#eddie x black!reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chainmailchalamet · 1 year ago

Text

Run Rabbit, Run (Dark! Eddie Munson 🍒🪽)

tags: roommates to lovers, modern!metalhead!eddie munson(maybe not a complete face match to ST!Eddie, but his look is up to your imagination), slight predator/prey dynamic (more tags in the next part when it gets more NSFW), but expect a lil degradation, impact, knives, kind of fucked up intense dirty talk, morallygrey!eddie, they may or may not be completely human (also up to interpretation), and as usual always!black always!non-binary POV 🌟🍒

roommate!eddie munson who puts you on edge from the moment you come across him — responding to a post on a queer housing page on facebook because you get a new job that pays enough to move out your ex’s place but you still need a roommate and something about his post is just…appealing. this self-proclaimed “bisexual metalhead chef” whose love language is homemade omelettes, who waxes poetic about maintaining a harmonious home, who bakes when he’s stressed and has a black cat named cerberus (“he’s not really mine, he just likes to curl up at the foot of my bed on the weekends like i’m his little side-piece, so you know…basically mine”), and just desperately wants to live with someone who is clean and sweet and will play taste-test with him when he experiments with new recipes.

and that sounds fucking nice, ok? especially after your previous situation where you did all the cleaning and cooking and emotional labour and got cheated on for all your trouble.

and yeah, ok, maybe eddie is kind of cute in every single picture he puts up with his post — with his dark hair and dark eyes shining bright and mischievous tucked into the fur of a serious looking black cat, and his ringed hands (big, and strong-looking, and tatted up) with a guitar clutched expertly between them and his chains and his fucking tongue between his teeth when he smiles this big, dumb, razor-sharp smile even while covered in flour and wielding a tray full of mini peach galette’s. maybe he’s kind of exactly your type on paper — good in the kitchen, queer as fuck and proud of it, sharp teeth, dark eyes….

it’s not until the day you meet him in person that you start to get a little bit antsy, a little too-small in your skin. because he looks better than his pictures, which is wild. he’s got just a hint of stubble, pretty eyelashes, so much silver glinting in his ears and all through his face and a blackout tattoo that crawls up his back and some ink crawling up the side of his face a little too and god damn it, it suits him — all his ink and silver and his long curly hair half tied up in a sloppy bun. he’s so much taller in person too, so much bigger than you, and it’s kind of funny cuz he doesn’t seem like he should be so big and broad in the shoulders because he’s a fucking metalhead kitchen nerd, but — his white t-shirt stretches so nice across his chest that it’s a little bit obscene and a little bit see through so you clock just a hint of the tattoos that he must just be covered in tip to toe and he smells like tobacco and jasmine, smells so good he kind of makes your mouth water — which is just like, so fucking rude.

and maybe you’d be able to deal with all of that if he was as much as an asshole as he kind of looked — but he’s not, he opens the door to you and his eyes light up, and he’s all bright and chatty and welcoming, asking if he can hug you or shake your hand or whatever you want, i’m just super tactile, here let me take your coat, woah your hair is so fucking cool, your braids are just gorgeous, kind of like zoë kravitz in high fidelity — oh shit, yeah, totally see the vision, and you did that yourself, that’s insane, you’re so talented.

and he keeps a clean apartment , a big beautiful apartment that smells of jasmine incense and bakery — kitchen nice and organized, cast iron skillets displayed proudly on the wall, a well-stocked fridge lovingly adorned with Polaroids and magnets, and he’s all like you can use anything you want, and if you need me to pick anything just put in on the list, i got a good plug for grocery stuff, yeah, totally it’s all cool, just picked up like, so many beets for like nothing, we’re gonna be swimming in beet juice for a week.

and the living room is so comfy, big soft leather couch smothered in blankets and an electric fireplace, and a glass coffee table covered in cookbooks and a bookshelf bursting with life, and you can just see yourself lounging here, laying on your front in the plush carpet in the flow of the fireplace while he tinkers in the kitchen. and your bedroom is huge too — wood floors, high ceilings, enough space for a king bed and your clothing rack and mannequins and maybe even some room to do yoga and to tuck your sewing set-up into the corner while you watch the skyline stretch green and gorgeous ahead of you.

and the bathroom is so clean you could eat off the floors, which is crazy — there is eucalyptus hanging in the shower. the bath mat is shaped like a cherry. you almost go light-headed.

it’s all so perfect, and it sets you on edge because you know there’s trouble brewing. you know you’re going to move into this big beautiful apartment and settle right in, that you’re going to wake up every morning relieved and grateful and comfortable. that you’re going to be well-fed and so, so much happier than what you came from.

it’s all so perfect — except for eddie. eddie, who is whip-smart and a pleasure to be around, who is accommodating and a great listener, who is so sweet and sensitive when you tell him the real reason you left your old place, who is all oh, man, i’m so sorry, what a fucking prick, can’t believe he did that to you — didn’t deserve you at all, so glad you chose yourself, if you need any space just let me know, if you need anything at all, just let me know, ok?

eddie, who is so perfect that he almost has you fooled. almost — because he’s good at playing sweet and sensitive, and he’s good at playing with the expectations that people may have about what he’s going to act like based on what he looks like. he’s good at subverting — but you’re good at reading between the lines, and noticing things about people that they don’t think anyone else can see — call it a trauma response, or some kind of innate intuition, or both. it’s how you knew that your ex had been cheating on you months before you got your shit together and decided to do something about it — it’s how you could see through every single lie, even when he was lying for so long that he started to believe it himself. it’s your little superpower.

and eddie is not immune to that, no matter how good he is at wearing the skin that he shows to other people — you see the shift, the split second where he can’t hide that look in his eyes, that tick in his jaw. it’s just a split second, but you catch it, feeling his eyes on you when you look through all the pictures pinned to the fridge (eddie playing with his band, bathed in pink neon lights, eddie in his work-whites, eddie making silly faces with bowls of spaghetti smothered in grated cheese, eddie dressed down in just his sweatpants and sleep mussed hair, flipping a lazy bird at the camera, ink all down his chest and across both arms, inked all the way down to his hips in his low-slung sweats…). his gaze makes the back of your neck warm up, and you feel, syrupy slow, the way his eyes travel all the way down your body and back up, as heavy as a physical touch brushing across your skin. you let him look for a second, and when you turn your head to look back at him, and his eyes snap up to yours, he can’t tuck that glint in his eyes back fast enough.

you see it, then — the way he looks at you, like he wants to pick the meat from your bones, like he wants to crawl inside you and feel every inch of you within, like he wants to bleed you, suck you dry, make you scream. it is the look of a starving man, of a wolf licking its teeth, of a creature that just spotted something supremely tasty right as it’s ears prick up because it senses danger. it is a look that makes you want to run, just to see how long it will take for him to find you, to know what he’ll do when he does.

and right before he tucks that look back into its hiding place, he catches you catch him, and that split second is what haunts you for days, the moment you realize that you are well and truly fucked — he holds your eyes, tilts his head and does not look even a little bit ashamed to be caught, because whatever he sees on your face, in your eyes, whatever you reveal to him — it makes his pupils dilate, makes his tongue run across his (sharp, sharp, sharp) teeth inside of his mouth, makes him go hm.

and then, just like that, it’s gone. he lights up again, tucks the wolf to bed, leans against the doorway (doesn’t come closer, like he’s trying not to spook you, like you’re a wild rabbit on alert, rabbit heart beating hard in your chest), and tells you the story behind every picture, funny and bright and inviting. like nothing ever happened.

and you know there’s trouble brewing.

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #dom eddie munson #mean dom Eddie Munson #dark!eddie munson #sadist!eddie Munson #eddie x y/n #eddie x black!reader #black oc #black!oc #black!y/n

114 notes · View notes

chainmailchalamet · 1 year ago

Text

Run Rabbit, Run (Dark! Eddie Munson 🍒🪽), Pt. 2

tags: roommates to lovers, modern!metalhead!eddie munson(maybe not a complete face match to ST!Eddie, but his look is up to your imagination), predator/prey dynamic , a lil degradation, impact, knife play, jealousy, possessive behavior + language, dacryphilia, kind of fucked up intense dirty talk, face slapping, choking, morallygrey!eddie, they may or may not be completely human (also up to interpretation), and as usual always!black always!non-binary POV 🌟🍒

————

the tension breaks because of course it does— because eddie, from the moment you move in, seems to be on a one-man mission to pull at every single one of your threads until you unravel at his feet, just so he can put you back together again.

and if you confronted him about it, he’d play dumb about it, because in his defense, he’s not really doing anything he wouldn’t usually do. nothing he wasn’t already doing before you moved in with him — he’d say you were being paranoid, that it was kind of adorable actually.

but you know you’re not, that he’s not just doing what he’d otherwise be doing, that his actions are a targeted attempt to make you lose your mind, to crawl under your skin and live there. that to him, it’s just a matter of time before you snap.

it starts with the cooking thing — he’s always cooking, has been attached to the kitchen since he was a kid, living with his uncle wayne down in virginia — sweet, sweltering hot virginia, where he got his twang and his first tattoos (the stick and poke smiley face on his ankle, the first set of knuckle tats, the bones of his face piece), his love of smoking cigarettes off the top of his trailer on cool, quiet nights with a sky full of stars. wayne, who’s still down in virginia in a cabin that eddie put the money down for with his chef money. uncle wayne, who taught him to gut a fish and skin a deer and whose peach cobbler recipe he’s still trying to get just right. wayne, who he still calls every sunday as he fixes both of you a full dinner spread with greens and sweet potato and baked chicken.

to eddie, cooking is home, and family, roots and heart — it’s more than a love language. it’s a soul language, and he speaks it fluently, teaches it to everyone he lets get close to him.

and it only take a couple of weeks before he’s speaking it to you day and night, until you barely have to lift a finger in the kitchen because he’s got you, because he’s always got you. he’s got you for breakfast, with thick cuts of salmon and fat, fluffy vegan pancakes. with fresh squeezed juice and sausages that he picks up from the polish supermarket in brown paper bags every sunday, because he’s got a plug for that, and a plug for the freshest fruit in-season, for big juicy strawberries and peach preserves and purple kale.

he feeds you, everyday — with leftovers from the restaurant shifts he works until 3 in the morning — he brings you the day’s specials, whatever they are, spoils you with mushroom risotto and grilled eggplant and bucatini made in-house with the most flavorful tomato sauce you’ve ever tasted. if the special is seafood, he brings it home in a freezer bag, with sliced lemon on the side — he serves you your first oyster, your first bite of squid ink pasta, your first full lobster.

he’ll knock on your door at some ungodly hour, and when you invite him in he’s got a plate loaded up for you, bags under his eyes and a tired smile. he’ll watch you take that first bite, make that first satisfied noise, because he knows you’ve been at the drafting table for hours making adjustments to a new garment in time for an editorial shoot over the weekend.

no matter how tired he is, he’ll sit on your bed, looking so out of place amongst your plushies that it makes you bite down a giggle at the sight of him, looking sharp and dangerous surrounded by soft things. no matter how tired he is, he’ll ask you about your day and listen intently, wrinkle between his eyes as he does — and even though you’re shy at first, talking to him about fashion, he’s encouraging, asking you questions until you loosen up a little and you’re talking his ear off about sustainable dyeing practices and bias cuts and the art of the gather. and you know he’s too tired to take it all in but he’ll fight it, yawning in-between questions like you can use onions skins as dye, that’s crazy, what else have you tried and you did that all by hand? so fucking cool — yeah, i mean I can do patches but it’s nothing like that, used to just use dental floss and it wasn’t super clean, nothing like what you do, that’s way more punk, you made a fucking jacket from scratch.

and he makes you shy when he gets like that, when he gives you all his attention, when he keeps track of every bite like you’re suddenly going to hate his cooking, like he’s ready at any moment to fix it for you, to go right back into the kitchen and make you something from scratch, like he wasn’t just groaning about the longest fucking shift of my life, darlin’, you wouldn’t believe — had to hide in the lockup at midnight cuz we just got back to back fucked, substitution after substitution, and i like getting creative, don’t get me wrong, but what the fuck do we have a menu for?

he lights up a little when he talks about the kitchen though, about gareth who does dishes and robin and steve who run the front of house like it’s the navy.

he’ll grin when you scrunch your nose up because he’s smoked through another pack in one shift, flash his teeth and say beats the alternatives, glad you didn’t meet me all strung out and 21, would’ve been vibrating around your room, rearranged the kitchen, lit a real fire in the fireplace.

even on his worst nights, after an actual hell-shift, when his texts get short and a little snappy, when he stops assaulting your chat with emojis, when he spells out every single word and doesn’t reply for hours and all you get after that is a “don’t wait up x”. even when you hear him come in, dragging himself through the apartment like his body is dead weight, even on the worst nights — you’ll wake up in the morning to a spanish omelette on the counter and a sticky note that says “getting some air, sorry about last night x”, as if he has anything to apologize for, as if he’s not allowed to be human.

it’s all so domestic — he makes your home a warm cloud to lay in. he makes you feel so at ease, like he’s got you, like he’s a safe place to land.

which is where the problem comes in — because your roommate eddie, your sweet, doting, sensitive eddie, who cries when he says “love you, g’bye” to his uncle wayne without fail every single time they talk, who has taken in one of the neighbors cats (cerberus, sweet and soft and definitely using him for his top-shelf tuna connections) as if it is his own, and calls his guitar sweetheart and shimmies his way around the kitchen on sundays humming let’s hear it for the boys.

that eddie — sweet, darling doting eddie — is a fucking deviant.

he doesn’t show it too often, keeps it tucked away with impressive self-control, maybe even tries to hide it from you until he’s sure you’re settled, until you start to wonder if you just imagined that glint in his eyes the first day you met him — until the mask slips, until you catch a glimpse of his shadow once more and you think to yourself “there he is”.

it happens because of a bottle of tequila — because it always does. you go out drinking with him and his work friends, because you lost all of yours in the breakup, and eddie says he’s already told everyone all about you, that they already love you, c’mon sweetheart, it’s my night off and i wanna celebrate, know you got that shoot coming up, barely been drinking water you’re working so much, don’t think i haven’t noticed. come dance with me, just one night, i promise i’ll get you back in one piece.

and when he puts you on the spot like that, makes you feel exposed like that, looks at you with his bambi eyes all wide like that, you can’t really say no.

so you get all dressed up (change your outfit three times, because it’s been a long time since you’ve been out and you wanna make a good impression, damn it), and you might be freaking out a little. but then eddie yells out “c’mon honey, bet you look perfect, lemme see you”, and you swallow that anxiety because you like the way his voice curls around the words like that, that honey-twang he’s got cuz you’ve both been pre-gaming a little (him with a homemade margarita, you with a glass of red wine). it makes you brave, makes you take a deep breath and step out into the living room. and you both see each other all dressed up for the first time and — something shifts.

something tilts on its god damn axis — it’s the start of the end.

his hair is wild. big and dark and wild and sparkling through like he’s sprayed glitter in it. he’s got the most delicious black leather jacket on, fit perfect to his body and aged just right. he’s got this sheer fucking fabric stretched across his torso — it’s barely a shirt, just a scrap of something dark that lets you see the cut of his hips and the ink in his skin and the silver rings in his nipples.

his pants are low cut, ripped jagged across both knees, like he busted them open skating — and his boots are obscene, steel-toed shit-kickers, red-laces cutting through them like veins. he looks so good you want to stomp your feet and whine “not fair, who gave you eyeliner, that’s cheating”.

he looks like a young god, like hell on legs, like a flashing neon sign that says “i am going to fuck your life up and you’re going to thank me for it”. you suddenly can’t read.

the way he’s looking at you makes your mouth dry up, makes your thighs press together, makes you want to fall to your knees and worship. it’s all that desire you forgot that he possessed, that you only catch flashes of in the quiet moments — when he’s giving you a taste of something new and his eyes travel down to your lips wrapping round the edge of the spoon, when you hum low and pleased with your eyes closed and you open them up and he’s giving you that look again, that “run, rabbit, run” look.

for the first time in weeks he’s not hiding any of it from you — runs his gaze over your face and down your neck, across your shoulder and down your stomach, to your hips and both your thighs (he takes his time right there, sees you twitch, darts up to meet your eyes real quick, almost-smiles, like he’s saying “got you”)

and then up, up, up again. he takes his time. he runs his tongue across his lips, comes up real close and tugs on one of your braids with a scrunch between his brows, looks down at you and blows out a quiet rush of air and says “we should go, right now” like he means “before i do something i regret”.

that night, something inside you snaps.

his friends all clearly know something you don’t, and they are varying degrees of subtle about it. chrissy hugs you and smiles big and bright and says aren’t you the prettiest god damn thing i’ve ever seen but she’s looking at eddie when she says it, and it makes your face heat up.

robin and steve are all wry and knowing, bitchy in a fun way, exchanging little smiles with each other, all he’s finally let you out the dungeon, huh? thought he was gonna keep you all to himself.

jon is quiet but he gives eddie this little nod like “i see you” and his boyfriend argyle is already two-thirds into a bottle of casamigos so he just says the quiet part out loud, somehow makes it sound so chill, like it’s not a big deal that he takes one look at you and goes holy shit, eddie wasn’t lying, you’re like — what the fuck, i’d write songs about you too. doesn’t even give you a second to unpack all that before there’s a shot in your hand.

and then the drinks keep flowing and you start to loosen up and enjoy yourself and eddie doesn’t seem phased by any of the teasing, sits close to you and takes sips out of his drink (fruity, staining his tongue red as punch, sickly sweet when he lets you have a taste of it), keeps his eyes on you all night, just takes it all in stride — like he was expecting this, like he’s made his peace.

and you’re too drunk now to let it go, so you turn to him while steve and rob are busy bullying everyone else and you slur out something like so you’re obsessed with me, huh? and he smiles sharp and dirty and goes you don’t wanna go there with me honey, and you say why not, you’re all talk, don’t pussy out on me and his eyes go pitch black.

he nods his head, hums to himself. “noted.”

and it just goes down, down, down from there. because now you’re worked up, feeling bratty, feeling mean. you nod too, and he’s just taking you in, sitting too close, watching you like he’s curious, like he’s just delighted at the thought of what you’re gonna do next. bet, you think. let’s go, then.

steve seems like your best bet, so you ask him if he wants to dance, sugary sweet and wide-eyed, and he grins like he’s been waiting for this all night, says later losers, time to have some actual fun and takes your hand, cutting eddie a look like the cat that got the cream as you climb over his lap on your way out.

eddie’s just looking, looking, looking. quiet storm brewing across his face. leans in close before you’re gone to whisper “careful, baby” in your ear, like a warning.

you just smile at him, shrug. come get me, big bad.

dancing with steve is easy, his arm across your back, your hips pressed close. he says “your boy’s watching, wanna give him something to look at?” and you pout, tell him “he’s not gonna do shit, stevie, he’s all talk”.

steve smiles at you like you’re so dumb, just delightfully stupid, so you ask him what he knows and he says “i know he’s real sweet on you, but you better watch it, honey — eddie’s not the one to play with.”

and then he leans into your ear and tells you a story about a wolf who walks like a man and talks like a man and acts like a sheep — but he’s a wolf, honey. he likes to bite, likes to play with his food — keeps his prey tied down in his lair and takes them apart, piece by piece, until they’re crying, begging, until the fight leaves them all at once and they go empty between the ears, until they’re just gone. and then he just keeps taking, taking, taking. until they’ve got nothing left to give him.

and the music is so syrupy sweet that you’re lost in it, lost in the roll of your hips, lost in steve’s voice rumbling in your ears, low and hypnotic, lost in the drinks flowing through your veins — until steve has to hold you by the chin and force you to look up at him and say “still with me, little lamb?”

your throat is dry when you ask him how he knows what he knows, and he just looks over your shoulder (you know who he’s looking at, you feel those eyes across your back, he’s always watching, he just never stops looking) and tilts his chin up and goes why don’t you ask him yourself, honey?

and then eddie’s right there, pressed up against your back — leaning down to your ear to ask if you’re having fun, and for a second you’re pressed up between them both, letting steve rock you back into eddie, letting eddie grip you by the hips and pull you back, back, back, guiding you into a slow, filthy grind. your eyes fall close, you barely notice steve pressing a kiss to your temple, trilling have funnnn before he’s gone into the crowd again.

you still with me, eddie asks, at the same time you spin round and ask him “you fucked steve?”

he laughs a little and hums i see y’all been getting acquainted, pulls you close again and says jealous, honey?

you say you wish, and then you did, didn’t you? said you act like a sheep, but you’re not, are you? you’re a wolf.

he looks down at you, runs his hands under the straps of your top, presses his palms to the skin of your back, dips his head down. you know, i wanted to do this right — wanted to woo you and shit. feed you, keep you warm, treat you sweet.

and you know, you know, you know. what are you gonna do with me now, eddie?

he just looks at you. looks and looks, pulls you closer, let’s his hand creep down, down, down, makes the heat in your body swoop down low in your tummy when he grips you hard over your skirt, sweeps one hand in your hair and gets his fingers tangled in your braids, all the way down to the root and tugs, real mean with it.

he makes you bare your neck to him, makes you gasp, makes you wanna beg. for his teeth in your neck, for his hands between your thighs, for his mouth on you. you gonna hurt me, eddie?

he shrugs. i don’t know yet, honey. you gonna ask me nice for it? gonna ask for what you want instead of being a rude little brat, making me think you wanna fuck my friends?

your mouth goes dry. i wasn’t tryna —

nah, you just wanted me to think it, didn’t you? his voice drops low, mean, dark. dumb bunny, you didn’t actually think that was gonna work, did you? steve likes em big and bad, and you’re fucking nothing like that, are you? pretty little doll, he’d eat you alive.

he’s all inside your head, barely leaving you any space for yourself, and the way he sneers dumb bunny makes you squirm, makes you ache. he’s got you pinned in place like a fly in amber, nowhere else to run. and you wouldn’t?

he tilts his head, hums, says it again, wanted to do this right, wanted to lay you out on my bed and make you feel good. he mouths a kiss across your neck, traces his tongue across the skin, just the tip, just a tease. asked me if i was obsessed with you. stupid fucking question, baby. knew you were mine, first second i saw you, walked into my house and made it all strawberry and honey, seeped into everything, kept me up at night with it — and now it’s all over our home, our fucking home.

he uses his teeth, opens his mouth wide like a beast, like he can’t just smell you, like he needs the taste of it too, needs to feel the flesh between his teeth. and you can see right though me, can’t you, baby? the others, they think they see it, think they know what i think when i look at you, but you know, don’t you? you’ve always known.

you know. you’ve known. he wants inside your skin, wants to worm his way deep and build a home there. wants to keep you fed, keep you full, make you happier than anyone could. wants to own your happiness and your hunger, greedy over it. fucked up over the thought of anyone taking care of you better than he could, knows in his soul that no one else could. it makes you scared, makes you warm, makes you feel insane. you should run, should find a new apartment and start over because you’re so raw, and vulnerable, and he could hurt you, he wants to hurt you —

you tilt your head back, you run your hands across his shoulders, over his back, up into his hair, and you grab a handful and pull. he makes a noise like a wounded dog. he pants for it, folds forward like he got the breath knocked out of him — you think he’s mine, he’s mine, he’s mine, feel him kick up against you, big and warm and hard against your hip and your head swims with the thought. over and over, the same thought — mine, mine, mine.

yeah, sweet thing, m’yours, all yours, all of it, all yours, he whines, just for you. must’ve heard you, must’ve said it out loud. he sounds hollowed out, like you’ve let all his air out, and you’re wild for it.

tell me how, you say. you tug his head down so you can speak into his ear, and he goes down easy, so easy. when i let you take me to bed, when i let you have it, what will you do to me? what first?

a knife, he says, like a man possessed. toys with all your straps, slips his fingers underneath and tugs. wanna cut you out of this pretty fabric. look like an angel, wanna rip it to shreds, lay you down in the ribbons.

to ruin me, you say.

to make your heart race, he sings. he sways into you, sounds so consumed with desire it makes him drunk, makes him slur his words like his teeth are too big for his mouth. make you scared, make you wanna run so i can catch you. hold you down, press the blade up against your skin and play.

he wants to play. with a knife to your neck. fucking freak.

yours, yours, yours, he says. pulls back to look at you, hisses when you follow him with your hands in his hair, eyes rolling up and then back down, eyes half-shut, lights going out until it’s all a stretch of midnight without a star in the sky.

beautiful boy, you think. terrible, terrible, gorgeous boy.

wanna spit in your fucking mouth, he confesses. wanna hold my hand over your nose and watch your throat work as you swallow. wanna make you wet all over.

you’re already wet all over, and he knows that. can probably smell it, the wolf.

you’re still dancing, somehow. still swaying, still pressed up against each other, no room for common sense. his friends are nowhere to be seen — the crowd of bodies around you have all blurred away. you want to be home, in his bed, his lair, at his mercy. you tell him as much, and he smiles at you like he’s proud. love it when you tell me the truth, he says. love it when you show me.

better make it worth it, eddie, you say. better make it hard to leave your bed in the morning.

and then, he sings. and then, and then, and then.

greedy boy, you think, never gonna let me go, never gonna let anyone else touch me ever again.

you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, red and sweet and sharp. and then, you say, then you’re gonna feed me, like you always do.

#eddie x black!reader #dom eddie munson #eddie x y/n #eddie munson #eddie x reader #dark!eddie munson #dom!eddie munson #mean dom eddie munson #black!oc #black!y/n #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson smut

84 notes · View notes