#rockwood music hall | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

carolmunson · 8 months

Text

agitated from the shadows, can i take it all back? (older!modern!eddie)

part seven of however many. orange colored sky set list summary: things simmer in the summer, and as it comes closer to a close, whatever is lying beneath comes to the surface. and it's more than eddie bargained for.

tw: 18+ minors dni. this series is about an age gap relationship (reader is in late 20s/early 30s, eddie is in late 30s early 40s. they're around 12 years apart), arguing/yelling, references to drug use, references to smut, references to domestic violence. songspiration: episode | gallant (this is one of my favorite songs of all time so i recommend listening)

Eddie was always a little sad when Steve left after visiting, but his heart was beating fast in his chest when he hugged him goodbye. Getting Harrington's seal of approval was all he needed to hear. "Keep her around Munson. She's special, you're not gonna top her." "Oh Steve, my guy..." "I'm topping her all the time."

He couln't help the swell in his chest when you both first met, like you'd known each other for years without trying. He even got a little jealous when the night's you'd stayed over, Steve would spend his time deep in conversation with you. You'd trudge upstairs long after Ed had gone to sleep, learning more about him through Steve than he'd told you himself. You guess Steve would know better than anyone else.

You tried to make yourself scarce though, leaving them to their own devices. You knew they had traditions and plans, they spent a couple days out in the Hamptons to say high to another friend. And that was fine, you had other things to catch up on. Work, bills, the world around you that wasn't in a haze of Eddie Munson. You had to cancel a night to see him play at Rockwood Music Hall with Steve when you were too hung over from a birthday party. You hadn't seen that group of friends since college -- it would be stupid to sit at home just because the guy you were seeing was busy. He wasn't even your boyfriend. After a fortnight of semi seeing each other for finally had a night alone. He treated you to drinks at a bar between your respective places. The night was humid, air thick while you both sat otuside sipping your final glasses of wine and stealing bites off each other's plates. You decide to walk back to his place, following the walkway next to the bypass through central Brooklyn. You split a cigarette, talking about the rest of his trip -- you talk about work and the dramatic break up of two of your friends. He lives for the gossip.

He lights another cigarette while you both turn down the top of the street from the parkway. Right at the rotary where you both got caught in the rain on your first date. The street is pretty bare outside of a few cars coming down and around, families normally don't like to hang out too late. All the restauarants were closed for the night. The orangey streetlights glow over the sidewalk, competing with the lighting from the grocery store's red and blue signage, the neons from darkened bakeries and bars. You peer into the windows of apartments that are too high above you for anything discernable outside of a plant or nice light fixture.

"Oh," he starts, letting the smoke out from his first drag, "How was your friend's party? All I heard about was your hang over."

You smile to yourself, "It was fun, got a little too fucked up -- which you heard all about -- but I had a good time. Probably shouldn't have gotten so drunk and then tried coke for funsies -- that was a choice."

"Hm?" he asks, his brows raise while his head turns towards you fast, "What was that?"

"Oh, I didn't tell you? Yeah, I tried coke," your voice is casual when you tell him, like it's not a big deal. You shrug and your nose scrunches, "Probably don't see myself doing it again though."

"Probably don't?" he asks, nodding slowly while you both make your way further down the street to his apartment. He pulls another drag, letting the smoke out before tucking his lips into his teeth.

"Yeah I just -- I dunno," you shrug, "Didn't really love it. It was whatever."

"Y'shouldn't be doin' that shit, peach," he mumbles, "'Specially if I'm not around."

Your brows quirk when he flicks the finished cigarette into the street, "Excuse me?"

"Just..." he sighs, eyes rolling while he considers whether it's worth the fight, "Forget it. S'fine." You're both silent while you make it up the stairs to his apartment, he seems unenthusiastic about you being here this time around. Deflated. You both kick off your shoes at the doorway before heading inside, putting your bag on the entry way table behind the bowl where he puts his keys and wallet. He pulls off his shirt while making his way to the metal spiral staircase, not even tossing you a glance while he heads upstairs. "You comin' back down?" you ask, wondering if you should follow. "Mhm," he nods, "Just changin', gonna shower."

"Can I..." but you trail off, not wanting to invite yourself -- uncomfortable in the silence. In the way he doesn't look at you, in the way he feels far away. The sound of the bathroom door closing puts a weight in your belly, your heart thrums, heat rises on the back of your neck. You settle in on the couch, the steady hum from the central air makes your eyelids heavy -- it was already a late night. You scroll on your phone, listening while the water hits the shower floor up stairs, wishing he'd invited you up. You feel sticky from the heat outside, from the bar air, from the beer someone spilled on your legs. Maybe you should just go. He appears at the top of the stairs when you open the Uber app, clearing his throat to get your attention. He's there in his sweats again, shirtless, tattoos shining under a layer of lotion rubbed into his skin. He tied his hair up, curly wet bun sloppily piled on top of his head, bangs fuzzily drying over his forehead.

"You can hop in if you want," he says, making his way down, "I left a towel by the sink for you. I um, I got that facewash you like -- that one you told me about. It's in the shower already, next to your loofah."

"Oh," your heart flutters a little, voice still meek and quiet. He still doesn't look at you. You exit the app, clicking your phone to sleep before standing up to make it to the stairs, "Thanks...thank you." He shrugs his shoulders when he looks over at you as if to say 'don't mention it'. He barely looks at you when you head up stairs, busying himself by filling up a silver REI canteen by the sink.

He did leave a towel, as well as a change of clothes. At least you knew he wanted you to spend the night. It's not like he'd let you leave the house this late anyway, you roll your eyes at yourself when you think about booking an Uber moments before.

You take your time, letting the hot water pour over you and calm your tense shoulders. Washing away the stickiness in your chest and on your skin. You scrub your face of any remaining makeup that had melted off on the walk home -- happy to not be using whatever random cleanser he got, trying to pretend he knew anything about skin care before you came along.

Some time had passed by the time you finished, padding down the stairs to see he’d pulled on a shirt. His hair hung in frizzy curls down to his collarbone again, drops of water during the worn black fabric blacker. He’s still in the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher with tight shoulders and furrowed brows like he’s thinking about something. “Thanks for the jammies,” you chirp, sitting at the island on your designated barstool. “Yup,” he says, not turning to see you – very interested in the glassware he’s holding instead. Your shoulders droop with how curt he’s being, not used to this sort of standoffish attitude. He didn’t even get this miffed when you shrugged off his suggestion to watch Lord of the Rings and sided with Steve to watch Almost Famous. You hadn’t seen it in years.

“You okay?” you ask, his shoulders tense. “Yeah baby, I’m okay,” he says, but he shuts the dishwasher a little too hard for that to be true.

“You don’t seem okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“Is this about the party?”

“I said I’m fine, peach,” he repeats.

“I mean, it’s just a party Ed, it’s like – people go to parties –”

“I said I’m fine.” He looks at you for the first time since you got in the house. It’s pointed, accusatory, and as much as you wish it didn’t, you immediately get defensive.

“Wait -– ” you let out a bitter laugh, “Are you mad about the coke? Seriously?”

“Drop it,” he says lowly, “Let’s not –”

“Are you seriously upset because I did coke at a party and you weren’t there?” you’re incredulous, “You? Eddie ‘Can’t Remember Berlin’ Munson?”

“Stop, just forget it–”

“No, let’s not stop – let’s not drop it. What’s your problem with me going out and enjoying myself? You mad I’m having fun without you?” “It’s not about you going out and enjoying yourself. That’s not what it is.”

“Then what is it? What is it about me going to that party that’s got you so pissed off?” "'Cause I don't like that -- I don't like hearing that you're out getting sloppy at parties. I don't like hearing that you're trying new shit just for fun when you're by yourself," his gaze is hard while he leans over the island, chain dangling down from his neck. "I'm not by myself, I'm with my friends," you argue back, "Jesus Christ, Ed, I'm almost thirty years old."

"Coulda fuckin' fooled me," he snaps.

"Oh I forgot, you know everything. You've been there, done that. You know so much better than me, don't you?" your sarcasm makes him bite his tongue, anger teasing down his back in a blaze. Eddie hates that he has a short fuse -- he doesn't want to have one with you.

"Who'd you even get it from?" he asks, "Did you know 'em? Did you know if it was clean? Did they test it?" "Do you always know where your drugs are coming from?" you counter back. "Yeah, peach," he says with a nod, "I fucking do. I always know. God, it's like you think you're fuckin' invincible or some shit. I swear --" "I know who I got it from, it was clean -- the guy's loaded," you explain, face hot with frustration, "Can't imagine he's out there passing out fake stuff." The guy's loaded. So it was a guy -- Ed feels sick in a way that he hasn't in years. What was some guy doing telling you to try his shit? How drunk were you? Did you think he was cute? Rich guy? Did he try to pull one over on you? "How much did you pay for it?" he asks, crossing his arms. "What?"

"I wanna know if this guy scammed you, how much did you pay?"

"I didn't," you shrug. Eddie gets quiet, jaw clenching when you mention you got drugs on the house. He only knows one way that that's possible and it makes a rage in him bubble that he tries so hard to contain. His tongue runs over his teeth, trying to choose his words carefully. "You didn't pay for it?" he asks, the question clipped and tight. "No," you shrug innocently. "Did you fuck 'im?" "Wh-what?" the question punches out of you in shock. Why would he ever ask that? Why would he ever assume that? "You heard what I said," he bites, "Did. You. Fuck. Him?"

"No, I didn't fuck him," you hiss back angrily, "Why would you ever ask me that?"

"Can't think of another way to get drugs for free," he challenges back, "Did'ja suck him off? You're always tellin' me how good you are at it -- did you give him a fuckin' show?"

"What the actual fuck is wrong with you?" you get up off the barstool, posture matching his with your arms crossed tight around your chest.

"I'm just asking you a question," he repeats, his shoulders raising up and down in big breaths. "And I answered -- I didn't fuck him for free drugs," your head ticks to the side, "Sorry, not all of us have read the Eddie Munson doctrine."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just saying that I didn't do what you would've done." Your smart smirk when you finish your sentence makes him dig his nails into his biceps, a reminder to keep his hands to himself -- to calm down. This isn't about the drugs or the guy that gave them to you -- but he doesn't like that this is how you see him. Someone whose reckless and careless, someone who uses people to get what he wants. "Who do you think you are?" he snaps, "Huh? You don't know what you're talking about."

"If the first thing you think when I say I got drugs for free is that I fucked for them, then it's pretty clear that's how you go about your own business. How many people have you fucked for drugs?" you ask, "Actually, a better question would probably be how many people have fucked you for them?" "You told me you used to deal -- so c'mon loverboy, how many women did you have fuck you for drugs? If that's how to do it." Eddie shakes his head, eyes shut and jaw tense, taking a shaky deep breath through his nose and out through his mouth, "I never had anyone fuck me for drugs."

"So why would I have done it? Why do you always assume I'm doing something wrong? Why do you always expect me to act like I know what you know all the time? And better yet -- why does it even FUCKING matter?!" your voice grows higher and louder with each question, watching him get more and more frustrated while you continue, "Why does it even matter when you don't commit anyway? Maybe you're fucking around!" "I'm not -- ugh -- I'm not fucking around, peach!" he snaps back, chucking his water bottle hard into the sink with a loud clang. "Nice, Ed," you nod, arms crossing tighter around you, "Real nice -- what, you gonna hit me? That what's next on your list? Really put me in my place? Sounds so fucking familiar, I wonder where I heard it bef--" "SHUT UP." His voice booms through the kitchen, making you flinch. "Don't you EVER say that shit to me," he bellows, finger pointing directly in your face from across the island, "Don't you EVER make that comparison." You stand there, chewing on the inside of your cheek while he yells. "Do you feel better?!" he asks, voice hoarse and deep, graveled with anger, "Do you feel better now, peach?! Did that help?! Do you feel fuckin' validated?" He watches you shake your head no, tears starting to pool in your eyes. They look up at him, glassy and wet, threatening to spill over onto your cheeks. He takes a deep breath, chest sinking when he sees the way you look at him -- silenced and quiet now, because he scared you. Because he's scary -- and that's why he shouldn't be with anyone, that's why it's too much to feel this way about someone. You wipe at your cheeks when the tears spill out, a few whimpers coming from you when you start to cry from how he yelled. From how you don't really know what you're both fighting about, but you both really know and it's terrifying. "Don't -- no baby, I'm sorry, don't cry," he says, his own breath shuddering, "I didn't mean to yell, I'm sorry. I won't -- I won't ever raise my voice at you like that." He rounds the corner of the island, coming to meet you on the other side with extended arms. His hands find their way to your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tears gathering at your lash line, "I'm so sorry, I won't ever yell like that again. I promise. I -- I'm -- there's no excuse for that." He leans forward to leave a soft kiss on your forehead and the tip of your nose, "I'm sorry."

"That's - sniffle - not what I need you t-to be sorry f-for," you stutter out. He frowns back at you and nods. "I -- peach I just get worried, that's all," he confesses, "I don't really think you went and slept with that guy I just --"

He swallows, thinking about the words he wants to say. His hands drop from your cheeks to pull you in to him. He settles on the barstool, pulling you close to stand between his legs like he has before. "I don't wanna not hear from you for a week only to like, get a text or call from your sister that something bad happened," he says, his dark brown eyes getting as glassy as yours the more he thinks about it. "I know you're an adult, I know you can take care of yourself and that you're safe," he assures, "I promise, I know. I'm just scared." "What're you scared of?" you ask. "Losin' you," he shrugs, "To y'know, addiction or whatever -- or worse. I don't wanna lose you -- I really like having you around. Your -- you've added so much to my life in such a short period of time and I -- I don't know, peach. I think since Steve's wife I just -- It's something I think about." "You being scared doesn't give you the right to accuse me of sleeping around," your face hasn't softened at his explanation, not letting him get away with being an asshole. He likes that about you -- you don't take his shit, "It doesn't give you the right to talk down to me like I don't know what the fuck I'm doing."

"I know," he nods, "That was unfair." "I think you're just trying to find reasons to make me seem not worth it," you let out without waiver, "Even if you have to make them up."

"No," his brows furrow, "No, you're so worth it. Why would you say that?" "You were so quick to accuse me of some wild shit," you scoff, "It's like you're trying to fight with yourself about it. About how you feel and like -- maybe that lady from the bar a while ago was right. Maybe I have been just for fun for you. You got to play house with me, you got to see what a relationship is like for fun and now you can ruin it cause you're over it. Or you're bored." "No -- " he starts, heart thrumming in his chest, throat getting tight, "Peach that's not it at al--" "It seems like it --" "Did you not just hear what I said about losing y--" "I don't wanna hear it, it's just bullsh--" "Baby, I'm trying to be honest with y--" "This is starting to feel like a shitty game that you're trying t--" "I love you." You stop talking at the slight raise in his voice, the weight of the sentence hanging over the both of you in the kitchen. "God peach, I -- I fucking love you. I'm in love with you," he breathes, like he's fully realizing it for himself, too, "I...shit, I think about you all the time. I go to sleep excited cause I know m'gonna see you the next day I...Jesus babe, I -- I love you." Your lower lip wobbles again, "Yeah?" "Yeah," he nods, sighing weakly, "I knew when we got you your glasses. I knew -- I think I knew from the start. And I'm scared cause I -- I don't love people like this a lot." "Just Steve," you sniffle with a watery laugh. He lets out a chuckle, reaching out to pull you close to him by the waist. "Steve's different," he shrugs, "M'never gonna love anyone like Steve."

"I'm sorry for what I said," he reaches up again, running the pad of his thumb over your lower lip, "I'm sorry for yelling." "I'm sorry, too," you match him, hand reaching up to run your fingers through his bangs, pushing them away from his forehead to kiss it. His eyes shut closed at the soft touch, feeling you step close to him while his face rests on your chest. "I..that was fucked up of me to bring up your dad," you shake your head, "I was just angry I -- I'm so sorry." "It's okay," he mumbles, wrapping his arms around you. He rests his chin on your breasts, looking up at you, "I -- I've done a lot of work to not end up like him. Sometimes it still gets the better of me." "But I need you to know something," his face is soft but serious, "I will never put my hands on you, ever." "Okay," you nod, giving him another kiss on the bridge of his nose. "Only if you ask," he smirks, "Only if you want me to. If we're doing that." You both giggle in that way that couples do when they're being gross, holding each other on the barstool. Silence carries over you when the giggle runs out, both of you exhausted from the night -- from fighting. "I love you, too," you whisper down to him. "Thank god, cause I was really nervous that I just sort of let it all out there for nothing," he whispers back. He stands up, still wrapped up in you, offering you gentle kisses. He holds you there for a minute, you hold each other -- he realizes how tender he is with you. How you pull all of this tenderness out of him. "You're my girl, right?" he asks into the top of your head. You nod into his chest, his hand reaching up to caress over your hair. "Are you mine?" you ask into his shirt. "Yeah," he smirks into a low laugh, "Yeah, I'm your girl." "Can we go to bed?" sleepiness coats the question, a neediness lacing your voice. "Mhm." He leads you up the stairs, calling to his Google home to turn the lights off when you both make it to the top. He got a new candle for his room, something with oud in it. Woody, deep, musky. Ahead of the season. You slip into bed at the same time, leaving your phone on the side table while he slips his glasses on to check something on his. You watch him with his bedside lamp illuminating him from behind. It catches on the frizz in his wavy curls, tied up in ponytail. It bleeds over the slop of his nose and the whites of his eyes. He catches you when he puts his phone to the side, smiling. "What're you lookin' at?" he asks, slipping his glasses off and click out the light. "You just look handsome," you shrug. He murmurs a thank you before dipping down to kiss you when he slides under the covers. For the first time in forever he doesn't want to have sex after a fight -- it almost feels cheap. Like it's a cover -- like he's not really sorry, like he didn't mean all the things he said. "Night, pretty." He pulls you into him when you settle in, your back pressed up against his chest, "I love you." "I love you," you say back, eyes closed, encased in his arms. He's never held someone so tight to him. Not since Chicago.

prev | next

#eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #older!eddie #older!eddie munson #stranger things au #stranger things #stranger things fan fiction #stranger things fanfic

641 notes · View notes