#newlips
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so, like, my horny steve thot is almost always the same: i just love the idea of his cock being sooo uncommonly long and girthy that he has to take his sweet time getting you ready and even tho he makes you cum on four fingers and his tongue twice, he still can only fit about half of his cock inside you before you’re crying (crying for more? crying for less? you don’t even know … you’re crying for more probably) :(((( hehe
I know this is way more than a Steve thot, but I do hope you like it anyways? Hehe, thanks so much for sending it in, my dear Cece! I tweaked it a little bit ;)
Note: My vaginismus having ass could not take Steve’s monster very easily (if at all), but this is nice to think about. And I felt like having trouble, even with prep from four fingers (my god, I struggle with sometimes one and definitely two) — is relatable af!
Warnings: Language, smut, NSFW, touches on sub space a little bit, mentions oral sex, handjobs, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, and the reader has a hard time taking Steve, so there’s significant pain. I think that about covers it?
Sometimes you felt as if you were floating. Higher than the tallest cliff hanging off the quarry, rocks jagged and waters a deep, enriching blue, rippling in velvet serenity. Your particles could be scattered to the Midwest winds and you’d have yet to realize, halfway through time — maybe even space…? It happens more and more frequently now, tonight is no different.
You shift, one jut of your knee that slides into a slippery sloping press, his wiry leg hairs tickling your calf. He moves, widening your right thigh, your ankle sliding across your rose colored bed sheets, and back behind his slender form, where he’s kneeling in front of you. An electric heat flows so hot between your legs that the cool air rushing in hurts. You fist your own fingers into your air, massaging, tugging, neck stretching to expose the delicate tendons that run up your throat — ones he’s littered in his claims. God if he could suck them raw, nip the sore flesh into his teeth, enough that you whimper again, opening yourself just the way he needs you to…
Your arm is still thrown above your head, the outline of your forearm pressing into your pillow, your kiss-swollen lips shiny with spit and dormant pleas that he’d heard not long ago. He’s tried to say a few words, even used his palm to push down on your abdomen, still four knuckles deep into your soaking wet pussy. It’s to no avail, your eyes completely glassy, lash line soaked, gaze fucked over and reaching outer limits — a place he can only imagine what’s it like (from your perspective, anyways). He knows this path you go head first into. The books and magazines he had read a long time ago in his High School days mentioned how sex is obviously different for girls, how they can experience things more intensely sometimes.
But nothing could’ve prepared him for this. The very first time it happened coincided with a two hour long foreplay. Steve remembers it like the back of a Farrah Fawcet spray canister. He was prepping you to take him — all nerves and mangled, panting breaths. One finger and his mouth on your neck, two found his lips sucking underneath your jaw line and crooking against that spot just right, three had you stifling whimpers into his neck and riding his splayed palm that stayed drenched, and four… Well, four was an unremarkable set of attempts that took up the better part of the second hour.
You’d done it with Steve’s patience, his languid coaxing. And when you had berated yourself for being unable to take it much past the tip of the fourth, he’d slid between your legs and lifted them apart, his tongue finding your creamy opening and helping himself. You lost count on how many fuses he’d lit and caused to explode, only touching your senses upon hearing Steve hiss out a yes when his fourth finger easily joined the other three. It took a few minutes with him talking to you, high on a raspy ease, a delicious chorus of praises pouring off his lips — then you were back. Some sort of transitioning space, Robin had told him when he couldn’t help but to ask, wondering if it was too much for you.
And that fed into Steve’s addiction to satiate his hunger for seeing you in such an uncaring, completely melted state. All because of him.
He grabs your chin with a calloused thumb and pointer finger, pinching to tilt, your lips catching his and separating in an easy smack. His nose tucks into your cheek, another glide of his mouth, four fingers turning back into three and a stretch, and you inhale sharply — everything coming back into focus. Your breath is winded, bosom heaving and nipples dragging across his tufts of chest hair. He’s so fucking warm, his freckle splattered skin stained red with flush, his aftershave sinking into the corners of your mouth, stubble tickling your chin, and inky pupils littered with cinnamon rings. His brows pinch together, pearly white teeth grinning lazily as he presses another kiss to your mouth the moment that you sigh into a shared breath.
“Welcome back, baby.”
His free hand reaches for your forearm above your head, fingers sliding along damp and salty skin, tickling across your palm and lacing with your own digits — squeezing.
“Mhm. Stevie…” His thick fingers buried in that scorching mess between your thighs is suddenly on the forefront. Holy shit he’d gone to town on you. The evidence has slicked down your ass and onto the bed sheets, that’s no secret.
“I tap out again for a second? Fuck, you’re so good.” You coo at him, enjoying how his eyes light up in a mirth unmatched.
He hooks your right leg around his lower waist, leaving the other lowered to where you’ve got it propped. His eyes find yours and he drinks you in as he pulls his fingers from you slowly, both of you letting out a choked moan. His thumb pad caresses your clit, his digits smacking your cunt and scattering some arousal. You jump, toes curling, digging into his waistline.
“Shit, honey, let me taste you first.” He’s teasing, smirking that Steve Harrington smirk, popping his sopping fingers into that plush mouth, making a real diabolical show of it.
You practically chase his touch, eager to sample yourself — whatever he’ll let you have. He wiggles his shiny fingertips and barely touches your bottom lip, teasing you, making you raise up — the action causing his very prominent erection to nudge your folds. You jump a little, that instinctual preparation that promises a very defining pain — working its way to the forefront. Steve shakes his head and swipes his fingers across your mouth, planting them on your hip to massage in soothing circles. You’re so fucking wet that you’ve already soaked him, and that makes holding back from taking what he wants that much harder.
“Easy, okay? Haven’t even tried to put it in yet. You know I’ll always ask you before I do, right?”
You nod, breathing in a few self-comforting breaths. It’s not that you’re terrified of the pain. Hell, your little kinky ass indulges in it most of the time, but there’s also that percentage that is nervous, that worries about how much it usually does hurt, (despite many orgasms and lubrication), or if you won’t be able to take him at all this time. His walnut strands tickle your cheek as he descends to nuzzle your nose with his own, reassuring hand still on your hip.
“You want it like this tonight?”
You nearly combust on the spot, body bowing to a magnetizing nostalgia of various positions he’d fucked you in; nice and deep, or ever-so-slow and fucking filthily. You can almost taste his sweat from thrusts he’s yet to initiate, feel the goosebumps pepper your flesh as his silky mane tickles your forehead, maybe even your neck and shoulder (it all depends on which way he has you, really). You aren’t quick enough to draw in your timid answer, starting to slip again, preparing to drift and seek him out. His fingers leave your hip and pull down on your bottom lip, releasing it with a plop as the digits head towards your jaw — strumming a slow scrape. “Babe?” He’s amused, questioning. “How do you want me?”
“I..” And your throat feels like it’s overworked, yet you’ve barely spoken. It drips with elated exhaustion, slowly clambering upright. “Right where you are. Get the stuff, honey.” You flip his nickname for you back onto him, and it has a reaction that crashes into his chest, making it swell in size for you.
He nods immediately, the hand that’s holding yours — leaving, but only to work open the bedside drawer in haste, fumbling clumsily as he decides to capture your bottom lip between his teeth — leaving little love pecks as an after motion. You can barely leave his mouth, his neck straining and flushed bright red, caked in sweat. He rolls back on his haunches, his heavy cock bobbing against his stomach and leaving a connective trail of your slick and his pre-cum to both, your thighs and his.
“Jesus,” he mutters in awe. You’re always so wet for him.
You do shift a little, relaxing your legs around his lower back and connecting your ankles. He has the lube bottle in hand, cracking its lid and wiggling his brows at you. A silent signal not missed, you present your palm and he squeezes out a good amount of gel in, tossing it onto the nightstand beside your head. And fuck, you really wish you had your Polaroid right now, because watching him inhale through clenched teeth, toned waist giving into a bunch, and licking a sharp swipe of his tongue across his lips, the moment that your hand is reaching forward to take him in your grasp — it’s forever seared into your pitiful, Steve-stamped retinas. Screw your pupils, might as well be little Steve’s there instead.
His breath trembles, caressing his tongue, body unprepared as your fingertips tap a tempo up his shaft, barely grazing, before moving back down again. His cock twitches, jumping in your hand, and that’s the moment that you take your chance and wrap your fist around him. He falls forward on hefty palms, fingers splayed beside your head, bunching your sheets in a white knuckled grip. This is one of the parts that you absolutely go to the outer limits for.
He mouths at your jugular, nose pathing up your neck and dragging across your chin until he’s able to kiss you and pant against your lips. “That’s it, baby. Use it however you want to. S’ all yours. Don’t need to be afraid of it. ”
That first sticky contact where he’s finally parting your folds turns you into a babbling mess, a wanton whimper tangled at your tongue’s tip. The fingernail of Steve’s thumb scrapes at your chin, tugging and encouraging your sounds to spill free. When you oblige, he slides that very digit into your mouth and presses, salt, his saliva, and your own musky essence pouring over your taste buds.
“That’s my good girl — shit!” You roll your tongue around his finger and take him down to the knuckle, your fist gliding across his length at an easy rhythm in a simultaneous thievery.
“Monster madness.” You whisper, letting your tongue flick around his thumb, before releasing.
He meets your mouth in a shared grin — all teeth, light laughs. “So I own a monster and a python, huh?” He winds your hair back behind your ear and you know it’s almost time. Your grip on him has loosened a little.
You share a heavy stare, a connection that doesn’t falter, even through one raise of his bushy brows. You watch in a marveling, drool-lathered wonder as the tendons in his wrist flex when his fingers separate, pushing your folds apart. They disconnect with an audible squelch, making you grip him tightly again — squeezing. A diagram-deep groan punches through his esophagus and claws its way from his mouth. “Oh. Fucking do somethin’, honey. Please…”
His voice sounds wet, like a hurricane is rising inside his lungs, battering his insides, and threatening to flood his throat — a desperation that finds an adjoining link within your own desires. As he still holds you open, you bring his purpling tip to your swollen clit, and with a blinking of newly tear stained lashes — you use him. He couldn’t stop it if he tried, another beading escaping him and helping the friction you’ve begun to stimulate you both with. Your knee jerks and he thrusts into your hand, his thick, full balls catching on your ass, your wetness having found a home there too. It’s all too messy to comprehend a clean up. And he doesn’t want to, if he’s being honest.
“Baby, you have the prettiest clit. God it feels so good, you know that? Don’t stop for me.” He’s shaking in his forearms, biceps rattled, muscles caving in. He’s not even inside of you yet and he’s already drenched and throbbing, about to blow his load.
Luckily, you know him as well as he knows you. And you release, quickly lifting your ass in a slight wiggle, legs still locked and now wound around his lower back. You give him one pleading command. “Split me open, Stevie.”
He takes an intoxicating initiative, finding your left hand to hold on tight, fingers leaving your cunt and wrapping around his glistening base, curls matted with your cream. This isn’t gonna last long. “Need more lube, baby?” He checks one last time, your head shaking
You’re fucking warm and soft when he drags his dick through the seam of you, teasing, slapping your inner thigh, your clit, finally teasing his head to that ring of nerves. “Fuck.” His hand lifts on your hand, knuckles smashing into your pillow case, palms held and fitted. You’re relaxed enough that you’re close to sucking him right in, and as soon as the head pops past your opening, he sees your eyes fill with tears. You dig your nails into the top of his hand, scratching, nearly breaking skin. What comes out of your mouth before he can say anything shocks him.
“H-hold on. Fuck, I think I’m gonna cum.”
Steve’s lips find your neck and they suck, bite, licking clean the evidence of a beginning claim. He has to stop himself from fucking you up the bed at this new knowledge. “Oh yeah? Feels that good?”
“Just go slow.” You whimper into a kiss he bestows, tongue greedily slinking into his mouth to take what you want.
He sees what you mean when he presses in a little more and is flooded with a fresh wave of cream, his eyes rolling back and clouding over. And that’s the moment he knows that he has to check in, because you sniffle. There it is.
“Honey? You alright?”
You’re trying to say you are, but it comes out as a broken “mhm” and you lick your lips, eyes focusing on the ceiling, sclera burning. It fucking stings, your body is telling you what it knows — that it’s gonna be too much, that you’ll be sore. But he’s so warm, so heavy inside, and he isn’t even completely there. You try to shove your hips and seek out more, only to be rebuffed. “Baby…” he warns, composure tilting over that precipice, wavering.
And the air changes, your body goes light, and that’s it.
“Come here.” Your hand that’s unheld, is digging into his hair, its soft strands becoming rising waves in the gaps between your fingers, tumbling over yourself to get to his mouth.
His knees help keep him above you, or else he’d collapse. You breathe in deep, releasing it against his lips when you part, your nipples prodding at his slippery flesh. Smashing your nose into his own, he nudges, he shifts, and you’re caught — his thick cock sinking into you. It’s not even half, but you cling to Steve through gasping cries and tear splattered lips, everything aching and throbbing. Your heart is racing so hard that you’re sure your bones are being dusted to ash.
Despite the nearly unbearable fire his size carries, your body welcomes him halfway in without anything else needed. Steve pauses, not just for you, but for himself and the ridiculous choppiness that he can’t even call breathing. He lifts your combined hands and kisses each finger, making you tighten around him and his hips shove forward. You both curse and he apologizes, to no avail. You’ve begun to beg him, and he thinks he might be in his own transitioning space.
“Honey — Baby, hold on, m’ tryna make it better for you.”
“More, I want it all, S-Steve… Don’t stop!”
“But you’re tensing on me —“
“Please, oh god, please — Steve!”
His control vanishes and his closed fist reaches the bottom of your folds as he helps himself push the rest of the way in — in two swift, squelching glides. His tip finds that spot right away, settled like a flesh tight glove, and it sets off a series of sparks, your throat barely able to let out a scream before your release squirts from your cunt and reaches the happy trail scattered around Steve’s navel. Yep, it’s over. He pulls your linked hands up and drapes them by his neck, pumping his hips on one good time, forehead sticking to yours, eyes wide and lips parted in disbelief, and he comes. Your exposed hands that aren’t together, they find one another and match the other two, lacing, pieced just right.
Steve crumbles and collapses on you, your breasts dripping with combined exertion, his pulse racing to stabilize, face burrowing on the swell of your chest. It’s a few silent moments — his cock softening inside you, your cunt brimming with his warm spend, and then he’s looking up at you from his spot. That five o’clock shadow surrounds his mouth, his pupils trying to normalize, and fuck — his own eyes have spilled moisture. Every freckle and mole is visible, his easy grin and silent apology starting, but you brush the hair of his forehead, enjoying his reddened cheeks.
“I love you, honey. Are you okay? Want me to—“ His own voice sounds discombobulated.
“Stay a little while with me, like this? Inside?” Is your airy soft response.
And now, now you think that Steve will be floating over the quarry with you. Particles that fuse together. Of time and space.
// eat me paragraph //
#asks#kink hour#kristenwrites#newlips#my work#my writing#steve harrington#steve harrington smut#steve harrington x you#steve harrington x y/n#steve harrington x y/n smut#steve harrington x female reader#steve harrington x fem!reader#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington fic#steve harrington one shot#steve harrington fanfic#steve harrington fanfiction#steve harrington x female reader smut#stranger things smut#stranger things one shot#stranger things#stranger things fic#stranger things fanfic#stranger things fanfiction
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dad’s best friend!eddie is at the house when you come home from college. you haven’t seen him since high school graduation a few years ago. you’re 20 now, and in those two years eddie thinks you’ve matured quite nicely.
sitting at the kitchen table, catching up over a few beers when you walk in, the sudden attraction is immediate and overbearing. you give him a kiss on the cheek hello and eddie has to check himself, forgetting in an instant he’s twice your age, but most importantly, that you’re his best friend’s daughter!
but when steve has to run into the office for an emergency, he leaves you two alone…
“how’re the boys treating you at school?” he asks, secretly hoping you offer up whether or not you have a boyfriend now.
“well, you know, they’re … boys.”
confused, slow to pick up what you’re putting down, he asks, “so … you’re not into boys?”
you chuckle, hopping up onto the kitchen table where he’s still sat. your skirt rides up your hips and he catches a glimpse of the black lace underneath and has to adjust himself.
“no,” you sigh, reaching forward to take hold of the pic at the end of his chain, smoothing the plastic between your fingers when you look at him from beneath your lashes. “i’m into men.”
your legs spread just enough that eddie can hear them unstick from each other. his eyes nearly roll to the back of his head.
gotta stop before i get way carried away ok bye omg what have you started !!!! honestly 😩
jesus CHRIST give me more!!! i need it!!
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hi, bee! <3
61. What is a weird thing you love?
hi! <3
61. oh god… the smell of gasoline
i don’t huff it but driving by a gas station? oh my god
Send me numbers!!
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peekaboo
Fuck 😩😩😩
#I’m tryna write Steve smut and you come in my ask box with this??#it’s okay never stop#ily#leighannne’s mutuals 🦇#newlips
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!!!! congrats on 9k !!!! <3
thank u honey!! <333
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𓄰 🧺 — come down sweetheart grow up 𓂃 🌥️ 𓄹 𓈒
#divider cr: newlips#esemble stars#aira shiratori icons#aira layouts#aira shiratori layouts#layouts#aira shiratori packs#enstars#enstars layouts#esemble stars layouts#messy layouts#messy icons#packs#messy packs#cute layouts#icons#soft layouts
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SHADOWS OF SORCERY INTRODUCTION POST:
SYNOPSIS:
Elora Spade joins the Regents Academy of Magic to investigate whoever has been trying so hard to kill her. She has a rare (and illegal) mind control ability—and despite her best efforts to hide it, someone knows all about it.
Someone who wants to steal her magic core for themselves.
Elora has a strong feeling that it's someone with a magic extraction ability. That's the only way somebody could have scrounged up that poison core she took. Which makes her very weary of the regional extractor... So her next step is to befriend the regional extractor's daughter to scope him out.
STATUS: Complete at ~32,200 words
GENRE: Fantasy, mystery-esque
ELEMENTS: Dark academia with lighthearted moments and humor, hard magic system, magic types inspired by MBTI Meyers Briggs personality types (meaning that all sorcerers have at least 4 abilities)
THEMES: Friendship, trust, belonging, self-actualization, second chances
TROPES: Hiding powerful magic powers, seeking revenge for hurting someone near and dear to the main character, befriending someone close to the enemy, the struggle between good and evil
CONTENT WARNINGS: Violence, blood, swearing, kidnapping, anxiety, depression, murder attempts (DM me if you want to confirm whether there are major character deaths or not!)
CHARACTERS:
Elora Spade: She relies on a bunch of eccentric firelights for their healing magic! She, uh, never had that magic poison core removed. Look, the regional magic extractor is her PRIME SUSPECT
Imogene Heron: Elora's sunshine coded best friend with an exceptional mind reading ability.
Charlotte Gallison: Daughter of the regional extractor… with an exceptional healing ability? That might be suspicious.
Jaelin Seal: He thinks Elora murdered his grandfather when they first meet! Oops. But there's a chance their cases are connected.
Kaden Brush: Tried to kill Elora! He was sent by the person who's trying to steal her magic. Definitely not a ray of sunshine.
Masterlist Post | First Part | Which SoS Magic Type Are You? Quiz
MISCELLANEOUS NOTES:
Special mention about the firelights: They're like fireflies and zip around like bees! They have wings like dragonflies! And they hover like hummingbirds! And sometimes they're skiddish like cats! And they crave attention like golden retrievers!
#wip: SoS#writing#writeblr#fantasy#the purple divider is by newlips on tumblr#SoS#or AKA the side project that stole a piece of main status wip vibes from my heart
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Hello
ABOUT ME:
↠ Call me Cece, I'm 19 at the moment. (I'm spiritually 50, let's leave it at that) They/ Them
I write Fics and occasionally draw art.
↠ So far I've been focusing more on writing fluff, smut is on the menu but I need more practice so do forgive me on that.
↠ Bear with me as I come to realise I have multiple Special Interests / random momentary fixations and will not shut up about it.
↠ Now this blog can be random cause I can't decide on one topic for the life of me so I'll write, talk maybe even shit post about anything that flies by, don't sweat it if that doesn't work for you.
↠ I have ADHD and my mental stability is on a high way but I'm still slow, so apologies for that in advance.
RECENT WORKS:
Resi.Evil [Leon × GN reader] · Fluff
Unexpected
Not Alone
From Afar
Touch · suggestive
CM [Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader] . Fluff
Hold On [part 1] . Hurt/Comfort
Hold On [part 2]
Warmth . CM meet cute challenge
Short stories
You Think you're Funny? · Leon (Resi.Evil)
CURRENTLY WORKING ON:
Resident evil × Reader · Isekai
Ada × reader · Fluff · suggestive
Clair × reader · Fluff
Spencer Reid (CM) x reader · Fluff
Fem V (cyberpunk 2077) x reader · 18+ · fluff
Leon × reader . 18+
ABOUT ASKS AND REQUESTS:
Status: Open
Do feel free to ask and/or talk to me about either the blog or any questions you have, I'll do my best to answer. Also it would really help if I could get requests cause my brain is fried.
I do have conditions: (just personal things)
↠ please don't take this as a chance to pick a fight, this isn't a place for that, I'll take on valid criticism and arguments.
↠ i will answer when I can and if I can, don't be upset that I haven't answered anything yet, it takes time for me to process things.
↠ if your request contains the following I will not be responding: Bigotry, Underage anything, beastiality, homophobia/racism, degradation.
↠ this is a safe space so if you wanna talk do feel free, I take on random questions too, be it about theories or speculations or possible facts, I'm not the smartest but I'll do my best.
↠regarding which characters from which fandom that I'll write for, please drop in and ask me and I'll respond accordingly.
Thank you for taking your time reading this, I hope you have a wonderful day!
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hiii baby 🤍
weird request maybe…
But reader being tired of dating but really wanting a baby…like she just really doesn’t want to wait for the perfect man to settle down with, but she really really really wants a baby.
So she asks childhood!bestfriend!bucky or like childhood!bestfriend!CE!Character to impregnate her…
He (being secretly in love with her) agrees, so they make one 😩
hi honey! not weird at all! I loved this, I'm hoping I did it justice and that you love it!
summary - you've decided to stop going on dates when the last one fails and go to your best friend for the thing you desperately want.
warning - smut, breeding kink, unrequited love (or not), horrible dates, creampie, swearing, slight angst.
18+ only please, the gif I use isn't mine, divider by @newlips
You sigh, having just come back from yet another failed date. No man seemed to live up to the expectation you were looking for. You sagged into the couch, kicking your shoes off and beginning to massage your temples. “Ugh, I’ll never find the perfect man to settle down with…” You look down at your stomach, and your mind fills with images of you being pregnant. Your eyes blink it away as you rub your belly. “I just want a baby… Is that so hard?”
Your eyes widen when you realise you have the perfect plan. Bucky! He’s your best friend, an ideal option for a sperm donor. You quickly dig through your purse and pull out your phone, unlocking it and quickly sending him a message.
‘Hey, are you able to come over? I have something important to ask you.’ You send the text, gnawing on your bottom lip as you wait for his response, watching the three little dots appear.
‘Sure, I’ll be there in 10 minutes with your favourite snacks.’
You smile, quickly jumping up and running to your room. You strip from the clothes you sadly wasted on your date and changed into a red lingerie set that Bucky got you for your birthday. You smirked when you remembered how flushed Bucky looked as you opened the gift bag and promised to show him one day. You walk over to the mirror and fix your make-up, reapplying your red gloss.
When you hear the door unlock, you quickly throw on your silk robe and head out of your room, ready to greet Bucky. He enters and smiles when he sees you waiting there for him. His heart practically pounds out of his chest as you smile back at him, walking over and wrapping your arms around his body. “Hey, I got us some Chinese.” He wraps one arm around you, tightly holding the bag of food with the other.
“You came so fast!” Your cheeks heat up at the innuendo of your words. You don’t notice the pout on his lips as you pull away from him and begin to walk toward the lounge room. “C’mon, I’d feel better asking you the thing while sitting down… I don’t really know how you’ll feel about it.” Your chew on your bottom lip, your nerves getting to you as you realise if he says no, you’ll possibly be ruining a good friendship.
Bucky follows you like a lost puppy, practically feeling your nerves radiating off of you. His eyes shamefully land on your arse, watching your hips sway as you walk before him. “So, uh… How did your date go?” This would be the tenth date this week that you’ve been on, and as your best friend, Bucky knows all about them and how lately they haven’t been going well. Except for his heart that constantly broke every time you told him you had a date with everyone but him. Bucky sits beside you, pulling out the hot food and handing you your usual.
“Shit like the others.” You immediately begin to stuff your face with food, starving from storming off during the date. “From the moment we met, all he spoke about was himself and the women he’s been with. Then when we sat down to eat, he ordered for me, but when I stood up for myself and ordered what I wanted. He decided to call me a cow and fat and that no man would ever love me if I didn’t let them take control of my life.” You growl, shovelling more food in your mouth. You swallow and look at Bucky, noticing the angry look behind his eyes but deciding to ignore that. “But, I came to a conclusion. You know how much I’ve been wanting a baby and have been trying to find the perfect man to settle down with.”
Bucky nods before frowning. “Please don’t tell me you're going to just sleep with one of these guys to get one.” His brows furrow. “You deserve more than that. You deserve someone that will be there for you and the baby.”
You wave him off, sucking some juice off your thumb. “Of course not. I had someone better in mind.” Your eyes connect with him, and Bucky’s brows raise when he puts the pieces together. “I want you to impregnate me, Bucky.”
“Y–you–” He swallows, blinking rapidly, wondering if he heard you right.
“I want you, Bucky. Just imagine how cute our baby would be, but I understand if you say no and no longer want to be–”
“Yes.”
“B–”
“Yes.” Bucky immediately scoots closer and cups your cheeks. “I’ll pump you full until you are carrying my child.” You feel slick gather between your thighs, turned on by his words. Bucky’s hands move down and undo your robe, choking on his saliva when his eyes land on the red lingerie set he had bought you. “You’re so beautiful…” He whispers, staring for a while before looking into your eyes. “D–do you want to go slow or…” Bucky swallows, knowing that you weren’t doing this because you felt anything for him. You were doing this to get a baby.
“Fast, for now, I just need you.” You whimper. You grasp the back of Bucky’s head and pull him toward you, devouring his lips with yours. “Please, fuck a baby into me.”
Bucky catches the for-now part, causing his heart to jump, knowing there might be another time. His breath catches as your lips connect, swearing that fireworks went off. His hand lands between your legs and begins to rub you through your knickers, letting out a moan as he feels how wet you are. “D–did you touch yourself before I got here?”
You shake your head, “No, no….” You whine, back arching and legs spreading more as he touches you. Bucky feels his cock harden more when he realises he made you wet. “Bucky, please.” You blink the tears away, so overwhelmed with your feelings for your best friend and your horniness. You hadn’t been touched in so long, and to have Bucky finally touch you with the promise of putting a baby in you intensifies it.
Bucky leans back, giving you a look. “Are you sure about this? Because once I start, I really don’t think I’ll be able to stop.” You nod rapidly, gripping any part of him that you can. He places a hand under your chin. “I need words, Y/n.”
“Yes, Bucky. I’m sure I want this.” You watch him remove your clothes, followed by his, and you gasp as your eyes land on his member. “You’re so big…” Bucky strokes his cock, lining it with your sopping cunt. As he pushes in, Bucky leans forward and connects his lips with yours, swallowing your moans. “O–oh…”
His hands move down and grip your hips, thrusting deep, fast and hard into your tight walls. “Fuck, you feel so good, doll.” Your legs wrap around him, pulling him closer to you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as he hits deep inside you, hitting places you’ve never reached before. “I can’t wait to pump you full of my cum, doll. Breed you.” He growls, getting lost in the feel of you.
You moan, gripping onto your best friend, feeling him split you open, bringing you pleasure you’ve never felt before. You can’t wait until he fills you with his cum, giving you what you’ve always wanted. “Faster, Bucky, please.” You don’t know how he’s done it, but you're so close you can feel your orgasm just around the corner.
Bucky’s hips begin to snap, slamming into you hard and fast. “Shit, doll. I’m so close.” His hand slides between your bodies, locating your clit and rubbing it. Your back arches, legs squeezing tighter around him as your juices squirt out of you, your walls pulsating around his thick cock. Bucky groans, burying his face into your neck, pounding into you before burying himself deep inside you. Thick spurts of cum shoot out of his mushroom tip as he pumps you full of his cream. “Fuck, fuck! There’s so much. It feels too good, doll!”
You sag into the couch, pulling Bucky along with you, enjoying the feeling of his softening cock inside of you. He stares at you, stroking your cheek, and you smile tiredly up at him. “Thank you, Bucky. I hope this takes, if not. We will have just to keep trying.”
Bucky smiles, “I’d be happy with that.” He leans forward and presses a soft kiss on your forehead.
thank you for reading!
feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.
#imyourbratzdollasks#anon reply#imyourbratzdollwork#bucky barnes au#bucky angst#bucky barnes#bucky barnes angst#bucky barnes drabble#bucky barnes fanfic#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes fic#bucky barnes fluff#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes imagines#bucky barnes one shot#bucky barnes oneshot#bucky barnes x fem!reader#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x reader smut#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes x you#bucky x female reader#bucky barnes fandom#sebastian stan fan fiction#sebastian stan#sebastian stan characters#sebastian stan fanfiction#sebastian stan x reader#sebastian stan x you
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4, c, # 🤍
Omg I'm baby Ralphie 🥹💕
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Eddie x Fem! Reader [vol ii]
Summary: you were desperate for a roommate after Nancy got married and moved out. An ad in the paper goes unanswered until someone comes knocking on the door.
W.C 3.8k
Trigger warning: enemies to lovers trope, eventual smut, language, crude behavior, Eddie is a fucking menace 🖤 this will be a series 💋
{a/n} I probably should have added this when I originally posted it. But I’m a little dumb— anyway, this is my submission for @newlips ’s milestone of love hope you all enjoy it 💋 I truly enjoy writing and I wouldn’t be here without the support you all as readers/ fellow writers bring to me every single day! Thank you all from the bottom of my heart ♥️
He wasn’t your first option for a roommate, in fact he was so far off your radar for a potential housemate, you damn near shrieked when you saw him. But when nobody had showed up besides him to view the small two bedroom house that you were forced to sublease after your roommate got married— you didn’t have a fucking choice. It was too expensive to run another ad in the Hawkins Post and summer was coming to a close. You were fucked.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” you snarl as you throw open the door to see his stupid grin. Always too toothy, too goddamn endearing. Made your stomach bind up. “No, no way.”
Standing in all his sadistic leather glory was Eddie fucking Munson. He’s taller than he used to be, still a long haired asshole, reeking of weed and cheap deodorant. What kind of sick twisted joke is this? Did you really piss off mother karma that bad that you have to live in a separate, more fucked up layer of hell? Fuck you Dante, and your inferno. There’s not a single other person in this town who needs somewhere to stay?!
He pushes his way into your home, leaning forward with a shit eating grin, eyes hooded and winking as your lips curl in disgust. “Nice to see you too sweetheart.” He taunted. Licking his lips as he stalked past you, his filthy work boots tracking dirt onto the carpet.
“Yuck — do not— call me that,” you hissed, you stand with your hand still on the knob, not fully committing to wanting to shut the door— praying that he was some sort of a hallucination.
“You gonna show me around, or should I raid your panty drawer while you sulk?” A dimple dips into his cheeks as his stupid grin grows wider on his face.
You slam the door with a thud, “kitchen, living room, my bedroom, the other bedroom, bathroom, garage, laundry in the basement.” You’re practically shouting, as you stomp around the small space, pointing to the direction of each room, taking a grand total of twenty seconds to point everything out, not giving a fat rats ass if he was following you or not. His laugh echoes off the walls, taunting you, making your skin crawl and your ears itch. You turn around to find him quick on your heels, your face almost smashing into his grease covered work shirt.
He doesn’t move, or make any attempt to step away from you, forcing you to put the space between you both, stepping back and smoothing down your hair. His eyes kill to yours, dark swirls of muddy browns searching your own, he asks, “Why do you get the bigger room?”
The fucking audacity of this man. You could wring his neck right now and nobody would even know.
“Excuse me?” You question, peering into his chocolate eyes, waving a finger in his face, “maybe because It’s my fucking house, you’re lucky if you’ll get a room at all.”
He leans his head back with a laugh, letting it slam forward as he deadpans, creeping forward and stepping around you, waiting til he’s behind you to whisper in your ear, “I’m lucky? That ad was in the paper for over a week,” he seethes, “I bet I’m the only one who showed up to view the place, so nice try, Tooty— but you’re desperate for the cash.” He wasn’t wrong, you were desperate, the salon paid okay but Josie just upped the price on your rental chair, making your mortgage almost impossible for you to pay on your own.
“…I’m doing you a favor. So, if you want me to pay rent and utilities, then I’ll, so graciously, be taking the bigger room.” His breath fans across the back of your neck, making the hairs stand up, and goosebumps riddle your skin. You turn to face him, hands on your hips trying to show how serious you are.
“I know it took you like four times longer to graduate than anyone in United States history, but you can’t possibly be this damn dumb.” It was a cheap shot and you know it, but who does he think he is? Barging in here with demands like a fucking A list celebrity. Not today, mother fucker.
A comment that would have normally made anyone else burst into tears, or at least leave hollering ‘bitch!’ as they stomped out to their car, only fuels Eddie’s perverted fire, “Ooo, an insult and a scolding, what’s next a spankin’?”
Your hard-ass facade drops, your face faltering to one of disgust instead of stern, don’t-fuck-with-me, boss lady, “Get out, Munson.”
“Nah, I think I’ll stay.” He saunters towards the kitchen table and pulls out his wallet, of course its a chain wallet, you roll your eyes as he starts forking over an impressive amount of bills and sets them down, one by one.
“Here’s my first month, last month and deposit.”
The total is way more than what you’d even told him but you're still tongue tied from his comments, he lives for this shit and you had fallen for it—rookie mistake.
“I’ll be back in a few hours to start moving stuff in.” He smiles widely, moving towards the door, “See you then, roomie.”
His figure haunts you for the next few hours you have left of peace. His smell lingers around the house, you shove open every window you can, including the one that was painted shut by the previous owners. He was so fucking annoying. Is that supposed to be charm he was throwing at you? Fucking barf. The only thing you were feeling was rage, and that you needed to shower after feeling his breath on your skin. Lighting every scented candle you can find, Sugar cookie and beach sands will do— the smell slowly wafts out of the windows. You shower quickly, figuring better do it now than after he arrives, the dreaded walk in a towel from the bathroom to your room was something you hadn’t thought of until this second. Hot water sprays against your skin, assaultingly hot, almost blistering the skin on your back.
You are seething, raging mad. If you were a cartoon, smoke would be funneling out of your ears. Mocking him, you think of better comebacks than you had thought up earlier. Scrubbing your skin until you resembled a lobster, and angrily scratching your scalp. “What’s next a spankin?” GOD he’s so nasty, the sheer nerve of him makes you want to throw a toaster into the shower with you. Nothing a few volts can’t fix. You towel off, looking at your reflection in the mirror as you wipe away the condensation. The stress of the day slowly melted off as it was rinsed down the drain.
You’re applying your eye cream when a—loud as fuck— knock on the door shakes the walls.
“Honey, I’m home!” Eddie hollers as you peek through the glass. He’s carrying a duffle bag and a 30 pack of Busch Light. 3 smiling idiots are behind him, two passing a joint back and forth while balancing a very worn mattress, the other swaying on the sidewalk holding a guitar, most likely already drunk.
Tucking the tail end of the towel wrapped around your head into itself, you fling open the door, “Jesus Christ Eddie, will you shut up! I have neighbors you know!”
“Oooo— first fight!” One of the idiots with shaggy blonde hair preens.
Your glare could compete with lasers against his skin, prying through his epidermis and burning the vessels.
Eddie lets out a laugh, “aww sweetheart, I didn’t know you were planning a slumber party!” he says gesturing to your towel and pink robe. “Give me about 30 minutes and I’ll be braiding your hair and you can paint my nails, give me all the hot gossip!”
You turn with a huff half closing the door behind you. The gaggle of idiots roaring with laughter at Eddie’s joke.
He pushes through the door into the house, tossing his bag onto the table, knocking over the napkin holder and the stack of mail, letting out a loud sigh. He rips the thirty pack open on the side, making the beers crash to the floor. You still your eyes and cross your arms, unamused by his stupid antics. He cracks one open, slurping up the spray of suds as it puddles around his hand and down onto the carpet. He kicks a beer towards you and raises his up in triumph. “Here’s to you roomie, Home Sweet Home!”
You’re so fucked.
-
“Robin, I’m seriously going to kill him. I don’t care if I have to go to jail—anything would be better than this!” you whisper-yell into the phone, you watched Eddie and his band of misfits bring in box after box, most of his stuff was in black plastic garbage bags. They formed a line throwing the bags to one another and the last one haphazardly tossing them into his room.
“Oh relax! A hunk like him moving in and you don’t even have to pay him? You just hit the jackpot!” She giggles on the other end of the phone, smacking through her licorice.
“More like jackass with all the shit he’s moving in.”
You’re hunkered in your room, between the wall and your bed, twirling your bedroom phone cord through your fingers, “Seriously the place smells like weed so bad I’m probably getting a contact high as we speak.”
Robin lets out a throaty laugh, “Might do you some good, you’re so fucking tense all the time.”
“Sorry—” you say, twiddling the blue carpet fibers through your fingers, “I’m just stressed after Nancy moved out is all.” It wasn’t a lie, Nancy moving in was a huge relief to you, she took care of almost everything. Organizing bills, scheduling pest control when needed, she even wrote the garbage pick up days and hung it on the garage door. With her gone, this all falls on you. “What if he steals my stuff in the middle of the night and bails?”
She curses your full name, “He may be a lot of things, but a thief is not one of them—seriously you have nothing to worry about, calm your boobies!”
“Boobies!” Steve yells, joining the room Robin was in, “it’s Eddie, he’s a total nerd, you’ll be fine.”
“If he’s so great Then you can live with him Steve!”
“Nope, no can do,” he says around a mouthful of food,
“I gotta keep this clumsy oaf on a short chain”
“Oh, you’re dead Harrington.” The phone drops and all you hear is squealing and thudding of feet running around.
“Robin! Not my shampoo! ”
“Steve? Robin?” You wait in silence as the line goes dead, “Uhh!” Slamming the phone into the receiver you hear Eddie and his leather clad Barbarians holler goodbye to one another. One too many “see ya later man” ’s and you’re practically puking. You open the door to your room and poke your head out. Watching closely as Eddie tears through garbage bags, unloading heaps and heaps of clothing, an entire bag dedicated to just band shirts, another revealed bedding that was quite literally rolled up and thrown into the bag. A quick sniff test has him turning up his nose.
The kitchen is taken over by Eddie’s stuff, more bags, more boxes, a cookbook titled: The Dungeonmeister Cookbook is sitting on the stove. A stack of Burger King collectible Disney cups is cluttered around the microwave. Along with an impressive amount of neon twisty straws and a bowl with a straw connected to drink the milk.
It’s like a small child moved into your home instead of a grown ass man.
Opening the fridge to get an apple, you can’t help but notice Eddie also moved some refrigerator items with him as well. Two big bottles of hot sauce, more beer than the local bar probably holds, a half drank carton of orange juice, and a giant jar of pickles, without a lid. Huffing with annoyance you step over Eddie’s bags of shit and get a knife from the drawer to slice the apple. The loud shrill screeching of 80’s metal almost makes you cut your finger. Stomping into Eddie’s room with your fuzzy slippers you don’t bother on knocking before you look for the plug to his cassette player, unhooking it from the outlet and pointing the knife in his direction, you all but scream in his face, “I almost cut my fucking finger off! Turn it down or I’ll cut the goddamn cord!”
He’s sitting crossed legged on the floor, cassettes littering his lap, his eyes almost bored, “aww Tooty I’ll play with you in a little bit, daddy just has to get some things done first, ‘kay?”
You roll your eyes in disgust, did he seriously just refer to himself as ‘daddy’?
“God you are foul,” you retort, throwing the cord down onto the carpet and placing the knife on a nearby box, “wouldn’t surprise me if you were a dad.”
Eddie throws his head back with a chuckle, “why? You into dad bods? Listen sweetheart, my metabolism will slow down eventually, gimme three—four years max and I’ll be all gut.” He flashes his pearly whites towards you and winks.
Ignoring him completely, your nose scrunches. “Stop calling me that!” your heart is pounding in your chest fury on high, “what the hell is that?”
“That,” Eddie says batting his eyelashes, “would be my masculinity wafting from my aura to yours, why does it turn you on?”
You fold your arms over your chest, and shift your slippered feet beneath you, “Do you have a certain amount of disgusting phrases you have to get out throughout the day or are you just naturally this nauseating to be around?”
“No idea, anyway,” Eddie continues, standing to his full height and shucking off his jacket and tossing it to the ground, “I’m gonna order a pizza you want in?”
“Maybe you should finish unpacking,” you say taking a quick glance around the clothes strewn everywhere around the room, “it’s a fucking mess in here.”
Eddie leans in close eyes ghosting over your features as they gawk over your lips, “well, sweetheart, maybe if you had given me the bigger room— like I had asked for— I would have enough space to put my stuff, besides,” he says, standing up and leaning backwards to crack his back, a small trail of hair peeking out from his waistband makes your breath hitch in your throat, “I bought dressers and they’ll be delivered on Monday, so my clothes don’t have a place to go right now, unless you wanna split your closet?”
“I’d rather drop dead.”
“Aww don’t do that, far too pretty to be dead, and what would the neighbors think?” He strips off his shirt and throws it in the corner of his room, your eyes dart away but not before catching a glimpse of his pale skin.
The small tattoos he had in high school are slightly faded with time, new ones are inked down his arms, across his chest and down his side. You can’t help but notice the silver hoops pierced through his nipples as they reflect light and draw you in towards his chest. He’s lean but built, no defining abs but the muscles in his arms could be carved from a sculptor, replicating a greek statue. Surely minutes have gone by but in reality it has only been seconds, you don’t even realize he’s still talking.
“…don’t need to give the cops more of a reason to watch me more than they already do.” He drops his eyes to your face, seeing you peek at his body. A grin is plastered to his lips as they curve upwards, he stretches his arms out wide, the veins in his arms protruding further out, oh what you’d give to just touch it with your hands, your tongue— wait what?—“Shit,” he says, drifting forward, your body pulling away from him, “looks like you aren’t into dad bods after all.”
Your cheeks flare red as you stomp out of his room, his joker laugh vibrates the walls as you slam your door. Throwing yourself on the smooth purple cotton of your comforter, and screaming into your pillow.
Nobody ever got under your skin the way he is. Why are you allowing him to frustrate you this much? He’s a boob. A pimple on your ass. That annoying twitch that your eye sometimes does when you don't have enough sleep. Yes, the festering wound, the bad rash that kept coming back, the burn in your belly, the thorn in your side— is now your roommate. Fuck.
A knock on your bedroom door, brings you back to your current state of throwing a hissy fit. You launch your cup of pens that adorns your nightstand at the door.
“Does that mean you don’t like pineapple on your pizza?”
-
Thank God you showered before Eddie started unloading his stuff, because he has been in the bathroom for at least a half hour. You’re sitting on the couch, the same rough, itchy upholstery that used to take up way too much space in the Wheeler’s basement. But a $20 bill and Nancy promising her dad that she would mow the lawn for the entire summer of ‘91, and it was now yours. Karen would sigh with relief that the ugly furniture was leaving, meaning her living room would get an upgrade as their now living room furniture would find solace in the basement. No longer stinking of cheesy pizza farts and bad B.O., or screaming threats from middle school boys about the inner demons of DnD, Mrs. Wheeler would come to miss the yelling, and the rotten stench of boys running amuck in her house. Nancy parted with the under stuffed, well loved, hideous piece of furniture when she moved in with Jonathan. So now, the outdated, wagon wheel patterned couch, was all yours.
The smell of finger nail polish fills the living room as you attempt at painting your toenails a shimmery blue that you had gotten at the mall with Robin. A fuzzy navel wine cooler tucked between your legs, you’re trying hard to get it finished before a new episode of “The Nanny” comes on. Eddie is singing in the shower, loudly. You recognize the tune as “Come As You Are” by Nirvana. Not that you were admiring the way his voice sounded. You were just surprised that a twenty six year old weirdo actually knew good music. The doorbell rings, snapping you out of, yet again, another strange spiral of thinking about Eddie Munson.
“Eddie!” You holler from the living room, “door.”
“Money’s in my wallet, just pay the dude quick and I’ll be out in a minute.” He yells back from the shower.
“Eddie, I’m busy— get the fuck out here and do it yourself.” There is no way you are walking around with wet toenails, what the hell was he thinking?
“I’m in the middle of washing my ba— “
“Alright! Fine!” You walk on your heels to the door, opening it quick to find a Hawkins High student in a red hat with the pizza logo on it.
“That’ll be $19.50,” he says with a less than enthused remark.
“Hang on,” walking back to the bathroom on heeled feet you knock on the door, “where’s your wallet?” you ask in a hurry through the door.
“Uh, my jeans I think,” Eddie yells back. You cross into Eddie’s room, looking around the mess he made, realizing the only thing he managed to make an attempt at organizing was his never ending cassettes, a few records, and an old record player. Posters decorated every wall. Metallica, Nirvana, Judas Priest, Black Sabbath, and White Zombie. The clothes were piled high in a mountain of leather, flannel and white cotton socks. Not a single pair of jeans that you could see. His bed sat on the ground, cluttered with notebook papers, dice, and tightly rolled joints.
“Eddie!” You yell from his room, “where the hell are your jeans?”
A chuckle echoes in the bathroom, muffled slightly by the spray of the shower head, “they’re in here, sweetheart.” His voice dripped with smugness and sweet notes of laughter.
Fuck it, we don’t need pizza. I can eat cereal. I’ll just tell the pizza kid to leave and Eddie can fend for himself. Fuck this.
“Tooty?” He calls from the shower, enunciating every syllable. “Come on,” he sings, laughing to himself, “I promise I’ll stay behind the curtain. You won’t see a thing— unless of course— you want to.”
You barge through the door, fumbling through Eddie’s jeans pockets, finding the black leather of his chain wallet and yanking out $25. An idea crosses your mind and you can’t help but go through with it. A flick of the lights had Eddie cursing every word imaginable as he was cast into darkness.
Thrusting cash into pimple head’s hand and shutting the door, you walk into the kitchen to get some plates. Eddie emerges from the bathroom. His hair is dripping in long strands, and your robe is wrapped right around his body, barely covering his southern region. The pink terry cloth material lined with lace looking absolutely ridiculous on his tattoo covered body.
Oh— this mother fucker.
“Are you seriously wearing my robe?” You ask, hands on your hips, nails digging into the cotton pajama shorts you’re wearing.
Eddie does a spin and swings his hips in a circular motion, his dick swinging like a helicopter.
“Well sweetheart, when you so rudely turned the lights off on me, I was forced to find the first thing I could to dry off with, and besides— you can’t deny how good I look,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows, smiling the widest smile you had ever seen from him.
A lump of anger and sheer rage catches in your throat, “you’re repulsive,” you say, turning away from him and tossing pizza onto plates.
“And you,” Eddie says sliding beside you, his breath fanning your cheek, the cold drops of water from his curls pressing into your shoulder as he grabs a greasy slice of pizza straight from the box, “are extremely uptight.” The whites of his teeth bite into the cheesy triangle and chew loudly as he smacks his lips, licking the orange grease from his lips.
Anger boils in your belly, filling your veins with agitation so thick they’re bound to clog up. “I. Am. Not. Uptight,” you seethe through clenched teeth, and closed eyes.
“Yeah, sure sure,” Eddie says, mouth full of pizza, and his eyebrows raised, “whatever you say.”
You weren’t always this high strung. But having everything ripped away from you, would make anyone pretty goddamn bitter to the lemonade life had to offer.
vol ii
volume ii
A/N: thank you to everyone for reading this and continuing to support my crazy ideas. Thank you to everyone I had beta this story—@agentmarvel @pinkrelish + @sweetsweetjellybean you all push me to be a better writer and I am forever grateful for that ♥️♥️🖤💋
Taglist: @luna-munson83 @tlclick73 @idkidknemore @joejoequinnquinn @newlips (omg, they were roommates)
#newlipsmilestoneoflove#eddie x you#eddie x fem!reader#eddie munson smut#eddie munson fanfic#enemies to lovers#eddie munson x you#eddie x reader#mechanic!eddie#eddie munson#eddie fanfic#eddie fanfiction
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the sex is good | fboy!eddie munson x fem!reader
Pairing | Eddie Munson x chubby/plus size Fem!Reader
Warnings | sexual content 18+ minors dni, unprotected piv sex, oral f receiving, oral m receiving, praise kink, slight degradation, possessiveness, multiple orgasms, alcohol use, drug use, minor fatphobia. fboy!eddie and his shithead friends.
Word Count | 3.7k (sorry)
A/N | fboy!eddie haunts my dreams, this ones for you @newlips
He’s been watching you slinking around Rick’s house all night, hips swaying and ass jiggling with every step — and he wants you. So fucking bad his cock is throbbing already, just thinking about getting you on your knees for him. He’s never seen you around, and you’re like nothing he’s seen before.
You’re overdressed for such a small party, sure. A midnight green satin dress cinching your waist in, tits spilling out the low neck, thick thighs rubbing together as you sway on your feet. Your hair fans over your shoulders, cascades down your back in effortless curls. You’re giggling, laughing at something your leggy blonde friend has said, nude glossy lips smacking together.
“Dude, you could do so much better,” The voice is off to the side of him, he doesn’t even care who it is that’s talking because they’re lying, tonight he wants you and in his eyes you’re the best thing there, “Carol is literally right there, Eddie. Have you seen her ass in those jeans?”
“If you think she looks so good, why don’t you go fuck her?” Eddie snarks, not once taking his eyes off of you. He doesn’t mean that, and his friend knows it too — he may not want Carol tonight, but she was his, too. Anybody lay hands on her and they’d know about it.
Eddie’s eyebrows furrow as Harrington makes an appearance from behind the doorway, two red solo cups in hand as he flashes a glint of pearly white teeth at you and your friend, offering the cups out. Eddie watches as you flush red at the attention, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, thanking Steve when he hands over the alcohol.
He doesn’t like it. The way Harrington’s clearly flirting with you, bumping his shoulder into yours as you laugh together like he just said the funniest shit ever. He shouldn’t have been shocked, Steve was always competition for him.
“Fuck it,” Eddie mutters to himself, finally having enough of the exchange going on right in front of his eyes, clambering off of the couch and slapping his friends knee in the process, “If it’s that easy for Harrington to charm the pants off of her, this should be a walk in the fucking park.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that, Eddie. She’ll be happy to have the attention,” One of his goons pipes up from the other side, resulting in a less than subtle middle finger raised in his direction.
Eddie didn’t discriminate when it came to women — he loved them all. Chubby or thin, tall or short, big tits or little tits, he didn’t care. If you were hot, you were hot.
And you absolutely were, just what he needed on this particular night. And he loved the thrill of chasing new tail, which was adding to his overall attraction to you.
It’s almost like God is on his side, when Steve leans down to peck you on the cheek lightly before bidding you and your friend goodbye. Eddie hides the clench of his jaw, knowing that regardless of how Steve touched or kissed you, he was gone now and out of the picture for the foreseeable. Leaving you wide open for him to pounce in and make his move.
“Oh for God sake,” Your friend rolls her eyes, utter disgust in her voice, folding her arms over her chest when he arrives at your side, “Hey, Eddie. This is —”
“The hottest babe in this place,” Eddie cuts her off, winking at you. He looks at you unabashedly, drinking you in with heavy eyes full of clear lust. You fluster under his gaze — he’s very intimidating. He’s clearly very sure of himself.
You blush, flipping your hair over your shoulder and fanning your face with your perfectly manicured nails. You were even better up close, plump lips in a constant pout, eyes sultry behind the dark makeup. The satin of your dress hugged to the curve of your belly cutely, cinching in your waist enough to have your plump frame shaped slightly more hourglass than usual.
Your friend blinks at you slowly, eyeing you both before making her decision, “I’m gonna go find Rick, see you bozos later.”
“I thought she’d never leave,” Eddie’s voice has a mocking, sarcastic tone behind it as he speaks. He takes her place, standing in front of you, only closer, enough so that his whisky laced breath fans your face — he pouts, “I don’t think your friend likes me very much.”
“She did warn me that you might be here,” You laugh, taking a sip of your drink, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste the tequila leaves behind on your tongue, “I was told before I came here to watch out for you, I’ve heard you’re bad news around these parts.”
“Aw sweetheart, m’not bad news. I just like to fuck and it kinda gets me in trouble,” He says it like it’s just that easy and it shocks you, how open and bold he is.
You school your face, “Ah, so that’s what you’ve slid over here for? In hopes of getting in my panties? And here I was, thinking you wanted to make friends.”
“Was it not obvious?” Eddie replies smoothly, slowly backing you up until you’re flush against the wall with nowhere to go — he towers over you, a hand coming out so he can brace himself against the drywall.
You glance to the side, taking in the sight of his thick fingers clad in harsh rings quickly before allowing your eyes to settle heavily on his own for the first time, properly taking in his appearance.
He’s hot, but you’re aware he already knows that himself. Looks like he stepped out of an ‘80s rock mag with the shaggy haircut, a scruffy beard, tattoos lacing his neck in harsh splatters of black and grey. He has a lip ring, tugs on it between his teeth — it makes your cunt flutter, and you have to clench your thighs together to relieve the throb of your clit, suddenly all too aware of your own arousal.
“I mean, I’m flattered really,” You smile sweetly and put on your best doe eyes, not letting on for even a second that you’re interested, “I was kinda hoping Steve would come back, though. He’s real cute, and I’ve heard he’s got a big dick. I wanna see what the fuss is about.”
Eddie narrows his eyes at you, a flash of annoyance swiping his features, “Harrington has all the equipment and doesn’t know what to do with it, sweetheart. You’re not missing out on much.”
Lies. Lies. Lies. But he can’t have you slithering from his grasp, not now that he’s actually had to put some fucking effort in when there are at least ten other chicks in this house who would fuck him without a second thought.
“Aw, I’m disappointed,” You pout, jutting out your glossed bottom lip, pretending like you even believed a word of what he just said, “Take me somewhere and show me a good time then, Munson. I’m bored of this back and forth.”
His hands are everywhere on you the second he kicks the door shut with his boot, crowding up into your body and gripping at your waist, fingertips squeezing the doughy flesh, “Let me show you how I fuck, babe. Swear you’ll never so much as think about any other cock again.”
You’re hazy from the alcohol, trying to keep your face neutral, but clearly even you aren’t immune to Eddie’s charm. Not now that his big palms are engulfing you and making you feel tiny, his lips almost brushing your own as he invades your space. A small whimper escapes your lips before you can even stop it.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” Eddie grins, backing you up against the bed until the backs of your knees are knocking the edge. His left hand slides along the soft satin of your dress, gliding down your back and pulling the material up along with his wandering fingers. Leaving your ass bare for grabbing — which he does, taking a large handful of your supple fat and squeezing tightly, pulling you flush to him.
“Is that a gun in your pants or are you just happy to see me?” You joke, though your voice quivers from the nerves, a gasp leaving you when you feel the hard outline of his cock pressing into your lower belly.
Eddie rolls his eyes, slapping his hand down on your ass and earning a quiet moan from you, the same hand coming back to soothe the stinging skin just as quickly, “That smart mouth needs shutting up before it gets you in trouble, sweetheart.”
You pull a face and oh, he doesn’t like that. Something darkens behind Eddie’s eyes as he pushes you back onto the mattress, knocking the breath out of your lungs and startling you slightly.
His wandering hands roughen slightly as he rucks up the material of your dress up the pudge of your belly, dropping to his knees on the hardwood floor, spreading your thighs and pulling your panties to the side.
Eddie buries his face into your pussy, the burn of his harsh stubble on your sensitive folds a surprisingly pleasurable feeling. You’re shocked — never in your life had a man like Eddie ever been known for eating pussy, yet here he was, tongue slithering out and lapping at your wet hole.
“Oh fuck, Eddie,” You whimper, fingers winding tightly in the sheets as he licks at your slit with the flat of his tongue, pointing it when he reaches your clit, flicking the sensitive nub hard.
One of his hands grips at the meat of your thigh to keep your legs spread, the other lays flat over the bump of your tummy to hold you down, stop you from bucking up off of the mattress and away from the pleasure of his tongue.
You can’t hold back your moans as he goes down on you with ridiculous enthusiasm, finding a perfect rhythm almost immediately — like he knows your body and knows what you want without even having to try. He maps you out quickly, figures you like your clit being sucked, his tongue sliding into the tight heat of your cunt.
“Shit, shit,” You tremble, eyes watering as your hips twitch up into Eddie’s mouth, unable to help it. He doesn’t stop you either, buries his face in even deeper and suckles at your clit harder. You slide a hand into his hair tentatively and he keens into it, lets you drag your fingers through his tresses and tug lightly.
He moans into the heat of your cunt, the vibrations catching you off guard and dragging you towards the edge ridiculously quickly. “Eddie, m’gonna cum,” You warn, tugging his hair harder as the winding in your tummy builds.
Your orgasm crescendos, deafening in your ears as your tummy coils and unravels just as quickly, a gush of slick spilling from your fluttering hole and making a mess of Eddie’s mouth and chin. He laps it up like a man starved, pushing his face even tighter into your pussy to get every last bit.
You can barely comprehend what’s happening as you shiver through it, body going limp and floppy as Eddie sucks your clit as a final act, before leaning back on his haunches and slapping your inner thigh.
“Up on the bed and on all fours, now,” Eddie commands, and you do as you’re told, flipping onto all fours and arching your back for him. Your tits spill out of your dress at this angle, tight nipples sliding teasingly against the material of the comforter beneath you.
You hear him unbuckling his belt, and you can’t help the way the nerves wrack through your body in anticipation. You can’t see anything from this angle, can only hear as his clothes hit the floor and feel as the bed dips under the weight of him pushing between your legs. He pulls your panties even further to the side, completely soaked in your cum, snagging the head of his cock along your cunt, getting himself wet with your slick.
He slides into the tight heat of your pussy with minimal resistance, bottoming out with a grunt. You wiggle your hips, a shaky breath escaping your lips as you try to adjust to the size of his cock — he’s really big, bigger than you anticipated, fitting snug in your walls. Your cunt flutters and he hisses, gripping onto your hip tight;
“Don’t do that shit,” Eddie scolds, punching his hips forward and knocking the breath out of you. His ego won’t let him admit that the tightness of your pussy is getting the better of him, and has him close to his release embarrassingly fast.
“Y’can move,” You whine, desperate to feel him split you apart from the inside. He doesn’t hesitate for even a second, sliding out of you almost fully and immediately sliding back in, ripping an erratic moan from your open mouth. You grasp at the sheets tightly, arching your back for him, “Fuck, you’re so big.”
“You’re tight,” Eddie comments, voice barely wavering as he builds a brutal pace, rolling his hips into the flesh of your ass. Your needy cunt sucks him in with every harsh slap of his hips, and you squirm under the grip, cheeks flushing with every slick noise your pussy makes, “Fuckin’ takin’ it like a good girl.”
You cry out, the praise unexpected. For once, you’re at a loss for words, unable to comprehend anything or feel anything other than Eddie’s bruising grip on your hips and his cock splitting you open. You push back into his next thrust, losing yourself in the feeling.
“Oh shit, just like that,” Eddie grunts, choking on his own tongue as you throw your ass back on him, the slap of skin on skin suddenly deafening in your ears. He grabs a handful of your left cheek, squeezing before he’s slapping his hand down on the rippling flesh, eliciting a whimper from you, “You like that, don’t you sweetheart?”
“Fuckin’ love it,” You cry — you can feel your velvet walls hugging the sheer girth of him so well that every pulse of his cock is easily made out. You’re being stretched so far, yet the initial burn turned pleasurable at an alarming rate, his blunt head gliding along the soft bump of your frontal wall making you dizzy, a deep heat blooming in your belly.
“Can feel you squeezing my cock, baby,” You can hear the grin in his voice, and you can’t even find it in your to be annoyed as you hurtle towards your release fast, “Y’gonna soak me in your cum?”
That’s what does it for you — your entire body dissolving into pleasure as your climax wracks through you, a high-pitched cry spilling from your lips. Your hips stutter as your walls flutter uncontrollably, Eddie’s cock fucking you through it. You feel your cum drool from you, slicking down your mound and making everything impossibly wetter.
“There she is, fuckin’ soaking for me,” Eddie guffaws, cock slipping out momentarily from the sheer slick of your pussy. He grabs hold of himself by the base once more, pushing back into your spasming walls and punching a moan from you.
You go limp after that, pushing your face into the pillow and letting Eddie use you, his grunts filling the air. You need to get up before he gets bored, the little voice in the back of your head niggles at you to do it.
“Pull out, need to taste your cock,” You mumble, drunk and fucked out on the sheer girth of Eddie’s cock fucking you. You’re sensitive, legs quivering and trying to close on their own, and you know you can’t handle much more.
Eddie doesn’t argue, thrusting into the tight heat of your cunt once more before he’s sliding out with a slight hiss — he could never say no to a girl willingly wanting to blow him.
It also meant there was absolutely zero chance of a pregnancy scare. It was a win-win in his book.
You maneuver yourselves until he’s sitting back against the pillows, you perched prettily on your knees between his spread legs. He’s littered in tattoos, covering most of his body, and it makes the pretty pink of his cock stand out even more when it’s flush against the porcelain and black.
You grasp a hold of the thick base in your hand, working your hand up and down slowly, using your own cum as lube. The extra glide from his foreskin helps too, and you suddenly can’t help but wish every man you’d ever been with was uncut — it was just so pretty.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Eddie asks, looking barely bothered by your hands on him as he produces a tin from the bedside drawer, a pre-rolled joint and a lighter inside. You shrug, too busy working up his cock to care about it.
You feel dumb — he’s left you in an absolute mess.
Vaguely aware of a lighter clicking in the background, you lean down and engulf the head of Eddie’s cock in the tight wetness of your mouth, tongue slithering over the slit, cheeks hollowing as you slide down further.
“That’s it sweetheart, you’re fucking filthy,” Eddie almost sounds impressed, watching behind hazy eyes as he takes a drag of his joint, fingers running through your hair and massaging your scalp, gently guiding you down, “You can take more, right?”
You take that as a challenge, relaxing so you can sink down lower, spit spilling from the corners of your mouth, sputtering on your mouthful when the head finally hits the back of your throat.
“Look at me,” Eddie commands, grunting and tugging your tresses between his fingers until your watery eyes are sparkling open. His own orbs are almost black as he watches you with pure lust — his stomach jolts as your glossy lips leave behind pink rings on his cock, “You’re such a pretty mess for me, sweetheart.”
You keen into the praise, sinking down the last of the way until your lips hit your fist. You alternate between sucking and bobbing your head with Eddie’s guidance, relishing in every little moan and whimper you’re punching out of him. He doesn’t give much away, but you can feel his hips growing restless, kicking up slightly.
He smokes away languidly as you absolutely fucking devour his cock — and then something unexpected happens. Eddie hits your gag reflex and your throat closes around your mouthful, squeezing his cock so tight that he’s choking out a deep growl, hips fucking up into your mouth harshly.
“That’s it, baby, taking me like a fuckin’ champ,” Eddie’s voice drips in arousal, and almost a hint of pride there too — no girl had ever been able to take so much of him at once without zero issue, and it was sending him hurtling towards the edge faster than he’d like to admit.
Your nails dig into the meat of his thigh, trying to ground yourself as he completely loses it and uses your mouth. You keep your eyes on him fully, crying around his girth and moaning, hand jerking what little of him is left — you can feel his salty release sliding down your throat and you know he’s close now.
He watches you with hazy eyes, hand fisted tightly in your hair and keeping you pushed down until you’re spluttering so much your throat is spasming around him, “Fuck, babe. M’gonna cum, you gonna let me blow my load in your pretty little mouth?”
You whine around your mouthful, feeling your spit spill from the edges of your stretched lips uncontrollably as he uses you, hips jerking into your mouth, speeding up as he reaches the edge. You nod, swallowing around his cock until he’s grunting.
“Yeah?” Eddie’s grinning, brings the joint to his lips to take another hit — and then you do something completely out of left field, ghosting your fingertips over the taut skin of his balls. He pushes you down onto his cock with a harsh hand, “You’re making me — oh fuck, fuckfuckfuck.”
The thick ropes of his cum fill your mouth at an alarming rate, gagging you in the process as you’re kept in place with a harsh hand and spasming hips. You watch behind tear clouded eyes, a deep heat in your belly as you watch Eddie’s eyes roll into the back of his head, tummy clenching as he just keeps cumming.
Eddie eventually lets you come up for air when you start to slap at his leg, desperately sucking in a breath through your nose. He actually almost looks apologetic when you finally slide off of his flaccid length, swiping at your soaked chin. You know your makeup is ruined now, there’s no way you can return to the party.
“Get yourself cleaned up, sweetheart. I’ll take you back to your little friend and she can take you home, yeah?” He speaks nonchalantly, stubbing out the end of the joint on the corner of the bedside table and leaving the butt behind.
You scoff, rolling your eyes — not even so much as a ‘thanks, bud’, in return for what clearly was the best blowjob of his fucking life, given the state of his reaction to it, “I can make my own way back downstairs, don’t need you to chaperone me, Eddie.”
Eddie chuckles darkly, bending over the side of the bed to retrieve his strewn clothes, “Oh baby, I know. But if I take you then I know you’re not gonna end up with Harrington — you know you can’t fuck him now, right?”
prick #1: ur girl from ricks is fuckin harrington bro
prick #1: he just came in here sayin shes got REAL good pussy
prick #1: does he kno u fucked???
Eddie seethes as he reads the texts, slamming a hand down on his steering wheel in anger, nostrils flaring.
He thought his words made it pretty crystal fucking clear — you were his girl now, didn’t you know that?!
His fingers fly across the screen as he types furiously. You didn’t give him your number, but your friend was happy enough to hand it over not even a day after the party. She was stupid for that, really.
get dressed and be ready in ten. don’t even try to play dumb you know who this is.
You needed to be reminded who you belonged to.
#eddie munson smut#eddie munson fic#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x fem!reader#newlipsmilestoneoflove#x reader#my fanfic#my work#mine
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Braised
Line Cook Eddie x Barista Reader
Summary: A long day at work leads to a long night in Eddie’s bedroom.
A/N: woof. I started this back in March? Took me this long to come back to it but I like it. Nay, love it because line cook Eddie is my boyfriend. Also, I need @newlips to know this has lived in my head since January and is the inspiration for this. It’s literally just….so so so much smut.
Warnings: Slight somnophilia (listen you had a long day and he’s got a great mouth), sex, drug use (not for the somno)
18+ NSFW No Minors
“Eddie, I’m really tired.” You giggle when his mouth finds the back of your neck.
“Yeah but I think I found some more syrup back here. Mhm, yep another sweet spot.” He rakes his hands into your hair to pull it up gently so he can get at more skin. It tickles, makes you scrunch your nose at the feel of his lips pecking around.
“Seriously Ed, I’m not gonna be much fun tonight.” It’s not that you didn’t want to fuck around, it was that it had been a Sunday From Hell. You’d shown up to his apartment a sticky mess, a new bleach stain on your favorite work jeans. He’d done nothing but smile and take your bag and usher you off to his bathroom, tossing in one of his big bath towels behind you and promising to have dinner ready when you were done.
Since then, he’d somehow convinced you to sit on his bed with him when you’d gotten out.
You gotta plug your phone in why don’t you sit down I’m sure your feet are killing you let me rub them for you oh why don’t you let me get that knot out of your back no seriously just lay down I’ll give you a little massage no I’m not getting fresh calm down.
You’d gotten comfortable, lightly dozing in the middle of his bed while he made sure the knot in your back never showed up again.
“Feel better?”
You nod and sigh dreamily. He’s shifted up from the edge of the bed to straddling your hips, bent over your back to whisper in your ear. “I can make you feel even better if you want.” He dances his fingers down to run along the edge of the towel.
“Eddie…”
“What if you just lay there huh? Let me take care of you.” He says quietly.
You were tired. You were sore. However the shower had worked a minor miracle and the growing bulge pushed against your ass was changing your mind by the minute. You pretend to contemplate, rolling your head back and forth on the back of your hand that’s propped up under your chin.
“And you’re making me dinner?”
“And I’m making us dinner.”
You shrug lightly. “Can’t complain if I fall asleep.”
“Scouts honor. I’ll leave you alone if you fall asleep.”
“Well I didn’t say that.” You mumble in your skin. His weight shifts forward, planting his hands next to your head. He hovers over you and chuckles. “Are you being a freak?”
“…Maybe. What constitutes a freak?”
“Talkin’ about me fucking you while your asleep’ll do it.”
The towel is the first thing to go, Eddie’s fingers sliding between the terrycloth and your shower warmed skin. It’s pulled free and flung towards the bathroom door, the chill air hitting your clammy skin for only a moment before his big frame is back on you, knees around your hips and hands planting beside your elbows. Your cheek upturned, he leans down to give you a kiss.
“You’re real sweet on me, huh?” You mumble. Out of the corner of your eye you can see the flash of a smile before he dives back down to kiss a trail from your face to your shoulder all the while slowly grinding his hips into you.
“You could say that.” He spends a while on light touches, pulling quite sighs out of you while you relax further into the comforter. You think you might actually be falling asleep when you realize he’s stopped touching you. He gets off the bed for a minute to rearrange and grab his other pillow. He kneels beside you again and taps your hip. When you don’t make a move he grabs you, fingers digging in enough to make you laugh.
“Don’t tickle me!”
“Then move!” The smile is evident in his voice even though you can’t see his face. He jostles you again and you turn your hip up off the bed.
“No, lift your hips up, like-forget it.” He leaves the pillow and yanks you up by the waist, making you tuck your knees up under you to stay up right. He makes a pleased sound and smooths his palm over the curve of your ass.
“You just gonna stare all night?”
“I could.” He says quietly. His finger traces light lines up the back of your thigh and you can feel the heat slowly creeping its way across your hips. It reaches out towards the lingering feeling of his palms pulling you up, where his fingertips had dug in. You were getting used to him moving you around however he wanted, liked it a lot even, just not sure how to ask for it yet. He pulls you out of your thoughts when he tucks the folded over pillow under you and gently pushes you back down.
“Relax.” He coos at you from above. His palm is warm against your ankle where he pulls a little to help you straighten your leg out. Tugs your other leg straight and then settles himself between your knees.
“Eddie-“ Turning your head over your shoulder is a deep stretch, and with your ass in the air slightly you can barely make out his hand hovering near his mouth and his dimples. He tilts his head over so you can actually see him.
“Hey that doesn’t look comfortable or relaxing.” He swats at one cheek, just fingertips, admonishing you. Tucking your chin back to the pillow you hide your smile in the silk. “You trust me, right?” He’s asking you, sincerity laced in his quiet words. You nod your head yes but he makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Tell me?”
“Yeah.” A little breathless, only because he keeps stealing it from you with these kinds of acts. “Of course.” You do. It’s been a few months of actual dating and every time he’s asked it’s been yes (vehemently yes) and still he asks. It’s not like he’s moved on to suspending you from the ceiling, but it makes you a little morose for all the times other people didn’t check in, didn’t ask after simple things.
“Hey.” He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze. He’s gotten so good at reading you, can see when you immediately start to get lost in that maze of thought again. “I can leave you alone.”
“Don’t…don’t leave. I am having fun.” You shift just a little so he can see the side of your face, hair pushed back so he can see your eye glinting in the lamp light. “I mean it.” His dimples match your grin and when his weight shifts up you can feel the smile pressed against your shoulder where he places a kiss. He litters your back with them, going down your arms till he can’t reach them tucked under your cheek. He lays them up your neck until he can feel the tension bleeding away. Plants a big obnoxious one on your cheek, one that gets you to scrunch up your nose again. He runs his hands in between the spaces he misses, fingernails leaving little pink lines down your back, lines that fade after a second. He’s trying to get you back in that relaxed state you were in. Post shower and dewy and looking like a water nymph lounging on his bed.
He’s at your hip, hovering over the black lines of the tattoo there. Breathe hot where it’s trapped between your skin and his face. He runs his hands down the outside of your thighs and back up. Steadies himself while he stretches out between your legs. He shifts around to lean on his elbows, watches the goosebumps fan out and over your skin. You’re good and sunk into the bed so he leans forward and slowly bites down on your left cheek.
Your leg kicks up next to him. “Eddie!” A high pitched squeal of his name makes him laugh around the mouthful of you. He keeps an eye on your face and rests his wrist on the pillow, knuckle barely grazing your pussy. Your hips shift slightly under his mouth and he lets go, admiring the imprints of his teeth before running his tongue over it. Inches his hand up on the pillow enough to slide his finger between between your lips, wasting no time in finding your clit. Circles it slow in tight circles, your sigh loud in his quiet room when he finally touches you how you’ve been wanting him to. He likes watching you like this, soft and relaxed. Knows he’s doing his job at keeping you out of that thought trap when your hips chase his touch. He rests his head momentarily on your ass, the quiet chuckle from you cut off when he slides his finger up and brushes over your entrance. You clench against him gently prodding, canting your hips back to chase his hand when he goes still.
“Hold on.” You hear the wet sound of his mouth and then feel the momentary cool touch of his spit slick finger going in slow until he hits his knuckle. The moan caught in your chest is dislodged when he flutters the fingers of his other hand over your sensitive bud and crooks his finger deep inside you.
“Is that good?”
A slight nod of your head and then a sharp gasp when he spreads you open with two fingers and spits, fingers working to spread it around. “You like it when I make a mess of you?” Another nod, he can see where you’re fisting the pillow under your head, but that’s not what he wants. “Hey.” Firm but gentle, he gets your attention.
“Fuck, yes Eddie please…” You run out of words when he slips another finger in, both now rubbing up against that soft spot inside. He’s taking his time, both hands working at a torturous pace and making you squirm around the bed.
“Told you I’d take care of you.”
“I never doubted you.” You gasp into your hand. He said he’d wanted you to relax but this is having the opposite effect. Between him nibbling on the cuff of your ass and taking his sweet time fingering you, it’s no wonder you’re pulling taut around him. You kick your leg up and try to squeeze at him, trying to keep him in place even though you couldn’t pay him to move.
Eddie speaks lowly. Hushed tones accentuated by the sound of you, wet made wetter from him sneaking his tongue in with his fingers.
“Been waiting all day for this.” His nose brushes along your folds when he replaces his fingers with his tongue. Goosebumps explode over the backs of your thighs when his now free hand lays over your lower back to pin you to the pillow.
“Taste so sweet for me.” He licks a wide tongue from your aching clit to your entrance, tip of his tongue dipping in to taste.
“Eddie I swear…”
“What?” He licks his thumb, pausing for second before gliding it over the tight ring of your ass. A gasp and your legs tightening around him make him look up at you. Your hands gripping the pillow, mouth hung open on a gasp tell him everything.
“You like that?” Another long lick over your center pulls a groan out of you and Eddie is done asking questions. He makes a mess out of you, wet sounds drowned out by your whining and moaning. You babble about his mouth and how good it feels and Eddie preens, doubles down and presses just a little bit more with his thumb. He flicks his tongue over your clit and when you squeeze him between your thighs he speeds up.
He’s been achingly hard since he started this little venture, grinding his hips into the bed with every one of your moans and as much as he enjoys taking you apart like this, he can barely wait to sink into you.
You chant his name when he sucks your clit and your hands look for purchase in the pillow and the sheets. The tremble in your legs barely starts before your pulled tight all around him, low groan from deep in your chest punched out by the rapid flick of his tongue. You’re just off the edge, orgasm rolling through while you huff into the pillow trying to catch your breath when Eddie hauls up. Distantly you hear his clothes hit the floor and he’s between your legs again, cock laying heavy on your ass.
“I take it back.”
“Take what back?” You’re floating in clouds made out of his bed.
“I’ve been waiting all day for this.” He strains out while pulling his hips back and slowly grazing lower and lower till the head of his cock catches and he pushes in. You both groan in unison and he takes his time fully filling you.
“Fuck baby, so fuckin’ wet for me.”
You can’t do much but lay there in awe, boneless and relaxed and letting Eddie do whatever it was he wanted.
“Feel so good for me.” He drags his hips back slow and pushes back in slow and keeps talking low and slow and he’s got you in a trance. Nodding along and agreeing, keening and whining when he pushes right into that perfect spot.
“If you keep doing that I’m gonna cum again.”
“What, this?” He gives a little more on that thrust. “Not yet you aren’t.” He grabs your ass, one hand on either side to use as leverage in this game of torture he’s playing. He lets a line of spit fall from his lips between you two and resumes his previous activity of sliding his thumb over your ass.
“You are a dirty girl.” He teases when you push your hips back into him. “Want me to fuck your ass?” He’s so full of himself, with every right to be. You nod under him, a silent ‘oh’ on your lips.
“Of course you, I’d take such good care of you.” Eddie babbles at the back of your head to try to distract himself. Every ridge and bump slides along his length and sends him closer to the edge and every lurch forward he pauses, not wanting this to be over.
It’s only when he makes you arch your back and he drives down into you that he starts to falter, your second orgasm taking you both by surprise.
“Oh shit, Eddieeddieddie!” You chant his name and push your hips back to keep him inside and Eddie thinks he might just fucking die tonight.
You’re out, hands falling limply beside your head and mouth hanging open. He’s not sure he’s ever seen you so blissed out.
“Oh my god.” Even with you floating off, your pussy grips him, fluttering around his cock in the aftermath of your own orgasm. He’d been playing a game with himself, just as much as with you but he’s nearing the end of his own limits. A thin line of sweat trickles down his back and his nerves are on fire. He holds you open so he can watch where he sinks into you but there’s a faltering in his rhythm. He curses and grips the globes of your ass, nails digging half moons into your skin.
You feel good, you always feel so good and he’s lost his train of thought. Stuck on the wet sucking of your pussy and the soft fat under his hands. He reached his goal in getting you relaxed, so much so that you’ve gone limp under him, little grunts of pleasure when he hits particularly deep. He can let go but he doesn’t want to, this impromptu edging he’s been after slowly killing him and making his eyes roll.
“So fucking good for me, yeah?”
You barely nod, too busy drooling into the pillow to give him a real answer.
“God I love the way-oh fuck honey, do that again!” You flex around his cock and Eddie’s hips stutter before he decides ‘fuck it’. He punches his hips fast and holds you down to keep you in place. Your grunts turn into moans and you scratch at the pulled up bedding, looking for something to hold on to. He fucks you right until it’s almost a mistake, pulls out and paints your back in hot lines, a pained groan vibrating in his chest while he pumps his twitching cock.
He can feel you trembling under him while he tries to catch his breath. One hand holding his softening cock while the other rubs up your leg and over your side.
“That was fucking beautiful baby.”
A slight chuckle from you and he leans over you to nose at the side of your face. “You okay?”
“Uh huh.”
“You don’t have a single worry in that pretty little head, do you?”
“Nuh uh.”
“Good.” He peppers a few kisses against your cheek and you smile lazily.
“I’m gonna go get a towel okay?”
You raise a weak thumbs up and he gives your ass a slap on the way off the bed.
In the time it takes him to find a towel and come back into the bedroom, you’re out fully this time. He lets his eyes wander over your body, moulded into his bed. The slow rise and fall of your back as you slip deeper into sleep and he shakes himself out of his poetic waxing to clean you up before it becomes a problem.
You only stir a little when the cloth hits your skin but Eddie is done quickly, ditching it in favor of tracing light shapes over your back. He smirks at the short red marks along your back where he’d hung on for dear life and it’s only the timer on the stove that’s able to pull him out of his memories, lest he burn the apartment complex down.
“Hey.”
You stir, pulled gently out of your nap. Eddie is crouched beside the bed with his chin hooked on the mattress, watching you blink blearily at him. “Dinner’s ready.”
“Did I fall asleep?” You ask, stretching under the comforter that he must have pulled up over you.
“Like, immediately. Got that NyQuil dick, what can I say?” His laugh shakes the bed when you smack his shoulder lightly.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Much easier to get you under the covers.” He gives you a quick kiss before standing up and holding out your pajamas to you. “You can eat dinner naked if you want, but there’s sauce involved.” He tilts head though and hums. “On second thought don’t, I can help you clean that up.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you and you snatch your clothes out of his hand. Sliding out of bed you march into the bathroom while he whistles after you.
“Jesus christ this is so good.” You say around a mouthful of food. Eddie grins into his fork, cheeks hot with his oncoming blush.
“Yeah?”
You shoot him a look daring him to pick apart his meal. “I’ve never had a turnip before. This is heavenly.”
“Never?”
“No! Especially not whipped!”
He watches you shove a forkful of charred broccolini into your mouth and pretend cry. “I really thought the ribs were gonna win but it’s this fucking broccoli.”
“Broccolini.” He corrects, gently. You roll your eyes and mutter sorry while you dig around your plate.
While earlier had be a spectacular beginning of the night, this is what he looks forward to the most, when he gets to stretch his wings and try new things with dinner for the two of you. Your face always lights up and is swiftly followed by a low growl of ‘oh my fucking god’ when you get first taste. You have yet to give him any critique outside of asking why he was buying you treats instead of making them.
“Eddie, I’m not kidding, this is the best thing you’ve made thus far.” You run your finger around the edge of your plate, gathering up the left over wine sauce. He watches your tongue lap it up off your finger and then watches your tongue glide along the edge of your wine glass, collecting the few remaining drops, momentarily wishing he was a piece of drink ware. “So, question.” You set your glass down pointedly.
“Answer?”
“When are you gonna let me take care of you?” You give him warm look, bottom lip tucked between your teeth.
“You can totally make dinner whenever-“
“No, that’s not all I mean.” You slide off the barstool and round the corner of the counter to where he’s sitting. You lean your whole body into him, hands toying with the loose curl from his clipped back hair. “You always take care of me. If it isn’t dinner it’s in there,” you gesture over your shoulder to his bedroom with your thumb, “or it’s paying for my nails, or taking me on dates. When do I get to do that for you?”
Eddie sighs and looks down at his plate. He doesn’t want an argument to spool out of this. You’ve touched on it before and every time gotten a little defensive about him always spending his money.
“I get joy out of your joy.”
“Okay, and I’d get joy from taking you out once in a while.”
He can see the resolve in your look, the slight pinch of your eyebrows and it’s been too good of a night. “Alright. Later,” he gives you a look, “we’ll talk about you paying for my nails okay?” He can’t get through without laughing and you push him, grinning. He stands and wraps you up tight in a hug, lips buried in your hair next to your ear. “Seriously, I promise. I’ll think of something.”
“Now though, I want to go out on that balcony and smoke that stupid little pink joint you rolled yesterday.” He points toward the door and you huff into his neck.
“It’s not stupid! The papers had little cherry blossoms on them!”
On the balcony Eddie sits in one of the folding chairs while you drag a pillow out with you to sit between his knees. You both sit in silence, passing the joint back and forth and scrolling through your phones. You hold it up for him when you find a funny video and he runs his fingers through your hair between passes. He stops paying attention to whatever he’s reading when you lay your head against his thigh and place a little kiss on the inside of his knee. You’re engrossed in some article, mindlessly nuzzling into Eddie’s leg and he has to take a deep, shuddering breath.
It’s balmy out, a quick breeze pushing through every so often. He’s full of good food and good wine and good weed, the smell of dinner and your perfume filling the air. Your hair is soft under his hand, a small hum from you when he scratches his nails against your scalp. Eddie has to stop himself, has to bite his tongue from blurting it out. It’s only been two months of on paper dating but he knows it in his gut, deep in his bones.
It’s love in the way you loosely wrap your arm around his calf. Love in the way he gets excited to go to the grocery store with you. Love in the way you sigh under him almost every night of the week.
“You okay?” You rest your chin on his thigh, looking up at him. “You got kind of quiet.”
“I-“ he looks anywhere but your eyes, wide and shining in the light filtering up from the parking lot. “I really like you.”
Your smile makes his insides melt. “I really like you too Eddie.”
He feels like a coward, like is leagues away from how he feels but it’s what he’s sticking to. He doesn’t want to send you fleeing out the front door, not when it’s been a basically perfect night. “I really like spending time with you…like this.” He circles his finger around and you laugh, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh I’m sure you do.” You turn around to face him, kneeling on the pillow and running your hands up under his shirt. Your fingers tickle on their way up to rest on his sides. He leans forward to give you a kiss before you lay your cheek against his sternum. He knows there’s no way you can’t hear his heart kicking up, can feel your hands tighten on him and your sigh through the thin cotton.
There’s a rumble of an old Chevy and Eddie watches Jeff pull through the front gate. He’s only got a few more minutes with you like this before his roommate comes in, but it’ll be enough. Hand cradled against your neck, holding you to him he thinks about all the love just under your cheek and hopes maybe you’ll feel it, even if he can’t say it yet.
(Sacrifice for the read more)
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fboy!eddie x fem!reader
Rude Boy
Summary: Alone in a basement at Reefer Rick’s party, you finally catch Eddie’s attention.
Word Count: 2.4k
Warnings: 18 + obviously this is an fboy!eddie fic so prepare for him to be smug, mocking and hot. Fingering (f receiving), dry humping, finger sucking, weed smoking, mentions of partying and a slightly angsty ending.
Authors Note: this is for @newlips #milestoneoflove celebration. I wanted to try something new in between working on bigger fics, I also just wanted to write something for you, cece. Thank you for always bringing us writers together on here 💗. Shout out to both cece and @carolmunson the queens of fboy!eddie. If you haven’t read The Sheep or Baby, As If I highly recommend.
Scanning the party over the top of your drink, your eyes search for the only reason you came to Rick’s in the first place. The rumor mill had let it be known that Eddie Munson and his main girl Cece had finally broken up, and you’d only dreamed of having that top spot.
Tugging down the short hem of your dress that you wore just for him, you were starting to get impatient. You had watched his messy head of curls disappear into the basement that was off limits for anyone that didn’t work for the man whose house you were in. No one had followed him in, and you didn’t notice anyone go before him. Sitting pressed against the wall you weigh the consequences of the choice you were about to make.
Pushing yourself off the wall you make a beeline for the door, weaving through the crowd you’re side tracked by a yank on your arm, falling slightly into the sea of dancing people you shove your empty cup into the chest of a handsy man who was trying to get you to dance. Ignoring the way he slurred ‘bitch’ after you yanked yourself free, all you focused on was keeping your breathing steady as you dared to be bold enough to get what you wanted for so long.
A manicured hand on the door handle, you got dark red just for tonight. The girls around town had always gossiped that color was his favorite. It doesn’t make any noise when you open it, the music upstairs immediately clashing with what he was playing downstairs. Closing the door the lighting is dim at the bottom of the stairs. A thick cloud of smoke creates a haze around the yellow glow and it tightens in your lungs with every breath you take all the way down.
The long wooden table with a lush bag of weed and a couple scales is what you see first, dark green crumbs dusting what was clearly a makeshift weigh station in the middle of it. Neon beer signs add a pink coloring to your forbidden surroundings as your eyes land on the worn couch in the center of the room.
The man you’d been looking for sitting right in the middle.
His long legs are spread wide with ease, and you catch a glimpse of the pale skin hidden underneath through the rips in his black tight fitting jeans. His simple white shirt wraps around his torso and arms the way you see on the models covering the packages at the store. The crisp cleanliness of it makes the ink that covers every inch of his toned arms stand out even more.
His face is hidden by a large hit blowing from between his plump lips adding to the fog that coats the room. You can still feel the heat of his stare and it makes your thighs press tighter.
“Lost?” His voice comes out deep with a teasing edge to it — a harsher rasp from smoking. Leaning forward - his elbows press to his knees, his handsome features reveal themselves to you when he pushes through the cloud of smoke. Straight white teeth shine on display in the kind of smile that ruins the thin fabric of your underwear. “Or just looking for trouble?”
It takes you a minute to find your words when the chestnut of his eyes darken as they take in the way the material of your dress hangs just right off every curve of your body. Thick ringed fingers come up to rest on the plush pink of his lips when they spy the dark red adoring your long nails, his smile widening even more almost like he knew you picked that color just for him.
“Trouble’s my middle name actually.” Biting into the sticky gloss of your bottom lip, mischief flashes behind his hungry gaze when he slowly extends the half smoked blunt in your direction. Daring you to take the bait.
He eats you alive with his eyes as your hips sway and your heels thud muted against the carpet carrying you towards him like a lion’s prey walking right into his den. The sound of Chevelle’s Send The Pain Below drowns out the noise of the party upstairs only intensifying the growing slick between your legs. Nerves vibrating from your fingertips the second hand smoke was already starting the job the blunt was going to finish.
You end up between his legs when you come to a stop and he doesn’t make any effort to leave your personal space. His hot breath fans on the exposed skin of your thighs when your delicate fingers brush against his when they take the blunt from his hand.
Your cheeks hollow when you take a drag, despite trying to keep a confident demeanor you can’t meet his eyes from this close. Black and hungry he doesn’t try to hide how his eyes roam all over you. The scent of his cologne is stronger than the weed burning, swirling around you it overpowers your senses.
His fingertips run a slow path up the back of your calf catching the way it makes you rub your legs together in search of friction. His lips ghosting against your skin as he starts toying with the hem of your dress.
“Didn’t anyone tell you not to talk to strangers?” He looks up at you from under his lashes and you try to ignore the sting to your ego that he doesn’t remember you.
“We went to High School together, Eddie.”
The squeal you let out when his teeth nip at the spot his lips had just been hovering covers the disappointment in your voice.
He just hums to himself giving you no indication if you jogged his memory or not. Squeezing rough with big hands at the doughy meat of your thighs he was focused on getting what he wanted, not the words coming out of your mouth.
Leaning back on the cushions of the couch, he watches you with narrowed eyes. Giving you another once over, he licks his lips watching the way yours wrap around the tobacco.
“Those cute feet of yours are probably sore from standing in those pretty lookin’ heels all night sweetheart.” Patting his lap, the smile on his lips twists like the devil before adding “Why don’t you take a seat?”
You exhale your last drag as he spreads himself out in anticipation for the choice he knows you’re going to make. With the blunt tucked between your fingers, you lean forward, hands gripping his shoulders letting him get a look at the lace that pushes your tits up earning you a squeeze on your sides in approval.
Straddling him with your knees against his hips, the heels of your shoes hang over the edge of the couch. Your dress sits rucked up at your waist — the new position giving him a view of the matching panties underneath.
“Wearing these ‘cause you wanted someone to see ‘em huh?” Plucking at the elastic edge near where you needed his fingers most, his smirk told you he could feel how they were already drenched.
“I don’t know what you’re talking abo-“
“Don’t let the blunt go out.” His tone is harsher than before and you hated how it only turned you on more. “You wanted my attention and now you got it princess, don’t be rude and waste my weed.”
You don’t argue with him bringing it back to your lips, putting your full weight down on his lap you could feel how hard he was underneath you despite his indifference. The silent victory has you smirking around your hit. The callouses that cover his fingertips catch against the smoothness of your skin as they grip and massage over the fat of your thighs.
The silver of his rings gleam against the soft light, the cool metal of the chain that wraps around his wrist leaves goosebumps in its wake with every glide against your heated flesh. Slow and teasing his hands make their way higher, clenching around nothing — he keeps his eyes trained on your face. Playing with the edge of your panties close to where you can feel a second heartbeat, he tuts when your hips give the slightest rock.
“Smoking my weed, breaking the number one rule in Rick’s house, and now you think you can be greedy while you soak my lap?” He lets out a low whistle before snatching what’s left of the blunt from your mouth. The glitter from your lip gloss stains the end when he puts it out.
Big hands on your ass, he pulls you forward when he leans back. A single grunt escapes him when your heat hits where he’s pressing against his zipper. A harsh smack followed by a kneading grip, he keeps one hand on your reddening ass while the other goes back to playing with the seam of your completely ruined underwear. He lets his two fingers dip inside, the fat tips tracing once over your slick lips.
“This is what you wanted isn’t it?” Pulling the offending material to the side his gaze darkens when he sees how you glisten for him, running the pads of his fingers down your slit he’s only partially satisfied when you mewl in response. Your long nails dig deeper into his shoulders when he does it again.
“I asked you a question, trouble maker.”
He doesn’t give you any time to respond before he pushes inside. Despite the lack of warning your walls give him little to no fight as they pull him in until he hits his rings. Eyes screwing shut at the stretch, all coherent thoughts get lost when he curls them to the side. Reaching your g-spot like he knew where it was the whole time.
“Yes! — Fuck, Eddie!” The coil in your stomach tightens when he starts setting a pace that has you clawing at his shirt, eyes rolling in the back of your head when he uses the pad of his thumb against your sensitive clit.
There’s a pang of jealousy when you think of all of the practice it took him to touch your body like he’d done it a million times before, but it’s short lived when he adds a third finger stretching your walls even further a pornogrpahic moan rips through your chest.
“Yeah? It’s like that huh?” His smooth voice is condescending as he mocks the way your mouth hangs open and your brows pinch together but you're too close to seeing god from just his fingers to care. The thought of how his dick would make you feel has you gushing all over him again, walls fluttering with a new wave of arousal. God, you hoped he’d let you find out.
All you can do is nod, your hips starting to meet the drag of his knuckles chasing the high that was threatening to consume every part of you. Too lost in the intensity of being so close you don’t see him lean in until you feel his lips on where the tops of your breasts are exposed from the low cut of your dress. Tongue lapping against the curve of your cleavage he bites down hard enough to leave a bruise, sucking for good measure he was marking you. No one else at this party was gonna touch you.
There’s a flicker of pride that ignites inside you at the thought of being one of his girls, and when the hand that's been firmly gripping your ass starts pushing your hips forward it’s just enough to send you flying over the edge.
White hot heat flashing behind your eyes, his name falls from your mouth in a way that will have your voice horse in the morning. Shuddering on top of him, you don’t think anyone has ever made you cum this hard before.
“Made such a mess of me darlin’, gonna need you to clean it up.” He doesn’t give you time to recover before the fingers that have you still trembling on top of him are shoved in your mouth.
The rough pads of his fingers press down on your tongue, the taste of your release coating your tongue — sweet and tangy. Wrapping glittering lips around them he inhales a shallow breath when you eagerly start sucking them clean.
“Such a dirty fucking girl, I’ve got something else you’d be good at suckin’ just like that.” Rutting his hips up, the over stimulation has you whining around his fingers. He pulls them out with a loud pop and a trail of spit still connects you, wiping the remains on the side of his jeans he gives your ass another spank before ushering you up.
“I’m gonna go get us something to drink then you can return the favor like I know you want to sweetheart.” Flashing you a smile that somehow has you hungry for more, you nod obediently with hot cheeks and a flushed grin on your gloss smeared lips.
“I’ll be waiting, Eddie.” Your voice is shy despite what just happened moments before, and it makes his dimples poke the sides of his cheeks.
You watch him head up the stairs you’d dare to come down, waiting to hear the door click you let out a little squeal. Falling onto the couch with a pleased smile, you toy with the bottom of your dress doing your best to ignore how soaked your were.
It had been ten minutes when you looked down at the mouth shaped bruise on your chest, and another ten when you opted to just lose your underwear for your own comfort. It was when it started pushing forty that the fear he might not be coming back finally set in.
Huffing with a shake in your throat, you finally will yourself to stand. Taking one last look around you finally decide to leave with whatever dignity you might have left after waiting almost an hour.
Your heels feel heavy with each step, the bruise to your ego from before growing ten fold. Turning the handle, it feels like all eyes land on you when you cross the threshold. Whispers and murmurs and stares falling to the mark on your chest, everyone knew who did that to you.
His loud laugh catches your ears and you should have known better than to let the lovesick smile light up your face like it was meant for you. It doesn’t take you long to find him halfway out the front door with his arm slung around a pretty brunette you’ve seen before. His main girl.
Throwing you a wink and less than guilty grin he knew he’d be able to see you again. You owed him a blowjob after all.
Throwing you a wink and less than guilty grin he knew he’d be able to see you again. You owed him a blowjob after all.
#newlipsmilestoneoflove#eddie munson#eddie munson smut#fboy!eddie#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson imagine#eddie munson x reader smut#eddie munson oneshot#eddie munson angst
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maybe a smut where the reader is jealous after seeing mary and arthur hanging out, argument sex brrrrr. <<33
Masterlist | A03 Ver. | Part 2
Title: Bold as Love
A/N: Hopefully this is what you wanted anon! I'm used to writing a more soft and affectionate Arthur, but this was definitely a fun change for me. I hope it's okay... I took your request as wanting him more on the dominant side.
Also, I hope it's ok to cross-post this on A03. If not, just send me another anon ask to let me know and I'll delete it.
Warnings: Possessive Reader, Possessive Arthur, Jealous Reader, Arthur and Reader fighting for dominance, arguing, smut, unprotected sex, creampie, NOT proofread, I literally wrote it and posted it, so there might be mistakes.
Word Count: 2,781
Dividers by: cafekitsune + newlips
Your blood boiled when you saw them together. If Miss Grimshaw hadn’t let you come into the city that day, leaving your chores back at camp to get what Arthur had requested from the store, then you wouldn’t have even known. It was only by chance that you even found out, which made it so much worse.
You remembered seeing her come into camp, back when the gang was at Horseshoe Overlook and leaving that letter for Arthur. And of course, he’d gone straight to her, as if no time had passed, as if she hadn’t hurt him all those years ago, as if he wasn’t with you now.
He’d reassured you afterwards, told you what happened and more importantly what didn’t happen, but it had taken a while for him to calm you down. That was what made seeing him with Mary again, outside the Théâtre Râleur, hurt and anger you so much more.
She had her arm linked with his, pressing her body close to your man and laughing coyly at something he’d said. You had watched them coming out of the building, which told you they’d just watched a show together. Dim lighting, seated closely together for a whole show… the possibilities were endless in your mind and just made you feel worse.
Almost as though he sensed angry eyes on him, Arthur turned his head away from Mary, looking around before his gaze met with yours. A look of surprise spread over his features, but there was no guilt. You didn’t really know if that was a good thing or not.
Mary followed his gaze, wondering why his attention had strayed away from her. She looked at you with confusion, even though you’d already met when you took the letter for Arthur from her at the old camp.
“Do you two know each other?” Mary enquired.
Her voice was soft and pleasant. A stark contrast to how you saw her.
“Yeah,” was all Arthur said, eyes still not leaving you.
His blasé answer was the worst one he could have chosen in your mind. He didn’t tell her that you were together, that he was now yours. He didn’t put up any boundaries and it caused your anger to get almost to its breaking point.
“Oh,” she looked at you with faint recognition. “You’re one of those… girls…”
The way she said it made it clear how she saw you. Like some two-bit whore who she viewed with obvious disdain. There was nothing wrong with being a working girl. Abigail had been one before she fell for John. But you weren’t that to Arthur and you wanted to make it very clear to her.
“I’m his girl,” you gestured to Arthur, the venom dripping from your voice.
Mary glanced at him with uncertainty, but he just gave you a strange look, as though you were intruding on a moment you shouldn’t have been. As though your hurt and anger and jealousy were unwarranted somehow.
“I have to take Mary to the station,” he told you, voice deep and gravelly.
It was the tone he had when he was either angry or very, very turned on. You knew it was the former this time though.
“I’ll see you back at camp,” he continued, dismissing you.
You clenched your fists, fingernails digging into the skin of your palms as he began walking away, Mary’s arm still linked with his. He was acting like such a… gentleman with her. You knew a softer, more affectionate and loving side to Arthur in your private moments, but the way he was being with her seemed almost unnatural compared to his true personality.
She turned her head only once as they walked away, still eyeing you with uncertainty before saying something quietly to him. You didn’t hear what she said, but it didn’t matter. You’d seen and heard enough.
You’d kept to yourself after returning to Shady Belle. Your chores were done in record time and before Miss Grimshaw could find other tasks for you, you’d stormed off to the open area behind the house. Hiding yourself away, you sat behind one of the smaller, empty buildings and tried to sort through your feelings regarding Arthur and seeing him with Mary.
That was where he found you, late in the afternoon, when the sun had almost met the horizon.
“There you are,” he said, his tone the soft lilt you were used to in private moments like this.
“What do you want?” You fumed, unable to hide the anger still bubbling inside you.
“Darlin’, why’re you so angry?” He asked.
You looked up to glare at him before standing so he wasn’t towering over you.
“Are you serious right now, Arthur? I catch you off on a date with her and you ask me why I’m angry?”
“It wasn’t a date,” he insisted.
“Whatever,” you were seething, letting all the pent-up emotions spill forth. “I don’t care what it was. I don’t like it.”
“Mary… she was just askin’ for a favour.”
“To go to the theatre?” You asked incredulously. “I’m not an idiot, Arthur.”
“Sweetheart, it’s like you said. You’re my girl.”
The sweet endearments didn’t feel so sweet right then, so you continued taking your anger out on him.
“No, I’m not yours,” you hissed. “Not anymore. Not after that. You want her so bad? Go have her. But you and me? We’re done.”
Arthur’s gaze darkened but you ignored it, moving to brush past him and head back towards the main house. You didn’t get very far though because he grabbed your arm and held you in place.
You felt Arthur move so that he was right behind you, chest pressed against your back. His arms snaked tightly around your body, keeping you firmly in place.
“Calm down,” he said lowly in your ear.
His own voice was too composed for your liking, like he wasn’t taking you seriously.
“Just let me go,” you struggled against him.
“No,” he kept you held in his arms. “Take it back.”
That angry tone was coming back, the one that always sent shivers down your spine. You tried to resist it, but when he started pressing kisses along your neck, it became harder.
“Cut it out,” you snapped at him.
“Take it back,” he repeated, lips brushing against your skin. “Say you’re mine.”
His teeth nipped at the place where your neck and shoulder met, and you let out an involuntary moan. You could feel the curve of his lips as he smiled against your skin and when his arms loosened a little in their hold around you, it was the perfect chance to free yourself. So that’s exactly what you did.
Turning to face him, you saw him get irritated as well, annoyed that you were still so defiant. You opened your mouth to say something snarky to him, but Arthur didn’t give you a chance. He closed the distance between you, taking hold of your hair and pulling your head back a little, forcing you to look him in the eye.
You glared at him, and he challenged you right back with his own commanding and unwavering stare. When he saw that you weren’t going to give in, Arthur smashed his lips against yours in an angry and domineering kiss.
You struggled a little, still infuriated with him, but his hold on your hair and the other arm he had wrapped around your waist made it impossible to get away. His lips were bruising and dominant against your own, forcing you to submit.
Eventually, you gave up, giving in and opening your mouth a little wider, allowing his tongue to wrestle with yours. You moaned again, unable to deny how much you loved this forceful side of him.
You always got lost in the feel of his lips, the things he could do with his tongue, the firm grip of his hands, the coarse hair on his cheeks and around his lips that tickled and teased your skin… it was all familiar. It was all yours and you weren’t about to have it any other way.
You managed to pull your head back a little, his grip on your hair having loosened at your submission to his kiss. Breaking your mouth away from his, you looked into his eyes, seeing the way his pupils were dilated and his hair was wild and messy from your fingers running through it.
“You say it first,” you demanded breathlessly.
“What?” He asked, like he was in a bit of a daze.
“Say you’re mine,” you insisted, your tone a little more composed this time. “Only mine.”
“You’re beautiful when you’re jealous, darlin’,” he teased, lips curving up into a devilish grin. “All wild and ferocious.”
“Say it,” you demanded again.
His gaze softened a little, but the dark lust never left his eyes.
“I’m yours,” he promised.
It was enough for you, so you brought your lips back to his, both of your lips fighting for dominance. You gasped into his mouth when you felt him slam you against the wall of the small building you’d previously been sitting by. His hands were everywhere, possessively exploring your body.
“You’re mine too,” he murmured against your lips. “Ain’t you?”
It was spoken like a question, but you knew it wasn’t. He was telling you to admit it, but you weren’t ready to just yet, so you refused to answer, seeking his lips for another kiss instead.
“You’re really pissed off, huh?” He let out a light laugh, pulling back so you couldn’t kiss him again.
You just glared at him once more, feeling like he should know the answer to that. Arthur didn’t seem to mind, his hands reaching down and taking hold of your skirt. The fabric bunched up under his hold, snaking up your legs tantalisingly until the entirety of your lower body was revealed to him.
His gaze darkened even more when he saw that you weren’t wearing anything underneath.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said, tone more menacing than anything else. “I’ll have you admittin’ it for me soon enough.”
You looked down, seeing the way his erection was straining against his pants and you couldn’t help but to get turned on by the insinuation of his intentions. You could feel the desire spreading through your lower belly, and the way your pussy reacted, already getting wet.
Arthur took hold of one of your hands, bringing it to his clothed cock. You let your instinctual lust take over for a moment, cupping your hand around it and relishing the faint groan that escaped his lips.
If this was how he wanted to play it, you decided to comply. You were quick to get rid of his gun belt before unbuttoning his pants and pushing them down his hips. When his cock sprung free, you saw that it was already fully hard, and it just spurred you on even more.
Your hand wrapped around it, tugging up and down on the velvety skin that covered the steel hardness underneath. His lips sought yours again and he groaned deeply into your mouth as your thumb swiped over the head of his cock.
It wasn’t long before he took control again, though, because he pushed your hands away from him before using one of his to grasp your hip tightly and the other to line him up at your entrance.
Your head fell back onto the wall behind you with a moan as he moved his cock back and forth along your slit, coating it in your wetness.
“Your body can’t lie to me, darlin’,” he groaned out. “You can be angry, but you’re still mine.”
You reached down, taking control by grasping his cock and putting it right where you wanted it. You pushed your hips forward, causing him to enter you and savouring the way his eyes fluttered shut and his mouth fell slightly open at the feel of your tight walls squeezing down on him.
“Yours doesn’t lie either,” you grit out, thrusting up your hips a little.
Both his hands gripped at your waist forcefully, ensuring that he had some hold over how much you could move. Arthur lifted you until your legs wrapped around his own waist and then he began thrusting into you.
“Just… admit it,” he managed to get out, voice rough as he slammed into you.
“No.”
Yet, with each time his cock entered you, it pushed a little deeper and teased that one spot that always brought you undeniable pleasure. If you kept letting him have all of the control, it would be a losing battle for you.
You squeezed down on his cock, milking him and causing him to get lost in the feel of you again.
“Why didn’t you tell her that I’m yours if it means so much to you?”
To your ever-increasing frustration, Arthur just grinned.
“Wanted you to get jealous,” he admitted, one hand moving down to grip your thigh as he continued pounding into your tight pussy. “Because you’re so god damned gorgeous like this.”
“I’m not jealous,” you lied, wanting to goad him. “I’m done. Enjoy this, because it’s the last time.”
His fingers dug into the skin of your thigh possessively at your words and he brought his lips back to your neck, covering your body completely with his. It meant that every sensation you felt was from him. The familiar smell of Arthur wrapped around you and all you could feel was his hands, his lips, his tongue…
“You’re mine, sweetheart,” he insisted again, teeth scraping at the column of your throat. “This pussy is mine and you know it. Just admit it.”
He was clearly frustrated with you too and while it brought you satisfaction, you knew that you wouldn’t last much longer. His long, thick, perfect cock was dominating every aspect of you, eating away at your resolve.
“Apologize then,” you requested of him softly.
He pulled his head back to look at you, his pace never once faltering and the dark desire never leaving his eyes.
“’M sorry,” he admitted instantly.
You knew it was sincere, you could see it in his eyes. He may have liked frustrating you and making you jealous, but you could see in that moment that he realised the hurt you felt too.
“She… doesn’t… mean anything… to me,” he promised, getting the words out between his deep and brutal thrusts. “Not anymore. Not since you.”
“Good,” you replied heatedly, pulling his head closer. “Because you’re mine and I’m yours.”
He was obviously pleased with you finally admitting it and your lips met in another kiss, tongues moving languidly this time, as you savoured the feeling of one another. You could feel the familiar build up within you, knowing that you were close. Bucking your hips slightly, you let him know without words what you needed, and Arthur was quick to oblige.
He knew you like the back of his hand, every aspect, and every desire. So, his hand left its bruising hold on your thigh and moved upwards, caressing and teasing your skin until his fingers finally brushed against your aching clit.
You squeezed down around him again and he broke the kiss, his head falling to your shoulder. His thumb moved perfectly against your sensitive nub, rubbing in circles, and applying just the right amount of pressure.
“God…” you moaned out, now constantly milking his cock inside you as your pussy edged closer and closer to release. “Arthur…”
“That’s my girl,” he murmured against your skin, loving the way you said his name. “Let go, darlin’. I wanna feel you cum around me.”
With two more strokes of his thumb against your clit, along with a teasing nip of his teeth against your shoulder, you came undone around him. Your back arched and your body was overcome with ecstasy.
Your orgasm washed over you blissfully and the vice-like grip paired with the spasming of your pussy sent Arthur over the edge too. You felt his cum fill you up, as well as his cock throbbing deep inside you and it just made your own orgasm intensify.
His lips never seemed to leave your skin through it all, pressing countless soft and loving kisses all over your neck and then up to your jawline and finally on your cheeks. As you both came down from your highs and your frustrations with each other ebbed away, his fingertips stroked along your thighs.
“You’re… incredible…” he breathed out, nuzzling against your cheek affectionately.
You turned your head to capture his lips once more, determined to make sure he never forgot it again.
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Part 2
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#arthur morgan x female reader#arthur morgan x reader#arthur morgan smut#arthur morgan fanfic#arthur morgan request#rdr2 request
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trouble
modern au, emt!eddie x fem!reader. the four times you aren't hurt and the one time you are. pure fluff, a little drama, mentions of blood, non-graphic depictions of injuries. (15.8k)
For @newlips' Milestone of Love celebration. Congrats, lovely! 💙
fun fact: the scenario described in Scene 5 is actually pulled directly from real life, minus the pretty metalhead (unfortunately 😔). Also, blame my fatigued brain for not mentioning this last night, but HUGE thanks to my loves @myosotisa @fracturedarkness @abibliophobiaa and @hauntingbastille for all your help and ideas!! Couldn't have done it without you bbys 🫶💙🌻
The sun is beating down on your head, conjuring a halo of sweat that stings your eyes. You’d thrown your hair up into a claw clip some time ago, but it’s coming loose now as you’re jostled by elbows and knees. It’s all claustrophobia, all heat, all overwhelming sensations— the tang of sweat and alcohol on the back of your tongue, the thrum of bass rattling your ribcage, and the roar of guttural screaming ringing in your ears.
You can’t get enough.
You’re a dot of pastel sweetness in a sea of undulating black, the only person at this concert wearing a straw crossbody bag and a dainty summer dress. Though it’s July and nearly ninety-five degrees out, everyone else is dressed in black and chains and ripped denim, sweating even more heavily than you are, thick black eyeliner running as they sing along to Spiritbox’s ‘Blessed Be.’ Your best friend Josie is the same— dark hair shaved on the sides but matted with sweat as it spikes down her back, though her denim cutoffs and fishnet stockings are marginally more practical than the black jeans many others are wearing. You’re practical, too; despite the tiny flowers on your dress and the sweet diamond studs in your ears, your white Converse are just as scuffed as the heavy boots around you.
The band Spiritbox is one of the only interests you and your best friend have in common. Since elementary school, you’ve been the visual equivalent of a sun to her raincloud. Though your tastes differ, your personalities mesh seamlessly, leaving you still thick as thieves; despite going to different colleges, you’d both returned home and found jobs nearby, picking up exactly where you’d left off four years before. It’s obvious why Josie would like this band— she thrives on everything metal and alternative. You typically gravitate toward indie music, but you really love the contrast of Courtney's delicate vocals and the heavy driving music punctuated by Mike's guttural growls. The screaming unlocks something primal inside you, and you bob your head and shout until your voice breaks, sounding just like everyone else.
Your attention is drawn from the stage as bodies to your right compress together when a pit starts to form further up. Instantly, you know what that means; you’re still singing along, but you stop when Josie’s slippery hand finds yours, pulling you in that direction. Her olive green eyes flash eagerly as she glances back at you, and you communicate your acceptance through an answering smile. Josie squeezes between bodies to find the edge of the mosh pit, where she deposits you before diving head-first into the fray.
This isn’t your first Spiritbox show, and you know what to do: you brace, resisting the push of the crowd and jutting your elbows to maintain your space as you watch more dark-clad figures join the writhing, thrashing mess. You split your attention between the pit and the stage, content to keep an eye on your friend and let the coiled aggression of flung bodies stir you further, accentuating the music. You have no desire to mosh, and Josie knows that, but you enjoy watching while she shoves and bounces off others, sharp limbs swinging wildly, staggering with sparkling eyes and a broad grin—
The deafening music muffles the sound of a thick elbow connecting sharply with Josie’s face, but the visual is so jarring that you could swear you hear the crack.
“Josie!” Your hoarse cry cuts through to the closest two thrashing bodies, who halt at its urgency. Despite how violent a mosh pit appears to be, as soon as the moshers realize someone is hurt, the aggression dissolves on impact. You reach out your hands as a chain of helping hands deposits your friend before you with haste.
You guide her immediately through the crowd, which parts almost eagerly at the sight of her blood painting the ground, pressed into the grass by heavy boots. You wince at the hunch of your friend’s shoulders, the visible pain on her face; one of her hands covers her nose but does little to staunch the sticky flow of blood. Josie relies on you to direct her, watery eyes nearly scrunched closed as you emerge from the press of damp bodies at the back of the crowd, dodging around stragglers, eyes scanning for a white canopy and red emblem designating the first aid station. It’s over on the right, peeking over that sea of black, and you head that way.
When you get there, both of the young men there are standing like statues facing the stage, showing you a mop of unruly light brown waves and a long ponytail of dark frizzy curls that might look feminine if it wasn’t for the obvious broadness of his shoulders.
As you reach the table with Josie, the taller man with the ponytail is the first to notice your approach. He’s dressed in a short-sleeved collared shirt tucked into belted pants, all black on black on black. In fact, he looks more suited to join the crowd than to tend them with the smattering of tattoos on his pale arms and the shaggy bangs that feather his forehead. And he glints with silver— a silver chain around his neck, rings of silver through his ears, even a silver septum piercing with spiked ends that peeks from the bottom of his soft nose. He’d look just like another groupie if not for the paramedic sigil on the breast of his shirt.
Despite his aggressive appearance, his brown eyes are warm as he abandons his view upon spotting you, dark brows flashing up as they scan Josie’s body with a clinical air. “What happened here?” he asks, and his voice is pleasantly smoky, friendly and casual as he pulls on rubber gloves with practiced motions.
“She got hurt,” you supply, relinquishing your friend to him so he can guide her into a folding chair. Despite the inanity of your observation, the man doesn’t react beyond a little twitch of his full lips as he kneels in front of her. Josie also doesn’t offer more explanation, merely grunting as the paramedic gently but firmly pulls her hand away from her face.
You cringe as her arm is moved aside to reveal the mess of her nose and the front of her saturated t-shirt, but he doesn’t bat an eye, wiping her face gently with dampened gauze to clean the drying blood away. As he works, eyes trained on the movements of his fingers, he asks, “What was it, doll? Did you catch an elbow to the face?”
The pet name could have been awkward, but he says it so casually that it doesn’t feel slimy like a come-on would. It just feels like part of his personality to call people names like that.
“Yeah, in the pit,” she grumbles, and he tips his head sympathetically, curly ponytail swaying.
“That’ll do it,” he says. Once Josie’s face is clear of blood, he hands her some dry paper towels, motioning toward her shirt and telling her with some humor, “I’ll just let you handle that part.”
She chuckles wetly, scrunching the fabric in her fist with the towel to press out the blood. As it transfers to the paper, the paramedic clears his used supplies into the biohazard bin before returning to his place, kneeling before her, warning her quietly that he’s going to touch her face before he does it.
You watch, hovering a little awkwardly near them as he palpates her nose gently with the tips of his fingers. He seems to have a way of putting people at ease with the cadence of his voice. It’s casual, almost preternaturally calm, but musical, too, engaging in a way you wouldn’t expect. He remains careful while examining Josie’s nose, even as he grows distracted as a new song starts. He starts glancing over toward the stage, moving through the motions clinically, detached despite the warmth and humor in his voice when he says cheerily, “Well, it’s not broken. That’s a relief, huh?”
She sighs, olive green eyes melting to confirm that it is, in fact, a relief. “Yeah.”
A smiling flash of white eyeteeth and then he’s standing again, skirting around you without really acknowledging you as he digs around in a box of supplies. He returns with an icepack, cracking it to activate the gel inside before wrapping it in more paper towels. “Hold here,” he instructs, showing Josie where to hold it, replacing his sure fingers with her more ginger ones.
“Thank you,” she says, standing and flanking you as he peels off his gloves, folding them inside each other before leaning back against the table with his hands braced behind him. Your eyes are drawn to the tendons of his forearms, pale and dotted with ink.
He doesn’t reply to her thanks directly, though his deep brown eyes twinkle with mischief. “You just had to go gettin’ hurt during the best song of the show, didn't you?”
His tone is exaggerated to ensure she knows he’s teasing, and it’s only when she chuckles that his full lips split in a pleased grin, attention turning again toward the stage as a particularly wicked guitar solo begins.
You pipe up then. “It’s only the best song in the show if they don't play 'Holy Roller.'”
“No way they don’t play 'Holy Roller,'” he retorts instantly, brown eyes flashing in your direction. The loose curls around his jaw lash his chin as his head jerks in a not-so-subtle double-take, and those eyes widen as he realizes it was you and not your friend who spoke. His gaze flicks you up and down quickly, taking in your sweet floral dress and your white converse. When his eyes catch yours, the curl of his lips reveals a level of intrigue. “And here I thought you were just the chaperone,” he says, again with that teasing, musical cadence that seems characteristic.
There’s the temptation to be offended, but this guy seems harmless beneath the ink and frizzy shag; the wolfishness of his smile doesn’t bely the warmth in his eyes. Guessing that he can probably take as much as he dishes out, you scoff, quirking a brow and pursing your lips in mock offense. “Maybe you shouldn’t make snap judgments about people. I’m sure most people don’t call 911 and expect their first responder to look like a heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing.”
A barking laugh pierces the air between you, and despite yourself, you can’t suppress a smile. Rather than being put off by your challenge, he seems delighted; the manic widening of those plush lips crinkles the corners of his eyes. His smile instantly brightens his face as he tips his head toward you. “Touché,” he says before straightening up, pushing off the table to jam his hands in his back pockets.
The sudden weight of his stare has your skin prickling despite the heat of the July sun; you turn from it quickly to ask Josie if she’s doing okay now.
She pulls the icepack from her face, scrunching her nose to test out the pain. “Yeah, I’m good. C’mon, I wanna get back out there.” She scowls, craning her head as if she’s looking for something.
“Back to our spot, you mean?”
“No, back to the pit,” she replies incredulously as if it’s obvious. Your brow crinkles with a mixture of dismay and wry fondness, but you know better than to offer resistance. If there’s one thing you’ve learned over the years, it’s that Josie takes your reminders of caution as a personal offense. As you start to walk away from the medic tent, falling into stride together, she shoots you a sour glare, grumbling, “This is what happens when you feed me jello shots.”
Your outrage is instant; you spin on your heel, stopping short to face her and gripe right back, though she doesn’t slow when you do. “I did not! Actually, you stole my jello shots, Josie.”
“Ah, I get it now. You look like an angel, but you’re secretly trouble.” You hear that teasing cadence behind you, and you turn to find the paramedic standing beside his companion once again, body angled toward the stage but head tilted to eye you slantingly. He looks amused, and you’re torn between blushing and pouting, protesting and giggling, so you just freeze, doing none of the above. Unbothered, he twists and bends smoothly to root in the cooler behind the folding table. Your eyes are drawn to the cords of his pale neck and the flash of silver in his ears.
“Here,” he says, straightening and offering you two water bottles held together in one broad hand. He drops the joking tease, all professional concern once again. “Take some water with you. Make sure you keep hydrated if you’re drinking.”
You backtrack quickly to take both bottles from him, smiling as you meet his warm brown eyes. “Thank you,” you say.
“You got it,” he replies, but you don’t hear— you’re too busy hurrying to catch up with Josie, who’s cutting a path right back to the pit, stubborn as always.
The walk from the company parking lot to your office building is two long blocks away and takes a brisk five minutes, eight if you’re not in a rush. And you’re not this morning. The sweltering August heat has decided to grace your town with a brief reprieve; all the typical ills of summer are eased today, leaving behind a pleasant dry heat, a slight breeze, and bright sun in a puffy-cloud sky. You relish your brief stroll in the sunshine and find yourself wishing your cubicle faced the park across the street, if only so you could torture yourself with its tantalizing view, yearning to instead be seated on a bench shaded by the cherry trees.
Your gaze drifts that way as you walk along the sidewalk, and a bright spot of yellow catches your attention. As you draw closer to your building, the shape discerns itself into an old man swaddled in a canary-yellow raincoat, the plasticky hood caught between his hunched shoulders and the back of the wooden bench. Beneath the open raincoat is a checkered shirt, a pair of brown trousers, and a bowtie that looks to be his Sunday best, though it’s currently Thursday. His loafer scuffs the concrete beneath him as he swings one foot absently, gazing up at the puffy-clouded sky.
Another individual relishing this unexpected gift early in the morning. You smile softly to yourself and turn from the old man as you grasp the handle, pulling the heavy glass door open. A blast of cold air unleashes upon you, and you shiver your way to the elevator. As the aluminum doors slide open, the park slips from your mind, evaporating like dew from grass.
Four hours later, the brrringing of phones and the fuzz of light office chatter have fully replaced the sound of early morning birdsong in your ears. Your eyes flick to the bottom right corner of your laptop just in time to see the forty-nine tick to fifty. The sight brings relief and a timely grumble of your stomach, and you close the lid of your laptop decisively. The promise of a cobb salad from your favorite nearby lunch shop hastens your steps to the elevator.
When you push open that heavy glass door once again, the air is warmer, and the street is more active now, but the sun on your skin is just as welcome. The park and its cherry trees call to you as they had this morning, and your eyes find that bench you’d been yearning for once again. It’s empty now, almost beckoning for you. You indulge in the sight for a moment despite your hunger, lush green blooming behind brown wood, visible between the cars that zoom past.
And then the tiniest sliver of canary yellow peeks from beyond a bush.
You were about to walk on, but you pause then, craning your neck to try to catch more of that color. A small shift and you see it again— the canary yellow of what is undoubtedly the sleeve of a raincoat.
Is that the same old man from this morning? Even as you question it, you know the answer; you know it must be him. You frown, puzzled, wavering as you’re torn between two impulses. Your stomach pangs hollowly, reminding you of cobb salad. What business is it of yours what a stranger does? You imagine how silly you’d feel wandering over there to bother him for no reason. But as you watch him, he hobbles further into your sight, resting one unsteady hand against the trunk of a nearby tree. Your heart stirs, and you find your feet moving of their own accord to the crosswalk.
You approach him slowly at first, with the caution one might use when edging toward a wild animal. His back is turned to you, revealing a head of thin gray hair haloed around a sizeable bald spot like candy floss. Hesitantly, you inch closer, feeling a little ridiculous as he fidgets there in the grass just off the path, one hand still tremulously holding onto the trunk as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. His eyes are darting over the bushes and paths restlessly, as if searching. You’re just deciding what to say— or even whether to say something at all— when he turns his head and catches sight of you with watery eyes.
His brows jump as he registers you, and his pruny mouth opens in a little ‘o’ of surprise. “Oh,” he says, sounding delightedly surprised. “Hello!”
You feel a bit caught out, heat rushing to your cheeks as he pivots slowly to face you, one hand still stuck to the tree. But you’re committed now that he’s seen you; you might as well follow through on your impulse. “Hi, sir,” you try, “are you looking for someone?”
The old man doesn’t answer your question. Instead, very matter-of-factly, he says, “My knees are hurtin’ me.”
It has you reaching for him almost automatically, hooking your hand underneath his elbow. He welcomes your help unhesitantly and without complaint, shifting with your coaxing grip. He feels so frail beneath your fingers, almost weightless; when he lets go of the trunk to rely on your stability, you hardly notice the difference. He barely lifts his feet when he walks, loafers dragging in the grass, and you edge with him toward the path with tiny shuffling steps. Stepping from the grass to the concrete feels laborious as he trembles with the effort.
As you lead him patiently back toward the bench from this morning, you can’t help but wonder how long he’d been standing by the tree. And then, you can’t help but wonder how he even got here to the park, considering how much effort it’s taking him to walk a dozen feet. This isn’t a residential area, and this man isn’t just old. He’s positively feeble.
He clasps your hand as you help him turn and sinks down onto the wood with a bone-weary sigh of relief. Rather than releasing your hand, he pats the back of it with his other, smiling pleasantly. “Thank you, Ruthie,” he says, continuing to pat your hand as if he’s unaware of it. “I’m ready to go home now.”
You blink with utter bafflement, eyes flitting over the old man’s creased face and his watery blue eyes gazing at you with fondness. It dawns on you fairly quickly that this man isn’t just having trouble finishing his casual stroll in the park. And it explains why he’d looked surprised but happy to see you and hadn’t offered any resistance when you helped him.
Yet you have no idea who he is or where he lives, and your name is not, in fact, Ruthie.
You chew your lip as you look into his placid face. He seems calm right now, but if he’s confused— if something medical is going on— that could be easily disturbed. Gently, you chance a question. “Where is home? Do you know your address?”
His face scrunches up, wrinkles folding on themselves as he squints at you quizzically. His voice gains more strength with its incredulity. “What d’ya mean, Ruth? Born and raised in the same house and you don’t remember our address?” He shakes his head, glancing away as he pulls back his hands and folds them in his lap.
Well, that clarifies it— he clearly thinks you’re his daughter, though you’re probably about twenty years too young for that. Your thoughts whir as you consider how to respond and keep him from becoming truly agitated. “Aw, you got me!” you say, pretending you were pulling his leg. He seems to buy it as his frown eases and he looks back at you with begrudging amusement. Gently, you say, “I just gotta make a phone call, and then we can go, okay?”
The old man’s reply is perfectly jovial, and it fills you with relief. “Tha’s okay, dear. I got my crossword.” He reaches inside the raincoat and pulls out a tightly-folded rectangle from the breast of his checkered shirt, working it open to reveal a creased page from the newspaper. He digs in his pants pocket, and a pencil emerges along with some crumpled tissues and plastic-wrapped suckers that scatter near his feet. You frown, eyes darting between his spilled belongings— or trash— and his face. He doesn’t notice as he settles into the seat, seeming content to wait and work on his crossword.
You have half a mind to pick the candies up so he won’t trip on them, but the phone call you have planned seems more urgently needed. You trail a few steps away to call the non-emergency police number, eyes darting to and from the old man as you provide your location and explain the situation quietly to the operator. “He seems… confused,” you say. “Like, not all there.”
“Is he agitated?”
“No,” you say. “But he thinks he knows me, and I don’t know him. He keeps calling me Ruth when that’s not my name.” Nervousness bubbles at the base of your throat, concern rising for the older man whom you now view as your responsibility. “Do you think he’s okay?”
There’s a pause, and then the operator says neutrally, “It could be a number of things. I’m sending someone out right now to check on him. Are you okay to wait with him until the paramedics arrive?”
You’re already nodding before the question is finished. “Yes, that’s fine.”
“All right. They’re on their way.”
You hang up and glance at the man again, feeling a tug at your heart when you see him holding the crossword so close to his nose, how the paper wobbles in his grasp. He seems caught up in it, which honestly is a relief. You don’t know how much longer you’d be able to keep up the pretense of knowing him if he wanted to talk to you more. Your cobb salad is all but forgotten now as worry prickles in your chest; you stand sentry over this stranger from a distance, keeping an attentive eye on him as you wait for help to come.
It doesn’t take too long for the ambulance to arrive, and your heart leaps as it pulls along the curb in front of the park. You jolt forward a couple of steps, fluttering your fingers in a little awkward wave at the blurry figures behind the glass as if they need your help finding the old man in the bright yellow coat, as if they need your assistance at all, really. You feel silly again, cheeks burning as you impulsively change your mind. Rather than meeting the paramedics at the ambulance, you march over and plop down next to the old man on the bench.
He startles slightly when you join him, and you almost feel bad to have scared him, but then he’s smiling at you again. “Ruthie!” He exclaims. “Is it time to go to the cleaners?”
You’re saved from having to answer as you hear the ambulance door pop open, and you follow the old man’s gaze to the figure swinging himself jauntily down from the rig with one pale hand braced atop the door.
Well, I’ll be damned.
Even at this distance, that frizzy shag of curls is unmistakable, though it’s loose around his shoulders now. You remember what you’d said at the concert almost a month ago: ‘I’m sure most people don’t call 911 and expect their first responder to look like a heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing.’ Your heart skips and thumps hard as he comes closer, and you clasp your hands tight in your lap. The tatted-up paramedic with the warm honey-brown eyes and the wolfish flashing grin may be memorable, but a squirm of self-consciousness races through you as you consider how unmemorable you are in comparison. Not that you can blame him, considering how many people he likely interacts with every day.
His eyes remain fixed on the man at your side as he lopes your way, and you lick at your bottom lip as he comes close enough to see the glint of silver in his ears and beneath his nose. “Hey, Mr. J,” he says casually, and you glance at the man sitting beside you, who’s still watching him approach blankly without acknowledgment. When your eyes meet honey brown again, a corner of his lips crooks up in a fond grin. “Well, hello there.” He draws the words out with a hint of teasing, and a smile blooms automatically on your face. “Been out moshing in any more flower dresses lately?” He adds as he closes the distance quickly, and you feel your self-consciousness melt into effusive warmth knowing he remembers you.
“I only mosh for Holy Roller,” you say, and his grin widens before his attention turns back to the man at your side. The paramedic drops to one knee before him, a forearm braced against his other thigh. With his face now close enough, the old man’s watery eyes light in recognition.
“Ed!” he exclaims in a delighted rasp, even more enthusiastic than when he’d greeted you. You turn curious eyes to the curly-haired man in front of you, wondering if that’s actually his real name or if it’s just one bestowed upon him like ‘Ruth’ had been to you.
Unphased, ‘Ed’ repeats his earlier greeting. “Hey, Mr. Jenkins.” He maintains that same warm friendly tone, though it seems more careful than the one he used with you and Josie. “How you doin’ lately? Haven’t seen you in a while.”
Mr. Jenkins sighs dramatically, the deep, weary sigh of the elderly. “Ah, Ed. Ya know, it’s my hips,” he says, shaking his head as if it’s a shame. “Dang things are always givin’ me issues. Don’t get old if you can avoid it.”
The paramedic’s lips quirk sympathetically. “I’ll try not to, Mr. J,” he says obligingly. “You still doin’ bingo at the VA on Thursday nights?”
As Mr. Jenkins leans eagerly forward to tell him all about it, you watch the paramedic slip his pale fingers around the paper-thin skin of the man’s wrist, nodding absently as he looks up at the sky. When he checks his watch, you realize he’s taking the man’s pulse.
Subtly, as Mr. Jenkins happily prattles on, the paramedic flashes a tiny flashlight to assess his pupillary response before checking the rest of his vitals, the musical cadence of his answers acting as a distraction while he evaluates him. Your eyes skate over the paramedic’s face— his soft nose, his wide brown eyes, his pink lips, and his strong jaw framed by frizzy curls that hang past his collar. As you do, you feel a surge of admiration for his manner, but you’re not quite sure what about it has you impressed.
As he replaces the flashlight pen in his pouch, the old man looks between you. “Have you met my Ruthie?” When honey brown flashes to you quickly, you shake your head minutely, staring at him and hoping he gets the hint.
After a brief pause, the paramedic finally replies, “Can’t say I have.” Your shoulders drop in relief that he’d caught on.
Mr. Jenkins pats your bare knee with his shaky hand right below the hem of your pencil skirt. Your mouth tightens in a bashful smile as he gushes, “Oh, she’s a good girl. A real good girl. You’d be lucky to find a girl like this, Ed.”
It’s both charming and uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of this old man’s unwarranted affection, and you feel your cheeks heat with a fierce flush. Beyond your control, your eyes dart to the man across from you to find him smiling— closed-lipped and crooked, so a dimple pops on one cheek. “She sure seems like it, Mr. Jenkins,” the paramedic answers, and your cheeks positively burn.
Mr. Jenkins continues on as if he hadn’t been interrupted, and you avert your eyes to the safety of your lap. It doesn’t offer much of a reprieve, however, as you can’t escape how the sweet, confused old man still has your knee in a vice grip and the guy in front of you is staring right through you with those honey-brown eyes. With an air of authority, Mr. Jenkins announces, “You outta take my Ruthie to the drive-in. They show the double features on Wednesdays, more bang for your buck. And treat ‘er to a milkshake; she loves a good black and white.” He jabs a shaky finger toward the paramedic to punctuate how serious he is. “Ya hear me, Ed?”
Oh, my gosh. It was one thing to compliment you, but setting you up with a stranger has edged this conversation past uncomfortable and into nearly mortifying. Your stomach flutters with discomfort and nerves at the idea.
“I hear you, Mr. J,” you hear him answer, and when you look up, he seems to be holding back laughter; his eyes are crinkled, lips fighting to stay pursed when they want to smile, and his voice is dripping warmth. As he stands, stretching his back, his piercing eyes return to you. “Hey, Ruth,” he says neutrally, “would you help me with this?” He tips his head toward the ambulance and you nod quickly, hastening to follow.
As you fall into step beside him, you become acutely aware of your closeness— the sway of his narrow hips, the jangle of his belt and med-pack, the thump of his heavy boots against the concrete, the faint scent of tobacco and spice that clings to his black collared shirt. Your eyes dart quickly to the curtain of hair hanging by his collar, how soft the curls look from this distance. You turn your chin toward him but keep your eyes on the ambulance. “He’s been there since before eight this morning,” you say quietly, “in the park. I saw him on my way to work. When I came out for my lunch break, he was just standing under a tree.”
You feel the heat of the paramedic’s bare forearm radiate against your elbow as he ducks closer, his voice still musical even in a murmur. “So, what, you thought you’d check on him?”
“Well, yeah,” you say, crossing your arms as you prickle with self-consciousness. The motion has your elbow bumping against his skin, and the heat of it flashes like a burn. “It just didn’t seem right to leave without checking if he was okay. He was confused; he asked me if we were going to the cleaners.” You glance at him, and he’s still ducked to hear you as you speak softly; his brown eyes are so close that you can see the varied shades of brown in them, like the rings of a cedar tree. You swallow thickly. “I think he thinks I’m his daughter.”
“You did the right thing,” he replies, his voice gentle and tinged with fondness. “Mr. J is well-known around here. Sweet guy, harmless. He’s got dementia.”
Your eyes soften as you blink at him, compassion welling up as he speaks about the old man with such kindness. He straightens suddenly, and you realize that you’ve reached the side of the ambulance.
He tugs open the door and calls to his partner, who peers over from the driver’s seat. “Hey, can you call Jimmy, tell him his dad’s in Washington Square Park?”
“Sure thing,” comes the answer, though you can’t really see him.
The paramedic closes the door again, and when he leans back against it, crossing his arms casually and propping a boot against the metal frame, you realize asking you to help him with something was just pretense. For some reason, that makes you glow with that same effusive warmth you’d felt when you first heard him address you again, brown eyes alight with his tease about mosh pits.
“So,” he says, lips quirking in a slanted grin, “I take it your name’s not Ruth.”
You chuckle through your answer. “No, not Ruth.” You scrape your two front teeth against your lip before adding, “It’s y/n.”
He nods, and his curls sway with it. The grin grows fractionally. “I’m Eddie.”
“Nice to meet you. Officially, I mean,” you add quickly, and your hand wants to stick out to shake his, but a bigger part of you cringes at the impulse. You keep it stubbornly stuck to your side.
“Yeah, you too. Officially,” he says warmly.
A door slams again as his partner gets out of the truck, crossing by the front bumper. He’s tall and a little broader than Eddie— knowing his name has your stomach fluttering with warmth— and his hair is shorter but no less impressive, with brown waves that bob against his forehead as he heads over to Mr. Jenkins. “Steve!” You hear the old man exclaim behind you, and your eyes find honey brown as if by instinct. You exchange a fond grin with Eddie at Mr. Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting, marveling at how affection curls behind your sternum for this man who was such a short time ago a total stranger. Mr. Jenkins, that is.
Of course.
And soon, a stranger again he will become, you realize as Eddie pushes off from the door, jamming his hands in the pockets of his black pants. “Thanks for staying with him. And calling it in. Most people wouldn’t have done that,” he tells you, and you blush with pleasure at the genuineness you hear.
“It was no problem,” you say. For a moment you just stand there, feeling awkwardness creep up. You shift your weight to one hip and twist your heel; when the gravel grinds loudly underfoot, you stop, suppressing a wince. You’re desperate to move on, so you blurt, “I’d better get back to work.” You pause, adding, “Will he be okay?”
“He’ll be fine.” Eddie sounds so entirely assured of the fact that you believe him immediately, nodding with relief. He squints at you, jerking his chin to look at you sideways, and his dark hair sways as he does. “Hey. You didn’t have lunch, did you?”
You blink, caught off guard. “What?”
He pulls one hand from his pocket to wave absently in the air. “You said you left to go get lunch but checked on Mr. J instead, right? So you didn’t get to eat.”
You fumble to reply, but he’s already spinning, pulling open the door to the ambulance and hauling himself up. He bends over the seat, black pants pulling taught over his thighs and butt, and you quickly look away.
His voice comes muffled at first. “Here—” There’s the heavy sound of his boots hitting asphalt and then a crinkly rectangle is being waved at you. “ —have a protein bar,” he finishes, brandishing it toward you.
Your brows crinkle. “Oh, I’m really okay—”
He cuts you off, kindly but firmly. “I insist.”
You take it from him gingerly. It’s a Cliff bar— peanut butter and chocolate. You meet wide honey-brown with a thankful smile. “This isn’t your lunch, is it?” you tease.
Eddie scoffs, waving you off. “Of course not,” he says, rotating around you and hopping up onto the curb, but the twinkle in his eyes and the dimple of his cheek leave you without confidence.
There’s the impulse to question him further, but he doesn’t give you the chance; he starts walking backwards toward the bench with meandering, though purposeful, steps. “See you around,” he says, saluting you with two fingers tipped against his temple. You wave mutely, and he flashes one last parting grin before turning away.
You stand motionless for a moment, staring at his back until you catch sight of his partner throwing you a curious glance. That snaps you out of it, and you hurry to the crosswalk.
Yet before you tug open that heavy glass door, you can’t help but glance back one more time. Between the flashes of passing cars, you see Eddie: he’s sitting next to Mr. Jenkins on the bench, legs spread wide and elbows resting on his knees, bobbing his head with big swings of his dark curls as the man shows him his crossword.
This time, when the cold air blasts you in the face, you stay warm.
“You really do like black and white, huh?”
Your eyes dart up to catch brown. “Hm?”
Your date folds his hands against the tablecloth, twining his fingers together. His lips twitch up into a crooked grin as he motions with his chin. “You’re wearing a black blouse and a white skirt. Last time we went out, you were wearing a black dress and a white cardigan.”
You blink, brows darting up. “Oh!” you say, glancing down at yourself. He is indeed correct— you’re wearing the same colors you had on your first date with him, entirely by coincidence. He leans back as if expecting you to be impressed that he’d noticed, and you smile, brightening your voice even further. “That’s right!” you say, tipping your head and lightly teasing him. “Well, aren’t you observant?”
He preens under your attention. “I try to be,” he says smoothly. “It pays to be observant in my line of work.”
You lean forward, resting your chin in your palm. “Speaking of, how go things on the fifth floor? I rarely venture down there.”
“Oh, you know…” He keeps up the flirtatious banter, mirroring your position: broad hand cradling his strong chin, elbow planted on the table. “Just convinced Synegen to sign over all their marketing needs. No biggie. All in a day’s work for us fifth-floorers.” His brown eyes twinkle. “Maybe you’ll have reason to come down more often now.”
Daintily, you sip your wine, which burns pleasantly warm down your throat as your eyes rake over his features: long, alkaline nose, square jaw, dreamy brown eyes, and a neat, high fade. “Maybe I shall, Matt,” you smolder, and his grin widens.
This is your second date with fifth-floor Matt— as Josie refers to him since you’d met him in the elevator of your office building— and it’s going quite well if you do say so yourself. Typically, you wouldn’t agree to a date with a guy you’d just met, but Matt’s boldness had a certain charm about it when he’d caught the elevator door to keep it from closing and hit you with that white smile and a proposition of dinner. And it certainly didn’t hurt that he was handsome and clearly built even under the slacks and dress shirt.
As he’d pointed out, you’d worn black and white on your first date but had felt slightly underdressed at the swanky place he’d whisked you away to. You hadn’t been expecting all the bells and whistles, though to your relief, he’d seemed pleased to have impressed you rather than disappointed. The conversation had flowed well between you, and he hadn’t been too forward at the end of the night, leaving you with a pleasant impression. When he’d called to ask you out again— of course within the permissible four to seven days post-date, and no sooner— you hadn’t had any reason to say no, which is why you find yourself at yet another swanky restaurant, Italian on this occasion. And you’re dressed a little more formally this time: black silk blouse, tight white skirt, and Josie’s tall black strappy things that she affectionately calls her ‘stripper heels.’
They look great, but your ankles are aching like a bitch, and you haven’t even gotten your food yet.
“And how are things going for my favorite copyeditor?” Matt asks, taking a sip of his drink, and you blush lightly under his attention.
“Well…” you draw out the word, letting the music and the clinking of glasses around you fill the silence. “Did I tell you about Doris?” He shakes his head, and you’re just about to launch into the story of your accident-prone coworker’s latest kerfuffle when the waiter materializes at your elbow, holding two gleaming white plates.
“Tortellini?” he cuts in smoothly, and you smile up at him as he places it down in front of you. “Scallops?” he confirms with Matt, who immediately picks up his utensils to dig in as you continue your story.
You poke around at your food as you talk about Doris’ misfortune, and Matt nods and emotes appropriately throughout your recollections. “—I don’t know how she manages to get herself into all of these situations, the poor woman.” You shake your head sympathetically, taking a bite of tortellini. It’s wonderfully cheesy with a delicate sauce, and your brows jerk in pleasant surprise as the flavor bursts on your tongue. You chew and swallow quickly to exclaim, “Wow! This is really good.”
Matt is nodding eagerly, threading his finger between the collar of his shirt and his throat, pulling at it absently. “Yeah,” he agrees, “it’s delicious. This place is amazing. You know, I actually—”
He breaks off in a cough, covering his mouth with his fist. “Sorry,” he says, and you smile reassuringly. “I was saying that—” His voice weakens suddenly, and as he clears his throat roughly, your brow tightens in concern.
“Are you okay?” you ask, putting down your fork upon seeing how he tugs again at his collar.
“I’m totally fine,” he assures you, “just have a tickle in my throat.”
Despite his quick hand-waving to dismiss your concern, it doesn’t alleviate that prickle of foreboding you feel building as your eyes scan his face, which looks suddenly more flushed than it did a moment ago. “Are you allergic to anything?”
Matt tips his head, gesturing with his fork and knife. “Well, yeah,” he admits, “but not to this.” He sounds perfectly confident in his assertion, but it doesn’t mollify you. Above his thick fingers, which are still plucking at his collar, pink splotches crawl up his neck.
The foreboding builds insistently, and you know he can detect the new edge of urgency in your voice. “Do you have an EpiPen?”
Somehow, almost inexplicably, Matt still doesn’t look worried. He scoffs, shaking his head even as he concedes, “Yeah, I have one, but I never carry it around with me. Look, I know what not to eat, y/n. I’m not a child—”
You’re not listening because you’re already on the phone with 911.
“I think my date is having an allergic reaction. His throat is itchy, he’s coughing and clearing his throat, and he’s getting flushed.” You glance at him to see his eyes narrowed at you and his mouth open in indignance. “And his lips are swelling,” you add.
Matt pokes at his lips, and you look away as the operator assures you EMS is on their way to the restaurant. “Should I stay on the line?” you ask, gaze darting as you listen to his instruction, even while Matt groans and rolls his eyes.
“You’re being dramatic,” he’s saying, but you ignore him, lowering the phone without hanging up.
“He suggested some fresh air would help. Come on.”
Despite his lunking frame, you’re hauling him out to the sidewalk in your strappy heels with a determination he seems reluctant to truly resist. He could easily break out of your hold, but he lets you manhandle him out into the slight chill of this early September night. You undo the top three buttons of his shirt to loosen the pressure on his neck, working around your phone, which is still clutched in one hand. You suppress a huff at his salacious smile. “I mean,” he chuckles, “if you just wanted to get me out of my clothes, honey, you didn’t have to do all this.”
You shake your head, holding the phone up to your ear. “Yeah, I’m still here,” you say to the operator, “we’re outside now. He doesn’t seem to be any worse.”
Matt’s shoulders sag as he rolls his head, coughing lightly through his words. “I’m not gonna get worse because there’s nothing wrong with me.” He lifts his arms and lets them slap against his thighs, exasperated. “This is such a waste of time—”
The white and red ambulance turns the corner, and you step around your date to flag them down. “They’re here,” you say breathlessly to the operator. “Okay, I’m gonna hang up.”
The vehicle slows to a stop in front of you, and you step back from the curb as both doors open. They close one after another, like the strike of lightning and the boom of thunder following it. The boom of thunder crosses around the front of the bumper, eyes locked on you. And he’s got a beautiful head of hair— thick, luscious brown locks, expertly messy.
Your heart leaps as you recognize him, hearing Mr. Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting echoing in your ear. Because if he’s the boom of thunder, then maybe the lightning strike is—
“I shoulda known you’d be here, Trouble.”
You turn toward the voice, heart pounding despite the quizzical scrunching of your nose. Eddie interprets it correctly, his grin brightening his honey-brown eyes as he clarifies, “As I said, you look like an angel, but since we keep runnin’ into each other like this, it’s official. You must be nothing but trouble.”
You flush at the teasing tone of his musical voice, cheeks pinking, and as his grin turns wolfish with delight, you know he’s noticed. Abruptly, he looks away, and you follow his gaze to Matt, whose brows are furrowed lightly. Eddie’s tone loses the teasing quality, though it remains pleasant. “So, what’s goin’ on here, big guy? You think you’re having an allergic reaction?” he asks, pulling out the flashlight from his pack.
“No,” Matt says firmly, though his voice sounds more hoarse now. “She thinks I’m having an allergic reaction. I’ve just got an itchy throat.”
Undeterred, Eddie steps up to him. “Open your mouth,” he instructs calmly, and begrudgingly, Matt complies. His tongue lolls as Eddie peers inside. “What did you eat?”
“It was a pasta dish,” you offer, watching as Steve hovers nearby while Eddie feels along Matt’s throat with gloved hands. “Scallops, prosciutto, peas, um… white wine sauce. I don’t know the rest of the ingredients.”
“Any known allergies?” Steve asks, and everyone looks to Matt for the answer.
“I already told her,” he says with an air of long-suffering, “I do have a food allergy, but not to this—”
Eddie interjects calmly but firmly. “What are you allergic to?”
Matt sighs. “I’m only allergic to shellfish.”
There’s the briefest moment of stunned silence, and then Eddie tips his chin, pinning your date with his dark eyes— still calm, still pleasant, but with an air of unattestable authority. “Sir, you are having an allergic reaction. Hey, Harrington?”
“On it,” comes the immediate reply, and Steve is digging in the med-pack at his hip, guiding Matt to the back of the ambulance. You watch Matt’s eyes dart wildly, though he allows himself to be pushed along in his bafflement, stuttering questions and weak protests as he goes. You recognize the bright orange cap of the EpiPen as Steve pulls open one of the ambulance’s back doors; distantly, you hear him prompting your date, “Hop up here for me, would you?”
You hear a jangle close by, and the sound pulls your eyes from the ambulance to the man still standing at your side. His arms are folded behind his back now, his full lips dimpled in a secret smile. In Josie’s tall heels, your face is closer to his, and you nearly feel the brush of his wild hair against your blouse as he sways closer with his upper body so he can mutter at you with glittering eyes.
“Really?” Eddie says, and the ghost of his breath stirs the hair beside your ear. Your body prickles with heat, stomach fluttering as he straightens again, quirking a brow and looking highly amused. For some reason, you feel called out, raw and exposed, and you cross your arms and narrow your eyes despite the deepening heat in your cheeks.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you retort. “I don’t give my dates quizzes on animal classifications during the vetting process.”
“Well,” Eddie lowers his voice, and the timbre makes you shiver, goosebumps prickling your arms. “Maybe you should.”
You scoff. “He’s a marketing genius. I think that makes up for it.”
Eddie’s mouth twitches before his dark eyes widen. Your gaze is drawn to his eyelashes, which are enviably long. “So,” he asks casually, “did you enjoy that protein bar?”
You’re left reeling from the abrupt change of subject, but you place the reference quickly. “Sure,” you say, tipping your head, a little bemused as to why he’s asking. “It was fine.”
Eddie’s brows jerk in exaggerated offense as he claps a hand over his heart. “Just fine? First, you eat my lunch, and now you tell me it was just fine?”
Your mouth falls open in incredulity, face utterly indignant as Eddie grins broadly, his eyes crinkling in the corners at your reaction. In the vehemence of your feeling, you step closer, smacking his arm with a familiarity you aren’t entitled to, though you don’t notice as you protest, “You told me it wasn’t your lunch! What the hell, Eddie?!”
He cowers away from you playfully, dissolving into husky chuckles that are both goofy and undeniably endearing. They settle in your stomach, and you feel your lips curving of their own accord. You can’t deny how good it feels to hear him laugh, and you suddenly want more. “Honestly!” You lean into it, advancing on him as threateningly as you can in a blouse and miniskirt, though you know he sees the mirth dancing in your eyes. He backs up a step, playing into your game as you huff, “You’re so—!”
“I can drive myself to the hospital. I don’t need you!”
The shout cuts you off, and your smile dies abruptly as you and Eddie look toward the source of the disturbance. It’s Matt, your date, scowling as he hops down to the asphalt. He’s arguing with Steve, who pops from behind the ambulance to follow him to the sidewalk.
“Sir—” Matt’s ignoring him, stalking toward you with intent. “I can’t force you, but I really must advise you not to drive yourself.”
Matt whirls on him, pointing a finger in his chest. “I know what you’re trying to do. You just want me to take the ambulance because you’ll get paid more. It’s all a big scam.”
Steve’s brow scrunches in an incredulous wince, and embarrassment curdles in your stomach as you watch Matt’s face transform into smugness. “See?” The triumph in the curl of his smile is entirely undeserved. “Can’t argue with the facts. I’m onto you, buddy.”
Exasperation, embarrassment, and self-consciousness mix potently as you feel the weight of Eddie’s eyes on the back of your head like a physical presence. Impulsively, you blurt, “I’ll just drive you in your car, Matt. Come on.”
Matt shoots Steve one last dirty look as you bustle over to him, crossing your arms as he levels Eddie with the same. “They’re just doing their jobs, Matt,” you say, tone bitten a little short as you lead him to the entrance of the restaurant.
“What’re we going back in there for?” he asks, and you blink at him.
“...We have to pay for our food and get our coats,” you say patiently, trying very hard to remain composed. Matt grumbles but pulls open the door for you, and as you pass through the threshold, you hear one last raspy, musical call follow you.
“See ya, Trouble!”
You hasten toward your table as Matt scowls, questioning you suspiciously. “Hey. Why does he keep calling you that? D’you know that guy?”
You just sigh heavily, plastering on a smile as you flag down your waiter to explain the situation. And as you drive your date to the hospital, only one thought follows you.
Leave it to a crisis to reveal peoples’ true natures.
Truthfully, the unfortunate shellfish incident was a blessing in disguise. After taking Matt to the hospital for further treatment and listening to him gripe on the ride home, you’d waved goodbye to any semblance of feeling he may have stirred within you without a shred of resistance. In recounting the tale to Josie, crowded together on the settee in her one-bedroom walkup with half-drunk Trulys in hand, you’d both reached a consensus on the following conclusion:
That bullet was well and truly dodged.
“Enough about fifth-floor fools,” Josie quips, scootching closer as you sip your bubbly and hissing with eagerness, “I can’t believe it was that same guy again! How many times have you run into him now?”
You hide your smile behind the can. “Three,” you say, keeping your voice carefully neutral. But you can’t fool Josie; she’s known you longer than anyone else, aside from your parents. She’s nearly your sister— you spend half your time sleeping at her apartment on the weekends since it’s closer to downtown, and many of the belongings littering the tiny square of her place are yours. Sometimes you feel silly for still living with your parents, but you remind yourself it’s a perfectly reasonable way to save money until you can afford your own place. And you’d move in with Josie, but her apartment is really only meant for one; you end up squeezed into her twin bed or cramped up on the settee whenever you spend a drunken night there, and that's not a permanent solution.
Josie swoons against you. “It’s so romantic,” she gushes, and you squirm at the unexpected sentimentality coming from your raincloud friend. “It’s like fate’s bringing you together.” When she eyes you suddenly, the glint of craziness has you shaking your head before she’s even gotten the words out. “You know, I’m feeling some mashed potatoes. Don’t you want mashed potatoes?” You don’t respond, and she barrels on. “Yeah, I really think you should go, like, chop some potatoes. And then, you know, just accidentally let the knife slip—”
“Josie!”
“What?! Like, don’t cut deep,” she defends, drawing her index in a slanted line across her palm before grinning suggestively. “Just deep enough to need stitches so you can ride him—” she feigns innocence— “sorry, Freudian slip— I meant riiiiiiiiide him in the back of his ambulance—” She bursts into laughter at the horror on your face when she salaciously repeats the same phrase, delighted to have tricked you into thinking it was a mistake the first time.
“Josie!” You snap again, face flooding with heat as she cackles, deriving great pleasure from your embarrassment. “I’m not going to cut my hand open just to hope Eddie shows up. That’s so stupid.”
“Aw,” she pretends to pout, “well, how else are you gonna see him again?”
You scoff, shaking your head, cheeks still tingling with your blush. “Who says I even wanna see him again?” you grumble, turning away from your best friend and chugging your Truly to ward off her response.
But you can’t deny that meeting Eddie three times did, in some way, feel… maybe not like fate, but like more than a coincidence. And in the days following your failed date with Matt, you find your thoughts drifting to that musical voice, those honey-brown eyes, the brush of your elbow against his hot skin, and the way his plush lips formed the letters of the nickname he’d given you:
‘Trouble.’
You’d eagerly waved goodbye to any semblance of feeling you’d had for Matt, but suddenly, there's a paramedic-shaped absence in your life that you feel every time you walk from the parking lot to your office building and glance across the street, eyes lingering on that bench beneath the cherry trees.
After a week, you acknowledge it, accept it, and allow yourself to secretly indulge in the crush you’d formed on the heavy-metal knockoff with the septum piercing and the most endearing laugh you’d ever heard. It lingers in the back of your mind, prompting you to slow the roll of your shopping cart in the bakery aisle of Trader Joe’s and pause beside the package of adorably-named Peanut Butter Brookies. As you pick it up, examining the half-peanut butter cookie half-brownies, you can't help but think of the protein bar with the same flavor.
It's silly. It's inane. It's entirely over the top, and you’d absolutely die of embarrassment if Josie found out. But before you can let yourself buckle with self-consciousness, you quickly add the package of baked goods to your cart and roll on. And on Monday morning, you slip it into your laptop bag.
A thank-you gift for a lunch sacrificed, carried around just in case.
Monday bleeds into Friday, and still, the brownies remain ungifted, perfectly intact inside their hard plastic casing. You check the expiration date, which wasn’t for another two weeks, and they taunt you on your parents’ counter, mocking your whimsy. Still, when your dad comes sniffing curiously around, you feel a spike of instant dismay and snatch them before he can break the seal. He looks entirely baffled as you carry them protectively up to your room.
“Wha—” You ignore his confusion as you tramp up the steps, depositing the brookies back in your bag. You sigh, a sound of long-suffering exasperation with yourself and your own inanity. One more week, you resolve. If I don’t see him this week, I’m forgetting all about this.
And it appears, as Friday rolls around again, that you would need to abandon your silly crush on the paramedic you’d bumped into thrice in three months. Your laptop bag thumps against your thigh as you push open the heavy glass doors of your office building, emerging into the brisk chill of late September, tempered by the golden light of the deepening sun. You allow yourself to sulk, indulging in your disappointment until you reach the glittering blue paint of your Honda Civic. Fate is a fickle mistress. You sigh as you unlock the door and flump into the driver’s seat, depositing your laptop bag onto the floor on the other side of the console. You allow yourself an ironic smile, shaking your head at the notion of fate as you start the car and idle as you tap the phone icon on the screen, intending to call Josie to discuss your plans for the weekend.
Yet when you hit it, it doesn’t pull up your contacts as expected. Instead, it pulls up the list of Bluetooth devices it remembers, and you scrunch your nose at the words ‘y/n’s iPhone’ on the screen, wondering why it wouldn't just connect automatically. But when you tap it, waiting impatiently until the request times out, you realize what the problem is.
You must have left your phone in your cubicle.
Another sigh, this one longer and far more exasperated at the thought of trekking all the way back to the office after a long work day. You briefly consider just going home without your phone, but it’s Friday, and that would mean languishing without it for the entire weekend. A momentary inconvenience now is not worth the giant inconvenience that would be.
You groan as you pull your laptop bag back into your lap, petulantly pulling the strap over your head as you lock your car and begin the walk back to the office.
All looks the same as it had ten minutes before— the golden sun is still glinting off the windows you wish your cubicle faced, and the cherry trees are still swaying gently across the street.
The only thing not the same is the ambulance sitting stationary against the curb across from those heavy glass doors.
Your footsteps falter in surprise for only a moment before incredulous giddiness has your heart racing. There’s no fucking way, you think, stamping down on your excitement as you maintain outward composure, walking calmly up to your office building despite the fluttering you feel inside. You even whisper temperance as you pull open the door, wincing as that typical blast of cold air hits you. “Don’t be ridiculous,” you tell yourself as the clacking of your heels echoes hollowly in the lobby. “There’s no such thing as fate—”
The elevator dings cheerily, and the stretcher emerges first, revealing a pair of familiar leopard-printed flats and the rich darkness of your coworker Doris’ pudgy legs. You stop, eyes going wide as her torso, chest, neck, and head are slowly revealed. Her half-moon glasses are slightly askew, the crystal chain clinking against the heavy earrings dragging down her drooping earlobes as she’s maneuvered gently into the lobby.
Your mutterings about fate are abandoned immediately as you rush with concern. “Doris!” you exclaim in dismay. “Oh my gosh, are you okay? What happened?”
She draws steadily closer as you stand in the middle of the lobby, her stretcher wheeled by medical personnel. You don’t look at them, eyes locked on your coworker as she grimaces at you. You know Doris is accident-prone, but this is beyond a little coffee pot mishap. Your chest tightens with nervousness at the pain on her face. She grunts, humphing, “Tripped and broke my damn ankle.” She shakes her head as if with disgust. “I told Doug I could’ve made it down myself, but he insisted on calling the ambulance.” She groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is humiliating.”
Your brow crinkles with sympathy, voice going gentle with reassurance. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, Doris,” you say, looking at her encouragingly as she slants a glance in your direction.
She enunciates each word very deliberately, snapping, “I broke my ankle tripping on a damn pencil, y/n.”
You purse your lips to keep from smiling, though the laugh builds up in your chest, wanting to burst out. In your defense, because of the potent combination of Doris’ accident-prone nature, her delivery of that line, and, truthfully, the fact that you can’t help but imagine what it looked like when she tripped over a pencil. Who trips over a pencil?!
It’s not funny. It’s NOT funny.
With the barest shred of merciful dignity, you manage to maintain your composure. “I’m sorry, Doris,” is all you can manage, and you rotate as she’s rolled even with you to keep facing her. The older woman humphs as she passes, and your eyes dart to the back of the large paramedic’s head, running over the bristles of his short hair as he diverts to the wall to hit the switch that automatically opens the door for wheelchairs.
You relax your mouth and let the smile grow as you turn away from Doris, but your heart leaps into your throat as you stop short just an inch from colliding with the second paramedic, who is standing far too close for comfort. Your heart leaps into your throat but drops into your ass as you register the honey-brown of his eyes, the wild curls that frame his pale face, and the scent of smoke and spice as Eddie towers over you.
You freeze, and your belly flutters wildly as his full lips split with a grin. “Hey there, Trouble,” he says, and for a moment, all you can do is blink at him mutely until your brain connects with your mouth.
“Eddie!” you exclaim, and in your surprise, you don’t temper your reaction to seeing him. You beam brightly, eyes wide with delight as he falls back on his heels, jamming his hands in his pockets. His expression melts into pleasure at the sound of his name so keen in your mouth.
“You know,” he teases, voice pitched a little lower than usual, “you didn’t have to plant that pencil if you wanted to see me again.”
But the implication of his teasing words and his tone skates right over your head because you’re already digging in your laptop bag, singularly focused on the unexpected rush of being able to deliver your gift. “I wanted to give you this—” you pull out the package with an air of triumph, “to thank you for, well… everything with Matt, I guess, but also for the protein bar. I figured you like peanut butter and chocolate.”
You thrust the brookies toward him, and Eddie takes the package gingerly, staring down at it. You watch a couple of microexpressions dart across his face, too quick to decipher, and then he’s crooking a smile at you. “Thanks,” he says, “that’s really cool of you.”
You nod, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth, and as Eddie stares at you for a moment, you suddenly become aware that he might think it’s weird you’ve been carting around a container of food, hoping to run into him. Before you can stumble too far down that rabbit hole, Eddie redirects you, asking casually, “So, how’s Shellfish doin’? Holding up okay now?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Your honest answer comes quick and unabashed. “There was no third date.”
There’s a flicker of something behind Eddie’s eyes, and then it’s gone. He leans in, cupping one hand to the side of his mouth as if speaking in confidence. “Y’ask me, I think you dodged a bullet. A man who doesn’t know his mollusks is not a good catch.”
You chuckle at the play on words, and Eddie seems tickled that you’d caught on quickly. A dimple emerges on his cheek, and you feel that low fluttering again. “He was a little too macho for me anyway,” you say dismissively, shrugging and hoping he gets the message that you couldn’t care less about Matt. “He had a big ego, and I didn’t like the way he talked to Steve. It’s like he had to be the big man on campus.”
Eddie snorts, a little sardonic as he replies, “Well, maybe he should date my ex. She loves that tough guy shi—” he glances at you quickly, seeming a little embarrassed of his almost slip-up. “—stuff. She called me a glorified nurse as if that’s an insult.”
You come alive with warmth, choosing to take that to mean Eddie is single. And not only to mean that he’s single, but that he wants you to know he is, now that you said you’re single. That giddiness is returning, filling you up until you might burst; impulsively, riding that high, you say, “Can’t say I agree. Personally, I like a man who has a nurturing side.”
You don’t know where the hell that sudden boldness came from, and you rush with shyness almost immediately afterward as you see Eddie’s brows jerk. For the briefest moment, he looks taken aback, and then he’s beaming that eye-crinkling smile. It’s almost manic, brighter than any you’ve seen on him yet, and it’s utterly beautiful.
“Munson!”
Eddie startles at the sharp, impatient shout from outside, and you realize that it must be his partner calling him. Eddie stutters into action, fumbling through an apology as he jerks toward the doors with your gift rattling in his hand. “No, it’s fine,” you assure him, and when he glances back at you one more time before tugging open the heavy glass, you bite your lip, fluttering when you see the pink on his cheeks.
You watch him through the glass as he jogs over to the ambulance, his long curls bouncing as he disappears from your view. Part of you— a big part of you— is resisting the sibilant whisper that it would be awkward to follow him, and you’re just about to do it when the elevator dings again. You turn toward it automatically, meeting the panicked eyes of your office’s youngest intern, Carrie.
She seems surprised to see you, and her mousy nose quivers as her eyes widen. “You’re back?” she squeaks, rushing toward you immediately.
“Yeah,” you say cautiously, “I forgot my phone—”
She clutches your arms, quivering with desperation. “Oh, thank God you’re here. I was hoping to catch you in the parking lot—” You’re alarmed to see the sheen in her eyes, the wobble of her lip. “I really need your help.”
Immediately, your hand finds her shoulder, concern welling up to replace all else. “Look, Carrie, it’s okay,” you say, guiding her back to the elevator. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
By the time she’d wavered through her explanation, and you’d helped her fix the “crisis”— a simple jam in the new Xerox made unreasonably urgent by your boss’ exaggerated threat that if anyone broke the expensive copier, they’d be paying for it out of their earnings— you return to the lobby to find the street conspicuously lacking in one unmistakeable red and white vehicle.
The walk back to the parking lot— plus one phone and minus a package of baked goods— is dull and lackluster. Disappointment swoops in your gut as your foolish hope that maybe you’d catch the ambulance down the block is dashed when you reach your car with no such sightings. And you can’t even curse fate because you’ve gotten your wish.
Fickle as ever, she’d delivered Eddie to you so you could return his kindness as you’d hoped. But she’d ignored the secret yearning of your heart, leaving you at the mercy of her whims.
And she wouldn’t oblige you again without a cost.
It’s the burst of an impact you couldn’t possibly brace for. There’s the squeal of brakes and then the sickening crunch of metal. Powder in your mouth as you gasp. A rain of shattered glass. And then ringing, deafening silence.
In the stillness, the moments replay over and over, winding through your mind like a snake chasing its tail, each bone of its spine a single, disjointed thought.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.
Your mother forgot the cranberries.
You were driving home from the store.
You stopped at the corner of Macopin and Hamberg Turnpike.
Two roads feed into one; the leftmost has the right of way.
There’s a cop car waiting at the left fork.
He waved you on.
You didn’t see the box truck coming around the corner.
He waved you on.
So you went.
The ringing, deafening silence dissolves slowly into sounds— the blare of a police siren, the hissing of a radiator. You turn your head slowly and glance at the passenger seat for your phone, and your stomach lurches at what’s past it: the crumpled remains of the passenger-side door where your vehicle is pinned against the guardrail, and beyond, the sea of trees it’s protecting you from.
There are tiny clatters of glass as you shift restlessly, heart pumping frantically as the shock begins to wear off and the adrenaline kicks in. Right outside your window, the hood of the box truck is bent and warped, and if you were to reach out your shattered window, you could run your palm along the warm metal. The reality then sets in: you’d been hit by a box truck and pinned against the guardrail.
You’re lucky to be alive.
A voice swims, echoing in your ears. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”
You try to blink the daze away, to break free of the two thoughts the fractured bones of the snake have transformed into. Thank God I was driving dad’s Suburban. If I’d been in my car…. You desperately do not want to finish that sentence.
You whimper with effort, and the voice returns more urgently. “Ma’am. Can you hear me?”
“I can hear you,” you call weakly.
The voice comes again. “Are you hurt?”
“I—” You move slowly, shifting your body minutely. A bend of your elbow. A shrug of your shoulder. Something along your collarbone aches like a burn. “I don’t know,” you reply honestly, and your voice wavers with the realization. Slowly, other sensations emerge: you discern sharp soreness in your arm. You wince, and that tightening of your forehead stings. You can’t see your legs; they’re concealed beneath the airbag, and your heart pumps harder.
Suddenly, you’re holding your breath. You’re afraid to shift your legs, afraid to feel a rush of pain, or worse, to try to move them and feel nothing at all.
You turn your head fractionally, eyes straining to see out the shattered window, but the box truck is in the way. “EMS is on their way, ma’am. We’re gonna get you out of here.” You realize then that the voice must belong to the cop.
“Thank you.” You feel your eyes rush with tears. “Is… is the other guy…?”
“He’s okay,” the cop answers, and you breathe a shaky sigh of relief, letting it puff out your cheeks.
“Okay,” you answer in a small voice, and there is no reply.
As you wait for EMS to arrive, you concentrate on doing everything you can to reduce your panic, knowing that the worst thing you can do is allow yourself to freak out. You take slow, deep breaths, resisting the urge to suck in air greedily even as your lungs protest. By degrees, very gradually, the frantic pumping of your heart begins to slow, and the airbag at your steering wheel starts to deflate. And by the time it’s sagging flat against the wheel, you hear the crunch of nearby tires over grass and gravel and see a long flash of red beyond the vehicle wedged against your own. That must be the firetruck. As your body calms, experimentally, you begin to test out some movements, starting with the low-risk ones. Slowly, you bend your elbows until your hands are in front of your face and examine your fingers and arms. There’s a quickly-forming contusion swelling on your left forearm, and anxiety spikes once again until you run your fingers over it. It hurts, but not that badly, and you breathe a sigh of relief that it doesn’t seem to be broken. You feel along your face blindly, and there’s some stinging on your forehead and left cheek, but otherwise, there is no pain. Without moving your head, you unbuckle yourself and pull down the neckline of your sweater. As you feel around, you discover that the pain travels diagonally across your collarbone, and your fingers don’t come away with blood. Logically, the sting on your chest is likely just a burn from the seatbelt.
Higher-risk movements come next. You shift so, so slowly, resolving to stop as soon as you encounter any pain. But you turn your head, and there is none; you wiggle your toes, and they move. You sway your hips, and they obey, and when you lean forward toward the steering wheel, you meet no resistance.
Somehow, you think you’re okay. You don’t anticipate the rush of emotion the realization conjures, and a tear slips to cut through the airbag powder on your cheek.
You hear footsteps and voices approaching then, but still, all you can really see is the bent-up hood of the box truck. Slowly, the sounds discern themselves into words. And it’s a revelation that pulls another tear from your eyes when you realize one voice is familiar.
He’s saying, “The cop said it’s a woman. She’s lucid—”
Your voice comes out small but sweet with melty hope. “Eddie?”
The voice ceases immediately, and the silence is like a chasm. And then you hear your name rasped in that musical timbre. “...y/n?”
You breathe a laugh, shaky with relief. “Yeah,” you croak. “It’s me.” Instantly, the lingering stormclouds— the apprehension, the shame, the acrid, biting fear— all disperse as you picture a bright smile and honey-brown eyes, leaving behind only the tracks of dew on your cheek and the singular belief that now, everything will be okay.
“Harrington,” Eddie barks, “tell those fuckers to hurry up and get this truck out of the goddamn way.”
Every ounce of tension you’d been relieved of is tightening that musical voice now as it goes impossibly harsh. “Hey!” The sudden bite of his shout is shocking. “Let’s go! What the fuck is taking so long?”
A sliver of Eddie peeks at the edge of the window, and his voice gentles again. “Are you hurt, sweetheart?”
“No, I think I’m okay,” you say, shaking your head.
Some grit, some tight urgency returns as he says, “No, don’t do that. Don’t move your head. Just stay still. Stay right there, okay? We’re gonna get you out.”
As bodies flit around in the background, you stare at the sliver of Eddie’s face— the paleness of his skin, the dark curtain of his hair, the glint of silver in his earlobe— waiting for the moment you can see his eyes again. You stare as uniformed men crowd around the truck, and you stare until it begins to roll away, pushed by their combined effort. And as soon as there’s enough room, Eddie is shuffling sideways until his face fills the window, honey-brown eyes wide and just as breathtaking as you remembered.
Before either of you can speak, Eddie is urged bodily out of the way to make room for the firefighters, who try to open the door only to find it stuck. One of them brings over a corded device held two-handed while the other passes you a scratchy orange blanket through the opening of your window. “We need to remove the door,” he tells you. “Hold this up to protect yourself.”
From behind the curtain of orange, you listen to them slowly and meticulously peel away the door of your father’s destroyed car. Eventually, after some long minutes, the shadow beyond the blanket falls away, and you hear the thump of heavy metal hitting the grass. And when hands pull the blanket away, the reveal of dark curls, lanky limbs, and a familiar handsome face fills you with a sense of awe that any magician would envy.
Ta-da.
“Hey, Trouble.” Eddie’s voice is gentle but hoarse, and he’s smiling, but it’s a little tight. You think his face looks pale as he looks up at you; you’re a few inches taller than him where he’s standing on the ground. His eyes rove over you restlessly. “How're you feelin’?”
“I’m okay, I think,” you say again as Steve comes to stand beside Eddie, holding a neck brace. “I don’t think I need that,” you add. “I feel fine.” You turn your head to demonstrate, and Eddie instantly scowls.
“Look—”
Steve cuts in smoothly. “Does anything hurt? Anything feel numb?”
You shake your head, stilling your movement when Eddie jerks forward, jaw clenched tight. “Just my arm hurts, but I don’t feel numb.” You show them the contusion on your left arm, which looks no worse than it did earlier.
You can see that Eddie is still doubtful, but Steve walks you through basic checks. “Wiggle your toes for me.” “Try to move your foot up.” “Now the other one.” “Bend forward.” You follow his instructions easily, and in the end, he shifts back, conceding that you are, indeed, likely unharmed— at least in any crucial way.
Eddie abruptly hoists himself onto the kickplate, planting his feet and filling the space where the door used to be. His closeness is sudden, and your eyes dart over everything— the metal of his belt buckle that’s now even with your bent elbow, the black on black on black of his paramedic uniform, the neck of his collared shirt that pulls further open to reveal more pale skin as he reaches for you. And then he’s everywhere, bending forward until his curls are brushing your cheek and his smoke and spice is in your nose and your stomach is fluttering so wildly you feel you might fly away.
“Hold onto me,” he mutters, and his voice is so close— low and musical and hoarsened by something that sticks in his throat— that your breath catches. His hand wedges between your legs and the seat, and gingerly, you wrap your arms around his neck and lift your knees so he can slide his arm underneath them. When his other arm comes across your back, muscles flexing to test your weight, you realize that he means to pick you up.
“I can just jump down, you know,” you say, and the wheezy chuckle he huffs into your hair is half-amused and half-incredulous.
“See,” Eddie says, and you feel him shift, testing his balance as his arms tighten around you, “this is why I call you Trouble.” The teasing warmth of his voice brings a flush to your cheeks, and instinctively, you duck your head against his shoulder. When you do, and your lips skim the column of Eddie’s throat, you feel the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows. “Hold tight, okay?”
You tighten your arms obligingly and nod, and as the plump of your lips brushes the warmth of Eddie’s skin, he lifts you out of the broken skeleton of your crushed vehicle.
There is no time to worry about whether you’re too heavy or if Eddie will drop you because, before you know it, he’s laying you on the nearby stretcher. His hand finds your shoulder and presses you gently, though firmly, flat to the tilted back. Your eyes dart among the personnel that still litter the grass until they catch on the cars driving slowly past, and beyond them, the fated intersection— the nexus of this entire mess.
Suddenly, Steve is at your elbow. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”
“Yes,” Eddie interrupts before you can reply, and your eyes dart between them as Steve shoots him a weird look. But Eddie doesn’t waver. “She’s going.”
“Only if she wants to—”
“She’s going whether she wants to or not,” Eddie interrupts him, nostrils flared and voice a little sharp. “She needs to be evaluated.”
“I wanna go, Steve.” You head off the storm you can sense brewing between them. “I wanna go to the hospital. Can someone just get my phone and my bag?”
“We’ll make sure all your personal belongings are with you, ma’am.” It’s the cop from before, speaking from a short distance away. You nod, glancing at each of the men as Steve and Eddie continue to stare at one another for a tense moment before Steve mutely takes hold of the stretcher’s metal frame. Eddie does the same on your other side, and together, they load you into the ambulance.
It isn’t exactly a shock when Eddie hoists himself up beside you, shutting the back doors with a definitive thunk. His heavy boots clunk along the metal flooring as he flanks you, sitting down on a stool near your elbow, nearly hovering over you like a stone-faced sentinel. It’s odd to see him like this— tense and wound tight, his mouth pressed into a hard line as his eyes dart over your body restlessly, never settling in one place. He’s always been so calm and casual in every encounter you’ve had with him, and you’d figured that's just what he was always like. You think of how he’d felt carefully along Josie’s nose, occasionally glancing toward the stage as Spiritbox played one of their best songs. How he’d seemed friendly and warm though also detached.
You think, as his lips twist and he rips open the zipper of his med pack, that Eddie is not detached right now. And that thought makes you go warm with its implications.
As the ambulance rumbles to life, Eddie pulls out a small cylindrical object and sets it down on a tray. He pulls on rubber gloves, roughly tugging them down his hands before firmly taking your wrist, fingertips on your pulse point. You watch him wide-eyed as he stares at his watch to count the beats before letting you go.
When his hands find your abdomen, you jolt in surprise, and he pauses for only a moment before pressing down on your belly. “Tell me if anything hurts,” he says, and the part of you that was flattered thinking about what the loss of his composure might mean flares in exasperation instead.
“I feel fine,” you tell him.
Eddie doesn’t look up or stop his palpations. “Could have internal bleeding,” he mutters, almost as if to himself.
“I am not bleeding internally, Eddie,” you say, trying to remain patient.
“Who’s the medical professional here?” You think he’s trying to joke, but it falls flat between you since his voice is too tense to hold the same musical charm as his normal teasing.
You sigh heavily, enduring until he’s satisfied. “There, see—?” A sudden light blinds your left eye, and you wince, unable to maintain your composure any longer. “Eddie, what the hell?!”
Undeterred, he checks the other eye in the same way, ignoring your squirming. “I’m checking your pupillary response,” he says. “You could have a concussion.”
And with that, he starts talking. And once Eddie starts, he does not stop.
Your arm is throbbing, the skin on your chest stings, and now your head is spinning with each word that comes out of his mouth. “Head trauma,” “loss of coordination,” “muscle laxity,” “cerebral hemorrhage,” “disorientation,” “amnesia,” “vision disturbance,” “hematoma.” Eddie’s rambling goes on until you finally snap his name. “Irritability,” he says, nodding to himself.
You huff. “No, Eddie, I’m not irritable. You’re just giving me a headache.”
That doesn’t make him stop; that makes it worse. In an instant, he’s standing, not realizing that you were exaggerating for effect. His face is hovering over you as he braces his hands on the metal bars caging you into the stretcher, eyes darting as he questions you intently. “Where is the pain? Is it sharp and shooting? Dull and aching? How bad is it, scale of one to ten?”
You suppress a whine because despite your attempt to dissuade him, now he’s blathering on even more, and his gloved thumb is running over your forehead, and you can’t even enjoy it because his touch is stinging the tiny cuts on your skin. And all you want is for him to stop talking, and he won’t. Eddie just won’t shut up—
Impulsively, you fist your hands in the fabric of his shirt, surging up as you yank him down, swallowing his words as you kiss him firmly.
The words stop instantly, but Eddie also stiffens, going completely rigid as you kiss him. And the fact that you can taste him— smoke and spice like Big Red chewing gum— drives home exactly what you’ve done and how unbelievably inappropriate it is.
You release him, flopping back onto the stretcher with your hands curled against your chest as the heat floods your face with such intensity that you fear your flesh might melt from your bones. Hot mortification rushes through you, nearly nauseating as Eddie stares at you, expression unreadable, eyes dark in the dim light of the ambulance and lips downturned just slightly at the corners. Embarrassed isn’t the word for it. The seconds that tick by are nearly unbearable, and if you could, you would sink into the floor, descend to the asphalt and below to the dirt, and then down, down, down through the surface of the earth to melt in its molten core just to escape this moment.
Finally, once you’ve begun to break out into a cold sweat, Eddie says hoarsely, “You sure you aren’t concussed?”
Your brow crumples with dismay, but then he’s cupping your face, his broad palm cradling your cheek, and his hand is warm beneath the latex. And you barely have time to appreciate how those honey-brown eyes soften before Eddie’s ducking to kiss you.
It’s the second time you’ve felt his lips, and now, you don’t panic. You just bloom.
Eddie’s lips are warm and soft and just slightly chapped, enough to make them rasp against yours pleasantly when he shifts his head slightly. You make a little noise against his mouth when he lingers, and your heart melts when you feel him smile. He parts from you just briefly to make it sweeter when he kisses you softly again, and then once more before finally pulling far enough away to gaze at you. He murmurs, and the teasing cadence is back in his musical voice. “Y’didn’t have to get yourself hit by a box truck to see me, you know.”
You feel dazed in the best way. “Yeah?” you say, voice small and delicate and questioning. Eddie smiles, and you lean into his touch as he strokes your cheek with his thumb.
“Yeah,” he says softly.
Your eyes widen hopefully. “So does this mean you’re gonna take me to the drive-in?”
Eddie throws back his head and laughs— not a barking, surprised laugh, or a goofy, husky chuckle, but a rasp of pure relief and delight that has you blooming with pride. You don’t even mind that his hand falls from your cheek to clutch at the railing for support. When he straightens, his curls are wild and beautiful as they frame his face, his honey-brown eyes are twinkling, and that dimple you’re becoming partial to is out for you again.
“Slow your roll, Trouble,” he says fondly. “Let’s get you checked out first, and then we can talk about shakes and a movie.”
The only drive-in movie theatre in the state is half an hour away, and the final showing before they close for the season is next Wednesday, and if that’s not fate, you don’t know what is.
It doesn’t matter that it’s rather a lot colder than it typically is at the very end of November. The inside of Eddie’s refurbished 1979 Chevelle is toasty, and you’re cuddled up under numerous knitted throws you’d gathered from your parents’ house, so the chill of the milkshake on your fingers doesn’t bother you. You set yours in the cupholder beside Eddie’s, strawberry next to chocolate. You nearly double-take when you pick his up and shake it, eyes darting to mischievous honey-brown when you realize it’s already more than half gone. You take a pouty sip, letting the taste of rich chocolate melt and mingle with fruity strawberry in a perfect melding of flavors. Eddie snatches your cup, pursing his lips around your straw and sucking cheekily. The chunky rings that glint on his fingers are unfamiliar but entirely welcome, and so are the battle vest, the green flannel, and the tight jeans ripped at the knees that replace his typical paramedic uniform. Finally being able to see Eddie in his street clothes still hasn’t worn off, and you tingle even as you pretend to glare at him.
“You better not drink all of mine just because you nearly finished yours before the movie’s even started,” you tell him, trying to maintain your glare even though it’s already melting at the charming grin Eddie hits you with.
“Oh, Trouble,” he sighs, eyebrows crinkling in pretend earnestness, and you fight stubbornly against your lips. “I would never drink all of your milkshake. Mr. J would never let me live it down if I did.”
You lose the battle then, plunking his cup back in the cupholder as you grumble through your smile. He replaces your cup smoothly, smacking his lips in an exaggeration of enjoyment, eyes glittering. “Man, your shake really is good, though. If I didn’t like you so much, I might be tempted to finish it.”
His grin turns wolfish as you blush and look away. You’ve only gone out twice, but it's clear by now that Eddie enjoys nothing more than seeing the effect he has on you— the way his words and touches can conjure goosebumps, shivers, and blushes from thin air. Sourly you sit there, wracking your brain for how to get him back.
It comes to you, and your lips curve with a smirk. Suddenly, you know just the thing.
You begin to deepen your breaths, exaggerating the rise of your chest and frowning in confusion. “Eddie? I feel faint,” you say weakly, glancing at him to see the enjoyment fall from his face as he transitions instantly into medical mode.
“What’s wrong?” he says, his typical calm paramedic cadence edged with concern. Your lips twitch as you hear it, but you suppress the impulse, wanting to continue your game. “Sweetheart, is it your head? Do you feel dizzy? What does it feel like?”
“I think…” you pause dramatically, eyes darting to take in his reaction, “...you’ve taken my breath away.”
Eddie’s concern flattens as he stares at you, entirely unimpressed. You just beam, pleased with yourself, and in the light of your smile, the mask of disapproval cracks; the dimple emerges as he loses the battle with his own grin. With faint amusement and plenty of fondness, Eddie says, “You really are trouble, aren’t you?”
The giant screen blazes to life in front of you, casting Eddie’s wild curls in a faint glow. The planes of his face soften in the light as the film begins, but neither of you move to switch on the radio yet. You simply gaze at him for a moment— this heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing and a not-so-secret heart of gold. When your sentiment floods your eyes, you watch Eddie’s honey-brown melt in kind. You hum your agreement, leaning over the armrest, and when Eddie meets you halfway, you reward him with a tender kiss. “I really am,” you murmur against his lips, and they brush yours as he smiles.
“Well, Trouble, it’s a good thing I know CPR,” he murmurs. And as the Wednesday double-feature begins, the movie’s soundtrack becomes the delight of your giggles, the warmth of Eddie’s chuckles, and the sweet press of your lips meeting again and again.
ask💌 | kofi🌼 | masterlist🌱
#blueywrites#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x you#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson#eddie munson fic#eddie munson imagine#eddie munson fluff#stranger things fanfiction#stranger things fic#newlipsmilestoneoflove
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