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"And what 'part' is that, exactly?"

He gestured vaguely at you, at your pastel outfit and the little floral purse you had tucked behind the counter. "The Melody Records part. John's got a thing for lost causes, I guess."

You straightened up, pulling your shoulders back. The soft cashmere of your cardigan suddenly felt like armor. "Oh that is hilarious."

You let out an actual laugh at that as he stood there, eyebrow quirked and arms crossed. "Yeah? How so?"

"Eddie Munson. King of nonconforming, judging someone on their aesthetic." The words came out sharp, precise, each one a tiny pinprick. "My musical knowledge is just as deep as yours, I guarantee it. The fact that I like skirts doesn't mean I can't tell you the difference between black metal and death metal."

Eddie's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he recovered. He leaned against the counter, the worn wood creaking under his weight, and watched you, a new, more assessing light in his gaze.

"So the princess has bite," he mused, the nickname an experiment. "Alright, then. Go help him."

He nodded over to a man who had just walked in, leather vest creaking as he browsed the punk section. You recognized the patch on his back from a local band, The Flesh Riot. He looked lost.

"I could be wrong," you said, not moving an inch, "but something tells me he's looking for early UK anarcho-punk. I'd start him with a little Crass, maybe some Conflict. If he wants something more American, MDC's a safe bet."

You turned back to Eddie, raising an eyebrow in perfect, challenging symmetry to his earlier gesture. "Or I could just point him to the Taylor Swift section. Since I'm probably only qualified to sell that, right?"

A choked, surprised laugh escaped Eddie's lips. It was rough, unused, but it was real. He looked at the man, then back at you, and for the first time, the condescending amusement was gone, replaced by something grudgingly impressed.

"Let's just get you trained on the register system. It's older than dirt." Eddie sounded almost... subdued.

It had been three weeks. Three weeks of shared shifts, bickering over the correct way to file compilations, and the slow, steady erosion of Eddie's initial assumptions.

You were here together after close, doing your first Sunday night inventory together. The usual music was shut off, and instead some low folk you could both agree on played distantly on your phone.

That's when you heard the sound again. Skittering above you, like something was running across the floor upstairs.

"Oh my god, what is that sound? It's driving me insane." You groaned.

Eddie looked up from his clipboard, pausing for a moment. "There's an apartment upstairs."

"Okay. Who lives there? A bunch of rowdy gnomes?"

He shakes his head and looks back to his list, hiding a smile. "Nah, John used to back in the day before he married Marie and they had kids. Now he rents it out to some lowlife with a cat."

"There's been a random guy living above our workplace that I don't know, and you just... didn't tell me?" You stared at him, aghast. "For three weeks? You let me walk into the store alone for three weeks, knowing there's a stranger upstairs?" 

You slapped him on the arm, half-joking, half-serious.

He rubbed the spot where you'd hit him, feigning injury. "Hey! What was that for?"

"For being a terrible coworker! What if he's a creep?"

"Oh he's definitely a creep. The creepiest. Hear he worships Satan and sacrifices bunnies in the upstairs bathroom." He's looking dead at you as he says this, and you don't believe it for a second.

You roll your eyes and go back to tallying the 7-inch singles, but you can't shake the image of some pale, gaunt figure performing a dark ritual in the bathroom while you were stocking shelves downstairs.

An hour or so goes by and you're finally finished. Eddie walks you to the front door but doesn't head out with you.

"Uh, is there more to do? If you're going to stay and take all the extra hours that's kind of ass, Munson. I need money too." You said, half-joking, but still confused.

He just smirked and gestured upstairs. "I'm going up."

"To the devil worshipping, bunny sacrificialist's apartment?"

"Hey, he's also a really good cat owner and guitarist. Don't put people in a box." He says with a wink.

"Wait, you live here?" The question comes out as a choked whisper, a flurry of realizations hitting you all at once.

"Surprise," he says, but there's no malice in it now, just a weird sort of gentleness you haven't heard before. "Told you. Total creep up there."

He doesn't wait for you to process, just gives you a two-fingered salute and shuts the door behind you, locking it from the inside. You watch him head upstairs.

Another month goes by and you're early for your shift. Shivering from the cold, you hold a tray with two hot coffees in one hand, unlocking the door with the other. 

You and Eddie have built up a bond of sorts. You talk about music, of course, debating the merits of '80s goth versus '90s grunge until your voices are hoarse. He's learned you have a soft spot for sad, twee indie pop, and you've discovered his surprisingly encyclopedic knowledge of folk singer-songwriters.

The bickering is still there, but it's morphed. It's less barbed, more like a well-rehearsed routine. It's comfortable. Sometimes even bordering on flirting.

"It is like, freezing out there dude." You say to the store, assuming he's already downstairs. "I swear I am not built for the cold." 

You set the coffee tray down, shrugging off your pink peacoat and unwrapping your scarf. "Brought you coffee. But, don’t worry, it's black. Because I know you're too good for sugar and cream like a normal person." You're talking to the empty store, the words echoing slightly in the quiet space.

A floorboard by the back creaks and you turn, expecting to see Eddie. 

What does greet you is a woman, slightly disheveled in a way that screams 'I just had a very good night'. Her dark hair is a mess, and she's wearing what is unmistakably one of Eddie's sweatshirts over a tight black dress. She pauses, shoes in one hand and she looks just as surprised to see you.

"Oh!" You both say at the same time.

The awkwardness hangs in the air, thick and suffocating.

"Um... Eddie said the exit was down here but... I think I picked the wrong door."

"Yeah, the one on the left... goes out to the alley," you manage, your throat suddenly tight. "Easy mistake." 

As if on cue, you hear fast footsteps coming down the stairs, and Eddie appears, pulling on a t-shirt, hair a chaotic mess. He freezes when he sees you, then sees the woman, then looks back at you.

"Shit. Hey. Morning."

"Morning," you parrot back, trying very hard to look anywhere but at them.

This is fine. This is totally fine.

Why do you care what he does? It's his home, technically. He can have whoever he wants over.

But the image of her, in his sweatshirt, flashes in your mind. A hot, acidic feeling bubbles in your stomach.

She's pretty, in a way that is very different to you. Sharp, defined angles, a confident smirk. She's one of the sleek black cats to your fluffy pink kitten.

"So, this is awkward," she says with a small, breathy laugh, breaking the tension.

"Hey, no worries sweetheart, I'll walk you out. Left door, okay?" Eddie says, all charm and confidence. The nickname, the one he'd used on you that first day, now lands differently when directed at someone else. It feels cheap. Transactional.

The girl and Eddie disappear through the back door, her giving you an awkward wave. The silence that follows is heavy, loaded with unspoken things. You busy yourself with getting the register ready, the movements stiff and robotic. The back door opens and the shuts a few minutes later. You don't look up.

"Listen," Eddie's voice is low, careful. "About that."

"Don't," you cut him off, your own voice surprisingly steady. "You don't owe me an explanation. It's your... apartment. Your life." 

"Yeah, sure," he starts heading toward you and pulling his hair into a low ponytail. His neck had faint marks you pretended not to notice. "But it's also our workplace. And that was... not my most professional moment. I'm sorry."

You risk a glance at him. He looks genuine, which only makes it worse. You force a smile that feels brittle on your face.

"You're fine. I brought coffee." You point at the tray, changing the subject with all the subtlety of a foghorn.

He looks at the two cups, then at you. He picks up the one you designated as his, his name on it in your bubbly handwriting with a little heart, and takes a long sip. A small, genuine smile touches his lips.

"Thanks, princess," he says, the nickname falling between you, heavy with new, complicated layers. "This might just save my life."

"Speaking of... professional…" You finish counting the money. "I think you should probably stop calling me that."

He pauses mid-sip, raising an eyebrow. "Princess?"

"Yes. We're coworkers. Equals. It feels... demeaning. Now."

"Now?" A smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. You want to wipe it off with your own hands.

"Yes. Now," you snap, your carefully constructed composure cracking. "Maybe when I started I was your 'rookie', but I've earned my spot here. I'm not your princess."

For a long moment, he just looks at you.

Something flashes on his face that looks a lot like hurt, which is ridiculous. He nods, slowly.

"Okay. Fair enough."

"Good."

"Good."

The morning proceeds in a tense, quiet efficiency. The usual banter is gone, replaced by the sterile sound of tape guns sealing boxes and the rustle of plastic sleeves. You're pointedly not looking at him, and he's pointedly not talking to you.

"I don't, like, have women over every night or something." He says at one point, when there's a lull in customers. 

You pause. "I really didn't ask."

"I know, I know. I just... wanted to clarify that I'm not some... man-whore." He looks so awkward saying the words it almost makes you smile.

Almost. 

"Your neck says otherwise, Eddie." You retort, the words laced with a venom you didn't know you possessed. The instant it leaves your mouth, you regret it. It's none of your business.

"Jesus," he breathes out, running a hand over the faint purple marks. "I'm sorry you had to see that. It was... a one-time thing. She liked my band's set. We had a few drinks. It wasn't anything."

He looks so genuinely distressed, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, that your anger dissolves into a confusing, hollow ache.

"You really don't need to explain," you say, your tone softer now. "Who you bring home is your business. It was just... awkward."

"Yeah, no shit," he agrees, a little of his usual swagger returning. "I'll try not to bring anyone home who doesn't know their left and right from now on. Scout's honor." He holds up three fingers, a mock-promise.

You don't laugh. You just nod and go back to your work, the silence stretching on.

Eddie is fucked. 

It's been only a week since the awkward encounter with his one night stand. 

One week since you'd asked him to stop calling you princess. One week of being acutely aware of your presence, the scent of your fruity perfume, the gentle click of your heeled boots on the wooden floorboards, the way you'd hum along to whatever was playing on the store's speakers, a soft, off-key counter-melody that he found himself straining to hear over the actual music.

He is, as they say, completely and utterly fucked.

Because you weren't talking to him. Not full silent treatment, but not the easy bickering he'd come to rely on. The silence was a new form of torture.

It all came to a head when he'd been helping a customer find an obscure post-punk record, and when he'd turned to ask you a question about the stockroom inventory, he'd found you with your phone in your hand, a brilliant, genuine smile lighting up your face as you texted someone back.

The hot, possessive surge of jealousy was so potent it almost knocked him backward. He'd wanted to smash the phone.

It hit him like a ton of bricks that maybe he wanted you to be his. His princess. An honorific you’ve recently denied him from using.

"You're being really brooding right now." 

Gareth's voice, muffled by his mouthful of fries, pulled Eddie from his thoughts. 

"Yeah, man. You're doing more staring at that beer than actually drinking it." Jeff raised an eyebrow. 

It was Friday night at the Hideout and Corroded Coffin had just played a gig for a crowd of at least ten drunks. 

"I'm not brooding," Eddie grumbled, taking a large swallow of his beer.

He was thinking about the way your nose crinkled when you laughed. He was thinking about how he'd accidentally overheard you on the phone with your mom, your voice soft and sweet as you reassured her you were eating enough.

That. That right there was the problem.

"You're thinking about the new girl, aren't you?" Gareth grinned, a knowing look on his face.

"Her name is not 'the new girl'," Eddie snapped, a little too quickly. "And no, I'm not."

"Liar," Jeff chimed in. "You only get this constipated look when you're thinking about a girl."

Eddie's mind flashed back to that morning. The look on your face. The venom in your tone when you'd said, ‘Your neck says otherwise, Eddie.’ He hadn't been able to get it out of his head.

"She's not even your type, man," Gareth continued, oblivious to the inner turmoil he was stoking. "Isn't she like, all... pink and fluffy?"

"And she asked him to stop calling her 'princess'," Jeff added with a smirk. "That's gotta hurt the ego."

"It does," Eddie mumbled into his beer. "It really, really does."

He just shook his head and signaled the bartender for another round.

"She caught one of my... groupie conquests, trying to escape through the store," Eddie admitted, finally giving in.

Jeff and Gareth's laughter was loud and obnoxious.

"You're an idiot, Munson," Jeff said, clapping him on the back. "An absolute idiot."

"Yeah, well, tell me something I don't know," Eddie grumbled.

"So what's the plan?" Gareth asked, suddenly serious. "Are you going to, you know, talk to her? Like a normal human being?"

"And say what? 'Hey, sorry you saw me with another woman, but I'm actually hopelessly in love with the way you organize the vinyl'?" Eddie scoffed. "Yeah, that'll go over well."

"Just... talk to her, man," Jeff urged. "You guys have a lot in common, despite the... aesthetic differences. You're both nerds about music. Start there."

That night, lying in bed, the sounds of the sleeping city filtering through his window, Eddie couldn't stop thinking about you. 

The way you hairbow bounces a little when you danced behind the counter to some obscure power pop song he'd put on.

The way your face lit up when a customer would ask you for a recommendation you were passionate about.

Your perfect pink pout when he annoyed you.

Yeah. He was so fucked.

The next day you walked into the store and the air immediately felt different. Eddie was already behind the counter, furiously scribbling something in a notebook.

It was starting to snow, the weather app on your phone saying it was going to be a bad one, so you were grateful for the warmth of the store. You hung your coat and went to the counter.

"Morning."

He looked up, and for a second, you saw panic flash across his face before he slammed the notebook shut.

"Hey pri-" Eddie caught himself, jaw tightening. "Hey. Morning." The correction landed awkwardly between you, a placeholder for something more familiar.

You simply nod, and the silence stretches, filling the space with a thousand unsaid things.

"I'm surprised we're open. I doubt we're going to get a lot of customers in this blizzard." You said, trying to make small talk, anything to fill the void.

"You could have called out. I could handle it on my own. Not like I have a far commute. Just up the stairs." The tone was casual, but the offer was clear. A peace offering.

"No. I like the snow." You said, looking out the big front window. And it was true. You did. The way it muffled the world, turned everything into a soft, hazy dream. "Makes the whole city quiet."

Eddie watched you for a long moment.

Your nose was a little red from the cold, and you'd tucked your hair behind your ears. You looked so... soft. A stark contrast to the jagged, noisy feeling inside him.

You were right. There was barely any foot traffic all day. 

By the time the storm got pretty bad, John called, saying you two could close up early and get home safe. The problem was your car was buried, and Eddie knew even if you tried you wouldn't get far in it.

"You can, uh, wait it out at my place if you want," Eddie said, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly. "It's better than freezing in your car."

"My knight in shining armor." You deadpanned. "It's fine. I can walk." 

"You live across town. You'll be a human popsicle by the time you get to the main road." He said, locking the front door and flipping the open sign to closed. "C’mon. I'll make us some hot cocoa. With tiny marshmallows and everything. And you can meet Ozzy."

The promise of cocoa, with tiny marshmallows, was apparently your undoing. You hesitated for a moment, then nodded, a slow, reluctant bob of your head.

"Ozzy?" You asked, a small smile finally breaking through your defenses.

"My cat. The real ruler of the apartment, Prince of Darkness himself."

You followed him up the narrow, creaking staircase, your heart thumping a strange, uneven rhythm against your ribs.

The idea of being in his space, the space he shared with other women, sent a confusing mix of anticipation and dread through you.

His apartment was exactly what you expected, and nothing like it. It was chaotic, but a lived-in, comfortable chaos.

Guitars hung on the walls, surrounded by posters of bands you both loved and loathed.

A vintage leather couch was covered in mismatched pillows and a black fuzzy blanket.

It was a studio, so the bed was just there, half made and partially hidden behind a privacy screen. 

It was messy, but clean. And it smelled like him— incense, old wood, and something warm, like sandalwood and clean laundry.

Then, a sleek black cat with one enormous green eye padded out from behind the couch, the other eye a milky, cloudy white.

It made him look perpetually unimpressed with the world.

"And this is Ozzy," Eddie said, scooping the cat up with practiced ease. Ozzy tolerated the affection, purring a deep, rumbling engine against Eddie's chest. "Don't mind him. He's judging us all."

You reached out a hesitant hand, letting Ozzy sniff your knuckles.

"He's blind in that eye," Eddie said softly. "Found him in a dumpster behind the store. Someone, uh, wasn't very nice to him."

Your heart did a painful little lurch.

You looked from the scarred, one-eyed cat to the man holding him. The 'devil-worshipping' freak of Hawkins who rescued hurt animals. The contradictions piled up, making your head spin.

"He's beautiful." You say it softly, unsure which of the boys you were actually talking about.

Eddie's gaze caught yours, and for a moment, the air crackled. The unspoken things between you felt heavier than the storm raging outside.

"Yeah, well," he cleared his throat, carefully placing Ozzy back on the floor. "Cocoa. Right."

He busied himself in the small kitchenette, pulling out two mismatched mugs and a carton of milk.

You sat on the edge of the worn leather couch, hands clasped in your lap, feeling like an intruder in a life you were suddenly desperate to know.

A few minutes later, he came back with two steaming mugs, topped with a generous handful of tiny marshmallows, exactly as promised.

"Careful, it's hot." He set yours down on the cluttered coffee table.

You took a cautious sip. The chocolate was rich and dark, and the tiny marshmallows melted into a sweet, sugary foam on your tongue.

"Thank you." You murmur, wrapping your hands around the warm ceramic.

"It's no problem." He sat down on the opposite end of the couch, a careful distance between you. "So, uh, this is the place. Palace of sin, as John calls it."

You cough a little as he says that, almost choking on your marshmallow.

"He's joking, mostly." He adds quickly, misinterpreting your reaction. "He knows I'm not really sacrificing bunnies."

"I don't think that's why he calls it the palace of sin." You say quietly into your mug, and then you look at him. You look him directly in the eye, and it's the first real, sustained eye contact you've had since the morning with the girl in the sweatshirt.

"You really think I'm some kind of slut, don't you?"

The question hangs in the air, raw and unfiltered. It's not an accusation, not really. It's a genuine inquiry, and the vulnerability in it catches you completely off guard.

"No... I just..."

You what? Why did you care so much what he did or who he did it with? Why did you feel a heat pooling lower when his shirt would ride up or when he would stick his tongue out just slightly while concentrating?

You try to search for the words, to articulate the tangled mess of your feelings.

"I'm not judging you. I don't care who you sleep with. It's..." You trailed off, gesturing vaguely between you, the storm, the empty apartment. "I don't know what it is."

"Then what was that comment about my neck? That sounded a lot like judging." He's not angry, just… confused. A deep furrow of confusion between his brows.

"Because I was jealous, Eddie!" The confession bursts out of you, loud and uncontrolled. "I saw her. In your sweatshirt. And I hated it. Because she was... she looked like she made sense next to you. And I don't. And that makes me feel insane!"

The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the howl of the wind outside and the frantic thumping of your own heart.

Eddie's big brown eyes seemed even bigger now, wide and a little glazed. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

"You... what?" He finally manages to say.

"I was jealous!" You repeat, the admission now free, terrifying and liberating all at once.

"You were... jealous. Of... her." He's processing it, the words slowly arranging themselves into a coherent thought in his head. A slow smile spreads across his face, but it's not his usual smirk. It's something softer, a little dazed.

"Can we not? Look, I know I'm not your usual type. I'm not some cool, effortless rocker chick in black jeans and a band tee. I'm wearing a sweater with little embroidered daisies on it, for fuck’s sake. I just... I didn't expect it to bother me so much. Seeing you with... someone more your type." You finally look at him, and the vulnerability in your expression is raw, an open wound.

Eddie leans forward, closing the distance between you on the couch.

"You're an idiot," he says, and there's no venom in it. It's a mirror of what you'd said to him what felt like a lifetime ago, but this time it's gentle, almost fond. "A complete, beautiful, floral clad idiot."

You blink. "Beautiful?"

"Yes, beautiful," he says, his gaze unwavering. "And you think she's my type? Did you not hear a single word I said? She was a one-time thing. A... mistake. I was trying to get over this... girl I work with."

He takes your cocoa mug from your trembling hands and sets it on the table. Then he takes one of your hands, his calloused guitarist's fingers wrapping gently around yours.

"You're like, my dream girl. All pretty and soft but with this fire inside you. You know more about music than half the dicks who come in here trying to flex on me. You laugh at my stupid jokes. And for whatever reason, you seem to tolerate my general presence." He takes a shaky breath. "Honestly, I can't imagine why you'd ever give me a second look, but I am so glad you do."

The tears you were fighting back finally escape, tracing hot paths down your cold cheeks.

"I thought you were making fun of me," you whisper. "When you call me princess."

"I am, but it's affectionate! I think you're a princess, but like, a warrior princess. The kind who would totally behead her enemies but then cry at a sad movie." He's so close now you can feel the warmth radiating from him. "I like your little cardigans. And the bows in your hair. I like them so much."

You can't take it anymore. The tension, the longing, the weeks of misunderstanding, it all snaps.

You close the final inch of space between you, pressing your lips to his.

It's not a gentle kiss. It's messy and desperate, a collision of months of unspoken feelings. He tastes like cheap cigarettes and expensive cocoa, a combination that is somehow fitting. His hands come up to cup your face, thumbs stroking away your tears as the kiss deepens, becoming softer, more exploratory.

"Don't cry, princess," he murmurs against your lips, the nickname a caress now, a secret shared only between you two.

You shift, swinging a leg over his lap to straddle him, the worn leather against your knees and the seam of his jeans rough against the soft fabric of your tights.

He lets out a surprised laugh, hands moving to the soft curve of your hips. "Well, shit," he breathes, looking up at you with wide, adoring eyes. "Okay."

His hands grip your hips, and you can feel the hard press of him through his jeans.

"You're so pretty," he says, the words a low rasp against your skin. You lean down to kiss him again, a slow, deliberate press of your lips. This time, it's less desperate, more sure. His hands slide from your hips, up your back, tracing the line of your spine through the delicate embroidery on your cardigan. He's touching you like you're something precious, something he's afraid of breaking.

"I want this," you whisper, the confession a puff of air against his jaw. "I want you."

"You have me," he answers, his hands stilling on your back. "Eager girl."

With newfound confidence, your lips find the sensitive skin just below his ear, and you're rewarded with a sharp inhale.

"Let's," you start, a little breathless, "move this to somewhere not the couch."

"Right. The bed. Yes."

The journey is clumsy, a mess of tangled limbs and quiet laughter. He backs you towards the bed, and the backs of your knees hit the mattress, sending you falling back with a soft bounce.

He looms over you, blocking out the dim light of the single lamp in the corner, a shadow made of ink and want. He hooks a finger into your sweater, tugging it up and over your head.

You had layers on, a tank over your bra, a skirt, tights, leg warmers. You blush a little at how many items of clothing he'd have to work through.

"Aren't you a present," he mutters, his eyes raking over you. "Gonna let me unwrap you, sweet girl?"

All you can do is nod, a frantic little bob of your head.

His knuckles brush against your skin as he unbuttons your skirt, slowly pulling it down your legs. His eyes follow the path of the fabric, a dark, hungry look in them. He tosses it aside, leaving you in your tights and tank top.

"These have to go." He says, hooking a finger in the waistband of your tights. "I'll be good and not ruin them. This time."

He's careful as he peels them down, the fabric whispering against your skin. The cool air of the apartment hits your bare legs, and you shiver.

"Shhh, I've got you," he murmurs, leaning down to press a warm kiss to your knee, then another a little higher, on your inner thigh. "Gonna keep you warm."

His hands trail up your legs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin where your thighs meet your hips. The touch is feather-light, maddeningly teasing, and you can't help but arch into it, a silent plea for more.

"Let's see if we're on the same page." he whispers, as if he can read your mind. His fingers continue their slow, deliberate journey upward, and you feel a breath catch in your throat as he traces the edge of your underwear. He hooks a finger under the damp fabric, and your whole body tenses in anticipation. "Oh, yeah. We are definitely on the same page."

With a low groan, he kneels on the floor at the foot of the bed, pulling you flush against the edge. He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your clothed core, and the heat of his breath through the thin cotton is enough to make you gasp.

"Eddie..."

"Wet little thing already," he murmurs, his voice vibrating against you. "All for me? Just from a few kisses and some sweet talk?"

You can only manage a weak, desperate nod in response.

"Gonna treat you so good, princess." The nickname is a worshipful murmur now. "Gonna make you forget all about being jealous."

He finally slides your underwear down your legs, the cool air a shocking but welcome sensation against your slick heat. His hands gently spread your thighs, and you feel utterly exposed, completely vulnerable under the intensity of his gaze.

"Fuck," he breathes, the word a reverent whisper. "Look at you."

He leans in, and the first touch of his tongue is a revelation. It's slow, deliberate, a thorough exploration that has you writhing on the bed. He's not in a hurry. He's savoring every second, every sigh and whimper that escapes your lips.

"Mmm... this is my favorite flavor," he hums against you, the vibrations sending shivers through your entire body. "Wet, sweet, and all mine."

He focuses on your clit, drawing lazy circles with the flat of his tongue before switching to quick, precise flicks. Your hands find their way into his hair, the strands tangled between your fingers as you guide him, your hips bucking against his face in a desperate, needy rhythm.

"That's my girl," he praises, pulling back for a second to look at you. "So needy for me. Look at you, trying to fuck my face."

He's smiling, a smug, entirely too pleased smile, and you want to be annoyed, but all you can feel is a white-hot pleasure coiling tight in your belly.

"More, please, Eddie," you beg, your voice breathy and high.

"Anything for you, princess," he whispers, diving back in with renewed fervor.

He slides a long finger inside you, then another, the stretch perfect as he curls them just right, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. His tongue is relentless at your clit. His eyes are on you, so dark with lust they're almost black. 

He looks like the most handsome devil and you understand why this is a den of sin as your back arches off the bed, a silent scream caught in your throat. The orgasm crashes through you, a wave of blinding pleasure that leaves you shaking and breathless.

He doesn't stop, working you through it until you're whimpering, oversensitive and boneless.

"Please," you gasp, pushing weakly at his head. "Too much."

"Too much?" He grins, pressing a final, soft kiss to your oversensitive clit before crawling up your body to loom over you. "We're just starting."

His lips crash against yours, and you taste yourself on his tongue. The intimate flavor makes your head spin. You kiss him back with a desperate hunger, your hands roaming over the familiar planes of his back, feeling the muscles tense and shift under your touch.

He lifts his shirt off and then reaches for the hem of your tank top. You raise your arms, letting him pull it over your head, revealing the simple, lacy pink bra you wore.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of you. "Hiding these from me, were you?"

He reaches behind you to unclasp your bra with a practiced flick of his wrist, tossing it aside. His hands are on you then, cupping the weight of your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your already hardened nipples.

"God, I'm gonna worship these." He says, before leaning down to take one into his mouth.

He sucks and licks and nips, each tug sending a jolt straight to your core. Your back arches, pressing yourself closer, seeking more friction, more of him.

"Sensitive little thing," he murmurs against your skin before switching to the other, giving it the same, thorough attention. "Could probably make you come just from this, couldn't I?"

The thought alone is enough to make you moan.

"Yeah.. I bet I could. Maybe next time." He pulls away, a string of spit connecting his lips to your nipple. "Right now, I need to be inside you." 

He stands up, making quick work of his own belt and jeans, shoving them down his legs along with his boxers. He kicks them away, and your breath catches in your throat.

It's the prettiest cock, dark curls at the base, flushed and already beading with precum at the tip. You watch, transfixed, as he gives himself a few slow, deliberate strokes.

"Yeah?" His smirk is sinful. "You like it? Like knowing you did this to me?"

"Come here," you demand, your voice thick with want.

He moves over you again, settling between your thighs. He takes himself in hand, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal.

"I'm on the pill," you breathe out, a desperate last-ditch effort at coherent thought.

"Thank fuck," he groans, and then he's pushing inside you.

The stretch is a steady burn as he fills you inch by inch.

"Oh, fuck," he chokes out, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "Feel so... you feel so good."

You wrap your legs around his waist, your heels digging into his back, pulling him deeper.

"Dirty girl," he chuckles, the sound of a low rumble in your ear. "Want it deep, huh?"

His hips begin to move, a slow, rocking rhythm that has you seeing stars.

"Does the pretty, soft princess like to be fucked deep and hard?" The question is a taunt, a dare, and you answer with a sharp buck of your hips, taking him even deeper. "Yeah she fucking does." 

He rears up, grabbing your hands and pinning them above your head with one of his, lacing your fingers together. The other hand grips your hip, holding you steady as he picks up the pace.

"Perfect for me, aren't you?" He breathes, his eyes locked on yours. "Soft and sweet on the outside, but underneath, you're a dirty little thing. My dirty little thing."

"Just for you..." It comes out a whiny moan as he starts to pound into you, the headboard of his bed starting to tap against the wall.

"My good girl." He claims. The rhythm is punishing, a driving beat that pushes you toward the edge again. "Letting a monster like me defile your pretty little body."

The coil in your belly is winding up again, tighter and hotter than before.

"I'm close," you gasp, your nails digging into the back of his hand. "I'm so close."

"Mm yeah, baby. Can feel it. But you're gonna give me a few aren't you?" He coos. His pace changes to deep, grinding thrusts, the coarse hair at the base of his cock grinding deliciously against your clit. "Gonna soak my dick again and again before I'm done with you."

You whine his name as your orgasm washes over you, the pleasure so intense it borders on pain. Your walls flutter around him, gripping him tight, and he groans, a long, deep sound of satisfaction.

"Oh yeah... I'm going to make you do that again," he pants. "Look at you, can't even stop shaking."

Before you've even come down, he's flipping you over. He pulls your hips up, guiding you to your hands and knees.

"This okay?" He whispers in your ear, checking in even now, the consideration a stark contrast to the raw, primal fucking.

You nod, pushing back against him, a wordless plea for more. He eases back in, the new angle hitting even deeper.

"Jesus... look at that," he breathes, his hands gripping your ass, spreading you wide so he can watch himself disappear inside you.

He starts moving again, a faster, harder rhythm that has the headboard slamming against the wall all over again. 

"Wish you could see the way this pretty pussy swallows me," he growls, punctuating his words with sharp, deep thrusts. "So greedy for me. Taking my cock so well."

His words are filthy, a string of praise and degradation that makes your head spin.

"I'm gonna have you on every surface in this apartment. The couch. The kitchen counter. Up against the window where anyone could see."

The image flashes in your mind, and a fresh wave of arousal gushes around him. "Oh you filthy fucking thing. You'd like that wouldn't you? Want someone to see what we do? See how good you take me?"

You're reduced to a series of desperate sobs and whimpers, your brain too foggy with pleasure to form a coherent response. "S'good... f-feels so..."

"Yeah, I know, princess," he pants, one of his hands snaking around to find your clit. "Got you stupid on my cock, don't I? Just a pretty, brainless mess for me."

He circles your clit with a rough thumb, and that's all it takes. The next orgasm rips through you, violent and overwhelming.

He leans over, kissing your shoulder as your body trembles. "There we go... I want one more."

"Eddie..." you protest, the word a weak puff of air. "Can't..."

"You can," he insists, his voice low and demanding. "You will."

And he proves it.

He pulls out, turning you onto your back once more. The sheets beneath you are damp, a testament to your pleasure. He looks at you with such awe, a reverence that makes your heart ache.

"My messy girl," he murmurs, spreading your legs wide. "Fucking perfect."

He slides back in, the sensation of him filling you again almost too much, and yet exactly what you crave.

Your thighs are pressed against your chest, a position that has him impossibly deep. He moves slowly this time, deep, grinding thrusts that stoke the fire in your belly all over again.

"Yeah... gonna give it to you nice and slow," he breathes, his forehead pressed against yours. "Make you feel it."

"Feel you everywhere," you whimper, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. "Everywhere..." 

"You're so beautiful like this," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "All fucked out and begging. Never seen anything prettier."

The praise is your undoing. You can feel another orgasm building, a slow, deep wave that promises to be the most intense of all.

He keeps kissing you as your thighs begin to shake. It's a slow, deep, bone melting thing. You're not even making loud noises anymore, just a constant mewl into his mouth.

Then you feel him start to lose rhythm, you pussy clenching him like you never want to let him go.

"M'close... fuck... princess, you're gonna make me... make me cum... " He grunts, burying his face in your neck, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a long, shuddering groan.

His release is warm and there's so much of it that it leaks out around him, but he doesn't pull out right away.

He stays there, a heavy, comforting weight on top of you, as you both catch your breath.

"Please don't pull out," you beg, clinging to him. "Not yet."

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound in your ear. He rolls over, taking you with him, so you're sprawled across his chest, still connected.

"I'd never pull out if I didn't have to eventually," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. He was still buried deep, softening slowly inside you. "We can stay like this as long as you want."

He shifts slightly, and you can feel a little more of him slip out. You try to clench around him to keep him in place, a futile, desperate gesture.

"Sweetheart... easy," he soothes. "We've got all night. And tomorrow. And every day after that, if you'll have me."

He pulls a blanket over your tangled, sweat-slick bodies, cocooning you in warmth.

"Like... dating?" you ask, your voice muffled against his chest.

He laughs. "No, like I'm planning on keeping you as my sex prisoner in my den of sin." He says sarcastically, then his tone gets serious. "Yes, like dating. Fucking obviously. I've been pining over you for months. You think I'm just gonna let you walk away after I finally got you into my bed?"

The idea of him pining, of Eddie Munson being just as wrecked by this quiet, aching tension as you were, makes your heart swell.

"I'd like that," you whisper. "The dating thing. Not the sex prisoner thing."

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your hair. "Good to know. Glad we got that cleared up. But I mean... if we're talking roleplay..."

You swat at his chest, but it's a weak, lazy motion. You feel him soften completely, finally slipping out of you. You whimper at the loss, a sudden, hollow ache.

He kisses your forehead, murmuring against your skin. "Let's get you cleaned up, princess."

He's gentle, so surprisingly gentle. He disappears into the small bathroom and returns with a warm, wet washcloth. You expected him to just toss it to you, but instead, he kneels on the bed beside you and carefully, meticulously wipes you clean.

"Really did a number on you, huh?" A soft, proud smile on his face as he looks at the mess between your thighs. "All full and swollen. Perfect."

You hide your face in your hands, a fresh wave of heat flooding your cheeks.

"No, no. Don't hide from me." He gently pulls your hands away, leaning down to kiss you, a slow, deep, claiming kiss. "Come on... shower and pee time. Maybe round two if we're lucky."

He pulls you to your feet, and your legs tremble, almost giving out from under you.

"Woah there." He catches you, scooping you up into his arms with a grunt. "I've got you. And the princess gets carried to her throne, apparently."

You can't help but laugh as he carries you into the tiny bathroom.

After you've both showered, the hot water a welcome ease to your sore muscles, he leads you back to the bed, pulling on a fresh pair of boxers before handing you a t-shirt of his, an old Metallica one that's been washed so many times it's soft and worn.

You pull it on, getting into bed next to him. Ozzy jumps up to join you, curling into a ball against your stomach with a deep, rumbling purr.

"See? He approves," Eddie murmurs, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close. "And Ozzy is a very good judge of character."

You snuggle into his side, your head on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heart.

The storm has passed, and outside, the world is quiet, blanketed in a fresh layer of snow.

Inside, you're warm and safe in your own private palace of sin, the world outside melting away until there's only the two of you, and the comforting weight of a one-eyed cat, and the promise of every tomorrow.

'this IS music!' [eddie taglist]