#x gn reader
Pairings: Eddie Munson x GN!Reader
Warnings: Swearing, fluff, Eddie Munson
Request: request idea: Eddie and reader making people uncomfortable with their PDA in public but they don’t care cause love❤️
Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist
Taglist: @matth1w, @redspaceace-writes, @simonsbluee, @sebby-staan, @sebastianstanslefteyebrow, @darling-i-read-it, @sebby-staan
- He’s very touchy.
- Eddie likes to show you off
- not only because you’re “smokin’ hot babe” but because he wants everyone to know you belong to him.
- Kisses.
- shameless, sloppy, wet, kisses.
- tongue 90% of the time
- He’ll kiss you in front of people who give you the “you’re hot” stare to scare them off
- Def grabs handfuls of your ass.
- Kisses on neck turned hickies
- he’s a vampire in disguise ig
- oh don’t get me started on him and you being in his lap.
- There’s a seat next to him. Does he care? Fuck no. Your seat is right on his lap
- Someone staring? In his lap you go, he’ll stare them down with his arms around your waist ad his lips on your neck.
- Forget about sitting anywhere else
or at all when he’s done with you - He knows nothing about personal space
- He also is incredibly handsy
- Will 100% grab a handful of your hair (if you have hair) and pull you into a passionate and heated kiss
- if you don’t, he’ll grab your chin, or jacket, or shirt, and pull your face into his for a kiss.
- bottom line, he’s very shameless when it comes to his affection for you. “Let them stare, they’re just sad and lonely.”
૮ᏊWHEN YOU SLEEP SHOW ME YOUR MIND, PRETTY BOY — DABI | TOUYA TODOROKI
a/n: HAPPY BIRTHDAY DABI!!!!!!!!!! he would be capricorn man. explains so much. anyway, this birthday oneshot is dedicated to @snwuffz, who shares the same birthday so…happy birthday. bitch. thanks for sticking with me and basically beta reading all my fics. please forgive me if this is bad, i rushed bc i wanted to get it out on his day. no warnings for this one. gender neutral reader.
wc:1k
The pitter-patter of rain sliding off the train windowsill slowly lulls Dabi to sleep, his old and broken mp3 player gracing tunes into his right ear more than the left. Even then, the music swims through his brain as his eyelids, heavy and irrevocably dry, struggle to stay open. Occasionally, at each stop, the train doors open, throwing bone-chilling air in his vicinity without mercy.
It’s hours late into his birthday, and he’s thinking about you, how he can feel your presence in the littlest of things. A smiley face etched into underground maps, bubbling laughter that erupts from the mouths of young children, bubbling laughter shared between you both at the loneliest hours of the night..he almost wishes he could hate you. Guilt flutters through his chest, overwhelmingly so, because he wants to give you what you deserve..but he isn’t it. He doesn’t know what itis.
With a bloodcurdling screech, the train comes to a blunt halt after approaching its destination. He can’t sleep on the cold, yet velvety, seats of the cart— not anymore, countless conductors have threatened to call the police for his trend in ‘trespassing,’ so he lifts himself up with shaky, fatigued legs. Walking out in the winter air without a coat is a form of self-punishment in itself, and Dabi can feel his cold staples dig into his sickly skin.
Walking up the station steps, he registers the dark sky taunting his existence entirely. The streets are dark, save for the dimly lit streetlights and passing headlights.
Walking up the station steps, he registers the dark sky taunting his existence entirely. The streets are dark, save for the dimly lit streetlights and passing headlights. Dabi scratches the healthy skin at the apple of his cheeks, tapping his long finger against his mp3 player with anticipation reaching for his throat. He had all night to think about this decision, all night to simulate the consequences of seeing you tonight.
For once in his life, he lays still. The velvety confines of a mattress are too soft for his skin, his staples, and the chronic pain that comes with untreated and severe burns, but he lays beside you anyway. His eyes remain closed, with labored breathing that confuses the untrained eye— he sleeps like he’s dying. In some sense of the word, he is. Still, he fights flesh and bone— tooth and nail, to have you overwhelming his senses.
“Happy birthday, starboy.” You whisper, fingers curling into his silver tufts of hair gingerly. An affectionate smile pulls apart your lips, and you find yourself pushing back the dampened baby hair that collects at his sweaty forehead. His response isn’t expected, instead you turn your attention to his old T.V.. It crackles with static, and an old, cheesy horror movie illuminates the room with hues of scarlet and carmine. Screams are slightly muffled beneath the white noise emitting from the T.V., but neither of you complain.
He lifts his head, stapled skin glowing beneath harmful rays. It seems he gets prettier every day, speckles of white bombarding his dark, straight eyelashes. You miss the sight of his oceanic blue eyes, usually dull and exhausted but oh, so bright when he’s staring at you. His skin, disfigured and mutilated, relaxes under the gentle touch of your thumbs— you want to kiss him.
A sharp sound effect blares from the tv as the cinematic serial killer rewards himself with another victim.
Dabi grunts, his nose scrunching up painfully as he moves himself away from your inviting palms. You’re profusely close, warm embrace searing his skin with flames brighter than his own. It’s almost pathetic, the way he’s falling in love with you despite never being taught how. But somehow, as if life wasn’t cruel enough, it’s all he’s ever wanted.
“What’s wrong?” You ask, though you already know the answer. Horribly edited fake blood splatters across the television screen, transitioning into a nail biting scene that showcases a couple hurriedly kissing in the front seats of an old car.
The scarred manshakes his head, spiraling silently as he shifts to sit upward. He wonders what he did to deserve this. Your presence, his inability to love— to be loved. You’re unapologetically in love with him of all people. It’s mind boggling, he just can’t seem to wrap his head around it. He wonders if you feel the same. He musters the sharpest intake of breath he can before turning to meet your concerned gaze.
“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”
There’s an unnecessarily long shot of cherry-wine red lips on a pair of stained ones, just before the camera zooms in and out of focus. The hazy camera is now engrossed in a silver blade, one that shines bright enough to light up the dingy room that carries Touya’s belongings. This room is basically his own, albeit being yours.
Your smile returns, heart leaping in your chest as you scramble to cup his cheeks and pepper kisses across his face. Overly enthusiastic, you stumble on the bed, sprawling across the sheets as Dabi’s cloudy eyes study your expression with everything he has. If he could, he’d hold this memory of you in his pocket. Your gaze is so soft, it makes his insides burst with sunlight, and if it were possible, sunshine would leak through his staples.
Your lips are dangerously soft, placed atop his like the last piece of an elaborate puzzle. You taste like love— down to your very tongue. You taste like home, warm and feathery light. You taste like him, smokey and painstakingly his.
He hopes he tastes like you.
“There’s one more thing,” You whisper, pulling away stubbornly. Touya instinctually leans forward, desperate to feel your lips again. Reaching beneath the bed, he hears a box slide into your soft hands. Whipping your head to the side, you smile as you hand him the unidentifiable gift. “I know you burned your last one, so..”
He eyes the box, flipping it open with a quirked eyebrow. A black trench coat— white stitching along the sides that look awfully similar to his staples. It’s reminiscent of the jacket he was able to afford after Tomura took down the Meta Liberation Army. His clammy fingers trace the pattern, and upon closer inspection, he notices the handmade touch it has.
“Happy birthday!” You exclaim, smiling wider than the actual birthday boy. There’s a distance chime as the credits roll, a ghastly font showcasing the title of the movie.
“Yeah,” Dabi whispers to himself, making his way to your apartment. “Happy birthday to me.”
taglist:
@ryoukuna@indigowren21@cannedfoodisbestfood@junkwhoore@dilfchoso@sandersidesangsttrash@i-d0g@kaito-asmr@mhasimp666@princejasno@onehellofasimp@corporeal-terrestrial@double-homiecide@angelaturservice@katsvgous@trailsnix@luckduckanon@oddball215@shadows-of-nightmares@toodeepintofandoms@playb0ysuna@uwiuwi@encrypta@yuzuneki@devilgirlcrybabiey@merucry
