Nanorama

big 21 \\ she/her\\shifter\\i just lurk on here

[munsonsdangerousgirl]

₊ ° ⊹ ♡ 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

☆ “𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑙 𝑤𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛, 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑔𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑚𝑒.”

📞·˚ ༘ ┊͙ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: one morning when you and eddie wake up after a sleepover at his trailer, you decide to show him a couple of moves you learned while taking jiu-jitsu classes.

𝓞𝓡 , you and eddie’s friendship turns into something more when you accidentally grind on him while playfighting . . .

⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: smut, inspired by this post (thought the 7th link was eddie coded) , never proofread , best friends to…? , i always have to write eddie as a yearner , grinding/dryhumping , pervy! eddie & pervy! reader , pretty filthy if i do say so myself , lots and lots of teasing and dirty talk , praise mixed with degradation , a lot of position switches too since they’re wrestling , reader licking eddie through his boxers , oral (m receiving) , spanking , fingering , p in v , some orgasm denial ig , creampie (be safe horndogs.) , pining eddie , angsty ending

eddie woke up to the sunlight spilling through the window, a slow gold that slid across the floorboards and crept up the rumpled sheets. he yawned softly, shifting to find a more comfortable angle, and the movement stirred you from sleep—a low, sleepy hum escaping your throat before you even knew you'd made it.

his eyes fluttered open at the sound. the haze of sleep cleared just enough for him to register that you were here, in his bed, your face half-buried in his pillow. something in his chest pulled taut.

“mm. morning," he murmured, his voice rough and low.

"good morning," you mumbled back, not opening your eyes. you nuzzled deeper into the pillow, your breath slow and even.

he watched you for a long moment—longer than he meant to. his gaze traced the curve of your cheek, the way your lashes fanned against your skin, the soft rise and fall of your breathing. the morning light caught the edges of your face, highlighting every small feature he already thought was beautiful, and he felt something warm bloom low in his chest.

he caught himself and cleared his throat.

“so," he said, quiet, "we didn't finish the movie."

you nodded, eyes still closed. "mhm. i knocked out on the couch."

you said it with a hint of sheepishness that made him chuckle. "i know. i tried to be quiet when i snuck away."

a lazy grin spread across his face even though you didn’t see it, boyish and unguarded in the soft light.

"wow. so careless of you," you teased, your voice still thick with sleep. "not even bothering to carry me over to your bed like a gentleman."

he scoffed, but the grin didn't fade—it softened, turned almost tender, even though you couldn't see it. "why?" he asked, voice dropping to something quieter. "why should i have to be a gentleman? it’s my room."

"cause i’m a girl, dumbass. it’s like an unspoken rule."

a sleepy smile tugged at your lips, and the sight of it made his heart stutter. he covered it with a laugh.

"oh, right. 'cause you're too dainty and delicate to sleep on the worn-out couch in my living room, huh?"

his hand found your hair, fingers threading through the mess of it, ruffling gently. you finally opened your eyes, swatting at his hand with a giggle.

“careful. i know jiu-jitsu, y’know.”

eddie’s eyes went wide, a slow grin spreading across his face as the memory surfaced. “oh, shit. yeah—you’ve been taking classes, right? you told me you’d show me some moves.”

you blinked, the haze of sleep parting just enough for confusion to settle in. “oh my god, really? i said that?”

“yeah.” he propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with that lopsided smirk that always made your stomach flip. “you said you’d show me your bjj.”

you stared at him. “my what?”

“your bjj,” he repeated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “your brazilian jiu-jitsu.”

a beat of silence, and then you relaxed, a laugh bubbling out of you. “oh. guess i did.” you stretched your arms above your head, the movement pulling your spaghetti strap tank top up just slightly. “i bet i could show you some moves right now.”

eddie’s eyebrows shot up, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. “right now? in the morning? before breakfast?”

“what’s the matter, eds?” you tilted your head, voice dropping into something teasing and sweet. “too chicken?”

he scoffed, pushing himself upright, the challenge landing exactly where you aimed it. “i’m not chicken. i’m just saying—you’re in my bed, in my room, and you wanna grapple with me first thing in the morning?”

“scared i’ll pin you?” you shot back, sitting up slowly, the sheet pooling around your waist.

his grin turned sharp, playful, his gaze dragging over you in a way that was half challenge, half something else entirely. “sweetheart, i’d like to see you try.”

“so it’s an invitation?”

“it’s a warning.” he leaned in, close enough that you could smell the sleep on his skin, his voice dropping to a murmur. “i don’t go easy on people who threaten me in my own bed.”

your heart stuttered, but you held his gaze, a smile curving your lips. “good. i’d be offended if you did.”

the second the words left your mouth, eddie lunged.

you let out a surprised yelp as he crashed into you, the both of you tumbling back onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and laughter. the sheets twisted beneath you, and his weight pressed you into the pillows for half a second before you squirmed, hooked a leg around his, and rolled.

he hit the mattress with a grunt, the breath punched out of him. "shit—"

"too slow, eds," you breathed, already scrambling to pin his wrist to the bed.

but eddie was wiry and quick. he twisted beneath you, his hip bucking up hard enough to throw off your balance, and suddenly you were the one on your back again, his knee wedged between your thighs, his hands catching your wrists and pressing them into the pillow on either side of your head.

"who’s slow now, huh?" his voice was rough, his chest heaving against yours. a strand of his hair fell loose, brushing your cheek.

you bucked, trying to throw him off, but he had you pinned good. your breath came fast, a laugh hitching in your throat. "beginner’s luck."

"beginner's—" he laughed, breathless and disbelieving. "nah, this is just talent."

"talent my ass." you twisted your hips, and he made a small, strangled sound as your thigh pressed up between his legs. his grip on your wrists loosened just enough. you shoved, and he went rolling sideways, the two of you grappling across the rumpled sheets in a mess of grunts and half-stifled curses.

"fuck—" he grabbed for your waist, but you were already moving, swinging a leg over his torso and dropping your weight onto his chest. the air left him in a sharp oof.

"gotcha."

he bucked beneath you, strong and stubborn, his hands finding your hips, fingers digging in as he tried to unseat you. "not yet, you don't."

"eddie." you pressed down harder, your thighs squeezing his ribs. his back arched, muscles straining, and you could feel every shift of him beneath you, the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. "just tap out."

"no."

you grinned, shifting your weight, and his breath stuttered as you bore down, one hand pinning his wrist to the mattress, the other pressing against his chest. "come on, say it."

“n-no, it's not happening."

he twisted again, and you almost lost your grip, your core tightening with the effort of holding him down. your hair fell forward, curtaining both your faces, and for a moment, all you could see were his eyes, dark and glittering and fixed on yours.

"tap," you said, softer now, but no less certain.

he held your gaze. his chest heaved. and then, slowly, his fingers curled against the mattress, and he tapped twice against the sheet.

a triumphant laugh broke out of you. "yes! yes." you flopped forward, your forehead dropping to his sternum, your body still shaking with the exertion. "i told you. i told you."

"okay, okay." his voice was strained, breathless, but there was a smile in it. his chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, his heart hammering hard and fast. "that was... that was pretty good."

"pretty good?" you lifted your head, propping your chin on his chest. "i destroyed you."

"you got lucky."

"i got good."

he snorted, but his hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from your face. his touch lingered, just a beat too long. "alright, hotshot. rematch."

you raised an eyebrow. "you sure you can handle another round? i’d hate to embarrass you twice in one morning."

"embarrass me?" he laughed, sitting up beneath you, and you had to scramble to keep your balance as he shifted. "i'm just warming up, sweetheart."

"mhm." you slid off him, settling onto your knees on the mattress, already rolling your shoulders. "so, same rules?"

"same rules." he mirrored you, his hands coming up in a loose guard, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. "but this time, i’m not going easy on you."

"aw, you went easy on me?"

"i went gentle. i could’ve—"

you lunged.

but this time, he was ready. he caught your wrist, pivoted, and for a second, you thought he had you. but you dropped your weight, twisted, and wrapped your legs around his torso in a move that had him grunting in surprise.

"what the—"

you locked your ankles, your thighs squeezing tight around his neck, and suddenly he was trapped, his face pressed against the inside of your thigh, his body bent at an awkward angle as you rolled onto your back, pulling him with you.

"it’s triangle choke," you said, voice strained with effort.

his response was muffled. something between a laugh and a groan.

you tightened your legs. his hand came up, slapping weakly at your thigh. once. twice.

"tap?" you asked, breathless.

he tapped again, harder this time, and you loosened your hold, letting him pull his head free. he collapsed beside you, chest heaving, a hand pressed to his face.

"holy shit."

you grinned, rolling onto your side to face him. "see? i’m pretty good.”

he let out a breathless laugh, still catching his wind. "you didn't tell me you could do that."

"figured i’d keep it as a surprise."

he turned his head, looking at you with those big, dark eyes, his cheeks flushed, his hair a wild mess. "well, it definitely worked. that was... i didn't see that coming."

"most people don't." you propped yourself up on one elbow, feeling warm and pleased and a little smug. "you okay down there?"

"define okay." he shifted, clearing his throat, and you noticed the way his gaze dropped to your thighs for half a second before snapping back up. "i think i need a minute."

"from one round?"

"from that round." he sat up slowly, running a hand through his tangled hair. "you’ve been holding out on me."

"i told you i’d show you some moves."

"yeah, but i thought you meant, like... a wristlock or something. not..." he gestured vaguely at his own neck. "not getting put in a headlock by your legs."

you laughed, bright and genuine. "you liked it."

he swallowed. "i didn't say that."

"well, you didn't not say it."

he opened his mouth. closed it. looked away, a grin tugging stubbornly at the corner of his lips. "alright, fine. maybe i liked it. a little."

"just a little?"

he looked back at you, and there was something unguarded in his expression, something that made your stomach flip. "maybe more than a little."

you held his gaze for a long moment, searching his eyes for something you weren't sure you'd find. that look in his eyes was still there, and it made your chest feel tight, so you looked away first.

there was something tense in the air, thick and unsaid. you cleared your throat.

"well, either way, you haven't pinned me down." you tried for teasing, but your voice came out a little quieter than you'd intended.

eddie scoffed, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "that’s 'cause I wasn't trying. if i did try, i would've pinned you down a long time ago."

you rolled your eyes, shaking your head. "yeah, right. you told me you weren't gonna go easy."

"i was joking," he clarified, and there was an edge of sincerity now. "if i did, i’d probably hurt you."

you snorted, not buying it for a second. "sure, eddie."

"don’t 'sure, eddie' me."

"then don't be so full of shit."

“oh, shut up.” he laughed.

“make me.”

so he did.

you two tumbled back onto the mattress, arms tangling, breath coming fast. there just the sound of your ragged breathing, the rustle of sheets, soft curses slipping out as you fought for leverage. his knee dug into the mattress beside your hip. your hand slipped against his forearm, both of you slightly slick with sweat.

then he had you.

he flipped you onto your stomach and pressed his weight down, chest against your back, the side of your face squished into the pillow. his breath was hot against your ear, ragged, triumphant.

"not so tough now, huh?" he was panting. "told you i’d pin you down."

you squirmed, thrashing beneath him, trying to find an angle, a gap, anything. but the movement dragged your ass back against him through his jeans, and he felt that unmistakable pressure.

his breath hitched. "hey—stop."

"i’m trying to get out," you shot back, still writhing.

"then—fuck—try a different way."

you didn't listen. you kept moving, kept twisting, until you heard it—a soft, low groan he couldn't quite swallow.

you froze.

then it clicked.

you went still for a second, letting the realization settle warm in your chest. and then you didn't stop. you moved again, slower this time, more deliberate—rolling your hips back against him with intention.

"jesus," eddie breathed, his voice cracking. his forehead dropped against the back of your shoulder. "you’re gonna kill me."

you didn't let up. you kept moving, slow and lazy, dragging your hips back against him like you were still searching for an escape. your voice came out sweet, breathless, edged with false concern.

"what’s wrong?" you murmured against the pillow. "getting tired, eds?"

he was quiet for a moment, just breathing—shallow, uneven, his chest heaving against your back.

"n-no," he stammered, and you felt his fingers twitch where they gripped your wrist. "i’m not tired. i can—" a sharp inhale as you rolled your hips again. "i can do this all day."

you hummed, a soft, pleased sound. "mm. if you say so."

you shifted beneath him, pretending to search for leverage, but you angled your hips deliberately this time—grinding back against him in a slow, torturous arc. his pelvis met yours, and you felt him through the denim, hot and hard and straining.

his breath stuttered.

"fuck—" it was barely a whisper, punched out of him before he could stop it.

you kept going. kept squirming. kept rolling your hips like you had no idea what you were doing, like this was just part of the game. and he let you. he didn't pull away. didn’t tighten his hold to stop you. he just stayed there, taking it, his breathing growing rougher by the second.

another soft groan escaped him, low and involuntary, vibrating against your spine.

"having fun up there?" you asked, your voice syrupy sweet.

he didn't answer. his jaw was clenched so tight you could almost hear his teeth grinding.

you moved again—slower this time, dragging your hips back in a languid, deliberate roll, letting him feel every inch of the friction. his breath caught. his whole body went rigid.

"okay." his voice was strained, hoarse. "okay, what the fuck kind of strategy is this?"

you blinked, all innocence. "i don't know what you're talking about."

"bullshit." but there was no heat in it. his voice had gone soft, almost wondering. "you know exactly what you're doing."

you turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the edge of his expression from the corner of your eye. his face was close—so close you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. his brow was furrowed, his lips slightly parted. he looked wrecked.

your stomach flipped.

"i’m just trying to get out," you said, but even you didn't believe it anymore.

eddie’s jaw clenched. he stared down at you, and for a long, heavy moment, he didn't move. didn’t speak.

his mind was racing.

the two of you had always been touching, teasing, pushing boundaries until they blurred. he’d bite your shoulder just to hear you yelp, and you'd retaliate by stealing his shirts and refusing to give them back. sometimes he'd lick your face when you were being annoying, and you'd shove him into walls, laughing. it was easy. it was fun.

but this?

this was different.

he’d been in love with you for so long he couldn't remember when it started. it had crept up on him slow, like sunrise—imperceptible until suddenly everything was golden and warm and he couldn't look away. he’d watched you laugh, watched you get frustrated, watched you fall asleep on his couch with your mouth hanging open. he’d memorized the sound of your footsteps, the way you said his name, the way your hand felt small in his when you weren't paying attention.

and now you were beneath him, grinding against him like you were trying to undo him, and you didn't even know. you were just playing. just trying to win some stupid game.

but for him, this was everything he'd never let himself have.

he swallowed hard.

"you think i give a shit?" his voice came out low, rough, but underneath it—soft. vulnerable in a way he rarely let himself sound. "i don't care if you're trying to get me to tap." his breath hitched as you shifted again. "it’s not—fuck—it's not gonna work."

he held himself still above you, every muscle coiled tight, his forehead nearly pressed to the back of your head.

"i can do this all day," he repeated, but the words came out broken, like he was trying to convince himself more than you.

you should have stopped. you knew you should have stopped. the game had changed, shifted into something heavier, something that made your skin prickle with awareness. but his voice—that soft, rough edge to it—sent a thrill through you that you couldn't name.

so you didn't stop.

you rolled your hips again, slow and deep, and you heard him choke on a breath above you.

"eds," you whispered, and there was no teasing in it now—just curiosity, just heat. "you sure you're okay?"

he let out a breathless laugh, shaky and raw.

"no," he said, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "i’m really, really not."

the sound of his voice—that broken, breathless confession—settled somewhere deep in your chest, warm and electric. it made you bold. made you reckless.

you moved again.

harder this time. slower, deeper, rolling your hips back against him with deliberate pressure, no longer pretending to search for escape. your body pressed flush against his, the friction sending a shock of heat through your veins. you felt him twitch against you, felt the sharp intake of breath that followed, and something dark and hungry unfurled in your stomach.

a low groan rumbled from his chest. it was guttural, involuntary, the kind of sound that seemed to surprise even him. his forehead dropped to the back of your head, his breath hot and uneven against your hair.

"oh, fuck," he breathed, the words barely audible, more air than sound.

you didn't stop.

you rolled your hips again, slower this time, letting the movement drag out until you could feel every inch of the contact. the denim of his jeans was rough against the thin fabric of your shorts, and the friction was maddening—not enough, never enough, but enough to make your pulse hammer in your throat.

his hands were still on your wrists, but his grip had gone slack. he wasn't holding you anymore. he was just... there. braces above you, trembling, his whole body taut as a drawn bowstring.

another roll of your hips. slower. harder.

his breath stuttered. a soft, broken sound escaped his lips—half groan, half whimper—and it sent a jolt straight through you. you felt it in your chest, in your stomach, in the space between your thighs. your skin flushed hot, your own breathing growing shallow.

you hadn't expected this. hadn’t expected him to sound like that. hadn’t expected the way it would make you feel—powerful, yeah, but also desperate. hungry in a way you didn't have words for.

you arched your back slightly, pressing your hips more firmly against him, and the sound he made in response was almost too much. a strained, shuddering exhale that turned into a low, guttural moan. his hips twitched involuntarily, pressing back against you, and you felt the hard length of him through the layers of fabric.

he was losing control.

you could feel it in the way his breathing had gone ragged, in the way his body shuddered against yours, in the way his fingers curled weakly around your wrists like he was holding on to the last shred of his composure.

you moved again—a slow, grinding circle of your hips that made his breath catch and then release in a shaky, desperate groan.

"jesus christ," he whispered, the word cracking at the edges. his voice was wrecked. hoarse. barely recognizable.

your body responded before your mind could catch up. a soft, breathy sound escaped your lips, and you felt your cheeks flush with heat. you were getting wet. you could feel it—a slick, growing warmth between your thighs that made the friction of your movements even more maddening.

you wanted more.

you shifted your hips, angling yourself differently, and when you rolled back against him this time, the pressure was perfect. the seam of your shorts pressed against you just right, and a small gasp escaped your lips.

eddie heard it.

his whole body went still for a moment, and then he let out a sound that was almost wounded—a low, desperate groan that vibrated through his chest and into your back. his hips moved against yours, grinding back in a slow, instinctual rhythm, and the feeling of him moving with you sent a shudder through your entire body.

your breath came faster now. your skin was hot, flushed, sensitive to every brush of fabric, every shift of his weight above you. you could feel the heat of his body radiating against your back, could smell the faint, familiar scent of him—cigarette smoke and worn leather and something warmer underneath.

his mouth found the curve of your shoulder.

it was tentative at first, just the brush of his lips against your skin, featherlight. but then you rolled your hips again, and his breath hitched, and his lips parted. his mouth pressed open against your shoulder, hot and wet, and you felt the faint graze of his teeth.

a shiver ran through you.

he did it again—his lips dragging across your skin, his breath hot and uneven. his hips moved with yours now, matching your rhythm, grinding against you in a slow, torturous push and pull that made your head spin.

his breathing was loud in your ear, ragged and uneven, punctuated by soft, helpless sounds that he couldn't seem to suppress. a groan here. a shuddering exhale there. a whispered curse that dissolved into a moan as you pressed back against him harder.

you were both moving now. no pretense. no game. just the slow, grinding rhythm of your bodies, the heat building between you, the sounds of his breathing filling the quiet room.

his hand moved.

it happened slowly—his fingers loosening around your wrist, sliding down your arm, trailing across your skin with a featherlight touch that made you shiver. his palm came to rest on your hip, his fingers curling against the curve of your waist.

he didn't pull you. didn’t guide you. he just... held you. like he needed something to hold onto.

his thumb traced a slow, absent circle against your hip bone, and the tenderness of the gesture, in the midst of all this heat, made your breath catch.

he pressed his forehead to the back of your head again, his breathing ragged, his body shuddering against yours.

"fuck," he breathed again, the word barely audible, wrecked and raw and reverent all at once.

you rolled your hips in response, slow and deep, and felt his whole body tense. his fingers dug into your hip, his breath caught in his throat, and a low, shuddering moan escaped him—longer than the others, more desperate, more broken.

he was completely lost in you.

and the sound of it—the feeling of him falling apart against you—was turning you on more than you had ever expected.

the shift in rhythm was subtle at first—a slight increase in the roll of your hips, a little more pressure as you ground back against him. but eddie felt it immediately. his breath stuttered, a soft, strangled sound catching in his throat.

you did it again. faster this time. harder.

his hips jerked in response, meeting your movements with a desperate, uncoordinated thrust. his hands found your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

"god," he breathed, the word barely a whisper, lost in the space between your bodies.

you moved faster. harder. the rhythm of your hips grew urgent, driven by something primal and hungry that coiled low in your stomach. the friction was maddening—rough denim and thin cotton, the heat of his body searing through the layers, the sound of his ragged breathing filling the room.

his eyes were shut.

you could feel it in the way his body moved against yours—blind, instinctual, lost. his brow was pressed to the back of your head, his lips parted, his breath hot and uneven against your scalp. his mind was blank. empty of everything except the feeling of you moving against him.

god, she feels so good.

the thought surfaced and drowned in the heat flooding his senses. he couldn't think. couldn’t form words. all he could do was feel—the slow, torturous grind of your hips, the soft sounds you made, the way your body fit against his like it was made for him.

he had imagined this before. late at night, alone in his van, when his mind wandered to places it shouldn't. he had pictured your hands on him, your mouth, your body pressed against his. but he had never let himself believe it could actually happen. you were too good for him. too bright. too far out of his reach.

but you were here. moving against him. making him feel things he didn't have words for.

and he was in love with you.

the thought hit him like a freight train, sharp and undeniable, and it made everything worse. made the ache deeper. made the heat in his blood burn hotter. because it wasn't just physical—it had never been just physical. every roll of your hips, every soft sound you made, every brush of your skin against his—it all meant something more to him.

his breathing grew ragged. shallow. his chest heaved against your back, and a low, desperate groan escaped his lips—louder than before, raw and unguarded.

your hips moved faster, grinding harder, and he felt himself losing the last thread of control.

“fuck," he gasped, the word cracking. "fuck, sweetheart—"

his hips bucked against you, chasing the friction, chasing the heat. his fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise, and he couldn't bring himself to care. all he could think about was you. the way you felt. the way you moved. the way you were unraveling him piece by piece.

i’m gonna—

the thought came too late.

his body tensed. his breath caught. and then it hit him—a wave of heat that crashed through him without warning, pulling a loud, broken moan from his lips. his hips jerked against you once, twice, as he spilled into his jeans, the release sudden and overwhelming and completely beyond his control.

he gasped. panted. his body shuddered through the aftershocks, his forehead pressed hard against the back of your head, his hands trembling against your hips.

for a long moment, neither of you moved.

the only sound was his ragged breathing, loud in the quiet room, slowly evening out as the haze began to clear.

then his lips found your shoulder again.

soft, open-mouthed kisses, warm and trembling, trailing across your skin. he wasn't thinking. he was just... feeling. trying to ground himself. trying to remember how to breathe. his lips pressed against the curve of your shoulder, the slope of your neck, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing the taste of your skin.

but then you moved.

in a flash, you twisted beneath him, your body rolling with sudden, fluid grace. he barely had time to register the shift before you were on top of him, your knees bracketing his hips, your hands pressing his shoulders down against the mattress.

he stared up at you, wide-eyed, chest still heaving. a beat of silence. then a low, breathless laugh escaped his lips.

"you’re kidding me," he said, his voice still wrecked, still rough around the edges.

you pressed down harder, and he groaned—a soft, defeated sound that melted into another laugh.

"fine. fine." he raised his hands, palms open, and tapped twice against the mattress. "i tap. you win. congratulations, you defeated me, you little shit."

a grin spread across your face, bright and victorious. but there was a glint in your eyes. a question.

"did you just... come in your pants?"

his face flushed red.

he let his head fall back against the pillow, one hand dragging down his face.

"jesus christ," he muttered, his voice muffled behind his palm.

you raised an eyebrow, waiting.

he groaned. long and dramatic and full of self-pity. then he let his hand drop, staring up at the ceiling like he was praying for the floor to swallow him whole.

"yeah," he said, the word clipped and frustrated. "yeah, i did. i fucking came in my pants. you happy now?"

a laugh bubbled out of you—bright and genuine, not mocking, but warm. surprised.

"i didn't even do that much," you said, your voice teasing, but soft.

eddie’s eyes finally met yours. there was something in them—something raw and unguarded, something that made your laughter fade at the edges.

"yeah," he said quietly. "you did."

the words hung in the air between you, heavier than they should have been. he meant more than he was saying. you could feel it in the way his gaze held yours, in the way his chest was still rising and falling too fast, in the way his hands had come to rest on your thighs—not pushing, not pulling. just... holding.

but you laughed it off, shaking your head, rolling your eyes with playful affection.

"guess i’m just that good."

the grin returned to his face, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. he was still looking at you like you were something he couldn't quite believe was real.

"yeah," he said again, softer this time. "i guess you are."

eddie’s eyes searched yours.

he told himself he was just looking. that he was just waiting for your next move, reading your body language, trying to figure out what you were going to do next. that’s all it was. just strategy.

but it wasn't.

he was looking for something else. some flicker of warmth, some crack in the playful facade that would tell him you felt even a fraction of what he felt. some sign that this meant more to you than just a game. some hint that you saw him—not just eddie the freak, not just eddie the dealer, not just eddie the guy who was convenient and willing and pressed against you in the morning.

but there was nothing.

your eyes were bright with mischief, sparkling with the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of winning. there was heat there, sure—a lazy, satisfied kind of desire that told him you were enjoying this. but it was surface-level. fun. a game you were playing because you could, because he was letting you, because it was easy and exciting and meant nothing the next day.

something in his chest cracked, just a little.

he looked away.

the ceiling was suddenly very interesting. water stains. a crack running from the corner to the light fixture. he focused on that instead of the weight of you on his hips, the warmth of your thighs bracketing his waist, the way his heart was pounding in his throat.

"wasn’t fair though," he said, forcing his voice into something lighter, something that sounded like him. "you grinding your ass up against me like that. pretty sure it's cheating."

you rolled your eyes, and he could feel the movement, could feel the shift of your weight as you adjusted above him. "i still won. plus you weren't really in a rush to stop me."

he snorted. "yeah, well. i was being polite. didn’t wanna hurt your feelings."

"uh huh. very chivalrous of you."

"i am a gentleman."

"you came in your pants."

"gentleman," he repeated, louder, and you laughed.

the sound did something to him. made the crack in his chest spread a little wider. he wanted to bottle it. keep it. listen to it on repeat in the lonely hours of the night when he was alone in his van, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell he was doing with his life.

but he didn't say that. he just grinned, letting the banter carry him, letting it be enough.

"rematch," you said, and before he could respond, you were moving.

this time, you were faster. smarter. you caught him off guard, your body twisting with practiced ease, and suddenly your legs were around his head again, your thighs pressing against his ears, and he was trapped.

"jesus christ—"

he struggled, but half-heartedly. his hands came up to grip your thighs, but he wasn't pushing. he was holding. his breath was warm against the inside of your leg, and he could feel the heat of you through your shorts, could smell the faint scent of your skin, could feel the way your body settled against his with comfortable familiarity.

but you didn't stop there.

you shifted. adjusted. your hips lowered, and suddenly you were positioned differently—not just holding him, but using him. your weight settled lower, and he felt the damp spot there, still cooling, still embarrassing.

your mouth found it.

"oh, fuckkk—"

he groaned, loud and broken, his hips bucking up instinctively as your lips pressed against the wet denim. the fabric was rough against your mouth, but beneath it, he was sensitive, aching, still trembling from the aftershocks of his release.

"fuck, this again?" he gasped, his voice muffled between your thighs.

you paused, just barely. your lips ghosted over the damp spot, and he could feel your smile against the denim.

"want me to stop?"

he knew what you were doing. you were giving him an out. a chance to say no, to retreat, to save whatever shred of dignity he had left.

but he didn't want an out.

he wanted you.

“no," he said, the word coming out rough and desperate. "don’t—don't stop."

your hands found the button of his jeans. the zipper. the sound of it lowering was loud in the quiet room, and eddie’s breath caught in his throat. he stared up at the ceiling, at the water stains, at the crack in the corner, and tried to remember how to breathe.

you pulled the denim open. his boxers were visible now—dark blue, damp in the center, clinging to him. he was half-hard again, stirred by the friction, by the heat of your mouth through the fabric, by the sheer overwhelming reality of you.

your tongue touched him through the cotton.

he moaned—a sound he couldn't control, couldn't hold back, couldn't disguise. it was raw and desperate and full of everything he was trying not to feel.

his hands found your thighs again, gripping tight, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

don’t feel this. don’t feel this. don’t feel this.

but he did.

he felt everything.

the wet heat of your mouth through the thin fabric. the slow, deliberate drag of your tongue along his length. the way you explored him like he was something to be savored, something to be learned. the way your breath ghosted over him between licks, cooling the spots where your mouth had been. you were basically cleaning up his release.

his chest rose and fell in uneven rhythms, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. his hands trembled against your thighs, and he couldn't tell if he was trying to push you away or pull you closer.

"f-fuck," he stammered, his voice cracking. "do whatever you want to me. i’m still not gonna t-tap again."

you laughed against him—a soft, warm sound that vibrated through the cotton and made his hips jerk.

"we’ll see about that," you murmured. “you’re pretty easy to manipulate.”

eddie groaned softly as you licked him again. “s-shit, can you just put it in your mouth already?”

you hummed against him. “that’s not something a gentleman would say, eds.”

“i don’t care,” he panted. “just… please. just put my cock in your pretty mouth, please. instead of just… eating the come while you clean me off.”

you paused, a small smile forming at your lips. “you think my mouth’s pretty?”

he swallowed hard, realizing he had to be careful with his words if he was gonna keep this up.

“y-yeah. i think you’re pretty,” he failed immediately. “whatever. come on, just suck my—“

and then your fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers.

he lifted his hips without thinking, helping you, letting you. the fabric slid down, and then he was exposed—hard and aching and damp with his own want. the air was cool against his skin, but your mouth was warm, and when you kissed him there—soft, almost tender—he thought he might die.

"fuck," he breathed, the word barely a whisper.

you kissed him again. slower this time. your lips pressed against the head of his cock, gentle and deliberate, like you had all the time in the world. like you wanted to memorize the shape of him, the taste of him, the way he gasped and trembled beneath you.

and then your tongue.

a slow, flat stroke from base to tip, and his whole body arched. a desperate, broken sound tore from his throat, and his fingers dug into your thighs hard enough to leave marks.

you gave him more.

your mouth closed around him, warm and wet and perfect, and he felt his mind go blank. there was nothing but you—the feel of your lips, the stroke of your tongue, the way your throat relaxed to take him deeper. his hands slid from your thighs to your hair, fingers threading through the strands, not pulling, just... holding.

he was panting. moaning. muttering your name like a prayer, like a plea, like a confession.

"god, you—" his voice broke. "you feel so good.”

suddenly an idea popped into eddie’s head.

he arched his back deliberately, letting out a guttural moan that echoed through the small bedroom.

“fuuuuck, sweetheart. just like that. you’re gonna make me come again. right in that pretty mouth of yours—god..." his words were calculated, designed to throw you off your game while his hands gripped your thighs tighter.

you continued your work, taking him deeper as your tongue swirled around the sensitive head. your own arousal was building from the power dynamic, from having him completely at your mercy beneath you. but you weren't expecting what happened next.

the moment your mouth finally released him with a soft pop, replacing it with your hand stroking his length firmly, eddie moved. fast and decisive. in one fluid motion, he flipped both of you over, breaking free from your triangle hold with surprising strength fueled by adrenaline and arousal.

before you could process what was happening, you found yourself bent over his knee, your stomach pressed against his thigh, your ass raised high in the air. your hands braced against the mattress, steadying yourself as shock rippled through your body.

"what the fuck, eds—"

"yeah, right," eddie growled, his voice dripping with dark amusement as he positioned himself behind you. one strong arm wrapped around your waist, holding you securely in place while his other hand hooked into the waistband of your shorts. "thought you were gonna get me again, huh?" he yanked your shorts down roughly, the fabric sliding past your hips and pooling around your knees along with your panties, leaving your lower half completely exposed to him.

his eyes darkened as he took in the sight before him—the curve of your ass, the glisten of moisture coating your inner thighs, the way your body trembled with anticipation and surprise. "holy shit," he breathed, his hand trailing possessively over the smooth skin of your rear. "look at you. all that just from teasing me, huh?"

"you’re such a good little slut for me, aren't you?" his thumb circled your entrance teasingly, feeling how wet you actually were. a low groan escaped him at the discovery. "this is what you wanted, wasn't it? to get me so worked up i couldn't think straight?"

the sharp crack of his palm against your bare flesh sent a jolt of sensation racing up your spine. you gasped, your fingers curling tightly into the rumpled sheets beneath you as the sting bloomed across your skin. a full-bodied shudder ran through you, and you whimpered—a sound that was equal parts pain and desperate need.

"eddie..."

hearing his name on your lips did something to him. something beyond the physical. the sight of you bent over his knee, your back arching involuntarily, your thighs trembling, your skin flushed pink wherever he'd touched—it hit him somewhere deep. like a punch directly to his heart.

"yeah? you like that, sweet girl?" his voice was rough and low, vibrating with barely restrained desire. his thumb traced slow circles over the reddened spot on your ass, soothing and tormenting in equal measure. "if you tap, i’ll play with you. i’ll make you feel reeealll good, i promise."

he gave you a moment to consider it. his hand rested warm and heavy on your hip, his fingers digging in just enough to remind you exactly who was in control now.

but you didn't tap.

of course you didn't. because you were competitive. because tapping meant admitting defeat. and you'd rather burn than give him the satisfaction.

eddie noticed. a slow, knowing grin spread across his face as he read your silence loud and clear.

"that’s what i thought," he murmured, his voice dropping into something darker. possessive. "my stubborn girl."

his hand lifted, hovering in the air for one agonizing second—letting you anticipate, letting the anticipation build to almost unbearable levels—before his palm came down again with a firm, resounding smack against your other cheek.

"ah—!" the moan tore from your throat before you could stop it. your hips bucked involuntarily, pushing back against him in a way that was entirely contradictory to your attempt at maintaining composure. your walls clenched around nothing, your body betraying every ounce of defiance your mind was trying to cling to.

"there we go," eddie praised, his voice thick with satisfaction. his free hand slid between your legs, his fingers parting your slick folds with ease.

the sensation of his finger dipping into your heat was overwhelming, a sudden intrusion that made your breath hitch violently. he didn't rush; instead, he used his fingertip to circle your entrance, dragging through the thick, honeyed slickness he’d already observed. the sound of his movements—the wet, rhythmic sliding of skin against skin—was deafening in the quiet of the trailer.

"god, look at you," eddie groaned, his voice cracking with a primal sort of hunger. “you're fucking drowning in it, sweetheart. absolutely soaked. every time i touch you, you just... you melt."

he pushed a single finger inside, testing your tightness, and you let out a broken, high-pitched whimper that sounded nothing like your usual self. you tried to keep your jaw clenched, tried to maintain some semblance of that stubborn pride, but your body was a traitor. your hips were practically begging for him to fill the void, tilting back toward him instinctively.

"all you gotta do is tap, sweetheart," he whispered, “just one little tap and i’ll play with you. i’ll give you exactly what you’re aching for. you think i don’t know how much you want this? i’ve known you for so long, i’ve picked up a thing or two about what makes you lose your mind."

he pulled his finger out almost entirely, only to drive it back in deeper, pushing past the initial resistance until he hit that sweet spot that made your eyes roll back in your head.

"mmmgh—eddie, please—"

“please what?" he mocked softly, though his breathing was coming in ragged, heavy bursts now. he was losing his own battle with control, his cock twitching rhythmically. "tell me what you want. tell me you can't take it anymore. tell me you're ready to tap."

despite the mounting tension, you still didn't tap. you clung to the sheets, your knuckles white, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps as you fought the urge to give in.

eddie let out a low, dark chuckle. "still no, huh? you’re really going to make me edge you? it’s just one little tap, baby."

the nickname hit you like a physical wave. the word 'baby'—spoken in that specific, low register—sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core, causing your internal muscles to clench tightly around his fingers. eddie groaned softly as he felt the sudden, desperate grip of your walls. it turned him on viciously, but it also made his heart clench with an intensity that terrified him. the raw intimacy of it, the way you reacted to him, made him want to make you feel good.

"yeah, you like it when i call you that, baby? fuck, you look so pretty like this. come here."

he shifted his weight, leaning over you more aggressively. he didn't let go of your heat, but he reached around, pressing his thumb firmly against your lips. you didn't hesitate; you leaned into it, sucking on his thumb with a desperate hunger, your whimpers muffled and wet against his skin.

"yeah, suck on that, sweet girl. drool on it if you want to," he groaned, his voice sounding strained, almost pained. "just take it. take everything i’ve got."

his fingers inside you shifted gears, moving from a slow tease to a rough, demanding pace. he was driving into you now, hitting that precise spot over and over again, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of a cliff. he could feel your body shaking, your breath hitching in a way that told him you were seconds away from shattering.

eddie pulled his thumb from your mouth. before you could even gasp for air, he slid his hand down, pressing that same thumb directly onto your swollen, hypersensitive clit. he began to rub in a fast, relentless rhythm, perfectly synchronized with the rough pace of his fingers inside you.

the dual stimulation was too much. your head snapped back, a loud, broken cry escaping your throat as the world dissolved into white noise and pure, blinding pleasure.

as waves of pleasure crashed over you, eddie kept up the relentless pressure. his fingers curled inside you, grinding against that perfect spot while his thumb circled your clit in tight, deliberate motions that had you seeing stars.

“come on, baby, you're so close, aren't you?" he taunted, his voice a mix of dark amusement and genuine wonder. he leaned down, pressing his forehead against your shoulder blade, breathing heavily. "so fucking close to coming, huh? your wet, sloppy pussy's just aching to come, yeah? not until you tap though."

he punctuated his words with another sharp slap to your ass. the sting shot through the pleasure, intensifying it to an almost painful degree. you cried out, your whole body convulsing as a second orgasm threatened to tear you apart.

"c’mon, tap. i tapped for you earlier, baby," he murmured, his voice shifting into something sweeter, almost tender despite the cruel teasing. his thumb slowed its rhythm, becoming gentler as he coaxed you. "don’t you want to come? don’t you want to come for me?"

he knew you were fighting it. could feel the tension in your muscles as you battled against your own body's demands. it was infuriating and beautiful all at once. his heart swelled with something far deeper than simple lust.

"just one tap, sweetheart. give in. let me win this round," he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear.

“please... eddie... please, i can't..." you managed to choke out, your voice cracking. you tried to pull away, to find some relief, but his hand on your hip was an anchor, keeping you pinned exactly where he wanted you. "let me... just let me come, please!"

eddie’s grip tightened. he didn't relent; if anything, he increased the pressure, his fingers curling deeper, driving into you with a newfound, predatory urgency.

"no, baby, not yet," he purred, the teasing sweetness still there mixed with raw, commanding hunger. "don’t fucking come until i tell you to. you gotta tap."

"you’re... you're such a dick!" you sobbed out, a mixture of a laugh and a cry. you hated how much you loved this. you hated that even through the haze of ecstasy, your pride was still standing, stubborn and ridiculous. "fuck, i hate you, eddie!"

"yeah? you hate me?" his thumb worked your clit with a frantic, punishing speed that made your hips buck uncontrollably. "is that right? no, you don't hate me, sweetheart. you love—“ he paused. “…this. you love being told what to do by me, don’t you?”

he leaned down, his teeth grazing the nape of your neck, leaving a mark that made you whimper.

"yeah? you’d rather i just edge you like that?" he taunted, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register that sent a fresh chill of arousal down your spine. "just drill that fucking pussy with my fingers? is that what you want? guess i should just fuck you then, huh? i’ll flip you over, pin you down, and pound you until you can't even remember your own name, let alone how to be stubborn."

the mental image was too much. your breath hitched, your lungs feeling too small for the air you were trying to pull in.

eddie’s gaze was unwavering; he watched every tremor of your muscles, every frantic roll of your eyes, looking for any sign of surrender. but even as his lust burned white-hot, a deep, aching pang of longing throbbed in his chest. he didn't just want to conquer your body. he wanted to pull you into his arms and kiss you until neither of you could breathe, to tell you everything he had been hiding behind jokes and hair-ruffling for years.

“yeah," he breathed, his voice a jagged edge of desire. "i’m gonna pump that pussy full of come. is that what you want, baby? to feel me inside you, filling you up?"

you were a broken, moaning mess. your protests had dissolved into incoherent pleas, your pride finally buckling under the sheer weight of the sensation. you were hovering on the precipice, your entire being vibrating with the need to shatter, but eddie was a master of torment. every time you reached for the peak, he shifted his rhythm, pulling back just enough to leave you gasping and empty.

suddenly, the friction stopped. the sudden absence of his fingers felt like a physical wound.

before you could even find your breath to protest, eddie moved. with a surge of strength that caught you off guard, he gripped your hips and flipped you over. you landed hard against the mattress, your legs falling open instinctively, your chest heaving as you stared up at him through a veil of damp hair.

he didn't care about the game anymore. the competition, the tapping, the teasing—it had all been burned away by a sudden, primal necessity. he needed to be in you.

eddie hovered over you, his eyes dark and hooded, looking like a man possessed. he guided himself to your entrance, the tip of his cock brushing against your slick, swollen folds. he paused for a heartbeat, his muscles trembling with the effort of restraint.

then, with one heavy, decisive thrust, he drove himself home.

"oh god—oh god, fuck," he groaned, the sound tearing from his lungs as he buried himself deep within you. the sensation of your tight, pulsing heat swallowing him whole was almost more than he could bear.

your hand immediately found his arm, fingers digging into the taut muscle of his bicep as you tilted your head back against the pillow. the sensation of him stretching you, filling you completely, sent sparks cascading behind your eyelids. a raw, guttural moan escaped your lips, his name tumbling from them without thought.

"oh fuck, eddie, you feel so good..."

the praise hit him like a freight train. his cock twitched inside you, swelling thicker as a shudder rolled through his entire body. the way you looked beneath him—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, cheeks flushed crimson, your nails leaving crescent marks in his skin—it was beautiful. devastating. everything he'd ever wanted and more.

it wasn't just the sex; it was the fact that it was you. hearing you worship him, feeling your hands clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth, sent a wave of possessive, overwhelming love through him.

"yeah?" he panted, his hips finding a slow, rolling rhythm as he settled into the depth of you. "that feel good for you, baby? take that cock, sweet girl, take it all in." his voice was reverent, almost worshipful, despite the crude words. one hand slid under your lower back, arching you slightly, changing the angle just enough to make you gasp.

he began to move. slowly at first, savoring the feel of you wrapped around him like a glove, then gradually building momentum. each thrust was deliberate, deep, pushing to the hilt before withdrawing almost all the way, only to slam back inside with a force that made the bed creak in protest. the wet, obscene sounds of their bodies meeting filled the trailer alongside your cries.

"hold onto me," he grunted, his pace quickening. "don’t let go, okay? not... not ever."

your legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper, and eddie’s control fractured further. he buried his face against your neck, breathing you in while kissing at the skin—taking in the scent of sweat mixed with your perfume—as his hips pistoned into you with increasing desperation.

"i’m not gonna last," he admitted as he pulled back, his voice cracking. "not without you. come with me, baby, please. you’ve been so good. you can come now."

as your moans grew louder, more desperate, eddie’s gaze flickered downward. for a split second, he looked at your lips—swollen and parted and glistening—and something in his expression shifted. raw vulnerability flickered across his features before he masked it with another thrust.

you noticed.

"what, y-you wanna—fuck—kiss me, eds?"

you couldn't help yourself. even now, even with his cock driving into you and your entire world dissolving into sensation, you had to tease him. had to push him just a little further.

he swallowed hard, his gaze never leaving yours. he saw the desire, the need reflected in your eyes, and suddenly, the longing that had been building beneath the physical urgency erupted. it was a desperate bid to bridge the gap between the physical act and the soul-deep connection he craved.

he closed the distance in an instant. his mouth crashed onto yours—deep, messy, and passionate. it was hungry, a furious expression of every moment of wanting, every unspoken feeling that had coiled inside him for so long. he kissed you with the ferocity of a man who was pouring every ounce of his love and longing into that kiss, trying to communicate everything he couldn't say aloud.

your initial surprise melted away instantly, replaced by a reciprocal fire.

as you met his mouth with a desperate, frantic hunger, your movements were driven by the sheer, overwhelming sensation of him—the friction, the heat, the primal urge to feel more, to lose yourself in the pleasure he was providing. you were chasing the peak, riding the wave of physical ecstasy that threatened to drown you.

but eddie... eddie was somewhere else entirely. every time his lips pressed against yours, it wasn't just about the sensation; it was almost like a prayer. he was trying to anchor himself to you even as the world blurred around the edges.

he broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches. his lips migrated from your mouth to your jawline, trailing hot, wet kisses down to the sensitive dip of your neck. his nipped at your skin, his teeth grazing you just enough to make you arch your back, his hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.

"come on, baby... come on my cock," he groaned against your skin, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that thrummed through your entire body. he found your clit again, his thumb working with a rhythmic, punishing precision that sent sparks flying behind your eyelids. "i got you, i got you. fuck, you look so pretty... you look so fucking beautiful..."

the praise, delivered with such raw, unadulterated devotion, was the final catalyst. your world fractured. a sharp, high-pitched cry escaped your throat as your muscles convulsed around him, the orgasm crashing over you in violent, delicious waves.

eddie let out a low, guttural groan, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as he felt you tremble beneath him. he didn't slow down; if anything, the feeling of you tightening around him drove him closer to the edge. "oh, fuck... atta girl. atta girl, you did so good," he murmured, his voice thick with pride and adoration. he peppered your neck with frantic, soothing kisses, trying to steady you even as his own control began to disintegrate.

his body continued its relentless, insistent rhythm, each thrust a testament to the building storm within him. his words were a low, husky promise, his voice scraping against your skin like a gentle rasp. "oh, i’m gonna come... gonna come inside you, baby, you want it? you want me to come in that wet little cunt of yours?"

your response was a desperate, whimpish nod, your voice barely audible over the thrumming of your pulse. "yeah, eds, i want it. give it to me." the words were a siren's call, beckoning him closer to the edge.

and then, in an instant, he was over it. a low, breathless groan escaped his lips as he came hard inside you, his body locking up in a spasm of release. soft curses and a string of muttered oaths accompanied the violent, shuddering convulsions of his climax.

“f-fuck, oh god, yeah…”

as you both panted, struggling to catch your breath, his gaze met yours in a fleeting, shining moment. his eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide with the aftermath of his orgasm, but beneath the haze of pleasure, a glimmer of something else lingered. something that looked almost like hope.

he kissed your shoulder as he leaned down, his lips tracing a soft, comforting path along the delicate curve of your skin. his hand rose to your hip, resting there lightly as if anchored to your very existence.

then your hand moved up to tangle itself in his damp curls, fingers threading through the long, wavy strands with a gentleness that made his heart ache.

to eddie, that gesture was everything. that simple, innocent touch told him more than any confession ever could. for one fragile, suspended moment, he allowed himself to believe—that maybe, just maybe, you saw him differently. that the connection he felt wasn't just one-sided.

but he knew better.

"come here," he whispered, his voice hoarse and tender. he tilted your chin up with careful fingers, guiding your lips toward his. the second kiss was a revelation compared to the first. softer. slower. still carrying the embers of the previous passion, but burning with something deeper—something patient and aching and brave all at once. his lips moved against yours with a reverence that bordered on worship, savoring every millimeter of contact.

you hummed against his mouth, and the sound made his chest tighten painfully.

don’t pull away. don’t pull away. don’t pull away.

he kissed you until neither of you could breathe, and then he kissed you some more.

but as you pulled back, a soft giggle slipped from your lips. eddie smiled softly, brushing your hair away from your face. “what?”

you shook your head, still a little breathless. “nothing. just… didn’t expect us to become fuck buddies, i guess.”

your words landed like a knife between his ribs. fuck buddies. two words that reduced everything he'd just experienced—the emotional nakedness, the quiet desperation in his own kisses—to something casual.

like it was something transactional

he kept his expression carefully neutral, but the muscle in his jaw tightened. he looked away, staring at the wall of his cramped bedroom as if it contained the answers to questions he was too afraid to ask. his thumb traced an absent circle against your hip, the motion mechanical now rather than intentional.

"yeah, me neither," he said quietly. too quietly. the words carried far less weight than the silence that surrounded them.

he expected this to happen, but it still pained him to hear how casual you were about it. he felt like an idiot for even letting himself hope.

you laughed lightly, and he forced a small smile, still not meeting your eyes. he could feel the shift between them—a subtle, imperceptible cooling, like a cloud passing over the sun. you probably didn't notice it. or maybe you did and simply didn't care.

he cleared his throat, disentangling himself slowly. the loss of contact was immediate and acute—like a phantom limb, he felt the absence of your warmth against his skin with painful clarity. he sat up on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his disheveled curls, trying to collect himself.

"so," he started, his voice settling back into its usual easy cadence—but something underneath it had shifted. a guard going back up. walls rebuilding brick by brick. "guess we should, uh... probably get breakfast or something."

he stood, stretching his tall frame, deliberately keeping his back turned to you. he needed a moment to compose himself—to push down the ache that was blooming in his chest like a bruise turning purple. he grabbed his boxers from the floor and pulled them on, the mundane act helping to ground him back in reality.

it’s fine. it’s just sex. just because you caught feelings doesn't mean she owes you anything.

he glanced over his shoulder, forcing that signature lazy grin. "unless you wanna stay in bed all day. i’m not complaining either way." the joke fell flat in his own ears, and he hoped you didn't hear it.

you didn't notice the flicker of pain in his eyes or the way his smile didn't quite reach them. as he sat back down, you simply leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the back of his shoulder. to you, it was a sweet gesture of affection; to eddie, it was a gentle twist of a knife, a reminder of how effortless this was for you while he was drowning in it.

“can’t. i gotta get home soon or my parents will freak,” you said, your voice light and cheerful. you stood up, grabbing your panties and shorts from the floor and tugging them on with a casualness that made his heart sink. eddie sat there, frozen, watching you with a longing so profound it felt physical. he traced the line of your silhouette, memorizing the way you looked in the morning light, knowing that the intimacy he’d just felt was a secret he would have to carry alone.

“fuck, where are my keys?” you asked, glancing around the room.

“probably on the dresser, sweetheart,” he answered softly, his voice lacking its usual theatrical energy.

you found them and let out a sigh of relief, stepping back into his space one last time to plant a quick, friendly kiss on his cheek. “thanks, eds. and thanks for… whatever this was,” you added with a little chuckle, the phrase 'whatever this was' echoing in his mind as a definitive label for their new arrangement. “i’ll see you later, yeah?”

you were already halfway to the door, your energy buzzing and untroubled. eddie just sat there, his shoulders slumping slightly as the silence of the room rushed back in to fill the void you left behind. he nodded, his gaze softening into something mournful.

“yeah,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “see ya.”

he waited until the sound of your footsteps faded and the door clicked shut before he let out a long, shaky breath. he sank back onto the bed, burying his face in his hands, the ghost of your scent still clinging to his skin and the crushing weight of an unrequited love settling heavily in his chest…

[madi-xx-digidiary]

[dearxeli]

idgaf, judge me all u want hoes

[enki2]

[berkeleygirl3]

[bigboysdrinkmilk]

Why is there a diarrhea parasite outbreak in America?

Because Donald Trump and his Republican allies cut funding to disease prevention and control.

Why is measles back in America?

Because Donald Trump and his Republican allies, including RFK Jr, cut vaccine and measles prevention funding and programs.

Why is the New World Screwworm infecting cattle in Texas, when it had previously been eliminated from the area?

Because Donald Trump and his Republican allies, including Elon Musk, cut USAID funding, which in part worked to monitor and prevent screwworm outbreaks.

Why was there a flu outbreak in our armed forces?

Because Donald Trump and his Republican allies, including Pete Hegseth, cut vaccination requirements for our armed forces, putting all of them at risk alongside our military readiness.

What contributed to the Covid outbreak?

Donald Trump and his Republican allies cut funding to a pandemic prevention program in his first term because Barack Obama had created it.

“America first” sends its regards. Trump voters, please learn your lesson. And if you don’t, it’ll be taught to you again with yet another diarrhea outbreak.

[bigboysdrinkmilk]

[urhoneycombwitch]

hey Lu what do you think eddies reaction would be if his shy gf asked him for a hug??

(Bc I had a very vivid eddie dream last night and all I want is an eddie hug 😢)

foreword: you've momentarily brought my writing back to life with this anon ty ever so much. here's shy!Reader and Eddie once again, I'm thinkin' earlier in the relationship when they're still sort of figuring it out. love you!!

cw: shy!Reader, overstimulation + introversion, can be read as autistic!R too, they pronouns used for R, Eddie is an understanding sweetheart, also... Tennessee accent makes an appearance, physical affection, the healing power of a well-timed hug <3

wc: <1k

shy!Reader x Eddie masterlist | no smut but mdni as ALWAYS!

Fuzzybrain, you’d called it. 

Once upon a time when you were searching for the right word to describe how it felt in your head after a big event, after a day like today of a summer picnic on the river with all the kids- you’d made up your own word for it.

Like the space between my ears just goes fuzzy and I can’t make myself feel anything, anymore. Fuzzybrain.

As if Eddie could’ve loved you any more than he possibly did already (max capacity, four-alarm fire type of love even then) you had to go and invent new words for your beautiful, perfect mind that didn’t need any explaining but fuck was he glad to have a reference.

A younger, earlier version of Eddie might’ve thought you were mad at him on the van ride home. 

Forehead leant against the passenger window, hands folded in your lap, not humming along to the radio like you usually do.

But Eddie knows you. Knows what this is. 

Fuzzybrain. That’s all. A bad case, it seems. 

Eddie can’t blame you at all. You both spent five whole hours talking and laughing and splashing around with the small army of teenagers today, made sure they were fed and hydrated and properly covered in a layer of suncream so no parents would complain during dropoff.

He doesn’t offer his hand to hold. Turns the knob of the music down until it’s less than background noise, and notices when the tight line of stress in your shoulders begins to ease the closer to home you get with nothing but the purr of the van.

Eddie acts as normal- if a bit quieter, gentler in his demeanor, like he’s opening the front door of his trailer for a world-renowned racehorse that’s run magnificently today and needs their rest. 

You slip off your shoes next to his boots and start towards the kitchen with a mild, blank expression (three sheets to the winds of overstimulation, as he once called this state of yours), until Eddie catches you by the back belt loop.

“Hold on a sec, sugar. You ain’t gettin’ in the kitchen all sun-drunk like you are- sit your rear end on that couch and pick up a book ‘r two.”

Eddie thrills when the joke of his thick-as-molasses country teasing earns him a dreamy, half-curve of smile before you obey. Tucking your feet up underneath yourself against the far corner of the couch and drawing a bookmarked library hardback into the comfort of your lap.

Eddie doesn’t think too much of it when you don’t talk for the next twenty minutes. 

He’s content to putter around in the kitchen, starting up a batch of Melvald’s finest boxed mac and cheese, chopping some veggies into sticks and arranging them in a bug-like fashion onto one large plate for you both to eat from (Who the hell said nutrition was for uncreative losers? No one in this house!)

The pasta is boiling and Eddie is standing in place, staring at the bubbling pot, rehearsing song lyrics in his head. 

The day has been so full of noise. He’s enjoying the quiet, too. 

There’s a low whirring from the overhead fan which is why he doesn’t hear you the first time, but when you say his name again- “Eddie-” he turns immediately, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, hey, sunshine. Food should be ready in five. Want me to get your other book from the van?”

You shake your head. Back and forth, slow, eyes trained on the tile flooring. “No. It’s… Can I have…?”

Your voice trails upwards like the question was asked in full but Eddie still doesn’t know what you want, guessing instead of asking, making a show of bringing the stick-bug-veggie plate into your sight.

“Hungry? His name’s Gerald. But don’t worry, he was made to be eaten. We can even say a prayer beforehand if it makes you feel better.”

There’s that quick, sweet smile again as your eyes lift from the plate back to his face, then somewhere past his ear as if it’s hard to look him in the eye while you talk. 

So softly it barely registers over the drone of the fan, your voice again. “Can I- can I have a hug?”

“Oh, shit.” The shock of the request makes Eddie fumble a bit, tilting Gerald at a dangerous angle until he has the good sense to replace the plate back to countertop. “Jesus. Of course you can. C’mere-”

Eddie was already opening his arms before his sentence was over, just as you were already stepping forwards into them. 

Your arms loop around his waist, while his engulf the entirety of your upper back. Warm palms spreading across your shoulders on either side. Your ear to his chest, his cheek to the crown of your head. 

It’s quiet again. Save for the fan. 

Eddie breathes deeply and feels you do the same. You smell like sunscreen and pine trees and somehow, inexplicably, like the wind around the lake itself.

You’ve always been magic like that. 

Eddie drops a kiss to your head. Rocks you ever so gently from side to side, feeling the rhythms of your heart and letting you guide the movement as you need. 

“Love you.” 

[swagird]

sickening…. give me 15 more of these

[crazycometspecular]

Royalty

[unbearable-swagger]

I will be like "I'm fine" and then another fucking event will occur

[swagird]

parents on a borderline separation isn’t what i had in mind but sure, i needed new lore anyways

[jamesdeanbby]

❝ 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐞𝐬 ❞ T.S & P.P ( the avengers tower ) pairing tony stark & peter parker & fem! teen! reader 🪽

synopsis 𖥧 your best friend, Peter, and you have been left alone for five days in the tower, when the big game comes back, they're looking at you two differently. specially Tony, why's that?

content 𖥧 fem/afab reader, teen reader, reader is peter's bff !!

💬 : i miss the Avengers' Tower era of fics... that was my golden era.. pls come back...

The scent of brown sugar and melted butter had become the official perfume of the common floor of Avengers Tower. For the past five days, it had been the only thing that made the vast, glass-walled space feel less like a mausoleum.

You and Peter had a system now. A rhythm born of necessity and a shared, bottomless well of anxiety that neither of you would ever admit to. The mission had been a Big One. The kind where Steve had used his ‘Captain America’ voice, the one that brooked no argument, and had looked at you and Peter with that specific, jaw-set expression that meant don’t even think about it.

So you hadn’t. You’d stayed. You’d watched the Quinjet disappear into a bruised-looking sky and then you’d turned to Peter, who had been shifting his weight from foot to foot, his brown eyes wide and already missing the action.

“Cookies?” you’d asked.

He’d let out a breath, a half-laugh. “Crumble cookies?”

It was your thing. When the world got too loud, or too quiet, or too them, you baked. You baked because it was a controlled chaos, a delicious alchemy that required your full attention. And Peter, your platonic soulmate, the other half of your two-person chaos gremlin unit, was always, always there to lick the spoon.

By day five, the tower had become a strange, suspended universe. You and Peter, tethered by FRIDAY’s calm, omnipresent voice, had fallen into a routine. Wake up, train (you’d only accidentally webbed FRIDAY’s primary sensor array twice), patrol the city in shifts for the small-time crooks who thought the Big Guns being away was an invitation, come back, do homework (Peter grumbling about Decathlon practice, you grumbling about AP Chemistry), and then… the kitchen.

It was your sanctuary. Your domain.

Today, you were going for aesthetic. The crumble cookies were a masterpiece in progress. You had the melted butter cooling in a Pyrex jug, a galaxy of brown and white sugar mounded in a bowl, and a constellation of chocolate chunks—dark, milk, and a few artisanal sea salt ones you’d found in the back of the pantry—waiting to be folded in.

“Okay, so, recipe says ‘lightly dusted with flour’,” Peter announced, his voice muffled as he peered at the tablet propped against the backsplash. A smudge of flour already dusted the bridge of his nose, a testament to his earlier, over-enthusiastic attempt to ‘help’ by sifting. “What does ‘lightly’ even mean? Is that, like, a feather-light tap, or a ‘I’m a ghost from a Victorian novel’ kind of dusting?”

“It means dusted so it looks pretty for Instagram, even though we’re not posting it,” you declared, rolling out the dough on the floured marble countertop. A puff of white powder rose, settling on your forearms and dusting the front of your oversized MIT hoodie—one of Tony’s you’d ‘borrowed’ months ago and never returned. “Aesthetic, Peter. The enemy is dry, crumbly dough. The goal is photogenic, magazine-cover crumbly dough.”

He grinned, that wide, infectious grin that could light up a black hole. “Yes, chef.” He hopped up onto the counter beside you, legs dangling, careful to keep his socked feet out of the flour drift. He was a study in contrasts—a Stark Industries t-shirt, sweats, and his web-shooters still strapped to his wrists out of habit.

This was it. This was your home. Not the glass walls, not the high-tech gym, not the rows of gleaming suits. It was this: golden hour sunlight slanting through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting you both in hues of amber and rose. It was the shared silence punctuated by the thump-thump of your rolling pin and Peter’s quiet humming of the ABBA song that had been stuck in his head for three days. It was the comfortable, electric hum of your friendship, a bond so deep it felt like a shared heartbeat.

“Okay, get the cutter,” you said, brushing a strand of hair from your face and succeeding only in adding a white streak to it. “The star-shaped one. It’s the most aesthetic.”

“The star-shaped one is also the one that leaves the most dough scraps for me to eat raw,” he pointed out, his eyes sparkling as he hopped off the counter to rummage through the drawer.

“I am aware of your ulterior motives, Parker. I’ve factored them into my aesthetic calculations.”

He returned with the star cutter, holding it aloft like a holy relic. “I love it when you talk cookie theory.”

You were just about to press the cutter into the dough, the moment frozen in a perfect bubble of golden light and shared contentment, when the sound hit.

It was a low, deep, mechanical hum that grew into a roar, shaking the glasses in the cabinets. The Quinjet. Returning.

You and Peter froze, your eyes meeting. For a second, there was pure, unadulterated relief—they were back. Then, a flash of nerves. You’d kept the tower standing, mostly. The city was still there. You hadn’t broken anything… major.

You abandoned the cookie cutter, wiping your floury hands on your jeans as you and Peter scrambled towards the bank of windows that overlooked the landing pad. The Quinjet descended, its landing struts touching down with a hiss of hydraulics.

“They’re back,” Peter breathed, a grin already splitting his face. But it wavered as the ramp lowered.

They looked… wrong.

They filed out like shadows, stripped of their usual post-mission adrenaline. Steve was first, his shield strapped to his back, his uniform torn at the shoulder. He moved with a weariness that had nothing to do with the physical, his face a mask of granite, but his eyes… his eyes were red-rimmed, haunted. Natasha followed, her movements precise as always, but there was a tightness around her mouth, a paleness to her face that no amount of makeup could hide. Thor, his cape dusty and torn, walked with his shoulders bowed, Mjolnir hanging heavy at his side. Clint brought up the rear, his quiver nearly empty, his gaze fixed on the ground.

And then there was Tony.

He was the last to descend. His suit was half-retracted, the faceplate up, revealing a face smudged with grease and grime. He looked ancient in that moment, every year he pretended he didn’t have carved into the lines around his eyes. His movements were stiff, mechanical, as if his joints were screaming in protest. He looked like he’d walked through hell and hadn’t found the energy to brush off the ashes.

Your heart clenched. Peter’s hand found yours, squeezing tight. The comfortable bubble of the kitchen popped, replaced by a cold dread.

But you were the welcome party. You were the sunshine brigade. It was your job.

“You’re back!” Peter called out, his voice a little too loud, a little too bright, but genuine. You tugged him towards the elevator bank, your feet carrying you forward even as your stomach churned.

“Great job out there!” you added, beaming with a wattage you hoped could cut through the exhaustion. “We missed you guys! We’re making cookies! Crumble cookies! And—and I did my AP Chem homework without even being asked, and we trained every day, and we didn’t break anything, not even the good china!”

You were babbling, you knew it, but the sight of them like this was unsettling. You were trying to fill the heavy silence with the lightness you and Peter always carried.

“We kept the crime rate down by, like, a solid twelve percent!” Peter chimed in, falling into step beside you. “Maybe fourteen! There was this guy trying to steal an ATM with a forklift—super original, right?—but we handled it. No casualties! Except the ATM. It was a goner.”

You reached the central living area just as the Avengers cleared the elevator. Steve managed a small, tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Natasha gave a short, sharp nod. Clint just looked at you both as if memorizing your faces.

But Tony.

Tony had stopped dead in the middle of the floor.

He was staring at you and Peter, his gaze so intense it felt like a physical weight. His eyes, bloodshot and weary, traced over you. The flour in your hair. Peter’s ABBA-humming lips. The matching smudges on your cheeks. The golden light that haloed you both. The star-shaped cookie cutter still clutched in Peter’s hand. The pure, unadulterated life that radiated from the two of you.

Something in his expression cracked. The armor he wore—not the metal one, the other one, the one made of sarcasm and bravado—splintered and fell away.

You saw the exact moment he made a decision. A physical loosening of his shoulders, a deep, shuddering breath that seemed to drag the weight of the world out with it. A whispered, “To hell with this,” that was more exhale than words.

He started walking towards you.

His gait was uneven, a slight limp you recognized as the one he got when the reactor housing was pinching a nerve in his back. He ignored it. He ignored Steve’s quiet, “Tony…” of warning. He ignored the lingering looks from the others.

He just walked until he reached you and Peter, who were standing side-by-side, frozen in a mix of joy and concern.

He didn’t say a word. He just reached out, his gauntleted hands closing around your upper arms and Peter’s, and he pulled. He pulled you both into him with a force that was surprisingly gentle, a desperate kind of carefulness.

It was a hug. But it was the hug.

He crushed you both against his chest, the cold metal of his half-retracted suit a shock against your cheek, but the heat of him underneath was searing. He wrapped his arms around you, one around each of you, so tightly you could feel the frantic, hummingbird beat of his heart against your ear. He tucked your heads under his chin, your faces pressing into the grimy, sweat-stained collar of his undershirt.

And then he kissed the top of Peter’s head, a firm, fierce press of his lips. Then yours. The same. A benediction. A claim. A prayer answered.

He just held you there.

You were too stunned to move for a second. Tony Stark was many things—brilliant, sarcastic, fiercely protective in a ‘I’ll build you a suit of armor’ kind of way—but he wasn’t usually this. This open. This raw. This present.

Peter, whose love language was physical touch written in neon lights, melted into the hug first. A small, surprised sound escaped him, something between a laugh and a sigh, and his arms came up to wrap around Tony’s waist, his face burying into his mentor’s shoulder.

You were a heartbeat behind, your own arms snaking around him. You could feel the tremors running through him, fine and almost imperceptible. You didn’t know what had happened. You didn’t know why he was holding you like he was trying to fuse you to his very bones.

But you didn’t need to know. Not right now.

Right now, all that mattered was the solid, trembling warmth of him, the smell of ozone and sweat and the familiar sandalwood of his cologne, and the way he was cradling the two of you like the most precious things in the universe.

You turned your head, your cheek pressed against his sternum. You caught Peter’s eye over Tony’s arm. His brows were knit together in confusion, but his eyes were shining with a kind of happy, bewildered light. He gave a tiny, minute shrug, his own silent question: What’s this about?

You gave a tiny shake of your head: I don’t know, but we’re not moving.

Behind Tony, the other Avengers had stopped. The heavy, haunted atmosphere had shifted. Steve had one hand pressed over his mouth, his eyes suspiciously bright. Natasha’s hand was on Clint’s arm, her grip tight, her expression softer than you’d ever seen it. Thor bowed his head, a single, enormous hand resting on Steve’s shoulder, a silent acknowledgment.

They knew.

They had all been in the grip of that mutant’s power. They had all seen things. Heard things. Felt things they would never un-feel.

For Tony, it had been you. And Peter. The hallucinations had been tailor-made for his greatest fear, the one that lived in the darkest, most sarcasm-proof part of his heart. He’d seen you suit up, too young, too reckless, trying to follow him into a fight you couldn’t win. He’d seen Peter, his kid, his brilliant, innocent, good kid, catch a blast meant for him. He’d held you both as you bled out in his arms, your eyes going dim, your hands going slack, your voices—those voices that filled his tower with laughter and ABBA songs and chatter about aesthetic crumble cookies—going silent. Forever.

For five days, he’d fought through hell with those images seared into his brain. Every explosion, every close call, his mind had superimposed your faces over the danger. He’d come back half-convinced he’d find a cold, empty tower. A note on the counter. Or worse, FRIDAY delivering the news he’d dreaded.

Instead, he’d found this.

Flour in your hair. A star-shaped cookie cutter. Golden light. Homework done. Nothing broken. The sweet, cloying scent of brown sugar and butter. His kids, his bright, beautiful, impossible kids, safe and whole and home.

He held you tighter, a low, shuddering breath escaping him. His fingers curled into the fabric of your hoodie—his hoodie—and into the back of Peter’s shirt, anchoring himself to the present, to the warmth of you both, to the simple, miraculous fact that you were here.

“Missed you guys,” he mumbled into your hair, his voice wrecked, a raw, gravelly thing that was nothing like his usual sardonic drawl. “So much.”

Peter sniffled, and you knew him well enough to know he was trying not to cry. “Missed you too, Mr. Stark. The tower is so boring without you. FRIDAY won’t even let us use the good waffle iron.”

A choked sound escaped Tony, something between a laugh and a sob. “Good. That thing’s a fire hazard.”

You just pressed yourself closer, letting your own relief flood through you. The tension you’d been carrying for five days, the fear you’d buried under cookie dough and patrols, dissolved. He was here. They were all here. And despite the exhaustion and the haunted looks, they were alive.

You didn’t know why he was hugging you like you were the only solid things in a world that had turned to quicksand. You didn’t know about the mutant, the hallucinations, the nightmares he’d fought through. You just knew that Tony Stark, who showed his love through inventions and witty banter and acts of service so grand they reshaped the world, was holding you and Peter in the middle of his filthy battle suit, kissing your foreheads, and shaking with a relief so profound it was tangible.

And that was enough.

The golden light had shifted, deepening to a richer, more profound orange. It painted the three of you in a tableau of warmth—the exhausted hero, his two flour-dusted kids, wrapped together in the middle of the living room, a silent, fierce act of love that said more than any words could.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity and no time at all, Tony’s grip loosened. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes moving from your face to Peter’s, then back again. His gaze was still raw, still too bright, but there was a steadiness there now, a quiet foundation of peace.

He reached up, with a hand that trembled only slightly, and wiped a smudge of flour from your cheek with his thumb. Then he did the same to Peter’s nose, a ghost of his usual smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’ve got… stuff,” he said, his voice still rough, but warming. “All over your faces. It’s a very… rustic look. Very artisanal.”

“We were making cookies,” you said softly, your voice finally finding its footing. “For you guys. For when you got back.”

“They’re crumble cookies,” Peter added, holding up the star cutter like a peace offering. “They’re gonna be super aesthetic.”

Tony stared at the star-shaped cutter for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he looked back at you, at Peter, at the kitchen behind you with its galaxy of ingredients and its mess of flour and its promise of something sweet and handmade.

“Yeah?” he said, his voice a low rumble. He cleared his throat, and you saw the mask of Iron Man, the one made of wit and deflection, start to slide back into place. But it was different now. It was thinner, more transparent. Underneath it, you could still see him. The real him. “Well, what are we standing around here for? I was promised cookies. And I better get the first one. I’m the one who just saved the world. Again. It’s in my contract. Clause 47, subsection B.”

He released you both fully, stepping back, and the sudden absence of his warmth was a physical shock. But he didn’t go far. He reached out, one hand landing on Peter’s shoulder, the other coming to rest on the back of your neck, a grounding, possessive touch.

He steered you both back towards the kitchen, towards the flour-dusted counter and the waiting dough. Behind you, you heard Steve let out a long, slow breath. “I’ll get the plates,” he said, his voice thick.

“I’ll get the milk,” Natasha added, her tone lighter than it had been a moment ago.

The tower was no longer a mausoleum. It was filling with the sounds of movement, of quiet words, of life returning. And at the center of it all was the kitchen, bathed in the last of the golden light, where Tony Stark stood with his hand on his kids, watching you press a star-shaped cutter into the dough, a small, unguarded, deeply relieved smile finally breaking through the exhaustion on his face.

This was home. And they were all finally, finally back in it.

[basicallydjo]

Jester!Eddie Munson doing everything in his power to flatter the princess without crossing the boundaries of your father, the king.

Jester!Eddie who wears his best motley in hopes to catch your eye every time he's called to the throne room.

Jester!Eddie who creates the perfect melodies to play on his lute for your family, hiding in little lyrics of his affection for you.

Jester!Eddie who almost lost his life under the power of your father because of a joke that didn't land the way he intended.

^ he was given a second chance if he was able to amuse you. He thought he was for sure a goner but when you laughed hysterically at his come-back, a little part of him thought- hoped it wasn't just because he was funny- but because you didn't want him to be executed.

Jester!Eddie practising his best material in his free time to make sure he's perfected every joke, song, story, even working on improvising and digs at the king he could use.

Jester!Eddie who notices small things about you, quirks, habits and the faces you make, thinking about how you are the most precious thing his cynical eyes have ever seen.

Jester!Eddie who watches from the window as you wander the gardens outside, taking note of the flowers you stop by the longest.

Jester!Eddie who doesn't notice your lingering stares.

Jester!Eddie whose attitude gets snappier when he overhears suitorships for you, wishing he was of a higher rank to even be considered.

Jester!Eddie who tells a story of how a beautiful princess falls in love for a lesser- a poverty man- a slave- an amuser- a fool, pouring his heart out in the tale, his heart crumbling apart when your entire family stumbles over laughing, curling over in their seats.

^ not even daring to look over at you- if he had, he would have found soft, almost confused- but compassionate eyes.

Jester!Eddie who falls apart when you risk touching his gloved hand, almost tenderly, whispering a compliment on his services, stuttering in response.

"I- i would do anything for you-r family...your highness"

You giggled softly, catching onto what he truly wanted to say.

[swagird]

ohmygodohmygodohmygod

[beasbrain]

I Pine, I Perish

description: a cutie lil fic where eddie is just completely obsessed with you. who knew all he needed to bring you two together was jason carver beating his ass?

pairing: yearning!eddie x you (fem!reader)

tags: yearning!eddie, protective!reader, eddie x reader, no y/n, reader insert, slow (ish) burn, first kiss, happy ending, fluff the house down boots, high school romance, so much fucking yearning, eddie's head over heels

WC: 4.5k

TW: bullying, violence, some smoochies

A/N: requested by @midgardian-rogue hope you enjoy!! sorry for the wait! life is kicking my behind. i haven't forgotten about you all. reblogs are always appreciated my loves<33 hope you all enjoy an ounce of some innocent fluff before final girl pt.2 bc......

People talked about love like it happened all at once. Like it was lightning. Like one look across a crowded room, and suddenly the rest of your life made sense.

Eddie Munson thought that was complete and utter bullshit.

Love wasn't lightning; it was erosion. The kind that wore you down one unnoticed glance at a time until one day you looked up and realized you'd built an entire religion around someone who didn't even know your favorite color.

Everyone knew you.

Not in the way they knew Jason Carver, Jason demanded attention. You never asked for it…it simply just followed you.

Teachers smiled a little wider when you answered questions. Freshmen gravitated toward you on the first day of school like frightened birds, somehow knowing you were safe.

It was infuriating. Not because Eddie disliked you. God, that would've made things so much easier, no. You were kind.

Genuinely, painfully, kind.

The kind of person who remembered birthdays without writing them down. The kind of beauty that had nothing to do with your face. Though...that certainly wasn't hurting anything.

You smiled with your whole body. Your shoulders, your eyes, even your laugh looked warm. Sometimes Eddie wondered if the sun waited for your permission before coming up. Which—

Jesus Christ.

See? This was exactly the problem. He couldn't even think about you without sounding like he'd swallowed a Hallmark card. He'd never even spoken to you. Well, not really.

Sure, there'd been little moments. A borrowed pencil sophomore year. A quiet "thank you" when he'd held a door open. Passing each other in the hallway enough times that nodding became an unspoken ritual.

But conversations? Actual conversations? Those belonged to people who lived on the same planet. You lived somewhere else entirely.

Some place made of honor roll certificates, volunteer hours, and Sunday mornings that probably smelled of pancakes instead of cigarette smoke.

Eddie had long since accepted that there were invisible lines running through Hawkins High. Athletes. Nerds. Burnouts. Band kids. Freaks. You somehow belonged to all of them, while he belonged to exactly one.

Hellfire. The trailer park. The people adults warned their children about. 

Wayne always said Eddie had expensive taste. Not in clothes or cars, but people.

"You always go lookin' at things that ain't yours to carry," Wayne had muttered once while Eddie admired an old cherry-red Gibson through a pawn shop window.

At the time, Eddie thought he meant guitars. Now he wasn't so sure. Because every morning, without meaning to, he'd find himself searching the parking lot before first bell. Just to see if your car was there.

And every afternoon, he'd linger exactly thirty seconds too long outside English because he knew your classroom was across the hall. Not enough to be obvious, just enough to catch one glimpse.

Then he'd spend the rest of the day pretending that was somehow enough, though it never was.

The thing about memories was that they lied. Or maybe they just... polished themselves over time.

Eddie couldn't remember what he'd eaten yesterday. Couldn't remember what movie he'd watched with Wayne the week before. But he remembered that afternoon, every stupid, humiliating second of it.

It had been almost exactly a year ago.

The last bell had rung, sending Hawkins High spilling into the hallways in a tidal wave of backpacks and locker doors slamming shut. Eddie had lingered by his locker, stuffing loose campaign notes into a folder while Gareth argued with Jeff about whether dragons were technically reptiles.

He never heard Jason coming. The locker door slammed shut before Eddie could grab it, the metal rattling loud enough to make nearby students jump.

"Well, if it isn't the freak."

Eddie sighed. "Christ, Carver. Don't you ever get tired?"

Jason leaned against the neighboring locker with that smug grin Eddie had grown to hate. Andy and Chance flanked him like loyal guard dogs, each wearing the same self-satisfied expression.

"Nah."

Jason reached out, flicking Eddie's shoulder with unnecessary force.

"I actually look forward to these little chats."

"I don't."

"Funny."

Another shove. Not enough to knock him down, but just enough to remind him who had thirty pounds and varsity sports behind him.

"You know," Jason continued loudly, making sure the people walking by could hear, "I heard you recruited another freshman into your little Satan club."

Eddie rolled his eyes. "You guys are really obsessed with us."

"Just looking out for the town."

Same script, different day. Eddie had learned years ago that fighting back only made it worse.

So he leaned against the lockers and waited for them to get bored. He almost missed the footsteps approaching.

"What are you doing?" Your voice wasn't loud.

Jason turned first. "So, this doesn't concern—"

"It concerns me now."

You stepped between passing students without the slightest hesitation, your backpack still hanging off one shoulder.

"Move."

Jason laughed. "Excuse me?"

"I said move."

Andy scoffed. "You serious?"

Without another word, you planted a hand square against Andy's chest and shoved him back just enough to force him away from Eddie. Not hard, but just enough to make it clear whose space he'd invaded.

Jason stared at you, his jaw tightening. "What the hell is your problem?"

"My problem?" you echoed. "Three against one seems pretty pathetic to me."

"We're talking."

"No." You folded your arms. "You were cornering him."

Jason took one step closer. "I'd be careful if I were you."

Eddie's stomach dropped.

But you didn't move. Hell, you didn't even blink.

Instead, one eyebrow lifted. "What?"

Your voice stayed infuriatingly calm. "You gonna hit a girl?"

Jason's expression hardened. "I didn't say—"

"No?" You tilted your head. "I mean... you've already got one thing in common with your father."

You paused, eyeing him up and down.

"It'd be a shame if you decided to copy the rest of his behavior too."

Jason's face went red. Not from embarrassment, but pure fury. The kind of fury that made his nostrils flare.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"No?" You shrugged. "Then prove me wrong."

For a moment...Eddie genuinely thought Jason might do it. Might shove you. Might yell. Might finally snap.

Instead, Jason looked around. He couldn't touch you, not here. Not with everyone looking.

Jason just clicked his tongue. "Whatever."

He shot Eddie one last glare. "You're not worth it."

Then to you, "Careful who you stick up for."

You smiled. "I'll keep that in mind."

Jason scoffed before turning on his heel. "C'mon."

Andy and Chance followed without another word.

Eddie realized he'd been holding his breath. "...Thanks."

You turned toward him. For a second, he thought you might say something profound. Something unforgettable.

Instead, you smiled; that warm, easy smile he'd only ever seen from across classrooms.

"Don't mention it." You adjusted your backpack. "See you around, Eddie."

Eddie? Not ‘Munson’? He thought. 

Then you just…walked away. Like standing up to Jason Carver was no bigger a deal than holding the door open for someone. Eddie watched until you disappeared around the corner.

He didn't realize Gareth had come back until someone elbowed his ribs. "Dude."

"Hm?"

"You okay?"

Eddie kept staring at the empty hallway. "...yeah."

A year later...Eddie could still tell you exactly where you'd been standing. Exactly what you were wearing. Exactly how your hand had looked when you shoved Andy away from him.

He'd spent three hundred and sixty-five days trying to convince himself it hadn't meant anything. That you would've done it for anybody. It was probably true. But God knows that didn’t help slow his crush on you down in the slightest. 

There was a reason Eddie loved the Hawkins Fall Flea Market. Sure, half the vendors were selling ceramic geese in tiny bonnets or dusty kitchenware that should've been thrown out sometime during the Nixon administration.

But every now and then...Someone's grandfather died, and suddenly there'd be a box full of first-edition fantasy novels.

Or vintage dice. Or a stack of Dragon magazines someone didn't realize were worth something. Treasure hunting. That's what Wayne always called it.

"You never know what you're gonna find."

Eddie had been elbow-deep in a cardboard box labeled COMIC BOOKS - 25¢ for nearly twenty minutes before giving up his search for anything remotely Dungeons & Dragons related.

No dice…literally.

With a dramatic sigh, he wandered farther down the rows of tents, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket as he smiled to himself. It wasn't exactly exciting, but it was comfortable.

He almost walked right past the record stand.

It was tucked between a vendor selling antique fishing lures and another covered in old comic strips and movie posters. Milk crates overflowed with vinyl records while wire racks displayed cassettes in crooked little rows.

Naturally...Eddie wandered over. His fingers skimmed over faded album covers. Thin Lizzy. Rush. Van Halen. Not bad. Then—

"...No way."

He hadn't meant to say it out loud, but there you were. Standing on the opposite side of the rack, your brows pinched together in concentration as you thumbed through a crate marked HEAVY METAL.

You wore an oversized forest-green sweater with the sleeves pushed over your hands, faded jeans, and beat-up Converse he'd never seen you wear to school. Your hair was tucked behind one ear as you carefully flipped through albums like you actually knew what you were looking at.

There was no universe in which this made sense. You belonged in the classical section. Or maybe folk, something acoustic. Not Iron Maiden. Motörhead. Judas Priest.

He blinked hard, almost thinking he was staring at a mirage. Nope, still there.

You looked up and caught him staring again. A smile spread across your face almost instantly.

"Oh." You laughed softly. "Hi, Eddie."

His mouth opened, but nothing happened.

"You... um..." Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. "You like... music?"

God, just bury him now.

Your smile only widened. "I dabble."

"I just..." He gestured helplessly toward the crate. "I wasn't expecting..."

"Me?"

He nodded.

"I wasn't expecting me either." You grinned to yourself before looking back down at the albums. "My dad's the reason."

"You've got a metalhead dad?"

"The biggest."

You laughed. "He swears everything made after 1984 is garbage."

"Smart man."

"I told him you'd probably say that."

Eddie's head snapped up. "...You've talked about me?"

The words escaped before he could stop them.

You looked equally surprised. "I..."

A tiny laugh escaped you. "I mean..."

You ducked your head for a second. "You know... around school."

Right, of course. Don't be stupid, Munson. The thought that your family even knew his name made something warm bloom in his chest.

You continued sorting through the cassette, then suddenly stopped.

"Oh."

Your fingers landed on one. Without hesitating, you slid it free from the rack and held it toward him. "I think you'd like this."

He looked down. Mercyful Fate.

Eddie stared at the cassette, then back at you. "You know Mercyful Fate?"

"I know enough." You shrugged. "My dad played this one so much I practically know it by heart."

Eddie took it carefully, almost afraid it'd disappear if he moved too fast. "You've heard this?"

"'Come to the Sabbath' used to scare me when I was little."

He barked out a laugh. "You've gotta be kidding."

"Nope."

"You don't exactly scream..." He motioned vaguely toward you. "...Mercyful Fate."

"And you don't exactly scream honor roll."

He blinked. "...Fair."

You smiled victoriously before turning back to the rack. After another moment of searching, your face brightened. "There it is."

You pulled out your own cassette. The Cure: Disintegration.

"See?" You held it up proudly. "I have range."

Eddie laughed. "I'll allow it."

"I appreciate your approval."

The older vendor wandered over. "You kids find everything?"

You nodded. "I think so."

As the man rang up your cassette, Eddie was still standing there holding the Mercyful Fate tape in both hands like you'd just gifted him the Holy Grail.

You paid, tucked the cassette into your canvas tote bag, and looked back at him. "I'll see you Monday?"

He swallowed. "...Yeah."

"Don't wait too long to listen to that." You pointed toward the cassette still in his hands. "I'd like to know what you think."

Before he could ask exactly how you planned to do that...you were already walking away.

You lifted a hand over your shoulder. "Bye, Eddie."

He watched until the crowd swallowed you whole. Only then did he glance back down at the cassette.

"You gonna buy it?"

The vendor's voice startled him. "Huh?"

"You've been holding it for five minutes."

"Oh."

Eddie looked down at the cracked plastic case, then toward the direction you'd disappeared. "...Yeah."

He smiled to himself. "I think I have to."

The cassette wasn't rare. He'd seen three copies of the same album over the last month. It wasn't even his favorite Mercyful Fate record. But this one? This one had your fingerprints on it.

By Wednesday, Eddie had listened to the Mercyful Fate cassette four times. Not because it had suddenly become his favorite album, it hadn't.

But every time King Diamond's voice crackled through the speakers of the van's cassette player, Eddie could picture your smile across that flea market record stand.

"I think you'd like this."

Wayne noticed by Tuesday night. "Ain't this the same tape you played yesterday?"

"...Maybe."

"You finally wear out your Sabbath tapes?"

"...No."

Wayne glanced over the rim of his newspaper. "...Girl?"

Eddie nearly combusted on the spot from how red his face was.

The cafeteria buzzed louder than usual as homecoming week had officially taken hold at Hawkins High. Construction paper streamers hung lopsided from the ceiling.

The student council had somehow convinced the administration to decorate every available surface in orange and green, making the cafeteria look like it had exploded.

Eddie hated it. He hated pep rallies, football, and he especially hated homecoming. And he especially especially hated listening to Jason Carver talk about the "spirit of Hawkins."

"So," Gareth said through a mouthful of fries, "we skipping the pep rally?"

"We're legally obligated to."

Jeff nodded solemnly. "It's in the Hellfire constitution."

Mike frowned. "We have a constitution?"

"We do now."

Laughter bounced around the table. Then Dustin elbowed Eddie. "Dude."

"What?"

"Twelve o'clock."

Eddie looked up. You moved from table to table carrying a thick envelope and a clipboard tucked against your chest. Homecoming tickets, of course.

You stopped at the basketball table first. Jason smiled, and you smiled back politely. Professional and nothing more. Then the band kids. Then the theater kids. Then—

Hellfire...and Eddie's heart immediately forgot how to function.

"Hi, guys."

You smiled at the whole table before your eyes landed on him.

"Hi, Eddie."

God. You always said his name like it belonged in your mouth.

"Uh... hey."

"So," you said, setting the envelope on the table. "I'm making my rounds."

You held up two small orange tickets. "Homecoming tickets. Five dollars."

Jeff snorted, Mike looked horrified, while Gareth dramatically searched his empty pockets.

"We're allergic."

"I figured."

Then you looked back at Eddie. "Oh."

Your smile softened. "Did you ever listen to the cassette?"

His brain completely abandoned him. "...Yeah."

"And?"

"It was..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "...Really good."

"'Really good?'" You looked mock offended. "I thought it'd at least earn a 'life-changing.'"

"I was trying not to sound insane."

"So you liked it?"

"I—" He smiled before he could stop himself. "...Yeah. A lot, actually."

"I knew you would."

Something warm settled in his chest. You knew. Not hoped, not guessed, knew.

Which is why, when he said, without thinking, "I'll take two."

Silence, which even made Eddie freeze. What?

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. "...Two?"

He stared at the tickets. Abort mission. Abort mission. FUCK! Too late.

"Uh..." His hand was already digging into his pocket. "Yeah."

He slapped a crumpled ten-dollar bill onto the table before his brain had the chance to intervene. "I'll take two."

You looked at him for a second longer than necessary, then the smallest smile tugged at your lips. Then, you handed him the two orange tickets. 

"Our music committee isn't nearly as good as Mercyful Fate."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"I'll see you around?"

"...Yeah."

You gave the table one last smile. "Have a good lunch, guys."

Then, you disappeared toward the next group of students, and the second you were out of earshot...

Five heads slowly turned toward Eddie.

"...What the hell was that?" Dustin snaps.

"What?"

"You hate homecoming."

"I don't hate—"

"You called it," Gareth interrupted, "'capitalist propaganda with crepe paper.'"

"I stand by that."

Jeff leaned across the table. "So why," he asked carefully, "did you just buy..."

He held up two fingers. "...two tickets?"

Eddie blinked. "...Did I?"

"You were there." Mike snorted. "I'm pretty sure you even paid for them."

Eddie looked down at the tickets in his hand as though they'd magically appeared there.

"...Huh."

Gareth burst into laughter. "'Huh?'"

"'Huh?!'"

"You bought two!"

"I know!"

"Do you?!"

Dustin reached across the table and plucked one from Eddie's fingers.

"'Homecoming Admission.'"

He looked around dramatically. "Guys. I think Eddie the Banished has suffered a traumatic brain injury."

Jeff nodded. "Only explanation."

"You've spent three years talking about how dances are government mind control."

"They are."

"So, who are you taking?"

Eddie opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Because...he hadn't thought that far. He hadn't thought at all. He'd just wanted another excuse or another thirty seconds of hearing your voice.

"...Nobody."

Five skeptical expressions. "Nnnoooobody?" Gareth echoed.

"Nope."

"So you just bought two tickets..."

"Yep."

"...For fun?"

"...Sure."

Mike deadpanned, "That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."

Dustin slowly smiled. "Oh."

"Oh no," Eddie muttered.

"Oh, no."

Dustin pointed across the cafeteria, where you were still making your rounds. "You bought two tickets because you're gonna ask her."

Eddie nearly choked on his Coke. "I am absolutely not."

"You absolutely are."

"I absolutely am not."

Jeff grinned. "Dude."

"You've been listening to that cassette all week."

"You don't know that."

"Wayne told my mom."

Eddie's head whipped toward him. "...Wayne, what?"

"My mom was at the trailer dropping off your uncle's casserole dish."

Jeff shrugged innocently. "He said—and I quote—'Boy's been playing the same damn tape for three days. Must be love.'"

The entire table erupted while Dustin pointed triumphantly. "Called it."

Eddie dropped his forehead onto the cafeteria table with a groan.

By the time Hellfire finished packing up their campaign books in the theater room, basketball practice had just let out. Which meant letterman jackets, inflated egos, and Jason Carver. Perfect.

Eddie spotted them before they spotted him, or so he thought.

"You boys have another séance today?"

Gareth groaned.

"Just keep walking."

That had been the plan. Until Tommy H stuck his foot out, and Gareth caught it too late.

His books were scattered across the pavement, dice bouncing in every direction. One tiny d20 rolled nearly twenty feet before coming to rest beneath a parked truck.

"Oh, my bad," Tommy said without sounding sorry in the slightest.

Gareth muttered a curse beneath his breath as he knelt to gather his things.

Eddie was already moving. "The hell's your problem?"

Jason shrugged. "Gravity."

"You tripped him," Eddie says, pointing between Jason and Tommy. 

"I don't know, Munson." Tommy grinned. "Looked pretty clumsy to me."

Jeff and Dustin immediately stepped toward Gareth, helping gather his books. Eddie stood between them and Jason.

"C’mon, man. At least pick on someone with a fighting chance."

Jason smiled as he chimed in. "I am."

The shove came so fast that Eddie barely had time to react, his shoulder slamming into the side of a parked car. The metal echoed.

"Jesus, fuck—" Eddie shoved him back, causing Jason's smile to disappear.

"Oh. There he is."

The first punch caught Eddie across the jaw, causing white to explode across his vision. He stumbled back, so Andy grabbed his jacket from behind. Then, Tommy landed one on his ribs. Someone else kicked the back of his knee.

Three against one, again. He heard Dustin yelling, Jeff trying to pull somebody off, and Gareth shouting Eddie's name.

"...Enough!"

Everything stopped as a familiar voice cut through the chaos like a knife.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Eddie blinked through blurry vision and saw you.

You were marching across the parking lot faster than he'd ever seen anyone move as your backpack swung wildly against your side.

Jason scoffed. "Stay out of it."

"No."

You shoved Andy away from Eddie so hard that he stumbled backward. "I said that’s enough."

Tommy laughed. "Oh, here comes Wonder Woman."

You ignored him completely. Instead, you crouched beside Eddie. "Are you okay?"

He tried to answer, but instead, blood dripped onto his shirt. Your face tightened as you looked back up to analyze the scene: three basketball players, one bleeding boy, and his friend's reactions somewhere between horror and panic. 

"You should be proud of yourselves."

Jason rolled his eyes. "He was acting insane. He pushed me for Christ's sake."

"That's bullshit."

Jason took a step closer. "What do you care?"

"I care because you three are acting like a bunch of fucking neanderthals. And for what? What the hell did he ever do to you?"

He laughed. "You really gonna defend this freak?"

You stood slowly until you were eye level with him. "I'm defending someone who can't fight three people at once."

Jason clicked his tongue. "You're wasting your time."

"No." You shook your head.

"You know..." You looked Jason up and down. "For someone who talks so much about honor..."

Your eyes drifted toward the gym. "...you sure need a lot of teammates when you throw a punch."

Jason's jaw clenched. "You should go."

"You first."

You kept your gaze fixed on Jason, putting on the best ‘don’t fuck with me today’ face you could muster.

His eyes dart between you and Eddie, a small and almost sinister grin forming. Then, he scoffed.

"C'mon. This freak show isn’t worth our spots in Friday's game.”

The last of the basketball team disappeared across the parking lot. Jason threw one final glare over his shoulder before climbing into Tommy's truck.

"...Jesus Christ." Your voice was barely above a whisper. Eddie looked up just in time to see you drop to your knees again beside him.

Your eyes darted over his face: the split lip, the scrape across his cheek, the beginnings of a bruise blooming beneath his eye.

"Dustin!" you called over your shoulder. "Go to the nurse's office!"

Dustin looked between you and Eddie before immediately taking off toward the school. "I'll get an ice pack!"

You nodded once before turning your attention back to Eddie. "Can you sit up?"

He managed a small nod even though every rib protested. You slipped an arm beneath his shoulder, helping him lean back against the brick wall of the school.

"So much for keeping your pretty face."

Eddie let out a weak laugh. "...Didn't know I had one."

You rolled your eyes. "Shut up."

Your backpack slid into your lap, frowning as you rifled through its contents. "No..." You dug deeper. "No..."

"Ah! There."

You pulled out an old black T-shirt, faded nearly gray with age. Eddie recognized the logo immediately: Iron Maiden, The Number of the Beast tour.

He blinked. "You just carry band shirts around for fun?"

"My dad leaves them in my car." You shrugged, "Guess they make good makeshift paper towels."

You hesitated. "Can I?"

He nodded before he even knew what you were asking. You folded the shirt into a small square before gently dabbing at the blood on the corner of his mouth; your touch was impossibly careful.

With your face inches from his, he’s embarrassed about how many times he imagined being this close more times than he cares to admit.

"You know..." You sighed, "...That was really stupid."

"Hm?"

"What were you thinking?" You wiped another streak of blood from his cheek. "There were three of them."

"They were picking on Gareth."

"I know."

"So..."

"So you decided to get yourself killed?"

"I wasn't gonna let them jump him."

"I know." You say with an exaggerated sigh.

You make another careful swipe of the shirt across his lip, "You don't always have to be the one who saves everybody."

He watched you instead of answering. Your brows were pulled together, bottom lip tucked between your teeth in concentration.

"Eddie?"

He hadn't realized he'd been staring. "What?"

"You okay? You keep looking at me and, like, zoning out. Do you feel dizzy?"

"Oh." His voice came out embarrassingly quiet, "Uh, no. Sorry."

"Oh." You reply, a tiny smile tugging at your lips.

“Huh?” He swallowed.

His brain screamed at him to say literally anything else. Comment on the weather. Ask about homework.

"I think I really like you."

You froze mid-wipe of his cheek, eyes quickly meeting his. 

Eddie groaned and closed his eyes. "Fuck—Forget I said that."

"Oh."

Fantastic. She sounds uncomfortable. Wonderful.

"I didn't mean—"

"No." Your hand gently caught his wrist before he could keep spiraling, "I just..."

He opened his eyes, and to his delight, you were smiling.

"I've been wondering how long that was going to take."

His eyebrows knit together. "...What?"

"I was starting to think you were never going to say it."

"...Say what?"

"That."

You laughed quietly. "I've liked you for over a year, Eddie."

His brain stopped. "No, you don't."

"I do."

"You can't."

"I can."

"You..." He searched your face for the joke, "You've liked me?"

"Since you helped that freshman find the theater room on the first day of school last year."

"...That's why?"

"You spent fifteen minutes walking him around the building."

"He looked lost."

"I know." You smiled, "That's kind of my point."

He stared, then laughed, a disbelieving and breathless laugh.

"I've spent an entire year convincing myself you were completely out of my league."

"I've spent an entire year waiting for you to realize I wasn't.”

His heart nearly flew out of his chest just then.

"But then..." You shrugged, looking almost sheepish. "You bought the second homecoming ticket, so I just assumed you found someone else to ask."

"...WHAT?"

The word exploded out of him so loudly that a flock of birds scattered from the nearby trees.

You blinked. "What?"

"No!" He sat up a little too fast before immediately grabbing his ribs. "Ow—Jesus Christ."

"Eddie! Jesus, would you calm d—"

"No, no, listen." He pointed emphatically toward the school. "I bought the second ticket because you were standing there."

"...I know."

"No, I mean—" He groaned. "I wasn't thinking."

"I've noticed."

"I just wanted an excuse to keep talking to you."

You stared.

"So my brain went..." He mimed throwing something across the parking lot. "'Buy two tickets.' But uh, I didn't have a plan after that."

A laugh bubbled out of you. "So..."

He continued, growing increasingly animated. "...then Gareth asks, 'Who're you taking?'"

"And?"

"And I realized..." He buried his face in his hands. "...I had absolutely no idea what I was doing."

Your shoulders started shaking. "Oh my God..."

"I panicked."

"I can tell."

"I said I bought them for fun."

"You told them..." you managed between laughs, "'for fun?'"

"I know!"

"That's the worst lie I've ever heard."

"I KNOW."

"They believed you?"

"They absolutely did not."

You laughed even harder, and he found himself laughing, too.

"I have spent," he said through a grin, "the last four days wondering who the hell I was supposed to ask because apparently I'd already committed."

Your laughter slowly faded into something softer.

"So..." You looked at him carefully. "...Who were you planning on asking?"

He gave you the most incredulous look. "You."

"Really?"

"You literally just admitted you thought I found somebody else."

"I know, but..." You smiled. "I wanted to hear you say it."

Eddie shook his head in disbelief. "You're evil."

"A little."

"You've been letting me suffer this whole time?"

"I thought it was kind of cute."

"Oh, that's cruel."

"It was a little cruel." You say, shrugging.

He smiles the biggest smile he can muster, considering the pain shooting through what feels like every inch of his body, and releases a deep sigh. 

"So..."

"So?"

He reached into the pocket of his denim vest, wincing as his bruised ribs protested.

After a second of fumbling, he pulled out the slightly crumpled orange homecoming ticket, holding it out between two fingers.

"I know this isn't exactly the most romantic timing."

You looked down at the ticket, then back up at him.

"But..." His smile turned nervous, "...would you maybe wanna go to homecoming with me?"

You could’ve just verbally said yes, but fuck that.

You broke the final inches of distance between you, your lips meeting his. He kissed you back instinctively, one hand finding your waist, smiling into the kiss. You smiled too.

"Hss—" Eddie jerked back with a sharp wince, immediately bringing a hand to his mouth.

"Oh, my God!" Your eyes went wide. "Shit! I'm so sorry!"

"No, no—" He laughed despite himself, carefully pressing two fingers against his split lip. "I just forgot I got punched."

"You idiot."

"Yeah..." A grin spread across his face, "...Worth it."

You rolled your eyes, but he caught the smile tugging at your lips.

"This time," you murmured, leaning closer again, "try not to throw yourself into it like you're storming a castle."

"I make no promises."

"I know." You cupped his cheek, much gentler now. "So let me."

This kiss was much slower; you barely brushed your lips against his at first. He practically pulled you into his airspace, completely ignoring any stinging sensation because, hell, he’d thought about this at least a thousand times. 

Afterward, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.

"I've wanted to do that," he admitted softly, "for... probably an embarrassing amount of time."

You laughed. "Me too."

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize your face. "So..."

"So?"

"Does this mean you'll go to homecoming with me?"

You pretended to think about it. "Hmm..."

"Don't do this to me."

"I suppose."

He let out the most dramatic sigh of relief. "Thank God."

Before you could tease him for it, he was kissing you again. His hand found your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your jaw as he smiled into it, and you smiled back.

Then you felt the subtle tension in his hand. The way his fingers tightened ever so slightly against your skin. The sharp inhale he tried, and failed, to hide.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. "You're hurting."

"I'm surviving."

"Eddie."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

He grinned, lopsided because of his split lip. "I've imagined kissing you about a thousand times."

You laughed softly.

"And not once did Jason Carver punch me beforehand."

You rolled your eyes, your thumb carefully brushing beneath the bruise blooming under his eye.

"You are unbelievable."

"I've been called worse."

"I'm sure you have."

His forehead rested against yours, his smile refusing to leave. "I don't think anything could ruin today."

"...Ahem."

The two of you froze and slowly turned your heads.

Dustin stood a few yards away, an ice pack dangling from one hand. He looked from Eddie to you, then to the fact that you were still sitting impossibly close together, practically entangled. 

A slow, knowing grin spread across his face. 

"...I guess you don't need that ice pack then?"

missed u guys sm:,) more coming soon, pinky promise <3

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[aceofheartsssss]

found on a post by @fanboy4scene

OMFG THIS IS LITERALLY MEEEE?!?! THIS IS ALL I DO?!?!

Me everyday:

I LIVE in fandoms, I’d die without ‘em.

[prettyglad]

occupational hazard — mcu!peterparker x clumsy!reader

summary — you're clumsy; peter parker has super human, spider senses. he'd catch seven hundred objects for you just because he loves you.

content — mcu peter parker x reader, clumsy!reader, no pronouns, 2.2k words.

note — guys im really excited for the new soiderman movie ughhhh

The thing about dating someone with superhuman reflexes is that you stop breaking things.

This is genuinely revolutionary in your life. You’ve been breaking things since maybe age four, with a consistency and variety that has impressed everyone who has spent significant time around you. 

Mugs, glasses, a ceramic frog your mother still occasionally mentions, the corner of a coffee table with your shin so many times that the table eventually gave up and developed a dent specifically shaped to your injury pattern.

You’re not catastrophically clumsy — you can walk across a room without incident on a good day — but you exist in a state of ongoing low-level disaster that has become so normalised you've stopped noticing it until the thing is already on the floor.

Peter noticed it approximately forty-eight hours into the relationship.

You noticed Peter noticing it approximately two weeks after that.

The first time is a coffee mug.

You're in his kitchen, a Sunday morning, reaching for your plate on the counter, and your elbow catches the edge of the mug, and it tilts, and you’ve already started the sentence oh no when his hand appears from nowhere and rights it before it's lost more than an inch of ground.

"Thanks," you say.

"Sure," he says, and goes back to the toast.

You think nothing of it. People catch things. It happens.

The second time is a full glass of orange juice.

You're reaching across the table for your phone, and your forearm sweeps the glass, and it goes over — genuinely goes over, past the point of recovery, and you're already calculating the blast radius — and Peter's hand shoots across the table and catches it so cleanly the juice barely sloshes.

You blink.

"How did you—" you start.

"Lucky," he says, and sets the glass upright.

The third time is at the library.

You're pulling a book off a shelf on a Tuesday afternoon, and several other books, apparently united in their opposition to being left behind, come with it. You're already ducking slightly when all four books stop in mid-air and stack themselves back onto the shelf with neatly applied pressure from Peter's hands, which have materialised at speed from approximately three feet away where he was definitely, absolutely standing a second ago.

You turn and look at him, words already on your tongue.

He looks back at you with an expression that is attempting innocence and not quite achieving it.

"Peter," you say. Less of a question, more of you testing his name into the air.

"Yeah?"

"How fast are you?"

"I'm not—"

"How fast," you say, "are you?"

He opens his mouth. He closes it.

"Faster than average," he says carefully.

Once you know what to look for, you can't stop seeing it.

This is the thing about Peter's reflexes — they're subtle enough that you can attribute each instance to coincidence, but once you're paying attention, the pattern is undeniable. He’s always slightly ahead of you. There’s always a fraction of a second where his body has registered the incoming disaster before your own body has, and acted on it, and the only evidence is the thing not breaking, the thing not spilling, the thing not—

"Did you catch my keys?" you ask, on a Wednesday, watching them not hit the floor.

"They fell," Peter says.

"You caught them."

"I was right there—"

"I didn't see you move," you say. "Peter. I literally didn't see you move."

He hands you your keys. "You're going to be late," he says.

You start testing it.

Not in a mean way. In a curious way. In the way of someone who has discovered that the person they're dating has an ability that intersects with a fundamental characteristic of their own personality, and wants to understand the full extent of the overlap.

You drop a pen over the edge of his desk one afternoon while he's reading. His hand catches it eleven inches from the floor without him looking up from the page. You try to let a library card slip from your fingers while standing at a checkout counter. His hand appears underneath it before it falls four inches.

You knock a water bottle off the kitchen counter. He catches it behind his back.

This one makes you stop.

"Baby," you say.

"Mm?"

"You just caught that behind your back."

He looks at the bottle in his hand, which is behind his back.

"Reflex," he says.

"Your back was to the counter."

"I heard it start to fall."

You blink. He doesn’t falter. You don’t have it in you to expect him to.

"Right," you say.

The conversation happens properly on a Thursday evening.

You’re cooking, reaching for the wooden spoon above the stove when your sleeve catches the handle of the saucepan, and the saucepan goes sideways. Peter, who is sitting at the kitchen table six feet away, is across the room and has the saucepan's handle back in position before anything reaches the stovetop coil.

Six feet. You watched it happen. He didn't walk. He didn't run. He was simply there.

You turn around, and he's standing beside you with an expression that finally, finally has given up on claiming coincidence, looking at you like he’s been caught and is deciding how to proceed.

"That's—" you start.

"Spider thing," he says.

"The reflex."

"The reflexes, yeah. And the — I sense things before they happen sometimes. Movement, trajectory." He makes a vague gesture. "It just fires. I'm not always choosing to do it."

You stare at the freckle on the corner of his mouth. He’s so pretty, and so cool, and he amazes you sometimes so much it hurts.

"How long have you been doing this?"

"Since we started dating, pretty much," he says. "Maybe a little before."

"A little before?" you repeat. "We weren't even — Peter, we'd only been talking for like two months before we started dating."

"You knocked a display off a shelf in the campus bookstore during the third conversation we had," Peter says. "And then you caught someone else's display with your elbow, trying to fix it. I was paying attention after that."

You stare at him now. You try not to smile, but you’ve never been good at that, especially around Peter. 

"You've been running point on my clumsiness since the third conversation we had," you say.

"I wouldn't call it running point—"

"You caught a saucepan from six feet away without breaking stride."

"That's a slight exaggeration of the geometry—"

"Honey."

Something in his face is waiting to see whether this is funny or whether this is something else. Whether you find this sweet or whether you find it unbearable to have your life quietly managed by someone's involuntary superhuman crisis response.

You think about all the things that haven't broken.

You think about the mug. The orange juice. The library books. The keys. The saucepan. The water bottle he caught behind his back without looking.

You think about the ceramic frog your mother mentions.

"I broke a ceramic frog when I was four," you tell him. "I've been knocking things over my entire life. It's been twenty-something years of things hitting the floor."

"I know," he says. "You've told me."

"And since September," you say, "nothing has hit the floor."

"A few things," he says. "I miss occasionally."

"Name one."

He thinks about it. He hides a smile.

"Your sunglasses," he says. "In October. I was on the phone."

"I don't remember that."

"They were fine, they just fell."

"Peter Parker," you say.

"Yeah."

"Have you been providing continuous covert property protection since September?"

He seems to be deciding how to frame this. "I'd call it more of a—"

"Continuous covert property protection."

"A passive safety feature," he says, with the expression of someone proud of this reframe.

You put your hands over your face. You hear him make a small, uncertain sound. "Is this — is this okay? Because I can try not to, if it bothers you. It's pretty involuntary, but I could probably—"

You take your hands off your face. He's looking at you with genuine concern now, the expression of someone who has done a thing entirely out of instinct and love, and is suddenly worried the thing was wrong.

"It doesn't bother me," you say.

"Yeah?"

"I've accepted approximately three thousand apologies to approximately three thousand pieces of crockery in my lifetime," you say. "The saucepan staying on the stove is a gift from the universe, actually."

Something loosens in his expression. "Okay. Good."

"I want full disclosure going forward, though," you say. "Every time you catch something. I want to know."

"Every time?"

"Every time."

"That's going to be a lot of notifications," he says.

"I want all of them."

He looks at you with a specific expression — warm and slightly overwhelmed and entirely fond — that he has in certain moments you keep mental records of.

"Okay," he says. "Deal."

—

The ceramic frog comes up again six months later.

You're on the phone with your mother, and she mentions it, as she does, casually, like she’s fully processed a loss and has now converted it into a reliable conversational touchstone, and you mention it to Peter afterward.

"A ceramic frog," he says. "From when you were four."

"She's mentioned it in approximately sixty percent of our conversations since I was four," you say. "It's a thing."

Peter is quiet for a second. "Could you describe it?" he says.

"It was green," you say, "with spots, and it had a little lily pad. It was on the windowsill. I knocked it off. Irreplaceable, apparently."

"Irreplaceable," Peter says.

"This is the word she uses."

"Okay," he says.

You don't think anything of it.

Three weeks later, your mother calls you and says, with a voice that is doing several things at once, "Someone sent me the most extraordinary thing in the post."

A ceramic frog. Green, with spots, on a small ceramic lily pad. Not the original — the original was thirty years gone — but close enough, found by someone who apparently spent three weeks on a very specific antique hunt, that your mother holds it for a full minute on the phone while you sit on your bed and look across the hall at Peter's closed door and feel something in your chest do something large and complicated.

You find him.

"You found her a frog," you say.

"Similar frog," he says. "Not the same frog. Different provenance."

"Peter."

"It wasn't that hard," he says, in a tone like he did something hard and is embarrassed about it. "eBay, mostly. Few antique dealers. Took a couple weeks—"

"You spent three weeks finding a ceramic frog for my mother," you say.

"She mentioned it," he says. "And you mention it when she mentions it. And it seemed like a fixable thing."

You look at him in the doorway.

You think about all the things he catches before they hit the floor. All the quiet invisible work of being around you, the constant background attentiveness, the reflexes that fire for you specifically and which he has described, simply and completely, as something he finds useful because it's for you.

"Hi," you say.

"Hi," he says.

"I knocked over the mug on my desk this morning," you say.

"I know," he says. "I was in the kitchen. I heard the trajectory."

"And?"

"And I made a judgment call," he says. "You were in your room. I was in the kitchen. Seemed like a reasonable miss."

"It was a reasonable miss," you confirm. "Luckily, the mug is fine."

"Good."

"Peter."

"Yeah."

"I love you," you say. "Please know that I mean it with the full weight of the ceramic frog and everything that came before it."

He grins.

"I love you too," he says. "Please know that I mean it with the full weight of approximately seven hundred intercepted falling objects and counting."

"We're going to count now?"

"I've been counting since September," he says. "I have a spreadsheet."

You stare at him. Your eye twitches. 

"You have a spreadsheet," you say.

"It's colour coded," he says.

"What?"

"By severity," he says, backing slightly into his room. "Green is minor, yellow is moderate, red is would have been a bad one—"

You follow him through his door. "Show me the spreadsheet," you say.

"Absolutely not," he says, and he's already laughing, and you're already reaching for his laptop, and somewhere across the city the night is going on without you, unbroken things still unbroken, the ambient disaster of you held carefully and specifically and entirely on purpose by someone whose reflexes fire for you before they fire for anything else.

This, you think, is what it is to be loved by Peter Parker.

Everything caught before it hits the floor. Every frog found. Seven hundred objects and counting.

[marshiesfics]

Dating Simon and Ryland Grace Headcanons

- Neither of them would admit how much they rely on you.

- Ryland is the type to constantly check if you’re comfortable, fed, warm enough, and emotionally okay.

- Simon notices things too, but he expresses it differently. He’ll silently hand you a jacket when you’re cold or stand closer to you in crowded places.

- Together, they end up orbiting around you without realizing it.

- If you’re having a bad day, both of them immediately switch into problem-solving mode, just with very different approaches.

- Ryland asks twenty questions trying to help.

- Simon quietly sits beside you until you’re ready to talk.

- Ryland gets excited about literally everything.

- Simon pretends he isn’t interested but eventually gets dragged into conversations anyway.

- You once asked a simple question about stars and accidentally listened to Ryland lecture for forty-five minutes.

- Simon sat there the entire time pretending to be annoyed while secretly listening.

- Eventually you catch Simon using one of Ryland’s science facts in conversation.

- Ryland is insufferably proud of himself afterward.

- Neither of them particularly cares about expensive dates. Their favorite moments are quiet ones.

- Sharing breakfast.

- Falling asleep on the couch together.

- Late-night conversations when everyone should be asleep.

- Simon likes sitting in comfortable silence.

- Ryland likes filling that silence with random thoughts that somehow jump from biology to aliens to breakfast cereal.

- This is probably the biggest challenge in the relationship.

- Ryland tends to downplay his own importance.

- Simon carries enough guilt and emotional baggage to fill an entire cargo ship.

- Both struggle to understand why you chose them.

- You’ll catch them looking at you sometimes with this expression that says, “How are you real?”

- Reassurance becomes important.

- They remember every compliment you give them, even years later.

- Ryland is secretly very clingy. He loves physical affection once he’s comfortable. If you’re sitting together, eventually he’s leaning against you somehow.

- Simon is harder to read. At first he’s stiff and awkward about touch. Over time he becomes the type who unconsciously seeks you out.

- You’ll wake up and find Simon’s arm wrapped around your waist while Ryland is asleep with his head on your shoulder.

Ryland:

Makes you laugh when you’re upset. Leaves little notes around. Remembers every tiny detail you mention. Gets excited about your interests because you’re excited about them.

Simon:

Protects you without drawing attention to it. Watches your back in situations that make him nervous. Learns your routines and quietly helps. Gives affection through actions rather than words. Together, they balance each other surprisingly well.

- Ryland spirals outward and Simon spirals inward. You quickly learn the difference. Ryland talks through his fears. Simon goes quiet and withdraws.

- During those moments, the three of you develop an unspoken system.

- Ryland helps pull Simon out of his shell.

- Simon helps ground Ryland when his thoughts start racing.

- You help both of them remember they’re not alone.

- Ryland realizes it first in the middle of his day.

- You’re laughing at one of his terrible jokes, and suddenly he’s staring because he can’t imagine a future without you in it.

- Simon takes longer. He fights the feeling for weeks or months. But eventually he notices that every time something happens, whether it’s good or bad, you’re the first person he wants to tell. That’s when it finally clicks.

[slaughterhouse-loser]

Simon is pressing his hands to the hull window during a "night" cycle when everyone is meant to be asleep, feeling the cool glass beneath his palm.

Ryland saddles up beside him, resting his chin on his shoulder. He slid his arms around Simon's waist and hummed lightly "you alright, bud?" His voice rough with sleep.

Simon thought for a moment, he looked at Ryland in the reflection on the window and then to your form curled up in the bed behind them. "Yeah, just, thinking" "thats a dangerous thing"

Simon huffs, laughing a little "Yeah, yeah" he hits Ryland's shoulder lightly, looking happier than he had been in a long time.

Something shifts behind them, fabric shuffling "party started without me?" You ask as you make your way to your partners.

"You came just in time" Ryland murmurs, kissing your temple. "We're just,,, looking" Simon says as if he isn't sure himself. "Just looking" Ryland echoes, nodding along.

"Well, we've got plenty of time to look" you decide, one arm around each of them. "All the way to erid"

[aloedadragon]

I need to spread the propaganda GO MY PHM IRON LUNG GENLOSS CROSSOVER EDIT

[ranboolivesaysstuff]

First of all absolutely incredible edit I love it so so much

Secondly I always giggle to myself whenever I see something like this because this image beams itself into my mind when I see myself pop up alongside these movies

[voidsetup1]

and out of the darkness - you you you you you