╰┈➤ "Being a freak is the best" 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 - ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ
"Crystallized as I lay here and rest
Eyes of glass stare directly at death
From deep sleep I have broken away
No one knows, no one hears what I say" - Trapped Under Ice .✦ ݁˖
Fics:
Coming Soon:
Man in the Mirror
New Kind of Silence
Only When You're High
My Favorite Hobby: You
Drabbles:
Hand Warmers (Boobies) - your built-in hand warmers (boobs) are stolen from your immature boyfriend
I Don't Care - as long as he's got a pair to hold, he doesn't care if they're perfect
Ephemeral - couple of drabbles in one post
Thinking about... - eddie fucking you on the second day of your period
Catching Eddie... - being gross
Imagines:
Playfight - A lazy hang-out transfigures when your best-friend decides to tackle you over an academic dispute.
One-shots:
Big Guy (Girl) pt.1 - You were sick of the bullying. The stupid remarks, pushes and criticizing gazes. The only way to solve that? Beat the shit out of the main person it came from; Jason Carver.
Touchy Subject - Eddie can't keep his hands off you(r butt).
Coming Soon:
You're Not Supposed to Look at Me Like That - Things begin to unravel when you catch your best friend looking at you like you're something more than just a friend.
Love Every Part Of You - A late-night movie takes a turn when your boyfriend can't seem to take his eyes away from you
My Perfect Girl - A special evening abandoned due to your inadequate confidence becomes a night of comfort, assurance and new found self-esteem in your boyfriend's eccentric back-up date.
I'm almost done with 'My Perfect Girl' so I'm going to post that first soon... then post a couple masterlists for fics I have coming up... but 'My Favorite Hobby: You' will be the first fic to have a part.
pairing: bully!Eddie x fem!reader (mutual dislike for one another but not enemies, turns platonic)
requested: you're excited for your birthday for the first time in years, but the people closest to you forgot, the only person who remembered was a guy you spent most of your days arguing with.
warnings: didn't proofread, eddie starts off as a meanie in this; the reader has dyscalculia, her friends and family suck, clowns/details of a clown face.
word count: 1.1k
Math class was your own personal hell. You were left to gawk at the chalkboard where the equations blurred into a mess of brain-aching, meaningless symbols you couldn't understand, and you were forced to sit next to Eddie, who could never keep his mouth shut.
You didn't want to be here, you wanted to go home, climb into bed and wake up to a little collection of cards and presents, wrapped in beautiful shiny paper with a fashionable bow. Each year, your birthday came and went without a single ounce of excitement, but for some reason, things were different this year; you were excited for your birthday.
"Psst. Hey. Einstein." Eddie leaned so far over his desk that his frizzy hair tickled the side of your face, and his silver rings clattered against the wood. "You got a spare pen? I need one-"
"Oh go away, Eddie," you whined, snatching your pencil case away from his prying hands.
"I think you carried the one wrong," he pouted, trying not to laugh. "Or maybe you just can't get the hang of counting yet. It’s okay. Third time’s the charm for senior year, right?"
"We are in the same class, you freak," you snapped, finally turning to blow air in his face, glaring at him.
Eddie grinned and leaned back for a split second before lunging forward, snatching your pencil case. "Tell me," he lifted your pencil case above your head, "if I had twenty thousand pens, ate half of them, sold two dozen, and snapped fifty, how many pens would you have left?"
You froze, your brain whirring to work out the answer as you repeated the question under your breath and squinted, as you worked out the first step, "eating half would leave me with ten thousand..." whilst Eddie watched with his widening grin. Enjoying every minute.
You couldn't do it. You were stumped.
You shot up out of your chair and grabbed your pencil case, "I don't know how many pens I'd have left, Eddie! Happy now?" You raised your voice, making it squeak slightly.
Eddie burst into laughter, clapping his hands together, "You'd have no pens because they aren't yours!"
Your eyebrows knitted together as your cheeks flushed, making your neck go hot and prickly. "Oh, fuck off, that wasn't even funny!" you whined, lightly shoving him.
Relax. Tomorrow is a special day, you'll have money to spend and a cake to eat.
Tomorrow is your day.
The morning was quiet, too quiet. Slowly walking downstairs, you were expecting a loud "Surprise!" followed by cheering from your parents and a few of your friends who would've made an effort to come over earlier than usual, but as you finally entered the kitchen, you realised you were alone.
There wasn't a cake on the side or in the fridge, there were no presents or discarded trimmings of wrapping paper in the bin, there were no ribbons, not even a single card.
You double-checked the calendar, reluctantly crossing off the square box with MY BIRTHDAY scribbled across it in ink.
Yup, definitely my fucking birthday.
Things didn't change at school either; the hallways were a blur of noise and colour, and yet not a single word was uttered your way. Usually, your friends walked past your locker, pulling you into them, but today they ignored you, too engrossed in conversation about a party you weren't invited to.
By the time the final bell rang, you were tucked into the back corner of the library, hiding your math work, the numbers reflecting the date searing into your body, taunting you, the pages damp from your tears.
Eddie threw his bag on your table with great speed and force, making it shake. You flinched and frantically wiped your red eyes with your sleeve, ready to shout at him.
You didn't need this. Not right now. Not today.
Eddie was holding a round cake in his hand with a predatory glint in his eyes, "Alright, birthday girl, prepare for!—" He stopped as he saw the look on your face, the glint in his eyes and the smirk tugging at his lips, fading instantly.
"Hey," his voice dropped, "you okay? Something happened?"
He had this planned for months and felt like a king after picking up the custom cake he requested a few weeks ago: a simple yet somehow over-the-top clown face cake, specifically perfect to print on someone's face if shoved into the cake.
You slowly realised what he said.
Birthday girl.
"How could you be the only person who remembered my fucking birthday?" you choked out, shaking your head and letting out a defeated sigh.
Eddie placed the clown cake on the table, pulled out the chair next to you and sat down quietly. He looked at the box, then back at you.
"They really forgot," he said softly.
You didn't say anything, you just stared at the cake as a tear rolled down your cheek.
"Unbelievable," Eddie muttered. He reached out, his rings cold against your hand for a brief second before he pulled back, unsure of your boundaries outside of math class.
He slowly slid the cake toward you, unable to stop himself from smiling at the bright, red-nosed clown face staring up at you, made entirely of buttercream.
"A fucking clown," you allowed yourself to laugh, thankful for his effort "Really, Eddie?"
"I was gonna smash your face into it," he admitted, "I spent five bucks on this monstrosity just to see you look the way you act."
You laughed even more, a large grin spreading across your face, "It’s hideous."
"Yeah, well," he sucked his teeth, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a tiny candle he’d swiped from the cafeteria. He stuck it right in the middle of the clown’s nose, lighting it with his personal Zippo. "But since everyone else is an idiot... I can't waste good cake on a stupid prank."
"I think you'd pull off the clown look better than me, anyway." You calmed down, finally no longer crying.
Eddie lit the candle, and the small flame flickered between you, casting a warm, dancing glow on his face that made him look more like a friend and less like the asshole who got off on teasing you five days a week.
"Happy birthday, Einstein," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle.
You looked at Eddie and flashed him a genuine and gentle smile, "Thank you, Eddie," you whispered, blowing out the candle.
The two of you quietly shared the cake, enjoying the sponge and sharing the blue frosting, which you tasted first, causing the glint in Eddie's eyes to return.
"You haven't poisoned this fucking cake, have you?" you laughed.
Eddie shook his head, "No, but that blue frosting will stain your teeth for a week," he smirked, "I hope you've got an expensive toothpaste and rough toothbrush at home, Bluetooth."
Being with Eddie has taught you two important lessons: always be prepared, and expect the unexpected. Because some of the things you've caught him doing...
Yikes.
Catching Eddie... being Eddie.
gross!eddie, perv!eddie, MDNI
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Catching Eddie... licking something off the countertop. He thought he was being sneaky, but your timing was quick. You were snacking on chips and dip with Eddie when you fumbled, sending a chip smothered in dip plummeting to the edge of the counter.
You grab the chip toss it in the trash before grabbing a napkin to clean up the mess.
That's when you see him, Eddie, bent over the counter, tongue extended, meticulously gathering the remnants. His dark messy hair, frames his face as he focuses on the task, his Adams apple bobbing with the effort. He registers your gaze and freezes, his brown eyes widening before he snaps up, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.
"Couldn't let it go to waste," he explains.
"Uh-huh," you reply, wiping the counter, the image of his actions playing on repeat in your mind.
Catching Eddie... fixing a wedgie. After a perfect picnic date and a long walk, you had packed the food away and you turned to admire the surroundings. But then, Eddie stood. You smile up at him, expecting him to turn and help you up. That fantasy is ruined when the sight of him reaching around to adjust his pants caught your eye. You blink, questioning everything as he straightens, then looks back at you, holding out the hand that had just been on his ass.
You shake your head, "Did you just pick a wedgie?"
Eddie only shrugs the most nonchalant of shrugs, "It was in my ass."
You swat his hand away and stand yourself. Way to ruin the mood. "Whatever."
Catching Eddie... peeing in the shower. You decided to surprise him, a very sexy surprise. You slip sneakily into the bathroom before discarding of your clothes. You hear his tuneful humming, but fail to recognize the two sounds of stream.
"Surpris--" Your smile freezes as you pull the curtain open.
Eddie flinches, his big brown eyes widening. His head whipping toward you, which made the water in his hair splat on your face. You both stand there, eyes fixed on the evidence of his current activities. He has his hand around his cock, both water and urine spurting on the drain. You stare at the show, unable to take your eyes away until he finally stopped peeing.
When you two made eye contact again, Eddie--looking like a wet dog--sucks in a breath.
"...hey," he greets awkwardly.
You open your mouth, then close it, deciding it was best to stay silent.
"Were you gonna join...?" He asks hopefully, slowly letting go of himself.
"I'll let you shower," you mumble, before closing the curtain and turning around, the water still dripping on your cheek.
Catching Eddie... being gross. Why is this so vague? Because there was too much going on you couldn't name one thing. You were laying in his bed, ready to fall asleep. But you had been so still that, Eddie thought you already were. You were going to ask him to turn off the lamp, squinting up at the metalhead resting against the wall.
That's when the words in your throat fell short. He lifts a finger from his book and stuck it in his nose. You watch, appalled, as he wiggles it around before popping it out, looking down at his finger before flicking it somewhere across the room. Your eyes swiftly made a motion to the direction it flew in before back at him. It didn't stop there. No, instead of going back to the page, he lifts his arm and took a noticeable sniff, making your lips part.
Was he serious? You're right here! What the f--
If that wasn't bad enough, a long rumbling sound came from him; specifically, his butt. Your eyebrows bunch together as he pauses before leaning forward and sniffing again.
Okay you're done.
You quickly flip over to face the other way, deciding that maybe you'd just shove your face in the pillows for darkness. It was silent for a full three seconds.
Then--
"...babe?"
"Goodnight Eddie," you croak back, not willing to look at him after... whatever the fuck you just witnessed.
Only then did he realize he'd been caught. "Shit."
Catching Eddie... grabbing toilet paper. This one doesn't sound that bad on its own, but the circumstances made it memorable. When you walk into his trailer with a few bags of snacks, expecting to find him lounging or hear him playing guitar, you found him bending to grab toilet paper. His pants were pooling at his ankles, leaving his backside and, notably, his fully exposed package for the world to see. You watch, your gaze lingering on the sight. Eddie slowly clutches the retrieved roll to his chest before standing straight.
"Uh... wait there, I'm almost finished," he said before waddling down the hall. You watched bare ass disappear down the hall before turning your attention to the wall in disbelief. You snap out of it after a moment to set down your bags.
Well that just happened...
Catching Eddie... using your underwear. He was doing two things with it, but you only caught one. You were finished making dinner, so you went to go inform your boyfriend. The last place you saw him was in your room. When you walk in, the last thing you expect was this.
To see him posing in the mirror with your favorite pair of underwear. You know they were dirty too, you had just worn them yesterday. Your mouth opens agape, staring at him through the mirror. He is stuffed in the fabric, the outline of his shaft and heavy balls completely visible. He quickly turnshis head around like a deer in headlights. There was no explanation that can save him.
You stare at the lewd view. "Eddie what the fuck," is all you could manage out.
When he fully turns around to try and salvage the situation, his dick slips out the blue fabric.
"Okay, listen, I--I was... just--"
You shook your head before slowly turning around. "Dinner's ready. Please--" you were almost completely to the door until your eyes caught another one of your cute set of underwear on your dresser. Ruined. Like--stained darker with white blotches. "Eddie!" You screamed.
Summary: As long as he's got a pair to hold, he doesn't care if they're perfect.
Warnings: He wants those titties AGAIN, perv Eddie, kinda eager Eddie(? feels a little ooc), reader is insecure of her chest, implied chubby reader (doesn't actually imply but I'm saying it anyways), no use of y/n, MDNI it's not bad but like DNI, not revised
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"I'm not letting you see them."
A long melodramatic groan spills from a pair of rosy lips you know far too well, the kind of groan usually used for men being denied exactly what they want.
"Fuck--babe--please. I've been on my best behavior for almost a month. I deserve a reward, don't I? Just a peak--no, squeeze. Squeeze!" Eddie whines, leaning forward like closeness might magically convince you to lift your shirt.
Yes. Yes, Eddie wants to see your boobs. For the first time.
And absolutely not.
"I--no." You say quickly, cutting yourself off before your nerves could betray you with a full explanation.
"Why not?"
"Cus..." you hesitate, picking at the blanket draped over your lap, "what if you don't like them?" You shrug helplessly, knowing your explanation was not in the slightest convincing.
You try to find something more interesting around the disheveled room, something other than his deadpan expression. But curiosity got the best of you.
You catch sight of his irked features.
"Are you fucking serious? Babe they're boobs. Your boobs. Why would I not like them?" He demands, truly baffled by your lack of apprehension towards his exquisite tastes.
You give the notion another second to reconsider. Maybe he's right. But also--
"What if I got pepperoni nipples?"
Silence filled the hectic and stale smelling bedroom; the key factors to having a room of a super senior.
Eddie raises a piqued brow, unimpressed by your attempt to ward him off. "I don't care."
"...They're uneven?" You re-attempt the repel strategy, though it only manages to draw him closer. Literally, he leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees so he could put his chin on his hands.
"I'll worship them both equally."
How is your defense not working? He should've been running for the hills by now. You squint, preparing to count off every flaw to discourage this horny metalhead. "They sag, they have stretch marks, they-"
"Oh my fuck I don't care!" Eddie sputters in a pitch embarrassingly higher than his usual one. He throws his hands up and tosses his head back.
He is clearly vexed that you--his only source--won't allow him the honor of seeing boobs.
You are taken back from his outburst, eyes snapping wide as he dramatically slaps his hands over his face. They drag painfully slow downward until they unveil his glaring brown eyes.
"I don't care. I don't fucking care, just show me your titties."
You hold his stare, unmoving.
You want to be surprised from his bluntness, but honestly this was just a common occurrence.
With a sigh, you adjust your body on the lumpy bed. "Fine. Fine you horny perv." You fuss. Your hands found the hem of your shirt, bunching it up in your grip.
You can almost feel Eddie's eagerness radiating off him. He's on edge, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.
Finally, you pull the shirt over your chest, the cool air greeting your heated skin. You brake the eye contact, knowing you won't be able to handle the grimace he will be sure to have.
"Holy shit."
Oh god, here it comes--
"Those are the best fucking things I've ever seen."
Wait what-?
You're bewildered by the reaction he has. When you turn your attention back to him, his hands found your breasts.
Your eyes found that first, watching as he gave you a handful squeeze. Your eyebrows shoot up before you finally look at his face. He's biting his lip, which barely covers his lewd grin.
"Seriously?" You question, making him nod furiously.
"Hell yes! They're perfect! They're soft, squishy, and gorgeous," he giggles like a maniac before moving his hand to the underside of your boobs. He jerks his hands up to watch them bounce on his palms.
You need a moment to process the information. "Okay, that's enough." You let go of your shirt and grabbed his wrists, prying them off your body. Two long groans elude him; one from his hands being evicted from their new happy place, and the other from your shirt falling back into place, obscuring the view.
"No--fuck! I was just getting started! Please, just a few more minutes?" Eddie pleads, hands finding your shirt to try and lift again.
You watch his hands pause just above your stomach, awaiting your approval. With a long pause, you debate it. He seriously wants to see them again? Really?
Is he kidding?
You flick your eyes back to his, only to see the hunger in his gaze, pupils eclipsing over his chocolate brown irises. With a slow exhale, you nod.
"Okay."
That's all the permission he needed. He launches forward, tackling you back into the mattress with a victorious noise. This way, you won't be able avoid his relentless attack.
You don't care. You'll stay there and let him, because he actually likes them.
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When I saw this post, I was like hell yeah I need write something like this. but I didn't get around to it until literally an hour ago
Thinking About... eddie fucking you on the second day of your period.
You had been whining about your cramps for the better part of the hour until Eddie had gotten that glint in his eyes. The one that usually meant trouble. You figured he was going to play the hero, maybe fetch a heating pad or raid his stash of chocolate, but as he led you from the living room toward the mess of his bedroom to lay down, his intentions seemed different.
Instead of comfort food, he presented you a shoebox overflowing with various slick, buzzing toys. He flashed a wolfish grin that told you exactly what kind of night he had planned.
"Eddie fucking Munson, I am not letting you fuck me with that," you grumbled, gesturing to your midsection. "I'm bleeding. Heavily, might I add."
But he didn't listen; your protests just drifted past him like smoke. Before you could mount a proper defense, he was grabbing a towel and selecting a device from the box.
After a heated bout of arguing and stubborn pouting, you finally relented, allowing him to lift your hips to tuck the towel beneath you. You crossed your arms over your chest, glaring up at him while he tugged your pajama pants down. "Trust me," he murmured, his voice lowering sweetly, "you won't be mad at me after this."
He wasn't lying. The second he stripped you bare and pressed that humming heat against your clit, your resolve shattered. A sharp gasp escaped you as pleasure jolted through your system, forcing you to wiggle your hips.
"That better?" he teased.
The vibration was doing more than just distracting you; it was making the aches fade into a hazy, pulsing warmth. As you moved, the friction created an obscene, wet squelching sound from the blood coating your folds. You felt a flush of embarrassment, but seeing the way his eyes lit up, pupils blown wide, and his own desire swell (the one in his pants) made you feel far less self conscious.
"Eddie," you whimpered, arching upward as the sensation peaked, "Eddie, please, more."
He seemed to be waiting for that exact plea.
He clicked the toy off, leaving you momentarily stranded, and scrambled to rid himself of his jeans.
"You're way too eager for something so gross," you muttered, though your eyes widened as he freed himself, his cock bouncing against his skin.
"It's not gross, it's natural," he countered, his tone surprisingly firm. "Besides, it's a new sensation for Lil Eds."
You tried to look unimpressed, but the air left your lungs when he pressed his tip against your entrance. He slid inside with ease, aided by the slickness of your cycle. An ache bloomed deep inside you; a heavy, full sensation that blurred the line between soreness and pure bliss.
"Mhm, is that good, baby?" he whispered.
"It hurts," you breathed, your eyes fluttering shut, "but in a good way."
His boyish grin returned, fueled by your encouragement. "Continue?"
"Please."
He pulled back, withdrawing almost entirely before sliding home again, watching the crimson smear against his foreskin. As if sensing your need for more, he reached for the vibrator, clicking it back to life and pressing the buzzing head against your swollen bud. The dual sensation was too much. You arched your back, crying out his name as the rhythm of his thrusts combined with the frantic hum of the toy became too much.
"Look at you," he groaned, watching your body convulse. "So fucking pretty."
You couldn't find your breath, your fingers knotting into the messy blankets as the world narrowed down to the friction and the heat, until finally, you slammed into a fast, overwhelming peak. Your entire body convulsed as you released all over his cock, which was stuffed fully inside you. The intensity of the orgasm left you gasping, your mouth hanging open as you struggled to regain control of your senses.
Eddie seemed to savor every second of your release. He turned the vibrator off, letting the sudden silence of the room highlight the heavy, ragged sound of your breathing. He watched you with eyes full of adoration, staying still for a moment as you rode out the waves of pleasure. When he finally pulled out, the rest of your release and the blood flowed out of you in a warm rush. You felt a slight lump a clot and a momentary wave of nausea hit you, but the high of the climax kept you from feeling truly disgusted.
Instead of making a fuss, Eddie simply leaned down to press a tender kiss to your forehead. He hopped off the bed, moving with a strange, manic energy to grab a fresh towel. He cleaned himself up and stuffed himself back in his pants before giving you the same treatment with surprising gentleness, wiping away the mess of blood and fluids from your thighs and crotch.
"I want a shower," you mumbled, feeling a bit dazed and lazy, your limbs feeling like lead.
Eddie only giggled, hand clasping over yours to help you stand up.
"I'll join you right after I clean this up," he promised, giving your lips a quick, sweet peck before heading toward the hall with the two towels.
You watched him skip away with a goofy grin, wild brown locks swishing with the movement. It made you scoff.
You hurried to the bathroom, desperate to wash away the stickiness before you left a trail across the floor.
Now, much to your chagrin, you felt immensely relieved that your cramps were officially a thing of the past.
You hated when he was right.
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I'm so sorry for this gang🙏next random ass post will be better...
In her boyfriend's arms, Y/N smiled. Her eyes slipped closed as her loving Metalhead leaned in. She tilted her head back, expecting the soft press of his lips on her forehead and not the wet swipe she got.
Her eyes snapped open and she blinked up at him. "Did you just lick me?"
He had a mischievous smile on his face. "No," he said, drawing out the word. "I gave you a kiss on the forehead...with tongue. Like this." Once again, he leaned in and 'kissed' her forehead.
Y/N jumped away. "Ugh, Eddie!" she exclaimed and wiped his saliva off her forehead with the sleeve of the black hoodie she 'borrowed' from him. "You're so gross!"
Summary: Eddie can't take his hands off you(r butt).
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, perv eddie, implied chubby reader, reader got that jiggle, oral sex/anal sex, rimming, spit as lube, vaginal fingering with rings on, assfucking, cumshot, dirty talk, pet names (babe, baby, sweetheart, beautiful), porn without plot, established relationship, no use of y/n, not revised cus I honestly can't even with this dumbass one-shot, I just wanna post
Word Count: 3.5k
A/N: writing smut makes me feel like a horny teen again and I hate it, which is why this lowkey buns (get it?) but like bear with me now
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The chaotic sprawl of Eddie's room had its own peculiar ecosystem, the kind of cluttered entropy that somehow functioned. The air carried that faint, warm amalgam of dust, musk, and something unmistakably him.
You were draped stomach-first across his bed, legs bent at the knee, ankles swaying idly in the air as you flipped through one of the less... incriminating magazines you salvaged from the corner of his room. The thin pages crinkled under your fingers, a soft sound that paired with your absentminded humming, something you didn't even realize you were doing.
It was quiet. Just you, the muted rustle of paper and a distant electric buzz of whatever amp he'd forgotten to switch off.
Peaceful, even--
Creek.
--oh. Well, that didn't last long.
The mattress dipped behind your bent knees, springs protesting with a familiar groan. You didn't bother looking back. You knew that weight, that particular brand of intrusion that always came with a little too much confidence and not nearly enough shame.
And right on cue, a broad hand settled over the back of your thigh, dragging upward in a casual but unhurried intent.
"What'cha readin', babe?" Eddie asked, voice dipped in that low tone he seemed to reserve exclusively for moments like this; when you were conveniently arranged in a way that made his brain short-circuit into something less gentlemanly.
You shrugged, turning another page, refusing to give him the satisfaction of eye contact. "Just some magazines I found. This one's a cooking one."
He hummed, though the sound lacked any genuine investment. His palm came down again, this time with a firmer pat, not quite rough but definitely purposeful. His eyes lingered as the contact set off a soft, enticing jiggle.
"Mm," he murmured, like he'd just discovered something profoundly interesting.
"Ooh--this one actually looks good." You lifted the magazine slightly, angling it back so he could see the glossy photo. Something baked.
There was a pause. Not long. Just enough to be suspicious.
"Looks delicious," Eddie's tone was rich with a kind of hunger that had absolutely nothing to do with food.
You accepted it at face value, lowering the page again, eyes skimming the instructions. Preheat the oven to-
Behind you, his hand had grown... exploratory. Fingers tracing the curve of your thigh, creeping higher, like he was mapping territory he already knew by heart but insisted on rediscovering anyway.
You exhaled through your nose, rolling your eyes, but didn't comment. Not yet.
That is, until his hand slipped beneath the curve of your cheek, palm pressing forward. A second later, his other hand joined it, cupping the underside of your butt with a little force.
Okay. Yeah. He definitely wasn't listening.
You shifted slightly, a subtle attempt to dislodge him or at least remind him you were, in fact, trying to read. It lasted all of two seconds.
Because then something pressed into you. Not a hand, not quite.
Your entire body went stiff as realization crept in, slow and mortifying, just as you felt the unmistakable brush of his nose against your backside--followed by a long, exaggerated inhale.
"Oh my--dude--Eddie!" You twisted around, scandalized, catching him just in time to hear his pleased little groan.
"You smell s'good," he muttered into your ass, words slightly muffled, his grin evident in the way his lips curved where they were half-buried. He was absurdly earnest about it too, like, genuinely, thought this was a normal observation to share out loud.
And you felt all of it, the way his lips moved, the way he softly inhaled and sighed, the way the warmth seeped into your leggings. Your face burned instantly. "Get off my ass, Eddie."
"Why don't you just keep readin', hm?" he replied, entirely too casual for someone who had just done... whatever that was.
He finally pulled back, sitting up, dark curls falling into his face as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Like this was a perfectly standard Tuesday activity.
You narrowed your eyes, but before you could properly retaliate, his hands were back, firm on your legs as he nudged your knees apart, settling in behind you.
His grin sharpened as his palms returned to their previous position, squeezing with slow, appreciative pressure, thumbs pressing in like he was testing the give of something he found particularly fascinating.
You turned back around quickly, burying your face in the magazine to hide the heat crawling up your neck. Focus. Cooking. Ingredients. Measurements. Anything but--
Smack!
The sound was sharp, cutting clean through your concentration. You jolted, the magazine crinkling in your grip as you whipped your head back again, eyes wide, face now thoroughly flushed.
"Eddie! Are you serious?!"
"Mhm." His response was maddeningly simple, completely unrepentant as he watched the aftershock.
And then his hands resumed their rhythm. Cupping. Squeezing. Another smack he completely soaked up. He was chasing the movement, cataloging it, committing it to memory with an attention span he rarely afforded anything else.
A slow, deep breath of frustration escaped you as you gave in and turned away again, trying to force your mind back to the mundane world of glossy magazine pages. Maybe this is all it was; Eddie just being Eddie, a little perv who liked to mess with your butt on lazy evenings while you tried to read. That's all this could be.
With that thought, your eyes trailed back at the magazine, scanning for the paragraph you'd been halfway through.
But Eddie didn't like your attention shifting. He broke the rhythm of his casual touches and delivered a smack harder than before. You gasped feeling everything this time, flesh trembling under the impact, and you knew he saw all of it: the ripple, the flush, the way your bottom clenched.
You whipped back around, heat rising in your cheeks, about to yell at your boyfriend, but before you could, his ringed hand grabbed your head, fingers curling into your hair, and turned it back around. Wha-
"Keep reading." His voice was low, a command, not a suggestion. It made you blink in disbelief, staring blankly at the wall. Was he seriously--?! You scoffed, wanting to shoot him a glare, but instead you listened (for whatever reason), looked back down at the cooking magazine and felt his hand retreat, leaving your scalp tingling.
You fumbled with the pages, adjusting the magazine in your hands as you listened to him behind you. Once you had a grasp, you flipped the page, the paper rustling softly. Just as his hands found your ass again, he gave it a good squeeze. Not just a pat, but a nice full grip that made the fabric of your leggings strain through his fingers.
You ignored his little hum of approval, trying to focus on the text about how this recipe was a number one choice for family dinners. But then, his hands gently rubbed up, fingers tracing the curve of your hips before they curled into the waistband of your leggings and your underwear. He gave a slow tug, pulling them down.
You froze, muscles locking as you felt your bottom exposed to the cool air of the room and his warm breath that ghosted over your skin. You looked over your shoulder, voice fluctuating. "Eddi--"
"Shh." He hushed you firmly before lifting your hips with ease, continuing to peel your leggings and underwear down until they slid completely off. Your heartbeat thrummed wildly as you heard the soft thump of your leggings hitting the floor, leaving your lower half completely bare, exposed to him and the room. "God..." He mumbled pleased, his warm hands cupping your bare ass like one would with porcelain, palms sliding over the flushed skin, tracing every curve and dip. You tensed, breath catching in your throat.
Was he seriously doing this? Your fingers clutched the magazine pages tightly, eyes wide as you felt the bed oscillating with him. He moved to lay behind you, half on the bed and half off. Once you felt him do another firm squeeze and press his soft lips to your cheek, you knew he was seriously doing this. His soft brown hair fell onto your skin, tickling it as he moved to give the other side the same tender kiss, his mouth lingering a second too long.
Nerves started to get to you as you let your head drop, your skin prickling with a warmth that spread. A slow fog of lust started to cloud your thoughts, your senses. Now, a dull, throbbing ache settled low in your belly.
You felt his soft breath and the shift of his hair as he moved back, just enough to get a good look at your bottom. Then his hands gripped your cheeks, spreading them apart with a gentle but firm pressure, exposing you further before he brought his palm down in a sharp, stinging smack. You flinched, a small pant leaving your lips, body shuddering under the impact.
His muttered words were barely audible, but they cut through the haze of sensation you were drowning in. "You're getting wet down here."
Your chest seized in a sharp spike of embarrassment, a rush of heat flooding your face. But the shame vanished almost instantly, washed away as he spread your cheeks again and leaned down.
The warmth of his breath hit your skin before his tongue pressed flat against your slick pussy, a slow meaningful stroke from bottom to top.
You gasped softly, a shudder wracking your spine as he licked a wet path upward, not stopping until his tongue reached your puckered star. You tensed again, a small moan escaping you as the sensation bordered on too much, too intimate. He laughed softly, the airiness of his chuckle hitting against your now saliva-slick parts.
"You taste s' sweet," he murmured, the words thick and appreciative. They made you melt, body softening into the mattress as you lowered your face into the covers, burying your embarrassment in the soft fabric. You shifted the magazine to cover the back of your head, a thin shield against the intensity of his gaze.
Eddie fixed his ringed hands over your cheeks again, adjusting his grip to spread you wider, giving himself a better view, better access.
Then, just as before, he leaned down, his long hair brushing against your sensitive skin. Only this time, his plush lips met your hole with a soft kiss--a gesture so intimate it made you bite your lip hard, stifling a whimper. He came back up with an obscene, wet smack of his lips against your skin before diving down again for a few more kisses, each one lingering, each one making your arousal spike fiercely.
And it checked out: your folds slickened further, your clit beginning to throb with a persistent, needy pulse that matched your heartbeat. You felt yourself clench when he suddenly swirled his tongue around your rim, teasing the entrance with wet dizzying circles that made you release a loud, unfiltered moan.
You felt his lips curl up against your skin, a smirk you couldn't see but could feel, and his hands gently squeezed the softness of your ass before he lifted his head. You felt a pang of disappointment at the loss, a quiet whine building in your throat until you felt a sudden, shocking wet warmth splat directly on your hole, accompanied by a soft, "pwhut!" sound from him.
Did he just--?!
"Did you just spit on me?!" you scoffed, indignation flaring as you removed the magazine from your head, turning just enough to glance back at him. You saw him already looking at you with a wide, boyish grin, those doe eyes glittering with mischief and unadulterated fervor.
"Gotta lube you up, babe," he shrugged, the explanation casual, almost lazy, before his gaze dropped and he dipped down again. You immediately looked back in front of you, surrendering to what was coming as his tongue was back on you, swirling around once more before he slowly, steadily pushed it into you.
You groaned at the stretch, your toes curling from the slimy, wet feeling of his tongue entering you. If the throbbing wasn't bad before, it was undeniably overwhelming now, a relentless pulse between your legs that echoed the invasion.
"Ow... fuck," you breathed, the words strained. You altered your composure to your hands, finally letting go of the magazine so your hands could grip onto the blankets instead.
In response, his thumbs gently rubbed over your cheeks, a coaxing, soothing motion, before he moved his long tongue deeper, pushing further into you. He groaned just as you whined--the uncomfortable stretch transforming into something more pleasurable. A fullness that began to spark heat through your veins.
You blinked, feeling a little dazed, lost in the sensation, as one of his hands removed itself from your bottom. Your lips parted to ask what he was doing, but before you could speak, you felt the tips of his index and middle finger press against your weeping cunt. You gasped sharply as he sank his thick fingers easily inside, your walls fluttering around him instantly, producing a loud, wet, squelching sound.
"Eddie!" you hissed, your lips parting wide. A mix of shock and pleasure washed over you as he did one final push with both his tongue and his ringed fingers, burying them deep. He barely gave you a second to recover, to process, before he started to move--thrusting his fingers and his tongue in a relentless, synchronized rhythm. The dual sensations, the penetration from two points, made loud, wet squelches fill the air, though the sound was barely audible over your own ragged gasps and moans. The bed creaked softly under his movements, the whole room feeling charged, thick with the scent of sweat and sex.
You squirmed softly, a subtle undulation of your hips as you pressed deeper into the mattress, seeking relief. He kept swirling his tongue inside you, that slick, relentless motion stretching you more, exploring you with a filthy curiosity that made your breath catch. And what didn't help--every few thrusts, Eddie gave his fingers a little curl that sought out that tender, hidden spot inside you. You clenched around them instantly, a reflexive, desperate tightening. Your lower belly grew tight with aching pressure.
A string of high-pitched curses spilled from your lips, a breathless litany of "fuck" and "Eddie" and "god," cursing him, cursing his skilled hands, cursing the way he knew your body better than you did. It felt so good, an overwhelming tide of sensation that was pulling you toward a peak you could barely resist. Your body trembled, your limbs shaking, the pleasure building to a point where you knew you were teetering on the edge.
"I'm not--fuck--! I'm not gonna last!" you whimpered, your mouth hanging open in a silent gasp as he started to curl his fingers more consistently, each thrust now accompanied by that wicked, upward twist. And then he hit it. That perfect spot, one that made you jolt, a sharp, electric spark shooting up your spine. Your body arched.
The sensation in your belly was too much, a building tsunami of pleasure, as was everything below: the fullness, the wetness, the relentless rhythm. You found yourself gasping out his name, "Eddie--Eddie--" before the climax crashed over you. You squeezed around his fingers and came all over them, a hot, gushing release that soaked his hand and dripped onto the sheets below. That harsh wave of ecstasy left you shuddering and moaning into the mattress.
You caught your breath, panting softly, whining as he gently, slowly popped his fingers out of you, the withdrawal spiking a tender sensation throughout your body. You tensed up more when he retracted his tongue from your ass, that slick, invasive sensation leaving you feeling empty, overwhelmed and sensitive.
You didn't need to look back to know what he did next. You heard the soft, wet sound of his fingers entering his mouth, the quiet suction as he sucked them clean of your juices. He groaned, a deep, self-satisfied sound that vibrated in the quiet room, and made your body prickle warmly. Shame and pride mixed in a confusing, heated flush.
"Mhm. Fuck, makin' me all hard, baby," he muttered, his voice brimming with lust. You gave a soft hum in response to his words, a dopey, post-orgasm smile spreading across your face as you floated back from your high, blissful and dazed.
Eddie quickly sat up, joining you fully on the bed behind you, settling on his knees. You heard the familiar, metallic clink of his belt unbuckling, then the rasp of his pants zipper being pulled down, before a hand came down beside your head, palm flat on the mattress.
"Did so good f'me sweetheart. Just relax now, I've got you," he murmured, leaning over you, his body shadowing yours. One hand pushed boxers down, the thick, flushed length springing free before he grabbed it and pressed down, sliding it between your cheeks. The hot firm flesh nestled comfortably against your wet skin. You sighed quietly, a contented sound, and looked over at his hand before gently reaching for it, your fingers brushing his. Eddie brought his other hand down, moving them so they were over yours, then curling his fingers around your hand. His fingers were still wet, slick with your release and his saliva.
He started to thrust, his hips snapping rhythmically, the tip of his cock disappearing between your bottom before peaking out from your wet crack with each movement, a lewd, tantalizing glimpse before it was buried again.
"You're s'pretty back here," Eddie gasped, his voice trembling with desire. He snapped his hips a little harder, just to see you jiggle some more, to watch the ripple of your flesh under his thrusts. The sight, the sound, the feel--it was all a perverse, perfect symphony of his need.
You could only moan back, the sensations pulling you deeper into a hazy, blissful fog. Everything about him consumed you; the warmth of his hands curled tightly around yours, the pretty, ragged gasps and groans that escaped his lips, the steady, rhythmic thrusting of his cock between your bottom. It was all so hot, so overwhelming, so perfectly filthy.
"Fuck, baby," he breathed out, gripping your hands a little harder, fingers tightening around yours. A silent signal that he was getting close. You giggled quietly, a soft, breathless sound, your mouth curling upwards in a smile that was both amused and deeply content.
It was only a couple more thrusts, a few final, desperate snaps of his hips, before he abruptly let go of your hand and slipped his length out from between your cheeks. With a few rough, hurried pumps of his fist, he aimed himself down and came all over your ass, the sticky warmth spurting onto your skin in thick, hot stripes. You felt each splash, a startling, intimate heat, and a small moan left you as you looked over your shoulder to see your skin painted white, glistening under the dim light.
Eddie took a moment, breathing heavily, before leaning down to kiss you, his lips meeting yours with a hunger that left no room for protest. He shoved his tongue into your mouth, making you taste yourself. A mix of salt and sweat and sex.
It bothered you that his tongue was just somewhere else... but you shrugged it off reluctantly the thought flickering and fading. You kissed him back, your hands grabbing his shirt to bring him closer, to pull him into the heat of your body. He was a perv, yeah, (a dirty, unashamed, relentless perv) but he was your perv, and right now, that felt like everything you needed.
Finally, you pulled away, a string of saliva leaving your lips, connecting you both for a second before it broke. "We needa get cleaned up," you mumbled with a small, tired smile.
Eddie returned it, his grin lazy and satisfied, before quickly getting up. "Wait," he muttered, suddenly looking around the room, his dick still hanging out, soft now but glistening. He then grabbed and pulled out his chunky Polaroid camera from a pile of clutter on his dresser, grinning happily as he turned and pointed it at you, the lens focusing on your naked body.
"Smile, beautiful," he urged, his voice playful.
You rolled your eyes, but couldn't help the little cheeky smile that spread across your face as you looked at the camera, your expression both exhausted and euphoric. The flash went off, blinding white for a second, and you giggled as he quickly took the photo out and shook it, the image slowly developing in his hands.
"K' now we're good," Eddie declared, placing the camera and the fresh photo on his nightstand before helping you off his bed, his hands gentle on your plush hips. "So... shower?" he questioned with raised brows, a hopeful, mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Only if you help me wash all this off," you replied, your voice soft but teasing.
"Fuck yes!" he exclaimed, his enthusiasm bright and genuine as he rushed you toward the bathroom for the inevitable phase two of his plan.
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nvm im a chud and don't wanna actually write my planned one-shots...
Thank you, Tumblr, for posting ts when I wasn't ready 😑
Summary: your built-in hand warmers (boobs) are stolen from your immature boyfriend
Warnings: kinda perv and gross Eddie? (like 20%), long ass drabble (I should categorize it as something else but I'm lazy as shit), implied that the reader is chubby and has some chest, no use of y/n, not revised, 18+ like barely but mdni
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"What are you doing?"
You stalled mid-fidget, eyes sliding sideways before your head followed, slow and dubious, like you were bracing for a profoundly stupid follow-up question. Which, judging by Eddie Munson's expression, was absolutely the case. You stared at him like he'd just asked why gravity worked while your hands were very obviously buried beneath your shirt.
"My hands are cold." You said it with the sort of laconic tone that should have ended the conversation entirely. You adjusted your fingers against your breasts, searching out some elusive pocket of heat, and turned your attention back to the TV just as Eddie collapsed beside you, the couch giving a soft, indignant wheeze under his weight.
He set his drink down, then yours, nudging aside precarious remains of junk on the coffee table.
"Well," he started, voice already tilting toward grievance, "my hands are cold."
Your brows drew together in slow, incredulous suspicion. You turned your head, inch by inch, until you caught him staring at your shirt, specifically where your hands cupped your boobs, with an intensity usually reserved for last slices of pizza. There was something almost aggrieved in it, like this had personally slighted him.
"Then put your hands in your own shirt. On your own chest." You scoffed, pivoting back to the TV and edging a fraction of an inch away, a tactical retreat. You didn't trust that look. Not even a little.
Eddie mirrored your scoff with more offense. "My shirt's too tight."
"That's not a real problem."
"It is when I'm suffering."
Your head snapped back toward him, unimpressed to the point of austerity. He met you with his stupidly soft brown puppy-dog eyes and a look that was absurdly earnest, like this was a legitimate, pressing dilemma.
"Please?" he added, tilting his head, voice dipping as his bottom broad pink lip protruded out. "I got you that drink." He jerked his head to the two glass bottles, chaotic russet locks swaying with the movement.
"You offered said drink."
"But you said yes," he shot back immediately.
You rolled your eyes with such vigor it felt like a full cranial rotation was imminent. "Oh my fucking God. Fine." The words came out flat, resigned, as you turned to face him fully, legs folding criss-crossed in front of him.
Eddie lit up like he'd just won something delightful. Which, in his world, he absolutely did. He shifted to mirror you, a grin spreading across his face. You pulled your hands from beneath your shirt, the absence of warmth leaving your fingers faintly tingly before you let them fall to your sides.
He held your gaze for a beat too long, milking it, making sure you saw the shit-eating grin that was ridiculously impossible to miss. Then his eyes dipped, and his hands followed, sliding to your waist before slipping beneath your shirt, tattooed forearms disappearing behind the loose fabric.
His hands were in fact cold.
Your body tensed on instinct, a shiver threading through your stomach as his fingers met your skin. The rings didn't help either, little bands of metal that made the contact feel like tiny sharp icicles stabbing your soft skin. He let out a soft breath that flirted with a laugh, his hands moving upward.
And when his calloused fingers finally settled fully around your breasts, he made a sound. Something perilously close to a moan.
"Ooh-ho, that is so much better," he said, grinning up at you with unabashed satisfaction. Your face settled into a look of pure exasperation, one brow lifting in a silent, unimpressed query.
He glanced down again and gave an experimental squeeze, smile widening with boyish, almost feral delight as he felt your nipples harden under his palm. Christmas morning had nothing on this.
"Now my hands are cold," you muttered, curling your fingers into fists in a futile attempt to conserve what little warmth remained in your palm.
Eddie hummed, entirely unsympathetic, clearly unwilling to relinquish what he had already claimed as his. His gaze flicked downward, contemplative, and then his whole face shifted, brightening with sudden inspiration.
"Oh!"
Before you could question it, he scooted closer, hips angling forward until your legs were nearly tangled together.
"Here." He nudged his hips up toward you.
You closed your eyes briefly, as if that might undo what you were witnessing. "I-" You stopped, recalibrating, searching for language that could adequately capture the absurdity. When you opened your eyes again, your tone was firm. "I am not stuffing my hands in your pants, perv."
"Fine. Then you're gonna be miserable with cold hands, sweetheart," he replied easily, entirely unbothered. "Because I am not giving these up." His hands tightened again, fingers moving to gently flick your nipples, just to emphasize his point. It garnered a jolt from you.
You stared at him flatly but his expression remained infuriatingly placid, like he had all the time in the world and zero intention of losing.
God. Damn it.
Muttering a string of half-formed curses, you leaned forward and slid your hands into the waistband of his pajama pants, your cold fingers brushing over his skin, skimming the faint line of his happy trail.
"Woah, eager much?" He shuddered immediately, his breath hitching just enough to betray him as your hands slipped further, past his bush and boxers, into the warmer, softer heat where his cock laid. "Better?" he asked, voice just a touch strained now, the casual veneer cracking as you adjusted your hands, seeking out the warmest spot you could find. His fingers twitched slightly.
You rolled your eyes, settling your hands along his inner thighs where you were forced to cup a good handful of his fuzzy balls, your fingers pressing in the fold of his thighs just enough to fully sink into the warmth. His cock rested heavily against your forearm, the heated head nudging into your skin.
It was ridiculous. Entirely, unequivocally ridiculous. And yet it started to seem funny.
"Yeah," you admitted after a moment, a reluctant laugh slipping through despite yourself. You kept your gaze down to his stuffed crotch, stubbornly avoiding his eyes. "I can't believe I'm doing this."
Eddie smiled and gave a little shrug, like this was all perfectly ordinary and not at all the kind of situation that made a person question every decision they had ever made. "I would have offered my armpits," he said, all casual, "but that felt a little boring."
What he did not say, was that his armpits were a potentially radioactive zone. For all he knew, you would touch them, then spend the rest of the night silently enduring the devastation of Eddie Munson's questionable hygiene. He had enough problems without adding "girlfriend recoils from scent lingering on fingertips" to the list. And yet, his lower half was not exactly a diplomatic embassy of freshness either, which was a separate problem entirely. He could only hope this was one of those rare situations where your ignorance would shine.
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Y'know what? This is better," you said, almost in disbelief at your own acceptance of the situation.
You glanced up at him, a crooked smile forming, but it barely had time to exist before your attention snapped downward again at the unmistakable shift beneath your forearm. A small brush and then a full shift with the small drag of something wet.
You pressed your lips into a thin, disapproving line before lifting your gaze back to him. He was smiling. Of course he was. A little smug, even.
"Are you serious?" you asked, frowning, feeling the new stiffness and stickiness against your arm.
He gave a small, careless shrug. "If you seriously expected me not to get hard, then I'm sorry to say, sweetheart, but that's on you." You rolled your eyes again, any fleeting amusement dissolving into irritation as you shifted slightly, only to feel the situation escalate in a way that was deeply unhelpful to your dignity.
Eddie gave another absent squeeze to your boobs, but you ignored it, turning your head back toward the TV.
Silence settled over the room. Suspiciously calm for five seconds. Then--
"...You're not gonna rub it out?" he asked, like he was checking on a forgotten chore.
You yanked your hands back instantly. "Okay, I want my boobs back."
"Wait, wait, wait, wait--!"
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ughhhhh I'll stop being a chud actually update soon trust, I just got bored and wrote this instead
I NEED to write something about this flippin cutie again but I can't decide what. Sooo...
What should I write next?
You're Not Supposed to Look at Me Like That - eddiemunson x fembestfriend!reader
Love Every Part of You - eddiemunson x fem!chubby!reader
Man In the Mirror - eddiemunson x fem!reader
Ephemeral pt.2 - eddiemunson x fem!reader
Voting ended onMar 14
You're Not Supposed to Look at Me Like That- Things begin to unravel when you catch your best friend looking at you like you're something more than just a friend. fluff and angst
Love Every Part of You - A late-night movie takes a turn when your boyfriend can't seem to take his eyes away from you. smut and fluff
Man In the Mirror - You wake up in a stranger's bed beside a long-haired metalhead who looks just as confused as you feel. After the bizarre encounter, you return to your own world... only to start seeing him again in your bathroom mirror. fluff (idk how to categorize this. Ik it's random as hell but we love random)
Ephemeral pt.2 - More random scenarios between Eddie and you. fluff
Warnings: implied chubby reader, Eddie being a little shit, established relationship, fluff, no use of y/n, I did not revise cus I don't want to I'm too tired❤️
Word Count: 4.6k
Pairings: eddiemunson x fem!reader
A/N: My lazy ass didn't know what to do with these, so I combined them into one post, the lines or dividers or whatever is a new scenario
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The rough melody of music eddied through the disheveled room, dulled to a hush now that the volume had been turned down. It threaded between overturned cassette cases and the soft slump of abandoned clothes.
You were grateful for the dimming of it. At last, the words in your book could settle into coherence instead of dissolving into noise.
You shifted onto your side, the mattress dipping compliantly beneath your weight. The thick stack of pages bowed in your hands, edges slightly softened from rereading, margins ghosted with the faintest impressions of past touch. You kept reading anyway, eyes moving, mind trying to follow, nestled in a bed that was not yours, surrounded by a life that was not yours, and yet feeling, in some small treacherous way, as though you belonged there. Because you absolutely did.
A soft bounce interrupted the fragile stillness.
There he was, the rightful owner of the lumpy mattress, returning to his domain with all the subtlety of a dropped cymbal. You stubbornly kept your gaze to the exact line you left off on, refusing acknowledgment as he scooted close behind you, the heat of him arriving before the rest.
You managed perhaps three more words.
A hand slid over your stomach, pulling you gently backward until your spine met the broad plane of his bare chest. You inhaled quietly, then tried to pretend you hadn't. Tried to keep reading. Tried to remain composed while he pressed closer, his crooked nose nudging into the curve where your neck met your shoulder, dark hair feathering against your skin in a way that was unbearably soft.
You could have endured that.
But then his palm began its slow, absentminded rub along the side of your stomach before closing in a firm squeeze. Your composure cracked.
"Eddie." The warning left you sharp as a blade.
"What?" he answered instantly, voice dipped in a kind of theatrical innocence that was, frankly, insulting.
You frowned down at the book as though he was the pages themselves. Your fingers tightened along the paper's edge. His hand moved again--rub, squeeze, rub, squeeze--lingering on softness you spent far too much time pretending didn't exist.
"Y'know what. Stop." You hated when he did that. Hated the sudden awareness of your own body, the yielding places, the weight of it, the way softness seemed louder under someone else's hands. Even if those hands were gentle. Even if they were fond.
Even if they were his.
Thankfully, his hand withdrew... though not before delivering one last, insolent squeeze. You exhaled, half relief, half something more complicated, and forced your attention back to the page. You even managed to turn it.
Peace lasted exactly two seconds before his hand wandered upward and closed around a boob with the same ritual. Rub, squeeze--
"Dude." The word came out flat as you snapped the book shut. He laughed into the crook of your neck, breath warm, shoulders shaking with quiet delight. "Stop squeezing my shit."
"Excuse me," Eddie muttered, wounded in the most performative sense, "for tryna love some of m'lady."
You caught the motion in your periphery before you meant to look--the way he unfolded himself from you. You threw a glance over your shoulder.
Pale skin, faintly flushed with warmth, stretched over a lean frame that was all angles softened by youth rather than muscle. A scatter of moles marked his shoulders like constellations. His hair, haloed in frizz, fell around his face in uneven waves, the ends brushing the slope of his tattooed collarbone as he stood from the bed.
You went back to your book, completely unaware of the grin that spread across his face.
The expression spread slow and crooked, dimples cutting deep into his cheeks, brown eyes bright with that incorrigible mischief.
Peace arrived again a moment later. That was, until a sharp smack landed against your backside.
"Eddie!" You jolted upright, scandalized, the glare already forming before your mind caught up.
"It was calling my name!" he scrambled away, halfway into the hallway, bare back to you now, shoulder blades shifting under skin as he gripped onto the doorframe to prevent himself from falling.
He glanced back over his shoulder with that grin again. "I don't regret shit." And then, with all the maturity of a delinquent middle-schooler--he stuck his tongue out. Gone the next second, vanishing into the bathroom like nothing had happened, leaving the doorframe empty and the room quiet.
Fool.
The thought rose with a huff you tried (and failed) to suppress. The room settled again, music murmuring low, the mattress slowly reshaping itself where he'd left it.
You looked down at the closed book in your hands.
And after a long, reluctant moment, you opened the book again and tried to read, though the words felt meaningless now as you were distracted by the warmth that hadn't quite faded.
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"You know what I want right now?"
Your voice slipped into the dark like a pebble into still water, softer than you intended yet loud enough to feel it ripple. The trailer held that particular nocturnal hush, the kind that made every small sound seem blaring. The hum of the old refrigerator down the hall. The soft breeze of wind thrumming against the windows.
"Cereal," you added after a long moment, drumming your fingers over your soft stomach in a languid pattern. It felt absurdly vulnerable to confess something so juvenile at this hour, as if you had just admitted to believing in monsters under the bed.
You braced for ridicule. A snort, a groan. Some barbed quip about your refined palate consisting exclusively of processed sugar and corn derivatives.
Instead, you felt his knuckles press gently into your bicep, a small pat that dented the flesh in a way that was absentmindedly affectionate.
"That sounds good," Eddie murmured, his voice low from near sleep. You couldn't see him, but you felt the subtle shift of the mattress as he turned his head toward you. "Get me some too. No, scratch that. Bring the box."
You blinked into the dark, momentarily disoriented by his compliance.
"What. Seriously?" you asked, the words flattening into something incredulous.
"I think I bought Cookie Crisp," he said, and you could practically hear the shrug in his tone. The bed dipped as his hand abandoned your arm and came to rest on his own stomach. You laid there for a second, processing this strange alignment of your cravings. Then your face settled into a mask of unimpressed indifference. Without further thought, you twisted and swung your legs over the side of his bed. Your bare feet met the russet carpet, fibers worn thin from years of pacing.
You walked around the edge of the mattress, navigating by memory more than sight, and promptly caught your toe on what felt suspiciously like clothes.
"Careful," Eddie's voice floated after you, too amused to be concerned. You ignored him and made it into the hallway, easing the door open with exaggerated delicacy. The trailer's narrow corridor felt even more constricted at night, as if the darkness had thickened it. You moved in careful increments, each step met with squeaky and treacherous floorboards. The last thing you needed was to rouse Wayne.
The kitchen greeted you with a pale ribbon of moonlight slicing through the window across the trailer. It painted the countertops in silver and shadow, transforming the mundane into something cinematic. You opened one cabinet, then another, hands moving blindly until your fingers brushed cardboard and heard the unmistakable rustle of thin plastic.
Victory.
You drew the box out, the crinkling bag inside betraying you with every minor adjustment. Just as you pivoted to retreat, there was a click.
Light flooded the room in a modest but accusatory glow.
You froze.
Wayne Munson laid upright on the couch, lamp casting an amber halo over his weathered features. His eyes, a tired but perceptive blue, settled on you with a look that was less fury and more long-suffering resignation.
You offered him a sheepish smile, shrinking slightly where you stood, clutching the cereal box to your chest as though it were evidence in a courtroom.
"Sorry," you whispered, voice barely skimming the air. He studied you for a moment, the silence stretching just long enough to make your pulse stutter. Then he shook his head slowly, exhaling a gruff scoff that hovered close to fond exasperation.
"Kids," he muttered, not unkindly, before clicking the lamp off again and lowering himself back into the couch cushions with a rustle of blankets.
You didn't wait for further commentary. You slipped back down the hallway at twice the speed, easing Eddie's door shut behind you with a quiet thud that felt deafening in your ears.
A low, unmistakable laugh greeted you from the darkness.
"You wake the old man?" Eddie asked, already halfway upright as he leaned over to switch on his own lamp. The bulb flickered before committing, casting his room in a honeyed glow that revealed its usual glorious disarray. Posters peeling at the corners. A fortress of cassettes and comic books. His guitar propped like a loyal sentry against the mirror.
You huffed and lobbed the cereal box at him.
"Shut up." He caught it against his chest with surprising dexterity, grinning as if you had just completed a perilous quest on his behalf. His hair was a chaotic halo, curls flattened on one side, eyes still hazy but bright with amusement.
"Worth it?" he asked, prying open the box.
"Barely," you replied, circling to your claimed side of his bed.
He plunged a hand into the bag and emerged victorious, fist full of chocolate disks. He tipped his head back and let them tumble into his mouth, chewing with enthusiasm. You flopped onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling as the springs protested beneath you. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught him angling the box toward you in silent offering, crumbs clinging to the corner of his mouth.
You turned your head fully then, giving him a look that attempted severity but faltered at the edges.
"You're unbelievable."
"I'm generous," he corrected around a mouthful, shaking the box slightly in invitation. "It's a rare and dazzling trait." With a resigned sigh, you reached in and scooped a handful for yourself. The cereal was faintly stale, aggressively sweet, and exactly what you wanted. You chewed thoughtfully, listening to the quiet symphony of crunching and the faint hum of the lamp.
"Next time," you said after swallowing, brushing crumbs from your palm onto his comforter without apology, "you're getting the midnight snack."
Eddie leaned back against the wall, right on his black and red tapestry, eyes sliding to you with a glint that was both playful and unreadable. "Fine. But I get to pick it next."
You rolled your eyes, but nodded anyway. He bumped his knee lightly against yours beneath the blankets, a small, absent contact. Then he tilted the box toward you again, brows lifting in exaggerated expectation, as if this entire ridiculous exchange were the most natural ritual in the world.
The trailer settled back into its nocturnal rhythm around you, the two of you suspended in that fragile hour where everything felt softer as the cereal dwindled and the lamp cast long, drowsy shadows across the walls.
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The afternoon light slanted through the window of the living room in a lazy, dust-heavy way, the sun already beginning its slow descent toward evening. It caught on the clutter and softened everything into something domestic.
"Mhh. That's good--come try some," Eddie called from the kitchen, the words slightly muffled as the tip of his index finger withdrew from his mouth. There was a pause, just long enough for him to savor the flavor, before he smacked his lips with an exaggerated hum of approval. "Yeah that's perfect."
You lifted your head from the book you'd been devouring with monkish concentration, one eyebrow arching. Without protest, you abandoned your stack of annotated papers onto his coffee table (already buried beneath a geological layer of magazines and forgotten guitar picks) and levered yourself up from the loveseat. The furniture protested with a long, arthritic groan.
Eddie, meanwhile, had discarded himself toward the overhead cabinet. The hem of his worn black shirt rode up just enough to reveal a fleeting sliver of abdomen. You shuffled closer, leaning your hip against the chipped blue countertop before dipping your finger into the plastic bowl of brownie batter.
He shut the cabinet above him with more force than necessary and pivoted toward the next one beside the mustard-yellow refrigerator, muttering under his breath. You slipped your finger between your lips, tasting sugar and cocoa. Your eyes fluttered shut.
"Damn," you murmured, already drifting toward the sink. "That is good."
"They'd be better with chocolate chips," he grumbled, rummaging, "if I could just find the damn things."
You washed your hand under the sputtering faucet while Eddie resurfaced with a jar, brandishing it like a questionable solution. "D'you think peanut butter could work?" he asked, giving the container of Jiffy a half-hearted shake. "Like--would that be good? Peanut butter pot brownies?" He shrugged, already flipping the jar over to squint at the nutritional information.
Just as you dried your hands on the dirty kitchen towel--the same towel he could absolutely wash, considering the washer was approximately two feet away--a grin crept across your face, unmistakably malignant.
"If I had a dick--"
"Stop it!" Eddie burst out, spinning toward you with reflexive urgency, like a man diving in front of traffic. His hand dropped in exasperation. "Don't. You. Dare. Finish that."
You blinked, affronted, eyebrows lifting skyward as if he were the unreasonable party. He shot you a pointed glare before turning back to the counter.
"I wasn't even gonna say anything bad," you protested, voice tipping into something petulant and unrepentant. You leaned back against the sink, arms crossed.
"Oh yeah?" Eddie challenged, setting the jar down with a dull thud before turning to mirroring your stance. "Then what were you gonna say?"
You opened your mouth but he cut you off preemptively.
"But if it has anything to do with you sticking your imaginary dick in here," he said, placing his palm firmly on the lid of the jar, "I can promise you right now; you are not getting a single slice of these brownies."
You bit your tongue hard enough to sting. Shit. He knew you too well.
You narrowed your eyes at him, hands braced once more against the cold edge of the counter. "Uh... just--give me a second," you hedged, buying time. "I need to think of what I was actually going to say."
"Thought so," he said, a grin betraying him despite his best efforts as he turned back to the batter. "You're not getting any."
"No--wait--Eddie, come on," you pleaded, suddenly animated. "What I was gonna say, wasn't that bad. Please. You've probably even done it before."
He didn't even look at you.
"Now you're really not getting any."
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"Can I roll the triangle?" You posed the question, finger already intruding on the sanctity of the table, nudging the four sided die with insolence. Your attention was not on the object itself but on the boy across from you, the wild haired metalhead beneath the honeyed fluorescents, corralling his scattered papers. The light caught on his rings, glinting briefly before disappearing beneath the shadow of his hands.
He glanced up at you through the curtain of his hair and compressed his chin toward his chest, creating an expression of exaggerated suspicion that deepened the faint crease beneath his lower lip. "Well, you can't really roll it. It's a triangle." The words came out flat, edged with that snarky tone he seemed to wield like a switchblade.
Your mouth twisted downward, unimpressed, and a quiet scoff slipped free before you could stop it. Eddie, apparently satisfied with his contribution to the conversation, returned to his task, sweeping up minis, notebooks, and loose dice with careless efficiency. The table bore the aftermath of the campaign like a battlefield after retreat.
It had been another Friday, another campaign observed from the sidelines while you waited for your boyfriend to finish playing dungeon master to his loyal congregation. Staying after had become habit, not because you cared about the game, but because you liked hovering, prodding, interrupting, existing as an irritant in Eddie Munson's periphery.
"Can I still roll it?" you asked again, voice sharper now, your face settling into a visibly irritated configuration. You tracked the lazy movement of his shoulders as he shrugged, the leather of his jacket creasing, his long, unruly hair shifting like it had a mind of its own.
"Knock yourself out." He reached for his bag with one hand, stuffing loose items inside with a haphazard shove that suggested he was already mentally elsewhere. The bag swallowed everything indiscriminately.
Your grin arrived impishly. You snatched the die from the table and cupped it between both palms, fingers enclosing around it. You shook it, the faint clicking sound barely audible over the hum of the lights.
"What is it even used for?" you asked, the question tinged with idle curiosity. You realized that you had watched dozens of games without really seeing this particular die make a dramatic appearance.
Eddie circled to the other side of the table to retrieve his drink, the chain on his wallet chiming softly as he moved. "Low damage weapons, hit points, spells, healing," he recited, as if from muscle memory. He lifted the soda encased in his silver gauntlet and took a long pull, throat bobbing as he swallowed. "It's the underdog of dice." A shrug punctuated the statement.
You had intended, initially, to simply toss the die onto the table and call it a day. But restraint had never been your strong suit. An alternative idea unfurled delightfully in your head. You separated the die from your palms and pinched it delicately between your thumb and index finger testing its edges.
Eddie set his drink down, the aluminum clinking softly against the table's scarred surface.
The die left your fingers in a quick, thoughtless flick.
The impact was neither dramatic nor brutal, but sharp enough to elicit a startled reaction. A dull sting bloomed against Eddie's cheek, followed immediately by a sharp inhale. "Jesus--" His eyes went wide, brows knitting together as he scrambled to intercept whatever had been launched at him. He fumbled once, twice, before finally catching it against his chest.
When he looked down and recognized the object nestled in his palm, he slowly lifted his gaze back to you, irritation written plainly across his face, tempered only by disbelief.
You were already smiling, that unmistakable, unapologetic grin plastered across your face, unrepentant and glowing with the quiet triumph of having crossed an invisible line.
He lifted his hand, the die cloistered in his fist, index finger spearing the ceiling like a prophet about to decree catastrophe. His mouth even parted, as if some grand soliloquy had queued itself behind his teeth. Nothing came. Then, with an abrupt pivot that felt entirely on brand, he lowered his hand and dug into his bag instead.
The leather case for his dice emerged like a reliquary. He flicked it open with a crisp snap of his thumb, the hinge protesting faintly. The triangular die disappeared inside. From the velvet interior he selected another, its shiny surface gleaming. He shut the case with a short click.
A twinge of skepticism insinuated itself beneath your ribs. Eddie was arbitrary the way thunderstorms were arbitrary. You could predict the humidity, the darkening horizon, but never the exact second the lightning would strike.
"What are you doing?" you asked, your brows lifting in wary incredulity as his gaze slanted toward you.
His eyes flashed with that espiègle glimmer, the one that meant he had already leapt three steps ahead in some private narrative and you were about to be dragged into it. The corner of his mouth curved.
"Consulting fate," he said, rolling the die between his palms as if warming it awake. "I'm simply outsourcing my decision-making to a higher power."
"Eddie."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I was going to let you off easy. Truly. Magnanimous dungeon master, merciful overlord, etcetera. But then you gave me that look." He gave a faint, wounded sigh. "So now I'm forced to do this."
"Which is...?" you pressed, crossing your arms over your galloping pulse.
"We'll see," he murmured, and for a second his expression flickered with glee. "If I roll low, I'll retreat. If I roll high..." His grin widened. "Well. Brace yourself."
With a flick of his wrist, he casted the die.
It struck the table with a hard clatter, bouncing off the surface before spinning toward you in a jittering pirouette. The numbers blurred, then slowed, then settled.
Twenty.
Your eyes flared wide, snapping up to meet his just as he bent forward, hair falling like a dark curtain around his face. He squinted to confirm, then straightened with a look of incandescent triumph.
"Oh, you are so done," he breathed. Before you could retreat more than a step, he vaulted the table with reckless agility. You yelped as he closed the distance with alarming speed. And then he had you. His arm hooked around your shoulders in a swift motion, securing you into a headlock. You staggered, hands instinctively flying to his hips to steady yourself. He smelled faintly of smoke and cheap cologne, something sharp and adolescent.
"Let me go!" you huffed, twisting as he steadied his stance.
"It was a critical hit, sweetheart," he crowed, laughter blooming out of him.
"Eddie!" you gasped as he raised his fist and began scrubbing your head with exaggerated vigor, grinding his knuckles against your scalp. Your hair frizzed beneath the assault. You wriggled furiously, elbows digging into his sides. "God damn it!"
He gave your head another rough rub, then shifted his grip, one arm still locked around you as his other hand slipped behind your back. His fingers wiggled down, slithering into the waistband of your jeans.
Your stomach dropped.
"Eddie," you warned, voice switching to have a more austere effect. "Don't."
"Oh, I absolutely should."
"Wait, wait, wait!" You thrashed, panic spiking as his fingers hooked around your panties. "Don't you dare!"
He tightened his hold just enough to keep you from slipping free. "I have to," he said smugly. "It's in the bylaws."
Your desperation flared. You blurted the first threat that clawed its way to your tongue.
"No sex for a month! You do that and you get nothing for a month."
He paused.
The hesitation was infinitesimal, but you felt it. His grip slackened by a fraction. You exhaled, thinking you'd found leverage. He tilted his head, considering. Then he shrugged with infuriating nonchalance.
"I've got my hand," he said lightly.
Your heart plummeted. You launched into a barrage of protests and half-formed threats, your fists thudding uselessly against his side. But he had already made his decision, propelled by triumph and audacity. His fingers tightened in fabric, and before you could brace yourself, he tugged.
A scream left you, echoing off the walls along with his laughter, which rang louder.
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Late afternoon had begun its slow descent, the sun spilling through the windshield in ribbons of gold. Everything it touched seemed burnished, sanctified by that hour where the day loosened its collar and exhaled. The trees bordering the parking lot were lacquered in amber light, their leaves drifting in a drowsy susurration. Even the dashboard of Eddie's van looked almost respectable beneath the glow, dust motes suspended midair like tiny planets caught in orbit.
"Ooh. What'cha got there?"
His voice carried that familiar lilt, playful and prying as you opened the passenger door and climbed back inside. The seat gave a soft sigh beneath your weight, vinyl warm from the sun. The scent of espresso and chocolate wrapped around you.
You settled in, smoothing the crinkled paper bag against your thigh, feeling faintly triumphant. You handed him his very adult coffee with a small flourish. The clear cup caught the light, whipped cream glowing like a cloud atop the dark swirl beneath. He accepted it with a snicker, dark eyes glinting. "You are a saint," he declared gravely, as if you had just delivered holy relics instead of caffeine and sugar.
He slid the straw between his lips and took an exaggerated, audacious gulp. His throat moved with the swallow. Then came the noise, the low, ridiculous, entirely unashamed noise. You stared at him through the whole dramatic moan. He closed his eyes, head tipping back against the seat as though he'd been granted some celestial revelation. "This," he breathed, "is what heaven tastes like."
"Stop it." You smacked his arm with the back of your hand, giggling faintly. The golden light painted him in warm tones, softening the sharpness of his cheekbones, catching in the wild, leonine chaos of his hair.
He grinned, entirely too pleased with himself. "What? It's the best thing I've ever put in my mouth."
You rolled your eyes, setting your own drink carefully into the cup holder. The ice clinked faintly. He placed his Frappuccino beside it like they were a matched set and pointed at the bag resting in your lap.
"You didn't answer my question," he reminded you, eyebrow arched.
You hummed and reached inside. The paper rustled softly when you withdrew your hand, and a chocolate cake pop emerged, glossy and perfectly round, its surface gleaming under the sun.
"Sweet treat," you said, holding it up by the white stick, a small grin tugging at your mouth. With your other hand, you leaned forward to grab your bag from below the dashboard. "D'you want some?"
You expected him to lean over, maybe break off a modest bite. Or scoff and insist he had his own sugar monument to conquer. Instead, there was a sudden weight against the stick. Your hand dipped. You turned your head.
Gone.
The entire cake pop had vanished. Eddie sat there with cheeks rounded, mouth full, eyes relaxed like he hadn't just committed one of the worst crimes in food history. You blinked, looking down at the stick and then back at him.
"Dude."
He froze mid-chew, shoulders tensing. "Mmph?" he offered, voice muffled, lashes fluttering with innocence.
"You were supposed to take a bite." A laugh slipped from you before you could contain it, incredulous and disbelieving. You held up the stick as evidence of his crime. "A bite. You totally annihilated the thing." You dropped the stick back into the bag with a rustle of indignation. "Unbelievable."
You turned your head, prepared to deliver another scathing tease, only to be interrupted by the sudden proximity of him. His hand briefly steadied your shoulder just enough to keep you in place. Before you could process what was happening, he leaned in. His lips brushed yours, and when you parted them in surprise, he used the opportunity--with infuriating efficiency--to transfer the sweet treat into your mouth, via his tongue.
You went utterly still as the tang of chocolate filled your mouth. Your eyes widened, pulse spiking in a sharp, electric flare. He pulled back just enough to look at you, still chewing, an innocent smile spreading slowly across his face like sunlight breaking through clouds.
"Sharing," he said mildly, as though that explained everything.
He wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, then glanced at it, apparently dissatisfied with the evidence left behind, and drew it between his lips. The gesture was absentminded, but it sent a peculiar warmth creeping up your neck.
"Sorry about that," he added, far too casual, hands returning to the steering wheel with exaggerated normalcy. "Couldn't let you miss out."
You blinked at him once. Twice. The sun dipped lower, light thickening into something richer, deeper. It caught in his lashes, traced the curve of his grin. He looked radiant. You shifted slightly in your seat, aware of the echo of him lingering in the air between you. The sweetness dissolved slowly on your tongue, and you swallowed.
"...Thanks," you murmured, turning your face toward the window to hide the smile you were fighting.
His grin widened as he cranked the engine. The van rumbled to life beneath you, vibrating through the floorboards as he shifted into gear. Outside, the world was drenched in gold, trees bowing in the late-day glow as if witnessing some private spectacle. Eddie tapped the steering wheel with restless fingers, glancing at you from beneath the fall of his hair, sunlight threading through the curls like fine wire.
"You're welcome," he said softly, and pulled out of the parking lot, the van gliding forward into the honeyed hush of evening.
Summary: A lazy hang-out transfigures when your best-friend decides to tackle you over an academic dispute.
Warnings: fluff, mutual pinning, no use of y/n, he's wearing that fuckass bandana I love, I didn't revise shit (again)
Word Count: 2.0k
Pairings: eddiemunson x fem!reader
A/N: I so would and could body slam that twig
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The sun spilled itself across the open field, light diffusing through the afternoon like honey. It caressed the tall grass, the restless green sea that shuffled under the wind. Every gust combed through the meadow, tugging at loose hems, carrying the dry, loamy perfume of earth and smoke, threading itself through hair and fabric. It was the kind of day that felt preordained for idleness. Too soft to be squandered on anything like responsibility.
"Did you bring your backpack with you?"
You lifted a brow, skeptical, and drew the cigarette from your mouth between two fingers. Smoke unfurled in a thin ribbon as you exhaled. "No... why?"
Eddie Munson was already several paces ahead, moving with that swagger of someone who had never once concerned himself with the concept of walking normally. His stride was long, almost serpentine. The breeze bullied at his dark curls, tugging them loose from his bandana until they fell into his face, brushing his broad pink lips and jaw. He puffed them away with an exaggerated breath, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse aimed at the Indiana weather.
"Because," he said, without looking back, "you should... be studying."
That alone was enough to make you snort.
His face, when he finally glanced back over his shoulder, was restless as ever, multiple expressions flitting across it like nervous birds. Eddie was terrible at pretending not to care. He tried, sure, but the effort always showed in the seams.
"What?" You laughed sharply. "Where the hell did that come from?" You tapped the cigarette, watching ash crumble and scatter into the grass before returning it to your lips. Eddie jammed his hands into his back pockets and pivoted toward you.
This hangout was supposed to be an escape hatch. Severing from Hawkins High, from fluorescent lights and Scantron sheets and the low-grade panic that lived between your ribs. The plan had been simple: drive the van past the town's edge, park where the road gave up, blast music loud enough to rattle loose screws, eat snacks that barely qualified as food, and let the hours dissolve. Eddie was supposed to be complicit in that. Not--whatever this was.
"I saw your report card in the trash the other day."
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, turning your head away from him. "Oh my god."
You knew exactly what he meant. That crumpled, shame-stained paper. A horticulture of F's and D's you'd folded and buried beneath coffee grounds and soda cans like it might decompose faster if you refused to acknowledge it. Out of sight, out of mind. Or at least, that was the hope.
Eddie lifted a hand, fingers flexing like he was trying to grab the right words out of thin air. "I just--" He sighed, dragging the hand down his face. "You were a solid B student, okay? Like, consistently. And then after you met--"
"It's not because of you, Eddie," you cut in, harsher than you meant to be, turning back to face him with a tight frown. "Can we not do this right now? I came out here with you to relax. Not to--" you gestured vaguely, frustration fizzing under your skin, "remember the test I've got coming up."
For a moment, he said nothing.
The field stretched out around you. Somewhere far off, a car passed, the sound fleeting.
Eddie turned away, scuffing the dirt with the toe of his Reebok. His shoulders lifted in a shrug that looked too casual to be convincing. "Just sayin'," he drawled, but there was a thickness to his voice, a sincerity he couldn't sand down no matter how hard he tried. "You bomb that test, you're stuck retaking the class."
Your jaw tightened. "Oh, and you know everything about that, don't you?" you shot back.
The sneer slipped out before you could contain it. You pulled the cigarette from your lips and flicked ash away with a sharp snap of your fingers, grinding it out against the ashtray sitting at the edge of the van's open back door. The smell of extinguished tobacco lingered. When you turned back to him, you leaned into the edge, arms crossed tight across your chest.
Eddie stood a few feet away now, hands braced on his hips, posture bristling. His grin faltered. "I do," he huffed. "And I know exactly how much it blows." He gestured vaguely between the two of you, like his entire academic career existed in the space there. "So do your shit. The class isn't even hard."
There it was. Eddie Munson, king of detentions and academic purgatory, delivering a sermon with all the authority of a vice principal on the last thread of patience.
He shot you a sideways look before ambling back toward the van, propping himself beside you. The metal groaned under his weight. He leaned in, shoulder brushing yours, close enough to be annoying. Reaching inside, he rummaged through the van with noisy determination before resurfacing with a chocolate bar. He tore it open with his teeth.
"I'm not saying become, like, a valedictorian or whatever," he added around a mouthful, waving around the bar. "Just--don't screw Future You over. She's already got enough problems dealing with me."
You stared straight into his annoyingly soft brown puppy-dog eyes for a beat, chest tight with things you didn't feel like unpacking.
"Okay, Dad," you sorely muttered.
You pushed off the van and wandered out into the field, boots flattening the grass as you went. The expanse stretched endlessly, vibrant and verdant, dandelions stippling the green in white and yellow.
"I can find other ways to raise my gra--"
You turned, half-expecting to find Eddie still sprawled where you'd left him; leaned back against the van, shoes crossed, face arranged into that familiar mask of apathy. Instead, there was nothing. Just trampled grass and the faint imprint of where his weight had been.
A single, puzzled beat passed. Then you looked down and were slammed straight into him.
The collision was abrupt, a sudden, solid mass striking your center of gravity. The impact forced the breath from your lungs, your stomach meeting his shoulder with a dull thud. Eddie let out a victorious grunt, as the momentum carried you both backward. Your boots skidded through the grass, heels digging furrows into the earth as your hands instinctively fisted into the back of his black shirt.
"What the hell?!" you gasped.
Eddie's laughter broke loose as you shoved at his shoulders, palms striking solid muscle. He staggered with you for a couple more seconds, pivoted, then twisted his body to throw you off.
You barely caught yourself before he straightened, standing tall with a look of profound self-satisfaction etched across his face. His grin split wide, dimples gouging into his cheeks as his tongue dragged lazily over his bottom lip, an infuriating, exaggerated gesture that felt designed to provoke. And oh, how it did.
"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?" you challenged, planting your feet more firmly into the ground.
"Someone's gotta knock some sense into you, sweetheart," he shot back.
You lunged before he could get another remark out that would inevitably piss you off.
Your shoulder met his stomach this time; he grunted, arms immediately locking around you. You struggled, one of you laughing, the other hissing in effort, feet tangling as you wrestled for leverage. Then as swift as a card trick, Eddie's hands caught the hem of your shirt and yanked it over your head.
"Fucker!" you yelped, blinded, arms flailing as you twisted away and clawed the shirt back down in a graceless scramble.
"Never said it was gonna be fair!"
You didn't even have time to fully right yourself before he barreled into you again. This time, you went down, grass cushioning the fall but not the shock of it. You both hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Eddie recovered first.
He pushed up onto his knees between your legs, looming just enough to cast a wavering shadow across your face. His hair had fallen free now, slipping loose from the bandana and spilling forward in a disordered curtain. Strands clung to the sheen of sweat along his temples, brushed the slope of his cheekbones, caught against his mouth when he breathed.
He lifted his hands ominously, wiggling them mischievously. You caught them just in time, fingers locking around the cool metal of his rings as you shoved him backward and scrambled to your feet.
"No, no, no!" you squealed, barely upright before he seized your ankle and yanked. You landed face-first with a muffled sound, grass brushing your cheek, the scent of sun-warmed earth filling your lungs. Before you could push up, his weight settled over you, pinning you in place as he sat squarely on your butt. Your whole body tensed in immediate dread.
"Wait--wait, truce!" you pleaded into the grass, breathless.
Behind you, he made a thoughtful humming sound, "Mm. I dunno..." he said slowly. "You gonna study later?"
A long second passed.
"...Fuck no!" you shouted over your shoulder.
"Then fuck the truce!" he laughed wickedly before his fingers found your sides. You exploded into laughter, helpless and now breathless. Your legs kicked uselessly behind you. Every touch sent sharp, electric bursts through you, sensation overwhelming any hope of resistance.
"Stop it--!" you gasped, words dissolving into giggles.
"Say you'll study!" he demanded, voice wild with manic delight.
"Never!" you choked out.
Then somehow, miraculously, you twisted hard enough to throw him off balance. He tipped sideways with a startled oof, and you seized the fleeting opening, scrambling onto him before he could recover.
"Tables' turned, Munson!" you declared, straddling him in shaky victory.
For exactly three seconds.
His hands caught your wrists and jerked his hips upward in one swift motion, just enough to break your balance. Suddenly the world flipped. He pinned your wrists to the ground beside your head. The shift knocked the air from you, eyes widening as you struggled instinctively beneath him.
For a moment everything narrowed. The rustle of grass. Your shared breathing. The heat of him braced over you.
His hair had fallen forward again, dark curls spilled down around his face, some brushing your forehead, others grazing your cheek when the wind shifted. One stubborn strand caught at the corner of his mouth until he exhaled sharply to move it, breath ghosting warm across your skin. From this close you could see everything, the faint stubble, the brightness in his eyes, the way exertion had flushed his cheeks.
"Looks like the tables turned again," he said, grin crooked and boyish and unbearably pleased with himself. He shook his head violently, trying to clear the hair from his face. You groaned, letting your head fall back into the grass, settling for a glare that held more exhaustion than fury.
"Are you seriously doing this," you huffed, "because you want me to do something you yourself have never done?"
"Yep." No hesitation. None. "I, Eddie Munson--" he puffed his chest slightly, mock-heroic even while pinning you to the ground--"will not allow you to follow in my academic footsteps." He leaned a fraction closer, adding, "And I'm also not getting off you until you promise to study."
One unimpressed brow lifted. "What's the point? You'll just make me do it anyway."
He said your name in warning while it threaded with something gentler underneath the theatrics. It made the fight leak out of you in a long, resigned sigh.
"...Fine," you muttered. "I promise to study. Happy?"
"Ecstatic."
The grin that spread across his face was incandescent and pure satisfaction. He released your wrists at once and pushed himself up, hopping to his feet with renewed energy. Grass clung to his jeans; he brushed it off absently before extending a ringed hand down toward you in gallantry.
You stayed propped on your elbows for a moment, staring up at him with exasperation.
Maybe he had knocked a little sense into you.
You snatched his hand and yanked down with everything you had.
He came down with a startled yelp, collapsing back into the grass in a graceless heap. You were already scrambling to your feet, laughter echoing as you bolted away across the field.
"You little shit!" he shouted behind you, half indignant, half laughing.
The wind rushed past your ears, the sunlight flashed warm across your skin with the sound of rushed footsteps tailing along behind you. And somewhere in the middle of it, between the breathless laughter and the careless tackles, you forgot--just for a while--all about that stupid test.
Summary: You were sick of the bullying. The stupid remarks, pushes and criticizing gazes. The only way to solve that? Beat the shit out of the main person it came from; Jason Carver.
Warnings: drug mention/use, m vs f violence, slow burn (?), friends to lovers, reader is just that girl, I did NOT revise this, no use of y/n
Word count: 9.0k
Pairing: eddiemunson x fem!reader
A/N: HB JOSEPH QUINN 💗 sigh I'm gonna crash out, the images weren't working for me💔💔
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"You doing anything after school?"
Being the new kid in school was probably top ten worst things to happen to you. Especially during the middle of the year.
"Nope. You up for a little party with Mary Jane and Elvira?"
But one man had made the transition easier. At first glance, you would have never decided to approach the daunting and eccentric metal lover, let alone become friends with him, but school has a weird way of bringing people together.
You remember your first day with unusual clarity: the clean hallway smell, the dull thrum of adolescent voices, the sense that you were trespassing somewhere you had not yet earned the right to exist. You arrived late, checking in with the teacher before slipping into the classroom like a ghost.
There was only one seat left.
It was in the farthest end of the room, pressed against the back wall as though exiled there, adjacent to the boy you heard many rumors of already. The freak, they called him in the halls. The delinquent. The problem in the school. You didn't look at him.
You didn't want to give the rumor the dignity of acknowledgment. Instead, you clutched your bag closer, knuckles straining around the strap, and lowered yourself into the chair carefully. Social navigation had never been your forte. You were introverted to the marrow, temperamentally inclined toward observation rather than participation. Even now, you weren't entirely certain how you'd managed to cultivate two separate friend groups at your old school.
What you didn't anticipate, couldn't have accounted for, was the small, almost frivolous detail that would undo your practiced invisibility.
The charm on your shoulder purse was hardly conspicuous: a tiny pink twenty-sided die, glossy from time, swinging gently with each of your movements. Your earrings matched, miniature replicas that caught the light when you turned your head. To you, they were talismans. Comfort objects. A declaration of a beloved and niche hobby. To anyone else, they might have passed as kitsch.
To him, they were an invitation.
The first non-authoritative voice directed at you that day came from beside you.
"Hey."
You ignored it reflexively. Your introversion flared, instinctively drawing the curtains to someone knocking on the door. Or, well, him. That single syllable dissolved into the ambient noise of shuffling notebooks and scraping chairs, until your ankle felt a gentle nudge. You flinched.
A scuffed white Reebok had tapped you, purposely but not aggressively. Your head snapped to the side, irritation already crystallizing into a glare before you'd even fully processed what was happening.
"Sick earrings."
The words were disarmingly earnest.
You hadn't yet taken in his face, only the aftermath of his expression; the faint, crooked smile that followed the compliment. Something in your chest reacted before your mind could intervene, a treacherous warmth blooming beneath your ribs. When you finally looked at him, you found his eyes already on you: large doe-brown. They traced the line of your jaw, the curve of your ear, lingering on the delicate swing of the dice before lifting to meet your gaze.
Your glare softened, dissolving into something more neutral.
"Thanks," you said, lifting your hand to brush your fingertip against one of the dangling earrings. The conversation teetered on the brink of ending there, but panic nudged you forward. Silence, suddenly, felt like a missed opportunity.
"I have a whole matching set. I--" You faltered, the word nerd already echoing in your skull, and hastily amended course. "It's really just... from some silly game--"
"D&D?"
He said it easily. His head tilted, unruly curls tumbling with gravity's indulgence, and when your eyebrows lifted in open astonishment, his grin widened; bright and almost boyish. Your surprise melted into a smile of your own. After that moment, your hesitation bubbled away into excitement.
The exchange immediately turned into rapturous communion. You both leaned in, conspiratorial, voices lowering as though the subject were illicit. He spoke with theatrical fervor, hands animating every sentence, explaining that he was the Dungeon Master here at Hawkins High, the architect, the arbiter, the benevolent tyrant presiding over The Hellfire Club.
When you explained your character, the background, the carefully curated flaws, you expected skepticism. Instead, he went quiet, gaze narrowing not with doubt but calculation. He considered it with exaggerated gravity, lips pursed, fingers steepled.
Two seconds later, he grinned.
"Yeah," he said. "You'd be a perfect fit."
From there, everything grew in the best possible way. Friendships came to be, braided together by shared lunchtables and late-afternoon campaigns that bled into evening. You found yourself folding into a peculiar but fiercely loyal relationship with Eddie.
He was a super-senior. The super-senior. An academic anomaly who wore his reputation like armor. And somehow, your life in Hawkins settled into something idyllic.
Almost.
Because there was one persistent irritation, one maddening imperfection buzzing incessantly at the periphery of your contentment. A fly you could not swat away, no matter how deft your reflexes or how sharp your wit.
"Hell yeah," You enthused back, slinging your purse over your shoulder. "I'll call you later. Got some stuff to do first."
You smiled fondly, and he answered it with a sharp nod before extending his hand, rings catching the fluorescent light.
The handshake.
It had been your idea, offered half-heartedly during a particularly soul-numbing math lecture. Yet Eddie, predictably, had seized upon it with near-religious zeal. Over time, it had evolved, mutating into something absurdly intricate.
You laughed as you grasped his rough hand, fingers weaving and unwinding, wrists twisting to accommodate the choreography he insisted was now utterly sacred.
The final flourish was his latest innovation, introduced mere weeks ago without a warning. You didn't mind though. It suited his performative nature. He lifted your joined hands high, and you mirrored him instinctively before the two of you bumped hips. His wallet chain chimed against your own chain belt. A couple of students passed by, expressions morphed into disdain.
You let go first, turning sharply to slam your locker shut. The sound echoed. "Well, better get to class, Munson," you muse, arching a brow. "One more tardy and you might not graduate, again."
He scoffed, exaggerated exasperation, rolling his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't stick. His hands disappeared into his back pockets while his posture became loose.
"Shut up," he shot back. "It's actually two more I've got to spare."
"Shouldn't waste it, then."
You adjusted your purse on your shoulder, already stepping away, offering a final glance over your shoulder before parting toward your respective classrooms, utterly unaware, or perhaps willfully ignorant, of the way his eyes lingered longer than needed.
You hummed softly to yourself as you traversed the hollowed corridors, your footsteps echoing in a lonely rhythm. The halls were largely deserted now, students already siphoned off into their classrooms, leaving behind the quiet that settled like dust. You checked your watch mid-stride.
Exactly one minute to spare.
Lowering your wrist, you adjusted the bundle tucked beneath your arm and immediately stilled.
That folder was not yours.
No stickers, no carefully made marginalia. Instead, it was a palimpsest of graphite smudges and half-finished doodles, corners curled from neglect. You scoffed lightly under your breath, recognizing it at once.
Eddie.
With a resigned pivot on your heel, you reversed course, intent on returning the meager stack of papers, meager being generous; it felt suspiciously light, as though most of its contents existed only in theory. You followed the path he'd vanished down moments earlier, rounding the corner and froze.
The sound shot through the hall like a gunshot.
It was unmistakable: the hollow clang of metal clashing with flesh. Somebody hitting a locker. Your brow knitted instinctively, dread coagulating into certainty before your eyes even caught up. You leaned just enough to peer around the corner.
Three bodies stood there, their green-and-white jackets unmistakable. Eddie was pressed back, one shoulder angled awkwardly as he rubbed his arm, jaw tight with a fury he'd learned to swallow.
"Watch where you're going, freak."
There it was.
The fly. The festering, ever-present blight that refused eradication.
Jason Carver.
Hawkins High's tyrant, his sanctimony polished to a high gloss and weaponized alongside his biceps. He and his two orbiting sycophants ruled the halls through intimidation thinly disguised as school spirit, bloated egos masquerading as virtue.
And you were so profoundly--no--spectacularly tired of them.
Eddie's response was quick. He flipped them off, eyes hard, but it earned him nothing more than derisive scoffs as the trio resumed their leisurely march, satisfied with the damage inflicted.
Your lip curled as you watched them pass, loathing the very beings. You rounded the corner to reach Eddie.
Too late.
One of them clocked you, like a shark sensing blood.
"Well, look at that," Jason drawled, voice thick with condescension. "Queen of Freaks." The moniker had stuck recently, ever since you chose your proximity to the so-called 'King of Freaks'. You bristled.
"Fuck off, Carver," you snapped venomously, granting him the pugnacious attitude he so desperately deserved.
It wasn't enough.
With an infuriating casual motion, he raised his hand and slapped the materials from your grasp. The folder and binder hit the floor with a clatter, dislodging their continents in a paper storm. Loose pages spiraled through the air, fluttering down like feathers. Shock flashed across your face before Jasons mouth twisted into a smug, self-satisfied grin. He turned away, already bored from his victory.
You stood there, fists clenched.
The annoyance you'd been tamping down since the very first time he'd opened his mouth began to seethe. It bubbled up, clawing at your restraint. You wanted, no, needed, to go further.
Eddie felt it too. You knew he did. He'd confessed it in one of those rare tender and soft moments. They're not worth it, he'd say. But you knew the truth beneath it.
It wasn't indifference. It was him running away. Though you should listen.
But you weren't Eddie Munson.
And you were done swallowing it.
Your mother did not raise a coward.
She had raised a girl with teeth.
You didn't pause to weigh the calculus of consequences. You didn't consider the optics, the faculty, the inevitable fallout that would come crashing down later like a poorly stacked shelf. The thought evaporated. The moment demanded action, and you answered it with your whole body.
Instead of stooping to retrieve your scattered belongings, instead of swallowing the insult and letting it fester, you strode forward, pulse blaring in your ears. You planted your palms squarely between Jason Carver's shoulder blades and shoved hard.
The impact knocked a sharp gasp from him as momentum betrayed him. He stumbled a half-step forward, sneakers squealing faintly against the linoleum before he and his two cronies wheeled around, fully expecting Eddie Munson. They did not expect you.
A firm but urgent hand closed around your wrist. "Hey--" Eddie's voice strained your name. You shook him off without looking, knocking his grip away with irritation. Your eyes never left Jason's face as his ruminating blue stare flickered, recalibrating, scrambling for footing now that the script had been violently rewritten.
Jason Carver was a D1-grade asshole--but he was also a product of optics. Appearances mattered. He knew better than to raise a hand to a girl. Especially since it had consequences to a certain cheerleader, Chrissy Cunningham. A break up ready to happen. It's what restrained his fist back.
You knew this.
And you intended to exploit it.
The bell rang but your voice cut through it. "What," you sneered, stepping closer, "you gonna pussy out now, Carver?"
Eddie stiffened behind you. "Stop," he muttered, trepidation evident in his voice. You didn't listen.
"C'mon," you pressed, incandescent. "You fuck with me, I fuck with you." You shoved him again. That did it.
Jason's restraint cracked enough to bleed through. He shoved you back with equal force, frustration eclipsing sense. You staggered a few steps, barely catching your balance.
"Hey--!" Eddie shouted, panic finally breaking free.
"HEY!"
The barked command came from behind him, abrupt enough to snap every head in the vicinity. A teacher, one of the coaches by the look of him, stood glaring down the hall, patience already thin.
Jason straightened instantly. Shoulders squared, mask reapplied.
"What the hell is going on here?" The coach demanded, eyes moving between the five of you like an officer surveying a crime scene.
Your hands curled into fists at your sides. You stole a glance at Jason. He was staring at you, waiting. Everyone was. The unspoken verdict hung heavy in the air
Tell the truth. Burn it all down.
You exhaled.
"Nothing, sir," you said calmly, turning your gaze to the coach and summoning your most anodyne, wide-eyed innocence.
The man studied you for a beat, clearly unconvinced, but apathy won out over justice. With a grunt, he seized the front of Jason's letterman and shoved him sideways.
"Then get to class. All of you. Now."
Jason smoothed his jacket, dignity restored in seconds, but not before casting you a look so venomous it promised retribution. You returned it.
The coach motioned for you to disperse as well, already herding Jason and his entourage down the hall.
You turned away without another word and knelt to gather your scattered papers, heart still racing, adrenaline prickling beneath your skin.
"What the fuck was that?" Eddie demanded, crouching beside you.
You didn't look at him. You didn't want the lecture. You shot him a sour glance and frowned.
"Didn't you hear what I said?" You muttered. "Nothing."
Eddie hissed through his teeth, standing abruptly and shoving the disordered stack of papers in your direction. "Really? Because threatening Jason Carver to a fight looked a whole lot like something." You groaned, irritation flaring as you yanked your homework from his grip.
"He deserved it, and more, Edward. I don't regret a damn thing. I'm sick of how he treats you. Treats us. Someone had to do something."
Eddie stared at you, stunned into silence, emotions warring behind his eyes: anger, admiration, terror, something painfully unspoken.
But you were already walking away. Those were the last words you gave him before the hallway swallowed you whole.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
Unfinished business.
You'd been calling it that ever since the final bell rang and the parking lot emptied, the phrase repeating in your head. It sounded cleaner than what it really was. It disguised the uglier truth gnawing at your insides.
You had watched Jason Carver corner Eddie again.
Watched the way his mouth twisted around pejoratives. Watched him sneer something about Eddie needing his psycho girlfriend to save his pathetic ass. You'd seen the shoves until boredom overtook them and they finally let Eddie retreat to his van, shoulders tight, dignity salvaged only because he refused to give them the satisfaction of reaction.
You hadn't intervened.
So now you have unfinished business with Jason Carver.
And tonight, you intended to settle it.
Not with insults lobbed across hallways. Not with juvenile shoving matches or half-hearted threats spat in the presence of teachers. This wasn't going to be easily dismissed. It was going to end.
The party was exactly what you'd expected. One of his friend's houses. On this Thursday night, as tomorrow held no school. Typical one; spiked punch sweating in red cups, harder substances exchanged around, bodies pressed together. Sex later, regrets later still.
You sat in your car across the street, watching it unfold through the windshield. Light spilled from the windows, the bass-heavy music thudding through the walls. Laughter spilled out every time the front door opened, followed by the smell of smoke and alcohol.
A cigarette burned between your fingers. You don't even remember lighting it. The smoke curled lazily around the interior of the car, clinging to the fabric, to your clothes, to your hair. Each drag was a confidence boost borrowed from nicotine and sheer obstinance.
Yes, this was a bad idea. A catastrophically bad idea.
Forgetting the day entirely, blasting music, getting irresponsibly high with your best friend, dissolving into laughter until nothing mattered, would have been the smarter option. The safer one.
But the sensation in your stomach wouldn't dissipate.
It churned and bubbled, an amalgam of rage and dread. Maybe it was vengeance. Maybe it was anxiety manifesting physically, your body begging you not to cross a line you couldn't uncross.
Either way, you weren't backing down. You knew the odds were unfair. Numerically, physically, socially. Jason Carver existed within a protective ecosystem of admiration and fear. You were alone. You were a girl. You were already marked.
But you were also furious. And stubborn, and so profoundly done swallowing other people's cruelty for the sake of peace.
You were many things. Reckless, impulsive, infuriatingly headstrong. But a coward was not one of them. And if this blew up in your face? So be it. You had to do it, for Eddie.
You had always been too stubborn for your own good.
When the cigarette had burned down to a graceless nub, too short to hold without scorching skin, you plucked it from your lips and smashed it out against the ashtray you always brought along. A final exhale ghosted from your mouth before dissolving into the night.
You adjusted the strap of your tank top and swung the car door open. Cold air rushed in immediately, raising goosebumps along your arms and sending a shiver down your spine. You would have been lying to yourself if you claimed you weren't afraid. You were.
You knew exactly what this would cost you. New targets. Sharper scrutiny. A reputation already maligned now hardening into something uglier. But consequences were a problem for later. You slammed the door shut and crossed the street. Each step through the manicured green lawn, your boots sinking slightly into the grass as the music bled through the house and vibrated beneath your feet. The porch steps creaked under your weight. The closer you got, the louder everything became. The sounds compressed, distorting until it felt like pressure behind your eyes.
You pushed open the unlocked front door. Warmth hit first. Then smell. Weed, alcohol, and sweat.
The air inside was dense and cloying, saturated with bodies and noise. Teenagers crowded the lower floor in clusters. Some shouting over the music, some dancing with reckless movements, others pressed too close in dark corners.
You pushed through. Sneers followed you. You didn't belong here and everyone knew it. You could practically hear the unspoken question hovering over every turned head:
Who the hell invited her?
You ignored them all. You slipped through the back door and into the backyard. A ring of people had formed around a familiar head of blond hair, voices raised in encouragement as he tipped a bottle back, chugging to applause.
There he was.
And the moment your eyes locked onto him, doubt evaporated entirely.
Whatever hesitation had lingered in you was obliterated. Every memory of his cruelty came forward at once: the sneers, the shoves, the sanctimonious malice. It all collapsed into a singular, blinding emotion, rage.
You barely registered the jock who muttered something dismissive as you shoved past him, sending him stumbling aside. Your voice cut through the night like a blade.
"Hey, Jason!"
Heads turned, not his at first, the wrong faces swung toward you, curiosity blooming into recognition until finally, he lowered the bottle and looked.
He didn't get time to react. Your fist connected with his jaw in a sharp, resounding crack. Silence fell followed by a few gasps from the crowd. Jason's head snapped to the side with the force of the blow, the bottle slipping from his grasp and crashing to the ground. Alcohol splashed across your shoes, soaking into the grass.
You didn't hesitate, to shove him hard in the chest, sending him stumbling backward. "I wasn't done with you," you spat, the words venomous, dredged straight from the afternoon he thought he'd won.
You stood your ground as he bent forward, catching himself, then slowly straightened. You could see it flicker across his face, the calculation, the same dilemma as before, only magnified now by an audience.
Hitting a girl would ruin him. Especially here. Especially now. But you had struck first and everyone was watching. The choice stood in his eyes and then he charged.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
"Auughhh."
"Don't do that."
"Auuughhhhhh!"
"Stop."
The reprimand came with a soft smack to your shoulder, meant to be corrective, but it landed squarely against a bruise already blooming beneath the skin. The pain flared.
You hissed, cutting off your dramatics at once, and cradled your arm instinctively before jamming the half-melted bag of peas back against your swollen eye. The cold stung, but it beat the alternative.
Steve sighed the long, beleaguered sigh of a man who had made deeply questionable life choices and was now dealing with the aftermath.
"I'll get more bandages," he said, already moving toward the bathroom. He paused only long enough to toss you the box of tissues he'd been using to blot the blood from your face. "Try not to get into another fight while I'm gone."
At a time like this, you're glad your mother was on her regular business trips.
You muttered a quiet thank-you, though you still shot him a look as he disappeared down the hall.
Now how, exactly, had Steve "The Hair" Harrington end up in your living room?
Well the fight is how.
It had been messy in every way. Punches, blood, and yelling. Jason's first hit had landed hard enough to rattle your teeth. A clean, brutal blow that knocked the breath straight out of you. It hurt like hell. But that just ignited your determination to hit harder.
You had hit back without thought. Fists flew, boots connected, limbs wobbled weakly. When his friends piled in, you didn't retreat. Adrenaline made you reckless and terrifyingly efficient. Someone tried to restrain you from behind; you responded by driving your heel back into a groin and snapping your head backward, cracking it against the chin of the idiot holding you.
You still savored that one.
From the outside, the crowd had faltered, uncertain who to root for now. Jason was supposed to demolish the town freak, not get dragged into a brawl where said freak was holding her own. A girl, no less. Fighting like she had nothing left to lose.
It only ended when someone caught you off balance, sending you crashing down into the damp grass. You curled inward on instinct as shadows loomed, feet lifting, ready to stomp you into submission.
And then Steve Harrington appeared, half-drunk like a deus ex machina.
"Get the fuck off her, man!" he'd snarled, shoving Jason hard enough to stagger him backward. Steve grabbed your wrist, yanked you upright and hauled you out of the chaos you caused. He didn't stop there, though. Because just before leaving, he threw one last, vicious punch that knocked Jason Carver unconscious on the lawn.
You had breathlessly laughed and shouted something profoundly unhelpful at Jason's limp form. Steve hadn't laughed.
He had scolded you all the way home.
Now you sat reclined in your chair, smug despite the throbbing ache radiating through your skull. Your head rested against the cushion, posture deflated, expression self-satisfied in a way that only someone freshly beaten half to death could manage.
You hadn't done that bad.
Hell--you might even argue you'd won.
Your gaze dropped to your knuckles, skin split and darkened, joints trembling slightly as you flexed them. The victory had come at a cost, sure. Every inhale reminded you of it. But regret was conspicuously absent.
You sighed and swapped out the tissue at your nose, the old one stained an ugly red.
Worth it for the sake of Eddie.
Just as you flicked the used tissue into the trash and wedged a fresh one into your abused nostril, your phone shrilled across the room.
You let out a wounded groan at the sound. The noise sliced straight through your skull, vibrating unpleasantly against the lingering throb from repeated blows. Even the quiet of night seemed too loud now, every stimulus magnified.
With a begrudging huff, you forced your overheated, aching body upright. The frozen bag of peas slid from your grip and thumped onto the coffee table as you staggered toward the phone, balance wavering just enough to remind you how hard you'd been hit. You snatched the receiver and pressed it to your ear, answering with an unfiltered--
"What the fuck do you want?"
You were already braced for drunken nonsense or some half-slurred confrontation from the party.
Instead--
"Whoa, okay, easy there," came a familiar voice, soft and amused rather than affronted. "Did I, uh... interrupt your beauty sleep there, sweetheart?"
Speak of the devil...
The effect was immediate. Whatever residual aggression still hung onto you dissolved, muscles loosening despite your better judgment. Your shoulders slumped and your breath steadied.
"Oh, shit. Eddie. Sorry," you said, rubbing absently at your temple. "I just--" You paused, scrambling for a plausible explanation to justify the gravel in your voice. "It's been a rough night."
That was putting it generously.
You shifted slightly, testing your ribs, and hissed through your teeth when pain bloomed in protest.
"Ah," Eddie hummed, voice dipping into something knowingly sympathetic. "That explain why I've been tragically stood up? I mean, I only called, like... an embarrassing amount of times. You did promise you'd call me, you know."
He was teasing, you could hear the smile tangled in his naturally dulcet cadence, but there was a faint undercurrent there, disappointed, maybe. Though not angry.
"Dammit, Eddie, I'm sorry," you sighed, guilt threading through your exhaustion. "I kinda got... swept up in everything."
"Hey--hey," he cut in gently, concern overtaking the jest. "It's cool. I'm not mad. We can just kick it tomorrow, yeah? No pressure. I've still got a whole stash of not... really burnt green brownies. With those chocolate chips you like."
You groaned, letting your head fall back.
"Are you kidding me? Jesus, that sounds incredible right now."
His short but warm laugh crackled through the receiver, unmistakably just... Eddie. And you smiled. "Yeah, well," he said, clearly grinning, "guess you shouldn't stand me up next time, huh? I could even have your favorite drinks."
"Oh fuck off! Now I'm really mad I wasn't able to make it."
Yeah. Defending his honor earlier probably hadn't been the smartest decision. But it sure as hell felt like the right decision.
"Tomorrow," he reassured. "You, me, brownies. Maybe a movie. Something stupid. You sound like you need stupid."
"I really do," you murmured.
"But tomorrow--"
"I don't think you'll need stitches," Steve announced from behind you, entirely too loud. "These band-aids work wonders."
You nearly jumped out of your skin.
Your eyes--or eye, since the other was so swollen it was basically not there--bugged out as you spun halfway around. You made a frantic slicing motion across your throat at Steve, silently begging him to shut up.
He frowned, confused.
"Wait--stitches?" Eddie's voice sharpened with caution. There was a rustling, most likely him sitting up. "Was that Steve? Why would you need--?"
You mouthed several creative curses at Steve before snapping your attention back to the phone. "No! That was--uh--the TV," you lied, terribly not to mention. "Sorry, I gotta go--call you tomorrow, okay? Bye!"
You slammed the receiver down before Eddie could object, heart pounding.
Somewhere across town, Eddie had absolutely not bought a word of it. Unknowingly to you, he was already grabbing his keys and rushing out the door, though not before packing a couple things into his arms.
Steve stared at you.
"Smooth," he deadpanned.
"Shut up, Steve," you snapped, wincing as the motion tugged at your bruises.
He glared at you, scoffing before showing the bandages again. "Alright, alright. Come on. Sit down before you pass out."
You obeyed, capitulating with theatrical resignation as you let yourself fold into the couch, breath punching out of you in a sharp huff. The cushions swallowed you whole and you braced for the inevitable. Steve's brand of caretaking, which was somehow both meticulous and deeply condescending. He's friends with too many kids.
He crouched in front of you, already reaching for another alcohol wipe. The crinkle of the packet alone made your stomach knot. You flinched before he even touched you, and when the antiseptic finally met broken skin, the hiss you let out was nothing short of dramatic.
"Oh, come on," Steve scoffed, though there was no real annoyance in it. "You can take a punch from a guy who benches twice his body weight, but this is where you draw the line?"
The sting burned, a petty little pain that nonetheless had your toes curling. You glared at him, teeth clenched, pride wounded right alongside everything else. He shook his head, clearly fighting the urge to laugh, or lecture, which might've been worse.
"As stupid as that was," he said after a moment as he peeled open another butterfly bandage, "seeing Jason get his ass handed to him was probably the highlight of my entire Thursday."
You snorted despite yourself, the sound half-laugh, half-groan, shifting the frozen peas from one aching hand to the other.
"Someone had to do it," you muttered. "I was getting sick of Eddie brushing everything off like it didn't matter."
Steve hummed, the sound thoughtful as he leaned in to place the bandage on. His fingers lingered just long enough to make sure it would hold, pressing the edges together.
"Never thought I'd live to see the day," he said dryly, sitting back on his heels, knees popping in faint protest, "where Eddie Munson was the reasonable one."
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you. Steve gathered up the battlefield of gauze, wrappers, and wipes, hauling himself upright and retreating toward the bathroom. You stayed where you were, gingerly running your fingers over the constellation of damage; forehead, nose, lip, jaw, knuckles. Everything throbbed with that dull, echoing ache that promised bruises by morning but felt oddly survivable now.
"Thank you, Steve," you said, softer than before.
"Yep," he replied, a brief smile in his voice if not fully on his face, before disappearing down the hall. You listened to cabinet doors open and close, the mundane domestic sounds oddly soothing. Tonight, you thought, you might actually sleep.
You pushed yourself up, tossing the now-lukewarm peas onto the coffee table and stretching carefully, muscles protesting the movement.
"I've got stuff in the fridge if you want anything," you called out. "Payment for emergency medical services. You're welcome to stay." You wandered toward the hallway, leaning into the doorway just as he turned, mouth already opening.
"I think you owe me a little more than some drin--"
The pounding at the door cut him off mid-sentence.
It was sudden. The kind of knock that rattled hinges and sent dread to spike straight to your throat. You and Steve exchanged a look--his cautious, yours already fearful. He quickly left the bathroom and you followed.
"There's a bat," you whisper-yelled, panic sharpening your voice as you pointed frantically at the umbrella holder by the door. Among the clustered handles sat the unmistakable silhouette of metal. Steve followed your gesture, blinked once, then nodded, retrieving it with a seriousness that made your stomach flip.
Another slam hit the door.
"I know you're in there!" came the shout, unmistakably furious.
You swore under your breath, stomping uselessly like that might shake the anxiety out of your limbs. Steve didn't relax, not fully, but he did straighten, fixing his expression into something deceptively calm as he set the bat back where it didn't belong.
"Hey, man," he called through the door, voice easy to the point of sounding bored. You really wondered how he did it. "She's asleep. No need to wake her."
"Bullshit!" The next bang made the frame creak. "Open the goddamn door, Harrington!" Steve glanced back at you, waiting. You dragged a hand down your face, exhaustion and irritation warring in your chest, then let it fall to your side.
"Just--fuck," you whispered. "Open it."
He exhaled slowly and turned back to the door. The locks clicked one by one, far more leisurely than your nerves appreciated, before he finally swung it open.
You wished desperately, that the sight waiting on the other side didn't form something unpleasant in your ribs. But it did. Eddie looked like he'd bolted the second the phone hung up; hair frizzier than normal, Metallica shirt and pajama pants wrinkled--he even had mismatching shoes on! And the look on his face made one thing painfully clear.
Whatever peace you'd hoped for tonight had just evaporated.
His russet eyes blew wide the instant he took you in, really took you in. The bandages, the swelling, the split skin. His lips parted, a sharp inhale catching somewhere behind his teeth, and then he was moving. Ringed fingers latched onto Steve's shoulder and shoved him aside with startling force, earning a startled grunt as Steve stumbled back half a step.
"What did you do?" Eddie asked, voice strained like a guitar string pulled too tight. He wasn't yelling (not yet) but the effort it took not to was evident in every rigid line of his posture. Worry radiated off him, laced thickly with anger. Because if you hadn't told him, if he had to find out like this, then whatever happened had to be bad. Really bad.
You crossed your arms, instinctively folding inward, making yourself smaller, as if you could somehow compress the damage away.
"Listen, I don't--"
"What the fuck did you do?!"
Your name cracked out of him and the sound of it detonated something ugly and heavy in your chest. Shame washed over you in a dizzying tsunami, your knees threatening to buckle under it.
That was enough for Steve.
He shut the door with a sharp click and flipped, shoving Eddie's shoulder in return, harder than Eddie jad.
"Hey! Stop it," Steve snapped. "She's had a rough night, man. Back off. Give her a second." Eddie slapped Steve's hand away without even looking at him and stalked a few steps into the living room, dragging both hands down his face before pressing his palms over it entirely. His shoulders rose and fell, breath craggy.
"Rough night," Eddie echoed hollowly, a humorless scoff slipping through his fingers. He dropped his hands and turned halfway back, eyes blazing. "I didn't think 'rough night' meant you got into a fucking fight." He wasn't stupid. The evidence was written plainly across your skin. Brute force, blunt impact, violence with pure intent caused this. Not some petty scuffle. Not a slap-fight. And the realization that it hadn't been another girl, that it had been someone who could actually hurt you, made his stomach churn.
You hated this. Hated seeing Eddie like this. He was rarely angry with you, but when he was, it was never frivolous. It always meant something had gone terribly wrong. And yes, technically now something had.
"So?" he asked again, quieter now, the fire tempered but far from extinguished. He turned fully toward you, gaze pinning you in place. "Who was it?"
Steve hovered at your side, arms crossed, a silent barricade you hadn't asked for but didn't refuse. You answered so softly it barely counted as sound, your chin dipping toward your chest. "Jason Carver."
"What?" Eddie stepped closer, bending slightly, trying to catch your eyes. You pinched the bandaged bridge of your nose, breathing through the ache, then forced yourself to look up. You couldn't shrink now.
"Jason Carver," you repeated, firmer this time.
"Jason--" He cut himself off sharply, the rest of the name swallowed by a sharp inhale. His fist came up to his mouth, teeth biting down on his knuckles as he turned and paced a short, disbelieving circle on your carpet. "You're shitting me." Your name fell from his mouth again.
You broke eye contact.
"You're shitting me!"
"Hey!" Steve cut in.
Eddie whipped a hand up without looking. "No! No--you don't get to talk right now!" His voice climbed, cracking under his frenzy. "So when were you planning on telling me, huh?"
You stared at the wall, vision blurring as infuriating tears threatened to spill.
No. Don't you dare.
You hadn't cried when you had been hit. You hadn't cried when blood filled your mouth. Why now?
"You were just gonna keep it between you and 2% over here?" Eddie jabbed a thumb in Steve's direction. "That the plan?" His eyes snapped back to you. "When were you gonna tell me you thought it was a brilliant idea to throw hands with the king of Hawkins?"
"I doubt it would've stayed a secret," Steve muttered, stepping forward, placing himself slightly in front of you without fully blocking you from view.
Eddie's head snapped toward him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Before either of them could escalate further, you turned back, voice steadier than you felt. "It was at one of his friend's parties."
"Jesus H. Christ!" Eddie exploded, both hands tangling in his frizzy curls as he paced again, agitation bleeding into outright terror. Your legs finally gave a warning tremor, exhaustion and pain colliding. You pushed past them both, dropping onto the couch with a wince as your head swam. "Are you insane?" Eddie demanded, still panicking.
Steve noticed your glassy expression immediately and sat down beside you, the couch springs protesting under his weight. Eddie kept ranting, about Jason, about Hawkins, about how this town chewed people up, and somewhere in the middle of it, Steve cleared his throat.
"For what it's worth," he said carefully, "she beat the shit out of them. She basically won."
The words landed like a dropped plate. Eddie stopped dead. Slowly, he turned, eyes flicking from Steve to you, scanning your battered face. He sighed heavily before stuffing his body into the recliner chair.
The silence that followed was thick. The only sound was the low hum of the refrigerator somewhere down the hall and the faint ringing in your ears. It stretched on just long enough to become unbearable.
"I'm sorry Eddie."
Your voice cracked. Both of them turned at once. You lifted your head, tentative, eyes finding Eddie's face. His surprise was evident.
"I know it was stupid," you continued, words tumbling faster now, guilt threading through every syllable. "I wasn't thinking. At all. But..." You dragged a trembling hand down your face, smearing salt and frustration together. "I couldn't stand seeing those assholes mess with you again. I just--couldn't. I didn't want you to go through with them anymore."
Something in Eddie's expression shifted, the anger hollowing out, replaced by something dangerously close to awe.
Before he could speak, a hand pressed gently against your shoulder. Steve's. It was steady and the moment you felt it, whatever fragile composure you'd been clinging to finally disintegrated. You leaned into him without thinking, burying your face into his sweater. The tears came quietly at first, then all at once, blooming dark against the fabric just beneath your cheekbones.
You hadn't realized how much you'd been holding back until it spilled.
Steve stiffened for half a second, then wrapped an arm around you. Over your head, he caught Eddie's eye and mouthed something: your turn. After all, this wasn't his place to stay. He was the buffer, not the anchor.
You heard movement. Eddie shifting. You didn't look. You couldn't.
Steve gave you a final, gentle squeeze before carefully disentangling himself. Without his support, your head tipped forward, chin nearly hitting your chest. When you blinked up again, Eddie was crouched directly in front of you, close enough that you could see the fine lines of worry bracketing his eyes.
He took both your bandaged and bruised hands, enclosing them in his own. His grip was firm, but reverent, like he was afraid they might break under the slightest pressure. You held his gaze, lost in the glossy brown warmth of his eyes. Behind you, the front door clicked softly.
Steve didn't linger. He'd done his part. You heard his footsteps fade, the distant sound of your car starting, then disappearing into the night.
Eddie's thumbs brushed slow, absent arcs over your knuckles, his mouth pulled into a deep frown.
"I'm sorry," you breathed, eyes squeezing shut. "I wish I'd just stayed and hung out with y--"
"No."
Your eyes snapped open.
"What?"
"Don't," Eddie said, voice gentler now but no less certain. He lifted one hand, knuckles brushing your cheek as he wiped away a tear that had escaped anyway. "Don't be sorry."
He paused, searching for words that could compare to everything he was feeling. "That was... yeah. Incredibly stupid. Like--" A weak breath of laughter escaped him. "Like Pippin pulling the fire warning in Minas Tirith kind of stupid." A small laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. Eddie smiled at the sound, the tension in his face easing. "But," he continued, pressing his forehead gently against your wrapped knuckles, "the fact that you did that for me? Me, of all people?" His voice dipped, incredulous and soft all at once.
"That's..."
He looked up at you, eyes bright.
"That is so fucking metal."
Your lips curved as you looked down at him, something warm blooming in your chest despite the ache everywhere else. You tugged lightly at his hands. He took the hint, rising just enough to slide in beside you on the couch, arms wrapping around you with careful precision. You returned the embrace instantly, inhaling the familiar scent of smoke and musk and just him. For a few moments, the world narrowed to that shared warmth, steady breathing.
Then he pulled back slightly, hands settling on your shoulders, concern flickering again.
"Steve wasn't lying when he said you won, right?"
A soft giggle escaped you. "I'll just say this... one of us made it out of that place conscious."
Eddie bit his lip, eyes lighting up, and pumped his fist with sudden, boyish enthusiasm. "Yes! That's my girl!" He grinned. He couldn't stay mad, not when the reality of it hit. It was reckless. It was dangerous. And it was undeniably badass. "Freaks: one," he declared, clapping his hands together, "dumbass jocks: zero!"
You cut him off by pulling him into another hug. He froze for half a second, surprised, hands hovering uselessly before wrapping around you in return, too tight.
"Shit--sorry!" he laughed, immediately loosening his grip.
You hissed softly but shook your head, smiling through it. He glanced around the room, then back at you, one hand settling on your shoulder as his gaze drifted to your shelves.
"You got anything stupid?" he asked, voice lilting with mischief.
You caught his look and nodded. "Bet I do."
He lifted a finger as you tried to stand, gently keeping you planted. "Uh-uh. Sit. I never come unprepared--"
"Bullshit."
"When it comes to you," he shot back, giving you a look before darting toward the front door and slipping outside.
You sat there, heart thudding, anticipation fizzing through you despite the soreness. When the door opened again, Eddie stood there grinning, holding up a sandwich bag with a few brownies shifting inside. He wiggled his eyebrows.
"Let's get stupid."
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
The soft, insistently avian chirps of morning pried you from sleep. You scrunched your nose, affronted by consciousness, and attempted to shift, only for your body to revolt spectacularly. A involuntary groan slipped from you, chased immediately by another, rougher sound that did not belong to your throat. It came from somewhere above your head.
You blinked, lashes fluttering against the onslaught of sun that had claimed your living room with brazen entitlement. Pale bands of light slanted across the floor, too bright. You squinted and lifted your aching head and froze.
There was a handsome face far too close to yours, slack with sleep, breath slow and even. The realization struck all at once, an ungainly collision of awareness and mortification, and you turned your gaze away as if caught trespassing. Only then did the configuration of limbs and gravity make itself known. Your cheek had been pressed somewhere warm and solid; your spine protested as you inhaled. No wonder everything felt stiff and wrong. Some of it was the lingering aftermath of last night's fight, the dull bloom of pain still negotiating territory beneath your skin, but the rest of it was far more damning.
Your best friend, it turned out, made for a terrible mattress.
Heat crept up your neck, bloomed at your ears, settled uncomfortably behind your eyes. You inhaled, intending to create distance, but instead found yourself stuck.
His arms were wrapped around you.
The tattoed one draped across your back, the other curved at your waist, keeping you there. The contact radiated heat and it soaked into you before you could think to resist it.
You took the opportunity to nestle your cheek against his chest as though it had always belonged there. The rise and fall beneath your face was calming.
You were acutely aware that this was not a thing best friends were meant to do, at least not without commentary or comedy or an apology made too loudly afterward. And yet the feeling that bloomed in your sternum was not embarrassment alone. It was something more insidious. A warmth that had nothing to do with shared body heat and everything to do with how easily your body had accepted this closeness, how reluctant it was to give it up.
That made you feel selfish.
You could ask for a hug, you told yourself. You always could. It just wouldn't feel like this. The thought tightened something in your chest. You need to get off him, you scolded yourself.
With reluctant care, you began to disentangle yourself, moving slowly enough to avoid disturbing him. As you rose, his arms followed instinctively, clinging for a brief second before gravity coaxed them free. The loss of their weight was oddly conspicuous, like stepping out of warm water into open air. They slipped from your back and waist, falling bonelessly against the couch cushions as you finally managed to slide down until your feet met carpet, landing with a muted huff. For a moment you stayed there, crouched and disoriented, feeling every sensation as it returned to you in uneven waves.
God, last night had been stupid.
Stupid but earned. Those brownies were devoured fast, which lead to a detour to the van to obtain more pot. Then adding to that, alcohol, liberated from your fridge only because someone else had taken too long to commit. Sorry Steve. Movies flickered through the night, each more dumb than the last. At some point you'd collapsed on top of Eddie, to whom shared no protest.
Great night. Abysmal morning.
You scrubbed at your eyes, instantly regretting it as your fingers pressed too firmly against tender flesh. "Ow," you muttered before levering yourself upright. Your throat felt like parchment. That, at least, was a problem with a solution.
You drifted toward the kitchen, one hand skimming the wall for balance. A sharp ache lanced through your side and you hissed, bracing yourself against the counter until the sensation receded to something manageable.
"Damn," you breathed, letting your head fall back so you could stare at the ceiling. Maybe regret was finally clocking in for its shift.
You pushed off the counter and tugged open the fridge, retrieving a bottle of water cold enough to ache in your palm. On the walk back you twisted the cap free and took a long, greedy pull. Relief washed in so fiercely it left you swaying faintly. You stopped short in the entryway, lifting the hem of your clean shirt--changed sometime in the hazy hours before dawn--to wipe the water that had escaped down your chin. It lifted just enough to show a speck of your underboob.
The warmth from earlier lingered in your chest, as if your body hadn't yet realized the moment had passed.
"You feelin' any better?"
The voice, still husky with sleep and last night's excess, cut through the quiet and startled you badly enough that you flinched. You released the hem of your shirt like you'd been caught doing something horrendously wrong, letting the fabric fall back into place over your stomach as you sucked in a breath.
"Shit--yeah. Yeah, I'll... I'll live," you said quickly, forcing levity into your tone as you lifted the bottle for another swallow. The water sloshed faintly. You busied yourself crossing the room, nudging your abandoned shoes out of the middle of the floor and into the corner with your foot, as though domestic order might help you calm.
Behind you, a low sleepy hum sounded. You caught the movement from the corner of your eye as he sat up, long limbs unfolding with a boneless lack of urgency. He dragged a hand down his face, fingers snagging briefly in his hair, then looked over at you as you lowered yourself onto the floor in front of the coffee table. You placed your water bottle on it, close to the bloody tissues.
"You?" you asked, quieter now.
A corner of his mouth lifted. "I mean," he drawled, voice still thick, "I'm not the one that got beat up, sweetheart." You shot him a look, but he was already shifting, sliding off the couch dramatically until he landed on the carpet in front of you. He leaned forward, forearms braced against the table, posture loose but attentive. "But," he added, glancing up at you before looking down again, "Never been better."
His gaze lingered on the dark wooden surface as his fingers found one of his rings, turning it slowly between thumb and forefinger. You noticed then how bare his hands were, how the metal talismans he never seemed without had been abandoned sometime during the night on the table.
You smiled faintly, warmth stirring again at his words, but he wasn't finished.
"My best friend," he continued, voice dropping into something more sincere, "beat the absolute shit outta the biggest human skid mark to ever disgrace this planet on my behalf." A soft laugh slipped out of him. "So yeah. I'm doin' pretty okay."
You laughed with him, though it came out shy, and your chin dipped as heat crept up your neck. Compliments from him always hit like that, impossible to shrug off.
He slipped the ring back onto his finger, then stilled.
"Hey," he said, the word tentative. "Listen. About last night."
You lifted your head just in time to see the shift in him, the easy humor receding, replaced by something knotted and remorseful. His brow furrowed, jaw tightening as if he were bracing for impact.
"I shouldn't have yelled at you," he said. "I had no right. Well--some." He huffed quietly, eyes dropping again. "I just... man, I got scared. Like, really scared. Seeing you all busted up like that?" He shook his head, curls falling into his face. "It messed with me." Another ring clinked softly as he picked it up, rolling it across his knuckles. "I hate that I freaked out on you. But... again, watchin' you standing there like that--bloodied, bruised." He scoffed under his breath. "It sucked," he admitted quietly. "It really sucked. And I took it out on you, which is--surprise, surprise--very on brand for yours truly." A bitter huff. "You didn't deserve that. Not even a little. If anyone should've taken that hit, it should've been me. I'm the one who--"
"Eddie Munson."
The words were sharp enough to stop him mid-thought. You leaned forward and grabbed his hands, bandages brushing against his skin as you cradled them in your palms. He startled, eyes snapping up to meet yours.
"Do me a favor," you said firmly, though the curve of your mouth softened the blow, "and shut the fuck up."
A stunned silence followed, broken only by his quiet blink.
"This was my choice," you continued. "I knew exactly what I was doing. I knew I wouldn't walk away without a few souvenirs." You gave a small shrug. "You've been fighting battles your whole damn life. You deserved a break." Your eyes held his now. "And I don't regret a single second of it."
For a moment, he just stared at you, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then, without warning, he jumped forward, scrambling over the coffee table with all the grace of a reckless idiot, and slammed into you.
The impact knocked the breath from your lungs as he wrapped you up in a fierce, unguarded hug, arms locking around you like he was afraid you might disappear if he loosened his grip.
"Ugh--fuck!" you laughed, pain flaring, but you wrapped your arms around him anyway, breathless. "Warn me first, Jesus!"
"Never," he said fervently, arms locking around you like he might never let go.
You buried your face into his shoulder, breathing him in, and he squeezed tighter in response.
"You are," he said, voice unsteady, "the best fucking thing that's ever happened to me."
The words cracked on the way out. You lifted a hand to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair as it spilled warm and soft between them. He laughed quietly, muffled, pressing his face deeper into your shoulder.
Then he whispered it, so tenderly your breath caught.
