shiregoth

[shiregoth]

Joseph Quinn as EDDIE MUNSON

Stranger Things 4 — 2022

[shiregoth]

have some nasty dialogue firing off in my head between peach and our old man

[shiregoth]

for your viewing pleasure┃vol. 2

pornstar!eddie x director!reader

these two losers won’t stop being in love in my drafts, so here we are with open arms and open legs.

cw: nothing too explicit yet* but lots of sensual fluff (smuff? smutty fluff? is that a thing?), smoking, nudity, allusions to sex, masturbation, poverty mention, light food play.

18+, MDNI┃1.6k

*warnings subject to expand as more parts get added

The two-week gap in your shooting schedule was already planned—had been in the books for ages.

Your crew had been working non-stop and you’d completed more than enough projects recently to warrant a little bit of a break. And the fact that the start of this break just happened to coincide with the weekend of the awards ceremony…

Well, that was just a happy accident.

You and Eddie didn’t leave your apartment for five days straight. Okay, maybe not literally. But he never went back to his place, and he spent every night with you in your bed.

You dug up some clothes for him to wear—cast offs from old boyfriends you never got around to getting rid of. They weren’t the best, but it wasn’t like he kept them on for long.

Most of the time you walked around in the nude, or nothing but your underwear. At a certain point, you seemingly decided clothing only slowed you down. But even between never-ending bouts of fucking, there were moments of stillness.

Little pockets of peace and quiet.

One morning you woke around dawn and found Eddie in the living room. He had his long limbs draped haphazardly over your shitty futon, his length laying soft against his thigh. The cigarette pursed in between his lips glowed orange as he inhaled, and the muscles in his neck flexed as he tipped his head back to blow smoke out the open window. His pale skin glowed in the faint light leaking in through the blinds, his tattoos standing out starkly black on his nude form.

He stares up at the ceiling, letting his lit Camel smolder and cherry, thin ribbons of smoke curling in the air and catching the light. So lost in thought he didn’t notice you reaching for your camera.

The sound of the shutter as you depress the release doesn’t startle him anymore. If anything, it makes the corner of his mouth twitch from trying not to smile knowing you’re there.

“Did’ya get it?” he asks, still holding his pose as you sneak in closer.

“Take another drag,” you instruct quietly, “and tip your head back like that again.”

His chest shakes with a laugh, but he obeys.

The shutter clicks and snaps again, capturing shadows under his hollowed cheeks; the arch of his spine and the slow stretch of his neck; the way his curls fall across your thrift shop throw pillows.

Serene. Arresting. Beautiful.

Floorboards creak as you creep closer, getting low to get a different angle as he stubs out his smoke. He smiles at you as he blows out the last of it and it wafts in the air, hanging there.

“Lay back,” you tell him, “and prop your head up on your arm, like—yeah, like that…”

There’s more clicking shutter sounds, more quiet direction, more instants captured forever. 

His dick starts to chub and you tell him to hold it, stepping up on the futon with him to shoot from above. He wraps his fingers around his base and starts to tug, slow and gentle. He grips the top of the frame with his other hand, the veins in both his arms standing out the tighter he squeezes.

By the time he comes, the sun has risen above the horizon and its golden rays are sparkling off the milky ropes splattered on stomach. His chest heaves with every labored breath, panting with exertion until he comes back down to earth.

A stupidly happy smile spreads across his face and he cocks his brow at you, huffing out the single word, “Waffles?” with a hearty laugh.

You live off take-out and whatever you manage to throw together from the random assortment of stuff in your cabinets and fridge; trade stories about the ‘meals’ you had to make for yourselves when you were little and came home to an empty house—cinnamon toast for you, cheese slices melted on tortilla chips in the microwave for him. He tears up when you make him a PB&J.

You take walks in your neighborhood, down to the little park at the end of your street. You sit on the bench under your favorite tree and he keeps you tucked securely under his arm at all times. 

Besides that, any attempt to leave never works out. You half-heartedly keep saying you should ‘go out’ and quote-unquote, ‘do something,’ but never manage to put the words into action.

It always ends with falling back into your sheets, stripping off all the clothes you just put on.

You lay in your bed until daylight fades into the neon orange of sunset that fades into the muted blue of early evening. Your head on his chest, his on yours, you curled into his side, him with his front pressed to your back, him laying between your legs with his head pillowed on your thighs.

It feels like a dream, or a montage in a movie you wanted to shoot again and again.

Time seems to pull and stretch like taffy, getting droopy in the middle and folding back on itself, turning over in a mesmerizing cycle. You have to remind yourself it’s not always gonna be this way, that the air will eventually cool and harden it, even though it feels like it could last forever.

At some point, he gets up to fetch ice cream from the freezer. You hold the pint in between you, taking turns taking tiny spoonfuls. He holds his spoon over your navel, letting the melted bits drip on your stomach before he laps it up with his tongue. It makes you hum in pleasure, makes your belly quiver as his lips hover over it. He lets more dribble on your sternum, in between your breasts, chasing the little rivers of it with his lips and sucking it off your skin’s surface.

He keeps doing it until he gets you squirming, snatching the spoon out of his hand and putting it on the bedside table with the ice cream. And then it’s sticky sweet kissing, tongues probing to taste the remnants of cream and sugar clinging to the insides of your mouths as you devour him.

“Wait…what day is it?” you ask, hours later through the fog of post-orgasmic bliss. Laying beside him in the bed, end to end so your feet are propped up on your pillow next to his face.

“Hmm?” Eddie drawls, halfway half-asleep as he turns his head to kiss your ankle bone.

“What day is it?” you ask again, still hazy and dazed. “Is…is today Friday?”

“I, uh…I don’t know,” he chuckles. “I lost track.”

Every day is you-day to him now.

You try to sound perturbed when you sit up, but it’s difficult when that dopey, sleepy grin of his stretches across his face. The words just come out all soupy and diluted with fondness.

“Well, I can’t imagine this is what you planned for your time off,” you giggle, nudging at his temple with your big toe. Eddie just shrugs and lightly runs his fingertips up and down your calf.

“Don’t be so sure about that,” he murmurs, now kissing the arch of your foot.

You pull your legs back and curl them under you as you sit up further, going to smack him lightly on the chest only to end up rubbing your palm across his pecs in a circle over his heart.

“C’mon, Ed, seriously,” you pleaded. “You really didn’t have anything planned?”

And he doesn’t say what he wants to, which is that he’d been dreading this break since you told him about it. That he knew he’d just be counting the days until he got to see you again; that he likely would have spent every day of it coming up with lame excuses to call you or come by.

“Honestly, nothing,” he tells you, letting his head roll side to side, still settled deep in the pillow.

You nod back, staring down at your hand on his chest, seemingly satisfied with his answer until you inhale softly, “So I’m not, like, keeping you from anything…am I?”

Even in the dark, he can see the worry that ghosts across your face. The brief flash of doubt that creeps in slowly like the moonlight bleeding through the crack under your door. It’s a thought you haven’t been able to voice yet, but has been lurking in the depths, gathering strength.

One you’ve been ignoring in the name of letting yourself be selfish in the way you never get to. 

Automatically, Eddie sits up and scoots as close to you as he can get. He puts his hand on your cheek and kisses your forehead for a long, long moment. You can smell your body wash on him, your conditioner in his curls. Familiar, yet different when it’s layered on top of his natural musk. 

It’s like part of you is living in his skin and curls. Like he’s been infused with you. 

“I’m exactly where I want to be,” he assures you, solid and unyielding. “Really, the only thing I thought I might do was…”

He trails off and your eyes flit up to meet his gaze. He chews on the words thoughtfully, the gears in his head turning so hard that you swear you can hear them out loud. Your heart swells as you reach out to stroke his necklace, rubbing the guitar pick that hangs over his own.

“Yeah?” you coax him gently.

Eddie exhales in a quiet chuckle. He takes your hand in his and lets his lips brush along the back of your knuckles before entwining your fingers.

“I thought I might go visit Wayne.”

so for everyone who didn’t ask, I think I’m going to update this post as I go and then reblog it as I add future parts rather than how I did the first installment. we’ll see how that goes 😅

thank you for reading! love you, mean it 🎥

[shiregoth]

Eddie!!

Today I had a little more time and it shows xD

[shiregoth]

Sharing old doodles while I do comms :) I love Buffy Vampires.... And I love Vampire Eddie :)

[shiregoth]

Rock star eddie, you're his drummer. One of his songs requires moans in the background. He wants it live. Wear special panties during show, boom live moans or if that's too much maybe just has you in the sound booth since he doesn't want some random chick's moans, the grand finale is the sound of you coming during the climax of the song 👀

Glitter Girl

Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Reader

Based on Glitter Girl by Dixie Dragster (Eddie's song in the fic)

A/N: I was editing this and I was like ugh this is ass, but then I got to the smut and I was like okay this is good actually lmao. This is my attempt at not answering a request with an overarching storyline like I did here, but this still ended up being about 4.6k Thank you for the request it was very slutty, perfect for rockstar!eddie.

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: SMUT 18+ mdni!!! unprotected sex, PiV sex, masturbation (fem), voyeurism, ass slapping, cum eating, oral sex kinda (fem rec), cum swapping lol, kinda dirty talk, edging, talk of fingering, audio recording sex, some feelings

My asks are open, come talk to me about Eddie!!!

Masterlist

You came into the studio looking for Eddie, finding him next to the band’s producer, Jared, at the soundboard. 

Gareth had left a message on your machine saying Eddie needed some more backing vocals for the new song. The song was a little different from what the band had done before—more eccentric, more glam-rock—but Eddie said it would be a blast to perform live so you didn’t mind, always up for making the shows more electric. 

Eddie told you he wrote the song in two hours after the insane New Year’s Eve bash the band threw at a club. You remember bits and pieces of the party—glitter falling at midnight, spitting a shot of vodka into Eddie’s mouth, making Gareth give you a lap dance, watching Jeff motorboat a bottle girl. Definitely one for the books.

But as daybreak neared and guests began drunkenly shuffling home, the night became a little clearer in your memory—leaving you and Eddie covered in glitter and confetti, giggling about how he’d be finding that shit in his hair forever. Three days later, he played the song for you and the rest of the band.

You laid down the drums for the song last Friday and your vocals the following Monday. Eddie had told the band it was a wrap, but it seems he’s changed his mind—deciding something was missing, rendering the song incomplete in his eyes. 

Music is the only thing he’s ever been picky about, the one area where his usual chaos shifts into precision. It’s like he develops a Type-A personality just for that. 

When he hears the door open, Eddie looks up to see you walking in, tattered jean shorts and an old band tee hanging loose on your body. He waves you into the room, ushering you over to the soundboard with him and Jared.

“Hey! Glad you got my message, sorry about the game of telephone. Apparently there’s no landline in this fucking place.” He exclaims, throwing a pointed look at Jared—like the poor guy owns the building and has a say in its architectural decisions. 

You huff at his attitude, tilting your head, giving him a reprimanding, deadpan stare. Eddie loves to give the guy a hard time, much to your chagrin. It’s only because Jared’s genuinely the nicest person all of you know, especially in the LA music scene. 

“No problem, although I am confused because I thought we finished everything.” 

You watch as Jared starts fiddling with some buttons, getting the sound booth ready. 

“Yeah, okay. See, I thought it was good–great even!” He obfuscates, “But then I had this idea…and now I wanna see how it’ll sound, and you’re the only girl…” 

Your brows furrow as a confused smile overtakes your face. It sounded like he said a whole lot of nothing just now, and what does being the only girl in the band have to do with anything?

“What are you talking about?”

“Okay, force my hand,” he groans dramatically. “I think some moans would sound really fucking cool on the R–O–C–K part.” 

He says it so fast, you have to take a moment to replay what you heard in your head to understand. Nervous for what you’ll say, he’s shoving his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and eyeing you intently. You hesitate, gauging whether he’s serious or not, but he doesn’t back track. 

“Alright, I mean–,” you gesture to him, deferring, “you’re the musical genius.” 

It’ll be a little weird moaning in a sound booth by yourself, having poor, innocent Jared monitoring the levels and Eddie coaching you, but if it’ll make the song even cooler—you’re in.

Eddie appears shocked at your deference, he really thought he’d have to run down the list he made of why it would be sick as fuck. He’s suddenly feeling very thankful to not only have a talented female drummer, but one who appreciates his artistry as much as you. 

“Really?”

Shrugging, you respond, “Yeah, if you think it’ll sound cool. I trust you.” The last part is so simple but it makes him grin, excited that you’re down for this.

“Yes! Thank you!” Rushing to hug you, he lifts you off your feet in a bone crushing embrace.

When he sets you back down, you’re laughing at the child-like giddiness written all over his face. Jared lets you know the booth is ready for you, heading in there you stand behind the microphone, placing the headphones over your ears so you can hear the backing track and cues. 

Jared counts you in over the master microphone, hearing the metronome. you nod your head to the beat, keeping time. When the part approaches, you stand up straight, breathily moaning the letters, spelling out ‘ROCK.’ 

Once you’ve done it, Jared cuts the music, turning on the soundboard mic for Eddie to give notes. You watch through the glass window as he leans down, sounding less than satisfied. “Okay…that was good, um–let’s take it from the top, okay? Gimme a little more oomf.”

Nodding your head—only slightly understanding what he means—you begin keeping time with the metronome again. You do it about three more times for him before Eddie starts running his hands through the roots of his hair, clearly frustrated at your inability to portray the tone he’s looking for. 

“Eddie, I’m sorry. I don’t know what you want me to do differently.” You don’t mean to be so difficult, honestly not comprehending what’s off about your performance. And he’s not being very helpful with his notes, you’re pretty sure you’re all out of ‘oomf.’ You’re certain the last two renditions are as oomf-y as he’s going to get from you.

He shakes his head, curling his lips into his mouth, “No, it’s–uh, hold on.” 

The sound from outside the booth cuts out, you watch as Eddie leans down to Jared telling him something. The guy looks at him, appearing to ask him something before Eddie nods his head, then the guy stands up and leaves. You frown at the sudden exit, Eddie sits down into the command chair, clicking the microphone back on and leaning in. 

“Okay, so I asked Jared to take five. We’re gonna try this again, but—hear me out—do you think you could–,” he hesitates, working through how to make his request. “How about this, what if you—okay, this is gonna sound insane–”

Losing your patience, you speak up, “Eddie, just spit it out!” 

“What about if you touched yourself? While you–you know, did the vocals…,” his words come out stilted, eyes squinting like he’s expecting you to blow up at him for his outrageous request. 

Instead, you just laugh. He’s got to be joking, that’d be insane! Your eyes widen when he doesn’t laugh with you—just curling his lips inward again.

“Eddie, you can’t be serious…,” you shake your head incredulously. “Just get a porn star, or something, if you want real moans.”

He clearly rejects that sentiment, shaking his head and holding his hands out in front of him like he’s presenting at a business meeting, “No, I don’t want just any girl on this track! Plus, there’s like legal shit I don’t even wanna touch with a ten foot pole.”

Scoffing, your jaw agape, “What, and I’m easier?”

Frantically shaking his head, placating hands held out in front of him, “No! Of course not!” His voice lowers to a nervous mutter, but it still comes through loud and clear in your headphones, “I just think the muse should be on the track, that’s all.” 

Your brows draw together, jerking your head back in confusion. “You wrote this song–about me?” He’s never written a song about anybody other than random hookups. Most of his songwriting is inspired by life stuff anyway. Not even his best friends got songs written for them, but he wrote this for you—about you? 

When you think about the lyrics, your face heats up—to be seen in that way, to be romanticized like that…You had no idea he felt…things…for you. But now the way he stuck to your side at the party makes sense. 

Usually, he’s all over the groupies and the women throwing themselves at him, he’s a gluttonous guy—he likes to have them all. But that party was notably different, he even took you to breakfast after the wild night, making you laugh as he shook more glitter from his hair into the pancakes he ordered. 

Eddie shrugs, very clearly trying to seem passive, “Well, yeah, you’re my glitter girl.” He voices the nickname like it’s obvious, like it’s an endearment—he did put ‘my’ in front of it. 

Huffing out a fond laugh, smile growing on your soft lips, you nod, “Fine. But you can’t watch, okay, perv?” 

You tease him, but the thought of him watching is far too overwhelming for you. You just found out he feels a certain way for you. Unsure if it’s just fondness, care, like—love, even? No, that’d be preposterous. He’s your friend! Lead singer of one of the top bands right now, and you’re his drummer! You’re just like one of the guys—at least that’s what Gareth always says. 

Now you’re not sure what you are—to him, at least. But you know you couldn’t handle him watching you do something so intimate. 

He nods his head vigorously, “Yeah, of course! How about this, I’ll turn around and you–do your thing.” 

Nodding at his earnest face, you move to unbutton your shorts. Shaking your head in disbelief that this is happening, you watch as he turns around. 

“Although, to be clear—I do still need to listen to make sure I–,” he pauses, unable to choose better wording, “like–what I hear, I guess. Sorry.” 

You huff, rolling your eyes at his poor choice of wording. “Yes, Eddie, I know. Don’t look!” 

Raising his hands in surrender as his back is turned, “Let me know when you want me to start the track.” He wants to give you enough time to work yourself up—for lack of better words. 

Taking a deep breath, shaking the nerves out of your body, you reach into your panties. It isn’t the best angle with you standing so you quickly turn around, pulling the stool up to the mic, adjusting the equipment to your new height as you sit on the edge of the wooden seat. Propping your foot on the rung of the stool, you spread your thighs, reaching back into your panties to gather the wetness at your hole. 

Thankfully, Eddie is hot enough to get you going any time you see him—his long, dark curly hair, obsidian eyes, the contrast of black tattoos on pale white skin. Today, he’s wearing an old Dio band tee he cut into a muscle shirt and a pair of ripped black jeans. 

Every time he leaned over the soundboard—reaching to fiddle with some controls—the gaping armholes of his shirt gave you a perfect view of his biceps, his body. It had you pressing your thighs together. Yeah, you’re good to go just looking at him.

Spreading the wetness across your folds as much as you can in the confines of your shorts, you bring your soaked fingers to your clit, catching the little nub just right, making your breath hitch. When your breath turns shallow and you’re biting your lip to withhold moans, you look up to see a hunched over Eddie through the glass. He looks like he’s straining, turned around with clenched fists, gnawing on the white knuckles. 

“I’m ready.” He jumps into action at your breathy comment, reaching behind him for the button, starting the metronome track. 

His strained posture doesn’t unfurl, in fact it looks like he gets even more stiff as you do the part. Circling your clit for maximum pleasure, you moan out the letters, stopping completely with shallow breaths as you wait for his notes. 

Leaving your shorts unbuttoned, you remove your fingers, resting your arm on your thighs as Eddie turns around with a hand over his eyes. 

“I’m decent,” you breathe, letting him know he doesn’t have to feel around the soundboard blindly to shut the track off. 

Letting his hand fall, blown eyes take you in as he clears his throat, pressing the ‘on’ button for the microphone. “T–That was–good, uh, yeah, good,” clearing his throat again. “I think–okay you’re gonna hate me for this—and I swear, I’m not doing it on purpose—but when I was blind, I accidentally pressed the wrong button, so I recorded none of that.” 

He bares his teeth in nervous expectation for your anger, but you just let out a shaky sigh, rolling your eyes. Par for the course with Eddie. 

“Okay, fine. Just–start recording, then close your eyes this time, okay?” 

“Yes. Yeah, I’ll do that, I’m sorry!”

Since you’re already worked up, you tell him to go ahead and start the track right off the bat. Precisely following your directions, he starts the track, quickly hits record, and swivels his chair to face the couch against the wall. 

You do exactly the same thing as last time—running your index and middle finger through your folds before bringing it to your throbbing clit. You’re working yourself close to the edge, but never surpassing it as you moan the lines.

The notes you receive from him make you want to strangle him, he looks awfully jumpy, continuously letting his hand fall into his lap below the soundboard where you can’t see it. “That was good,” he says lightly, like it’s a consolation compliment.

The frustration of touching yourself with no orgasm at the end is getting to you, you grit out an annoyed, “Eddie!” 

“I’m sorry! There’s something off about it! You know? Like it’s too–I don’t know…,” he stops to think as you huff your chest, imagining exactly how you’d run out of this booth and strangle the singer. “It’s missing that oomf,” he repeats, as if that perfectly describes why your performance is not hitting.

Oh, you’re going to kill him. You’re going to skin the fucker alive. “You said that already!” 

“Wait! I think I know what it is,” your eyes widen as he pauses, raising your eyebrows expectantly. 

“Please, feel free to share with the class,” you bite, thoroughly annoyed at this point. 

“How exactly are you touching yourself?” He asks the question so casually like he’s asking you which football team you’re supporting in this year’s Super Bowl, like he’s an engineer trying to figure out the faulty cog in the machine. 

You throw your head back, eyes on a god you know isn’t watching, praying for enough strength to spare your bandmate from your fiery fury. You laugh—sharp, incredulous. “Oh, we’re doing this?” Resigning yourself to the present situation, you answer without shame—your frustration is far too overpowering. “Okay, I’m rubbing my clit.” 

He shakes his head, unruly curls shimmying with the gesture, “No, see I want like–a thrusting oomf, you know?” He’s wagging his finger like he just cracked the case, grinning, “See, I knew something was missing!” 

“Okay, well, I’m not gonna finger myself for you, Eddie.” You’ve given him enough, plus you know from experience—your own fingers are not going to give him the ‘oomf’ he’s looking for.

Eddie pouts at your rejection, jaw on the floor like an indignant child being told ‘no.’ 

“Why not?” He’s practically whining and you tilt your head at him in disbelief that this is the ‘man’ so many women drop their panties for. 

“Because! Why don’t you do it,” you argue. 

His pout is gone as he shrugs his shoulders, nodding his head, “Okay.” 

“Wha–,” you’re thrown off by his response, but you watch him hit record and you hear the metronome start in your ears as he joins you in the booth, unbuttoning his jeans. 

“I didn’t mean–what the hell are you doing?” You look at him like he’s lost his mind—because, honestly, he has. What exactly is he doing here? Freeing one ear from the headphones, you wait for his—sure to be interesting—explanation.

“You want me to do it,” it’s half–question, half him telling you what he got from that exchange. 

Shaking your head, lips parted in awe at his absurdity, “No! I mean like–you do the moans yourself if you’re gonna be so picky about it!” 

Disappointment clear on his face, he leaves his jeans unbuttoned, “Well, nobody wants that!” 

Laughing at his absurd comment—you, you want that—you shake your head, “I don’t think me fingering myself is really gonna sound good–”

“I beg to differ,” he snorts, eyes shooting to your wet fingers.

Giving him a reprimanding look, you add, “You know what I mean.”

“Okay, but what if…I did help you,” he implores, it’s like he’s bargaining for your pussy. 

“Eddie, you can’t be serious,” smiling at him, waiting for him to crack, but all you see is wide, earnest eyes. “You really want this?”

You’re mainly asking about how badly he wants the song to reflect his vision, but you realize the question takes on a whole new meaning with what’s on the table. 

Nodding his head frantically, “Yes, it means a lot to me!” 

Sighing at his genuine desire to make the song he wants, you let out a subtle nod. “Fine,” you pause as he pumps his fist in victory, “But don’t be weird about it.” He immediately collects himself, bringing his energy from ‘kid who just won a sweepstakes to Disney’ to ‘solemn mourner.’ It makes you crack a smile. 

You can hear the metronome of the song repeating in your ear, you watch his quickly widening eyes as you shimmy your shorts down. A raised eyebrow alerts him he should be doing the same, you put the second pair of headphones onto his hair, flattening a line into his poofy hair. He starts removing his black jeans as you turn and adjust the microphone even lower, nearly at the level of the wooden stool. 

When you turn back around, you see his hard cock, standing at attention, his shirt still on—same as you, not bothering to remove the article of clothing because that’d require removing the headphones, which was too much work at the moment. His eyes are lust blown as he looks down at your half-naked body, shallow breaths moving his chest. 

“Cute,” you quip at his stiff cock, admiring the jump you get for the compliment. He’s not the first naked man you’ve seen and knowing him—his ego is already enormous. He doesn’t need to get another worshipping compliment on how pretty and big his dick is, he has the groupies for that. You always try to keep him in check, this’ll be no different. 

Clearly, you had him remove his pants for more than just fingering, but he wants to make sure. “So you don’t want me to finger you?” 

Snorting, you shake your head, “No, if you want this to sound good, it’s gotta be the real deal.” You’ve built up enough frustration that you’re giving him creative directions now, if he’s intertwining music and pleasure—he knows music, and you know your own pleasure. “And you get one take, got it, rockstar?”

Eddie sucks in a breath at the title, nodding his head, “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Good. And it’s recording?” 

Another nod. 

You smirk at his uncharacteristic silence, turning around to rest your elbows on the seat of the stool, making sure the mic stand is right in front of your face. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, the view of you bent over, chest down, ass up—presenting your pretty pussy to him—has his dick jumping, twitching with need. He moves forward, caressing the junction of your hip, squeezing the fat of your ass.

You can’t help but hum at the feel of cold metal rings on his large hands, you’re so worked up you’re practically dripping for him.

He gathers himself enough to remind you the metronome is repeating, meaning you need to pay attention for the cue to the letters. 

“Just fuck me already,” you’re almost whine, rolling your hips to jut your pussy out more. 

“Holy shit,” he groans, grasping his cock and rubbing it up and down your wet folds. He nearly curses at the way your lips almost suck him into your greedy hole, the way you’re pulsing, trying to lure him into your warm, wet heat. 

He teases just a little more, gathering as much of your wetness onto his cock as he can. When you whine, wiggling your hips back, trying to catch the head and slide him in—he decides to put you out of your misery. 

With a strong grip on your hips, Eddie thrusts in harshly, fully sinking his cock into your tight cunt. The sudden intrusion has a cross between a moan and squeal erupting from your throat, you thought he’d go slow—boy, were you wrong. He has to take a minute to steady his breathing, wishing away the impending orgasm. His body is curling over you, chest moving with stuttering breaths. 

You’re so aware of his pelvis and thighs against your ass, how snug his cock is in your hole. Relishing the feeling of him balls deep inside you, you feel so full. He’s so thick, it’s driving you up the wall. Your pussy is gripping him like any moment he’ll pull out and leave you gaping.

“Oh, fuck, sweetheart,” he huffs. “Holy shit–best fucking pussy I’ve ever felt.” He’s babbling, gone completely out of his mind at the way your walls squeeze his poor cock in a vice grip. You mewl and whine at the compliment, so turned on from all the edging, you just want him to start moving already. 

“Move–please, move! Fuck, Eddie,” you draw out his name, sounding pitiful and fucked out already. 

He starts thrusting at a bruising pace, you feel every ridge and vein, you’re not even trying to temper your moans. Barely hearing yourself over the metronome anyway, you let him know just how good you feel. 

Eddie reaches up, shoving one earphone off so he can hear your noises. All the moaning, mewling, and whining only spur him on. He’s breaking a sweat railing into your cunt, relishing the sound of skin slapping. 

You hear the song start over again, knowing the cue is coming up, you try to draw your brain back from your needy pussy long enough to moan the letters. Apparently, you didn’t sound desperate enough because Eddie slaps your ass, eliciting a high-pitched yelp from your throat. 

“Again,” he grits, reaching around to messily rub your clit through your shared juices. 

The song is short so when it loops back around, you’re at the very precipice of an orgasm. 

“Please–Eddie, please let me cum! Oh god, I need it, please!” 

He groans when your walls suffocate his cock, needy and pulsing, on the very edge of the most mind blowing orgasm you’ve ever had. 

“Be good, and I’ll let you,” he grunts, slapping your ass to cue you in. When you open your mouth to moan out the letters he starts vigorously yanking your body back onto his dick, meeting his already jarring thrusts. Ever the musician, he times each shove of his hips with the ticking metronome. 

His hard cock knocks the air out of you as you moan every letter, sounding fucked out and desperate by the time you spell ‘ROCK’ fully. 

Once you know you’ve done your part, you wail out in pleasure, “Oh god!”

Slapping your ass particularly hard, he urges you to cum, “Cum for me, baby. Lemme feel that fucking pussy choke my cock, give it to me, honey.”

The slap sent you over the edge and his words had you floating among the stars. You’re crying out in pleasure, absolutely beside yourself. Barely aware of the loss of rhythm, he shutters and jerks, drawing your attention with an urgent, “Where do you want me, baby?”

Feeling full and needy, you wine, “Inside! Please, Eddie, gimme your cum–I wan’ it so fuckin’ bad!” 

He stutters out a string of curses, pumping rope after rope of warm cum into your greedy cunt. Slowing to a stop, he hunches over you. You can feel his hot breath against your shoulder blades, the softs wisps of his hair tickling your back. 

Resting your chest on the stool, you let your mind come back down to earth. He moves to pull out but you reach behind to grab his hips, holding him to you. 

“Hold on–jus’…wanna feel you still.” You’re exhausted, voice sounding utterly spent. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes out in disbelief, thanking whatever is out there that he got to experience what he’s dreamed about for so long. Not to mention, the way you don’t want his cock to leave your pulsing pussy. He shutters as your walls twitch with aftershocks. 

Eventually, he has to pull out, his soft cock no longer able to stay in. His heart rams against his ribcage at the soft whine you let out as he pulls out, he’d keep you stuffed forever if he could. 

You don’t move, even though you’re free to. Staying bent over the stool, your pussy still captivating him as he looks down to see his load slowly inching out of your hole. Admiring the way the cum moves like molasses in the hot summer, he thinks about how many songs he could write just about the view of your gaping hole—still spread open from his girthy cock.

Since you don’t seem to be moving anytime soon—just resting on the stool, relishing his attention—he kneels down, spreading your ass cheeks. Leaning in to lick up the cum dribbling out of your hole, he makes sure to thrust his languid tongue in, scooping out the delicious, tangy combination of juices. A loud moan escapes your scratchy throat, not expecting such raunchy affection after everything that just transpired. 

Once he gathers the juices, letting them pool on his tongue, he stands up. Reaching around your neck to pull you up, your back to his front, feeling his now half-hard cock against your ass, he spreads his hand on your jaw, effectively pushing your head to the side. He wraps his free hand around your pelvis as he thrusts his tongues into your open, panting mouth. You moan at the feeling of him swapping spit and the mix of cum into your waiting mouth. Messily kissing you, his tongue dominates your mouth, not letting your head go as he grinds against your ass. 

When he pulls away leaving you breathless, you eagerly lick your lips, swallowing all the swapped spit and cum, humming at the taste. He lets you turn around in his hold—facing him, moving both hands to rest on your cheeks, leaning in for another firm kiss. Your eyes are lust blown, he’s panting, bobbing his head closer for another kiss. The kiss you’re wanting doesn’t come, though. Instead, he plants a sweet, chaste, smooch to the corner of your mouth. 

“Will you go on a date with me?” 

You huff out a laugh, eyes squinting with giddy humor at the backwards order of events. “Yeah.”

He grins at your hazy eyes, kissing you again. 

Pulling away, your eyebrows knit with concern, “I think we just accidentally made an audio sex tape.”

“A sex mixtape,” he quips, unworried. 

“Poor Jared, he’s gonna have to isolate my vocals over all the ass clapping,” you giggle. 

“Eh, that perv will love it.” 

A/N: Please like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed it! Especially comments because they let me know I’m doing things right!!! Because right now I’m going a little coocoo crazy, judging my writing probably too harshly. Idk, y’all tell me what you think

[shiregoth]

i mean, how is any of this legal?             —  well, lucky for us it is, so…

[shiregoth]

1976

1986

inspired by this post by @criticaloser 🥰

please support creators by reblogging

do not repost

[shiregoth]

reader described as having longer hair in this one

“Do you think you can just,” you pause as a part of you feels almost silly at what you want from Eddie.

“Just what?”

You’re laying in bed together, comfy clothes on, replacing the work clothes that felt so heavy when you walked through the front door. Your face all but digs into his side, close enough to his underarm to breathe him in, while your hands cling to his chosen shirt for the night.

“Talk for a bit?”

The day wore on you, the weeks and months even more, as if you were sinking into a pit of darkness, trying its hardest to swallow you whole.

You feel the vibrations as he hums in thought, his hand sneaking up to comb his fingers through your hair, twirling a few strands around and around.

“It’s nice to just hear your voice sometimes.”

It helps.

He squeezes you even tighter for a beat, leaning down a bit to press a kiss to the top of your head before he sets off with a bark of laughter as he remembers.

“Did I tell you what Gareth did last night?”

[shiregoth]

(parentheses)│e.m.

Nasolabial folds.

You had looked it up just to know what to call them. Eddie had the most pronounced ones you had ever seen, a pair of deep lines that ran down from the tiny creases behind his nostrils and curved around the corners of his mouth.

“It’s like everything you say is in parentheses,” you said, making the lines deepen as he smiled.

It brought out his dimples too, the little divots in his cheeks the ideal size for the tip of your pinky to dip inside—practically begging for it.

So you obliged them.

“Get adda here,” Eddie laughed, reaching out to intercept your hand and biting the air like he was going to eat it. You half-shrieked, half-squealed, attempting to wrestle your hand away only to giggle as he kissed up your arm instead.

Your laughter quieted as he laid your hand on his chest and covered it with his, pressing down just slightly to add pressure. Enjoying the weight.

“You think they're your best feature?" you mused, head dropping back onto the pillow. Still staring at them, loving how they remained on his face even when it was completely at rest.

“What? My labia?” he snorted.

His brows bounced suggestively, disappearing behind his scraggly bangs. Your eyes rolled and you dragged your hand out from under his to swat him with it, only making him laugh and smirk harder as he dodged it.

“C’mon, tell me. What do you think it is?”

Eddie hemmed a bit, his pink lips sputtering as he blew a raspberry and stared up at his ceiling.

“Uhh...some people say I have a nice neck?”

His eyes darted away and he shrugged, like he wasn’t even sure if that counted. You smirked.

“People, huh? You mean girls.”

Hopping onto your knees, the ancient springs of his mattress creaking with the sudden motion, you pushed your face in close to his. Teasing.

“That how you got ‘em in high school? Offer this thing up like an all you can eat buffet?”

You reached out and traced the hard lines of his, admittedly very nice, neck. Imagining all the girls who’d been distracted by it buying weed off him, who’d asked him if he minded them marking it up, painting it with dark and mottled bruises.

“Yeah, right!” Eddie snorted incredulously, “I had a better chance of getting a hickey from Gareth.”

He shivered when the tips of your fingers reached the bottom of his ear, his eyes ablaze with hunger.

“Your neck is nice,” you whispered, leaning in to let your lips brush along his jugular.

“Y-yeah?”

His breathy stutter of the word made you grin into his skin, relishing the way it made his blood pump harder under your lips as you made your way up.

“But I still like these better…”

You pulled back just enough to take in his face. Heavy-lidded eyes blinking out of the haze he had slipped under when your lips touched his skin; his mouth still parted from the soft gasp he let out.

With your thumb, you traced the lines on his face again, feeling where the shape of his lips met the graceful curve of his cheek. There were no sharp edges on him, only gentle roundness. Full lips, bulbous nose, eyes like giant dinner plates.

Even his jaw lost some of its hardness when he tucked his chin into his chest.

And even if other people liked his other features better—his thick neck or his big hands or his cute and slutty little waist—that was just fine, because those lines on his face would always be yours.

You would be the only one who knew he was always speaking in parentheses.

divider by my love @strangergraphics 🥰

[shiregoth]

Build it and He will Come

a nightmare!Eddie x afab!Reader story

Note: You do not have to be familiar with the Nightmare Factory series to enjoy this. The timeline is non-linear and often very silly. At this point in the tale, Eddie and Reader have only met in dreams.

Word Count: 2.2k

No warnings, but my blog is for 18+ only

Notes: I could've very well made this a standalone story without putting it in with the Nightmare Factory, but I've missed thinking about those two so much I decided to make it work. I wrote this in August of last year and only recently found it in my WIPs. Decided not to be too fussy about editing and such because then I won't post it for another seven months.

@somnambulic-thing constructed a stunning tiny replica of Eddie's trailer, and then I got very inspired and wrote this for them. Somna, thank you for sharing your process with me, daydreaming with me, loving me, and everything else we do together with oceans between us.

It's complicated because Somna also works at the Nightmare Factory, and you can read that blurb here. But let's just forget about that for a moment.

---------

You’d spent weeks working on the miniature version of the trailer from your dreams, right down to the corrugated roof carved from cardboard and dry grass ordered from a specialty shop; every little detail was important.  You painted the inside walls black, imagining that’s what he would do if he lived alone.  Structurally, the overhang went on second to last, and then it was time to construct the front steps. Foamboard cut to exact specifications, and then frosted with a special putty that would need a couple hours to dry.

Nag Champa incense produced a smoky veil through the room to slip like a whisper between thin white curtains, escaping secrets into the night.  You had the television on, but only as background noise, and also to drown out the nextdoor neighbor who always played their music a bit too loud that time of day.  

It was late when you sat back to take in what you’d accomplished thus far.  You stared at the miniature door opening next to where a bedroom would be, imagining a gremlin boy with long hair on the edge of his bed, practicing his guitar.  You didn’t know why that image popped into your head, but you could see him so clearly; somehow had vivid memories of how his warm skin smelled just below his ear.  

How could they be memories? Perhaps an alien implanted them in your brain while you slept.  

There was no furniture inside of the structure yet.  The first piece you’d work on tomorrow would be the sofa out on the deck where you imagined him lounging to have a smoke and chat with the trailer park cats. 

“Goodnight,” you whispered to your empty apartment, clicking off the desk lamp.  

The next morning, you put your glasses on and shuffled to the kitchen to make some tea, absently wondering why your apartment smelled like nicotine.  You didn’t smoke, so it had to be coming from out on the street or the neighbors.  Staring with weary, glazed eyes at the corner of the counter while the water boiled, your mood brightened when you remembered the project waiting for you at your desk.

While bouncing a tea bag in a mug of hot water, you went over to stand and admire how far the trailer model had progressed.  The windows were next, and the air conditioning unit in his bedroom window, as well as…

“The fuck?” you gasped, frowning at the model, setting the mug down on some newspaper near the trailer so fast that some of the liquid sloshed down the side.

Somehow, there were marks in the dried putty of the steps.  You were certain the surface had been smooth when you went to bed, but now you’d have to redo the finish.

You pulled the magnifying lamp over and sat down with a grunt, snatching up the steps to take a closer look.  What could’ve possibly…

Wait

With the piece in question under magnification, you ran a thumb over the marks.

Why did they look like sole impressions from the bottom of tiny shoes?

In the process of trying to convince yourself that they’d been made by a bug of some sort, some investigating told you that the octagon tread and the brand name Reebok were there in a crystal-clear impression.

And why were the footprints coming out of the trailer?

Going rigid, you put the steps down and used the tip of one finger to slide them away from you.

Your gaze flicked to the stained deck made of wood stir sticks, settling on a white bit of something there.

It had to be a piece of plaster or foam board, but just as  you prepared to flick it away with your finger, something about it caught your eye.

Plucking tweezers from your craft tools, you denounced that it was…

…a half smoked cigarette? Filter and all?

You held it up to your nose, inhaling the sharp tang of nicotine.

It must’ve fallen from something else you’d been working on, or maybe you were so tired last night, you didn’t remember making it as a joke. The trailer you’d been seeing in your dreams might’ve had some cigarette stubs scattered around, you nodded your head, agreeing with yourself.  

Later that evening, next to the couch on the deck, you set an obsidian miniature ashtray, and then stared at it unblinking as if it were a trap for a feral raccoon that you wanted as a pet.  Sporting bandaids on two fingers from various X-Acto knife cuts, you’d been so absorbed in finishing up some of the window details you’d forgotten to eat.  

“Who does this home belong to?” You touching the steps to make sure they were dry this time before you snapped off the mag light.  

The trailer in question haunted your dreams; you knew every dent and bit of chipped paint by heart.  You’d mentioned it to your therapist so many times that eventually they suggested you work through the imagery by creating something tangible.  

“Why this particular trailer though?” You whispered, eyebrows clenched as you took one last look at the empty ashtray before shutting everything off for the night. 

Rising out of the sea of unconsciousness, it wasn’t long before you kicked your legs out from under the covers the next day with childlike anticipation.  It was a slow walk to the craft table though, sucking at your bottom lip and checking around the room with astute caution as if your craft project had somehow summoned masked marauders. 

The steps were free from any fresh footprints, but the porch door to the trailer opened a crack and there was…

“It can’t be…” a chill spiked the hairs on your arms.

Taking a sharp intake of breath and then holding it there, you eyeballed the ashtray that now had something inside it.

Your hands were shaking, and you feared you might knock the whole thing down if you reached in to grab it with your fingers.  Scrambling for the tweezers with a hitch in your breath, you got a hold of the miniscule piece and set it under the magnifier, vibrating as you went.  

One…two…three cigarette butts smoked down to the filter.  

But then there was a fourth one that appeared to have been barely just lit and was still smoldering.

You stepped back, eyes dry, jaw slack, trying to register what you were seeing.  It was the closest to what you imagined an out of body experience felt like.

Attention moving to the door left ajar, you managed to form the words with a trembling voice: “Is anyone in there?”

Wow, now you really did feel dumb. Who did you even think you were talking to? A mouse? A ghost? Some tiny person small enough to fit into the model? This wasn’t The Secret of Nimh.  

Just then, the door in question shut all the way, being pulled somehow from the inside.  

And that was when you screamed.

It flew open again and there he was:

A tiny person no taller than an inch, wearing ripped jeans and a denim vest over a leather jacket stood in the doorway to your model.  You took your glasses off, thinking it was an insect or some dark, floating spot in your vision.

He yelped at the same time you did, jumping back with a dramatic hop.

“Shit you scared me!” He huffed, bending at the knees to put his hands on his thighs and catch his breath.  “I didn’t know you’d be so big.”

“Excuse me?” Your hip bumped into the edge of the countertop letting you know you could back up no further, eyes glued to him in horrific awe.  “Where did you come from? How is this happening? Why are you—?”

“Look, Monkey. It’s me,” he put his hands up in surrender.

You fumbled blindly in the nearby drawer, clattering for a knife, but only came up with a fork, which was just as well, brandishing it like a weapon.  

“Whoa, easy now,” he halted, chuckling nervously. 

You considered the possibility of a brain tumor. 

He sank down on the top step to sit with one knee up in a way that disarmed you, and you slowly lowered the fork to your side, checking around to make sure you weren’t being filmed for some hidden camera show.  You made your way back to the table, squinting to get a better look at his face.  

Realization dawned, and the piece of silverware went clattering to the floor.

“Wait…Eddie?”

“In the flesh,” he tucked his chin to look himself over. “Just not very much of it.”

My Eddie.

Pulling up a chair, you scooted closer, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.  “How are you here? I thought you weren’t real. I mean, I thought I made you up?”

The visions, the dreams, all of those stories you wrote about a metalhead from the 80’s who also happened to be a charming dork. Although you did not know him, you also knew him to the depths of your soul. Beyond time and space, somewhere in the ether of the unknown, that is where you held each other.

“Oh sweetheart, I’m real,” his grin faded into a scowl of confusion. “But I think my wish got lost in translation.”

“Your wish?”

“Yeah, so,” he was playing with one of his rings, avoiding eye contact. “There’s a Wishing Well where I come from, and it kinda has…powers.”

“Powers.” You repeated it flatly, trying to wrap your head around it.

He began to pace, and you realized he could easily sit on the tip of your finger.  

“It’s not your typical water well with coins and shit, this one only accepts gifts.  You have to give it something that is very special to you and only then is your wish considered. I just got my confirmation letter in the mail a few days ago, but I guess my ask wasn’t specific enough.”

Your gaze wandered from him to the length of the trailer, mirroring his bewilderment.  “I’ve been to this place, haven’t I? We sat on that porch together once.”

“Yep, several times,” he nodded, shuffling his foot.  “I brought you home to meet my Uncle Wayne, the one who got me a job at the factory.  Also depends on what you consider real life.”

Mugs...so many coffee mugs...

“The Nightmare Factory.” You whispered it, all the while thinking to yourself that it didn’t make any sense. You could only catch the tail end of that memory before it slinked and faded into the nothingness like most dreams do.  

After a long silence he spoke through grit teeth.  “The next Wishing Well employee I meet is getting chopped in the throat.”

“Is there a way to…” your eyes darted to different utensils as if a pencil or some glue could help the situation. “...to undo the wish or get it adjusted somehow?”

He tilted his head to blink lovingly at you but said nothing.

“I’m sure we can think of something,” you were suddenly feeling upbeat. “Maybe we could, I don’t know, contact the Wishing Well people and see if—”

“I only have 24 hours,” he interrupted softly, thumbs sliding into his belt loops.  “24 hours and then I have to go back.”

“Oh,” your shoulders slumped. 

“Yeah it sucks,” he huffed, ending with a raspberry of a laugh.  

After a while, he was in your hand, sitting cross-legged in your palm as you talked. 

And then he was in the front pocket of your shirt and on your shoulder.  You chopped up grapes for him, he urinated in your sink.  

He wrapped himself around your pencil like it was a lamp post and went along for the ride while you worked on a drawing. 

“I need to start lifting weights,” he snorted, sliding down to swing off your pinky and onto the table. “My upper body strength sucks.”

Careful not to sit on him, you made a special spot on the ledge of the couch while you watched a movie.

“This one goes to 11,” you both said simultaneously during a mutual favorite called This is Spinal Tap.

You kept yourself awake for as long as you could during those last few hours, drinking caffeine, nodding off in the chair by the model.

He walked over from the trailer and tapped your finger in the way he did when he wanted you to lift him up.  Keeping your hand still, he climbed up onto your knuckle and tried to steady himself as it began to rise, windmilling his arms.  

At eye level he whispered, “closer,” with a curl of his hand, and he didn't say stop until he was near enough to kiss the tip of your nose.

“I think it’s time for you to get some sleep,” he took a wide stance, bracing when you moved him further out again.  

“I don’t want to,” you were actually pouting then, knowing that when you woke up he wouldn’t be there anymore.  

Actually, you didn’t really know anything.  How did any of this work, anyhow? Would he really just vanish into the ether after a certain time period? The whole thing made your brain itch and feel fuzzy.  

The only thing you knew for sure was that you didn’t want to lose him. The circumstances of him being no bigger than a thimble was not ideal, but you’d take what you could get.  

“I’ll rest in the crook of your neck, how about that?”

“What if I accidentally roll over and smother you?”

“That’s a chance I’m willing to take, sweetheart.”

[shiregoth]

Commission wip.

[shiregoth]

boop his nose & put him in your pocket 🙆

[shiregoth]

Wanted to draw the badass fight between Eddie and the Demobats - he wins it btw, because I said so!

[shiregoth]

ALL of these have me YELLING hello!! hi!!!

every iteration of eddie cannot lie to wayne obv, but there's something SO funny. about pornstar!eddie specifically having the biggest crush on director and wayne just. Knowing TM. i looove thinking about the bts of the og blurbs now and imagening those phonecalls to wayne. wayne who does not want to know the details probably?? but also loves to hear eddie gush?? Oh To Be A Fly On Wayne Munson's Wall for all of this tbh shdgfhsdfs

next, lemme give you some unsubtle encouragement for the grandiose pollen fic:

ok thank u for ur attention i am EXCITED for every little morsel of this!!!! i am HERE for it!!

and re: rockstar!eddie. there's always angst for rockstar!eddie. and not all stories need a happy ending so if you do decide to write this i'm sure you'll figure out the vibe and the fitting ending. we'll all be here for the ride. 🫡

thank you SO MUCH for sharing info on all of these and your amazing writing in general!! <3

came here for "for your viewing pleasure" stayed for everything else but obv gotta ask - in the vol. 2 when director!reader meets wayne, does wayne like. know. how they n eddie met? 👀

ALSO we love a pollen fic it's a STAPLE of fanfic <3

ALSO ALSO "hold your peace in pieces" im always a slut for rockstar!eddie pls tell me about him pls pls

- love shiregoth <3

Omg omg so many good questions ☺️

Let’s chit chat under the cut, dearest.

For pornstar!eddie, I’ll be the first to admit I don’t have a solid plan for him 😅 The first drabble was just a Thursday night thot that spiraled out of control, and kinda took on a life of its own.

THAT BEING SAID—I think all the rumors of what Eddie is up to have defff made it to Wayne’s ears. He doesn’t like to participate in town gossip, but Eddie also started getting kinda cagey about exactly what he’s doing for work lately.

And he’s always sent Wayne some money when he could, but now it’s a lot more money and a lot more often. So when he asks him point-blank if it’s true, Eddie’s certainly not going to lie.

Which means he told Wayne about you long before the two of you got together, and while he wasn’t thrilled to hear how his nephew is making his money, he is relieved to hear Eddie talk about this wonderful person looking out for him and making sure no one takes advantage of him.

(Not to mention…you’re bananas if you think Wayne can’t tell immediately when Eddie has a crush)

And @tomtomslongdong made it canon that the calendar you two were in is hanging in the garage where some of Wayne’s buddies work.

So while Wayne does know what’s up when Eddie brings you for a visit…he’s much too much of a gentleman to dare to mention it.

Next: I looove a good pollen fic (even a not so good one is still pretty good to me 🙃). And I’ve been working on this one lately after getting some subtle encouragement from a few people 👀

Have a little taste:

“Do you honestly believe that anyone at Hawkins General is going to know anything about some virus or whatever she picked up down there?”

Eddie’s jaw clenched, his iron grip on the phone threatening to crack the plastic in his fist.

“Fine,” he gritted out at last, “but I’m staying here with her, and if she gets any worse—”

“Well, let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that,” Nancy sniped and slammed down the phone.

Eddie felt his face scrunch up, a low growl in his throat like when the kids in Hellfire were talking over one another at top volume and Eddie had to shout over all of them to get their attention.

He couldn’t blame Nancy for being so curt. She was stressed. All of them were. Steve and Robin were away on a supply run, and she and Jonathan had practically taken up residence at some of the numerous disaster relief and volunteer centers that had been set up all around Hawkins.

Meanwhile, the most Eddie could do was skulk around Hop’s cabin with his thumb firmly lodged up his ass. It reminded him of those couple days at Reefer Rick’s he spent the majority of hiding under a tarp, like a bug waiting to be crushed.

Not anymore, though. At least he could do this.

His head snapped up at the sound of your voice, soft and plaintive as you called out for him.

“Ed…Eddie? Eddie, are you…where…”

“I’m here, I’m here,” he said, trotting back into your room. You made a small, weak little sound. Not unlike a puppy whining for its mother.

“Thought…” your bottom lip wobbled, “thought you left me…”

“No, sweetheart, never,” he told you as he knelt beside your bed again. A single tear leaked out of the corner of your eye, rolling down your sweaty cheek. His fingers itched to wipe it away.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered to you. “I promise.”

Last but not least, rockstar!eddie. I think the big roadblock with him is that he’s kind of a dolt and (inadvertently?) stringing the reader along.

So not fun. Not funky fresh.

I had a very clear vision for the scene where the story opens and have written that, but the more I go back to it, the harder it becomes to convince myself Eddie should “get the girl” so to speak.

We’ll see what happens with him.

walk through my wips

[shiregoth]

came across this tiktok and had Thots TM. is this anything?

potter!eddie x fem!reader, no y/n, canon compliant so mentions of post!upside down recovery, but mostly tooth-rotting fluff with a bit of steam, 18+

wc: 840

eddie's good at working with his hands; always has been. it's no different now, as he works malleable clay through fingers just regaining their strength. you follow the line from their hypnotizing movement over his wrists up his arms, noting scar tissue over and between beloved ink. you trace along it even where they're covered by his shirt; where you know his skin is deathly white in large patches still, impacting muscles just slowly growing back to their proper function.

he's come so far since that crappy summer of '86, when he'd been mostly chained to a hospital bed and all the hush money from the government couldn't get him any closer to his dreams. sweetheart sits in your lap now, a little battered and dusty, but getting played semi-regularly again. you've never been much good at it, but you can fiddle well enough to restring and tune her; that much, at least, you can do for eddie, now that he's started practicing daily again. the talent, the skill is still there - only the body has trouble keeping up. the pottery helped; a doctor had suggested it as a way to loosen his finger and arm muscles, training that won't lead to cramps and anger and breakdowns. it's good for him; despite the initial reluctance, it brings him peace.

it brings you peace, too. from where you're lounging across the bed, your gaze travels up across his collar bones, up his focused face with bangs slightly matted across his forehead, curls up in a bun. you smile at your boy, so unusually soft in his concentration. can't keep it in any longer. "you're beautiful."

a blush creeps up his cheeks to his ears, the same speed as the grin creeps over your face. big brown eyes meet yours, slightly bashful, very adoring, carrying a glint you almost feared he lost. before you can say anything else, one of his hands dips into the bowl of water next to him to flick some towards your face. fake outrage quickly follows your surprise at his deflection - "and how dare you, good sir?" - before gently laying the guitar by your side on the bed.

"unprovoked attacks!" eyes and mouth go comically round; you stem your fists on your hips for added effect. "that's the thanks i get!"

eddie can hardly contain his snort at your act. concentration now broken, the cast on his potter's wheel looses shape; squeaking as the rotations slowly come to a stop and he turns half towards you. "yeah?" without looking, he fishes for a towel to dry off his hands, with middling success. "and what'cher gonna do about it?"

you make a go for the towel but he yanks it out of your reach, getting you close enough to grab your wrist, pull you into him with sudden strength and nimble fingers.

those nimble fingers spread in your hair, spear in your cunt. you cling to his shoulders, face in his neck, keening softly at every movement. "that's it, baby," he says, and you can feel the satisfied smile against your skin. your hips cant into his hand, pressing it down into his own crotch, creating friction for the both of you. eddie swallows a low moan, huffs. your very favorite song.

you'd sell your soul to keep hearing it.

one of your hands travels down, moves along with him in your rhythm, while one of his moves your head so he can look at you, kiss you, devour you fully. his tongue moves in time with his thumb on your clit, once, twice, three more times before you unspool like loose wire. ecstatic shudders; then you melt, boneless, malleable like his clay. eddie's fingers slip out of you but stay down, wrap around your hand wrapped around his cock. not changing your pace, just holding on; moving together. his head tilts back, eyes shut, and you can't decide what you'd rather sink your teeth into - the skin of his exposed neck, or his quivering bottom lip.

you choose the former, nipping and licking while your hand still works him between you, feeling the vibrations of his growl under your lips. your thumb flicks across his head, spreading precum in a messy pattern down his cock, and the noise eddie makes his heavenly. you play him like he does the strings of his guitar - slowly, this time, but not any less wonderful than any time before. there's so many ways to make music still.

a few strokes, another kiss, and he's coming between you. his beautiful eyes glow when they find their way back to you. you'll worry about the mess later; right now, time feels soft and fluid and sticky in the best way. you lazily pick a sprinkle of clay out of his hair, and eddie's grin spills into a giggle. his arms wrap around you, kneading softly at your hips, moulding you to him. he traces patterns into your back. you hum disjointed melodies into his neck. in the watery afternoon sunlight, a future is shaped.

[shiregoth]

call me g! 27, she/they, cryptic weirdo recently revived from my writing grave by one eddie munson. this blog's for curating fan stuffs mainly, but every once in a while inspiration strikes and i write something myself. can be found under #gothtales and also under the cut. feel free to ask whatever, but beware: 18+ so minors DNI. also don't be mean. elsewise there will be curses.

headcanons

eddie munson x diabetic!reader // gn!reader, pure self-indulgent fluff, wc: 500

blurbs

potter!eddie // fem!reader, fluffy to steamy, wc: 840, 18+

other tags

#fic rec / #gifs / #art