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wroteclassicaly · 2 years

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She’s Trouble

(Eddie Munson x Female Reader)

Summary: Tired of trailing behind, feeling like you don’t matter much, you decide that 86’ isn’t only going to be your bestfriend’s year.

Pairings: Eddie Munson x Female Reader

Word count: 16,185

Warnings: Language, violence, mentions of drug usage, blood, NSFW, smut, drinking, Eddie is angry and sad in this, masturbation, slight voyeurism, breeding kink, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, angry sex, creampie, angst, fighting, rough sex, Dom!Eddie, and MORE!

A/N: I started writing this based off the scene of Eddie smirking at the cheerleaders he lets by after his cafeteria speech. And, well… it’s spawned itself a new life and turned into a whole lot more than I planned. But so is the life of an author, am I right? ;) Eddie is a dick in this, Reader is a lot more vocal than I’ve written before. I wanted to do something a bit different and I hope this accomplishes my mission?

I wanna thank @littledemondani for helping me out of my brain fart on which direction to take this! Also, do check out her masterlist, which is pinned at the top of her blog (it won’t let me link it here). She’s an incredible author and a fellow Eddie Munson slut, and one of my longtime best-friends! ♥️

Side note: I’ve also shifted a few things in the timeline of the show, for obvious reasons. The whole Eddie/Chrissy thing doesn’t happen on the same night as in the series. Chrissy and the reader have a good interaction and Eddie is a dickhead, but his reasoning will be explained. Also, while the reader is wearing a bustier top, this is an all inclusive fic, where the reader can be anything you imagine! I believe anyone can wear anything that they choose to—regardless of their size, so don’t let that bit of the story deter your perception, as I’ve left it open-ended! ;)

Enjoy! I’ve got a lot coming up soon! Part twos of multiple fics, prompts, plus other goodies! <3 - Kristen

~*~

You watch the way that he tries to be cute and coy towards them, attempts to impress with a dramatic wave through of his hand. Short skirts, tight little tops, bouncing ponytails, and a shitload of generic gossip on their painted lips—they pass by, everything included but those damned pom poms. Apparently they are giddy at his little show of calling out every group but your own in the cafeteria. Your eyes roll so hard that you feel a protesting sting, ignoring it to stab your fork into whatever creation is wiggling on your lunch tray. All the guys—freshman to seniors, and you—the only girl since founding, and Hellfire Club’s treasurer/manager to Corroded Coffin—make up the outsider table.

This year, however, you’ve felt so fucking off base with this group and their antics that you’re getting exhausted pretending to care about their shit when they don’t respect you or yours. Dustin, Lucas, and Mike are always the sweetest to you, even with Lucas joining a sport, he’s still quick to always give you a smile and a nod whenever you pass him in the halls. They’re young, unlike Eddie and the older guys. You’re finally a senior this year, but still behind your bestfriend by a year in age. All this used to be okay, Eddie multiplying how much he repeats the grade, you trailing behind him like a lost puppy without any brain of her own, but now—it’s unbearably smothering.

And thus, it’s been building. You’re over bringing chips that are from your personal stash and using your gas to go buy smokes with your small work paycheck, or clean equipment for Eddie’s band, or stay up all night just to design campaign posters for Eddie, only for him to be so fucking stoned that he doesn’t even appreciate it, nor remember it.

“Fucking fake losers,” Jeff mutters.

“So fake,” Gareth agrees, both looking towards Eddie as he settles himself back down, wiggling his brows at you.

It’s an unsettling pressure that boils inside you, crackling, and as soon as you look into your best-friend’s brown doe eyes—it all comes apart. “You wanna talk about fake?” Your chest pumps a rush of adrenaline, helping careen the words off your tongue before you can stop them. Everyone’s attention snaps quicker than you’re prepared for, eyes wide and shocked. Sure, you’re vocal and sassy, but never outwardly angry. “The fact that all of you will condemn the basketball players, but would give up any of your seats at our table for one of the bitches in a skirt that they chase, if they popped their gum or batted an eyelash. You’d all be a bunch of drooling, little horndogs.” You can feel your heart racing with each pronunciation of a word, rising from your seat, knuckles white from gripping the edges of your yellow tray so hard.

You hear Dustin whisper a ‘whoa’, but your vocal vomit doesn’t stop.

“Frankly? I’m fucking sick of all this.” You pick the tray up and slam it down for good measure, unwrapping your messenger bag from around your seat, and you leave the table of gaping young men behind you, not even indulging yourself in Eddie’s bugged out, concerned stare.

You don’t even have time to throw your bag across your chest, when Jason Carver shouts out from behind you, “Damn, look at Munson’s slut go!”

It seems your group aren’t the only ones taking an interest in your outburst. Your breath is engorged in jagged pants of pitiful air, a fire coursing through you faster than you can handle, your skin singing, prickling with goosebumps. Your cheeks redden in humiliation, your feet swiveling and carrying you, fast and quick to their table, you throw your bag off, body like some damned slow motion track. Everyone notices Eddie’s antics, but you’ve never garnered any attention. It’s a surreal high.

Your combat boots click across the cement flooring, your hair like a dead weight across your back. Carver and his entire group are expectant, chairs scraping across to get out of your way. It’s all such a blur that you don’t even know your fist has collided with Jason’s face until you feel the pressure bite into your knuckles, a crunch beneath your force. He shrieks, his friends jumping to his aid, your stance shifting, ready to take anyone on. Your ears are bubbling with a murky static, applause in some direction, shouts in others.

Your name is being shouted from two different directions, the one you see stomping angrily towards you belonging to principal Higgins. He’s calling for help, shoving his finger in your face, motioning to your shirt. “This Hellfire Club does nothing but cause trouble!”

You snort, completely coming off your hinges, shaking the ends of your shirt, before stepping back and flinging it over your head, leaving you clad in your jeans and a leather bustier top no one could ever picture you owning. You’ve always kept your shit to a minimum to draw less attention, but you liked the support it provided your breasts with. You spin around, hands in the air, using the shirt as a lasso, tossing it at your old table. You begin to giggle, honestly wondering if you should visit the school nurse, but uncaring. Higgins is literally sputtering, making you snort, waving a hand. “I’m a slut, I’m trouble. Anyone have anything else to add? No? Yes?”

You bend back over to snatch your nap sack up, motioning to Higgins. “Lead the way to your office, Sir! Please fucking do.”

The pep in your step as your principal is angrily leading you from the masses is such a euphoric feeling, you’re sure you’ll never feel again in your life. You can taste the drama on your tongue’s tip. You don’t even spare your friends a glance, not wanting Eddie to have a morsel of satisfaction. This is your moment. Not as Eddie Munson’s best-friend, not as his groupie. As Y/N, Y/N Y/L/N.

~*~

Eddie Munson has been clutching your discarded Hellfire shirt, doused in your perfume that is brimming his nostrils full, damn near trembling for the past twenty minutes that finish up lunch. He can’t move, that swelling between his legs keeping him glued to his seat, all the images of your fist soaring into Jason Carver’s face, ripping off your clothing in front of Higgins and the entire damned school. He went from concerned, angry at how you acted, to so fucking turned on that his stomach knotted up, sucking him to where he’s seated, his cock throbbing in his jeans. He’s never seen you like this.

The guys are silent, unsure what to say, how to even go about comprehending the you they just saw, that even Eddie himself has never heard of. He knows one thing for sure—okay—two. He has to find out if you’re okay and what’s going on.

~*~

You roll your eyes at the lovely note, signature of a three day suspension secured by Higgins at the bottom. Crumbling it up, you slide it into your back pocket, rifling through your pin tattered bag for a cigarette. You already know where you’re gonna go, and it sure as hell isn’t home. No one is there and no one is gonna care about your minor indecency. You can forge your mom’s signature, much like you do every good grade you bring home that she’s never around to see, or every comment from a teacher about how your folks are missing out.

It’s quiet at your house, your space. You parents more or less sleep there when they’re not gone on business. Pinching the filter, you cup Eddie’s stolen Zippo, that ashy hiss helping beckon that sweet bitter taste in past your lips. You don’t desire that home front solace right now, craving different scenery.

Maybe I’ll get lost…

You feel like Hawkins is your oyster, and you’re eager to explore on your own terms, by yourself. You’ve got your smokes, your pocket knife, and a pen and paper. That’s enough for you to make a decision.

Skull Rock it is.

~*~

One thing about Indiana is the ever predictable bite of hot weather that March brings. Spring is automatically Summer in the Midwest, and this is no different. Your leather top had stuck to your skin in an uncomfortable crunching press, making you eventually discard it, leaving you topless, your only accessories a chain with your birthstone pendant and a thicker silver chain, with a cheesy little guitar charm (a present from Eddie) nestled between your breasts. Your form is shaped against the rock behind your bare shoulder blades, a cool sensation that has you tilting your head back, stretching your neck, treetops breezing above you—tall and luscious. You smile softly, undoing the flap on your bag and seeking out your Walkman and sunglasses.

In moments your eyelids are fluttering closed, shielded from sun rays, your Walkman clicking in place, readying Heart’s Barracuda to nick your ears, coasting in welcomed caresses. It’s not thick heavy metal, but it’s you. And in the serenity of these woods, another cigarette you allow yourself—you begin to drift off in a galactic solitude that is solely your own. You’d learnt how to count beats, read sheet music, even sing a few notes from Eddie, so getting into your song’s groove isn’t hard for you, your fingers wrapping around your chain, tapping underneath the swell of your breast along with the chorus. You’re off the precipice and gone, demolished to the point you don’t hear the familiar footsteps, the sound of your name, or leaves and dirt crunching beneath white Reeboks, nor do you hear a throat-deep groan at his discovery.

~*~

Eddie and you always share this in synch kinda shit, which creeps a lot of people in your circle out. Eddie, however, welcomes it today. When he couldn’t find you after abandoning his lunch, spent what was left of the day attempting, only for Henderson to tell him he’d heard you’d been suspended for a few days—he made it his personal goal to find you. Your parents are gone so he knows the times you do and don’t like to be at home by yourself. And with the way you lashed out at everyone, you won’t go anywhere he has easy access to.

That leaves one place. Skull Rock.

~*~

The drive feels shorter to Eddie this time, but the walk longer. He has to shed himself of his denim and leather, tossing it over his shoulder and clambering up the path towards finding you, keeping your club tee in his back pocket. The more he walks, the more he wishes he brought a drink or his smokes, which remain on his dash. If he’s wrong and you’re not here, he isn’t sure if this is reality anymore. This day has been one big mindfuck.

Thankfully, as he hears a loud tone droning over the clearing, a soft hum, his heart patters in his chest, nostrils inhaling sharply. He rounds the corner’s pathway, already calling your name, his eyes widening, jaw unhinged, fists clenching at his sides. You’re reclining against the boulder’s curve, black shades perched over your eyes, hair draped across your neck, your boot clad ankle crossed over the other, a cigarette perched into your puckering pair of lips, your layered chains swaying, slumbering against your skin, and fuck—your tits, Eddie winces, gripping himself to adjust—frozen.

He can’t not notice how your nipples are reacting to the air. He can’t not detail your shape, how your waist is formed, zeroing in on the baby bat you’d gotten to match his larger ones, inked into your ribcage, and he certainly isn’t forgetting your jeans that are settled over your hips. His eyes glaze over, heat prodding his flesh, shrouding him a veil of desire and raw ache. You don’t notice him, calls of your name falling on mainstream rock’s ears. He doesn’t think approaching you is smart, like a cat and mouse, your behavior for once—unpredictable.

Has Eddie just not been paying attention to you that much lately?

Suddenly, when he’s debating a cowardly retreat, baiting his internal monologue for an excuse, your audible gasp is heard, his name crushed between your gritted teeth.

Fuck.

~*~

In all of his glory—stands your best-friend. He’s balling and un-balling his fists, eyes darting rapidly, tongue sucking against his teeth, feet ready to carry him far away. And the more he avoids your stare, the angrier you get. So what, you’re not good enough to look at because your breasts are out? Modesty to a back burner, you take your crossed arms off your chest, scraping your smoke out on the rock, pushing your glasses into a perch upon your head, body facing Eddie as you stand.

I dare you.

Your eyes complicate a challenge—craving him in your proximity, and hating his grunge blanketed sight. Eddie’s neck is a really pretty thing when he tenses, his jugular agitated against a harsh gulp of air. He answers you by meeting you in the clearing, palms sweaty, scrubbing over his back pockets. It’s a cool damned drink of water, as if you’ve been without, making thee Eddie Munson squirm. But he’s still your best-friend, and you are half naked.

Covering yourself back up so he will look you in the eye, you tuck your arms into a push beneath your sternum, forearms shielding your nipples. It’ll have to do.

“Eddie, what the fuck are you doing here?” You snap before he can voice a concern or a question.

Tethered to deep breathing techniques, Eddie is insulted, and is biting back in his acidic response. “After your own personal talent show antics at school, I was worried about you. Excuse-the-fuck-outta-me, Y/N.”

A bitter laugh comes from you. “Oh, you’re focused enough on my shit to actually be worried about me? How kind of you, Edward Munson.”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t I be worried about you?” Eddie is raising his voice, sizzling in a cautious rage. He’s usually happy-go-lucky with you, but you’re pushing these fucking buttons he isn’t aware he’s been hiding.

“You really need a list of reasons? Wait,” you say, moving to circle him, pinching your thumb between your teeth, “you’re probably, completely oblivious, because I’m just Y/N. I’m not your club, not your band, not one of your groupies that flounce around for an ounce from you, then leave your ass for their jock boyfriends.”

“Whoa, whoa!” Eddie raises a hand, rings clattering together. “When the fuck did all this start, Y/N?”

Your arms fall back at your sides with a loud ‘thump’. The heating has settled, your high wearing off, truth remaining as to why you’ve been upset in the first place. A caverning hurt carves its place into your chest, igniting an anguish that drowns you. You’re defeated. “It started when my best-friend forgot that I’m my own person and not his servant. Or maybe it began when my person was so stoned that he barely acknowledged a test I fucking flunked to stay up and make his campaign posters—which, may I add—he also gave zero fucks about-“

“So all this is because I didn’t kiss the very ground you walk on for some posters that you practically begged me to make, and wow—your A+ average went to an A. Curse me into the deepest depths of hell, please.” His bracelet slides down his wrist as he palms his heart.

Maybe you’re not the only one who is changing. Eddie hasn’t ever disregarded you in such a crude manner. Your tongue is practically salivating in need to layer on biting and cruel words, things you won’t be able to come back from. You remain silent, mulling over what to say, glaring, docked, stinging prickles of tears. It’s an elating elevation when the words do come. “I’m your best-friend, Eddie. Not your little groupie. I’m tired of you preaching about conformity, when all I do is conform to you. You don’t ever let me pick music, you always take for granted I’ll give you and the guys rides when your van isn’t working, despite if I might have something to do that doesn’t involve an all male ensemble. I spend my money to buy you cigarettes and snacks for the meetings. I manage gigs, I clean your band’s equipment.”

Eddie sniffs, looking pointedly at you, doe eyes dark and growing increasingly fed up. “Didn’t know you were keeping a tally, Y/N.”

“That’s… That’s all you’re taking from everything I just said to you, Eddie?” You can’t keep that hurt out of your tone this time.

Eddie shrugs, crossing his arms, coldly spitting out, “Seems to me like you’re sick of me. And that’s not my problem, that’s yours.”

Your head is swimming in turmoil, all your acting out and emotions swirling into a mindfuck. He doesn’t care. You’re standing here finally pouring your entire soul out in heaps and your person is pouring gasoline on the pieces, dangling a match.

“I’ve never kept a tally, Eddie. I do these things because they make you happy, and that makes me happy, but it fucking sucks when you don’t appreciate them or care about anything in my life, either.”

“That’s what you really think, Y/N?” There’s a flatline in how he’s speaking to you.

“No,” you murmur, “it’s what I know.”

Eddie’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding. He kicks at the ground with the toe of his shoe, brows raising. “Breaking Jason Carver’s nose and my cold, dead heart.” He splays a hand across his chest. Those rings, which are always a comfort to you, reflecting off the sunlight, dripping in judgement.

Your trembling wavers, crackling sentence structure falling apart. “Eddie. Don’t.”

“No. Fuck you, Y/N. Seriously, fuck you!” He shouts, snapping a finger in your direction.

Your hands rub up and down your goosebump soaked skin, finalizing what you need to do. Heaving in a deep breath, a sentence escapes your lips. And you pray, pray Eddie will heed this warning and value what you have enough to understand, to work it out. “Maybe it’s time to fess up to the fact that 86’ needs to be a bigger year for us both.”

Mind reader. A power you’ve never wanted more than in this moment as you claw at the cusp of your best-friend’s reaction. Outwardly, Eddie shifts, Adam’s apple bobbing, thumb swiping underneath his nose. Your mouth waters, throat reflexes threatening a fountain of vomit. And Eddie takes your warning, slaying through it, every bit of ground beneath your boots threatening to cave in.

“You’re right. Hell, Carver is right. You do act like my slut. And you have every right to change it, because it’s only holding us both back. And it probably has been for a long time.”

Kicking you would’ve hurt less. You’re unable to see Eddie’s form longer, muddled to a watery silhouette, your brave bravado dissipating. You won’t beg him. You’re nothing to him anymore, he’s just confirmed. You try not to think about the first time he taught you how to dance before your first snowball, or how you both snuck Jim Hopper’s cigarettes when you’d get in trouble at school and be sent to see him for minor misdemeanors, or Eddie’s pride when he managed to get you on stage to sing one song with the band, rubbing circles on your back the whole time you both sang to a trio of drunks, or splitting beers on his van’s roof and nearly breaking limbs when it started raining and you had to climb down, how he taught you to drive in the fancy neighborhood and you knocked over the mayor’s mailbox, when you watched him buy his ‘sweetheart’, tears in his eyes at a possession so gorgeous and all his own, his hands gentle as they held you the nights you cried from one stupid thing that felt massive to you, when he was your person and you were his.

Your wet, quivering breaths are what you hear. Birds chirping, wind rustling, even Eddie’s heavy breathing drowned out. It takes what feels like eternity, before Eddie is slashing the quiet, guarded and stoic. “You need to put a fucking shirt on.”

Your jeans are covered in tear drops from a bowed head, fingers shaking hard enough that your knuckles roll into a crack at the motions. You wipe your tears in time to see Eddie hold out your Hellfire shirt—second edition—his being the first. His reverie breaks briefly, and you think… maybe. It’s gone in those brown eyes that you can no longer read or recognize. Filled with loathing and disgust at you, his last words imprinting on your psyche, a physical recoil.

“On second thought. You won’t be needing this anymore.” Eddie makes his way around you and finds his lighter atop your bag, flicking a flame to life and nudging it at the end of your shirt. It catches quick, burns fast, like every fiber of friendship with Eddie Munson.

Eddie tosses the tattered, charred remains to the forrest floor, pocketing his lighter, walking away from you and out of your life.

~*~

He can’t stay any longer and watch you fall apart, not when he’s running away from his cowardice. And he does, run. He moves and clambers, stumbles until he’s from you and the cries that he hears pour off your lips. His chest is thumping sporadically, pulse in his blurry vision. His five fingers catch a tree, slamming, splintering, a sob breaking free of his tear soaked lips.

Eddie Munson forces himself to remember how unsure you looked in your dress when he held you around your waist, never feeling more himself in his entire life than he did with you— at thirteen—during some cheesy school dance, how you entertained his tunes so he could teach you the counting method he uses for his music to move your feet to the beat, all your encouragement every time he hit a new note, or your midnight phone calls to ask what he’d like on his posters, your body trusting him to keep you safe on those nights when everything became too much for you in your life, but you had tried to hide it, or when you both snuck in to see Carrie when you were pre-teens and you couldn’t sleep without him, so he made a makeshift mattress next to your bed for a month, about that time you were so tired from an all nighter that he had walked into his room and found you curled up in his bed, using his vest as a makeshift pillow, your nagging him to study more, because he’s always capable of anything he sets his mind to, and those cookies—the only thing you can bake without having to call for Hawkins fire department—a container you’d brought for him and his Uncle, still sitting on his kitchen counter.

He was your person and you were his. And now? You’re gone. Eddie runs away. He keeps running, leaving you to your own miserable anguish, drowning in his own, getting himself in his rust bucket and going back to his trailer to get completely fucked outta his not-so-right mind.

~*~

By the time your suspension is over and you can no longer barricade yourself into your room and finish off another bottle from your dad’s liquor cabinet—it’s sheer dread. You’re not only the freak who broke Hawkins Highschool’s Prom King’s nose, but you’re the freak without anyone by your side—a true and thorough outsider. As you stand outside your school, nails pinching into already weakened threads dedicated to your bag’s strap, you’re really regretting those couple of drinks this morning and how you’d poured more vodka into a flask to take your Tylenol with. Hell, it’s not like you can get a fix from the school dealer anymore, is it?

Those damned double doors are louder, a jolt to your already throbbing headache, fluorescent lights sparkling in your retinas through your shades that cover a nursing hangover and distraught, red and puffy eyes from a three day sob fest. Each step your boots make sounds like you’re walking to your death, your outfit—sans any Hellfire related attire—is all yours. Your two chains limited to one, Eddie’s gift waiting in a cardboard box you’d half-assed assembled, and tossed in random shit he’d given you. The deeper you get into every hallway, making simple turns you know like the back of your hand, your nausea grows as to what might be awaiting around each corner. Or who. It’s a short lived relief upon arrival at your locker.

You pinch your shades off, raw eyes protesting the moment fresh tears staple your skin in brushes. In red letters, diagonally capitalized across your door contains what you haven’t wanted to face since it happened.

The freak got dumped

You choke on your salvia, throat wet and enduring a suffocation strong enough to have you gagging on the piece of toast and water you’d forced your famished form to consume this morning. You barely make it into the toilets before double over and expelling everything, diaphragm on fire, bones vibrating through tosses. Hair dangling in your face, plastered to your mouth, you sniffle and tremble, vision blurring. You ponder getting yourself fucking expelled, but you made this whole ordeal about it being your year. If you retreat now, what will that do? Mustering all your strength, your courage, you flush your bile, clean off your mouth and face, pop a mint, take a swig out of your flask, and make your way to your first class.

~*~

By the ever popular lunch time, you have managed to clean your locker and pinpoint the culprit (an ashamed that a girl broke his nose, Jason Carver), but neither of you speak on it. You keep your head down, you focus on your school work, you take your Tylenol, and you sip on your vodka. Enough to keep an edge off, but not enough to send you down a despairing hole filled with regret and torment. You know you’re being stared at as soon as you hit the line to get your tray. It’s fake smiles and refusal to acknowledge it that gets you in search of an aisle, and hopefully out of sight. You aren’t so lucky…

“Hey, Y/N! Over here!” You hear an all too cheery voice belonging to Dustin Henderson. It halts you in your tracks, a wince causing a physical recoil.

It’s not his fault you and Eddie no longer have anything resembling a relationship, and he apparently has not told them, and they’ve not seen Jason Carver’s masterpiece.

Good.

What isn’t good is that Eddie is very much at your old table and you know it’s unavoidable. You wished you had borrowed some concealer for your under eyes, but it’s too late. There’s a grand staircase cloaked in invisibility beneath your feet, your stomach knotting in crushing vices, your cheeks stained with red. You walk to your former friend group, trying like hell not to side eye Eddie Munson. Keeping a steady focal point without blinking against your scratchy lower lids is damn near impossible. And guys are going to be guys—much to your chagrin. Gareth is drawing further attention where nothing needs to be, popping off with a, “Damn, Y/N lookin’ like she went on a bender.”

“A week long bender,” Jeff chimes in.

Biting the inside of your cheek between your teeth, you shrug a shoulder. Better them having knowledge of your binge drinking celebration than knowing about how messed up you are.

Don’t look at Eddie. Is your mantra for today.

He, on the other two hands, is not prioritizing that same aspect.

“So what if I did? I know of about ten girls who can drink your asses under the table, myself included.” You smirk, gripping your tray’s edge.

“Been holding back on us?” Gareth is grinning from ear to ear. It eases your shouldered weight tremendously, breaking tension in your table’s ranks.

“You gonna have a seat or what?” Mike Wheeler interrupts, his hands flipping towards a desired target, one that you wish you could keep pretending you never knew.

Fuck it.

You really crave for some divine intervention to help you, because meeting those chocolate brown eyes that are distraught, angry, and rimmed red—your heart constricts to painful blows, windpipes crushed beyond speaking capabilities. Eddie’s been somewhere off planet earth with that kinda high, you remember seeing his demeanor that way only a handful of times, including this one. Maybe he does care? No, doesn’t matter, don’t go there. It’s over and done.

Still, that idiotic, massively moronic part that Eddie owns of you—it’s billowing hope. Eddie Munson dashes it in seconds flat.

“No.”

You glance away, jaw twitching to control an automatic quiver. Dustin is laughing it off as a joke, someone else asking why. Eddie reclines his legs in your empty chair, loud enough to get your attention back. He wants me to see.

“No traitors.” It’s a simplistic answer, aggressive, no room to argue.

Ever-the-curious-freshmen, Dustin and Mike peg their leader for questions. You halt it, tone breaking apart, fingers tucking into your shirtsleeve as you balance your lunch on one hand and wipe across raw flesh to clean fresh tears from your eyeline. That’s when Eddie does look away.

Coward.

“It’s okay, guys.” Is what you say.

“What’s going on?” Gareth asks.

“I won’t be around meetings or practices anymore, but I’m still here if anyone needs anything, okay? You know where my locker is, and where I live.” You pat yourself on the back for that robotic but truthful statement.

“Unless you’re sick of everyone else too…” His deep voice rumbles.

Like a deer in headlights— you’re frozen, a blinding rage of hurt and red hot anger pouring over you in a storm. You explode. Picking up the first thing in your sight, which happens to be on your plate—a glob of some chocolate goop (possibly a brownie)—it’s slung directly at your former best-friend’s crisp white Hellfire shirt. Your second cafeteria incident that, yet again, everyone notices. Eddie yelps, shouting out your name in brisk spits.

You further it, abandoning your food in a repeat of days ago, floating to his side and shoving him back two steps. Eddie stops his rapid shirt swipes and immediately presses his form into yours, chests smashed, food squishing through your top. His hair is frazzled from the humidity, his toffee colored irises slowly polishing into a thick black gloss of dilated pupils. He sucks his tongue against his teeth, swaying into you, not touching you with those hands, an air about him that is beginning to swarm your initial reaction and bend it over, fucking it into the next decade. He’s taller than you remember, but you latch onto your own, tasting that cigarette soaked breath, lips hovering over his, hot tears matting your lashes.

Whether it’s regarding his inability to respond to your reasoning for this whole situation, his lack of expression, your self-disappointment for something roused inside you at his huffing proximity, you crown him with a title off a jagged voice box, damp in her sorrows, just as Dustin steps between you two, gently prying. “You’re a fucking coward, Eddie Munson.”

Teachers are starting to flock in, and you shake your head, hand over your eyes briefly, before sprinting in strides from the room in search of a place to collapse.

~*~

If you had told yourself at the beginning of the school year that you’d be in a camaraderie with the girl’s bathroom—you would have laughed. And if your mind had convinced you otherwise, you’d have expected Eddie to be right beside you, arm around your shoulders, sharing his lunch, making stupid jokes, coming up with lame ideas to make you feel better, but in that endearing Eddie Munson kinda way. You let out a soft cry, giving up on that stinging beneath your lids. You’re a hot mess and the whole building probably knows how alone you really are now. When the outcasts cast you out, where else can you go?

Clenching onto the sides of the ceramic sink, bag slipping off your shoulder and onto the floor, you keep your head bowed between your shoulder blades, not noticing someone come in and approach you, a gentle set of fingers laying upon your shoulder. Through foggy vision you can make out the green colors of her uniform and her perfectly straight ponytail, her face seemingly concerned. Your laugh is exhaustion on steroids, expression bombarded with emotion. “Okay, what the fuck is next? A girl craves some independence and the whole school turns against her. Let me guess, your boyfriend sent you to get even? Why don’t I make it easy for you and you can call your friends in here, and… and—“

Great.

Your lungs start to burn, your ribcage pounding with an erratic heartbeat, throat feeling like it’s been dusted with a thick blanket of ash. You’re panicking in front of Chrissy Cunningham. That alone has you feeling more pathetic than ever before in your life, and it worsens your heaving sobs—broken and unguarded. Chrissy’s eyes are drinking you in, irises glossing over with tears of her own. She grasps your other shoulder and squeezes, not releasing her hold on you, her soft voice strong when she speaks, but gentle enough between the expanse of your shared airspace.

“One, two, three, four. Okay, now deep breath in, and release it for me, Y/N.” She’s actually calming you, keeping you steady on your feet, which feel as if they’re sinking into the flooring below like led weights.

“Chrissy…” You aren’t sure how to articulate, still alarmed and attempting to breathe with her.

“I’m right here. Just keep breathing and counting with me.” And you do. And that’s when it hits you.

She has experience with this mind numbing panic too. That otherworldly anxiety. You feel a connective pull towards the cheerleader—seeing—not this persona you’d imagined, but her calming features, her easy going manner towards you, how she lets you find your lifeline, but also lends you her own in case you need it. When your breathing slows, she gives you a look, a silent communication of question. You may be able to breathe a little easier now, but it doesn’t stop the weight of your situation from crashing down and demolishing what’s left of you.

“Can I… I’m gonna hug you, is that okay?” At this point, if she’s going to put a sign on your back you don’t care. You need the human connection, the comfort. You agree and your schoolmate takes you into a light grip, but folds her arms around you and lets you bury your cheek against her perfumed sweater.

You both stand in the embrace, no trace of awkwardness, a sense of kinship and knowing. It’s when you pull back that hint of a questionable concern with her, wiping your sore eyes with a hiss. She notices.

“Are you here because of Jason? I just need to know.”

“Jason was a dick, Y/N.” Her language shocks you, having only heard her be proper before.

You laugh, your first genuine giggle in days. It’s contagious, as she joins in, hip jutting against the sink. “No, I’m here on my own terms. I promise. I saw what happened with your friends…”

“Yeah, I can imagine how everyone must be amused right now.” You bite your lip, facing away.

Chrissy gives you a saddened smile, but attempts to reassure. “I know this is gonna sound incredibly lame coming from me, but you’re stronger than all this, Y/N. The way you’ve stood up for yourself these past several days… I admire it.”

You frown deeply, wondering if this is a trick, because no way is Chrissy Cunningham admiring someone like you.

“You admire a loser that can’t even manage her own newfound independence?”

“No,” she says with a pause, looking down at her French tip manicure, before facing your curious gaze once more. “I admire your ability to stand up for yourself, despite what everyone is saying or doing to you. It’s a good quality to have, one that many of us are afraid of, you know?”

There’s this hollow pain in her eyes and your continued recognition has you pulling her in for another hug—this time for her benefit, rather than yours.

“Looks like we’ve fallen into the cliché trap, Cunningham.” You grin, pulling back.

Chrissy tilts her head, curious. “What do you mean?”

“A freak and a cheerleader thinking the same as what their peers think, and getting each other totally wrong.”

Her sweet eyes light up, her head nodding. “That’s exactly it.”

You share a knowing smile, a newfound bond forming. Chrissy situates her small shoulder bag, pulling out a compact and tugging you by your sleeve. “C’mhere. Let me fix that.”

She takes a gentle hand, not rushing as she speckles your sore under eyes with her own stash of makeup. After she blends it with soft fingertips, she snaps the lid closed and places it back in her bag, turning you to the bathroom mirror, brushing some of your hair through, giving your back a rub. “Is that any better, Y/N?”

Your circles are mostly covered, puffiness disguised enough where you won’t be embarrassed. You look and feel much better, and you’re overwhelmed with gratitude for the blonde at your side. You incline yourself into a swivel, leaning in her direction. “Chrissy Cunningham, I think you’re one of the sweetest people I now kinda, sort of know.”

Her giggle is infectious, and she gives you another squeeze. You drop down to swoop your messenger bag into your arms, grabbing out a your notebook and a pen, scribbling your home phone on it, hesitating, before handing it over. “If you ever need to talk to someone about all the bullshit, whatever it is, consider me your new confidant.”

She holds the simple sheet paper as if it’s another lifeline and you’ve just given her a treasure. Going back into her own bag, she has a cute little pink embroidered stationary paper that she jots her number on, and uses a smiley face to dot the i in Chrissy. Seconds later, her friends and a group of other girls burst into the bathroom, gossip on their lips. You and Chrissy flash each other a secret smile, and you make another hasty retreat.

~*~

Eddie had to hear a bunch of shit from the guys, overly bearing questions sounded off by Henderson and Wheeler. The eventual revealing by a passerby group of cheerleaders about your specially decorated locker, had surprised him too. As if there’s not already a weighted dagger wedged into his ribcage, one interlocking into his heart muscle—he lost control with his bitter mouth again, and it fueled your temper. But deep down, deeper into those subconscious recesses, you both felt that ignition start, a kind of coercing heat that is waging an internal war in Eddie’s head. His sole reason for blocking you out and refusing to talk about anything with you in the woods.

Eddie Munson is in love with you. Eddie Munson needs to fuck you.

It’s something he’s always done—built walls, got high, stayed drunk, coped with humor, hid behind his guitar or his campaigns. And without his right hand woman, he feels naked, too vulnerable to all the bullshit he’s tried to keep out. And your absence has become a set course for his weakening concentration on anything that isn’t you. His ultimate warrior princess is also his Achilles heel. Your feelings in wanting to branch out, they scare Eddie.

His brain is flipping logic into thinking you are seeing what everyone else sees in him: freak, failure, piece of shit, a nobody, a criminal. He pushed you out before he could pull you back in—easy, abrupt. And it’s not just changing him—no—he could smell your vodka soaked breath across the table, see your eyes swollen and glazed—absent. For the first time in years you weren’t wearing your limited edition shirt (thanks to him), and Eddie isn’t sure why he expected you to still have his chain around your neck. It fucking hurts.

As the room slowly falls back into their daily routine, Eddie loses his appetite and leaves his herd behind, urgent to get the fuck outta this building, out of Hawkins. Hell, maybe even the country. Like you, however, Eddie Munson’s retreat isn’t one that is unscathed. In his urgency, he smacks straight into you, stumbling over his own clumsy ass feet, gripping your forearms to keep you both steady. He’s processed your scent before he even takes in your beautiful features.

Fuck…

You look less like you’ve been partying all weekend, but Eddie knows better. Your pupils are dilated to the bright overhead lights of the hallways, making your sclera more visible. It’s bloodshot red, lower lids swollen and tinged a rough crimson beneath the fresh makeup that Eddie now sees. He swallows and looks away, but he doesn’t let you go. His grip isn’t harsh, it’s simply what it’s always been with you two. Easy and sturdy, safe.

You’re the first to downcast your gaze, focusing more on your shoe wear than on Eddie. It kills him. Even through these notions, this fear, whatever anger you’re both harboring, it’s as if this whole damned school and everyone passing you two are mere bodies, Eddie Munson and Y/N Y/L/N floating, tethered. His stomach churns its lunch contents, teeth clenching tightly. You make a brisk dart off, but Eddie attempts to catch you, instead tugging too hard on your shoulder strap, causing your bag to dump and spread out its contents at his sneaker clad feet.

Eddie’s eyes are quick to see it before you realize. Shining underneath hallway lights, scattered amongst notebooks and pens, is a small flask. His brows perch, he crouches first, scooping it away from your jutting hands. Gareth’s words rewind and play on repeat in his head.

“Damn, Y/N lookin’ like she went on a bender.”

The way his heart rate spikes, hostilely spitting that acid all over his lungs, battering his throat muscles with a pummeling storm. He’s already sure what he’ll smell if he presses the lid to his nostrils, but Eddie has to feed his anxious curiosity, unscrewing the cap with nervous hands, sniffing, shrugging off your grabs. It burns his mouth from its strength, his distraction giving you enough leeway to wrap your hands over his fingers and pull. Eddie locks your digits within his own, second thoughts gone. Against everything inside him he is getting angrier by the second, the anger masking itself, easier than being petrified and scared in front of you.

And Eddie is scared. Is he really so fucking stupid to think you weren’t at all affected by any of this?

“What the fuck, Y/N?” Your fingers sliding through his own, flood him, prickling every vein running beneath his skin, cutting off his blood flow—scorching.

~*~

Having Eddie’s hands on you again, his body so close, despite your shame at his discovery, it’s a feeling that comes more natural than breathing. You avoid his question, feeble grasping docked.

“Why do you have a flask full of fucking vodka?”

“Will you keep your voice down!” You hiss the words, finally breaking off him and retrieving the rest of your items on the scuffed up floor, and securing them back into your bag, Eddie holding back your liquor.

“Did you drive to school drinking this crap? Tell me you didn’t, Y/N, cause’ I swear to god—“

You chortle, a humorless boom smacking across your chest.

“Eddie, this faux best-friend act is getting old. Your on and off switch is enough to drive anyone to drastic measures. But don’t flatter yourself into thinking I’d be an idiot and drive drunk. Not even for you.”

His irises that are glossy with concern, they cave to dilating pupils, an animalistic rage priming them. “Oh, you have got to be the most clueless bitch alive, Y/N.” He steps towards you, frame towering slightly. You’re not afraid, never fearing if he’ll do something, because that is not Eddie, no matter what. But, you are very much dripping with rage at his words.

He pockets your flask in his left back pocket, rings clinking against it as he pats it for good measure. You try to dive around him, beneath his arm, but he swoops in on his own, using that strength for his slender frame, literally scooping you into a half bring-away, only discarding you back onto your feet once you’re both outside. You try to shove at him, palms resting on his stained club shirt. The bell has rang to signal your free period, but you don’t give two fucks, giving up and being the one to leave.

“Who’s the coward now, huh? You’re gonna walk away from me when I call you on your shit, Y/N?”

You spin on your heel, dirt and gravel specks crunched beneath your step. “I thought I was a clueless bitch, Eddie? A traitor? Or, your slut.” You scoff, crossing your arms.

Guilt briefly flickers across his features, but he shuts it down tenfold. “Just because we’re fighting doesn’t mean I want you to destroy your fucking liver or your life. Jesus Christ, you really think I’m that big of an asshole?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore!” You fling your hands into the air. “One minute we’re at each other’s throats, the next you’re up my ass. I don’t know what to do here, Eddie.”

“Thought you craved some individuality and independence.” Though there’s meant to be flare behind the words, Eddie’s tone has splintered across each word, voice breaking apart. Your guts sink into your ass, as does a particularly pointed swallow that stabs at your jugular.

“Didn’t say I wanted to be completely independent from my best-friend.” Your own response is gentle, voice soaked with impending emotion.

Fuck. Stupid fucking tears burning again. Not right now.

Eddie’s attention snaps back on you, proximity closing in. His jaw clenches, he moves it from side to side with a closed mouth, sniffing, whistling air through a wet breath. “Feels like you’re leavin’ me and I can’t do anything to stop it…”

It makes sense suddenly. A catapult of truth slamming right into your chest, spreading throughout your body.

He thinks I’m leaving him. That I want to leave him.

As if the last seventy two hours haven’t happened, better yet, as if they haven’t mattered in the grand scheme of things—you’re the one that meets Eddie, reaching to push that curly hair from his eyes, his head downcast and posture sullen. His brown eyes are brimmed with tears that spill over his lash line, a permanent frown creased between his brows, mouth red and spit slick. Those freckles on his nose are suddenly very prominent to you. You’ve never seen Eddie Munson this vulnerable. Your heart shatters, the ache so physically strong that you have to remain close to him to hold on and find that strength again.

How could you have gotten this so monumentally wrong? Maybe if you’d have expressed what you meant more instead of feeding off Eddie’s anger. His communication and yours both need nurturing, but your sudden shift in mood must’ve made him feel like you wanted to abandon him, not just do things for yourself. He may not realize that yet, but you do. And it fucking sucks.

“Eddie. I’m sorry.” It’s all you can say in the seconds that your heart heaves into your throat.

He shakes that shaggy mane. “Don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me, especially you.” He backs away from you and you see his entire expression crumble, tears spilling onto his cheeks.

That pain drowns your throat, seeing him cry because of your lack of explanation and mutual avoidance. You chase after him, running around to block his view, unable to let him go, gripping onto his waist beneath his jacket to keep him planted. Another familiarity. He tenses beneath your touch before relaxing.

“Eddie, will you please listen to me? I think I know what’s going on now.”

“And look who is the one flipping her emotions this time.”

“Because, I… Eddie, I—“

“What lame ass line do you want me to buy, Y/N? You think I’m not used to worthless promises or idiotic reassurances? Yeah, good.” His sentence is fragmented, voice rough and breaking apart on each word. “You know I still care about you, but I don’t need you to lie to me, you don’t owe me a damn thing, I promise you—“

You press a finger to his quivering lips, halting him. There’s a shift in the atmosphere, a pause in the universe, your legs heavy, fingertip stroking along the plumpness of your best-friend’s full, lower lip. Eddie’s chest is moving up and down swiftly, tongue against his teeth, that warning look. You fail to heed it and Eddie’s hands tremble at his sides before he gives up and cups the sides of your face, bringing your foreheads together. His lips part to speak, your finger still on them. “Think we’re in trouble here.”

You can do nothing but nod as his declaring statement, inclining your head further, nose nudging his own. It doesn’t feel as if you’re standing any longer, every mean thing that Eddie has said, every disproportionate attempt of yours to communicate—obliterate, shrouding you both in the process. His breath is hot as his mouth opens and he sucks your finger inside, tongue licking its tip, biting the digit between those milky white teeth. It sends that throbbing nudge, snapping between your thighs, making you arch into your best-friend. You whisper his name and his fingers move along your jaw, across your ear, sliding through your hair and rubbing a pathway to your necks’ nape, sending an army of goosebumps across your flesh, the coolness of his rings stimulating your skin.

“Yeah, you feelin’ it too?” Your lids flutter closed, Eddie using his thumb pad to brush the corners of your lashes, signally for you to open them. “Didn’t say you could stop looking at me, did I, sweetheart?”

You grind against him, unable to stop. Your last several days, everything between you both is on hold, these buried urges able to finally win out. This dominant side of Eddie Munson has you an inward and outwardly quickening pile of mush and hormones, of fucking need. Eddie about loses his cool when you obey him, pupils blown, mouth looking parched and in need of his kisses. He leans, walls starting to slip, resolve crumbling, his pouting mood long gone.

Years of built up tension and confusion, being rightfully by one another’s sides, it all comes apart, the seams, begging to be repaired into what it has to be now.

You envelop his hold on you, hands sliding into slips beneath his jacket, around his waist, tracing over his back, before dipping under his armpits and grasping his shoulders, knuckles pushed down by his leather jacket. One more step and he’ll kiss you. He’s closing a gap, no more breaches, you tapping his shoulders right down to the blades in encouragement. It’s parted mouths hovering over one another, cigarettes and vodka, school lunch and weed, it’s—

“Hey, guys! Higgins is so pissed off right now… After that shit went down in the caf, he’s ready to expel you, Y/N! Pretty fuckin’ sure.” You hear Gareth approach, and just like, Eddie releases you.

You have to steady yourself, want simmering into a slumber in your belly, not yet gone, but still reminding you where it lives. Your glare is directed at your mutual friend. Eddie, feeling as if he’s been doused with ice cold water, and the moment is shattered, you see those walls rebuilding rapidly, and she shrugs off your hand, leaving you and Gareth, and that slickness that has collected in your panties.

~*~

You aren’t sure just exactly what Eddie is feeling, but you’re very aware of what you are. So driving to his place once you know Wayne has left for the night shift—it’s a no brainer. You’d debated bringing Eddie your box of treasures, even your necklace, but you can’t bring yourself to do it. Maybe, maybe your best-friend doesn’t want you to…?

Want.

A dynamic shift in your relationship, or what it used to be. You can barely sit still as you wrack your brain through all the levels of hazy blurs. So much has happened in three days, but… today, with Eddie nearly kissing you on the mouth, and you nearly grinding against him in the Hawkins High parking lot—yeah, you two have to talk about all of this. As you squirm in your seat, hands tightening around the wheel, that approaching trailer park sign signals your arrival to his residence. You can’t stop the way your heartbeat feels as if it’s ping ponging around in your throat, or that anxious twitch of your mouth’s corner—forget even attempting to deny your cascading memories of the way his chocolate irises wore an expression unlike anything you’ve ever seen on Eddie Munson.

His trailer comes into your sights, that tickle swooping your guts and holding them hostage. You swallow a thick ball of anxiety, parking next to his van, cutting your engine. The lights are all on and you’ve got no excuse to chicken out. It’s your year too, right? Fucking fuck it.

With your keys clutched in your palm, you make your way to Eddie’s trailer, rasping on his door lightly. You don’t hear his music blaring, so he might be reading, planning a campaign, writing some music he’d mentioned wanting to practice with the guys soon, get a feel for its sound—just last week. You have given about three octaves of knocks and are about to give up, head pressed the door, thinking he was just lost in lust earlier, and maybe you’d fucked up on your end beyond repair. Exhausted by the stampeding pain that brings your insides, you flip the Munson’s spare key off your key ring and unlock the door. A bold move—albeit—a very stupid one.

That familiar scent of Eddie and Wayne’s shared carton of cigarettes hits your nose, along with the leftovers from dinner you see sitting out on the stove. Your cookies, which have been devoured, are missing their note. You panic, briefly thinking Eddie probably trashed it, only to come back from that brink seconds later. It’s not what you’re here for. You glance at the couch and it’s empty, not even Eddie’s usual indent on the cushion is there.

Swinging your keys from your pointer finger, you peek down the small hallway to Eddie’s closed door, light spilling out underneath. He could be sleeping, possibly ignoring you, or he snuck out the back door…

Your feet make an echoing squeak across the trailer’s flooring structure, your fingers twisting the knob and pushing, pausing, deciding to go ahead. If he wants you to leave then you’ll go, if he’s asleep, you’ll go, if he left… You can’t fathom that thought, another ignorance that you partake in. You aren’t sure exactly what you expected, but seeing your best-friend’s tallish frame, with his back facing you, lean leg propped atop his mattress, right arm bent at a very clear angle, his left propped on one of his many amps he’d apparently moved since you’d been here last—is sure as hell NOT it. Eddie’s curly hair ruffles and is jostled across his shoulders with each movement his arm makes, his delicious ass clenching as his body thrusts into his rhythm, the outline of his chain on his perspired neck and damp strands of dark hair—clear. You don’t have to hear the thick, slick and wet stroking to know what he’s doing to himself.

You cross an ankle over the other, squeezing your legs together tightly, trying to bounce on the balls of your heels to get relief. Your fingers white knuckle his banged up door handle, your mouth parting. Whether it’s that bond you two share, or your very visible labored breathing, Eddie’s shoulder blades pinch together, his motions abruptly cut. He turns as if caught doing something he shouldn’t be—definitely something you aren’t prepared to handle. It’s like your mouth is speaking for you, eyes in a trance, enslaved to your lustful abiding.

Fucked out, blown up pupils shave off the color of your irises, your tongue gliding across your teeth, that take a turn to sink into your bottom lip, your toes curling in your shoes. You feel hot, body battered in melting flames that won’t cease, won’t let you get in a normal burst of air flow. You know without having to fix your posture that you’ve made a mess between your legs, panties soaked to hell—completely ruined. You’re honest to fuck not sure if you can make it out of here in an upright position, that painfully strong ache tackling your cunt, breaking off your common sense, leaving you Eddie-drunk. Helping yourself to a swiping look between his legs, he’s still got a ring clad hand wrapped around a very generous girth—shiny—a length that leaves saliva pooling on your tongue’s tip.

His chest is slick with sweat, tattoos glossed beneath, nipples hard from the cool air let into his bedroom. Which, you note, is really fucking hot, and the window is steamed up. Your eyelids flutter in rapid blinks to help you reign yourself in, but all you see are glimpses of Eddie’s fist around himself, that creamy and swollen head, full balls on either side, trimmed curls at the base of his shaft. You want to die. And oh, what a sweet and sinful death that would be.

“Mhm… fuck.” You say through the gap between your panting mouth, words take the opportunity to bust free, joining a high pitched whimper.

Eddie’s chocolate eyes are completely black, leaving no room for anything else but purely raw desire. They widen, a sharp heave in his inhaling chest, abdomen flexing as he holds himself tightly. When you don’t move Eddie takes the initiative, slowly approaching, a softness there beneath the want and knowing. He reaches your space, still giving you enough, but you’re able to still feel that radiating body heat. Neither of you speak, because what is there to say right now?

You’d be a pleading mess of profanities, apologizes, and begging to be taken and used.

Thankfully, Eddie makes another move before you. His spare hand joins your own on the door knob, fingers brushing your knuckles, encouraging, giving you one more opportunity if you’re in distress or uncomfortable. You hook onto his offer and you surprise you both by finding something to say after all, throat parched, yet still damp with wanton rasp. “Start touching yourself again, Eddie. Please?” Fuck, well there’s a beg.

Eddie, assuming you want a show, nerves being dipped in lava and left to forever sizzle and smoke—gives in, both of you shutting his door and closing the two of you off from the outside world. He doesn’t wait for you to back away, pushing his hips to a rise, his cock gliding through his closed fist. You let him lean over you, frame against his door, watching his legs spread to widen his stance, obeying your plea. He almost asks, but assumes it would be too hopeful if you would want to touch yourself in front of him too. You’re out of your mind, common sense obliterated for all eternity, watching your bestfriend practically pin you to the door and fuck himself in front of you.

Those sounds you’ve imagined, pictured, they’re even more pronounced in person. Some low enough that it’s a stifling whimper, a needy sobbing. If you don’t do something about the gnawing throbbing between your thighs, it’ll be total combustion. There’s an empowerment that winds itself around a pulsating set of nerves in one’s decision to masturbate in front of their best-friend. That coolness works itself in your palms, your fingers tossing your keys over and onto Eddie’s dresser, toeing off your shoes, his eyes steamy in their grasp on your every move.

You’d wished you had brought your camera to photograph his expression when you walk over to where he stood in front of his bed, turning to face him, your fingers undoing your jeans and the zipper, a resounding echo in the room, Eddie’s tongue poking out on his upper lip, he holds himself around the base, the urgency to fuck his hand as you take your seat on his mattress and scoot with your back to the wall, hips lifting to help you pull off your jeans and panties. You struggle momentarily, but neither of you are saying a word, gazes steady and unwavering.

Discarding your clothing with a soft thump onto his floor, you’re heartbeat thumps in your throat, ribcage taking an unsteady hammering of its resounding drumming. You heed Eddie’s silent command to continue, agreeing to this turning point between you two. Your thighs fall open and that sticky want strings to your swollen folds, glistening in the creases of your thighs, your cunt sopping wet. You’re dripping, and Eddie isn’t missing it when your arousal finally does drizzle from your neglected pussy and onto his bedsheets. You shift to get comfortable, hand cupping yourself, immediately smothered in your own juices, legs falling into a drop, toes finally able to curl without the barrier of your shoes, bunching Eddie’s sheets.

Eddie watches you from where he can see, still eager to be closer, but unable to stop himself from stroking along his length, teasing that vein that runs alongside his cock. You do it again, rubbing your palm up and down your lips, a crude squelch causing Eddie to almost black out, and you shiver. He releases himself, heavy and hot between slim thighs, and he’s moving. He puffs out a gravelly hiss from pursed lips, stalking towards you and giving a cat like crawl across his own bed, planting himself shoulder to shoulder with you to your left. He must be feeling the overwhelming change that is occurring, as he reaches for your hand to give it a reassuring squeeze.

You gravitate towards your hand, fingers slipping through your slickness, your head bowing in embarrassment. Eddie grips your chin and tilts you his way, shaking his head, that same hand dropping to your thigh and lifting to pull up and to the side. And he looks. He fucking memorizes you between your legs with these little mewling coos of appreciation that cement themselves into your subconscious. You do the same, helping yourself to an up close and personal view of what he’s been hiding.

Eddie leans forward and cups the nap of your neck, his other hand taking your wrist and removing it from your self-touches, shushing your protesting whine. He brings it up to his mouth, which is hovering close to yours, your own fingers pressed against your lips, and he licks a straight stripe up your creamy covered palm, humming underneath his breath as he does so. You want to slap him and ride him on every available surface in this trailer. You’re the one to speak, having to.

“Eddie…” It’s a meek little trail-off.

Eddie lets go of your wrist and uses that hand to pull his cock off his stomach, a wet patch left behind in his happy trail. He still doesn’t let your neck go, his fingertips tapping an invisible beat, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He’s laughing, tufts of air settling across your mouth. You narrow your gaze, moving to shut your legs, Eddie’s hand quickly preventing the action, stroking the meat of your inner thigh. “Only fair if I’m exposed, sweetheart.”

“But… you’re laughing.” And it hits you then, why he’s really chuckling in that Eddie Munson way. It’s an incredulous and mind boggling turn of events. Best-friends that broke up when they were never together, now side by side and in a very compromising situation.

You grin and falter into his embrace, your hand working its way into a wind around his neck, taking sweaty strands in scoops between your fingers, his pick chain draped across your knuckles. Eddie licks across his bottom lip, tapping your hips as he moves, your hands falling, and sprawls his legs into a propped spread, cock neglected and flushed, much like the rest of his skin, that you’ll die if you don’t put your marks on. He’s motioning for you to turn in a slow facing position in front of him, and that’s how you end up—vulnerable, so fucking vulnerable. He’s muttering words, huddled and unintelligible, reaching out and tugging you to him by your ankles, stopping, resting, eyes dark as they do a once over to gauge your mental stability. When you don’t protest, palms splaying out to keep yourself upright behind you, Eddie lets his legs flatten against his sheets, a smirk pattering his lips, indenting its knowing presses beside his mouth.

His exhale catches on a ragged breath, a passionate declaration signing off on what’s about to occur, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he pulls you close, your ass resting on his hairy thighs, waiting, held, his arm wrapping around your lower back and lifting you completely into that ink splattered, silk-slick chest, his skin sticking to your long sleeved t-shirt, ruining it with sex-soaked perspiration. You think that there’s nothing—no—you know that in this entire world, no matter what, that whatever will happen to you is never going to compare to the moment when Eddie’s maneuvering hands glide your wet cunt over his cock, using your drenching heat as his own personal lubricant. Your ankles lock around his waist, no choice from the close band that your best-friend has re-tethered you to him with, leaving no room or space where you’re not touching or breathing in the other. Your arms curl around Eddie’s neck, hands draped down his back as you help yourself to pinching and clawing the flesh beneath, relishing every little grumble and groan off his pretty lips. Your face takes solace in his neck, nosing your way through his curly hair, nose bumping his chain to lift so that your mouth can claim him.

“Fuck.” His throat constricts around a swallow, your teeth sinking into a piece of Eddie’s flesh and biting, releasing, lips closing over that angry spot to soothe, tongue tasting salt, licking it off, indulging.

He lets your have your way with his neck, a particularly harsh slap landing on your ass in following of your mouth on his jugular, letting your tongue following that curvature into his jawline. You don’t stop his wandering hands, you don’t dare fight off his vice grip on the globes of your ass, his kneading, using as them leverage to place you right where he wants you. You let him take control, an unspoken agreement, a having to have. Your head falls back as Eddie rolls his hips beneath, rocking his lap, solid presses that drag his fat cock over your embarrassingly wet pussy, scattering your thick arousal and smearing it across his happy trail, getting caught in that patch of curls at the base of his shaft. You’re dripping all over him, quite literally. Caught on a trapped hum, hung in its hisses between your clenched teeth, you croon into Eddie’s neck, your stomach tightening, that velvety drag of his dick through your swollen folds making your lids flutter closed, colors dotting in their dances—translucent.

You aren’t sure where to move your hands, comfortable with having them shred Eddie’s back and empty out the past few days of frustration and desperation. Eddie encourages, palming handfuls of your ass, creating a cresting twist, a thigh trembling rub of sopping wet desire. He’s merely whimpering, appreciating, not overly vocal until his swollen head catches your neglected clit, and his head drops back, fingers pinching so tightly into your skin that it burns.

“Oh, shit. Dammit, baby.”

You’re simpering on a series of whimpers, agreeable and speechless. Eddie is feeding off it. “Yeah? You needing this too? Little clit feels so good rubbing on my dick, sweetheart. You want me to do it again?”

When you’re not immediately able to be vocal, Eddie pulls back a little, shoving his hand between your thighs and drags his rings directly through your arousal, coating them in a glittering shine. His first real touch where you need him the most. You both inhale sharply. It’s the pain from the cool metal of his jewelry that makes it feel so fucking good. He curses, telling you how messy you’re being, flinging his hand in your sights, dragging you in a pry off of his neck, holding your jaw and flashing his knuckles.

“See what you did, messy little angel. You gotta clean em’ now for me.”

His eyes are so fucking demolished, brown crushed beneath a midnight sea of black and insatiable attraction. You’re mewling, tongue lolling out, licking that metallic onto your tongue, sloppily sloping around his knuckles, lips suckling what your tongue can’t catch, your own taste fresh off your mouth. That’s when Eddie brushes a calloused thumb across your bottom lip, tugging it down to expose your teeth, and he brings your lips to his, a feral groan stealing your breath, sharing your juices in your first kiss. It’s a shift in the energy you share, a no going back, no running away, a fate sealed. Eddie loses all control and flips you off his lap, pinning you beneath him, kissing you with such feverish vigor that your hand tangles into his messy curls, and you pull, hard.

His tongue licks your lips open, greedily removing what’s left of your taste that remains. It’s noisy and nasty in the expanse of his small bedroom—diabolically sinful. One hand caresses your throat’s expanse, the other dropping down with a snapped wrist between your thighs, palm smacking your cunt, a guttural groan vibrating from his mouth into your own. Saliva strings on the break away, Eddie’s gaze switching to watch the hand on your cunt, out of it.

“Your pussy always this wet, baby? Or is it just for your best-friend?”

“Only for you, Eddie. Always you.”

Fallen into the depths of satisfaction, Eddie permits a slender digit to drag down your slit, taking that thick honey with it, a squelch echoing in the room when his finger wiggles its way inside of you. You clamp around him, chest heaving with shaky breaths.

“Jesus Christ. You’re gonna drown my dick when you let me fuck you, aren’t you?”

You’re incoherently babbling, tapping the hand that’s on your throat, hungry for it. “Tighter.”

Eddie’s brow raise is comical, a surprise coating his features. “So miss Y/N likes it rough? Never woulda guessed.”

You gulp a pump of air that vibrates across his hold, trying to gain more depth from his finger. It’s moving in exploration of your softly wet walls, an excess of arousal being pressed out upon that squish. Eddie tightens his hold on your throat, before he taps his fingers to your jugular and releases, hand toppling down your side and caressing, bringing. “Fuck, my best-friend’s got such a perfect little pussy. S’ made to be destroyed and used.”

You’re nodding so hard that the motion causes a cracking pop in your neck, Eddie laughing that noise under a cute breath. He’s thick with it, wiggling in a second finger and causing you drop your hands back behind you and push into the sensation, chasing, hunting it.

“Desperate to get away from me all week, now look at you. What a whore.”

Eddie has a mouth on him, something you’d always wondered about in your daily daydreams and nightly fantasies. As vocal as when he’s singing with his band. He’s saying words to you, snapping your attention, you’re whining as his fingers leave your cunt, and he’s pulling you into him so hard your lips split apart, cushioning his cock, cradling him in that overwhelming slick. He must not have meant for that action to cause it, as he jumps when you do, this feral look flickering behind those heated orbs. You know… it’s time.

Eddie is barely able to stand, clumsily bringing you with him by a laced grip in your hands. He gets you upright and you’re dizzy, his hands taking purchase on your shirt (the only remaining piece of clothing on you), and rips it with gritting teeth and anger, as if he’s pissed it’s not the club shirt, or sickened with himself for destroying yours—you’re not sure. Spit pools at the corners of your mouth as you let him tear off your tattered tee and yank your bra down, impatiently yanking the clasp apart and discarding it, helping himself to your tits, closing those plush lips over a nipple. Your hand wraps around his throbbing cock, fingers barely touching around the width, squeezing him—tugging. His hips stutter and he whines against your breast, teeth biting the flesh with a harsh precision.

Your other hand works its way through his wet curls and massages his scalp, tenderly altering in beckoning strokes, ones that switch off into root tugging pulls. Eddie’s hands keep your breast cupped, switching off to the other, whilst you dip lower and fondle his balls, letting your pinky drop off and scratch into his inner thigh. He’s doing that humming thing underneath his fucked out tone again, and you’re focusing your attention on his cock, thumb pad stroking that weeping slit, spreading it around and over that vein, enchanted with how it causes a thin bright shine over him, your own cream matted into the curls at the base of him, pathed up his stomach. His mouth leaves your chest and those big hands grip your cheeks, both of you watching as you jack him with a sticky tug.

Fuck me.

“Who’s the whore for his bestfriend now, Eds? You gonna admit that half the shit I’ve done this week has gotten your dick so hard you can’t decide what you’ve hated me for more,” You say, pausing to twist your grip, making him fold into your holding hand, “my smart mouth or how much you need this.”

Your powering dominance is short lived, hand falling off his erection, with Eddie kneeing you into a shove until your back collides with his desk, his arm reaching around to push most of its contents off and onto the floor, not caring where any of it goes. He nudges your thighs apart and slots his lean frame between, thumb catching the corner of your mouth, his instruction clear, yet awaiting your consent to cross this no back-stepping boundary. “M’ gonna fuck you right here, and you’re goin’ to watch me take you, Y/N.”

You’re pretty sure you’re gonna pass out at any given moment.

“I’m gonna watch you, Eddie.” You agree, zoning out and sprinting after your pleasure.

“Good girl.” Eddie breaks briefly, mouth on your shoulder, hand winding your hair around his fist and tugging it back so hard that the ache inside of you becomes an inferno. He finds the underside of your chin, voice honey-hot. “Because you’re not leaving this room until there’s a puddle of me running back out of your cunt.”

You launch forward so fast that Eddie falls into you, chest smashing against your breasts, your lips crashing into his for a brutally intimate kiss. You sink your teeth into his bottom lip and tug, biting down so hard you taste copper—licking it up and making Eddie’s cock jump. His ring covered hand attaches itself to your throat and he drags you off your prop against the desk, spinning you around and securing you to it, those hairy thighs pressing into you, wet cock so close to where you need him the most. His hand wraps around your hair again and lifts your gaze to that small opening in the mirror where posters and his most prized possession hangs. You’re flushed and soaked with sweat, mouth swollen and streaked with red from biting into Eddie’s plump lip, your pussy dripping thick strings of your creamy essence, slowly slithering in dangles from your pussy and onto the floor.

“You’re so fucking messy, Y/N. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, baby?” Eddie is like the devil on your shoulder, and you, you’re his angel of eternal damnation.

You’re about to beg, but Eddie saves you the trouble, his fingers tapping in tips down your spine, caressing, stroking, before they spread your lips apart and dip inside, palm flat. “Should fuckin’ split you open, do it raw. Cum so deep inside that you end up pregnant with my baby and have no choice but to always think of me, be around me.”

Though there’s a tease behind his passionate words, there’s this primal exclamation that overtakes you and you clamp down on his fingers. A series of fast paced images are vivid in your mind. Your tummy swollen and breasts heavy, Eddie having you bent over like this—one hand on your belly, the other on your throat, feeling your pulse galavant beneath his touch.

“Y/N… Fuck, sweetheart.” He’s so fucked in his descending tone that the depth is gruff and tipping off his diaphragm, you imagine. He presses his cheek against your own, chin resting on your shoulder as you drink each other in, in the mirror’s expanse, Eddie’s tone weak. “You really willing to carry my kid?”

You meet his eyes in the cluttered mirror, nodding, a softness carving out permanent residence in your features. It’s a topic you’d never shared with anyone else, never banked too much on thinking about, but beyond the idea of how hot this all is, you can’t imagine a scenario like this that doesn’t involve Eddie Munson. Vulnerable and barely above a brisk whisper, you’re answering him with, “Yeah, Eds. Want a family with you.”

At your admission, he lets his hand go in languid thrusts. You groan and let your head shift, but Eddie is jerking you back to stare into the glass, both of you panting and on the cusp of an out of body experience. It causes you to grin, licking your lips as your best-friend pumps those experienced digits to cause a purposeful squelch, his rings clinking together. His hard cock is pressed between his own stomach and your back, that pre-cum pooling onto your lower back and smearing in streaks down your ass. You’ve had more than enough teasing and you’re well aware that Eddie has too.

His look briefly falters, turning to mouth at your chin, a silent question. It’s you who uses your words, or rather, trembles in your feeble attempt. “Eddie, just put your cock inside me, or I swear I’ll—“

He’s smirking wildly at your slack-jawed expression when his fingers slide out of you and stick together with your cum, to which he helps himself to and coats his cock, then lines himself up and presses the thick head into your opening, leaning down to bite at your shoulder and leave an exposed imprint. Your legs feel like jello and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. He’s going to ask you to beg, and you’re an all in willing participant. Surprisingly, though, he doesn’t. He inhales sharply, you hold your breath, and both of you watch him sink into your slick and soft cunt, inch by inch, until his balls rest against the globes of your cheeks.

You’re still holding your breath, releasing it when you feel him sigh, grip on your hair loosening a little, too caught up in the fact that he’s where he belongs, after so much time doing without this. Your legs are about to buckle, jerking, toes curling against the carpeted floor, overwhelmed by everything that’s happened, and by your best-friend’s cock throbbing in your aching pussy. “E-Eds…?” It’s a pathetic cry of a question.

Eddie’s brows pinch together, sweat beaded between. He grips your jaw and his fingertips tap you back to meet his mouth, hovering over your lips. “S’ okay, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.” He briefly drops the playful gimmick, reassuring you that he’s right here with you.

It’s more than enough to have you arching back into him, a brash pummeling of his hips that sends you into the dresser, having to reach out and catch yourself. Eddie is quick witted, gripping your wrists with one hand and pinning them behind your back, stepping with you in toe, elongating his arm to snatch those handcuffs on his wall, that cold metal biting into your wrist, that dull noise presenting itself as the cuffs lock you into place, Eddie gripping onto the chains’ excess expanse, using it as a leverage. A sliver of a chalky moan trickles off your kiss-swollen lips, appreciative. The way Eddie is manhandling you has you so fucking euphoric that you’re sure you’ll be in a comatose state before either of you can cum. Your best-friend’s large hand finds purchase in your hair again, drawing his hips back, the other on the chain of the cuffs—steadying himself into a rhythm, riding you like all that matters is your destruction and his ultimate ownership.

Eddie Munson has owned you since the very moment that you two met.

The way he’s executing such precise and rough thrusts, making sure you’re high on the bring up, toes pressing into the carpet, that you’re stuffed full of his fat cock until it hurts, twitching in overstimulation, sore and fluttering walls eager to be soaked in everything he has to give you, that you are taking in every inch, catching every ridge, leaving you a shambled, panting mess, in pieces only being put back together again when Eddie will allow your release. His hair is tickling your shoulder blades, his fingers leaving the cuffs to press into your mouth and curl over your tongue, relishing in how you gag around the digits. You’re weak, so fucking weak for him, and he knows it.

“Can’t wait to hear you gag on my cock, Y/N. If you have trouble with these bad boys?” He puts an emphasis, wiggling his fingers against your tongue, giving them a secondary push to over extend your gag reflexes, his dick twitching inside you.

You bite down on his fingers, sucking them in, accepting his challenge, willing it to happen. His balls slap into your ass, heavy and hot, every movement causing the metal to rut into the skin of your wrists. He’s got a steady tempo going, alternating it by dipping his hips to bring you with him, letting you nearly collide with your chest flush to his desk. He reaches up and shoves that poster back by peeling tape, revealing more of your fucked out forms. Your eyes widen at your disheveled and unrecognizable appearance, Eddie using your cuffed hands as reigns. Riding you so hard that you can’t breathe anything but his hot air curling around the shell of your ear.

“Dammit, you are such a good girl for me, Y/N. Always pictured you takin’ my cock, but you’re not even crying yet, just taking what I give you.”

Yet… Fuck me running.

Your scalp is tingling with a prickling crowd of flames from his harsh grip, his other hand reaching to smack your ass, using some mechanism on the cuffs—albeit—struggling with his spit soaked fingers that were just in your mouth, to unlatch them and discard them at your feet, and he watches the flesh of your ass cheek redden and jiggle beneath his biting palm. You fist your fingers into a strewn pair of his blue denim jeans left on the desk top, dipping your forehead down and arching your back, trying to look between your own legs from this new angle to see Eddie’s cock cradled in your puffy lips. He tuts at your unsuccessful action, forcing you back into watching him doing his hard work—the hardest he’s worked at anything (sans his band or the campaigns, if he’s being honest with himself)—to make this unforgettable for you. He hits that spot located inside, the one you have to strain an arm to barely graze, and you lose all coherent capabilities.

“Eddie… that’s, oh my god, oh FUCK. Right there!”

Eddie’s throat crumbles under a weak pant, which ends up coming out as a whimper. He remains firm, however, still using your hair to keep you right where he wants you, his other hand reaching around to pet his own shaft as he slides out just enough to make you wetter.

“Yeah, baby? That spot gonna make somethin’ happen for you?”

You don’t answer, mumbles and babbling gibberish. He shakes that precious head of his, curls tickling your back and shoulders, a sigh breaking free. “Sorry, sweetheart. Can’t believe we’re doin’ this in front of you. Both my girls right here with me, one of them at my fuckin’ mercy.” Your attentions snap over your shoulder and you see Eddie looking at his fucking guitar, that is one of the only things remaining on the mirror. You gape, but aren’t surprised in the slightest.

He continues on, pretending he doesn’t see your partial seethe. “Makin’ a mess all over me, but I bet you like to see it too, don’t you?” He sinks his teeth into his lower lip, still talking to the inanimate object. “Both my sweethearts are such sluts for their owner.”

You can’t help that rattle that clamps around your bones and slices through your spinal cord, seizing your abdomen, right down into your cunt. Owner? You have zero time to warn him, ask if you can, alarms unprepared, skin slapping on skin, his taste on your mouth, his breath on your flesh, that slippery glide that has cum running down your thighs, and it’s a sudden wave crashing over your insides and drowning them in your painfully interstellar-esque orgasm. Your eyes burn with tears as you watch your best-friend feel what’s happening, realizing. He’s covered in your release, and instead of being mad, he is influencing you like the little devil that he can be, plump lip pressing to your ear lobe with one continuous command. “That’s it. C’mon, Y/N. Drench my dick.”

You wish you could bottle the feeling of your first orgasm with Eddie Munson, your best-friend—forever. Finding yourself growing into that vulnerability that comes with the high, you seek to find solace in Eddie’s arms, whimpering at the overstimulation of his thick cock. With that connection still in tact, Eddie is spinning you around, dick sliding out with a messy mixture of arousals covering you both—his member completely doused in your cream, painting the trimmed curls at the base of his shaft with even more of you, slicking back some more of that happy trail. You want to be embarrassed, but as he’s red faced and struggling to breathe, you know that there’s no need to be. He steers you back onto the bed, falling easily between your spread thighs, drawing them up and around his waist.

He presses his forehead into your own, kissing each corner of your mouth, rings circling in dusting sweeps on the apex of your thighs. His voice is a shivered whisper. “Fuck, baby. You okay?”

There’s words on your tongue, Eddie’s taste on your mouth, things you’ve known for years, but are unsure if Eddie has, or if this is something he needs because he’s afraid you’ll abandon him, but that he doesn’t feel what you do. Your head is spinning and Eddie brushes sweaty strands of hair off your forehead, taking his cock through your swollen folds, pressing that spongey head into your clit—both of you crying out. “Y/N, m’ right here. Care to join me?”

And god help you, the way that you look at him. Really allow yourself to see him this way—unabashed—it stirs all those feelings Eddie has bottled down since forever. You press your thumb into his mouth, your other hand sliding down to grip onto him, gliding your hand back and forth, relishing in how his abdomen tenses, muscles flexing, body gravitating towards whatever you’re willing to bestow. He doesn’t let you touch him much longer, taking what your hand isn’t around and guiding it back into your cunt, that scrumptious burn brimming you, making your thighs drop open, back arch, only to tighten your ankles around him, digging your heels into his ass. He suckles your fingertip into his mouth, licking the digit in until it’s down to the knuckle.

Your head presses sideways, cheek on his pillow, inhaling his shaving cream and that spicy scent. He pauses his movements, making you frown in displeasure. He lets go of your spit tainted finger, gripping your chin, a possessive fire overcoming him. His irises remain completely black, putting you deeper into that comatose trance of agonizing sin. “I want you to fucking say it, Y/N.”

You start a beginning questionnaire, Eddie shaking his head and pressing in harder on your chin, fingers splaying across your jaw, rings pinching your chin in the most delightfully painful of ways. “Say you want me, tell me you fucking need me. That you’re not tired of me, and that you’re proud to be the freak’s slut.”

Your hands wind around his back and you sink your nails in as hard as you can, bearing down on him, sucking him in deeper, both of you in a state of no return. His hand tickles down from your face and grips your neck. “Still sick of me, baby?” He situates your gaze, lifting his hips to a raise so that you can see where you’re connected. You’re inconsolable, that fire already blazing your gut, turning every sense into nothingness.

When Eddie starts back up again, he slams himself into you so hard that your vision goes dark and you shred your own bottom lip open, body moving closer to his wall due to the force. He’s licking beneath your jugular, words sensual and filthy, making your entire body spike in a sudden electricity. “Gonna cum in every hole you’ve got, so you remember that they’re mine.”

This time you’re more than ready to give him a warning, body beginning to shake beyond your control, breaths stuttering in your chest. Eddie reaches down between you, calloused thumb flicking your clit. Everything is so fucking wet and the way it sounds in the expanse of Eddie’s small room, it has you opening your mouth, out of control and greedily begging for more.

“Eds, harder. Please? Almost…”

He’s grinning in that special way that weakens you—heart and soul, body and mind. “So much more than a slut.” His thrusts become choppy, his own babbling tone turning into Eddie-speak. “You are way more than you know, Y/N.”

You fondle his pick chain and bring him into your immediate airspace, mouths hovering. He’s nearing his end, cock getting fuller inside you. “Need you to tell me how much you love me.”

You both completely go slack. Eddie stops himself all together, body trembling, head bowing. Your heart rate increases, feeling as if you’ve skipped a staircase thousands of feet in the air and you’re now free falling.

Love… You don’t have to think twice.

Your hands move to cup his face, holding on, your eyes shining with tears at all overloaded emotions and senses. “I love you so fucking much, Eddie.”

At your admission, those beautiful eyes—dark with remains of passion—they fill, and he gives you his all, driving his cock into you in calculated presses, trying like hell to get you to cum first. When he speaks, his voice cracks apart. “Let me know that you’re right here with me, Y/N.”

“I’ve always been here, Eddie.” Is what you manage, thumping your hand against his wrist and helping him bring his fingers back to your clit.

He doesn’t let you look away, noses smashed together, sticky foreheads pressing, hair curtaining the apples of pink, sex stained cheeks. Your eyes widen as that knot begins to tighten in your stomach, unraveling so violently that Eddie has to grip your quivering thigh in one hand, the other keeping steady on your clit. You dig into his back, other hand tugging on his hair, and Eddie is giving a throaty seduction. “That’s it, be my good girl and cum again for me.”

And you’re coming apart at your very core, every cell exploding and rebuilding, gluing yourself to Eddie to seize the ache that scrambles your insides and leaves you breathless. He’s cursing, keeping his finger on your clit to help you coast over the high, immediately following you with the lowest, sweetest, whimpering moan that you’ve ever heard. Both of your eyes still drinking in the other’s pleasure, tears spilling over your lash line as Eddie’s hips cease and he holds, his cock swelling and that soft, creamy warmth coating your sore walls in spurts. He collapses onto your chest and you hold him there in a vice hug, his hand still trapped between your exhausted bodies. He gently eases it out, groaning around the wetness that he’s all too eager to sample until the layer of shine is off his fingers.

Holy shit and fuck me…

Your legs fall to the side, unable to stay upright any longer, Eddie keeping a hovering hand to soothe your shaking. He kisses your neck with a plush mouth, his chain dangling between your breasts. You’re petting his hair—which is so soaked it’s as if he’s been in the rain or come from the shower—off his forehead, wincing as he slides out and keeps himself by your side. You gasp and he joins, fascinated by your cum and his own seed pouring from your cunt. He raises up a little. “Mhm. Let me see?”

He props your thigh, sliding his fingers back and forth, zoned in on his bedsheets being ruined from the literal puddle of your shared cum that runs from you. Seconds pass and he grins widely, plopping onto his back, his fingertips caressing your shoulder, down to your arm. It’s a comfortable quiet, even with the intense meaning of the words that were spoken, until Eddie starts with a, “So..?”

And you cut him off, trying to get your uncomfortably hot body closer. “So I love you. And I have never stopped needing you, or wanting you, Eddie. I just hope all this wasn’t because we were fighting and you got scared I would leave, and —“

He doesn’t let you finish this time, that chocolate-ly brown ring swinging back around his pupil in a brisk develop, showcasing the moisture in his eyes. “I was scared because I love you so damn much that I would charge headfirst into Mordor, or some alternate dimension without any weapon or any shield, just for you. You gotta know that, Y/N.”

His softness, that glittering fragility, it makes you seal your mouth to his, kissing him full of your feelings. He cups the nape of your neck, drawing in closer, thumb coaxing a shiver from you as it passes over a certain spot behind your ear. On a wet break away, you’re nodding your head. “Guess we spent all week fighting when we should’ve been fucking and talking about our feelings.”

Eddie smirks, then is serious. “Be that as it may, I’m sorry I’ve been shit at showing you I appreciate all that you do for the guys and me. And for forgetting that you are your own person too. S’ not like I meant to, I swear. I just get so fucking caught up and I shouldn’t take for granted anything that has to do with you or with us.”

“Have I ever told you that you’re my best-friend, Eddie Munson?”

While it’s still true, you’re wondering when the words leave your lips. Eddie just fucked you so hard you probably won’t be able to sit down for a week or walk upright for hours, so friendship isn’t exactly the most appropriate term anymore, is it?

Eddie taps his fingertips to your temple, drawing your dazed expression, clinging to the cosmic connection once more. “M’ yours, Y/N.”

“Oh yeah, Munson?” You’re so high that you could fly out of here right now and make rounds around the whole globe. Your chest is aching with a tempo that promises new hope and ease.

Eddie is giddy too, that wide set smile, cheesing. “Just gotta get you a new shirt.”

The memory of your old club attire being one with the forest floor seems like so long ago. Eddie knuckle grazes your cheek, apologetic. You shush him. “I ruined yours, so we’re even.”

There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes and he’s tackling you beneath him, pinning your hands in a lace above your head. “Nah, we are just getting started on bein’ even, baby.”

~*~

Tagging: @littledemondani @prettyboyeddiemunson @gothbitchshit @thisishellfire @ethereal27cereal @likedovesinthewnd

-I really need to form a bigger tag list! I’m sorry :/-

Lemme know if you want on my general tag list, please! :)

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blueywrites · 1 year

Text

The Riddles Three

eddie munson x reader, smeagol!eddie (4k)

18+ for smut. praise kink, use of 'sir,' teasing, cockwarming, copious pet names, dnd names, no y/n, eddie is a menace, eddie fucks you while roleplaying, equal parts horny and absurd.

this came about because of a shared tiktok and a group text spiral, so enjoy this absolutely ridiculous smutty thing that was supposed to be a blurb but ended up being 4k. whoops!

thanks to @fracturedarkness, @abibliophobiaa, and @breddiemunson for the convo that began this, and a special thanks to @myosotisa for some killer dnd lines and riddles in here, and for being so repulsed by the idea of Eddie using this voice that I had to write about it.

also it's 1am and I didn't fully edit this, so oh well 🐲

Eddie Munson has never been anything less than himself. This is a man whose presence atop cafeteria tables barely turns heads anymore unless he starts truly yelling. He revels in the reactions he receives when he flashes crazy eyes and devil horns and lolls his broad tongue menacingly at classmates, deserving and undeserving alike. He has some obscure metal reference at the ready in every conversation because he can always find a way to connect it to what at least one person is saying. He’s got entire sections of the film Monty Python and the Holy Grail memorized; sometimes he backs you up against his locker, plush lips skimming your ear as he whispers, ‘How could a five-ounce bird possibly carry a one-pound coconut?,’ and other times study hall will be utterly silent until you hear him muttering under his breath, ‘I fart in your general direction.’ He also has an Alf costume in his closet, though he’s never been Alf for Halloween, as far as you know. Eddie Munson is always himself, and what he is is a fuckin’ weirdo.

You knew this. And yet somehow, it still comes as a surprise that, as his broad hands span your hips, ruddy fingers digging into your soft flesh while his cockhead finally pops inside as you begin to lower down onto him, your blissful moan is overpowered by the most ridiculous groan you’ve ever heard pass from Eddie’s lips. It’s a croak, pushed up high in the back of his throat, nasally and raspy and so disturbingly unmistakable that your face puckers up in disgust. Eddie’s filling your hole so deliciously, just as he always does— the stretch of his thick cock is hot and tight as he guides you down onto him, slowly splitting you open inch by inch— but you can’t even enjoy it. Because his wild curls are splayed against his pillow, his beautiful eyes are closed in bliss, and his moan just sounded like Smeagol from Lord of the Rings.

You think maybe it was just a fluke. Maybe you were just so overwhelmed by Eddie’s cock sinking into your pussy that it scrambled your brains, and you merely imagined that your boyfriend moaned like Smeagol. But when you fall flush with his pelvis and he finally bullies up against the end of you, making you whimper despite yourself, the breathy sigh he releases is still far too nasally for comfort.

“Eddie,” you say with a hint of cautious warning, though your voice catches as he starts to move your hips in a circle, pressing insistently with his warm calloused palms to guide you in grinding your clit against his public hair. You can’t help but bite your lip as the feeling sparks pleasure that throbs low in your pussy, and you brace your hands against his chest as your brain blanks and you lean forward. His eyes blink open lazily, his plush lips crooking with a satisfied grin, and you hum your satisfaction as you let him move you on his cock.

And then he starts talking.

“Our precious is soooooo nice to us,” he says, nasally and high, his contented expression unchanging though you stiffen up immediately. He keeps moving your hips, though it’s not so fluid anymore, quite staccato, really, as you aren’t helping him whatsoever. “So tights,” he continues, ignoring your indignant eyes. “So warms. Don't we love it when we sinks inside?"

“Eddie, please—” It comes out more like a whine than you’d intended as you thump your fists petulantly against his chest, but maybe you can win him over with honey instead of vinegar. “Please don’t do the Smeagol voice again.”

You put on your best pout: poking out your bottom lip, softening your eyes, making them go big and beggy. You uncurl your fingers, scratching them lightly down his abdomen in that way you know he loves, and when he shivers and doesn’t reply, you think maybe you’ve won him over. But then he answers himself, sounding thoroughly delighted, pitching his voice lower and more hoarse though still absurdly nasally. “Ohhhh, yes. We love being insides our precious.”

It’s not just Smeagol this time. He’s being Gollum, too.

You sag with dismay, watching Eddie’s teeth drag against his bottom lip, how his eyes drink you in, roving over your curves in that way that always makes you feel beautiful. The sight of his desire for you is undeniably tempting, as is how he slides his hands back to palm the fat of your ass, kneading your flesh firmly. And his cock is still hard inside you— harder, even, now that he’s teasing you because you know he loves to make you squirm. Despite the way that voice gives you the ick, you decide that maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe you can endure it after all for the sake of your own gratification. And as you start to move, pressing Eddie up against your front wall as you lift up and drop back down onto him, the pleasure does start to build— the flame of your arousal, stoked faithfully by the feeling of his cock in your cunt and his hair against your clit and his pretty face beneath you.

But Eddie can’t help himself. Smugly, he says, “See? Precious likes it whens we talks to her so nice as she bounces on our fat cocks. You like our cocks inside you, precious?”

Despite the disgust that shivers down your spine at the sound of that ridiculous voice, you can’t deny how Eddie’s words affect you: you pulse around him, pleasure thrumming within you. It makes you lift a little higher to drop down harder against his hips with fleshy smacks. Your dismay at Eddie using that voice has transformed to dismay at yourself as you finally resort to bargaining, brow crumpling as you plead, “Can you at least not put the s’s at the end?”

The smugness drops from Eddie’s face and his fingers still on your ass. The ridiculous voice is gone, but it isn’t a consolation when he sounds so serious. “Baby,” he admonishes, “I have to stay authentic to the character. I can’t just neuter Smeagol and Gollum like that. It would be an insult to Tolkien.” He shakes his head at you as if disappointed, as if you’re the one in the wrong here.

Your hackles raise a bit at that; your eyes narrow, hands planting on your hips as you kneel tall over him. “You act as though it’s an unreasonable request for me to not wanna get fucked by that stringy-haired, raw-fish-eating, brother-murdering gremlin.”

The fact that you’re able to recall so many details about the character off the cuff seems to mollify Eddie. His thumbs trace a soothing pattern against your ribs as he draws his hands lightly up your sides until you soften for him. “Look, babe,” he says, almost sympathetically, “I know what you want.” One hand cups the heft of your breast while the other trails low, stroking lightly across your mound, tickling the skin there. “And if you want me to make you cum so many times my cock turns you stupid, you gotta let me do it as Smeagol and Gollum. I don’t make the rules.”

You scowl. “You very literally do make the rules—” Your grumble cuts off as a sudden idea lights your eyes. “Let me roll for it.”

Eddie’s head tilts in interest, frizzly curls rasping against the pillow, wide dark eyes lighting to match the sudden enthusiasm in yours. He’s intrigued enough to continue speaking to you normally. “Roll for what, princess?”

“Roll for persuasion,” you answer instantly. “To see if I can convince you not to do the voice anymore.”

Eddie purses his lips, poking his tongue against the inside of his cheek as he deliberates. You rock your hips slightly in an effort to entice him, though you more end up just teasing yourself as your walls hug him tight. Finally, those plush lips stretch in a smirk. “I’ll allow it,” he purrs, adopting the deep smoke of his Dungeon Master voice. This voice makes you shudder for an altogether different reason, and his eyes darken as he sees your nipples tighten. “Dice are in the drawer, Ohazia,” he adds, addressing you by your character name.

You make to lift off him, but Eddie’s arm quickly wraps around the small of your back as he leans up, bracing a palm behind him, his stubbled chin brushing the sensitive skin between your breasts. “Ah, ah,” he admonishes, voice still a purr. “Where do you think you’re going, sweet girl?”

You scrape your teeth against your bottom lip as Eddie’s curls tickle your breasts, and his brown eyes shine with mischief as he turns his head to mouth at the left one. The moist heat of his breath makes your voice waver. “T-to get the dice.”

You feel Eddie’s lips skim against your skin briefly before he says, “We’ll go together.”

Well, going together apparently means awkwardly shimmying across the bed until you’re close enough to reach the bedside drawer with him still buried balls-deep in your cunt. You root around, first pulling out a d12 and second, to your chagrin, a shiny rock Eddie had found in the woods one time before finally landing on the d20 on your third attempt. Eddie keeps firm hold on your hips to ensure you don’t fall off the bed and break his dick, and you clumsily push off the nightstand to get yourself upright again, disturbing the pile of books already precariously balanced beside the lamp.

There’s a long series of thumps and flutters as they fall, and you both blink at the mess before Eddie says, “I’ll clean that up—”

“Never,” you interrupt, pursing your lips against a smirk as he squints up at you flatly. You shake the d20 between your palms, rolling it in the concave space between his belly button and ribs and cupping your hand over it before he can see. “I know you, Munson. You’ve never voluntarily cleaned your room in your life.”

He ignores your ribbing. “What’d you roll?”

You tilt your hand to peek, gaze flashing between the dice and Eddie’s face. Begrudgingly, you admit, “Thirteen.”

Eddie’s brown eyes sparkle as he looks up at you. “And remind me what your charisma modifier is again.”

“It’s plus two.”

The quirk of Eddie’s brow is subtle but noticeable. “Are you sure?”

Your tone is dangerously even. “…be very careful what you say next, Edward.”

Eddie’s eyes widen as you stare down at him, and his palms tap nervously against your hips before rubbing briskly. “Well,” he says quickly, “you had to meet or beat a fifteen, so…” He sighs resignedly, nearly pouting up at you. “Unfortunately, you have successfully persuaded me not to speak in the Smeagol voice.”

A pleased smile spreads across your lips, your eyes deepening to half-lidded. “Is that so?” you ask, rolling your hips for the first time in a long while. You hear Eddie’s breath catch, your smile widening as his adam’s apple bobs in a thick swallow. “You gonna fuck me stupid now, like you promised?” You grind on him again, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth as you feel him pulse inside you. With your victory now secured, the embers of your arousal are quick to catch again, reigniting with each roll of your puffy clit against his pubic bone. It even makes you feel playful as you slide your hands up Eddie’s chest to his shoulders, laying yourself flat along his body to relish the heat of his soft skin and the rasp of his sparse chest hair against your nipples. Eddie’s hips tilt to accommodate you, and you thread your fingers into the curls at the base of his neck, making him hum. Eddie’s expression is lax, eyes deep and hazy as he watches you, letting you play with him as you swipe along his plush lips with the tip of your tongue before cooing, “Oh, Kaxes the Generous. My faithful bard.”

The broad, manic grin that crinkles the corners of Eddie’s suddenly gleaming eyes makes your pleased smile fall. “What?” you ask baldly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Eddie’s calloused palms meander across your back, stroking slowly and soothingly. Well, it would be soothing if it wasn’t for the wicked expression on his face. “Oh, my dear Ohazia,” he says, mimicking your coo. “Didn’t you notice the gulf between us, able to be crossed only by the single rope bridge? And in order to reach Kaxes the Generous, you must make it past the bridge troll.”

Eddie’s broad grin never falters, even as you groan and slap his shoulders, using them to push upright and glare down at him again. “Seriously?”

Unbothered, Eddie’s hands fall again to your hips. “The bridge troll is very obstinate, princess.” You try to maintain your scowl even when one draws slowly from your hip to your mound, his thick thumb trailing down past your curls to the crease below them. “If you want to cross the bridge, you’ll need to answer his riddles three.” Despite yourself, you tilt your hips back to allow him access to you, and Eddie’s cheek dimples as he presses his thumb tighter. “And if you correctly answer his riddles three…” Slowly, as he speaks, he drags it down to your clit; the pressure sparks like bright fire, making your breath deepen. “Then he’ll let you pass.”

You try to cant your hips into his touch, to seek more of that delicious fire, but Eddie’s other hand squeezes at your hip to keep you still. He withdraws his thumb, grasping both of your hips tightly to hold you in place. “Don’t be naughty, Ohazia,” he purrs, and you gasp as he rolls up into you, pressing his thick cock deeper inside. “Naughty girls don’t get to cum.”

You whimper, stilling in his hold. Though you know Eddie is desperate to fuck into you hard and fast, you also know he will edge you until you’re sobbing if you defy him, and you’re far too needy for that right now. “Can I have the first riddle, sir?” you ask, soft and sweet, and you feel him pulse again as you obey him.

“Hm,” Eddie purrs, squeezing your ass as a reward for your obeisance. “I am the beginning of the end, and the end of before. What am I?”

You purse your lips in thought for only a moment before brightening. “The letter ‘e’,” you tell him confidently.

Eddie’s smile is genuine, turning his eyes a bright amber. “Correct,” he tells you. “What breathes, consumes, and grows, but was and never will be alive?”

This one gives you more pause, and in the interim, Eddie murmurs, “Don’t move your hips, okay, sweet girl?” You nod absently, eyes flicking to the ceiling as his hands trail up your sides again to cup your breasts. ‘What breathes, consumes, and grows, but was and never will be alive?’ A breathy hum slips from your lips as he squeezes them softly, then drags his calloused thumbs over your nipples, but you don’t react until he pinches those hardened peaks between his fingers, rolling firmly.

Pleasure sparks straight to your cunt, and Eddie chuckles when you clench on him reflexively. “No fair,” you gasp, whimpering as you glance down and see the wolfish grin on your boyfriend’s face. “You can’t distract me like that. You know I can’t think when you play with my nipples.”

“Sorry,” he says, sounding entirely unrepentant. Mercifully, the answer finally comes to you then.

“Fire,” you say, and the delight in Eddie’s face makes warmth rush through your body.

“Very good, princess,” he praises you, releasing your nipples immediately. You sigh in relief as he cups your cheek, nuzzling into his calloused palm which easily spans the side of your face. The approval turns his deep voice to silk. “Goood girl. You’re so fuckin’ good for me.”

You whine, brow pinching as you swipe at his thumb with your wet pink tongue, wordlessly coaxing him. “One more,” he promises you. “Just one more, baby. You can do it.” Eddie’s thumb drags down your bottom lip, and as he watches it spring back, you notice then the heaving of his chest; the way his pupils have almost entirely swallowed the brown of his eyes; the sudden hoarseness in his voice. He’s just barely holding on, and the realization of his fraying restraint excites you, sending a shiver of pleasure straight down your spine.

Eddie gives you the final riddle. “Walk on the living, they don't even mumble. Walk on the dead, they mutter and grumble.” His dark, hazy eyes pierce you, his voice a deep rumble in his chest you can feel in your cunt. “What are they, sweetheart?”

The final riddle rhymes. It’s practically sing-songy, making it feel positively childish. But your brain is starting to go fuzzy as Eddie’s hot hand lands on your thigh, rhythmically kneading the soft fat there in a gesture that belies his growing impatience. You try to ignore it, but the knowledge that you’re so close, so close, to having Eddie pound your pussy ‘til you scream has the answer slipping farther away the longer you try to grasp for it. It doesn’t help that Eddie’s thumb is still playing with your bottom lip, either, rasping against the plump flesh as you try to think. Your nose scrunches up with the effort, and your cute little groan of consternation is muffled as Eddie finally slips his thick thumb past your lips and into the wet heat of your mouth. Your groan cuts off in a whimper as he presses it against your tongue, and your breasts begin to rise and fall with your breath as he pulls it out before pushing back in, slowly fucking your mouth with his thumb. You wonder briefly why Eddie is teasing you like this knowing that it will likely only delay your answer, but the hunger in his expression tells you all you need to know.

“Mmm,” you whine, cheeks pinking as you abandon his character name to plead around his thumb. “Eddie,” you beg, and his jaw tenses, his breath going suddenly ragged at the sound of his name so pathetic on your lips. “Eddie, please. I don’t know—”

“Leaves,” he rasps, harsh and intent. “Leaves, just say leaves.”

Your blood rushes hot with arousal and relief at the knowledge of what’s about to happen. “Leaves,” you moan, and instantly, Eddie’s ripping his thumb from your mouth and wrapping his arms around your middle to wrench you over. He flips you while still buried inside, muscles tense and quivering as you gasp, disoriented for only a moment as your back hits the mattress before he’s stuffing you full and fucking you furiously.

Eddie loses all semblance of restraint, his cock bullying your cunt as you writhe and squirm beneath him, meeting him thrust for thrust. He’d been teasing your flames for so long that the feeling of him finally fucking you makes them grow instantly to a crackling wildfire, consuming you entirely. You aren’t in control any more as your lips open wide, voicing your contentment in helpless whines and desperate whimpers and wild moans as your spine arches in toe-curling pleasure. Your sounds spill against Eddie’s curls as your nails dig into the meat of his back; he babbles his own pleasure into the juncture of your neck, hips snapping almost animalistically against your thighs in great, fleshy smacks that pound and pound and pound without relenting. “Goddamn, baby, so loud f’me, feel so good, oh shit, oh shit, fuckfuckfuck—”

Eddie isn’t even really pulling out now, just barely an inch before pushing hard and fast into your aching pussy, grinding against that spot inside that makes you see stars. You feel your orgasm begin to surge up from the bottom of you, crackling in the pit of your belly as your moans turn more breathy and desperate. “Oh, Eddie,” you keen, burying your fingers in his curls as the pleasure begins to peak, “Eddie, Eddie—”

“Precious wants my cum, doesn’t she?” Eddie rasps, nasally and high, a throaty exclamation of sheer and utter glee. “She’s greedy, our precious. Wants us to fill her up—”

“Fuck!” Your scream is ecstacy as your eyes roll back and you cum harder than you ever have before.

Your body thrums with sparkling fire that rushes red hot along every nerve, and instantly, everything squeezes impossibly tight. Your thighs lock against Eddie’s hips, and your back bows, and your fingers tighten into fists in his frizzy curls, making him grunt as you tug on his hair. Eddie’s hips rut desperately against you twice more before he bites down at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, groaning into your skin as his cock jerks wildly inside you, doing just what he’d said and filling you with his cum. The sting of his teeth and the warmth flooding your cunt only make you quiver more, body squirming where you’re pinned beneath his heavy weight, gasping little incoherent sounds of pleasure into the humid air of Eddie’s bedroom.

Your orgasm washes over you in waves of bliss until your tense muscles finally relax. Trembling, you lay limp beneath Eddie, brain entirely blank aside from registering the quick tattoo of his heart and his belly pressing into yours in great heaving gasps as he pants against your neck. You hum absently as he nuzzles your damp skin with his nose, kissing you tenderly against the stinging bite he’d left at the base. The sound is just a reflex; you have, indeed, been rendered utterly stupid by his cock.

That is, until Eddie starts to giggle.

The husky sound brings you back to yourself, and you pet back Eddie’s mess of curls and hold his cheeks to see him better. You frown when you see the amusement dancing in his eyes.

The look on your face does nothing to quell his mirth. Your frown deepens when Eddie dissolves into uncontrollable laughter, wrenching from your grasp to bury his face between your breasts, wildly unrestrained in his hysterics. When his voice breaks like a prepubescent child and it only makes him laugh harder, you decide enough is enough.

“What the fuck, Eddie?” You hiss, shaking his shoulders until his face finally pops up from where it’s nestled in your breasts. It’s bright pink now, with a vein bulging in his forehead that would nearly make you worried if it wasn’t for the suspicion that he’s laughing at your expense. “What’s so funny?”

You turn as pink as he is when he finally collects himself enough to say, “I can’t believe my Smeagol voice made you cum that hard.” His cheeks puff as he tries to hold back another snicker, but it just grinds out from his nose until he collapses against you again, curls tickling your breasts.

You sputter with outrage at both the humiliation and the betrayal. “Fuck you, Edward! I can’t believe you still used the voice after I passed my persuasion check.”

Though he doesn’t lift his head, Eddie’s hand snakes up to cup the back of your neck, kneading softly in an attempt to settle your ire. You’re outraged to find that it works, and even moreso when he lifts up on an elbow to hover over your face and whisper, “I didn’t hear you complaining when you were making a mess of my sheets, love.”

Eddie smiles manically, pinching your cheeks and meeting your outraged pout with a firm kiss. When he pulls away, pressing one last dramatic smacking kiss to your cheek, you soften despite your grumbles. Because Eddie Munson is always himself: a fuckin’ weirdo.

And that’s why you love him.

ask💌 | kofi🌼 | masterlist🌱

#blueywrites #the draft of this is named 'what the fuck is this'#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x fem!reader smut #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff #stranger things fic #st fanfic #gollum #smeagol #lord of the rings

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romione-trope-fest · 2 months

Text

The One Where Ron and Hermione are Fake Not Dating

Fic Title: The One Where Ron and Hermione are Fake Not Dating

Author Name: voldemorts-tap-shoes/smjl

Selected Trope: Fake Not Dating (with a side of Cockblocker Harry and a dash of Weasley Weddings)

Brief Summary: Ron and Hermione sleep together the night before Harry and Ginny’s wedding and then hide their new relationship from their friends and family. (Inspired by Monica and Chandler's relationship on Friends)

Word Count: Ch1 - 3216

Rating: E

Any Trigger Warnings: none

***

Pt. 1

The One With The Dress

—-

Hermione wonders vacantly as she downs her third glass of champagne how many more it will take to dull her headache. On the bright side, if the champagne fails, this time tomorrow the wedding will be over and the bulk of her maid of honour duties will be finished. But tonight is only the rehearsal dinner, and despite her friends’ puzzling decision to get married in New York City, the ballroom is absolutely packed with guests. Aren’t destination weddings supposed to be small? Why are all these people here?

Oh, right, because it’s Harry freaking Potter and Ginny bloody Weasley. The wedding of the century.

Hoping that four will be the magic number, Hermione looks around the room for one of the waiters that’s been circling with booze all night. Even in her wildly uncomfortable stiletto heels, she can’t spot any of them, and her path to the bar is blocked by several grey-haired Ministry officials who will surely take the opportunity to drag her into their policy talk if she gets close enough. No, thank you. She’ll take her chances with the headache.

Better yet, maybe she can find Ginny and see if she’s actually still needed at this raucous party. She hasn’t seen the bride in over an hour, so it’s not like Hermione is doing anything to help her anyway. She’s just here. Molly and Sirius have taken care of all the logistics, and the other bridesmaids folded five hundred napkins into origami animals earlier for the reception tomorrow. With all that done, Hermione thinks that the most useful thing she can do at this point is get a good night’s sleep.

She checks her watch with a sigh; it’s only seven o’clock. Of course, back in London, it’s going on midnight, and Hermione hasn’t yet gotten over her jet lag. Portkey lag? Do wizards have a term for this phenomenon?

Maybe she has had enough champagne.

Still, she’s grateful for the cool flute that appears in her hand bearing a refill, and the grinning wizard who hands it to her. “You look like you could use this,” Ron says jovially, clinking his own glass against hers. “And one of those old Ministry farts—Barry or something—“ He waves a hand in the general direction of the bar. “—wants to talk about your werewolf legislation when you have a moment.”

Hermione downs half of the champagne in one go and rolls her eyes. “Don’t they know this is a party?” she complains. “Don’t they ever stop working?”

“Reckon they’re so old they’re like Binns at this point,” Ron jokes. “They just wake up and keep doing what they do every day, no matter the location.”

“I suppose.” The rest of the champagne follows in short order, and Ron raises an eyebrow as Hermione vanishes her empty glass.

“You okay?” he asks skeptically, though he extends his own untouched flute toward her. “I’m not sure if I should cut you off or give you a refill.”

Hermione waves off the offer of champagne with a flick of her hand. “I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Ron rolls his eyes, clearly not believing her. “Come on, what’s going on?”

“It’s nothing,” Hermione insists. “Some other old Ministry fart—” That’s definitely the champagne talking; Hermione would never ordinarily say that, even if she thinks it. “—thought that I was Harry’s mum.”

“Oh, that guy.” Ron grimaces. “Ignore him, he’s completely pissed. Earlier, he thanked me for my very moving duet with Celestina Warbeck.”

His response elicits just a hint of a smile from Hermione. “No, I know. Even if Harry’s parents weren’t famously deceased, I know I don’t look old enough to be his mother.”

“Okay, so let’s have some fun, then.” Hermione knows she still doesn’t look convinced, and Ron goes on, “It’s Harry and Ginny’s wedding. This is supposed to be, like, the happiest day of our lives so far.”

“Their lives, you mean,” Hermione corrects him. “And to hear my mother tell it, you escorting me tomorrow as the witch of honour and best wizard is the closest I’ll ever get to walking down the aisle myself, so I’d better enjoy this one.”

Reflexively, Hermione glances over her shoulder, but she’s not sure she even cares if her mum overhears. Maybe then she’ll realize how ridiculous she’s being with all her pointed hints about Hermione finding a husband. As if she’s got nothing better to do with her life.

“Is that what’s actually got your knickers in a twist?” Ron asks with a grin. “Want me to pull you out to the dance floor and snog you in front of everyone so that she’ll leave you alone?”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “As enticing an offer as that is—” And Merlin’s pants, Ron has no idea how enticing “—I think I’m going to head upstairs. Make sure everything’s in order for tomorrow.”

“It is. I promise. I saw your list.” Ron turns his big blue puppy-dog eyes on her, and Hermione feels her resolve melting. “Seriously, forget about your mum and that drunk bastard. Come and dance?”

He drains his champagne glass and vanishes it before holding out his hand in invitation. “Oh, alright,” Hermione sighs, only feigning irritation at her best friend. “But let me get these shoes off first. I can’t get a cushioning charm to stick, and my feet are killing me.”

Ron follows Hermione over to the lavishly decorated table that’s been reserved for the bridal party. All of the tables have a designated seating arrangement, but they’ve been mostly empty throughout the night as the party swirls around the room.

Hermione sits down in one of the plush dining chairs and crosses her foot over her other knee, attempting to work the complicated straps of her shoe. Why she let Ginny talk her into buying these ridiculous heels for this weekend is beyond her comprehension, and the ones she’s wearing tomorrow are even worse.

“Why are you wearing those barmy things, anyway?” Ron asks as he watches her struggle. “They look like bloody torture devices.”

“According to Witch Weekly, they’re meant to drive you mad with longing,” Hermione quips, then realizes her mistake. “I mean—not you, specifically, I mean—wizards. In general.”

Ron’s ears are pink when she looks up at him, but he breezes past her misstep. “They look more likely to drive you mad,” he jokes as she finally drops both shoes to the floor and sighs in relief. “What about your dress?”

“What about it?”

Hermione tugs self-consciously at the too-short hem and brushes an invisible speck of dirt from the fabric. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t picked this item out with one very specific wizard in mind, but now that his eyes are raking over it, lingering on the deep V of the neckline, she’s nervous about his reaction.

“Is it comfortable?”

“Oh.” Of course that’s all he wants to know. She’s not driving him mad at all. He’s just concerned about her well-being, damn him.

Hermione forces a smile to her face. As her best friend, of course he’s concerned about her. It’s not his fault she doesn’t just want him as her best friend. “Yes, much better than the shoes,” she replies, letting Ron pull her to her feet.

“Okay, good. It’d cause a bit more of a stir to just leave your dress at the table, I reckon.”

Ron shoots her a cheeky grin before leading her to the dance floor, and Hermione can’t help but wonder—how much champagne has he had? He never flirts with her like this.

He’s not flirting, Hermione scolds herself as they find an open spot in the crowd. He’s just trying to make you feel better. Let him.

They dance their way through several upbeat songs before the music slows down and Ron pulls Hermione in close, gently swaying her to the softer tune. As she catches her breath, Hermione sighs against Ron’s chest. “Does your mum ever give you a hard time?” she asks him, her mind wandering again as the champagne buzz begins to wane. “About not being married?”

She feels Ron shrug against her cheek. “Nah. Maybe if I was the last holdout, but Charlie’s existence means she’ll never have a full set of kids-in-law. And she might’ve lost track at this point, anyway.” He pulls away slightly to look her in the eye. “Is this really bothering you?”

The sincerity in Ron’s gaze makes the honesty come easily. “More than it should,” she admits. “And normally it doesn’t, but…I don’t know, just seeing how happy Harry and Ginny are and my mum nagging me…” Hermione sighs. “What if she’s right? What if I never have this?”

Ron tugs her back into his embrace. “You will. I know you will. You’re smart and beautiful and caring and…who wouldn’t want you?”

You don’t. Fortunately, she manages to keep that snarky thought to herself and say something more appropriate instead.

“Thanks,” she says as she disentangles herself. “And thanks for cheering me up. I think I’m ready to turn in, though. Big day tomorrow.”

Ron doesn’t protest this time, just offers, “Walk you back to your room?”

Hermione nods and hurries to collect her shoes from the table where she left them. Her hand brushes against Ron’s as they walk down the deserted hotel hall away from the ballroom, and the innocent touch sends a shiver up her spine. She tries to shake it off as they reach the lift and step inside, but the confined space is not helping alleviate the tension between them.

Stop it. You’re imagining things.

“For what it’s worth,” Ron ventures as she presses the button for her floor, “I still think you’re completely mental about the shoes, but, um…the dress is doing its job.”

She turns around to give him a curious look. “What job?”

He lifts a hand to her bare shoulder, skimming his fingers along her collarbone until he hits the fabric of her dress, his fingertips just delving beneath the wide strap. “Driving me mad,” he says, his voice low and husky.

The elevator dings to a stop, but Hermione is paying no mind as the doors whoosh open and then close again. There’s no mistaking the hungry look in Ron’s eyes, and her heart is pounding as she steps closer to him.

“I only bought this dress so you could take it off,” she whispers back. If she has somehow mistaken the signals Ron is sending, she can blame her boldness on the champagne.

He doesn’t leave her wondering, though. In a flash, Ron’s arms wrap around her and his lips crash down on hers. Her stilettos drop forgotten from her fingers and clatter against the shiny metal floor of the lift. A moan escapes Ron as her hands tangle in his hair, deepening the kiss, and Hermione lets out a similar groan of pleasure as he presses her back to the wall, pinning her there with his body. Not that she has any desire to move. Except maybe to her room. Definitely to her room.

Hermione reaches blindly along the wall for the button to open the doors, but the bulk of her attention is still focused on kissing Ron, and she sends the lift traveling upward again instead. “Shit,” she mutters as it stops on another floor.

Ron laughs and murmurs against her cheek, “My room is on this floor.”

That will work. His suggestion is met with a quick nod of approval, and she sticks her foot into the doorway before the lift can close again. Ron takes Hermione’s hand, bending down to scoop up her abandoned shoes with his other, and tugs her down the hallway. His room is only a few doors away from the lift, and in a matter of moments, they’re tucked inside it, attached at the mouth again and stumbling toward the bed.

They land on the fluffy duvet in a tangle of limbs, and Ron’s lips begin the downward journey along the dress’s plunging neckline, following the path his eyes took earlier. As he tugs one of the straps down her shoulder, finding nothing beneath it, he lifts his gaze back to hers.

“Hermione,” Ron breathes, and the whole world stops at the sound of her name on his lips. “How much did you have to drink?” he asks worriedly. “Because I don’t want to do this if—”

Hermione tugs at the collar of his shirt to pull his face back to hers for another kiss. “I want this,” she promises. If anything, she’s the one taking advantage of him, but she doesn’t want to think too hard about that right now, either. Even if this is just to make her feel better about her nonexistent love life, it’s obvious Ron wants it too. At least for tonight. They can figure the rest out later.

Ron’s hand finds its way back to the strap, but he hesitates again, looking up at her with a smirk. “You really bought this dress for me?”

Her first instinct is to laugh it off, to say that no, she just wanted to look nice for a special occasion, but Ron’s other hand has drifted underneath her skirt, and he’s about three inches away from finding out that she hasn’t got any knickers on, either. He groans at the lack of obstruction under the dress, and when his fingers find their mark, the truth slips out of her.

“Yes,” Hermione gasps. It’s an answer to his question as much as an invitation to keep doing what he’s doing, and he takes it as such, increasing the pace of his fingers as he mutters a swear of approval.

Ron has her completely unraveled in no time, and as his hand reappears from under her skirt, she realizes they’re both still completely clothed. Well, as completely as they were when they walked in, anyway, considering Hermione decided to forgo any undergarments for the evening. They could still stop. Call it a lapse in judgment fueled by too much champagne. Not ruin their friendship—because surely once they have sex, their friendship will never be the same, right? There’s no way to come back from this.

Does she want to come back from this? No, she doesn’t, but she also doesn’t know what Ron wants. Now doesn’t seem like the right time to ask, and anyway, he started it, with that comment about her dress and…

“Was that okay?” Ron’s voice snaps her out of her thoughts, his brow furrowing as he peers down at her. “You’re looking at me all funny.”

“No, it was—better than okay.” Her chest still heaving, she reaches up to fiddle with the knot in his tie, which is now askew under his shirt collar but still intact. “I was just thinking how weird it is that this doesn’t feel weird. You and me. I mean, we don’t really do this.”

That’s an understatement, but it’s somewhere to start. For all the years they’ve been friends, and all the times Hermione has wondered what it would be like to be more, they’ve never even approached the line, let alone crossed it. Now here they are jumping into bed together with no hesitation and no idea of what comes next.

The frown on Ron’s face gives way to a soft smile. “No,” he agrees, ducking his head to brush his nose against hers. “It doesn’t feel weird at all.”

He presses his lips to hers again, and she allows herself to sink into the kiss, the heat between them quickly returning. Ron makes quick work of her dress this time, leaving her completely bare beneath him, and he’s looking at her like he won the lottery as the fabric slithers off the edge of the bed and hits the floor.

Hermione reaches for his tie, intent on actually removing it this time, but then realizes that he’s still got about a hundred other items of clothing on after that. As much as she knows she would enjoy undressing him, revealing his body piece by piece, she also doesn’t want to waste that much time. She snatches his wand out of his back pocket instead and vanishes everything he’s wearing in an instant. Ron blinks in surprise before a grin splits his face. “Bloody brilliant, you are.”

Every inch of her body is fused with Ron’s as he drops his weight to his elbows and kisses her again. Hermione parts her legs to let Ron settle between them, and they let out identical moans at the tantalizing feeling of almost being joined. Ron lifts his face from hers just enough to croak out, “Are you—”

“Potion,” she confirms with a nod. “Please, Ron.”

With one smooth thrust, Ron buries himself inside her, and Hermione sighs contentedly. Her fantasies about this moment did not do the reality justice, and she catalogs every incredible sensation that arises as she and Ron move together. They find a rhythm as if they’ve been doing this for years, and the increased friction as Hermione hikes her leg up over Ron’s hip has her careening towards her peak once more.

Is it supposed to be this easy—this amazing—sleeping with your best friend?

Ron’s hand slips between them and brings her second orgasm crashing over her. Hermione can’t help the cries of pleasure that escape her, and Ron follows her over the edge moments later, spilling into her with a final jerk of his hips.

“Fuck,” he groans into her neck as he rides out his release, Hermione dragging her fingers through his hair.

He slides out of her and rolls to his side, pulling her along with him, and Hermione happily snuggles under his arm. “That was amazing,” she murmurs, letting her fingertips dance across the freckles on Ron’s chest. Everything happened so fast, she barely even got a chance to look at him. Now she wants to touch and appreciate every inch of him.

“Yeah, it was.” Ron chuckles as he reaches for his wand and casts a cleansing charm over both of them. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, and Hermione is ready to prod him about it when he says, “I guess we should get some sleep. Get ready for tomorrow.”

The words pop Hermione’s blissful little bubble, bringing her back to reality. This was just sex. Of course it was. He was doing her a favor. She knows this, but the reminder stings. “Right,” she sighs. “Big day.”

She’s about to move away and reach for her dress when Ron drags the crumpled duvet up from the foot of the bed and drapes it over both of them. Maybe that wasn’t a hint for her to leave, after all. Hermione raises an eyebrow at him. “Do you want me to stay?”

“Oh.” Ron’s mouth twists into a little frown. “Er—well, yeah. If you want to.”

Of course she does, but fear grips her that she’s just delaying the inevitable heartbreak til morning. Sod it. What’s one night?

Hermione relaxes against him, relishing his warmth and the soothing motion of his hand running up and down her spine as she begins to drift off. Whatever happens tomorrow and the day after that, at least they have tonight.

#submission

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