welcome

Now, criss-cross on your bed in his pajamas with one of your silk-encased pillows hugged tight to his stomach, you can feel his big brown eyes following tirelessly as you comb through your closet in indecision. The only thing you managed to get done before his arrival was put on one of your Billy Idol records, and, likely in silent compromise for the blatant intrusion, he’s restrained himself diligently from uttering any complaints.

“...Alright, Eds,” you say. Still clad in just a robe from your shower, you turn back to face him with the first two options in hand; a black, ruched, sleeveless dress, or a leopard print corset top, bottoms to be decided. “What do you think?”

Eddie doesn’t even look between them—his eyes lock instantly on the leopard print and stay there, his eyebrows popping up in disbelief. “What the hell kinda question is that?”

Typical. “...I don’t know why I even ask,” you sigh, taking the top off the hanger and flinging it at him. He snatches it up with a gleaming smile and holds it to his chest with your pillow.

Now for the bottoms. A minute or so of deliberation and you hold up two more options; a black, lacy ruffle skirt and a black leather skirt, both hitting around your mid thigh. Eddie glances at your expectant look and shakes his head, exasperated. 

“You never listen to a word I say,” he bemoans. “What do I tell you every single time? It’s leather, babe, it’s always leather.” 

You roll your eyes to the moon and back, but in this case, he happens to be right—the ruffle skirt returns to the closet, and the leather one is freed from its hanger. “You tell me every time because you have a dirty fetish, Eds, not because you care about fashion.”

You toss the skirt at his nasty grin and he lets it hit him in the face, sliding off onto his lap. “Can’t it be both?”

“I need to change,” you tell him pointedly, hands on your hips.

He doesn’t move a muscle, blinking innocent eyes at you. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

Part of you is more than willing to beat him at his own game—drop the robe without a care and blow the head clean off his shoulders—but you decide the time isn’t quite right for a move that devastating. Instead, you just snatch your outfit out of his grubby hands. Reluctant to part with it, Eddie makes you play tug of war to get your skirt back and then raises his hands to cover his face, instantly splitting his fingers to peek through with a twinkle in his devious eyes.

With a good-natured eye-roll, you yank the pillow off his lap too just to smash it into his face. Eddie makes a sound like “oof!” and falls back onto your mattress, his hands whipping around to secure the pillow in place as he does, and only then do you push the robe off your shoulders, letting it crumple to the floor as you dig in your dresser for some underwear.

Eddie wouldn’t actually look, but you decide to tease him anyway. “...I catch you peeping and you’re gonna pay for it, Munson,” you warn, stepping into your panties.

“Oh yeah?” The smile itself is hidden, but you can hear it in his muffled voice. “How much?”

Next, you shimmy into some fishnets and pull the skirt up your legs, fighting briefly with the zipper. “More than you could afford on a record store salary, I can tell you that much.”

Eddie grunts and chokes like you dealt a fatal blow, squeezing the pillow tighter to his face, convulsing lightly beneath it. “...Ouch, babe. Have a little heart.”

Most of the way into your shirt, you stand in front of him and swat him above the knee. “You can look now. Help me zip this up.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Eddie tosses the pillow aside and springs up like a catapult. His eyes flit over your outfit and a wide, toothy smile grows on his lips, so genuinely delighted that your face goes a little warm. “...Jesus fuck, warn a guy, wouldja? I think my heart just stopped.”

“You helped me pick the outfit, doofus,” you point out, but Eddie ignores you completely, pressing two fingers all around his neck; looking for a pulse.

“See, it’s gone,” he says. He checks his wrist too, and then shakes his head in lament. “Can’t feel shit. I’m fucked, babe.”

“The zipper, Eddie,” you groan, though you’re smiling almost as wide as he is as you turn around.

“Alright, alright, c’mere,” he says, planting two hands on your hips to tug you a little closer. They linger there deliberately, both thumbs lightly stroking against the leather until you give the back of one hand a harsh pinch and he snatches them back to himself and clicks his tongue. “Ow. I was just feeling it.”

“I don’t have time for you to get your rocks off, Eds,” you scold, resting your own hands where his used to be. “The girls are gonna be here in like, twenty minutes.”

He makes a low, rumbly sound in displeasure. “What girls?” 

You can feel his finger tracing up along the zipper, about three-fourths closed by your own hand. “Monica, Yvonne, some other girls from work, maybe. I told you last night.”

Eddie hums distractedly and starts oh-so-slowly tugging the zipper in the wrong direction. 

“Oh, brother,” you sigh, letting your head droop backwards. “I’m at least ninety percent sure you know up from down.”

“Oops,” he jokes, fooling no one at all. “My bad. Thought you wanted it off.”

“Sure you did.”

With one firm tug, Eddie zips you up. Packed tight in your outfit, you sit at your vanity to do your hair and makeup, and Eddie shifts around until you can still see each other in the reflection, back to hugging your pillow. 

“What is it you’re abandoning me for again?”

“Jesus, Eddie, you're hopeless,” you groan, smudging black around your eyes. “I literally just reminded you.”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he teases. “I can't focus for shit when you're dressed up so pretty.”

“It’s Monica’s birthday,” you tell him once again. “We’re going to Club Electra.”

His head falls forward in repugnance. “Ugh.”

Eddie has a raging allergy to any and all nightclubs—one of his only aversions that has consistently won out against his comparably raging allergy to letting you do anything or go anywhere without him. 

“...You could come, if you want,” you joke, only because you know he’d probably rather die. “Yvonne would be ecstatic to not have to be the DD.” 

“Eugh… Maybe next time,” he lies with immense difficulty. Then, his head whips back up in alarm. “Wait. You’re not gonna flirt with other guys, though, right?”

A wicked smile pulls across your face as you paint your eyelashes with mascara. The thing is, you and Eddie aren’t dating—you just act like you are. He’s been flirting with you since you were teenagers, and it started, if you had to guess, as Eddie’s best attempt at running damage control in the face of high school barbarism. The snide comments and backhanded compliments thrown at you for cheap clothes, trashy makeup, and whichever bodily features stood out as unsightly to Hawkins’ suburban middle class on any given day never truly got to you, but Eddie’s chosen remedy stuck around anyway, emboldened and dramatized with time and closeness. So when the opportunity came up to move in together, your running game of cat and mouse solidified into, essentially, a 24/7 play-marriage. 

No one else really gets it, but no one else has to. It’s always just been your and Eddie’s thing, and until the unlikely day that it ceases to be a source of infinite amusement for both of you, you’re pretty sure it always will be.

“Like you don’t flirt with other girls at your shows,” you say, with all the faux bitterness of a recurrently-aggrieved girlfriend. 

Eddie hangs his jaw and scoffs at the accusation. “I do not.” 

He’s completely full of shit and he knows it—one unimpressed glance at his reflection and Eddie breaks into a smile. He flings your pillow back to the headboard and stands up, slinking over to stand at your back and drop his big hands on your shoulders, stooping down so you can still see his face in the mirror.

“...And even if I did,” he concedes, grinning wider as it pulls a gigantic eye-roll out of you, “those are girls, alright? You—” He gives your shoulders a placating squeeze, rubbing his thumbs into your traps. “—are a dark and awesome goddess, and I, but your humble devotee.” He slips into his deep, theatrical dungeon-master voice, charming enough to put the smile back on your face.

You hum, mildly skeptical. “...I think a ‘humble devotee’ would zip up my zipper the first time I ask him to,” you mumble, moving on to refresh your hair as much as you can be bothered to.

“Can’t I have any fun?” he gripes. He turns around and throws his arms out, continuing on like he’s talking to some invisible third party in the corner of your room. “She never lets me have any fun.”

“I let you have way too much fun, as a matter of fact,” you insist. Eddie sits back down on your bed and grins at your reflection. “I should’ve slammed that door in your face, taught you a lesson for once. …Batting those no-good puppy dog eyes at me. You don’t have a sorry bone in your body.”

“...Well, I might have one.”

After a few second’s pause, he winks at you in the mirror, completely ridiculous, and you twist around to throw a comb at him in punishment. Eddie squeaks and ducks and covers, spreading out on his stomach over your duvet, and after that, is finally willing to let you finish up in peace.

Once you’re satisfied, you stand up and turn to face him. Returning back to earth from zoning out, presumably, Eddie pushes himself up on his elbows, looks you over, and then sits up all the way. 

“How do I look?”

He blinks at you like it’s the stupidest question you’ve ever asked. “...Um, you look like you should tell Monica to fuck off and hang out at home with Eddie.” 

Your jaw drops to the floor. “It’s her birthday!” you cry out in horror, shaken up by a startled laugh.

“She’ll probably have at least a couple more,” he reasons, and his eyes are dancing well below your face. He jerks his head in a shake, making a low, appreciative sound as he reaches out and tries to put his hands on your leather-bound hips again. “...Keep the outfit on, though.”

Every attempt to grab you is smacked aside with wide eyes and zero mercy. “You’re rotten!”

“Oh, totally,” he agrees, bright pink lips pulling into a dimpled smile. “I’m a lost cause. Huge selfish bastard right here. …Christ, how am I supposed to share you with ‘the girls’ when you walk around looking like this?”

“That’s it,” you groan. “I’ve had enough of you.” 

The moment you start towards the door, Eddie scrambles across your bed to beat you to it, splatting himself flat against it hard enough to rattle your over-the-door mirror.

“Don’t leave me, baby,” he begs in practiced anguish. “What am I gonna do without you?”

You roll your eyes at him, pretending to no longer be amused by his antics. “Same thing you always do, probably.”

His brow furrows, sincerely confused. “What do I always do?”

“Your right hand still works, doesn’t it?”

Eddie briefly startles before throwing his head back with another loud thunk and groaning in agony, but he lets you grab his arm and peel him off of the door, stumbling dramatically over to sit on the side of your bed again.

“That’s cold-fucking-blooded,” he whines, but you can hear him smiling as you pull in the handle. “You could at least let me take a picture, sweetheart. Give me something to work with.”

You pause with the door half-open and give him a squint. Eddie perks up like he can tell you’re about to humor him.

“...Tell you what,” you say. “If you can make it to your camera before I make it out the front door, I’ll let you take a picture.”

Eddie’s eyes pop open wide. Then, he shoots through the door so fast that he leaves an Eddie-shaped dust cloud behind.

“Do me a favor and drag your goddamn feet!” he calls behind him, enough to send you cackling, and you hear more than you see him burst through his own bedroom door across the apartment. 

Taking leisurely steps as requested, you listen gleefully to the chaotic cacophony of Eddie tearing his room apart in a frantic search, cursing to himself repeatedly as he does.

“Damnit… God…damnit! Where the fuck did I…? I swear, I just had it!”

Smiling to yourself, you slip on your heels, hang your purse on your shoulder, and open the front door. Eddie’s loud and fruitless search continues.

“Don’t wait up!” you call back to him, to utterly no response. After a pause, you yell even louder. “...I mean it, Eddie!”

It’s wishful thinking at best. Just like every other night you’re out late (with “the girls” or otherwise), you know you’re gonna find him mostly-awake to greet you, coincidentally having ordered too much food for him alone and more than happy to help you peel yourself out of your clubbing clothes and wipe the ruined makeup off your face—a routine you enjoy far too much to suffer any real guilt over.

With a fond sigh and a pleasantly boosted ego, you close the door behind you.

-

You could barely see. Your sight was never impeccable to begin with, but the mixture of snow and rain flying at your windshield in the 40 mile-per-hour winds definitely didn't help.

You tried not to push your car (which you'd named Daphne) too hard, just easing her through the slush at a gentle speed, trying to ignore what road you were on. You weren't on it for the reasons you used to be. You were just on it now because it was a short-cut from work to home, and you needed the fastest route possible to avoid the storm.

Obviously, that hadn't worked.

"Fucking shit." You muttered to yourself as you hit a particularly wet patch of slush, your tail end swerving just slightly. You corrected yourself with shaky, panicked hands, somehow managing to keep yourself on the road.

Daphne was an old girl, a fixer-upper. But you knew how to handle her wheel.

The headlights of your old sedan cut twin, wavering tunnels through the horizontal sleet. The wipers groaned on their highest setting, fighting a losing battle. You were gripping the steering wheel so hard your knuckles ached, every muscle in your body tensed against the skid and sway of the tires.

You knew this road, sadly. Every pothole, every leaning fence post, every mailbox with a dent from a long-ago baseball. You’d memorized it in sunshine, in twilight, in the deep, comfortable dark of summer nights. You’d ridden down it with your heart full and your hand in his, music blaring from his shitty speakers.

Now, you drove it with your heart in your throat and your eyes straining to see five feet ahead. You just had to get past it. Past him.

The familiar, ramshackle outline of the Munson trailer came into view, a darker smudge against the storm-grey sky. A single, yellow porch light was on, a lonely beacon in the maelstrom. Your foot instinctively eased off the gas, as if slowing down could make you less visible. You held your breath, a stupid, superstitious gesture, as you passed the driveway.

You’d made it maybe two hundred yards past when Daphne gave a violent, shuddering cough. The engine spluttered -- a wet, guttural sound of pure protest. The lights on the dashboard flickered crazily. Then, with a final, dying wheeze, the engine cut out completely. The headlights died, plunging you into near-total darkness, save for the sickly green glow of the radio display.

Silence, except for the hammering of ice and rain on the roof.

“No. No, no, no, come on,” you pleaded, turning the key in the ignition. The starter gave a weak, clicking whirr. Nothing. You tried again. Click-click-click. Despair, cold and sharp, joined the chill already seeping into the car.

You were stranded. In a storm. On this road. Approximately a one-minute walk from the one place in Hawkins you’d said you’d never set foot in again.

You laid your forehead against the freezing steering wheel. A hysterical laugh bubbled up, but it died in your throat. You were well and truly screwed.

Outside, the wind howled like it was laughing at you.

You would not be approaching his door. You knew Daphne was old and at times unreliable, so you kept emergency gear in the backseat. A blanket, a heavy winter jacket, a few bottles of water. A blunt and a lighter for stress. Huffing, you pushed your seat back just enough so that you could climb into the back.

You'd wait the storm out until the morning. Then, you'd walk down the road to the gas station, which opened at 5AM, and call your brother. Or your dad. Or a fucking tow truck. Whoever you thought of first.

The backseat was cramped and smelled of old vinyl and the faint, lingering scent of the pine tree air freshener you’d bought last winter. You wrestled the blanket around your shoulders, then pulled the puffy jacket on over it, creating a sad, bulky nest. The cold was insidious, creeping up through the floorboards, seeping in through the window seals. You could see your breath, little ghostly puffs in the greenish dark.

This was fine. This was manageable. You’d been through worse. A little cold, a little storm. You were tough.

You fumbled for the pre-rolled joint and the lighter in the side pocket of the door. Your fingers were stiff and clumsy with cold. It took three tries to get the flame to catch in the howling draft whistling through the window frame. Finally, the end glowed orange. You took a deep drag, holding the smoke in your lungs, willing it to burn away the panic, the humiliation, the sheer, cosmic unfairness of it all.

The familiar, earthy warmth spread through your chest, taking the sharpest edges off your anxiety. You slumped against the door, watching the sleet paint icy patterns on the window. You were a statue in a glass coffin, waiting for the storm to pass.

You lost track of time. The joint became a stub you carefully extinguished and tucked away. The cold deepened, becoming a tangible, aching presence. You pulled your knees to your chest, tucking your hands under your armpits. The blanket was thin. The jacket helped, but your legs were freezing in your jeans. You started to shiver, a fine, constant tremor you couldn’t control.

This is stupid. This is prideful and stupid. You’re going to get hypothermia over a boy.

But it wasn't just any boy. It was Eddie. And the wound of your ending was still too fresh, too raw, to face the possibility of his pity, or worse, his indifference.

You'd be fine. You weren't freezing to death, you were maintaining body heat. Just a few more hours and you would--

A sharp knock on the window made you yelp.

No. No, no no. It's not who I think it is.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, a trapped bird. Through the ice-fogged glass, distorted by the rivulets of sleet, a dark shape loomed. A familiar silhouette, backlit by the distant, buzzing porch light.

It is. It’s exactly who you think it is.

You stayed perfectly still, a rabbit hoping the predator will lose interest. Maybe if you didn’t move, he’d think you were asleep. Or dead. God, maybe dead is better.

The knock came again, sharper this time. Insistent. Accompanied by a voice, muffled but unmistakably his, cutting through the wind’s howl.

“Open the door, Y/N. I can see you shivering from here.”

The command, the use of your full name -- it brooked no argument. It was the same tone he’d used when you’d tried to walk home from a party in the rain two summers ago, when he’d scooped you up with an exasperated, “Don’t be an idiot,” and driven you home despite your protests.

Defeated, you unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The storm rushed in, but so did he. Eddie filled the cramped space of the open door, dressed in a thick flannel over his t-shirt, a beanie pulled low over his curls. He was holding a massive, industrial-looking flashlight. His eyes swept over your pathetic nest -- the blanket, the jacket, the discarded joint stub on the floor mat -- and a smirk bloomed onto his face.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his voice low, but it wasn't a question. It was an amused accusation.

“Waiting out the storm,” you said, your own voice thin and reedy from cold and disuse. “My car died.”

“I know she died. I heard Daphne cough her last breath. I’ve been watching your sorry ass freeze for the last twenty minutes from my window.” He shook his head, a mixture of disbelief and humor flashing in his eyes. “Get out of the car.”

The smirk. The absolute, insufferable smirk. It ignited a fire in your chest that had nothing to do with warmth. All the cold, all the fear, condensed into a single, white-hot point of pure indignation.

“I’m fine here,” you snapped, your voice gaining strength from the fury.

He leaned further into the car, the flashlight beam highlighting the amusement dancing in his eyes. “Oh, you’re more than fine. You’re a picture of survivalist elegance. The blanket really ties the ‘soon-to-be-icicle’ look together. But see, here’s the thing -- Wayne’s on night shift, and I have a strict policy against letting girls freeze to death within spitting distance of my home. Bad for my rep. So, for the last time: out.”

“My well-being is no longer your concern, Munson,” you shot back, wrapping the pathetic blanket tighter around your shoulders as if it were armor.

“It becomes my concern when you’re littering my view with your old ass car,” he countered, his tone light but his eyes holding yours with an unnerving intensity. “Now, I can do this the easy way, where you walk your proud, stubborn self into the warm trailer like a rational human being. Or I can do it the hard way, which involves me, this flashlight -- which is heavier than it looks -- and a very undignified extraction. Your choice, sweetheart.”

The old pet name, used now as a weapon, stole the breath from your lungs. You stared at him, this infuriating, beautiful, impossible man, standing in a storm offering you shelter you didn't want to need from him.

Another bone-deep shiver rattled through you, betraying your bravado. You saw his smirk soften, just for a second, into something that looked suspiciously like concern before the mask of amused detachment slid back into place.

With a sound of pure, exasperated defeat, you kicked the blanket off your legs. “Fine.”

You climbed out of the car, the wind immediately whipping your hair across your face. You didn't look at him as you slammed the door shut harder than necessary and started stomping through the slush toward the trailer. He fell into step beside you, his longer strides easily keeping pace with your furious march.

“You know,” he said conversationally, as if commenting on the weather, “most people, when their car breaks down in a storm, go to the nearest house. They don’t stage a one-woman Arctic expedition in their backseat.”

“Most people don’t have to worry about the emotional fallout of seeing their ex,” you muttered, staring straight ahead at the glowing porch light.

He snorted, as if it didn't mean much. As if you hadn't been the center of his life for three and a half years.

"I don't bite. Unless you ask me to. You've known me long enough to know that, haven't you?"

The casual, suggestive barb hit its mark, a different kind of chill skittering down your spine. You stopped on the bottom step, looking up to face him. The porch light cast harsh shadows on his face, but his eyes were bright, challenging.

“I know you,” you said, your voice low and steady despite the tremor in your limbs. “That’s the problem. I know exactly what your ‘not biting’ looks like. It looks like… this.” You gestured vaguely between you, at the storm, the trailer, the unbearable tension. “It’s never simple with you, Eddie. It’s a whole production.”

He leaned against the doorframe, blocking the entrance, his arms crossed over his chest. The flannel sleeves were pushed up, revealing the familiar tattoos on his forearms. “And sitting in your car until you got frostbite was the simpler option? Come on. Even you’re not that stupid.”

“It was the safer option!” The words burst out of you, raw and honest. “In there, the only thing I had to fight was the cold. Out here? With you?” You shook your head, a helpless gesture. “It’s much worse.”

The smirk finally vanished. His expression shifted into something unreadable, intense. He studied you -- your wet hair plastered to your forehead, your jacket soaked through, the defiant, fearful light in your eyes. The wind howled around you both, but on this small, lit porch, the world had narrowed to this standoff.

“You’re shaking,” he observed, his voice dropping, losing its edge.

“I’m cold.”

“Yeah.” He pushed off the doorframe and reached to open the door. Warm air, carrying the scent of him and home, rushed out to meet you. “Get inside. Before you really do turn into an icicle. We can argue about the meteorological properties of my personality when you’re not at risk of hypothermia.”

It wasn't an invitation. It was a command, but it was also a retreat. A concession. He was giving you the out, focusing on the practical, immediate danger instead of the emotional minefield.

You hesitated for one more second, then stepped across the threshold into the past. He followed, closing the door firmly on the roaring night, leaving the two of you in the sudden, overwhelming quiet of the trailer, with only the drumming of sleet on the roof and the heavy weight of everything left unsaid between you.

The smell of him was everywhere -- clean laundry, weed, curl product, and the delicious cologne you'd never figured out how he could afford. The memories you'd fought to avoid for about four months now closed in around you. You blinked in surprise at the photo of you two, from when Eddie finally graduated high school, still hung above the kitchen sink. He hadn't taken down the photos. The sight was a physical blow. It was a candid shot -- you were laughing, your head thrown back, and Eddie had his arm slung around your shoulders, grinning at the camera like he’d just won the lottery. It was perched right where it had always been, in the spot of honor where Wayne could see it while he washed dishes. The fact that it was still there felt more intimate, more revealing, than if he’d torn it down in a fit of rage.

You opted to pretend you didn't notice. Anything to avoid a tense conversation. You quickly averted your eyes, focusing on peeling off your soaked jacket. Your fingers were numb and clumsy. The zipper stuck.

“Here,” Eddie’s voice came from behind you, closer than you expected. Before you could protest, his hands were there, brushing yours aside. His touch was efficient, impersonal, as he worked the frozen zipper free. The back of his knuckles grazed the wet fabric of your sweater, and you stiffened.

The jacket came off. You were left standing there in your damp sweater and jeans, feeling more exposed than ever. The trailer’s heat was beginning to penetrate your clothes, a painful thaw that made your skin prickle.

“Bathroom’s the same,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s towels in the cupboard. You can wear something of mine for the night. It won't hurt you." He asserted, looking at you with an expression that left no room for argument. "You're not wearing the wet shit."

The command in his voice, the sharp practicality of it, was a lifeline in the sea of awkwardness. It gave you a directive, something to do instead of just standing there marinating in regret and residual attraction.

“Fine,” you muttered, not meeting his eyes. You snatched up your purse and made a beeline for the bathroom, needing the space.

The small room was exactly as you remembered. The same slightly-mildewy shower curtain, the same chipped tile, the same half-empty bottle of your shampoo on the edge of the tub. He hadn’t thrown it out. The observation sent a fresh, complicated pang through you. You ignored it, focusing on the task at hand.

Stripping off the wet, icy clothes was a relief. The hot water in the quick shower you took made you feel like you were falling off the bone. You towelled off quickly, the rough fabric bringing you back to reality. Wrapped in the towel, you hesitated. The idea of putting on his clothes… it felt like a surrender. An intimacy you’d forfeited.

A knock at the door made you jump. “It’s on the hook,” Eddie’s voice came through the wood, muffled but clear. “Don’t overthink it. They’re just clothes.” The teasing air to his tone infuriated you.

You unlocked the door and cracked it open. Hanging on the outside hook was a faded, soft-looking gray hoodie and a pair of plaid flannel pajama pants. They were clean. They smelled like his laundry detergent, not like him. It was a small, considerate distinction that somehow made it worse.

You pulled them on. The hoodie was huge, the sleeves swallowing your hands. The pants were too long, pooling around your ankles. You rolled the waistband and cuffed the legs. Looking in the foggy mirror, you saw a ghost -- a version of yourself from years ago, when you’d steal his clothes just because you could, because you loved being surrounded by him.

When you emerged from the bathroom, scrubbed clean and drowning in his clothes, you found him in the kitchenette. He’d put the kettle on and was leaning against the counter, a smirk already playing on his lips as he took you in.

“Well, look at that,” he drawled, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep from your rolled cuffs to the hood swallowing half your face. “The lost princess of Hawkins, slumming it in peasant garb. It’s a good look. A little… derelicte, but it works.”

You scowled, tugging at the too-long sleeve. “Shut up. You’re built like a scarecrow.”

“A scarecrow with impeccable taste in loungewear, thank you very much.” He gestured to the kettle with his chin. “Tea? Or I think Wayne might have some of that horrific instant cocoa you used to love. The kind that’s mostly sugar and artificial flavor.”

The mention of your old preference, the specific memory of you curling on this same couch with a mug of too-sweet cocoa, was a tiny landmine. You ignored it. “Tea’s fine.”

He busied himself with mugs, his back to you. “So,” he said, his voice deliberately light. “What’s the verdict? Is the storm outside still worse than the storm of my terrible personality in here?”

“It’s a tie,” you shot back, settling onto the far end of the couch, tucking your feet under you. “The sleet is less predictable, but you’re louder.”

He barked a laugh, a genuine sound that felt like a shockwave in the small space. “Fair. I’ll take it.” He brought over two mugs, handing you one. His fingers brushed yours. Neither of you flinched. He sat on the opposite end of the couch, leaving a respectable, cavernous gap between you. He took a sip, watching you over the rim. “You know, for a minute there, I thought you were really gonna try to wait it out. I had a whole running commentary planned. ‘Hour one: the princess develops a slight shiver. Hour two: regret sets in. Hour three: a single, frozen tear…’”

“You were watching me?” You tried to sound annoyed, but it came out strangely breathless.

“Entertainment’s slim during an ice apocalypse,” he shrugged, but his eyes were sharp on yours. “Besides, it was like a nature documentary. The Tragic Pride of the North American Ex-Girlfriend.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“And yet you’ve come right back to me.” He grinned, unrepentant. “Seems like we’re both dealing with unfortunate realities tonight. Daphne threw you to the dogs.”

You rolled your eyes, glaring at him.

"Don't talk shit about Daphne."

He snorted back, tilting his head back to glance out the window at said object.

"I knew as soon as I met Daphne that she'd screw you over one day. Wayne said he'd get you something new," he shrugged. "But nooo. You loved the death-trap too much."

The barb landed differently this time. It wasn't just about the car; it was about your stubbornness, your sentimentality, your refusal to let go of things -- people -- even when they were bad for you. It was a mirror held up to your own choices, and the reflection stung.

“I don’t just throw things away because they’re old or unreliable,” you shot back, your voice tight. “Some things are worth fixing.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you realized your mistake. The air in the trailer seemed to freeze solid, thicker than the ice on the windows.

Eddie’s grin vanished. His eyes, which had been sparkling with mischievous challenge, went flat and dark. He leaned forward slowly, placing his mug on the coffee table with exaggerated care. The click of ceramic on wood was deafening in the silence.

“Is that so?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet. All traces of teasing were gone, replaced by a cold, simmering anger. “Things worth fixing, huh? That’s a fascinating philosophy.” He tilted his head, his gaze boring into you. “Tell me, then. Where’s the line? At what point does something become so fucking broken it’s not worth the effort anymore? When it leaves you stranded in the cold? Or is it before that? Maybe when it makes you feel so shitty you have to lie to get away from it?”

Each question was a lash. He wasn't talking about Daphne anymore. He was talking about you. About him. About you and him.

You flinched, pulling the oversized hoodie tighter around yourself as if it could shield you. “Eddie, that’s not what I meant--”

“Isn’t it?” he interrupted, standing up in one fluid, angry motion. He began to pace the small length of the living room, his movements restless, charged. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds exactly like what you meant. You’ll nurse along a shitbox car because it’s familiar. You’ll fight for it. But a relationship? A person? Nah. That you just… walk away from. No repairs. No fixing. Just a clean break and a bullshit excuse about ‘different paths.’ Or 'going nowhere.'” He stopped pacing and turned to face you, his chest heaving. “So forgive me if I’m a little fucking confused about your automotive morals.”

The raw pain in his voice, the accusation that cut straight to the heart of your own guilt, was too much. The tears you’d been fighting since you arrived sprang to your eyes, hot and immediate.

“You think it was easy?” you choked out, surging to your feet to face him. The blanket pooled at your feet. “You think I just woke up one day and decided to ‘throw you away’? I was terrified! I loved you so much it felt like I was drowning, and everyone was telling me you were a lost cause! I didn’t know how to fix us because I didn’t even know what was broken!”

“You could have talked to me!” he roared, the sound raw and startling in the small space. He took a step toward you, his hands clenched at his sides. “You could have fought with me! Instead, you just… left. You handed me a note written in fucking platitudes and disappeared. That’s not fixing something, Y/N. That’s scrapping it for parts.”

You were both shouting now, four months of suppressed hurt and anger erupting in the warm, claustrophobic space. The storm outside was nothing compared to the tempest in the room.

“I was trying to save myself!” you cried, the confession ripped from you.

“FROM WHAT?” he yelled back, throwing his hands up. “FROM ME?”

The question echoed, brutal and final. You stared at each other, breathing heavily, the truth of his words hanging between you like a guillotine.

From me.

In your darkest moments, yes. From the chaos, from the uncertainty, from the sheer, overwhelming force of loving Eddie Munson. You’d been trying to save yourself from the very thing you’d missed every single day since.

The fight drained out of you as quickly as it had come, leaving you hollow and shaking. You looked at him -- really looked at him -- seeing not the infuriating, teasing boy from the porch, but the man whose heart you’d shattered with your fear. The man who still had your picture on his wall.

“Yeah,” you whispered, the admission a surrender. A single tear traced a path down your cheek. “From you.”

He recoiled as if you’d struck him physically. All the anger bled from his face, replaced by a wounded, devastating comprehension. He took a step back, then another, until his back hit the wall. He slid down it slowly until he was sitting on the floor, his head in his hands.

You stood frozen, the weight of what you’d just said crushing you. A moment passed.

You glanced at him, hearing movement. He was looking the other direction, his profile painful to see. The flickering light of the lamp caught the silver in his rings, the curve of his lower lip. He was still so beautiful it hurt.

The silence fell upon you. Tense. Pregnant with too many emotions to name. You looked away, but you could feel him turn to you, his gaze heating up your skin. His sight was always so perceptive, so thoughtful and warm. You were afraid of him watching you, afraid of his intelligent brown eyes deducing things that you didn't want deduced.

You fought the urge to get up and hide from his eyes. In the bathroom. The spare bedroom, hiding under the covers.

"You cut your hair."

The statement was simple, but heavy. You could hear the suppressed anger in his tone. The hurt. The ache. The holding back of tears, the holding back of a rage fit. His voice was a broken rasp, a quiet devastation that was worse than any shout. It wasn't just an observation. It was an accusation of a change he hadn't been part of, a loss he'd had to witness from a distance. You cut your hair. You changed. You moved on without me.

Your hand flew self-consciously to the ends, now resting just above your shoulders. "Yeah," you whispered, your own voice trembling. "A while ago."

He didn't look at you. He kept his gaze fixed on some distant point on the wall, his jaw working. "I liked it long."

Three words. They held a universe of grief. I liked it. I liked you. I liked us.

A sob caught in your throat. This was agony. This quiet, raw aftermath was worse than the screaming. It was the autopsy of your relationship, performed in the cold, clear light of shared pain.

"I did it after," you admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I thought... I thought if I looked different, I'd feel different. But I just felt... bald. And sad."

He hummed.

"Had to erase anything I touched, huh? I was that bad?"

You shuddered, looking up at the ceiling.

"Stop it, Eddie. Fucking stop it."

He laughed humorlessly, his eyes finally locking back onto yours. The predatory fire was back, the ruthless analyzing.

"Stop what? What part of this is what you didn't want? You chose it," he said, his voice raw.

"Stop, Eddie!" You cried out.

He was never a good listener. Especially not when he was hurt. Especially not when the armor of sarcasm had been stripped away, leaving only the raw, pulsing nerve of his own perceived worthlessness.

He surged to his feet, a sudden, violent motion that made you flinch back against the couch cushions. He loomed over you, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he didn't move closer. The threat wasn't physical; it was emotional, and it was crushing.

"You want me to stop?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous snarl. "You want me to pretend like you didn't look at our life together and decide it was a fucking prison sentence? Fine. Let's play pretend. Let's pretend you're just a girl whose car broke down. Let's pretend I'm just a guy being hospitable. Let's pretend the last three years never happened. Is that easier for you? Is that safer?"

He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. Every word was a jab, designed to hurt because he was hurting, and he wanted you to feel it, to own it. You couldn't take it anymore.

You stood, grabbing your wet jacket and clothes.

"What are you doing?" He snapped.

"Leaving," you said, your voice surprisingly steady as you shoved your arms into the damp, cold sleeves of your jacket. The fabric felt like a slab of ice against your skin, a shocking contrast to the warmth of the trailer. "You win, Eddie. Always."

He crossed the distance in three steps, grabbing ahold of the jacket. Quickly and efficiently, he yanked it off from you, tossing it to the floor.

"You're not."

His voice was final. It wasn't a plea this time; it was a decree, forged in the fire of his own panic. The sight of you actually leaving, of you choosing the literal storm over his emotional one, had short-circuited his anger, replacing it with something more primal: possession.

You stood frozen, the sudden absence of the jacket leaving you exposed in the thin, borrowed hoodie. You could see the wild, frantic beat of his pulse in his throat. His hands, which had just stripped the jacket from you, hovered in the air between you, as if he wanted to grab onto something else -- your arms, your shoulders, you -- but was holding himself back by a thread.

"You're not leaving," he repeated, quieter now, his eyes locked on yours. "You walk out that door, you'll freeze. And I… I can't…" He swallowed hard, the sentence dying in his throat.

The raw, unspoken terror in his eyes undid you. The proud, furious exit was forgotten. You were both trapped -- by the weather, by history, by this devastating, inescapable connection that neither rage nor distance could sever.

A shuddering breath escaped you. "Then what do you want from me, Eddie?" Your voice was a broken whisper. "You want me to stand here and let you flay me alive? Because I can't do that either."

The fight seemed to leave him in a rush. His shoulders slumped, and he took a step back, running both hands over his face. When he looked at you again, he just looked exhausted. Defeated.

"I don't know," he admitted, the confession hollow. "I don't know what I want. I just know I can't watch you walk into that."

The silence stretched, thick and painful. The wind howled a reminder of the impossible choice: stay in the emotional warzone, or flee into the physical one.

Finally, he gestured vaguely toward the couch. "Just… sit down. Please. I'll… I'll shut up. We don't have to talk. We don't have to do anything. Just… exist. Until morning."

It was the barest minimum. A ceasefire with no terms, no resolution. Just a mutual agreement not to destroy each other -- or yourselves -- for the next few hours.

Slowly, feeling numb, you walked back to the couch and sat on the very edge, as far from his side as possible. He didn't sit next to you. He sank into the armchair opposite, putting the width of the coffee table between you. He picked up his cold mug of tea, stared into it, and said nothing.

You were sitting on the top step of the shallow end, legs stretched out. A red Solo cup rested on your knee. Across from you, Eddie floated on his back on one of those ridiculous floaties, arms spread wide, tattoos catching the light every time he breathed. Robin sat on the wide ledge near the diving board, knees tucked up, sipping whatever concoction Eddie had made her. Steve was right beside you on the edge, feet dangling in the water, a joint between his fingers and that loose, half-drunk smile he only wore when it was just the four of you.

Eddie sat up with a splash, water streaming down his face. “Okay, but hear me out — I’m telling you, if I can just get the timing right on the bridge, this song is gonna slap. It's dark. It's sexy. I had to write a badass song about surviving the apocalypse, right? Like I didn't get these fuckin' scars for nothing.”

Robin made a noise like she was choking on her own laughter. “Munson. You're insane.”

“Insane? Maybe. But,” Eddie said, pointing at her with the joint before passing it to you. “You know you'd do the same shit Buckley. Some of us are just more musically talented than others.”

Steve snorted, reaching over to steal the joint from your fingers after you took a hit. The smoke curled warm in your lungs, making everything feel a little softer around the edges. “Dude, you survived one apocalypse. Try surviving four. Plus Buckley is great with music. Don't shit on her trombone talents.”

You laughed so hard you had to grab Steve’s arm to keep from sliding off the step. “Yeah Munson. That girls got good blowing skills. Don't shit on her.”

Eddie clutched his chest dramatically. “I would never shit on my dear Buckley. You know I love you. Maybe I could use some of your blowing skills on this song.”

“Blowing skills?” Robin echoed. “Christ Munson. If you want me to blow you, you're gonna be waiting a long ass time.”

Steve was laughing too hard to come up with a coherent thought. Eddie looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole. Steve just splashed water at Eddie with his foot and said, “You’re all lucky I let you live here. I could’ve had peace and quiet. Instead I get you three idiots bickering and someone— someone — keeps stealing my good towels and leaving them on the bathroom floor.”

Robin raised her hand. “That was me. They’re softer than mine. Sue me.”

You leaned back on your elbows, the water lapping gently at your waist. “Speaking of stealing… Eddie, you owe Steve like six pairs of socks at this point. I saw them in your room.”

Eddie looked down at his feet in the water like he’d been caught. “They’re comfortable. And Stevie already stretched them out so they're perfect.”

“It’s theft,” Steve said, but he was grinning, the kind of grin that crinkled his whole face. “You know what else is theft? The last of the good cereal. I bought that box of Lucky Charms yesterday. It was gone by breakfast. I’m looking at you, Buckley.”

Robin didn’t even try to deny it. “I have no regrets. You can’t leave name-brand cereal in a house with three other people and expect it to survive. That’s on you, Harrington.”

The joint made another slow circle. You took a hit, passed it to Robin, and felt that warm, floaty buzz settle deeper into your chest. Everything felt good — the way the pool lights made Eddie’s wet hair look almost black, the way Steve kept bumping his knee against yours like he didn’t even notice he was doing it, the way Robin’s sarcasm had gone soft around the edges tonight. With the four of you the conversations could change on a dime but everyone kept up. You all loved each other.

Eddie paddled closer, resting his arms on the edge near your legs. “You know what I still can’t believe? That time Steve tried to make lasagna for all of us and used sugar instead of salt in the sauce.”

Steve groaned and dropped his head back. “It was dark! The containers looked the same!”

“It tasted like someone murdered an Italian grandmother,” Robin said solemnly. “I still have trauma. I had to wash it down with three beers just to be polite.”

You grinned at Steve. “And then you tried to fix it by adding more cheese and it just became… cheese soup with noodles.”

Steve pointed at you, mock-offended. “You ate three bowls. Don’t act like you weren’t into it.”

“I was high,” you said. “Everything tastes good when you’re high. That doesn’t make it good.”

Eddie cackled and flicked water at Steve. “She’s got you there, Harrington. Face it — you’re a menace in the kitchen. But we keep you around for the pool and the hair care products. Your shampoo collection is the only thing keeping this house from falling into complete chaos.”

Steve ran a hand through his wet hair on instinct. “It’s a routine you heathens. You wouldn’t understand. Some of us like to look like we didn’t just crawl out of a hedge.”

Robin leaned over and ruffled his hair on purpose, making it stick up in every direction. “There. Now you look like the rest of us. Welcome to the hedge club.”

Steve swatted at her hand but he was laughing again, that easy, bright sound that always made the night feel safer. The four of you drifted like that for a while — splashing each other lazily, trading stories about the ridiculous little disasters of living together, the past year. It's become something you never wanted to let go of. Your safe space in the chaos of the world.

Your skin was starting to prune. The high had turned everything warm around the edges. You felt loose and happy and stupidly fond of all of them.

Robin was the one who finally called it. “Alright, my fingers look like raisins and I’m pretty sure if I don’t eat something solid soon I’m going to start chewing on the pool noodles. Inside. Now.”

You pulled yourself up onto the edge, water streaming down your legs and bathing suit. Robin tossed you a towel. It smelled like Steve’s detergent — clean and expensive and somehow like home now. You wrapped it around yourself, goosebumps rising as the night air hit your wet skin.

Steve stood up, a little wobbly, towel slung around his neck. “Yeah… couch is calling my name. Just for a second. I’m good. I’m great. Not way drunker than I thought I was sitting down.”

Eddie climbed out after him, shaking his head like a dog and sending water flying. “Harrington, if you faceplant I’m not carrying you. You're gonna have to be an outside dog from now on.”

Steve waved him off, already heading for the sliding glass doors. “Yeah, yeah. Is the world spinning for anyone else?”

Inside, the house was dim and quiet. Steve made it three steps into the living room before the big sectional couch pulled him in like gravity. He dropped onto it with a heavy thump, one arm dangling off the edge, eyes already half-closed.

“Just… resting my eyes,” he mumbled. “You guys keep… having fun. I’ll be right…”

His eyes fluttered once. Twice.

And then he was gone — out cold, soft snores starting almost immediately, completely dead to the world.

Robin stared at him for a beat, then pressed both hands over her mouth to smother her laughter. “Oh my god. He didn’t even finish the sentence.”

Eddie leaned in the doorway in his low-slung towel, grinning wide. "Such a lightweight. Look at him. King Steve, defeated by vodka and like two joints.”

You stood there in your damp towel, water still dripping from your hair onto your shoulders, and felt that same warm, bright feeling from earlier swell in your chest. Steve, safe and passed out. Eddie watching you with that spark in his eyes. Robin already heading toward the kitchen with a mischievous little bounce in her step.

“Well,” Robin called over her shoulder, “since our fearless leader has officially tapped out… who wants to see if there’s any pasta left in the fridge? Or are we going straight for the liquor cabinet?”

Eddie looked at you, one eyebrow raised, smile slow and easy.

The three of you left Steve snoring softly on the couch and drifted into the dining room like it was the most natural thing in the world. The big wooden table still had a couple of chairs pulled out from earlier in the week when you’d all tried to eat a real meal together. Robin grabbed a fresh beer from the fridge and dropped into one of the chairs, kicking her feet up on the one next to her. You and Eddie stayed standing for a second, the wet ends of your hair still dripping onto your shoulders and the tops of your towels.

Eddie dug another joint out of the crumpled pack he’d left on the counter earlier and lit it with a flick of his lighter. The flame lit up his face for a second — sharp grin, dark eyes, water still clinging to his collarbones. He took a long pull, then passed it to you without a word. You leaned against the edge of the table and took your own hit, the smoke curling warm and familiar in your lungs. The high from the pool hadn’t fully faded yet— this one just layered on top of it, making the dim overhead light feel softer and the air between the three of you feel closer.

Robin twisted the cap off her beer and took a long drink. “God, work’s been so fucking weird lately. Jimmy's gone so it's just been me and Harrington running the show. Who decided that putting us in charge was a good idea? Dingus over there wouldn't know good music if it weren’t for us. He'd be playing ABBA all day and wonder why we'd get hate mail.”

You laughed, the sound a little looser than usual. “That sounds exactly like him. Just be glad you're not working under Keith anymore. Dude was a total fuckin' creep. Remember that time he tried to hit on Nancy and she brutally destroyed every bit of confidence he had left?”

Eddie chuckled from where he was leaning against the wall, joint between his fingers again. He wasn’t saying much — just chilling, listening, that lazy little smirk on his face like he was happy to let the two of you talk while the smoke curled around him. Every now and then he’d take a hit and pass it back to you, his fingers brushing yours for a second longer than necessary.

Robin groaned and took another sip. “And don’t even get me started on my mom. She keeps asking when I’m gonna ‘bring a nice boy around’ like I haven’t been gay as fuck my whole life. I told her I’m busy surviving the apocalypse and working, but apparently that’s not a good enough excuse.”

You took the joint from Eddie again, the paper warm against your lips. The high was settling deep now — that sweet, heavy feeling behind your eyes that made everything feel a little more honest. You exhaled slowly and looked at Robin across the table.

“Honestly? You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with any of that shit,” you said, the words slipping out before you could overthink them. “The last guy I was with was… god, he was bad. Like, aggressively bad. All confidence, zero skill. Kept asking if I was close. I had to fake it just to get him to stop. And then he had the nerve to look proud of himself after.” You shook your head, laughing a little even though it wasn’t really funny. “You’re seriously so lucky you don’t have to deal with that mess, Robin.”

Robin raised an eyebrow, but she was smiling — the kind of smile that said she knew exactly what you meant and was grateful she didn’t. “Yeah, well. That’s one bullet I’ve managed to dodge.”

You took another slow hit from the joint, then passed it back to Eddie. The question came out casual, curious, the kind of thing that only got asked when everyone was a little drunk and a little high and the house was quiet except for Steve’s distant snoring.

“Have you ever actually had sex with a guy?”

Robin made a face but didn’t look offended. She just shook her head. “Nope. Never.”

You tilted your head, genuinely curious now. “What about kissing? Have you ever kissed a guy?”

She snorted. “Yeah, duh. Had to pretend to be straight at some point, right? High school was a whole thing. There was this one guy who wouldn’t leave me alone until I let him kiss me at a party. It was… fine. Wet. Weird. I spent the whole time thinking about how I’d rather be anywhere else.” She shrugged, taking another drink. “But it got the job done. People stopped asking questions for a while.”

The room felt smaller suddenly. Warmer. Eddie was still quiet, but you could feel him listening — that sharp, attentive energy he got when something interesting was happening. He took a hit from the joint and held it, watching the two of you with dark, amused eyes.

You leaned forward a little, elbows on the table, the high making your voice come out softer and more honest than usual.

“Okay, but… if you had to have sex with a guy,” you asked, “who would it be?”

Robin didn’t even hesitate. She looked you dead in the eye, a little smirk tugging at her mouth, cheeks faintly pink from the beer and the conversation.

“Well, I only trust two guys,” she said. “And since Harrington’s passed out cold in the other room, I guess Munson would do.”

The words landed in the quiet dining room like a spark on dry wood.

Eddie let out a low, surprised laugh — not mocking, just genuinely caught off guard. Smoke curled from between his lips as he exhaled. “Wow. High praise, Buckley. I’m flattered. Truly. I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

You felt your own pulse pick up a little, the high sharpening everything — the way Robin was looking at you both, the way Eddie’s grin had gone a shade more dangerous, the distant sound of Steve’s soft snoring from the living room like he was still somehow part of this even while he was dead asleep.

Robin just shrugged, but there was something playful and a little charged in the way she held your gaze. “I’m just saying. If the world ended tomorrow and I had to pick… at least I know he might not be a complete disaster about it.”

Eddie took another slow hit from the joint, then held it out toward her like an offering, his voice low and teasing. “Careful, Buckley. Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

Robin rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she reached for the joint. “Don’t get cocky, Munson. It’s a hypothetical. And you’re the lesser of two evils right now.”

The air in the dining room had shifted — still light, still a little giggly from the drinks and the weed, but underneath it something warmer was humming. Something that felt like it could tip in any direction depending on what happened next.

Eddie’s eyes flicked to you for a second, like he was checking to see how you were taking all of this. His smile was easy, but there was a spark in it that hadn’t been there before.

The words hung in the air for half a second.

Robin’s answer — casual, a little smirk on her face, eyes flicking between you and Eddie like she was testing the temperature of the room. Steve’s soft snoring drifted in from the living room like background noise.

You looked at Robin.

She looked at you.

And there it was — that look. The one the two of you had perfected over the last year of living in this house together. The we’re about to do something really fucking stupid and we both know it look. Half challenge, half invitation. Your mouth twitched. Hers did too.

Eddie blinked between the two of you, brow furrowing. “Okay… what the hell is happening right now? Seriously. You two are doing that thing again. The creepy telepathic eye contact thing. I don’t like it when you do the creepy telepathic eye contact thing—”

Robin was already sliding out of her chair.

You met her halfway.

The second your mouths crashed together it was heavy. No hesitation. No testing the waters. Just the sudden, hungry press of her lips against yours, the sharp little inhale she took when your hands found her waist and pulled her in. She tasted like beer and the faint cherry of her lip balm and the weed you’d all been passing around. Her hands were in your damp hair immediately, tugging, angling your head so she could kiss you deeper, messier. The high made everything sharper and blurrier at the same time — the slide of her tongue against yours, the way her body pressed flush to you, the little sound she made in the back of her throat when your teeth caught her bottom lip.

You barely registered the dining room table behind you until your ass hit the edge of it. Robin followed, crowding between your legs, one hand braced on the wood beside your hip while the other slid up under the edge of your towel, palm hot against your still-damp skin.

Eddie made a noise like he’d been punched in the stomach.

“What the fuck,” he said, voice cracking in the middle. “What the hell is happening seriously. Is this— are you two— Jesus Christ, I’m right here. I’m standing right here. Harrington’s passed out in the next room and you two are just— okay. Alright. This is fine. This is totally fine. I’m not freaking out. I’m not freaking out—”

You broke the kiss just long enough to laugh against Robin’s mouth, breathless and giddy and a little wild from the high. She was laughing too, forehead pressed to yours for a second, both of you grinning like idiots who’d just decided to set something on fire for fun.

Then you turned your head, still half-tangled with her, and reached out.

Your fingers curled around Eddie’s wrist.

He looked down at your hand like it was a live wire.

“Come on,” you said, voice low and rough from the kissing and the smoke. You gave his arm a tug, already sliding off the table, Robin’s hand finding yours on the other side. “Bedroom. Now.”

Robin was still giggling as the three of you stumbled out of the dining room — her free hand grabbing the mostly-smoked joint and the lighter on the way past the table. Eddie let himself be dragged, half-protesting, half-laughing in that high-pitched, overwhelmed way he got when his brain was short-circuiting.

“I— you can’t just— what is happening right now,” he kept saying, even as he followed you down the hallway toward his room. “I was minding my own business. I was being chill. And now I’m being kidnapped by two extremely hot, extremely high girls who were just making out on Steve’s dining room table like it was a normal day—”

“Shut up, Munson,” Robin managed between laughs, shoving his bedroom door open with her shoulder. “Consider this your lucky day.”

You were both still giggling as you pulled him inside — the sound bright and stupid and full of that reckless, drunk-high energy that always seemed to hit hardest at three in the morning. Eddie’s room smelled like him— weed, old leather, that cologne he stole from Steve and never gave back. Posters on the walls, clothes on the floor, his guitar propped in the corner like it was watching.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Robin was still pressed against your side, her mouth finding the curve of your neck for a second just because she could. You were still holding Eddie’s hand, thumb brushing over his knuckles like you were grounding all three of you in the moment.

Eddie stared at the two of you, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, that wild grin starting to break through the confusion.

“Okay,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Okay. I’m listening. I’m extremely listening. Someone please tell me what the game plan is here before I have a heart attack in my own bedroom.”

You and Robin exchanged another look.

And then you were both laughing again — soft, breathless, already moving toward him like the night had always been headed exactly here.

Robin broke first, a soft, nervous giggle escaping as she looked at you. “Okay. So. We’re really doing this.”

You felt that same reckless, high-drunk spark from the dining room table flare hotter in your chest. You stepped in close to her, one hand sliding around her waist, and spoke low enough that it felt like a secret even though Eddie was right there.

“I’m gonna teach you how to give a blowjob.”

Eddie made a strangled noise from somewhere behind you. “I— what— teach—?”

Robin’s eyes flicked to him, then back to you. She looked a little dazed, a little turned on, a little like she couldn’t believe she was nodding. But she nodded anyway.

You turned to Eddie, who was still standing there looking like his brain had melted. His cock was already straining hard against the front of his swim trunks. You exchanged a silent look of permission with him, stepped right into his space, hooked your fingers into the waistband, and tugged them down in one smooth motion.

His cock sprang free — thick, ruddy tip, already leaking. Bigger than average. Heavy.

Robin’s eyes went wide. “Jesus Christ. Are they all that size?”

You wrapped your hand around the base and gave him one slow stroke, just to watch the way his stomach jumped. Then you glanced at Robin with a crooked little smile.

“Nope. I’m just as surprised as you are.”

Eddie let out a shaky laugh that turned into a groan the second you dropped to your knees in front of him. You didn’t waste time — you leaned in and took the head of his cock into your mouth, warm and wet, tongue swirling around the sensitive underside while your hand worked what you couldn’t fit yet. The taste of him, the weight of him on your tongue, the way his hand immediately found the back of your head like he didn’t know what else to do with it — it all hit harder because of the high. Everything felt magnified.

“Fuck— fuck—” Eddie’s voice cracked. He was staring down at you like you’d just personally rewritten the laws of physics. “Okay. Okay, this is happening. This is really— Jesus, your mouth—”

Robin watched, transfixed, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Her cheeks were flushed. After a minute she cleared her throat, voice a little hoarse.

“Can I… can I just start with a handjob? I don’t think I’m ready for the whole… mouth thing yet.”

You pulled off Eddie’s cock with a wet pop, lips shiny, and looked up at her. “Yeah. Come here.”

Robin knelt down beside you on the floor. She hesitated for only a second before wrapping her hand around him — tentative at first, like she was testing the heat and weight of him. Eddie made another broken sound above you both, hips twitching.

You covered her hand with yours.

“Here,” you murmured, guiding her. “Like this.”

You started slow — long, steady strokes from base to tip, your fingers curled over hers so she could feel exactly how much pressure to use. Eddie’s cock twitched hard in your combined grip, a bead of pre-cum welling at the slit. You used it to slick the way, dragging both your hands up and down in a smooth rhythm.

“See?” you said softly, close to her ear. “He seems to like it when you twist your wrist a little at the top. And you can use your other hand on his balls if you want — gentle, though.”

Eddie was losing his mind above you. One hand braced on the edge of his dresser, the other hovering like he didn’t know where to put it. His voice was wrecked.

“I— I don’t— what the fuck is my life right now— god, that feels— you two are actually going to kill me—”

Robin let out a shaky little laugh, but she didn’t let go. She was watching your hands move together over him, fascinated, biting her lip. The high made everything feel warmer, slower, more electric — the slide of skin on skin, the way Eddie’s cock pulsed between your fingers, the soft sound of his breathing breaking apart above you.

You kept guiding her, slow and patient, showing her how to stroke him just right while Eddie stood there completely at your mercy, confused and painfully, desperately horny, and very clearly not wanting any of it to stop.

The slow, guided strokes had Robin breathing a little harder. You could feel the shift in her — the way her grip got more confident under yours, the way she kept glancing at Eddie’s cock like she was daring herself.

Robin licked her lips.

Then she leaned in.

Her tongue dragged slowly up the underside of Eddie’s cock in one long, tentative stripe from base to tip. She made a soft, surprised sound at the taste and the heat of him, but she didn’t pull away. Instead she did it again, slower this time, like she was getting used to it.

You didn’t hesitate. You dipped your head right beside hers and followed.

The two of you worked him together — tongues sliding up the thick vein on the underside of his cock, getting him messy and wet. Saliva and pre-cum mixed as you licked over the same spots, sometimes your tongues brushing against each other in the process. Robin let out a shaky little laugh against his skin, and you answered it with one of your own before you both went back in, lapping at him like you were sharing something filthy and sweet at the same time.

Eddie made a sound like he’d been shot.

“F-fuck— fuck— you two— Jesus Christ—” His voice was wrecked, high and strained. One hand was white-knuckling the edge of the dresser so hard the wood creaked. The other hovered uselessly in the air like he was afraid to touch either of you in case he lost what little control he had left. His thighs were trembling. “I’m— I’m not gonna last if you keep— god, your tongues—”

You and Robin ignored the warning.

You met in the middle again, tongues curling against each other over the head of his cock before sliding back down together, coating him in shiny wetness. Then you were kissing — really kissing — right there on his dick. Mouths open, tongues sliding hot and slick against each other with the thick length of him caught between you. Every time your lips met you could taste him on her, and she could taste him on you. It was messy. It was obscene. It was so fucking hot you felt dizzy with it.

Eddie’s hips jerked forward without his permission. A broken, desperate noise tore out of his throat.

“I’m serious— I’m— fuck, I’m gonna come if you don’t stop— I’m trying— I’m trying so hard not to—” His voice cracked on a moan as your tongues met again over his slit, lapping up the fresh bead of pre-cum that had leaked out. “Please— Jesus, you’re both gonna kill me—”

Robin pulled back just enough to look up at him, lips shiny and swollen, a wicked little smile on her face even though her cheeks were flushed dark. She gave the head of his cock one more slow lick, then glanced at you like she was checking if you wanted to keep going.

Eddie looked like he was hanging on by a thread — eyes glassy, chest heaving, every muscle in his body locked tight as he fought not to come all over both your faces right then and there.

“Can I… watch you get fucked first?”

You were still on your knees, one hand loosely wrapped around the base of Eddie’s cock. You glanced up at her, a slow, wicked little smile spreading across your face.

“Only if you sit on my face.”

Robin’s eyes went wide for a second. Eddie made a noise like his brain had short-circuited again.

You didn’t wait for more discussion. You stood up, grabbed Eddie’s hand, and tugged him toward the bed with you. Robin followed, still looking a little stunned but not saying no. You crawled onto the mattress and laid back, legs spreading automatically as you looked up at both of them.

Eddie hovered at the side of the bed, swim trunks still around his thighs, cock flushed and shiny from both your mouths. He looked wrecked already — hair wild, eyes dark, chest heaving.

“Are you guys sure?” he asked, voice hoarse. “Like… we can stop at any point. This is— this is a lot. I don’t want anyone to—”

“Munson,” you cut in, staring straight at him, “if you don’t fuck me right now I’m going to be mad at you.” Your tone was light but firm. Then you turned your head toward Robin and patted the space above your face. “And Robin… come sit on my face.”

Robin hesitated. Her cheeks were flushed dark, one hand twisting in the hem of her swimsuit. She looked at Eddie, then at you, then back at Eddie like she was checking one last time that this was really okay. Eddie just gave her a helpless little shrug, like I have no idea what’s happening but I’m not stopping it.

She climbed onto the bed.

You helped guide her — hands on her hips as she swung one leg over your head and slowly lowered herself, pushing the gusset of her swimsuit to the side. The second her cunt brushed your mouth you licked up into her, slow and deliberate, and Robin made a soft, shocked sound above you, thighs trembling on either side of your head.

Eddie was still standing there like he couldn’t believe any of this was real.

You reached down between your own legs and peeled your bikini bottoms off. Y you looked at Eddie upside-down from between Robin’s thighs.

“Eddie.”

That was all it took.

He climbed onto the bed, shoved his trunks the rest of the way off, and lined himself up. The head of his cock dragged through your folds once, twice, collecting wetness, before he pushed in with one long, smooth thrust.

You moaned into Robin’s cunt.

Eddie groaned like he’d been punched. “Fuck— you’re so— god—”

He started fucking you in deep, steady strokes, hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. Every time he bottomed out you cried out against Robin, the vibrations making her gasp and rock down harder onto your tongue. She was watching everything — the way Eddie’s cock disappeared into you over and over, the way your tits bounced with every thrust, the way your mouth worked between her legs.

Robin leaned forward.

Her fingers found your clit and started rubbing in tight, desperate little circles, matching the rhythm of Eddie’s thrusts. The added stimulation made your whole body jerk. You sucked harder on her clit, tongue flicking fast, and Robin’s thighs clamped around your head as she moaned.

Eddie was losing it.

He was trying so hard to hold back, but between the way you felt around him, the wet sounds of you eating Robin out, and the sight of her fingers working your clit right above where he was buried inside you — it was too much.

“Fuck— I’m— I’m close—” he gasped. “I can’t— you feel too good— Robin, if you keep— shit—”

Robin rubbed your clit faster, leaning down so she could watch Eddie’s cock splitting you open while your tongue fucked into her. The angle let her grind down harder on your face.

You came first.

It hit hard — a full-body, shaking orgasm that made your back arch off the bed and your moan get muffled against Robin’s cunt. Your walls clenched tight around Eddie’s cock, pulsing hard, and that was it for him.

Eddie came with a broken, guttural sound, hips stuttering as he buried himself as deep as he could and spilled inside you. Thick, hot pulses that you felt with every twitch of his cock. He kept fucking through it in short, desperate thrusts, like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.

Robin followed right after — thighs shaking around your head as she came on your tongue with a soft, surprised cry, her fingers still moving on your oversensitive clit until the overstimulation made you whimper.

For a few long seconds the only sounds in the room were heavy breathing, the wet slide of Eddie slowly pulling out of you, and Robin’s shaky little laughs as she carefully climbed off your face.

Eddie collapsed onto the bed beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, chest heaving.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, voice completely wrecked. “What the fuck just happened.”

Robin was still catching her breath, looking down at both of you with wide, dazed eyes and a stunned little smile.

You just lay there between them, flushed and satisfied and still buzzing from the high.

The three of you were still catching your breath, bodies loose and warm on Eddie’s bed. Robin was the first to move, pushing herself up onto her elbows. Her hair was a mess, lips still shiny from where you’d had your mouth on her. She looked down at Eddie, who was flat on his back with one arm thrown over his eyes, his cock soft and half-hard against his stomach, shiny with a mix of your wetness and his own cum.

“So like—” Robin started, voice a little hoarse, “when your dick works again… can I try?”

Eddie dropped his arm and turned his head to stare at her like she’d grown a second head.

“When my— what the hell are you talking about, Buckley?”

Robin sat up a little more, tilting her head as she studied him with open curiosity. “Y’know… like when it gets all hard again like before. I wanna try. For real this time.”

You snorted, still lying between them, one hand resting on your own stomach. “I know a way we can get him hard again.”

Eddie lifted his head, eyes wide. “Hello? I’m— I’m right here, you menaces!”

You and Robin glanced at each other.

“Should we?” you asked, already smiling.

Robin hummed, pretending to think about it. “Hmm. Think we should.”

Before Eddie could get another word out, you rolled toward Robin and kissed her.

It started slow — lazy, post-orgasm kisses, your mouths moving together soft and wet. But it didn’t stay soft for long. Robin made a quiet sound and leaned in harder, one hand coming up to cup your jaw as her tongue slid against yours. The kiss got deeper, messier, the two of you making out right there on the bed like Eddie wasn’t even there.

Eddie made a wounded noise from beside you.

“This isn’t fair,” he complained, voice rough. “I want a kiss. I’m the one who just— I participated! I did labor! I deserve— hey— hey—”

You broke away from Robin with a grin and turned to him instead.

The second your mouth met his, Eddie melted. He kissed you back desperately, one hand sliding into your hair as he licked into your mouth like he’d been starving for it. You could feel him starting to twitch against your thigh already.

Robin watched for a second, then leaned in and nudged you aside so she could kiss him next. Eddie made another broken sound as she kissed him — slower at first, exploratory, then deeper once she got the hang of it. His cock gave a visible twitch against his stomach, starting to fill out properly.

You took your turn again, kissing him slow and filthy while your hand drifted down to wrap loosely around the base of his cock, giving him one lazy stroke. He was getting harder by the second.

“Fuck— you two are evil,” he muttered when you finally let him breathe. His voice was already wrecked again. “I was trying to be good and recover and now I’m— god— I’m hard again. This is your fault. Both of you.”

Robin glanced down at his cock, now fully hard and flushed in your hand, and bit her lip.

She looked back up at you, eyes bright and a little nervous but determined.

“So… can I try now?”

Eddie sat up a little, running a hand through his messy hair. His cock was fully hard again, resting against his stomach as he looked at Robin with that same soft, slightly overwhelmed expression he’d had since the dining room.

“Hey,” he said, voice gentle even though he was still catching his breath from the kissing. “I’m serious. You can stop at any point. Like… any point. You say the word and we’re done, no questions asked.”

Robin rolled her eyes so hard it was almost impressive.

“I know, Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “You’ve said it like six times already. I’m not gonna shatter.”

Eddie held his hands up in surrender, but he was still watching her carefully. “Okay. Okay. Just… making sure.” He hesitated, then asked, “Do you want to do it missionary? Or, like… any position you’re comfortable with.”

Robin made a face like he’d suggested they do it in the middle of the grocery store.

“Fuck no,” she said immediately. “I’m too shy to even talk at you right now, let alone look at you while you’re fucking me.”

Eddie blinked, then let out a short, surprised laugh. “Reverse cowgirl it is, then.”

You helped shift things around on the bed, moving pillows and making space. Robin climbed over Eddie’s lap, facing away from him — toward you instead. Her hands braced on your thighs for balance as she hovered over him. Eddie wrapped one hand around the base of his cock, the other resting lightly on her hip as he lined himself up.

Robin took a shaky breath, then slowly started to sink down.

The second he bottomed out inside her, her eyes went wide. A sharp, punched-out sound left her throat. She froze there for a second, adjusting to the stretch, fingers digging into your legs.

Eddie’s hands tightened on her hips. “You okay?” he asked immediately, voice low and careful. “Robin? You good?”

She didn’t answer right away, just breathed through it.

“Robin?” he tried again, a little more worried. “Hey, talk to me. You okay?”

Robin finally turned her head just enough to glare at him over her shoulder.

“Shut the fuck up, Munson,” she gritted out. “I can feel you in my throat.”

Eddie let out a startled laugh, the sound bright and relieved all at once. “Jesus. Okay. Noted.” He gave her hips a gentle squeeze. “Just checking. You’re calling the shots here.”

Robin took another slow breath, then rolled her hips experimentally. A tiny, involuntary sound escaped her when she felt how deep he was. She glanced at you, something between overwhelmed and determined in her expression, like she was still processing the feeling of being this full.

Eddie was still grinning, even as he stayed perfectly still beneath her.

“Guess I’m just a human dildo tonight,” he joked, voice warm and teasing. “At your service.”

Robin let out a shaky little laugh despite herself, still adjusting, still getting used to the stretch of him inside her. She hadn’t started moving properly yet — just sitting there, breathing, getting her bearings while Eddie waited patiently underneath her and you stayed close in front of her.

You could feel the tension in Robin’s body — the way her thighs were trembling slightly where they bracketed Eddie’s hips, the way her breathing was still a little too careful. So you leaned in and kissed her again, slow and grounding, one hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck. She melted into it almost immediately, some of the rigidness easing out of her shoulders as she kissed you back.

When you pulled away, she turned her head just enough and said, voice a little rough, “Eddie… start moving.”

Eddie didn’t need to be told twice.

He started slow, rolling his hips up into her in careful, shallow thrusts. Robin’s breath hitched, her hands tightening on your thighs as she adjusted to the feeling of him moving inside her. You stayed close, one hand sliding down between her legs to rub her clit in slow, steady circles with your thumb — matching the rhythm Eddie was setting.

Robin let out a shaky moan against your mouth when you kissed her again.

You didn’t stay up there long.

You broke the kiss and lowered yourself further, settling between Eddie’s spread thighs. From this angle you had a perfect view of where they were joined — his cock glistening as it slid in and out of her. You leaned in and dragged your tongue slowly over Robin’s clit first, then lower, licking along the base of Eddie’s cock and his balls on the next pass.

Robin clenched hard around him the second your tongue touched her.

“Fuck—” she gasped, hips jerking.

Eddie groaned, his hands gripping her waist tighter. “Jesus Christ, what did you just do to her?”

Robin let out a breathless, slightly unhinged laugh even as she rolled her hips down to meet Eddie’s next thrust. “She’s— fuck— she’s licking both of us. I can feel her tongue on your— god.”

Eddie let out a shaky laugh of his own, still fucking up into her in those deep, steady strokes. “You're so fucking tight Buckley. Pretty sure I'm going to fall in love with one of you after this.”

Robin reached down blindly and grabbed a handful of your hair, not pushing or pulling, just holding on as you kept licking — slow, deliberate strokes over her clit and the parts of Eddie’s cock that weren’t buried inside her.

“Shut up,” she managed, voice breaking on a moan when you sucked gently on her clit. “You’re— it feels like you're fucking me with your arm. H- How the hell do you walk around all day with— fuck— with that in your pants? Where the hell— Jesus Christ— do- do you put it?”

Eddie grinned, even as his breathing got rougher. “Y'know Buckley. That might be the nicest thing you ever said to me.”

Robin let out another shaky laugh that turned into a moan when you licked a particularly sensitive spot. “I hate you. I hate both of you. This is— fuck— this is your fault.”

“Pretty sure it’s your fault for asking if you could try,” Eddie shot back, voice strained but still teasing as he fucked her a little harder. “I was being a gentleman. You’re the one who decided to use me as a human dildo for kicks.”

Robin’s only response was a broken moan and another tight clench around him as your tongue worked between them.

Eddie groaned, head dropping back against the pillows for a second. “Yeah. Okay. Keep doing that. Both of you. I’m not complaining.”

Robin was breathing hard now, caught between Eddie’s cock and your mouth, her body starting to move more instinctively with every thrust. She was still holding onto your hair like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

The room was filled with the wet sounds of sex, Eddie’s low groans, and Robin’s increasingly desperate little noises every time your tongue dragged over her clit or Eddie hit a spot that made her clench.

Robin was getting close — you could feel it in the way her thighs were starting to shake on either side of Eddie’s hips, the way her breathing had gone ragged and uneven. You kept your mouth on her, tongue working her clit in tight, focused strokes.

Eddie was clearly struggling. His grip on Robin’s hips had gone tight, and his thrusts were getting a little less controlled, a little more desperate.

Robin must have felt it too.

She turned her head just enough to glare at him over her shoulder, voice breathless but sharp.

“If you cum anywhere near me, Munson, I’m going to murder you. I’m serious. I will actually kill you.”

Eddie let out a strained, half-laugh, half-groan. “Noted. Loud and clear. No coming near the lesbian. Got it.”

You pulled your mouth off Robin’s clit just long enough to speak, voice low and a little hoarse from how long you’d had your face buried between them.

“I’ll take it,” you said, looking up at both of them. “Cum on me. Face, tits, wherever. I don’t care.”

Eddie made a broken sound at that, hips stuttering for a second before he forced himself back into rhythm.

You went right back to work on Robin — two fingers rubbing tight and fast right where she needed it. Eddie kept fucking her through it, deep and steady, even as he fought to hold himself back.

Robin’s whole body went tight.

“Fuck— fuck— I’m—” Her voice cracked as she came, clenching hard around Eddie’s cock in rhythmic pulses. Her thighs shook on either side of your head and she grabbed at your hair again, holding on as the orgasm rolled through her. A broken, gasping moan tore out of her throat as she rode it out on Eddie’s cock.

The second she started to come down, Eddie carefully lifted her off him with shaking hands. His cock slipped free, shiny and flushed dark, and he barely had time to stroke himself once before he was coming from between her legs.

Thick ropes painted across your face and chest — hot and messy, landing on your lips, your cheek, and streaking down over your tits. Eddie groaned loud and broken as he came, hips jerking with every pulse, one hand braced on Robin’s thigh while the other worked himself through it.

Robin was still catching her breath above you, looking down with wide, slightly dazed eyes as she watched Eddie finish all over you. She let out a soft, breathless little laugh.

“Holy shit.”

Eddie was still breathing hard, staring down at the mess he’d made on your skin like he couldn’t quite believe any of this had actually happened. His cock gave one last weak twitch in his hand before he let go, slumping back against the pillows.

Robin carefully climbed off him and flopped down beside you on the bed, still flushed and breathing heavy. She looked at the cum on your face and chest, then at Eddie, then back at you.

“…Okay,” she said, voice a little shaky but amused. “That was… a lot.”

Eddie let out a weak, exhausted laugh from where he was sprawled out, one arm thrown over his eyes.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, it really fucking was.”

The three of you were sprawled across Eddie’s bed in a messy, sweaty pile. Robin was on her back beside you, one arm thrown over her eyes, still breathing hard. Eddie was half-sitting up against the headboard, looking thoroughly fucked-out and a little stunned. You were in the middle, cum cooling on your face and chest, the high still humming pleasantly under your skin.

Robin was the first one to break the silence.

“Wait—” she said, turning her head toward you and Eddie with genuine curiosity. “Is this what Steve’s is like? Has anyone here seen Harrington’s dick? Like… for science?”

Eddie let out a weak, disbelieving laugh, running a hand down his face.

“….Yeah, I don’t think you’re gonna be a lesbian anymore after this.”

Robin snorted, propping herself up on one elbow to look at him. “Nah. Still a lesbian. Have you seen how nice her tits are?” She gestured vaguely at your chest with one hand. “And she doesn’t have a dick that split me in half.”

Eddie clutched his chest dramatically, even as he was clearly fighting a grin. “Glad to know that I’m just an afterthought?”

You turned your head to look at him, still a little breathless, a lazy smile tugging at your mouth.

“If it makes you feel better… I’d have sex with you again.”

Eddie’s head snapped toward you so fast it was almost comical. His eyes lit up, that familiar cocky little smirk sliding back onto his face despite how wrecked he looked.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice low and teasing, “Is that an invitation?”

You let out a soft laugh, reaching over to wipe a bit of cum off your bottom lip with your thumb.

“It’s more of a standing reservation.”

Robin groaned and flopped back down, covering her face with both hands even as her shoulders shook with laughter.

“Oh my god. You two are actually disgusting. I can’t believe I let either of you near me.”

Eddie was still grinning at you, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who’d just been used as a human dildo and then immediately discarded in the rankings. He reached over and lazily dragged two fingers through the mess on your chest, smearing it a little before bringing his fingers to his own mouth and licking them clean with zero shame.

“Standing reservation,” he repeated, like he was tasting the words. “I like the sound of that.”

Robin peeked at him through her fingers. “You’re not allowed to do that Munson. It’s rude.”

“Rude is my brand, Buckley,” Eddie shot back, but his voice had gone softer, warmer. He glanced between the two of you, something fond and a little overwhelmed flickering across his face. “You two are gonna be the death of me. I hope you know that.”

You smiled, still loose and satisfied, and reached over to rest your hand on Robin’s thigh while your other hand found Eddie’s.

“Worth it though,” you murmured.

Robin didn’t answer right away. She just let out a long, dramatic sigh and turned her head to look at you, then at Eddie, then back at you again.

He straightened up and wiped his forearm across his brow, flashing you that shy, crooked smile- the same one he’d worn since you were fourteen and he was the weird kid in the back of the classroom with the loud music and the bigger heart than anyone ever gave him credit for. You’d never cared what anyone else said about him. Not once. And somewhere along the way, the two of you had fallen into this quiet, aching thing neither of you had ever named.

You felt it every time he looked at you too long. Every time his hand brushed yours and stayed. Every late night phone call that ended with both of you pretending you didn’t want to say more.

Now you were moving in together. Best friends. Roommates. What could go wrong?

The afternoon stretched out in cardboard and sweat and the low creak of furniture being dragged across old floors. Eddie did most of the heavy lifting without complaint, muscles shifting under that thin black tee every time he hoisted another box or piece of furniture. You handled the directions- where things went, how they should be angled, what came next.

And that’s when you started to notice.

It began small.

“Eddie, grab the box labeled ‘kitchen’ and put it on the counter for me?”

He was already moving before you finished the sentence. “On it.” He set it down carefully, then looked back at you, waiting.

You tilted your head. “A little more to the left. Yeah… there. Good.”

His ears went pink. He swallowed, throat working, and shifted his weight from one combat boot to the other. One hand dropped casually in front of his jeans, adjusting. You caught the motion but didn’t think much of it. Heat. Heavy lifting. Normal.

Then came the bookshelf.

“Slide it against the far wall,” you said, stepping back to watch. “All the way. A little more. Right there- perfect.”

Eddie did exactly as you told him, long fingers gripping the sides, rings flashing as he pushed. When it was in place he stayed bent over for a second, breathing harder than the effort really called for. When he stood, his cheeks were flushed dark, and the front of his ripped black jeans… wasn’t lying flat anymore.

Your stomach flipped.

You tested it again with the couch, voice steady even as your pulse started to climb.

“Grab that end. On three- lift. Good. Now back it up slow. Stop. Angle it a little to your left. Yeah. Push it in more. Right there.”

Every word landed like a touch. Eddie followed them like gospel, grunting softly with effort, but there was something else in the sound now- something tight and needy. When the couch was finally in place he stayed bent over it longer than necessary, head down, curls hiding his face. When he straightened, the bulge in his jeans was unmistakable. Thick. Obvious. Pressing hard against the worn denim.

He turned slightly, trying to angle his body away from you, but it was too late. You’d seen.

Your own body answered before your brain could catch up- heat pooling low and heavy between your legs, nipples tightening under your thin tank top, a slick throb that had nothing to do with the temperature outside.

Holy shit.

He was getting hard from this. From you telling him what to do. From following your directions like they were the only thing that mattered.

You kept going, voice a little lower now, curious. Testing.

“Bedroom next. Help me with the mattress. Center it on the frame. Make sure it’s straight.”

Eddie nodded fast- too fast- and disappeared into the small bedroom. You followed, leaning in the doorway as he wrestled the heavy mattress into place. Every adjustment you called out made his movements sharper, more focused.

“A little higher on the left. Shift it toward the headboard. There. Good.”

His breathing was ragged. When he glanced at you across the bed, his pupils were blown wide, dark eyes flicking down to your mouth and back up like he couldn’t help it. You watched the way his hands trembled just slightly when he tucked the fitted sheet at your instruction.

“Tighter on your side. Yeah. Pull it firm. Perfect.”

The word perfect made him shudder. Actually shudder. He bit his full bottom lip hard enough to leave a mark and kept his eyes on the mattress like it was the only safe thing in the room.

You stepped closer to help with the top sheet, both of you on opposite sides of the bed. The space felt smaller suddenly. Hotter. Every time your hands brushed his across the fabric, electricity snapped between you.

Eddie’s voice came out hoarse. “Like this?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Just like that.”

He made a small, broken sound- half groan, half something else- and quickly turned away again, but not before you caught the way his cock twitched visibly in his jeans.

The air between you was thick now. Charged. All those years of careful distance, of pretending the feelings weren’t there, and one afternoon of moving furniture had cracked it wide open. You could see it in the way he kept stealing glances at you, in the flush that had spread down his neck and under the collar of his tee, in the way he was failing to hide how turned on he was by every single direction that left your mouth.

You felt it too. The power of it. The way he responded to your voice like it was touching him. The old ache in your chest had twisted into something hotter, hungrier.

Eddie ran both hands through his curls, messing them up worse, and let out a shaky laugh that didn’t quite cover the roughness in his throat.

“So… uh. What’s next, boss?”

The word boss landed heavy between you. His eyes met yours across the half-made bed- dark, nervous, and so fucking turned on it made your knees feel weak.

You smiled slowly, heart hammering against your ribs.

This was only the first day.

And you were both already in trouble.

A couple of weeks had slipped by in that easy, familiar rhythm you and Eddie had always had- except for one very specific, very new pattern.

Every time you asked him for anything- “Eddie, can you pass me the remote?” “Hey, can you grab the mail on your way in?” “Would you mind moving that speaker?”- he did it instantly. No eye-rolls, no teasing, just that quick nod and a soft “Yeah, of course,” like your voice flipped a switch in him. And every single time, you watched the same thing happen- the tips of his ears going pink, the way he’d bite the inside of his cheek, the subtle shift of his hips like he was trying to hide exactly how much he liked being told what to do.

You hadn’t talked about it. Not yet. But it was there, humming under everything like a live wire.

Tonight the apartment was loud with laughter and the low thrum of music from Eddie’s old stereo. The whole crew had crammed in- Robin sprawled across the armchair with her legs dangling over the side, Steve and Nancy sharing the couch with Jonathan perched on the armrest next to her, Gareth and Jeff taking up the floor with a half-finished game of cards and a growing pile of bottle caps between them. Empty beer bottles and a couple of takeout containers littered the coffee table. It felt good. Lived-in. Like home.

Eddie was in the kitchen grabbing another round when you called out from your spot on the couch, voice easy and casual.

“Eddie? Can you grab me another beer while you’re in there?”

The effect was instant.

He froze for half a second, back to the group, then turned with that same eager little nod he’d been giving you for weeks now. “Yeah. Yeah, got it.”

When he came back a moment later, bottle in hand, his cheeks were flushed a warm, obvious pink that had nothing to do with the alcohol. His curls were a little messy from running his hands through them, and he wouldn’t quite meet your eyes as he handed the beer over- but the second your fingers brushed his, you felt the tiny tremor that ran through him.

Robin clocked it immediately.

She sat up straighter in the armchair, squinting at Eddie with a wicked little grin spreading across her face.

“Whoa, hold up.” She pointed the neck of her bottle at him. “Munson. Are you blushing right now?”

The room went quiet for half a beat, then erupted in laughter.

Eddie’s ears went from pink to full-on red. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying for his usual cocky smirk and missing by a mile. “What? No. It’s hot in here. You guys are like a bunch of space heaters.”

“Uh-huh.” Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyebrows raised in pure delight. “Sure, man. That’s why you practically sprinted to the fridge the second she asked. Real subtle.”

Gareth snorted into his drink. “Dude’s got it bad. We’ve been saying it for years.”

Jeff just shook his head, grinning. “Told you living together would break him.”

Nancy was smiling behind her hand, Jonathan chuckling quietly beside her. Robin, though- Robin was relentless, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“I’m just saying,” she continued, waving her bottle for emphasis, “I’ve known Eddie Munson since high school and I have never seen him move that fast for anyone. Not even when there’s free pizza involved. But you ask for a beer and suddenly he’s the Flash with a savior complex.”

Eddie dropped onto the arm of the couch next to you- close enough that his thigh pressed warm against your shoulder- and tried to hide behind his own bottle. “You’re all assholes,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it. Just that flustered, fond exasperation he only ever got around this group.

You took a slow sip of your beer, fighting your own smile. Under the table, your knee brushed his. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned into it a fraction, like he couldn’t help himself.

The teasing rolled on for another minute- Steve making whipped noises, Robin doing an exaggerated impression of Eddie’s eager nod- but it was all in good fun. The kind of ribbing that only happens when everyone already knows the truth and loves you both enough to say it out loud.

Still… there was something else in the air.

Every time you glanced at Eddie, he was already looking at you. Quick, heated little looks that he tried to play off as casual. His fingers kept drumming restlessly on his thigh, rings catching the low light. And when the laughter died down and the conversation drifted back to whatever story Gareth was telling, Eddie’s hand dropped- casual as anything- to rest on the back of the couch behind your head. Not quite touching you. But close enough that you could feel the warmth of his arm.

Robin caught that too. Her eyes flicked between the two of you, something knowing and a little softer in her expression now. She didn’t say anything else. Just raised her bottle in a tiny, private toast in your direction before turning back to the group.

The night kept going- more drinks, more stories, more laughter- but that underlying feeling never quite left. It sat low in your stomach every time Eddie shifted closer, every time he got up without you even asking to grab someone else a drink and still checked with you first, silent question in his eyes.

You need anything?

You didn’t say it out loud. But the way he kept looking at you said he already knew the answer.

And judging by the way his cheeks stayed faintly pink for the rest of the night, so did everyone else.

It was a completely normal night.

The apartment was dim, lit only by the blue glow of the TV and the little lamp in the corner you’d both forgotten to turn off. Some movie was playing- neither of you were really watching it anymore. You were curled up on one end of the couch in an oversized t-shirt and soft cotton shorts, legs tucked under a shared blanket. Eddie was on the other end, one arm slung along the back of the couch, wearing those loose gray sweatpants he always wore during lazy nights and a faded Dio tank top that had seen better days. His curls were messy from running his hands through them, and every so often his foot would nudge yours under the blanket like he couldn’t help staying connected.

It felt easy. Like it had always been meant to be this way.

You shifted, stretching your arms above your head with a quiet groan. “God, I’m thirsty. My mouth is so dry.”

Eddie didn’t even hesitate.

He was up and moving before the words had fully left your mouth, blanket sliding off his lap as he padded into the kitchen. You heard the fridge open, the clink of ice, the sound of water pouring. Thirty seconds later he was back, handing you a glass without a word- just that same quiet, eager look he’d been wearing for weeks now every time you asked for anything.

You took it, fingers brushing his. “Thanks.”

He dropped back onto the couch, closer this time. The movie kept playing, forgotten.

You took a slow sip, then set the glass on the coffee table. When you looked at him again, something warm and reckless settled in your chest.

“Good boy.”

The words left your mouth soft and deliberate.

Eddie froze.

A full-body flush ripped through him so fast you could see it- starting at his ears, flooding down his neck and across his chest where the tank top didn’t cover. His lips parted on a sharp, shaky inhale. And then you saw it- the way his cock twitched hard and obvious against the thin gray fabric of his sweatpants, thickening right there in front of you, the outline growing thick and heavy in seconds.

He made a small, helpless sound and pulled the blanket to his lap like he could hide it. Too late. You’d already seen the way he was getting hard just from those two words.

His breathing had gone ragged. He wouldn’t look at you, staring hard at the TV like it could save him, but his hips shifted restlessly and that flush kept spreading, down his throat, across his collarbones. The blanket was starting to tent now, and he was so visibly turned on it made heat pool low and aching between your own legs.

You didn’t look away.

Instead you leaned in a little, voice quieter but steady.

“Eddie.”

He swallowed hard. Still wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“Does me telling you what to do turn you on?”

The silence stretched. The movie kept playing in the background but it might as well have been on another planet.

Eddie’s hands clenched in the fabric of the blanket. His chest rose and fell too fast. You could see the war happening behind his eyes- the shyness, the years of keeping this locked down, the fear of ruining everything… and the way his body was betraying him completely.

Finally, he let out a shaky breath and nodded once, small and jerky.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice rough and low. “It… it does.”

He still wouldn’t look at you, but the admission hung between you like a live wire. His cheeks were burning. His rings clicked together as his fingers twisted in the blanket.

You could see how much it cost him to say it out loud. How long he must’ve been carrying this.

But he said it.

The word hung in the air between you.

Eddie’s chest was still heaving, that deep flush permanently staining his skin. He looked wrecked already and you hadn't even touched him.

You didn’t let the silence stretch.

“Look at me.”

His eyes snapped up to yours instantly. Wide. Dark. Nervous and so fucking turned on you could feel your soaked pussy clinging to the fabric of your underwear.

You leaned in a little closer on the couch, voice low and steady.

“Say it again. Tell me the truth.”

Eddie swallowed hard. He shifted his hips like he was trying to get comfortable and only made it worse- his cock twitched visibly.

“I… yeah,” he rasped. “It turns me on. When you tell me what to do. It’s- fuck, it’s been like this for weeks.”

You tilted your head, studying him. The way his breath hitched every time your voice dropped.

“Since moving day?”

He nodded, quick and jerky. “Since before that, probably. But that day… when you were telling me where to put everything. How to move the couch. The bed.” His voice cracked a little. “Every time you said ‘good’ or ‘right there’ I got hard so fast I thought I was gonna lose it. I had to keep turning away so you wouldn’t see.”

A slow, pleased smile curved your mouth.

“Good boy.”

The effect was instant and devastating.

Eddie let out a broken little moan- quiet, like he couldn’t stop it- and his hips jerked. His cock twitched hard. His thighs trembled.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You can’t just- say that. It’s too much.”

You ignored the protest, eyes locked on his.

“Take the blanket off your lap.”

He hesitated for half a second- just long enough for you to see the war in his eyes- then pushed it aside with shaking hands. Now there was nothing hiding him. The thick line of his cock was on full display, straining against the soft fabric, the head pressing insistently against it. He was so hard it had to hurt.

You let your gaze drag over him slowly, then met his eyes again.

“Tell me more. How long have you wanted me to talk to you like this?”

Eddie’s hands flexed on his thighs. He looked like he wanted to hide his face but couldn’t stop staring at you.

“Since… since we were kids, I think,” he admitted, voice low and shaky. “Not like this exactly. But I always liked when you bossed me around a little. When you told me what to do. It made me feel… safe. And then it started turning me on and I didn’t know what to do with it.” He laughed once, breathless and embarrassed. “I thought I was gonna ruin everything if I ever said anything. So I just… kept it quiet. But then we moved in and you kept giving me directions and I couldn’t hide it anymore.”

You reached out slowly and rested your hand on his knee. Just that. Nothing more. He still jolted like you’d touched him somewhere much more sensitive.

“Does it make you this hard every time?” you asked, voice soft but firm. “Every time I ask you for something?”

“Yeah,” he breathed. His cock twitched again at the question. “Every single time. Even when it’s small. Like getting you water or moving something. My brain just… goes quiet and all I can think about is being good for you. Making you happy.” His cheeks burned darker. “And then I get so turned on I can’t think straight.”

You squeezed his knee gently.

“Spread your legs a little.”

He did it without hesitation this time, thighs parting on the couch. The movement made his cock shift and strain even more obviously. The wet spot was bigger now.

You let the silence sit for a moment, just watching him squirm under your gaze, breathing hard, curls falling into his eyes.

Then you asked the next question, quiet and direct.

“Do you want me to keep telling you what to do, Eddie?”

His answer came out in a rush, like he couldn’t hold it back anymore.

“Yes. Fuck, yes. I want it so bad.” His voice cracked again. “I’ve been going crazy. Every time you say my name in that voice I get hard. Every time you tell me ‘good boy’ I feel like I’m gonna come in my fucking pants. I don’t even care how pathetic that sounds. I just- I like it. I like being yours like that.”

He was panting now. His hands had moved to grip the couch cushions on either side of his hips, like he was physically holding himself back from touching.

You could see how close he was already- just from talking, from obeying, from finally being honest.

The movie kept playing, forgotten.

The only thing that mattered was the way Eddie was looking at you now- desperate, flushed, hard and leaking and completely at your mercy.

And the way his voice dropped even lower when he spoke again.

“…What do you want me to do?”

You let the question hang for a moment, watching the way Eddie’s chest heaved and his cock throbbed visibly against the damp front of his sweatpants. He was already a mess- curls wild, cheeks flushed dark, lips parted around shaky breaths- and you hadn’t even touched him.

You leaned back against the arm of the couch, getting comfortable, and let your voice drop into that same calm, commanding tone that made his whole body react.

“Take your cock out.”

Eddie’s eyes went wide. For a second he just stared at you, breathing hard, like he needed to make sure he’d heard you right. Then his hands moved- trembling- and he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and pushed them down just enough. His cock sprang free, thick and long, already leaking steadily from the slit. It curved up toward his stomach, twitching the second the cool air hit it.

He didn’t cover himself. Just sat there, exposed, waiting for your next word like it was the only thing keeping him together.

You let your gaze drag over him slowly, then met his eyes again.

“Stroke it. Slow. And while you do, tell me what you’ve been thinking about. Every filthy thought you’ve had.”

Eddie wrapped his hand around himself with a shaky groan. The first slow stroke made his hips jerk and a thick bead of precum spill over his fingers. He started talking, voice rough and broken.

“I- fuck- I think about you telling me what to do all the time,” he admitted, eyes locked on yours like you’d ordered him to keep them there. “Every morning when you ask me to make coffee. Every time you tell me to grab something from the top shelf. I get hard in the middle of the fucking day just remembering your voice.” His hand moved in slow, desperate strokes, precum making everything slick. “I’ve jerked off in the shower thinking about you calling me good boy. About you making me kneel while you tell me exactly how you want me to touch you. About-”

He cut off with a whimper when you spoke again.

“Faster.”

He obeyed instantly, hand speeding up. His thighs were shaking now.

“Keep going,” you said. “Tell me more.”

Eddie’s head tipped back for a second before he forced himself to look at you again. His voice was wrecked.

“I think about you using me,” he confessed, the words tumbling out like he couldn’t stop them now. “Not just for sex. For everything. I want you to tell me how to make you feel good. I want to be the one who knows exactly what you need before you even ask. I’ve been going crazy wanting to take care of you like that. And the dirtier it gets the more I-” His hand stuttered on a particularly hard stroke and he moaned. “The more I like it. I want you to own me with your voice. I want you to ruin me with it.”

You watched him fall apart for a few more seconds- the way his stomach clenched, the way more precum drooled deliciously from the head of his cock, the way he was clearly fighting not to come just from talking and obeying.

Then you gave the next command.

“Stop touching yourself.”

Eddie whined- actually whined- but his hand froze immediately, gripping the base of his cock like he was physically holding himself back. His whole body was trembling.

“Please,” he breathed, voice cracking. “Please, I need- I need to make you feel good. Let me. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll use my mouth, my hands, whatever you tell me. Just- fuck, just let me take care of you. I’ve been dying to. Every night I’ve laid in my bed thinking about how good you’d sound if I was between your legs doing exactly what you told me to do.”

He was panting now, eyes glassy and desperate, cock still twitching and leaking untouched against his stomach.

“I want to be good for you,” he whispered, raw and honest. “I want to make you come so many times you forget your own name. I want you to tell me how. I want you to use me until you’re satisfied. Please. Please let me make you feel good. I’ll beg if you want me to. I’ll get on my knees right now. Just say the word.”

His voice broke on the last word. He looked completely wrecked and still waiting for your next command like it was the only thing that mattered.

The movie had long since ended. The apartment was quiet except for his ragged breathing and the low thrum of whatever was playing on the TV now.

Eddie swallowed hard, eyes never leaving yours.

You let the silence stretch, watching him tremble and leak and beg.

Then you spoke again, calm and clear.

“Get on your knees on the floor. Right in front of me.”

Eddie moved like the command was the only thing holding him together. He let go of his cock- it slapped wetly against his stomach- and slid off the couch. The rug was soft but still rough enough that you heard the quiet thud of his knees hitting it. He winced a little at the impact but didn’t complain. Now he was kneeling between your spread legs, looking up at you with those wrecked, hopeful eyes. His cock hung heavy and flushed between his thighs, still dripping onto the rug in little shiny droplets. The position made it hang lower, the head shiny and wet, a thin string of precum connecting it to the floor.

He was breathing through his mouth, lips parted, curls messy and damp.

“I’m here,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m on my knees for you. Tell me what to do. Please. I’ll be so good.”

His hands rested on his own thighs, rings glinting, fingers twitching with the effort of not reaching for you. His cock twitched every time you shifted even slightly. The smell of his arousal was stronger now, thick in the air between you.

You could feel your own body answering- the hot, slick ache between your legs, the way your shorts were sticking to you.

Eddie swallowed again, eyes flicking down to your lap and back up.

You reached down and ran your fingers through his hair once, slow and possessive, before gripping it lightly and tilting his head back so he had to look at you.

“Listen carefully,” you said, voice low and steady. “I’m going to tell you exactly how I want your mouth.”

He shivered, a soft whine escaping before he could stop it.

“Start over my shorts,” you continued. “Use your tongue flat and slow. I want to feel the heat of your mouth and the wet drag of your tongue through the fabric. Press in enough that I can feel it on my clit. Suck gently- not hard, just enough to pull the cloth against me. I want to feel how soaked the shorts are getting from your mouth and from me.”

Eddie’s breath hitched. His cock twitched hard, a fresh string of precum dripping from the tip onto the rug.

“Yes,” he whispered, already leaning in. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be good.”

He pressed his face between your thighs. The first touch of his tongue was hot and wet even through the thin cotton of your shorts. He dragged it slow and flat from bottom to top, exactly like you told him, the fabric growing darker and slicker with every pass. You could feel the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his tongue pushing the damp cloth against your clit, the way he sealed his lips and sucked gently- soft, rhythmic pulls that made the wet fabric cling and rub in the most teasing way.

A low, desperate moan vibrated against you. He was already lost in it.

You kept your hand in his hair, guiding him.

“Again. Slower. I want to feel every inch of your tongue.”

He obeyed instantly, tongue flattening and dragging with deliberate pressure. The wet sounds were filthy- the slick drag of fabric, the soft suck of his mouth, his own quiet whimpers. Your shorts were soaked now, both from his spit and the growing wetness between your legs. Every time he sucked, you felt it pull against your swollen clit.

Eddie’s hips were rocking helplessly in the air, his neglected cock bobbing and leaking. You could hear how worked up he was- the shaky exhales through his nose, the way his fingers flexed and clenched on his own thighs because you hadn’t told him he could touch you yet.

After a minute of that slow, torturous attention, he pulled back just enough to speak, voice hoarse and wrecked against your inner thigh.

“Please,” he begged, lips shiny and wet. “Please let me pull them down. Or to the side. I need- I need to taste you for real. It’s not enough. I can smell how wet you are and it’s driving me crazy. Please. I’ll still do it exactly how you say, I swear. Just let me feel your skin on my tongue. Please.”

You let him beg for another long moment, watching him tremble and leak and nuzzle desperately against the soaked fabric.

Then you gave the next command.

“Pull my shorts to the side. Now.”

His hands shook as he reached up, fingers careful as he hooked the fabric and tugged it aside, exposing you completely. The cool air hit your slick folds for only a second before his mouth was on you- hot, eager, and so fucking grateful.

A broken, overwhelmed sound tore out of him the second his tongue touched bare skin. He licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance up to your clit, tasting you properly for the first time. His moan was deep and filthy, vibrating right against you.

“Fuck- you taste so good,” he gasped against your pussy, voice thick with tears and arousal. “Thank you. Thank you for letting me- oh my god-”

You tightened your grip in his hair.

“Slow circles on my clit. Then suck. Exactly like before, but now on my skin.”

He followed every word like it was gospel. His tongue moved in slow, firm circles exactly where you wanted, then sealed his lips around your clit and sucked with that same gentle, rhythmic pressure. The wet sounds were louder now- the obscene slick of his tongue, the soft suction, his own desperate little moans. His face was already messy, chin and lips shiny with you. Every time he sucked, you felt the pull all the way through your body.

He kept thanking you between licks, voice muffled and worshipful.

“Thank you- thank you for letting me taste you- you’re so wet- so fucking sweet- please tell me if I’m doing it right- I’ll do it better- I’ll do anything-”

You could feel the orgasm building fast- the tight coil low in your belly, the way your thighs started to tremble around his head, the way his tongue and the filthy wet sounds and his desperate gratitude were pushing you right to the edge.

When it hit, it crashed hard.

Your back arched off the couch as you came, a gush of wetness flooding his mouth. You squirted against his tongue and lips, the hot rush of it making him moan so loudly it vibrated through your whole body. He didn’t pull away-  if anything he pressed closer, licking and swallowing like he was starving for it, messy and grateful and overwhelmed.

“Thank you- thank you- fuck, thank you-” he kept chanting between frantic licks, voice cracking, tears slipping down his cheeks as he drank you down. “Thank you for letting me have it- for letting me taste you when you come- you’re so good to me- thank you, thank you, thank you-”

He kept licking through it, slower now, gentle and reverent, cleaning you up with soft strokes of his tongue while he murmured broken thanks against your sensitive skin. His face was completely soaked, chin dripping, curls sticking to your thighs. His cock was still untouched and leaking steadily onto the rug, twitching every time you pulsed against his mouth.

Eventually he rested his cheek against your inner thigh, breathing hard, eyes closed, lips shiny and swollen.

He looked completely wrecked.

And still he whispered, soft and hoarse against your skin,

“…Thank you. For letting me make you feel good. I’ll do it again whenever you want. Just tell me. I’m yours.”

His cock gave another helpless twitch, still hard and aching between his legs.

He didn’t ask for anything for himself.

He just stayed on his knees, waiting for your next word.

“You were such a good boy for me,” you said softly, fingers stroking through his hair. “You deserve a reward.”

Eddie’s breath caught. His cock gave a hard, visible twitch.

You stood, took his hand, and pulled him up. He followed instantly, legs a little unsteady. You guided him back onto the couch and pushed gently at his chest until he was lying back against the cushions, legs spread, cock lying heavy and wet against his stomach. The tank top was rucked up under his arms, exposing his flushed chest and the rapid rise and fall of it.

You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. You were still soaked- your own arousal and his spit making everything slick. You reached down, wrapped your hand around his cock, and lined him up. Then you sank down in one slow, smooth motion.

The stretch was perfect. He was so hard, so hot, and he’d been leaking for so long that he slid in easily, but the tight, wet heat of you still punched the air out of his lungs.

“Oh- fuck- oh my god-” Eddie’s head slammed back against the couch. His hands flew to your hips, fingers digging in, rings pressing into your skin. “You’re so wet- so fucking tight- I can feel everything- thank you- fuck sweetheart- ”

You started to move.

Slow rolls of your hips at first, grinding down so your clit dragged against him with every pass. The wet sounds were shameless- the slick slide of you riding him, the filthy squelch every time you sank down. His cock was twitching inside you already, pulsing like it was trying to come from the first stroke.

Eddie was gone.

“You feel so good- I’m not gonna last- I’m sorry- I’m so sorry but you’re so warm and wet and I’ve been so hard for so long-” His voice was already cracking, words tumbling out between broken moans. “Thank you for using me- you’re so perfect- I love how you feel around me- I love being inside you- please don’t stop- please- I’ll be good- I’ll be your good boy-”

You picked up the pace, bouncing on him now, the couch creaking under you. Every time you dropped down he made the most desperate, overwhelmed sounds- high little whimpers and shaky gasps. His hands were shaking on your hips. Sweat was rolling down his temples and chest. His curls were a wild mess against the cushion.

“I can feel you clenching- fuck- you’re gonna make me come- I’m trying to hold it- I’m trying so hard but you feel too good-” His eyes were glassy, unfocused, locked on where you were joined. “You’re dripping down my cock- I can feel it- thank you for letting me have this- I’ll give you everything- anything you want-”

You could feel him throbbing harder, getting closer with every roll of your hips. His stomach was clenching, thighs shaking beneath you. He was babbling nonstop now, voice hoarse and breaking.

“I love you- I love being yours like this- I love when you use me- when you tell me what to do- when you ride me like I’m just here for you to feel good on- thank you- thank you for my reward- thank you for letting me come- I’m gonna- ah- I’m gonna-”

He came with a broken, sobbing moan, hips jerking up helplessly as he spilled deep inside you. Thick pulses of come flooded you, hot and endless, while he kept babbling through it, voice cracking and wet.

“Thank you- thank you- oh fuck- thank you for letting me come inside you- I’m still coming- I can’t stop- you feel too good- I love you- I love you so much-”

His whole body was shaking beneath you, eyes squeezed shut, tears slipping from the corners as the orgasm ripped through him. He kept twitching and pulsing inside you long after he should have stopped, overstimulated and overwhelmed, still whispering ragged thanks against your skin.

When it finally eased, he went boneless under you, chest heaving, face flushed and tear-streaked, lips parted around shaky breaths. His cock was still half-hard inside you, sensitive and twitching with every tiny movement you made.

Eddie looked completely wrecked.

And you loved every second of it.

You leaned down, kissed the tears off his cheek, and whispered against his mouth,

“Good boy.”

He whimpered again, soft and broken, and nuzzled into your hand like he could live there forever.

You stayed on top of him for a long moment, both of you breathing hard, his cock still twitching weakly inside you as the last aftershocks rolled through him. His come was already starting to leak out around where you were joined, warm and slick, making everything messy between your thighs. Eddie’s hands were still loosely gripping your hips, but his grip had gone soft and shaky.

You leaned down and kissed his forehead, then the corner of his eye where a tear had slipped free.

“Shh… I’ve got you,” you whispered.

Carefully, you lifted off him. He made a small, broken sound at the loss, but you didn’t go far. You grabbed the soft throw blanket from the back of the couch and guided him to lie down properly, then crawled in beside him, pulling the blanket over both of you. The couch was narrow, so you ended up half on top of him anyway- your head on his chest, one leg thrown over his, your hand resting right over his racing heart.

Eddie immediately curled into you like he was afraid you’d disappear. His arms came around you, strong but trembling, and he buried his face in your hair. You could feel how hard he was still breathing, the rapid thump of his heart under your cheek, the way little aftershocks kept making his stomach jump.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You just held him. Your fingers stroked slowly through his damp curls, untangling them gently. You traced the shell of his ear, the line of his jaw, the sweat cooling on his neck. Every so often you pressed a soft kiss to his chest, right over his heart.

Eventually his breathing started to slow. His grip on you loosened from desperate to something softer, more trusting.

You felt him swallow before he whispered, voice hoarse and small against your hair,

“…I’ve been in love with you since we were fifteen.”

The words came out shaky, like he’d been holding them in for years and they were finally too heavy to keep.

You lifted your head just enough to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes still wet, but he met your gaze without looking away.

“I used to tell myself it was just a crush,” he continued, barely above a whisper. “That it would go away. But it never did. Every time you smiled at me like I wasn’t the weird kid… every time you let me ramble about stupid shit no one else cared about… I fell a little harder. And then we moved in here and you started telling me what to do and it felt like something in my brain just… clicked. Like I’d been waiting my whole life for you to take control and I didn’t even know it.”

His voice cracked. He pressed his face into your neck for a second, breathing you in.

“I was so scared I’d ruin everything if I said anything. That you’d think I was gross or pathetic for wanting you to boss me around. For wanting to be good for you like that.” He let out a wet little laugh. “Turns out I’m both of those things and you still let me have you. I don’t know what I did to deserve that.”

You tightened your arms around him, one hand sliding down to rest on the small of his back, skin warm and damp under your palm.

“You’ve always been good for me, Eddie,” you whispered back. “Even before tonight. You’ve been my best friend. My safe place. And tonight…” You kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and slow. “Tonight you were perfect. I loved every second of it.”

He made a soft, overwhelmed sound and tucked his face into your neck again. You felt him press a shaky kiss there.

“I want this,” he whispered. “All of it. The bossing me around. The making me come so hard I cry. The holding me after. I want to be yours like this. Not just tonight. I want… I want to keep being your good boy. If you’ll have me.”

You pulled back just far enough to cup his face, thumbs brushing away the fresh tears that had slipped free. His eyes were so open, so vulnerable, it made your chest ache in the best way.

“I want that too,” you told him, voice steady and sure. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, Eddie. Life with you is easy. This- this is easy. The way you fall apart when I tell you what to do. The way you look at me like I hung the fucking moon when I call you good boy.” You smiled, soft and a little teasing. “I love taking care of you. I love that you trust me enough to let go like that.”

He let out a shaky breath that sounded like relief and pressed his forehead to yours.

“I trust you with everything,” he whispered. “Always have.”

You stayed like that for a long time- tangled under the blanket, skin cooling, hearts slowing down together. Every so often one of you would murmur something soft. You told him how beautiful he looked when he came, how proud you were of him for being so honest. He told you how safe he felt in your hands, how he’d never felt anything like this with anyone else, how he wanted to learn exactly what you liked so he could be even better for you.

At some point you got up just long enough to grab a warm, damp cloth from the bathroom. You cleaned him gently- between his legs, the mess on his stomach, the tear tracks on his face- while he watched you with soft, sleepy eyes. Then you cleaned yourself and climbed right back into his arms.

He pulled the blanket tighter around both of you and tucked your head under his chin.

“Can we stay like this for a while?” he asked quietly. “Just… hold each other? I don’t think I’m ready to move yet.”

You smiled against his chest.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “We can stay right here as long as you want.”

His arms tightened around you. One of his hands found yours under the blanket and laced your fingers together.

“I love you,” he said again, even softer this time, like a secret just for the two of you.

You squeezed his hand and pressed a kiss right over his heart.

“I love you too, Eddie.”

yes theres going to be more of these two hehe

He nods, "Yeah, just... I'm great."

He shifts in his seat a little when you edge your hand up higher.

"You sure?" You ask again, this time a little more menacing.

He looks at you and swallows, "I'm trying to do this. Like really trying."

"It's upsetting you, Jason. At some point, you've got to take a break and come back to it later." You say, hand not moving, as you completely mean what you say. It does no good to force yourself into studying when your head is full of shit.

"Didn't think it'd be this hard," He shrugs, putting the pen down and leaning back in the dining chair, "Makes me feel so fucking stupid."

"You're not stupid." You say firmly.

He looks at you and smiles – in a self-deprecating way, "Yeah, well. Feels like it."

You rub your thumb in circles over his upper thigh and he lets out a very small gasp. You tilt your head at him.

"What was that?" You smile.

He shakes his head, shrugging, "Don't know what you're talking about."

You bring your hand up further, closer to where you'd only ever used your hand. He jolts a little.

You smile, "Is it that?"

"You should... move your hand..." he exhales shakily, "We're... we're in a semi-public place."

"We're in Wayne Manor, and everyone's gone on a mission except you. We're basically in an indestructible, secluded fortress." You chuckle.

"Alfred's here somewhere." He says roughly as your hand comes up to his belt.

"Maybe I should hide under the table then?" You say playfully with a grin.

"What the fuck are you–" He pauses when he sees you slip under the table. Then feels you push between his legs.

"Just push the chair back a little for me," You say softly as you tap his legs.

"No, we can't just–"

"Push the chair back." You're not asking.

He sighs and pushes the chair back a little so you have more room, half under the table, half not.

You run your hand up and down his thighs, and he lets out a ragged breath, face going red as you look up at him.

"What's your... what's your plan here?" He asks quietly, almost out of breath.

You reach up for his belt and start undoing it; his hips twitch slightly, and you pause – "Keep those hips still for me." He nods, apologises under his breath as you undo the belt entirely and start unzipping his jeans. "Lift them for me?" You ask politely, and he does. You pull down his jeans. And you can tell he's worked up. His boxers don't hide it.

"Y-You... fuck..." He struggles for words; you smile.

"Stuttering baby?" You coo as you lift his shirt just enough to kiss the skin above his boxer's waistband.

He chuckles almost nervously, "Yeah... fuck... feel like a fucking idiot... shit..."

"Always so dominant out there in the field, huh?" You whisper into his crotch as you kiss the clothed tent of his boxers. "Didn't think I'd ever call the big bad Red Hood cute, that's for sure."

Another kiss, and he let out a soft noise which he wanted to die over.

"Mm... m'not cute..." He says, almost incoherently.

You pull down his boxers, and he lifts his hips without asking this time.

"Dunno, baby. Those noises are pretty adorable..." You grin, eyes on his and God, he looks so flustered. "Gonna keep making them for me?"

He bites his lip and nods, then you grab him softly in your hand and angle your head and kiss the base of his cock. He lets out another soft noise.

"Oh..." he sighs out.

You kiss up from the base to the tip and smile, "So good. You ready, Jason?"

He looks conflicted, "H-Honestly? I don't fucking know."

You tilt your head, hand still on the base of his cock, unmoving.

"What do you mean, baby?"

He shrugs, "Just feel like... m'gonna come really fast."

You smile, "That's okay."

You give two slow strokes, and he moans softly.

"J-Just... slow, please. So slow. Or I'll... ruin it."

You chuckle and nod, then lean forward and take him in your mouth slowly. He's big, so slow works for you just fine. He moans out louder and slaps a hand over his mouth.

You pull off him quickly, "No. No you're not gonna hide those sounds from me, baby..."

He looks down at you, desperate, in shock.

"But I'm gonna be so fucking loud? I can't... can't be quiet and... fuck, why am I being like this?" Jason asks, genuinely confused.

"Because it's new, baby." You say as you lower your head again to take him slowly.

He groans loudly. Low this time.

You bob your head up and down slowly. And he's just... he doesn't know what to do with himself.

"Oh, God... holy... mm..." He just cannot seem to shut up.

You keep moving your head up and down, slowly.

And it's only been about 3 minutes before his breathing picks up.

"Hey... h-hey, just give me a minute– holy fuckkk... mm... hey–" he moans loudly when you take all of him slowly, "Baby? If you stay there, I'll... I'll fucking – oh no... please... please..."

You then jerk your head back off him only to lunge it back down again and take all of him again and again and again – very fast.

He moans, and his legs are shaking; he's gasping, biting his lip to try and save himself the embarrassment of Alfred hearing him like this.

And he comes. A lot. Very warm. And when he does, he doesn't make a sound. You look up through your lashes and see him; he looks gorgeous. Silently gasping. Mouth open wide. Eyebrows furrowed before he throws his head back because he can't bear to look you in the eyes like this. It's like he's drowning in how good it feels.

You choke on the come flooding down your throat. There's so much of it that it's honestly overwhelming. You swallow it down, pull back and cough a little.

He finally starts breathing again, like he's come up for air. And he looks down at you.

"You... mphhfuck... you okay?" He says breathlessly.

You nod and chuckle, wiping your mouth with your hand as you start helping him get decent again.

Eventually, you slide out from under the table, and he has his eyes shut.

"Are you okay?" You ask with a smile. Now sat next to him again at the table, books still in front of you both.

He nods and looks at you, face still red. Breathing still a little uneven.

"Yeah, I'm... great." He nods, "Should... should get back to this though."

He gestures to the math work. You nod.

"Good break?"

He chuckles awkwardly, "Yeah, good fucking break."

People talked about love like it happened all at once. Like it was lightning. Like one look across a crowded room, and suddenly the rest of your life made sense.

Eddie Munson thought that was complete and utter bullshit.

Love wasn't lightning; it was erosion. The kind that wore you down one unnoticed glance at a time until one day you looked up and realized you'd built an entire religion around someone who didn't even know your favorite color.

Everyone knew you.

Not in the way they knew Jason Carver, Jason demanded attention. You never asked for it…it simply just followed you.

Teachers smiled a little wider when you answered questions. Freshmen gravitated toward you on the first day of school like frightened birds, somehow knowing you were safe.

It was infuriating. Not because Eddie disliked you. God, that would've made things so much easier, no. You were kind.

Genuinely, painfully, kind.

The kind of person who remembered birthdays without writing them down. The kind of beauty that had nothing to do with your face. Though...that certainly wasn't hurting anything.

You smiled with your whole body. Your shoulders, your eyes, even your laugh looked warm. Sometimes Eddie wondered if the sun waited for your permission before coming up. Which—

Jesus Christ.

See? This was exactly the problem. He couldn't even think about you without sounding like he'd swallowed a Hallmark card. He'd never even spoken to you. Well, not really.

Sure, there'd been little moments. A borrowed pencil sophomore year. A quiet "thank you" when he'd held a door open. Passing each other in the hallway enough times that nodding became an unspoken ritual.

But conversations? Actual conversations? Those belonged to people who lived on the same planet. You lived somewhere else entirely.

Some place made of honor roll certificates, volunteer hours, and Sunday mornings that probably smelled of pancakes instead of cigarette smoke.

Eddie had long since accepted that there were invisible lines running through Hawkins High. Athletes. Nerds. Burnouts. Band kids. Freaks. You somehow belonged to all of them, while he belonged to exactly one.

Hellfire. The trailer park. The people adults warned their children about. 

Wayne always said Eddie had expensive taste. Not in clothes or cars, but people.

"You always go lookin' at things that ain't yours to carry," Wayne had muttered once while Eddie admired an old cherry-red Gibson through a pawn shop window.

At the time, Eddie thought he meant guitars. Now he wasn't so sure. Because every morning, without meaning to, he'd find himself searching the parking lot before first bell. Just to see if your car was there.

And every afternoon, he'd linger exactly thirty seconds too long outside English because he knew your classroom was across the hall. Not enough to be obvious, just enough to catch one glimpse.

Then he'd spend the rest of the day pretending that was somehow enough, though it never was.

The thing about memories was that they lied. Or maybe they just... polished themselves over time.

Eddie couldn't remember what he'd eaten yesterday. Couldn't remember what movie he'd watched with Wayne the week before. But he remembered that afternoon, every stupid, humiliating second of it.

It had been almost exactly a year ago.

The last bell had rung, sending Hawkins High spilling into the hallways in a tidal wave of backpacks and locker doors slamming shut. Eddie had lingered by his locker, stuffing loose campaign notes into a folder while Gareth argued with Jeff about whether dragons were technically reptiles.

He never heard Jason coming. The locker door slammed shut before Eddie could grab it, the metal rattling loud enough to make nearby students jump.

"Well, if it isn't the freak."

Eddie sighed. "Christ, Carver. Don't you ever get tired?"

Jason leaned against the neighboring locker with that smug grin Eddie had grown to hate. Andy and Chance flanked him like loyal guard dogs, each wearing the same self-satisfied expression.

"Nah."

Jason reached out, flicking Eddie's shoulder with unnecessary force.

"I actually look forward to these little chats."

"I don't."

"Funny."

Another shove. Not enough to knock him down, but just enough to remind him who had thirty pounds and varsity sports behind him.

"You know," Jason continued loudly, making sure the people walking by could hear, "I heard you recruited another freshman into your little Satan club."

Eddie rolled his eyes. "You guys are really obsessed with us."

"Just looking out for the town."

Same script, different day. Eddie had learned years ago that fighting back only made it worse.

So he leaned against the lockers and waited for them to get bored. He almost missed the footsteps approaching.

"What are you doing?" Your voice wasn't loud.

Jason turned first. "So, this doesn't concern—"

"It concerns me now."

You stepped between passing students without the slightest hesitation, your backpack still hanging off one shoulder.

"Move."

Jason laughed. "Excuse me?"

"I said move."

Andy scoffed. "You serious?"

Without another word, you planted a hand square against Andy's chest and shoved him back just enough to force him away from Eddie. Not hard, but just enough to make it clear whose space he'd invaded.

Jason stared at you, his jaw tightening. "What the hell is your problem?"

"My problem?" you echoed. "Three against one seems pretty pathetic to me."

"We're talking."

"No." You folded your arms. "You were cornering him."

Jason took one step closer. "I'd be careful if I were you."

Eddie's stomach dropped.

But you didn't move. Hell, you didn't even blink.

Instead, one eyebrow lifted. "What?"

Your voice stayed infuriatingly calm. "You gonna hit a girl?"

Jason's expression hardened. "I didn't say—"

"No?" You tilted your head. "I mean... you've already got one thing in common with your father."

You paused, eyeing him up and down.

"It'd be a shame if you decided to copy the rest of his behavior too."

Jason's face went red. Not from embarrassment, but pure fury. The kind of fury that made his nostrils flare.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"No?" You shrugged. "Then prove me wrong."

For a moment...Eddie genuinely thought Jason might do it. Might shove you. Might yell. Might finally snap.

Instead, Jason looked around. He couldn't touch you, not here. Not with everyone looking.

Jason just clicked his tongue. "Whatever."

He shot Eddie one last glare. "You're not worth it."

Then to you, "Careful who you stick up for."

You smiled. "I'll keep that in mind."

Jason scoffed before turning on his heel. "C'mon."

Andy and Chance followed without another word.

Eddie realized he'd been holding his breath. "...Thanks."

You turned toward him. For a second, he thought you might say something profound. Something unforgettable.

Instead, you smiled; that warm, easy smile he'd only ever seen from across classrooms.

"Don't mention it." You adjusted your backpack. "See you around, Eddie."

Eddie? Not ‘Munson’? He thought. 

Then you just…walked away. Like standing up to Jason Carver was no bigger a deal than holding the door open for someone. Eddie watched until you disappeared around the corner.

He didn't realize Gareth had come back until someone elbowed his ribs. "Dude."

"Hm?"

"You okay?"

Eddie kept staring at the empty hallway. "...yeah."

A year later...Eddie could still tell you exactly where you'd been standing. Exactly what you were wearing. Exactly how your hand had looked when you shoved Andy away from him.

He'd spent three hundred and sixty-five days trying to convince himself it hadn't meant anything. That you would've done it for anybody. It was probably true. But God knows that didn’t help slow his crush on you down in the slightest. 

There was a reason Eddie loved the Hawkins Fall Flea Market. Sure, half the vendors were selling ceramic geese in tiny bonnets or dusty kitchenware that should've been thrown out sometime during the Nixon administration.

But every now and then...Someone's grandfather died, and suddenly there'd be a box full of first-edition fantasy novels.

Or vintage dice. Or a stack of Dragon magazines someone didn't realize were worth something. Treasure hunting. That's what Wayne always called it.

"You never know what you're gonna find."

Eddie had been elbow-deep in a cardboard box labeled COMIC BOOKS - 25¢ for nearly twenty minutes before giving up his search for anything remotely Dungeons & Dragons related.

No dice…literally.

With a dramatic sigh, he wandered farther down the rows of tents, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket as he smiled to himself. It wasn't exactly exciting, but it was comfortable.

He almost walked right past the record stand.

It was tucked between a vendor selling antique fishing lures and another covered in old comic strips and movie posters. Milk crates overflowed with vinyl records while wire racks displayed cassettes in crooked little rows.

Naturally...Eddie wandered over. His fingers skimmed over faded album covers. Thin Lizzy. Rush. Van Halen. Not bad. Then—

"...No way."

He hadn't meant to say it out loud, but there you were. Standing on the opposite side of the rack, your brows pinched together in concentration as you thumbed through a crate marked HEAVY METAL.

You wore an oversized forest-green sweater with the sleeves pushed over your hands, faded jeans, and beat-up Converse he'd never seen you wear to school. Your hair was tucked behind one ear as you carefully flipped through albums like you actually knew what you were looking at.

There was no universe in which this made sense. You belonged in the classical section. Or maybe folk, something acoustic. Not Iron Maiden. Motörhead. Judas Priest.

He blinked hard, almost thinking he was staring at a mirage. Nope, still there.

You looked up and caught him staring again. A smile spread across your face almost instantly.

"Oh." You laughed softly. "Hi, Eddie."

His mouth opened, but nothing happened.

"You... um..." Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. "You like... music?"

God, just bury him now.

Your smile only widened. "I dabble."

"I just..." He gestured helplessly toward the crate. "I wasn't expecting..."

"Me?"

He nodded.

"I wasn't expecting me either." You grinned to yourself before looking back down at the albums. "My dad's the reason."

"You've got a metalhead dad?"

"The biggest."

You laughed. "He swears everything made after 1984 is garbage."

"Smart man."

"I told him you'd probably say that."

Eddie's head snapped up. "...You've talked about me?"

The words escaped before he could stop them.

You looked equally surprised. "I..."

A tiny laugh escaped you. "I mean..."

You ducked your head for a second. "You know... around school."

Right, of course. Don't be stupid, Munson. The thought that your family even knew his name made something warm bloom in his chest.

You continued sorting through the cassette, then suddenly stopped.

"Oh."

Your fingers landed on one. Without hesitating, you slid it free from the rack and held it toward him. "I think you'd like this."

He looked down. Mercyful Fate.

Eddie stared at the cassette, then back at you. "You know Mercyful Fate?"

"I know enough." You shrugged. "My dad played this one so much I practically know it by heart."

Eddie took it carefully, almost afraid it'd disappear if he moved too fast. "You've heard this?"

"'Come to the Sabbath' used to scare me when I was little."

He barked out a laugh. "You've gotta be kidding."

"Nope."

"You don't exactly scream..." He motioned vaguely toward you. "...Mercyful Fate."

"And you don't exactly scream honor roll."

He blinked. "...Fair."

You smiled victoriously before turning back to the rack. After another moment of searching, your face brightened. "There it is."

You pulled out your own cassette. The Cure: Disintegration.

"See?" You held it up proudly. "I have range."

Eddie laughed. "I'll allow it."

"I appreciate your approval."

The older vendor wandered over. "You kids find everything?"

You nodded. "I think so."

As the man rang up your cassette, Eddie was still standing there holding the Mercyful Fate tape in both hands like you'd just gifted him the Holy Grail.

You paid, tucked the cassette into your canvas tote bag, and looked back at him. "I'll see you Monday?"

He swallowed. "...Yeah."

"Don't wait too long to listen to that." You pointed toward the cassette still in his hands. "I'd like to know what you think."

Before he could ask exactly how you planned to do that...you were already walking away.

You lifted a hand over your shoulder. "Bye, Eddie."

He watched until the crowd swallowed you whole. Only then did he glance back down at the cassette.

"You gonna buy it?"

The vendor's voice startled him. "Huh?"

"You've been holding it for five minutes."

"Oh."

Eddie looked down at the cracked plastic case, then toward the direction you'd disappeared. "...Yeah."

He smiled to himself. "I think I have to."

The cassette wasn't rare. He'd seen three copies of the same album over the last month. It wasn't even his favorite Mercyful Fate record. But this one? This one had your fingerprints on it.

By Wednesday, Eddie had listened to the Mercyful Fate cassette four times. Not because it had suddenly become his favorite album, it hadn't.

But every time King Diamond's voice crackled through the speakers of the van's cassette player, Eddie could picture your smile across that flea market record stand.

"I think you'd like this."

Wayne noticed by Tuesday night. "Ain't this the same tape you played yesterday?"

"...Maybe."

"You finally wear out your Sabbath tapes?"

"...No."

Wayne glanced over the rim of his newspaper. "...Girl?"

Eddie nearly combusted on the spot from how red his face was.

The cafeteria buzzed louder than usual as homecoming week had officially taken hold at Hawkins High. Construction paper streamers hung lopsided from the ceiling.

The student council had somehow convinced the administration to decorate every available surface in orange and green, making the cafeteria look like it had exploded.

Eddie hated it. He hated pep rallies, football, and he especially hated homecoming. And he especially especially hated listening to Jason Carver talk about the "spirit of Hawkins."

"So," Gareth said through a mouthful of fries, "we skipping the pep rally?"

"We're legally obligated to."

Jeff nodded solemnly. "It's in the Hellfire constitution."

Mike frowned. "We have a constitution?"

"We do now."

Laughter bounced around the table. Then Dustin elbowed Eddie. "Dude."

"What?"

"Twelve o'clock."

Eddie looked up. You moved from table to table carrying a thick envelope and a clipboard tucked against your chest. Homecoming tickets, of course.

You stopped at the basketball table first. Jason smiled, and you smiled back politely. Professional and nothing more. Then the band kids. Then the theater kids. Then—

Hellfire...and Eddie's heart immediately forgot how to function.

"Hi, guys."

You smiled at the whole table before your eyes landed on him.

"Hi, Eddie."

God. You always said his name like it belonged in your mouth.

"Uh... hey."

"So," you said, setting the envelope on the table. "I'm making my rounds."

You held up two small orange tickets. "Homecoming tickets. Five dollars."

Jeff snorted, Mike looked horrified, while Gareth dramatically searched his empty pockets.

"We're allergic."

"I figured."

Then you looked back at Eddie. "Oh."

Your smile softened. "Did you ever listen to the cassette?"

His brain completely abandoned him. "...Yeah."

"And?"

"It was..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "...Really good."

"'Really good?'" You looked mock offended. "I thought it'd at least earn a 'life-changing.'"

"I was trying not to sound insane."

"So you liked it?"

"I—" He smiled before he could stop himself. "...Yeah. A lot, actually."

"I knew you would."

Something warm settled in his chest. You knew. Not hoped, not guessed, knew.

Which is why, when he said, without thinking, "I'll take two."

Silence, which even made Eddie freeze. What?

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. "...Two?"

He stared at the tickets. Abort mission. Abort mission. FUCK! Too late.

"Uh..." His hand was already digging into his pocket. "Yeah."

He slapped a crumpled ten-dollar bill onto the table before his brain had the chance to intervene. "I'll take two."

You looked at him for a second longer than necessary, then the smallest smile tugged at your lips. Then, you handed him the two orange tickets. 

"Our music committee isn't nearly as good as Mercyful Fate."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"I'll see you around?"

"...Yeah."

You gave the table one last smile. "Have a good lunch, guys."

Then, you disappeared toward the next group of students, and the second you were out of earshot...

Five heads slowly turned toward Eddie.

"...What the hell was that?" Dustin snaps.

"What?"

"You hate homecoming."

"I don't hate—"

"You called it," Gareth interrupted, "'capitalist propaganda with crepe paper.'"

"I stand by that."

Jeff leaned across the table. "So why," he asked carefully, "did you just buy..."

He held up two fingers. "...two tickets?"

Eddie blinked. "...Did I?"

"You were there." Mike snorted. "I'm pretty sure you even paid for them."

Eddie looked down at the tickets in his hand as though they'd magically appeared there.

"...Huh."

Gareth burst into laughter. "'Huh?'"

"'Huh?!'"

"You bought two!"

"I know!"

"Do you?!"

Dustin reached across the table and plucked one from Eddie's fingers.

"'Homecoming Admission.'"

He looked around dramatically. "Guys. I think Eddie the Banished has suffered a traumatic brain injury."

Jeff nodded. "Only explanation."

"You've spent three years talking about how dances are government mind control."

"They are."

"So, who are you taking?"

Eddie opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Because...he hadn't thought that far. He hadn't thought at all. He'd just wanted another excuse or another thirty seconds of hearing your voice.

"...Nobody."

Five skeptical expressions. "Nnnoooobody?" Gareth echoed.

"Nope."

"So you just bought two tickets..."

"Yep."

"...For fun?"

"...Sure."

Mike deadpanned, "That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."

Dustin slowly smiled. "Oh."

"Oh no," Eddie muttered.

"Oh, no."

Dustin pointed across the cafeteria, where you were still making your rounds. "You bought two tickets because you're gonna ask her."

Eddie nearly choked on his Coke. "I am absolutely not."

"You absolutely are."

"I absolutely am not."

Jeff grinned. "Dude."

"You've been listening to that cassette all week."

"You don't know that."

"Wayne told my mom."

Eddie's head whipped toward him. "...Wayne, what?"

"My mom was at the trailer dropping off your uncle's casserole dish."

Jeff shrugged innocently. "He said—and I quote—'Boy's been playing the same damn tape for three days. Must be love.'"

The entire table erupted while Dustin pointed triumphantly. "Called it."

Eddie dropped his forehead onto the cafeteria table with a groan.

By the time Hellfire finished packing up their campaign books in the theater room, basketball practice had just let out. Which meant letterman jackets, inflated egos, and Jason Carver. Perfect.

Eddie spotted them before they spotted him, or so he thought.

"You boys have another séance today?"

Gareth groaned.

"Just keep walking."

That had been the plan. Until Tommy H stuck his foot out, and Gareth caught it too late.

His books were scattered across the pavement, dice bouncing in every direction. One tiny d20 rolled nearly twenty feet before coming to rest beneath a parked truck.

"Oh, my bad," Tommy said without sounding sorry in the slightest.

Gareth muttered a curse beneath his breath as he knelt to gather his things.

Eddie was already moving. "The hell's your problem?"

Jason shrugged. "Gravity."

"You tripped him," Eddie says, pointing between Jason and Tommy. 

"I don't know, Munson." Tommy grinned. "Looked pretty clumsy to me."

Jeff and Dustin immediately stepped toward Gareth, helping gather his books. Eddie stood between them and Jason.

"C’mon, man. At least pick on someone with a fighting chance."

Jason smiled as he chimed in. "I am."

The shove came so fast that Eddie barely had time to react, his shoulder slamming into the side of a parked car. The metal echoed.

"Jesus, fuck—" Eddie shoved him back, causing Jason's smile to disappear.

"Oh. There he is."

The first punch caught Eddie across the jaw, causing white to explode across his vision. He stumbled back, so Andy grabbed his jacket from behind. Then, Tommy landed one on his ribs. Someone else kicked the back of his knee.

Three against one, again. He heard Dustin yelling, Jeff trying to pull somebody off, and Gareth shouting Eddie's name.

"...Enough!"

Everything stopped as a familiar voice cut through the chaos like a knife.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Eddie blinked through blurry vision and saw you.

You were marching across the parking lot faster than he'd ever seen anyone move as your backpack swung wildly against your side.

Jason scoffed. "Stay out of it."

"No."

You shoved Andy away from Eddie so hard that he stumbled backward. "I said that’s enough."

Tommy laughed. "Oh, here comes Wonder Woman."

You ignored him completely. Instead, you crouched beside Eddie. "Are you okay?"

He tried to answer, but instead, blood dripped onto his shirt. Your face tightened as you looked back up to analyze the scene: three basketball players, one bleeding boy, and his friend's reactions somewhere between horror and panic. 

"You should be proud of yourselves."

Jason rolled his eyes. "He was acting insane. He pushed me for Christ's sake."

"That's bullshit."

Jason took a step closer. "What do you care?"

"I care because you three are acting like a bunch of fucking neanderthals. And for what? What the hell did he ever do to you?"

He laughed. "You really gonna defend this freak?"

You stood slowly until you were eye level with him. "I'm defending someone who can't fight three people at once."

Jason clicked his tongue. "You're wasting your time."

"No." You shook your head.

"You know..." You looked Jason up and down. "For someone who talks so much about honor..."

Your eyes drifted toward the gym. "...you sure need a lot of teammates when you throw a punch."

Jason's jaw clenched. "You should go."

"You first."

You kept your gaze fixed on Jason, putting on the best ‘don’t fuck with me today’ face you could muster.

His eyes dart between you and Eddie, a small and almost sinister grin forming. Then, he scoffed.

"C'mon. This freak show isn’t worth our spots in Friday's game.”

The last of the basketball team disappeared across the parking lot. Jason threw one final glare over his shoulder before climbing into Tommy's truck.

"...Jesus Christ." Your voice was barely above a whisper. Eddie looked up just in time to see you drop to your knees again beside him.

Your eyes darted over his face: the split lip, the scrape across his cheek, the beginnings of a bruise blooming beneath his eye.

"Dustin!" you called over your shoulder. "Go to the nurse's office!"

Dustin looked between you and Eddie before immediately taking off toward the school. "I'll get an ice pack!"

You nodded once before turning your attention back to Eddie. "Can you sit up?"

He managed a small nod even though every rib protested. You slipped an arm beneath his shoulder, helping him lean back against the brick wall of the school.

"So much for keeping your pretty face."

Eddie let out a weak laugh. "...Didn't know I had one."

You rolled your eyes. "Shut up."

Your backpack slid into your lap, frowning as you rifled through its contents. "No..." You dug deeper. "No..."

"Ah! There."

You pulled out an old black T-shirt, faded nearly gray with age. Eddie recognized the logo immediately: Iron Maiden, The Number of the Beast tour.

He blinked. "You just carry band shirts around for fun?"

"My dad leaves them in my car." You shrugged, "Guess they make good makeshift paper towels."

You hesitated. "Can I?"

He nodded before he even knew what you were asking. You folded the shirt into a small square before gently dabbing at the blood on the corner of his mouth; your touch was impossibly careful.

With your face inches from his, he’s embarrassed about how many times he imagined being this close more times than he cares to admit.

"You know..." You sighed, "...That was really stupid."

"Hm?"

"What were you thinking?" You wiped another streak of blood from his cheek. "There were three of them."

"They were picking on Gareth."

"I know."

"So..."

"So you decided to get yourself killed?"

"I wasn't gonna let them jump him."

"I know." You say with an exaggerated sigh.

You make another careful swipe of the shirt across his lip, "You don't always have to be the one who saves everybody."

He watched you instead of answering. Your brows were pulled together, bottom lip tucked between your teeth in concentration.

"Eddie?"

He hadn't realized he'd been staring. "What?"

"You okay? You keep looking at me and, like, zoning out. Do you feel dizzy?"

"Oh." His voice came out embarrassingly quiet, "Uh, no. Sorry."

"Oh." You reply, a tiny smile tugging at your lips.

“Huh?” He swallowed.

His brain screamed at him to say literally anything else. Comment on the weather. Ask about homework.

"I think I really like you."

You froze mid-wipe of his cheek, eyes quickly meeting his. 

Eddie groaned and closed his eyes. "Fuck—Forget I said that."

"Oh."

Fantastic. She sounds uncomfortable. Wonderful.

"I didn't mean—"

"No." Your hand gently caught his wrist before he could keep spiraling, "I just..."

He opened his eyes, and to his delight, you were smiling.

"I've been wondering how long that was going to take."

His eyebrows knit together. "...What?"

"I was starting to think you were never going to say it."

"...Say what?"

"That."

You laughed quietly. "I've liked you for over a year, Eddie."

His brain stopped. "No, you don't."

"I do."

"You can't."

"I can."

"You..." He searched your face for the joke, "You've liked me?"

"Since you helped that freshman find the theater room on the first day of school last year."

"...That's why?"

"You spent fifteen minutes walking him around the building."

"He looked lost."

"I know." You smiled, "That's kind of my point."

He stared, then laughed, a disbelieving and breathless laugh.

"I've spent an entire year convincing myself you were completely out of my league."

"I've spent an entire year waiting for you to realize I wasn't.”

His heart nearly flew out of his chest just then.

"But then..." You shrugged, looking almost sheepish. "You bought the second homecoming ticket, so I just assumed you found someone else to ask."

"...WHAT?"

The word exploded out of him so loudly that a flock of birds scattered from the nearby trees.

You blinked. "What?"

"No!" He sat up a little too fast before immediately grabbing his ribs. "Ow—Jesus Christ."

"Eddie! Jesus, would you calm d—"

"No, no, listen." He pointed emphatically toward the school. "I bought the second ticket because you were standing there."

"...I know."

"No, I mean—" He groaned. "I wasn't thinking."

"I've noticed."

"I just wanted an excuse to keep talking to you."

You stared.

"So my brain went..." He mimed throwing something across the parking lot. "'Buy two tickets.' But uh, I didn't have a plan after that."

A laugh bubbled out of you. "So..."

He continued, growing increasingly animated. "...then Gareth asks, 'Who're you taking?'"

"And?"

"And I realized..." He buried his face in his hands. "...I had absolutely no idea what I was doing."

Your shoulders started shaking. "Oh my God..."

"I panicked."

"I can tell."

"I said I bought them for fun."

"You told them..." you managed between laughs, "'for fun?'"

"I know!"

"That's the worst lie I've ever heard."

"I KNOW."

"They believed you?"

"They absolutely did not."

You laughed even harder, and he found himself laughing, too.

"I have spent," he said through a grin, "the last four days wondering who the hell I was supposed to ask because apparently I'd already committed."

Your laughter slowly faded into something softer.

"So..." You looked at him carefully. "...Who were you planning on asking?"

He gave you the most incredulous look. "You."

"Really?"

"You literally just admitted you thought I found somebody else."

"I know, but..." You smiled. "I wanted to hear you say it."

Eddie shook his head in disbelief. "You're evil."

"A little."

"You've been letting me suffer this whole time?"

"I thought it was kind of cute."

"Oh, that's cruel."

"It was a little cruel." You say, shrugging.

He smiles the biggest smile he can muster, considering the pain shooting through what feels like every inch of his body, and releases a deep sigh. 

"So..."

"So?"

He reached into the pocket of his denim vest, wincing as his bruised ribs protested.

After a second of fumbling, he pulled out the slightly crumpled orange homecoming ticket, holding it out between two fingers.

"I know this isn't exactly the most romantic timing."

You looked down at the ticket, then back up at him.

"But..." His smile turned nervous, "...would you maybe wanna go to homecoming with me?"

You could’ve just verbally said yes, but fuck that.

You broke the final inches of distance between you, your lips meeting his. He kissed you back instinctively, one hand finding your waist, smiling into the kiss. You smiled too.

"Hss—" Eddie jerked back with a sharp wince, immediately bringing a hand to his mouth.

"Oh, my God!" Your eyes went wide. "Shit! I'm so sorry!"

"No, no—" He laughed despite himself, carefully pressing two fingers against his split lip. "I just forgot I got punched."

"You idiot."

"Yeah..." A grin spread across his face, "...Worth it."

You rolled your eyes, but he caught the smile tugging at your lips.

"This time," you murmured, leaning closer again, "try not to throw yourself into it like you're storming a castle."

"I make no promises."

"I know." You cupped his cheek, much gentler now. "So let me."

This kiss was much slower; you barely brushed your lips against his at first. He practically pulled you into his airspace, completely ignoring any stinging sensation because, hell, he’d thought about this at least a thousand times. 

Afterward, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.

"I've wanted to do that," he admitted softly, "for... probably an embarrassing amount of time."

You laughed. "Me too."

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize your face. "So..."

"So?"

"Does this mean you'll go to homecoming with me?"

You pretended to think about it. "Hmm..."

"Don't do this to me."

"I suppose."

He let out the most dramatic sigh of relief. "Thank God."

Before you could tease him for it, he was kissing you again. His hand found your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your jaw as he smiled into it, and you smiled back.

Then you felt the subtle tension in his hand. The way his fingers tightened ever so slightly against your skin. The sharp inhale he tried, and failed, to hide.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. "You're hurting."

"I'm surviving."

"Eddie."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

He grinned, lopsided because of his split lip. "I've imagined kissing you about a thousand times."

You laughed softly.

"And not once did Jason Carver punch me beforehand."

You rolled your eyes, your thumb carefully brushing beneath the bruise blooming under his eye.

"You are unbelievable."

"I've been called worse."

"I'm sure you have."

His forehead rested against yours, his smile refusing to leave. "I don't think anything could ruin today."

"...Ahem."

The two of you froze and slowly turned your heads.

Dustin stood a few yards away, an ice pack dangling from one hand. He looked from Eddie to you, then to the fact that you were still sitting impossibly close together, practically entangled. 

A slow, knowing grin spread across his face. 

"...I guess you don't need that ice pack then?"

missed u guys sm:,) more coming soon, pinky promise <3

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Eddie’s eyes are roaming your body, your glistening bare skin, the skimpy bikini bottoms that are only held together by the strings on the sides, the little bow coming undone slowly. He kneels down before you, making a gasp fall from your lips when the water from his hair drips on your belly and his cold hands touch your hip, fingers reaching for the strings so he can fix the little bow. 

You open your eyes to find him looking down with a smug smile as he plays with the strings on your bottoms, re-tying it for you. Your breath hitches in your throat from the touch of his hand and the closeness of him, if you were to sit up, your noses would bump together but you stay in place, only pushing yourself up on your elbows. 

“I’m sorry, sweets,” he chuckles softly, taking his sweet time as his fingertips graze your bare hip, “didn’t mean to get you wet,” he smirks, a look of mischief flashes in his eyes as water continues to drip from his body onto yours. 

“Are you sure?” You challenge him the way you always do, blinking at him innocently as you bring your knees up higher and bite your lip, making him gulp and blush instantly. 

You always know how to break him. 

Eddie is oh so confident and flirty, throwing looks and comments your way that are a little too suggestive for someone who is considered a best friend, but the moment you join in on his game, even if only subtly, he turns into a blushing mess, no longer the confident, cocky guy he wishes to be. 

But even when he turns into this, blushing and nervous, you can still feel that one certain energy radiating off him and it makes you squirm, it fills you with curiosity and the urge to cross that invisible line, your deepest desires, the ones that are locked away begging to be released. You never let them, you never even looked or paid attention to what you really wanted or craved. You played his game, you flirted back, you teased him but you never admitted to yourself that there was… something. 

“Hm, no,” Eddie murmurs, suggestively. He ties the knot, strongly and then, he hooks his finger around the strap, he pulls it back and lets it snap against your skin, making you jolt in your place, a tiny gasp falling from your lips once more as a bigger smirk appears on his face. His eyes roam your body, he takes you in fully before he leans back and plops down on his own towel, laying down, he places his arm behind his head, closing his eyes to the sun, he lets out a sigh of contentment, acting as though he didn’t just touch you the way best friends normally don’t do. Asshole. 

“This is nice, I’m glad we came out here.” 

You hum in agreement, taking advantage of the fact that his eyes are closed, you allow yourself to take a closer, better look at the man who had become your best and closest friend. He is attractive, very handsome, you aren’t blind, you never have been but he is your friend, you never allowed yourself to look at him a certain way but lately it’s become harder to stay so… blind, to not let his lingering touches make you weak in the knees, to not let his comments fill you with giddiness, to not feel something when he holds you in his arms, when he plays with your hair or places his hand on your thigh when you’re in his passenger seat. 

You don’t know where this sudden change has come from, it’s always been that way with him, from the very beginning, he’s been touchy and affectionate with you but it didn’t always make you so excited, it’s been a recent development, something that Nancy and Robin teased you about, they saw your reactions whenever he kissed your cheek and called you pet names, whenever he walked into a room only smiling the moment his eyes would meet yours. 

You never noticed it before, the feelings he left you with after all his sweet gestures and touches, only when your friends had brought it up to you, leaving you a blushing and a confused mess, did you start to open your eyes… a little, and suddenly things started to change, your reactions to his comments, no matter if they are flirty or sweet, your reactions to his lingering touches, the way his fingers would play with yours, the way they would drum against your skin, so very close to the hem of your skirt or your shirt, the way he would tuck your hair behind your ear or wipe the foam off your upper lip after taking the first sip of your morning latte before taking his thumb into his mouth and licking it off, moaning while doing so – what was normal before, suddenly wasn’t anymore, everything he did, everything he does now drives you crazy and leaves you yearning for more but you never dared to be the one to take another step forward, to cross that daring line, to make the first real move. 

He is still Eddie, your best friend, your soulmate, the person you don’t want to lose, especially over something like this, over reading into something that might not be there, over losing control of your own feelings. After all, this could all just be a part of… him. Maybe it’s just who he is, affectionate, teasing, flirty, daring. Maybe he is like that with everybody, not just you. 

But maybe not, maybe you are the only one and maybe, just maybe he is waiting for you to be the one to make another move, to take another step, maybe he has been waiting, maybe he has been waiting for a while now. 

You bite your lips so hard, you almost rip the skin open, your eyes are glued to his form, to the way his chest rises up and down, his wet hair a mess around him, lashes fluttering as his eyes are squeezed shut, your fingers itch to touch the ink on his pale skin, you lick your lips as your eyes follow his happy trail, mouth watering at the way his swim trunks are so low on his hips, his bulge so… god, you need to stop – but how can you? Your best friend is just so pretty. And his hands are so big, fingers so long and you have felt them on your skin before but you would be a goddamn liar if you said you didn’t think about them in other places. 

Your cheeks heat up at your own thoughts, though it doesn’t stop you from daydreaming some more and the longer you do, the more you start to lose yourself in them, wondering about all the different what if’s, wondering what would happen if you just made the move your friends have begged you to make, to be more daring, to be more teasing, to break him enough for him to do something you both clearly want. 

A bravery you don’t usually have, surges through your body, taking over completely. The urge to tease him back the way he teases you is so strong, so before you chicken out, before you think too much and too long, you reach behind you, undoing the bow he tied on your bikini top, you turn away from him and take the skimpy black thing off, throwing it down next to you, the cool breeze kisses your skin and if Eddie opened his eyes right now, he’d be met with the sight of your bare chest. 

You press your lips together and turn around, flipping your hair over your shoulder, you lay down on your stomach, stretching your arms out and letting out a sigh of contentment. You turn your head into his direction but close your eyes, even though you’re dying to see his reaction to you being topless but you are trying to play it cool, like it’s nothing. 

Eddie peeks one eye open after listening to all your movement and he almost chokes on his spit when he does, jaw falling slack, both eyes shoot open as he takes in the sight of you, of the skin that wasn’t bare only seconds ago – how, when, what?

He blinks, eyebrows furrowed, lips parted as he is gawking at you, at the way your boobs are pressed against the towel beneath you, at the softness of your skin, at the single drops of water still clinging to your body that he wants to touch oh so badly, your hair looks so shiny and soft, your face so content as you lay half naked next to him. 

Eddie’s cheeks heat up when he realizes that he would have seen you bare if only he opened his eyes a few seconds sooner. He licks his lips, nearly drooling over the sight of you. Suddenly, his trunks feel tighter than before when his mind takes him to places he only reserves for late nights when he is all alone and not afraid to risk to pop a boner. 

He tries to look away, he really does but he can’t, not when you look this hot. He allows his eyes to roam again and it only makes his case worse, his breathing quickens, his skin heats up, his hands itch to touch your soft skin, his lips long to trail kisses down your body, to have a little taste of you. 

If you were his, he would, he would start on your neck and he would kiss down to your shoulder and then your back, and he’d take it lower and lower until his lips would reach those skimpy panties, he’d take them off and taste you the way he always dreamed of, he’d lick a stripe up your pussy, suck on your clit, eat you out like the starved man that he is and he would get lost in your moans and your whines, in the pleasure that only he could make you feel. 

Eddie clears his throat, he nearly curses when he feels his dick twitching in need of you. He clenches his jaw, even more so when he sees your lips twitching into a smirk. Oh… Oh. 

He raises his eyebrows in surprise, his breath halting for a moment when he realizes what you did, you did this on purpose, you aimed to tease him. 

It’s not exactly something new, you being a tease but you have never taken things this far, you have never stepped up to his level. 

But now that you did… he can take things further as well, right?

If you decide to tease him like this, then he will tease right back. 

He pushes himself up, adjusting his trunks, he nearly lets out a groan when you wiggle your butt a little, pretending to get more comfortable. 

He bites his lip as he looks around in search for the sunscreen you have brought with you, he finds the bottle peeking out of your bag. He presses his palm on the grass beneath him, leaning over your body to reach for the yellow bottle. 

“What’re you doing, Eds?” You murmur, rather seductively

A smirk tugs at Eddie’s lips, the tone in your voice tells him that you believe you are in charge here and… maybe you are, right now, but he won’t let you win so easily. 

He chuckles lowly when a gasp tears from your pretty lips after he squirts the cold cream on your back. 

“Don’t want you to get burned, sweetheart,” he whispers, closing the cap of the bottle, he throws it on the ground before he lays his palms flat against your hot skin, spreading the white cream all over your back. 

You grow flustered and you start blushing, your breathing gets heavier and you visibly gulp when he starts massaging the sunscreen into your skin. You suck in a sharp breath when his hands move up to your shoulders, gripping you there for a moment before he moves back down, the coldness of his rings making you shudder a little. 

Eddie can’t even hide the smug look on his face after feeling your reaction, pride swelling in his chest when you sigh so beautifully because of his touch. 

You easily get lost in this, eyelashes fluttering, soft breaths and sighs falling from your lips as his strong hands move up and down your skin, touching you in ways that make you squirm beneath him. 

“Feels good,” you whisper as you arch your back a little, not knowing that just a small movement like this is enough to drive him insane, once again. 

“Fuck,” he curses softly under his breath, he swallows harshly. 

“What was that?” You ask, not hiding the smugness in your voice, very well. 

“Nothing,” he lies, “nothing, sweets.” 

“You sure?” 

He hums, shaking his head at your teasing, at the way you think that you will win the game that he started. 

Eddie moves his hands down to your sides, making sure to get the cream everywhere, so you won’t get burned, of course. His fingers dip dangerously low to the side of your boobs, and while it was only meant to tease you, to get a reaction out of you, he realizes that it was a mistake, only a little too late – it only makes his case worse when he feels just how soft and smooth your skin is that is usually hidden under all your clothes, when he feels himself craving to touch a little lower, to feel more of you, to make you feel–

“Mmmh.” 

Eddie freezes, hands halting at your sides, his big brown eyes widen and his lips part once again, he stares at the back of your head, stunned. 

You moaned at his touch, whimpered even, making those butterflies in his stomach feel stronger than ever. 

“Why’d you stop?” You mumble, wiggling your butt as though to tell him to keep going. 

Do you even know the power you hold over him? 

Do you even understand what you do to him? 

Eddie bites his lip, he bites hard, hard enough to taste iron. He sucks in a sharp breath, biting back the growl that threatens to fall from his mouth when he adjusts behind you, the rough material of his swim trunks rubbing against his dick. He is fucking rock hard and if you only turned around to take a look at him, you would see it. 

“I’m sorry, got a little distracted,” he says lowly, voice getting a little shaky. 

He feels so hot, and it’s not the sun that is making him sweat, it’s all you. 

He can see the way your lip twitches, the way your dimple shows when you smirk at his words. 

“Oh? By what, the birds?” You giggle. 

He chuckles, shaking his head at your question even though your eyes are still closed. He takes a moment to look at your surroundings, at the beautiful scenery, the trees and the big lake in front of Steve’s cabin – well, his parents cabin. 

God, he wonders where this weekend will take him, you and him. 

A weekend you were both supposed to spend with your friends, turned into this. Just you and him, and no one else. 

It’s only day one, and you are already close to making him cum in his swim trunks, like some pathetic teenage boy who couldn’t handle his crush’s teasing or touching. 

This will either be the best weekend of his life, or this might kill him – if you are only teasing, then this will surely kill him but if you are not, then he owes your friends a lot, for pretending to be sick or busy. He knows that they were lying when Robin fake coughed on the phone after telling him that she couldn’t make it, that she and Steve couldn’t make it, cause he got sick too… apparently. 

And Nancy forgot that she promised to help her mom with something, and if Nancy couldn’t come, then Jonathan couldn’t either of course – which led to Argyle staying back as well, cause where would he ever go without his best buddy? 

Eddie looks back down at you, at his best friend, who is laying half naked before him so comfortably, teasing him so freely. Another sigh escapes your lips and you squirm beneath him once again. 

Yeah, no matter how this will end, you will be the death of him. 

“Yeah, the birds,” he mumbles, snorting at his own words. 

He leans down closer to you, squeezing your sides which makes you jolt a little, a giggle falling from your lips. 

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles, eyes lighting up at the sweet sound, “I forgot how ticklish you are,” he teases, as if. 

“Mhmm sure you did, Eddie.” 

With a mischievous smile, he decides to take his teasing further, playfully digging his fingers into your waist, he begins to tickle you, making you yelp and jolt in surprise as you start squirming beneath his touch, giggles now falling freely from your mouth as his name rolls off your tongue so effortlessly, awakening those butterflies in his stomach. God, he wishes he could make you call out his name in different ways. 

You jump up, with your arms covering your front, one hand pressing against your boobs, hiding only just a little as you turn to face your best friend. You watch the way his eyes widen as they instantly fall to your chest, lust flashing in them, jaw dropping as his cheeks redden right this second, his expression makes you giggle even harder, even more so when you push him back and he falls onto the grass, flat on his butt, wet curls hanging in front of his hair. 

Eddie is so stunned by you, he can barely move as he stares at you, at your half naked form. God, you are so beautiful it hurts. 

The afternoon sun begins to turn golden, kissing your glowy skin and all your curves, your hair cascades down your shoulders, your hand that barely hides anything pressing against your boobs, he wishes it was his own. Licking his lips, he pushes himself up on his elbows, letting his eyes roam your body, shamelessly, dreaming about the way he would love to get between those delicious looking thighs of yours, the way he’d kiss every inch of your body, leaving no trace unmarked, the way he would nuzzle his nose into your neck and inhale your sweet scent, not playfully the way he usually does, but with a trail of kisses that he would leave behind. 

He would worship you in ways he can’t even begin to describe. Oh, how often Eddie finds himself up at night, working on yet another song about you, thinking of words that haven’t been created yet, strong enough to describe you. 

He feels uncomfortable in his swim trunks that are getting a little too tight, his skin feels on fire, not from the sun but from you. He lusts after you, yes, but there is also more than that, so much more. It isn’t just the lust that makes these feelings so intense, it’s all his deepest feelings for you, feelings that only his notebook filled with song texts know about… and maybe your friends, who aren’t as oblivious as you are. 

“I’m gonna take a shower, and you should too,” your voice pulls him out of his thoughts. 

Eddie clears his throat, watching you get up, not bothering to pick up your top or your dress that you wore earlier, you simply keep your chest hidden by your right arm. 

“You’re helping me cook dinner,” you give him a pointed look before you turn around and begin to walk back to the house. 

Eddie smiles cheekily as he pushes himself up further, eyes glued to your butt now. 

“Are you telling me to get into the shower with you?” He calls after you, unaware of the butterflies that he caused in your stomach now. 

You don’t turn around, you keep walking, hiding the flustered expression on your face from him. You flip him off without looking back, biting back your smile when he laughs loudly. 

Eddie watches, craning his neck to see more of you, the way your butt jiggles as you skip up the stairs. He bites his lip, groaning at the sight of it. 

“Goddamn.” 

You will be the death of him.

-

It’s dark outside by the time Eddie comes out of the steamy bathroom, the cabin is mostly dark too, candles illuminate the living room and the sound of music fills the space. A smile lingers on his face as he makes his way down the hallway, his wet curls bouncing with each step that he takes, he throws on a clean shirt, his gray sweatpants hang low on his hips. 

A groan almost falls from his lips when he walks into the kitchen to you standing there in nothing but one of his shirts, now that sight is nothing new to him but it never fails to take his breath away, though usually you have on more than just the shirt. Your bare legs are glowy beneath the dim lights, from hours in the sun and that delicious smelling cream you always put on your skin after showering, you sway your hips to the music, shirt riding up in the process. Eddie can’t help but wonder if you are wearing any panties at all beneath his shirt. Fuck. He shouldn’t let his mind go there, you have done enough teasing for the day, he almost jerked off in the shower and maybe he should have, maybe that would have released some of the tension in him but he wouldn’t have been able to stay quiet, he never is. 

God, this really will be a long weekend filled with torture and teasing. He knows he should probably stop playing this dangerous game but he just can’t help but play into it. 

He slowly makes his way to you, you’re humming to the music, knife held in your hand as you cut up vegetables, an opened bottle of beer on the counter before you, your damp hair is braided loosely, falling down your back. He can smell your body wash from here, the sweetness of it – of you is so intoxicating to him, he wants nothing more than to wrap his arms around your waist, pull you into him and bury his face in the crook of your neck, inhale your scent and kissing your soft skin, he craves it so very badly, even more so, he craves for it to be something normal. 

Eddie wants you to be more than just his best friend. 

Everybody knows it, everybody but you. 

And maybe it’s better this way, maybe he would lose you if you did find out. 

You might be a tease, you might let him touch you in ways no one else is allowed to, you might give him hope sometimes, the hope that you could feel more than just something platonic for him but at the end of the day you are still best friends and he can’t lose that, especially not because he can’t control his feelings. 

Because what happens when you do find out and you don’t feel the same? 

What happens then? 

What happens if it drives you away? 

What happens if he loses you? 

And he can’t allow that to happen, he can’t lose you, not you, anyone but you. 

Eddie knows he should do himself a favor and stop being so touchy and affectionate with you, it does him no good, if anything, it makes him want you even more but he can’t help it, he has to take what he can get… right? 

He comes up behind you, snaking his arms around your waist, he breathes in your sweetness, chuckling when you tense up for a second before a cute giggle falls from your lips. 

“You scared me,” you whisper, tilting your head back, you look up at him as you ease into his touch. 

“Sorry sweets, didn’t mean to,” he murmurs, teasing you with that pretty smile of his as he snatches a piece of the cucumber you’ve been cutting and bites into it, winking at you as he steps away again and takes a look into the large pot on the stove. 

“Pasta?”

“Pasta Arrabiata,” you say, imitating the Italian accent that Steve always makes whenever he is cooking. 

Eddie chuckles, “wow that was horrible.” 

“Shut up,” you giggle, scrunching your nose at him. 

If you knew how his heart flutters at your laughter and at your cute nose scrunches. 

“Since when do we put cucumber in pasta?”

The disgusted look on your face makes him laugh again, he leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest as he eyes you up and down. 

“I’m also making a salad, it’s for you, you need to eat more veggies.”

His lips curl into yet another smile, warmth blooms in his chest. 

You take care of him, you always do. From making sure that he eats enough when he gets a little too lost in writing songs or working on campaigns to making sure that he wears a hat and a scarf when it’s cold outside, whether it’s something small or big, you are always there to look after him, you’ve always been there. 

“Alright, I’m eating the greens just for you, sweets.” 

He licks his lips as he eyes every inch of your exposed skin, tracing your soft features with the longing look in his brown eyes. The way his shirt looks on your body, the way your hair falls in front of your eyes despite you tucking it behind your ear just moments ago, the way you bite your lower up as you give him a disapproving look. 

“No,” you shake your head, pointing your knife at him, “you gotta eat them for yourself.”

“Are you threatening me?” He smirks, closing the gap between you both again, you instantly lower the knife and place it on the counter. 

You shrug, teasing him with a sweet smile, “what if I am?”

Eddie licks his lips, inching closer and closer to you, a smile tugs at his mouth, he hums as he raises his hand up to your face, combing his fingers through your wet hair before he tucks the fallen pieces behind your ear again. 

He is unaware of the effect he has on you, of the fluttering in your chest, of the burning in your skin, of the shaky breaths you suck in. 

“Then I think that’s really hot,” he winks at you as he moves his hand down your neck and then your shoulder, sliding it down along your spine, lower and lower until he’s holding your hip and pressing himself against you as he moves onto your other side, slower than necessary. 

Your lips part in surprise, every trace that he has touched starts to burn, your knees grow weak and your heart starts beating faster – how much longer can you deny the emotions he causes inside you?

“So, how can I help?” 

He is teasing you, you can hear it in his voice, and you don’t have to turn around to face him to know that there is a smirk on his face. 

“Set the table, pick a movie to watch later, dinner is almost ready.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs into your ear before he walks away without another word, giving you a moment to take a few deep breaths. 

You take a sip of your cold beer, closing your eyes for a moment, you listen to your beating heart, you feel the goosebumps on your skin, you feel the rush of blood to your cheeks, the weakness you feel for your best friend. 

How much longer can you deny what is really inside of you, that it’s not just physical attraction? 

Your heart flutters when his deep voice sounds through the dining room as he sings along to the music, your lips curl into an adoring smile. You can hear him rummaging through the drawers, trying to find the table cloth you assume. 

Picking up the knife again, you continue chopping your vegetables, finishing up on your salad, though you quickly get lost in this… domestic energy you both have created. It feels so warm, so safe, so familiar. A feeling you can’t imagine sharing with anyone other than your Eddie. 

He comes back into the kitchen, humming, he grabs two plates and cutlery and places them on the counter before he passes by you, without a teasing smile or comment, he places his hand on your lower back, he reaches over your shoulder to retrieve two wine glasses from the shelf and steps away again, leaving the kitchen once more. 

It all feels so natural, so normal and yet, it makes you struggle to breathe because the butterflies in your stomach go wild – just the way they always do, but now it becomes harder and harder to not pay attention to them. 

You take another deep breath, willing yourself to calm down, to push aside your feelings, to keep doing what you did before… be unaware of what is buried deep within your heart. So, you move along and distract yourself with finishing cooking dinner, not allowing your mind to take you further into this pit of hell as you call it, because that’s what love and feelings are, hell. 

There is no good in love, there is no peace in having feelings.

It’s a rollercoaster ride that ends no matter how long it lasts, pleasant or not, it ends. 

And you refuse to let feelings get in the way of yours and Eddie’s friendship, he means too much to you to risk taking a step further into something that your stupid heart desires, you love him too much to let your lingering feelings ruin what you both have, besides… who is to say that he could feel something for you? 

You are his best friend and he is yours, that’s all you’ve ever been and it’s all you’ll ever be, best friends, nothing more or less, best friends who are affectionate with one another, who tease each other, who sleep in each other’s arms and do things that other best friend’s might not do… Though when you step into the dining room with the heavy pot in your hands, you halt in your tracks, freezing at the sight before you. 

The table is set but not like usual, it makes you struggle to keep pushing away those feelings that have been sneaking their way to the surface because why did he place the plates so close to each other when the table is so big? And why did he place candles on the table and light them up instead of keeping the lights on? And why did he change the channel on the radio? Why is slow music playing instead of the rock channel he usually settles for when there is no better option for him? 

You can handle his teasing, you can handle his touching, his flirting, his suggestive comments and looks he gives you so often. 

But this is something else, this is something that would have normally made you run, a table set up so romantically, a dinner that seems to become something intimate. Yeah, if someone else had set this up, you would’ve definitely ran, you would’ve felt anxious, suffocated. 

Those feelings don’t exist with him though, it’s quite the opposite, even with the lingering fear inside of you for what you feel for him. You feel giddy. 

“Picked the movie, sweets,” Eddie calls from the living room, snapping you out of your troubled thoughts. He enters the room with a grin on his face. 

You clear your throat and finally take the final steps to the table, putting down the pot in the middle, you glance at your best friend. 

“Yeah? What’d you pick?” 

“Something neither of us have seen yet,” he winks at you, moving closer and closer until he is right in front of you again. He grabs the chair and pulls it back, gazing down at you with his dark eyes, “sit.”

“I gotta get the rest of the food–”

“I’ll get it, now sit down, princess,” he murmurs. 

Whenever his voice gets so low, your knees feel like they’ll buckle at any moment, shivers run down your spine and your cheeks grow hot. 

“Alright,” you chuckle, plopping down on the wooden chair, you gaze up at your best friend, batting your eyelashes at him. 

Eddie sucks in a sharp breath, there is not much you have to do to drive him crazy. 

“Smells really good in here,” he comments, the mouth watering smell of pasta sauce and garlic bread makes his stomach growl. 

“Thanks Eds, now get the rest of the food before it gets cold.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he winks at you, squeezing your shoulder before he turns around and makes his way out of the room and into the kitchen. 

You take a deep breath when he’s gone, rolling your shoulders and trying to calm your nerves, your heart is racing and it makes you feel ridiculous. You are here with Eddie, your best friend, Eddie. You got nothing to feel nervous about, you’ve been here plenty of times before, at dinner alone with him… though, it was never like this, you never had candle light dinners with slow music playing in the back. And his touches, his smiles, his voice never drove you this crazy before, he never made your heart flutter, his hands never made your skin feel hot, he never made you feel like you’d fall to the ground because your knees felt like jelly, he never made you feel those things before until recently… or did he? 

“I’m starving,” Eddie says dramatically as he places the salad bowl and the garlic bread on the table. Before he takes a seat, he opens the wine bottle and reaches for your glass, he glances at you as he starts pouring it in your glass, he notices your flushed cheeks and how fidgety you are in your seat as you eye him up and down, it makes his heart flutter. 

“We can’t have that,” you chuckle, reaching for his plate, you start filling it with salad first to which he protests, claiming that it will only make him starve even more. “You need some healthy food!”

“Not too much of it though,” he shakes his head as he lifts the lid of the pot, inhaling with a smile on his face, “I need that.” 

Your giggle makes his smile widen. 

“Alright.”

“You know I love your pasta,” he grins as he watches you fill the plate. 

“That’s Steve’s pasta,” you chuckle. 

“Nah, that’s his recipe, you cooked it,” he retorts, tilting his head to the side, “besides, you do it better.”

Warmth fills your chest and your cheeks, your smile gets even bigger now. 

“Don’t tell him that! He’ll be distraught!” 

“Don’t worry, it’s our secret,” he mumbles with a grin on his face as he finally takes the seat across from you, taking the plate from your hands when you hand it to him with a soft ‘thank you’. 

He waits for you to fill your own plate before he picks up the fork or even takes a sip of the wine you picked when you went grocery shopping together this morning. He leans back and takes a look around, your surroundings are so different than usual, so unlike the small apartment he recently moved into where you eat your dinners at his tiny kitchen table. He appreciates the home cooked meals you always bless him with and the way you always want to take care of him, it makes him feel warm, it makes him feel safe. 

Eddie wants to do the same for you, he wants to make you feel the way you make him feel but he believes that he can’t measure up, that he can’t give you what you give him, that he can’t provide you the same feeling of safety or warmth and maybe that is the sole reason why he hasn’t made a move on you yet, not because he is scared of ruining your friendship – god, he wants to ruin it so bad. But because you deserve more than he can give you, you deserve this, a big house with a stupid fireplace, a big garden, stability, someone who can take care of you, someone who can give you more than a small, shitty apartment, someone who can give you more than just the flowers he gives you or the pastries he brings you when you’re taking your lunch breaks at work. 

Yeah, your friendship is very precious to him, he is scared of losing you, every goddamn day he wonders if this will be the day where you don’t show up for him but it isn’t the reason for his lack of effort in fighting for what he actually wants, it’s the fact that he believes that you deserve better than him, someone less like him, someone more like… Steve. 

So he settles for loving you from afar, he tries to spoil you, he tries as best as he can. He teases you whenever he gets the chance to, he becomes giddy when you react to it, when you blush and giggle or even tease him back the way you did today, it sparks something in him, maybe it’s confidence or maybe just an illusion that you could feel the same, whatever it is, he basks in the feeling in those moments. 

His eyes soften and the beating of his heart becomes stronger as he watches you, the way you dig your teeth into your bottom lip, the way your beautiful eyes shine in the dim light, the light flush in your cheeks making you look so damn cute, the way your smile only widens when you glance at him, a small huff falling from your mouth. 

“What are you looking at?” You tease, putting down your plate before you. 

You. 

He always looks at you. 

Eddie knows he won’t have this forever, someday you will meet someone who will give you everything that he wishes he could, someday he won’t be the one sitting across from you enjoying your dinner, someday he won’t be the one in your life. 

“At your shirt, is it new… or?” He teases, acting like he didn’t just get lost in his head, thinking of your future that he might not be a part of. 

You look down at his shirt, smiling proudly, you stole it from him the last time you stayed over,  “mhm got it from this store called the drawer.”

Eddie snorts, though he adores the look on your face, “you’re so lame, the drawer? Really?”

“Mhmm,” you nod, picking up the fork you start eating happily. 

“Who sold it to you?” Eddie asks, squinting his eyes at you. 

“Oh, this uh… really handsome guy, said he’s in a band, corroded coffin?” You raise your brow, pretending to think. “Yeah, that’s what it was.”

Eddie’s stomach flips in excitement at the compliment. You’ve called him handsome plenty of times before, but it never fails to make him blush. 

“Damn, he sounds really cool,” Eddie says, laughing. 

You nod, a serious and adoring look now flashing in your features, no hint of amusement behind those eyes, no teasing, just pure adoration for him, “he is, he is the coolest actually.”

He gets flustered easily when he’s with you but when you look at him like this, with that sweet smile and those soft eyes, he doesn’t know what to do with himself, he doesn’t know what to say or how to act, so he hides his face by looking down at the delicious food in front of him, a sheepish smile resting on his face, one that makes your own even bigger. He finally takes a bite of the pasta and his eyes instantly close as he moans at the taste of it, making you giggle yet again. 

“Fuck me, yeah I’m sorry sweets, but I ain’t letting you get married, you’re stuck with me,” he jokes as he takes another bite, completely forgetting about all the anxious thoughts that swirled in his mind just moments ago. 

“Oh, you mean I’m stuck being your private chef?” 

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

You raise your eyebrows at him, chewing on the garlic bread slowly, you try to ignore the heat building up in your stomach as you look into his chocolate eyes, waiting for him to say that word.

“Oh, then what would you call it?”

Eddie looks at you through hooded eyes, a teasing smirk tugging at his plump lips.

“Housewife.”

A surprised giggle falls from your lips, though your cheeks start burning, especially under his gaze. Something tugs at your chest, something strong, something warm. Housewife. You never craved to be that, you never had such desires. Sure, you always dreamed of finding the one, finding true love, finding someone who will love you the way you can love, the way you always wished to love but that’s it, you never imagined yourself past the dating stage, you never daydreamed of weddings and a husband, you never thought of becoming a wife, a housewife at that but… when you think of yourself as that with Eddie by your side, with your best friend, with the one who had always been by your side through thick and thin, something in you beats a little stronger. 

You clear your throat, lowering your gaze to his ringed fingers, you can’t help but let your mind take you to sacred places. 

Eddie watches you intensely, eyes lighting up at the flustered state you are suddenly in, a state he only ever sees you in when he teases you with touches, with pick up lines, with his flirtations but never this. There is a little spark in him now, the sparkle of hope. 

“Well that would make you my husband.” Your voice is shaky, filled with nerves and something else that he can’t decipher at this moment. 

Oh, Eddie would put a ring on your fingers right this second. 

He never really planned his future, he never really saw one, especially not one in which he would be happy with a wife and kids by his side but he would be lying if he said that he doesn’t want these things with you. You make him crave things that were never even a thought of his before he met you, you make him want to be that for you, a husband. 

He doesn’t believe that he can give you what you want, what you need, what you deserve but he knows one thing for sure, if he was given the chance, he would make you so damn happy. 

“Would that be so bad?” 

You look up again and into his eyes, something in them is different now, something in the way he looks at you is so… intense and raw, there is a softness in them, one stronger than usual. 

Would that be bad?

You shake your head before you can even come up with the right words to say, or with words you should say. Something has changed, perhaps a long time ago or just now, but you know one thing for sure, your heart never beat this strongly before and your hands never itched to touch his so badly. 

You know the truth is hidden behind the walls you have put up, but that wall started crumbling a long time ago, long before you had the chance to even notice. 

The energy in the room has shifted into something more… intimate and it’s not the candles or the music, it adds to it, but those aren’t the main reasons, it’s the energy you both have created, it’s the lingering touches, it’s his foot touching yours under the table, not playfully like usual, it’s different, it’s all so different but it’s good. A comfortable silence takes over the room as you continue eating and as the seconds and the minutes pass, and you both sip on your wines, pouring a second glass, you both get a little bolder when the alcohol hits you. 

Your hands inch closer and closer to each other, your eye contact becomes a little more intense, making your breathing stutter and your heart skip several beats. 

And when he is done with his food, he pushes his plate aside and leans his elbows on the table, he clears his throat and takes a deep breath and then, he brushes his fingertips against your own before he envelopes your hand fully, taking it into his large one. 

You can’t describe the feelings rushing through you, he held your hand plenty of times before but until now, you never let yourself feel the rush of it, you never allowed yourself to pay attention to the electric feeling cursing through your veins but you allow it now, slowly… you allow it. 

“They’re really missing out, aren’t they?” You speak the first words that come to your mind as you stare into your best friend's beautiful eyes. 

Eddie looks around the dining room, shrugging when he looks back at you, his eyes roaming your face, his lips curl into a smile. 

“I don’t know, I kinda like it just being the two of us, we never really get the chance to be alone like this.”

You nod in agreement, “that’s true, I like it too,” you murmur before you reach for your glass and take a big sip of wine. 

“More wine and weed for us,” Eddie jokes, wiggling his eyebrows at you. 

You roll your eyes playfully, setting the glass back down, you tilt your head to the side, “speaking of weed, wanna roll us a joint?” 

Eddie doesn’t want to let go of your hand just yet but he nods, he could use that relaxation anyways, maybe it will calm his nerves around you before he does something that he might end up regretting later on. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna clean this up first.”

You shake your head, “no, I can do it–”

“Sweetheart,” Eddie says sternly, glaring at you, “I know I said housewife, I hope you know that doesn’t mean slave.” 

You can’t help but giggle at the seriousness on his face or in his voice, “Eddie, I hope you know that that’s exactly what most men think of when they want a housewife.” 

He frowns in disgust, scoffing at that, he begrudgingly lets go of your hand and pushes his chair back. 

“Well, most men are pigs who don’t even deserve a wife in the first place,” he says, getting up, he glares at you and points at you to stay seated. “You don’t have to do all the work, you cook, I clean up, it’s simple.”

A smile graces your features, you tap the table before you reach for the wine bottle, pouring yourself a third glass, “well then, whatever you say, husband,” you giggle and get up as well, holding your hands up in surrender when he gives you a warning glance, “don’t worry, I won’t lift a finger, I’m gonna grab my wine and wait for you in the living room.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie murmurs as he gathers the dirty plates, “sit your pretty ass down.” 

You definitely feel the wine in your system now, that fuzzy feeling and the slight dizziness feels so welcoming though. 

“Yes, sir.”

Before Eddie can stop his mouth from running, those words tumble out of his mouth just like that. 

“Good girl.” 

You nearly choke on your spit and trip over nothing, his words rush right to your core, your cheeks start burning hotter than before. 

Good girl. 

He called you a good girl, with that raspy, deep voice of his that never fails to make your insides crawl with need, that never fails to ring through your head when you’re in your bed with your hand between your thighs, imagining him and his voice calling you just that. 

You don’t know how you manage to keep your composure but you do, only allowing a soft giggle to leave your lips as you continue your way out of the dining room and into the living room, you round the corner and rush to the big couch where he luckily can’t see you, your knees almost buckle before you can even take a seat. 

You close your eyes and sigh out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Pressing a hand to your chest, you nearly gasp at the beating of your heart. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper to yourself. 

Eddie will be the death of you, you are sure of it, if not tonight then tomorrow, and if not then, then on the last day of your trip. 

The veil that was hiding all your truths was already being lifted when you were still in Hawkins, slowly everything was coming out, all the feelings you were denying, all the things you were so afraid of admitting, you lost control and power a long time ago. The moment Robin opened her eyes to what was there this whole time, the moment she confronted you about your feelings for him was the moment you could no longer hide. The veil is no longer there, it’s long gone and lost with the wind. 

You run your fingers through your hair and lean back into the soft cushions, taking a big gulp of the red wine that will surely give you a headache tomorrow morning, you keep your eyes closed for a moment, you begin to curse her out in your head because all your reactions to his words and touches just now only confirmed all her beliefs. 

Fuck Robin for saying all that shit to you that changed your feelings and opened your eyes completely, a month ago. Fuck her for telling you that you indeed have feelings for Eddie, for your best friend. Fuck her for making you start realizing it and be self conscious for it. Fuck her for making you feel scared of losing Eddie because of it. 

“Fuck,” you whisper to yourself, you open your eyes and look around the lightly dimmed room, you take in the sound of Eddie’s voice, of his humming to the music, of the way your heart flutters more and more. 

You are so fucked. 

You will ruin the friendship, you are sure of it. 

If only you knew that this is exactly what he wants. 

You keep yourself busy with your wine glass, staring into blank space as you continue letting your thoughts eat at you, letting the insecurities and the doubts creep in, when all you want to do is get lost in the feeling of what he gave to you at the dinner table, just moments ago. 

You are so lost in your head, you don’t even notice the music being turned off, you don’t even hear his footsteps or his voice until he is standing right before you after throwing a bunch of different snacks on the coffee table. 

“I know the munchies are gonna hit you,” your best friend chuckles as he finally sits down beside you, joint already between his fingers, lighter on the coffee table. He turns to you, wiggling his eyebrows at you as he offers you the joint. 

Yeah, maybe this will help, maybe this will relax you enough to get a grip on yourself again, maybe this will stop you from doing something that will make you regret. 

Your heart, your body, everything in you seems to be sick of living in denial though because before your mind can kill this moment, you are already moving forward, looking into his eyes, you lean down, closer and closer, you wrap your lips around the joint that is still snug between his fingers. 

The widening of his eyes, the parting of his lips, snaps you out of whatever had possessed you, though not enough, not even in the slightest. 

You raise your brows at him expectedly, waiting for him to light up the joint for you. 

The flush in his cheeks, the rosy color taking over his face, his squirming makes satisfaction rush you. 

You were teasing him all morning, all afternoon and every time you added one more, you wanted to risk more, but now things just have gotten out of hand, you got lost in your own little game and you let your feelings, your desires take full control of you. 

Poor Eddie doesn’t know what to do with himself as he looks down at you, if it wasn’t for the alcohol in his system, he would lose all composure and stutter like a little kid around his crush. He manages to reach for the lighter and he never looks away from your pretty eyes or your lips, or the shirt that keeps riding up on your thighs, a little more and more. 

He lights the joint and he is surprised when you don’t look away, when your eyes stay locked with his and a satisfied moan escapes you – only worsening his case. You inhale deeply and furrow your eyebrows in concentration, a lazy smile spreads on your kissable lips and you lean back further after blowing out the smoke. You bring your knees up to your chest and hand him the joint. “That’s nice,” you sigh out in pleasure, “I needed that.” 

“You’re starting to sound like an addict,” Eddie smirks, hiding his blushing cheeks behind his curls as he takes the joint from your fingers and places it between his lips, unaware of the way you follow his every movement as he gets comfortable beside you, resting his feet on the table, he stretches his arm out and wraps it around the headrest behind you. 

“What… movie did you pick out?” You ask him and he doesn’t even notice your stuttering or the way your eyes are glued to his exposed skin as his shirt rides up, exposing his happy trail. 

Eddie shrugs, reaching for the remote, he glances at you, “I dunno, one of the movies Steve recommended we should watch.” 

“Oh?”

“Mhmm,” He nods and presses play before he throws the remote on the coffee table, “let’s see how good his taste is.”

“You already know he loves the cheesy shit,” you laugh and scoot closer to him with your wine glass still in your hand, you’re searching for his warmth. 

“Yeah, he does,” Eddie chuckles. 

He lowers his gaze to your thighs, noticing the goosebumps on your skin, he puts the joint into the ashtray and he reaches for the knitted blanket thrown over the couch, he spreads it open and covers your legs with it, “don’t want you freezing, sweets,” he murmurs. 

Your eyes soften for him, a smile spreading on your lips. You lean forward and place your wine glass on the coffee table and then you scoot closer to him and throw the blanket over his lap as well before you place your head on his chest, snuggling up against him with a content look on your face… beside the blushing on your cheeks. 

Eddie wraps his arm around you without a second thought – this is nothing unusual for you, neither is the hand holding, or the sharing of clothes or the intimate touches but everything you do today, that you usually do as well, feels so different, it makes him nervous, it makes you nervous, it feels like the first time. 

And when you place your hand above his heart, he grows anxious that you might feel just how strongly it’s beating for you, he is scared that you will figure out his feelings and that that will make you run, run from him. 

“Your heart is racing,” you whisper softly, causing him to tense up a little but when you press your chin against his chest and you gaze up into his eyes, he feels a sense of calmness bleed through him, safety. 

Eddie blinks, not knowing what to say without giving away the truth, without giving away just how much he wants to kiss you right now, how much he wants to make you his, how badly he wants to confess and get it off his chest. 

“Is everything okay?” Your angelic voice makes him feel weak, the candle light makes you look so soft, your scent makes him feel drunk, his lips yearn to touch yours, his heart screams for you. 

God, he really wants to kiss you so bad. 

And he wants to kiss you even more when he sees the way your own eyes flicker between his lips, his neck and his eyes. He tightens his hold on you, prompting you to scoot even closer as you lean your warm body into his as your hand slips down to his stomach, your nails grazing the sliver of exposed skin on his stomach, he nearly whimpers at the feeling. You truly know how to drive him crazy. 

“Yeah,” he whispers, lips curling into a smile, “everything is perfect.” 

Almost perfect. 

It would be perfect if he could just grab your face and smash his lips against yours, kissing you breathless. 

You bite your lower lip as you keep staring up at him, you look as though you want to say something, your eyebrows pull together whenever you hold something back, whenever you desire to speak up about something – he doesn’t pressure you to talk though, he never does, he gives you time, as always. 

His eyelashes flutter, his lips part in surprise when he watches you move closer to him, closer and closer until your lips are pressed against his jaw, you peck him once before you shyly pull away and bury your face in his chest, turning your attention back to the TV right as the movie begins to play and he is glad that you do, because his eyes widen the way they probably never did before and blood rushes to his cheeks, no doubt making him look like a tomato right now, his heart feels as though it will beat out of his chest at any moment. 

You were teasing him this morning, you were very clear about that, the smirk and the smugness on your face gave it away every time but you are no longer teasing now, this is different, this is something else, this is something new. 

Eddie swallows the lump in his throat and he takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly and shakily. 

He wonders if you know the effect you have on him, he wonders if you know how he feels for you, he wonders if you know just what he would do for you. 

“Pass me the joint?” He whispers, not recognizing his own voice due to how shaky it is. 

You do as he asks, pulling away for just a second, you reach for the joint and hand it to him before you settle back comfortably against his chest, pressing your cheek tightly against it. 

Despite the nervousness in him, he keeps his arm wrapped around you tightly, and he even takes it a little further, becoming a little bolder, he sneaks his hand under your shirt and lays his plat flatly against your warm back.

You sigh in contentment and curl further into him, welcoming the touch of his hand, especially when he starts rubbing up and down. 

“That feels so nice,” you murmur, moaning softly, “don’t stop, Eddie.” 

Of course it wasn’t the greatest move to make, of course it would backfire, of course he would be the one with the problem. It’s already not helping that you’re almost fully on top of him, hand underneath his shirt as your nails scratch against his skin and now you are moaning because of him. 

He places the joint between his lips and takes a long drag, needing it desperately. 

“Your hands always feel so nice, Eds.” The words tumble fall from your lips just like that, like you no longer find yourself caring about the consequences of your words or your actions, maybe it’s the alcohol and the weed in your system that makes you so careless and bold, or maybe it’s the reassuring touch of your best friend that gives you the confidence to let you say what’s on your mind. 

Eddie freezes, shocked he stares at the movie playing on the screen, his hand stops moving as well for a moment, he wonders if he really heard you right. You press against his hand again, wanting more. 

“And you don’t know what they can do, sweets,” he rasps into your ear, confidently and like he isn’t losing his mind over you. 

A whimper sounds through the room, your whimper. You try to conceal it by coughing into your hand but he heard it, and he felt how you tensed up at his words.

He swallows harshly, squirming beneath you, he tries his hardest to hold back that growl. His hand slips from under your shirt and down to your thigh when you lean forward to reach for the joint in the ashtray. 

“Rolling good joints?” You murmur, trying to hide your nervousness and how flustered you really are. 

Eddie can’t help but snort, mumbling a soft ‘sure’ to your question. 

Despite the tension in the room and your unwanted awkwardness, time keeps passing and the night goes on, the movie continues playing, moving into a direction that neither of you expected at the start of it – what begins with an innocent scene of the beautiful lead getting ready for her date with the guy she is keeping a secret, develops into something different, something more, something that should not have the effect on you that it does right now but when they start kissing in his car, slowly and sensually at first, her fingers buried in his long hair as his slip under her shirt, you can’t help but bite your lip. Your skin grows hot, your thighs clench together, your grip on his shirt tightens as your mind flips this scene into you kissing Eddie in his car. 

The wine was supposed to help, the weed too, but neither of them did, neither of them managed to give you the calming effect that you were hoping for, if anything both only heightened your senses and intensified absolutely everything in you, because suddenly, his body feels so much closer, his cologne so much more intoxicating than usual, his touch heating your skin on fire, his breath on your skin tickles you and those evil thoughts in your head make you wonder what it would feel like to feel his breath elsewhere, to feel his lips on your skin and his hands holding you tightly, keeping you in place as his lips touch parts of you only your hands did before. 

Your heart starts beating faster and you begin to lose composure, the rational voice in your head is gone for good, desire and need taking over now, a confidence you didn’t know you had rushing through you as you move your leg, pressing the heel of your foot against his shin. 

And while you are getting bolder, Eddie is trying his best to stay calm, to not act upon his feelings and ruin the one good thing in his life, despite the clear signs you are currently giving, he makes no move, even when he wants nothing more but to bury his face in your neck and suck on your skin until you are marked up by him. The smell of your perfume drives him insane, the feeling of your skin pressed against his makes his stomach flutter with no end near in sight, his heart hasn’t stopped racing yet. 

The blanket slips from your lower half, his shirt has ridden up on your body, revealing the panties you are wearing, the black lace resting so perfectly on your soft skin. He clenches his jaw at the sight of it, biting back the moan that wants to fall off his lips so badly. 

Something else flutters now, not just his heart or those butterflies in his stomach and it makes him so uncomfortable because he won’t be able to hide it, not right now. 

Soft moans fill the living room, along with the sounds of lips smacking together. You bite your lip even harder, hold onto him even tighter as your eyes stay glued to the screen, watching intently as the couple undresses each other slowly, their hands becoming more and more desperate on each other, whimpers getting louder. 

You are so lost in it, you let your body move on its own, your foot continues to slide up his shin and his knee, hip angling as you twist your body further into him. As the scene gets more and more intense, the thoughts in your head do too. 

The coil in your stomach grows, burning hotly, you are throbbing between your legs, growing wetter and wetter each passing second as you imagine yourself moaning like the girl on the TV – moaning for him, with him. 

Eddie is frozen in place, stunned at everything that is happening this very moment, not only is the scene very erotic but the moves you are pulling now are just about enough for him to get hard – and he can’t exactly conceal anything, not when he is wearing grey sweatpants and you are tightly pressed against him. 

Do you even know what you are doing to him? 

When Eddie shifts beneath you and his fingers dig deeper into your skin, you lower your head and tear your eyes from the screen to his lap and your mouth waters in an instant, eyes growing wide and the burning in your stomach only worsens. 

“Got a problem there, Eds?” You blurt out as you stare at the very prominent bulge.

He wants to crawl under the blanket and hide his flustered face but instead he rolls his eyes, trying to act cool, averting his gaze from you and back to the screen, pretending that it’s the girl in the movie that caused this. 

“I am just a man, leave me alone…”

A giggle escapes you, and you look up at your best friend to find him blushing furiously. His long lashes kissing his skin every time he blinks, his dark eyes shine so prettily, his lips are just so… so kissable. His neck is so perfect to be marked up by you. His dark hair cascading down to his shoulders so perfectly, but you want to make a mess of him. 

“Aw, poor man,” you tease him before you finally let go of any doubts, of any fears or anxious thoughts, you grab the joint from between his fingers and put it back on the ashtray and then, you lean back to him and do something that you always craved to do, you press your lips against his jaw, kissing him. 

His lips part in surprise, heart stopping for a moment, he stares into blank space now as you repeat the motion, pressing your lips against his skin again and again, humming in contentment. 

His legs feel like jelly and if he wasn’t sitting down already, he surely would’ve felt his knees buckle at this electric touch. Words can’t describe the feeling of this, of you. He imagined this so many times, your lips on his skin, just the imagination of it had him feeling giddy but this, he can’t even function. 

You move closer and closer, your hand finding the chain around his neck, your breath kissing his skin, you gaze up at him with those pretty eyes that could make him do anything you would ask for. 

“Sweetheart, what are you doing…?” He finds his voice again. 

You shrug, looking at him innocently, “I don’t know, I just want to kiss your face, is that so bad?” You ask before you lean in again, not waiting for an answer from him, you press your lips back against his jaw, finger hooked around his chain and your other hand moving from his chest and up to his hair, giving it a slight pull. 

Eddie’s eyes flutter closed, the soft smile that rested on his features before slowly falling now. He clenches his jaw when you kiss it again and again, his heart races like crazy now, the feelings in him, the love he feels for you bursting in him as he finally gets a taste of what things could be like if you were his girl. 

You light up a fire in him, but make him weak at the same time, you make him feel safe but he also burns for you, he desires you in ways he wasn’t even aware existed, only a taste of this, of you, could kill him because if he can’t have you again after having you once, he surely will die slowly and torturously as he forever will be reminded of this, of what could be. 

He breathes in shakily as his hands fall to your waist, gripping you tighter than ever before, it takes everything in him not to grab your face and kiss you senseless but it takes even more to stop you. 

He wants this, he wants you so bad, he wants to keep feeling your lips, your touch, you. 

But what is this to you? 

His hand moves up to the back of your neck, he wraps his fingers around it, pulling you away softly with a deep inhale.

“Don’t do this to me now, darling,” he whispers weakly, not caring about how vulnerable he sounds, how vulnerable he must look right now. 

You ignore his pleading, and you move closer again, straddling his thigh as you wrap your arms around his neck, you look into his eyes as you inch closer and closer to him, no longer caring about anything. You kiss his cheek softly and then the other, noting the soft sigh falling from his lips, the grip of his hand on you becoming tighter and stronger. 

Eddie is breathing heavily now, he doesn’t even know what to do with himself as your lips are so close to his own. 

“You’re killing me here, sweetheart,” he whispers. 

You pull back to look at him, taking in the intense emotions flashing in his eyes as he stares at you with nothing but hunger, his eyes flicking back and forth between your lips and your neck. 

“Why?” You whisper innocently as you lean in again and without thinking, you press your lips to the corner of his mouth. 

Eddie’s eyes flutter closed for a moment, a curse word falls from his lips as he clenches his jaw again. 

“Because I’m trying to hold back.” 

“Who says I want you to?” You ask softly and he opens his eyes again, tilting his head to the side, he furrows his brows at you. 

“Don’t do this to me, baby, you know how bad I–” 

The brush of your knee against his bulge as you throw your leg over his thigh completely leaves the words stuck in his throat, you straddle him the way you only ever did in his dreams. 

“How bad you what?” You whisper as you slowly lean your forehead against his, letting your lips brush against his own as you gaze into his eyes. 

You can see the way he is holding back from doing what he wants, what you both want, so you give him a little push. You nuzzle your nose against his, giving him that soft look that gets you anything you want, that makes him weak. 

If only you knew just the feelings you cause inside of him. 

Eddie takes a deep breath, he shuts down all the racing thoughts in his head and finally, he cups your cheeks, holding your face gently. 

“Oh, fuck me,” he whispers and smashes his lips against yours, kissing you finally. He pushes all his fears and his insecurities aside, not wanting to dwell on them any longer, not wanting to think of them now when he gets the chance to do this and your whimper, that needy little sound that comes from you when you kiss him back only fuels his need to kiss you harder and deeper. 

You press yourself against him, wrapping your arms around him tightly, you bury your fingers into his curls, taking a fistful of his hair as you move your lips against his, slowly at first. You get so lost in it, loving the way it feels to kiss his lips, to kiss your best friend. It’s everything and more than you imagined it to feel like, it feels so perfect, so right, so safe. You let yourself fall into him, melting into his embrace as his hands move down to your waist, holding you tightly the way you do to him. 

The sound of your sighs and moans, lips smacking and the movie still playing in the back, whimpers coming from the girl on the TV makes it all a little more intense, because the burning in your thighs becomes unbearable, the feeling of his tongue brushing against your lower lip as he pushes you down against his bulge has you aching and yearning. 

To Eddie this feels like a dream, like it’s something not real, not even close to being real because this is something that only ever lived in his mind, whether he was just thinking about you at work, while writing songs, while sitting next to you or while getting off in the middle of the night, this was only ever a dream but now it isn’t. The kiss is real, your moans are real, your body is truly pressed against his, you are sitting right on top of him, slowly dragging your hips along his aching dick and it feels so fucking good, better than he could ever even dream of. 

Everything in him burns for you, his heart, his soul, every cell, every organ, you are like a drug to him that he was already addicted to before he even tried it, but now? He is gone forever. A kiss that could lead to nothing, that could only stay this, a kiss, perhaps a mistake for you that you will regret come morning, enough to break him. 

What is it gonna be? The kiss that will lead to the start of something his heart screamed for since the very beginning? Or will this be his kiss of death? 

He has to be sure, he needs to be sure so he pulls away, begrudgingly so, he pulls away from the kiss that he never wants to stop, breathlessly, he opens his eyes to look at you for the first time after this change between you both but you are not having it, leaning in with a whine, you peck his lips again, making his heart flutter. 

“Baby–” You cut him off by kissing him again, desperately and he once again has to pull away reluctantly. 

“Baby, hear me out first, fuck–” he groans when you peck his lips again, whining at him in a way that has him clenching his jaw but this time, he cups your cheeks and pulls you away from him and you finally open your eyes and look at him, pouting at him with a needy look on your face. Fuck. “Fucking hell, wait– you need to tell me if you really want this or if its the alcohol and the weed talking.” 

You shake your head wildly, grabbing his wrists as you lean closer again, kissing his cheeks, his nose, his chin and finally his lips again, the way you always desired to, the way you always dreamed of, the way you always denied yourself of it when it’s all you ever wanted. 

“Is it the alcohol and the weed talking for you?” You murmur against his lips, looking at him through hooded eyes. 

With a frown he shakes his head, “fuck no, I’ve wanted this for so long, sweetheart, you have no idea for how long.” He admits openly, not caring about being vulnerable right now, about admitting his feelings for you – the friendship is ruined now. 

Your lips twitch, eyes shining with nothing but love for him, for your best friend, your heart bursts in your chest, everything in you calms down yet screams in joy. You can see the anxiety in his eyes, the fear that lingers within him, you want to take it. 

“Good, then we’re on the same page,” you whisper happily, nuzzling your nose against his. 

Eddie blinks, staring at you, stunned. A shaky breath falls from his lips, his heart has stopped beating for a moment, the world has stopped moving, time has stopped. He had dreamed of this for so long, fantasized about what it would feel like to kiss you, to touch you, to hold you, to love on you but he had never thought of this, simply because he never thought it would happen, that it would be a possibility, you feeling the same. He thought he was doomed, cursed to spend his life loving you from afar and watching you slip through his fingers as the years would pass, he would love you while you would love someone else, while you would build a life with someone else, he would stay your best friend, the obsessed, lovesick best friend who would never move on, the best friend who would choose you over and over again even if he was given the chance to be loved by someone else, he would never love anyone the way he loves you, his heart belongs to you, fully. He is yours, he had always been yours but he never thought that you could be his, no matter how many nights he spent wishing for it. Life had never been kind to him so why would it grant him the highest wish he has? And yet, here you are, looking at him as though he hung the stars and the moon, as though he is the best thing that was ever created, like he is something pure, something beautiful, something worth loving. Have you always looked at him this way? 

His eyes start burning as his heart starts beating again, the warmth he felt because of you, turning into burning desire, the desire to claim you like he had always wanted to, to rip his heart from his chest and give it to you. 

You whisper his name sweetly, grabbing his hand softly, you move it down your shoulder, your chest and finally placing it above your beating heart. 

“All for you, baby.” 

His breath hitches in his throat, his eyes flicker between your face and his hand, feeling the racing of your heart that matches the beat of his own. His eyes soften, love taking over the lust that was flashing in them just moments ago. He doesn’t know what to say, the words are stuck in his throat, he is speechless. 

You can see it, you can see the shock in his eyes, he stares at you like he wonders if this is real or not. He is breathing heavily, blinking slowly, his lips part, cheeks flushing. 

“Eddie–”

Suddenly, he moves forward and grabs your cheeks again, slamming his lips against yours roughly, desperately. He kisses you hotly, strongly, more intensely than he did before, like he is scared that you might slip away if he doesn’t do it this way. 

You throw your arms around his neck again, whining needily into the kiss, you part his lips with your tongue and slip it into his mouth, deepening the kiss further as you grind your hips against him, making him moan against your lips as he holds you stronger, gripping you tightly as though he is scared that you will slip away if he doesn’t. 

This kiss is much hungrier than the first, so much deeper and intense, it’s filled with a desperation that was pent up for a long, long time – not weeks or even months, but years. He waited for years for this, you can feel it and your heart races wildly for him. The need to show him just how much you want him too, how you reciprocate his love burns so deeply within you. 

You grind your hips against his, feeling just how hard he is for you, the ache between your legs becomes worse, unbearable, and he can tell, he can feel by the way you move your hips, by the sounds of your needy whines. 

Eddie doesn’t know what to do with himself, never had he felt such desperation before, such an overwhelming amount of love. He feels stuck between wanting to cry out of pure happiness while making love to you and devouring you vigorously as he shows you just how much he needs, wants you. 

His ringed fingers dig into your waist and he begins to push you off of him, guiding you down against the soft cushions without breaking the kiss, he groans against your lips when you spread your legs for him, tugging him on top of you before he can even do it himself. God, you truly want him just as much.

Eddie slides his hand up your body, cupping your cheek once more, he continues kissing you, clashing his tongue against yours, making you mewl as he takes control and grinds against you, a movement that tears out a different kind of sound in you, a whine so needy that it sends shockwaves through his body. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he breathes against your lips heavily as he pulls away from the kiss and opens his eyes to reveal just how dark they are now. 

You wrap your legs around his waist, causing your shirt to ride up in the process, your panties exposed to him now. 

He clenches his jaw, trying to control himself but it’s becoming so hard when you are under him like this, looking up at him with those needy eyes as you grab each side of his neck, leaning up to kiss him, again and again, pecking his cheeks and his lips before you trail the kisses down to his jawline. 

“I need you so bad, Eds,” you whisper into his skin, moving your hand down his shoulder and his arm, fingernails grazing his goosebump covered skin, you take his hand in yours and bring it back down to your body, placing it on your chest, “please?” You ask in desperation. 

He takes a deep breath, making his heart flutter and his body burn when he grabs at your boobs for the very first time. 

“Please what?” He murmurs as he presses you down again so he can latch his lips onto your jawline. “Tell me what you need, sweet girl. My fingers, my tongue… or my cock?” He surprises himself when those words fall off his lips when he doesn’t even know how to function at this moment. 

You shut your eyes and bite your lip when he kisses down your neck, finding your sweet spot with no struggle, he starts sucking. 

“Mmm, y-your fingers,” you whimper as you take his other free hand and guide it down your stomach slowly, “want your fingers, Eddie and then your cock.”

He could cum right here and there, he had dreamed of this too many times. 

“Yeah?” He rasps against you, still kissing your neck, “you want me to fuck you with my fingers first?”

You nod wildly, bringing his hand down to your laced panties, you spread your legs further, grinding against him needily. You are so wet, having soaked through your panties already. 

“I-I always think about you when I touch myself, I imagine it’s your fingers instead of mine,” you admit with burning cheeks. 

Eddie opens his eyes widely, leaning back from your neck after marking it up, he looks at your blushing face. 

“R-Really?” He stutters, though with a satisfied look on his face. 

Through hooded eyes, you look at your best friend as you nod shyly, humming. 

“Guess we got something in common then,” Eddie smirks as he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, he pecks your lips as he slips his fingers down between your legs, finally, cupping your pussy, he presses against your wetness, growling at the feeling. 

“Fuck baby, you’re soaked.”

“I always am for you!” You whine, desperately grinding against the heel of his hand. 

His cock twitches at your words, stomach tensing up. 

The thought that you might’ve been sitting next to him during movie nights, squirming because of him, waiting to go home so you could touch yourself while thinking of him drives him insane. If he had known… he could’ve done this way sooner. 

Eddie pushes your panties aside, dipping his fingers through your folds, he makes both you and himself moan. 

“Don’t tease,” you whimper, bucking your hips and pressing yourself against him as he teases your entrance. 

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Eddie says as he brings his digits up to your clit, “can’t believe you’re letting me do this.”

While the shocked look on his face and the disbelief is cute, you can tell what is going on – what went on in his head all this time that he thought that his feelings would never be reciprocated. 

You grab his face and smash your lips against his again, kissing him just as roughly as he kissed you the second time, you try to show him, to make him feel what had been there all this time, and he welcomes it so happily, kissing you back right away while his fingers continue to move against your clit, teasingly at first, intensifying the aching inside of you. He licks into your mouth, sliding his tongue against yours as he moans needily, getting lost in the feeling he had craved for so long.

His stomach flutters when you wrap one leg around his waist while rolling your hips, wanting and needing more, he can feel you getting wetter and wetter, moans getting louder, lips moving sloppier. He slips his fingers lower, dipping his middle finger into you slowly, inching it inside of you, pulling the neediest sounds out of you as you clench around him already. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles against your mouth, “you’re so tight.”

“More!” You demand with a whine, making him chuckle. 

“More huh? One finger not enough for you, sweets?” He asks to which you shake your head, furrowing your brows when he adds a second finger, scissoring them inside of you as he opens you up. 

“No, I-I want more,” you whimper at the feeling of him splitting you open, preparing you for his dick, just the thought of it has you drooling already. “I need–” the words die on your tongue and you quickly forget what you even wanted to say when he starts fucking you in slow but deep movements. 

“You need what, hmm?” He taunts you, unable to hide the satisfied smirk on his face as he watches you fall apart beneath him, losing your mind over just his fingers as your jaw falls slack and those sweet sounds begin to fill the room along with the squelching of your pussy. “God… You’re so fucking wet.” Eddie doesn’t even know what to do with himself, his heart is beating like crazy, his cock is aching in his grey sweats that feel way too tight by now, pre cum already leaking through the thick material, something he should feel embarrassed about, but he can’t, not when you look him up and down like you’re some hungry and feral animal in heat. 

“All because of you, I’ve been wet all day!” You whine as you grab at his hair when he buries his face in your neck, breathing heavily against your skin as he covers you in love bites. He growls against you, loving those words a little too much. 

His wrist starts moving faster, fingers splitting you open, he fucks them in and out of you. 

“Do you fuck your tight little pussy like this too?” 

Your brows are scrunched together so tightly, eyes rolling back when he curls them inside of you, hitting just the right spot to make you cry out. 

“N-No! Not t-this good!” 

You roll your hips against his hand, craving to feel him deeper. Your hands are all over him, his hair, his shoulders, his back, gripping at his shirt as you hold on for dear life while he sucks on your neck and fingerfucks your sopping pussy. The room is filled with such dirty sounds, something that should leave you a blushing mess, something that should leave your cheeks burning in embarrassment but you cannot bother to care, it just feels so good and Eddie fucking loves it. 

He pulls back to look at you, to admire your face and those marks he left on you, proudly he looks down at you, a look of love, a look of lust flashing in his eyes. He watches the way you bite your lip, eyes open widely again, you admire him too. And then, you push yourself up on your elbow, pecking his lips before you look down at his hand, wanting to see, wanting to watch his fingers moving in and out of you. 

“You like that, huh?” He mumbles as he presses his forehead against yours, “you like being fucked by your best friend like this?” 

You whimper again, louder this time as you nod, clenching around his fingers so tightly that he can’t help but growl – how is he going to last? How will he be able to control himself not to cum the second he enters you? 

Everything becomes so much hotter, the air around you, the energy in this room, his body against yours, his fingers inside of you, the coil in your stomach, everything starts burning and somehow, it only fuels the need in you. 

You grab at the hem of your shirt and push it up to your collarbones, exposing your chest to him, your boobs bounce as you throw your head back against the pillow to see him better and his reaction does not disappoint, if you weren’t so lost in pleasure you would have giggled at the awestruck look on his face, at the wide eyes and the parted lips. 

“Baby,” he whispers as he presses his large hand to your now bare waist, slipping it upwards slowly, “you’re unreal, fuck… you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as though in disbelief, staring down at you as though you are something that came straight out of his imagination. He grabs your boob roughly, pinching your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, he leans down and wraps his lips against the other, wasting no time to suck on it, making you arch your back against him as you throw your hand into his curls, fingers grazing his scalp as you give it a harsh tug, something that he fucking loves. 

“I-I… oh my god!” You whimper as tears begin to pull in your eyes when he presses his thumb to your clit, teasing you. “D-Don’t stop! Don’t stop, Eddie! That feels so good!” You nearly scream as he starts moving his fingers faster than before, fucking them in and out of you roughly. You are clenching around him, digging your heel into his ass as you move along to his thrusts. 

He looks up at you, loving the sight of you coming undone before him, it’s the prettiest sight to him. He can’t wait to watch you fall apart beneath him when he actually fucks you. He licks around your nipple, adding more pleasure to your body. 

“Eddie!” You writhe beneath him, blinking the tears away as you look down at him. Your stomach tenses up, burning as the pleasure builds up more and more, almost becoming unbearable, everything inside of you is lit on fire, absolutely every part of you. Your toes curl, your knuckles turn white from how rough you are grabbing at his curls, the sounds that fall from your mouth are almost not recognizable, sounding too pornographic but you have never felt anything like this before, especially not from just being finger fucked. 

Eddie pushes himself back up, straightening his back, he slides his hand further up your chest, passing your collarbones and settling around your throat, he tests the waters at first, needing you to be okay with this – he watches the way your eyes darken at this, lips parting as you push yourself up on your elbows, you bring your hand up to his wrist, wrapping your fingers tightly around it, you press it harder against your throat, asking him to choke you. 

Eddie laughs darkly, lips curling into a satisfied grin, he shakes his head at you, “of course you’re into that shit. You’re a naughty girl aren’t you?” 

It takes you a moment to answer his question because the view before you is just a little too distracting. Eddie hovers over you with one hand between your thighs, knuckle deep buried inside of you while his other hand is now wrapped around your throat, rings on, veins popping out of his tattooed forearm, dark curls falling in front of his face as he looks down at you like he wants to devour you but make love to you at the same time. 

God, he is beautiful. 

Your eyes move down his body, the wet patch on his sweatpants, the bulge making you drool, making you want to drop to your knees for him, worship him, choke on him, suck the soul out of him. You can’t help yourself, moving your hand down his stomach, you grab his dick, wiping the smirk off his face completely as he moans loudly. 

“F-Fuck, sweetheart.”

You palm him through his sweats, teasing him the way he teased you, though Eddie is less patient than you are. His hips stutter, a whimper falls off his lips so prettily and you almost tease him for it but he curls his fingers so deeply inside of you, presses his thumb against your clit so strongly that your vision blurs for a second. 

“Eddie… Eddie!” You say his name twice, pressing your hand stronger against him, you hook your fingers around the band of his pants. 

“D-Don’t tease me or else I’ll cum right this second,” he growls as his cheeks start burning at his words. 

“Don’t do that,” you warn as you push his pants down just enough, his dick slaps against his stomach, precum leaking out and rolling down his length, his tip an angry red, thick veins so prominent. Your eyes widen and your mouth waters at the sight of him, of his size, his length. 

Eddie looks down at you with burning cheeks and begging eyes, he feels the way you clench around his fingers, feels how you soak his digits. 

You look at him intensely, watching him fall apart at nothing but the touch of your hand, his eyelashes flutter, a content sigh falling from his lips when you wrap your fingers around his length, “your cock is so pretty, Eds,” you purr, jerking him off slowly, you tease him a little, “I want to choke on it.”

His hips stutter, cock twitching in your hand as he whimpers at your words, “fuck… you can’t just say that to me.”

You pull your hand away from him, holding it up to him, “spit.”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, eyes darkening further but he complies, right away, he spits into your hand and watches the way you bring it back down to his dick, wrapping your fingers around him again, you grip him just perfectly, jerking him off in a way that he only ever dreamed off. 

“You’re gonna kill me,” he moans, clenching his jaw in concentration, his eyes moving back and forth between your glistening pussy and your hand getting him off. “I-I won’t last long,” he warns you, wanting to get lost in the pleasure, but even more so, he wants to feel you wrapped around him. 

With your free hand, you tug at his wrist, needing to feel his lips on yours again and without wasting a second, he slams his mouth against yours, kissing you roughly as he takes full control, parting your lips with his tongue, he moans into your mouth when you clench around his fingers again. 

The room is now filled with heavy moans, no longer coming from the TV but from you and him, desperation so clear in both your voices, lips smacking against one another so needily and the alcohol, the weed in your systems only makes it all a tad bit more intense. 

As much as Eddie is enjoying the feeling of your hand wrapped around him, he has to stop you or else he will cum before getting what he actually wants. 

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, lips twitching when you already whine in protest, “baby, I-I fuck… I need you stop or else I’ll cum too fucking soon.”

You pull away begrudgingly, wanting to pout at him but he quickly distracts you by speeding up his fingers inside of you. Letting go of your throat, he brings his now free hand down to your clit, wasting no second to play with your sensitive nub while he curls and slams his fingers in and out of you. 

A gasp falls from your lips as he repeatedly brushes your sweet spot, the one that allows you to see stars. A single tear slips down your cheek, one that he instantly kisses away. You want to look at him, you want to watch your best friend but the pleasure becomes too much and you can’t help but shut your eyes tightly. Your stomach burns in a way that has you whimpering and when you try to close your legs to relieve that pleasurable pain, he grabs your knee and stops you. 

“I can feel you clenching around my fingers, baby,” he murmurs hotly against your lips, “I know you want to cum, so let go for me,” he whispers, “let go.” One more swipe against your clit, one last thrust, one more kiss to your neck and you come undone for your Eddie, leaking around his fingers as your body trembles beneath his. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper. 

He slows down his movements, looking down at your legs to see them shaking, just from this. He lets you ride out your orgasm, giving you a moment to catch your breath. He kisses your face, your cheeks, your forehead, your jawline and your lips. And then, he pulls his fingers out of you, his mouth waters at the sight of your slick, wasting no time to bring his digits up to his lips, he dips them on his tongue, closing his eyes at your taste, he moans loudly. 

You open your eyes at the sound, stunned, you stare at him in hunger and lust, watching the way he laps at his fingers that were inside of you just seconds ago. His eyes are closed and he looks content. If you hadn’t been so feral already, you definitely would have been by now. 

“You’re even sweeter than I thought,” he mewls after releasing his fingers with a pop, opening his eyes to look down at you with a smirk. “I can’t wait to take my time and eat your pussy.” 

You grab him by the chain around his neck, tugging at it harshly, you’re surprised it doesn’t break by the force, you pull him back down against you and kiss him, tasting yourself on his tongue. 

Eddie smiles against your lips, loving the way you moan at your own taste. He feels your hands sliding down his back, tugging at his shirt, demanding him to take it off and he does so instantly, only breaking the kiss for a second so he can tear it off his skin before his lips are back on yours, his pants are next to go as you push them down further, with your help he kicks them off, not caring where they land. 

He hooks his finger around your ruined panties, he begins to tug at them and you push your hips up so he can take them off, dragging them down your legs, he throws them to the ground beside his clothes before you both pull away from the kiss to take off the shirt that is still bunched up over your chest. 

“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, looking at you in awe and then, his lips return to you and he places his elbows on either side of your head, pressing his chest against yours as you wrap your legs around his waist, tugging him closer and closer until nothing separates you any longer, until he feels your heat against his aching dick and he is so close, so close to getting what he wanted, until he remembers. 

“Fuck,” he curses in annoyance, clenching his jaw already as he breaks the kiss, “wait…” But you don’t listen, cupping his cheeks, you make it even harder for him when you keep kissing him, pleading for more. 

Frustration bubbles up inside of him and he almost wants to cry. 

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, shakily. “Wait, wait, wait…”

Finally, you pull away, eyes filled with curiosity, “what?”

“I don’t–” he cuts himself off, rolling his eyes as he clenches his fists and closes his eyes for a moment, “I don’t have a condom,” he says through gritted teeth, feeling dejected but then he feels you pull him closer again, cupping the back of his neck, you press your lips back against his.

“It’s okay, I’m on birth control and I’m clean,” you whisper, pressing your heel against his bum, “I waited too long for this, so don’t stop… please, Eddie.” 

A growl threatens to spill from his lips, the feeling of frustration is suddenly replaced by something else, not only the need he had felt for so long but something else, something much stronger, something that has him fighting his inner demons. 

He opens his eyes, staring at you as though you had gone crazy. 

“Do you have any idea what you do to me, sweets?” 

You giggle so cutely at that, in a way that makes him want to pound you into this couch until you are nothing but a screaming mess. 

“I have an idea,” you admit smugly, batting your eyelashes at him as your eyes flicker back and forth between his tattoos and his lips, hand already moving down his stomach, fingers reaching for him, you bite your lip as you look into his eyes, he is staring at you so intensely that it makes you blush. You wrap your fingers around his length again, mewling when you guide him through your wet folds, teasing both you and himself. 

Eddie grips the pillow beneath your head, cursing at the feeling. You can tell that he is trying to control himself, trying to keep his composure but he is losing it quickly when he feels your heat, your wetness. 

With your free hand, you hold onto his bicep, looking up at him with begging eyes, “please, fuck me, Eddie,” you whisper as you tilt your head up to kiss his lips, “show me how bad you want me, don’t hold back… please–” 

With a growl, he lets your words die on your tongue, replacing your hand with his own, he guides himself to your entrance, nudging it with the leaking tip of his cock, he presses his forehead and his lips to yours as he thrusts inside of you, torturously, splitting you open around his length. 

His heart could burst for feeling you so close, so intimately, his love for you burning stronger than ever, the immortal flame getting bigger and bigger, his body feels on fire, his soul feels at home and now he knows you feel the same, when you hold him close and you kiss him so passionately, tightening your legs around his waist in order to feel him closer, whimpering into him in such a needy way while you keep grabbing at him like he isn’t close enough despite being pressed against you, he knows you feel the same, in every way. 

He pushes into you deeper and deeper, scrunching his eyebrows in concentration as he feels you fully, working you open with nothing between you. He feels your warmth, feels your heat around him, your wetness dripping down onto the couch beneath you as fills you up completely. He never felt anything like this before, he never thought he would but god, he is already addicted, he had always been to you but now even worse, he will never be the same again, he will come back to Hawkins a changed man. 

“Fucking hell, darling,” he growls against your lips as he stills inside of you, giving you a moment to adjust to his size and himself a moment to concentrate so he doesn’t ruin this by coming too soon, though the thought of filling you up with his seed drives everything in him crazy, he wants it, craves it so bad. “You feel so… so perfect.”

You’re wailing, squirming beneath him, already looking down, wanting to see your bodies connected as sensitive whimpers escape your mouth. 

“Y-You’re so big, Eddie,” you say, eyes blurred with tears, words leaving your mouth breathlessly, “hurts so good.”

Your words don’t exactly do him a favor, especially when he opens his eyes and he looks down at you, watching the way your chest rises up and down heavily, the way you look down between your legs in desperation before your big eyes look up at him, glassy. Your lips are so puffy from all the kissing, your forehead glistening with sweat, your cheeks flushed. 

Your walls flutter around him, making it harder and harder for him. 

Eddie grabs your chin, “you’re so fucking gorgeous, baby, so fucking sweet and good for me but you’re driving me crazy, right now.”

“Fuck me,” you whimper, pouting at him as you hold his bicep harder, “please, fuck me, Eddie. I need it, I need you so bad– ah!” You scream out when he pulls out and slams back inside of you again. 

“Shh, I got you, I got you, baby,” he shushes your words, “can’t believe you are so desperate for my cock.” 

Your nails dig into his skin, your free hand gets lost in his hair, tugging at his curls as you roll your hips against his, going crazy at the feeling of him inside of you. 

“Please, please, please!” 

Eddie groans at your pleading, at the obvious desperation, at the need that you feel for him, and only him. His left knee digs into the soft cushions on the couch and he places his right foot against the floor, watching your face intently as he starts rolling his hips, making you gasp out loudly. 

“Oh my–” He pants, eyes rolling back as your name falls from his lips. 

“You… I…” You stutter, unable to find the right words, to even come up with anything as you lose yourself in this feeling. Your mouth waters and so do your eyes, his chain dangles before your face as he thrusts into you, faster and faster, deeper and rougher. You can’t help but clench around him, he fills you up so perfectly, his tip brushes against that one spot so rightly. 

You throw your arms around him as he cups the top of your head, holding eye contact with you as he rolls his hips harder. 

“I’m so fucking obsessed with you, do you even know that?” He kisses your lips, smacking them loudly against yours. 

“Mmm, I’m obsessed with you too, baby,” you whimper as you meet his thrusts, rolling your hips as well. 

“I never thought I’d get to have this, to have you.” 

You only hold onto him tighter in response, leaning into his neck, you brush your nose against it and latch your lips onto his neck, pecking along until you find that one spot that makes him whine, you start sucking, marking him up the way he did to you, not knowing just how feral that makes him. 

To wear your marks on his skin, to be claimed as yours makes his heart burst but it awakens something in him, because suddenly, he feels the need to pound you into this couch and he does so, he snaps his hips into yours, thrusting roughly. 

“Eddie!” You scream out in a choked sob, digging your nails into his skin as you cling to his body. 

“You feel so fucking good,” he moans loudly, not bothering to hide just how desperate you make him feel. He cups the back of your neck and pulls you back down, wanting and needing to see your face, he wastes no second before his lips are back on yours and his hips strike roughly into you, cock slamming in and out of you, the squelching sounds of your pussy filling the room, along with your moans and the slapping sounds as he fucks you. 

Neither of you want to pull away from the kiss, no matter how sloppy it gets, you don’t want to break the kiss and neither does he, not even when you grow breathless. You cling to each like you never did before, welcoming the pleasure that becomes almost too much. There is soreness in your thighs, burning in your lower back and an overwhelming sensation inside of you, an itch that only he can mend. 

And Eddie, he feels as though he is losing his mind, getting to feel this, to feel you, to kiss you and swallow your moans as your dripping walls cling to his cock, twitching around him and begging to be filled. Your arms and legs are so tight around him, you beneath him like he had only seen you in his dreams and in his imagination, you’re shaking, whining and trembling and you are close, he can feel it by the way you are getting tighter and tighter after each of his thrusts. 

Reaching down, he hooks his forearm around the back of your knee and he brings it up, pushing it higher until he can thrust into you from a different angle, one that makes you scream out with a high pitched moan and the neediest look he had ever seen on your face. 

“Fuck… just like that, baby, scream for me,” he rasps out. 

“Y-You’re so good, fuck me… Eds! Your cock feels so nice, please don’t stop, don’t ever stop!” You sputter, not knowing just how those words make him feel. 

You don’t know where to look, his pretty face, how he looks as he fucks you like you only ever dreamed of, how pretty his face is when he moans your name so sexily or how his glistening cock pounds in and out of you. 

And Eddie struggles just the same, though he settles on watching your beautiful face, wanting to see you fall apart more and more. 

And though you don’t want this moment to end, and neither does he, you both drag it out for as long as you can, not caring about anything anymore, not caring about the mess you are making on the couch. You are both sweaty, you are leaking down onto the cushions and Eddie is sure that he ripped a hole into the pillow beneath you earlier from how roughly he held it. 

A strangled whine leaves your lips and he knows you can’t hold on any longer, so he brings his hand down your stomach, pressing his fingers against your clit, causing you to jerk and whimper against him. 

“You’re close, baby, I can feel it,” he whispers against your neck, not slowing down his movements in the slightest, if anything, he starts fucking you even deeper, making you scream louder now as your fingernails rip through his skin from how hard you’re grabbing him and he welcome that pleasuring burn, “cum around my cock, do it for me, sweetheart. I know you want to be my good girl.” 

With another loud whine, you finally let go of him, arching your back and shutting your eyes tightly, you cum around your best friend's cock, for the first but definitely not the last time. You tighten around him so strongly that his hips stutter and his knees almost buckle, heat spreads through his skin and his stomach tightens as his own body screams for release. 

He can’t wait any longer either and panic ripples through him when you hold him tighter than before, locking him in as you refuse to let go. It makes his heart flutter and it does make him want to release but–

“I need to pull out, sweetheart,” he says shakily, knowing all too well that he doesn’t actually want it and apparently, you don’t either because you start shaking your head at him, opening your needy eyes. 

“No, no, don’t make a mess– cum inside of me, please!” 

His hips stutter once more, his dick twitches achingly inside of you, “you can’t just fucking say that–” he whimpers, unable to finish the sentence, one more thrust and he spills inside of you, coating your walls with his seed as your name falls from his lips before he smashes his lips to yours for the hundredth time tonight, swallowing your cry. 

Tears of pleasure run down your cheeks, your leg starts slipping from his waist and his thrusts slow down, though his grip doesn’t loosen on you, he continues to hold you close, the way you do as well as you grab his shoulder and his bicep, squeezing him tightly while your tongue clashes against his. 

Your walls spasm and contract around his length, sending shockwaves and an unbearable amount of pleasure through his sensitive body. 

Slowly, he removes his hand from between your legs, sliding it up your hot body until he is cupping your cheek again, he makes you both whimper when he pulls his softening cock out of you. 

Your name rolls off his tongue when you both pull away from the kiss, he says it like it’s a blessing, like a prayer. Your eyes make contact again and you stare at each other for a moment, lovingly, adoringly, and then, you both smile and giggle and press your lips back against each other, pecking one another again and again. 

“My Eddie,” you whisper as you admire the marks you left on him. 

“Fuck,” he whispers when he realizes that this isn’t just a moment, that this isn’t just for now, for tonight, that you waited for it just like he has. He looks down at you, brushing away and tucking your hair behind your ear as he caresses your cheek, his heart soaring in his chest. “I can’t believe this happened.”

You giggle at him, “I’m glad it happened.”

“Yeah?” He grins lazily, eyes dropping to your chest as he leans down and presses his lips to your jaw, “I’m fucking on top of the world right now.”

You brush your fingers through his curls, giggling yet again. 

“You’re a dork.”

“Yeah, but I’m your dork, right?” He asks with a hopeful glint in his eyes, one that questions more than just this. He wants to be yours, he wants it so badly. 

You nod happily, eyes flashing with happiness. 

“Mhmm, you’re mine, all mine.”

“Fuck,” he whispers as he feels his sensitive dick twitching at your words, heart bursting inside of him, “I’m yours, all yours.” 

You tug him closer and closer, breathing against his lips as you eye him hungrily again, you feel him leaking out of you and it only makes your thighs burn again, “and I’m yours.” 

“Yeah, you are,” he rasps as his fingers dip inside of you, he groans at the feeling of his cum leaking out of you, he pushes it back into you with a moan, “you’re mine, sweetheart.”

“Mmm, Eddie,” you mewl, pushing your hips up and chasing for more already. 

“You want more?” 

You nod, “yes… more, please!”

Not needing to be told twice, he slowly pushes his fingers and his cum back into you, making you both moan at that. 

“You know what, I'm glad we did this today,” Eddie mumbles against your lips. 

“Yeah?” You moan, arching your back in pleasure when he curls his fingers inside of you. 

“Mhmm, that means I get to fuck you over and over and over for the whole weekend,” he smirks before he slams his lips against yours again, kissing you passionately and sensually while his fingers move and in out of you, creating a mess with his cum leaking out of you and your own wetness sticking to your thighs and his. 

You both fill the room with filthy noises, needy and desperately you touch each other, grabbing and pulling at each others hair as the night goes on, continuing to mark each other up, to taste one another, to fuck like animals in heat, the movie long forgotten as his tongue laps at your pussy when he is kneeled on the ground with your legs dangling of his shoulders and your fingers pull at his hair roughly. 

This night never ends, the pleasure continuing until the early morning hours, until you can no longer take it, until you both get too sensitive, until you’re both nothing but a panting, sweaty mess and even then, you still kiss and cling to one another. 

The night was filled with desperation, with pent up emotions, with filthiness yet with love and adoration, and this night has changed you both forever, for good. 

-

“So… What you’re telling me is–…” Steve begins, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched as he stands before you and Eddie with a stern look on his face. You are both on his couch, looking up at him like scolded children. “You need to buy me a new… bed?” 

You are blushing furiously, embarrassment written all over your face. You glare at Robin who is standing in the corner, sipping on her soda with an amused look on her face. 

“Uh… yeah.”

You know how badly Eddie wants to laugh, he is smug, you can see it on his face but he stays quiet, for a second at least. 

“And a new arm chair?” Steve mumbles, looking between you both. 

“Yeah.” Eddie snorts to which you elbow him, shushing him. 

“Don’t forget the flower vase,” Robin snickers. 

Steve throws his hands up, “and a fucking flower vase, thanks Robin!”

You put your finger up and straighten your back, “actually, the flower vase fell by itself–”

“Because you were fucking on top of the table!” Steve retorts to which your boyfriend chuckles in satisfaction, not being embarrassed by anything in the slightest. 

You turn to look at him, he only smirks at you and shrugs, holding your thigh tighter than before. 

“I’d buy a new couch too–”

“Eddie!” 

Robin moves closer and eyes you both, eyeing the matching marks on your necks. 

“I hope you used protection, at least.”

Steve raises his eyebrows, looking at you both expectedly, your flustered face gives you away completely as you sink deeper into the couch, wanting nothing more than to bury your face in Eddie’s neck. 

“Great, now I might be a fucking uncle.”

“Godfather,” Eddie corrects him, making you giggle. 

“Go to hell,” Steve shakes his head, though he can’t hide the look on his face and how delighted he is to hear that he would be considered a godfather if it were to happen. And despite the clear distaste on his face after hearing what you did at his cabin, he can’t help but feel happy for you both. 

Robin looks down with a smile on her face when Eddie wraps his arm around you and kisses your cheek softly and Steve’s eyes soften as well. 

He sighs and rolls his eyes as he finally takes a seat, he reaches for his beer and takes a sip. 

“I’m happy my plan worked but you both will go back, replace the furniture and clean everything up before I lose my shit and I kill you before my parents kill me.”

You nod at him with wide eyes, while Eddie furrows his eyebrows, “clean up? Oh, we did clean up and besides, we didn’t waste a single drop.” 

“Eddie,” you whine as you bury your face in your hands while Robin groans in disgust. 

Steve only sighs but his lips twitch slightly, curling into a smirk as he nods at Eddie. 

“At least I know your children aren’t running around my cabin.” 

You give Eddie a warning glance but he is already smirking at you, gripping your thigh harder, slipping under your skirt. 

“They’re somewhere else.” 

“Oh, gross!” Robin coughs and turns away with a frown on her face. 

“Eddie!” You whine and slap his chest to which he pulls you closer and kisses your cheek, chuckling in amusement. 

Steve shakes his head, sighing. 

There’s a persistent misconception about Damian—that he refuses to admit when he’s hurt because it would bruise his ego. Maybe that was true once. Maybe when he was small, when he was ten and still soft in places the League tried to carve out of him, when the only time he cried into someone’s shoulder was in dreams he woke from with shame burning his throat. Back then, admitting pain meant inviting more of it. Back then, vulnerability was another word for weakness, and weakness was something punished, not soothed.

But that’s not the boy he is now. Now, admitting hurt feels less like pride and more like treason—like every flinch, every moment of doubt is an insult hurled at his mother, at his grandfather, at every merciless lesson etched into his bones. To even confess inwardly, I’m hurting, feels like reaching into his own chest and dismantling the armor they forced him to wear.

So he doesn’t. Even now, coughing in the cold shadows of Crime Alley, ribs screaming, blood painting the inside of his mouth metallic and warm, he won’t say it. Not to himself. Not even here.

Domain keeps repeating the same line in his head, steady and practiced: I will not blame myself for this.

Damian says it again and again, as if repetition could make it true.

The truth lies beside him in the dust.

She couldn’t have been more than ten. A child.

A child swallowed by Scarecrow’s toxin so completely that terror seemed to pour from her skin. Her eyes were blown wide, glassy, unfocused—staring not at him but through him, as if she were trapped in a nightmare with no way out. Every breath she took came out as a sob, sharp and shallow, like her lungs were too small to carry the fear inside her.

The knife in her hand trembled violently, its metal catching the dim emergency lights in jittery flashes. She swung at him in clumsy, frantic arcs—nothing calculated, nothing trained—just primal, poisoned terror. The air around them was thick with dust, with heat, with the stench of the toxin leaking from the vents. It felt like breathing through wet cloth.

Damian kept his palms open as he approached, voice low, feet steady even as the floor groaned beneath them. The building was dying around them—walls cracking, ceiling shedding plaster in soft, deadly drifts—and every sound felt too loud, too sharp, swallowed too quickly by the narrow hallway.

Damian disarmed her. Of course he did.

Even shaking, even barely able to see through the haze, muscle memory guided him. He caught her wrist, twisted gently, felt the blade slip from her fingers.

But she didn’t stop screaming.

Her hands clawed at him, tiny nails scraping at his suit, her body thrashing with the strength that only terror gives. And her voice—God, her voice—wasn’t a child’s voice anymore. It was raw, hoarse, pleading in a way that hollowed him out from the inside.

She screamed that she didn’t want to be here.

She screamed that she didn’t want to die.

She screamed like he had screamed in the few seconds before the Lazarus Pit swallowed him whole.

He didn’t decide to let her go.

Damian’s fingers simply opened, an old instinct rising through him like cold water.

It took less than seven seconds.

He counted them later, each one a knife to the ribs.

A groan rippled through the ceiling—deep, metallic, sickening—and then the world tore open. A huge industrial fan, rusted through and hanging on by its last bolts, snapped free with a shriek that split the air. Damian saw it fall in slow motion, though he knew it was fast, too fast, impossibly fast.

The impact hit like the building itself exhaled.

Dust exploded outward in a suffocating cloud, swallowing the girl instantly. The shockwave rattled his bones. Debris peppered his boots. The air turned thick, gritty, nearly unbreathable.

And then—silence.

Not real silence, but that awful hollow space where sound should be. Where a child should be crying. Where something living should still be moving.

Damian didn’t scream. His throat locked, muscles tightening until it felt like he was being strangled. His body refused to move, refused to look away, refused to accept the outline half-visible through the settling dust. Something small. Something still.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears so loudly it drowned out the continuing collapse around him.

For a moment, he couldn’t tell if he was breathing at all.

He stayed frozen like that—knees bent, muscles trembling, pupils blown—until hands grabbed him from behind. Strong hands. Familiar hands.

Dick’s voice was somewhere above him, muffled, frantic, breaking.

But Damian didn’t hear the words.

Only the ringing silence.

Only the ghost of her scream.

Only the sound of metal tearing itself loose replaying over and over inside his skull.

Dick dragged him backward, boots scraping through rubble, air thick with dust so dense it felt like drowning upright. The collapsing hallway dimmed behind them, swallowed by smoke and shadows, and Damian still couldn’t breathe. It was like his breathing was admitting she could no longer.

Dick was shouting his name, voice thick with fear, but all Damian heard was the echo of the girl’s last terrified cry—

And the quiet, echoing lie in his own head.

I will not blame myself for this.

He tried to believe it.

Tried.

But the weight in his chest said otherwise, heavy and collapsing inward just like the ceiling above them.

Damian spits into the gritty Gotham dirt, the metallic tang of blood stubborn on his tongue. It clings to the back of his throat like rust, refuses to leave no matter how violently he tries to purge it. The only part of his suit still intact is his mask—everything else is shredded, scorched, torn open by brick, metal, and failure.

Shockingly, his bones are mostly where they should be.

Shockingly, he’s still walking.

Shockingly, he’s alive.

He ran the second he saw his father’s silhouette appear behind Jason—didn’t hesitate, didn’t wait to hear a single word. Instinct. Shame. Horror. Something primal and ugly in his chest pushing him forward until he vaulted through smoke and sirens and kept going.

He’d ripped out every tracker, smashed every comm against rusted metal, even crushed his phone under his heel until it snapped like a bone. Oracle is unmatched—but if Damian Wayne doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be.

And Bruce… Bruce wouldn’t blame him.

That makes it worse.

Because for the first time in a long time, Damian doesn’t know if he deserves that mercy.

Pain crawls up his ribs, sharp and electric. At least four are broken, maybe five. His hands are bleeding—raw, split open, scraped down to something tender beneath the skin. He can’t tell which fingers are sprained or simply refusing to bend after clawing uselessly at the collapsed ceiling fan, trying to lift it, trying to reach her.

His knee throbs with every uneven step; there’s a gash along his temple where dried blood mats his hair to his face. He smells of mud and dust and the stagnant water that poured from burst pipes. He looks like a ghost someone dragged through a warzone.

With what strength remains, Damian drags himself behind a row of dumpsters. The alley swallows him whole—dark, damp, reeking of rot. He folds in on himself, knees pressed tight to his chest, forehead pressed to the space between them. His arms lock around his legs, holding himself small, silent, contained.

His breath shakes.

He bites down on his lower lip hard, so hard, desperate to smother any sound before it escapes.

He feels ridiculous. Weak. Behaving like the kind of frightened child he would have sneered at years ago. A version of himself he vowed he’d killed long before Gotham ever got the chance.

“Hey, baby…”

Your voice floats through his head—soft, sweet, familiar.

Damian freezes.

Oh god.

He’s hallucinating you.

Your voice is so clear he almost looks up, almost answers, almost reaches out for hands that aren’t here. His breath stutters as he presses his face harder into his knees, burying himself deeper into the mud and trash below. Anything to ground himself.

“Hey, it’s okay…”

Your voice again—gentle, coaxing, the same tone you use when you cradle a stray cat to your chest.

His lip splits under his teeth from how hard he’s biting down. The fresh sting distracts him for half a second—and then he tastes new blood. Not from his gums. Not from a cut inside his cheek.

From the force of trying not to cry.

“Baby, look, I got food—hm? Don’t you want some?”

Yes.

Yes, he wants your butter cookies, the chai you brew just for him, the blueberry cupcakes he pretends he doesn’t crave but always eats first. He wants the warmth of your kitchen, the way you hum under your breath, the stupid heart-shaped plate you refuse to throw away.

He wants all of it.

A sound escapes him—small, broken, humiliating. A whimper so soft it shouldn’t have made it past his teeth.

He stiffens immediately, shoulders snapping rigid, breath catching sharply in his throat as if he can choke the sound back in.

He gasps around nothing, around air too cold and too thin, trying desperately—pathetically—to claw his way back to control.

Trying to silence the part of himself that’s still ten years old, terrified, alone in a world that never cared if he lived or died.

Trying to silence the echo of a child’s scream still ringing in his skull.

Then—

It isn’t silent.

Your voice cuts through the alley like a flare in smoke, sharp with shock and disbelief.

“…Robin?”

Damian’s head snaps up so fast his vision blurs. His breath hitches. Your outline wavers at the edge of the dumpster’s shadow—the warm glow of a streetlamp catching your hair, your face, your startled expression.

You’re holding an opened packet of cat food in one hand, clearly mid–stray-feeding session, frozen now as you stare at the wrecked boy crouched in the dirt.

“Hey—are you cosplaying,” you ask, voice tripping over itself, “or are you actually Robin? Wait—never mind—you’re hurt, I should—”

You don’t finish the sentence.

Because Damian’s body moves before thought can catch up, driven by instinct, by exhaustion, by the brutal longing of a boy pushed far past his limits. His knees give out, his ribs seize, his vision flashes white—

—and he collapses into you.

Just folds.

Just falls.

Like a dying star dropping into orbit with the only gravity it trusts.

Your arms are around him before you can think, reflexive, frantic, steady. His mask presses into your shoulder, and his whole frame shakes as he clings to you—really clings, fingers digging into your jacket like he’s terrified you’ll dissolve if he doesn’t hold tight enough.

He smells like mud. Like smoke. Like blood.

But beneath it all—

He smells like your Damian.

“Hey—hey, hey, hey,” you whisper, your mouth close to his ear, your breath brushing his skin in a way that makes his whole body shudder. Your voice is so soft it almost hurts him—soft in that way you only ever use for Damian, the tone you slip into when he’s had a nightmare or when he gets overwhelmed and tries to pretend he isn’t.

You don’t know why you’re using it now.

Your mind doesn’t know.

But your body does.

Some instinct older than logic recognizes him—recognizes the trembling, the shape of him, the warmth, the way his weight fits against you like it belongs there.

“You’re gonna be okay, yeah?” you murmur, supporting his head, brushing mud and blood away from his cheek with your thumb. “You’re not beat up—well, not that badly—ah, fuck, should I call a hospital—?”

“No.”

The word cracks out of him like a snapped bone.

Robin’s voice—strained, hoarse, but absolute.

“No—no hospital.”

He can already feel it: the way his father would then find out right away. He imagines Bruce’s voice, low and sad, telling him that its going to be okay—

He can’t.

He can’t let himself be found yet.

“Okay,” you breathe, adjusting your grip so his head doesn’t loll. “Okay—alright—then not a hospital. I’m a med student but I could try—if you just let me see—”

You don’t finish.

Because Damian’s weight suddenly shifts—his body folding, sagging against you as if his bones just… give up. Not unconscious, not fully, but close enough that panic hits your chest like a hammer.

His breath is still there—ragged, shallow—but there.

“Hey—hey, no, stay with me,” you say quickly, feeling his mask press into the crook of your neck, the heat of his breath dampening your collar. “Don’t do that, don’t—you can’t just—Robin—look at me, come on—”

But he slumps further, his forehead sliding down to your shoulder, fingers twitching weakly at the fabric of your jacket—not gripping anymore, just… searching.

Still conscious, yes.

Still breathing, yes.

But his body is past its limit.

You tighten your arms around him, your chest pressed to his, holding him upright with more strength than you thought you had. His weight is staggering, but you refuse to let him fall.

You maneuver Robin the best you can—one of your arms braced tight around his waist, the other hauling his limp, deadweight arm over your shoulders. He’s heavier than he looks, all coiled muscle and soaked Kevlar, and every time you shift, something inside him makes a sickening crack that turns your stomach.

You don’t ask what part of him that was.

You don’t want to know.

He breathes through his teeth—sharp, controlled, like every inhale is a blade he won’t let touch you.

It hits you then, too vividly: Damian doing the exact same thing when you’d accidentally splashed acid onto the exposed skin of his wrist in chemistry. He’d had gloves on, but a sliver of skin blistered instantly, and he had grit his teeth like this, refusing to let you see the pain.

Maybe that’s why you’re brave enough—stupid enough—to tighten your grip on this boy dressed like Robin and start walking toward your dorm.

You barely get half a block.

“Fuck—” Robin rasps as you turn the corner. His body jerks in your arms. “No—no dorm—”

You freeze, letting him brace himself against the cold brick wall. His mask tips forward, his breath fogging the air between you.

“How—how did you know I was—?”

“You said medical student,” he snaps back through clenched teeth, like the words themselves hurt. “Does that matter—fuck—ah—”

He crumples a little, one bloodied hand flying to his knee as if he’s trying to hold the joint in place. The other hand trembles as he points to the back pocket of his suit pants.

“My wallet—ah—grab my wallet—there’s a motel near here—next to a convenience store—”

You blink at him.

Then your hand slides down his side, firm on his hip, and moves lower.

Damian would have blushed at any other moment. Hell, even half-conscious and drowning in pain, he manages a strangled noise—somewhere between indignation and disbelief—as your palm pats your way across his ass in search of the wallet.

Damian’s not going to say anything to you now.

But God, when he’s out of costume?

He’s going to have a conversation with you about boundaries with strangers.

A very serious one.

Preferably one that doesn't encourage you patting down vigilantes in alleys while they’re bleeding out.

Your fingers brush leather.

“Got it,” you mutter, tugging the wallet free and slipping an arm under his again. “Okay, c’mon, I’ve got you.”

His weight folds into you again, heavier this time, his forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second too long before he forces himself upright with a shaky grunt.

You don’t see his eyes under the mask.

Not really.

But you feel them on you—like he’s memorizing each second you’re holding him up, like something in him recognizes you long before he’ll let himself admit it.

“Let’s go,” you whisper.

And he does.

Because he doesn’t have a choice, you’re the only thing keeping him standing.

Because your voice—your hands around him—have become the only stable thing left in the world that’s collapsing around him twice in one night.

You make it to the motel with Robin huffing out directions in broken fragments, each one puffed through clenched teeth:

“Left.”

“Two blocks straight.”

“Right.”

“…the other right!”

By the time you reach the place, your shoulder is numb from supporting his weight, and your arm around his waist is shaking. You don’t know what you expected—a flickering neon sign, the smell of mold, carpets older than Gotham itself—but the motel is… surprisingly warm. Soft lighting, muted gold against burgundy walls. A little worn, maybe, but clean.

Cozy. Safe, even.

You pause on the threshold, staring at the front desk like it’s an obstacle you never trained for.

“How am I supposed to get us in without someone pointing out a vigilante in a stupid costume—”

“Just go.” Robin’s voice scrapes out of him, roughened by injury and exhaustion. “He’s fourteen. Doesn’t look up from his phone. Kid’ll hand you the key card, and if he doesn’t—” he breaks off in a jagged cough that shakes his whole frame, “we can just—ah—use what you said earlier. Cosplaying. Yeah?”

You stare at him.

Robin sounds like he’s making it up as he goes, but something in his tone—some weary certainty, like he’s done this dance in worse shape—tells you he’s not wrong.

So you tighten your arm around his waist, feeling the heat radiating through his suit, the tremor in his muscles as he tries to stand straighter for your sake. His breath stutters against your neck. He’s so close it’s impossible not to feel every ragged exhale.

And you step inside.

The lobby is quiet, humming faintly with the low buzz of an old heater. A cheap and outdated Christmas garland droops along the front desk, its tinsel reflecting warm yellow light. The receptionist—a teenager with curly hair, hoodie pulled over his head—does not, in fact, look up from his phone.

Robin sags into you a little more, like the warmth is melting whatever fight he had left.

You approach the desk.

“Um—hi. Can I—”

“Keys are on the counter,” the kid mutters without looking up, thumb tapping across the screen. “Cash or card?”

Robin wheezes something at your expression that might be a laugh, or a dying breath. Hard to tell.

You grab the wallet from earlier, sliding a wad of cash forward with your free hand. Your other hand stays locked around Robin’s waist, like you’re afraid he’ll slide to the floor if you loosen your grip even a fraction.

The teen finally glances up.

Sees Robin half-collapsed on you.

Sees the blood on his gloves.

Sees the cracked, battered armor.

Sees you trying to hold up someone clearly too heavy and too hurt.

“Huh. We don’t get a lot of cosplayers—they usually go to the one closer to the convention center” the kid says flatly.

“Yeah,” you answer instantly, praying your voice doesn’t shake. “We—uh—we got a little lost and this was closer.”

The kid blinks once.

Then shrugs. “That’s cool. Dope costume. Nice commit to the bit.”

He hands you the key card and goes right back to his phone.

You’re not sure if relief or disbelief hits you harder.

You adjust him against your side, guiding him toward the hallway. His steps are uneven, heavy, every movement radiating pain he refuses to voice.

The moment the lobby door swings shut behind you, the motel’s warmth settles over you both—thick, quiet, almost grounding.

“See?” he murmurs, voice slurred at the edges. “Told you—my costume is cool.”

His head tilts toward you, just slightly, like the warmth and exhaustion are pulling him in your direction.

And you try not to think about how he smells like smoke and cold rain.

How he feels like someone familiar when he leans into you like that.

How your heart stutters, traitorously, as you whisper—

“Let’s get you somewhere you can lie down.”

Robin nods weakly.

And lets you lead him deeper into the motel’s soft, golden safety—completely trusting you to keep him upright, keep him hidden, keep him alive.

Just like someone else you know would.

You swipe the key card, hear the soft click of the lock, and shoulder the door open. The room is small—queen bed, tiny table, muted brown carpet—but the lights are gentle, not the harsh fluorescent kind, and the air smells faintly of old lavender cleaner. Safe enough. Warm enough.

You drop your bag and guide him inside, your arm still locked firmly around his waist. His steps are clumsy, uneven, and his breath shivers against your shoulder every time he shifts his weight. You get him to the bed and try to ease him down onto the edge—

But he just falls from your grip like he thinks your work here is done.

The mattress dips violently as he flops onto it with all the grace of a sack of bricks. For a single second he tries to force himself upright again—stubborn, one that could rival Damians you think—muscles trembling with the effort.

“No—wait—wait—just—” You place both hands on his shoulders and press gently.

Robin collapses backward instantly, like the moment someone told him he didn’t have to fight gravity, he let go of the idea entirely. His body sinks into the thin motel comforter, armor scraping faintly against the sheets.

He goes very still.

Too still.

His chest rises, falls—shallow, controlled. And he stares straight up, not dazed, not disoriented, not spaced-out.

But fixed.

Eyes locked on the ceiling.

On the ceiling fan.

The cheap metal blades rotate slowly above him, humming with a soft mechanical wobble. A perfectly harmless fan.

But Robin’s gaze is razor-sharp, unblinking, pupils blown wide with something that isn’t shock but something deeper, colder. His breath stutters in a way you don’t like. His fingers clamp just slightly at his sides, the motion so tiny most people wouldn’t have seen it.

You do.

And it hits you—the expression on his face is not blank.

It’s haunted.

You follow his line of sight up to the fan.

“Off?” you ask quietly–moving near the nightstand, thumb hovering near the fan switch–as if even offering the choice might jolt him.

“…doesn’t matter,” he mutters, eyes flicking away from the fan and then back to you, like he’s forcing himself to anchor on anything else. Something kinder.

Silence settles between you for a beat—thick, strained, fragile in a way that makes you feel like moving too suddenly might crack him straight open.

“Is…” you begin, swallowing, “Is there anyone you want to call? I should’ve asked sooner—”

“No—” His voice slices through yours, too sharp for how wrecked it sounds. The word is followed by a jagged cough that forces him to scrunch one eye shut. When he looks back up at you, the edges of his mask tilt with the furrow of his brows. “I’m not going to ask you to patch me up. It’s late. Go home. Thank you for bringing me here—”

He stops suddenly.

Like he stepped off a ledge he didn’t mean to.

There’s something tight in the silence that follows—like he’s biting back a word, choking on it. 

Beloved, Damian wants to say. ‘Thank you for bringing me here beloved.’

And even through the mask, you can feel the weight of the stare he pins you with. Like he’s trying to memorize your silhouette in this crappy motel room, the curve of your shoulders in the lamplight, the steadiness you haven’t once offered to anyone but him. 

“…You will be rewarded,” he says finally, voice softening in this strange way. His chin tilts toward the nightstand where his wallet sits. “I’ll send some money to your—”

“Can I use your wallet to buy some gauze and disinfectant from the convenience store?” you cut in, tone annoyed and completely ignoring everything he just said.

For a moment he just…stares. Then he lets out a breath that sounds like a sigh of annoyance or might be relief, letting his head fall back against the pillow. The white sheets are already blotched with dull streaks of dried blood and new ones blooming beneath him. He must feel it soaking uncomfortably into the fabric, but he doesn’t flinch.

Mentally, however, your boyfriend behind the mask is smiling. You’re not stubborn, he always insists. You’re adamant. The only force he’s never once been able—or wanted—to fight.

It’s about twenty minutes later when you step back into the room, pushing the door shut with your heel as you kick off your shoes. The motel’s dim yellow light hits you first, then the sight of Robin—still lying exactly where you left him, stiff and watchful in that strange, exhausted way.

“I bought myself hot chocolate with your card,” you announce, voice low but steady, setting the cup on the nightstand. The steam curls upward, sweet and warm, completely out of place beside the blood drying on the gauntlets he seems to have thrown off. You ease onto the corner of the bed near the nightstand, the plastic bag rustling as you place it on the pillow beside you.

Robin huffs—just barely—but it’s enough to sound like him.

“Give me a sip later.”

“No.” You don’t even look at him. “I’m not getting blood on it.”

If Damian were capable of smiling without everything hurting, he would’ve.

Because you always share your drinks with him.

Even when he bites his lip thinking too hard, even when there’s a smear of red on the rim— you never care. No matter how disgusting he jokes that it is, you never care.Not with him.

The warmth in his chest flares sharp and fast, pressing painfully against his bruised ribs. A traitorous little flutter he can’t stop.

You slide closer and slip your arms beneath his armpits, bracing your body as you drag him up the bed so his legs aren’t hanging uselessly off the edge.

“God, what do you eat?” you grunt, struggling under his weight.

“Justice,” Robin mutters, and you’re pretty sure it was meant to be a joke.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re not funny?” you ask, already reaching for a pillow.

He feels your hand slide behind his neck—gentle, so gently—as you lift his head and place it down on the pillow like he’s breakable porcelain. Your touch sends a sting of heat through his skull, unbearable only because he wants more of it.

“My girlfriend,” Damian hears himself say, the words slipping out before he can lock his jaw around them, “She thinks I’m funny.”

You pause, blink, then mumble under your breath, “…some women are just being nice.”

“Speaking from experience?” he shoots back, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might grin if he weren’t bleeding internally.

“Hell no.” You say it with this stupid, proud lilt that makes his ribs ache in a new way. You rummage through the plastic bag, pulling out gauze and alcohol wipes. “My boyfriend is hilarious. Very funny.”

“Yeah?” Robin mutters, his voice thick around pain and exhaustion as he watches you tear open a packet of disinfectant wipes. “Name a joke then. I could use a laugh.”

“Something tells me your ribs couldn’t,” you shoot back, focused on the supplies, fingers steady in a way your pulse isn’t. You're giving him a look now, one that he's only seen you direct at the men who hit on you when the two of you go out together. “Go ask your girlfriend.”

He goes still. Not the physical kind—he’s already barely moving—but the kind that feels like a nerve being struck. A soft, invisible jolt running through him.

Robin shifts, the faintest tensing under your hands.

“Look—” he says, a little too fast, a little too defensive, “I am not hitting on you.”

You don’t look up.

You don’t have to.

You can feel the way the words hit him, like he’s been caught doing something wrong.

You just sigh, not unkindly, not even annoyed—just tired. Focused. Like you always are with everyone you patch up in the hospital you both volunteer in. Even if the only patients you both receive are little kids who get bruises from running around in the halls. He admires it about you, how you focus on them like they are going through heart surgery.

“You’re half-dead on a motel bed,” you say, brushing debris off what’s left of his tunic. “You couldn’t hit on me if you tried.”

He exhales sharply—half an offended huff, half a sound of pain mixed with laughter—because that’s not the point.

Because you don’t know that he’s yours.

Damian doesn’t know what to say now—not when you’re this close, not when your hands are already on him, not when every shallow breath sends a tremor through his fractured ribs. His body keeps betraying him—loosening, sinking into the mattress, warming under your touch as if you’d flipped some instinct older than language.

It’s humiliating.

It’s grounding.

It’s a suffocating comfort.

You pull the small scissors from the first-aid kit and murmur, “Don’t move,” as you cut away the torn, mud-streaked Kevlar shirt. You work carefully with a bit of struggle, sliding the blade under each stubborn seam. Each snip sounds loud in the quiet room, mixing with the rhythmic whir of the ceiling fan he still refuses to look at.

His shoulder pulls tight when you peel back the fabric—his dislocated left side stiffens, trembling slightly. He hates it. Hates needing help. Hates how your fingers graze his skin and his whole body shivers like he’s been rewired.

“Why are you helping me?” Robin asks, voice raw. Damian already knows the answer but part of him needs to hear it anyway—needs the reassurance like a coward.

“…Let’s just say I like Batman,” you mumble, focused, trying to free a stubborn strip of fabric stuck to dried blood at his temple.

Robin’s mouth twitches into the faintest grin he can muster. “More than me?”

You hum as you finally remove the last piece of his top, exposing mottled bruises blooming across his ribs. “Unfortunately his costume is cooler.”

He rolls his eyes even though the motion makes pain crack through his skull. In his head, Damian mirrors it—of course you’d say that. You already told him once that Batman’s silhouette was “peak aesthetic.”

“You like the trunks? My costume is way cooler.”

“I like the cape.” You say it while reaching for the wipes, already cleaning the blood from along his jaw. “It was easy to find a black blanket as a kid and run around pretending I was him.”

Damian has heard that story so many times—your shy laugh, the way you mimed swooping down hallways. Hearing you tell it to Robin—even though it is him—burns in a new way.

“He’d like to hear that,” Robin says, voice softer than he intends.

You’re already sliding your hand behind his shoulder blades, guiding him up the pillow just enough so you can work. His breath stutters at the movement; he clenches his teeth as agony arcs down his side. You catch it—of course you do—and murmur: “Sorry. I’ve got you.”

And he hates how much those words undo him.

“I wanted to dress up as him for Halloween this year too,” you continue, talking more to distract him than anything else. You set an ice pack against his ribs with careful pressure. “But then I can’t force my boyfriend to do a couples costume.”

That’s new. His pulse jumps. Why didn’t you tell him?

Robin starts slowly, “…Couples costume?”

“Mhm…” You pull off one of his gloves—gently, so gently—and begin disinfecting his knuckles one by one. His fingers twitch involuntarily as the antiseptic stings. “I just need an excuse to play dress up with him.”

Damian’s heart drops, catches, and tries to restart all at once.

“What is he, a doll?” Robin asks—not teasing. Real worry threads through his voice, betraying him. God your going to either make the costume practically two threads of fabric or dress him up in the most ridiculous thing possible.

“Might as well be.” You laugh quietly as you check for fractures along his hand. “My Damian is so handsome.”

The room tilts.

His ribs don’t ache for a moment.

It feels dangerously good.

“Bet I’m hotter,” Robin huffs, letting Dick’s bravado slip out because it’s safer than sounding like himself—safer than letting the truth spill and ruin everything.

“Hm… yeah bruised and bloody, just how I like my men.” You roll your eyes and reach for his other glove.

He winces when you lift his left arm to remove it, the dislocated shoulder grinding sharply. You catch the breath he sucks in and immediately soften your touch, guiding his arm down again, supporting the joint with your palm.

“Oh?” Robin asks, staring at the ceiling because looking at you feels impossible and too much. “Sadist?”

“For everyone except him? Yeah.”

And you say it like it’s nothing.

But Damian feels the words slide under his ribs, settle into something tender and too fragile to name.

You brace a hand at the small of his back.

“You need to sit up again.”

He grits his teeth. You help him slowly, carefully, letting him lean against you while you wrap bandages around his ribs—your arms circling him, your breath warm near his ear, your pulse steady against his shoulder.

Too much.

Not enough.

Too much.

Your fingertips brush the edge of the bruise blooming across his sternum. He swallows a sound he refuses to make.

You let him rest against the headboard once he’s secured, then move to his knee—examining the swollen joint, pressing lightly to check if he reacts. He does. You soften again.

Hand on his shin.

Hand at the back of his neck.

Hand steadying his jaw while you clean the last cut.

Your touch is everywhere.

And Damian—Robin—whoever he is right now—cannot breathe around the question pounding in his skull:

How can you care this gently for a stranger when you love him so fiercely? 

But when you whisper, “Tilt your head a little more—yeah, just like that,”

he obeys instantly.

Because it’s you.

And because his body has always, always known how to answer to your voice…long before his heart admitted it.

You shift your weight on the mattress, bunchingthe motel’s thin blanket under his ruined knee for a little cushioning before you touch anything. Robin keeps his eyes on the ceiling fan—like he’s daring it to fall—while you cut around the torn fabric of his pants. The knee is already swelling, skin angry and hot beneath your fingers.

“Okay,” you whisper like you’re soothing a spooked animal, “this is gonna hurt. Just—breathe. In and out.”

Damian isn’t breathing at all.

His throat feels clamped shut, like each inhale might betray the way your hands unravel every tight coil inside him.

You press your thumbs lightly around the joint, mapping out what’s broken, what’s salvageable.

Robin’s jaw tightens. A sharp hiss slips out of him—humiliating, involuntary, and it makes him then let out a small curse.

“Damian did the same thing,” you murmur, almost without thinking, focusing on the rhythm of working rather than the vigilante in your hands. “When he sprained his knee last winter. Pretended it didn’t hurt but started swearing in Arabic under his breath.”

His stomach twists.

He remembers.

You carried him to the couch and iced it yourself. He pretended to fall asleep so you wouldn’t see him melt.

“That must be annoying” Robin croaks—because when it comes to him there’s not many other words he can think to use at this moment.

You give a soft laugh at the question, one he didn’t expect you to answer so easily.

“He’s… stubborn. Smart. More dramatic than he thinks he is. You should see the pout he does when I don’t kiss him goodnight.”

Damian wants the ceiling fan to fall on him.

“And he’s soft,” you add, quieter. “Not in the way he thinks weak. Just—soft where it matters.”

His chest aches. Not from broken ribs. Something else, something worse.

You place both your hands gently around his kneecap. “Okay, three, two—”

You don’t even reach one.

You shift it back into place with a clean, practiced motion. Robin chokes on a grunt, fists clenching in the sheets until his knuckles bloom fresh red.

“Good,” you whisper, brushing his shin soothingly. “Good job. That was the worst of it.”

He doesn’t deserve your praise.

But he swallows it down anyway like starving.

You move next to his hands.

There’s dried blood in the lines of his palms, mud caked into the nail beds. His fingers are torn from clawing concrete, little slices across the knuckles where skin split from force.

“Give me your hand,” you say gently.

He hesitates—not for pain, but because letting you touch him feels like sacrilege, like he’s breaking some unspoken rule of who Robin is allowed to be with you.

But he gives it.

You hold his hand like it’s not stained with a child’s blood and a collapsing ceiling.

You clean each finger carefully, wiping dark streaks from the creases, murmuring tiny apologies every time he winces. You wrap the deeper cuts with practiced precision, one slow deliberate motion at a time.

Robin watches you—really watches you—for the first time since the alley.

“You know…” he starts, voice rough, “my girlfriend is probably going to kill me.”

Your hands still just for a second.

“…Oh?”

“She worries too much,” Robin continues, forcing a half-grin he doesn’t feel.

You huff softly, “If Damian came to me like this I’d kill him before I can even think about how to help him.”

“She’s kind,” he says quieter now. “Too kind for me. She pretends she’s annoyed, but she’s… she’s gentle. And loyal. And smarter than I am.”

You laugh at that, still cleaning his fingers, probably thinking he’s hallucinating. “Well—at least you realize it.”

“She tells me I’m handsome sometimes,” he adds faintly, like testing water he already knows the depth of.

Your groan. “God she must be blind.”

Damian stares at you like you’ve stabbed him, his fingers twitch weakly in your hold, like a cat bristling with its last bit of pride.

“She’s not blind,” Robin rasps before he can stop himself.

Your brows lift, just slightly, but you keep cleaning the smear of blood along his ring finger.

“Oh?” you murmur, tone soft but teasing. “She has bad taste then?”

Damian almost chokes.

Robin swallows, tries to keep his voice level. “She says I look… dignified.”

You blink. That is absolutely not the word you expected to describe the mess of the boy in front of you.

“…Dignified?”

“She says I have nice eyes,” he forces out, because if he doesn’t keep talking, he might confess everything—rip the mask off and tell you he needs you more than air. “That they… settle her.”

Your hands pause again.

Not frozen. Not startled.

Just… warm.

The way they always get when someone says something earnest. You stare at his face like you're trying to see his eyes through his mask.

“That’s sweet,” you whisper.

No.

Damian thinks viciously.

It is not sweet. It is humiliating. He sounds like an idiot. A weak, beaten-up idiot bleeding like an idiot.

But your face—God, your face is soft and bright and fond. And it hurts him more than the broken ribs.

You stroke another wipe carefully over the cut on his thumb.

“I tell Damian that,” you mumble, half-distracted by focusing on not hurting him. “About his eyes. Dunno if he believes me, though.”

Robin’s breath stutters.

You continue, unaware of the way he’s gripping the sheets, knuckles trembling.

“He has… pretty eyes,” you admit quietly, because you also have the full capability of screaming this fact from a rooftop. “When he lets me see them.”

Damian feels something in him collapse worse than any ceiling.

“And he gets all shy,” you add, smiling at the bandage you’re smoothing down. “Pretends he isn’t but he does this little inhale—barely there—like he’s holding his breath.”

Robin’s lungs seize because he knows exactly the inhale you mean. The one he's now is trying to bite back.

You move to the next finger.

The room smells like antiseptic and motel detergent and him—blood, sweat, concrete dust. Everything about him is ruined and raw, except the way you touch him, like he’s still something human.

“She tells me I make her feel safe,” Robin says suddenly, voice so low it almost cracks. “Even when I’m a mess.”

Your eyes flick up, meeting the edge of the mask, like you’re searching for something in the shadows behind it. 

You want to tell him ‘no shit your Robin–I’d hope she'd feel safe with you’ but…decide against it.

“That’s important,” you whisper. “Someone who makes you feel safe is… everything.”

Robin closes his eyes, because he can’t bear the expression on your face when you say that.

Because he wants to give you safety.

Because he wants to give you everything.

You shift closer—slowly, carefully—bracing one knee on the mattress. The bed dips under your weight, and Robin’s breath stutters like even that tiny movement unsettles him.

Your hand hovers over his collarbone before you touch him, as if giving him a silent warning, as if asking permission even though he already gave it.

“Okay,” you murmur—your voice quieter than the lamp buzz filling the room—“this is going to sting. I’m sorry.”

Robin tenses.

Not at the warning—not at the pain he knows is coming—but at the softness. At the way your voice dips into that low, careful register you only use on Damian when he’s pretending bruises aren’t bruises and fractures aren’t fractures.

Your fingers slip beneath the edge of his torn tunic.

The fabric cracks away from dried blood as you lift it, sticking to him with a wet, sickening tear. Beneath it, his skin is fever-hot. Sweaty. The copper-and-iron smell of blood rises in a thick, metallic wave.

He tries not to hiss.

He fails.

More of his shoulder comes into view—ugly shades of purple and sick yellow blooming across bone and tendon. Scrapes. Punctures. Swollen skin stretched too tight over muscle. He looks… hollowed out. Starved in a way that says he’s been pushing too hard for too long.

You suck in a breath.

“Oh… gods.”

The sound is tiny, strangled, horrified.

Robin’s jaw clenches.

Damian feels something in his chest rupture that has nothing to do with broken ribs.

You tug the tunic lower and reveal the wound.

A diagonal slash, deep and ragged, carved with intention. The edges are swollen, angry, still weeping slow, diluted blood. Dried flakes cling to his skin like rust. A constellation of bruises spread out around it from the impact that caused it.

You freeze for only half a second.

Then your expression steels over.

You grab a disinfectant pad, fingers steady in a way your breathing isn’t.

“Gods…” you mutter, voice tight with emotion and frustration and something painfully close to affection, “…She really is going to kill you. I don't know what I'd do if I found Damian like this.”

Robin bites the inside of his cheek hard—hard enough to taste iron.

Because he knows exactly what you’d do.

How you’d cradle Damian’s face in your hands.

How your voice would crack.

How your eyes would soften.

How your warmth would spread across his skin like a balm.

The antiseptic hits the wound.

It sizzles faintly.

Blood thins under the liquid.

His flesh twitches.

Robin jerks, gasping through clenched teeth, the sound raw and involuntary. His fingers dig into the bedsheets hard enough to leave bloody crescents even through the freshly bandaged fingers.

“Oh—shit, sorry—”

Your apology spills out instantly, warm and breathy.

Your thumb skims the intact edge of his skin, an instinctive, soothing gesture.

“You’re doing so well. Just… breathe. Please? I’m right here.”

He hates the way that unravels him.

Hates how badly he wants to lean into your touch.

You work slowly, delicately, swiping away blood the color of wine left out too long. Each stroke of the pad uncovers more skin, more damage. More truth.

You shift the tunic again, lifting it higher to get a better angle—

And then you go still.

The pad slips a fraction between your fingers.

Your breath stumbles.

Your eyes are locked on something just below the wound.

A tiny beauty mark.

Half-hidden under smeared blood.

A dark little star on the upper swell of his chest.

Robin’s heart convulses against his ribs, too focused on how close you are.

“Oh,” you breathe—barely, barely audible.

A sound more like a gasp than a word.

It’s the beauty mark you’ve kissed a hundred times.

The one your lips find without looking when you curl against Damian’s chest.

The one you once joked was your “navigation point.”

The color drains from your face, then flushes back too fast.

You inhale sharply through your nose, then again, then again—like your body can’t decide if it’s freezing or boiling.

Robin goes rigid beneath you—

not out of fear,

not out of panic,

but because you’re staring at him like he’s naked in a way far deeper than skin.

Your gaze shifts to his shoulder.

Compact muscle, cut too clean for it to be any other boy you've seen.

The exact silhouette you see when Damian stretches and his shirt rides up.

Your eyes flick to his hand.

Split knuckles.

A thin scar along the base of his thumb.

The one you saw on Damian when he handed you a desert a few days ago–your favorite meringue from a local bakery. 

Your chest rises with a sharp, trembling inhale.

He breathes again—too shallow on the left, each inhale a contained wince.

Damian breathes like that when he’s sore.

When he’s lying.

When he’s hiding something.

Your pulse hammers so hard the room blurs at the corners.

He shifts—trying to tug his torn tunic back over his chest, as if hiding skin could hide identity. His cheeks blaze under the dark mask, his breaths short and frustrated.

“Tt,” he mutters, voice tight, humiliated, flustered out of his mind. “Stop staring.”

Your blood goes cold.

The sound—

that sharp irritated Tt—

is Damian.

It’s him.

It’s him, it’s him, it’s—

Your hand is still hovering above his chest, suspended like you touched a live wire.

The room feels suffocating now—humid with blood, thick with truth, the small space closing around you like a fist. You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears. You feel dizzy.

He wouldn’t lie like this.

He couldn’t.

He—

Except he could.

He has.

He would.

He did.

And god—now that you’re seeing him—

really seeing him—

you recognize every inch.

Your fingers shake.

He misreads the tremor immediately.

Of course he does.

His jaw clenches hard.

Shoulders curl in.

He twists his face away like he can’t stand the look in your eyes.

“Could you quit staring?” he snaps, voice cracking at the edges. “I get it—I’m bruised to hell and back. Stop looking at me like—”

“God, Damian, you’re beautiful—just shut up.”

Oh.

Fuck.

Damian tries to pull himself together, though every attempt at composure slips through his fingers the way blood keeps slipping down the slope of his ribs. He looks everywhere except at you — at the cracked ceiling tile above him, at the frayed hem of his glove, at the discarded disinfectant pads turning pink on the sheets. Anywhere his eyes can land that isn’t your face.

Because your face, right now, is too much.

“I should have—” he begins, stopping immediately when the words snag on something sharp in his throat. He swallows, tries again, falters again. “I intended, eventually, to… tell you. Properly. Under different circumstances. Not like this.”

His voice comes uneven, like he’s reciting from a script that dissolved the moment your fingers brushed his chest.

You don’t respond. You don’t even move. You sit there between his knees on the bed, your hands still hovering over the wound, your breath warm on his skin, your eyes fixed on him with a focus that borders on reverence.

And you think — God, you think so much all at once it nearly knocks the air out of you.

You think about how much pain he’s in and how little Damian lets it show, how the tremor in his exhale betrays what his stoic expression refuses to.

You think about the sheer brutality carved across his body—the gash at his collarbone, the bruising blooming like ink over his ribs, the sharp outlines of muscle beneath skin that’s been pushed far past exhaustion—and yet the only thing you feel when you look at him is awe.

He is injured, bloodied, trembling, and somehow still fighting for dignity like it’s a weapon he refuses to set down.

You admire the stubborn courage in that.

You admire the discipline, the resilience, the reckless loyalty that got him into this state in the first place.

Damian is extraordinary in ways no one should be asked to be, and it hits you with a strange, painful clarity: you’ve been falling in love with a boy who carries the world like a shield strapped too tightly to his chest.

And now you’re staring at the chest in question — the familiar shape of it, the beauty mark you’ve seen a hundred times, the rise and fall of a breath you’ve fallen asleep to — and you realize how blind you were not to see him before.

His voice cracks, barely audible. “It was not because I doubted you. You must understand that beloved. The secret is not mine alone. My family—”

He stops, jaw tight, brows screwed together in frustration, as if the explanation refuses to take shape no matter how he tries to force it into one.

And while he flounders for words he has always been terrible at choosing, you can’t look away from him.

Not from the way his mask is smudged with dust and blood.

Not from the split on his lower lip, still slightly purpling, marked by violence he accepted without hesitation because someone needed saving.

Not from the way he trembles when your knee accidentally brushes his thigh, because for all his training, he is still a person who has never learned what to do when someone touches him gently.

You watch him, and your thoughts turn over and over, slow and stunned:

He is so strong.

He is so brilliant.

He is so painfully, catastrophically brave.

And you’re not sure how you ever thought you loved him enough.

He keeps talking, though his voice gets softer, like each sentence tires him more than the last.

“It was never deceit for the sake of deception. I was trying to protect them. Protect you. If anyone learned who I was, who you were connected to—”

His breath hitches. He shakes his head, frustrated, angry with himself. “This is coming out poorly. I never wanted you to feel—”

You don’t let him finish.

Not because you’re angry.

Not because you need more explanation.

But because every word he says is straining him, draining him, unraveling him at the seams, and you can see in the tension of his jaw how badly he’s bracing for your rejection.

And you can’t let him brace for something that isn’t coming.

So you lean down, slow and deliberate, one hand rising to cradle his cheek, the other resting feather-light against his sternum, careful not to jostle the wound.

His eyes widen beneath the mask — a flash of shock, panic, longing, all tangled together so tightly you can’t tell them apart.

You press your mouth to his split lip, soft enough not to hurt him, sure enough that he feels every ounce of what you can’t yet say aloud.

It’s not a hungry kiss or a desperate one.

It’s a promise. A recognition. A quiet, steady I know you and I’m not leaving.

Damian’s breath breaks against your mouth.

Your thumb sweeps the edge of his jaw. His fingers curl weakly into the sheets. His entire body, rigid with dread moments before, sinks under your touch like the truth was a weight he finally no longer has to carry alone.

And when you pull back, just far enough to see him, he looks at you like you’ve undone something inside him he didn’t realize was bound so tightly.

He tries to speak. Fails. Tries again.

Your hands rise slowly, almost reverently, thumbs brushing along the lower edge of his mask as though you’re touching something sacred rather than something made of Kevlar and secrets. You try to be graceful, but the damn thing almost refuses to cooperate; you end up fumbling with it longer than any romantic reveal should allow.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s also exactly enough time for Damian to process the fact that you’re the one taking it off–not his father, not Alfred, not even himself–you, kneeling over him in a cheap motel room with your hands trembling on his skin.

When the mask finally comes free, you hold it between two fingers for a moment before lowering it to the mattress, your eyes lifting to meet him without anything between you for the first time tonight.

Those green eyes–the ones you could never quite put a shade to, the ones that never seemed to exist in any color wheel you checked because of course he's one of a kind–widen just slightly, the pupils blown from exhaustion and adrenaline and something softer he never lets anyone else see.

He looks at you like he’s memorizing the moment one breath at a time.

“…You got my blood on your lip,” he says quietly, voice cracked at the edges. It isn’t judgment or disgust he shows when you calmly drink a shared drink that still had the reminisce of blood from a bitten lip; it’s something closer to awe, as though he finally believes you will never flinch from his blood. From him.

“Yeah,” you murmur, brushing your thumb across the corner of your mouth as if confirming the obvious. “Comes with having a superhero boyfriend.”

His mouth parts, not in arrogance or smugness or that sharp little smirk he pretends is confidence, but in a stunned, reverent wonder that makes his breath hitch. Damian’s brows draw together in a way that looks almost painful — like someone seeing a holy thing up close and being overwhelmed by the fact they’re allowed to touch it.

And then Damian is kissing you.

Not with the careful restraint he usually hides behind, not with the skittish hesitation of earlier, but with a deep, unguarded certainty that pulls you down against the bruised plane of his chest. 

Damian’s arms wrap around you with a fierceness that startles you, not because it’s rough, but because it’s desperate — as though he’s afraid you might disappear the moment he loosens his grip.

The kiss isn’t starving, but it isn’t gentle either; it’s the compressed weight of every moment he’s lied to you, every time he’s wanted to tell you the truth, every time he’s held back because he knew he was protecting you. Your lips move against his with a kind of instinctive urgency, your breath mingling with the copper taste of his blood, your bodies pressed so close there’s no room for anything except the fact that he is here, that he is yours, that he is alive.

When Damian finally pulls back, it’s only far enough that the air you get is the air from his mouth, the breath he exhales into yours. His forehead rests against yours, warm and damp, and his hands linger at your waist like he’s not convinced the world won’t tilt without his hold.

“Beloved,” you whisper, the word slipping out of you like a thought made sound, tentative and soft and full of too many questions.

Damian’s eyes drift from your gaze to your lips and back again, as though he can’t decide which one feels safer to look at. “Mhm?” he hums, voice so quiet it trembles.

“…does this mean my future father-in-law is Batman?” you ask, the question falling into the small space between you like a pebble into still water.

Damian releases an exhale that sounds like a soul leaving a body.

Then, without warning, he presses a hand against your sternum — not harsh, just firm — and pushes you gently back until your shoulders meet the headboard. He flops onto his side beside you with all the resignation of a dying Victorian heroine, one arm draped across his eyes as if shielding himself from the absolute catastrophe you’ve just unleashed.

You swear the ceiling fan above the two of you groans in sympathy.

“…am I…allowed to ask you something?” Your voice breaks the quiet, soft enough that Damian almost forgets how tense his muscles still are, your fingers curling around his now-bandaged hand and lifting it to rest against the curve of your chest. The warmth of your skin seeps through the gauze and his gloves, a quiet tether that somehow anchors him to a world that’s been spinning too fast and too violently.

“…I owe you that much.” His voice is low, rough with fatigue and residue of pain, eyes fixed on the fan above like he’s calculating its every movement while ignoring the heat of you against his hand.

“I…don’t want you to answer because you owe me,” you murmur, voice faltering slightly, “I want you to answer because—”

“I want to.” His words are barely above a whisper, but there’s no hesitation, no deflection, no walls. He turns his head, letting the tiniest flicker of vulnerability show, though every fiber of his body screams that he shouldn’t. “I want to tell you everything.”

“…what happened?” You ask softly, tilting your face toward him, letting concern and the ghost of fear you felt when you first found him color every line of your features. The gentleness in your voice is almost a physical presence, something tangible Damian can lean into as he exhales slowly through his teeth.

He starts telling you, carefully choosing each word so that the horror doesn’t spill over into your world. Not the gory details of what he held, not the fragmented cries of someone too young to survive the fear toxin’s grasp, not the irrevocable weight of destruction that still clings to him like smoke. Instead, he tells the story in measured breaths, the pain and the failure coiling tightly beneath the surface, all of it framed in the cold logic of necessity, the mental calculus that saved him from breaking completely.

Through it all, he watches your face. He watches how your brows knit just slightly, how your lips press together to keep the words you don’t speak from slipping out, and how the concern in your eyes softens into something gentler, almost tender, almost mournful. You lean in just a fraction, as if proximity alone could absorb the worst of it.

Every emotion Damian has ever bottled, every fragment of fear, guilt, and self-loathing he thought only existed in the shadows of his own chest, seems to unravel quietly in your presence, like alcohol soaking into dry wood. He can feel it being drunk up by the way your eyes soften, by the subtle tilt of your head, by the way your body radiates safety even in this cramped, fluorescent-lit motel room.

When he finishes, he doesn’t say anything. He just watches as you shift in the sheets, a deliberate, gentle movement that carries no weight but still bridges the distance between you. Your head settles on his good shoulder, the faintest pressure, not leaning into him, just letting him know you’re there. He feels it like a promise.

“Don’t blame yourself for this,” you whisper against his skin, your lips brushing over the slope of his collarbone, warm and soft and steady. The words float there like a shield.

Damian glances down, noticing how a smear of his own blood still clings to your lips, pressing faintly against his chest, a surreal tether to his body and to you at once. “Not my fault,” he says, voice barely audible but firm.

“It never is.” you respond softly.

He closes his eyes, letting the tension in his shoulders and hips dissolve, letting his bloodied fingers curl against the sheets without thought, letting his toes relax. 

The taut, defensive lines of his body soften, not because the pain has gone, but because he believes you, because your presence allows him to let go in a way no one else ever could. 

Damian feels the steadiness of your heartbeat that he was searching for in that little girl, and everything feels like its going to be okay.

⤷ series masterlist

authors note ᝰ.ᐟ this will most likely be the final addition of this series if you can even call it that. It's just one shots with references to each-other and you can probably tell it was poorly planned so I just want to get it out of the way. Please forgive the plot holes because of the fact and I hope you guys might enjoy other things I write in the future more.

taglist (wont be used after this post): @the-earth-wonders, @neera500, @itzmeme, @brianna-merlim, @gothamshunter, @smiithys, @fanficboysarebae, @thetruecardinalsinner,@shifttoksucks, @sourstrawburry, @erika-simps, @soshirohoshinalover, @augurythirteen, @pantone-12-1310, @jaydennicole, @lucycarlisleswife, @dyanasaur, @fayewebluv, @champagnelovers101, @shun-nie

©zhaosuni 𝖺𝗅𝗅 rights reserved , 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅/𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗂/𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗀𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗂𝗍. Any oc's/ original ideas are not permitted to be put into other works unless dm'd, discussed, and agreed upon.

Your back stuck faintly to the cool porcelain. Your skin prickled despite the cooler temperature, flushed and oversensitive. Your nipples were stiff, darker than usual, puckered tight. And your thighs, God, your thighs hadn’t stopped pressing together, knees drawn up, trying to trap some kind of friction between them, even if it hurt. Even if it made it worse.

The candles didn’t help. Neither did the low, elegant hum of the classical station drifting in from the living room. Everything felt like it was vibrating.

You reached blindly for another strawberry. Ripe. Cold. It burst between your teeth, and juice dribbled to your chin. You sucked it off with a small, breathless sound, heart hammering, eyes fluttering closed as heat pooled lower.

You hadn’t touched yourself. Hadn’t fantasized or flipped through old photos on your phone or even let your hand wander below the waterline. All you’d done was rest one palm over your stomach, slide it down slowly, tentatively, and whisper his name into the crook of your elbow, cheeks burning imagining his face, his hands, his abs. Sweet, steady, devastating handsome Clark. Your Clark.

And that was enough to light you up.

Okay, so you weren't just horny. Not just restless.

You were needy. Desperate. Aching and wet and floating on the edge of something that didn’t make any sense.

A quiet whimper left your lips, breath catching in your throat. The sound echoed louder than it should have in the tile-lined space. Curling forward, you rested your cheek against the rim of the tub, arms folded, your index finger drawing absent circles over the condensation on the tile. Your other hand trailed down to a piece of chocolate resting on a folded napkin beside the tub. The square was soft now, warm from the heat of the bath. You pressed it to your lips

Again, what the hell did Kara give you?!

Let's review: Dinner had been… normal. Sweet. Ordinary, if not for the way it had ended. The two of you tucked into takeout containers on the couch, hips brushing, laughing at the story Clark told about Jimmy leaving a single red rose on the new intern’s desk. It was 'anonymous', but obviously him.

Kara’s gift had been sitting in the fridge all week.

She’d stopped by the weekend before, dropped the box on your kitchen island with a shit-eating grin:

"Got these for you guys," she beamed. "Very rare. Total mood boosters. Or so I’ve heard!"

You hadn’t thought anything of it. The packaging was heart-shaped, the box glossy and red with little floral foil detailing. Just festive enough to be cute, just foreign enough to be intriguing. You figured they’d be perfect for dessert.

So you’d peeled the lid off, popped one of the rich chocolates into your mouth, followed it with one of the bright red strawberries.

And moaned. Loud. Instinctive.

"Dear God, this is almost better than sex," you’d declared, half-laughing, eyes fluttering closed, licking juice from your fingers with puckered lips. You tilted the box toward the light to read it.

It read: "Eltaea chocolates and Solari strawberries — Assortment!" A heart-shaped sticker was slapped on the center, and just below in Kara’s blocky handwriting: "Happy Valentine’s Day! Enjoy, bitches!"

Clark quirked a brow, arms crossed over his chest in mock protest, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

"Here—" you grinned, already crawling into his lap, "—you need to try."

You’d fed him the same pair—one chocolate, one berry—your fingers still sticky, your grin too wide. He’d caught your wrist when you pulled back, kissed your fingertips slowly, then kissed you, just as slow. The taste of him mixing with the sugar still hadn’t left your tongue, even after he was called away.

A collapsed bridge. Gas leak. People trapped in traffic under debris. An emergency. 

He’d kissed your temple, forehead, and mouth again, tapping your ass as he motioned for you to shift off his lap. He whispered, "I’ll be right back, sweetheart. I promise."

That had been… what? Thirty minutes ago?

You blinked up at the ceiling, dazed.

Your thighs squeezed together again, and this time the pressure made your back arch. You felt slick even under the water, hypersensitive everywhere, your skin flushed and buzzing. You weren’t imagining this. This wasn’t nerves. Wasn’t routine desire.

Clark wasn’t even here. You rubbed your burning cheek against the cool tub’s edge and moaned loudly from frustration and ache, thighs twitching, nipples brushing against the cool porcelain.

You needed Clark.

.

The balcony door slid open with a dull, echoing thud ten minutes later.

"Sweetheart?"

A familiar voice carried down the hall. Fractured, pitched too high, like they had been running purely on adrenaline. "Where are you?"

Your throat was bone dry when you answered, voice coming out harsher than you meant it to, breathless and needy even to your own ears.

"In here," you called. "In the bath."

There was a pause. Then his quick footsteps thundered toward you.

He appeared in the doorway a heartbeat later and the sight of him stole the air from your lungs.

Soot streaked his jaw and collarbone. His suit was already peeled down to his waist, the top half hanging loose like he’d barely bothered with it, cape dragging behind him in a dark red spill. His curls were wild, pushed back from his forehead by frantic hands, damp with sweat. His chest rose and fell like he’d just flown through hell and back and hadn’t bothered to slow down once he’d crossed the city line.

And the second he saw you bare, lips caught between your teeth, knees drawn, and an expectant, longing look etched on your face.

"Oh," he breathed, bracing one hand on the doorframe. His jaw dropped just a hair, but his pupils were blown so wide there was almost no blue left. "Oh, baby. There you are. Nothing feels as good as coming home to you."

His voice cracked on the last word.

Crossing the room in two steps, he dropped to his knees beside the tub. His large, warm hands slid into your hair, thumbs pressing gently at your sweat-damp temples, fingers massaging behind your ears the way he always did when he was grounding you.

You leaned into him without thinking, forehead tipping toward his touch, breath shuddering.

"Your heartbeat," he whispered, voice husky. "I heard it. Out there. I felt it the whole time. It kept getting faster and I—" He swallowed hard, gaze flicking helplessly over your face, your throat, your chest, the way your breasts strained with every shallow breath. "Gosh, you’re burning up."

"Yeah," you murmured. "I feel… weird. Hot. And empty. Like something’s missing and it hurts." Your fingers curled weakly around his wrist. "Clark, do you feel weird? Because I think—"

You swallowed hard as another wave of pleasure rolled between your legs.

"B-because I think there was something in those treats Kara gave us."

Lifting a hand, you pointed clumsily at the open box perched on the side of the tub, unmistakably lighter than it had been earlier. 

Clark’s eyes followed the motion. His brow creased.

"How many did you eat?" he asked, frowning.

You blinked, trying to think past the fog. "I—I don’t know. The strawberries would’ve gone bad. And those chocolates are… Clark, they’re the richest damn chocolates ever." A breathy, almost-hysterical laugh slipped out. "I think I’m losing it. Oh, fuck."

He stared at you for a long moment, your pulse pounding loud and erratic in his ears, your sweet, warm, unmistakably you scent, just… amplified. Sharpened.

Then quietly: "I feel like I’m losing my mind, too."

He cupped your cheek, palm broad and steady, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. He leaned in close, nuzzling the side of your face like he couldn’t stand even the inch of space between you.

"You smell like sugar and skin and—" His breath hitched. "Hon, you smell so, so sweet. I could just eat you up."

"Well why don't you eat me out first? See how really sweet I am. My pussy misses you."

Before he could answer, shocked by your brazen vocabulary, your mouth was on his.

The kiss was desperate. Messy. All tongue and teeth and need, like you were trying to breathe him in. His lips dragged away from yours, trailing down your jaw, your cheek, your mouth again and again, chasing the taste of you like it might feed his ache, too.

You whined into the kiss, wet hands scrambling for him, gripping the remains of his suit at his hips, and pawing his growing arousal. You could see him, feel him, hard already, thick and heavy and right in front of you, and proximity made your whole body clench tighter.

"T-take your suit off!" you begged, patience running thin.

Brows furrowed, Clark's worry flashed through the haze. "You sure? If you’re not feeling well, we should—"

"No," you panted sharply, shaking your head, already rocking forward without realizing it. "No, I’m sure. I need you. My pussy needs you. Please, Clark."

Your eyes dropped to his chest, so broad, solid, and familiar, and still somehow devastating every time you saw it. To his large, farm-and-battle hardened hands. To the size of his beautiful cock, even still hidden, even restrained.

"I need you to touch me. Need you to kiss it better." Your pleaded softly. Filthy. Unfiltered. "Fuck me all better, Clark."

For half a second, he stilled.

Not because he didn’t want to. Because he wanted to too much.

His hands tightened at the lip of the tub, his gaze sharpened, listening, measuring, feeling the way your pulse fluttered too fast to his touch. The way your scent clung heavier in the steam. The way your body kept tipping toward him like he was a black hole.

"You’re definitely more affected," he murmured, low and strained.

You nodded helplessly, breath catching.

"Yes, yes, I ate more," you admitted. "I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About how good your tongue feels. How big you feel inside me, especially when you've made me cum and you still fuck me. About how empty I was without you. It kept getting worse."

His eyes flashed dark and devoted and tender all at once.

"Okay," he said quietly, decision settling into his bones. "Then I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you alone in this."

His thumb brushed over your lower lip, tender. Possessive.

"But if I get in that tub," he warned, voice rough. "I’m going to take care of you first. All the way. I need you to tell me if it’s too much, yeah?"

Your thighs trembled as you nodded, whispering, "It won’t be. It's all I want right now."

Clark exhaled, slow and shaking, started peeling off the rest of his suit. 

You watched his hands first. Big, steady, trembling slightly as he dragged the rest of the suit down his hips, his thighs. The cape fell behind him in a heap of crimson, forgotten. Every motion exposed more of him. Each shift of muscle made your mouth water. His abs flexed and rolled as he knelt, skin streaked with soot and heat, chest still rising like he’d been crossing galaxies to get to you.

Then his cock. Hard already. Thick. Leaking. Dark at the tip and heavy with want.

You whimpered, couldn’t help it, couldn’t hide it. Licked your lips before you even realized. Your thighs rubbed together beneath the water, desperate for friction, slick with want, and suddenly so loney and empty.

His eyes locked on yours, ravenous.

"Gosh, hon," he rasped, dropping back to his knees, stroking his shaft in front of you. "You want this?"

Unable to look away, you nodded frantically. Your mouth parted on instinct, rolling a little onto your knees ready to beg.

"I want you everywhere. I want your mouth—want to ride your tongue, baby—make me cry on your cock, please—"

Cutting off another string of obscene words, he kissed you slow, open-mouthed, heat and tongue and something desperate all over again. Then he pulled back, hands smoothing down your arms, over your hips, into the water.

"I’ve got you," he murmured. "I’ve got you, sweetheart. I'm here. Just let me…"

Clark climbed in. The water shifted around him, flowing up the sides of the tub, rushing over your hips as his weight displaced everything else. Too much man for the narrow porcelain space. Too much of your Clark.

His knees pressed to the porcelain. His chest hovered over yours. And still, he sank lower, fitting between your thighs.

His hands found the back of your knees and liften them up gently, water cascading down his forearms. He peered up at you beneath his lidded gaze, licking his lips.

"My poor girl," he whispered. "You’ve been like this—so needy—for how long? Remind me?"

You almost sobbed.

"A while," you whined, throwing a forarm across your eyes. "Since you left. I’m sorry, Clark—I couldn’t stop I—I tried, but—"

"Shh, honey." He soothed. "It's okay. I'm here now."

You let your head fall back against the tile. Exposed. Thighs wide, trembling. Your fingers wove into his curls without thinking, tugging him closer.

And Clark, sweet, steady, starving Clark, moved his grip from your knees to curve the shape of your ass, lifting you up, mouth hovering over your pubic bone just above the surface of the bathwater.

He sank.

The water shifted again, and then it was silent.

Soundless, thick pressure wrapped around you as his head disappeared beneath the surface. The air left your lungs in a rush. All you could hear was the frantic thud of your own heartbeat, the faint ripple of water against porcelain.

His tongue met your clit.

You gasped, loud, broken, shocked. The sound rang out against the tile, echoed once, twice, then faded into something small and sharp as your hips jolted clean out of the water.

Clark groaned, bubbles rising between your thighs, and held you down.

You clutched at his hair, fingers tangling tight, your body floating, weightless and trembling, as his mouth dragged through your folds again repeatedly.

There was no mercy. No pause.

Just your Clark anchoring you down with strong hands, his broad shoulders forcing your thighs open, his mouth sucking you clit like he’d been starved for this. He licked slow and deep, savoring, then flatter, broader, faster until his nose was nudging your clit and your mouth was falling open with a scream you couldn’t stop.

The sound of your own voice ricocheted off the walls.

"Oohhh fuuuck, right there! It—Ah! Feels—so good!"

He couldn’t answer. Could only hum, moan enough to vibrate through your cunt, lick deeper, faster all beneath the water.

"Clark—fuuuck—baby, please—"

It obscene in how good it felt. Every muscle in your body jerked. The bath splashed over the edge, water trailing down your spine as you thrashed, hips bucking against his face.

You came so hard you nearly sobbed, heat tearing through your stomach and bursting between your legs as your thighs squeezed around his head.

Mouth sealed to your cunt like you were the only thing he’d ever needed to eat again, he kept going. His fingers squeezed your ass, held you while his tongue kept working you through your high.

The next orgasm hit before the first had fully ebbed.

You cried, shaking, floating in the water, your grip in his hair and the tub tight and frantic, head tipped back against the tile as your body seized and sang. It was too much and not enough. You wanted more. You needed him deeper. Harder. Inside.

Finally, he resurfaced.

His face glistened. His lips were swollen and wet. His curls were plastered to his forehead, and his breath was ragged as if resurfacing the Mariana Trench, and his pupils were blown so wide his eyes looked black.

"You taste like heaven," he rasped, water dripping from his nose, his chin, splashing onto your chest. "So soft, so darn sweet. Like the perfect, juicy strawberry."

You were still heaving. Still floating. Your thighs trembled as you barely nodded.

Surging up, he kissed you deep, open-mouthed, tongue dragging against yours until you moaned and rutted against him, clinging to his shoulders like you were about to fall through the tub and through all the apartments below.

"I have to be inside you, sweet girl," he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. "I need to be. I’ll lose my damn mind if I’m not—please, sweetheart—let me have you. Make love to you."

"Y-yeah, make love," you whimpered, pawing at his chest, nodding frantically. "Please, Clark, just—I can't wait any more—"

He cut you off by kissing you hard again, restraint barely there, teeth grazing your lip, tongue pressing deep. Then he leaned back, breath shaking, shifting until his spine met the other end of the tub.

His cock stood hard and heavy between his thighs, the fat head dark and swollen beneath the rippling water, twitching like it already knew what was about to happen.

Your breath hitched.

God, he was big.

You always praised him, worshiped this delightful perk being his wife, but like this, bare and waiting, framed by white porcelain and aromatic candies and steam, it felt insane. Like your body had never felt this hungry wanting all of him before.

He lifted his arms, beckoned you, an invitation.

You crawled into his lap, knees sliding into the water on either side of his waist, skin brushing skin, heat everywhere. Your hands found his shoulders, solid and familiar, your mouth slack with want as you reached between your bodies, guiding him home.

When you sank down on him in one motion, the stretch punched the breath right out of you.

A broken sound tore from your throat as he filled you thick and unyielding and perfect. Your walls clenched around him like your body couldn’t believe he was finally there, like it was terrified he might disappear if you didn’t hold tight enough.

Clark’s head hit the back of the tub with a sharp thud, his hands flying to your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.

"O-oh, sweetheart—"

Your moan echoed off the tile, loud and unashamed, your whole body trembling with relief as you sank fully down, hips flush to his thighs.

"Yeah," you panted, dazed. "Yeah, baby—feel—feel good?"

You were soaked, frantic, tight around him, clenching like your body couldn’t bear to be empty another second.

You felt impossibly full. Stretched. Aching in the best way. The drag of him inside you made your spine arch, your nails scrape helplessly across his chest. He filled every inch, pressed deep enough to make your vision blur, like he was holding you open from the inside.

He was saying something. Trying to murmur soft reassurances, gentle pet names, something about taking it slow? But the aphrodisiac heat was roaring now, flooding your veins, making you reckless.

"No, fuck slow," you gasped, riding him hard. "I need you. Fuck, I love—absolutely fucking love your cock—"

Clark groaned, deep. "Honey—baby—slow down—"

"I can’t!" You moaned again, loud, breathless. "I feel like I’m gonna die if you’re not fucking me—harder—"

You slammed down again, the water rippling up your spine as you bounced on him, the edge of the tub creaking beneath you.

You sobbed. 

He touched them again, cupping you, and you rode him harder, whimpering, "That’s it, baby. That’s so good, god—touch me there again—yes—yes—"

His hands trembled as he obeyed, rolling your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, watching your face break open in pleasure as your pussy clenched down around him.

"You’re incredible," you babbled, barely coherent now. "So deep—so full—I love how you feel inside me—fuck, Clark—you were made to fuck me—ohh, I wanna make love to you—"

His mouth fell open, breath coming in ragged pulls as he let you take him faster, wetter, louder. His hips bucked helplessly beneath you, cock throbbing inside your tight heat, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as his whole body shook.

Your head lolled to your side, lids heavy and unfocused when you saw it. The box of strawberries and chocolates still perched on the edge of the tub. Something sharp and greedy sparked behind your eyes.

You reached for it with shaking hands, water sloshing dangerously as you leaned forward, the movement grinding you down on his cock in a slow, filthy roll.

Clark tried to say your name, tried to ask what you were doing, but you were already plucking another piece of chocolate and popping it into your mouth.

You moaned, loudly.

"Oh fuck," you breathed, eyes rolling to the back of your head. You leaned down and kissed him, chocolate dissolving between your mouths, your tongue sliding against his as you ground down again in one slow filthy circle.

"It tastes even better like this," you whispered. "Like sex and candy."

Clark whimpered—actually whimpered.

You picked up a strawberry next and fed it to him, your voice gone syrupy and twice as needy.

"Eat f’me, baby. You’ve been so good. Such a damn good husband, letting me use you like this—filling me up with your cock—working so hard—taking good fucking care of me—"

He bit into it helplessly, juice ran down his chin, glistening pink against the stubble of his jaw. Your tongue lapped it up, following to suck on his bottom lip.

"Fuuuuck—Claaaark—"

You barely remembered grabbing a piece of soft chocolate. You only knew it was melting between your fingers, sticky and hot from your skin. You were high on the way he filled you, on the way his cock curved inside you like it had been molded for your body, and without thinking, rubbed the piece across your breasts.

Chocolate smeared across your skin, across the curves and peaks of your pebbled nipples.

"God," he groaned, dragging his mouth across one chocolate-streaked breast, licking a path through the mess with obscene hunger. "You taste—hon, you taste incredible."

He closed his mouth over your nipple and sucked hard.

Your entire body snapped, spine arching, hands gripping his shoulders as your hips kept rolling, frantic and needy and utterly soaked.

"Yes—ooohh yes— Right there, right there!"

He groaned around your tit, licking and sucking until your nipple was red and aching, until the chocolate was gone and all that remained was spit and love bites.

Greed overpowered him, and he moved to the other breast with the same passion.

"Can’t—can’t stop," he panted, dragging his tongue across your skin, open-mouthed kisses pressed between your breasts. "You’re driving me insane—"

His hips bucked violently, cock slamming deep throughout, and you sobbed, dizzy with sensation and still craving more.

"I’m gonna —come again," you panted. "Gonna come on your big, beautiful, cock, baby, and you’re gonna give it to me, right? Gonna fill me up like I need, Clark—fill me—right, baby?"

"Yeah, I'll f–fill you up," he choked. "Sweetheart—if you keep saying things like that I won't last— you'll leak for days—"

"I want it," you begged, trembling all over. "Want you to fuck me full and keep it there—god, I want it so bad, want everyone to know—fuck a baby into me, Clark—I love you, Iloveyou, love you!"

Your nails raked down his chest, your rhythm faltering as you started to come again. Your whole body locked up, heat exploding through your stomach, your mouth falling open to chant his name that echoed through the whole damn apartment.

Clark was almost gone.

He surged up into you, loud, broken grunts spilling from his mouth as he chased his own release, and one–two–three—he pulsed deep inside, cum thick and hot, flooding you full and still not enough.

Your hips kept grinding through the aftershocks, both of you too far gone to stop, both of you moaning, panting, clinging.

He stayed buried inside, arms locked around your waist, mouth pressed to your shoulder, chanting sweet nothings and I love you's.

.

The bathwater had gone lukewarm without either of you noticing.

Chocolate smeared softly along the rim of the tub, half-melted and forgotten. One of the candles guttered low, wax spilling down its side, the flame trembling like it was tired of watching. The air was thick with steam and sweat and the lingering sweetness of strawberries crushed between fingers and mouths.

Clark’s arms cradled you close, one hand firm at your lower back, the other cupping your hip, keeping you settled. You were pruning, and you didn’t care. You didn’t want to move. You wanted to stay right here, boneless and full and buzzing, his body still anchoring you to the world.

You were still full of him.

Still warm and stretched and sensitive.

Still trembling in those aftershocks that never quite faded all the way out.

Your fingers traced lazy, distracted patterns over his chest, following the rise and fall of his breath, the faint scrape of stubble at his jaw when he dipped to press a kiss into your hair. The burn lingered in your blood like an ember that refused to cool.

Not satisfied. Just… softened enough to breathe and think again.

He shifted slightly, careful, one thigh braced, making sure you didn’t slip. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then your hairline. "You okay?"

You nodded, dazed and blissed out, cheek tucked into the crook of his neck. Your body gave a small, involuntary squeeze around him, and you felt him suck in a breath.

"Never better," you murmured. And it was mostly true. Because some part of you that still wanted more. Still throbbed and buzzed and reached.

Clark glanced toward the counter. The box sat there, damp at the edges, its lid askew. He reached for it absently, brows knitting as he tugged at the heart-shaped sticker plastered across the center.

It peeled away with a soft rip.

He squinted. Read. Once. Twice. One more time.

Then out loud, incredulous, voice climbing with each word:

"Eltaea chocolates and Solari strawberries…" He paused. Blinked. "Aphrodisiac Assortment?!"

Your head snapped up.

"Oh—oh no." You groaned and buried your face against his collarbone, mortification flooding hot through your chest. "There’s—there’s more—" You lifted your head just long enough to recite it with him. "‘Happy Valentine’s Day! Enjoy, bitches!’"

There was a beat of silence.

Then laughter. Wild, breathless, uncontained.

Clark laughed first, a disbelieving bark that shook his chest. You followed, shaking and helpless, pressing your face into his neck again as the absurdity of it all hit at once.

Kara. Of course, it was Kara. Your interstellar menace.

"Kara, what the fuck?" you wheezed, dragging your hands down your face, cheeks burning for a whole new reason. "We should—uh—probably not finish the rest, right?" You squinted up at him. "Take another bath. A proper one."

Still staring at your mouth, still swollen, still glossy; at your breasts, heavy, flushed, nipples dark and sensitive; at your thighs, splayed and distorted beneath the water, still trembling, still open around him, Clark's eyes narrowed, head tilted.

Then his gaze lifted back to your eyes.

"Nope," he said simply, a little pop on the 'p'. "We’re definitely finishing the rest."

You laughed, half-dazed, half-thrilled, and then yelped as he scooped you up without warning, water streaming off both of you. He held you with one arm under your ass, the other firm between your shoulder blades, his body still deep inside you, careful not to pull away.

"Clark—" you giggled, clinging to his shoulders, legs tightening around his waist.

"I’ve got you," he murmured, already kissing you, already moving. "And I’m taking you to bed."

He stepped out of the tub, slow and deliberate, keeping you tipped just enough so nothing spilled where it shouldn’t. You squirmed against him, still too sensitive, still buzzing, still aching in that delicious, half-satisfied way.

As he walked out, you reached back with arms outstretched towards the damp box of sweets still at the lid of the tub with a pout.

"Oh Gosh," He chuckled, shaking his head. He turned back and crouched until your fingers snatched the box with a triumphant little "Ah-ha!".

"You’re ridiculous."

You grinned at him, delirious and shameless, securely tucking the treats flushed to your chest. "You’re the ridiculous one for letting these go to waste!"

He carried you toward the bedroom, still inside you, still holding you close.

"Hon, you're absolutely right. We’re not wasting a thing," he said, chuckling.

You tugged him into a deep kiss and sighed, already burning again.

.

Thank you for reading! Any reblogs, comments, likes are forever appreciated, and keeps me motivated!

.

You pictured the toothbrush in their bathroom, the shampoo you had bought once and never had to replace yourself because Dick noticed when the bottle ran low. You pictured the drawer in Dick’s dresser that had started as a place for an emergency shirt after a rainstorm and somehow become home to leggings, socks, sleep shorts, bras, and enough underwear that Wally had once texted you from the laundry room in a panic to ask if the black lace thing could go in the dryer.

He had followed the message with seven question marks, three sweating emojis, and a separate apology that only said: I’M BEING RESPECTFUL BUT ALSO I AM CONFUSED BY FABRIC.

You had laughed so hard you had almost dropped your phone in the sink.

You lived nearby. You slept over often enough that the doorman barely blinked when you came in. You had your own apartment, your own bills, your own life, but the gravity of Dick and Wally’s place had become familiar. Safe. There were two bedrooms, technically. Wally’s room existed, even if it held more laundry baskets and half-disassembled equipment than any reasonable adult man should own. Dick’s room had the biggest bed, which had become everyone’s argument for ending up there whenever a movie ran late or one of you had a bad day and did not want to sleep alone.

Nothing had ever happened in that bed.

That was not for lack of wanting.

You were not stupid. You knew what attraction felt like when it sat under your ribs and refused to behave. You knew what it meant when Dick came out of the shower with a towel low on his hips and your brain forgot the English language for three to five business days. You knew what it meant when Wally sprawled across the couch in sweatpants and an old Keystone State shirt, hair still damp, one ankle hooked over yours like casual contact was a form of breathing.

You also knew what it meant to be careful.

They were your best friends. They were Nightwing and the Flash. They trusted you with their identities, their schedules, their emergency contacts, and the strange civilian pieces of a life built around impossible work. You knew why Dick disappeared during galas, what comm chatter sounded like through a half-open bedroom door, and which cabinet held the protein bars Wally claimed tasted fine because his standards were a public health crisis.

You were not part of the fight, but you were part of the aftermath. You knew how to leave lights on without making it look like waiting. You knew how to ask if a night had gone badly without using the word dangerous. You knew how to sit beside them afterward and let the room be quiet until one of them came back to himself enough to make a joke.

It made lines strange.

Evan laughed at something on his phone, then remembered you existed and put it face down with a look that was probably meant to seem apologetic. “Sorry. Work.”

“You said that,” you said.

“Yeah. Big project. Everyone wants a piece of me right now.” He smiled as if inviting you to be impressed. “You know how it is.”

You did, unfortunately. You knew exactly how it was to sit across from someone who liked the idea of being observed but had very little interest in looking back. Evan had been charming for the first twenty minutes. He had asked about your job, your favorite restaurants, the neighborhood. Then he had asked about your friends.

Not all your friends.

Just the two men whose names came up too easily because you were too used to mentioning them.

Dick had picked you up from work after your car battery died. Wally had helped you build the shelves in your living room, which mostly meant taking over halfway through and then making you pretend to be impressed when one of them leaned left. Dick knew a place with the best soup dumplings. Wally had an opinion about every ice cream shop within a five-mile radius. Dick said this. Wally did that. Dick and Wally, Wally and Dick, their names folded into your life with the intimacy of muscle memory.

Evan had noticed.

At first, he had teased. Then he had probed. Then he had made a joke about you keeping “two guys on retainer,” and your smile had gone stiff enough that a better man would have noticed.

Evan was not a better man.

“So these friends of yours,” he said, reaching for his drink. “They always this involved?”

“They’re my best friends.”

“Sure.” His mouth curved. “Just sounds intense.”

You looked at him for a long moment. There were a hundred things you could have said, and most of them would have been true enough to hurt. You could have said that intensity was not always a red flag. Sometimes it was two men who carried cities on their backs and still remembered to text you when the sidewalks froze. Sometimes it was remembering to leave your balcony unlocked, because Dick and Wally had both taught you that emergencies rarely cared about front doors. Sometimes it was a hand on the small of your back in a crowd, not to claim you, but to make sure you could leave if you needed to.

Instead, you said, “I don’t think this is working.”

Evan blinked. “What?”

“This.” You reached for your bag and stood before politeness could talk you into another twenty minutes of disappointment. “It was nice meeting you.”

His chair scraped as he stood too. “Wait, seriously? Because I asked about your friends?”

Because you asked like they were a problem, you thought. Because you said my name three times and made it sound less personal each time. Because I have spent years being known by men who notice everything and still pretend not to see the way they look at me, and somehow this is the loneliest I’ve felt all week.

“Take care, Evan.”

“You’re really just leaving?”

“Yes.”

Outside, the night had gone damp and silver with the threat of rain. Gotham did not do gentle weather. Even drizzle felt like it had a grudge. You stood beneath the restaurant awning long enough to order a car, then canceled it when the app told you the driver was twelve minutes away and the walk to Dick and Wally’s was eight.

Your phone buzzed before you reached the end of the block.

Dick: Date going okay?

You looked at the message and snorted despite yourself.

Wally, immediately after: DON’T ANSWER THAT IF YOU’RE MAKING OUT.

A pause, and then instantly another message: Actually answer with a thumbs-up so I know you’re alive but emotionally unavailable.

Dick: Please don’t listen to him.

Wally: Please listen to me specifically.

You typed with one hand as you walked.

You: Date ended. Heading to yours unless you’re both busy saving the world.

Dick answered almost immediately.

Dick: We’re home. Door’s unlocked.

Wally: Which means you are legally obligated to come in, eat something, and not touch the dumplings marked WALLY.

Dick: They’re not marked.

Wally: Emotionally they are.

You smiled down at your phone, and the ache of the evening shifted into something more familiar, which was not the same as easy. That was another problem. They could make you feel less alone from across the city with three stupid texts and a threat about dumplings.

The doorman let you in with a nod. Upstairs, the apartment glowed in the low, warm way it always did when they knew you were coming. The lamp near the couch was on, the kitchen light was dimmed, and the television had been muted on some nature documentary Wally watched with the intense investment of someone who had opinions about whether cheetahs were “respectably fast” or “coasting on branding.”

To anyone else, the apartment probably looked chaotic; to you, it was a map of old landings, bad nights, shared blankets, and quiet recoveries.

The faint scuff near the balcony door was from months ago, when Dick had landed badly enough to pretend the floor had offended him. The patched spot on the wall near the hall was from Wally accidentally vibrating through it after sneezing at superspeed. The blanket over the back of the couch was yours, bought during a cold snap because their apartment ran chilly and both of them had tried to offer you their hoodies at the same time.

Wally was upside down on the couch when you came in, one leg hooked over the back cushions, a takeout container balanced on his stomach with criminal confidence. Dick sat at the far end with his laptop open and one ankle crossed over his knee, looking less like Nightwing than he ever did in public and more like the man who sent you grocery reminders because he knew you forgot to eat when work got bad.

They both looked up.

Wally’s eyes moved over your face and softened at once. “Oh, I hate him.”

You paused with your hand still on the door. “You don’t know what happened.”

“I know your face.”

“You’re upside down.”

“That gives me a fresh perspective.”

Dick closed his laptop but did not ask anything immediately. That was his tell. He watched you lock the door behind yourself, watched you toe off your shoes into the little space beside theirs, watched your hand linger near your coat as if you had forgotten what came next. He knew when to step forward and when to let silence do the gentler work.

“Tea?” he asked.

Your throat tightened. “Please.”

“Drawer clothes first?” Wally offered, still upside down. “Or dumpling first? Choose wisely. One path has elastic waistbands. The other has delicious filling.”

You looked at the takeout container on his stomach. “Those are the emotionally marked dumplings?”

“Emotionally, yes. Legally, they belong to the household.”

“You are the one who threatened me over them five minutes ago.”

“I was a different man five minutes ago.”

Dick stood, taking your coat before you could decide where to put it. “Go change. I’ll make the tea.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

That was the thing about them. They were always making room for you without turning it into a debt.

You went to the bathroom first, because the evening still clung to your skin in the form of expensive restaurant air and Evan’s cologne from when he had leaned too close to show you a photo you had not asked to see. Their bathroom looked less like a bachelor apartment than it had any right to. That was partly because Dick liked order and partly because you had slowly bullied both of them into owning more than one towel. Your toothbrush sat in the cup between theirs. Your cleanser was on the sink. Your hair ties lived in a small ceramic dish Wally had once knocked over, caught, and then bowed to like he had rescued a civilian from certain death.

You washed your face, breathed until your chest stopped feeling tight, and went to Dick’s room because that was where your drawer was.

It should have felt strange. Sometimes it did, but only in moments like this, when you were already raw and tired and too aware of the fact that your underwear sat folded beside one of Dick’s old Gotham Academy shirts.

You peeled yourself out of your date clothes, piece by piece, bra included, and dropped everything into the hamper, as if shedding the evening might make it stop clinging to your skin. Then you dug through the drawer until you found one of Dick’s shirts, soft from too many washes and big enough on you that you didn’t bother with shorts.

It smelled like him in a way that made your chest ache a little: clean citrus, worn leather, cedar cologne, warm skin, and city air after rain. The hem fell halfway down your thighs, familiar enough to loosen something behind your ribs.

Ownership had become a loose concept among the three of you anyway. Half the clothes in this apartment had passed between hands so many times that claiming anything outright felt pointless.

You told yourself not to think about that.

It worked for almost forty seconds.

When you came back out, Dick had made your tea exactly how you liked it and set your mug on the coffee table. Your mug, because of course he knew which one was yours without asking. It sat warm beside the dumplings, filled exactly the way you liked it, and something about that hurt more than the date had.

Wally had righted himself by then, though his hair looked ridiculous from hanging upside down. He patted the cushion between himself and Dick. “Designated recovery spot is open.”

“You’re making it sound dramatic.”

“I’m emotionally preparing to commit crimes against Evan’s router. Let me have my process.”

You picked up your tea instead of sitting. “You don’t even know his last name.”

“I can work with a first name and vibes.”

“That is not reassuring.”

Dick’s mouth curved faintly. “It shouldn’t be.”

You took one of the dumplings.

Wally gasped with theatrical betrayal, then nudged the container closer because he was incapable of committing to the bit if you were actually hungry. Dick shifted on the couch so there was space beside him too, casual enough that it did not look like an invitation you had to accept.

You ate the dumpling standing up because sitting down felt too much like admitting the date had gotten to you. Wally watched you chew with the concerned intensity of someone waiting for a bomb squad report. Dick said nothing at all, which was worse, because Dick knew when silence would get more out of you than pressure.

Eventually, you sighed. “It was just disappointing.”

Wally’s face softened. “That’s worse than hateable.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. Hateable gives me something to do. Disappointing just makes me want to feed you and maybe commit a small act of Wi-Fi sabotage.”

“That is not a proportionate response.”

“I said small.”

Dick leaned back against the couch, one arm stretched along the back cushions. He was in an old T-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp from a shower, bare feet tucked beneath the coffee table, already folded into the quiet rhythm of the apartment. He looked warm and human and untouchably handsome in a way that made you want to be irritated with him on principle.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Nothing dramatic.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You looked at him over the rim of your mug. “He was fine. He asked questions. He laughed at appropriate moments. He checked his phone every time I spoke for more than thirty seconds.”

Wally grimaced. “Immediate jail.”

“He was nice enough.”

“Jail.”

You huffed, but the laugh did not last. “Then he started asking about you two.”

Dick’s expression changed first, not dramatically, but enough for you to notice. Wally sat up straighter, the dumpling container tilting until you steadied it with your knee.

“What kind of asking?” Dick said.

“The kind where curiosity turns into suspicion because I mentioned you too much.”

Wally blinked. “You mentioned us?”

“You built my bookshelf, Wally. It came up.”

“I built it beautifully.”

“One shelf leans.”

“That shelf has character.”

Dick’s gaze stayed on you. “What did he say?”

You shrugged, but it felt thin even to you. “He said it sounded intense.”

Wally’s humor faded.

Dick did not move, but the room seemed to shift around his stillness. “And?”

“And I realized I didn’t want to explain you guys to someone who had already decided you were a problem.”

For a moment, neither of them answered.

The silence was not awkward. It was just full. Full of every late-night call they had answered, every time one of them had walked you home, every takeout order split three ways, every old fear you had swallowed when they were out and the news was bad. Full of your toothbrush in their bathroom and your clothes in Dick’s dresser and the fact that Wally knew your favorite cereal changed its recipe six months ago because you had complained about it once and he had treated it like a civic emergency.

You moved to the couch because standing suddenly felt ridiculous.

Wally shifted at once, making space for you between them. Dick did the same from the other side, both of them adjusting without speaking until your usual place was waiting. You sat down with your tea balanced between your hands and tried not to think about how familiar it felt to have Wally’s knee against yours and Dick’s arm stretched along the cushion behind you.

“Did he make you feel unsafe?” Dick asked.

“No.”

“Good,” Wally said, too quickly.

You glanced at him.

He held up both hands. “Emotionally disappointing men are still on thin ice, but I’m glad he didn’t make it worse.”

“He didn’t make me feel unsafe,” you said. “He just made me feel…observed badly.”

Dick’s brows drew together.

“You and Dick observe people professionally,” Wally said, because of course he knew exactly where your mind had gone. “That’s different.”

“It should be creepy that you know that.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Dick’s thumb moved once against the back of the couch, close enough that you felt the motion near your shoulder. “What do you mean by observed badly?”

“I mean he looked at me like he was trying to figure out what role I could play. Good listener. Pretty enough. Convenient. Available.” You stared into your tea. “And I kept thinking that maybe that’s what dating is now. Figuring out which version of yourself someone wants and deciding if you can tolerate being her for a dinner.”

Wally made a quiet sound under his breath, almost angry.

Dick said your name softly.

You hated that. Not because he had done anything wrong, but because he said it like he knew you. Like there was nothing you had to perform for him to care.

You wrapped both hands around the mug before they could give you away. “Can I ask you something?”

Wally’s knee pressed more firmly against yours. “Always.”

Dick’s attention sharpened. “Of course.”

You should have asked something else. You should have asked whether they wanted to watch a movie, whether Wally had eaten anything other than dumplings, or whether Dick’s laptop meant casework or Wayne Foundation work. There were safer questions in the world. You knew plenty of them.

Instead, you held your mug a little tighter and asked, “How do you know if a man really wants you?”

The apartment went quiet.

It was not the ordinary quiet of late night, when the city hummed beyond the windows and the refrigerator clicked on in the kitchen. It was not even the dangerous quiet you knew from them when a case followed them home and sat heavy in the room. 

This was different. This was the kind of silence that came from two men who had both reached for an answer and found it lodged somewhere too close to the heart.

Wally stopped moving first. That was how you knew you had done something terrible. Wally was motion even when he was still, all restless fingers and bouncing knees and little shifts of energy that made the air around him feel alive. Now he sat frozen, his eyes fixed on you like you had said his name in a language he had not expected you to know.

Dick’s stillness was less obvious but more frightening. His hand paused on the back of the couch, fingers curled loosely into the cushion. His face did not change much. Dick had been trained by too many people, hurt by too many people, loved by too many people he had lost. His control was a beautiful, terrible thing. But you were close enough to notice the small things: the slight dip of his chin, the inhale he did not finish, the way his gaze flicked to Wally before returning to you.

You looked between them.

Then, because your mouth had apparently decided to ruin your life, you said, “Wow. I may have asked the wrong men.”

Wally laughed once, breathless and strange. “Yeah.”

Dick’s voice was quieter. “Maybe not.”

The words landed softly. That made them worse.

You stared at him.

Dick looked away first, which he almost never did. He looked toward the window, toward the city beyond it, toward the version of himself that could leap off rooftops and still not know how to answer one honest question in his own living room.

“What do you mean by wants you?” he asked.

It was such a Dick question. Careful. Precise. A way to create structure when the floor had begun to tilt. You could have let him have it. You could have narrowed the conversation into something clinical and survivable.

You did not.

“I mean me,” you said. “Not just sex. Not just attention. Not someone who likes that I’m available or convenient, or that I listen well. How do you know when he actually wants you?”

Wally dragged a hand down his face. “That is a dangerously sincere question for a room where I was just upside down with dumplings.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He looked at you then, really looked, and the humor in him had gone soft around the edges. “He remembers things.”

You blinked. “What?”

“A man who really wants you remembers things he doesn’t get credit for remembering.” Wally’s fingers flexed against his thigh. “The little stuff. The song you skipped three seconds in because it made your face do that thing. The restaurant you said was overrated even though everyone else likes it. The way your voice changes when you’re about to say you’re fine and you absolutely aren’t.”

Your throat tightened.

Wally shrugged like he could make the answer casual if he moved enough. He could not. “He pays attention when there’s nothing in it for him. That’s a big one, I think.”

You looked at Dick because you had to look away from Wally.

Dick’s expression had changed. Something careful had cracked in it, enough for you to see the want beneath. Not lust, though that was there too, impossible to miss now that you were looking directly at it. This was older. Quieter. It had roots.

“He becomes more careful,” Dick said.

Your chest hurt.

“Careful how?”

“With you.” Dick’s gaze held yours. “With what he asks for. With what he takes for granted. Wanting someone is easy. Most people can do that part. But if he really wants you, he cares what his wanting costs you.”

Wally was watching him now too.

Dick’s mouth tightened, like he had already said more than he meant to and still could not stop. “He doesn’t make you responsible for managing his desire. He doesn’t punish you for not returning it the way he hoped. He doesn’t turn your kindness into permission.”

The room felt too small around you.

You thought of all the times Dick had walked you home without making you feel like you were being escorted. The way he always matched your pace, whether you were in heels after an event or slippers on a late-night corner store run. The way his hand hovered near your back in crowded places but never settled unless you leaned into it first. The way he noticed when men looked at you too long and somehow placed himself between you and them without making a scene.

You thought of Wally texting you pictures of six different cereal boxes from the grocery store because you had mentioned once, weeks earlier, that your childhood favorite had changed its recipe and tasted wrong now. You thought of him showing up with soup before you admitted you were sick. You thought of him lying on your living room floor, assembling your bookshelf at human speed because you had accused him of cheating, laughing every time you handed him the wrong screw.

He remembers things.

He becomes more careful.

You had asked for a hypothetical answer.

They had handed you a mirror.

Your laugh came out too soft. “You both got very serious.”

Wally swallowed. “Yeah. Occupational hazard.”

“Is it?”

“No,” Dick said.

Wally shot him a look, half warning and half relief. Dick ignored him, because of course he did. Courage was easier for him when it looked like stepping off a ledge.

“No?” you asked.

Dick leaned forward, forearms braced loosely on his knees. “It’s not an occupational hazard. It’s you.”

The silence after that was different.

Wally closed his eyes briefly. “Well. Okay. We’re doing this.”

Dick did not look away from you. “Only if she wants to.”

Your heart was beating too hard. You wondered if Wally could hear it. Of course he could hear it. He could probably hear your pulse trying to kick its way out of your throat.

“You’re doing what?” you asked, though you knew.

Wally opened his eyes. There was fear in them, which seemed impossible and then immediately made too much sense. Wally West could run faster than light. He could cross cities between heartbeats. He could laugh in the face of gods and monsters and still sit in front of you terrified because this mattered.

“Answering honestly,” he said.

Dick’s gaze flicked over your face with agonizing care. “We didn’t want to put this on you.”

“This?”

“You know what he means,” Wally said, softer than his usual voice. “Us. How we feel. How long we’ve felt it.”

“How long?”

Dick exhaled. “Long enough that I don’t know how to answer that without incriminating myself.”

Despite everything, a laugh escaped you.

Wally looked almost offended. “Oh, he’s being conservative. I can incriminate us both in detail.”

“Wally.”

“What? She asked.”

“I asked how long,” you said.

Wally looked at you, and for once, he did not rush. “For me, it crept up. One day you were asleep on the couch wearing Dick’s sweatshirt and my socks, and you woke up just enough to tell me I had to stop eating chips directly over your head or you were going to haunt me after death. And I thought, oh. This is probably permanent.”

Your heart did something foolish.

Dick looked down, his thumb moving over his knuckles. “For me, it was after the bridge incident.”

You frowned. “That was two years ago.”

“I know.”

Wally’s expression softened, but he let Dick speak.

Dick’s voice remained steady, though not untouched. “You were furious with us.”

“You both disappeared for eighteen hours.”

“We had comms trouble.”

“There was a collapsed building.”

“Also that.” His mouth curved faintly, then faded. “When we got back, you yelled for fifteen minutes. You had three different news feeds open, a first aid kit on the table, and you were shaking so hard you had to put the kettle down because you almost dropped it.”

“I remember.”

“You told me I didn’t get to treat my life like collateral damage just because I was good at surviving.” Dick looked up. “Most people are relieved when we come back. You were relieved too, but you were angry before you were grateful. You loved us enough to be angry.”

You could not breathe properly.

“Dick.”

“I know.” He gave you a small, helpless smile. “Bad timing.”

“Historically, our brand,” Wally said, but his voice was too gentle to turn it into a joke.

You looked between them. The question you had not asked sat in the room with the rest of you, breathing steadily. It should have been the difficult part, maybe. Two men. Two best friends. Two confessions. But there was something in the way they sat, angled not only toward you but toward each other, that made the answer less impossible than it should have been.

“Both of you?” you asked.

Dick nodded.

“We know,” Wally said.

“And you’re…okay with that?”

Wally’s eyebrows rose. “With Dick having taste? Occasionally.”

Dick huffed despite himself.

You stared at them until Wally’s smile softened.

“We talked about it,” he said. “Badly at first. Then better.”

“When?”

“After the bridge,” Dick said.

“Before that,” Wally corrected.

Dick glanced at him.

Wally lifted a shoulder. “You talked after the bridge. I started talking before that. You just did your emotionally constipated Bat thing and pretended my point had been theoretical.”

“There was nothing theoretical about you eating an entire pizza on my fire escape while telling me I was in love with our best friend.”

“Our best friend was inside making tea and wearing your hoodie.”

“You weren’t subtle.”

“Neither were you. You kept looking at her like she was an answer.”

Something in your chest split cleanly open.

Dick’s expression shifted, embarrassment and affection crossing it too quickly to hide. You realized, suddenly, that they had loved you in the same rooms where you had loved them, all of you careful in different directions, all of you pretending the shape of your life was normal because naming it would change everything.

“What about you two?” you asked.

Their silence lasted half a second too long.

Then Wally said, “Also complicated.”

Dick gave him a look. “It doesn’t have to be.”

“You say that now, but wait until I explain it using a metaphor about nachos.”

“Do not.”

You looked from one to the other. The pieces rearranged themselves with quiet, devastating clarity. The closeness that had always seemed natural because it was Dick and Wally. The way Wally’s hand lingered at Dick’s neck when he thought you were not looking. The way Dick knew Wally’s moods before Wally had done anything louder than breathe. The fact that Wally could steal food off Dick’s plate without losing fingers. The mornings you had walked into their kitchen and found them standing too close, both turning toward you with the same guilty-casual energy that had made you roll your eyes and reach for cereal.

“Oh,” you said.

Wally winced. “Good oh or bad oh?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Fair.”

Dick leaned back carefully, giving you space without leaving. That was the worst part. The best part. The impossible part. Even now, with confession lying open between you, his first instinct was to make sure you did not feel trapped in a room where you had always felt safe.

“You don’t have to know tonight,” he said. “You came here after a bad date, and we are all sitting on a couch pretending this hasn’t been years in the making. This is not exactly a neutral environment for a life-changing conversation.”

Wally nodded solemnly. “Also, I’m still upside-down spiritually from the dumpling betrayal.”

“You offered me one.”

“I contain contradictions.”

You laughed again, and this time it broke something loose. Not the tension, exactly. That remained, but it warmed, softened at the edges by how deeply, absurdly yours they were.

“You were both just going to keep this to yourselves?” you asked.

Dick’s eyes returned to yours. “If that was what kept you comfortable.”

“That’s stupid.”

Wally pointed at Dick. “I said that.”

“Repeatedly,” Dick said.

“Because it’s true.” Wally looked at you with a fragile kind of hope. “But we also weren’t going to make you feel like this place came with strings. You sleep here. You have a key. You know the vigilante stuff. You know where we hide the good bandages and the terrible protein bars. That’s a lot of trust to mess with.”

You understood. That was the terrible thing. You understood too well. This apartment was your soft landing. It was where you came when the world had teeth. If they had said the wrong thing at the wrong time, if they had made you feel observed instead of known, the loss would have been enormous.

But they had not done that.

They had waited until you asked a question they could no longer answer without handing you the truth.

“Wally,” you said.

He sat up straighter. “Yeah?”

“Come here.”

Wally was already close, but he still moved like the distance mattered. His knee shifted against yours, his body turning toward you on the couch, and then he stopped with enough space left between you that it made your chest hurt. He was letting you close the last of it. He smelled like detergent, mint gum, and the clean, electric warmth that always seemed to cling to him.

“You’re shaking,” you said.

Wally huffed a laugh, almost embarrassed. “Yeah.”

“That’s unusual.”

“Lots of things are unusual right now.” His eyes searched yours. “But I’m here.”

You reached up and touched the side of his face. Wally went very still. He had leaned into you a thousand times before, his head in your lap during movie nights, his shoulder bumping yours in grocery aisles, his legs tangled with yours under Dick’s comforter after long days and worse dreams. This was different because you let it be different. You watched the realization move through him, bright and startled and almost painful.

“Can I kiss you?” you asked.

Wally’s breath caught. “Yes. Please. Very yes.”

You smiled despite the shake in your chest and kissed him.

For a man who could outrun almost everything, Wally did not rush you. His mouth met yours carefully, warmly, a little unsteady at first, like he had imagined this enough times to be shocked by the reality of it. Then your fingers slid into his hair, and he made a sound against you that turned the entire room molten. His hand came to your waist, stopped there, asked without words. When you leaned closer, his grip tightened just enough to make you feel the restraint in it.

He tasted faintly of mint and soy sauce.

He kissed like he had been waiting so long that patience had become its own kind of hunger.

When you pulled back, his eyes stayed closed for a second.

“Okay,” he said faintly. “That happened. I’m normal about it.”

“You are visibly not normal about it.”

“I’m experiencing multiple emotions at speeds previously unknown to science.”

Dick laughed softly from your other side, but when you looked at him, the humor in his face did not disguise the want. It made it worse, actually. Wally was bright with it, nearly vibrating under your hand. Dick was still, but his stillness had become charged, every line of him drawn tight around the effort not to reach for you before you asked.

You turned toward him.

Dick watched you come closer by inches, your knee shifting against his thigh, your hand settling carefully on the couch beside him. He did not move until you were facing him fully. Then his hands lifted, not touching yet, hovering near your hips. There he was again, careful even while looking at you like restraint was costing him something.

“Can I?” he asked.

You nodded.

His hands settled on you, warm through the borrowed shirt. Your breath left you unevenly.

“You’re sure?” Dick asked.

Your mouth curved before you could stop it. “Do you ask everyone that after they kiss someone you’re in love with?”

Wally made an incoherent sound behind you.

Dick’s mouth curved. “No.”

“Then yes.”

The first brush of his lips was soft enough to undo you. Dick kissed differently than Wally. He kissed like falling with control, like every angle mattered, like he could make gentleness as devastating as force if he paid enough attention. One hand slid to your back, the other staying at your hip. He did not pull. He invited, and somehow that was worse. You shifted closer on the couch until your thigh pressed against his, and his fingers flexed against your spine.

The second kiss was deeper.

Dick made a low sound when your hand found his jaw, and you felt it through his chest because you were close enough now, finally, to know what his wanting sounded like. Wally shifted behind you, and Dick’s hand tightened just slightly, as if the reminder that Wally was watching did not cool the heat but changed its direction.

You pulled away only enough to breathe.

Dick’s eyes were dark. “This can stop here.”

“It can,” you said.

Wally’s voice came from behind your shoulder, quieter now. “Does it?”

You looked over your shoulder at him. He was still on the couch, hair messy from your hand, one knee angled toward yours like he had started to move closer and stopped himself from asking for too much. His eyes stayed fixed on you with an openness that made the choice feel less like stepping into the unknown and more like coming home to a room you had somehow never entered.

You thought of your toothbrush in the bathroom. Your mug on the coffee table. Your clothes in Dick’s drawer. Wally’s texts. Dick’s hands. The bed you had slept in between them so many times, waking warm and safe and pretending your heart did not break a little every morning you had to climb out of it.

“No,” you said. “I don’t think it does.”

Wally inhaled so sharply that it was almost a laugh.

Dick’s hands tightened at your hips, and then he kissed you again, catching the small sound that slipped out of you before you could pretend it had not happened. You let yourself lean into him, let yourself feel the steadiness of his body and the warmth of Wally coming up behind you. Wally did not press in immediately. He waited until you reached back, found his wrist, and drew his arm around your waist.

His breath hit your hair.

“Oh,” he said softly.

You smiled against Dick’s mouth. “You keep saying that.”

“I keep learning things.”

Dick’s mouth brushed the corner of yours. “He’s a very committed student.”

“Top of my class,” Wally said.

“You once put Pop-Tarts in a panini press.”

“They were incredible.”

“They caught fire.”

“Briefly.”

You laughed, and Dick kissed the sound from your mouth.

🐦🗝️⚡

The walk to his bedroom should not have felt like crossing a border, but it did. You had walked that hall half-asleep, tipsy, sick, laughing, furious, worried. You had stumbled through it with a blanket around your shoulders after nightmares you blamed on bad movies and they pretended to believe you. You had leaned against the doorframe watching Dick fold laundry while Wally sprawled across the bed claiming moral support. You knew the creak of the floor, the shape of the room in the dark, the side of the mattress that dipped because Wally threw himself onto it with no respect for furniture.

Tonight, when Dick opened the door, you hesitated.

Both of them noticed.

“Hey,” Wally said immediately. “We can go back to the couch. Or stop. Or make tea. Or I can run to Canada and bring back those maple cookies you like, although I feel like that might be an overcorrection.”

You looked at him over your shoulder. “Canada?”

“Panic suggestion.”

Dick’s hand touched your back gently. “Talk to us.”

The words settled you. Not because they fixed the nerves, but because they made room for them.

“I’ve slept in this bed with you both a thousand times,” you said. “It feels strange that this is the first time I’m nervous.”

Dick’s expression softened. “It’s allowed to feel strange.”

“Good strange,” Wally added. “Hopefully. Eventually. Maybe right now it’s weird strange. We can work with weird strange.”

You smiled. “You are so bad at being reassuring.”

“I’m actually fantastic at it. You’re just seeing me under extreme conditions.”

Dick’s thumb moved once against your back. “Nothing happens unless all three of us want it.”

You looked at him. “All three?”

His gaze moved briefly to Wally, and something passed between them that was so familiar and intimate you wondered how you had ever missed it. “All three.”

Wally came closer, slower this time. “For the record, I want it. You. This. Him. Us. But wanting doesn’t mean I need to have it tonight.”

Your heart twisted. “That was almost smooth.”

“I have hidden depths.”

“You just brought up Canada.”

“Some of my depths are geographical.”

Dick’s laugh was quiet, fond, and beautiful. It loosened the last of the fear sitting beneath your ribs.

You stepped into the bedroom.

The room was exactly as you knew it. Dick’s bed stood against the far wall, too large for one person and too often occupied by three. The comforter was rumpled from the morning, because Dick made his bed only when stress turned him into a machine and Wally took personal offense at tucked corners. Your book sat on the nightstand beside Dick’s, a bookmark halfway through the chapter you had been reading three nights ago while Wally slept sideways across the foot of the bed.

There were pieces of you everywhere.

You turned to face them.

“I want you,” you said, and watched the words land. “Both of you. I don’t know exactly how this works yet, but I want to find out.”

Dick’s eyes closed briefly.

Wally’s smile trembled at the edges. “We can do finding out.”

“Slowly,” Dick said.

“Sure,” Wally said quickly. “Slow is great. Love slow. Big fan.”

You gave him a look.

“I can be slow,” he insisted.

Dick’s mouth tilted. “He can.”

The fact that Dick knew that should not have sent heat down your spine, but it did. Both of them saw it happen. Of course they did. Dick’s gaze sharpened; Wally’s breath hitched.

“Oh,” Wally said.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” you said, though your own voice had changed.

“I’m not surprised. I’m delighted. There’s a difference.”

Dick stepped closer, his hand finding your waist again. “Tell us what you want first.”

You swallowed. “I want you to stop looking like you’re waiting for me to vanish.”

That hurt them. You saw it.

Dick touched your cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Wally came up behind you, close enough that his warmth reached your back without trapping you. “Say that again in like five minutes. My brain needs repetition.”