#and this is the first time i've written from eddie's pov I hope it doesn't suck
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Virgin!Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader
strangers to friends to lovers
★Teasers ★Locations ★My Masterlist
Summary: Eddie embarks on a new chapter after finally graduating. He expects to face a variety of hurdles that come with a change of scenery, but what he doesn't anticipate is falling head over heels for you.
Author's Note: Holy shit, I can't believe this is finally finished after 11 months. It’s the first time I've written smut in well over a year and I'm pleased with how it turned out (I couldn't have done it without the support of my beloved @eddiethefreakkmunson)
Location photos are linked above and in the fic at their first mentions. AU with no Upside Down, no use of Y/N, focuses on Eddie's POV, fluff and mild angst with a happy ending *wink wink*
Word count: 17.3k
Warnings: MDNI 18+! alcohol consumption/drunken behavior, subtly pervy moments, masturbation, fondling, dry humping, protected p in v, oral (f receiving), a little bit of praise & possessiveness, includes swearing.
Eddie was determined to leave Hawkins for good as soon as he tossed his graduation cap to the sky. He didn’t expect how expensive a venture like that would be, so he devised a plan. For a couple of months, he would stick around to save up a financial cushion.
To pocket every penny possible, Eddie took up odd jobs around town like mowing lawns and painting fences. With every task completed, he army crawled his way toward living life on his terms. He didn’t expect it to take him well over a year to save up enough cash.
On this sweltering afternoon, the atmosphere is charged with the promise of new beginnings. The summer sun peeks out from behind the dense clouds and casts irregular shadows on the dirt road of Forest Hills.
His van is packed to the brim with boxes of his belongings. After mentally checking everything twice over, uncertainty twists Eddie’s stomach into knots. What if I have car trouble? What if I get lost? What if it’s not everything I hoped it would be?
Wayne descends the concrete steps and joins Eddie. He lets out a belly-deep sigh that speaks volumes. You’ll figure it out. You’re gonna find your way. Your best days are ahead of you.
There’s a hint of sadness in seeing his boy take this significant step toward independence. But beneath that sorrow, profound pride prevails within Wayne. Eddie’s dreams reach far beyond the boundaries of Hawkins. Sticking around here won’t do him any good.
Eddie looks at the man who’s been his rock; the one who used to rise before dawn to plate crispy bacon and fluffy pancakes, meeting Eddie’s needs before his own. The memories are vivid as he reflects on the milestones his uncle guided him through. Without a doubt, Eddie wouldn’t be half the man he is today if it weren’t for Wayne.
His beloved van sits atop the very spot where he once wiped out while learning to ride a bike without training wheels. “It’s time to be a big boy,” Wayne said, urging Eddie to muster some faith in himself.
Reluctantly, Eddie mounted his small bicycle and clutched the rubber handles. With a push to set him off, he experienced the fleeting thrill of accomplishment as he pedaled forward. He only made it a few feet before his balance wavered.
The bike wobbled, sending Eddie tumbling to the gravel. His knees and palms bore the brunt of the fall, and the sharp pebbles embedded themselves into his scraped skin.
Wayne isn’t exactly a ‘rub some dirt on it’ kind of guy, but he isn’t the coddling type either. He cleaned Eddie’s wounds, slapped on some bandages, and told him to give it another shot. Faced with his nephew’s tearful protests, Wayne emphasized that just because failure stings, it shouldn't deter him from trying again.
“I guess this is it then.” Eddie wipes beads of sweat from his brow using the back of his hand.
“Yep, looks that way. It sure will be quiet without y’here. I got so used to living with all that racket of yours.”
“It’s called good music. You should take it for a spin sometime, it’s way better than that honky-tonk shit you made me listen to growing up.”
“I like my honky-tonk shit just fine, thank you,” They share a laugh.
Wayne will undoubtedly miss their banter, but it’s their Sundays together that weighs the most on his heart. Occasionally, the summer graces them with a few perfect days—pleasantly sunny with a stirring breeze. That weather maintained an unspoken tradition.
When little Eddie moved in, he was struggling to find his footing and hadn’t spoken much. Wayne took him to a serene lakeside spot where the water gently lapped against the shore.
He cast his line into the water in pursuit of a crappie dinner, and six-year-old Eddie gleefully played with the live bait. Over the years, their dynamic remained largely unchanged. Wayne watched his bobber from the swaying dock while Eddie kicked back in a folding lawn chair. It was simple father-son time that didn’t cost more than an afternoon or two. As of now, those days are over.
“You sure you’re gonna be alright without me, old man?”
Wayne shrugs and shoves his hands into his front pockets. “I suppose I’ll manage one way or another.”
“Take care of yourself,” Eddie says firmly.
“Will do. Oof-” Wayne chuckles when he’s abruptly hugged. He smooths over the back of Eddie’s head with his calloused palm.
The men hold onto one another, their unspoken sentiments conveyed in the silent embrace. They exchange a pat on the back before parting.
Wayne’s eyes follow his nephew as he closes the rear doors and makes his way toward the front of the van. “Eddie, one last thing. Remember to take your chances while ya got 'em and strike while the iron’s hot. Don’t let nothin’ pass ya by.”
Offering a firm salute, Eddie hops up and settles into the driver’s seat.
With Hawkins in the rearview mirror, Eddie sets off. Chicago may not be the sprawling metropolises of New York or Los Angeles, but it’s a world apart from his hometown.
It’s far enough away to provide a much-needed change of scenery, yet close enough that he can move back home if things go to shit.
The drive goes smoothly overall with a couple of instances of getting turned around. By the time Eddie is finished with the long hours on the road, he’s bone-weary.
His new place may not be the epitome of luxury, but it’s a roof over his head and that’s all that matters. After lugging his things to the fourth floor, Eddie can finally consider himself moved in. His apartment lacks furniture and decor, but it’s a space he can call his own.
The throbbing of an unbearable intensity plagues his thighs, a fiery reminder of the multiple flights of stairs conquered. He collapses onto his twin mattress and emits a low groan. The sound bounces off the bare walls and echoes through the studio apartment.
Eddie starts noticing the difference in sounds around him. Gone are the barking dogs and tires rolling over gravel. His fridge hums like the one in the trailer, which is nice, but it’s not remotely loud enough to drown out the argument happening in the unit above his.
When the noise finally subsides, he hopes to catch up on some much-needed sleep. But just a few minutes later, the ruckus rekindles. In a bid for tranquility, Eddie clutches his pillow to his ears to block out the animalistic makeup sex seeping through his ceiling.
He’s praying that the man is a two-pump chump because this is a lot for a first night. Hell, it’s too much for any night.
In a matter of days, Eddie has already encountered a series of issues. Whenever he tries to use hot water, his shower head screeches like a banshee. And the upstairs neighbors? They wear bricks for shoes and have a hoedown at 2 a.m. on a nightly basis; that is, if they’re not at each other’s throats.
Job hunting has been fruitless. The gas stations, car washes, and tobacco shops turned him down for the same reason: no documented experience. This means that he’s going to be stuck with the makeshift bed frame he came with for a while, which is just wooden planks zip-tied together. He’s not sure how long it’ll be able to withstand his tossing and turning.
There’s good news, though. Eddie refused to succumb to defeat. Today, he strolled past a tattoo parlor and impulsively checked it out. When he approached the counter, Eddie was met by an imposing man with a rather unwelcoming demeanor. In spite of feeling a bit intimidated, he greeted the man warmly.
As expected, the shop owner Cliff, did not reciprocate. When Eddie inquired about job openings, Cliff promptly replied with a curt “no.” Eddie’s tone grew desperate and he nearly pleaded. Cliff became irritated and offered a non-existent custodial position just to get Eddie to shut up and leave.
Currently sprawled on the rickety mattress, Eddie holds Mr. Pickles in the air and looks up at him. His trusty plushie is a bit worse for wear, having had his seams sutured with crimson battle vest thread.
“We’re doing it, buddy. We’re finally doing it.”
Shortly after moving in with his uncle, he had trouble falling asleep in the unfamiliar trailer. Wayne, hoping to provide comfort, gifted Eddie the stuffed bunny. It swiftly became a treasured part of his life, symbolizing safety and support—two things he hadn’t received much of up to that point.
The floppy-eared companion got its name from Wayne’s favorite snack. Whenever his uncle would pop the lid on a fresh jar of pickles, young Eddie would erupt into a fit of laughter. He insisted that Wayne was going to transform into a pickle due to how fast he blows through a jar.
In his twenties now, Eddie still cuddles with Mr. Pickles every night. If his pal could talk, he’d tell him how proud he is. Eddie rolls onto his side and nuzzles the bunny’s worn fur. That smile lingers on his face while he drifts off to sleep, now with a sense of hope for the days ahead.
The time has come. Eddie has worn through his entire wardrobe and needs to make a trip to the laundromat. Having a washer in the trailer was something he didn’t fully appreciate until now.
Taking a quick look around his apartment, Eddie spots a cardboard box that’ll suffice in lieu of a laundry basket. He fills the box with the scattered clothes from the floor, slips on his sneakers, and makes his way out onto the street.
Nestled in the heart of his neighborhood, Eddie arrives at his destination. The air carries an overwhelming fresh scent of detergent. It’s not bustling by any means; there are only a handful of people here.
Compared to those who are well-versed in their routine, Eddie feels out of place. He chooses an available machine and plops his box of dirty clothes on the counter behind him. He inspects the front-loading washer, not versed in its functions and operation. Eddie goes to open the machine’s door but it refuses to yield.
His patience wanes with each futile tug. Just as frustration peaks, a sudden realization dawns on him, prompting a blush to sweep across his cheeks. There’s a lock hidden on the flip side of the handle.
With the press of his thumb, the lock disengages and the door screeches open. Hot under the collar, Eddie hastily scoops up his clothes and stuffs them into the damp drum. He slams the door shut with a mechanical click, the sound signaling the lock relatching.
This place lacks helpful signage, to say the least. The only one here displays the cost of running a cycle, but there’s nothing to guide newcomers through the process.
Eddie pulls out his wallet to retrieve a few quarters. After inserting them, he figures out the detergent tray without much trouble. But as Eddie presses the START button repeatedly, increasing his force with each press, the machine stubbornly refuses to respond.
“You have to choose a setting.”
Eddie jumps at the sound of your voice, his brows arched and mouth hanging open. “Huh?”
You walk over from the adjacent wall of driers a few feet away. “It won’t start unless you select a wash setting first.”
He looks at you like a deer-in-the-headlights, so you step in and set the machine to delicate for him. The washer springs to life and water begins to fill the drum.
“Ah, that makes sense,” Eddie says while rubbing the back of his neck. “These are so different from the one I had back home.”
“Where’s home?” You ask, resuming your task of folding your clean laundry on the nearby counter.
Eddie is visibly taken aback by your continued engagement. “A town in Indiana that you’ve definitely never heard of,” He starts to fidget with the detergent jug’s cap, though it’s already sealed.
Suddenly, Eddie feels self-conscious about his appearance. Talking to a cute girl wasn’t on the agenda today, he didn’t dress for this. He regrets choosing function over fashion; his denim shorts are an old pair of Wayne’s jeans that he cropped to wear while mowing lawns. The raw hems are messily frayed and the light blue is darkened with grass stains.
“Indiana, huh? You’re a ways from home then. What brings you to The Windy City?”
Eddie’s attention lands on your pile of clothes, subtly assessing your wardrobe choices. “Uh- just needed a change of pace, I guess.”
“Chasing the dream, right? Figured Chicago had more to offer?” You peek at him, catching his stare fixed on a pair of underwear at the top of the pile—a standard white cotton panty, nothing worth ogling.
“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, his posture stiffening when you make eye contact. He swallows hard, averts his gaze, and shifts his weight between the balls of his feet. “Something like that.”
“Did you bring your band with you?” You take the undergarment in question and fold it, seemingly unfazed.
As you move the folded pile into your laundry basket, his clothes start thumping inside the machine, causing suds to splash against the glass window.
Eddie’s brows knit together. “How’d you know I have a band?”
“You’ve got the look,” You remark as your eyes travel over him.
He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms. “Is that so? Do enlighten me, what’s the dead giveaway?”
“Your hair,” You suggest charmingly.
Eddie swishes his brunette curls like a lady in a shampoo commercial. “Too predictable?”
“I’d say it’s on brand. Let me guess, Slayer? Maybe a little Dio or Megadeth?”
Eddie narrows his eyes at you before looking down at his shoes. “Jesus Christ, you’re reading me like a goddamn book.”
You cock your head to the side, playfulness tugging at your lips. “And if I were to look for this book in a store, what name might I find it under?”
“Eddie,” He lets his arms fall to his sides. When you tell him your name, it bounces around in his head. How pretty, he thinks.
After lifting your full laundry basket, you step away from the counter. “Good luck with the dryers. Oh, and just a heads up, those doors lock too. Don’t go yankin’ the handle off unless you’re looking to take home a souvenir,” You giggle to yourself as you walk out of the laundromat.
Eddie’s mouth hangs open while he watches you leave. Once you’re gone, his attention drifts to the nearby bulletin board. Among the various flyers, one advertises an open mic night. He decides that he’ll check it out sometime this week.
At Double Barrel Bar, Eddie is swallowed by a sea of mainstream nonconformity. The bar-goers are dressed similarly to him, and while the crowd is mostly younger people, they’re still a touch older than him.
A symphony of clinking glasses and animated chatter collides with the thunderous live metal music. The dense haze of tobacco smoke and the distant clatter of pool balls only enrich the ambiance. The walls are adorned with framed music memorabilia and band posters, a mix of global icons and local talents.
Eddie is enveloped with nostalgia. This place reminds him of the gigs he used to play with Corroded Coffin, although they never played for an audience this size. Staring at the stage, he questions whether he could engage such a crowd and persuade them that he’s worth listening to.
Between two other men at the bar, Eddie takes a seat.
Lee, the bartender, greets him. “What can I get ya?”
Eddie shrugs and hooks his sneakers beneath the rung of the stool. “I'll take a cold one, whatever's cheapest.”
“You got it. Bottle or tap?” Lee wipes his hands on the white rag draped over his shoulder.
“Bottle is fine.”
Lee retrieves a bottle of beer and deftly pops the cap before sliding it over to Eddie.
His fingers curl around the icy glass, the condensation cool to the touch. Eddie’s plump lips wrap around the bottle’s rim and he takes his first sip. The crisp liquid trickles down his throat, offering a short-lived remedy for the stuffiness of the room.
As Lee tends to another patron, Eddie fidgets in his seat, causing the flier in his back pocket to crinkle. “So, you host an open mic?”
“Yeah, Thursday through Sunday. Are you any good?” Lee asks.
Eddie flips his guitar pick necklace between his fingers. “I like to think so. I guess you’d have to ask the ants in my kitchen, they’re the closest thing I've had to an audience lately.”
Lee snorts. “I've got a good feeling about you, I’m gonna reserve a spot.”
“Oh, uh- you don't have to do that.”
Lee waves his hand in dismissal and gathers the abandoned glassware from the now-empty seat beside Eddie. “No pressure, just swing by on Thursday if you’re interested.”
The opportunity intrigues Eddie, but performing alone is uncharted territory. Contemplating the offer, Eddie grapples with a cloud of self-doubt looming over his decision.
It’s been two months, and his routine is now established. Each day brings progress and a sense of reward, even though there have been occasional hiccups along the way.
Surviving the sweltering summer with a broken AC was sheer hell. He found himself spending ample time nude in his apartment or standing in front of the open freezer compartment of the refrigerator; sometimes simultaneously. Fortunately, September has arrived, and the temperature has begun to wind down.
Managing expenses requires a frugal approach, given the modest pay from his custodial job. Eddie resorts to taking power showers and using candles to keep his utility bill low.
Sometimes he forgoes meals to keep an extra couple of bucks on hand. But when he does eat, he opts for saltine crackers slathered in butter, bologna sandwiches, canned soups, and plain noodles. Occasionally he treats himself to store-bought pasta sauce, though it’s still the saddest spaghetti known to man.
Eddie faces skepticism from the seasoned artists at the tattoo shop, all military veterans who view him as an arrogant kid. Their perception fuels his determination to prove himself. To earn their respect, he’s dedicated to cleaning more thoroughly than he ever has in his life.
He’s become keenly observant, absorbing every detail of the professional tattooing process, despite never being included in those conversations. Within the circle of artists—Ace, Lunchbox, and Dozer—Eddie gravitates toward Ace, who becomes a mentor. Seeing Eddie’s genuine enthusiasm, Ace asks about his drawing abilities.
Although Eddie’s sketchbook is brimming with fantastical creatures, Ace can recognize a young man’s raw ambition and desire for direction and purpose. He takes Eddie under his wing, allowing him to learn the medium while on the clock.
After taking Lee up on his offer, Eddie found himself on stage every Thursday night. His performances were rusty, as he hadn’t played in front of anyone since before he was working his ass off to get here.
As he strummed through the jitters, Eddie rediscovered the sanctuary that music had always offered. It felt like a part of him had resurrected, reviving the passion he sorely missed.
Playing Thursday nights may not rake in tips like the weekends would, but he’ll take what he can get. Eddie’s been saving up for some pre-owned furniture, and he’s happy to snag any extra cash he can for it.
Life is good right now. The worry about moving back home has lessened, and he’s genuinely amazed at how smoothly things are going. Just when Eddie thought things couldn’t get any better, a Saturday night slot opened up at the bar.
It would be twice as busy, packed from wall to wall with people who could bare witness to him fucking up. Doubt crept its way in, but when Lee mentioned that Eddie could pocket thirty-five bucks or more by the night’s end, it was a no-brainer.
Tonight marks his debut Saturday gig. Stepping through the red brick archway and out onto the stage, the creak of the rustic boards beneath his feet sends a ripple up his legs. Eddie hasn’t even made it to the mic and he’s already forgotten what foot he’s supposed to be stepping with next.
Beneath his t-shirt, his back grows slick. A lump lodges itself in Eddie’s throat, causing his voice to crack when he introduces himself to the room. Amidst the overlapping conversations and the flushing from the nearby restroom, the amassed noise seems muffled. The strong winds in his head distort the sounds, whirling like a twister.
Eddie hooks his guitar up to the amp and forces himself to take a deep breath. As he tunes his instrument, the upheaval begins to settle. Gradually, Eddie finds unity with his guitar and concentrates on perfecting the tone.
Throughout the performance, there’s a persistent undertow of nerves refusing to fully subside. In spite of his efforts to lose himself in the music, his fingers occasionally falter as they dance on the strings.
At the end of his set, Lee can be heard whooping and hollering over the sparse clapping. With a sense of relief, Eddie packs up and makes a beeline for the bar, eager to ease the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Normally, the rush is akin to a high, but this time around it’s so intense that he’s dying to dial it back a notch.
He splurges and orders something a bit fancier than his usual bland beer. Why not celebrate a little? Eddie claims a recently vacated table in the bustling crowd, seating himself on the leather stool adorned with studs. His eyes roam the room while he takes a swig of his drink, savoring the superior crisp taste.
His attention zeroes in on a figure just feet away, a quick recognition igniting in his mind. Eddie recognizes you instantly, due to the scarcity of memorable encounters he’s had.
Eddie observes from afar, observing your mannerisms as you execute your waitressing duties. You must only work weekends, which would explain why your paths haven’t crossed again until now. When your eyes meet his, a shock shoots through his body.
He sits in rapt anticipation as you make your way over. Time seems to stretch unbearably from your previous spot until you finally stand opposite of him, separated only by the circular wooden table.
A courteous smile graces your face—a skill that waitresses must master if they want to pay rent. “Ready for another?”
Eddie stares back at you. His eyes drift down to the almost full beer bottle in his hand. The cogs in his skull are scraping, unable to put the words you’ve said to him in a comprehensive order. He nods without making a peep.
You pivot to leave, but then turn back to him and lift a brow at his unaltered dumbstruck expression. “Are you sure? ‘Cause you don’t look it.”
He remains silent and shakes his head sheepishly, feeling foolish for agreeing to another beer and then changing his mind just because you asked again. Is there more dignity in being indecisive than a bumbling mess?
“You were just singing up there for nearly an hour,” you call him out, folding your arms and tucking your serving tray against your side. “I know you can talk.”
Eddie clears his throat, but he ends up making an odd sound. “Uh, my throat’s a bit sore, that’s all.”
“Did you forget to do your vocal warm-ups or what?”
“It probably sounded like I did,” Eddie laughs, the self-deprecation evident.
“Not at all, I thought you were great.”
“You did?” Eddie’s lips curl at your compliment. Heat blooms on his cheeks, amplifying the full-body perspiration. He takes a casual sip from his beer, a guise to moisten his dry mouth and escape your intimidating gaze.
“Totally, you really come alive when you’re up there,” you rest your forearms on the table’s edge. “Is it just Eddie, or do you go by a stage name?”
No way. There’s no fucking way that you remember him, his face is so forgettable it’s not even funny. Lee had to have said something about who was filling the Saturday night spot. Eddie is inwardly thrilled to hear his name roll off of your tongue, but he tries to maintain his composure. “I suppose not, I guess I never thought about it.”
“You could pull it off, it suits the whole ‘one-man show’ thing you’ve got going on,” You say while giving him a once-over. The intrigue on your face is unwavering as you walk away.
He’s drunk, he has to be. Or maybe his drink was spiked somehow. The room is spinning and he feels nauseous as all hell, despite only having taken a few swigs from his beer.
A short while later, Eddie’s bottle is half-empty as he sits, continuously replaying the moment in his mind. More specifically, he can’t stop thinking about the sparkle in your eyes; he’s never seen anything like it.
He snaps back from his daydream at the sight of your return, this time with an unopened beer in hand. Eddie looks nothing short of puzzled as you slide it across the table toward him. “Uh, no thanks, I’m-”
“Relax, it’s not for you. I’ll be clocking out in six minutes. I wanna hear more about that small town of yours. I mean, as long as that’s okay with you. I understand if you have other plans tonight.”
“No!” Eddie exclaims. “I mean, yes it’s more than okay, and no, I don’t have anywhere to be.”
You glance downward while scuffing your shoe against the floor. “Okay, cool. Keep it cold for me then?”
“Yeah, for sure. You can count on me.”
Shit shit shit. How is he going to keep this beer cold? Of course, ways to heat it flood his mind. If you come back to a lukewarm beer, that’ll be the end of him. He’s going to fuck this up and any chance of getting to know you will be squashed.
When you join him again, your drink is still cold and the bottle has left a ring of moisture on the paper coaster. Eddie’s unsure of how he managed to not lose it; if he’s capable of anything, it’s misplacing something when his only responsibility is to keep it in his possession.
As you slide onto the stool beside him, you’re quick to inquire. You ask him typical ice-breaker questions at first, and Eddie responds with a plethora of details. At times, he goes off on tangents. You don’t appear bothered by it.
Eddie talks about his ability to learn how to play songs by ear, and he delves into the intricacies of his favorite Dungeons & Dragons campaigns that he’s created over the years. He earnestly tries to convey its depth to you and throughout his ramblings, he doesn’t miss the concentrated look on your face as you try to keep up.
Lee is nearing the end of his cleaning routine and the other waitresses have left for the night. Neither of you is aware that the bar is devoid of a crowd, scorching lights, and blaring music.
Eddie has been too busy asking you about your origins and passions, his wide eyes and attentive demeanor affirming his genuine interest. Just as he mentions working at the shop and you’ve asked him how many tattoos he has, you’re interrupted.
Lee stands beside the table, armed with a damp rag and a spray bottle. “Awfully hard to wipe the seats when your asses are still on them. Scoot your booch,” Lee instructs by motioning toward the entrance.
Eddie doesn’t hesitate to slip off his stool. You, on the other hand, take your sweet time.
“Have a good night,” You say and give Lee’s shoulder a friendly pat.
Uncertain of his next move, Eddie hesitates while you make your way to an unmarked door. It’s half past two in the morning, and he feels a tug of concern about you leaving by yourself.
There’s a very good chance that you’d consider him clingy or intrusive if he waits here. Eddie opts to stand outside. He props himself against the building and idly nudges a loose chunk of concrete with his shoe to keep himself occupied. Soon after, you emerge into the night.
The slam of the heavy door prompts him to straighten up. “Hey.”
“Oh, I thought you left,” you admit and adjust your purse strap on your shoulder. “Thanks for telling me about Hawkins the Hell Hole.”
“The pleasure was all mine. Do you, uh…” Eddie inches forward, his Reeboks scraping loudly on the pavement. “Would you like me to walk you home? It’s pretty late.”
“I don’t live far, it’s just a few blocks.’
“Okay, I guess I’ll see you around then?”
Your eyes twinkle brighter than he’d previously seen. “I’d say the odds are in your favor.”
“Goodnight. Get home safe,” He says with a half-hearted bow.
“Likewise,” You reply, biting back a giggle.
Eddie watches you fade into the darkness along the unlit patches of sidewalk. Once you’ve turned the corner, Eddie smiles from the surreal sensation of floating on clouds.
In this moment, the feeling of joy is so potent that it’s borderline palpable. He’s the embodiment of elation, a soul soaring high. It’s a feeling he wishes he could bottle up and carry with him forever.
The next Saturday plays out much like the previous one, save for one detail: it’s considerably tougher to concentrate on stage knowing who’s in the audience. Post-performance, the routine echoes that of the prior week. The two of you gravitate toward the same table as before, establishing it as the one you’ll always sit at.
At first, a hesitation lingers before diving into more personal topics. However, as the night progresses and more beers are consumed, you seamlessly fall into them. Eddie weaves elements of drama and romanticism into his past, making it utterly engrossing for you to listen to.
When you propose getting together outside of the confines of the bar for the first time, Eddie eagerly accepts your invitation to show him around since he has yet to do any sightseeing.
Eddie is swept up in an exuberant wave of boyish excitement, and it’s unlike anything he’s ever felt. He never experienced it during his teenage years like the average person. The sheer thrill of having an instant connection with a girl is an entirely new feeling for him.
Week after week, your laundry days are synchronized and you’ve started the habit of making silly faces or giving each other the finger just because. During the late nights spent together at Dove’s Diner, Eddie finds enjoyment in seeing you eat. It’s a peculiar fascination, but it makes him happy. Seeing you completely at ease while enjoying greasy food is endearing to him.
When he arrived in Chicago, Eddie couldn’t shake the feeling of not wanting to move back to Hawkins. Even so, he wasn’t experiencing the same comfort here as he did in that cramped trailer.
There was a longing for familiarity that he had in his old surroundings. Eddie didn’t want to have to go back home in order to feel that sense of belonging again. He had his doubts about ever truly adjusting to life here until you came along. In your company, the foreignness of the city fades away, replaced by that feeling he’s been missing.
Several times, he’s been working in his sketchbook, adding to the pin-up style figures and faces that bear a striking resemblance to you. While engrossed in drawing, he hadn’t picked up on the similarities. But when he absentmindedly drew a simple heart, that's when it occurred to him.
Eddie like-likes you.
As your shift comes to an end, you head to the back room to gather your belongings. Eddie stands idly at your claimed table, picking at his hangnails while he waits.
“When’re you gonna ask her out?” Lee asks while tidying up nearby.
Eddie laughs heartily at the idea. “How about never.”
“You should. I can tell she’s into you.”
“Yeah, right. I don’t stand a chance.”
Lee puts down his spray bottle and looks at Eddie. “Listen, I’ve known her for a while now. Trust me on this,” he dumps a used ashtray out into a trash bag.
Eddie emits a noise of disbelief, his mind flickering back to the painful lesson he learned in his youth—he’s no one's type. Lost in reflection, he doesn’t realize you’ve returned with your sweatshirt draped over your bent arm.
Despite the tiring evening, you're upbeat in his presence. “Okay, I’m ready! I was thinking we could get some takeout and watch TV at my place.”
“Sure, I could eat,” Eddie says with a grin. Lee is shaking his head, looking particularly smug.
Your apartment is the polar opposite of Eddie’s, the difference is like day and night. It has a homey atmosphere and there’s a notable absence of wear and tear. He does have band posters, framed personal photos, and furniture, but they fail to create the same inviting ambiance that your apartment effortlessly exudes.
Seated beside Eddie on your couch, you tease him. “You’re terrible at this.”
“I’m trying!” He attempts to mimic your technique, but the piece of chicken repeatedly falls from his chopsticks.
“I can see that,” you stifle a laugh. “And you’re total shit at it.”
Out of frustration, Eddie impales his sweet and sour chicken with both sticks.
Glancing your way, he catches you smiling ear to ear, watching him. Eddie smiles back as he chews. “What? This way works just as well.”
You laugh and refocus your on the TV while resuming your meal. Eddie swears that you’re sitting closer to him than when you first sat down. Your thigh is almost touching his and your shoulder is just as close.
The paranoia subsides as he gets lost in thinking about how he can feel the heat radiating off of your bare thigh. But Eddie’s pulled back to reality when your chopsticks cut across his vision and dig into his takeout box.
He doesn’t mind, not really; sharing is caring. Having said that, when you lean over to look into the box, your shoulder bumps against his. A particularly appreciative sound escapes your lips, one that’s borderline pornographic.
“That’s really good, I’ll have to get some next time,” you hum and place your takeout box on the coffee table. “Or I could just keep stealing yours, it tastes better that way.”
Eddie is frozen, eyes unblinking. As you return to your spot on the sofa, you’re unquestionably closer this time. Your beautiful skin is on display in those shorts of yours and your bare thigh is brushing against his own. He could choke on air right now if he were still breathing.
You look over at him, your brow furrowed. “You good?”
“Yeah, yep. All good,” Eddie avoids making eye contact and stares blankly ahead. “Peachy keen.”
“Okay, weirdo,” you brush off his abrupt awkwardness and scoot toward the edge of the cushion. After gathering your trash, you look at him. “All finished?”
“Mhm,” He replies weakly and extends his box toward you.
With your arms full, you head into the kitchen, leaving him by his lonesome in the living room.
Eddie releases a heavy sigh and drags his hands down his face. Your absence allows him to reenter his body, but it only makes him keenly aware of his not-so-subtle half hard-on that’s outlined through the thin fabric of his shorts.
His eyes widen in alarm and panic takes over. “Shit!” Frantically brainstorming ways to conceal it, Eddie spots a fuzzy blanket at the far end of the couch and he retrieves it, draping it over his lap. While he tries to make himself look as casual as possible, he catches a glimpse of your approaching shadow just before the kitchen light is switched off.
In the few seconds he has left, Eddie tries out various hand placements, but none feel quite right. Every position feels forced and conspicuous.
As you stride back to the couch, your sweet expression eases some of the tension in his bones. “I got a bit chilly,” Eddie blurts out, hoping to preempt any impending questioning. “Is it okay if I use this?”
“No, I’m totally gonna tell you that you can’t use a blanket for its sole purpose.”
Eddie laughs nervously, “Alright, alright.”
This is arguably worse, being wrapped in your scent. It’s awfully hard not to get any harder when your natural smell is flooding his head. It’s intoxicating, and he finds himself inhaling deeply to capture as much of it as he can.
“What’d I miss?” You ask while plopping back down beside him.
The continuous movement causes Eddie to clench his back molars together because an image surges before he can even think to suppress it. He’d bet all the money he has that you’d look stunning on top of him. There’s fantasy looming alongside the image; Eddie wonders what you look like beneath your clothes.
“Nothing, you didn’t miss anything,” He mutters. When you start to squirm against the back of the couch, Eddie shoots you a questioning look. “You got ants in your pants?”
You huff, “No, there’s an itchy spot on my back. Could you scratch it for me, please? It’s driving me nuts.”
“Oh, um, sure,” Eddie fumbles for words as you angle yourself and present your back to him. “Where is it?”
“Right between my shoulder blades.”
Eddie’s eyes zero in on the outline of your bra strap that’s visible through your shirt across your back. Given his luck, that would be the target. Just to be cautious, he starts by scratching at the higher middle part of your back.
“A little lower.”
Eddie swallows hard as his fingers tentatively inch their way down. His belly begins to swirl the closer he gets to the clasp, but thankfully, you stop him just before he reaches it.
“Right there! Yeah, harder.”
If this goes on too much longer, Eddie could very well pass out. But, per your request, he applies more pressure. Beneath the blanket, the discomfort has only intensified—his arousal is now raging with a persistent ache.
“Oh my god, finally,” You say appreciatively and settle back into a more relaxed position.
The overwhelming urge to touch himself skyrockets as his body begs for friction. Eddie repositions himself to adjust the blanket, hoping to keep his erection concealed. From the corner of his eye, his gaze drifts along your figure, pausing at the rise and fall of your diaphragm as you watch TV.
A jagged breath falls from his lips, but he’s determined to clear his mind. Realizing that he can’t leave here tonight with your blanket as a shield, he has to find a way to distract himself by the end of this program.
Miraculously, he survived. Now lying in his bed, Eddie is surrounded by the darkness, save for the glow of the moon and the faint residual light from the streetlamps filtering through the broken blinds. Eddie stares up at the ceiling while his mostly naked body responds to the vivid recollections swarming his train of thought.
On any ordinary day, Eddie would resort to the routine of using his hand and lotion to relieve himself. Be that as it may, the stirring in his core demands a different sensation.
With the thought of you weighing heavily on his mind, there’s an alternative means by which he’s going to alleviate the frustration and desire that’s grown too loud to ignore. Eddie, already shirtless, yanks his boxers off in a swift motion and kicks them off carelessly. Moving onto his knees, he leans over the edge of his bed and retrieves a pillow from the floor.
He sits back on his heels in the middle of his bed and contorts the stuffing with intent. For a moment, he’s not sure how he wants to use it. His body’s impatience grows, causing his erection to bob expectantly.
Eddie licks his lips in anticipation and sets the bent pillow down with the bend facing him. With one hand, he firmly holds the makeshift toy in place. With his other, he strokes himself languidly, blotting the fabric of the pillowcase with precum as he taps his cock against it repeatedly.
Experimentally, Eddie rolls his hips downward, thrusting the sensitive underside of his length against the smooth material. His eyes fall closed, and he can’t seem to pick just one aspect of you to fantasize about, not when every inch of you is so captivating. Eddie grunts, “Yeah, you like that?”
He adjusts his hips, angling them lower to get more friction. The heat blooming causes Eddie’s jaw to go slack. The usual five or six minutes have been halved as the thought of your smile makes Eddie embarrassingly close already.
Wanting to get in a few more thrusts before he’s spent, Eddie pistons himself against the pillow. “Tell me how badly you want me, I wanna hear you say it.”
With one fist continuing to pin the pillow down against the mattress, Eddie trails his other hand up his pale, slender stomach. He digs his gnawed-down nails into his skin, leaving red streaks behind, as he tries to imagine it as your touch. Eddie doesn’t know what it would feel like if it wasn’t his hand, but the thought of you is more than enough.
Devoid of any visual aid, the absence of a magazine or porno tape isn’t hindering him. Typically, when Eddie only has his imagination to utilize, he can beat off without finishing until he eventually gets bored and gives up.
This time it’s different. As his thoughts run wild, Eddie’s rhythm falters. The bed frame squeaks, and the wood shifts while he thrusts as hard as he can.
“Uhhh,” A coarse moan pours from his throat as his cum shoots onto the pillow. Eddie’s thrusts slow to a stop and he pants. The tension in his abdomen gradually subsides as he floats his way back down to earth.
His eyes flutter open, and he’s faced with the mess he made. “Fuckin’ hell,” With a sigh, Eddie decides that he’ll deal with it tomorrow.
After changing into fresh boxers, he chugs down a glass of tap water. Utterly exhausted, Eddie collapses back onto his bed. The aged frame creaks in protest to his abrupt flop. The intensity has been burned away, and what lingers is rawness.
Here’s the thing, Eddie has a way with words, and his unconventional charm comes without a second thought. But conveying himself physically is a different story. His upbringing lacked affection, and consequently, Eddie was robbed of particular milestones. Among those missed moments was sitting on the grass beneath a starry night sky on summer night.
Eddie never got to pluck the green blades from the ground as he gathered the courage to have his first kiss. He hasn’t so much as held someone’s hand before.
With Mr. Pickles tucked under his chin, a wave washes over his heart, wading him further into the tide of ache. Eddie may be inexperienced but he’s not stupid. He’s picking up what you’re putting down. Your persistent hints practically scream at him to make a move.
But your persistence only worsens the anxiety because Eddie’s not sure that he can take the leap like you want him to. It’s not that he doesn’t want you, that couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s uncertainty about what to do if he gets to be with you.
Eddie’s drawn to you, his poor pillow could tell you that much. This isn’t the first night he’s spent laying here trying to talk some sense into himself. When he practices being smooth instead of awkward, Eddie struggles to navigate through the hypothetical scenarios that he’s in complete control of.
If his bedroom walls could speak, they’d tell of those nights. But after the sinful act he just committed, they have a hell of a lot more to say. Those bold utterances were far from who he is. It was a facade, a portrayal of a self-assured man he’ll never embody.
Talking dirty made him feel powerful in the moment because the mask allowed him to avoid facing how he truly feels about you. At his core, what Eddie craves is to baby you, he wants to show you that he can be sensitive. He’d die on the spot to see you in a state of delight from being showered with adoration.
Eddie closes his eyes and envisions a world where he can be what you want. He’d never be oblivious to having food in his teeth, and he’d never push a door that should be pulled. This false reality is one where he doesn’t disappoint you by shying away from your advances. It’s unrealistic, he’s just not wired that way.
During his younger years, Eddie endured the worst of taunting. The other kids mocked his short frizzy curls by referring to it as a “rat’s nest.” They told him that he’d resemble a troll until his dying days. It was ingrained into him that he was unworthy of any form of love—be it familial, platonic, or romantic. The remarks made about Eddie’s prominent nose convinced him that he was a walking safety hazard and he’d poke someone’s eye out if he ever dared to kiss them.
In the seventh grade, Eddie hit a breaking point. He was fed up with having chewing gum put into his curls. There are too many times to count where Wayne sat for hours with a jar of peanut butter, attempting to free the cemented wads from his nephew’s locks. One day, Eddie stood in front of the mirror in the cramped bathroom and cried at the discovery of another bright pink clump of gum tangled in his hair.
It may have been just one piece at that time, but it was the final straw. Out of desperation, Eddie did the only thing he felt would solve the problem for good. By taking matters into his own hands, he used the clippers to give himself a buzz-cut. As chestnut-colored locks cascaded down, settling atop the sink and his feet, the damage was done.
Wayne lent a hand in handling the patchy spots in the back of Eddie’s head that he couldn’t quite reach. The impromptu solution worked as he’d hoped, but it only opened the door to different torment.
The following school day, his classmates didn’t hold back, likening his appearance to that of an inmate waiting to meet Old Sparky, or cruelly suggesting that he resembles his imprisoned father.
Eddie quickly came to understand that he was never going to be the guy girls wished would ask them to the dance. The scars of rejection were etched into his self-esteem, and since then, he’s come to terms with his inadequacy.
Perhaps you’re interested in Eddie because there are still things you don’t know about him. Surely, once you learn how unworthy he is, you’ll laugh in his face just as the others did.
Tonight he’s shielded from the nightlife commotion inside his van, parked along the curb outside your apartment. He sits patiently, watching the pine tree-shaped air freshener gently sway with the feeble push of air from the AC vents.
It’s Friday night, and there’s nothing he’d rather do than spend it with you. Eddie directs his attention toward your building as you descend the steps of your apartment’s stoop.
Eddie detects the effort, even from afar. Your shoes look new and you’re wearing more makeup than he’s used to seeing you in. These differences have him pondering the significance behind the deliberate choices.
When Eddie casually suggested catching a movie a few days ago, he hadn’t thought much of it. To him, it was merely something you hadn't done together. He didn’t think twice when you got so excited about seeing a late-night showing of Die Hard.
It’s dawning on him that it wasn’t because you’re a big Bruce Willis fan. The reason you’re all gussied up is because this is a date. He asked you out on a date.
This is not a problem, per se. Eddie’s thrilled about going on his very first date, but fear also has him in a chokehold because he’s unprepared.
Wayne never took the time to give his nephew the lowdown on dating. It didn’t come up because Eddie never displayed interest or curiosity about it.
He’s at a loss. Eddie doesn’t know how to carry himself, he doesn’t have a clue about what’s considered proper etiquette beyond what he’s seen on TV and in movies. Are those even reliable sources?
As you cross the sidewalk in his direction, Eddie’s palms grow slick. It suddenly registers that he should be outside, ready to hold the car door open for you. But before he can act on this realization, you swiftly swing the door open and slip onto the passenger seat.
"Hi," You chirp, the sound almost a squeak as you close the car door behind you. You subtly adjust the bottom of your dress before securing your seatbelt.
“Hey,” Eddie’s eyes wander over your body until he finds himself admiring your bare knees.
With a jolt, his eyes snap back to your face, only for you to be watching him with a pleased expression adorning your features.
Eddie clears his throat and busies himself with turning over the ignition. “You look nice,” he scrunched his face. “Pretty! I meant to say you look pretty.”
"Thanks," you reply appreciatively and inspect your freshly painted nails to ensure they’ve withstood the indecisive wardrobe changes of the past half hour.
Throughout the brief drive, engaging in small talk grants Eddie a temporary respite from his brain being in overdrive. Determined to maintain composure, he makes a conscious effort to avoid looking your way.
Eddie successfully carries the conversation as you enter the lobby and get through the refreshments line. Luckily, you secure the last two seats at the end of a row; he’d have been mortified if the theater was oversold and there weren’t any seats left.
The first half of the movie goes as one would expect; you’re comfortably seated beside him, occasionally whispering commentary to each other. Meanwhile, Eddie shovels fistfuls of over-buttered and under-salted popcorn into his mouth, crunching away as the scenes progress on the screen before him.
But then there’s a subtle shift in your body language. He assumes that your inability to sit still might be caused by the need for a restroom break. That is until your knee gradually inches closer to his.
The film has become an afterthought as Eddie watches you place your hand on your thigh, noticeably close to his own that’s casually hanging off of the armrest. It’s impossible to differentiate the pounding pulse in his ears from the blasts of gunfire booming through the theater.
When your fingertips graze his, Eddie rips his hand away to reach for the bucket of popcorn that’s resting in the ditch of his opposite arm. “Want some?” he fails to whisper while offering the bucket to you.
The explosive flashes of red and yellow harshly illuminate your face and without a word, you shake your head and go back to the movie.
Eddie puts the bucket back where it was, and in the hopes of distracting himself from the guilty tingle in his feet, he fidgets with his wristwatch. Repeatedly, Eddie clasps and unclasps it, making the strap incredibly loose and uncomfortably tight around his wrist.
A few minutes go by and without warning, his heart stops because you unexpectedly rest your head on his shoulder.
As if struck by lightning, Eddie leaps to his feet. The motion launches the bucket of popcorn into the air, and the people in the row in front of you are showered with kernels. He's as stiff as a board as he’s confronted with mild uproar and a chorus of expletives.
Red-faced and unsure of whom to apologize to first, Eddie turns to you. “Shit! I’ll go get another one,” He doesn’t wait for your response and rushes down the stairs, practically leaping over them two at a time.
After bursting through the double doors and out into the empty hallway, Eddie brings his palm to his forehead, his other hand propped on his hip while he paces. Once he’s able to collect himself, Eddie heads toward the lobby, only to find that everything is powered down.
Eddie decides to use the little time he has to rehearse what he’ll say. There might not be anything he can do to play off his peculiar behavior; at least, nothing that he can think of at the moment.
As he shows up empty-handed, Eddie doesn’t overlook your rigid posture. Your left leg is crossed over your right, pointing away from him. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that you’re just upset that he wasted the popcorn and didn't get more.
In your lack of questioning, Eddie feels compelled to explain himself. “Concessions were closed, so…” He gestures with upturned palms, but you don’t acknowledge that he’s spoken or come back.
Not having received a response, Eddie resorts to chewing on his thumbnail and his leg bounces in tandem. Lost in his head, he finds it increasingly difficult to focus on the remainder of the movie.
Exiting the theater and stepping out into the parking lot, Eddie’s voice lacks confidence as he walks alongside you. “What’d ya think? I give it a solid six out of ten.”
You reply with a casual shrug and wrap your arms around yourself. “It was alright.”
“How ‘bout I treat you to Dove’s? Wanna go for a bite?” Eddie suggests to salvage the remainder of the evening.
“I’ll pass. I’m not hungry,” you say curtly, taking a step ahead to open the passenger door for yourself, denying Eddie a second chance to hold it open for you.
“Oh,” Eddie begins, but his sentence is severed by the slam of the door. “Okay,” he finishes with a sigh.
During the drive back to your neighborhood, the air feels dense. The radio commercials do little to fill the space between you.
Upon the front tire nudging the curb, you get out of the van before Eddie has put it in park. He hurriedly follows suit, rushing over to catch up with you as you head toward your front steps.
“I had a good time tonight. Did you?” Eddie blurts out.
Pausing in your steps, you turn around and face him. “Yeah, I guess.”
Knowing that he’s the cause of your deflated spirit punches a pang to his chest. Eddie offers a gentle expression. “Would you wanna go again sometime? Probably best if you hold the popcorn though,” he chuckles uncomfortably.
“Night, Eddie,” You say with finality before letting yourself into your apartment.
Once you’ve gone inside, dejection overtakes Eddie’s features. “Goodnight,” he mutters to himself, biting the inside of his cheek.
Sifting through the mental archive of wisdom passed down by Wayne, Eddie desperately rummages for any guidance that could apply to his current situation.
Eddie has officially had the world’s worst date, and it very well could be the only one he’ll ever get to go on. It only hurts more that the outcome was entirely his fault.
You’re avoiding him, that much is obvious. You stopped showing up to do laundry together and while he performs, you intentionally keep your back turned to the stage.
After your Saturday shifts end, you no longer stick around to hang out with Eddie, instead choosing to leave with your fellow waitresses.
One would think that it was a tough decision, but it makes perfect sense to him. Eddie gives up playing on Saturdays to avoid crossing paths with you. He reverts to his old spot on Thursday nights.
It’s a way to protect himself while making things easier for you. He can’t fathom how repulsed you are by his presence at this point.
Eddie sits at the folding table in his living room, his feet hooked with one another. The blaring thrash metal fills the room as he meticulously drafts tattoo concepts, completely absorbed in his sketchbook.
The incessant ringing of the telephone hardly cuts through the music. Eddie ignores it for the first two rings and lets out a reluctant huff before pausing the tape and picking up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Heyyy, can you come get me?” Your cheerful request weaves through the lively chatter and honking car horns in the background.
Not having seen you in two weeks, your voice hits him like a wall. “What for?”
“M’ready to go home.”
Eddie reads his watch and leans against the wall. “I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“You know what, forget it. I’ll just walk home.”
“Absolutely fucking not. What bar are you at?”
“Errr, The Dugout I think.”
“Stay put, alright? Wait for me inside, I’ll be there in a few,” After hanging up, he recklessly shoves his feet into his Reeboks and snatches his car keys from the counter.
Eddie arrives, expecting you to be inside. But there you are, sitting on the curb, right where you shouldn’t be. He calls out to you and jogs over, dodging a few bar-goers on the way.
At first, you turn your head the wrong way when you hear your name called. When you spot him, you scramble upright. “You came for me!” Excitedly, you raise your hands above your head and it slightly throws off your balance.
“Holy shit, you’re plastered,” Eddie half-scoffs, half-laughs. His eyes roam your body, and he immediately takes notice of your scraped and bloodied knees. “Jesus, what happened?”
“Huh?” you ask, your drunken buoyancy unaffected by his evident concern. Following his guided point, you simply shrug. “I dunno, can’t remember.”
“You’re not here by yourself, are you?” Eddie scans the area, looking for any signs of someone accompanying you.
“Mmm... no, well yes. My girlfriends were here but they left.”
Eddie scoffs, “You’ve got some shitty friends.”
“Good thing I have you. My very own knight in shining armor is here to rescue me!”
“That tower of yours must’ve had quite the mini bar, princess,” Eddie remarks.
“Let’s go,” Eddie instructs, heading toward his van with the assumption that you’re following. Peeking over his shoulder, you’re practically tripping over your own feet.
The long strap of your purse slides off your shoulder, snags on your bent elbow, and the bag thuds against your calf.
“What am I gonna do with you, hmm?” He steps back, takes hold of your purse, and throws it over his shoulder. Then, he wraps his arm around your waist and holds you snugly to his side, determined to get you home safely by whatever means necessary. After helping you into the passenger seat, he reaches over to fasten your seatbelt. “No hurling in here, got it?”
“Yes, sir,” you salute before sitting back so that your head is supported by the headrest.
Getting you up the stairs was the hard part. He unlocks the apartment door and gently steers you toward the bathroom.
You make a feeble attempt to resist, grasping onto the door frame before finally yielding to your waning strength.
Eddie lets go of you and begins to rummage in search of supplies.
“Okay, Eddie Bear. I’m ready for my bath,” You slur, leaning against the wall for support as you start to ease yourself into the tub.
“Eddie Bear, huh? That’s new,” he snorts before glancing over. “Oh, no you don’t. C’mere,” Eddie grasps you by the waist once more, guiding you to sit on the closed toilet seat.
With both hands, he cradles your booze-warmed cheeks, unintentionally pushing your lips into a pout. “Stay put, would ya?”
Mumbling to himself, Eddie goes back to gathering the first aid supplies. “I look away for two goddamn seconds. Nothing but trouble, I swear.”
The pout doesn’t leave your face and you cross your arms with an annoyed huff. As the seconds pass, it's as though there’s elevator music playing in your head while you wait for something to happen.
Eddie crouches at your feet. “So, what’s your justification for getting shit-faced on a weeknight?” The tip of his tongue peeks out from between his lips as he begins wiping away the dried blood on your knees with a damp cloth.
“Boys are dumb, that’s why.”
“I know, aren’t they just the worst?” Eddie concurs with a hum. He stands to rinse the cloth, washes his hands, and then fully gets to his knees on the tile floor to apply ointment.
“Yeah, they are,” Your voice trails off as you look at his fingers resting firmly on your thigh, just above your knee, to prevent any inadvertent movement.
Engrossed in your own little world, you start humming an improvised tune. “Like them so much,” you sing-song to yourself.
Eddie glances up at you briefly. “What’s that?”
“Your hands,” you explain and poke each of his knuckles with your index finger. “You’ve got such nice fingies.”
“Fingies?” Eddie smiles as he secures bandages over both of your knees. He withdraws his touch from your thigh and he takes hold of your hand, turning it palm-side up.
“Mhm, the nicest.”
“Yours are nice too,” he comments as he cleans the scrape on the heel of your hand. As Eddie admires the intricate lines and wrinkles across your palm, he inadvertently brushes the cloth directly against your wound.
You make a high-pitched fuss in reaction to the sudden contact, reflexively pulling your hand away.
“Shit, sorry,” Eddie apologizes earnestly. He applies the ointment before applying a bandage. Rising to his feet, he theatrically brushes off his hands. “There, good as new.”
You reach out to him in a toddler-like manner and make grabby hands at him.
Eddie laughs and leans against the door frame. “I’m not carrying you. Brush your teeth so we can get you into bed.”
“You’re no fun,” you groan while you stand awkwardly, the bandages restricting full movement. You wet your toothbrush and squeeze toothpaste onto it, making sure to shoot a scowl at Eddie as you do.
After lackadaisically brushing your teeth, you plop the brush back into its cup. “There, squeaky clean. Happy?”
“As a clam,” Eddie says with a grin. He steps back to allow you out of the bathroom. “Go put your PJs on.”
With a dismissive wave, you drag your feet to your room and begin to dig through your dresser drawer.
Just as he’s about to start picking up after himself, he’s interrupted.
“Eddie,” You call out defeatedly.
“Yeah?” When he doesn’t receive an immediate response, he cautiously steps into the doorway of your room. There you stand, still wearing your dress.
“I can’t reach it,” You say, turning your back to him and bowing your head slightly, signaling that you need his assistance.
Eddie swallows hard and mutters under his breath, “Right, the zipper,” Stepping into the room, his hands start to tremble.
Now positioned behind you, he carefully takes hold of the small piece of metal. Despite the trembling, Eddie tries his best not to make contact with your skin as it’s revealed by the descending zipper.
Dizziness consumes him as his eyes flit between your shoulder blades. Once your dress is completely unzipped, Eddie takes a significant step backward, putting distance between the two of you. “Is that all you need?”
You return to sifting through your pajama options. “I think so.”
Eddie retreats to the bathroom. The image of your bare back is seared into his memory, he’s just gonna have to live with it etched into his mind forever.
After regaining his composure, he locates some aspirin and fills a drinking glass with water. “Are you decent?” Eddie asks hesitantly, not daring to step closer to the threshold without receiving confirmation.
“Uh huh,” You mumble, flopping onto your bed and committing to the first position you land in.
Holding the cup of water and two tablets of pain relief, Eddie re-enters your bedroom. He finds you sprawled and droopy-eyed lying on your back.
Eddie’s chunky metal rings clink against the glass when he sets it down on your nightstand. “I think you’ll appreciate this little visit from the aspirin fairy come morning. You’re gonna feel like shit.”
“Okay,” you murmur, your attention glued to how his strong nose casts a shadow on his cheek in the glow of your bedside lamp. Flipping onto your side facing the door, you yawn and stretch your toes.
Eddie gathers the jumbled blanket from the other side of the bed and drapes it over you, covering you up to your shoulders with care.
Although he wants to, he refrains from tucking you in, concerned that you might trip or get more hurt if you need to get up. “Well, goodnight.”
Just as Eddie turns to leave, your weak grasp seizes his hand before he’s out of reach. It stops him in his tracks, and his gaze follows the path from your joined hands, tracing up your arm until his eyes meet yours.
Fighting to keep your eyes open, you’re teetering on the edge of consciousness. “I don’t want you to go.”
He returns without needing any further invitation and sits on the edge of the bed by your belly. Releasing his hand, you rub your eye before tucking your fist beside your head.
Looking down at you affectionately, a grin graces Eddie’s face. He watches as your eyelids flutter closed, and your breathing becomes slow and steady. “Such a sleepy girl.”
With your eyes cemented closed, you adjust your head on the pillow before drifting off to sleep. Eddie stays put for a minute or two, simply admiring you. He’s never seen something so precious.
His heartbeat rattles his ribs, just as it did the first time he saw you waitressing at Double Barrel. That static-like tingling plagues his extremities as an old thought resurfaces. In those conversations where you shared your life stories, Eddie couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel to be kissed by you.
Eddie’s eyes brim with tears at the fact that his presence is solely due to your inebriation, and this closeness it’s about to expire. “God,” he exhales, rolling his eyes skyward to hold back his tears.
“Sleep tight, sweetheart,” Eddie whispers, pulling the blanket a touch higher over your shoulder. Then, he switches off the lamp and leaves you to rest.
Dwelling on the fact that you won’t remember tonight won’t do him any good. Getting this close to you would have never happened in sober circumstances. At least he got to take care of you in the way he always wanted, even if only for a short time.
Over the past few days, Eddie has been thinking about how he felt when you relied on him to get you home. He’s curious whether the call you made to him signifies that you still want him in your life. If that happens to be the case, then he can work with that.
Going through with this might worsen the sting of rejection, but Eddie has his heart set on mending things.
Within moments of entering the bar and scouring the room for you, he spots you conversing with Lee about a table’s order. Eddie begins to pat his thighs in an erratic rhythm as he feels his insides lurch.
As soon as Lee notices Eddie, he wraps up the conversation and gets back to work. You observe Eddie, noticing the hopefulness on his face as he strides across the room. “Do you need something?”
“Not necessarily. I was wondering if I could uh, make you dinner or something?” Eddie kicks one foot with the other and totters back and forth in place.
Your expression changes to one of disbelieving annoyance. “I can slap together a PB&J at home, but thanks.”
“No, no. I’m serious, I’ll make whatever you want,” Eddie insists.
“What for?”
Eddie briefly looks away, scratching at the nape of his neck. “I miss hanging out with you.”
“I don’t know,” You ponder with uncertainty, your gaze monitoring the occupied tables in case you’re needed.
“Let me cook for you. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
His pleading eyes wear you down. “Fine, when?”
A bright smile spreads across Eddie’s face, stretching from ear to ear. He bounces on his tiptoes with enthusiasm. “I’ll call you tomorrow and we can set a time then.”
“Sure, yeah,” you respond, your attention diverted to a booth on the far side of the room where the seated customers wave you over. “Look, I gotta go.”
You’re already back in work mode and walking away before Eddie can say anything else. He just stands there, incapable of shrinking his smile to a mere grin.
Bowing his head, Eddie pumps his fists at his sides in a moment of triumph. With the opportunity for redemption sitting in his lap, he has his heart set on making things right.
In the days leading up to the agreed-upon dinner, Eddie makes several trips to the library, hunting for a recipe for the meal you mentioned. He dips into his emergency savings to purchase extra ingredients, dedicating his time and money to practice making it.
The first go around, he forgot to add two crucial ingredients, resulting in a bland and tasteless dish. Eddie couldn’t let it go to waste, so he settled for the less-than-impressive dinner that night.
On the second attempt, he tried to compensate for the previous mistake by adding more than enough seasoning. He didn’t exactly do it on purpose; it poured out of the canister much faster than Eddie expected. Regrettably, that meal went straight into the trash. Eddie couldn’t stomach a forkful of it.
Eddie absolutely, positively cannot fuck this one up. He can’t afford to, both figuratively and literally. Without a doubt, if he serves you a shit dinner, you’ll push him out of your life for good.
When you knock on the front door, the perceived silence on the other side of the door is broken with a clatter and muffled cursing. The quiet resumes and hangs in the air for a couple of seconds before the door swings open.
There stands Eddie, hair a little tousled. “Hello, hello!”
His stomach does somersaults at the sight before him; your clothes accentuate your figure, and your skirt suits you. Once again, you look stunning and appropriately dressed for a date.
Meanwhile, Eddie doesn’t have many options to choose from. The most formal thing he owns is a button-up shirt and it’s too dressy, but it’s all he has. Paired with it are his holeless black jeans. Before today, he never thought it was possible to be both over and underdressed at the same time.
“Come on in,” Eddie says, stepping aside with reluctance, allowing you to enter his apartment.
As soon as he opened the door to you, his mind turned into a whirlwind of second-guessing himself. The shirt is definitely too formal, but Eddie wants to prove that he knows it’s a date this time, and he means for it to be one. If only he owned an iron so that the material wasn’t as wrinkly as it is.
He wants to prove that he can clean up nicely, evident from the scent of aftershave and cologne. Eddie meticulously clipped his fingernails and tidied his eyebrows, ensuring that he is as presentable as possible.
“This is my castle,” He gestures to the space.
The entirety of the afternoon was spent tidying up and Eddie couldn’t bear to leave a single surface undusted. Any potentially embarrassing materials were tucked away and he washed all of his dirty dishes.
As you enter and survey his studio apartment, he takes the opportunity to rake through his bangs with his fingers. You spot his sketchbook sprawled open on the guitar amp and pick it up.
“Oh, those are nothing, you don’t have to-” Eddie moves forward and reaches out, intending to retrieve the drawing pad, but pauses when you point to the sketch he recently finished.
“This one,” you trace the lines of the drawing with your finger before looking over at him. “I’d get this one.”
“You’d let me give you ink?” There’s a hint of insecurity and surprise in his voice as he subtly retrieves the sketchbook from your grasp.
“Maybe. It depends if you’re still shit at it,” you shrug casually, interlocking your hands behind your back as you assess the living room area. Your attention falls on the antique bookshelf, adorned with miscellaneous items and framed photos. “Has Cliff let you take clients yet?”
“No, you’d be my first real canvas,” Eddie admits.
As you continue looking around, his gaze is one beat ahead of yours. His eyes land on it just before yours do, and his stomach drops upon spotting the one thing he forgot to hide.
“Oh my god!” You squeal, rushing over to the couch and scooping up Mr. Pickles. “Who’s this cutie?”
Pale as a ghost, Eddie stares blankly back at you. How the fuck did he forget to hide the one thing on this planet that rids him of all masculinity.
“I’ll introduce you another time,” Eddie silently urges you to put Mr. Pickles back in his spot, desperately hoping you’ll never bring it up again.
In actuality, he should be thanking himself for the oversight, because you look far more high-spirited than when you stood outside his door.
“I’m looking forward to it,” You brush over the matted fur on the bunny’s head before carefully placing him back on the sofa.
The tension dissipates on his body as he picks up on the change in your energy. It’s reminiscent of how happy you were to see him when you were drunk. But this time is different; it’s genuine, rather than influenced by alcohol.
You’re lured into the kitchen by the incredible aroma, and the steaming food matches the enticing smell. “There’s no way in hell you made that.”
“You bet your ass I did,” Eddie retorts with his hands on his hips while he makes his way from the front door to the kitchen.
You step closer to him. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before,” you purr, inching closer until your toes nearly make contact with his socked ones. With featherlight pressure, you place a tender kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.”
Eddie’s internal circuits fry as he tries to process the fact that he just got kissed on the cheek for the first time. His lungs refuse their vital function, denying him oxygen. He retreats by half a step, attempting to mask the blazing rosiness of his face.
“For god’s sake, I’m so sick of whatever this stupid game is.”
“What game? I’m not-” Eddie panics.
“You get me to throw myself at you by doing thoughtful shit like this, but when I finally make a move, you act revolted.”
“I swear to Christ I’m not playing with you. I mean, I’m not trying to,” Eddie explains, his words jumbling together. “I know I've been making a total ass of myself, and tonight was supposed to fix that. But I just- I keep screwing up because I like you and you make me so nervous.”
You scoff, halfway turned toward the door. “That’s hard to believe. You flinch if I so much as bump into you. You don’t want to touch me, I get it.”
A pang of guilt hits him like a baseball bat to the stomach. “No no no, I do! I wanna touch you,” Eddie admits. “Look, you mean so goddamn much to me. You deserve someone who can make you feel good, and I can’t do that.”
Still guarded, you sound agitated but you turn to face him nonetheless. “What are you talking about?”
His voice lowers, a whisper of shame. “I don’t know the first thing about pleasing a woman. Nobody wants to fuck the dorky virgin, y’know?” Eddie’s vision blurs from the tears veiling his vision.
You frown at the vulnerable quiver in his voice. “I do, I’ve been wanting to.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” he lets out a humorless laugh. “I wouldn’t be able to make you cum.”
“I have to disagree with you on that. You’re a fast learner,” You extend your hand to him at waist height.
Eddie stares at your outstretched hand, struggling to process the gesture. He holds his breath, torn between his anxiety and trust. Cautiously, he places his hand in yours.
The benevolent hold pulses a flash flood through his being, the frigid water jolting his systems alive. When you intertwine your fingers with his, the clamminess is evident against the softness of your palm. Insecurity floods him, worried that you’ll be repulsed by it.
Cracks of lightning electrify Eddie’s heart, rendering him unable to meet your gaze. Instead, he focuses intensely on your joined hands. “I have no idea what I'm doing though.”
“That’s okay,” you assure him with a confident smile. Giving his hand a slight squeeze, you add, “See, not so scary anymore, right?”
Eddie shakes his head, even though fear is still coursing through his veins. You pick up on his hesitation and knowing that he won’t do it himself, you guide his hand to your hip and leave it there.
He sort of caresses, not out of boldness, but seeking to alleviate the numbness in his fingers. The sensation has already spread to other parts of his body.
Your patient expression, graced with a grin, grows into a bright smile when you meet his eyes. Eddie’s confidence blossoms, and he uses his other hand to cradle your cheek.
Acquainting himself with the contours of your face, his thumb strokes lightly from beneath your eyes and along your cheekbone. He starts to smile too as his nerves give way to the feeling of reassurance.
As you tilt your head into his touch, your eyelids flutter closed, and you grasp at the loose sides of his shirt, pulling him closer. He steps forward willingly, but his voice retains an uncertain tone. “I really wanna kiss you, but I’ve never, uh…”
You lean in, and the tip of your nose gently brushes against his. The thundering of his heart in his ears drowns out everything but your voice.
“Close your eyes and follow my lead, okay?” The warmth of your breath encircles his lips, turning his knees to jelly.
Eddie can’t even whisper a confirmation. At your request, he closes his eyes, leaving him solely reliant on his other senses. The smoothness of your lips against his registers as a gentle peck with just enough pressure for him to feel it. It lingers, and he finds himself incapable of moving his lips in response.
“Want another?”
With his eyes still closed, he murmurs, “Yes, please.”
Devilishly, you press a kiss to his wrist, the hand that is still gently cradling your face.
Eddie’s eyes open, a pout and a scowl simultaneously forming his reaction. “Nu-uh, right here,” he insists, leaning in eagerly. He’s caught up in the desire to feel it again but he’s still hesitant to initiate the kiss himself.
You happily close the gap and this time, Eddie slightly purses his lips against yours, doing his best to follow your lead. After giving it a few tries, he feels you withdraw but his head instinctively follows, chasing your lips.
His eyes swirl with affection as he grapples for something to say, feeling breathless and dumb. “Fuck, I don’t wanna stop doing that.”
“Then don’t.”
Finally, Eddie’s able to pursue, but only a fraction of a second before you. With determination, his pecks carry more verve. It’s easier than he thought it would be; granted, he can rely on his ability to keep a steady rhythm, a perk of being a musician.
Eddie didn’t think this could get any better—that is until your lips slot perfectly between his, wet and warm. He pauses, malfunctioning once more. As you kiss him deeply, his mind is dusted in a golden haze and it feels as though he’s floating within himself. Enveloped by the sensation of your hands on his collarbones, a soft noise escapes him.
Mortified, Eddie freezes. Instead of deterring you, it only spurs you on. You wrap your arms around his neck and mold your body against his. The intensity of the kiss only escalates, he’s chasing your storm, matching your every move.
Your fingers entwine in the curls at the nape of his neck, coaxing more noises from him. Eddie is so far gone that he’s unaware of the growing bulge in his jeans. His hand leaves your cheek, traces down your shoulder, and along the outside of your arm before clinging to your waist with both hands.
You hover over his lips, a stream of electricity fizzling between you. “Is it okay if I take my shirt off?”
Eddie forgets to respond but then nods fervently. With curious eyes, he watches intently as you lift your shirt, unveiling skin he’s never seen before.
He inhales and exhales shakily as your necklace falls back into its place against your chest. It’s not a swinging pocket watch, but Eddie is entranced nonetheless.
“You said you wanna touch me,” you draw his trembling hands up your sides. “Now’s your chance.”
Eddie’s hands ascend and meet the silky band of your bra, and you guide his palms forward to the plush foam padding. Your reassuring hold is encouraging, but Eddie tears his stare from your breasts to check-in. He finds you already looking at him, exuding a sweet demeanor. “Give it a try.”
Eddie’s Adam’s apple bobs in the thick column of his throat, his hands unmoving beneath yours.
“Like this,” You squeeze your hands twice before removing your guidance and allowing him to proceed at his own pace.
Adrenaline motivates him to cup them independently this time, and his cock twitches as he commits to the action.
“You’re doing great by the way,” You offer a smile.
Growing more confident, Eddie applies more pressure. His thumbs move in tandem, brushing over the area where your nipples are concealed. The innocent delight in his eyes burns dark into frustration after a few squeezes. Eddie huffs in annoyance at the fact that he’s only getting handfuls of padding.
“Easy, tiger. Want this off too?”
Heartened by the lack of ridicule, he feels safe. Regardless, Eddie fails to articulate more than a few words, his heart lodged in his throat. “If that’s okay with you.”
“Come sit,” You suggest, taking his hand in yours to lead him to sit on the edge of the bed.
As he sits, Eddie thanks himself for having washed his sheets for tonight, despite never imagining that this would happen.
When you release his hand, both of them return to the plush of your waist, making himself at home there. The straps of your unhooked bra drape loosely on your arms, and his pupils dilate as the foam cups gradually gain distance from your body.
“Holy shit,” Eddie says under his breath, his bottom lip shining after a swift swipe of his tongue.
Your hips receive an involuntary squeeze as his patience begins to waver. He then slides his hands back up to your ribs, using his thumb followed by the heel of his palms to graze the bottom of your breasts.
With a sigh of relief, Eddie no longer has to daydream about what they might look like. His beautiful brown eyes roam over your body like you’re a masterpiece, a sculpture carved from stone solely for him to admire endlessly. Savoring the moment, he takes his time to appreciate every second. Eddie doesn’t take your trust for granted.
After a minute or two, you scoot backward onto the mattress toward the pillows. “Let’s get more comfortable.”
He watches you recline half-naked on his bed, and his belly swirls at the sight. Eddie follows suit, crawling to you. Now positioned between your legs, Eddie hesitates as he looks down at you, your hips not making any contact.
His touch resumes at your waist, but this time he’s stroking the expanse of your tummy; it inadvertently brings comfort to both you and him. Until this moment, he’s never had the chance to see the tiny details on your face up close—the distinct aspects that compose your sheer beauty.
Eddie’s hazelnut curls hang over his ears as his gaze trails over your neck and chest. His intense adoration makes you want to hide, but the unease is melted away when he captures your lips with his own. Eddie feels like it’s already been too long since he last kissed you, the deprivation like that of extreme thirst.
Goosebumps prickle his fully dressed form, a surge of belonging filling the cracks in the surface of his heart. Timid pecking is a thing of the past, each kiss more fervid than the one before it. The wet click of your lips drowns out the inhibitions buzzing in his ears.
Eddie’s large hand paws at your breast, his thumb playing with your pebbled nipple, drawing a whine from the back of your throat. You tug him closer by his jeans, bringing his hips down against yours. Regardless of the denim barrier, this causes a change in him. When you lift your hips against Eddie, he grinds back just as needily.
As your lips part, he begins a trail of affection along your cheek, jaw, and down your neck. When Eddie reaches your collarbones, his mouth moves hurriedly. He’s itching to fulfill the longing that’s been something he’s imagined plenty of times before. Kissing every inch in his descent, Eddie hunches over and takes your nipple into his mouth.
The melodious sound that pours from you makes him painfully harder. His cock strains against the metal zipper of his jeans, fighting to defy the taut material. You arch into his mouth, and Eddie continues to grind against the apex of your thighs.
He licks his way across to give much-needed attention to your opposite breast, all the while maintaining stimulation on the other with his thumb. Eddie suckles and flicks his tongue, his breath hitting your bare skin like a sweltering midsummer heat wave.
The reciprocity of sincerity is blowing his mind; the way it feels to have your hands weaving through his hair. There’s a slight tug when your fingers catch on a knot, and the sting only fans the flames burning in his lower belly.
Eddie releases your nipple, leaving it bereft of the heat of his mouth. Following his previously explored path up your chest and neck, he bashfully looks into your eyes. “Could I, uh, kiss you down there, too?”
“Normally I’d have to ask for head. Are you sure?”
The melted milk chocolate of his irises practically drips off of his lashes as he blinks at you. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life, sweetheart. I’ve wanted to taste you for so long.”
“I’m not entirely convinced,” You coax him playfully.
“I’ll just have to prove how starving I am then, won’t I?” Eddie quips, moving out of the way to remove your skirt. As he does, the waistband slips from your hips and he slides it off your legs.
You’re in nothing but your panties and the white cotton is not particularly sexy, but they sure are familiar. That day at the laundromat, Eddie never imagined he’d see you in this exact pair at some point. He wonders if you did.
His fingertips tap their way up your thighs until they reach the band of your underwear. You look so cute with your hands resting across your belly like an awaiting princess—his princess.
Much like the skirt before it, the garment is tugged down the curvature of your legs. Your knees knock together as your legs reflexively close. Meanwhile, Eddie is mesmerized by the damp patch on panties hanging from his fist.
“You wanna keep 'em?”
Eddie nods with feigned innocence. These would go to good use, he thinks.
“They’re all yours,” You grant his wish.
“I feel so spoiled,” he says while tucking them into his back pocket for safekeeping. Then, Eddie redirects his attention to the living art laid out before him. “Especially for getting to see you like this,” he drags his fingertips along the outside of your calves until they reach your knees.
Your legs fall open, proudly putting your glistening cunt on display for him.
“Fuck,” Eddie says, moon-eyed. He repositions himself between your legs, lying on his stomach. Drool pools on his tongue, his mouth just inches away from your body. With one arm wrapped under your thigh, Eddie uses a finger on his free hand to collect the wetness that’s all for him.
“Don’t be a tease,” You fuss.
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Eddie responds, ready to put his new skill to use. It starts with a testing press of his lips against your clit. He works his way lower, mouthing at you messily, making out with your cunt. Eddie licks his lips and rests his cheek against your inner thigh. “Can I use my fingers too?”
“Yeah, just take it slow,” You gather his hair and keep it out of his face so it doesn’t get in the way.
Eddie glides two digits through your folds, admiring the way the pads of his fingers glisten with the mix of your slick and his spit. Slowly, he eases his two fingers into your entrance. They sink deeper without facing resistance, and you soak him down to his bottom knuckles. Eddie looks up at you from between your legs, amazed. “You’re so wet.”
You sigh, propping yourself up on your elbows to meet his gaze. “You own a mirror, don’t you? How could I not be.”
Flattered, Eddie smiles. He draws his fingers back before plunging them into you a little faster this time, though not by much. As you lay back and get comfortable, you instinctively roll your hips downward with each thrust of his fingers.
With his cheek still resting on the inside of your thigh, he’s unable to bring himself to speed up, downright mesmerized by the sensation of your velvety walls squeezing around his fingers. When he accidentally flexes and curls them upward, it elicits a pretty gasp from you.
Eddie’s gaze flits up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What was that?” he teases and does it again, deliberately. “Did you say something?”
You moan, “That feels amazing,” You run your hand up your belly to your breast, massaging yourself in tandem with his improved technique.
He finds a steady tempo, rubbing the spot that makes your nerves flare. With nothing else on his mind, Eddie is fully engrossed as he drives his digits into you. Your fingers suddenly appear before him to rub your clit for added stimulation.
“Oh my god,” You moan unabashedly, arching your back off of the bed in response to the heightened ecstasy.
“You like that?” Eddie looks up at you, feeling a rush of pride as you writhe.
“Yes- fuck, I’m almost there.”
Eddie boldly nudges your hand away with his nose, swiftly replacing your fingers with his tongue, flicking it passionately.
Your moans fill his ears as he laps at you, enjoying the way you taste when you unravel. He’s so in the zone that he fails to realize you’ve already reached your peak and become overstimulated.
You squirm in his grip, gently pushing his forehead away. “Eddie, Eddie!”
“Yeah?” His fingers stop abruptly, and he looks at you with doe-like eyes, your glossy sugar smeared all over his lips and chin.
“It’s too much,” You say exhaustedly.
“Shit, my bad,” Eddie frowns, disappointed that his fun has come to an end. He slowly withdraws his digits, admiring the way you’ve coated them. He drags his fingers down his tongue like your arousal is cake batter from a bowl. A low hum emanates from Eddie as he sucks them clean, inadvertently making a show of it. “God, your pussy tastes good. Even better than I dreamed it would.”
“Come here,” You beckon him, smiling blissfully.
Eddie wastes no time getting onto his hands and knees and crawls up between your legs. Hovering over you, he gazes into your eyes, cheeks dimpled. “I made you cum.”
“I can’t remember the last time I came that hard either,” you chuckle, noticing the sheen on his face. You grab your discarded shirt to wipe it off. “Here, let me-”
“No!” Eddie angles out of your reach, his brow furrowed. Using his still-sticky fingers, he wipes at his lips and chin, licking his digits clean once more. “Can’t let it go to waste.”
After you tuck his frizzy curls behind his ears, Eddie’s tender grin fades. Your hands slowly move down his pecs to his belt, and you tug at the metal buckle. Just as you free the leather from the prong, he stops you.
“Uh- wait.” The hesitance in his voice brings your pursuit to a halt. The way you shrink back causes his heart to squeeze.
“I’m sorry. We don’t have to go all the way if you’re not ready.”
“It’s not that. Believe me,” Eddie reassures you. He brings a hand to the side of your face and strokes your cheekbone with his thumb. “I’m just worried that you’ll never wanna see me again ‘cause I'm so terrible in bed.”
Your shoulders raise and lower with the deep breath that you take. “You said you want to make me feel good, right?”
“More than anything,” Eddie declares in a heartbeat.
“Your cock would.”
Eddie nearly shudders and his voice burns raspy. “Yeah? You want it?”
You hook your fingers through his belt loops and tug, staring back at him intensely. “Not want. I need you inside me.”
“Christ,” he gulps and presses his hips forcefully against yours, dampening the denim. Eddie lowers his mouth to your shoulder and kisses it. “I wanna know what it feels like so bad.”
You turn your head and nibble his earlobe. “Let’s take care of that, shall we?” When your hands return to his partially undone belt, Eddie doesn’t intervene this time.
“I don’t have protection though.”
Blindly, you unbutton and unzip his jeans. “Side pocket of my purse.”
Reluctantly, Eddie pulls away and awkwardly scoots backward off the bed. His pants hang low on his slender hips, exposing the snug elastic band of his blue plaid boxers. After finding the condom, he inspects it. “I have no fucking clue how to use this.”
Sitting up, you hold your hand out. “I can put it on you if you want.”
Eddie hands it to you, then it occurs to him that he’s still fully dressed. While you’re tearing the foil package, he yanks down his jeans and kicks them away, his belt jangling. Only a few buttons are undone from the neck before he gets impatient. Eddie tears his shirt over his head, leaving his mane disheveled.
He pulls at the waistband of his precum-soaked boxers indecisively, but the sight of your beautiful naked body reminds him that it’s only fair. Eddie pulls them down and his anxiety has caused him to go partially soft. When you look at him, he wishes the world would swallow him whole.
Your eyes rake across his slim frame, then meet his eyes instead of drifting below his waist. Eddie climbs back onto the bed, sitting on his haunches. You crawl onto your knees to join him and pull his body against yours, kissing him.
Mumbling against your lips, he tries to apologize for already failing you by being unable to stay hard, but his words falter as the kiss deepens, his worries becoming an afterthought. Eddie grips your waist, and the sensation of your breasts pressing against his bare chest makes him feel woozy. As soon as you break the kiss, he’s immediately filled with fear once more. “If it’s small or it looks weird, don’t tell me.”
You effectively distract him from his insecurities by trailing your lips down his pulse, dragging your teeth along the supple skin there. Eddie grips your ass harshly, a shaky sound pouring from his throat as you kiss your way down his body. He watches, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth.
As you finally look at his shy cock, you run your palms up and down the sparse hair on his outer thighs. “You’re the perfect size for me,” You compliment him with a smile.
“I am?”
You suck a bruise on the pale skin of his waist. “Yeah, you are.”
Eddie’s eyes close, his hands resting on your shoulders as he focuses on the sensation of you licking and biting him. Lost in the feeling rather than inside of his head, Eddie’s cock gradually rouses.
Having previously set it aside, you grab the condom. “Hold it still for me, please.”
“O-Okay,” he secures it at the base, his palm covering the trimmed thatch of curls. “Like this?”
“Perfect,” With one hand, you fit the band around the tip, and with your other, you roll the latex down his shaft. That alone causes Eddie’s mouth to fall open, a ghosted moan tumbling from his lips.
“There, easy peasy,” Sitting back up and wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him flush against you. His wrapped, twitching cock is trapped between your bodies. “Tell me what you’re thinking right now.”
“I’m not sure I could if I tried,” Eddie says, his eyes flitting between yours. “Is this really happening?”
“It’s happening,” After kissing the tip of his nose, you settle back bringing him down with you to get comfortable, your head resting on the pillow.
Eddie returns to the previous position, this time with your legs hiked around his hips, causing his cock to rub against your mound. Afraid of poking around too much, he asks, “Would you do the honors, m’lady?”
“Why, of course,” you say with a giggle. You guide the head of his cock right where it needs to be and look into Eddie’s eyes. “Go ahead.”
He swallows hard and inches his hips forward, the tip of his cock breaching your entrance. Eddie sinks until he’s halfway sheathed by the hot embrace of your cunt. As he pushes the rest of the way in, his jaw falls slack.
“You doing okay?” You soothingly stroke the bulging veins on his forearms.
“Mhm,” Eddie mumbles with his lips rolled inward. After a few seconds without moving, he draws his hips back and then drives them forward. The moan that rips from his chest is unholy.
After two or three agonizingly slow and experimental thrusts, the motion comes naturally to him after all that practice he’s gotten from humping his poor pillow in this very spot. “Fuck me,” The hand that isn’t supporting Eddie’s weight fists at the bed sheets as he thrusts repeatedly, falling into a slow and steady pace. “Jesus fucking fuck.”
“Look at you go,” you moan out. “It feels amazing, doesn’t it?”
“Feels… god, you feel incredible,” Eddie grunts, propping himself up on both hands. His hair hangs down, swaying with the tempo of his hips. In this position, he can watch the bounce of your body with each thrust and he’s doing just that.
The grazing of your fingernails along his flexing hips throws off his pace. It weakens him, especially when you’re looking at him the way you are. Eddie is so consumed by the feeling of you wrapped around him that he can’t be self-conscious about the fact that he’s moaning every time he sinks back into you.
The shame of virginity has been lifted away as Eddie experiences this night of firsts with the girl he’s crazy about. Eddie is struggling to keep his eyes open, not wanting to miss a single second of this. He’s captivated by the way you’re watching his length disappear inside you over and over.
You look stunning lying on his pillow, anchoring his body to yours. Before tonight, he considered the concept of moaning someone's name to be cliché because it only happens in the movies. But Eddie’s had a change of heart because he can’t stop saying yours. It’s all of you right here, right now, all over, making a man out of him.
His muscles begin to tremble, and he lowers himself onto his forearms. Eddie rests his forehead against yours, his hips stuttering. “I’m so close, baby. I don’t wanna cum,” He slows his movement to stave off his orgasm.
“I want you to,” You express while gliding your hands down his muscular back.
“No,” Eddie protests, ceasing his thrusts entirely. “I want you to cum again first.”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Are you shitting me? It’s always been about you,” he pulls back to look into your eyes. “I’d do anything for you, you’re so damn worth it.”
Just before you have the chance to respond, Eddie unexpectedly rolls his hips. With one hand, he thumbs at your clit, watching how your eyes roll back. He doesn’t even have to look down to see the mess you’re making because he can hear it.
Eddie’s moans dance with yours as he pushes his knees forward, adjusting the angle of his hips to mimic a ‘come hither’ motion. He knows he’s found the spot he discovered prior when your legs spasm around him. In response, Eddie rubs your clit harder.
The way your walls tighten makes it all that more difficult for him to hold back. He’s on the cusp, his abs tensing as he tries to fight it. Your hand flies above you to push against the headboard, your other one occupied with gripping his flexing waist.
“Cum for me,” Eddie growls, frustrated with himself as he teeters on the edge, just seconds away from spilling into the condom.
Your brows furrow and your eyes squeeze shut, a rush of air getting caught in your throat as you climax.
“Yeahhh, that’s it,” Eddie’s abdominal muscles tense to their limit. “Oh- fuck,” His voice pitches higher.
“I’m yours,” You moan prettily and guide him down, letting him bury his face in your neck to give his arms a well-deserved rest.
“All mine,” Eddie says between his labored breaths. He grips and lifts your hips while you kiss his shoulder. Losing their previous steadiness, his strokes become shorter and more sporadic. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum. I’m gonna cuh- uh- mmm.”
Eddie lets out a whimper as he delivers two unsteady thrusts before slamming his hips against you, burying himself as he orgasms. His ass tenses and ripples, the muscles contracting as he rides out his high.
Panting loudly, Eddie stills his movements completely and props himself up to look down at you. “Jesus Christ. After that, I wanna have you for dinner every day,” he says against your cheek before kissing it. “As a snack in the middle of the night,” Eddie adds, kissing your temple. “Shit, you’d be good for breakfast too. It’s the most important meal of the day, y’know.”
You let out a winded giggle, your bodies sticking together as he struggles to keep himself propped up.
“Sweetheart, can I ask you something?”
“You just did,” You tease and smile wide when he rolls his eyes and snorts.
Eddie takes your hand, flattening your palm against his chest so that you can feel how vigorously his heart is beating. “Is this what being in love feels like?” He asks tearfully.
“Yeah,” you nod, placing his hand over your own heart that’s thudding just as hard. “Just like this.”
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#eddie munson#eddie munson x y/n#stranger things 4#eddie munson fics#stranger things x you#stranger things x y/n#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson x female reader#eddie munson x reader#eddiemunson#stranger things#eddie munson fluff#eddie the banished#eddie munson fic#eddie munson fanfic#stranger things eddie#st4 eddie#eddie x fem!reader#eddie x you#eddie munson hurt/comfort#eddie munson angst#eddie munson imagine#st4#virgin!eddie munson#inexperienced!eddie munson#eddie munson oneshot#eddie munson one shot
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Sunlight Through the Mist - Chapter 1
Pairing: Hellcheer (Eddie Munson x Chrissy Cunningham)
Summary: Having witnessed the broken marriage of his parents, Edward Munson, Baron Hurstfield, always regards love with a cynical eye. When circumstances compel him to marry and produce an heir, he quickly proposes to Christine Conyngham, a debutante whose reputation is hanging by a threat after an ill-fated affair. All Edward wants is to save his family estate, but as beautiful, fragile Christine finds her way into his wary heart, their marriage of convenience may become something neither of them ever expects - a union of love.
A/N: This is a rewrite of my Hellcheer Regency AU, "Love in a Mist", from the POV of Eddie/Edward. "Love in a Mist" was only my second-ever fic, so back then I wasn't confident enough to attempt a dual POV. Now, having written Edward's POV in the sequel and Eddie's POV in a couple of Hellcheer one-shots, I thought it would be fun to revisit this (yes, I know, how Stephenie Meyer of me.) The story is the same, but I cut some scenes and added others to make it different enough to stand on its own. Enjoy!
If you haven't read "Love in a Mist", I'd recommend that you read that first, or at least check out the A/N for the explanation of the names. Maybe one day I'll post a "director's cut" version with both of their POVs :))
Warnings: angst, past domestic violence, suicide attempt, smut (non-explicit)
Chapter word count: 4.7k
Chapter 1
One summer morning, the village of Hurst was awakened by the sound of hoofbeats tearing down the main road. It was early yet, both in the day and in the season, and the only people out and about were the farmers and their dogs, going to the pastures to check on the sheep. Curious heads turned to follow the horse, a chestnut stallion, and the rider, a tall young man dressed all in black, as they cantered through the village. Hurst was but a small, sleepy place nestled at the foot of the Pennines, and it didn't get many visitors, save for the occasional traveling salesman or vagrant, so the appearance of a stranger always garnered great interest.
The rider was no stranger though. From the way he pulled up at the smithy to give his horse a drink from the communal trough, he seemed to know the place well. He removed his hat to run a hand through his long brown curls and gazed with wistful eyes at the horse chestnut tree standing by the smithy, its branches frothy with pink and white flowers.
The blacksmith, a red-faced, barrel-chested man, came out of his house, paused, and looked at the young man with suspicion.
"Can I help ye, sir?" he asked.
The young man turned around. "Mr. Buckley," he said with a friendly smile. "Don't you know me?"
There was a trace of the Yorkshire accent in his voice, and Mr. Buckley crinkled his already crinkly eyes, searching the young man's face for familiar features.
"I was just greeting my old friend, your horse chestnut tree," the young man continued. "I could never resist its conkers, no matter how many times you chased me off with those red-hot pokers of yours. You used to call me the little devil."
At this, the blacksmith's brow smoothed out in recognition. "Why, 'tis Master Edward!" he exclaimed. Then he remembered, drew back a little, and said, "Beggin' yer pardon, sir, 'tis Lord Hurstfield now, isn't it?"
The young man's face darkened briefly. "I'm always Edward, Mr. Buckley. Just because I've inherited the title now doesn't mean you have to call me by it."
"Ye'd be on yer way to Hurstfield Hall, sir?"
"I am."
"Oh, folks will cheer to no end knowin' that ye are come back." The blacksmith had forgotten his earlier hesitation and clasped the young man enthusiastically on the back. "The Hall's stood empty for too long."
"Thank you, Mr. Buckley," Edward replied, reaching for the reins. "I hope to see you again soon. Please give my regards to Mrs. Buckley."
"Thank ye, sir. And bless ye."
Edward smiled again in reply, but as he rode away from the smithy, his somber look returned. The blacksmith's ecstatic welcome both warmed him and worried him. He was happy to be back to his home, but would he be able to meet their expectations as Lord Hurstfield? He had been Edward Munson all his life, and that title only conjured up images of his tyrant of a father...
Edward looked around, trying to focus on the green meadows full of wildflowers and the clear sky, letting them chase away his dark memories. I am not my father, he thought to himself, like a mantra.
The horse climbed a small hill overlooking the little dale where Hurstfield Hall stood, and Edward's heart soared at the sight of his childhood home. Some early morning mist still clung about the ground, but the sun was up, bathing the gray stone walls in a golden light, giving the place a warm, welcoming air. It had been eleven years since he'd last seen it. When he left it, he had been a child of ten, heartsore and frightened. Although he'd spent longer away from it than he had living in it, it was still his home, still where he had had a taste of happiness.
As Edward stood on top of the hill, looking at the sun-gilded roofs of his family estate, he made a vow. For the sake of his childhood memories, for the sake of his late mother, he would restore Hurstfield Hall to its former glory and make it a home once more.
***
It was easier said than done. Day after day since his return, Edward sat in the old study of Hurstfield Hall while the rain leaked through the roof and the moth-eaten furniture threatened to collapse under him, poring over the estate's accounts, feeling more and more dismayed. His father had left him nothing. No, worse than nothing—he had left a mountain of debts, debts that Edward had no way of paying off. The rent roll could barely hold the creditors at bay, let alone enough to restore the estate and turn a profit. Worse still, bad weather and flooding threatened the village with famine. The entailment forbade the selling of Hurstfield Hall, but even if it was possible, Edward refused to entertain the idea.
One night, Mrs. Wayne, the housekeeper, came in to find Edward slumped over the ledgers. She was draping a shawl over him when he jolted awake.
"Ye'll work thysel' to death at this rate, Master Edward," she chided.
Edward sighed. "Tell me what to do, Mrs. Wayne," he said, rubbing his eyes.
"Get ye to bed this instant."
Despite the worry gnawing at his insides, Edward had to smile at her reproaching tone. When his father whisked Edward to London after the death of his mother, he'd decided to bring Mrs. Wayne along, and that was perhaps the only thing for which Edward was grateful to his father. For four years, she had practically raised Edward, shielding him from the worst of his father's temper. Then, his father had died as well, a disgraceful death in a debtor's prison, and Mrs. Wayne had to return to Hurstfield Hall, while Edward was sent to school and spent his holidays being shuffled from one relative to the next. He had longed for the housekeeper's stern scolding and gentle affection then. It was another reason he'd vowed to keep Hurstfield Hall. It wasn't just his home. It was also the home of Mrs. Wayne and the handful of staff that had remained through the years—Henderson the gardener, Wheeler the coachman, and others. Sure, Edward could leave the place to rot and move to London to focus on his reform work, and perhaps even continue his study of English history and folklore in Oxford, but what would happen to them then? They were his responsibilities.
As he stood up from the desk, stretching the cramp out of his long limbs, Mrs. Wayne said, more seriously, "As for what to do... I hope ye don't mind me sayin' this, Master Edward, but ye need to get thysel' a wife. One wi' lots o' brass."
"Don't tell me you'd be willing to relinquish your control over the household for a new mistress," Edward teased.
"Aye, sir, I would," Mrs. Wayne said, handing him a candle, "if she makes ye happy." Edward was touched by the rough familiarity with which she said it.
"I was just teasing you, Mrs. Wayne. Come now, who would want to marry this?" He spread his arms, showing his faded clothes and general unkempt appearance.
"Ye're sellin' thysel' short," Mrs. Wayne said, with loyalty and maternal pride.
Later, as he lay in the damp bed and listened to the wind whistling through the boarded-up windows, Edward thought about what Mrs. Wayne had said. Yes, a wife—one with a fortune attached, or "lots o' brass" as Mrs. Wayne put it—would solve all of his problems. But Edward found the idea distasteful. Even if he could find an heiress who liked him—not love, never love—enough to marry him, he could never bring himself to take her money. His own father had married his mother for her money and squandered it all away with his drinking and gambling. And he was not his father.
He would have to get married sooner or later, he supposed. But he had never really considered the possibility, save for the occasional passing thought. He couldn't imagine what marriage would be like. He was only determined that, should he ever get married, it would not be the same as his parents. No, it would be built on mutual respect and honesty. As for love... he had no romantic notion of love. Of course, he had experienced the occasional stirrings of the heart and the body, but he always stamped them down with resolution, recognizing them for what they really were—infatuations, no more. To love someone, to really love, meant to make himself vulnerable, to open himself up for heartache and betrayal, and he would not risk that.
And then the matter was thrust upon him, without warning, one day in January, in the form of a letter from a London solicitor.
It informed Edward that his great aunt, Lady Catherine Munson, had passed away, and requested his presence at the reading of her will. Edward still remembered Great Aunt Munson, a redoubtable lady who seemed to have been born old. She had barely tolerated him when he was sent to her house for the holidays, and after he'd gone to Oxford, their contact had been reduced to twice-a-year letters at Christmas and Easter. It was true that she always included a generous check with each of these letters, but Edward had never had any expectations of her. Still, he was in no position to turn down a bequest, no matter how small, so he dutifully packed his bag and left for London.
"Lady Munson had left you her entire fortune, sir," said the solicitor, a sallow, weedy young man by the name of Byers, who looked more like an acolyte than a man of law. Edward could almost see Great Aunt Munson ordering this scrap of a solicitor about. "However, there are certain... conditions to her bequeathal."
"What are they?" Edward asked, bracing himself for the worst. Great Aunt Munson had always been known for her eccentricity. While he stayed with her for Christmas, common courtesy had never prevented her from chasing off guests who bored her, yet she'd also been known to throw open her doors for carolers if their singing was particularly sweet.
Byers cleared his throat. "Well, her will stipulates that you must be married and produce an heir."
"What?"
Byers shrugged and pushed the will across the table toward Edward. It was true. The money was put in a trust. He stood to receive £50,000 after his marriage and a further annual allowance of £2000 until the birth of his first child, after which he would inherit in full. However, if after five years, he remained a bachelor or produced no heir, he must forfeit the inheritance and it would go to an orphanage. "As I have no children of my own," the will stated, "this is my explicit wish in order to ensure my legacy is perpetuated."
Edward sighed. It wasn't that unusual, as far as stipulations went. She had even left another substantial amount for the orphanage, to ensure that Edward wouldn't simply use the orphanage as an excuse to give up. And five years to find a wife and have a child was reasonable enough... for anyone else. For Edward, though, who had never felt at ease in any social gathering, it was as challenging as swimming across the English Channel. Come to think of it, he would rather swim the English Channel.
"You know what your problem is, Munson? You think too much," his friend Gareth Walton said while they were sitting over ale at the Hideout, a coffeehouse by day and alehouse by night in Covent Garden, where Edward and other reform-minded people often congregated. Ever since Edward returned to Yorkshire, he had been too busy with the estate to keep in touch with his friends, and he had to admit, it was nice to be able to talk freely about these troubling matters - finances, inheritance, and matrimony - with those who he could trust to understand and not judge him for them.
"I agree," another friend, Geoffrey Beaumont, piped up. "Courtship really is not that complex, you know. You go to gatherings, meet young ladies, see who you like, get introduced to her, and spend some time with her until it is socially acceptable for you to propose. Simple as that."
The three of them and a fourth, Granville, had all met at Oxford. Unable to fit in with the clubs and secret societies of the other students, they had navigated toward each other, drawn by their shared love of fantastical novels and folk tales, which scholars dismissed as only fit for children. Granville was now traveling the country, trying to make a name for himself as a playwright, while Walton and Beaumont were in London to raise the funds for an expedition to gather and study the folklore and traditional tales of Eastern Europe. It may not be as fashionable as one of those naturalists' expeditions to South America, but they had high hopes of getting some support from the Society of Antiquaries.
Sometimes, Edward envied his friends their carefree lives. But now, their expertise as Oxford scholars was not much help to him in finding a wife. None of them knew any lady of marriageable age. Most of the women in their circle were the serious, middle-aged bluestocking type. Edward's relatives, who were all jealous that he was getting Great Aunt Munson's money and not them, had refused to help.
"And what if I don't see anyone I like?" he asked gloomily.
"It is literally teeming with women out there," Walton said, nodding at the busy street outside the alehouse's window. "Just pick one."
"Good God, Walton, you're not suggesting that he marries a prostitute just to get this inheritance, are you?" Beaumont exclaimed in mock offense.
"No. I'm only saying he needs to cast his net a little wider. Unusual circumstances call for unusual measures."
Beaumont rolled his eyes. "I have an idea," he said, turning to Edward. "You remember Stephen Harrington, from school?"
"Isn't he the one they call 'The Hair'?" Edward asked. The name conjured up the memory of a rather pompous, foppish fool, who cared more about how best to arrange his curls and how much starch was in his cravat, than his studies.
"The very one. He's on his Grand Tour now, but his aunt, Lady Harrington, is one of the most renowned hostesses of London. I'm sure if you write to Harrington and ask for an introduction, you could get invited to one of her balls or receptions and have your pick of the best debs the ton has to offer."
Edward hated how mercenary it all sounded, but his friends were right. He had to swallow his pride and follow social rules for once, if he wanted to save Hurstfield Hall.
***
As he entered the brightly lit ballroom of Lady Harrington's London mansion, all glittery with gilt from the furniture and jewels from the guests, Edward had to remind himself to relax. He had managed to secure an invitation to Lady Harrington's first ball of the season without really thinking about what it would mean, and now, somehow, he had to get through it.
He bowed to the hostess, who greeted him with the same rictus smile she used for all of her guests. Edward wondered if Lady Harrington had to smile so much that her muscles were locked into that position forever.
She then introduced him to an array of young debutants and their mothers, one quickly after another, until his head was positively swimming with names and titles. True to her reputation, Lady Harrington made no mention of his father's debts, only referring to his "vast" and "picturesque" estate in Yorkshire, which Edward took to be haut ton speak for "rambling" and "wild". He felt fourteen again, being paraded around at dinner parties and tea parties by his relatives so their guests could ooh and aah over how charitable they were for taking in a poor, orphaned boy. It was one of the reasons he'd enjoyed staying at Great Aunt Munson's more than anywhere else. She'd always told him to stay in his room whenever she had company, much to his relief.
And he had to survive a whole night amongst people just like those who had used him to boast about their kindness and those who had ogled him like he was some zoo animal, while secretly feeling thankful that they didn't have to take in such a sullen, ungrateful child.
He couldn't even tell them apart. With those ridiculous feathers towering on their heads, and frills and ribbons and bows ruffling on their dresses, obscuring their true forms, they all looked alike, like one of Chef Carême's pièces montées. He asked a few of the young ladies to dance and tried to engage them in conversation, but they were either too shy or found his frank opinions too shocking, for their answers were all monosyllabic, and after he led them back to their seats, more than one of them turned to their friends with derisive whispers, or worse, laughs.
It was enough to try anyone's patience.
After the sit-down supper, Edward started to look for a gracious way to leave early, but Lady Harrington was not going to release him that easily. Rethinking her strategy, she introduced him to the men instead, but these were even worse. They cast their arrogant eyes over his old-fashioned clothes and smirked upon learning of his Yorkshire origin. When one of them asked, in a rather condescending tone, what he did to fill his hours in the countryside, Edward made the mistake of being truthful.
"I've been trying to organize a school for the village children," he replied.
"A school! How did you ever convince them to send their children to school?"
"I haven't had much luck in that area," Edward said, and instantly regretted it, as the men exchanged smug, knowing looks.
"Be careful about pressing them too hard, or you may have another riot on your hands," another said, and Edward had to suppress a snort. These preening dandies, who looked like they had never done a day's work in their lives, were even worse gossips than the women. Some rag would publish sensational reports of the machine-smashing Luddites, and they would treat it as the definitive guide to the North.
"I don't think so, there are no mills or factories near my village," he said, deliberately taking the remark at face value.
"Oh, but these riots aren't just limited to mills and factories. The papers are reporting letter-writing campaigns that threaten the local gentries as well..."
Edward let out an irritated grumble. "My tenants have no need for letter-writing campaigns, sir, they know where to find me."
"Ah, but you have to admit, they're a dangerous, disorderly lot! How else do you explain their action, smashing up those machines that are there to make their lives easier?"
"Those machines take away their jobs and leave their families starving," Edward said slowly, as if to a child.
"That is no excuse for violence—"
"My God, man, we're not all Luddites and Speceans up north, you know!" Edward shouted, losing his patience.
Several heads turned toward his direction, but he didn't care.
"This school," cut in another young man. "It is a noble pursuit, to be sure, but I'm afraid it might be a waste of time and money." He was shorter than Edward, but his athletic build, Grecian profile, and most of all, the air of arrogance with which he carried himself, made him the center of attention. Next to such an Adonis, Edward felt like a Vulcan.
The man's lips curled up. That little smirk tore down the last remnant of Edward's self-control and courtesy.
"Oh, yes, it is a waste of time and money to educate children," he spat out, "as opposed to spendin' thousands o' pounds on balls and dinner parties, or on horses and hounds to chase after some poor wild creatures, or wagin' it on a turn o' a card!"
A hush fell over the ballroom, and Edward realized he had gone too far. It would not do to insult these people, thinking he was above them, when he was here for the same purpose as they. He turned away, intending to beat a retreat, and found his arm seized by Lady Harrington.
"Come, come, gentlemen," she said, with her ever-present smile, "no need to raise your voice. Let us speak of happier matters." Then, pulling Edward away, she hissed, her smile turning into a snarl, "Lord Hurstfield, I'm only doing you a favor out of my respect for your late mother, but if you brought quarrel and disruption under my roof, I would not hesitate to throw you out, sir!"
She stopped in front of another mother-and-daughter pair, both trying hard to pretend they hadn't been watching the little drama unfold in the corner. Lady Harrington put on her hostess smile and voice again. "Mrs. Conyngham, Miss Conyngham," she said, "may I present to you Edward Munson, Baron Hurstfield, just lately arrived in London."
Edward bowed out of habit.
Mrs. Conyngham scrutinized him, an eager look on her heavily powdered face. "Hurstfield. I've never heard of it," she said. "Whereabouts is your estate, sir?"
"North Yorkshire, ma'am," he replied, noting how her smile cooled as soon as he said it.
"Oh. It must be quite the journey for you." Edward's neck itched around his collar, under his hair, and he wished to be away, away from this interrogation, away from this place of all glitter and no gold. "And are you enjoying yourself in London?" continued Mrs. Conyngham.
"Not particularly, no," he said shortly. At that, he caught Miss Conyngham giving her mother a quick glance, before bending down and hiding a grin behind her hand. Some of his irritation dissipated. At least someone understood.
Lady Harrington seemed at a loss for words. "Well, you would enjoy yourself more after a dance with a pretty partner, perhaps?" She gave Edward a little nudge.
Oh, all right. He extended a hand toward Miss Conyngham. "May I have the honor...?"
Again, another quick glance at her mother. Mrs. Conyngham's rouged lips were set in a disapproving line, and Edward hung back a little, ready for the rejection. To his surprise, Miss Conyngham smiled brightly, put her hand in his, and let him lead her onto the floor. He was not used to such a warm reception, and for the first time, he looked at his dance partner more closely. Thank goodness, her gown was a simple one of silvery gray, with no frills or ruffles to hide her slender frame, and she wore no feather on her head. Her blond braids were held up by a silver ornament in the shape of a crescent.
By the time the music began, her initial warmth seemed to have been forgotten. While she made all the correct moves and steps, she remained distracted, her blue eyes moving around the room, searching for something, or perhaps someone.
"Am I boring you, Miss Conyngham?" Edward asked, surprising himself. He had no reason to hope she would be any different from the bored, simpering debutantes he'd danced with all through the night... but for some reason, that sarcastic grin in reaction to his words, that tiny spark of life behind her demure façade, kept him interested.
She returned her attention to him with difficulty. "My apology, Lord Hurstfield," she said. "I fear I've been very remiss in the proper attentions of a partner."
"And what are these 'proper attentions', pray tell?"
"Usually I would ask if you enjoy dancing, how long you have been in town, have you been to court, and so on," she said.
"That sounds awfully dull," he said, determined to draw out that spark again. "Why don't we talk of something more interesting?"
She looked away for a moment, stewing over the matter. "Well, you've said that you're not enjoying yourself," eventually she said, "so I was wondering... why do you stay in London at all?"
It wasn't a very stimulating question, but it was something. "May I be honest?"
"It seems to me, Lord Hurstfield, that you are nothing but honest," she said, with an encouraging little smile to show she meant it as a compliment.
"Well then, if you insist, Miss Conyngham," Edward said, emboldened by the frank curiosity in her eyes. "I am here for the same reason that you and other unattached ladies and gentlemen are here. Matrimony." Seeing her face fall, he shrugged. "Alas, I wish I had a more noble reason." He tried to sound dismissive, but he couldn't help feeling he'd disappointed her somehow. Strange. Why should she be disappointed? And more importantly, why should he care?
"So you believe that everybody is here simply to find a husband or wife, and none to enjoy the ball itself?" she asked.
"Oh, I'm not denying that there are those who genuinely enjoy a ball," he said. "But I don't see them here. Look at them." He nodded at the other dancers. "Some would rather be at home warming themselves in front of the fire. Some of rather be drinking at an alehouse. Some would rather be at a brothel." Miss Conyngham gave a little gasp, and Edward checked himself. He'd never spoken so freely to a young lady before. There was something in the way she looked at him, like she was hanging on his every word, that loosened his tongue. "I didn't mean to shock you. I merely think we would all be happier if we were permitted to follow our hearts, instead of doing what society dictates, don't you?"
"Some evenings I'd much rather stay home," she admitted.
The spark was gleaming under the surface again, though a little weaker. Afraid of losing it, he jumped to another question. "It is rather a waste of time, don't you think?"
"What on earth do you mean?"
"All this... ritual, to find a mate. Dancing around each other, literally and figuratively, trying to gauge one's suitability." He gestured around them, getting into his stride. "I've heard that in China, parents who wish to marry off their daughter would simply write down their name, age, and dowry on a card and send it off to the families of prospective grooms. Whoever accepts would respond. It saves a lot of time and effort."
"But that sounds positively mercenary!" Miss Conyngham exclaimed. "What about love?"
Now it was Edward's turn to feel a little disappointed. So she was not much different from the other young ladies after all. He had to remind himself that it wasn't fair to her. His cynical view on love was the minority. Still, he couldn't help asking her, rather heatedly, "How many couples you know marry for love?"
She looked away again. "Do you talk this way to every lady you dance with?"
"Only those that accept my honesty," he said, gazing at her, hoping, wishing she would say something back, something real.
She lifted those questioning eyes to his face, but before she could say a word, the music ended, and with it, so did the connection between them. Any spark that he might have glimpsed in her eyes was once more hidden behind a veil of courtesy and propriety. She curtsied to him, and he responded with a bow, before leading her back to her frowning mother.
Edward made his way across the room. If I look back and she's looking at me, I shall ask her to dance again. He wanted to reignite that spark—the spark that he realized wasn't just in her, but in him as well.
He turned around. Miss Conyngham was looking elsewhere, her eyelashes fluttering shyly, her fingers touching the silver crescent in her hair, her face flushed as if lit by a fire from within. It was quite different from the hint of a spark that Edward had seen. What hope did he have to compete with such a fire? With a sigh, he made his excuse to Lady Harrington and left.
Chapter 2
#hellcheer#hellcheer fic#hellcheer au#hellcheersource#eddissy#eddie x chrissy#eddie munson#chrissy cunningham#joseph quinn#joseph quinn fic
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on eddie not apologizing in carve your name:
I got a comment on carve your name into my chest that really had me buzzing (in a good way!) with thoughts about character development, and I wrote out a whole reply explaining where I was coming from and figured it may be worth sharing too.
I've seen the take that eddie gets off 'easy' at the end of carve. he never really apologizes to steve for how he's treated, and at the end of the fic doesn't really have consequences for this. steve has grovelled and apologized and done something on a huge public stage, and eddie... well. he's been a little shit.
I love seeing people pick up on that, because it was something I did with a lot of intention! when you write from single character POV interactions like this can often feel unbalanced, especially if we feel connected to one character more than the other. but all of carve was written with both of their ongoing development and feelings strongly in my mind. the sequel is going to touch on this a lot, and there are hints as to what's to come in my answer to the comment I got, so stop here if you don't want any inkling (but still want to know that yes, eddie is going to have a lot of his own making up to do). otherwise, enjoy this unrestrained ramble on my character choices.
(oh, and also: serious spoilers for carve your name below! read at your own peril!)
off the bat: Eddie needing to apologize for how he treated steve is definitely going to come up (more than once) in the sequel. we're going to get some insight into the character development steve has gone through (and if you read the prequel, i hope you can see how much he's a different person in THIS fic compared to that), and these boys are going to need to spend a really solid amount of time working through where they are as people and how they've treated each other (on both ends). eddie definitely has a lot of apologizing to do and is going to really need to prove to steve that he has grown and changed, and is still growing. steve definitely still has wounds from the way eddie has treated him (aka: as disposable), though steve has also made choices in this fic that are going to have serious repercussions.
ultimately, eddie absolutely makes a bad call here when he kicks steve out and refuses to listen to him, and he focuses so hard on all of steve's faults that he really ignores his own (as we often do when fighting with someone who riles us up). but the thing is: he mades a bad call because he has been hurt over and over, and he is STILL hurting with the fact that steve just kind of wants to gloss over everything and go back to their previous arrangement, when it has substantially changed eddie's life. don't forget he's also got brenner over his head and he is terrified of losing his career, so he's trying to take brenner's warning to heart, he just isn't very good at communication (all characters in this fic need therapy should be a tag, huh?).
at the end of the day, we have two characters here with their own faults, insecurities, and struggles. steve (as we'll get into in the sequel!) has his own self worth problems and has always been one to try to smooth over problems and just 'get back to normal' even if it's no longer working for the people around him (see: his breakup with nancy in canon). he is going to need eddie to prove that he's in it, that he wants this as much as steve did. eddie's got faults too, he's a hair trigger who's quick to jump and slower to think through the way his actions read. his original plan here was to sit down and talk to steve after the game but when steve changes things with the kiss, well, he gets caught up.
for me this was a good stopping point because it marks a solid conclusion of eddie's arc (from their first encounter where he still thinks he hates steve, through all these issues of his interpretation of steve's sexuality and fear of being outed, working through what it means for eddie to be queer and out in hockey not on his own terms, etc). steve taking the steps to fix it, to prove to eddie that he's all in, is what eddie needed to conclude this arc, to know that steve is going to stick it out even when it's really really hard.
but it's not the end of their character development, and in a lot of ways this marks the beginning of a huge change for steve. in the background of this fic he's spent a lot of time coming to terms with his sexuality and he thinks that this is going to "fix" it and solve their problems, but he's just opened himself up to a lot of issues and he's going to need eddie to reassure him and support him as they deal with the (absolutely massive) problems that coming out like this is going to cause them.
anyways, phew. tldr: eddie absolutely has apologizing to do, and a lot to make up for and to prove to steve that he is as in it as he is in his head. but steve has more things to overcome too, and they will hurt each other again (as humans do!) before they figure things out. they have a lot to get through as a couple in the sequel, from BOTH sides. I've tried to write this whole verse as balanced as I can (though having single character POV can often make things feel less balanced, even if they're not!) and that's going to continue to be a theme in the sequel.
#carve your name into my chest#steddie hockey au#steddie hockey fic#PHEW this was a lot#i was just so excited to have someone catch this and i wanted to go through where i was coming from with this choice#hex is writing#hex writes stuff#meta analysis of my own fic#i loved getting to write all this out haha
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10 and 29 for the fic asks?
10. Is there a fic that got a different response than you were expecting?
mmm yes and no? i generally have a good idea of what reception a fic will get, and i also only really write for me and like maybe one other person Sometimes so it doesn't bother me if a fic doesn't get a good reception or something.
i was surprised that other people really loved maneuver one into place because i hadn't posted in a long time (i had posted two fics the year before and none for two years prior to that) so i was really reminded that like yeah i know how to write actually. i was also surprised by how quickly responses rolled in to the 911 book club fic I wrote because i'd written 911 before and it hadn't got as much of a response -- even the long fic my friend and i wrote didn't get as much of a response, i think because it was long and also the tags were scary. this one was a crowd pleaser for sure but we got a LOT of comments in the first few hours.
29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.)
i have a disease where i think i'm going to post everything i start. i have like four sg1 fics i want to write and two i've started and i am convinced i'll finish them. i did say a few days ago that someone should write a specifically lesbian la'an/jim fic but it won't be me. someone should though!
ok after searching in all my little fragments i found something that i both likely won't post and serves as a teaser for a fic my friend and i have discussed doing. it's a 911 fic and originally was a christopher centric outsider pov fic but has changed course slightly, this is basically shannon's conversation with his principal back in s2. i also threw in another scene that is meant to be a little later
alright before the break with the fic stuff: send me questions! :)
It’s obvious by the third question that Shannon Diaz isn’t in her son’s life.
“So – tell me a bit about Christopher,” Principal Amy Summers prompts, and Shannon freezes.
“He’s a great kid,” Shannon responds after a second. “He loves art and drawing, always has. He – well, he –”
Shannon trails off, clearly trying to think of something that doesn’t sound generic, and so Amy takes pity on the other woman. “You and his father are separated, I take it?”
“That obvious?” Shannon asks with a grimace. “Sorry. There isn’t a formal custody arrangement so Eddie didn’t know what to do, but I haven’t been around in… a while. But I trust him if he says this school would be amazing for Christopher, and I hope that us being –” she makes a vague hand motion that Amy takes to mean complicated, “– doesn’t hurt his chances.”
Amy gives her a practiced, reassuring smile. “We have a lot of different types of families at the school. All we care about is if our kids are loved and supported.”
Shannon lets out a shaky breath. “And Christopher is. Eddie told me that everyone at his job love Chris and have been helping out.”
“That’s wonderful to hear.”
Principal Summers isn’t surprised when, after Christopher is accepted and the paperwork comes back, Shannon Diaz is listed after a home care aid on his emergency contacts.
“Hi, this is Christopher Diaz’s father, Eddie.”
The receptionist, Jody, types that into the computer system quickly and finds Christopher’s file. “Hi Eddie, how can I help you?”
“I’m stuck at work and won’t be able to get Christopher at pick up time. Can I add someone as an authorized person?”
“Of course. What’s their name and relationship to Christopher?”
“Buck – Evan Buckley, he’s my partner –” Eddie is cut off by the sound of an alarm blaring in the background. “I’m sorry, I have to go. Do you need anything else?”
“That should be fine, Mr. Diaz. Have a good day.” Eddie barely says goodbye before hanging up and Jody sighs before adding the information to Christopher’s file – Evan Buckley (father’s partner). She’ll have to go by his classroom later and have the teacher add it to the pick up sheet, since those were printed off in the mornings.
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coda/missing scene to 4x05 because i, once again, had too many feelings. read on ao3
Eddie Diaz is good at compartmentalizing. He’s great at it, at putting his emotions in a box and locking it to focus on the task at hand. Needs to be good at it to be able to do his job, be it in the army or now, as a firefighter. He doesn’t get to panic when one of his coworkers is in danger.
He still nearly loses it when he and Bobby hear that Buck’s still in the factory.
It’s not a surprise, not really - of course Buck disobeyed a direct order to make sure every last person gets out alive, and of course he doesn’t think about himself. It’s one of the things Eddie loves him for. But the sheer terror of hearing Buck explain over the radio that there’s no way out almost overrides his training. Almost.
For a second, he’s ready to run right back in, on his own if he has to, to find Buck and get him out, somehow, he has to-
Then Buck is on the radio, alive, still okay, and the incident commander tells him that a rescue team is coming in to find them, and Eddie forces himself to stay calm and focused, to be of help where he can be the most useful. And then the factory blows behind them.
Chimney, Hen, Cap, him, they all spin around in shock and Eddie can just stare at the balls of fire and the smoke billowing, feeling paralyzed. The rational part of his brain is already clocking that it wasn’t the whole factory, probably just one of the tanks full of flammable gas, and probably not anywhere near where Buck is, even though he didn’t seem sure about where that was over the radio. His heart, hammering against his ribs, takes a little longer to catch up and Eddie has to press his shaking hands against his thighs for a second.
He’s got himself under control by the time they’re being sent in.
Outside of the factory, he can’t bring himself to look at Buck for too long. He’s over by an ambulance with Bobby, having been checked over quickly, and the look on his face is something Eddie doesn’t quite know how to deal with. But he’s got Bobby there, and Hen, so Eddie has to trust he’ll be fine.
He and Chim checked the victim over, giving him oxygen and getting him ready to be transported to the hospital. He’ll probably be fine in a few weeks, the smoke inhalation shouldn’t have caused lasting damage, and his leg is clearly broken but not crushed. Buck saved his life.
“Tell your friend,” Saleh says on a cough, gripping Eddie’s arm after they’ve moved him onto the ambulance, “thank you. Thank you.”
“I’ll tell him,” Eddie promises, fixing the oxygen mask over his face again. “Breathe.”
They ride in the back of the ambulance mostly in silence, checking Saleh’s vitals and focusing all of their energy on him.
It’s only on the way back to the station that Chimney says, “So that was a bit too close for comfort, huh?”
Eddie lets out a humourless laugh. “You could say that.”
“You think he should’ve been working today?”
“I think,” Eddie says slowly, “that he needed to not be alone with his thoughts today. And I don’t think he could’ve done his job any better today.”
“Yeah, no, he did everything right,” Chimney says hurriedly, “that’s not what I meant. I just...worry about him.”
Eddie looks at his drawn eyebrows and hunched shoulders and thinks about the way Chimney has been acting around Buck for the past few days, like he’s walking on eggshells, careful but ready to jump to his defence at any time, and knows he’s being honest. “Yeah, me too.”
The way Buck called himself spare parts, defective parts this morning is still echoing in his head. He didn’t know what to say or do to make Buck feel better, still doesn’t. Whenever he’s tried to talk about any of it for the past few days, Buck has been quick about brushing him off, with humor or sometimes anger, though that was always directed at his parents and never at Eddie.
He gets it, is the thing, knows all too well what it’s like to keep things to himself, to not want to talk to anyone about them. He just didn’t know what it’s like on the other side of things. All he wants is for Buck to know that none of this is on him, that his parents are the one who fucked up and didn’t do their job. A job that should be the easiest in the world. Eddie knows how easy it is to love your child unconditionally. He also knows how easy it is to love Buck.
One day soon, he’s gonna find a way to prove to Buck how loved he is. If that means coming clean to him about his feelings, then so be it - he’s been thinking about it for so long now that he’s pretty sure Buck wouldn’t ever leave him and Chris, even if he can’t reciprocate Eddie’s feelings. Buck deserves to hear that someone loves him for him.
Back at the station, Eddie showers and changes into a clean uniform, and when he’s walking up the stairs, Buck’s parents are there. He knows it’s them immediately and catches Hen’s eyes across the room, her eyebrows raised.
“Is Buck back yet?” he asks her, voice low as he sits down on the couch next to her.
She shakes her head. “Bobby went to the hospital with him, just to make sure he’s really fine. I don’t think he knows they’re here.”
Eddie looks over at them, and has to press his hands to his thighs again at the sudden rush of hatred that he feels for these people. He doesn’t want to imagine what it must feel like to lose a child, but it gives them no excuse to treat their living, breathing children the way they did. The way Buck has been acting these past few days is their fault, it’s their fault he’s been feeling like he wasn’t enough his whole life, and Eddie hates them for it.
“Has anyone talked to them?”
“Chim did, when they came in,” Hen says, “and I kind of wanna give them a piece of my mind. You look like you do, too.”
Eddie gives her a wry smile. “That obvious?”
Hen scrunches her nose and gives him a kind smile. “Yeah. I can’t imagine ever treating my children like that. And I think they should know what they’re missing out on with Buck.”
Eddie couldn’t agree more, and before he knows it, he’s pushing himself up from the couch and walking over to them.
They both look up with matching expressions of polite confusion, and Eddie grits his teeth and sits down without asking.
“Mr and Mrs Buckley?” he asks. “I’m Eddie Diaz, I work with your son.”
“Do you know where he is?” Mrs Buckley asks. “Howard said he didn’t know.”
Depending on when Chimney talked to them, that’s probably even true, but Eddie wouldn’t hold it against him if he was just trying to get away from his parents-in-law as quickly as possible. “He’s at the hospital.”
“Oh, what did he do now?” Mr Buckley’s voice sounds long-suffering, as if his son being in the hospital is a nuisance more than anything else.
“His job,” Eddie bites out. “He did his job and saved someone’s life tonight. Do you even know the kind of man your son is? He goes above and beyond for everyone. He risks his life to save others - did you know he saved dozens of people during the tsunami, including my son, while he wasn’t even a firefighter? Of course you didn’t. He shows up for his friends time and time again and he puts everyone else before himself. He’s a good man, a great man, something he certainly didn’t learn from you-”
There’s a hand on his shoulder and he cuts off, the sudden silence making him aware of how loud his voice has gotten, and he looks up at Hen, almost expecting her to tell him to shut up, but she’s looking at Buck’s parents with narrowed eyes.
“With all due respect,” she says, and Eddie has never heard her voice like this, this hard and cold, “but Buck deserves better than what he got from you. He’s not just a valued member of this station, he’s family. I’m happy to tell you some stories about him, if you’re interested in hearing them, because I agree with Eddie that you should at least know what kind of person he has become in spite of you.”
Mr and Mrs Buckley look almost chastised, speechless, and Hen drops into the chair next to Eddie. His hands are shaking again and Eddie doesn’t think he can sit here with them any longer, certainly doesn’t have any nice things to say to them, so he decides to let Hen handle it from here on. She’s clearly got it under control.
Wordlessly, he stands up and goes downstairs to wait for Buck instead.
When Bobby parks the car, Eddie spreads his arms expectantly, relief flooding his veins when he announces that Buck got a clean bill of health from the doctor.
“Glad to hear it,” he says, but can’t help giving Buck a once-over just to make sure for himself. He’s also showered and wearing a clean uniform, looking miles better than earlier, but there’s still that sadness around his eyes and mouth that Eddie hates.
“Show off,” he teases him as Bobby rushes off, and Buck smiles at him.
“I had to do it.”
All Eddie wants is to go up to him and pull him into his arms to keep him safe from the world, but this is neither the time or the place. Instead, he just puts as much of that feeling as he can in his smile and tells Buck, “I know you did.” Then, a little reluctantly, he nods his head towards the stairs. “You’ve got some visitors.”
Buck leaves with one last look, a frown on his face, and Eddie watches him go. No matter how this conversation is going to go, Buck has a lot of shit to work through.
First and foremost, he needs to talk to Maddie because Eddie knows how much they love each other and how miserable this situation is making them both. And then he’ll need to start believing that they love him - Maddie, the whole crew, Christopher. Eddie. That he’s worth that love. And Eddie will do everything in his power to make him believe that.
#buddie#911#911 spoilers#buddie fic#911 fanfiction#pia writes#man i am NERVOUS any time i post something new#and this is the first time i've written from eddie's pov I hope it doesn't suck#anyway the whole firefam loves buck so much
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director’s commentary for first best?
(re: this post - come ask me about the "behind the scenes" of a fic/scene/set of lines/etc from something I've written!)
Hi! Thank you for the ask!!
Oh man, where do I start.
I actually have the genesis of this fic documented in the tags on this post from March 20, 2021, which read: #this morning i realized i want to write a fic #where [taylor] and buck are friends with 'benefits' but the benefits are platonic cuddling and companionship and a little bit of tough love #and everything is just a little bit better because of it.
So that idea hung out in the back of my mind for a while, and then when the Big Bang sign-up came around in May/June I decided I wanted to give it a try but couldn't figure out what to write... and there that idea still was!
(more under the cut...)
One thing that was really important to me was that Taylor have her own storyline and motivations and not just be there as a prop for Buck. Her "screen time" ended up being proportionately less as the story got longer and longer (I did not expect to end up at 25k!), but I think/hope I still met that goal. The idea of her and Natalia together, being intense and career-focused and taking on the world, makes me really happy. I would love to see a version of that on screen.
And of course, the main reason that things got longer and longer was exploring Eddie's side of the story. It was tricky because it was through Buck's POV, and I knew there would be some readers who would treat it as "...and therefore Buck's take on things is both complete/omniscient and infallibly right"... and sure enough, I ended up turning on comment moderation for the first time ever because a couple of early comments on chapter two were so viciously anti-Eddie that they made me feel sick. Luckily, most people understand the concept of emotional nuance and unreliable narrators (and also that figuring our your sexuality can be a long, complex process!!), and the reasonable comments vastly outnumbered the other kind.
Relatedly: It was important to me that this story was not anti-anybody. That doesn't mean it is a story that treats all of its characters' actions as acceptable/admirable/good! It just means that it was a priority for me to write people who act like people, good and bad and neutral and grey and all.
Finally... I have the vague outline of a sequel. It's called Forever. Read into that what you will :-)
... That ended up being longer than I expected, and still doesn't cover everything I could say about even just this one fic! If anyone has follow-up questions and/or wants to ask about another fic, please send me an ask!! Again, here's the original post: Director's Cut asks.
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