the room shifts all at once, chairs scraping, conversations breaking, bodies funneling toward the exits in a familiar, restless wave.
You don’t rush, you never do.
You take your time gathering your things, sliding your bag over your shoulder, letting the crowd thin just enough that you don’t have to fight your way through it.
You don’t notice him at first, not until he’s already there.
Falling into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like this isn’t the first time he’s ever willingly placed himself in your orbit.
“Hey,” Eddie says easily, turning slightly so he’s walking half backward just to catch your eye, a crooked grin already in place. “Hopper, right?”
You don’t stop, you don’t even look at him.
“Do I know you?” you ask flatly, eyes fixed ahead.
He presses a hand dramatically to his chest, as if you’ve wounded him. “Wow. That’s cold. I’m hurt.”
“Tragic.”
He snorts, clearly entertained, and then, without missing a beat, sticks his hand out between you like he’s introducing himself at a business meeting.
“Eddie. Munson. Local celebrity, part-time academic menace, full-time delight. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
You glance down at his hand. Then back up at him. And just… stare.
He holds it there a second longer than most people would, grin twitching slightly at the edges as he realizes exactly what’s happening, and then he exhales a quiet laugh, dropping it back to his side.
“Alright, tough crowd,” he mutters, half to himself.
You keep walking.
“So,” he continues, undeterred, falling back into step beside you like he’s decided this is a long game. “I was thinking, dangerous, I know, but maybe you and I could—”
“No.”
He blinks. “I didn’t even finish the sentence.”
“I didn’t need you to.”
That earns a laugh, low and surprised, like he wasn’t expecting you to shut him down that fast but he’s not exactly mad about it either.
“Okay, fair,” he concedes, nodding like you’ve made a solid point. “But hypothetically, if I had finished the sentence—”
“You shouldn’t.”
You cut around a group of people blocking the hallway, not slowing, not adjusting your pace to make room for him.
He sidesteps neatly back into place beside you, hands slipping into his jacket pockets, glancing at you from the corner of his eye like he’s studying a puzzle he hasn’t quite figured out yet.
“You always this friendly,” he asks, “or am I just special?”
You let out a quiet, humorless breath. “You’re not special.”
“Ouch,” he says, though there’s no real sting to it, just amusement. “Gonna have to try harder, I see.”
You stop at your locker, spinning the dial without acknowledging him, and he leans casually against the one next to yours like he’s got nowhere else to be.
“I mean, come on,” he goes on, softer now, less performative, more coaxing. “You haven’t even heard my pitch.”
“I don’t care about your pitch.”
“Not even a little curious?”
You glance at him then, finally, just a flick of your eyes.
“…No.”
He grins, like that’s the answer he wanted.
“See, that’s where I think you’re wrong,” he says, pushing off the locker, stepping just a little closer. “Because if you were really not curious, you would’ve told me to shut up and left already.”
You slam your locker shut. “I’m telling you to shut up now.”
He laughs, full and unbothered. “There she is.”
You sling your bag back over your shoulder, turning to walk away again, and he falls into step beside you immediately, like this is just how things are now.
“Just one shot,” he says, holding up a finger. “One sentence. If you hate it, I’ll disappear, never bother you again, you can go back to your regularly scheduled brooding—”
“You’re already bothering me.”
“—but if you don’t hate it,” he continues smoothly, ignoring that, “you hear me out.”
You stop again, slowly.
“…You have one sentence,” you say.
His grin comes back, slower this time, a little more careful.
“Go out with me.”
Silence. You stare at him, and he holds it, waiting.
And then you let out a short laugh, like he’s just confirmed exactly what you thought about him the second he opened his mouth.
“Absolutely not.” And just like that, you turn and walk away, not even giving him the chance to respond this time.
Behind you, Eddie just watches you go, something thoughtful settling in behind the amusement. Then he huffs out a quiet laugh, dragging a hand through his hair as he falls back a step.
“…Alright,” he mutters to himself, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth again. “Challenge accepted.”
By the time the plan reaches its next phase, it already feels like something that’s gotten out of hand. Not that that stops them.
The cabin is quiet when they get there. Late afternoon light spills through the windows, warm and low, dust floating lazily in the air like the place is holding its breath, and Eleven pushes the door open without hesitation.
The boys follow more cautiously.
Mike lingers just inside the doorway, already tense, eyes darting around like Hopper might materialize out of thin air, while Dustin closes the door behind them with a soft click, lowering his voice instinctively.
“This feels illegal,” Eddie whispers.
“It is not illegal,” El says, already moving toward the hallway. “It is necessary.”
Mike runs a hand through his hair. “We’re going through her stuff.”
El pauses, glancing back at him. “We are learning.”
“That’s worse.”
They find your room easily.
The door’s half-open, like you never bothered to shut it fully, and there’s something about that alone that makes all four of them hesitate for a second.
Dustin pushes it open anyway.
“Okay,” he says under his breath, stepping inside. “Recon mission.”
The room is exactly what Eddie expected. And not at all.
It’s not messy, not really, but it’s not polished either, not curated in that way some people’s rooms are.
Yours feels lived in, real. Clothes draped over the back of a chair, books stacked unevenly on your nightstand, a jacket tossed carelessly across the end of your bed like you’ll come back for it later.
There are posters on the wall, and not the ones people expect. Not pop stars or clean-cut bands, but darker, louder things, edges curling slightly at the corners, ink-heavy designs that feel more like statements than decoration.
Eddie steps further in, slower than the others, gaze dragging across the details, taking it in piece by piece like he’s reading something written in a language he almost understands.
“…Huh,” he says quietly.
Dustin’s already at your shelf, flipping through a stack of vinyls with growing enthusiasm. “Oh, this is gold. This is gold—she’s got good taste, I’ll give her that.”
Mike’s still hovering, arms crossed. “Can we not touch everything?”
“We’re not touching everything,” Dustin argues. “We’re strategically observing.”
“You’re holding it.”
“That’s part of observing.”
El moves toward your desk, fingers brushing lightly over the surface, pausing on a notebook left half-open, but she doesn’t flip through it. Not that.
Even she seems to recognize there’s a line somewhere.
Eddie, meanwhile, drifts closer to your wall. He studies the posters more carefully now, head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing just a bit as something clicks into place.
“…She’s not just mean,” he says, almost absently.
Mike glances over. “What?”
Eddie gestures vaguely at the wall. “This stuff—this isn’t random. She’s got a whole thing going on. It’s like…” He trails off, searching for the word, then shrugs. “Curated chaos.”
Dustin snorts. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is now,” Eddie shoots back, though his attention’s already shifted again, scanning the room like he’s trying to piece together a person out of fragments.
There’s something quieter in him now. Less show, more interest.
He doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t need to, but it’s there in the way he lingers, the way he notices things the others don’t, the way his gaze softens just slightly when it lands on something small, something personal.
On your nightstand. A folded piece of paper sticks out from under a book, worn at the edges like it’s been handled more than once, and Dustin, of course, zeroes in on it immediately.
“Ooh, what’s this—”
“Don’t,” Mike says quickly.
Too late. Dustin pulls it free, unfolding it with zero hesitation, eyes scanning over it before lighting up.
“No way.”
“What?” Mike asks, stepping closer despite himself.
Dustin turns it so they can see. Tickets. Two of them. Worn slightly at the corners, like they’ve been sitting there for a while, waiting.
“To a show,” Dustin says, unnecessarily.
Eddie steps in closer, eyes dropping to the print, and something in his expression shifts again, sharper this time, recognition sparking.
“…You’re kidding me,” he murmurs.
El tilts her head. “What is it?”
Eddie reaches out, not taking the tickets, just brushing his fingers lightly against the edge like he needs to confirm they’re real. “This is—”
He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “—The Misfits,” he finishes.
Dustin blinks. “Is that… good?”
Eddie looks at him like he just asked if oxygen is optional.
“Is that good? Henderson, that’s not just good, that’s—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, still half smiling. “That’s not exactly mainstream around here, alright? That’s… specific.”
Mike frowns slightly. “So she likes them?”
Eddie exhales, glancing around the room again, like everything suddenly makes a little more sense. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, she does.”
Dustin’s grin creeps back in, slow and deliberate. “Okay. So. We use that.”
Mike hesitates. “Use it how?”
Dustin gestures with the tickets. “Conversation piece.”
Eddie doesn’t answer right away. He’s still looking at the tickets, at your room. At the pieces of you scattered around it like clues he didn’t expect to care about.
“…That’s not a terrible idea,” he admits finally, quieter than before.
Mike stares at him. “You’re actually considering this.”
Eddie glances at him, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “I told you. I like a challenge.”
But it’s not just that anymore.
“…Guess I’ve got my opening line.”
The bell above the door gives a soft, tired jingle when it opens, the kind that’s been rung a thousand times and stopped caring somewhere around the five hundredth. You don’t look up right away.
The record store is slow this time of day, the low hum of music drifting through the speakers, something scratchy and familiar playing from behind the counter as you flip through a stack of new arrivals, reorganizing them more out of habit than necessity.
“Afternoon,” you say flatly, still not looking.
“Yeah, I’m hoping it gets better from here.”
You freeze for half a second. Then slowly, you lift your head.
Eddie stands just inside the doorway, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who very much does not belong here.
Your eyes narrow instantly. “…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He grins like that’s exactly the reaction he was hoping for. “Miss me?”
“No.”
“Cold,” he hums, stepping further inside, gaze drifting lazily over the shelves like he’s browsing. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“You weren’t.”
“Okay, no,” he concedes easily. “I wasn’t.”
You go back to what you were doing, dismissing him with the same efficiency you would anyone else you don’t care to deal with.
“Then leave.”
He doesn’t. Instead, he wanders closer to the counter, fingers brushing along the edge of a display, scanning the titles like he’s genuinely interested. Even though the slight tilt of his mouth says he’s enjoying this far more than he should.
“So,” he starts casually, like you’re in the middle of a normal conversation. “You got any Misfits vinyls in stock, or am I gonna have to take my business elsewhere?”
That stops you.
“…You like the Misfits?” you ask, tone edged with suspicion more than curiosity.
He catches it immediately, doesn’t flinch. Just shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal.
“Yeah. Shocking, I know. Dude in a leather jacket listens to loud, obnoxious music. Real plot twist.”
You step closer, bracing your hands on the counter, gaze locking onto his like you’re trying to catch him in something.
“Name three songs.”
He blinks once. Then huffs a quiet laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Wow. Okay. Gatekeeping. Love that for you.”
“Name them,” you repeat, unmoved.
He studies you for a second, something amused flickering in his eyes, like he’s enjoying this far more than he should.
“…‘Last Caress,’ ‘Hybrid Moments,’ ‘Where Eagles Dare,’” he says easily, ticking them off on his fingers. “Want me to keep going or—?”
You hold his gaze a second longer. Then lean back slightly, crossing your arms.
“…Lucky guesses.”
“Ouch,” he says, though he’s smiling again, a little softer this time, like he’s pleased he got under your skin even a fraction. “You wound me.”
You turn, gesturing vaguely toward the back. “Third crate. Don’t touch anything you’re not buying.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He finds the crate easily, crouching down to flip through it, but he doesn’t speak right away this time.
But, after a moment: “Minor Threat, huh?”
You don’t turn around. “What about them?”
He glances up at you from where he’s crouched, one brow lifting. “Didn’t peg you for the straight-edge type.”
“I’m not.”
He hums, flipping to the next record. “Bad Brains.”
You go still. “…You’re just naming bands now?”
“Descendents,” he adds, like he didn’t hear you.
“How do you know that?” you ask, voice quieter now.
Eddie doesn’t answer right away.
He stands, dusting his hands off on his jeans, expression shifting just slightly, and meets your gaze.
“I pay attention,” he says simply.
You search his face, like you’re trying to find the angle, the trick, the punchline that hasn’t landed yet.
“…That’s creepy,” you decide finally.
He exhales a soft laugh, nodding like he’ll take that. “Yeah. Little bit.”
You shake your head, turning away again, but it’s not the same dismissal as before. There’s something else under it now, something you don’t quite like.
“You’re not getting a discount.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“So,” he tries again, a little lighter now, easing back into that easy charm like he never left it. “You work here often, or is this a special occasion thing?”
You don’t miss a beat. “I’m here every day.”
“Good,” he says.
That makes you look at him again. “…Why?”
He shrugs, picking a record from the crate, holding it up like that’s his whole answer.
“Makes it easier to come back.”
You stare at him longer this time. Trying to decide if he’s serious. Trying to decide if you care.
“…Buy something or leave,” you say finally, turning back toward the counter, but your voice isn’t quite as sharp as it was when he walked in.
Behind you, Eddie just smiles to himself, something thoughtful tucked behind it as he glances down at the vinyl in his hands.
Hook set, whether you realize it or not. The next day, the idea finds him again before he can talk himself out of it.
You’re at your locker when he spots you.
Same as yesterday. Same hallway, same noise, same carefully maintained distance people keep from you like it’s second nature.
You’re leaning slightly into the metal, spinning the dial with that absent, disinterested look like none of this matters, like none of them matter.
He watches you for a second, then pushes off the wall and heads over.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie Munson calls lightly as he approaches, like this is already a routine between you. Like you didn’t shut him down less than twenty-four hours ago.
You don’t even look up. “Wrong person.”
He grins. “Debatable.”
You slam your locker shut, finally turning to face him, unimpressed as ever. “What do you want, Munson?”
“No hello?” he hums. “No, ‘how’ve you been, Eddie, light of my life, bane of my existence’?”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“Good,” he says easily. “This’ll be quick.”
That makes you pause, just slightly.
“There’s a party tonight,” he continues, casual, like it’s nothing, like he’s not watching your reaction a little too closely. “At Nancy Wheeler’s place. Parents are out of town, whole suburban rebellion thing, you know the drill.”
You blink once. “…And?”
“And,” he says, stepping a little closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough to keep your attention, “you should come.”
Then you laugh.
“I’d rather die.”
He winces theatrically. “Jesus. You always go straight to homicide, or is that just me?”
You shoulder your bag, already turning away. “Find someone else to bother.”
“I did,” he calls after you. “Didn’t take.”
That slows you down. You glance back, eyes narrowing. “…What.”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing, like this isn’t the entire point. “Figured I’d aim higher.”
You stare at him, and he holds it. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence with a joke.
“…I don’t think so,” you say finally.
He tilts his head, considering you, something softer slipping into his expression for half a second before the grin comes back.
“Alright,” he says.
You turn away again, done with it.
“Pick you up at eight.”
You stop.
“…I didn’t say yes.”
“You also didn’t say no,” he shoots back immediately.
You turn, ready to argue, but he’s already walking backward down the hall, hands up in surrender, grin wide and unbothered.
“Eight o’clock, sweetheart!” he calls. “Wear something scary!”
You watch him go. Annoyed... and something else you refuse to name.
That night, the cabin is quiet. Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that means something’s about to go wrong.
Eleven moves carefully, slow steps down the hallway, shoes in her hand, eyes flicking toward the living room like she expects Hopper to appear at any second.
She makes it halfway to the door.
“Where are you going?”
She freezes. Hopper stands in the doorway, arms crossed, already unimpressed.
“…Out,” she says.
“Out,” he repeats flatly. “At night. Without telling me.”
She hesitates, then lifts her chin slightly. “There is a party.”
“Oh, there is a party,” he echoes. “And you’re just gonna—what—sneak out and go to it?”
She doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.
Hopper shakes his head, already gearing up.
“No. Absolutely not. We talked about this—no dating, no parties, no—”
“She is going.”
Both of them turn.
You’re leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, already in something that looks like you might leave the house even if you haven’t admitted it yet.
Hopper frowns. “She is not—”
“I am,” El insists, stepping closer. “Because she is coming with me.”
You scoff immediately. “No, I’m not.”
El turns to you. And then, she does it: big eyes, slight tilt of her head.
That quiet, stubborn softness that somehow hits harder than any argument she could make. You stare at her.
“…No,” you repeat.
She doesn’t look away. “Please.”
You exhale sharply, dragging a hand over your face like this is physically painful for you.
“You don’t even know those people.”
“I know Mike.”
Hopper groans. “We are not doing this again—”
You glance at him, back at her, then at the door.
“…Fine,” you snap finally. “But if anything goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”
El’s face lights up just slightly. Victory.
Hopper points between the two of you. “No. No, no, no—hold on, I didn’t agree to this—”
Too late. There’s a knock at the door, and all three of you freeze.
You close your eyes briefly.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Hopper squints toward the door. “Who is that?”
Another knock. Louder this time. You push off the wall with a sigh, already heading for it.
“A mistake,” you mutter under your breath.
When you open it, there he is.
Eddie, leaning casually against the frame like he’s been there for a while, like this is perfectly normal, like showing up early to something you never agreed to is just part of his charm.
He looks you up and down once, quick. Then grins.
“…Eight o’clock felt a little late,” he says. “Figured I’d get a head start.”
You stare at him. Behind you, Hopper steps closer.
“…What the hell is this?” he asks.
Eddie straightens, instantly switching gears, hand coming up in an almost too-friendly wave. “Evening, Chief.”
You drag a hand down your face. “This,” you say flatly, “is exactly why I don’t go out.”
The drive is louder than it needs to be.
Not because of conversation, there isn’t much of that, but because Eddie keeps the music just a little too high, fingers tapping against the wheel, glancing at you every so often like he’s checking to see if you’re still there.
You sit with your elbow hooked out the window, gaze fixed on the blur of trees and streetlights, cigarette smoke trailing behind you, acting like he’s not there at all.
He doesn’t push it, not yet.
The house is already packed by the time you pull up.
Cars line the street, music spilling out through the walls, bass heavy enough to feel in your chest before you even make it to the front door.
El is out of the van the second it stops, practically sprinting toward the house like she’s been waiting for this all week.
“Hey—don’t—” you start, but she’s already gone.
Eddie watches her disappear inside, then looks at you, one brow lifting slightly, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.
“…After you.”
You roll your eyes, brushing past him without a word, pushing the door open like you own the place, like you’re not even slightly out of your element.
The noise hits you all at once. Laughter, shouting, music too loud for the speakers it’s coming from, bodies moving through the space in a chaotic, overlapping rhythm. You head straight for the kitchen.
It’s instinct at this point, find the drinks, find something to do with your hands, something to anchor you in a room you already know you don’t want to be in. Eddie follows.
Not hovering exactly, but close enough that you’re aware of him, that steady presence at your side as you weave through people, ignoring the looks, the whispers, the way heads turn just a little too slowly as you pass.
It doesn’t take long. “Look who finally decided to show up.”
You don’t even have to turn to know the tone, but you do anyway.
A couple of guys leaning against the counter, red cups in hand, smirks already in place like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment.
“The shrew herself,” one of them adds, louder this time, making sure people nearby can hear.
“Bite me,” you say flatly, already reaching past them for a drink like they’re nothing.
“God,” Eddie murmurs, just low enough for you to hear, “you’re terrifying.”
You crack open the drink, not looking at him. “Then why are you still here?”
He shrugs, grabbing one for himself. “I’ve got a thing for danger.”
You take a sip, letting the noise of the party settle around you, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.
For Eddie, that’s new.
Instead, he just stands there, shoulder brushing yours when someone squeezes past, like he’s not entirely sure what to do with the space between you.
You glance up at him.
“Why did you want me to come, anyway?” you say, nodding toward the crowd. "What's in it for you?"
He looks down at you, like he didn’t expect the question. “What, I can’t invite someone to a party without ulterior motives?”
“You?” you say, arching a brow. “No.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, bringing the cup to his lips.
He takes a sip, pauses, then grimaces immediately. “…Yeah. Okay. That’s foul.”
You almost smile, and he catches it.
“Was that—” he leans in a little, eyes bright, voice dropping like he’s in on a secret, “—was that a smile?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late,” he says easily. “Already planning my future around it.”
You shake your head, but there’s something softer in your expression now. He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then shrugs, a little less guarded this time.
“And for the record,” he adds, quieter, “I didn’t come for the party.”
You glance at him. “No?”
“Nah.” A small, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “I came for the part where you show up and pretend you don’t hate me for a couple hours.”
That does it. You smile fully, just a little. And he looks like he just won something.
Across the room, the party swells, louder, messier, people spilling into hallways, voices rising, music shifting tracks.
But Eddie sticks by your side.
The kitchen settles around you in waves, people rotating in and out, laughter rising and falling, and somehow, without you noticing exactly when it happened, you stop counting the seconds until you can leave. Eddie’s still there.
Leaning back against the counter now, one foot hooked behind the other, drink forgotten in his hand as he talks, like this is easy, like you’re easy, like the whole thing isn’t supposed to be an uphill battle.
“…and then Henderson swears the dice are cursed,” he’s saying, gesturing with his hands, animated in a way that should be annoying but isn’t, not really.
“Like, full conspiracy, thinks the entire campaign is rigged against him personally, which—honestly—not entirely wrong, but still.”
You glance at him, eyebrow lifting slightly. “You rig your own games?”
“Absolutely,” he says without hesitation. “I’m a tyrant. A menace. It’s in the job description.”
“That’s pathetic.”
He grins. “That’s leadership.”
You huff out a quiet breath, something that’s dangerously close to a laugh, and he catches it immediately, eyes lighting up like he’s just hit a milestone.
“There it is again,” he says, pointing at you. “I knew you had it in you.”
“Don’t push it.”
“Oh, I’m gonna push it,” he says easily. “That’s kind of my whole thing.”
You shake your head, taking another sip of your drink, but you don’t shut him down. He seems to clock that too, something softer settling into his expression for a second before he covers it with another smirk.
“So what,” he goes on, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own, testing the boundary. “You just sit around all day, scaring small children and rejecting perfectly charming invitations, or—”
“Children scare easily.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to see why.”
You glance at him again, like you’re trying to figure out what his angle is and coming up short.
“…You talk a lot,” you say.
“I’ve been told it’s one of my many endearing qualities.”
“It’s not.”
“Agree to disagree.”
There’s a pause. Then, before you can stop it, you laugh.
It slips out of you like you didn’t mean for it to, like it caught you off guard just as much as it does him.
Eddie goes quiet, like he doesn’t want to ruin it.
“Wow,” he says after a second, softer now, something genuine threading through the usual humor. “Okay. That— that was worth the price of admission.”
You roll your eyes immediately, the moment passing just as quickly as it came. “Don’t get sentimental on me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But he’s still smiling. Not the loud, performative grin from earlier.
“Hey—” You both turn.
Nancy stands a few steps away, red cup in hand, looking pleasantly surprised, like she almost didn’t believe it when she heard you were here.
“Hi,” she says, a little breathless from weaving through the crowd. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”
You shrug, already bracing for whatever comment’s coming next. “I didn’t plan on it.”
Nancy’s eyes flick briefly to Eddie, then back to you, something knowing in her expression that you immediately don’t trust.
“Well,” she says, smiling slightly, “I’m glad you did. It’s… nice to see you out of your shell.”
You stare at her. “I don’t have a shell.”
Eddie snorts into his drink.
Nancy laughs softly, unfazed. “You know what I mean.”
“I don’t.”
She just shakes her head, still smiling, like she’s decided not to push it, and takes a step back. “Just—have fun, okay?”
He glances at you, one brow lifting. “Out of your shell, huh.”
“Say one more word, and I’m leaving.”
He holds his hands up immediately. “Hey, hey—zip it. Noted.”
Then, quieter, “For what it’s worth,” he adds, nudging your shoulder again, gentler this time, “I think you’re doing great.”
You don’t respond. But you don’t pull away, either. And that’s enough for him.
The Hideout isn’t trying to impress anyone.
Dim lights, sticky floors, a stage that’s seen better decades, the low hum of a crowd that feels more like background noise than the main event.
It’s exactly the kind of place you’d expect Eddie to bring someone.
It’s not the kind of place you expected to like. And yet…
You’re sitting across from him in a cracked vinyl booth, one leg tucked under you, drink sweating in your hand as he tells stories.
Dumb ones, mostly, about Hellfire campaigns and arguments over rules and how Henderson once tried to “unionize the party,” whatever that means.
You don’t fully understand half of it, but you listen anyway.
“…and then he goes, ‘you can’t just kill my character because I questioned your authority,’” Eddie finishes, shaking his head, clearly still entertained by it. “And I’m like, ‘watch me.’”
You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Thank you,” he says, like it’s a compliment.
You take a sip of your drink, studying him over the rim of the glass, something quieter settling in your chest, something unfamiliar and a little unsettling. Because he’s not what you expected, not entirely.
He’s loud, yeah. Annoying. Persistent in a way that should get under your skin more than it does. But he’s also gentle, in strange, fleeting ways.
Like the way he slid into the booth first, so you wouldn’t have to squeeze past anyone. The way he asked what you wanted before ordering, like it mattered. The way he listens when you do speak, even if you only give him scraps.
It’s disarming. You don’t like that.
“…What,” he says suddenly, catching your gaze, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
You roll your eyes, looking away. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I,” he hums, leaning forward just slightly, like he’s trying to catch your eye again. “Because I’m pretty sure that was a nice look.”
“Don’t push it.”
He grins, softer this time. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Then he reaches across the table, not touching you, just tapping his fingers lightly against the surface like he’s resisting the urge to close the distance.
“I’m glad you came,” he says.
Simple, no joke attached. You don’t answer right away.
“…Me too,” you admit, quieter.
His expression shifts, just a fraction, something warm flickering there before he looks away, like he needs a second to recover from it.
“Careful,” he says lightly. “You keep saying stuff like that, I’m gonna think you actually like me.”
You scoff. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” But there’s no bite to it, not really.
You don’t realize how far you’ve let your guard down until you stand up to go to the bathroom and he doesn’t follow. You don’t expect him to, but you notice it anyway.
The hallway’s quieter, the music muffled, the buzz of the bar fading just enough that you can hear your own thoughts again, and for a second, you let yourself breathe.
This was a mistake; it has to be. You don’t do this. You don’t sit in booths and laugh at stupid stories and let people get close enough to matter.
And yet...You push the bathroom door open, splash water on your hands, stare at your reflection for a second longer than necessary, then head back out.
You hear it before you see them.
“…I’m just saying, man, you better get your cut.”
You slow, just slightly. Voices from around the corner, familiar in that distant way you recognize but don’t care enough to place.
“Yeah, seriously,” another one adds. “How much is Henderson even paying you for going out with Hopper’s daughter again?”
Your stomach drops, cold and sharp. You step around the corner, and there he is.
Eddie, leaning back against the wall, a couple of Hellfire guys clustered around him, laughing like it’s nothing, like it’s a joke that doesn’t have a target. Like it’s not you.
He doesn’t laugh, not really. But he doesn’t shut it down fast enough.
“…It’s not—” he starts. Too late.
They notice you, and the laughter dies. Eddie’s head snaps up. And the second his eyes meet yours, he knows.
“Hey—” he says, pushing off the wall immediately, something urgent in his tone now. “It’s not like that—”
You let out a short, hollow laugh. “Wow.”
He stops a few feet in front of you, hands half-raised like he’s approaching something fragile, something that might shatter if he moves too fast. “I can explain—”
“That’s rich,” you cut him off, voice low and sharp, eyes burning into him. “'Nothing in it for you', huh?”
“I was going to tell you,” he insists, stepping closer. “I just—”
“When,” you snap. “After you got paid? Or were you waiting on a bonus for sleeping with me?”
“It’s not about the money anymore,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “It hasn’t been for a while.”
You laugh again, harsher this time. “Oh, please.”
“I mean it,” he says, more forcefully now, frustration bleeding through. “Yeah, it started that way, I’m not gonna lie to you, but that’s not what this is now—”
“You expect me to believe that,” you cut in, stepping back, putting space between you like you need it to breathe. “You expect me to believe you suddenly just—what—like me?”
“Yes,” he says. No hesitation, no joke. It almost makes it worse.
You shake your head, backing up another step, something tight and ugly twisting in your chest that you refuse to name.
“God, you’re such an asshole,” you mutter.
“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this—”
“You didn’t mean for me to find out at all,” you correct.
You swallow hard, forcing your expression back into something colder, something safer, something that doesn’t let any of that hurt show through.
“Don’t follow me,” you say flatly.
Then you turn and walk out. Leaving him standing there, the noise of the bar rushing back in around him, the taste of something good turning bitter in his mouth before he even has time to process how badly he just screwed it up.
The next morning feels different.
Not in the way anyone else would notice, not in the noise or the routine or the way Hawkins High hums along like nothing ever really changes, but in the space around you.
You move through the hallway like you always do, head high, eyes forward, expression locked into something unreadable, but there’s an edge to it now, something sharper, like you’ve sealed something off and thrown away the key.
People still move out of your way; they always do. But this time, you don’t even register them.
Eddie is leaning against a row of lockers, mid-conversation with one of the Hellfire guys, but the second you round the corner, his attention shifts completely, like everything else drops out of focus.
He pushes off the wall without thinking. “Hey—”
You don’t slow.
“Hey,” he tries again, falling into step beside you, voice lower this time, less show, more real. “Can we just—”
“No.” Not even a glance.
He exhales, quick, frustrated, but keeps pace anyway.
“Just listen for a second, okay? I know you’re pissed, I get that, but I—”
“I’m not pissed,” you cut in, voice flat. You keep walking. “I just don’t care,” you finish.
He hovers there for a second, like he’s been physically pushed back, then jogs a step to catch up again, not ready to let it go.
“That’s not true,” he says, quieter now, almost like he’s trying not to spook you. “If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be—”
“Don’t,” you snap, finally turning to face him, eyes sharp enough to cut. “Don’t tell me how I feel.”
He lifts his hands slightly, backing off just a fraction. “I’m not—”
“You lied,” you say simply.
“I didn’t lie about everything,” he pushes, something desperate creeping in now. “I meant what I said—”
“Which part?” you cut in. “The part where you asked me out, or the part where you cashed the check.”
A couple of people nearby slow down, sensing tension, but neither of you notices or cares.
Eddie swallows, jaw tightening. “It wasn’t like that.”
“It was exactly like that.”
You step back, putting space between you again, shutting it down before he can try to spin it into something softer.
“Find someone else to entertain you,” you say, voice cold. “I’m done.”
And this time, you walk away without stopping. Without looking back. Without giving him anything to hold onto.
He just stands there for a second, staring after you, something tight and frustrated and stuck settling in his chest.
“…Shit,” he mutters under his breath.
Eddie drops into the seat across from them harder than necessary.
Dustin startles. “Jesus—”
“She won’t talk to me,” Eddie says flatly.
Mike winces immediately. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Eddie drags a hand down his face. “No, like—won’t. Won’t even look at me. I tried this morning and she just—”
He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “It’s like I don’t exist.”
El looks up at that. “You hurt her.”
Eddie exhales, nodding once. “Yeah. I got that part.”
Mike leans forward, lowering his voice. “You shouldn’t have let it go on that long.”
“I didn’t let anything—” Eddie starts, then stops, because he knows how it sounds, because he knows they’re not wrong. “…Okay, yeah. I did. I know.”
Dustin folds his arms. “So what’s the plan now?”
Eddie lets out a humorless laugh. “That’s what I’m asking you.”
They all look at each other. No immediate answer. Which is… not encouraging.
“You apologize,” Mike says finally.
“I did.”
“No, like—actually apologize,” Dustin adds. “Not the whole ‘I’m sorry but also here’s why I’m still kind of right’ thing you do.”
“I didn’t do that,” Eddie argues.
“You definitely did that,” Mike says.
Eddie groans, dropping his head briefly into his hands. “Okay, fine, whatever, I’ll apologize better. Then what?”
El watches him for a second, quiet, thoughtful. “You tell the truth,” she says.
He looks up at her. “I did.”
She shakes her head slightly. “Not just about the money. About… everything.”
Eddie leans back in his seat, staring at the table like it might give him an answer he doesn’t already know.
“…She doesn’t believe me,” he admits, quieter now. “Even if I say it, she’s just gonna think it’s another lie.”
“Then don’t make it sound like one,” Dustin says.
Eddie snorts. “Helpful.”
“I’m serious,” Dustin insists. “You can’t just charm your way out of this one, man. That’s like—your whole thing. She’s not gonna buy it.”
Mike nods. “You need to… prove it.”
Eddie glances between them. “How.”
El speaks again. “Do something for her,” she says simply.
He frowns. “Like what.”
She shrugs, small, but certain. “Something she would know is real.”
Your room feels smaller than it usually does. Not physically, nothing’s changed.
Same half-made bed, same stack of books by the nightstand, same records leaning against the wall like you meant to put them away and never did.
But it’s quieter in a way that presses in on you, like the air’s heavier, like everything’s waiting for you to do something you’re not going to do.
You’re stretched out on your bed, a book open in your hands, eyes moving over the same paragraph for the third time without actually reading a word of it.
It’s stupid, all of it. You knew better. You always know better.
A knock breaks the silence. You don’t look up.
“Go away.”
A pause. Then, softer, “Please.”
You close your eyes briefly, irritation flickering up fast and familiar.
“I said go away, El.”
The handle rattles, and you hear her try it once. Twice. Then: a quiet click.
Your head snaps up just as the door pushes open. Anger hits first.
You sit up fast, book forgotten as you swing your legs over the side of the bed, already moving.
“I told you not to do that anymore,” you snap, voice rising as you step toward the door. “What part of that is confusing to you, you little—”
You stop. Because it’s not just Eleven standing there. She’s off to the side, watching.
And in the doorway, Eddie. The anger doesn’t disappear. If anything, it sharpens.
“What the hell is this,” you say, colder now, folding your arms like that’s enough to hold yourself together. “You recruiting now?”
El looks between the two of you.
“He wants to talk,” she says.
“I don’t.”
Eddie doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to push into the room, doesn’t lean, doesn’t grin. He just stands there, hands empty, like he’s not sure what he’s allowed to do.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I figured.”
You scoff, looking away. “Then what are you doing here.”
“I gave it back,” he says.
You glance at him. “…What.”
“The money,” he clarifies, swallowing once. “I gave it back to Henderson. All of it. Told him I’m out.”
You stare at him, searching. For the angle, the lie, the performance.
“…Why.”
He lets out a breath, dragging a hand briefly through his hair before dropping it again, like he doesn’t want to hide behind the motion.
“Because it’s not what I want,” he says.
You don’t react.
“Wasn’t at first,” he adds, honest in a way that almost makes you more irritated than if he’d tried to sugarcoat it. “I’m not gonna pretend it was. But somewhere in there, it stopped being about that.”
You shake your head slightly, a bitter laugh slipping out. “And I’m supposed to just believe that.”
“No,” he says immediately.
“I don’t expect you to believe anything I say,” he continues, voice steady, even if there’s something tight underneath it. “I just… needed to say it.”
El shifts slightly by the door, unsure, watching both of you like she’s waiting for something to break.
You look at Eddie again. No grin, no attitude, no bullshit.
“…You should’ve told me,” you say, quieter now, but no less sharp.
“I know.”
“Before.”
“I know.”
“You let me sit there,” you continue, stepping a little closer, not soft, in your anger now, “and actually think you—” You cut yourself off, jaw tightening.
He doesn’t fill the space.
“That part wasn’t fake,” he says instead, softer.
You laugh, but it’s weaker this time. “That’s convenient.”
“I liked you,” he says. “I like you. That didn’t start with the money and it didn’t end when I gave it back.”
You shake your head again, but there’s less certainty in it now, less bite.
“You’re such an idiot,” you mutter.
“Yeah,” he says, a little breath of a laugh slipping through. “Been hearing that a lot lately.”
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he adds.
Your eyes flick back up to his.
“I’m not asking you to go out with me again,” he continues. “Or even talk to me after this.”
“I just didn’t want you thinking it was all fake,” he finishes. “Because it wasn’t.”
You don’t move, and you don’t respond.
Just stand there, caught somewhere between the version of him you decided on and the one standing in front of you now.
Behind him, El watches, quiet, hopeful in a way she’s trying not to show.
You exhale slowly, dragging a hand over your face.
“…You’re still an asshole,” you say finally.
He nods. “Yeah.”
“And you showed up to my house uninvited.”
He glances at El. “…Yeah.”
“And she broke into my room.”
“She did.”
You look at him for another second. Then, “…But you gave the money back.”
It’s not a question. He shakes his head.
“Didn’t feel right keeping it.”
“…That was stupid,” you decide.
A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say, softer now, something shifting under the surface whether you like it or not. “You could’ve at least kept it.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Thought about it.”
“…You still owe me a real date,” you say.
His head tilts, like he’s not entirely sure he heard you right. “…I do?”
You roll your eyes immediately, looking away like you already regret it. “Don’t make it weird.”
A slow, careful smile spreads across his face. Not big. Not cocky. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You cross your arms again, trying to regain some control over the situation. “And if you screw it up again, I’m not giving you another chance.”
“Fair.”
“And you’re not picking me up early this time.”
He nods, serious. “Eight o’clock.”
“Eight o’clock,” you confirm.
Behind him, El’s face brightens just slightly, relief slipping through before she quickly tries to hide it. You catch it anyway.
“Get out,” you tell her flatly. She doesn’t argue this time. Just turns and disappears down the hallway.
You look back at Eddie. He lingers in the doorway for a second longer, like he’s making sure this is real, like you didn’t just shut the door on him again.
“…I’ll see you at eight,” he says. You don’t answer, but you don’t tell him to leave, either. And when he finally does, the room doesn’t feel quite as small.
You stare at your closet like it personally offended you. Nothing looks right. Everything looks like you, which is the problem.
You tug a shirt off a hanger, hold it up, hesitate, toss it onto your bed with a quiet huff.
Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror across the room, arms crossed, expression already halfway to annoyed, like you’re judging yourself for even trying.
It’s just a date. A real date.
You roll your eyes at the thought, dragging a hand through your hair before turning back to the mess you’ve made.
After a second, you pull something else out. Simpler. Still you, just… softer around the edges. Something that doesn’t scream don’t talk to me quite as loudly.
You hesitate, then change anyway. When you step back in front of the mirror, you don’t smile. But you don’t hate it either.
“…Shut up,” you mutter to your reflection, grabbing your jacket.
The knock comes right at eight.
You freeze for half a second in the hallway, like your body needs to catch up with the fact that this is actually happening. Then you force yourself forward, pushing past it before you can overthink your way out of the entire night.
Hopper gets to the door first.
“Stay,” he says over his shoulder, already reaching for the handle like you’re a dog he doesn’t trust to bolt.
You scowl but don’t argue, lingering just behind him as he opens the door.
Eddie's standing on the porch like he’s been there for a while, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, posture just a little straighter than usual, like he’s aware of exactly whose house he’s standing in.
“Evening, Chief,” he says, lifting a hand in a small wave.
Hopper eyes him up and down.
“I know you,” he says.
Eddie nods once. “Yeah. Munson.”
“I knew your dad,” Hopper adds, like that explains everything.
Eddie winces slightly. “That can’t be good.”
Hopper’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Depends on the day.”
Then Hopper steps out onto the porch, pulling the door halfway closed behind him so you’re left just inside, listening whether you want to or not.
You lean slightly, just enough to catch it.
“You’re taking her out,” Hopper says, voice lower now.
“Yes, sir.”
Hopper studies him for another second, something shifting in his expression. Like he knows the reputation, but he’s also seen enough of the kid underneath it to not write him off completely.
“I don’t care what people say about you,” Hopper continues, steady. “I care how you treat her.”
Eddie nods immediately. “Fair.”
“If she asks, you bring her home. No questions.”
“Of course.”
“And if she looks even a little unhappy—”
“I won’t let that happen,” Eddie cuts in.
That pauses Hopper, just for a second. He looks at him again, sharper this time, like he’s trying to decide if that confidence is arrogance or something else.
“…Alright,” he says finally.
He steps back, pushing the door open again. “Don’t make me regret it.”
Eddie gives a small nod. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You’re already there when he steps back inside.
Leaning against the wall like you haven’t been eavesdropping, like you didn’t hear a single word of that. Eddie looks at you and stops, just for a second.
His eyes flick over you, quick but not careless, taking in the change, the effort, the fact that you showed up to this night differently than before.
Something soft crosses his face.
“…Wow,” he says quietly.
You immediately cross your arms. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“You were about to.”
He huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “You look nice.”
You roll your eyes, pushing past him toward the door. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The drive is different this time.
“…So,” you say after a while, glancing at him. “Where are we going.”
He glances over, a hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. “You’ll see.”
“I hate surprises.”
“I figured.”
“Then why—”
“Because this one’s good,” he cuts in, softer this time.
You study him for a second, then look back out the window.
“…It better be.”
The venue isn’t in Hawkins. Small, a little rundown, lights buzzing faintly above the entrance, a line already forming outside, people packed close, voices loud, energy crackling in the air.
You step out of the van and stop, recognition hitting instantly.
“…No way.”
Eddie leans against the door, watching your reaction, something almost nervous flickering behind the usual confidence.
“Yeah,” he says. “Thought you might like it.”
You look at the sign again. At the crowd. At him.
“…Descendents?”
He nods once. “Figured I’d start strong.”
“You got tickets.”
“Had to pull some strings,” he admits. “Almost sold my soul, but, you know. Worth it.”
You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly as something warm settles in your chest before you can stop it.
“…You’re unbelievable,” you say.
“Yeah,” he grins. “Been told.”
“…Thank you,” you add, quieter.
That hits him in a different way; you can see it. The way he stills for just a second before nodding, like he doesn’t trust himself to make a joke out of it this time.
“Yeah,” he says. “Course.”
He pushes off the van, stepping closer, not crowding you, just enough to fall into step beside you as the two of you move toward the line together.
The crowd spills out of the venue in loose waves, people shouting over each other, laughing, reliving moments that already feel bigger than they probably were.
You step out with them, breath catching slightly as the quiet starts to settle back in.
“…Okay,” you admit, pushing your hair back from your face, still a little flushed from the heat inside. “That was—”
You stop, like you don’t want to give it to him.
Eddie watches you, already grinning, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he knows exactly where this is going.
“Go on,” he says. “Finish the sentence.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t ruin it.”
“I’m not ruining anything, I’m encouraging honesty.”
You scoff, starting down the sidewalk, and he falls into step beside you immediately, like he always does now, like there’s no question about it.
“…It was good,” you say finally, quieter this time, like it costs you something.
His grin widens. “Good?”
“Don’t push it.”
“I’m just saying, I expected at least a ‘life-changing experience’ or a tearful confession—”
“I said don’t push it.”
He laughs, softer this time, not trying to get a rise out of you, just simply enjoying it.
“Alright, alright,” he concedes, nudging your shoulder lightly as you walk. “But for the record, I think I deserve more credit here.”
“For what,” you ask, glancing at him.
“For broadening your horizons,” he says easily.
You blink at him. “You took me to a band I already like.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “But I picked the right band.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it.
“…They were better live,” you admit after a second.
That catches him.
“Yeah?” he asks, a little surprised.
You nod slightly. “Yeah.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, I’ll give you that one.”
You glance at him again, brow lifting. “You didn’t think they were good?”
“I thought they were fine,” he says carefully. “Like, solid. Respectable.”
You scoff. “Respectable.”
“Hey, I’ve got a reputation to maintain,” he shoots back. “Can’t just go around admitting I enjoyed something that much.”
You bump your shoulder into his, a little harder this time. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he grins. “But you’re still here.”
You don’t respond. But you don’t move away, either.
There’s a moment as you walk, the noise of the crowd fading behind you, replaced by the quiet stretch of road, the hum of distant cars, the lingering echo of music in your chest.
And then, his arm comes up. Slow. Careful.
Not like he expects it, not like he’s claiming anything, just resting across your shoulders, light enough that you could shrug it off if you wanted to.
You feel it immediately; the warmth, the weight. You tense, just for a second. He feels it too and starts to pull back.
“Sorry, I didn’t—”
But you don’t move away. You don’t shrug him off. Instead, you pull his hand around the rest of the way.
You lean into him just slightly, your shoulder fitting more comfortably under his arm like it makes sense there.
Like it’s allowed. He goes quiet.
“…You’re quiet,” he says after a moment, softer now.
“So are you.”
“Yeah, well,” he glances down at you briefly, something warm in his expression, “I don’t want to mess this up.”
You huff out a small laugh, shaking your head. “You’ve already done that once.”
“Yeah,” he admits. “Trying not to make it a pattern.”
“…You’re doing alright so far,” you say. It’s quiet, almost lost to the night. But he hears it.
“I’ll take that,” he says.
You glance up at him for a second, catching the way he’s looking ahead, not at you, like he’s giving you space even now.
The van comes into view at the end of the lot, headlights dim, the night settling in around it like a quiet pause between moments.
Neither of you rushes toward it. Neither of you breaks the space between you.
And as you walk, side by side, his arm still draped over your shoulders, your weight just barely leaning into him; it doesn't feel fake. It doesn't feel forced. Just easy in a way you're a little scared to name.
The ride home feels softer than the one there.
The windows are cracked just enough to let the night air in, cool against your skin, the kind that keeps you awake in a way that’s not exhausting.
The music is lower this time, something steady humming through the speakers while the road stretches out in long, quiet lines ahead of you.
You’ve got your elbow hooked out the window again.
He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against his thigh, like he’s still half in the rhythm of the show.
“…So,” he says after a while, glancing over at you. “Be honest.”
You don’t look at him. “I am always honest.”
He snorts. “That’s terrifying, but not what I meant.”
You finally turn your head, brow lifting. “What did you mean.”
“Scale of one to ten,” he says. “How good was it.”
You consider it for a second, dragging it out just to annoy him.
“…Seven.”
He scoffs immediately. “Seven?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
“That was at least an eight,” he argues. “Minimum.”
“Seven,” you repeat.
He shakes his head, like he’s deeply disappointed. “Unbelievable. I pour my heart and soul into planning the perfect night—”
“You bought tickets,” you cut in.
“—and this is the thanks I get,” he finishes anyway.
You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth again, one you don’t bother hiding this time.
“…Okay,” you say after a second. “Eight.”
He glances at you, quick. “Yeah?”
“Don’t make me take it back.”
“I’m just saying,” he grins, settling back into his seat a little, “I might be good at this.”
“At what.”
“Dating you.”
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’ve had one successful outing. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“One and a half,” he corrects. “You didn’t hate the first one until the whole… you know.” He gestures vaguely.
You exhale through your nose. “Don’t ruin the moment.”
“Right. Sorry.” He nods once. “Moment preserved.”
“…You’re not as bad as I thought you were,” you admit.
It slips out before you can stop it. The car goes quiet. He looks at you, like he’s trying to decide if you’re messing with him.
“…Wow,” he says softly. “High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late,” he murmurs.
You turn back toward the window, but your shoulder brushes his arm for a second when the car shifts, and neither of you pulls away right away.
By the time you pull up to the cabin, the night’s settled in fully.
He cuts the engine, the sudden silence almost too loud after everything else, and for a second, neither of you moves.
“…Home sweet home,” he says lightly.
“Don’t say that.”
“What, you don’t like it?”
“It’s weird.”
He huffs a small laugh. “Noted.”
You reach for the door. He’s already out of the van by the time you step onto the gravel, circling around without thinking, falling into step beside you like it’s automatic now.
The walk to the door is short, too short. You notice that, annoyingly.
Neither of you says much, the quiet stretching out again, not uncomfortable, just full of something neither of you is naming.
You stop at the door, turn. He’s already looking at you.
For once, he doesn’t have a line ready. Just that same careful, steady look he’s had all night, like he’s trying not to mess this up.
“…I had a good time,” he says.
You nod once. “Yeah.”
“…Eight,” you add.
His mouth twitches. “I’ll take it.”
You should go inside, you know that. You always know when to end things. Clean. Simple. No room for anything to get complicated.
But instead, you step forward. He barely has time to register it before your hand catches lightly on his jacket, pulling him just enough, and you kiss him.
It’s quick, but not hesitant. Not soft enough to be mistaken for anything else.
You pull back just as fast, like you’ve already decided that’s all he’s getting, like if you linger, you might rethink it.
He stares at you. Completely caught off guard.
“…Wow,” he breathes.
You roll your eyes immediately, stepping back toward the door.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not—” he starts, then stops, because he is a little stunned, because that definitely wasn’t what he expected.
You reach for the handle, pause, then glance back at him over your shoulder.
“…Goodnight, Munson.”
A slow, slightly dazed smile spreads across his face.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Goodnight.”
You disappear inside before he can say anything else.
And for a second, he just stands there on the porch, staring at the door like it might open again. Like, he didn’t just imagine that.
Then he lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand through his hair as he turns back toward the van.
“…Eight,” he mutters to himself, still smiling.
AGHAHGDHHS okay here it is. i hope you all enjoyed :3
taglist is open!
beasbugs:
@bitterestwillow@kozume-ko, @obsessed-eddie, @doomdabss, @julxsxx, @leelei1980@hexqueensupreme @ches-86 @plaidamoosette @bobiverses@meadows-ofasphodel @whitakerstorm @dreamerjj @sariahs-stuff @serendipdipity01 @hypersexytoptobottom @m-art000 @sisteramycatherine @walleloveseve @camsmunson101 @flavorfullstevepeachpuffs25 @abirdinthehouse @m-art000 @enne02
@ludachrissy @echo-is-worth-more-than-2000 @hecatesw1tch @lokishortnsweet
as a 10 things i hate about you STAN (rip heath ledger our aussie king <3) this is EVERYTHING to me
Thinking about Eddie bending you over the kitchen counter...
You know that thing that happens when you’re comfortable and safe in an established relationship of some years where consent is no longer explicitly given and the initiation of sex blurs into pure, quiet need? Yeah…
Warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, smut, PiV unprotected sex, cream pie, references to oral (fem rec), references to cum eating, manhandling, established relationship, free use, drabble that went long (1.5k words)
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When Eddie needs you, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he lingers. Near. Around.
No longer does he race through your shared home like he’s got a mission only he knows about. Instead, he slows, he crowds.
You refer to it as the prowl. Lovingly, humorously, truthfully.
Because that’s what it feels like. Like being hunted.
His mind is special, it whirs and speeds daily, a tireless carousel of thought and fantasy. Then, sometimes, it ceases, and like a switch has been flipped, he halts on something fixed, singular.
He becomes careful, methodical, slinking around corners, searching for you with steady footfalls. Like a predator adapted to its prey, he knows your habits. Where you might be. Where you disappear to when he’s not looking. It’s instinctive by now. He’s attuned to you, to the faint scent of your perfume as he stalks from room to room.
The air changes. It stills, thickens, even. Though, it parts for him once he finds you. And he always finds you.
He’s silent when he approaches, his body consuming the space between. He lets the floorboards speak for him as they creak and groan beneath his weight. Not that you need the alarm when the hairs on the back of your neck rise to attention the moment he’s near.
He pauses behind you.
You feel it. His watchful gaze, patient and observant, and yet, it penetrates the barrier of normalcy that encases your movements.
The pressure of his presence looms ever closer as you put away the last of the clean dishes. You don’t bother turning around, you don’t even have time to try as the warmth of him settles across your back.
He’s getting better. You never even heard the wood squeak in those three short steps he took.
A gasp catches in your throat, kicked off course by the feeling of his hard cock pressing against you. It twitches restlessly, confined in a prison of soft fabric and propriety.
His hands move freely, exploring without direction, grabbing without inhibition. In a controlled collapse, his shoulders hunch and more of his weight comes down on you as his nose rests in the crook of your neck. His chest rises and falls with every deep inhale, like a hunter relishing the scent of a fresh catch.
But soon, he tires of barriers, of flimsy fabric so withholding, he has to grit his teeth not to tear it to shreds. He searches for heat, for softness. He reaches for skin, palms slyly slipping beneath your shirt, kneading and memorizing.
He hums, approving of the shudder that rattles through you. Then, with one hand anchoring your hips, the other slides up your spine, slow and reverent like he’s counting the vertebrae with every inch.
Fabric rides up, bunched at his wrist as he finally stops between your shoulder blades. Gently, firmly, he pushes, until your arms bend and your elbows rest on the counter top.
He grunts—mindless and appraising—before dropping his attention lower. There’s a complete lack of hesitation in the way he moves, like this is owed to him. Like you’re owed to him.
His measured confidence feels like a lit match falling so delicately onto something incendiary. The quiet, certain way he moves your panties aside ignites flames across your body. You’re burning beneath his touch, heat pooling so deep, so hot, it almost chills you.
The weight between your shoulder blades stays, but he lets go of your hip. It’s during that small respite that you hear the rustle of cloth, and it’s like the room holds its breath.
You direct your gaze to the kitchen counter, grounding yourself in the familiar pattern. Never before have you observed the speckled laminate so closely.
Then, a noise, frail and wanton, peels from your throat as his cock glides easily through your folds, spreading you open, collecting the evidence of your body’s permission and painting him with its shine.
His name tumbles from your lips before your mind solidifies the order. He doesn’t respond in words, only movement. Only the blunt pressure of his length sinking into you, burrowing deep in one merciless stroke.
You cry out, arms going limp beneath you as your body surges forward. No longer able to hold yourself up, your chest drops onto the cool surface, and the rounded edge of the counter fits between your ribs with a dull ache. Despite your fall, you can still feel his palm on your back, possessive, controlled.
His other hand finds your hip once more, nails biting half-moon marks into your skin as he pulls out slowly. Though, he wastes no time pushing back in, beginning a pace only meant for him, for his pleasure.
Because that’s what all of this is for—
Him.
He needed you. He sought you out.
He watched, waited patiently.
He was gentle in his attack.
And now, he enjoys the spoils of the hunt: the splendor of your strained sighs marking the snap of his hips with every hitch, the wet, encapsulating warmth of your walls clenching around him, squeezing his length like you mean to keep him there.
It’s bountiful. It’s earned.
He grunts and groans with a dizzying ferocity, words too grand a thing to emit when your body sings for him. When you’re bent over, letting him take, and take, and take. Your moans and weak mewls battle the sound of skin slapping, the sound of hunger being sated by long, punishing strokes and a cock angled just right.
“E-Eddie!” Your voice is shrill and your fingers strain for grip on the flat surface.
The fullness is almost too much to take. The second of reprieve when he pulls out is a tease, a seedy taunt, before the walls of your cunt are battered once more, his thick length plunging back in. You pulse around him, clinging to every thrumming vein, trembling violently when the ridge of his head catches on your entrance during a particularly broad stroke.
It’s like he can read your mind, can hear your whirring thoughts of too much and too big because his palm traces down your spine, settling on your ass as he uses both hands to spread your cheeks, allowing him to burrow even deeper.
“Oh, God!” you wail, gasping as he speeds up. Your body rocks violently, powered by the strength of his hips. “E-Eddie, p-please!”
He practically growls in response, giving a harsh squeeze to your supple flesh before landing a stinging smack. His breathing is wild, unbalanced and raucous—just another sound joining the salacious symphony that’s resonating across the kitchen.
Your head drops to the counter, hot breath fogging against the surface as your parted lips form desperate pleas. His rhythm begins to falter, and your words grow louder.
“P-Please, please, please—f-fuck! Eddie! Ple— I need— Ah!”
He knows what you’re begging for.
It’s your bounty from the hunt. Your reward for being such sweet prey. For letting him take.
You hear a strangled noise, something ripped from deep within him, and you know he’s close. Loud, rumbling groans slice through any attempt at language. Even curses die before they ever fall from his tongue.
Then his hips stutter, and he stays inside you a moment longer before pulling out, only to sink back in with a jerking motion, like his taut muscles are the only guide to his familiar movements, like his brain has long since abandoned him.
He’s losing it, weighed down by reluctance, he stalls inside you, not wanting to leave your heat. His body compromises, once-powerful thrusts devolving into mere ruts as his hands fly across your skin, seeking purchase, seeking softness.
All it takes is one small whimper from you, something that sounds like another plea, and he’s crumbling, drowning beneath the waves of pleasure coursing through him as he spills into you.
Finally, your reward has come. You feel it: the twitch of his length, the fullness, the warmth.
He shivers, collapsing onto you as he stays buried, ensuring his claim on the deepest parts of you.
After a while, his breathing evens out and his heartbeat syncs with yours, only then does he pull out. It’s a slow, teasing drag, leaving you in discontent as your walls pulse around nothing. You must’ve made a noise at the movement because he leaves a delicate kiss on your neck. A small thing. Barely there, but it makes you dizzy.
There’s the rustle of fabric again, and you can feel his eyes on you, watching, waiting. You straighten up, lifting yourself from the counter, your shirt gliding back down your body. Slowly, his release begins to leak from you and you squirm. He hums, pleased as your thighs clench.
Still, he doesn’t utter a word. He just does what he always does and leads you to the bedroom. He walks steadily, matching your pace as you navigate the halls of your home on wobbly legs.
It’s routine, how he lays you on the bed, reverent and quiet. Observing. Relishing the way you instinctively spread your legs, making room for him, displaying yourself for him.
The bedroom is where he worships. Where he takes care in plucking you apart, piece by piece. On plush covers is where he cleans you. Meticulous and devout, he cleans the mess he made. Until your muscles spasm, until your breath races and your eyes water. Until you’re made new beneath his tongue.
“Pretty,” he finally speaks, rumbling and low into your folds.
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A/N: Heyyyyyyyy :) Feels like I haven't written in forever because of midterms and life shit. Be sweet and lmk if you enjoyed this <3
Dividers by @/cursed-carmine
and if i told you the best prose i’ve read this year is an eddie munson free use fic YOU BETTER BELIEVE ME
a piercing sort of love
vampire!Eddie x Reader feeding while fucking is unexplored territory. what else are the undead supposed to do with their time if not experiment?
foreword: quickly written please excuse any errors. no backstory all smut this was hard for me!! LOL!! happy love day to you all. if you’re reading this be mine. thx!!<3
cw: vampire!Eddie, soft dom Eddie, heightened vampiric senses, feeding while fucking, blood drinking, marijuana usage, shotgunning, fingering, unprotected PiV, gn!Reader, R has breasts + a vagina, smut mdni
wc: 2k
Your blood is singing.
Eddie puts a hand to your throat and thumbs over the thump of your jugular, then follows the tangle of veins down, down; over your heart, between your bare breasts, at the junction of your ribs, the soft give of stomach.
There’s no familiar crinkle of plastic tarp or sharp stinging smell of alcohol pads preceding this feed. Usually, Eddie eats by the book- or, rather, by the code he’s created for himself in order to ensure safety.
It’s usually methodical, like clockwork. Months out from the turning and Eddie has aligned himself to a twice-weekly routine of hospital-lifted blood bags and forest-caught animals.
But this time? There is only you. Soft and warm and unclothed, laid bare and waiting on the quilted duvet.
It hardly took any time at all to convince Eddie that feeding is for lovers. That both your offering and his taking can be something sacred, all its own, and that if there is a mess, you’ll clean it together. Like always.
“You’re still so amped up, angel,” Eddie murmurs, knees sinking in on either side of your hips, keeping you pinned.
As if you could go anywhere. The pre-feed joint was supposed to calm your heartrate, to make this process slightly less arterially dangerous- but it seems to have only affected the ability to move your limbs.
Your hands rest heavy on the tops of Eddie’s thighs but only because Eddie had placed them there himself. There’s a red rim around your eyes, pupils blown and gaze slack but still sparkling as you watch through heavy lids.
The thrumming of your heart is loud to Eddie’s newest sense. It’s hypnotic. It feels like giving his whole mind over to an electric current that threatens to snuff out every other sensation until all he can see, taste, hear, smell, breathe is afterlife-sustaining blood.
“Sorry.” Your apology is barely louder than the thousand-lane highway of your veins and rush hour ichor.
“S’not your fault, sweetheart.” Eddie swallows down the saliva that begins to gather in his mouth. There’s an ache in his upper gums as he leans down to take your face in his hands, as he gives you the briefest kiss before whispering- “Maybe another hit will do the trick?”
You nod, syrupy slow but eager. Without moving from his position of cradling you, Eddie lifts a hand to the bedside table. His extra-tuned hearing proved right as the sizzle of the burning joint is brought close.
Eddie turns his face sideways just long enough to take a deep drag from the filtered end and holds the smoke in his mouth, turning back to slot his lips over yours.
Parted and pliant, the weed floats past your lips and Eddie groans at the taste of your spit. At the wet press of your tongue against his.
The pain in his canines is intense and Eddie pulls away, panting. Your lashes are still fluttering as you inhale.
Eddie swipes a thumb across your cheek and nods, trying to scramble back to some semblance of being in charge. “That’s right. Take deep breaths for me.”
You’re obedient, air filling your lungs. Eddie can almost taste your oxygen saturation rising.
He kisses his way down your body, budging his knees to the backs of your thighs and letting your legs drape over his lap. The seam of your pussy glints in the candlelight, and Eddie shifts your legs open wider so he can drag a finger through your folds.
He lets a long line of drool stretch from his lips. It lands wetly and with perfect aim; he works the extra slickness towards your entrance and up again to the pearled heartbeat of your clit.
You sigh and squirm, hips lifting up and forwards, mindlessly chasing the pressure of Eddie’s fingertip over you.
Then Eddie takes hold of your waist in his other hand and squeezes, stilling your movements. His own cock is throbbing behind the confines of his boxers but he ignores the ache in favor of working a finger inside of you instead.
“Gonna eat me out?” You ask, hands slipping to curl into fists around the duvet. Your voice has a hazy quality, the laugh you give to your own joke airy and subdued.
Eddie smirks, sinking the length of his finger all the way into your cunt. He’s amused by your humor, but not by the idea of risking his fangs bursting out at the worst possible time.
“Maybe next time, honey.” His finger curls up, slides back, and his reward is the tremble in your thighs and the small, keening noise you make. “Just relax and take what you’re given.”
Eddie doesn’t exactly have the powers of hypnosis, but there are times he feels there’s no distinction between your willingness to do something and him telling you to do it.
The love you have for Eddie is evident in the way you’re listening so well, being so good for him. You make it easy for him to take control how he needs, to give in to the safety measures he’s doing his best to disguise as foreplay.
Eddie slides another finger alongside his first and begins to finger you open in earnest, breathing heavily through his nose at the scent that rises heady in the air. It’s a combination of your wetness, the sweet hormones wafting from your body, and the luscious red blood just a few layers of skin away.
He brings you right to the edge, slick pooling in his palm as he begins to slow the pistoning of his fingers. Your whine of protest is brief as Eddie pauses only to rip off his boxers, murmuring comforts to you before he returns.
The head of his cock notches to your entrance and Eddie cages you between his elbows, hands curling over the tops of your shoulders and the curve of his nose fitting to the side of your neck.
The smell of you is overwhelming. Floral notes flood in from the pores of your skin that mask the tang of iron sitting just below. Eddie moans and burrows deeper, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the column of your throat.
Your knee hooks over his waist and Eddie sinks inside of you, cock pulsing hotly in the snug walls of your cunt. The rush of your blood is so noisy; it’s taking a huge amount of concentration to stay afloat and not get lost in pure sensation.
Eddie grinds his hips forward and feels the catch of his pelvic bone at your clit, feels the way your blood rises in chorus with each thrust. Feeding will be easier when you’re most relaxed, so it’s a delicate balance of making you feel good but not so good that your pulse skyrockets.
He takes his time. Working you up, slowly and surely, to that crest of pleasure again.
Once Eddie smells the familiar wave of pheromones and hears the hitch in your breath, he lets his tongue skate over the salt of your skin.
In response, there’s a lance of sharpness as his gums split and reform over the fangs that slide smoothly over his canines.
“Eddie,” you whimper, arms rising to cross over his neck in an even closer hold. “Please- I’m ready. S- So close. Please…”
Eddie takes note of your heartrate, steady and strong. His hips shift, driving the tip of his cock upwards, rutting against the sensitive spot that makes your thighs jump like they’re trying to snap closed.
“Fuck, Eddie- like that- please-!”
The constriction of your pussy is a distant, blinding pleasure that Eddie channels into the bite. The points of his vampiric teeth slide past the layers of your skin like needles into Jell-O, with barely any resistance.
The muscles of your stomach, pressed against Eddie’s, seize up. There are pinpricks of your nails digging into his shoulders, and Eddie is grateful for the small grounding the pain serves.
The taste of your blood is better than anything. Better than sheep or cow or the stale refrigerated bags from the hospital. There’s no equivalent comparison. Eddie’s tried to explain it and always comes up short, the English language too limiting for the range he needs to describe the absolute nirvana of it.
He sucks down mouthfuls of your warm, coppery blood, feeling it gather at the edges of his lips but not escaping the solid seal he’s made around the bite. It’s so sweet and nutrient-dense, liquid filling out the contours of Eddie’s insides as he groans and tries to stave off his orgasm, chasing yours instead.
And true to your arguments in favor of this type of feeding, Eddie has to admit how natural this feels. How perfect it is to drink straight from the tap, how right it feels to cradle you while he feeds. He could get addicted to this way of eating if he isn’t careful.
There’s another spasm of your cunt and then you’re coming, pleasure wracking through you. Even in your ecstasy you remember to keep your head still, locked in by the firmness of Eddie’s hold and the dull sharpness of his fangs rooting you to the mattress.
Behind his closed lids, Eddie’s eyes are rolling. There’s a stuttered lurch to his hips as he spills inside of you with a vibrating moan, lips still sealed around the leaking punctures in your neck.
At his upper back, your fingers are twitching. Eddie is careful, and only drinks what he needs to sustain himself a few more days. He’d rather run the risk of being a bit hungry later on than overexerting you now.
With a practice movement, he pulls his fangs from your skin and immediately settles his tongue over the tiny holes to catch any excess blood. It pulses from you weakly, and Eddie is satisfied to hear the rhythm of your heart returning to normal with each shuddering gasp and sigh.
“That’s good. So good for me, honey.” He’s murmuring encouragement as his tongue cleans the last of the rich liquid from your skin. Small wounds though they may be, there will be bruising a few layers deep and you’ll likely be sore.
Eddie’s already thinking of aftercare as he lifts his head, licking at the blood in the corners of his mouth before it has a chance to dry. He’d popped some sports drinks in the fridge earlier and there’s a steak marinating on the bottom shelf, as well as a bottle of iron pills on the kitchen counter.
“Y’didn’t even spill any.”
You sound doped-up and foggy. It makes Eddie feel horribly fond.
“Nah, you were right. Felt au naturel, baby- should’ve been doing this a long time ago.” He kisses once more over the bite mark and wonders if ice or heat will be better to hold to this, later.
“Hmm.” The hum purrs through you as your lazy half-hug becomes a bit stronger, pulling at Eddie until he relents and puts more of his weight on you. “Guess you should listen to me more often.”
“Don’t push your luck or I’ll bite ya again.” The threat is a thinly-veiled excuse to kiss over the mound of your breast just under his cheek, and he smiles when you giggle.
Eddie stays in you for a long while, sated and full. The only noise is your fingers stroking softly through his hair.
thx for reading! my Eddie mlist cbf here <3
AHHHHHH
GIA (1998) dir. Michael Cristofer
As a rule of thumb, don't reblog donation posts or people asking for donations unless they've been vetted and reblogged by Palestinian bloggers. We usually go to lengths to verify this shit because we know scammers have been faking to get people to send them money, using the urgency of our genocide as bait.
It's disgusting this is what we're dealing with, but people are losing money because of some truly evil people out there.
Accounts don't just randomly spring up on tumblr without gofundmes while asking for someone to help them create a campaign. Fuck out of here with that shit.
I'm also gonna stop listing the reasons why I recognize something is a scam. It's becoming more and more clear there is 1 person behind this STRING of scams and they're leaving less trails behind but it still reeks of them and their MO.
DO NOT TRUST ANY GOFUNDME OR REQUEST FOR CROWDFUNDING THAT PALESTINIAN BLOGGERS HAVEN'T VERIFIED.
At this point I'm fine receiving a bunch of inbox messages asking me to vet x y z so y'all can avoid this shit. But please have some critical thinking!
People are exploiting our situation.
Reblog this post.
Whether you wanna read the whole thing or not idc.
REBLOG IT.
The person this was about deleted the 4th or 5th scam account they made and are definitely gonna make a new one soon. I don't want anybody falling for this anymore.
OP's masterlist of vetted requests
every little bit helps.
okay i literally never talk about the sims here but i am SO TIRED of people perma paywalling custom content. its such a gross practice that is pretty much only done for sims content.
sims players are already notoriously getting shit deals for SO MUCH MONEY but charging often upwards of $10 a month for someone to get decor objects into a game you did not make and has not given permission for you to do so is scummy. ea can be shit and you can be also it’s not mutually exclusive.
like when you are creating this stuff you are creating fan work, IMAGINE if a fanfic writer started charging $10 a month for you to access a couple of blurbs. it’s not only illegal but really weird behaviour! anyways i’m tired of it.
also stop advertising your work as early access when we know damn well that is never becoming public.
Another monster, another victim
Please don’t kill me Mr. Ghostface! I wanna be in the sequel!
⭐️⭐️⭐️
Commissions open!!
reblog if you wear glasses. too many mutuals don't know they have glasses wearers in their midsts
in good spirits
Steve Harrington x Reader frenemies to lovers Robin's two best friends can't stand each other, turning holiday parties into bickering prank wars. maybe the new year will have them in better spirits?
foreword: sometimes a bitch needs to write fic that’s part character analysis part fighting-friends-to-lovers. for my own mental health. thank you st5 art dept for bringing us that damn sweater. this is set in a nebulous pre-season 5 timeline but written with mid/late-twenties Steve in mind.
cw: frenemies dynamic between S + R, rivals, (mostly) Steve POV, petnames (incl. fem epithets for R), pranking, longing, secret feelings, bit of angst, mentions of bad parents (S+R), mentions of former partners, holiday parties, lap sitting, drinking, smoking, R referred to as 'girl' + she/her, R wears a bra, PTSD symptoms, oral (R receiving), fingering, oral fixation, mentions of birth control, unprotected PiV, multiple orgasms, Horsecock Harrington™️, secret hookups, mdni
wc: 9.4k
steve harrington mlist
Robin is pulling you by the elbow up the Byers’ shoveled driveway, boots stamping loud and impatient, porch lights glowing warm and inviting against the backdrop of snow.
“I need you to pull it together for, like, one hour, max,” Robin is saying as she ferries the reluctant weight of you plus the two quiches in your arms up to the front door. “And then you can make a polite exit and smoke with Eddie or whatever in the backyard. And-”
Here she turns, pointing as serious a finger as she can wearing fuzzy mittens and a knit bobble hat.
“-you will not. Start. With Steve. I’m serious. Do you understand me, Sweetest?”
You plaster an appeasing grin with only ten percent maliciousness attached to it and respond, “Sure do, honey pie. I won’t start if he won’t.”
Robin sighs. Then she raises her fist to knock at the door. “Mother Mary, help us all.”
___
For two people who’ve never slept together, you and Steve sure act the part of contentious ex-partners.
The worst thing that happened in 1985 actually wasn’t the mall fire and Upside Down chaos that rocked your small town, disrupting your big-city college dreams and forever anchoring you to Indiana.
No, the worst thing to happen to you that year was one Steve Harrington forging a Russian-basement-trauma-friendship with one Robin Buckley.
The worst thing to happen to Steve, in recent years? Contending with the fact that his best friend has a best friend.
You, Robin’s other best friend, never pass up an opportunity to remind Steve that actually, according to Best Friend Law: you were there first. Which allegedly gives you some sort of eternal precious connection to Robin and bragging rights until death.
It was you who defended Robin against the Chocolate Milk Bullies of ‘74, you who has spent countless hours in the Buckley basement for sleepovers, you who Robin has clung to through the tumult of the last decade.
But if Steve ever needs to rile you up, he’ll mutter something about the ‘psychokinetic bonds formed through drug-induced hallucinations’ and that’ll get you going for a good half hour, at least. (He doesn’t actually know what the words mean, beyond memorizing them to imply a badge of closeness with Robin that drives you up the wall.)
If it weren’t for Steve’s deep love for Robin, he’d have weaseled you out of the psuedo-triangle of friendship already. But he’s not a total jealous tyrant and he respects Robin’s wishes, however irritating those wishes may be.
If it weren’t for your deep love of Robin, Steve would be buried six feet under. Somewhere offroad, past mile marker 10.
You’ve run the logistics enough to know you probably wouldn’t get away with it, but there’s always room for a plan b in your heart.
___
Robin has a right to be worried about this evening.
During the Thanksgiving meal at the Wheeler’s, you’d snuck a giant spider (courtesy of Dustin and your bribe of twenty bucks) through the cracked window of the Beemer.
Steve ran to get the leftover can of whip cream in his front seat before the pie was cut, and screamed so loud Hopper nearly shot out the Wheeler’s living room window.
You’ve never seen Steve that color before- a bright, cherry-cheeked red, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon, shaking with adrenaline and anger.
It’s a personal goal of yours for next year to make him return to that color, somehow.
But for tonight, you really do mean to swallow it down, for Robin's sake. To put your bitter rivalry on the back burner and come together in holiday cheer, just for an evening.
And then you walk in the room, and across a room full of faces you love, there he is- wearing a green cashmere sweater that looks stupid expensive and is hugging his frame stupidly tight across his stupidly broad chest.
There’s a glass of champagne in his hand; he’s leaned a shoulder against the wall, talking to Jonathan on the couch- but when Steve see you walk in, he stops conversation altogether to grin wicked, calling out far too loudly-
“Hey, look who it is! Lay any evil spider eggs recently?”
“Funny, Steven,” you shoot back, bickering coming as easy as breathing, pushing it even when Robin gives you a sharp warning look over the coat rack- “I’ve reserved all further egg clutches for that towering mess you call hair.”
You catch the twitch in Steve’s fingers, like he’s dying to push a hand through those auburn strands falling over his forehead but doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction. It makes you smile.
“OH-kay!” Robin announces, brightly, pushing at your shoulderblades to hurry you into the kitchen. “Merry Christmas, everyone- let’s not fight in front of the kiddies.”
The kiddies, in various groups of board games and television watching, remain undisrupted. It’s not exactly new to hear you and Steve exchanging barbs; most of them keep absorbed in their current holiday fun.
Dustin manages a wave before you’re ushered into the bustling kitchen, much to Steve’s chagrin.
“What?” From the couch, Dustin shrugs off Steve’s death glare, eyes dropping back to the screen of Lucas’s new GameBoy. “I’m not the one who thinks she’s the devil incarnate, come to slay us all. Maybe it’s time you turn a new, reasonable leaf.”
“You’re twelve,” Steve retorts, with stunning childish inaccuracy. The stem of the champagne flute creaks under his grip.
Once you’re in the kitchen it’s easier to ignore your rival’s presence- Mrs. Byers and Nancy set you up with a cutting board, and you get to work, chatting happily over the holiday radio station.
Dinner passes mostly without incident, a blend of families and friends so big that some of the younger kids resort to stretching out on the living room carpet with plates piled high.
You and Steve are sat on opposing corners of the extended table, so you’re able to keep true to your deal with Robin. No chance for you to accidentally knock the table vase of flowers into Steve’s mashed potatoes; no chance for Steve to sneak a spoonful of gravy into your water glass.
It’s almost a little boring. You wonder if Steve (seven seats away and listlessly pushing his fork through a mound of peas) is missing the chaos, too.
After dinner and cleanup, everyone disperses back to various groups. An instrumental of Silent Night plays softly from the handheld radio, while in the living room, A Charlie Brown Christmas rerun is just beginning.
Eddie catches your eye from across the kitchen, pack of cigarettes raised in question. Your jean jacket and boots are thrown on in record time, shoulder bumping into Eddie’s genially on your way out the back door.
___
Steve is really trying to pay attention to Argyle’s one-sided debate about the merits of flats or wings, but he can’t stop thinking about your coat.
And about how thin it looked, and how much it’s snowing, and how long you’ve been out there- jesus christ, is Munson trying to kill you? It’s been thirteen and a half minutes. How long does a smoke break take, anyways?
“-but the sauce, brochacho, you gotta consider the sauce-” Arglye gestures towards Steve with emphasis while Jonathan, two couch cushions down, hums in sage agreement.
“Yeah,” Steve replies, eyes on his watch. “That’s awesome, man. I’m gonna hit the bathroom. Back in a bit.”
The kitchen is still bustling with conversation as Steve ducks in unnoticed, snagging two clean glass tumblers from the side table and bringing them over to the cooler resting on the far counter.
Among other drinks in the ice bed, a vintage whiskey lifted from Harrington Sr.’s cellar for the occasion lies in wait. Steve uncorks it, then pours a generous stream into each glass.
His eyes flick to the window above the sink- it’s dark, but in the dim back porch lights he can just make out two forms at the edge of the yard, backs turned and feet stomping with cold.
“Be nice,” Robin calls in warning from her seat at the table, slung over Vickie’s lap and being no help at all in the current round of Jenga.
In answer, Steve raises two glasses of perfectly nice alcohol, an extra coat tucked under his arm as he backs out the front door and into the chill of the night air.
The snow has eased some, but there’s still plenty on the ground; it soaks through the bottom of Steve’s jeans as he crunches across the frozen grass to join you and Eddie on the far side.
Duel clouds of smoke trail and twine into one as Eddie passes you a joint, and you pass him a cigarette- a trade off, as both of them are lit.
Steve tsks in greeting. “What, not enough fresh air out here for you two to desecrate, so you gotta smoke twice as many things?”
“I knew I smelled hairspray.” You’re quick with another hit off the joint, blowing it downwind, the pretty shape of your profile hitting Steve with unusual force. “Careful, Eddie- Harrington here isn’t supposed to be near an open flame with the amount of product it takes to keep it up.”
Steve’s sigh floats out of him in a cold cloud. “C’mon, princess, lighten up- ‘tis the season. I brought you some spirits.”
You squint at the glass Steve leans to hand you, immediately suspicious- “Did you spit in it, or something?”
“No, I didn’t spit in it,” Steve protests- and then, knowing you won’t believe his word without action, takes a sip from both glasses to prove his point.
“I dunno.” Smoke streams from your nose, eyebrow cocked. “You might be the type of guy to drink your own spit.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Exasperated, Steve makes to give the whiskey to Eddie, instead, but you intercept the glass.
Eddie takes a step back with his fingerless gloves palm-out in surrender. “Hey, man, as long as you two promise not to tear each other to ribbons, I’m gonna head in.”
Steve waves him off, and you give a half-hearted scout’s honor with your free hand. The back door creaks closed again, and Steve steps into place at your side, proffering the flannel-lined coat he’d brought. “Here. For you, too.”
“Oh. Thanks.” You’re appreciative but don’t say anything more as Steve helps you into the first sleeve, then the second, and soon it’s quiet as the fresh snow all around.
Steve swirls the whiskey in his glass and takes another swallow. Then, because he can’t stand the silence anymore- “Smoking is bad for you.”
“God,” you groan, but it’s followed by a snort of amusement. “Thanks for the health tip, mom.”
Steve smiles into the rim of his cup. He sees you smiling, too, from the corner of his eye- until it fades and you’re staring unseeing into the winter forest past the fenceline.
“Do you think we’re totally just gonna end up like our parents? Mine, they used to fight just like this. Like you and me. I’d hate to be like either of them, when I get older.”
Steve’s heart flickers at the raw, open vulnerability in your voice.
He thinks about the Christmases spent between his parents at either end of the dining table, used once a year; his father talking incessantly about the world of law, trying to mold his son into it like an ill-fitting suit; his mother, all blurry lipstick and distant smiles as she used the holidays as an excuse to polish off the fancy wine.
Steve thinks about his parents’ absence from the last three Christmases, and how little he misses them. How the seasons have brought him siblings in droves, aunts who always make sure to send him off with overflowing tupperware, friends to warm the cold interior of the Harrington mansion and make it feel like home for the first time.
From what Steve’s heard in bits and pieces over the years (via the ever-accessible Robin gossip line and the more rare drunken confessions from yourself), your parents weren’t exactly batting a thousand, either.
Probably, you’ve had it even harder- which is why Steve is so awed by your nature. You’re a caretaker, a shining pillar of quiet goodness, with a soft quality that’s only obscured like a finely-tuned reflex during tiffs with Steve.
Memories weave in and out, seamless and shifting into the next- your hands braiding Holly’s hair at the breakfast counter. Your grin, bright as a sunbeam, for Max’s skating trick, then a whoop and a holler and a round of applause that makes Max blush but secretly preen. Your arms around Robin on the couch, Nancy in the summery front yard, Jonathan on the porch; always willing and eager to give kindness where you can.
Even to Steve, when he really needs it. Mugs of tea that have appeared noiselessly at his elbow. The gentle pressure of a hand on his back. The poke of your sneaker against his knee under the table. Small ways to show that you care, that you see him, usually when no else bothers to.
The fights with you are just a bonus. He counts himself lucky that he’s been hand-picked to take on this side of you.
Steve realizes he’s been quiet for a long time, thoughts tumbling; you shift beside him from one boot to the other, and he pinwheels his way into speaking-
“Oh, like- you mean like, we’re playing at being adults. With their bad habits, and everything.”
You nod. Still staring off into the distance, still with your hands around the unsipped whiskey glass. The cherry of the cigarette between your fingers is no longer glowing.
“I know what you’re saying,” Steve starts, cautious but earnest- “-but no, I don’t think we’re like our parents. Either of us.”
There’s a beat, a moment where you really absorb this- and then, as if the honesty makes you squirrelly, you breathe out a sigh and close your eyes in mock contemplation. “I think this fighting’s good for my aggression outlet. So. I’m not gonna stop.”
“Merry Christmas to me,” Steve says dryly, reaching to clink his glass into yours. “What would I do without your smart mouth and the threat of life-endangering pranks in the new year?”
“Quit talkin’ about my mouth or I’ll hit you in yours.”
You both descend into quiet snickering laughter, and Steve feels something loosen in his chest. Words bubble to the surface before he can think to censor them.
“Y’know, some days, the only reason I get out of bed is because I know I get to fight with you at a party.”
And then he turns on his heel, cutting a swift path back towards the house, leaving you in open-mouthed silence in the gently falling snow.
___
Steve thought that statement was a clear white flag. An unsubtle declaration of wanting to stop pretending- pretending like he doesn’t stare at your mouth just to memorize the shape, pretending to take no heed of your laughter even and especially when it’s at his expense.
Three days after Christmas, in yet another crowded family kitchen, you’d eased past Steve with your hands settling on his hips, briefly, the pressure there and then gone in your path towards the living room.
Steve had to go to his parked car for a bit. He sat in the passenger seat and bit his knuckle raw, reciting every Mets player like a Hail Mary just to will away the stiffness in his dick.
So yeah, Steve’s in deep, and while he has the distinct feeling you and him are speaking different languages entirely, he’s still trying to send signals.
The softer he gets, the more you resist, claws digging in with a bite, remarks sharper than usual. Never cruel, but pointed and quick.
Steve knows he’s throwing off the whole rhythm you two have built up over the last few years. The bitch-for-bitch routine only works if he’s a bitch, too-
but he can’t help it. He’s tired of the bullshit. He’s tired of pretending.
He just needs you to see it, too.
___
Steve has been so weird, recently.
The more you’ve been dishing, the more he’s been taking- graciously. With a smile quirked at the corner of his lips like the whole thing is funny. You’ll tee up a snide comment and he’ll bow his head, hair flopping over his forehead in a puppy-like way that makes verbal combat so much harder.
You feel like the rug keeps getting pulled out from under you in every social interaction. It’s like he doesn’t even want to be friends anymore. What’s the point of this whole arrangement if you’re sparring by yourself?
There’s a sneaking suspicion you have- that after that night in the snow, Steve pities you. He feels bad, and that’s why he’s been going so easy.
It makes his niceness much harder to swallow.
Which is why the reappearance of your crush on Steve is so goddamn inconvenient.
Usually, you’d be in the rightful position to take advantage of his lack of comebacks- but he has you feeling flustered. Goddamn twitterpated.
Looking at you under long lashes, with those doey eyes. The moles on his neck deeply confronting every time he wears a low collar.
And the killer is, you don’t even have the guts to talk to Robin about it. Your best friend in the whole world. It becomes a secret guilt, something that pushes your psyche to the avoidant side.
You start withdrawing from Steve. You stop picking at him like you normally do the second he walks in the door; you excuse yourself to activities in other rooms, on other couches; you pick up extra shifts and tell yourself it’s for the holiday pay but really, it’s to get out from under the potency of Steve’s gaze.
Most of your friends are too wrapped up in their own shit to really notice the new strangeness, the new tension that’s formed (one-sided though it may be).
It comes to a head one evening, though.
With that fucking sweater.
The off-white, heavy-knit, rainbow-thread-pricked sweater that fits Steve like it was made for him. The contours of his shoulders, hunched against the winter winds in the Wheeler’s driveway, draw your eyes in like a beacon.
“Did you hear me?” Steve says your name again, pointing at Eddie’s van idling on the curb. “There’s not enough seats. I’m gonna stay behind- it’s past my bedtime, anyways.”
The idea of leaving Steve in an empty house while the rest of you enjoy the heated interior of the kids’ concert hall performance is ridiculous. It jolts you from the single-mindedness of watching a snowflake melt into the golden apple of Steve’s cheek.
“Don’t be an idiot,” you say, pulling him by the sleeve to the open door of the van. The last empty seat is by the window. “I’ll just sit on your lap. As long as you promise not to be a weirdo about it.”
Steve grins. The flash of his teeth feels like a shot through the heart. “Promise.”
Nancy and Jon had the same idea, already snuggled up with a shared lap belt, so it shouldn't be weird, except that Jon and Nance are a couple, and you and Steve aren’t, and you’re really trying not to overthink it-
and then you’re sitting in Steve’s lap. Someone else closes the door, the van kicks into gear, and the radio fills in all the gaps as your world shrinks down to just the feeling of his thighs underneath yours.
You’re not sure how to place yourself best, half-perching and holding onto the seat in front until Steve slips an arm around your waist.
“I won’t break,” he says, low at your ear, just for you.
So with his coaxing you settle your weight further in, letting him ease the front of his chest to your back. There’s a bump in the road, and Steve tightens his hold to keep you steady.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, breath spilling down the line of your neck.
Goosebumps cascade across your skin. You’re grateful you thought to wear jeans tonight, not a dress- although feeling him all around, so suffocatingly close, feels just as revealing.
“It’s okay,” you breathe back, nose turning down over your shoulder to reply. His right eye, the one you can see, squinches like he’s smiling.
The drive to the community center is a staggering 15 minutes. Around you, your friends are laughing, talking over the radio like nothing has changed and Steve isn’t pressing his forehead to the back of your neck in the dim light.
There’s an ache growing steadily between your thighs. You try your best not to shift around too much, but then there’s a bend in the road that has Steve’s thumb slipping against the bare skin of your stomach, and it takes enormous effort to keep your legs from snapping shut at the feeling.
“Are you cold?” Steve asks. In that same quiet, just-for-you voice.
You shake your head. He feels it.
The tenderness of his thumb stroking over your hipbone is making your head foggy. Impairing your better judgement. He smoothes gently, at first, waiting for you to snap at his wrist or maybe tell him off- but when you don’t, Steve grows more confident with his touches.
He settles into a stroking rhythm with his thumb while his other hand subtly crawls up the path of your outer thigh, one wide, warm palm coming to rest over the seat of your jeans. If anyone looked now, it would simply seem like Steve had your best interests at heart, wanting to steady you from the rocking of the backroads.
When in reality, Steve was taking you apart at the seams. Splitting them open one by one.
His nose is pressed just above the collar of your coat, like he’s breathing you in the same way you’re taking lungfuls of his spiced cologne and laundry detergent. You think his breath might be shuddering, but whether it’s from the cold or the proximity, you can’t tell.
The spell breaks when the van screeches to a halt in the parking lot. There’s a flurry of movement, a tangle of limbs as everyone catapults back out into the chilly night air.
Steve’s lips brush the back of your neck before he withdraws. It feels like it might’ve been an accident. You’re not sure of anything, anymore.
He opens his arms, releasing his hold, and you crawl from the van, stepping into the snow without looking back.
___
The night before New Year’s Eve, Robin comes over to help Steve prep for the party.
There’s tinsel strewn across the dining table, black and gold balloons in various states of inflation bobbing in a cluster underneath Robin’s chair. She ties off the end of another gold one and drops it unseeing to the pile below.
“Jon will grab the pizzas, Vick’s on soda duty, and Eddie will supply us with all the age-appropriate drugs our devious little hearts desire.” Robin reaches for a deflated black balloon, wincing around the taste of latex. “And Sweets will bring the cake. You got any top-shelf champagne you’d like to gift us from Dear Old Dad?”
“Technically basement-shelf,” Steve corrects, letting go of the half-blown balloon in his hand. It squeaks a loud path upwards, careening towards Robin’s side of the table and glancing off her shoulder with the last of its air.
Steve feels unsettled and overly warm at the mention of your name, the epithet rolling off Robin’s tongue like it’s simultaneously precious and nothing to call you that.
He spins a string of tinsel around his pointer finger, winding it tight enough to cut off circulation, then releasing it again. “Is Sweets- is she, um. Seeing anyone? Recently, I mean.”
“Not since Roy.” Robin pokes her tongue out in concentration, flat end of the balloon twisting in her uncoordinated fingers.
Steve almost flinches at the name. Roy Stillwell, the biggest idiot on the former football team, who somehow managed to capture your attention for nearly six months.
Robin finishes tying off the balloon and lets it slip through her grasp, already reaching for the next. “He wasn’t nice to her, like, at all. I’m so relieved she listened to the good sense of her most wise best friend and dropped his hulking ass after the earthquakes.”
It’s been almost a year, then. Steve tries not to sound suspicious but fails, ears tingeing pink as he asks- “So no one… no one special for her since then?”
Robin looks up from her self-imposed balloon wrangling job with a withering squint. “Why? Are you planning to mess with her, or something? You’ve both been so good recently. It’s been bringing my poor torn heart such healing.”
“Shut up,” Steve tells her, feeling overly fond and deeply embarrassed. The tinsel stretches between his fingers and breaks, noiselessly. “I was just thinking, if she wants to get back out there- I could set her up with one of my buddies.”
“Buddies,” Robin echos, incredulous. “I’m sure our graduating class of high school rejects would absolutely froth at the mouth to get a chance with her, but honestly, Steve, she doesn’t deserve it. You can’t sabotage her love life. I draw the line at food and animal-based pranking.”
Steve shakes his head, eyes dropping to the half-drunk beer between them; he picks it up just to have a label to pick and peel at. “I wasn’t planning any love-based sabotage, so you can cool your jets with that.”
He cringes to think about the narratives you’ve likely been fed by Robin regarding his own love life (or lack thereof), what with her fantastic propensity to bloat the truth. Daliances distorted and disproportionate and probably miles away from reality.
Steve Harrington might not hold the king’s title any more, but his track record this last year as far as keeping women around where any meaningful long-term capacity is concerned has not been good.
He’s lied, here and there, to Robin, which he hates doing, but there are only so many times he can come crying to her about a girl never calling him back after the third date before it gets pathetic.
The details of who, exactly, neglected to call whom after sleeping together have been fudged enough to make Steve seem slightly less lame. More in control, more laid back and casual than he actually is.
He really shouldn’t bother, anymore. Like he said- he’s tired of pretending, tired of the bullshit-
and Robin already thinks he’s kinda lame, yet loves him anyways.
Robin rises from the table, breaking Steve from his thoughts. She kicks gently at the balloons to begin herding them into the living room, and says over her shoulder with finality on the issue- “She deserves better.”
Steve peels the label off his beer in one clean sweep. “Yeah. Can’t argue there.”
___
In the end, it’s Robin that brings the two of you together.
As she always does. Intentionally or not.
Two AM in the new year finds Robin belting out a jazzy rendition of Auld Lang Syne, cheeks flushed with spirits as she’s half-carried, half-pushed up the stairs by you and Steve.
“Don’t worry,” you’re calling down the hall to where Vickie stands giggling, car keys in her hand. “We’ll take good care of your girl.”
“If she doesn’t kill us first,” Steve grumbles, ducking another one of Robin’s far-flug arms. “All right, songbird, that’s enough out of you.”
He takes a wider stance against the stairs, leaning forward to tuck Robin’s waist against his shoulder, then straightening up with a grunt. She drapes like a sack of potatoes, and Steve grits his teeth before the next step. “Christ alive, Buckley. You’re practically sloshing.”
Robin’s head lifts from the small of Steve’s back as she declares, “You are the slushed one. Shteve.”
Your hands go to stabilize Robin as you follow them both, and Steve can hear you laughing quietly at her drunken antics.
Steve decides to put her to sleep in the second guest bedroom- it’s the one furthest down the hall, with a bathroom attached. He eases Robin from his shoulder straight onto the mattress, supporting her neck on the way down- then gets stuck halfway to standing as she throws her arms around him.
“Steve,” Robin sighs. “You’re the best- my best- friend. Ever. Love you, dingus.”
Steve’s cheek is squished into the side of her neck. He chuckles and pats at her hips. “Hey, love you too, Goose. Unhand me and I’ll take your shoes off for you.”
Robin’s arms flop back to the sheets, and Steve bends to ease the sneakers from her feet. He sets them under the bedside table, where you’ve just appeared with a glass of water and two blue Tylenol pills.
“I scrounged around in the bathroom cabinets,” you say, by way of explanation.
“No, that’s- that’s cool,” Steve rushes to assure- but your focus has already been pulled entirely to Robin.
You kneel at the mattress edge, the back of your hand lifting to brush down the side of Robin’s flushed cheek as you tell her softly- “Gonna leave you some water. Try to get some sleep, okay?”
“Sweets,” Robin croaks, eyes hazy and roaming over your face. “Jus’ you’n me?”
“Yeah,” you say, keeping to the same soft tone, even as your free hand jolts backwards. “Just me, honey pie.”
Somehow you land a perfect hit to the side of Steve’s ribs, and he’s forced a step backwards into the shadows of the room. He stifles a laugh into his fist, your touch melting into his skin long after the initial impact of your fingertips.
Robin doesn’t notice the noise, eyes only for you as she catches your hand in both of hers and says, “You should tell ‘im goodnight. Go onnnn. It would be so fun, I love y’both so much-!”
You shush Robin’s stream of consciousness, in a mild way, like one might for a child fighting a much-needed nap. “Hush, Robs, you’re talking silly. Beddy bye time.”
Then you pull up the covers to her chin, lean in to kiss her sweaty forehead, and brush past Steve on your way out to the hall.
After turning out the lamp and ensuring Robin is snoring, Steve follows in your wake; he finds you downstairs, on the living room couch. Feet tucked under yourself, hands twisting in your lap.
It’s a bit of a disaster area, empty bottles and Happy New Year ephemera strewn about the room. The lamp over your shoulder is the only source of light in the room, casting your profile in warm oranges.
“Hey.” He eases onto the cushion next to you but keeps his knees tilted away, leaving a careful amount of space between your bodies. “What did, uh. What’d Robin mean?”
Steve’s heart thumps unsteadily at the base of his throat, waiting for your response.
It comes quietly.
“She wanted me to tell you goodnight. Which I guess is code for, like, admitting my big fat crush on you.”
Steve jerks his gaze to yours, heart thudding louder.
There’s no indication of any life-altering statements that have just been made- in fact, your chin is tilted upwards, an expression of practiced nonchalance settled into your features.
When Steve meets your eyes, though, there’s something that courses over your face unhidden. It’s fear, or embarrassment, maybe, the intensity of it there and gone in the span of a breath as you work to smooth back into a blasé manner.
Your gaze drops to the knee of your jeans, plucking at a stray thread. There’s a bitter quality to your voice as you speak. “What, no punchy comment? It’s fine. You can let me have it. You pity me, and I’m the last person you’d ever wanna-”
Steve moves on pure instinct and desire, closing the gap of your bodies in a moment, hands reaching to cup your cheeks, noses bumping together briefly as his face crowds yours. He hears the quick intake of your breath before he whispers, sharp-
“Please shut up.”
And then Steve is kissing you. In the hungry, desperate way he’s been thinking about for the better part of three years. Lips pressing and sliding together, teeth clacking with the force but it doesn’t matter because you’re kissing back.
Parting your lips for him, tongue sliding against the front of Steve’s teeth, the roof of his mouth; your hands fly to his wrists, keeping him in place, keeping him close as the kiss keeps spiraling. Drawing back only to readjust, to fit your nose to the side of his, angling to get in deeper-
Steve’s hands are trembling. The adrenaline is coursing through his veins, along with a dozen other emotions rapidly rising to the surface. He sends a silent prayer to every god ever that you won’t notice, that you’ll let him keep kissing you and drinking you in.
You do notice, though. There’s a wet click as your lips leave his, and Steve keeps his eyes closed, begging to keep the moment for just a little longer, nose still pressed to your cheek.
But all you ask, in a quiet whisper, is- “Are you okay?”
Steve nods. A hoarse exhalation shudders through him, as his thumbs memorize the path of your jaw. He wants to tell you that he’s more than okay- that the tremors are just a pesky side effect from all that torture and trauma, that he’s shaking with anticipation and delight, not nerves, exactly-
then you’re swinging a leg over his hip and sitting in his lap and under the weight of you, Steve’s racing thoughts go silent.
All he can think about is that car ride where he felt suffocated by lust, by wanting, and how badly he’s longed for this, the pressure of your thighs draped over his and your fists in the roots of his hair like they’re doing right now.
“I don’t pity you.” Steve says the words before his brain gets too clouded by your smell and touches. He settles his hands at your waist, guiding you to sit more heavily, just like he had in the car. “You believe me?”
This won’t work if you don’t.
To Steve’s immense relief, you nod, eyes flicking from his spit-slick lips to his gaze still locked on you as you whisper back, “Yeah. I believe you.”
With a stifled groan, Steve reaches one of his trembly hands to the nape of your neck, pulling you in to kiss again. His cock is rapidly filling out a hard line in the leg of his jeans, brain going static at the tiny whimpers you’re making into his mouth.
It’s nearly overwhelming, being this close to you. Steve has always wondered what noises you’d make when kissed, how you’d respond to a hand sliding under your shirt along the length of your back- and now, he’ll never have to wonder again.
Your tongue twists against his. Steve’s glad he had the foresight to close his eyes, because the way they’re currently rolling to the back of his head is probably not very pretty.
His left hand, beneath the sheer black shimmer of your shirt, grazes the edge of your bra, and can’t help but think he used to be good at this. Good at hookups, at fun, meaningless sex; at unhooking a bra with nothing but an unshakeable pinky.
This hookup isn’t nothing, though. It’s sort of everything to Steve. The culmination of all the pent-up feelings of the last few years, channeled into every touch, sinking deeper than the surface of his skin, down into his bones.
The hands in his hair tighten and loosen in a repetitive pattern, sharp then gentle, like you’re having a conflict of your own- you break the kissing again just to let out a frustrated huff. “I can’t- I don’t know how to be soft. It might break me, to be that with you.”
Steve knows what you mean. The intimacy of gentleness, with your shared history of bickering, can’t be overstated.
He pets at your hip, across the planes of your back, leaning forward again to kiss at the downturned edge of your mouth. “Hey. I get it. Even though I do think you know how to be nice, I’m not asking you to be that. Not right now, at least.”
You shift again in his lap and Steve grits his back molars at the feeling of your thigh against his cock, electric even through all the layers. Tentatively, you tug at the roots of his hair again, then harder, gaining confidence as Steve responds to the sharper pulls.
Your mouth is back on his and there’s a flash of teeth again, on purpose this time as you bite into the plush bottom of his lip. Steve hisses, brows drawing together, another lightning strike of arousal turning his thoughts to dead air.
“Like that?” You question, but it’s self-assured and slightly smug and Steve feels like he’s burning up.
“Please let me go down on you,” he murmurs, instead of a simple ‘yes’.
He doesn’t have time to consider how very whiny he’s sounding because the begging increases, surges with force as Steve licks under your jaw, planting kisses down the pretty line of your neck in between each word.
“Please let me, please, I’ll make it so good- wanna taste you-”
You’re already guiding him with the pull of your limbs to a much more horizontal position on the couch, Steve catching his weight with a hand planted on either side of your shoulders as he continues to kiss his way down your body.
He carves a path between the valley of your breasts, leaving wet lip imprints against the sheer shimmering black fabric of your shirt (a New Year’s-themed low-cut number that Steve didn’t put a whole lot of effort into pretending not to stare at all night).
There’s the darker outline of the lace edge of your bra so Steve kisses that, too, then continues to your tummy, a bare stripe of skin waiting for his lips to press over. Steve’s left hand drifts underneath the hem of your shirt, exposing more skin to kiss at, seeking out the soft mound of your breast and squeezing to mold the shape in his hand.
At this, your hips give a short jolt upwards, and Steve hears a soft gasp leave you. The sound lights him up, moving on pure instinct to drive his own hips down into the pressure of the cushion beneath.
Steve ruts the bulge of his cock forwards and fumbles at the button of your jeans with his free hand, tremors at an all-time low as his focus hones in between your thighs.
Everything Steve has ever learned by fumbling in the back seat with girls who wouldn’t care about him in a week- he thinks it might’ve been all for you.
All to be able to hear that noise you make the first time he gets his mouth on you.
It’s halfway to a long, breathy moan, cut short by the slap of your own palm, but it doesn’t matter because Steve’s already burned it into his mind for forever as he laps against your bare cunt. You taste just as good as he’s always imagined, sweet and bright and honeyed as his tongue slides into the channels of your muscle.
He feels you pulse around him. Steve moans, the vibrations making your hands snap to his hair again, taking the reins to pull him further in.
“Steve,” you whisper, thighs beginning to close around his ears. “Steve-”
His name has never sounded better, coming from you. Not ‘Harrington’, not ‘King Steve’ with sarcastic derision. Just Steve. He’s never felt more seen.
It’s probably for the best that his mouth is occupied, because Steve gets pussy-drunk at an alarming rate- a rate that’s made even worse if he likes the person.
And he really, really likes you.
Steve withdraws his tongue from your cunt and seals his lips around the beating heart of your clit, listening for the hitch in your breath as he finds the right pressure. His fingers squeeze tighter around your breast, thumb and forefinger pinching at your nipple; your back arches from the couch, pressing yourself into his touches.
His hips grind mindlessly down and forwards, trying to find a reprieve for all the blood currently pooling southwards but it only serves to draw the band of pleasure even tighter.
Steve distracts himself by sinking his middle finger into the wet heat of your center, sucking on your clit in time with the exploratory thrusts he gives with the digit. He slides another alongside it as your thighs begin to quiver.
When Steve curls his fingers and drives the angle against your front wall, a choked cry and a sudden sharp pull at his hair tells him to keep going. Steve does, sucking hard enough to hollow his cheeks, humming a low note of encouragement.
He stays the course until you’re spasming around him, cursing quietly with his name thrown into the mix.
Steve pulls off just long enough to look at you, still keeping the rhythm up with his hand but resting his chin briefly on your lower stomach.
“I gotta give you three, sweetheart, okay? Not trying to blow my own horn, or whatever, but- uh- I won’t fit unless I stretch you out a little. Yeah?”
“Oh my god-”
You take his third finger like you were made for it, head lolling back and hands still fisted in his hair. There’s another spasm of your walls and then you’re coming, unexpectedly soon but Steve acts quick, latching back onto your clit and coaxing you through the wave of it with feverish enthusiasm.
That’s it, he thinks, instead of speaking aloud, mouth full of your taste, a palm full of your slick. That’s it, baby-
Steve draws out your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, fingers finally pushing at his forehead when you’ve had enough. He lifts his mouth from you, but not before leaning forward to lick the flat of his tongue through the new wetness dripping from your hole.
His dick leaks in the confines of his briefs at the sight of you- sweat dewing your skin, making you glow, lips parted in short heaving breaths as Steve gives you another kiss. A lingering but overall rather chaste one from someone who was just drinking from you like a starving man.
“I don’t have- I didn’t really stock up on condoms,” Steve stammers, suddenly remembering as your hands wander down the front of his button-down chest. “Shit. Sorry. It’s, uh- it’s been awhile, for me.”
“It’s okay,” you murmur back. Hands fiddling with the buckle of his belt. “Been awhile for me, too. But I’m on the pill. So. Have your way with me, or whatever.”
You give a shrug and a grin and Steve feels like the luckiest person to have lived, maybe ever. He buries a groan into the plush of your breast as you giggle at him.
His burn of embarrassment quickly gives way to the hot flame of desire, rutting into the flat palm of your hand as you work your way to the top of his zipper.
Steve is overcome with a need to be good for you- to let you have whatever you want. He’s spellbound with obedience, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes.
“Let me see you.” You thumb at the button of his jeans. Half of a smile on those lips Steve knows so well.
Steve helps by sliding the waistband of both his briefs and pants down, settling them just under his ass because he’s too wound up to stop for a proper strip. He can’t help himself, brushing over the head to spread his pre over his shaft, pumping a few times before you reach to bat his grip away.
Then your hand is wrapping around the throbbing length of his bare cock and Steve has to restabilize against the cushions again, putting his weight in his forearms that sit snug along your sides. He has to dip to bite at the column of your neck in order to smother a loud moan as your fingers tighten around his girth.
“Holy fuck, you weren’t kidding.” You’re still speaking in a low voice but this time it’s hushed with awe and disbelief. “You really are huge.”
Steve licks at the indent of his teeth in your skin and huffs a laugh, then chokes on it when your hand twists around the base and up again in a cruelly slow arc.
You help pull the collared tee from his body and then your hand is trailing down his chest, through the thicket of hair, with curiosity- lingering on parts Steve doesn’t normally think of as hot. Fingertips trace the outline of his scars, the round of his stomach, the sparse line of hair leading below his belly button.
It’s the way you’re looking at him, too, eyes skipping between his and down lower to the cock in your fist. It’s almost like you’ve been dreaming of this, as well.
“So handsome,” you’re murmuring, still roving over the scars at his side with the hand that isn’t pumping him into oblivion. “Steve- you’re so hot, so good-”
Steve feels it in that space behind his chest, the white-hot bloom of feeling. You’re not saying it like he’s some sort of novelty, some sort of side-show you’ve been jonesing to see, a ticket punched with no promise of return.
You’re saying it like Steve’s something to really look at. Like he’s worthy of the praise and kindness you’re doling out without expectation.
Steve tries his best to take it in stride, but it’s becoming increasingly hard to think when all the blood in his body is currently being siphoned into the led pipe of his cock in your hand.
He’s spilling precum onto your stomach, and you pause mid-stroke to gather some of it from your skin before taking him up again, moving more slickly with the help.
Steve feels the weight of your gaze again as he tilts his hips, aligning himself with your entrance; his own hands rest on either side of your head, thumbs at your temples as he leans in to kiss you again.
He reaches to shove the hem of your shirt up to your throat, exposing the stiff peaks of your nipples through the fabric of your bra, chests crushing together as the head of his cock notches into place.
Steve’s toes are curling in his socks while the arches of his feet press for further stability against the couch’s arm. From between the press of your bodies, your hands slip out to rest at the tops of Steve’s freckled shoulders.
He kisses your breastbone, your jaw again, then says at your ear with ill-concealed strain- “I’m gonna- I’ll go slow, okay? And you tell me if- if anything, something- doesn’t feel good, and we can stop, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you nod, fingernails beginning to sting into his skin. “C’mon, Stevie. Let me have it.”
Fighting words, Steve thinks, hiding a smile into the side of your neck. He pulls back only so he can monitor your expressions as he begins to enter you.
The thick head of his tip gets swallowed up with immediacy by the warm, wet embrace of your walls, sinking further in, pausing when there’s some resistance. Steve’s trembling again but this time it’s with the concerted efforts of slowing down, of avoiding the overwhelm for both of you.
Your cunt is so blissfully tight. He’s only got the first few inches in but already Steve’s having trouble breathing, stuttering out short pants as he keeps watching your face for any signs of discomfort.
“It- you’re so- so big.” The words are strung thin, your brows knotted together, eyes pinched in concentration.
Steve presses another kiss to your sweaty cheek, feeling the dampness of his own hairline and hoping he doesn’t drip any onto you as he sinks another inch inwards. “I know, honey, I know- and you’re doin’ so good, that’s my girl-”
The term of endearment leaves before Steve thinks to drag it back, but all it does is make you sigh, eyes blinking long-lashed and half-open to look up at him again, right hand leaving the top of his shoulder to fist back into the longer curls at the nape of his neck. “Steve… I can take it all. Let me.”
And who would Steve be, denying you a thing?
He lets you have all of him, pelvis lowering to seat the length of his cock fully inside you. Your nails dig past the first layer of his skin in your ecstasy, crown of your head tipping backwards as Steve feels the pulse of your walls surround him.
“Fuck me.” Another hoarse whisper as he waits, letting you adjust to the feeling of being stuffed before dragging his cock back again, until it’s just his head at that upper wall of your cunt- then sinking back in with one long thrust.
This makes you moan, loud enough that Steve instinctively curls a hand to fit over your parted lips. His best friend may be notorious for being able to sleep through a hurricane after a few shots but he’d really rather not invite chance to play tonight.
If Steve is worried about the covering being too much, he’s instantly gratified when your teeth sink into his middle fingers, like you needed something to mouth on.
You’re so wet from Steve’s earlier work that his length glides smoothly with every rock forwards and back of his hips, a maddening cycle that’s starting to steal his breath again. The sharp tugs to his hair and the punctuated, muffled whines you’re making are enough to have his climax looming close.
“Ah- fuck, shit-” Steve curses, stilling when his hips are pressed to yours, cock throbbing. “Not gonna last long, sweetheart, fuck- sorry, you feel too good. Pussy is choking me.”
The dirty talk has your eyes fluttering. Steve takes his hand off your mouth and kisses you, once, twice, then whispers- “Feels good, yeah, honey? Y’like taking me like this?”
Your ankles lift to cross at the small of Steve’s back, hand like a vice at his roots once Steve starts up a rhythm of fucking into you again. “Steve, keep- keep talking like that, and I’ll- I’m right there-”
He obeys, holding your shoulders again to keep you in place as his cock drags against the inner front wall of your cunt with precision. The beginning stages of an impending orgasm have Steve babbling- “That’s it, sweetheart- let me give it to you. I’ve got you, shit- y’feel so amazing. So good for me-”
“Fuck, Steve-!” Your face turns to profile as one side presses to the couch cushion beneath, mouth dropping into a silent o.
Steve slides as deep as he can, muffling his own shout into the fat of your breast, nuzzling in as your cunt flutters and squeezes around him. Your ankles pull him in hard, pelvis hitting at your clit and sending you over the edge for a second time.
You’re silent as you come, back arching, eyes squeezed shut. Steve feels the wave of it wash over you, every sense dialed up to 10 as he memorizes how it rolls through your body.
When you return to earth, you gasp in a breath, reaching to cup Steve’s face in your hands, stars still sparkling in your eyes when you whisper-
“Your turn, Steve. Gonna fill me up?”
Steve is done for three sharp jerks of his hips later, spilling into you with a growl caught at the back of his throat, abs rippling and jaw clenching with every rope of cum pulsing out.
He swallows down noise as he keeps circling his hips. The highs spiral down slowly; once you begin to squirm under Steve with overstimulation, he takes it easy on you and stops. Kissing at your collarbone with apologies.
Breathing still struggling to return to normal, he sags into your arms, careful to keep most of his weight off you. You’re giggling at him somewhat breathlessly, dotting kisses along the apple of his cheek and petting over the back of his skull with a gentle hand.
In all those hidden fantasies with you at the back of his mind, Steve never let himself linger on the afterglow, one of the best parts of sex, in his opinion- holding his partner, feeling the bellow of their ribs, the hitches as everything simmers back to normal.
It felt too personal, like just by wanting it bad enough (because Steve did want it, badly) the sacredness would somehow dim.
Steve’s delighted to find this isn’t the case.
Even with all the bodily fluids, sweating, and achy muscles that have accumulated, you don’t seem to care, pulling Steve to fit between your back and the couch. He wraps his arms around your middle, nose tucking to the hollow of your neck, breathing in the trace smell of your faded perfume and hormones.
You breathe a long, contended sigh. Somewhere beyond the far window, an owl hoots into the dark night.
Your hands smooth across Steve’s forearms absently as you break the room’s silence with a whisper. “Hey. Do you think- would it be okay if we don’t tell Robin? Not yet, at least.”
Steve holds you a little tighter, running the tip of his nose up the line of your neck. “Yeah. ‘Course it’s okay. And, y’know, we don’t have to do this again, if you- if you don’t want-”
“Oh, we’re definitely doing this again.” There’s a shadow of a former tease in your voice. “It’s just- she’s gonna be so goddamn smug when she finds out. She already said I wouldn’t last two weeks from when I first told her about the crush-”
“And how long’s it been? Since you told her?” Steve interrupts to ask, ears perking up.
He can only see the back of your head, but the long silence is enough to clue him in to your loss of pride before you mutter, “About 12 hours.”
“Oh my god.” Steve laughs against you, even as you growl at him to shut up, even as your teeth skim over the soft skin of his elbow, daring him to say more. “If I knew you had it so bad for a jock I would’ve pulled out the ol’ Hawkins Tigers shirt way sooner.”
“Former jock,” you correct, turning in Steve’s arms to plant one elbow against the cushions, other arm lifting to rest your hand over his heart. “And I think you look best wearing nothing at all, so. Might want to take that note.”
Steve doesn’t care at all how dopey he might look right now, fondness all-consuming as he reaches up to thumb at the corner of your wry smile. “Note taken. Y’know, I think this setup will be a great outlet for your aggression. Feel free to use me any time.”
Your wide smile pushes into the pad of his thumb, sweetness on your tongue when you lean down to kiss him again. “Note taken.”
Your own fingers lift to roam over Steve’s face, tickling at his hairline, down to the corner of his brow, like you’re memorizing the feeling. Steve lets his eyes slip shut, smiling as your pointer finger traces at the edge of his right eye.
“I like these little lines,” you murmur. “They only happen when you smile, though. Lights your whole face up.”
In the dawn of a new year, Steve rises with a heart overflowing to kiss at your bare shoulder.
“See? Knew you had it in you to be sweet to me.”
I CANT THIS IS MY MOST FAVOURITE THING
(s)creaming into my pillow right now WHAT
