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I like family guy.

And I like Joseph Quinn. A lot.

So I drew Joseph an Johnny Storm together.

(can u find another character?)

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Little goblin man

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Dolly

Eddie hasn't thought about her in a long time, had completely forgotten her. But a visit from the past awakens not only old memories but also completely new feelings. From friends to lovers, a story from Eddie's perspective, nicknames, lots of flirting, sexual innuendo, very fluffy, lots of emotions Watch out! There are several chapters.

<- chapter one

Later. I’m lying on my bed, the blanket half over me, the fan buzzing like a stunned mosquito. My left foot taps along to Master of Puppets playing softly on my old cassette deck. In my right hand is a half-finished joint. I take a deep drag, close my eyes, let the smoke fill my lungs.

Her. She won’t get out of my head. The way she sat there, alone. How she blushed. How she brushed those curls from her face like it was nothing—and yet it was… something. That feeling that I knew her, that there was something hidden in my head, tucked underneath a dusty drawer full of childhood memories.

I exhale smoke toward the ceiling and mutter, “Who are you?” Knock knock. I jump. Quickly I stub the joint out in the ashtray, frantically wave an old Metallica shirt like a sacred fan against the smell of doom. Wayne’s on the late shift, but you never know—maybe some nosy neighbor thinks I’m into Satanism. Not entirely wrong, but, damn people, let me just smoke weed like everyone else, okay?

I head to the door, open it… and there she is. Her. Curls, leather jacket, those damn eyes. “Hey,” she says, her smile a bit crooked and nervous. “I thought you probably still live here.”

I blink. “Uh… yeah. Welcome… to my kingdom.” She grins. “Remember now, or do you need a hint?”

Leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, trying to play it cool… and I have no clue what to say.

“I kinda thought,” she continues, “that you wouldn’t remember. But I’ll never forget little Eddie Munson, making mud cakes with me and hunting monsters in the woods.” She looks me over. “But little Eddie’s grown up big.”

Suddenly a switch flips in my brain. The fog clears, and there she is—barefoot, muddy, with a watering can full of muck, deep in Hawkins woods. Me. Her. A fallen tree root that was our hideout. And I called her… Dolly. “Dolly…” I murmur.

She nods, her eyes shining. “You called me that because I was small and round like a dolly.” I laugh—real laughter. The first all day. “You were cute like a doll.” “Were?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “Are,” I correct, biting my tongue.

She laughs, and her laughter… god, it’s like sunlight on a rusted tin roof. Strange. But beautiful. Real. “Dang, Dolly!” A wave of happiness hits me. I can’t control the goofy grin on my face—and, Jesus, she’s grinning back. She reaches out, steps closer, and hugs me tight. Feels like reuniting after far too long. At that moment, I realize exactly that’s what it is.

She wraps her arms around my waist, clasps her hands behind my back, and I knot my arms around her shoulders. We just stand there, me sure she can feel my heart pounding—but hell, I can’t do anything about it.

After a while she pulls away, her eyes shining, grinning wide. It’s strange: in an instant, the image of that tooth-gap little girl flickers before her face—past Dolly and present Dolly merging into one person. Did she have this experience earlier in school when she looked at me?

Dolly sits in the grass in front of my trailer, blinking at me expectantly. “You gonna stand there or sit with me?”

Of course that wasn’t really a question— as if I had any other choice than to sit next to her. The grass is damp; the moisture seeps through my jeans. I wonder if Dolly notices—or just doesn’t care.

I light a cigarette to busy my hands; her presence makes me crazy-nervous. “So,” I say, “what brought you back to Hawkins, Dolly from Germany?”

She pulls a blade of grass from the ground. “Remember why I moved away in the first place?”

Honestly, no. Until just now I couldn’t even remember I had a close friend as a kid. I shake my head, and she sees I’m in the dark.

“My parents split before I was born. I just lived with my mom.”

Ah—something clicks in me. A little crowded living room—didn’t we play orphanage there? Switching roles, me or her being the child adopted or rejected. Strange. She giggles and I focus on her again.

“I can see how the memories come flooding back. Your eyes go all glassy.”

I laugh—more in surprise than anything. Dolly really sees me, notices my reactions. That’s… not what I’m used to.

“Anyway,” she continues, “my mom met my stepdad. A German guy. And surprise… eventually she decided to move there. We were in fifth grade. Then it was Stuttgart.”

“And how was the move for you?” I ask.

She laughs, but bitterly this time. “Moving from a small town to a big city sucks. Everything’s highways, noise, and piss. Jesus, Eddie,” she sighs, looks at me dead serious, “it all smells like sausage and piss!”

Her serious face combined with her word choice makes me laugh so hard I almost cry. I lie back flat in the grass to endure my own laughing fit. When did I last laugh that hard? I hear her laugh too—almost scream. Quickly I turn toward her; I want to see her laughing. Tears stream down her cheeks, and she rocks forward and back.

“That’s not funny,” she pants. “But your laughter!”

That makes me laugh even more. We sit there—or I lay there—and laugh up at the sky. Eventually she takes my hand and squeezes it. “My stomach,” she pants. “Ouch.”

Honestly, my abs hurt too—my muscles aren’t used to that kind of laughing. The last few years have been seriously short on joy.

We calm down, but Dolly’s hand remains on mine. Her skin is warm and soft. I’d love to brush my thumb over the back of her hand, to see if it’s soft there too. But I don’t—she’ll figure out soon enough I’m the “freak.” No need to rip that Band-Aid off.

I frown. “So now? Why are you back?”

She shrugs. “My mom and I… we’ve been fighting. A lot. Loud. About everything. About nothing. So I moved in with my dad.”

I nod. “Welcome back to the hell.”

She laughs again—and I want to bottle that sound, store it somewhere safe.

But then I notice it. The accent. The way she’s careful with her words, like every syllable might betray her.

“You sound… kinda…” I start.

“Like someone with German accent, who not speaks English since long time?” she says, sighing.

I raise my eyebrows, amused. “Who hasn’t spoken English in a long time,” I correct gently.

She groans and covers her face. “Ugh, yes. That. See? I sound like a stupid child.”

“Hey, no,” I say, touching her hand briefly. “It’s cute. Kind of charming, honestly.”

She looks at me, doubtful. “Yeah, until I try say ‘squirrel’ in class and everybody laughs.” She frowns. “That word is evil.”

I can’t help but laugh. “You mean… skwrrrlll?”

She attempts it. “Squrlle.”

I chuckle. “Close. Try again.”

“Squirr-luh?”

“Better,” I grin. “You’ll get it.”

She smirks. “I can say ‘Dragon’, but not ‘squirrel’. Is unfair.”

“That’s life. Weird and unfair,” I say, still smiling. Then, softly: “But you’re doing great, you know?”

She snorts, but there’s a tiny blush rising on her cheeks. “My teacher says I talk too quiet. Like I hide.”

“You do,” I say. “But here… with me… you talk more.”

She pauses. Then: “Because you make me feel… like no need to hide.”

I blink. That hits harder than it should.

And suddenly the air feels warmer. Softer. Like a memory you thought was lost but somehow found its way back.

It goes quiet for a moment. I feel my heart jumping in my chest. Not like after a jump scare, but like… when you rediscover an old song you haven’t heard in ages.

“And why did you guys argue?” I ask curiously. “You and your mom.”

She suddenly grins. Crooked. Mischievous. “She caught me smoking a few times. A few times too many.”

I widen my eyes. “Really?”

She leans toward me, sniffs in my direction. “By the way, I can smell what you did in there.”

I act offended. “I’m a good citizen, Dolly. That was… uh… sage. Medicinal.”

“Sure,” she says, winking.

And suddenly that feeling from back then comes back — when we sat together under the tree root and believed dragons could live in the woods. A thought arises in me, a thought I’ve never had before. I wonder if I should invite her inside. Not because of any dirty thoughts, God no, but because… medicinal purposes. Smoking alone is nice, but in company, it’s much better.

She looks at me, her eyes a little tired, a little curious. I clear my throat. Now or never, Munson.

“So… if you want,” I say, pretending it’s no big deal even though my pulse is already racing, “you can come in. I mean… smoke a bit, chill a bit. Only if you want.”

Her lips curl into a smile. Not the sweet, insecure one from school — more like a “I know you’re trying to be cool” smile. And then she just says: “Gladly.”

I try not to stumble as I open the door. Inside, of course, it smells exactly as expected: incense sticks, old vinyl, a slightly burnt cable somewhere in the wall, and a hint of… sin.

She steps in, takes off her jacket, and looks around. My room is, well… my room. Posters of Dio, Sabbath, Judas Priest. Action figures on the shelf. DnD dice scattered on the floor like they’d just had a fight and scattered. My bed’s unmade. Of course. An empty bag of chips wobbles on the amplifier.

“Sorry, it’s a bit…” I search for a word that doesn’t sound like total self-loathing. “…chaotic.”

She slowly turns around, takes it all in, takes her time. Then she simply says: “I like it. It looks like you.”

I’m silent for a moment. Like me, my mind thinks. No one’s ever said that to me. Not like that. Not… nice.

I clear my throat, reach into my little drawer under the window and pull out my stash. I roll the joint with the precision of an alchemist, light it, and hand it to her.

She takes it with a casualness that surprises me. Draws deeply, blows the smoke toward the ceiling. Then she looks at me.

“Not your first time, huh?” I ask, grinning.

“In Germany, it feels like there are more people with their own garden than with a driver’s license. Trust me, every other guy grows something in his garden shed.”

I laugh. We take turns smoking, and slowly that warm, fuzzy feeling settles over us. Not just from the weed. Also from… her. The way she just is. Without expectations. Without a mask.

Then she turns to me, her voice soft, a bit muffled: “So, Munson… now that I’m back… will you help me navigate this madhouse called Hawkins High? Who’s who? Who’s dangerous? Who’s dumb? Who’s nice?”

I sit up, rubbing my hands like a shady gnome about to sell a treasure map. “Oh, Dolly, you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

She laughs. “I want names. Stories. And at least one warning.”

“Okay, so… there’s Jason Carver. Basketball player. Cheerleader boyfriend. Vain as a peacock and hollow as a door. If stupidity was currency, he’d be the richest man in Hawkins.”

“I remember. The one who annoyed you in history class this morning.”

“Exactly. Then there’s Chrissy, his girlfriend — cheerleader, but somehow… sad. I don’t know, something about her feels off. Like she’s wearing a smile that’s not really hers.”

She nods. “I saw that. She seems like a porcelain doll about to break.”

“Poetic, Dolly. I’m impressed.”

She grins broadly, takes another drag.

“Then there’s Hellfire — my club. We play DnD, so socially we’re somewhere between dust mites and athlete’s foot. But the guys are great. Dustin, Jeff, Gareth, Mike… outcasts, but loyal.”

“And the teachers?”

I roll my eyes. “Mrs. Harrison? I think she hasn’t felt anything since the Korean War. Mr. Thorne, our math teacher, definitely has dark secrets. Probably buries bodies. And Mrs. King from the cafeteria is running a conspiracy. At least, if you ask me.”

She laughs again, longer this time. Then suddenly she’s very quiet. Her eyes shimmer, half from the smoke, half from something else. And she says: “Thanks, Eddie.”

“For what?”

“For still sounding like you used to. Everything here is strange… but you’re still you.” She studies me so intensely again, “only your hair’s a lot longer.”

Automatically, I grab a strand and hold it between my mouth and nose — a desperate attempt to hide. But not from Dolly. She immediately reaches out, gently presses my hand down.

“Na ah,” she says, shaking her head, “that was a compliment, Munson!”

I feel myself flush. Goddamn it, I’m really blushing.

“Don’t hear that often,” I mutter, way too honestly.

“Well, get used to it.” She takes one last drag, then puts out the joint.

I smile. And for a moment, everything is quiet. No Jason, no chatter, no hallway with sideways glances. Just her, and me — and this strange peace I never expected.

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Captain

The sea lay calm that morning, a silent, silvery cloth stretched out to the horizon. The sky burned golden as the sun struggled over the edge of the world. And at the bow of the Santa Tempestad stood he — Captain Pedro Pascal.

His white shirt was open, the soft fabric fluttering in the salty wind as sunbeams danced across his tanned chest. His dark curls gleamed damp, and the scar above his right eyebrow — a gift from a French corsair — ran like a tired lightning bolt across his striking face. His eyes, dark and alert, gazed dreamily into the distance, as if searching somewhere beyond the shimmering edge of the sea for something he had long since lost. Behind him, the crew murmured — rough voices and the creaking of ropes. But no one dared disturb him in that moment. For everyone knew his reputation: brutal, relentless — a god with a pistol in one hand and a knife clenched between his teeth. But they also knew: he was their leader. The man who had made them richer than they had ever dared to dream. Then came the shout.

“Ship ahoy! British colors!”

The crew gathered on deck as Pedro cast one last glance at the golden morning. Then he turned — his gaze now sharp as a drawn saber. “We go on course. Quiet and stealthy. Show the flag.” The Union Jack soon fluttered above the mast. The Santa Tempestad approached the British ship like a wolf on silent paws. Only when they were so close that the British sailors could see their faces was the Jolly Roger raised — a black banner that made even the bravest men turn pale. The raid was a bloodbath. The British had hardly time to react. Pedro led the storm personally, his rapier a silver fury, his eyes wild. He fought with grim elegance, like a dancer of death. For every soul he took, he honored them. They went where his soul would never arrive. When the deck was soaked red and silent, his men searched the ship for loot. Crates, gold, weapons — they hauled everything on deck. But then a scream was heard.

“Cap‘n! Down here!”

In the belly of the ship, among supplies and empty wine barrels, sat a woman — bound, her clothes torn, face smeared with dirt. Her eyes flashed when she saw Pedro. He knelt beside her and untied her bonds. She looked at him — no trembling, no pleading. Only defiance. “I am Lady Jane Ashcroft. I was kidnapped. Those villains wanted to sell me for ransom.”

Pedro raised an eyebrow. “Ashcroft?”

“Daughter of the Earl of Kent. Fiancée of the King.”

At those words, her eyes flashed dangerously, and a proud curve played around her beautiful lips. A soft whistle passed through his teeth. He helped her to her feet, offering his coat.

“Tell your men to release me. My father will pay handsomely.”

Pedro smiled. “Oh, we’ll manage that. Welcome, Lady Jane.” The crew was suspicious.

“Cap‘n,” said limping Jack, “we’re wanted men, outcasts. We can’t sail to Britain. They’ll kill us!”

Pedro looked at him for a long moment.

“We have a rare and important cargo onboard. If we die, she dies.”

“Can you do that, Cap‘n?” asked one-eyed Karl. “Can you keelhaul her still?”

With a smooth, tiger-like motion, the Captain threw himself over the table, drew his dagger, and held it to Jack’s throat. The pirate swallowed and looked into his Captain’s eyes, knowing what was expected. “Never doubt your Captain again,” he said calmly, then smiled slightly, “because your Captain keeps his word.”

Karl nodded, and Pedro lowered his dagger.

“Whether I do it or a raven with a hat — if we get the coins, I don’t care. She goes back. And we get paid. End of story.”

No one disagreed.

The sea was calm those days — a rare blessing. The Santa Tempestad glided through a mild blue that shimmered silver in the sun. The sails were full, seagulls circled, and an almost eerie peace had settled over the deck. Lady Jane sat at the bow of the ship, wrapped in one of the captain’s coats — black velvet lined with blood-red satin. The wind played with her blonde hair, and she held a book in her hands that Pedro had given her. Shakespeare. The Tempest. Ironic humor, she thought. Even more interesting was that a pirate — especially the Captain — was literate.

Pedro stepped slowly beside her, barefoot, his shirt open, an apple in hand. He leaned against the railing and shot her a sidelong glance.

“Do ye like the book?”

“Ironically, yes. I wonder if you chose this piece on purpose.” She closed the book. “A shipwreck, captivity, and a girl on an island full of men. Sounds familiar.”

Pedro grinned. “I also thought of Macbeth, but I figured ye’d like the more romantic stuff.”

“I’m not romantic,” she said coolly.

“Oh, ye are,” he replied softly. “Ye just pretend you’re not.”

She looked at him for a long moment, at the apple in his hand, the fine scars on his fingers. “What do you want from me, Captain Pascal?”

“A conversation,” he said, sitting down beside her. “And ye can call me Pedro, if ye want.”

“Pedro.” She tried the name like a piece of unfamiliar chocolate. Bitter, mysterious. “Why are you doing all this?”

“What do ye mean?”

“Why are you bringing me back? You could’ve sold me. Or… worse.”

He bit into the apple, chewing slowly. “Gold is gold. But I don’t kill without reason. And women aren’t things, ya know?”

She studied him. “You’re a pirate.”

“I’m many things. And no man is just one.” A pause.

“How did you… become that?” she finally asked.

Pedro laughed softly. “The classic: A boy grows up poor. Father drinks. Mother dies young. The church says, ‘God has a plan.’ The boy realizes: God’s plan brings empty pockets and broken bones. So he takes a boat and looks for his own plan.”

Jane looked out at the sea again. “And have you found it, your plan?”

“Sometimes I think I’m close. Then a storm comes, and everything changes again.”

“So you’re just… running?”

He looked at her seriously. “No. I’m searching.”

She nodded slowly, as if understanding something she didn’t want to say. Then she said, “I was twelve when they told me who I’d marry. I barely knew him. But it was said he was ‘good for the family.’ I was ‘a valuable connection.’ I still remember my nursemaid’s words: ‘One day you’ll be a queen.’ I was too young to ask: Do I even want that?”

Pedro frowned. “And now? Do ye want it?”

“No,” she whispered.

“And what do ye want instead?”

She was silent. Then, “I don’t know. But when I’m with you, it feels like I could find out.”

He was silent. Then he held out half the apple.

“Want some?”

She took it, biting without looking away.

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Precious angry squirrel 🐿️

✦ steddie munching gifsets ✦

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This is a masterlist of all my fanfics about Stranger Things.

☾༓ Eddie Munson x Reader ☾༓

Grease and Glances

Measure

Bruises

The forbidden fruit

My sweet summerchild

☾༓ Other Eddie Munson Fics ☾༓

Dolly [In Progress]

Little pieces of paper

Halloween [coming soon]

Kas [coming soon]

☾༓ Steve Harrington x Eddie Munson [Steddie] ☾༓

When I saw you [In Progress]

Storm [coming soon]

SMS [coming soon]

equinox [coming soon]

☾༓ Steve Harrington x Reader ☾༓

Where you are is home

☾༓ Henry Creel/Vecna Fics ☾༓

The best queen [coming soon]

☾༓ Pedro Pascal Fics ☾༓

Captain

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Steve Harrington In Every Episode ↳ 1.01 The Vanishing Of Will Byers

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Dolly

Eddie hasn't thought about her in a long time, had completely forgotten her. But a visit from the past awakens not only old memories but also completely new feelings. From friends to lovers, a story from Eddie's perspective, nicknames, lots of flirting, sexual innuendo, very fluffy, lots of emotions Watch out! There are several chapters.

Monday morning. The worst of all damn days. The air in Hawkins High is like stale dungeon stench, the kind where goblins haven’t cracked a window in three weeks. My fingers drum on the edge of the desk, the rhythm of my thoughts: DnD. Campaign planning. Escape route from reality.

"Okay, so... the paladin blocked the bridge into the Undercity. The party's about to enter the Shadow Realm. I desperately need a new monster. Something unexpected. Maybe a shadow cleric with psychic magic and… oh, maybe a—"

THUMP. Something hits me hard on the head. Probably an empty can of some sticky-ass soda. Hopefully empty, at least. My head jerks up. Of course. Jason Carver. That toothpaste-commercial smile, and underneath it, the kind of guy who probably pulled wings off flies when he was seven. He’s standing over me now with his blonde bro-squad like some particularly dumb final boss.

"Hey Munson, learning new summoning spells?" Jason grins like it’s a brand-new joke. I blink up at him, taking a second not to turn my pens into improvised throwing knives. "Don’t need to. You empty meatheads show up uninvited like herpes. And you’d know a thing or two about that."

His laugh is hollow, like a badly scripted NPC. There’s more coming, obviously. "Maybe you should try a real game sometime, Freak. You know, with real people. On the court, maybe?"

"Hmm, yeah… see, I’m not really into balls and dudes in shorts, you know?"

Some of his buddies crack up. Jason doesn’t. His eyes narrow, but he says nothing. He hates it when you fire back. I smirk inside, but my body is screaming: retreat, this is dangerous. Truth is, I’ve never been all that brave in real life.

When they finally leave – backslaps, dumb jabs, testosterone-thick idiocy – I exhale deeply. I hate them. I hate them with every fiber of my oh-so-black soul. If they had half a brain, they’d realize I only flee this world because they make it so damn unbearable.

Back to the campaign. I pull my crumpled notebook from my backpack. Pages full of scribbles, maps, names, ideas. The club’s counting on me. We play Wednesday. I’ve got two days to build the finale. A dark priest, a cursed temple, an artifact that—

The door opens.

“Take your seats, everyone. We’ve got a new student today,” says Mrs. Harrison, our history teacher, with the voice of a woman who emotionally checked out sometime in ’82. “She was born in Hawkins but lived in Germany for the past few years. Say hi, please.”

I glance up, ready to file this under unnecessary NPC chatter— But then she walks in.

And something inside me holds its breath. Medium-length brown curls. Faded Maiden shirt. Black skinny jeans. Scuffed-up boots. No pink jacket, no cheerleader bow. Her eyes sweep the room—dark, curious, cautious. And then…

Damn. She looks familiar.

I stare. I know I’m staring.

She doesn’t say a word, just gives a quick nod, looks away, and takes the back-right seat— Right next to me.

She sits. Backpack on her lap, eyes down, like she wants to disappear. She looks even more out of place here than I do.

Mrs. Harrison drones on about the Civil War. I only half-listen. My brain splits in two: one side desperately trying to save my campaign. The other wondering why this girl feels so damn familiar.

She glances at me. Our eyes meet. And there it is again. That string inside me, suddenly resonating.

I mutter, “Hey.” She doesn’t answer, but the corner of her mouth twitches.

Maybe—just maybe—this Monday won't totally suck after all.

The hallway at Hawkins High is, as always, horribly ventilated. It reeks of farts, old socks, and perfume that was probably stolen from some sad drugstore. It’s loud, overcrowded, and blanketed in that unspoken hostility, like mist on a cold autumn morning.

A few weeks ago, I made my players wade through a cursed swamp. None of them noticed it was based on this hallway. Shame, really. I was hoping for a few laughs.

I sling my backpack over my shoulder and plop down in my usual cafeteria corner with half a sandwich and zero interest in the American education system. My standard spot. Good vantage point, close to the exit, right by the broken heater vent. Business as usual.

Almost.

Because she's there. The new girl. Sitting alone at a table all the way in the back, where abandoned homework and sad leftovers usually go to die. No tray in front of her. Just a book. Hardcover. Worn. She flips through it like it’s a shield.

I watch her. Not in a Jason-stalks-cheerleaders way. More like… curious. Maybe fascinated. Maybe confused. Maybe all three.

“Yo, Eddie.”

Dustin, of course. Followed by Jeff and Gareth. Our little deluxe outsider squad. “What are you staring at? You look like you just astral projected out of your body.”

I don’t answer. I just keep watching her. She brushes a curl from her face—right as she looks up.

Our eyes meet again. And this time—damn it—she blushes.

Not just a little cheek warmth. No. Full-blown crimson. Like someone cranked the saturation to eleven.

I blink. Wait a minute... why is she blushing?

I was staring. I was the creep. She should be thinking “Oh God, please don’t talk to me.” But she blushes?

She quickly drops her gaze back to the book, sinks deeper into her sweater like she wants to vanish. And I— I keep staring.

“Okay, this is getting creepy, bro,” Gareth says, waving a hand in front of my face.

“Do I know her?” I murmur. More to myself than to them.

“What?” Jeff asks.

I shake my head. “Nothing. Forget it.”

But I can’t forget her. Not anymore.

The rest of the day I drift through classes—History, Math, Bio. It feels like swimming through fog made of chalk and boredom. Only half present, because part of me keeps glancing backward—to her seat.

Always the same: she talks to no one. Not even during forced group work in Bio. No smiles, no nods, nothing. If someone looks at her, she looks away. If someone asks something, she answers short, quiet, with that withdrawn gaze.

Shy. Very shy.

And yet… she has something about her. Not that fake mystery some girls wear like expensive perfume. No. Real reserve. Like someone who's seen too much to open up easily.

I bite my pen and wonder what she’s thinking. And why I even care.

Next ->

[bower-quinn]

if you were praised for being smart as a child and now feel crippling sensations of inadequacy when you don’t instantly know how to do something perfectly clap your hands

[bower-quinn]

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Little pieces of paper

Eddie receives little notes full of compliments. But who could possibly be behind this, and what does a waltz have to do with it? From stranger to lovers, fluffy, explicit speech

Goddamn it, this shitty place came straight out of hell, Eddie Munson thought as he stepped into the school building. It wasn’t the first time he had that thought—in fact, he had it every single damn day.

School might’ve been the best time of your life—if you were popular. Definitely not if you were an outsider. The popular assholes only acted nice to him when they wanted to buy drugs. He usually charged them double. That way, everyone was more or less satisfied. That was all he was. The stoner. The supposed devil worshipper, if the rumors parents whispered were to be believed. But really, he was just like everyone else—or, well, almost.

He was in a foul mood, like every Monday morning. He’d been supposed to have a gig over the weekend, but it got canceled. And now he hated the world just a little bit more. Eddie strolled to his locker, gave the dented door a good kick so it would spring open, and spotted something between crumpled paper and a broken pencil—a small, folded note. Not from a teacher. Just an ordinary slip of paper, neatly folded. Curious, he pulled it out.

“That denim jacket looks damn good on you.”

Eddie frowned and looked around. His eyes scanned the hallway. No one was looking at him. No one was laughing. No one seemed to have noticed anything. He didn’t throw the note away. He tucked it into his chest pocket and closed his locker, a thoughtful look settling over him that lingered all the way until class started. Suddenly, Monday didn’t seem quite so dark.

Class passed by like a blur. Eddie kept wondering who might’ve written him that note. He went through every name he could think of but came up with nothing.

The next day, when he found another note, he let out a quiet gasp of surprise.

“Are your curls as soft as they look? I’d love to touch them.”

Unconsciously, Eddie brushed his hair out of his face. Who the hell would write something like that to him? And more importantly—who the hell felt that way? No one had ever told him his hair looked soft. No one had ever wanted to touch it.

He was almost convinced it would end there. But a small flicker of hope held onto the idea that maybe—just maybe—there would be another note on day three.

And there was. On Wednesday, it read:

“Every time you smile, I wish it was just for me.”

Thursday:

“When you stare out the window, you look like you’re in another world. I’d love to know where you go.”

Eddie grew restless. Not in a bad way. But in the way someone does when something good happens that they can’t quite understand. At lunch, he showed the notes to his D&D crew. Gareth nearly dropped his sandwich laughing, Jeff giggled like he’d just seen a naked woman for the first time, and Dustin—well, Dustin looked at Eddie like he’d just realized someone could actually be interested in him.

“A secret admirer, huh?” Gareth smirked. “Or at least a GIRL!” Jeff added with exaggerated emphasis, like it was the most absurd idea ever.

Eddie laughed along. A little too loudly. And while the boys turned back to their fries, his eyes swept the cafeteria. Who was watching him? Who had the guts to write those words—but not to show themselves?

At home, Eddie carefully placed the notes on his bed. He pulled out an old, empty scrapbook he’d found once at a flea market. Page by page, he pasted the notes in, like they were treasures. And in a way—they were. Next to each note, he scribbled the date.

Then came Friday. This time, it wasn’t a short message. It was a longer letter, folded carefully, written on heavier paper. Still in the same handwriting.

Eddie read it standing right there in the dim hallway, between the rows of lockers. And with every sentence, something shifted in his face.

Eddie, I saw you laughing with your friends about the notes. Maybe it was just a joke to you. But for me, it was real. I wanted to say all the things I never dared to say out loud. You always seem like you don’t care about anything. But I see you. When you think no one’s looking, I see you tapping your fingers on the desk when you’re nervous. I see the way you lift your chin when someone looks at you like you’re beneath them. But now, I feel like I made a mistake. Maybe it was ridiculous of me to compliment you. Maybe I’m just naive.

Eddie felt something tighten in his chest. He hadn’t meant to laugh at whoever wrote them—not really. He just didn’t know what to do with the feeling of someone being genuinely kind to him. Just kind. Without wanting anything in return.

He wanted to apologize. Explain himself. But every note had been unsigned. He had no idea what to do now.

What if he’d ruined everything? What if there were no more notes?

Angrily, he slammed his fist against the locker. The metallic echo rang through the hallway. A wave of pain shot through his hand.

“Fuck,” he hissed, clutching it. Goddamn idiot.

The weekend was torture. Not only was his hand sore and turning a faint shade of blue, but he had to go two whole days without any notes.

He smoked too much. Thought way too much. He knew the last letter by heart.

When he pasted it into the scrapbook, he wrote next to it: “I’m sorry.” His jagged handwriting beside those neat, rounded letters looked like an insult.

He didn’t know what to expect when he opened his locker Monday morning. Maybe... nothing. Maybe it was all over.

But then—there was a new note.

His heart did a tiny flip. Same handwriting. Familiar. Tilted slightly to the right. And as he unfolded the paper, it felt like touching something sacred.

“I really thought about stopping. Honestly. But I couldn’t stand the idea of your beautiful brown eyes looking sad because of me.”

He leaned his forehead against the locker and smiled. A small, honest smile. Little butterflies stirred gently in his stomach. Someone thought his eyes were beautiful.

After that, it became routine. One note per day. Each one a beam of light cutting through his otherwise dull school days like sunlight through a dirty basement window.

The tone changed. It grew warmer. Bolder. The compliments started to shift.

From: “Your smile saves my mornings.”

To: “Last night I dreamed you were holding my hand—and I woke up smiling.”

From: “The way you look when you listen to someone—wow.”

To: “I wonder what your lips would feel like on mine.”

And Eddie?

He read each note with focus. Sometimes, he was almost embarrassed by his own goofy grin. Other times, he turned red. Really red. Especially when the notes got... more direct.

One of the last ones completely knocked him off course:

“Just thinking about how your tattoos would feel against my bare skin gives me goosebumps. And I hope you feel the same.”

Eddie had read that one during class, hidden behind his binder in the back row. He turned red like a tomato in July and shoved the note into his bag as fast as he could. After that, he stopped showing them to the guys. They’d never take it seriously. They’d make jokes.

But Eddie... Eddie felt something. Maybe awe. Maybe desire. Maybe just a warm flutter in his chest he hadn’t felt in ages.

And then—there was her.

Steve Harrington’s sister.

She’d never paid him much attention. But lately... She greeted him. In the mornings. In the afternoons. Waved at him in the cafeteria. Not flirtatiously. Just... kindly. And sweet. So damn sweet.

Once, when he walked into class, she looked up, smiled... And Eddie felt like the air had thinned out completely.

Of course, he thought about it. Could it be her?

But then he shook his head. No. She was too... perfect. Too confident. Too brave. The notes felt secretive. Vulnerable. Like they came from a quiet corner—not from someone who waved at him openly across the cafeteria.

Then came Tuesday. One of those hot, sticky, dragging days.

He’d just read the newest note.

"Have you ever had a blowjob? I wonder how your cock feels in my mouth. What it looks like."

Jesus Christ.

This was the first one that was... explicit. An entire little fantasy written on paper.

Eddie stood there, beet red, heart pounding in his throat. He could feel the words ignite something in his lower stomach. A tingle. A pull. His body reacted before he could even think.

Jesus Christ, was he really about to get hard in the middle of the hallway?

He tried to shove the note away before anyone saw. But Gareth came around the corner—too loud, too clumsy, too nosy as always.

“Yo, Eddie! What’re you reading, man? Another one of your sexy fan letters?” he grinned.

Eddie slammed his locker shut way too fast. “It’s nothing,” he mumbled, his face heating up again. “Let’s go. The others are probably waiting.”

He was just about to walk off—when a soft voice called out behind him.

“Um... Eddie?”

He turned.

There she was. Steve Harrington’s sister. Wearing a light, floral summer dress that fluttered softly in the hallway breeze. Her hair gleamed like honey under the fluorescent lights. And her eyes—so clear, so warm—met his.

She was holding a small folded note. His note.

“You dropped this,” she said, her voice so soft it made him dizzy.

He stared at her. He didn’t know if it was the dress. Or her angelic face. Maybe both. Maybe it was the way she looked at him—like he wasn’t just the freak. Not just the outsider. Like he was someone. Someone she noticed.

With trembling fingers, he took the note back.

“Thanks,” he managed, his voice rough.

She smiled—radiant, genuine, breathtaking—and turned to disappear into the crowd.

Eddie stood frozen.

“Dude,” Gareth muttered, “stop staring like some goddamn creep. You’ve got no shot with her anyway.”

“Thanks, Gareth,” Eddie snapped. “Thanks for the reminder.”

Gareth raised his hands in mock surrender. They walked to D&D in silence. That session, Eddie tortured the party mercilessly.

At home, he locked the door, music turned down low—a rare occasion—and pulled out the scrapbook.

Page by page, he flipped through the notes. Each one from that same, unknown voice. Someone who saw him in ways he couldn’t—or didn’t dare—to see himself.

He studied the handwriting. Thin, round letters. Neat but not perfect. With tiny irregularities that made it feel... human. Real.

He traced one line with his finger, gently—like he could touch the person behind it:

“You make me tremble just by sitting there.”

A quiet sigh escaped him. And then the thought struck:

Can you fall in love with someone just through a few handwritten notes?

The answer wasn’t clear. Not a yes. Not a no. But his heart beat faster, and his stomach tightened in that way it only does when something really matters.

He longed for this person. Their voice. Their face. The moment everything would become clear.

He wanted to see them. More than anything.

Eddie had a mission. He arrived way too early and stood for nearly half an hour just watching his locker, hand on the lock, eyes like a hawk.

Part of him—the paranoid part—wondered: What if it was all a joke? Gareth, Jeff, the others... maybe they were messing with him?

But then he thought of the handwriting. The tone. The details.

No. That wasn’t them. Too real. Too raw.

So he stayed. Skipped Spanish. Hid behind a pillar a few feet away, watching.

And then— He saw her.

Little Harrington came out of the history classroom. She was wearing tight black jeans today, along with a loose band shirt that slipped slightly off her shoulder. Her hair fell into her face as she hummed something—softly, barely audible, but Eddie perked up his ears. It took a moment, then it hit him like lightning. “Fade to Black.” Metallica. He knew the song by heart. She was humming the guitar line, slightly off-key, but unmistakable. He swallowed. Could it be? She walked right past his locker without sparing him a glance. Then headed toward the bathroom. No note. No look. No hesitation. Two minutes later, she came back out, face freshly washed, hair pushed back a little. She disappeared into her classroom again.

Eddie stood there. Confused. Disappointed. And somehow... empty. He had hoped she would leave something in his locker. A clue. A glance. Something. But nothing.

The next morning, his disappointment still lingered as he hesitantly approached his locker. He opened it slowly. Expected nothing. But there it was again. A small, folded note, neatly wedged between his books. He opened it, heart pounding. And as he read it, he couldn’t help but laugh. A soft, joyful, completely different kind of laugh.

“You can watch your locker all you want, Munson. You’ll never catch me. Maybe you’d be disappointed if you did. Maybe the mystery is better than the answer. But in case you’re curious: You look damn good when you’re all tense like that. Almost like a predator. Damn sexy.”

Eddie folded the note and pressed it to his chest. He grinned. He hadn’t caught her. But she had seen him. Again. And somewhere out there, she was walking around—with that handwriting and that damn intuition for him. And he knew he wouldn’t give up on her.

But then something happened that clouded Eddie’s good mood from the past weeks. Something that seemed like it came straight out of hell—like the school itself had invented it to torture him: PE class. Eddie’s personal nightmare. In shorts. Very short shorts.

He was late, as always, dragging his feet into the stuffy gym that smelled like old rubber and overheated disinfectant. He scratched the back of his neck, sticking out of a too-tight t-shirt, and was ready to line up with the other guys who, as usual, were just waiting to throw balls at each other’s heads.

But today was... different. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw it wasn’t just his class in the gym, but a group of girls as well. And among them— her. She was wearing a loose white shirt tucked casually into her pants, her hair down, and she had an elastic band around her wrist that she was absentmindedly twirling between her fingers.

Their eyes met, and she smiled. Eddie blinked. Was that—meant for him?

The gym teacher stepped forward, set down an old cassette player, and said loudly: “Coach is sick. So no hurdles or dodgeball today. We’re doing something different: dance class.” A collective groan swept through the gym. Eddie rolled his eyes—dramatically. The teacher noticed instantly. “You’ll dance too, Munson,” she said sharply, pointing at him. Eddie raised his hands and gave an exaggerated innocent grin. The moment she turned around, he flipped her off behind her back.

A giggle rang out. Soft, bright, gentle. He turned. There she was. Hand in front of her mouth, clearly laughing at his gesture. She winked—and Eddie... was gone. Completely. His mind went blank, like it only did after two joints.

“Ladies’ choice!” the teacher called as the music started. “Girls, pick your partner. Let’s go!” As soon as she finished, the girls rushed forward. Eddie was already half sitting on the bench, certain he’d be ignored as always. The girls would pick the jocks. The pretty boys. Not the freak in the band shirt.

But then—footsteps. And there she was. Standing right in front of him.

“Hey,” she said quietly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Then she held out her hand. “Wanna dance with me?”

Eddie stared at her. “Are you... sure? I mean—you could ask anyone.” She smiled, her voice calm and warm: “But I’m asking you.” His fingers trembled as he took her hand. Her skin was soft and warm. They walked together to the center of the gym. She didn’t let go of his hand. His heart pounded. I’m holding Harrington’s little sister’s hand. Me. Eddie-freakin’-Munson.

The music started. A slow waltz. Everyone around them began to turn and sway. Only Eddie stood stiff, overwhelmed. She stepped closer, took his other hand, placed it on her hip. “Like this. And now your other arm on my shoulder. Just like that. Don’t worry, I’ll lead.”

Eddie swallowed. His hands on her hips felt like they had just touched a live wire. His knees were ready to give. Everything about this felt unreal—the slow rhythm of the waltz from the old tape player, the muffled voices of the other students, the soft gym light, her perfume. She looked up at him and smiled.

“You dance better than I expected,” she said softly. Eddie laughed nervously, trying not to step on her feet. They moved to the beat—awkward at first, but somehow finding a shared rhythm. Eddie felt his tension slowly ease.

“Is this your first time? I mean—dancing?” she asked, blushing a little at how that sounded. “Depends if you can call this dancing,” he muttered and grinned. “But yeah. No one’s ever asked.” She looked at him seriously. “I asked.”

Eddie swallowed. “You’re braver than I thought.” “And you’re shyer than I thought,” she replied gently. He laughed, or tried to—it came out awkward. “Don’t say that too loud. My image will fall apart.”

She laughed too—an honest, bell-like laugh. Her eyes flicked downward, to his leg, where a bit of a tattoo peeked out from under his pant leg. “Is that... a skull?” she asked. Eddie glanced down and cursed under his breath. “Damn. Yeah.” He tugged at the pant leg, to no avail. “Didn’t mean to show that today.” “Cool,” she said simply. “You have more, right?” “Seven,” Eddie replied. “Some bigger, some... born from bad lighting and worse decisions.” She smiled. “Can I ask what they mean?”

Eddie hesitated, then saw the genuine interest on her face and nodded. “The bat wing’s because of Dungeons & Dragons. My character made a dark pact—it was super edgy, and I was sixteen.” “I like it,” she said, locking eyes with him. “I think that’s my favorite one.” “You have favorites among my tattoos?” She nodded, but didn’t elaborate. After a few silent steps, she said: “I’ve always wondered what tattoos feel like on skin. If you trace them with your fingers. If they... feel different.”

Eddie looked at her in surprise. It wasn’t just what she said—but how. Something about it felt familiar. Like déjà vu. Like... a line from one of the notes. “Some really do feel different,” he said cautiously. “Some are slightly raised. Want to—?” He stopped, turning red. But she removed a hand from his shoulder—thankfully not the one in his—and traced the bats. “Soft,” she murmured. “But yeah, a little raised. You’re right.” Then—out of nowhere—she asked: “Would you go to the movies with me sometime?”

Eddie froze. His heart felt heavy. He liked her. Truly. But... “I... think I might already be in love with someone else.” Her eyes widened. He could see how much his words hurt her. And that fact alone was awful. He, Eddie Munson, had hurt someone this good.

“Oh,” was all she said. Her voice was quiet, almost fragile. A small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “That hurts. Honestly.”

Eddie felt terrible. So he said: “There are... notes. I know it sounds silly. Someone’s been leaving me one almost every day. For weeks. And... I think I’m falling for someone I don’t even really know.”

She looked at him for a long time. Her expression shifted. He couldn’t quite read it—surprise? Sadness? Hope? Then she said calmly: “Maybe you just have to wait until all the puzzle pieces come together.”

But before he could ask what she meant, the class ended. Without another word, she left the gym, leaving Eddie full of question marks. Puzzle pieces?

The next morning, he walked to his locker with a pounding heart. He knew it. Something would be there. And it was. A note. Folded. Light blue paper. He opened it.

“Isn’t it beautiful when all the puzzle pieces fit?”

Eddie’s heart skipped a beat. He slowly looked up. A bit down the hall—there she was. Harrington. She raised her hand. Smiled. He stared at her, then at the note, then back. She shrugged. And laughed. He ran toward her.

“Was it you... this whole time?” he panted. She nodded. “Yes.” A wide, disbelieving, joyful smile spread across his face. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” “I needed to figure out how you felt about me,” she said, smiling brightly, “as you might’ve noticed, I’m shy.” “But bold enough to write me dirty notes,” he whispered, smirking as she blushed.

Then she looked into his eyes. “Are you finally going to kiss me, Munson?” Eddie didn’t wait for a second invitation.

Weeks later, Eddie worked up the courage to show her his notebook. The one where he’d pasted all the notes. The one he kept under his pillow. They flipped through the pages together, laughing now and then. Later, when Eddie was alone again, he noticed a new entry. This time, written directly into the notebook. The handwriting was exactly the same.

“No more notes. I love you, Eddie Munson.”

And Eddie Munson, the freak, the outsider, the metalhead, smiled like someone who’d just gotten everything he ever wished for.

[bower-quinn]

Jamie Campbell Bower as Henry Creel in Stranger Things 4x06

[bower-quinn]

There’s a kind of stillness

in the way you move —

like a planet unaware

of the moons it commands.

Some nights,

when your back is turned,

I watch the constellations

scatter across your skin —

not stars,

just freckles.

But they glow.

They remind me of things

I’ll never name aloud.

You speak of days,

of people who hold your attention

like sunlight.

I learn to live

like the dark side of a planet.

There are galaxies

I’ve drawn in silence,

just to feel near you.

And if I burn,

I’ll do it quietly —

the way distant stars die,

far from anyone

who’d notice.

(Eddie wrote this poem for Steve, but always hid it under his mattress)

[bower-quinn]

When I met Jamie in Sweden, he immediately told me he remembered me and asked where we'd last seen each other. I told him it was last year in the Netherlands. He nodded and immediately described my hair as it was back then.

What a crazy memory this man has!

[bower-quinn]

Measure

The basketball players give Eddie a really stupid idea. A stupid idea that you find interesting. p in v (unprotected), oral m and f, from friends to lovers

Eddie is strolling through the deserted school hallways when he hears laughter. Confused, he stops. At this time, usually only he and his friends are still around—just like now, since Hellfire has just ended. Strange.

He follows the laughter, which leads him to the locker rooms. Carefully, he opens the door and peeks inside. No one can be heard, but the laughter is definitely coming from here.

The showers, he thinks. He’s about to leave when he hears: “Come on!”

Eddie has two traits he’s a bit embarrassed about but definitely can’t deny: He’s curious and a little pervy.

He sneaks closer and stops right in front of the door. “Come on,” the voice repeats, and now he recognizes Tommy H., “or are you scared?” “Nah,” another voice replies, which he doesn’t recognize, “give it here.” He frowns, confused—what exactly is happening in there?

Then he jumps at the sound of several voices bursting into laughter. It echoes off the tiles and roars in Eddie’s ears. “Only ten?” that’s definitely Harrington. “That’s embarrassing, man.” “Then you show me,” Eddie hears, and the boy sounds embarrassed. “No need to measure, 15.5,” Harrington says proudly. “Oh come on, anyone can say that,” and then a ratcheting sound is heard. “Fuck, the bastard is right.”

Suddenly, Eddie understands exactly what he’s eavesdropping on. The boys from the basketball team are measuring the length of their dicks. He quickly covers his mouth with his hand. A chuckle, deep from his chest, bubbles up, tickling inside. Tears prick his eyes as he suppresses it hard.

If the guys catch him here, they’ll beat him to a pulp. “14,” says Tommy H., “close!” “One centimeter make a difference!” Steve says seriously, and Eddie quietly gasps. Jesus Christ, they can’t be serious?

“Did you hear that?” Steve asks, and Eddie freezes. “No, what?” “That was the biology class. They want their worm back.”

Amid loud laughter, Eddie backs away slowly and cautiously. Nobody will believe him.

When he’s back in his trailer, he lies on his bed, smokes a joint, and thinks. He’s never measured his length before, hadn’t even thought about it until just now. Not that there were ever any complaints. But… he’s curious now.

He puts out his joint and crawls halfway under his bed. Somewhere here… ah, there it is! He pulls out a ruler, slightly dusty but more than adequate. His belt clinks quietly as he unbuckles it, then his pants drop to the floor.

Being high always makes him a bit slow, so deciding whether he has to be hard or not is really tough. With a nod, he decides to test it bit by bit. First like this. His boxers drop to the floor too, then he sits on the bed. He presses the ruler against his crotch and holds his penis against it. Before he can see the number, the door loudly swings open.

“What the hell, Munson?” He looks at you for a second, then pulls his pillow over his lap. Pointless, you’ve already seen everything. You stand there, arms crossed, laughing heartily. Eddie’s face turns bright red, and he glares at you angrily. “What the fuck is this? Do you always have to barge in?” “Sorry,” you laugh, raising your hands in defense, “I didn’t know you were measuring your dick.” “This is my room,” he hisses, “you can’t just barge in here!” “But you don’t mind it otherwise,” you glance at the extinguished joint, sigh disappointedly, then look back at him. You can tell he’s really mad at you.

“Hey Eddie,” you say more seriously now, “I’m really sorry. Should I go?” “Nah,” he mutters, looking down, “you’ve already seen everything anyway.” “Well, I didn’t see much,” you say quickly, trying to save the situation, but he looks at you again, raising an eyebrow. “Cool, thanks?” You laugh again. “No, that’s not what I meant. I mean, I saw a lot,” you bite your lower lip for a moment, “but nothing bad.” “Jesus darling,” now Eddie laughs too, “you make everything so much worse.” “I know,” you carefully sit beside him, careful not to touch his bare legs, “can you explain how you came up with this stupid idea?” “Omg darling,” Eddie leans back, making sure the pillow doesn’t slip, “you’ll never believe me!” He tells you what he overheard, and when he finishes, you almost scream with laughter. Tears run down your face. That’s always the case when Eddie tells you something. One of the reasons he’s been your best friend for years. He always makes you laugh.

Even now, sitting pantsless next to you. A fact that makes your stomach flutter. A dumb, silly feeling you quickly push aside.

“Can you believe it?” Eddie pants and wipes his face, not finding the story as funny as you do, but your laughter is contagious, “15 centimeters? Harrington?” “Hell yes I believe it,” you say, “he definitely wasn’t exaggerating.” Eddie’s head snaps around, a look of disbelief flashes across his face. “No way, you and Harrington?” His voice rises with each word. “Hey,” you raise your hands again, “what’s so surprising about me hooking up with someone like Harrington?” He looks away and snorts contemptuously. “Exactly the other way around, someone like Harrington hooks up with you!” At those words, your heart beats a little faster. His big doe eyes rest on you; you could sit here for hours just looking at them. But then Eddie would start asking questions, and you’d have to explain that you’ve been in love with your best friend for months. No no, never. You’d never do something like that.

“So,” Eddie says very slowly, holding your gaze, “you kissed Steve Harrington?” “That too,” you reply, “but that was the most innocent thing we did.” Eddie’s eyes flicker to your lips for a second. Steve Harrington kissed you, he thinks, so you let kisses happen. Ipso facto, he could kiss you too.

“And then?” You look at him with raised eyebrows. “I’m not going to lay out my sex life for you, especially not when you’re sitting half-naked next to me.” Again, Eddie’s face turns bright red. He’d almost forgotten about that. “Can you go out for a bit so I can get dressed?” You nod, get up, but stay standing. “Okay, just out of curiosity. Did you manage to measure before I came in?” Eddie shakes his head. “That’s probably a task for Future Eddie.”

The way he grins at you. Openly honest. His curls fall wildly around his head and he's wearing that stupid Hellfire T-shirt. The fact that a pillow covers his crotch makes the sight of him even more delicate.

Slowly, his smile disappears and his eyes bore into yours.

“So,” you say very slowly, swallowing and breathing in and out shakily, ”we can measure together.”

Boom. You've dropped the bomb. A little hint, with a lot more behind it. He just stares at you, you can literally see him sorting the words in his stoned head.

“Together?” he repeats tonelessly.

You're about to let it all hang out like a joke, hoping that it hasn't already ruined your friendship.

But then he holds the ruler out to you. His cheeks turn red again and you would love nothing more than to kiss them.

“Don't laugh,” he mumbles, then he takes a deep breath and pulls the pillow aside.

“Oh,” you do. Not out of shock, but out of joy. Seeing Eddie's penis is so much better than you always imagined. And you really have imagined it a lot.

“Don't stare at him like that,” Eddie whispers, ”he's shy.”

“I doubt it,” you giggle and crouch down in front of him. You hear Eddie swallow dryly.

Seeing his best friend kneeling in front of him with his penis exposed. And then your gaze, joyful and...he must be imagining it, hungry, it's almost too much. Every fiber of his body tenses, he has to use all his strength to prevent an erection.

“Have you ever done this before?” he asks quietly as you apply the ruler. You smile in response.

“Guess where Steve got his number from.”

“Shit,” the thought of you holding Harrington's cock in your hand, having done the exact same thing to him, is as sexy as it is terrifying.

“Just under nine,” you mutter expertly and then look up, ”good cut”

“Thanks,” Eddie laughs ashamedly and looks away.

Your eyes from below, at his penis. Shit.

“But what really counts,” he hears you mumble, ”is when it's in action.”

“Ah,” he does, ”that...well...”

“I didn't tell you to do that right now,” you say quickly, looking at him again.

Oh fuck it, thinks Eddie, everything's already gone down the drain anyway, what's going to happen?

“Did you put your hand on Steve,” he swallows his anger, ”and then measure it?”

“Not my hand,” you answer vaguely, ”but yes, something like that.”

“Fuck,” as Eddie sees an image in his head, he can't help himself. A groan escapes him and he immediately feels ashamed. But something else happens. The thought of you blowing Steve Harrington makes his cock get a little hard. Not much, but enough to be noticeable.

“Yes, he reacted similarly,” you reply seriously, glancing at his penis.

“If you want...” you start and he moans again.

“Please,” he whispers.

You put the ruler to one side, place your hands on his thighs and gently push them apart, you need more space. Everything you've been dreaming about for the last few months is within your grasp, literally. You can finally suck off Eddie Munson, your best friend and the most beautiful man on the planet. Your mouth is watering and you swallow.

Eddie is watching you and he realizes that he's not the only one reacting to you physically. YOU are reacting to him in the same way. YOU want this blowjob at least as much as he does. Fuck.

That alone makes him even harder.

“Hm,” you say as you take a seat between his legs, ”your head seems to be doing the work for me.”

“Sorry,” he gasps, ”but that's...hot”

“Then you should see yourself,” you whisper and wrap your lips around his tip. Eddie lets out a soft whimper. He sinks his upper body onto the bed and closes his eyes. Just feel how you lick over his tip and let your lips move further down. Then he's in your mouth, your warm and moist mouth.

“Jesus,” he claws at the sheets, ”Jesus darling.”

Your giggles make his cock go wild and he whimpers again. This is the best fucking blowjob of his life.

Your soft hand wraps around his shaft and massages the place you can't reach. When Eddie is fully hard, you let him out of your mouth with a pop.

Eddie grumbles in disappointment, leaning on his elbows and looking at you. He would love to grab your hair and fuck your little mouth. Until he cums hot in your throat.

But you're his best friend, he would never do anything you don't want or find kinky.

“We'll do that in a minute,” you say, chuckling with amusement when you see the surprised look on his face.

“Where-?” he begins.

“Eddie, please. You're my best friend. I know what you like.”

“I can't say the same for you,” he mutters.

“Hm, I'll have to show you then,” you snap your fingers, ”give me that.”

He hands you the ruler and you have to be careful again, then you beam at him.

“Sixteen centimeters! Winner!”

The way you beam at him, by God, Eddie feels his heart skip a beat.

“But you know what,” you say, looking at his cock.

“What?” Eddie asks, quite breathlessly.

“I think the thickness is much more important. And you, my dear,” you lick over his length again, ”win that in lengths too”

Normally you would have laughed at your pun, but Eddie claws into your hair, gasping, pushing your head back to his cock. Immediately you open your mouth, letting him in.

He starts to move his hips quickly, thrusting into your mouth.

“You feel so good”; he whimpers, ”oh god, so. GOOD!”

Your response is a high-pitched hum, which is all you're capable of. You claw into his thighs, letting him fuck your mouth. Fast, hard.

Then he stops, lets go of your hair.

“I,” he swallows and you know what he's about to say, he's about to come. He's afraid to come in your mouth, even though that's exactly what he wants.

But Eddie looks at you, he was allowed to do what he wanted, to take your delicious mouth with his cock, that's all he wants to put you through.

But you don't pull back, you lick, work your way back down and with a stifled cry he comes. Hot sperm flows down your throat and you swallow with his penis still in your mouth.

“Ah,” he says, ”ah.”

That's all he's capable of.

You lift your head, very slowly. Your spit runs slowly over Eddie's testicles and it makes his stomach tingle somehow.

“Good?” you ask and sit down next to him.

“Babe, that was the best fucking blowjob of my life.”

This serious compliment makes you giggle.

“Thank you.”

It gets quiet between you, you both don't know what to do next. Then you point to his balls.

“You should clean that, they're getting cold.”

It's more of a skip than serious concern.

“Yeah,” Eddie is absent, thoughtful. He takes off his T-shirt, wipes the wetness from his crotch and then tosses it carelessly with his pants. He only realizes that he is now sitting completely naked in front of you when you emit a strange noise, somewhere between a hissing moan and a whimper.

“Ehm,” he says, avoiding your gaze, ��yeah well.”

He was expecting everything. With questions about his tattoos, maybe a laugh because he's untrained, pale. No hair on his chest, just this little line running down from his navel. And that's what makes your restraint go out the window.

With a growl, fuck you really growl, you throw yourself at him.

Your hands find his curls and your lips his. He immediately returns the kiss, moving his lips against yours. Your upper lip pushes between his and he sucks lightly on it.

While your hands pull at his curls, his wander over your back. Under your T-shirt and over your heated skin. As if he's trying to read a map with his fingers.

Your spine is exciting for him, every point he can feel seems new.

“Eddie,” you whisper into the kiss, ”oh Eddie.”

“Yes,” he breathes, ”yes.”

He realizes in that second that you've wanted this for a long time. Just like him. Damn, you could have done this for so long.

He slowly slides his tongue past yours, into your mouth. It feels heavenly and he thinks, “Finally. Finally Finally Finally.”

Your clothes are constricting you, you need to feel Eddie. Everywhere.

When you release your mouth from his, he looks disappointed, but that immediately subsides when you pull your T-shirt over your head.

“Oh baby,” he breathes, ”what nice tits.”

“You think so?” you ask him in mock seriousness as you undo your bra.

“Lord, Jesus,” he whispers. He looks askance at your breasts and sighs softly.

“Lord, Jesus and tits,” you giggle, ”the holy trinity.”

“You're so silly,” he kisses you again, ”maybe I should stuff your mouth?”

“No no, now it's your turn.”

His eyes widen.

“Are you sure, I mean…can I?”

“I'd be offended if you didn't,” you cry out in surprise as Eddie grabs you by the waist, spins you around and pins you to the bed.

“Every time,” he says as he unzips your pants, ”when I've masturbated, I've imagined what it would be like to eat your pussy. Every fucking time.”

“Then do it already!” you almost scream with impatience. Eddie smiles mischievously and pulls down your underpants with your Jeans.

“What a beautiful view,” he breathes, ”how wet you are.”

“Always,” you say, humming as he slides his index finger through your wetness, ”just for you.”

“Just for me,” he hums. Then his tongue glides over your folds, dipping into the wetness. Eddie is a connoisseur, he always has been. He takes in your taste before devoting himself to your clit. He circles it with slow movements, you gasp and moan and arch your back as he slides his index and middle fingers inside you.

“So ready,” he whispers, ”do you think you can take another one?”

As you nod, he carefully inserts his ring finger. He fucks you with three fingers, slowly, steadily.

“Oh god,” a rumble rolls out of your chest as he finds the spot inside you that Steve has always searched for in vain.

“Bingo,” Eddie chuckles, ”the way your pussy throbs.”

“Don't stop,” you beg Eddie, ”please. Please. Let me come. PLEASE Eddie, please.”

“Lord,” he breathes, ”my good girl.”

The orgasm rolls over you like a wave. Your toes curl and goose bumps cover your entire body.

“That was,” you say and then laugh, ”Eddie”

“I know,” he lies down next to you, his cock hard again. But he reaches under his pillow, pulls out a packet of weed and some paper.

“Quick break,” he mumbles, rolling a joint with deft fingers that are still wet from you. The lighter clicks, he inhales deeply, then hands it to you.

“Now tell me, how was Harrington in bed?”

“You mean in the car,” you reply, taking a drag on the joint, keeping the smoke in your lungs and then exhaling in a controlled manner.

“Fine by me.”

“Fine, but not like this,” you laugh again, ”besides, he was screaming Nancy when he came.”

“What did he?” Eddie laughs so hard he chokes on the smoke. What a twat.

“Well, that was okay,” you mumble, taking another drag on the joint, ”I did call out a different name too.”

Eddie looks at you with interest.

“Yours,” you say casually.

Eddie presses his hands to his face, his shoulders shrug and you can't tell whether he's crying or laughing.

“Eddie?” you ask carefully, kissing his chest.

“I'm such a goddamn fool,” he mumbles, ”I could have kissed you months ago. I could have fucked you in your little car.”

He puts his hands down again and remorse is on his face.

“You can still do all that.”

He stubs out the joint, then leans over you.

“I'd like to fuck you now,” he says slowly, ”hard and dirty. But I'll do what you want.”

Hard and dirty, those words echo through you.

“Yes,” you whisper, ”fuck me.”

A dirty grin rolls across his face. But when he stands up, you grab his arm and look at him questioningly.

“Baby, I may be reckless, but I'm not stupid,” he nods to his cupboard, ”I'll get a condom.”

“I'll take the pill,” you say quickly, ”so if you want…”

He stares at you, his cock getting hard again at those words. The thought of feeling you completely is overwhelming.

“Are you serious?”

You nod, wiggle your hands and he lies down with you again.

Your kisses are hot, just like your breath. You're so high from the weed and Eddie. You briefly forget where Eddie starts and you end. You share a skin.

“Darling,” he props himself up on his elbows and navigates between your legs. His tip touches your wet heat and he has to close his eyes.

“Fuck me Eddie,” you breathe into his ear, ”fuck me”

He slides into you.

Fuck, he's so big. And thick. The way he feels inside you, Lord, you can feel him in your fucking chest. If he's going to fuck you now-

“Baby,” he laughs, ”if you keep talking like that, I'm going to cum without making a move.”

That's when you realize you've said all your thoughts out loud.

“Oh,” but the thoughts of that disappear as he moves, no consideration not. Hard, he rolls his hips against yours, his balls slapping against your butt. His rhythm is hard, fast and deep.

After a while, he straightens up without pulling out of you. He lifts your legs and you stretch them out, straight in front of you.

He supports the back of your knees and rams into you again.

This way he can reach you deeper and you cry out loudly. It hurts, but it's a good pain.

“Your pussy is perfect,” he gasps, ”so tight, baby, I've never fucked without a condom.”

“Come inside me,” you beg him, ”I want to feel all of you.”

“Lord give me strength,” Eddie whispers, spreading your legs slightly, looking at your little pussy in front of him, which has now left a stain on his sheet. He collects spit in his mouth and spits on your pussy.

This is the moment you come. You quickly pulse around him and he rams his cock into you one last time.

Together you whimper and your panting breaths fill his room.

“That should be illegal,” he murmurs as he pulls out of you, cuddling up to you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, kissing your left breast.

“Hmm, very good,” you purr, ”perfect.”

Eddie puts his head on your chest, listens to your breathing and with his middle finger he pushes his cum, which is slowly leaking out of you, back into you. Over and over again.

He silently thanks the cowards on the basketball team.

[bower-quinn]

Gonna see him tomorrow oh my fucking god

UPCOMING EVENT: Comic Con Stockholm 🇸🇪 May 31st, 2025

[bower-quinn]

Reblog if you write fanfic and would be totally down with your followers coming into you askbox and talking to you about your fic