࣪ ☣︎ Living Dead Girl ࣪ ☣︎

It was just another lonely Wednesday night when soft, tentative knocks at his front door stole his attention away from the TV. His eyes moved away from the door to the ticking clock above it – a few minutes past nine. It couldn’t be his uncle; he had clocked in at work not even two hours ago, and wasn’t expected to return until dawn. Standing up from the tattered couch, his nose and eyebrows scrunched while he tried his best to remember if he had something planned for the night.

His heavy, calloused hand curled around the knob, turning it to the side and pushing the flimsy door open just a crack. The first annual cicadas made themselves known, a soft sound that was barely there at all. “Yeah?”

“Oh, uhm, h-hi!” you choked out, cheeks warm with embarrassment. He watched the way you looked over your shoulder, eyes drifting around the pitch-black trailer park, afraid to be caught with him. A perfectly lacquered finger played nervously with a loose strand of hair. “I, uh– Nathalie said you could help with my, uhm, extra credit?”

Eddie’s hand twitched at the sound of your flustered voice, his hand tightening its grip on the doorknob. “Nathalie, huh?” he said without much thought. He licked his lips, lost in thought, and pushed the doors further open. “Well, come on in, then.”

The creamy hallways of Hawkins High were a harsh contrast to the fleeting, coloured clothes of its students. Loud chatter and echoing footsteps mixed in with the overpowering scent of sweaty teenage boys and delectable perfumed sweethearts. Just your typical Wednesday afternoon.

Your shoulder bumped into Nathalie’s ever so slightly as you walked toward your lockers. The grip you had on the strap of your backpack tightened more and more with every word that left your mouth.

“I just– I mean–” your brain scattered to find the words. “Did you see that? The way he smiled at me? Out of all the girls in our class, me.”

Nathalie rolled her eyes as she rotated the dial of her locker from side to side. Fourteen to the left, six to the right, twenty to the left. A deep sigh left her mouth.

“Yeah, I saw,” she muttered under her breath with a jabbing tone of frustration. She had spent the last few weeks listening to your rose-tinted rambles about Zack Fucking Whitaker, the newest addition to the basketball team, and her ears just couldn’t take it anymore.

Ever since the Whitakers moved back to Hawkins after a year abroad, it seemed like that was all anyone could talk about lately. It had been three, very long weeks of hearing about how his sandy blond hair fell over his thick eyebrows, how his arms flexed with every controlled move he made during PE, how he put the Jason Carver to shame in every single way possible – with his strong nose and angular chin.

Sigh. It wasn’t like Nathalie didn’t agree with it all; she did find him cute, and she did like the view of his flexing arms. Hell, she even liked how Jason Carver had been in a bad mood the past three weeks, not being Hawkins High’s golden boy anymore. Serves him well, cocky prick. She just couldn’t listen to your rambles anymore; whether it be at school or on the phone late at night, it was all you could talk about.

It was driving her absolutely insane.

Another sigh left her lips as she tried occupying herself by retrieving her AP calculus book. She’d never tell it to your face, but right now she’d rather have two consecutive hours of Mr. Flynn talking about the rules for finding derivatives than another fucking word on Zack Whitaker. She loved you, she really did, but a girl could only handle this much boy talk.

“–me out.” Your airy voice pulled her back to the real world.

“What?” Nathalie shook her head, thick eyebrows furrowed over her baby blue eyeshadow as confusion took over her. “Sorry, zoned out for a sec. What were you saying?”

“Sorry, I’m rambling again, aren’t I?” The chuckle that left your lips didn’t contain any amusement. You knew you had been doing that a lot lately, but honestly, you just couldn’t help it. He was all you could think about. You sighed. “Don’t worry about it, it’s nothing, really.”

“No, no. It’s okay, please. I wanna know.”

“I… He asked me out.” You repeated, voice small and eyes glued to your shoes. Your lips pursed at the sight of a brown stain – that hadn’t been there this morning. Nathalie didn’t notice it, and took your expression as nerves instead.

“That’s what you wanted, right?” Nathalie’s perfectly manicured hand wrapped around the heavy book. She closed her locker and turned her body to yours. “When did he ask?”

A shy chuckle left your lips, cheeks warming up. “This morning, after History. Said he want to take me to the movies.” Your eyes averted towards your restless fingers. You were picking the loose skin around your nails again. Nathalie’s disapproving stare forced you to stop. “And, I mean, yeah. I have been dreaming about this for weeks. I just–”

The words died in your throat when the memories of this morning slipped to the front of your mind. You replayed how Zack’s glimmering green eyes clung to yours, giving you all of his attention, how his fingers brushed his hair upwards when a few strands fell in front of his eyes, the sound of his quiet laughter echoing in your mind.

You glanced around the hallway as if the creamy walls and tiled floors held all the answers you needed, and pushed off the locker you were leaning on with a defeated sigh. Your feet moved without you really noticing, drifting down the hallway with Nathalie glued to your sight. Turning the corner, the loud background noise only amplified when you pushed the cafeteria’s doors open.

The unforgiving sound of clattering trays and high-pitched conversations echoed through the space. Your grip tightened around your bag strap. Your stomach has been in a knot ever since Zach had asked you out; you doubted you could stomach any kind of food right now.

A fleeting, insecure thought took over. “Hypothetically speaking,” you began.

“Go on,” Nathalie murmured without much thought. She was too preoccupied choosing between soggy pizza and the sandwich with a suspicious looking yellow sauce to give you her full attention.

“Let’s say the date goes well, right–” now that the blonde wasn’t actively looking, your fingers were at it again, the skin around your nails already too red, too irritated. “What would I even do?”

Nathalie’s eyebrows furrowed; she chose the suspicious looking sandwich. “What do you mean?”

“What if the date goes well and, I don’t know, we’re in an empty parking lot or something–” you lowered your voice. The busy lunch line wasn’t the best place to have this conversation, but still. You snatched a carton of orange juice, substituting the food your stomach couldn’t handle anyway. “I wouldn’t know what to do, not really. I have no… real experience.”

That pulled her attention back on you. Nathalie snorted, lips pursed into a barely contained toothy smile. The sight of a tiny, hot pink stain on her teeth caught your attention. “I’m not making fun of you, promise! You’re just so cute.”

“Oh, c’mon, Nathalie!” you groaned. Cute was the last thing you wanted to be. You looked away, scanning the cafeteria for two empty seats. You walked without another word.

Hiding your face from the blonde, you diverted your gaze to your lap. Suddenly, you regretted choosing to wear a baby pink skirt today; the soft colour wasn’t doing you any favours, not after Nathalie’s comment.

“What if he thinks it’s a dealbreaker?” your voice sounded small even to your own ears. Your eyes drifted across the room, searching for the boy that had been plaguing your mind all day long. You found him easily, even in the sea of green letterman jackets – his sandy blond hair shining under the harsh fluorescent lights.

“Then he’s not the one.” Nathalie shrugged in indifference.

You averted your gaze as he stood up. That wasn’t necessarily what you wanted to hear; you’d expected something else, something reassuring.

You let the sound of chairs scraping across the floors and incessant chatter fill the silence between you.

You were too busy replaying her words in your mind to say something. Nathalie’s eyes softened when she noticed your lost, disappointed expression.

“Listen,” she sighed. Her eyes scanned the cafeteria as she leaned closer to you, blonde strands falling into her face as she angled her head just slightly. She lowered her voice when Caleb Antonoff walked by, just in case –  you never knew with those who are part of the school newspaper. “If you’re really insecure about it, I know something that can help.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, curiosity getting the best of you. You leaned forward, meeting her halfway across the cold tabletop, elbows supporting the weight of your upper body.

“Eddie Munson’s kissing booth,” she whispered. Her nose scrunched in disgust as she picked at the sliced pickle hidden between the lettuce, throwing it on the side of her lunch tray. “Girls go to him to practice before dates.”

“Practice?”

“No one admits to it, but half the girls in our year have. I swear to god. Hell, me included.” She took a bite of the sandwich. Her eyebrows furrowed in a deep scowl before her eyes widened. Whatever that suspicious looking sauce was, it was fucking delicious. “He’s really good at it too;  got Sean wrapped around my little finger with the things he taught me.”

“You got to be joking.” She shook her head, mouth too preoccupied to give you a proper reply. You didn’t trust the sandwich she was eating; there was no way in Hell that the weird looking sauce wasn’t messing with her brain. You pulled a weird face. “And he just… doesn’t tell anyone about it?”

“Nobody would believe him, anyway. Think, babe. It’s the Freak we’re talking about here,” Nathalie replies with a sarcastic glimmer in her eyes. She placed the sandwich down on her tray and reached for your orange juice. You swatted her hand away – you were not giving her a chance to contaminate you with the brain-eating amoebas she had just consumed. “I’m telling you, he’s great. No complaints. Besides it being him, I mean.”

Almost instinctively, your eyes darted around the loud cafeteria and only stopped when they caught sight of a certain metalhead.

“–increase the concentration, what happens to the reaction rate? Can anyone tell me?” Mrs. O’Donnell’s voice echoed through the otherwise silent classroom. The high pitched screech of her chalk moving across the blackboard, and the lingering dust in the air added another layer to the headache you’d been sporting since lunch.

You looked away, the blank page of your notebook staring back at you. There was no use writing down all the words, numbers and draw pointed arrows, none of it made any fucking sense.

Neither did Eddie’s side business that every girl made use of. Apparently.

There was no way in Hell you were going up to him and ask–

You wouldn’t even know how to finish that sentence. Your headache deepened. This was getting ridiculous.

But the idea kept circling back, and Nathalie’s voice echoed in your head like a broken vinyl.

Eddie Munson. Girls go to him to practice before dates.

You looked at Chrissy Cunningham, sitting two rows to your left. With her perfect ponytail, cheer uniform tailored to her lean body, baby blue eyeshadow applied with flawless precision. You tried to imagine her knocking on Eddie’s door, all rosy cheeks and fluttering eyelashes, asking for his help to bag the Jason Carver. The mental images made as much sense as O’Donnell’s blabbering.

The shrieking ring! of the bell pierced right through O'Donnell's voice. Classmates behind you started to rise, hastily shoving their notebooks into their backpacks, limbs moving in desperate need to leave the classroom.

“Don’t forget next week’s homework!”

You shoved your notebook and chemistry book back into your bag in one, lazy movement. Thoughts still tangled into the whole Eddie Thing, there was no forecast that the headache would leave any time soon.

But even when you followed the fluid current of classmates heading for the door and entering into the crowded hallway, you could still feel it there. The thought of what if looping in the back of your mind.

Nathalie and that stupid mouth of hers be damned.

The hallway was louder than usual, drowning out your thoughts effortlessly. Overlapping voices, slamming lockers, loud laughter somewhere behind you – you welcomed it all, desperate to stop thinking about what you had learnt during lunch today.

You adjusted the grip on your bag as you walked.

It didn’t matter anyway, you weren’t doing it. You weren’t having your first kiss with Eddie Munson. It was embarrassing enough to just be thinking about it.

Zack probably wouldn’t even mind your inexperience anyway.

Hopefully.

You turned the corner, paying no attention to the world around you, eyes scanning ahead for your locker.

Your steps faltered just slightly before you corrected them again. And then you stopped walking altogether.

He was there. Leaning against the wall, just a few feet away from your locker. Almost like he’d been summoned by your lingering thoughts.

He wasn’t doing anything, not really. Just… standing there, leaning against the wall while he talked to a junior you didn’t personally know. They were half way out of the main flow of people, almost like they had placed themselves there on purpose. People passed them without looking. One or two glanced, but quickly looked away again.

“Freaks,” one of them muttered loud enough when they walked past them.

You looked away quickly, afraid that the slightest glance would draw his attention to you. You forced your feet to start moving again. This was exactly what you were going to do: walk over to your locker, open it, grab whatever you needed, leave whatever you didn’t, and go home without another glance in his direction. Like every other student.

The grip on your bag strap tightened even more, knuckles turned white. You lowered your head and rushed to the locker. Three to the left, nine to the right, twelve to the left.

The locker clicked open, and you exhaled a breath you didn’t even know you’d been holding in. The hallway noise carried on like nothing happened, but failed to drown out the loud, pulsating sound that pounded in your ears.

You reached for a book you didn’t need. Shakespear, maybe, and told yourself you weren’t going to turn around.

You did it anyway, taking in the way his curly hair framed his face, the way the leathery material of his war jacket hugged his slender frame, how his white Reeboks contrasted against the rest of his pitch-black outfit. You noticed his ringed fingers tighten around the metal lunchbox he held, and suddenly it wasn’t as hard to imagine those same fingers holding someone’s face before he leaned in and–

Nathalie and her stupid, stupid suggestions be damned. Your mind too, for conjuring up those stupid images.

There was no way in Hell–

Your fingers busied themselves with their favourite activity as you hesitated for a second or two. There would be no way back, not really – even if you left, the fact that you had sought out his help would follow you for the rest of your life. You nodded only once, a little too quickly, and slipped inside.

Eddie closed the door behind you with a hard pull, the sound making you flinch. “Sorry. We keep meaning to fix it.”

The trailer looked smaller from the inside. The kitchen lamp cast a warm, uneven glow towards the living room, over the mismatched furniture and the decorated walls. The TV still murmured quietly in the background. His home smelled like stale beer, microwaved dinner and, if you focused a little harder, citrussy cleaning supplies – something your mom would use to clean the kitchen sink.

“Relax”, he said when he noticed the way you hadn’t moved away from the door. He crossed the room to turn the TV off. “It’s not as bad as you think.”

You stayed near the door. “I didn’t say it was,” you replied, the words coming out tighter than you had meant. Your eyes kept wandering around the room, doing everything in your power to not look at him.

“So,” you trailed off. Your throat dried up, and you picked at the loose skin around your thumbnail a little too hard. You forced a cough to clear your throat. “How, uh– how does this work?”

He glanced at you over his shoulder, an eyebrow arched under his bangs. He moved around the coffee table, putting the remote back on its spot on top of the TV. “Well, depends. What’s your level?”

“Level?”

“Yeah, level of experience,” he replied. His hands moved to the back of his neck, nails scraping at the skin. He leaned against the couch, body relaxed, waiting patiently for your answer.

“I, uh–“ you stammered. Another hard pull at another loose piece of skin. You looked away, the mug collecting gathering dust on the shelves a view less intimidating.

To say you were nervous was an understatement – not only was this the first time you stood in his living room, this also was the first time you were having a conversation with him. You didn’t have any friends in common, you had never been paired for anything at school, and you don’t smoke weed. There never had been any reason to approach him before.

It was a lot of firsts to take in all at once.

Eddie softened. He had done this often enough to know when to step in, when to pull someone out of their head, away from their own thoughts. “It’s ten for half an hour. We keep it PG-13.”

“Okay, yeah,” you gulped. “That sounds, uh, reasonable. I think.”

“I usually do this in my bedroom, just in case my uncle gets home earlier than planned,” he scratched his chin, eyes locked onto your nervous frame. There was a slight warmth to your cheeks that spread down your neck. “But we can stay here, if that’s more comfortable.”

You appreciated the gesture, but you could already see his uncle getting off work early – just your luck.

“Your room is fine, I guess,” you shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. Your voice didn’t sound as casual as the words did in your head.

Eddie backed away from the couch, planting his feet firmly on the ground. He offered you his hand, slender fingers adorned with heavy, silver rings. You hesitated for just a second before placing your raw fingers in his palm. “This way, Sweetheart.”

Eddie sat on top of his bed, naturally relaxed, like this was something totally normal to him. And maybe it was – he had done it times and times before.

You looked around his room with a sudden curiosity. He apologised for the mess as he scanned his bedroom, noticing the empty cans of beer and scattered sheets of paper he hadn’t yet tidied up.

You hummed at his apology, not trusting your own voice. The walls had a faint tint of yellow to them, stained over the time by his smoking habit. It wasn’t strong, and you didn’t really mind. Your eyes wandered over to the wall behind Eddie’s lean figure, ignoring the tattoos that peeked from under his tight tank top, settling instead on the dark, uneasy poster of Wes Craven’s A Nightmare on Elm Street.

Eddie’s eyes followed all the little movements you made, noticing how you took in every little detail of his personal life. He wasn’t used to people actually paying attention to what he considered to be his safe haven; they usually jumped right into it, eager to leave again. He noticed the way your eyes didn’t just scan the room – they lingered, absorbing the titles in his book collection, the scattered pictures of him and his friends, the fantasy world maps he had drawn for previous campaigns, the extensive assortment of the cheapest 1.5mm picks he could find at the local music shop. He noticed how you hesitated for half a second before you picked one up from his desk, its olive-green colour calling to you.

He tilted his head slightly. “Ye’kno, most girls don’t look around this much when they come here.”

Your fingers stilled. You felt like a baby deer caught in headlights, your heart pounding in your chest, afraid you were overstepping. “Sorry–”

“Not complaining.” His lips twitched. “You don’t have to overthink it.”

Your fingers moved the plastic triangle around, shoulders tensed. You looked away, just for a moment. Your cheeks were too warm for your liking, and you hoped Eddie didn’t notice it.

“You always do that?” Eddie tilted his head to the side, gaze dropping to your fingers. You shot him a questioning look. “Fidget.”

Eddie pushed himself off the bed, the imprint of his body visible on the sheets. A quiet exhale left his lips, his socked feet thudding softly against the old carpet as he closed the distance between you. He wasn’t hesitant, but he didn’t rush either. The faint remaining scent of his cologne hit your nostrils – something moody and slightly earthy, not what you had expected from him. Not smooth and familiar like Zack’s – something darker, something that forced your attention to him.

You gulped as his calloused hand reached out, warm fingers moving slow and giving you an out – you didn’t take it. His fingertips brushed against yours, gentle, guiding your fingers to loosen the grip on the worthless piece of plastic.

“See?” he murmured. His eyes drifted upwards, settling on your face. “You’re holding it like your life depends on it. Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”

It was embarrassing how easily he could read you. You blinked, once, then twice more, breath hitched when you noticed he was still holding your hand. You felt the weight of something settling between you – quiet and impossible to ignore.

Eddie didn’t comment on it, just observed you for a second, his gaze flickering, almost as if he were trying to figure something out. The warmth on your hand was instantly lost when he loosened his grip and took a step back.

“Alright,” he said after a moment. “Ground rules, yeah?”

You nodded, not trusting your own voice.

“Like I said – PG-13. We can stop whenever, no questions asked.” His brown eyes flickered to meet yours, a sharp glimmer in them. “But you gotta be honest with me, Sweetheart. Can’t help you if you’re in your head like this the whole time.”

The nickname didn’t go unnoticed. It was the second time he’d used the endearing nickname on you, and you didn’t know how to feel about it. You licked your lips, momentarily smoothing the chapped skin. He was right – if you were asking for his help, you needed to be honest with him.

“I know what I’m supposed to do. I just–” your voice edged toward insecure embarrassment. “I don’t know how to do it, where to start.”

Eddie rubbed the back of his neck, lips forming in a soft smile and eyes sparkling with something that looked almost like adoration. He took a few steps back, returning to his original spot. The old bed frame creaked with the extra weight on top of it.

“First thing?” he said, hand resting on the empty spot next to him. “Stop standing like you’re about to bolt.”

Your grip tightened around the pick, your shoulders tensing instinctively. You looked away, just for a moment. Your cheeks grew warm, again, and you hoped he didn’t notice the way you hesitated. Your mind raced, going eighty miles an hour. And then you exhaled, stepping forward in slow, cautious steps.

He noticed – of course he did. Your chest heaved a little heavier than it did just moments ago, and you looked at everything that wasn’t him or his bed.

“Look at me,” his voice dropped. The silver material of his rings caught the low, warm light of his bedroom as he moved his hand towards you. Warm fingers curled around your fidgeting ones, while his other hand lifted your chin. The sudden heaviness returned, taking root between your bodies while your stomach nervously twisted.

Your eyes followed the lazy movements of the ceiling fan, its quiet humming filling the otherwise silent room, your mind a chaotic mess of thoughts that would have never crossed your mind if it wasn’t for everything that had happened this week. The five badly hand-painted, plastic blades did nothing against the late spring weather, nor did they do anything to cool down your mind.

You heard the soft noise of ice cubes clinking against glass before you heard footsteps approaching the room. Nathalie pushed her bedroom door open with a weird movement of her foot, repeating it to close it again. She stepped closer to the bed, stretching one of her arms in a silent offering. You pulled your body upright, taking a sitting position before you took the glass from her hand.

She raised an intrigued eyebrow when you downed the fresh lemonade in one go without much thought. A spark of mischief crossed her eyes.

“If I wasn’t curious before, I certainly am now. Spill.”

You averted your gaze, unable to look her in the eyes. Your grip on the cool glass tightened, condensation rolling down the material and disappearing down your fingers.

“I went,” you exhaled, shoulders tense. You were still avoiding her curious gaze, instead taking in the various blue shades of wall paint swatches. You decided you liked the second swatch the best.

“Duh,” Nathalie’s eyebrows moved in opposite directions, her face pulled into a sarcastic glare. “I meant what happened.”

You hesitated – this was Nathalie, your best friend since you were maybe five or six years old; it shouldn’t be this hard to open up to her. And yet, you stalled, gulping nervously.

The events of the previous night plagued your mind ever since you left his trailer. You didn’t know what to tell her – that Eddie wasn’t the freak like everyone made him out to be? That he was actually really sweet, and that you felt mortifyingly guilty for using him just so you could impress another boy?

Said boy, who would be picking you up in less than twenty-four hours.

Nathalie always prided herself in knowing you better than you knew yourself, so it wasn’t hard for her to notice how your muscles tensed under her gaze. She usually knew when not to push you for answers, but she needed to know. With a sigh, she put away her own glass, still full, and lay next to you. “You know you can tell me everything, right? I’d never judge you.”

Easier said than done. You loved her with all your being, but the nagging voice in the back of your mind told you she wouldn’t keep her promise. Not when it involved Eddie.

You gulped and offered her a breadcrumb instead: “He… isn’t weird.”

Nathalie blinked and pulled a face. She ran her hand through her hair, loose from the usual dramatically high updo.

“Not weird,” she repeated, voice dripping with scepticism.

“Not like people say.” You shrugged, maybe a little too quickly. You looked away again when her gaze started burning holes into your face. You decided to change the subject. “I like the second shade of blue – it suits your skin better than the other ones.”

She followed your finger towards the swatches of wall paint. It was more than obvious you were deflecting her questions. “Would you feel less embarrassed if I told you about my experience?” Nathalie asked softly.

You didn’t know what answer to give her. A few seconds passed, and your eyes still hadn’t moved away from the swatches. Biting your inner cheek, you nodded.

“I will absolutely kill you if this leaves this room,” she threatened, her pale, milky skin turning as pink as the lipstick she’d applied earlier that afternoon. She held your gaze, pinky finger raised in the air. Your finger curled around hers in a silent promise. “I really liked how, uh, attentive he was.”

Nathalie’s gaze dropped, her pinky slipping from yours. Her cheeks were still hot, almost bordering on red now. You hadn’t seen her this embarrassed since that one time in the fifth grade, when Ethan Russell ran up to her to ask, in front of the entire playground, if she wanted to be Mason Walker’s girlfriend, only to learn it was a joke all along.

“I wanted to dig a hole in the ground, that’s how embarrassed I was to be there, in his room,” she continued in a low voice. “He pulled some vinyl from his collection, something slow, to calm me down. I didn’t even know he listened to anything other than those screaming, satanic bands. I just – I wish it hadn’t been him.”

Your stomach dropped at the evident disgust in Nathalie’s voice. It didn’t sit right with you, especially given her soft confession about how much she liked his attentiveness – a stark contrast to the hard tone in her voice now, as if he’d personally offended her.

You could easily picture it – the way his body probably moved around, how he took the time to choose something soothing to play. You imagined him slowing everything down, like there was nowhere else he needed to be, like Nathalie wasn’t something to rush through.

Your grip tightened around your glass. You wished you hadn’t drunk it all in one gulp, your throat suddenly dry again. “Why does it matter that it was him?” was what you wanted to ask. You didn’t, taking a deep inhale instead.

Putting away your empty glass, you lay next to her. Your gaze returned to the lazy movements of the ceiling fan. It kept spinning and spinning, almost as if it were mimicking your mind.

“I, uh–” your voice sounded smaller than you’d hoped for. A deep sigh left your lips. “Let’s just say it wasn’t what I expected.”

You hesitated – the horror movie and band posters behind him were less intimidating. A soft, nervous sigh left your lips. With a hesitant shift of your eyes, your gaze met his, something flickering in his coffee-brown eyes.

“There ya go,” he murmured, his lips pulling into a soft smile. “I knew you could do it.”

The palms of your hands started to sweat, and your grip on the plastic pick faltered.

His room suddenly felt smaller – like the air between you had pulled the walls closer and closer, trapping the both of you into each other. Your breathing was uneven and loud in your ears, your heart stammering in your chest in ways it had never done before.

Eddie didn’t move, just watched you with curious eyes, almost like he was waiting for something.

“First step,” his voice sounded thicker than it did before. He licked his lips, slightly distracted, his thumb brushing softly against your knuckles. “You gotta stop thinking so much.”

Your lips parted slightly. The feeling of his warm thumb felt distracting, almost too intimate for a situation you’d expected to feel more… clinical.

“Just look at me,” he continued in a soft tone. “Like I said, I don’t bite.”

That pulled a choked chuckle out of you. His gaze felt too intense, but you didn’t look away. You took in the sight – his hair was slightly frizzy after a long, humid spring day, but somehow still looked good. The tiny brown constellations spread on his cheeks were something you hadn’t noticed before, a nice, gentle surprise from someone that carried themselves in such an intimidating way.

Your heart kept beating harshly against your ribs, but your breathing had steadied itself, just slightly. Not exactly calm, but… quieter.

“Second step,” he said after a moment, voice still low. His hand let go of yours, giving you the space to take a step back if you wanted to. You didn’t. “You don’t rush it – that’s where people mess it up.”

His gaze flickered briefly to your lips, taking in the faint glimmer your tongue had left behind, before his eyes trailed back to yours again. A faint smile tugged at his lips. “You get used to being close first.”

You nodded softly, barely paying attention to what he was saying, too focused on how his eyes glimmered under the soft lighting of his room.

His Adam’s apple moved when he gulped, eyes still glued on yours. His thumb stilled against your knuckles before he moved his hand, fingers brushing lightly against your cheek as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Eddie’s movements were quiet, careful – almost absentminded, like he didn’t want to startle you.

“Step three,” he murmured. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, almost like he was having an inner battle with himself. His eyes moved down to your lips and stayed there. The tip of his tongue slithered across his lips. “I lean in and I–”

He cut himself off, head leaning in and closing the distance between you, his eyes fluttered closed. His breath fanned across the lower part of your face, a soft, warm exhale that only added to the warmth that had already spread throughout your body.

Your hand trembled in his, your skin too warm and slightly damp. Too nervous to keep your gaze on him, you closed your eyes almost as if you were bracing for impact.

And then– the soft touch of Eddie’s lips on yours.

Just as quickly as he pulled in, he pulled back again – just enough. His eyes opened, studying your face, waiting for your reaction.

Eddie had done this before. Enough times that it had stopped meaning anything.

The same hesitant girls, the same careful instructions, the same steps – like one of those well-rehearsed songs he’d play at the Hide Out with his band. Nothing ever really changed, besides the occasional need to put on a vinyl to break the awkward air in his room.

It was easy. Detached. Something that didn’t take too much thought.

But this–

Eddie’s eyes lingered on your face a second longer than they should have, longer than he liked. He noticed it immediately – the way his body had tensed slightly under your touch before he forced his muscles to relax again.

But that wasn’t the only thing he’d noticed – you hadn’t pulled away, or looked at him like you needed him to hurry up with the lesson as quickly as possible.

He noticed how you just… stayed. How you didn’t try to fill the silence between you.

It made an uncomfortable feeling settle in his chest – something unfamiliar he wasn’t planning on getting used to.

Eddie cleared his throat, the quiet sound cutting through the thick air that had filled the space between you. His hands twitched, his mind carefully calculating his next move. He moved them to your sides, thumbs resting lightly against the soft material of your baby pink skirt, like he was steadying you.

Your breath caught in your throat at the change in contact, not having expected him to touch you the way he did now.

“Next step,” his voice slipped into a controlled, calm, almost matter-of-fact tone. “Same idea as before, just… a little longer.”

His gaze flickered between your eyes, brown irises checking, grounding – giving you an out if you needed one. You gulped nervously, but didn’t move a muscle.

“Relax your mouth, don’t keep it too tense, yeah?” he added, carefully choosing his words. “Just follow me, okay? We’ll take it slow.”

Eddie’s grip on your hips stayed light, thumbs still brushing faintly against the fabric beneath them as he watched you for a second, taking in your expression, just to be sure.

You didn’t move, nor did you break eye contact with him.

The ends of his curls tickled your cheeks when he leaned in again, slower this time. The way he’d closed the space felt different – less abrupt, more expected. Your lips trembled right before they met his, instantly stilling with the soft weight of his mouth on yours. It wasn’t fleeting, like the previous kiss was; he lingered, like he said he would.

A sigh left your lips when you instinctively parted them. You hadn’t meant to do it, nor had you even realised you had.

Eddie’s thumbs stilled on your hips.

Almost as if you were made of porcelain, he carefully moved his lips, deepening the kiss in such a delicate way, like he was testing the water before stepping further in it.

His hands stayed where they held you, steady, not pulling you any closer – just there, grounding you.

Grounding himself.

He tilted his head slightly, the angle shifting just enough to make everything feel different – closer, warmer, more real.

The change caught you off guard, spinning your head slightly just as he deepened the kiss a little more. His plush lips pushed against yours – soft, yet insistent – coaxing them to part ever so slightly, just enough to explore the contours of your mouth.

Your breath hitched – the feeling unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

Before you could get used to it, he parted away again, leaving small pecks on your lips before he pulled off completely. His eyes opened up, a new, undecipherable glimmer in them.

“Next step? Tongue,” he said with a soft smirk.

The three little words were enough to make your chest heave, a small change that didn’t go unnoticed by Eddie.

“It’s the same as before: I lean in and I kiss you.” His eyes looked down, taking in the new, soft hue that had taking over your lips. He cleared his throat before continuing, his gaze now lifting up back in search for yours. “I’ll just… touch your lower lip.”

His fingers dug ever so slightly into your hips, pulling you into him in a slow, careful movement. He moved his head – slowly, just like before. The tip of his nose nudged yours, and the curly ends of his hair found their place against your cheeks once more. His warm lips found yours again in one gentle motion.

The tip of his tongue slipped out, softly licking your lower lip. It was even warmer than his mouth, the feeling pulling a low gasp from of your throat. Eddie swallowed the sound with practiced precision, his tongue now gently entering your mouth – just a little further, slow and deliberate.

The slick texture of his tongue against yours felt like nothing you had ever experienced before, and it scared you how much you actually liked it, how easy it was to fall into it.

He’s really good at it. Nathalie’s voice echoed in your mind. She said it so nonchalantly, you hadn’t actually expected…

It wasn’t rushed or clumsy, like you had imagined. It didn’t feel like something to just get over with.

You had expected something quick – some awkward hands, nerves – an evening you could just… forget about as soon as it was over.

You hadn’t expected it to be slow and intentional, like he was paying attention to every little reaction he was getting out of you.

Eddie pulled away, giving your lips small, gentle pecks before he completely took his mouth away from yours. His dark brown eyes opened and took in the view in front of him – red, swollen lips glistening with his spit, blown out pupils staring back at him. “See? You’re a natural.”

Your cheeks warmed even more at the compliment.

He’s really good at it.

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, your thoughts shifted. You wondered, briefly, how it would feel if you were kissing Zack. If it would feel like this.

But as soon as the thought entered your mind, you pushed it away, your chest tightening at the idea.

Your breathing changed, just slightly. And it didn’t go unnoticed by Eddie.

His thumbs resumed their light movements on your hips as he widened the distance between you just a little bit. His eyes searched your face, looking for whatever had pulled your attention away from him.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice softer than before. “You okay?”

You swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat, your gaze dropping for just a second before lifting back to his.

His expression shifted ever so slightly, his thumbs still smoothing the fabric beneath his fingers while he waited for your answer.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

He didn’t trust the nod you gave him. His thumbs stilled again as he decided to give you an out. “We can stop, if you want.”

His words echoed in your ears, heavier than they had actually sounded leaving his mouth. You parted your lips, only to close them again. Your fingers tightened around the pick you were still holding before loosening again, like you didn’t know what to decide on.

Your gaze shifted again, this time to the ground.

You reminded yourself that it was just practice – just something to get over with before your date with Zack. It wasn’t supposed to make you feel like… whatever you were feeling.

Your lips parted slightly, a trembling breath slipping past them as you tried to organise your thought, to find the words.

“I…” you started, your voice barely above a whisper. Your gaze lifted back to Eddie’s, his dark brown eyes already fixed on yours – soft and attentive, still waiting.

⋆˚꩜｡a/n: eeeeeeppp here it is<3<3 my mind is racing as i write this, can't believe i'm posting this after having this idea swimming in my head for yearssss, can't wait to write more of this hehe as always pls lemme know watcha think 💋

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Although, he hadn’t expected to be here with you, at all, as a matter of fact. 

Not in the woods behind the school.

And definitely not alone. 

It’s unnatural.

You, laid out on top of the picnic table. Him, hunched on the seat below, straddling the old plank of wood. Too close. 

Closer than he’s ever been. 

It’s aberrant, really.

But maybe, just for today, everything is topsy-turvy. 

Maybe it will go back to normal soon. You in your bubble, him in his. Two separate worlds. Two separate planets orbiting the same rust-bucket town. The same miserable high school. At least for a few more months. 

Then he’ll get the hell out of this place. Just drive and drive and drive until the scent of manure no longer singes his nose hairs. Until the cornfields turn into beaches. Or mountains. Or shit, even swamp lands. He’s not picky. 

And you’ll be off at some college, probably. 

Find a braincell-deficient jock and pop out a couple of kids. He’s picturing a picket fence somewhere there, too. Possibly a station wagon with that dumb wooden interior. He hates that wooden interior. 

And you’ll forget he ever existed. 

And he’ll—

“So pretty.” 

It’s lower this time. A whisper. Like it was only meant to stay inside your head. Like you weren’t even aware you said it. 

And maybe you aren’t aware. Maybe the weed is hitting you hard. Too hard. It’s only your first time. 

So maybe he should pretend like he didn’t hear. Just continue to act like the metal box in front of him needs reorganizing. 

Re-reorganizing, even. 

Whatever it takes to not notice the way your pleated skirt has ridden up, bunched at the tops of your thighs. 

Because he hasn’t noticed. 

No, he’s not aware of how smooth your skin looks, or how the cherry blossom scent of your lotion seems to intoxicate him more than the shared joint, now forgotten, smoldering between your fingers. 

He has no idea what color panties you’re wearing, and absolutely no clue what powder blue fabric looks like when it darkens. 

Baggies to the left. Try to prop them up against each other. Bottles to the right. Line them up. Shit, the baggies won’t sit upright. Maybe lay them flat? Then, if he moves the tin—

“Do you think I’m pretty, too?” 

Fuck. 

Your heavy-lidded gaze is directed at him now, and he finally feels the high. Or maybe it’s just your effect; the kind of haze that leaves him wondering what new strain has him seeing a real life angel. The kind of feeling that sends his heart away at a dead sprint and his mind swimming in a tank of molasses.

Everything is muffled. And there’s only you. And those eyes. Waiting.

“Y-Yeah,” he chokes, hoping you don’t see the heat blooming beneath his cheeks. “You’re pretty. ‘S kinda your thing.” He shrugs. “Popular and pretty.”

It’s a deflection. It’s bitter. It’s crashing through the bubble with an unceremonious pop. 

Because yes, you’re pretty. Everyone knows it. Everyone.

Him noticing isn’t any different. 

You blink. “But do you think I’m pretty? Just pretty.”

He pauses, wondering, for only a split second, if this was all some kind of elaborate rouse to incriminate him. If, any minute now, Andy and Jason are going to step out from behind one of these trees, itching for a fight. Because Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson is tainting the precious queen of Hawkins High. His no-good, low-life, burn-out presence might as well stain your skin like black tar.

But he nods, nonetheless. A calculated risk; it’s shaky, not insincere. 

And that seems to be enough because your painted lips twitch into a small smile. It’s a breath of fresh air. If only his heart would stop pounding against his ribs like it’s trying to get out. To get to you.

“I told my friends, once, and they didn’t talk to me for a day and a half.”

Your smile is gone now. And your gaze is empty as you turn back to the tree tops. 

Eddie shifts in his seat, feeling more and more like he’s fallen through the looking glass. 

“T-Told them what?” 

He’s not sure he wants the clarification. Not sure he wants to understand. Because it doesn’t seem like it’ll work. Like he’ll never truly understand if you say what he—

“That I think you’re pretty,” you mutter, turning to him again, a simple pout weighing your features down.

Fuck.

“We were talking about crushes, and they said theirs. And they were so…excited…. And Heather was trying to convince Jackie S. to tell Patrick how she felt. And I wanted to feel it too.”

He can barely breathe, so he stays silent, just letting you speak to no one in particular. Because he’s not here. 

Not now. 

Not on this planet. 

Not in the same reality as the girl he’s pretended not to watch since the middle school talent show. The girl whose perfume somehow lives in his mind, though he’s never bathed in it longer than a shoulder brush through the halls. Not that girl, not in this reality. 

Not you. Telling him he’s pretty. No way—

“—wanted to hear what they’d say. Like if they would tell me we’d look cute together, or they’d say they’ve seen you looking at me, or something, and maybe there’s a chance.” 

Fuck, he’s low on E. 

And these damn baggies don’t organize well—he should really label them. And Reefer Rick has probably laced this new, stupid supply with something because there’s simply no conceivable way—

“But they just looked at me like I said something insane. Asked me if I was joking. They didn’t believe me at first—” 

He snorts, twisting the skull ring around his finger until the skin underneath starts to heat. You’re silent now, and he almost doesn’t want to look. But he has to. So he does.

Your polished nails, the lipstick stained joint, thousands of wool fibers bending and yielding to the curves of your body. Then that pout, your eyes. A frown.

The baggies of pills, the weathered wood; carved initials giving way to new grain.

“You don’t believe me, either?”

It’s so broken sounding, he has half a mind to lie and say of course he does. Of course he believes you, resident queen of Hawkins High—the girl who prances through school with five guys, minimum, trailing after her, lovesick and delusionally hormonal—are telling the God’s-honest truth. That you have somehow taken a liking to the town pariah. 

The people’s princess has woken up this day and decided she’d like to bestow upon him, of all people, the greatest charity he could never repay, nor even begin to deserve. 

And you’d say this exact thing stone-cold sober. Sure.

He could say that. 

“Um—” he clears his throat, repeatedly dragging a dirty Reebok on the ground until a pile of curled leaves starts to grow, “I believe…uh, we’ve probably had enough.”

Before you can make a move to stop him, he plucks the joint from between your fingers, ignoring the shock of your touch. 

The faint sizzle of embers being extinguished on old wood is the only sound that fills the air. That, and the rustle of wind through the trees. 

He can feel your eyes on him as he licks his fingers and pinches the end of the roll. It may very well be laced, but he’s not the wasteful type. 

And anyway, he’s got plans later. A date with his right hand and the well-loved porno mag he’s made some…changes…to. All while he pretends not to remember how your lips wrapped around the very same joint he hopes will last him long enough. 

You sit up suddenly, swinging your legs over the edge of the picnic table. He nearly knocks his metal lunchbox off the seat, scrambling to avoid the brush of your skin. 

“Do you not like me?” 

The words are filled with accusation, woven by insecurity, and Eddie feels insane. Clinically. Terminally, even. That’s not a thing, but given his luck, he could be the first man, ever, to die from a hot chick coming onto him. 

Because what the actual fuck? You’re looking at him like his very existence is a puzzle to you. As if you can’t imagine why in the world he’d be second-guessing your confession. 

He clears his throat, again, but chokes on his breath the second you slide down next to him, your skirt creeping impossibly higher before settling properly. And he’s up in a flash, like only the heat of you near him is all it takes to burn. And God, does it burn.

“N-No! No, I, um, I—I just don’t know you.” He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “Basically just met you today, really.”

He could almost kick himself, the way his voice jumps an octave he’s certain only liars can reach. And you seem to hold the same belief, your eyes all but say as much as you stand to follow him. 

Leaves crunch under his shuffling footsteps, and you pause, as if realizing the space between is carefully set. 

It’s a choice he’s fighting to make, just as he’s fighting not to look at you. Though, one is admittedly easier than the other.

“I mean, not really. We’ve been going to the same school since, like, sixth grade—”

He shakes his head, correcting, “Your sixth; my eighth.”

Bewilderment overtakes your frown, and he understands the semantics appear meaningless to you, but they keep him up at night. When the hours tick by and delusion creeps into the edges of his foggy mind, thoughts of fate start to sound more and more sane. 

 “My mom even made you that casserole when your uncle was sick.”

Oh, yeah. 

That. 

He remembers that day. Thinks about it when the delusion turns sour and his conscience wants to remind him what an embarrassment he is. 

He remembers perfectly how he heard your heels clicking from down the hall. How he took one look through the small hospital window, saw you in your Sunday best and booked it to the en suite bathroom. 

How he left Wayne to fend for himself in a state of utter confusion, never having seen his nephew move so fast. How he hid in the small space, surrounded by porcelain and that chemical smell that still makes his skin crawl. Just so he wouldn’t have to face you. 

So he wouldn’t have to watch you charm his uncle, lift his spirits like you do everyone. 

No, he only had to listen and imagine what shade of lipstick you chose to match with your outfit. Because that was way easier than seeing the cruel fluorescent lights fail to hollow you out like it did everyone who entered that godforsaken room. 

Yeah, hearing the raspy laugh of his uncle, followed by your airy giggles through the surprisingly thin walls was a cakewalk compared to what it would have been had he been forced to smile and nod along. 

Act as if you and he lived the same kind of life. As if one wasn’t a plunder and the other a jaunt through the daisies.

Eddie paces, unable to let his twitching muscles rest. “Yeah, but what does it really mean to know someone, you know? Uh oh! I’m gettin’ philosophical now!” He chuckles, but it’s strained, and your frown comes back, unmovable this time. “Probably the weed.”

His words are stilted, and you seem too aware of this performance, but he will press on with forced amusement until you believe him. Or at least until you let him be; go on back to your bubble. Leave him to suffocate in his. 

“Are you high? I’m high. I think we’re both really high. It’s so funny, it’s like I don’t even know what I’m saying— Blah!” He flails about, already planning on checking himself into Pennhurst after this. “This is so crazy! We probably make no sense right now.”

You cross your arms, trudging back to the picnic table. The breeze lifts your skirt as you plop down, and Eddie turns away. Because he has to.

“I’m not that high and neither are you.”

 It’s that damn pout that’s going to do him in. 

Curls twist around his fingers as he tries to hide behind his hair. “No…no, I’m pretty high.” He nods. “‘Miss Hawkins 1982’ is sitting here, tellin’ me she’s got, like, what—a crush on me?”

“‘S more than a crush,” you mumble petulantly, but for his sanity, he elects to ignore it. 

“I mean, shit! I didn’t think weed had hallucinogenic properties, but you know.” His shoulders shrug in defeat, and he still can’t look at you. “Learn somethin’ new every day!”

Your head cocks to the side. “So you don’t believe me?”

Eyes wide as saucers, he wonders if this is what it would feel like to explain the sky to a mole. 

“Of course I don’t believe you! You sound crazy! I mean you’re…” He searches for the words, but how does one sum up almost a decade of watching? Of wanting— “You. …And I’m me.”

It’s softer. Lower. Just where he should be. Because really, you’re the sky. And he’s just a burrower. Too afraid to leave the caverns he’s carved in his mind, even for warmth. For light. For a smile that doesn’t shine—

“Right…” Your mouth pulls, dim, and the huff of breath sounds derisive, like you can’t possibly pass it for a laugh, but still, you try. “You’re you, and I’m me—”

He nods along, internalizing the sound of his own words on your lips. If you believe it, that will be enough. It will be enough.

“Just boring…me—”

The sentence drips with resignation. As if it’s a truth you’ve cuddled up to long enough for the feelings to subside. Roommates with your own distaste. A years-long relationship molded into resentment. He feels sick.

“What?”

You resituate yourself, pulling inward, and if you could transform the atoms in the air, Eddie thinks there’d be a wall already reaching above the highest branches. 

“No, I just— It makes sense.” You tug at your sweater until your hands are almost hidden, and regret nips at his bare skin, colder than the breeze. “It’s totally true; you’re so cool—”

He swallows the words, but they catch in his throat. Unusual and untrue. And despite his quiet, “Cool?” that slips out, coated in disbelief, you carry on, adding brick after brick.

“You’ve got your band, and that game you love to play—”

Now that’s just strange. 

“D&D?” he mutters, blanching at the sentiment. Because, yeah, he thinks it’s cool. But he can count on one hand how many other Hawkins residents think the same. 

You perk up a bit, and he feasts on the split-second of sunlight. “Yeah! That’s the one. And you literally run a club for it. That’s, like, the definition of cool.” 

It’s the high. It’s the marijauna in your system. Either that, or you and he have vastly different definitions of cool—

“And your music taste! I hear you drive up to school all the time; you’re always blasting that metal stuff! It’s so…” your eyes wander, as if searching for the right word and his mind fills in the usual blanks: loud, shitty, annoying, satanic. “unique!”

You’re too good. He’s decided it. Not because of the popularity, like he had chalked it up to before. This is different. It’s pure. 

And he’s tar. 

“You know, if I had a nickel for every time someone told me my music taste was…unique, I’d be broke,” he huffs, crossing his arms like the act will protect against your budding smile, growing back like the first bloom of May flowers.

“Well, I’m sure they just haven’t tried it yet.” And you’re so sure. He can hear the optimism in your voice and it’s deafening. 

But then, it’s like time reverses, and in comes the April shower to drown the delicate bud; you retreat into yourself, again. Smile fading, insecurity rearing. 

“I’ve never… I mean— I’ve never really tried it before, either.” 

Now you won’t look at him, and the insinuation of your words alone is enough to haunt him. 

With a sigh, he closes the distance, sitting beside you on the bench. For a moment, he only listens to his own pulse. The rushing in his ears. He waits for the confidence to speak, unaware it’s a bus that will never come. 

But impatience gets the best of him, and he decides to walk it.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel— It’s just— I just—” He groans, watching the thoughts pass him by while he fails to hang onto even one. His skin feels too tight and he’s certain the only solution is to peel it off his miserable bones. “I don’t know why I am the way that I am.”

The admission rings out like a shot in the autumn air, and the silence that follows lands like an atom bomb, breaking the sound barrier in a mushroom cloud of mortifying truth.

He doesn’t know why he said it. 

Why he thought cutting himself down while you’re bleeding makes some sort of difference. How it could possibly count as some kind of balm to your wounds. 

But you wear your wounds well. And truth leaks from you without loss. It pools without inhibition. Not yielding, but seeping. Filling the cracks in him—the tunnels that quake—with something malleable and pure. Not viscous and sticky. Not like tar. 

His head hangs low, eyes following the way your thumb smooths over your wool skirt. Then his gaze tracks downward, and he wishes it wouldn’t. But your skin looks so soft, and he traces the curving terrain until he sees your pearly-white Keds digging into the dirt. 

You could probably make it to China before he finds the right words to fix this.

“You know, I’ve never had to convince a girl not to like me.” The quirk of his lips doesn’t change the tone, despite his best efforts. 

You cross your ankles, old wood creaking under you. “No?”

It’s simple. Gentle. You’re humoring him. And it’s a kindness he can’t afford, but you give it to him anyway, charity case that he is.

“No.” He huffs, something like a snicker but without the joke. “Usually, it’s the opposite.”

More atomic silence. And he starts to wonder if he ever actually learned how to behave properly. If he fundamentally misunderstands how to have a conversation. 

Or maybe he was just swapped at birth with an alien whose sole purpose is to elicit discomfort. And maybe there’s a human version of him out there, travelling among the stars, charming and suave, dripping with bravado. Yeah, that’s probably it. That’s what he’ll—

“What’s the argument then?”

His brows furrow, and he swings his head to look at you. But the second his eyes meet yours, he has to force himself not to flee. Not to make a coward’s retreat. 

“What?”

“The argument,” you respond coolly. “How are you gonna persuade me not to like you?”

God, he wishes you’d stop saying it. Maybe it’d be easier to hear if it didn’t sound so earnest. If it didn’t sound like it came from a well of truth.

His foot taps on the ground as he thinks, hands flexing restlessly. “Well…I guess I kind of thought the everything about me was argument enough.”

You stare silently, and his flesh might as well be made of a cellophane the way your gaze seems to expertly track the gears turning in his mind. 

“But clearly not,” he murmurs.

Your lips quirk. “Nope.” 

The glint in your eyes should scare him. Should shake him to his core. Because there’s something about this particular glimmer… 

With the determination of a predator poised to attack, or a vulture itching to pick him apart, you watch. Quietly. Waiting. It’s the kind of look only the helpless are on the other side of. He should be terrified. 

But he’s not. His hands aren’t shaking out of fear, and his stomach doesn’t flip out of nerves. 

No, it’s something else entirely.

Your chin tips, and your smile curls around the words. “To ensure a fair hearing, the court must consider all evidence; Mr. Munson, you may proceed.” 

His grin stretches, and he turns his body the slightest bit towards you. 

“Okay,” he nods, pondering the laundry list of reasons he has locked and loaded, ready to go. Who’s the lucky winner? What’s the bare minimum he can share without mortally wounding his pride—well, more than it already is. “Alright, well, sometimes I forget to wear deodorant, and I end up smelling really bad.” 

Before he has a chance to regret his choice, your laugh drowns out every doubt. It cracks through him with an unbearable weight, leaving behind splintered shards of bone instead of prison bars. His heartbeat sounds louder now.

And for a moment—only a moment—he forgets why he said anything at all. He forgets the point. He forgets that the melody floating from your lips doesn’t belong in his dysfunctional orchestra. 

But the urge is there. To hear it again. To be the cause. 

Your eyes squint from the size of your smile. “Shut up.” 

Locked in your gravitational pull, he moves closer—minutely, and he wouldn’t if he could help it. 

“No, I’m serious! It’s bad! That’s why I gotta leave school early sometimes, I start to smell like vegetable soup by 2 p.m.”

His grin is stuck as he watches your head fall back, the melody growing stronger, lodging somewhere deep in his brain. Between cobwebs and old, out-of-tune earworms. He imagines bottling the sound and building a shelf just to hold it.

“You’re an idiot,” you huff breathlessly, the word not carrying the same sting it usually would if it came from anyone else. Because there’s no bite to it. No teeth, even.

He leans in before he can stop himself. “Ah, see, that’s a good one, too! I’m an idiot!”

But the melody quiets, and the violins screech a nasty response as your smile starts to fall.

“No, you’re not.”

It’s firm and final, like you truly believed it even before it slipped from your lips.

“Yes, I am,” he says, soft yet steadfast. “I’m a three-time super senior army crawling my way to a ‘D’ in Mrs. O’Donnell’s class. And I’ve had two full tries at it.” 

You cock your head, eyeing him closely. Then—

“Well, practice makes perfect. Plus, I think it’s totally your year.”

Your smile is back and so is the warmth in Eddie’s body. If he had any sense, he’d steer the conversation elsewhere, because somehow, you’ve managed to flirt with him over his tragic academic history. You’re too powerful. You and your honeyed words, so sweet and thick, he could choke if he’s not careful.

He shifts, but can’t bring himself to move away. “Okay…what about this—I wanna do music.”

Your brows raise and he can tell you see through his pitiful attempt. 

“Well…you’re in a band,” you shrug. “I kind of already knew that—”

“No, like, professionally. That’s what I wanna do. I wanna go to L.A. and, I don’t know, like, get a record deal and shit, and just make music.” The light still shines in your eyes and he knows you’re not getting it. “No college for me, no office job, no suburbs—no picket fence kind of life.”

Your gaze never strays from his. “Eddie, that’s not a bad thing. That’s—that’s inspiring.”

God, you’re making this hard. Especially when you look at him like that—like he’s something to be enamored by. Something worth looking at. Something pretty… 

“No,” he shakes his head, clinging to the reality where you aren’t leaning closer to him, where your soft, perfumed skin doesn’t brush against his rough, bargain-bin jeans. “No, it’s a pipedream. It’s basically me begging to live in a van for the rest of my life because you and I both know it will never—”

“Eddie,” you cut in, grabbing his hand, “let me save you the energy. There’s nothing you can say that will stop how I feel. This isn’t a new thing. I’m not going through a phase. It’s not just a blip or a crush— I like you, Eddie Munson.”

His heartbeat slows, skipping every third thud like an old record, and he now knows the weight of your hand in his. 

And for the first time since his fingers brushed yours while passing the joint, he can’t look away. No amount of self-control or misplaced willpower can drag him up from the depths of your imploring gaze. 

“I like you a lot. You’re sweet,” and his face must’ve twitched because you grin and add, “When you’re not trying to act all tough and broody.”

Cellophane. He’s complete cellophane around you. Weak and pliant and see-through. His posturing means nothing, and he wonders if you always knew that. 

If every snide comment to the jocks came with a footnote in the smallest print only you could read: I’m jealous they get your time. They don’t deserve it. 

If every breezy look elsewhere gave him away as you’d walk past his table in the lunchroom, swaying skirt billowing in the winds of his repression.

“—and you make me laugh, and you’re honest.” Your hand squeezes his and he can’t quite bring himself to hold it yet. To open up. To keel over and admit defeat. “I just feel like everyone here…pretends to live the life they think they should live. But you don’t do that. You just live. And I think that’s beautiful.” 

Your chin tips low and he has a near physical reaction from losing the heat of your attention. 

“I think you’re beautiful.”

His mind whirs, sirens blare, but they’re silent. Unhelpful. Useless. Exactly what he feels like in the wake of your confession. And the only thought he can hold onto long enough to realize it’s just as useless is: he should buy a lottery ticket, or something. 

“I—” 

He watches you shift, doesn’t hear you breathe. 

“I…think you stole my line…”

The pitiful excuse for a chuckle comes too late. Too weak to sound genuine, but just strong enough to deflect. Because that’s what he’s good at, right? Deflecting? Distracting? 

Rejecting, apparently. At least that’s how you seem to take it, the way your hand slips from his so easily. The way your shoulders hunch and your legs squeeze together. 

Small. You’re making yourself small for him. 

And he’s just too unsteady. He’s not firing on all cylinders, not since you clipped his wires a ways back. Somewhere around you’re pretty and I like you. Just left of I told my friends and down the street from you’re cool. 

“Sorry. That was…a lot. God.” Your frown is back and you turn to say something, then give up before you even start. A beat. Then, “I—I’m sorry if I scared you off with all of that.”

You say it as if the moment’s done. As if he’s not still clinging to your words with a white-knuckled grip. 

And you retreat. 

Not in any real way. 

No, you’re still sitting next to him, still closer than ever before, but now, chipping away at your nail polish seems to be far more interesting than anything he could offer. 

“Well…I’m still here…” he tries, unsure.

“Yeah…. You’re still here,” you echo quietly.  

Showing mercy to your manicure, you shove your hands into your lap, twisting your fingers up. He recognizes the movement. The attempt to banish the need. The need to touch. He’s felt it too. Feels it now. 

The bricks stack higher as your wall grows; a structure never meant to be scaled. 

But he’s a burrower. 

“You know…” he ponders, forcing the humor from his tone. “I’m starting to think maybe it’s not the weed…”

That gets you. 

He hears the melody again, sees your wry smile.

“Shut up,” you whine, shoving his chest.

He moves fast and with grace as he traps your hand with his, holding your palm just over where your first laugh torpedoed his ribcage. Where the prisoner waits. 

“Your heart’s beating so fast,” you whisper, voice full of awe—the kind that quickly begins to carve away at his weakened flesh. 

He huffs, low and earnest. “Yeah…. The prettiest girl in Hawkins just told me she likes me and there’s nothing I can do about it. You’re lucky I haven’t gone into cardiac arrest over this.”

You smirk, and he thinks it might just kill him. Like actually. 

“Hm, well, now I feel like I’m kind of missing out on that…”

He snorts, his grin stretching wide. “Oh, yeah? You want me to keel over right here, right now?”

Your smile turns demure and he knows it’s a lie. Then, you give an innocent shrug that can’t even fool him. 

“I mean, I’m not saying I wouldn’t be extremely flattered—”

He jolts suddenly, grunting and groaning, curling his fingers tighter around your hand as he falls back against the edge of the wooden picnic top. 

You gasp, turning to prop a knee on the bench as you lean over his stiff body. “Oh my God, medic!” Your empty call echoes in the air, amusement bubbling just beneath the surface. Then, your voice falls to a low mutter. “Ohh, what do I do, what do I do? Damnit, I should’ve paid more attention in First Aid.”

Eddie convulses some, really driving the near Oscar-worthy performance home. Then he peeks an eye open, choking out, “M-Mmm-mouth.”

Your mask slips as you smirk, leaning closer. “Sorry, what was that? I didn’t quite catch it over all the dying.”

He slumps even more, the table digging beneath his shoulderblades as he sputters, “Mmm-mouth-to-mouth—”

You sit back, chewing the inside of your cheek and leveling him with an assessing stare as he twitches. “No…that can’t be it…”

Both eyes open as he brokenly utters, “No, it definitely is— With tongue! The tongue helps—” 

You snicker, “Oh, yeah? It’s a necessity?”

He squeezes your hand. “Yeah, big—big necessity.”

You lean in, so close, and his mind turns to static as your perfume invades his senses. 

This is it. It’s going to happen. Almost a decade of dreams that left him waking up in sticky discomfort, and he’s going to know the taste of—

“See, I just don’t remember that in the course,” you shrug, pulling away abruptly. “Mouth-to-mouth, sure, but adding tongue?”

One last shot, he reaches into the sky dramatically, convulses, then slackens in a lifeless heap, accented by his best death rattle.

He hears you call out, some half-assed plea that wouldn’t convince a soul, but then everything stops. Your lips slot against his, soft and plush and timid, and you might as well have used the paddles, the way his system shocks into action.

His hand finally releases yours, but you don’t move it, and he settles a gentle grip on the back of your head. Heavy enough to beg for more, soft enough to leave room for an escape, if you so choose. 

But you don’t. Instead, your tongue glides along his top lip—a teasing kind of sweetness he accepts gladly, thankfully. He responds in kind—in hunger.

He can taste your cherry lip gloss, hear your surprised hum. It’s a tiny sort of sound he swallows with a groan of his own. 

Then the pressure is gone. The taste, the noises—all gone. The music has stopped and the dizzying dance comes to an end with a blinding grin.

“Oh my God, it’s a miracle,” you pant, smoothing your palm up his chest until you reach skin.

He sits up, dazed, and you don’t move away, just letting him hover close like the proximity isn’t debilitating.

His next words slur out before he has a chance to think of a smoother line— “Have you ever considered becoming a doctor?”

And you laugh. And he’s learning that maybe you don’t want smooth. Because if you did, he certainly wouldn’t be your first call, and you wouldn’t be so quick to serenade every dumb comment of his.

So he thanks whoever rents the big house in the sky that you have a thing for burnouts and tries not to choke as you slide onto his lap, your pretty skirt splaying out across worn fabric. 

Your lips find his again, your fingers get lost in his hair, you don’t bother hovering, and he starts writing a mental Last Will and Testament. 

Jeff will get his Sweetheart, Mike will get his D&D manuals, Dustin will get his cassette tapes, and Gareth will finally get those twenty bucks he’s been whining about since last summer. He’ll leave it to Grant to dispose of his stash, and in payment, he can have the stack of porno mags under his bed. 

Though, he might just give them away whether he dies or not, because he’s pretty sure, with the way you’re pressing down on him, they’ll soon be rendered useless. 

Goosebumps rise along heated skin and something prickles up his spine as your nails rake through his curls. His mouth works against yours, a mind of its own as its aim widens, and he’s suddenly nipping down your jaw, tasting the tang of perfume on your neck. 

Your chest racks with heavy, panting breaths and noises that sound like earnest attempts at his name. It’s intoxicating. His lips swell from struggling to keep up with his greed, but he can’t stop. There’s a burning kind of ache deep within him, and it’s growing. 

His hands find their way to your hips, and he can’t tell if it’s you who moves freely, grinding down like you’re searching for something, or if it’s him and the ravenous need he’s not certain can be controlled. 

“Fuck—”

“Eddie,” you call, tightening the grip on his hair until he groans. His cock flexes, straining against the oppressive zipper of his jeans and missing a kind of warmth he’s itching to know.

“Hm?” he grunts into your neck, barely aware. He’s pretty sure he could devour you whole. But then again, he’d much rather savor you, pick you apart and feast on your supple flesh for ages. The smallest little bites until your sweet noises grow louder and louder; scratchy and desperate like the mindless roll of your hips against denim.

“E-Eddie—”

Your voice pitches up, his name breaking on the crest of your movements, and you hunch toward him like the pleasure is a weight your shoulders can’t possibly bear. 

And something twists in his gut then, something raw and hungry. 

He wants to hear that again. Hear his name shatter on your tongue as his hands explore beneath your dainty skirt. He wants to feel the vibrations of your moans as he kisses every inch of you. 

“Mm, yeah, baby?”

“I want— Want you,” you grit out, like the words take effort you can barely muster. 

“Fuck— I know, I wan’ you, too. So bad. So fuckin’ bad.” 

If it were any other time, he might feign control. Might deepen his voice with a confidence he doesn’t have. But this is not just any other time. It’s you, in his lap, whispering needy little pleas into the air like it’s obvious. Simple necessity. Like he’s not just a warm body and you’re not picturing someone else. 

His fingers curl into the waistband of your skirt, and it’s as if you remembered there was more to be said because your hips stall and you press against his chest. 

He swallows the disgruntled whine, and accepts your direction. Doubt creeps into the fog of his mind, but you don’t leave him time to get lost when your thumbs smooth over the stubble on his jaw, the worry in your eyes outweighing his.

“Eddie, I, um, I want—you,” you finish stiltedly, looking at him like you’re waiting for the penny to drop. “But, I, uh, I’ve ne—” It spins. “I don’t really—” And spins. “I mean, not that I’m, like—” And spins. “I’ve just never really—”

It drops, a metallic clang bouncing off the walls of his skull, and suddenly he feels like he shouldn’t touch you at all. His hands hover over your hips and the something-molten deep in his gut turns out to be much more familiar than he thought. Hot, bubbling, careless and incessant in its need to stain. To contaminate. 

“Never?” His brows furrow, trying to decipher the discomfort on your face. If it’s him—if it’s the tar—he might just leave town now. Screw graduation. Screw a diploma— “Like never ever?”

Stupid question. At this rate, he should look into surgically removing his foot from his mouth before he tries to speak next—

“Guess I was just…waiting,” you shrug, thumbing the hem of his shirt. Then your movements become less innocent as your nails trail against his skin. So light, if he weren’t acutely aware of everything you do, if his stomach didn’t twitch in time with his restless cock, he wouldn’t have caught it. 

“Sweetheart,” he almost warns, feeling like he misconstrued this moment for something serious, when clearly, you’re toying with him, spreading your palms along his waistband like you can’t see him shiver. Like you can’t feel his length straining beneath you, flexing against its jean prison, reaching for the warmth of your core. 

“S-Sweetheart,” he repeats, the endearment sounding more and more like a plea as you rake your nails through the wiry curls just below his navel. 

You go on, apparently undeterred by his fraying control. “I’ve been on dates—” 

He doesn’t care. His eyes track yours and the glide of your tongue along kiss-bitten lips. 

“Guys have tried—”

Okay, he cares. What? 

“I’ve just never really—wanted to.”

Fuck. 

You grind down, passing the motion off as adjusting your position, but Eddie doesn’t trust that gleam in your eyes. And you confirm it in the way your palms smooth down his arms until you press his hands to your hips. Making him touch you. Contaminate you. You encourage it, even. Wrapping your grip around his wrists as you guide his hands beneath your wool top. 

“But it’s different with you.”

He shudders. 

“Sweetheart.” 

It’s certainly a plea, now. A cry for mercy as your fingers return to the sensitive skin just above his waistband, travelling up, up, up until he’s entirely covered in goosebumps, and he worries you can feel the pitiful call of the convict in his chest. 

“I don’t want to. That’s not what it feels like—”

God damnit, he’s so confused and all the blood rushed from his brain long ago. There’s nothing up there anymore.

“‘S not like that. ‘S like,” you lean in close, letting him feel the words against his lips before he ever hears them, “a need. Like there’s something missing right now.” You roll your hips and he chokes on the breath he was holding. “And I think— No, I know, if I could just—feel you…inside me—I would be okay again. Better.”

“Oh, f-fuck,” he groans, thrusting up with the coordination of a muscle spasm. He lets his forehead fall against yours in an attempt to gather control. “You—you can’t just say shit like that.”

You peck his lips and he chases the small affection. “But it’s true. I don’t wan’ anyone else. Just want you. Inside me.”

“Jesus Christ,” he grits out, trapping you in a kiss that borders on consumption more than anything sweet. 

He can feel you everywhere: on top of him, in his hair, under his shirt, sinking claws into his sides; your touch is kindling to the fire raging low inside him. 

Suddenly, he’s reminded of the foiled condom he removed from his wallet just the other day. The old thing was practically useless, worn down and crumpled from years of sitting idle in between the folds of cracked leather. But something is better than nothing, and now he’s cursing his past-self for his terminal case of realism. 

The clink of metal draws his attention back, and he hadn’t noticed your lips leave his or how your hands have grown eager, already past his belt and now fiddling with the button on his jeans. 

“Wanna feel you, Eddie. I need to,” your honeyed whines wash over his body, sending a buzz through his veins. But then the purring sound of his zipper sliding open reminds him—

“Shit,” his hand wraps around your wrist. “Wait, I don’t— I don’t have anything,” he admits lowly, miserably. 

You smile, kissing around his mouth like you’re drawing the shame out, and him in. “It’s okay…. I just want you,” you repeat, firmer this time. “All of you.”

And something inside him rumbles, something sick and starving. Once-weak, but now growing in strength. It’s mean and sharp, with teeth that can cut through steel and an appetite that can devour innocence whole.

It’s not unfamiliar, this beast. He’s known it for ages. It’s an old friend. A confidant. Something to speak to in the darkest moments, but never to trust. Something to surrender to during the sweatiest nights, when his hand cramps but the need still aches. Still hungers. 

It’s got an imagination, too. Twisted as can be, it preens at the thought of possession, of staying. Of skin stretching and bones shifting, of curly-haired children that have your eyes and his smile. Soccer practice between label meetings, the sun beating down on hot sand as little feet kick at his back. A ring with weight and a necklace to match.

It’s like a plague on his thoughts. But it’s not. Not really. Because he doesn’t have to fear the lies anymore. The want. The bubbles are melding, his world is clashing with yours. And the beast tells the truth, now.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters against your lips, the words sounding more like a warning than anything.

“Mmm,” you hum, trailing your affection down his neck. “Been there, done that. I’d rather keep you alive for this.”

And you’ve crossed his wires so expertly, he’s practically sparking beneath your touch. 

Imbued with a new kind of power, he slides you from his lap before shucking his leather jacket off and swinging it onto the table’s surface. His shirt follows with, finding a strategic home among the layers. 

You seem to catch on because you climb onto the table, laying yourself out just like before. He grins, helping you out of your top, only to fold it up and leave it where your head can rest. 

Both of you pause, taking just a moment to stare. Openly. 

He tracks your gaze as it trails across his chest, noting each tattoo. Then his eyes widen as you distractedly remove your bra like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t fucked his fist to the thought of this very moment. 

The material slides down your arms and you settle back, pretty as a picture, laid out all for him. 

“Jesus…Christ, sweetheart, fuck.” 

You smirk, and there’s that gleam again. Evil and conniving and he’s a willing victim, first in line, and hopefully last.

“See anything you like?”

He gulps, kneeling on the bench below, itching to touch you, but holding onto manners with a white-knuckled grip. “Yeah. See a whole lot.” 

“Then what are you waiting for?” You grab his hand, guiding it to your breast with a squeeze. “This isn’t a museum, you can touch.” 

“Oh, s-shit,” he stutters, losing all decorum as his other hand joins in, kneading the supple skin. Your sighs possess him, and before he can overthink it, his mouth closes around your nipple, tongue circling and laving at the tightening peak. 

“E-Eddie!” Your hand flies to his curls and he groans, parting his lips wider, needing to feel more of you in his mouth. 

You writhe beneath him, a victim of a fiendish kind of gluttony as he moves to your other breast, tweaking the wet peak he left behind. 

He explores your body zealously, taking his time tasting and nipping every bit he can reach until you start tugging at the roots of his hair, forcing him up. 

“Need you,” you huff breathlessly, yanking at his jeans. “Now.”

“W-Wait—” his hands land on yours, slowing your movements.

Your mouth parts as you look up at him, wide-eyed and completely desperate, and he feels his control unspooling like flimsy yarn. 

“No, Eddie, I already told you—”

“It’s not that,” he shakes his head, kissing you quiet. “I just— We can’t just…”

You watch him patiently, clinging onto every half-thought he struggles to produce. 

“I gotta— No, I—want to make this good for you…obviously,” he grunts, cringing at the lack of suavity. “And to do that, um, we can’t just…”

You nod, encouraging him as his face grows hot. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell he’ll be able to explain the concept of foreplay to you right now. Not when you’re looking at him like that, bare and ready for him.

So he sighs and kisses you once more, this time slow and careful. Full of things he can’t quite say, but he hopes you understand. 

“You trust me, right?” 

“Of course,” you respond instantly, eyes shining so bright.

He swallows, rubbing a thumb along your cheek. “And you’ll let me take care o’ you?”

You lean into his touch, almost shy as you nod. “Yeah. Yes…please.”

And a piece of him breaks off, then. 

Splintered by your soft words, the plea that landed like a hammer on his scuffed lacquer.

One single chip in the barrier, and the beast rises in a crashing escape. 

His lips find yours—messy, needy. 

Wanton greed curls around every cracked rib, reaching out like smoke unfurling. Searching for something to envelop, to take. To take and take and take. Your breath, your taste, you. It wants it all. 

He wants it all. 

The words tumble out too easily. “Such pretty manners, huh?” 

You shudder, hiding your face in the curve of his jaw. 

“Pretty manners in a pretty girl,” he practically purrs, letting his hands slip down your body until his fingers invade the waistband of your pleated skirt. “Gonna let me take care o’ you, hm? Gonna let me get you all nice and ready?”

Your breathy sigh warms his neck as he shimmies the fabric down your legs, laying you back, gently. 

You squirm beneath his gaze, squeezing your thighs together. “Eddie…”

“Shh, patience, pretty,” he murmurs, trailing a finger along your curving terrain until he’s toying with the powder blue fabric. “Gotta be good for me. Think you can do that?”

“Mhm,” you hum, choking on the note as he softly pushes your legs apart. 

“Ohh, look at you…” His eyes darken and he thinks he could get used to this. To seeing you all laid out for him like a meal. A feast that could last him forty days and forty nights. 

You shift, almost imperceptibly, as he drags your panties down, but he noticed. He always does with you. “Be good,” he warns lowly.

“I’m trying.”

Your whine falls to static as he watches a single string of arousal cling to the blue gusset with a fragile strength he aches to snap. 

The trees rustle overhead and the sun peeks through, lending a perfect spotlight to your wet folds, and he groans, pocketing your underwear with little consideration. 

“Fuck, you’re so god damn gorgeous, baby, think I’m losin’ my mind,” he mutters, kneading the fat of your thighs. 

“Eddie,” you call, wiggling into his grip, and he’s never been more certain that you’re a temptress put on this earth to destroy him and everything that he tries to be. Controlled. Polite. Genetlemanly. 

Every stuttering breath, every twitch of your hips, every slow blink—you’re chiseling away at the lacquer, unaware of all that lies beneath.

“Eddie, pl—ease!” 

His middle and ring fingers glide through your folds while his opposite hand holds your hips down as you try to grind onto him. 

“Knew you’d make the prettiest sounds. …Pretty sounds, pretty manners, pretty girl,” he chants the words like a mantra, entranced as he raises his fingers up to watch your arousal glisten in the evening light. “Pretty.”

You whimper, and suddenly it feels like he’s been pulled from the depths as he stares down at your face, pinched in pleasure. You’re waiting as patiently as you can and he has to reward that.

He spreads your folds once more, listening intently as he slips a finger inside. Your broken moan speaks almost directly to his cock, and he can feel a stream of precum soaking his boxers.

You call his name again, your chest moving in perfect time with the pulse of your warm walls. He responds to your plea for more with a second finger, and your nails sink into his wrist. 

“Doin’ so good for me, baby. So good,” he utters restlessly, leaning closer to your soaked cunt. He glances up, notes your closed eyes, and decides to feed the beast. 

With one stolen moment, he breathes deep, cataloguing the scent. Your perfume, your cherry lotion, and now you. The most intimate of all. And he can’t stop now. 

He knows your touch, your heady scent; he wants to know your taste, too. The real thing. Not just your lip gloss or your languid tongue in his mouth. He needs to know you deeply, fervently.

His fingers drag inside you, a slight curl every time you buck your hips. He hears your whines, sees you dripping down his hand, shimmery and inviting. 

Then he pulls out, much to your loud chagrin. And before he can scrounge up any last attempt at control, his fingers are in his mouth and he’s groaning at the taste—so sweet, he could choke. 

“Oh, fuck,” he grumbles, mouth full as you stare at him. He almost feels the need to apologize. He robbed you of the friction you were so desperately seeking just so he could be selfish. Though, he feels like he might never stop being selfish around you, so maybe he’ll allow the precedent.

He’ll blame the beast. It’s not really him. 

It’s not him who wants to drown in you, force you to ride his face until he passes out. It’s not him who wants to leave bite marks along your quivering thighs until salt coats your cheeks and you beg him just to fuck you. 

It’s not him who wants to live in your sweltering heat, carve out a place for himself. Make your walls know the shape of his cock, feel you milk him dry until something takes and you’re his and a part of him is yours.

It’s not him, it’s the rotted want. 

The need that grows hot, like a wound that has festered long enough. A gash you cut into him sometime ago. 

Bleeding for years and he never even knew it. 

The infection has driven him mad. 

But he’s beginning to think maybe you’re suffering just the same. Fevered skin and heavy limbs, weak from the wait. Like him. Withered and hungry. So long watching the have’s, resolved to be a have not— 

“Eddie, please, I need you.” Your hips search for him, for pleasure, for friction, and he drops lower, his breath spreading over your fluttering folds.

“I know, sweets, I know. But I gotta get you all ready, gotta make it good for you,” he whispers, staring as fresh arousal glints in the golden rays. It’s like you’re trying to entice, to coax. 

“‘S already good,” you slur, and it sounds like the words are burning to ash on your tongue. He can feel you overheating. “‘S so good, please, just—”

“Said you trust me, right?” He smooths a hand up your body until he finds your breast, kneading it some more. 

“Yes,” you huff, scooting closer to him. 

He licks his lips, and the lie comes quicker than he’d like. “Just a little bit more. Wanna make sure you’re all re—”

His voice becomes muffled as he presses his face against your cunt like a starved, rabid thing. Your fingers thread deep through his curls—a knee-jerk reaction—and he laps at you with open-mouthed kisses and agonizingly precise flicks of his tongue. 

You squeal and your thighs threaten to close around his head, but his fingers sink into the supple flesh, prying you open as his tongue breaches your slit with pointed thrusts. 

Your back bows, arching high off the table and he pulls you closer to him, finally satisfying what has felt like an insatiable ache. 

Because it’s different with you. He’s never felt this…full. Every pulse, every lewd slurp, fills him; he gorges himself on you. On your taste, on the way your moans crash over themselves like waves trying to drag you both under. 

His fingers slip in once more and your body goes rigid—the perfect picture of marbleized ecstasy. His tongue circles your clit and pleasure carves into your every curve, sculpting a release that courses through you like rolling thunder.

His name dies a thousand times on your parted lips, and your hips begin to flee. 

“O-Oh, God!”

He slows to a stop, smoothing a thumb over your twitching muscles. “Fuck, you taste so good— Knew you would,” he pants, sucking his fingers clean. He settles over you, whispering against your mouth. “Knew you would—”

“Tell me I’m yours.”

It’s sudden. An order.

Every syllable hammers into him, shattering something fragile. Shards of control—of disbelief, of belonging—bite at his skin. He’s paralyzed by it, a nerve punctured somewhere deep inside.

And you look worried, like that simple sentence wasn’t meant to land so heavy, but you don’t take it back. Instead, “Tell me I can be yours.”

He swallows hard, nearly choking on nothing.

He has wanted. Longer than you, he thinks.

But it’s all been in vain. 

Then you show up, move mountains and shift worlds with only your audacious honesty and a quarter of a joint for courage. He could really learn a thing or two from you—

“Yeah,” he whispers, staring into eyes he never thought he’d see this close. “You’re mine.” 

With a shuddering breath and a kiss so gentle, he’s almost certain reality falls away, his mind latches onto the moment your hands blindly find his jeans, urging the material down his thighs. 

He helps you, watching intently as you take him in—all of him—his cock weeping and flexing, reaching for something he never imagined asking for. 

You don’t speak, but he sees a reflection in the shine of your iris. It’s familiar. It commands. It guides as you drag your fingers along corded muscle with a level of reverence that leaves him dizzy. 

Peering down, he holds back every sound, his chest heaving from the marathon of your touch. 

You’re pacing yourself. Exploring—testing, in a way, like you’re figuring out what makes him tick. 

Confidently kneading here, a delicate brush there. 

Sinew twitching, his length jumping, stomach flipping. 

Your nails rake through the dark curls at his navel and you follow the trail until it grows coarse, an observant hum at his body’s reaction. 

“Pretty,” you mutter lowly. 

His frame trembles, the single word falling from your lips like a ton of bricks. 

As your hands wander, you don’t bother with permission and that almost makes him double over. 

There’s no question of can I? There’s only the surety of being yours, like an apodictic artifact you’ve excavated from a shallow grave. 

Because he did lay it to rest. 

So many times. 

Every morning his head lifted from his pillow, he buried it again. Every time your skirt caressed his desk, he threw roses. Every laugh he never caused, he said a prayer. 

But he could not abide an eternity of peace. 

Darkness would fall and he’d dig and dig and dig, the dirt already loose and the trees whispering their greetings. He’d drag up old ghosts—truths only meant for the moon—and dance with them all night. 

Then, like clockwork, golden light would send him reaching for the shovel; the sun would rise and he was resolved to live without. 

Now it’s you who has disturbed the holy ground and it’s freeing. To be exposed. To be known.

Your gaze settles on his face, and he wishes he could understand the thoughts in your mind, the ramblings behind your eyes. 

For a second, he thinks he recognizes the quiet curve of your lips, but—

“So pretty.”

He chokes, his body jerking as your hand circles his cock, firm, yet gentle. Possessive. 

Your unwavering attention and innocent smile turns the blood in his veins molten. His hips buck into your grip, unintentionally coating your soft palm in the sticky precum dribbling from his tip.

“S-Shit, sweetheart—” 

He hunches over, weathered wood scratching against his knees as he tries to warn, to caution you on just how easy he is. How little effort it’d take him to lose it, to let himself fuck your hand like a poor, desperate slip of a thing. 

“I’m ready,” you say, leading him down. “Please.”

He allows your thighs to hitch onto his hips, allows you to hold him, and he allows himself to be this close. To find purchase between your legs, to indulge in the heat of your core. 

He memorizes your features—the determined furrow of your brow, the flutter of your lashes. The version of you before him. 

He so badly wants to tell you what he sees.  

“God, you’re— Fuck!”

Your breath hitches as you press his cock to your folds, and he tries for coherence, but it all falls away when he feels you. Soft and wet and so inviting; you’re killing him slowly. 

“Please, Eddie,” you huff, your hips rolling like you mean to catch him. “Need to feel you, I swear to—”

The sentence shatters on a sharp moan the moment he takes control, letting his length glide against your slit. He’s coated in no time, practically drowning in you, but he doesn’t stop. 

It’s like a trance, the way he moves, watching fresh drops of precum mix with your arousal. He wants to taste that, too. You and him, together. He wants to know. 

You don’t seem to notice his paralysis, instead focusing on bucking your hips just right, and when his tip catches on your entrance, something shocks him into motion. 

Your body wraps around him shallowly, sucking the blunt edge of him in. He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t ignore your babbled pleas for more. 

For once in his life, he allows himself to take. It’s not begrudging permission, not shameful resignation to his more selfish nature. It’s enthusiastic, it’s encouraged, it’s accepted.

He pushes into you slowly, meeting your parted lips with ragged breaths, and your walls cling to him in a joyous welcome. Your pulse drums against his length, squeezing him in a sudden clench; he thinks he mutters advice, something about relaxing, but he’s not sure. 

Reality is bending and he’s thought about this so much, imagined this very moment countless times, and yet, nothing could have prepared him for how your nails take a chunk out of him, how you’re trying with all your might to pull his hips closer, huffing in impatience and cracking under the need.

You’re just like him. 

He hadn’t realized it until now. 

He saw shadows, heard the strain of your voice. 

But he hadn’t looked in your eyes, hadn’t been near enough to hear the call. 

The call of the hungry and withered. Of the wanton and greedy. 

He hears it now. Loud and clear.

Responding in a bellowing groan, he sinks into you fully. His lips flutter over your face, savoring your once-delicate features as they warp in pleasure. 

“F-Fuck! Ed— Eddie, more,” you cry, squirming for friction. 

“More,” he echoes mindlessly, latching onto the order. A real kiss, sweet and loaded like a gun soon to go off, then, “More. The pretty girl wants more— Gets what she wants.”

The words fall from his tongue with little thought—little care. Static whirs in his brain, blocking out everything but you. 

Drawing back steadily, he steals one more glance at you—checking in—then drops down in a sudden snap, guided by your fingers digging into the taut muscle of his ass. 

Sweat beads at his spine as his skin sticks to yours on every impact. His arms hook under your knees, changing the angle just to hear that shrill whine he’s quickly growing addicted to. 

All you manage to say is his name, over and over again like his thrusts are evicting every syllable from your chest. 

The shadows rise, spreading rapidly, and it feels much like possession coursing through him. 

He shudders, his stuttered breaths syncopating with the pulse of your cunt, choking him on every shove in. Your eyes have rolled back now, and your body moves with him, pliant, as if his to mold—to inflict upon, however he sees fit. 

A malleable offering of sheer innocence, laid at his altar. 

And it was your idea. 

The lamb’s idea to come to slaughter. 

“F-Feels good, huh?” he grits, watching you surrender to him so beautifully. 

Your response catches, snagged halfway up your throat, clawed back by a resounding whimper as you nod. 

“Yeah, it feels good,” he parrots, fighting back the raging fire deep in his gut—the one that threatens to engulf you, too. Because he’s not done yet. Not nearly. 

His hips pound into you, cock dragging along your walls at a punishing pace. The beast hums and he smirks as you try to form sentences.

“S-So— Agh! I— Mmmph!”

He nods like he understands every unspoken word. “Now you see why I had to get you all ready? Hm? You were so cute, thinkin’ you could just take it. So brave, comin’ here, all sweet on the freak.”

“Eddie!” 

You have the audacity to paw at him, to pull, to try to meet his strokes in crumbling desperation. He drops your legs, shoving your hands above your head as he presses down onto you, pinning you against the picnic table, the structure rocking with the movement. 

His long, rhythmic thrusts dwindle to swift, sharp ruts, the action bordering on animalistic.

“But now look at you. All mine,” he huffs, dark eyes roving over your trembling body. Then his gaze travels lower, where his cock burrows into you—where you take him so easily, opening up like he said the magic word a thousand times over. “Practically made f’me, fuckin’ look at you. Stretched full and so damn pretty, too. We fit real nice together, don’t we, baby?”

You whine and he maneuvers your wrists into one hand, helping to prop your head up with the other. 

“Look at you,” he repeats, firmer this time. “So wet, you’re drownin’ me, sweetheart.”

Something splinters on your face and he follows your eyeline, notices it fixed on the milky ring that circles the base of his thick shaft and the matted down curls you couldn’t stop admiring earlier. 

“Oh,” he drawls, a wicked, wolfish grin stretching his lips. “You like that?”

You nod and he practically preens. You are just like him. 

“Like seein’ me covered in you? Marked?” 

Your response is nothing more than a brittle whimper and he can feel you clench around him, already so close to falling into the after—the space in time where you will know what it feels like to be thoroughly picked apart, to be undone. By him.

“You’re markin’ me,” he growls into your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses along your jugular, trying not to bite. “Think it’s only fair you let me do the same, hm? What do you say, pretty girl? Gonna let me really fill you up?”

“P-Please! Oh, God, please, Eddie—”

His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight, practiced circles on the swollen bud and you freeze, arching into his chest, searing your sweat-soaked flesh to his. Your cries fall silent as you gape, convulsing at every third swipe he makes. 

Your walls trap him in a vice grip, fluttering and milking rope after rope of cum from his flexing length. He shivers uncontrollably, feeling his warm spend flood the tight space until it leaks, shoveled out by his now-pitiful ruts. 

He tries to prolong it. Tries to steal the moment from time itself and live in it; play house with the present. But then his body finally gives out, muscles slackening, and your arms are there to catch him, welcoming the iron hold he traps you in.

Raspy whispers are muttered into your neck, tattooed by the heat of his breath; quiet sentiments he’s not certain you hear over the noise of two settling souls. And maybe it’s better that way. Maybe they’re things to hoard—at least for a little while longer. 

He trails kisses up your jaw, blindly searching for your lips, only to find them unresponsive. Worry fills him immediately. 

Maybe he was too rough. He did notice the half-moon marks scattered along your thighs. 

Maybe he was too mouthy. He can never think straight when it comes to you.

Maybe he was just too much— 

“Eddie,” you call gently, pulling him from somewhere deep and dark.

He meets your eyes, surprised to see them wide and wanting, shining with that honest gleam that makes him feel so exposed.

“You are mine.”

So you heard.

He wasn’t cautious and he said the words meant for an empty bedroom out loud. And you heard. 

Your fingers thread through his curls, dragging his wavering attention back to you.

“You are mine,” you repeat, softer but no less confident. 

He wonders how something so delicate could detonate something so sturdy. Years and years of denial, blown to smithereens in three words. 

And you make it look easy. 

Make it sound plausible. 

That he could be yours, just as much as you want to be his.

He nods, hanging onto you like a lifesaver as debris from the wreckage floats by. He swallows and his voice barely forms around the letters, breaking under the weight of it all.

“O-Okay.”

And he surrenders. 

He believes you. 

A/N: For the love of god, please be sweet and talk to me about this fic. I think I looked at it for too long and now I don’t know if it’s maybe the worst thing I’ve ever written or if I’m just too close to it rn, I’m being so for real.

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"Did you bring your backpack with you?"

You lifted a brow, skeptical, and drew the cigarette from your mouth between two fingers. Smoke unfurled in a thin ribbon as you exhaled. "No... why?"

Eddie Munson was already several paces ahead, moving with that swagger of someone who had never once concerned himself with the concept of walking normally. His stride was long, almost serpentine. The breeze bullied at his dark curls, tugging them loose from his bandana until they fell into his face, brushing his broad pink lips and jaw. He puffed them away with an exaggerated breath, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse aimed at the Indiana weather.

"Because," he said, without looking back, "you should... be studying."

That alone was enough to make you snort.

His face, when he finally glanced back over his shoulder, was restless as ever, multiple expressions flitting across it like nervous birds. Eddie was terrible at pretending not to care. He tried, sure, but the effort always showed in the seams.

"What?" You laughed sharply. "Where the hell did that come from?" You tapped the cigarette, watching ash crumble and scatter into the grass before returning it to your lips. Eddie jammed his hands into his back pockets and pivoted toward you.

This hangout was supposed to be an escape hatch. Severing from Hawkins High, from fluorescent lights and Scantron sheets and the low-grade panic that lived between your ribs. The plan had been simple: drive the van past the town's edge, park where the road gave up, blast music loud enough to rattle loose screws, eat snacks that barely qualified as food, and let the hours dissolve. Eddie was supposed to be complicit in that. Not--whatever this was.

"I saw your report card in the trash the other day."

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, turning your head away from him. "Oh my god."

You knew exactly what he meant. That crumpled, shame-stained paper. A horticulture of F's and D's you'd folded and buried beneath coffee grounds and soda cans like it might decompose faster if you refused to acknowledge it. Out of sight, out of mind. Or at least, that was the hope.

Eddie lifted a hand, fingers flexing like he was trying to grab the right words out of thin air. "I just--" He sighed, dragging the hand down his face. "You were a solid B student, okay? Like, consistently. And then after you met--"

"It's not because of you, Eddie," you cut in, harsher than you meant to be, turning back to face him with a tight frown. "Can we not do this right now? I came out here with you to relax. Not to--" you gestured vaguely, frustration fizzing under your skin, "remember the test I've got coming up."

For a moment, he said nothing.

The field stretched out around you. Somewhere far off, a car passed, the sound fleeting.

Eddie turned away, scuffing the dirt with the toe of his Reebok. His shoulders lifted in a shrug that looked too casual to be convincing. "Just sayin'," he drawled, but there was a thickness to his voice, a sincerity he couldn't sand down no matter how hard he tried. "You bomb that test, you're stuck retaking the class."

Your jaw tightened. "Oh, and you know everything about that, don't you?" you shot back.

The sneer slipped out before you could contain it. You pulled the cigarette from your lips and flicked ash away with a sharp snap of your fingers, grinding it out against the ashtray sitting at the edge of the van's open back door. The smell of extinguished tobacco lingered. When you turned back to him, you leaned into the edge, arms crossed tight across your chest.

Eddie stood a few feet away now, hands braced on his hips, posture bristling. His grin faltered. "I do," he huffed. "And I know exactly how much it blows." He gestured vaguely between the two of you, like his entire academic career existed in the space there. "So do your shit. The class isn't even hard."

There it was. Eddie Munson, king of detentions and academic purgatory, delivering a sermon with all the authority of a vice principal on the last thread of patience.

He shot you a sideways look before ambling back toward the van, propping himself beside you. The metal groaned under his weight. He leaned in, shoulder brushing yours, close enough to be annoying. Reaching inside, he rummaged through the van with noisy determination before resurfacing with a chocolate bar. He tore it open with his teeth.

"I'm not saying become, like, a valedictorian or whatever," he added around a mouthful, waving around the bar. "Just--don't screw Future You over. She's already got enough problems dealing with me."

You stared straight into his annoyingly soft brown puppy-dog eyes for a beat, chest tight with things you didn't feel like unpacking.

"Okay, Dad," you sorely muttered.

You pushed off the van and wandered out into the field, boots flattening the grass as you went. The expanse stretched endlessly, vibrant and verdant, dandelions stippling the green in white and yellow.

"I can find other ways to raise my gra--"

You turned, half-expecting to find Eddie still sprawled where you'd left him; leaned back against the van, shoes crossed, face arranged into that familiar mask of apathy. Instead, there was nothing. Just trampled grass and the faint imprint of where his weight had been.

A single, puzzled beat passed. Then you looked down and were slammed straight into him.

The collision was abrupt, a sudden, solid mass striking your center of gravity. The impact forced the breath from your lungs, your stomach meeting his shoulder with a dull thud. Eddie let out a victorious grunt, as the momentum carried you both backward. Your boots skidded through the grass, heels digging furrows into the earth as your hands instinctively fisted into the back of his black shirt.

"What the hell?!" you gasped.

Eddie's laughter broke loose as you shoved at his shoulders, palms striking solid muscle. He staggered with you for a couple more seconds, pivoted, then twisted his body to throw you off.

You barely caught yourself before he straightened, standing tall with a look of profound self-satisfaction etched across his face. His grin split wide, dimples gouging into his cheeks as his tongue dragged lazily over his bottom lip, an infuriating, exaggerated gesture that felt designed to provoke. And oh, how it did.

"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?" you challenged, planting your feet more firmly into the ground.

"Someone's gotta knock some sense into you, sweetheart," he shot back.

You lunged before he could get another remark out that would inevitably piss you off.

Your shoulder met his stomach this time; he grunted, arms immediately locking around you. You struggled, one of you laughing, the other hissing in effort, feet tangling as you wrestled for leverage. Then as swift as a card trick, Eddie's hands caught the hem of your shirt and yanked it over your head.

"Fucker!" you yelped, blinded, arms flailing as you twisted away and clawed the shirt back down in a graceless scramble.

"Never said it was gonna be fair!"

You didn't even have time to fully right yourself before he barreled into you again. This time, you went down, grass cushioning the fall but not the shock of it. You both hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Eddie recovered first.

He pushed up onto his knees between your legs, looming just enough to cast a wavering shadow across your face. His hair had fallen free now, slipping loose from the bandana and spilling forward in a disordered curtain. Strands clung to the sheen of sweat along his temples, brushed the slope of his cheekbones, caught against his mouth when he breathed.

He lifted his hands ominously, wiggling them mischievously. You caught them just in time, fingers locking around the cool metal of his rings as you shoved him backward and scrambled to your feet.

"No, no, no!" you squealed, barely upright before he seized your ankle and yanked. You landed face-first with a muffled sound, grass brushing your cheek, the scent of sun-warmed earth filling your lungs. Before you could push up, his weight settled over you, pinning you in place as he sat squarely on your butt. Your whole body tensed in immediate dread.

"Wait--wait, truce!" you pleaded into the grass, breathless.

Behind you, he made a thoughtful humming sound, "Mm. I dunno..." he said slowly. "You gonna study later?"

A long second passed.

"...Fuck no!" you shouted over your shoulder.

"Then fuck the truce!" he laughed wickedly before his fingers found your sides. You exploded into laughter, helpless and now breathless. Your legs kicked uselessly behind you. Every touch sent sharp, electric bursts through you, sensation overwhelming any hope of resistance.

"Stop it--!" you gasped, words dissolving into giggles.

"Say you'll study!" he demanded, voice wild with manic delight.

"Never!" you choked out.

Then somehow, miraculously, you twisted hard enough to throw him off balance. He tipped sideways with a startled oof, and you seized the fleeting opening, scrambling onto him before he could recover.

"Tables' turned, Munson!" you declared, straddling him in shaky victory.

For exactly three seconds.

His hands caught your wrists and jerked his hips upward in one swift motion, just enough to break your balance. Suddenly the world flipped. He pinned your wrists to the ground beside your head. The shift knocked the air from you, eyes widening as you struggled instinctively beneath him.

For a moment everything narrowed. The rustle of grass. Your shared breathing. The heat of him braced over you.

His hair had fallen forward again, dark curls spilled down around his face, some brushing your forehead, others grazing your cheek when the wind shifted. One stubborn strand caught at the corner of his mouth until he exhaled sharply to move it, breath ghosting warm across your skin. From this close you could see everything, the faint stubble, the brightness in his eyes, the way exertion had flushed his cheeks.

"Looks like the tables turned again," he said, grin crooked and boyish and unbearably pleased with himself. He shook his head violently, trying to clear the hair from his face. You groaned, letting your head fall back into the grass, settling for a glare that held more exhaustion than fury.

"Are you seriously doing this," you huffed, "because you want me to do something you yourself have never done?"

"Yep." No hesitation. None. "I, Eddie Munson--" he puffed his chest slightly, mock-heroic even while pinning you to the ground--"will not allow you to follow in my academic footsteps." He leaned a fraction closer, adding, "And I'm also not getting off you until you promise to study."

One unimpressed brow lifted. "What's the point? You'll just make me do it anyway."

He said your name in warning while it threaded with something gentler underneath the theatrics. It made the fight leak out of you in a long, resigned sigh.

"...Fine," you muttered. "I promise to study. Happy?"

"Ecstatic."

The grin that spread across his face was incandescent and pure satisfaction. He released your wrists at once and pushed himself up, hopping to his feet with renewed energy. Grass clung to his jeans; he brushed it off absently before extending a ringed hand down toward you in gallantry.

You stayed propped on your elbows for a moment, staring up at him with exasperation.

Maybe he had knocked a little sense into you.

You snatched his hand and yanked down with everything you had.

He came down with a startled yelp, collapsing back into the grass in a graceless heap. You were already scrambling to your feet, laughter echoing as you bolted away across the field.

"You little shit!" he shouted behind you, half indignant, half laughing.

The wind rushed past your ears, the sunlight flashed warm across your skin with the sound of rushed footsteps tailing along behind you. And somewhere in the middle of it, between the breathless laughter and the careless tackles, you forgot--just for a while--all about that stupid test.

Eddie wanders into the house looking for you, and there you are on the couch. Attention eaten up by whatever game you’ve chosen for the night. His dark eyes drink in your sleepy appearance. Your pretty legs in those little shorts he loves so much.

He takes a slow step forward and the board under his boot creaks, and he watches as your weary gaze darts into the shadowed nook of the front door.

Eddie chuckles lowly. “Pardon my manners. Couldn't help myself from visiting a pretty little thing like you." The metal in his hand glints in the lamplight.

You gasp, standing from the couch. “T-take anything. Please don’t hurt me.”

“How about we play a game? Hm, bunny?” Eddie proposes.

Your head bobs in a frantic nod.

“Let’s say you get a… ten second head start. The keys are in my car. If you can get away I won’t touch you. Oh but if I find you…”

A whimper escapes your parted lips.

“Your ass is mine."

He starts the chainsaw and revs it once.

Then you’re out the back door, controller abandoned on the rug.

Following behind you at a steady pace, Eddie keeps a firm hold on his chainsaw. Dark eyes carefully scanning the yard for you. Listening for the crunching of leaves to give you away. He’ll let you have your fun.

His bunny will get tired eventually.

And she does.

You stop for just a few seconds to calm your racing heart. The saw's engine revs in warning just a few yards away.

You take off through the grass in a final attempt to make it down the driveway. Bare feet pounding against the chilled dirt.

Then you're pinned to the cold, damp forest floor.

Eddie's warm body keeps you held prone in the dirt. "That look in your eyes is so pretty, baby. Tell me how scared you are. Beg for me to let you go."

You whimper, out of fear or lust, you're not entirely sure. "Please let me go I don't wanna die. You can take anything you want."

Eddie is silent for a moment just staring. "That's it? You tried so hard to get away and that's all you have to say?" He stands and grips your hair, pulling you to your hands and knees.

"This okay?" He asks gently. The maniacal tone gone from his voice.

Your head nods in his loosened grip. "I'll tell you if it's not."

"Good girl." Eddie's grip tightens in the fistful of your hair. "You're gonna keep being a good pet and follow me, kapeesh? I don't wanna hurt you and I won't as long as you're behaving."

You push up onto your knees to stand for just a second before a rough boot pushes you down by the center of your back.

"Ah, ah" Eddie tuts. "Crawl."

Your cheeks warm in embarrassment. "You're not really gonna make m-" A sharp tug on your hair makes you yelp.

"I said crawl." Eddie grits through his teeth. He pulls you by your hair to the side of the shed where he had dropped the chainsaw before you took off for the driveway. He releases you and you slump against the paneling, staring up at Eddie with wide eyes.

He eyes you for a moment to check in again. When you give him a nod Eddie stoops down to pick up the saw. "Shirt off, now. Wanna see your pretty tits." The cool metal of the chainless saw drags up under the hem of your cotton sleep shirt.

Shaky hands lift the shirt over your head and discard it into the dry grass beside you. Your nipples pucker at the cool air meeting your dewy skin.

"Beautiful." Eddie breathes. He kicks your legs apart at the ankles and laughs at the dark patch between your legs. "You nasty little thing." His voice light with amusement. Eddie drags the buzzing metal down the soft skin of your belly to the apex of your thighs.

"I bet I could make you cum on this saw. Hm? Think it's enough for a slut like you gush for?"

You pout at the condescending tone. "I couldn't help it."

A mocking pout graces Eddie's pink lips. "I know baby, you think with this pussy instead of your brain. It's not your fault."

The saw meets the damp patch on your shirts where your clit throbs and you gasp sharply. "Eddie!"

" Eddie." He mocks you. "Hows that feel baby? Knowing that something that could maim you feels so good on your needy little clit?"

"So good." You moan.

Eddie gives a little more pressure to the saw, lazily rubbing the vibrating metal into your clit. "That's it, baby. Keep those gorgeous eyes on me. I wanna watch you cum on this saw."

"Oh god." You gasp, legs trembling. Heavy breaths escape your parted lips as you sloppily grind up into the saw's vibrations.

Eddie's teeth dig into his plush bottom lip as he stares down at your writhing form. "Come on baby. Be a good slut and make a mess for me."

You blink rapidly through your release. Your fingers dig into the dirt as you pant, keeping your eyes locked on Eddie's.

The man standing over you cackles "You're sick in the head, you know that? A little freak. Can't believe you actually did it." His free hand travels downward to readjust his pants over his bulge, your blurry vision fixates on the space his hand occupies. "Need something?" Eddie goads.

You nod, eyes not leaving his clothed cock. "I want your cock. Please. I need you so bad."

The chainsaw clicks off and is laid to rest in the grass. Eddie crouches down to your eye level and grabs your face in a callused hand.

"You need it?" Eddie repeats "Aww that's so cute. I wish you could see your face right now, sweetheart. Looks like you're gonna cry if we don't get your holes stuffed full."

Eddie squeezes your cheeks to make your lips pucker then pecks a few kisses onto them. "It's okay though. We'll get you taken care of." He gives you another kiss. "Gonna be a little selfish first."

A metallic jingle rings into the chilly air as Eddie removes his belt and rests it over his shoulder. "Saving this for later." He explains with a wink.

Eddie strips down and throws his clothes beside you in the dirt. Callused fingers grip your cheeks to forcefully pucker your lips. With his free hand Eddie grips his cock and taps it against your lips. "You gonna be good for me? Hmm, gonna let me use that throat?"

"Pwese." You speak through the hold on your face.

Eddie's grip moves from your face to take a fistful of hair. "Aww you're so sweet using your manners." He drags you closer by your hair. "Spit on it, get this dick sloppy for me." He commands.

You obey, laving your tongue over his sensative tip afterward.

Eddie's eyes harden. "Did I say lick it? No I didn't, I told you to spit." He uses his hold on your hair to shake your head no. "Open. I changed my mind. I'm not going easy on you."

Your lips part and Eddie shoves the head of his cock between them. He pulls you down to the base, your nose resting in the wiry hair at his base. "Yeah, that's it. Love this little throat." He groans, guiding you up and down his shaft.

Your fingers cling to Eddie's thighs as he begins fucking your throat at a brutal pace. Hot tears stream down your cheeks as you gag around him, spit frothing at the corners of your mouth. You peek up at the man above you, his eyes closed in extacy.

Eddie's eyes crack open to meet yours and he has to pull off that second before he cums. He uses a foot to nudge you over into an arch and gets on his knees behind you. A palm meets your ass and he smooths it over the warm skin before tracing it down your back.

He removes the belt from where it rests on his shoulder and loops it around your neck. "Hm, pretty." Eddie hums, caressing your cheek.

"I think she's ready for me" Eddie smirks, running two fingers through your slick folds before planting a harsh slap on your clit. He taps his tip on your ass a few times. "She's been waiting so patiently for me hasn't she?"

Another harder thump lands against your clit this time. "Yeah, look at her winkin' at me like that."

Eddie slides into you in one motion, your eyes rolling back into your head. His thickness hurts in the best way. He wraps th belt around his fist and pulls you back towards him. You're just wet enough for him to comfortably fuck you in slow, deep strokes.

"ohh fuck." You moan. You spread your legs wider to gently push back and meet his thrusts. "It's so much."

"Is it too much cock baby?" Eddie's thrusts grow harsher. "You're taking it so good though. So. Fucking. Good."

"Eddie." You sob out in sharp gasps.

"That's it baby. Haaah keep saying my name while I fuck my little pussy raw." Eddie's fingers drag down to find your clit and pleasure combined with the pressure from his belt around your throat makes your head spin.

"Eddieee." You cry. "Ugh I feel you in my belly."

"Yeah? Good thing this wet pussy loves me so much."

One of your hands finds Eddie's wrist and your nails dig into his skin. He shudders and fucks you harder. The only sounds echoing around you are your joined groans and the wet plap-plap-plap of your skin meeting Eddie's.

The coil in your belly builds tight, and every rough thrust of Eddie's hips drives you closer to the edge.

Eddie releases his belt to take your face in his hand and turn you to look at him. "Come on baby. Cum on this cock. Milk me and show me how much you needed my dick."

It takes one more thrust for your orgasm to rip through you. Your body shudders and your voice breaks in a silent cry, your cunt choking his cock.

"Ohh my god" Eddie thrusts once more, burying himself deep before cumming with a whiny moan.

Eddie's grip on you loosens and he gently lies you down, joining you in the dirt to catch his breath.

You look at him with bleary eyes. Picking your lips to ask for a kiss.

Eddie pecks your lips sweetly, lying his forehead on your shoulder afterward. He peppers lazy kisses along your neck and shoulders as you settle into eachother.

"Je-sus." Eddie pants out a laugh after he gives his racing heart a moment to slow down. "I love you." He plants a sloppy kiss on the side of your flushed neck. "How about I get you inside and run you a bath while I make dinner? We can use one of those bomb things you like."