He’s apologized fifty times. He apologized when you left that old, moldy house and he started staring at you and palming himself in the car. Apologized when you’d been walking inside, and he’d doubled over in pain on the side walk. He’d grabbed your hip for support, and while you’d been trying to figure out if he was okay, his hand had slipped up to your inner thigh. Apologized when you went to get him some ice—he’d said he was warm, you’ d been worrying about a fever—and you had to come back to find him lying in your bed, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and groans slipping from his lips.

At least he hadn’t been touching himself. He’s managed not to do that at all, which you’d be impressed by if you weren’t so worried.

Sam says it’s a pretty basic sex curse. Maybe a pollen, from that mold. Nothing you need to worry about finding a magical cure for.

“We’ve seen these before.” Sam had said. “It’s run-of-the-mill. Dean knows what to do.”

Run of the mill.

Simple.

Sam had said it like you’d be clear in an hour. Nothing fancy required.

Dean gets laid, the fever goes down, everyone’s good.

And it might’ve been simple. You might’ve been done an hour ago, if Dean just got it over with and left when he was clear. You would’ve sat in your bed, running the sheets between your fingers while you read. Trying desperately not to think about Dean only a door over, about the sounds creaking through the wall as he railed someone else into oblivion, about how he’d look.

Probably just like this. Wrecked and hungry, his eyes blown out and skin slick with sweat. Every muscle in his body straining, hair stuck to his brow, mouth hanging open as he’d hover over some lucky girl, showing her a heaven even angels didn’t get to experience.

Your heart would’ve silently ached, a wound you’ve been letting fester opening wider and wider. Your hands would’ve tugged nervously at the sheets, trying to gather whatever he’d left over like a twisted little souvenir for your perverse brain.

The brain that won’t stop being in love with him, no matter how much logic you offer to counter it. You’ve spent nights staring at the ceiling, acting like love was a debate. Like if you reasoned with yourself enough, all the blood in your body would simply stop flowing in a song of his name. Your heart would shift into a new rhythm, no longer a war drum trying to call for him. Your eyes would stop looking for tiny bits of evidence he loved you too, in just as much silence as you love him.

He’s about ten years older than you. He opens doors for you, and that can be a secret desire thing. He’s not emotionally available. He talks to you, about his dad and complicated fights with Sammy and his past, and that has to mean something. He’s got anger issues. He’s stubborn, he’s reserved. You have issues too, and you’re more stubborn. He’s fucked up- You’re fucked up, and he’s also sweet and loyal and handsome and the best kind of stupid a man can be, where he’s a dumbass that never pretends to be incompetent. He’d probably be possessive. You’d like to be possessed. There’s no future there. Yet.

You’ve always lost the debate. You stay in love with Dean, because your heart wasn’t even kind enough to give you a crush. A brief and intense high of adoration and lust would’ve been manageable. You would’ve recovered.

Instead, it’s love. Not even love with a half-life, weaning off with just a little time. Deep, long love.

The kind of love that has you looking at him now, and crudely thinking that he’s being a bit of a pussy. It’s not a fair thought. He’s cursed, has a fever of a hundred and two, and his body is probably trying to convince him to do things that he’s not on board with.

But you live like that every day, and you don’t whine about it. You’ve felt like if he didn’t touch you now you’d die, you’ve gone sick with your own perverse thoughts about what you’d let him do to you, you’ve been delirious with adoration until Sam clears his throat, and mutters that you’re staring again. Maybe the mold should’ve crawled into you, or however this works.

You wouldn’t have been such a massive bitch about it.

You would’ve had nasty motel sex with a stranger an hour ago.

You wouldn’t have made Dean sit in a room with you while you pillow humped, forcing him to look for a sex partner to break your back.

You would’ve been home by now.

But Dean wants to be a little fucking bitch.

“You’re being a bitch.” You say it plainly, because maybe it will snap him out of whatever the fuck this is.

Instead he just chuckles, twisting to give you an amused look. “Ouch, sweetheart- Shit-“

The movement looks like it made his dick brush against something, and now he’s back to cowering in the sheets. Jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, visibly pained, and what’s wrong with you that he’s never looked so hot-

“You’d be a bitch too.” He mutters, groaning as he rolls back onto his stomach. “I feel like I’m dying-“

“You’d stop feeling like that, if you’d just pick someone to fuck.”

“I’m tryin’-“

“Not hard enough.”

“Trust me, I’m plenty hard enough- Fuck-“

You throw one of his pillows at his face, and he makes a strangled noise like you hit him with a bullet.

“You’re gonna attack a dying man-“

“I can do whatever I want, when I’m helping you find a fuck buddy.” You stick your tongue out at his back, then return your attention to his phone. “How about Miranda? She’s thirty-six, she’s got really nice hair, and- Oo-“ You scroll a little further down the page. “She likes boats! Those are like water cars, you guys could bond over that.”

Dean laughs again, shaking his head. “Boats aren’t water cars.”

“They are. Think about it.“

“They don’t have a big engineering overlap, I don’t know shit about boats-“

“Then you can just fuck her stupid, you nerd.”

Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you hover your thumb over the screen, fully ready to subject yourself to the worst torture possible for Dean’s stupid, cursed sake.

“She looks nice.” You mumble, praying he doesn’t hear the exhausted, hopeless pain in your voice. “I think you’d like her.”

Dean grunts. “No. Next name.”

You sigh, and swipe left. Adding Miranda to the long, long pile of rejected applicants.

It’s been like this for two fucking hours. Dean lying in your bed, you cross-legged in his, absolutely no progress on curing the curse. He barely even looks at you anymore. He’s been facing the opposite wall since you sat down, burying his face in your pillow every time he moans, trying to hide the roll of his hips under the sheets and failing miserably.

The tingling pain between your legs is almost unbearable now. You’d call Sam and ask if the pollen was transferable, if you weren’t terrified of the answer being no. There’s no way it’s not just Dean anyway. His thick arms stretching up to grip the pillow, his broad, muscled shoulders and back bare, the fact that sometimes when he humps fast and rough, the sheets ride up and you swear you see the tip of his cock. It’s wrong. So fucking wrong, to be getting off to him like this.

But it’s your own personal hell, to have this responsibility. To have him right there, and not be allowed to touch him.

You’ll deal with your shame later in the shower, where you can wash it off and maybe cry from a few different places over your body.

Later. When he’s not dying, and doing absolutely nothing to help you save him.

“Hannah.” You read out the next profile, pulling your knees to your chest. “She’s got curly hair, really nice brown eyes. Looks like she’s a nail artist. That could be nice.”

Dean snorts. “What, you think I’m gonna have her get me a manicure after?”

“No, I just-“ You take a long breath. You’d rather have a living Dean that doesn’t love you, than a dead Dean, who also doesn’t love you.

Dean starts to twist—he’s going to try and look at you again—and you clear your throat.

“It might be nice to look at. Aesthetically. Or- arousing.”

He mutters your name, but you push on.

“For a handjob. Nice nails, going- Up and down your- Um- Your dick-“

Dean lets out the loudest moan yet, and your jaw snaps shut. That sounded like your name. He was probably just trying to warn you to shut up, but that still sounded like your name-

“Sorry-“

“Stop talking.” He snaps, and you nod.

Without him asking, you swipe left on Hannah. He seems to have forgotten about her, and you have no desire to let her and her perfect nails anywhere near his dick.

It takes a while for Dean to request the next candidate. Long minutes of him just panting and grunting, burying his face in the pillow and thrashing in the sheets like he’s having a nightmare.

You see the head of his cock again. It’s thick looking and red and shining with pre-cum. Angry and hard and Jesus fucking Christ-

“Emma!” You shout to the room. You need this to be done. “She’s a nurse, that can be a kink thing-“

“Stop.”

You sigh, turning down the phone screen. “Dean-“

“No. Don’t want Ella-“

“Emma-“

“Don’t fuckin’ care. We’re not doing more of this- Shit.”

“Are you just swearing, or is that an adjective-“

“Sweetheart.” He’s almost growling, a hand slipping out from the sheets to fist the mattress. “Stop. Talking.”

You close your mouth, bowing your head as shame floods your body. You’re trying to help. You’ve given your whole night just to help the man you’re hopelessly in love with have sex with someone else, and you’re tired. Tired of doing this to yourself, tired of him shooting everyone down like suddenly he’s got the highest sexual standard in the world, tired of acting like it’s not killing you and tired of watching him like this.

He’s in so much pain. You can hear it straining in every word, tensed in every movement. You’re not allowed to touch him, but the last time you made him check his own temperature, it had gone up again. With how he’s looking, how he’s muttering to himself under his breath, you’re willing to bet it’s gone up another handful of degrees.

Dean’s going to die, if he doesn’t deal with this. And if he dies, you’re not going to deal with it.

You don’t want to think about what you’ll become, if he goes. You might be the one that turns into a ghost, haunting this goddamn hotel room and growing up the walls like that mold. A shell of a person, caught in a million what-ifs, her heart ash in the wind with his body.

Dean wants to be done with this.

You’re not done with him.

You swipe right on Emma.

For an hour, you let him keep moping and groaning. You flirt with Emma for him, because you’re the best friend in the world, and pretend you can’t see him trying to move a pillow between his legs to offer extra pressure.

“Dean.” You say softly, and he grunts.

“Baby, I need you not to talk-“

“You can take it out.” You mutter, keeping your focus on Emma’s texts. “If you need that. I’m a big girl, I- I won’t mind.”

That’s a lie through more than just your teeth. If he starts touching himself in front of you, all the poetic fawning about how your love is killing you won’t be dramatic anymore. Your heart will beat right out of your ribs, your head will get so light you’ll float away, your need for him will become so consuming you’ll either fall to your knees and open your mouth for him to use, or simply just explode.

But if it helps him. You’ll do anything to help him, even if it’s searing the most sinful, impossible image into your head for the rest of your life.

Dean with his cock in his hand, head thrown back, beating himself right next to you. Maybe moaning under his breath, thrusting up into his fist, accidentally looking at you as he cums, mouth hanging open and eyes hooded as thick white ropes paint the sheets-

“No.” He grunts, and you blink.

“It’s okay-“

“No. I‘m not doin’ that to you.”

You swallow, heated shame rushing through you. “I- I could leave the room-“

“No, don’t-“ He almost shouts your name, flipping over suddenly.

Looking at you.

His eyes are almost black with lust, his face red and slack, expression desperate. He hisses—the movement likely too much—but still reaches out a shaking hand, like he’s going to try and grab you.

“Don’t go, just- Fuckin’-“ His words trail off, eyes locked on your face, and another moan escapes his lips.

You push up on your knees, fear clenching at your heart. “Dean-“

“’m fine-“

“You’re not fine-“

“I’m- Son of a bitch-“ His eyes widen on yours then slam shut. His hand curls into a taut fist, face pulling in pain, and that’s enough.

“Fine. Don’t masturbate, see if I care.”

He says your name, low and rough, and you shake your head. 

“You’re not fine, you fucking idiot. You’re dying.” You push to your feet, grabbing his phone from the bed.

Emma’s very nice. Nice in the kind of way that’s going to make you hate her, and you feel sort of bad. She was doomed to your loathing from the moment she swiped right.

But she’s going to help. She’s going to save Dean, and you’ll offer her grace for that.

Dean’s eyes had opened, when he heard you moving. He’s looking at you like a lost street dog, opening his mouth to say something that only comes out in a panting groan of your name.

Whatever protests he has, you won’t hear them. He’s not allowed to die.

“Get up.” You snap, tossing his clothing onto his face. “Get dressed. I’m starting the car in ten minutes, and if you’re not there, I’m coming back and you’re having sex with me.”

You don’t look over your shoulder to see his reaction. The sounds of torment leaving his chest are bad enough.

It hurts. It cuts deeper than a blade, the idea that he detests the idea of sex with you that much. You’re good at sex. You’ve gotten raving reviews, you’re batting a hundred, flawless reports and a hundred percent customer satisfaction rate, even if you don’t really enjoy most of it yourself. Most people you have sex with don’t manage to make you cum, and when they do it’s a tiny little shudder through your body that you forget about in five minutes.

Dean witDean would be lucky to have sex with you. You’d worship him. You’d get on your knees and let him use you until he was leaking out of every hole. You’d let him fuck himself back into you, you’d let him throw you around, you’d do anything-

It’s probably a good thing your threat works. Dean stumbles out of the motel right at the nine-minute mark, pallid and flushed all at once, hunched in pain and wearing a massive raincoat over his jacket to hide the boner.

You never would’ve forgiven yourself, for taking advantage of him like that. It’s better like this, no matter how much it hurts.

You smile when he gets into the car. “Nice fashion statement-“

“Shut up.” He grumbles, glaring out at the road. “Where’re we goin’.”

“A bar.”

He makes a sour expression. “Why.”

“Because you have a date. With Emma the nurse.”

Dean goes dead quiet. He tenses next to you—your elbows brushing for a split second, before he recoils like your skin is coated in toxins—works his jaw, then shakes his head.

You sigh. ‘Dean-“

“No. I told you, I’m not doin’ that.“

“Yes, you are.”

“No-“

“Yes!” You slam the brakes harder than you mean to, as you approach a stop sign.

You expect Dean to snap about you being careful with his baby. Maybe try to make a joke about how maybe the frustration is rubbing off on you, or argue about how this is his dumb choice to make.

And it is. But he made the wrong choice, and you are not letting him die.

He mutters your name, and it’s the same way he said it earlier. Soft. Almost pleading.

You take a deep breath, and twist to look him in his pretty, glazed and dilated eyes.

“You’re going into that bar. You’re going to flirt with Emma. If she asks if you have a fever, you tell her you work construction or something, and you’d just been at a shift. You run hot. Nothing for her to worry about.” You drum your fingers on the wheel, forcing down the lump in your throat. “You’re going to tell her she’s pretty. You’re going to call a fake uber, and I’m going to drive you to the motel. You’re going to fuck Emma until you’re cured, and then we can go home. Understand?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He opens his mouth, a glint in his eyes like he’s going to argue. You don’t give him the chance.

“No. You’re doing this. If you don’t, you’ll-“ You cut yourself off, pressing your lips in a tight line. You won’t cry. You won’t.

Dean says your name, and he has to stop doing that. It’s too gentle. Too close to something real.

“You’re not allowed to- To go.” You look out at the empty road, praying the night is hiding the glossy tears, pricking at your eyes. “I can’t- I won’t- You’re not allowed to.”

You raise your chin, your breathing too shaky to speak for a moment. The silence hangs in the car, even the sound of Baby’s engine not enough to drown out your thoughts.

“Okay?” You snap, trying to sound stronger than you are.

Dean lets out a low sound, but nods. “Okay.” Then, under his breath. “For you.”

You pretend you don’t hear. There’s too much weight in those words, and you don’t have the time to pick them apart, don’t have the energy to ask him what the fuck that means.

Instead, you just give yourself the easiest out. Dean does love you as a friend. You’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s doing it for you because you’re the one demanding he go have sex.

What a horrible friend you are, making him get laid so he doesn’t die.

You huff a dry, pitiful, laugh to yourself. Your drink swirls in its glass, untouched and mocking. You ordered it when you got here, about thirty minutes ago. Made Dean take a possibly dangerous dose of Advil and Tylenol to make him lucid, then hidden yourself in a booth on the other side of the bar. Where you can see Dean and Emma, but only Dean can see you. He’s supposed to give you a thumbs up, when he’s about to call the ride. Right now, he seems so engrossed in her that you’re worried he’s going to forget.

Emma’s pretty. Just as pretty as her pictures. She lit up, when she spotted Dean, and you’d felt a sickening, loud hatred take root in your chest.

Everyone should be happy to see Dean, but none of them are happy like you’re happy. You know him. He’s the love of your life, and your joy is born of that, not just seeing a pretty man. You love seeing him because you know you’re going to be safe. Because he’s going to smile and the world is going to be alright, you’re going to talk and he’ll listen and look at you like there’s no one else in the world, he’s going to make jokes and you’re going to laugh.

But he’s making Emma laugh right now. She’s got one of those high, insufferable giggles, and you’re being needlessly mean but you hate her. You have a giggle like that. It comes out for Dean all the time, and it has a little snort on the end that you hated until Dean casually mentioned that he liked it, and you’ve felt like the most beautiful thing in the world.

It doesn’t really matter though, whose laugh Dean likes more.

Emma’s the one going home with him. You’re being left here.

You focus on ignoring their laughter and voices from the bar. You can’t drink, but you sulk and focus on the music floating through the bar. Your fingers drum on the table, pull at your sleeves, shred three napkins before gripping the cold of the glass like a lifeline. Your vision is going unfocused with envy. Every second you feel the wound in your heart tearing open, an infection of jealousy taking root, and you might actually be about to throw up-

Dean grunts your name, and your eyes shoot up.

He’s standing outside your both, hands in his pockets and a deep scowl on his face. Emma’s not with him. Or at the bar.  

“Where-“

“She left.”

Your mouth falls open. “She left? I- What the fuck happened-“

“I told her to. Wasn’t gonna work out.”

“Dean, you-“ Your voice cracks, every thought in your head getting louder. He’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying. “You promised-“

“I know.” He’s jaw tics, eyes darting away from yours. “Just couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what? Couldn’t fuck her? What the hell was wrong with her that somehow doesn’t meet Dean Winchester’s if it’s got a hole standards?”

Dean flinches, and it was a low blow, but right now you don’t care. He’s going to die. Why doesn’t he fucking care that he’s going to die and leave you.

“Come on.” You snap, slamming a few bills on the table and shooting up. “We’re chasing her. You’re apologizing.”

He frowns. “No, I’m not-“

“Then we’re going back on the dating app, and finding someone else.”

“I don’t want someone else.”

You roll your eyes, shoving the bar door open and marching to the car. You have Emma’s number. You’ll do the apology yourself if you have to.

Dean’s stumbling after you into the parking lot, and you can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder every few seconds. Just to be sure he hasn’t hurt himself. He calls your name, voice pained, and you freeze. Turn slowly, your arms crossed over your chest.

“I’m not doin’ this.” He snaps, stalking towards you in uneven steps. “You can bitch and whine about it all you want, sweetheart, I’m not fucking that girl.”

“I’m bitching and whining?” You laugh, the sound crude even to your ears. “I’m not the one who decided the best time to become a fucking celibate was when he got hit with a sex curse. You’re the one acting like a fucking child here-“

“I’m not acting like a child-“

“Then you’re acting like an idiot!” You scream, taking a large step forward.

Dean goes rigid. Takes a long step back, like you’re poisonous. It just fuels the burning, exhausted fire, kindled by every bit of fear, of love, of fury that he’s putting you through this with almost no remorse.

“It’s not like you have to marry her!” You shout, barbed wire tightening around your throat. “It’s just sex! Fuck, you don’t even have to look at her, it’s- I don’t understand why this is so fucking hard for you all of a sudden, it’s not like you’re some virgin fucking pussy-“

He mutters your name, a low warning, and you ignore it.

“I’ve spent all day trying to save you, Dean! I was going to be your- Your fucking sex chauffer, and I haven’t been complaining, but you can’t do me one fucking favor and have sex with a pretty girl?”

You take another step forward, and this time he isn’t fast enough. You jab his chest, and he stumbles back like you shot him, eyes panicked and wide on yours.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You shriek, shoving him again. “Do you want to die? Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you hate me, Dean? Is that what this is?”

He rasps your name, and you shake your head.

“I’ve been trying so- So hard to save you. I- I told you that I can’t- If you-“ Your words are getting choked, and the pain is too heavy to just shake off. “You’re not allowed to go! I told you, I won’t let you, but you- You fucking hate me-“

You try to shove him again, hot tears burning down your face, but this time Dean’s ready. He catches your wrist, and you try to pull back but he’s got more strength left than you thought.

He squeezes his hold on you, stalking forward. A fire lights in your core, at the intensity of his gaze. Unyielding and hot, searing into you as your back hits the Impala. He towers over you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he takes in your open mouth and slack expression. You don’t know how you expected him to react, but it wasn’t this. This makes your knees weak, your heart hitting a dangerous pace at the top of your chest.

You can smell his cologne, smell his. A salt, deep musk that’s just Dean, that might as well be a drug for how it’s making you freeze. Your free hand moves to press flat against his chest, but you don’t push.

He grunts, his muscles rippling like you just threw a rock into water. He seizes up, head bowing, and there’s nowhere for you to hide from him.

Dean’s tongue darts over his lips, and your breath hitches.

“Don’t do that.” He grunts, and you just nod.

Lean a little closer, until the heat of your breath is fanning over your cheeks. Your eyes flutter, and when you risk meeting his gaze he looks almost predatory. The hunger in his eyes sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together, and it’s hot, so hot-

“I don’t hate you.”

You blink at him. You’d forgotten about that. “Dean-“

“I don’t.” He snaps. “Don’t fuckin’- Never think that, alright? I don’t hate you.”

“Then why are you doing this to me?” You whisper desperately. “Why couldn’t you just go have sex with Emma-“

He shakes his head. “I don’t want Emma.”

“Then let me find you someone you want, please-“

“No.”

“Why-“

“Cause I don’t want any of them.” He hisses, your foreheads bumping as he leans further down. “I don’t want some random fuckin’ chick you pull for me, I don’t want to fuck her, don’t wanna touch her, hell, I don’t even want to goddamn look at her.”

You take a shaking breath, a haze overtaking your head. “Dean, you need someone-“

“You think I don’t know that?” He pushes his hips forward, and you can feel it.

His cock, straining through his jeans, pressing against your thigh. You bite down a moan, completely still in his arms, trying to make him understand with just your eyes. It’s not fair for him to do this to you. He doesn’t understand, this is all you’ve ever wanted and he’s just taunting you with it-

“I can feel it, sweetheart.” He mutters, rolling slightly against you, making that fire in your core threaten to sweep you away. “I feel myself dyin’. My muscles are hurting like I ran a mile, I’m sweating through ten damn layers, think the fever is getting me so bad I might be about to go fucking crazy. But I didn’t even notice ‘till you started getting all worried. You know why?”

It takes you a second to realize you’re supposed to answer. You barely shake your head, before he’s squeezing your wrist, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“’Cause of you.” He breathes, voice soft and dangerous. “I always feel like an animal when I see you. Spent the whole car ride back from that damn house wanting to hump your leg and didn’t think twice. You just do that to me, and you got no fuckin’ idea.”

You gasp slightly, turning your head to look him in the eyes. They’re hooded, almost feral on yours. You’re so dizzy, you’re worried you might be walking through a dream.

“De- Dean-“

“You can keep looking for some random girl for me, if it’s gonna make you feel better. But I won’t fuck ‘em. I can’t.” His lips ghost over yours, and you lean forward.

“Dean-“

“Sex barely even works for me anymore, baby.” He mutters, tongue flicking over his lips. “Nothin’ does. I get kicked out of bed ‘cause I call your name. So just fuckin’-“ He squeezes your wrist again, drawing slowly back. “Stop. If you wanna give me a dying wish, cut it out and let me go in some damn peace.”

You gape at him as he pulls away, his grip going slack on your wrist.

Dying wish.

He still thinks he’s allowed to die.

“What- What if you fuck me?” You say, so quiet you barely even hear yourself.

Dean’s head jerks up, and he says your name with a harsh, unforgiving snap. “No. I’m not askin’ you to do that just because I’m some perv who can’t get it up-“

“You’ve got it up.” You smile at up, pressing your knee up into his crotch.

He groans, doubling back down so you’re caged against the Impala again. “Baby, don’t fuckin’- I’m not bending on this shit, alright. I’m not gonna be some pity fuck-“

“It’s not a pity fuck, I’m saving your life-“

“I told you, no-“

“Do you not want to have sex with me?” You challenge, and Dean gives you a pleading, wrathfully frustrated look.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, course I wanna have- Fuck-“ He groans, eyes fluttering as his brow presses against yours. “Yeah. Yeah I want to. But- I won’t ask you to. So no.”

You swallow. It’s probably the fever making his tongue so loose. He’s so hot it almost burns to be this close, but that might just be Dean.

It’s always just Dean. And he has to know that.

“What if I want to have sex with you?”

Dean grunts, shaking his head. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it-“

“I mean it.” You fist your hand in his shirt, dragging him a little closer. “Do you?”

He stares at you again. Scans over your face like he’s looking for one clue that you’re just indulging him, that there’s a single doubt running through your head.

There isn’t. Your breathing is uneven, but your heart is going too fast for it to be anything else. You’re flushed with an unending, arduous hunger to just have him, however he needs you.

Slowly, testing the waters, Dean slides a hand onto your neck. You raise your chin, holding his gaze. He squeezes slightly, and you lean into him, tugging on his shirt for more.

His thumb moves up, dragging over your lower lip. You part your lips, and his nostrils flare.

Dean pushes his thumb slowly between your lips, and you close them obediently around him. Your eyes flutter as you suck, letting your tongue circle around the thick finger, tilting your head and letting your eyes flutter. He pushes a little deeper and you moan. Your hand flies up to grab his wrist, holding him against you, and Dean groans. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been all night, shining with something like awe.

You smile, grinding up into his torso and humming with pleasure.

Dean mouth hangs slack.

“Jesus fuckin’-“

He cuts himself off, pulling his thumb out with a pop and grabbing your jaw. You giggle happily for a second, and Dean swallows the sound, crashing his mouth against yours.

You’ve pictured this kiss a million times, a million ways, almost every night since you met him. Somehow, this is better than any slow, fairytale kiss with swelling music and sunlight hitting both your faces like a spotlight.

Dean’s not taking his time. He’s kissing you like you’re the last thing he knows, the only thing he’s ever wanted. Like a man who’s been starving himself, finally allowed a feast and wasting no precious seconds on manners. It’s urgent and forceful, words he can’t say being pushed down your throat with his tongue and spit. You kiss him back with everything you have, your fingers digging into his chest through his shirts, your head spinning as you neglect breath just to taste a little bit more whiskey and salt on his tongue. But nothing you throw at him Dean can’t seem to double.

You yank at his shirt, and he pulls your hair back. You try to grind up again, and he grabs your leg, hiking it over his hip. You grab his face, trying to kiss harsher, give more, and Dean slams down like a tidal wave, dominating your mouth with unforgiving need.

A moan escapes your throat, your body going limp in his arms, and he grunts. Ruts up into your core once, making your legs spread in a shameless invitation.

Dean grunts, yanking back like someone pulled him on a leash.

He stares at you for a long moment, his thumb finding its way back to your cheek. He smears a bit of spit over your cheek, and you tilt your head into the touch.

“You’re sure-“

“Yes.”

He nods tightly, takes a heavy breath, and leans away. “Get in the car.”

It’s a short, curt order. You don’t think twice before you obey.

You scramble into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the keys and slamming them into the port like you’re about to enter a car chase. Dean’s barely in the car before the engine is rumbling and you’re reversing out of the spot, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. It’s happening. It’s happening.

“Easy, baby.” He chuckles, the sound raspy and sending more shivers through your body. “You that eager-“

“Yes.” You snap, and Dean hums.

A light, almost taunting hand lands on your thigh. You glance over and find him palming at his crotch, his eyes wholly black and mouth hanging open. It’s an animalistic expression, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, and when you murmur his name he barely seems to hear.

His fingers dance up the inside of your leg, and you take an unsteady breath, spreading your legs wider. A deep, rumbling sound leaves Dean’s chest, those infernal fingers curling on the sensitive spot where your leg meets your core. Little electric shock rush through your body, and that’s just through the jeans.

“Dean.” You whisper, not even managing to make your voice firm. “I- I’m driving-“

“So look at the road.” He growls, knuckles brushing against your groin.

You bite your lower lip, and nod. It’s not worth arguing with him, and if you don’t think you can focus, you’ll just pull over. You told him you were sure. Told yourself that whatever he gave you, you’d be happy.

You just didn’t expect him to be borderline feral. The palming you could deal with. You expected.

This is different.

Dean scoots further, and you’re about to mumble something about a seatbelt when his lips brush the curve of your neck. You inhale sharply, gripping the wheel for dear life. Dean hums, his tongue flicking over a pulse point. His fingers start to crawl up to your abdomen, his mouth getting more insistent on your neck.

He nips at a pulse point before sucking on his, his tongue flat on your skin and a low sound leaving his chest when you lean back to grant him further access. He kisses a sloppy line up your throat as his fingers dance on your stomach, and you’re starting to get a little dizzy.

“De, be- Be careful-“

You cut yourself off with a breathy gasp, as his mouth latches behind your ear and he pulls down your zipper. He bites softly before sucking another bruise, popping the button open and slipping his hand into your pants.

“I- Fuck-” You tip your head back, hopelessly trying to keep your eyes on the road, and this is not a safe way to drive. You really should be shoving him away, but there’s no one on the road.

And with how he’s barely even speaking—just touching—you’re a little worried it might take extra effort to drag him out of the haze of the curse and push him away. He seems to be blinded to anything that isn’t you. His mouth drags back down your jaw as his fingers brush over your clothed pussy, and your whole body shakes.

He hums, leaving open kisses on your cheek and hairline. “Sensitive, sweetheart. Been a long time?”

You flush, and Dean starts to gather the fabric of your panties best he can through your pants. He drags it up, bunching it around your pussy, and another moan slips out from the pressure.

“Answer me-“

“Maybe.” You mumble, forcing yourself not to grind into his hand. “You- You know I don’t do that-“

“Do what?” He presses the fabric deeper between your pussy lips. “Don’t fuck?”

“Dean-“

“How long’s it been.” His words are hot against your neck, demanding and possessive. “Who touched you last, baby, who shoved their fingers in this pussy-“

“I- I don’t remember-“

“That’s fuckin’ right.” He pulls your panties tighter against your clit. “’Cause they don’t’ fuckin’ matter, sweet girl. No one else is ever gonna touch you like this. I’m gonna make you soak my fingers, my face, my cock, and it’s gonna feel so good in that smart, pretty mouth,” he kisses the corner of your lips, and only the wheel in your hands stops you from turning and claiming his mouth again. “That’s always fucking teasing me, it ain’t gonna remember a single word but my name. You want that, baby? Wanna be my perfect fuckin’ slut?”

Jesus Christ, this is worse than the not speaking. If this is a dream—because you’ve had them like this before—you never want to wake up.

He yanks his hand away, leaving your underwear bunched up in your cunt, and slaps your pussy over the jeans. Your mouth falls open and you lean forward, lightning surging through your whole body.

“Oh my- Dean-“

“I told you, answer-“

“Yes, I- Yes, please-“ Your words fall off into a moan, as Dean shoves his hand back against you, this time dragging the panties away and plunging two fingers deep into your pussy. “Dean-“

“That’s right.” He mutters, crooking them deep against a sensitive spot. “That’s my girl, you’re so fuckin’ wet- This all for me?”

“Mmm- Mhm-“

“Fuck yeah it is.” He starts his attack on your neck again, only speaking between kisses, his fingers scissoring inside your pussy. “So damn tight, know you’re gonna take my cock so good, bet you taste like heaven- Fuck, I wanna taste this pussy, wanted to taste it for years-“

His own words fall into a moan, and for a second you think he’s just out of dirty talk, but he’s still mumbling incoherently against your skin.

Then you risk another look at his body, and the hand that isn’t in your pants has pulled out his cock.

And fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Thick and long, but not painful looking. Throbbing and twitching as he jerks himself, the tip leaking and slick with pre-cum. It takes effort to look at the road and not just stare at the rock-hard, veiny marvel of a specimen between his legs.

You don’t know why you’re surprised. Dean’s a specimen himself.

He’s somehow already figured out how to finger you in such a confining position. His wrist has twisted, letting his thumb drag lazy circles around your clit, his fingers giving shallow, rough thrusts that make his fingers taunt your g-spot. Never really fully touching it, but sending shivers through your whole body.

“Oh- Oh-“ You have to take deep breaths to keep your head clear, your whole body winding tight with the arousal he’s pulling out of you, more and more every second. “Dean-“

“Shh.” He grunts, biting right under your jaw, and you squeak. “Just feel it. Sweet fuckin’ pussy, gushing around my fingers-“

You moan, loud and lewd, his deep voice not doing anything to help you keep it together.

It’s a miracle you make it to the motel. It’s a shit parking job—you’re definitely over the lines—but you’re both alive.

You barely shift the gears before Dean’s pouncing on you like an animal. Whatever the ride was, he still seemed to be showing restraint. Now that you’re safe, all bets are off. 

A squeal leaves you, as he flips your body. Pressing your back to the window and prowling over your body, slamming his mouth over yours and kissing until you’re slumping against the glass. Your hand flies up to grab the back of his neck, your hips rolling up to where his knee is pressed between your thighs. Your eyes dart down when you pull apart for a single, ragged breath—Dean pulling your lip between his teeth, and kissing your nose and cheek like breathing is really no longer his concern—and you whimper at the sight of him, still erect and hanging out of his pants.

Dean drags your chin back up, searing his lips over yours, and you melt. He’s a good kisser. And you knew that, but it’s not like anything you’ve felt before. It’s like you’re trading souls, like he’s trying to brand you with wandering hands and lips.

When you pull away again, your dizzy from the pleasure and force of him. You whine at the loss as he leans away, but Dean just squeezes your waist and smirks.

You hear a rip, as he claws your pants and underwear down your legs. You don’t get a chance to adjust before he’s shoving your knee up against the bench, dragging the other one over his shoulder as he ducks between your legs.

“Dean- Shit-“ Your breathing gets shallow as his breath fans over your pussy. “We- We’re supposed to be doing things that are- Like blowjobs-“

It’s so hard to argue with him when he’s between your legs. The sight alone is almost enough to tip you into a frenzy. His shining eyes looking up at you, his full lips grazing your inner thigh, leaving teasing kisses everywhere but where you’re aching for him. You run your fingers through his short, soft hair, trying to get his attention. He just makes a low sound like a purr, and presses his mouth over your clit.

You almost fly out of your skin. He’s making out with the sensitive nerve like they’re your mouth, his tongue dragging and pressing, his hands on your thighs kneading with every suck and graze of his teeth. All you can do is cover your mouth and try to stifle your moan.

Dean withdraws, and you make a strangled sound of frustration. He can’t just do that, it’s not fair-

“No doin’ that.” He grunts, dragging your hand from your mouth. “Wanna hear it.”

You nod weakly, but still try one more time to remind him who this is about. “Dean, it- it’s supposed to be stuff that’s good for you-“

“This is good for me.” He mutters, letting go of your thigh over his shoulder to let his fingers drag back over your fluttering pussy. “Look at you.” He mutters with pure awe. “Responsive, wet little pussy. Bet you’d like it when I do this.”

He pushes one finger knuckle-deep inside you, and you yank on his hair with delight.

“Yeah, you do. How about,” he drags it out, then shoves it back in, and your head tips back against the window, eyes screwing shut.

“Dean, Dean, please-“

He groans, adding a second finger and repeating the slamming motion. Once, twice, a third time. His tongue flicks against your clit on that last one, and your eyes roll back in your head.

“Dean-“

Another deep sound, another flick, and you’re seconds from begging like a whore when he snaps.

Dean wraps his mouth back around your clit, resuming his ministrations from before with twice the fervor. His fingers pick up their pace, wet sounds filling the car as he finger-fucks you into oblivion.

The curse seems to have it’s full hold on him. He’s borderline feral. You’ve never had a man who eats pussy like he’s having a five-star meal, like it really is good for him. Sometimes he just pulls his fingers out and drags his tongue down your cunt, angling his head to press his tongue deep inside you and working his jaw until your toes are curling. His nose bumps your clit and his stubble scrapes your thighs, his free hand squeezing your thigh as he devours.

“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You let out a vulgar, lustful sound as he drags you further forward against his mouth, the pleasure rushing through your body. “Dean- God, just like that-“

He drags his mouth back up to your swollen, neglected clit, and those two fingers pump back into your hole. It’s somehow better and worse, and a shriek rips from your mouth as he spanks your pussy, then resumes his rhythm.

“Dean, please- Please, fuck- please-“

You’re already babbling, the tension in your lower abdomen so tight it’s almost painful. Your body is shaking with the stimulation, and Dean’s working you like an instrument. He finds every hyper-needy spot that makes you moan his name and playing it like a professional. You’re kept right on the edge for what feels like a million years, his fingers and mouth switching in and out, begging and begging as he turns you into an empty-headed, drooling wound-up mess.

Then he finally lets you over the edge.

Dean pushes his fingers right against your g-spot, and rubs. Your body seizes up, eyes crossing as his tongue flicks against your clit, and the heat built up in your gut explodes.

You shake as your orgasm rips through your pussy, your spine, every nerve in your body glowing with a deep, sex-addled bliss. Your clit is swollen between Dean’s lip as he drags you through it, your pussy gushing around his fingers and fingers yanking at his hair.

“Fuck, yes- Yes-“ You moan, legs locking around Dean’s head, and he groans against your pussy.

When it pulls another lewd sound from your chest, he does it again, slowly easing his fingers out and starting to clean up the mess between your thighs. He licks and hums, the sensation making your oversensitive body spasm every time he finds one of those spots.

It’s not certain you’re going to be able to walk to the motel room, when he finally pulls away.

But there’s a gleaming light in his eyes, that makes you think it’s really not going to matter.

Dean’s a wreck. His face is flushed, chest heaving, cock still hard but coated in a white stain that tells you he’s not close to working off the curse.

“Oh, you’re gonna be so mad about that when you’re better.” You mumble, seeing the stains on his precious bench, and Dean chuckles.

“I’ll get over it.”

You giggle, and Dean leans over you again, kissing you slow and deep. One orgasm seems to have cleared his head for a seconds, enough that he’s gently rubbing your bare, tender pussy, a soothing touch that’s really only working you up more.

“Love that sound.” He mutters, and you frown against his lips.

“Wha-“

“Your laugh.” He sucks on your upper lip, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Love it so much. Don’t think I’ve told you that before.”

He hasn’t. It somehow makes you flush more than any of the dirty things he’d been hissing in your ear before.

“You’re telling me a lot of new things.” You manage to mumble, and he huffs in amusement.

“Blame it on the curse.”

You giggle again, and his face shines like he won a prize.

“Son of a bitch,” his eyes are already darkening again, voice getting thick with the curse-driven hunger. “I love you, you know that?”

You can only gape at him. He must not have said what you thought  he said. “What?”

“You heard me.” He presses his brow against yours, reaching up to cup your cheek. “I love you.”

He rasps your name, and you blink away tears.

“Dean, if it’s just the curse-“

“It’s not. It’s-“

He slides his mouth against yours and this is the romantic kiss you always pictured. Slow and devoted as he takes the time to memorize you, to bask in the glow of your heart as you shine with love beneath him.

“You know it, right?” His voice is gravelly, his body pressing firmer over yours. He’s going back under. He can probably feel it. “That I mean it?”

He’s still asking—almost begging—you to tell him that you know.

“I know.” You mumble. “I- I love you too.”

Dean goes rigid over your body, and you blink up at him, as nervous as a doe in headlights. Just like the kiss, you’ve dreamed of saying it. Pictured it somewhere romantic, your makeup perfect and the breeze running through your hair. Dean falling to his knees after, kissing your hands before sweeping you off your feet.

Instead you’re lying in the car, cum staining your tangled legs, everything in you ruined from being eaten out by the sinful mouth that haunts your dreams. Dean’s hovering over you, tongue darting over those same lips—shining with your arousal, making your thighs rub together under him—and your holding onto his flannel, both your clothing stuck to your skin from sweat.

He doesn’t fall to his knees. He just looks at you like he’s not sure it’s a dream either.

At least he still sweeps you off your feet.

Dean moves like a machine. You’re not even sure what’s happening until you’re being hit by the wind, dragged down the bench by your ankles and wrapped in one of his jackets to preserve your modesty. His dick has been hastily shoved back into his pants—the fly still fucking down—and you’re about to tell him you’d at least like your underwear before he’s picking it up and shoving it into his pocket.

“Dean!” You gasp, and he just grunts, sweeping you fully into his arms.

“Mine.” He mutters under his breath, looking around the parking lot like he’s still trying to orient himself. “I- I gotta, fuck-“

Gently, you reach up and turn his chin in the direction of your motel room. “Over there, De.” You mumble, and he nods tightly.

He’s fully back under. You don’t bother to struggle or try and convince him that you can walk, because you’re not even sure you could. It’s not worth distressing Dean over anyway.

Despite his fever soaring and gaze being fogged by the curse, he manages you gently. When you get into the room you’re tossed on the bed and pinned back down for his mouth to work you open again, but the brusing grip is full of care, his mouth worshipful on your pussy. After that he’s rising over your body, ripping clothing like it’s a personal offense on his sensibilities and descending over you with another feral growl.

Your legs are shoved apart, but he rubs a hand over your calves almost reverently. Staring at your glistening, abused pussy with a look of pride and affection, gaze slowly dragging up your flushed breasts and thoroughly marked neck to meet yours.

You give him a honeyed, coaxing smile. You’re his to take, if he wants it.

He makes a low sound from his chest, and starts to kiss up your body. You gasp when his lips wrap around one of your peaked nipples, sucking gently until your grinding up into him. His hand splays over your stomach, gently guiding you back down, and you whine desperately.

“Patience.” He hums, kissing over your breast before switching to the other nipple. “Gonna take care of you. Fuck- You’re so beautiful, so fuckin’-“

Dean moans to himself, and you whimper his name, yanking on his hair.

But there’s no rushing him. He plays with your tits until he’s had his fill—when they’re swollen and you’re arching into every touch—then works back down to your pussy. Tasting your arousal, soaked and messy and almost shamefully dripping down his hand when he touches you.

He doesn’t seem to mind it at all though. 

“Messy girl.” He grunts, twisting one finger inside of you. “Think you’re ready for some cock, aren’t you. Gonna take me, princess? Show me how much you love me?”

You blink at him through tears, on the brink of screaming his he doesn’t let you cum again soon. When you nod it’s like a bobblehead, and you only remember his orders from before at the last second.

“Yes.” You gasp. “Yes, Dean, please-“

Again, he moves.

You’re almost a ragdoll in his arms. A ragdoll that he moves like you’re threaded from gold, tossing you around and gripping your hips so hard you’ll have a handprint in the morning, but kissing over every hickey on your neck and muttering words of low, tender praise every second.

“Good girl.” He mutters as he drags his cock between your pussy lips. “Good fuckin’ girl, already cockdrunk and stupid for me, aren’t you. Love taking you like this, looking at you all pretty and dumb-“

You whine, head lolling to the side. Dean slides two fingers into your mouth and you suck on them like candy, taking anything he’ll offer.

He growls, dick catching on your entrance, and you shiver, looking up at him under fluttering eyes.

Dean drags you up like you weigh nothing, slowly sitting you down on his massive cock, and every thought but his name is driven from your head.

He’s thick. So think you almost don’t think you can take it, but your whine of protest is only met by cooing, filthy praise in your ears and careful circles around your clit. You don’t know how he can still be so far into the curse and able to restrain himself from rutting you like a beast.

Probably because it’s Dean. That feels like explanation enough.

It takes a moment for him to bottom out, and when he does you’re sure you’ve never been this full. He’s hitting places inside of you that you hadn’t known existed, dropping you into a pool of pleasure that makes your breathing stuttered, your nails scratching over his shoulders as you try to keep yourself from floating away.

Dean kisses you, hot and deep. You moan against him and he grabs your hips, starting to roll you up and down on his cock. You can tell he’s experimenting again, trying to figure out where he hits the deepest, working you open until you’re riding his cock smoothly your head falling back as pants of his name leave your mouth.

It’s paradise. Your toes are curling with every twitch of his cock inside you, every rush of heat when he slams extra hard and hits your cervix. It takes him takes him some time to decide how he wants you , and you’d laugh at what he settles on if the air wasn’t being fucked from your lungs.

Dean cums while holding you in his lap, his thrusts getting short and a groan of your name falling from his mouth when he ruts up, his cock pumping hot release inside of you and your own orgasm rolling through your body like an electrical storm. But then you’re being picked up and flipped around so your back is pressed to his chest, his arm locking around your neck and his hand returning to your clit as his fucks up into you. Then you’re moved forward onto the mattress, Dean turning your face so he can hear your moans and keeping your ass into the air as he slams from behind, his balls slapping against your clit and bringing you back up to the edge.

You’re in his lap again, folded under him with your knees to your chest, rolled on top of him so he can play with your tits and watch you ride.

Every time he cums, you’re thrown into a new position and held there until you both fall back over the edge. You’ve never been wrecked like this before, your head empty, pussy drenching his cock as he spills and claims every spot on your body.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he growls into your ear from below you, dragging his fingers down your inner thigh, gathering his release on his fingers. “So pretty, bouncing on this cock, my pretty fuckin’ baby-“

“Dean.” You whine, scraping at his chest. “Dean, feels so good, so fucking good-“

“I know.” He coos. “Made for me, getting so fucking stupid on my cock- Open.”

He slaps your cheek lightly, and your lips part. Dean feeds you his cum, other hand rubbing up and down your spine, and you grind down onto him with need.

“Good girl, fuckin’- Christ you’re so good-“ His thrusts get shorter, brutal and uneven. “You’re mine, this sweet pussy is mine, gonna- Gonna fuckin’ worship you, fuck-“

He drills up into you, taking his hand away to bounce you how he likes.

You both cum, Dean calling your name and throwing his head back, watching you under hooded, still hungry eyes.

There’s a second to catch your breath, as he palms your breast. Pinches a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, watching how you arch into his touch.

“You like that?” He grunts, and you hum.

“Feels good.”

“Damn right it does.” He grabs the other one, working them in tandem.

You whine his name, looking at him under pleading lashes.

Dean groans. “Fuck, baby…”

He’s hard again, and you’re being moved into another position.

By the time he finds one he wants to keep, you’re a disaster of a woman. Making sounds that are supposed to be his name, boneless below him and still trying to chase more, even as your body turns into a raw, live nerve.

Dean’s got you under him again, his body pressed over yours, cock plunging in and out of your pussy at a lazy, torturous pace. You’ve been like this for what must be an hour, maybe a day, maybe fifty years. Tears of pleasure are stained on your cheeks, there’s a wet sound with every thrust as his cum leaks out of your stuffed hole, and Dean’s praise is becoming more and more lucid.

“I love you.” He mutters, and you moan, turning your head to try and kiss him.

“Dean…”

“I know.” He mutters. “I know, baby, but you’re doin’ so good. Feeling better, almost done, just gotta-“

He kisses over your face, finally capturing your lips as he starts to rut, pounding into your swollen g-spot over and over.

You barely have the energy to arch up, when you cum. You breathe out his name, pussy clenching as you feel that last bit of his cum squirt into you, and a wet, hot feeling floods your pussy as your vision goes white.

“Love you.” Dean’s still muttering as you float through the haze, his lips pressed over yours. “Loved you forever, never- Never thought-“

His voice cracks, and you know the curse is over. He’s not getting hard again inside of you, not trying to chase more.

Just pressing his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tight, words muffled against your skin.

“Thank you.” He mutters. “Thank you for- For sayin’ it back, even if that wasn’t-“

“It was,” you breathe out. He needs to know. “I love you, Dean. Have for longer.”

He chuckles, squeezing your body, and you smile into the air.

You find the strength to thread your fingers through his hair, and he hums, pressing a sweet kiss to your sensitive skin. You shiver, whining softly, and he chuckles again. Both of you too fucked out to move. You’re not sure you’re going to be able to walk in a straight line for a month.

But it was worth it.

Holding Dean here, so peacefully, was more than worth it.

“Eds?” you ask softly, poking him with your foot from your side of the couch. You’re each settled into a corner with your legs sprawled out between you, tucked under the comforting weight of a worn, soft blanket.

His head turns sharply towards you, as though he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone. With his eyes so wide, you can see the coloured lights reflected in the dark chocolate brown of his irises. The flush in his cheeks is back— rosy and warm— and it makes your lips curl into a soft, knowing smile.

“What’re you thinking about?” You can’t help but tease him a little, letting your toes burrow beneath the weight of his thigh. You watch him closely, already knowing the answer. You know exactly what he's thinking about; what he’s been thinking about since you led him away from your work.

“You’d make a good boyfriend.”

That’s what you told him. And since then, he’s been quiet, clearly stuck in his head, with the flush on his cheeks never quite fading completely.

He stays unusually silent, his typically chaotic and excitable demeanour dampened by a hesitance written so openly on his face. For a moment, the only sound between you is the low hum of the old TV playing some cheesy Christmas movie. Neither of you could name it— let alone describe the plot— and you honestly doubt Eddie even realises it’s on.

“I meant it,” you say gently, well aware of how he’s likely second-guessing himself— and maybe even you— right now. There’s a vulnerability in his eyes as he looks at you, as though he’s desperately searching for the punchline to a joke you aren’t making.

Your smile is as soft as the sigh that leaves your lips as you shuffle just a little closer to him.

“Have you really never thought about it?” This time, it’s your turn to feel the hesitance. It ripples under your skin, a nervous heat building in your cheeks to match his own.

“Of course I have,” Eddie’s voice is a little rough, having been silent for so long. He’s still searching your face, clearly convinced you must be playing some sort of trick on him. “You’re serious? You aren’t… pulling my leg or something?”

You laugh then— a soft, relieved sound that bubbles out of you. “You scared me,” you admit quietly, “I thought for a second you were trying to find a way to let me down kindly.”

He catches you off-guard then— as he usually does. One second, there’s a good few feet of couch between you; the next, Eddie is crowding into your space, just like he had outside your work. He takes a single, deep breath, and then his lips are on yours.

The pressure is awkward at first— a little rough and uncertain as you scrambled to regain composure from the sudden, though much-wanted, assault. His lips are soft— so much softer than you’d ever expected.

You sense the anxiety building within him again as he starts to pull back, obviously panicked when you take a second too long to fully respond. It’s then you realise; Eddie is kissing you, but you aren't kissing him back— too stunned to move in the moment.

Startled into action, your hands reach for his neck, brushing over the slight stubble of his jaw. Gently, you pull him back into you, finally letting your lips press so softly against his— the way you’ve wanted to for much too long.

He practically melts into you. You feel his body release every ounce of tension it’s been holding as his hands settle on your waist. His fingers dig in, clutching at the fabric of your shirt as though to make sure the moment is real— that this is really happening.

“I think I'd make a good boyfriend, too,” Eddie mumbles against your lips. You can feel his wide grin as he smiles into your kiss, pressing his lips harder to yours as if to seal his words between you.

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His grin is infectious as he blows the fogged breath back at you, making your nose wrinkle gently when his warm breath hits you square in the face. Your heart stutters as a strange fluttering twists your stomach.

He’s so freaking close.

Gloved hands cover your own around the festively decorated cup, the woollen material pleasantly rough against your bare fingers.

“Drink up, sweetheart,” Eddie's voice is a soft tease as he guides the cup to your lips, those big brown eyes never leaving yours.

A slow, comforting cloud of steam rolls over the edge of the paper cup; releasing a rich, indulgent aroma. The sweet heat of cinnamon and chocolate hitting your tongue is a surprisingly familiar taste, one that makes your eyes fall shut and your heart race, just a touch.

Slowly, your eyes flutter open as you feel Eddie move, watching him with fond curiousity as he pulls something from his back pocket. It’s a hat; the soft mustard wool almost glowing under the streetlight above you. It’s your hat. The one you forgot at Eddie’s the evening prior, after a quiet movie night at the trailer with him and Wayne.

Had he really come all this way to meet you out of work, simply because he found your forgotten hat?

“Ed-” he cuts you off, nudging the cup to your mouth once again as he pulls the hat- still warm from his pocket- over your head. His self satisfied smile as he tugs it over your ears has your heart doing a flip in your chest; traitorous beast that it is.

He’s just being friendly, you tell yourself. He’s your friend and he doesn’t want you to be cold.

Which must be why he begins to unravel the slightly worn scarf from around his neck, only to wrap it around yours. His touch is so gentle you feel a shiver crawl up your spine, your heart nearly beating from your chest when the back of his hand brushes your jaw in a mere whisper of a touch as he adjusts the knitted material.

There's a second where you both just stare at one another. It's not awkward. Nothing with Eddie has ever been awkward. But there is something. Something new, something tender, hovering in the small space between you.

“You have a little-” Eddie tugs his glove off with his teeth, leaving it hanging from his mouth as he reaches towards you.

He’s got a soft, almost hesitant smirk on his face as he swipes his thumb across your bottom lip; lingering longer than is probably necessary- though your brain seems to have stuttered to a stop the very moment his skin meets yours. The sensation of his thumb against your lip sends a bolt of electricity through you, lighting up every nerve and leaving you wired and on edge, like the slightest spark would upend your entire perception of this friendship; and it has.

“Uh-” his eyes widen a fraction, as though realising perhaps he has overstepped some unwritten boundary. The sound is muffled around the glove still hanging limply between his teeth. His cheeks flushed and his eyes dropping from your face as he slowly withdraws from you. “You had some cinnamon on your lip,” he mutters quietly, spitting the glove out into his hand.

“You know how I have my hot chocolate,” your words are a little rough, and definitely awestruck. You can’t remember ever telling Eddie that small tidbit. “And you met me out of work, to bring me my hat?”

Eddie shrugs, cheeks still a delicate red, “didn’t want you to be cold just ‘cause you’re forgetful.”

A hushed laugh escapes you, it's really no more than a quiet breath as your lips curve into a fond smile. Your eyes lock onto the way Eddie nervously moves his weight from one foot to the other, rubbing at the back of his neck like he doesn’t know what to do now.

There’s barely a moments hesitation as you raise up to your toes, pressing your lips to rough stubble decorating his cheek in the faintest whisper of a kiss.

“You’d make a good boyfriend, you know?” You tease gently, watching as he stumbles over his own words in an attempted response. “Think about it,” you say quietly, slipping your arm through his. The soft wool of your hat rests against his shoulder, his warmth spreading through to you as you silently walk with him down the street towards his van.

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Rude customers weren’t new. Hell, Eddie practically expected them. But today had just been something else entirely. It had started with the older woman who took one look at him. tattoos, rings, wild hair pulled back haphazardly, and decided she already knew everything she needed to know. Her mouth had pursed, her words sharp and clipped as she questioned his prices, his professionalism, his very presence behind the counter.

Then came the younger customer, all lingering looks and saccharine sweet laughter, leaning a little too close as he worked. She’d laughed at his jokes a little too hard, brushed her fingers against his arm like it was an accident, made it painfully clear she thought it might buy her a discount. When he shut it down, her smile curdled into something sharp, her voice turning clipped and nasty. She paid without another word and walked out without tipping, the door slamming hard enough to rattle the windows.

By the time he was cleaning up, counting the minutes until he could lock up and disappear, the universe apparently decided it wasn’t done with him. An older man pulled in just before closing, engine sputtering. Eddie had taken one look under the hood, already running through possibilities, when the man started questioning his competence. Each skeptical comment scraped against Eddie’s patience, wearing it thinner and thinner until he was gripping the edge of the hood just to keep himself from snapping.

Now, sitting in the van with the day finally behind him, all of it pressed down at once. The exhaustion, the frustration, the quiet, simmering hurt of never quite being taken seriously. Eddie dragged a hand over his face, smearing grease across his cheek, and exhaled slowly. He was home. Barely holding it together, but home nonetheless. Climbing the steps of the trailer felt like wading through wet cement, each creak of the metal stairs echoing louder than it should.

Normally, it was a motion he barely registered, muscle memory carrying him up without thought. Tonight, though, his legs felt heavy, like they might give out at any second, every step a reminder of just how wrung out he was. By the time he reached the door, his hand lingered on the handle, knuckles sore, breath slow and uneven. The door swung open with a familiar groan, and the dim, amber glow inside wrapped around him like an old blanket.

Wayne was right where he always was, slouched into the corner of the couch, eyes heavy from an earlier shift at the power plant. The TV murmured low in the background, some rerun Eddie wasn’t paying attention to. His eyes were already drooping, exhaustion from the power plant etched into the lines of his face, but they softened just a little when he saw Eddie step through the door. “Hey, kid.” Wayne called out, voice rough but warm.

Eddie didn’t trust himself to answer right away. He toed off his boots by the door, letting them thunk against the wall, shoulders still wound tight like he’d forgotten how to let them drop. Whatever irritation he’d been holding onto all day clung stubbornly to him, written plainly across his face. “There’s leftovers on the counter,” Wayne continued, nodding toward the kitchen. “Your girl came by. Dropped off your favorite.”

That did it.

Eddie’s stomach growled loudly enough to embarrass him, the sound cutting through the fog in his head. His gaze snapped to the counter, and sure enough, there it was. A plate of your famous homemade lasagna, wrapped in foil, waiting patiently like it had all the time in the world. The rich smell of tomato sauce and melted cheese hit him instantly, and his mouth watered despite himself.

He crossed the trailer in a few long strides, snagged a fork from the drawer, and dug in without hesitation, not even bothering to heat it up. He didn’t care. Warm or cold, it tasted like salvation. He ate standing there, leaning against the counter, fork moving almost mechanically as his body reminded him just how long it had been since he’d last eaten any real food that wasn't from a vending machine.

The shop had been slammed all day, customers stacked back to back, and somewhere along the line he’d completely blown past his lunch break. Each bite settled something in his chest, even if only a little. Still, the relief was bittersweet. Oh how he wished he’d gotten off early. Even just an hour sooner would’ve meant seeing you, your smile, your voice, the way you always made the trailer feel brighter just by being in it. Lately, your schedules felt like they were working against you on purpose.

His days were swallowed whole by the shop, late-night D&D campaigns, and even later nights playing at the Hideout. Yours were just as bad, with overtime shifts at Family Video stretching long past closing time, and on top of that, those ever-present college assignment deadlines. It gnawed at him more than he wanted to admit. Hell, at this point, even Steve Harrington had spent more time with you than he had.

The mere thought left a sour taste on his tongue that had nothing to do with the lasagna. He stabbed at another bite, jaw tightening as a flicker of jealousy curled low in his gut. He trusted you, completely, but it still stung, knowing someone else got to see you laugh, got to hear about your day, while Eddie was elbow-deep in engines and taking crap from strangers who didn’t know the first thing about him.

He swallowed hard, forcing the feeling down. Leaning back against the counter, fork resting on the edge of the plate, his eyes drifted toward the empty doorway of his room. Somewhere between the grease, the exhaustion, and the ache of missing you, the weight of the day finally began to settle. And for the first time since pulling into the driveway, Eddie let himself feel just how damn tired he really was.

“Night, Wayne,” Eddie muttered, the words leaving him in a long exhale, like even speaking required more energy than he had left. He didn’t wait for a response, already turning down the narrow hallway toward the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment he just stood there, forehead tipped forward, hands braced against the sink as he stared at his own reflection, tired eyes, shadows beneath them, jaw still tight with everything he hadn’t let go of yet.

The shower was quick and scalding. Water beat down against his shoulders, carrying grease, sweat, and frustration with it as it spiraled down the drain. He scrubbed until his skin felt raw, like maybe if he washed hard enough he could erase the day entirely. When he stepped out, steam clung to the small bathroom, mirror fogged beyond recognition. He pulled on his pajama pants and didn’t bother with a shirt, bare skin prickling as the cooler air hit him.

He moved on autopilot toward his room, exhaustion tugging him forward. More than sleep, his body craved comfort, something to quiet the static in his head, something to make his chest feel less tight. Normally, that comfort had your name written all over it. Tonight, he’d already resigned himself to the alternative. Weed would have to do. Slipped into his room he didn't bother flipping on the light, knowing every inch of this place by heart.

His feet navigated around clutter effortlessly as his hand reached for the spot where he kept his personal stash, fingers closing around the pre-rolled joint. Habit carried him forward as his other hand searched for his lighter on the nightstand. And then, he froze. His breath caught sharply in his throat as his shin brushed the edge of the bed, and his heart slammed hard enough that he nearly dropped everything in his hands.

There, sprawled across his lumpy, unmade mattress like she belonged there, because she did, was you. Nestled deep into his pillow, cheek squished adorably against the fabric, lips parted just enough as soft, steady breaths escaped you. Your chest rose and fell in a slow, peaceful rhythm that felt completely at odds with the chaos that had been rattling around inside his head all day.

Eddie rubbed his eyes hard with the heel of his palm, a shaky laugh threatening to escape as disbelief flooded him. He blinked once. Twice. You were still there. Still breathing. Still very, very real. You were dressed in his Hellfire shirt, the fabric worn thin and soft from years of use, hanging off you just right. Your legs were bare, clad in those barely-there shorts he loved, skin warm and familiar even from a distance.

The sight hit him square in the chest, knocking the air from his lungs in the best way possible. Everything inside him shifted all at once. The anger drained first, then the irritation, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming wave of relief that left his knees feeling weak. The day, the customers, the looks, the comments, all fell away like background noise. All that mattered was that you were here. You’d crawled into his bed when he wasn’t even home, made yourself comfortable in his space like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Immediately, he set the joint and lighter down, not even sparing a glance to where they landed on the cluttered desk. They made a soft, hollow sound as they hit wood, forgotten the second his attention snapped back to you. The craving in his chest shifted instantly, no longer a restless, jagged need to numb himself, but something gentler and far more powerful pulling him forward. He moved slowly, like the slightest wrong step might shatter the moment.

The mattress dipped as he carefully climbed onto it, muscles tense as he navigated around your sleeping form. You’d somehow managed to claim nearly the entire bed, limbs loose and unguarded, like this was exactly where you were meant to be. Eddie smiled despite himself, something soft and fond tugging at his mouth. As much as he told himself to let you sleep, to just lie there and soak in the fact that you were here in his space, the need to touch you was overwhelming. It was instinct. Muscle memory. Survival, almost.

His fingers hovered for half a second before they made contact, brushing lightly over your bare thigh. His breath hitched as his hand slid upward, slow and reverent, slipping beneath the hem of his own shirt you wore. His fingertips traced the curve of your waist, then settled against your ribs, feeling the gentle rise and fall beneath his palm. Further proof that you were really there. A breathy exhale slipped past his lips before he could stop it, tension bleeding out of him in one quiet rush.

He froze when your foot nudged against his calf, heart jumping into his throat. For a moment, he stayed perfectly still, barely breathing, afraid he’d woken you too abruptly. “Eds?” Your voice was soft, thick with sleep, but the sound of it sent something warm and electric straight through his chest. Your eyes blinked open slowly, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they found him. Recognition bloomed across your face, followed by the faintest smile.

God, he could’ve cried right then.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He murmured, voice low and rough, like it hadn’t been used for anything gentle all day. His thumb brushed unconsciously against your side, grounding himself in the feel of you. You didn’t give him time to say anything else. You shifted forward, closing the small space between you, one hand curling into the fabric of his pajama pants as you leaned in. Your lips met his in a kiss that was soft but deliberate, unhurried yet full of intent, like you’d been waiting all night to do exactly this.

The world seemed to tilt slightly as his brain caught up with his body. For half a second, Eddie just stayed there, stunned, before instinct took over. He kissed you back with a quiet hum, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, the other tightening at your waist like he needed the reassurance that you weren’t about to disappear. The kiss wasn’t desperate, but it was deep with everything he hadn’t been able to say, how tired he was, how much he missed you, how the day had chewed him up and spit him out until he’d walked into this room ready to fall apart.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, noses brushing as your breaths mingled in the dark. Eddie let out a shaky laugh under his breath, exhaustion finally catching up to him now that he didn’t have to hold himself together anymore. You shifted closer, legs tangling with his, fitting against him like you’d always belonged there. Eddie huffed softly, the corner of his mouth tipping up despite himself. “You’re a little bed hog, y’know that?”

You smiled into him, the sound more felt than heard, and burrowed closer like you were determined to prove his point. Your cheek pressed against his chest, warm and familiar, and he felt the tension he’d been carrying finally give a little. You kissed his bare collarbone, slow, unhurried, then drifted lower to the faded black widow spider tattoo. “Your car wasn’t in the driveway,” He murmured, fingers lifting to tuck a rogue strand of hair behind your ear.

His movements were gentle, careful, like he was still half-afraid you might vanish if he startled you. “Thought I wouldn’t get to see you until the weekend.” You cuddled closer at that, fitting yourself against him like it was second nature. One hand slid behind his back, nails grazing his skin in that slow, absent-minded pattern you knew drove him a little crazy, grounding and soothing all at once. The other threaded into his hair without hesitation, fingers finding their place like muscle memory.

“Steve dropped me off,” You whispered, as Eddie practically melted beneath your touch. His eyes fluttered shut when your fingers grazed his scalp, the sound he made low and involuntary. “Guess he and Robin were tired of me moping around.” That earned a quiet snort from Eddie, his chest vibrating beneath your cheek. He dipped his head and pressed his lips to the top of your hair, lingering there, breathing in the faint trace of your perfume mixed with the familiar scent of his sheets.

It grounded him in a way nothing else could.

“Shitty day?” You asked softly, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your fingers brushed beneath his eyes, light and careful, tracing the shadows there. He sighed, long and slow, like he’d been waiting all day for someone to ask. “Yeah.” He admitted, voice low. You didn't push, only hummed quietly, sympathetic, your thumb brushing his jaw. Eddie let his eyes fall shut for a moment, leaning into the touch.

He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was until now, until the adrenaline drained out of him and left only the ache behind. “But this?” He added after a beat, eyes opening to meet yours. “This helps. A lot.” You smiled at that, soft and sleepy, and settled back against him, head finding its place beneath his chin. Eddie wrapped an arm around you, holding you closer, like if he let go the day might come rushing back in.

Your breathing slowed first, evening out into a gentle rhythm that Eddie unconsciously matched. Every gentle inhale you took, every soft exhale that brushed against his skin, felt like permission, like the universe was finally giving him leave to drop the weight he’d been carrying all day. For the first time since pulling into the driveway, Eddie realized he could finally breathe without restraint, without that lingering edge of irritation and exhaustion gnawing at him.

Turns out, he didn’t need the joint tonight after all. The familiar haze of smoke, the escape he’d planned, suddenly seemed unnecessary. Right here, right now, with you pressed against him, soft and steady, filling every hollowed-out corner of his chest, he already had everything he’d been craving. All the comfort, all the peace, all the relief he’d needed was wrapped up in the warmth of your presence. And for Eddie, that was more than enough.

You immediately hear rustling on the other side of the door, and something clattering over. Probably another pair of poor sunglasses tossed dramatically to the floor. Typical.

And then, finally, the door swings open.

Eddie strolls out looking like a movie star, arms dramatically spread and gesturing down his body as he does a little twirl, evidently proud of his choice of clothing. 

“What do you think, sweetheart?” he asks smugly, like he’s not the reason you're about to miss an important event. “Check the fit.”

And oh, you check the fit. 

He’s dressed mostly in black, as per usual. Wearing an oversized velvet blazer, animal print satin shirt underneath, first buttons undone–obviously—a constellation of tattoos and a couple scars peeking under the fabric. Paired with slim, flared at the bottom trousers that hug him in all the right ways, and of course, some Chelsea boots. His silver rings match the chunky chain around his neck and the sparkle in his eyes. His lips are curled in that cocky smirk that drives you insane.

You want to slap him and jump his bones at the same time. Why does he have to look so good? 

You have to remind yourself that you’re mad before you start drooling and give yourself off too easily (which has always been a problem with him.)

So instead of snapping, you take a deep breath, shift your features into something deceptively sweet, and walk over to him. You brush a few pieces of lint off his shoulders, smiling up innocently, then place a hand on his chest, your diamond ring shining right over that rockstar heart of his.

“You look infuriatingly hot, baby,” you whisper, batting your eyelashes at him. “Maybe if we weren’t so…late, I would’ve probably sucked you off,” you shrug nonchalantly. “Anyways, what a shame.” 

And just like that, you turn on your heel, smirking as you catch the way his confident expression crumbles. You walk out of the bedroom straight to the grand spiral staircase, as he follows behind you desperately. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa–wait! Let’s not get ahead of ourselves!” He stammers, trailing after you like a lost puppy, but you don’t even look back. “Angel, we're not that late! We have time! You can still–” 

“Eddie,” you cut him off, right as you reach the end of the stairs. “We were supposed to take off an hour ago. You’re lucky you’re the one who rented the damn plane, and it can’t take off without you.”

“Well it’d be pretty stupid if they left, don’t you think?” He chuckles, but it dies down as you glare at him before turning around to walk across the foyer. 

But just as your hand touches the doorknob of the massive front door, he stops you.

“Okay–okay. Stop, sweetheart. I’m sorry, alright? I know I took too long,” he says, grabbing your hand gently. “But we’re gonna make it. I promise.”

You exhale, some of the frustration melting away as you look at his huge doe eyes. Eddie, your stupid, gorgeous husband who’s been touring arenas and taking you to fancy hotel rooms around the globe, and was supposed to fly you across the country to get there on time for Dustin’s high school graduation. The kid had stumbled over his words on the phone when he invited you, saying it was okay if Eddie was too busy with the band to attend. 

“I just…we can’t miss it, Eddie,” you say, voice coming weaker than you expected. “Dustin’s been through enough. He won’t say it but…he’ll never forgive you.”

Eddie steps closer shaking his head, squeezing your hand reassuringly. “And I’ll never forgive myself if we do.” He leans to kiss your forehead, then smiles. “Come on, let’s go make the kid cry.”

The door swings open to reveal your driver–who’s been waiting too long–in a sleek car on the driveway. Eddie gestures dramatically for you to step forward, bowing a little too low. 

“After you, my lady.”

You can’t help the smile that breaks through. It’s impossible to stay mad at him anyways. 

But of course, just as you’re about to slide into the car when he opens the door for you, he leans down, whispering hot in your ear. 

“Also…not that I’m rushing or anything, but maybe on the plane you can still suck me off or whatever you said back there.”

“Eddie!!!”

Hawkins, Indiana. Graduation ceremony. 

The car slows as it nears the parking lot next to the field of Hawkins High. The same field where you would lay on the grass with Eddie to make out under the bleachers like there was no tomorrow…until a coach kicked you out. You can already imagine today it’s dressed in classroom chairs and green/orange banners, with a small stage at the front and rows of bleachers filled with happy families near the entrance. 

Eddie already teased you twice on the way there for your wrinkled clothes and for touching up your swollen lips after suspicious activities on the plane. 

“Do I look decent?” You ask, fixing your hair, right as the car stops. 

He leans in from his seat, watching you with a smug little smirk. “Angel, you look wrecked in the best way possible.”

You swat his arm, but he just laughs as he opens the door. He steps out with that classic Munson flair–the same way he walks out to a red carpet now–turning around and extending his hand, bowing dramatically.

“My love.”

You slip your fingers into his, letting him help you out, gigging like you’re teenagers again. Except–a couple of years and hundred thousand dollars later. 

“My dear husband.”

His arm finds the small of your back immediately as you walk forward, and the warm Indiana air greets you like a nostalgic slap to the face. The summer heat, the cut grass, the distant cheers. 

God, it’s good to be back. 

As you walk across the parking lot you can’t even see the stage yet, but the speakers are loud and you’d recognize that tone anywhere. 

“…Screw the school. Screw the system. Screw conformity. Screw everyone and everything trying to hold you back and tear us apart…”

You both freeze. 

“That’s Dustin,” you gasp. “He’s doing his speech. Come on!!”

You pull Eddie’s hand, shoes stomping against the floor as you sprint toward the chainlink entrance of the field. 

“Hey hey, careful, sweetheart,” Eddie warns, jogging a step ahead of you to make sure you don’t faceplant the concrete. “Can’t have my wife tripping over, especially after–“

“THIS IS OUR YEAR!!!!” 

You hear the screeching noise of a mic slamming on the floor and the crowd goes crazy. There’s wild cheering, clapping, even whistling. You hear multiples “Holy shit!” and “No way!” 

“What the hell?” Eddie says, eyes narrowing as you both finally reach the gates. 

Your eyes land on the stage and there he is. Dustin fucking Henderson. Right up front and center, smiling like a maniac. Orange gown ditched and rocking a grey t-shirt with none other than bold black letters saying:

HELLFIRE LIVES. 

You arrive just in time to see him snatching the diploma from Higgin’s hand like a trophy, and flipping him off right after. Then, confetti goes off, raining down the stage. Dustin lifts his arms triumphantly as the graduates are on their feet, cheering like there’s no tomorrow. Someone in the crowd yells “HELL YEAH, HENDERSON!” 

You’re pretty sure that was Steve Harrington. 

You turn to Eddie slowly, speechless, and realize both of your jaws are hanging open. His eyes are locked on Dustin, glinting with that familiar fondness he always held for the boy. 

“My, my…Henderson, you crazy son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, matching the same devilish grin Dustin is rocking on stage. 

Eddie’s never been more proud of the little shit. 

You, on the other hand, could almost cry. Because this wasn’t just rebellion. This was special. This was a tribute.

A tribute to the club that welcomed him with open arms. A tribute to his friend Eddie Munson, who once swore that if he ever made it on that stage, he’d flip off Principal Higgins with pride. And Dustin did it for him. 

Back in ‘86, once the smoke had cleared and the military took over Hawkins, Eddie had been bed bound at the hospital with dozens of injuries and a long road of recovery ahead. This, plus the allegations of him being a satanic murderer, made it impossible for him to graduate high school that year. Higgins never gave him another chance to do so, and Hellfire was ruled as a forbidden club. 

Half a year later, Eddie was back to his full health, and he wanted to do nothing more than ditch school, get the hell out of that cursed town, marry the love of his life and fight for his dreams. It wasn’t easy to say goodbye to Wayne, who’d just lost his trailer and almost his son (well, his nephew turned son), but it was all worth it once Eddie got rich enough to buy him a nice house on the hills and flew him to any concert he wanted to attend (which was every single one of them.) 

So yeah, maybe you can’t help the tears that threaten to fall out after everything you’ve lived through with him. Eddie notices your shift, he always does, and his arm tightens around your waist as he brings you closer to him. 

“Still think we’re too late?” He whispers against your hair, still teasing but softer than he usually is. 

You shake your head, reaching up to brush your thumb over a small scar on his cheek.

“I think we made it just in time, Eddie.”

You and Eddie stay back for a little. 

From the edge of the field, still by the chainlink entrance, you watch Dustin bask in his moment. The crowd hasn’t stopped buzzing since his little stunt. People swarm the stage, clapping his back, hugging him, asking for pictures like he’s the rockstar here. His mom’s bawling. The kids are laughing so hard you can hear it all the way to your spot. 

You wait until the hugs stop, and most of the graduates scatter. That’s when you and Eddie start walking forward, but you don’t even make it five steps in before you feel the people craning their necks and start whispering around you. 

“Wait…is that–?” 

“Holy shit. That’s Eddie Munson.”

“The singer???”

“Wasn’t he, like, in a cult or something?”

“I heard he killed those kids back in ’86.”

“No, they cleared him, remember?”

You’re both used to all the attention at this point. So you keep walking. Heads held high. Designer clothing catching the golden sun as you walk in like a power couple. There’s even a pep in Eddie’s step. One that says he knows who the fuck he is now. That he’s back, and yes, he made it.

Every whisper is a reminder that he was never supposed to survive this long, let alone be here, with you on his arm, walking across this field like he owns the place.

So you do what comes naturally, you wrap your arm tighter around his, hugging closer to his side. Just enough to show him, and everyone gawking at you, that you’re here. That you’re never going anywhere.

Because god, do they look at you too.

Some with awe, because yes, you’re that girl. The one who followed him out of Hawkins and married the long haired freak who turned into a rock god. Some with surprise too, or judgment, or just plain envy.

“Oh my god she married him??”

“I heard he bought her a huge mansion in LA.”

“Look at her hair.”

“She’s so pretty. How the hell did he pull her?”

“He’s kinda hot too.”

“Sure, Jan.”

The last comment makes you chuckle. He didn’t just “pull you.” He earned you from the moment he introduced himself so nervously that he forgot he actually spoke the english language. And you earned him back with a soft laugh and those bedroom eyes he always claims you give him. 

But you forget all about the rumors as you spot Dustin by the stage. His back is to you, as he animatedly talks to Mike, Lucas and Will, arms flying in that signature Henderson drama. 

When the kids–God they’re all grown up, you should probably stop calling them kids–see you approaching, their eyes go wide in surprise. 

“What?” Dustin asks, confused. “What are you guys–”

He turns around, eyes going huge as he makes out the two figures standing in front of him. 

“EDDIE!!” 

His cap nearly flies off as he throws himself at Eddie as if he was a fifteen year old again. The kids stay back smiling, giving him the moment. 

“Whoa–shit–” Eddie barely catches him, stumbling back with a laugh, wrapping both arms around him tightly. “Jesus Christ, Henderson. You’re not a spring chicken anymore!”

Dustin laughs into his velvet blazer, almost crying from happiness. “You guys made it! You actually made it!!”

Eddie hugs him back just as hard, clapping a hand on his back, shaking his head. “You little bastard. You crazy crazy son of a bitch.” He pulls back, grinning like a devil. “That stunt with Higgins? Full on legend shit, my friend.”

Dustin shrugs nonchalantly, but he can’t stop grinning. You swear you see a little pink on his cheeks. “I was just honoring the person who taught me that being myself is a power, not a weakness.”

Yeah, that’ll do it. You’re crying now. 

Eddie’s grin falters just a little. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes do it for him. ‘Thank you, buddy.’

Dustin turns to you now, because if he keeps looking at Eddie there will be a lot more manly tears. 

“I’m so happy for you, Dustin. That whole thing on stage? It suits you. The spotlight. You wear it well.” You’re smiling so hard through the tears your cheeks hurt. 

Dustin beams at that. “You think?”

Eddie steps closer, reaching out to ruffle his curls. “Of course. I’m proud of you, kid. You know that, right?”

“I know.” Dustin nods enthusiastically. He’s smiling so hard you think he’s about to combust. “Oh my god, thank you for coming, seriously. I’ve missed you two so much.” 

Before you can even blink, this time he slams into you with a bear hug, squeezing so tight that you can almost feel your ribs crushing your organs. 

“Hey, careful, Henderson!” Eddie laughs, putting his hand behind you when you stumble back. “She can’t–”

“Eddie!”

This time Mike is enthusiastically hugging him from the side before going over to you more gently. 

“Dude you look amazing!” Luke chimes in, fist bumping Eddie and brushing your arm. 

Will just wraps him up in a silent hug, smiling in that soft, sweet way of his against Eddie’s shoulder. You can’t help it but mess with his bowl cut when you see the look on his face. 

“Alright, alright,” Eddie laughs, completely surrounded by his boys now. “What the hell–did all of you grow like a foot or did I fucking shrink??” He groans dramatically, holding Will by his shoulders and looking him up and down like a grandpa to his grandson. 

“Both,” Dustin snorts. “You’re getting old, man.”

You all laugh, but it doesn’t take long before the rapid fire starts with Mike. 

“Wait, how’s L.A.?” 

“When are you inviting us to your castle?” Lucas follows. 

“Is it true you made a song about Hawkins?” Will adds sheepishly. 

“No, that one was definitely about me.” Dustin says proudly. 

They, all in unison. 

“Do you still play D&D???” 

Eddie barely keeps up with all the questions, about tour life, the new album, the crazy parties, and that time he almost got arrested with the band if it wasn’t for you saving their asses. 

You watch them pile around him, laughing like they’re little kids again, even in their graduation gowns and big boy shoes and college letters waiting for them back home. It feels like no time has passed. Like 1986 was nothing but a bad nightmare you managed to escape from. 

Like Hellfire really does live. 

Inside all of you. With Eddie right in the center of it, holding it all together. Grinning like he never left. 

It’s chaotic. It feels like home. It’s so perfect you could cry another waterfall now because damn, you’ve missed them too, but you don’t get the chance before a hand lands on your shoulder, making you startle and turn around. 

Steve Harrington is there. Still unfairly handsome, rocking a brown suit and tie, with a pair of sunglasses hanging from his shirt collar. He looks like he has at least three kids, and a mortgage. 

And beside him, grinning like a maniac, is rockin’ Robin. 

“Harrington! Buckley!” Eddie beams, reaching for Steve first. 

“Guys!!!” You light up, already jumping into Robin’s arms.

“Oh my god, you guys look so hot!!” Robin exclaims, pulling you in. “Did you age backward or does LA just have different water?”

You laugh into her shoulder. 

Eddie is still hugging Steve in what feels like years packed into one tight embrace. Robin pulls away from you, immediately reaching to ruffle Eddie’s hair with a dramatic gasp. 

“Wow, still no shampoo, I see,” she teases. 

Eddie just grins. “Hair day is an event. Only happens on Wednesdays, Buckley.”

Steve shakes his head, turning to hug you. “You look amazing.”

You laugh softly. “So do you. Look at you, all…mature and stuff,” you say, gesturing between them when you pull away. 

“Yeah. Adult lives I guess. Had to leave everything to fly in this morning,” he explains, gesturing between them. “No way we were missing Henderson’s big day.”

Robin nods. “I cried twice already. Steve won’t admit it, but I saw his misty eyes too.”

Steve rolls his eyes but smiles anyways, then he claps Eddie’s shoulder. “Hey, we’re gonna hang with the guys at the WSQK. Let the kids do their thing, you know. You guys should come.”

You realize that the kids have scattered over, indeed doing their thing now that the high of the ceremony is wearing off. 

Eddie smirks, sliding his hand into yours. “Wouldn’t miss it, Harrington.” 

The sun is slowly hiding behind Hawkins silhouette, painting the sky in gorgeous hues of gold. The WSQK rooftop feels familiar. Feels like home as laughter between old friends fills the air. Nancy, Jonathan, Robin, Steve and the power couple. 

You’ve dragged out a bunch of folding chairs, and a couple of crates for a makeshift table. But you’re not sitting in your own chair though, you’re in Eddie’s lap, secured with his arm wrapped firmly around you as your body settles into his. 

Steve reaches into the red cooler next to him, fetching the first round of beers and passing them around the group. You’re at the end of the half circle, so he stands up to hand yours. He gives one to Eddie first. 

“Here you go, man.”

Eddie accepts it with a grin, already sipping the cold beverage, then Steve offers a bottle to you.

“Here. Got your favorite, if I recall correctly,” he says fondly, almost making you feel bad to say no to his hopeful face. 

“It is my favorite,” you smile softly, pushing it gently back with a shake of your head. “But sorry, Steve. I can’t.”

Eddie, without missing a beat, places his bottle on the floor with a clink. “I’ll take that one too,” he chuckles, welcoming the one meant for you with his free hand. 

All eyes land on you. 

“Wait. Wait. What do you mean you can’t??” Robin perks up on her seat, as Nancy squints at you. “What does that mean?”

You glance at Eddie, biting your lip. He’s already grinning like the smug bastard he is. He shifts behind you, straightening up slightly, his chest presses to your back as his arm slides lower across your waist, until his palm rests over your belly protectively. 

“Let’s just say…there might be a little Munson on the way,” he drawls dramatically. Of course he does. He’s so proud his eyes crinkle from how big he smiles. 

The next thing you hear is a mix of squeals, clapping and a few beer bottles being knocked over. Nancy and Jonathan are sitting the closest to you, rising up with their arms outstretched and surprised smiles, but Robin is the first out of her seat. 

“OH MY GOD, NO WAY!”

She’s sprinting full speed toward you before you even stand, and nearly tackles you as you rise off Eddie’s lap, squeezing you in a hug so tight it lifts you onto your toes.

“Were you guys not gonna TELL US? What the hell is wrong with you!” Robin scolds, but she smiles through every single word. 

Steve, Nancy and Jonathan circle you, patting Eddie on the back as they wait for Robin to let you go, muttering “congratulations” and “no way” in disbelief. You laugh shakily, feeling overwhelmed and absolutely loved. The damn hormones make you a crying mess again, tears stinging your eyes from how loud and pure it all feels. 

“Eddie, you're going to be the best dad!” Robin beams, slapping his arm. “I’m just kidding, you’re out of your depth, man. I fear for this child,” she jokes, and Eddie chuckles shakily through his own tears as she throws herself into his arms too. 

Jonathan finally reaches you, hugging you from the side. “Congrats, that’s amazing,” he says softly. 

Once he lets you go, Nancy cups your face lovingly. Her eyes are glossy too as she nods reassuringly. “You’re going to be the most badass mom.” 

You can’t even talk. All you do is nod and wipe the tears off your face as Eddie places a hand on your back to hold you up because he knows you can’t do it by yourself. 

“Alright, my turn!”

Before you can blink Steve scoops you up in a spin, lifting you off the ground and twirling you so fast it makes your laughter bubble out. 

“STEVE!” you squeal, holding onto his shoulders. “Put me down!”

“Nu–uh. I can do this all day!”

“Hey!” Eddie calls him out, placing a hand on his arm. “Okay, Harrington, that’s enough. That’s the mother of my child you’re spinning around like a record.”

Steve carefully sets you down, hands going up in surrender with a laugh. “She’s got the glow, man. I couldn’t help it.”

“She does,” Nancy agrees. 

Robin nods enthusiastically, eyes going up and down your figure. “You’re so annoying, look at your glow. No wonder you look so hot.” 

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks go hot with flustering.

“Well, I was gonna tell you guys later. We had a whole like…little thing planned and everything. But I guess it just came out,” you shrug. 

Eddie wraps his arms around you again from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“It’s better this way. Best surprise of the night,” he says. 

Robin wipes her eyes dramatically. “Okay, does anyone else have a secret baby I need to know about before I combust?” 

Nancy snorts. “Don’t look at me.”

You all laugh again.

Once the emotions settle, everyone goes back to their seats, warm from all the hugs and the joy and the fact that there’s gonna be a little Munson in the world.

You’re back in Eddie’s lap, and his arms are still wrapped around your waist, if anything more protective now, even among your awesome friends. The conversation and the beer keep flowing, as you sip from the can of soda Eddie went to fetch for you. 

“They have you teaching sex ED?” Nancy asks in disbelief after Robin slipped the fact like it was nothing. 

“Yeah. I teach about the miracle of life and how not to accidentally start it,” Steve chuckles, a pink tint taking over his cheeks. 

“You know I think some of those classes would’ve been useful for you two,” Robin says, pointing at you without missing a beat. 

“Oh no,” you smirk. “He definitely knew what he was doing the whole time.” 

The suggestive tone you use and the way Eddie buries his face on your neck to place a hot kiss make the group collectively groan. 

“You guys are disgusting," Robin scowls, pretending to gag. 

“Hey–be nice. The baby might be named after you.” 

“Really??”

“No,” you snort. Robin flips you off as the group laughs. “Though Eddie’s been trying to convince me to name the baby Dustin.”

Eddie chokes on his beer.

“Hey!” he laughs, face flushing red. “You didn’t have to throw me under the bus like that.”

You giggle. “They would eventually find out the name of our baby, honey.”

But he shakes his head. “Unbelievable. Betrayed by my own wife.”

“For the record, that’s gonna be my name for my firstborn, man! Get your own!” Steve says, pointing at Eddie. 

“Well. Dustin always thought I was cooler. He’d be honored.” Eddie smirks. 

Steve scoffs. “Please. Who knew him first?”

“Oh don’t bullshit me with that, man–“

“Oh my god,” Robin groans. 

Nancy sighs into her drink. “Here we go again.”

“Some things never change,” you say, smiling impossibly bigger as you place a kiss on Eddie’s cheek. 

“I just think it’s a beautiful, powerful name. Dustin Munson? That’s got a ring to it.” 

“Dustin Harrington has a better ring.”

“Are we just ignoring the fact that you don’t even have a firstborn to name yet, Steve?” Jonathan chimes in with an amused smile. 

“Yeah. What happened, Harrington? No nuggets yet?” Nancy adds. 

Steve laughs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “No. Not yet. But…who knows, Kristen might be the one.”

The group goes ooooh, making him blush further. 

Robin chuckles. “Didn’t you say that about the last five girls you dated?”

“Okay. That’s harsh, Buckley.”

She still goes on and mentions every single woman name she can think of. Which ends up being…a lot. 

Until Eddie speaks up. “Hey, come on Robs. Cut him some slack. When you know…you know. Right, Harrington?”

Steve softens in his seat, then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

Eddie turns to you, but you’re already looking at him. Your fingers are laced with his where they rest on your belly. You could almost melt looking at those glassy brown eyes. 

“…I always knew,” he adds, gaze never wavering. 

You don’t even have to say anything. It’s in your smile. It's in the way you slip your hand past the opening of his shirt. In the way you lean and bring him into a passionate kiss like it’s only the two of you and the little heartbeat under your skin that completes your world. 

Except. You’re not. The collective groaning makes you laugh into Eddie’s lips just as he slips his tongue past your lips. 

“You guys are disgusting,” Nancy rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. 

“I can confirm now I actually don’t know,” Steve chuckles, looking away at the sunset. 

Robin is a little more dramatic, flopping over the arm of her chair. “Boooo. I’m gonna puke. Stop it. Stop being so in love–it’s physically painful.”

You and Eddie just laugh as you pull back. You clean the smudge of lipstick on his mouth, as he plants a kiss on your shoulder. 

“Jealousy’s a disease, Buckley,” he says, flipping her off. 

Jonathan chuckles, shaking his head. 

Steve just raises his bottle. “To disgusting love.”

“To disgusting love,” you say, holding up the can, unable to tear your eyes from Eddie’s.  

It’s dark outside as your driver takes you to Dustin’s house, where he insisted you spend the night over before you had to leave the next day. You're wearing Eddie’s blazer, nuzzled against his chest on the backseat. 

“You’re quiet,” you whisper. 

“Just thinking, sweetheart.”

“…About what?”

He shifts in his seat, gaze set on the moving streets outside. “…About how insane today was. Dustin flipping off Higgins. The kids. Robin crying. Steve twirling you like a Disney princess. You crying. I mean…” He laughs under his breath. “Only in Hawkins, man. I’ve missed this”

You chuckle, “I’ve missed it too.”

“But.. I’m mostly thinking about you. And the baby. About…what happens next.” He’s still looking at the window, before he sighs. “You think we’ll be any good at this? I mean, logistically. Baby, I got a new tour coming, rehearsals, press, like shit, do I need to start adding lullabies to the tracklist?” He chuckles, masking the shakiness in his voice. 

You just reach up, placing your fingers on his jaw to gently make him look at you. “I think we’ll figure it out, Eddie. It’s not gonna be easy…but we’re kind of used to doing the impossible.” 

He nods. 

“I’m glad I have you,” he adds after a moment. “Because if they grow up seeing how you love, how you protect people, how you shine…they’re gonna be just fine.”

You stare at him. The streetlights roll past in soft waves, painting him in golden stripes and everything feels just…perfect. A few years ago you thought you could never have a life like this. But it’s here. He’s here. 

“Oh shit. Didn’t mean to make you cry again baby,” he says when he sees your eyes glistening, his hand travels to your cheek to wipe the tears away. 

“I’m okay,” you shake your head and reach for his hand again. “You just…you said everything I didn’t know I needed to hear.”

“I mean every word,” he gives you that boyish smile that would keep you up all night when you were back in high school. “This is our year, angel. I can feel it.”

You want to slap him and jump his bones at the same time. Again. Because he’s perfect. And stupid. And stupidly perfect. And he’s yours. 

Your Eddie. Your life. Your year. 

“Yeah. Yeah it is.”

Things had been on a stable incline in regard to how well your life had been since you made the mighty decision to be your little brother’s — Dustin Henderson — chauffeur to his table top fantasy game that came with its very own Hellfire merch.

It was that serious.

Eddie Munson had become a staple in your day to day. A man who yearns, is a man that earns; in your humble opinion. And, boy, had Dustin’s beloved Dungeon Master put in some elbow grease to keep the continuity of your budding relationship alive with a steady heartbeat.

No, things weren’t official.

In fact, there hadn’t been a time in which Eddie and you had a genuine moment alone.

The little brother curse fogged the time spent ogling the Metalhead. You had always assured the extent of Hawkins, Indiana, that your little brother was smart beyond his years. The hidden Einstein amongst a rotten bunch.

Unfortunately, Dustin’s intelligence came to an abrupt stop when required to read a room. Or expressions. Or anything remotely involving scarce moments between you and Eddie.

Eddie had the patience of a saint. White-knuckled patience and a stoic expression whenever Dustin — unbeknownst to him, apparently — interrupted his intentional advances with you.

It was evident in those Bambi eyes.

He was desperate. The eyes never lie.

And how Eddie ailed the desperation? By smoking a fat joint in his trailer.

Discarded clothes stuffed against the gap between the door and the flooring, so his uncle — Wayne Munson — wouldn’t catch the scent of a bad habit, Eddie would bask in the thick film of marijuana, eyes bloodshot and staring at the ceiling for answers.

Tonight was no different.

Eddie found himself in the same position. One arm propped behind his head whilst he pinched the joint in his other hand.

He took a long drag, eyes narrowed in false concentration; and exhaled.

“Oh man.” Eddie mumbled. Eyes pinned to the ceiling. “I’m going to call her.”

Her, as in you. The older Henderson sibling. The one that knocked the wind straight out of Eddie Munson’s lungs the first night that he discovered your existence. It was rare, that feeling that spread across his chest like a blistering fire. He finally understood the idea of butterflies in his stomach; although, he’d referred to them as bats eating at his stomach to keep it metal.

Eddie Munson was in love. And after 30mg of weed smoked through his system…you weren’t safe from not hearing about it.

So, the call came to the house around midnight.

The Claudia Henderson Curfew since the disappearance — and reappearance — of Will Byers was put into full effect. Chain slotted across the door, the fine China cabinet pushed just enough to block the front door from intruders attempting to get in.

“It’s as if we have an unjust bounty on our heads.” Dustin had said when you both watched your mother make it near impossible to escape during a hypothetical fire.

You’d both be sent to your rooms by nine o’clock with a cup of water and a prayer to make it through the night.

There was no question why anxiety struck the Henderson family tree.

You were perched atop of your bed, a book half read in your hand. You had just cracked the spine in order to stop the fight of the book closing mid-read, when the muffled ringing from the hallway phone started to feed into your bedroom.

There were two phones in the house. One situated in the kitchen — the cable stretched far enough to the table — and one in the hallway. Usually for emergencies. Claudia Henderson would allow the lift of the ‘Bedroom Curfew’ if you picked up the phone for an emergency.

You slipped out of bed, sock clad feet padded against the carpet in your bedroom. Brows furrowed, you unlocked your door and peered into the hallway.

Looked like you were getting a pardon on the curfew.

You reached for the phone as you leant back on the heels of your feet to stare at your mom’s door.

Huh.

You propped the phone against your ear. “Hello?”

“Hey.” Oh. There he was. He dragged out the Y’s and the smile was immediate on your face. “It is I. The Dungeon Master of Hellfire.”

You turned your body to the wall to muffle your laugh, “Eddie, I told you there’s a curfew on phone calls.”

“Yet, you still answered.”

“You’re abusing your privilege.”

Eddie hummed, “Privileges are meant to be abused. Or broken.”

Having the Henderson Household phone number was not something you had given to Eddie Munson lightly. He jumped through multiple hoops to get it, met with dead ends and a devious — but fucking gorgeous — smile from you with a tap against your nose.

Eventually, Eddie had to result in scare tactics. Dustin Henderson was hung up by the straps of his backpack, feet dangled with loud protests at his deliriously horny friend.

“It’s a house number, Eddie! Not crack!” Dustin had squealed.

He was severely wrong and ended coughing up the digits — which Eddie wrote on the palm of his hand before kissing it with glee — on one condition: Don’t take advantage.

That was then, and this is now.

Eddie Munson refused to conform to boundaries put in place by a minor.

“Where are you?” You asked when you heard Eddie take a deep inhale.

Eddie narrowed his eyes and smiled, “Just staring at the ceiling in my trailer. It started looking like you after the second smoke.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm. Beautiful.” Eddie blinked, “Rules my life.”

You twirled the cable around your index finger, “Huh. Sounds like an intense ceiling, Eddie. Can you handle that?”

That was one thing you undeniably excelled at…the Cat and Mouse game. Eddie being the Cat.

You heard the hitch in Eddie’s breath at your retaliation, the type of breath that wavered and had you grinning like an idiot at the floral patterns of the wallpaper your mom had thought twice about.

You’d give him a moment to gather his thoughts.

What he said next was not on your bingo card.

“What are you wearing?”

“Excuse me?”

Eddie sniffed, “Not like that.” He took another hit of his joint, “Hypothetically, if I turned up at your doorstep at—” He craned his neck to check his alarm clock, “Twelve o’clock at night. Would it be first date appropriate?”

You peered down at your mismatched pyjamas “Anything is technically first date appropriate.” You retorted.

“You’re in pyjamas.” Eddie stated for you.

“Yeah.” You drawled, “Your first date will just have to wait, Munson.”

As Eddie was going to explain, in great depth, about his plan for the reality of taking you out on a date, the phone crackled and a third person jumped into the call.

“Did no one listen to the Henderson Privilege Negotiation?”

“Hey, Dusty-bug.” Eddie sung.

“You literally cannot call me that, Eddie.” Dustin argued.

You sighed as they bickered, “Dustin. What are you doing? It’s past bedroom curfew.”

“Bedroom curfew—?”

Dustin interrupted Eddie, “Same question goes to you. I was just in the kitchen getting some snacks for midnight. Then, I heard your dulcet tone in the hallway and knew you were fraternising with my Dungeon Master.”

“Shit, Henderson.” Eddie laughed loudly.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, “OK. Don’t use my words against me. Can you please hop off this call?”

“I happen to like third-wheeling. Ask Mike.”

It was Eddie’s turn to jump in. He spoke your name lowly, “So, what are you really wearing?”

“Mother of god.” Dustin gagged, “I’m hanging up. I’m hanging up!”

“See you at Hellfire, Dusty-bug.”

There was a click and Dustin’s line went quiet. You heard his footsteps behind you, phone still propped against your ear, you turned to the side to see your little brother shaking his head with an armful of snacks for the night.

With a roll of your eyes, you turned your back to him. “I gotta go, Eddie. Bedroom curfew is a big deal in the Henderson house. I’m overdue a lecture. Even at my age.”

“Alright. Go be abide by the rules, goody-two-shoes.” Eddie yawned into the back of his hand, “But, please, tell me what you’re really wearing before you go—”

“Goodbye, Eddie!”

When Robin joined the group, she tried to warm you up more to it. Despite warnings from the group, whispers of she doesn’t like that, she’d continued to offer you her friendly physical affections as long as you reassured her it was fine. It worked, to an extent. You would now at least return the hugs received (even if it took you a few moments to do so), and you wouldn’t hold your breath at a friend’s head on your shoulder or lap. It was all baby steps — timid movements in the right direction, an accomplishment of letting your softness flow through your fingertips as you tried to adjust. 

Argyle also tried to wear you down. A casual arm around your shoulder in greeting, frequently sitting close enough to you on movie nights that your side would press into his as you both enjoyed the pizza he’d brought. You still froze, still struggled to thaw, but you never shooed him away. You’d only exchange a secret smile with him, a private acknowledgement between you two that you knew what he was trying to do, and it was okay. Maybe it would work. Robin had, after all, made some baby steps. Maybe Argyle could help you take fuller strides. Maybe, just maybe, this could propel you. 

The night you drunkenly braided Argyle’s hair had been a memorable success, but it never progressed past that. The roots remained, the timid natured reigned, and so your friend group simply celebrated what little victories they’d earned and moved on.

They’d accepted you may never be a touchy person. And that was fine — all that you lacked in physical touch, you more than made up for in every other avenue in expression of your fondness. 

Until Eddie.

The moment he’d joined your circle, Argyle and Robin were already exchanging knowing looks. Eddie was touchy; the boy was practically starved for it. Overexcited hugs as greetings and the way his hand would reach for the nearest shoulder when he was overcome with joy for the small things. He couldn’t sit alone during movie nights, he’d often lounge with his legs stretched out over the nearest laps, he’d jokingly cuddle into people without a second thought.

And even more than that, his touch was wild and burning. Embers never to be contained. He was overwhelming, they all knew this and so did he, and they feared that if he attempted to embark on the same journey that they had that he may scare you away. That all the baby steps in the right direction would become leaps backward, sending you right back to where you started. 

They couldn’t have been more wrong.

You’d first noticed that Eddie treated you differently, more restrained, during a movie night. Argyle on one side, a small empty space on the other. You’d witness everyone endure Eddie’s cinematic cuddles on multiple occasions, and amongst your roots had bloomed buds of wistfulness. A strange yearning every time he’d tuck his face into the neck of whichever friend was nearest, jokingly squealing how he needed them to protect him. They saw him as a pest (a lovable one, but still) — and you’d never wanted to be pestered more in your life. 

That small space beside you was the last open seat. You thought surely, he’ll sit here. You were optimistic at the likelihood of Eddie sharing your space, of feeling his curls tickle your cheek and neck, at his breath on your shoulder. For the first time in your life, you were painfully giddy at the prospect of someone touching you. When he entered the room with Jonathan, carrying bowls of popcorn and loudly telling everyone to turn on the horror movie chosen for the night, your entire body had buzzed. You would have leapt off that couch and crawled inside his chest right then and there if it wouldn’t have been so startling to not only him, but your entire circle.

He took one look at the empty seat, a pitiful excuse for space, and had paled.

Please sit next to me. Please, please, ple-

“Spread your legs, Harrington,” Eddie had suddenly bursted out, throwing himself on the floor in front of Steve at the opposite end of the couch, “I’m using your knees as collateral from Krueger.” 

He chose the floor over sitting at your side. And it ached. 

You were unaware of the spiel that Robin and Argyle gave him, the staunch warnings from Nancy, the (sort of) joking threats from Steve and Jonathan. Eddie Munson had been warned off from touching you, was obeying those warnings, and it just left you miserable. 

You didn’t get it. You didn’t understand — his choices nor your feelings. 

But that night, the burn of Argyle’s arm brushing your shoulder from where it laid along the back of the couch became overwhelming. Until you’d scooted yourself into that space you’d carved out for Eddie, and pouted, like a goddamn child.

Argyle assumed it was just a bad day for touch.

No one realized the yearning blooming within you. You’d never wanted to take a baseball bat to Steve Harrington’s shins more than when you watched Eddie Munson wrap his fingers around them and bury his cheek against them. 

The second time, it stung even more.

Months passed and the yearning never faded. You told yourself, over and over, this will pass. This is temporary, and it will pass. 

But it didn’t. The more time you spent with Eddie amongst your friend group, the more you craved the same casual touch from him that he extended to everyone else. He wouldn’t even brush past you in enclosed spaces — he treated you like a traumatized dog, bound to snap and bite him if he made the wrong move.

You fucking hated it. You hated that you hated it.

You’d gone years without needing touch, so you cursed that unexpected sting in your chest that night at the bowling alley. When Eddie rolled his first strike (and reported it was his first ever), he’d hugged everyone.

Everyone but you.

When it came to what should have been your turn for a bear hug, your mind was buzzing with adrenaline. This was it. You pictured him wrapping his tattooed arms around your chest, lifting you at least a little bit, swinging you a little due to the force of his affection. You were convinced his high off of the strike was going to make him forget his mission to never touch you. Maybe he’d be embarrassed after. Maybe you could finally offer a small smile that said it’s okay, I’m okay with it.

He only stopped dead in his tracks, arms freezing for a second before they dropped, his lips pressing tightly together before he let them spread back into a smile, and only lifted his brows at you excitedly. 

That’s it. That’s all.

Fuck. 

“That was pretty metal, Eddie,” you tried to egg him on, bouncing on the soles of your shoes a little, practically begging him with your eyes to just hug you. 

He’d been bashful, grinning and hiding his face behind a random curl, nodding, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it was.” 

If you’d known of the talks behind your back then that had ruined that moment, you would have wrecked absolute havoc on your friends. The need, the yearning, the want became impossible to handle. You used his strike as an excuse for him to cover your turn, saying he was on a roll right after exclaiming that if you didn’t go to the bathroom right that second, you’d piss yourself.

When you were alone in the stall, you’d silently screamed and tugged at the roots of your hair. 

You wanted him to touch you. You wanted him to catch you off guard in larger than life hugs. You wanted to feel every emotion that thrummed beneath his skin and you wanted to breathe in his cologne, to finally know how sturdy his chest felt beneath his shirt and if his rings really were as cold as Nancy always complained. 

You’d finally returned to the group, not able to have a full breakdown in the bathroom without worrying your friends with your absence. Subtly, you’d tried to tuck yourself into Robin’s side when you returned, sitting down a bit closer than you normally would have, just to fill the void. It was almost as if you were encouraging her to reach an arm around you, to let you curl up and press a cheek to her collarbone. Try to alleviate the need for human touch clawing its way through you.

“You okay, babe?” she questioned suspiciously when she felt you squished entirely up against her. There was plenty of space on the bench, there was no reason for your proximity.

No, you wanted to scream, I’m not okay. There is an itch beneath my skin right now that can only be scratched by the affectionate touches of the metalhead sitting across from us who’s joking with our friends, completely unaffected and unaware. He won’t even look me in the eye. And so now I’m trying to get you to just touch me, to just put a goddamn arm around me, to do anything to fill the gaping hole inside of me. But you can’t. 

It was an unfair situation to every single party and bystander involved.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lied. 

You can’t, because the only person who can fill this gaping void inside of me is Eddie.

You were the farthest from fine. You were in flames. And no one would understand it, least of all you, because this wasn’t like you.

You didn’t crave touch. You didn’t need it to survive. So, what the hell was this that you were feeling? 

The craving for Eddie’s touch evolved into something more, and that’s when you knew that you were surely in trouble. 

Audible denial only worked for so long. Festering, longing, and yearning could only be withheld for so long until suddenly, with your mind on fire and your bones aching to the core, you realized that it was more than wanting Eddie to reach out for you. The want became a two way street. More often than not, you find your hands to be fists at your side, shaking with the effort to not bridge the gap. 

After a year of friendship, he had had no choice but to occasionally brush past you. Touches that must have been fleeting to him, but lingered for you. They’d settle into your skin, tender like a fresh bruise, ghosting over you at night when you couldn’t sleep. It was more than just touch, at this point. You wanted everything from Eddie. The denial of his touch had led to you missing out on more than just hugs and movie night cuddles — Eddie didn’t joke with you as much as he did the others, didn’t always turn to you in crowded rooms for comfort, wouldn’t call you up if he was up late and bored like he would Nancy, Steve, Robin, Argyle, fucking everyone in Hawkins except you. The distance was unbearable.

Because you did. You did look for him at every quaint hang out. You did seek him out in every room you entered and you did resist the urge to call him when sleep evaded you. You could imagine his voice over the line, a lullaby over the receiver as he’d ramble about his day. It was like a poison, infecting those roots you’d long since made friends with rather than try to dig up. 

You were fucked. Plain and simple. You had a big, fat crush on Eddie, and for once in your life, you’d learned of the panging hunger to be touched. 

“Does Eddie have a girlfriend?” you asked as you sat with Robin at a diner, having completely zoned out with the conversation between her and Steve, lost in your daydreams, “Or boyfriend? Just- Is he single?” 

Both of your friends went dead silent, staring at you in awe.

Robin cleared her throat, but remained choked up until Steve spoke, “Uh, yeah. He’s single. Why?” 

The way your eyes darted down to the table of the booth you three occupy gave it away.

Robin suddenly squealed, “Oh my gosh! You have a crush on him!” 

“Do not!”

“Oh, you so do!” she grinned wildly, leaning in close, “Tell us everything — now.” 

“Eddie?” Steve’s nose scrunched up, “Really?” 

“I don’t have a crush on him!” you uselessly defended yourself, “I just- Look, no, I know that look. You can’t tell him or meddle, Robin.” 

“How would I tell him or meddle if you don’t have a crush on him?” 

Steve was still confused, and Robin’s eyes glittered with mischief. You would have been better off keeping your mouth shut. 

You noticed the way Steve had gone silent, pointedly sipping on his coke rather than looking you in the eyes. As if he had something to say.

“What is it?” you asked him, furrowing your brows, already defensive. A stark contrast to the light-heartedness you usually treat your friends with, “You’ve got something to say. Say it.” 

“I just…” Steve sighed, looking off into the distance, “I don’t know. It’s a weird pairing, y’know?”

Your stomach threatened to sink. “What does that mean?”

“You two are just… different,” he continued on, and your stomach really did sink. Right along with your heart, “I mean, he’s really big on physical touch — it’s definitely his love language. And you…”

You don’t like being touched. You actually hate it. Avoid it ardently.

The unspoken ending to that sentence could have shattered your bones that day. You knew. You knew.

You stayed silent, unsure of what else to say. You couldn’t find the words to explain the yearning that invaded your chest all those moons ago, you couldn’t physically bring their hands to your chest and force them to feel the hunger that had begun to eat you alive. You couldn’t scream at your friends, I can change! I can change! I can change!

“I think they’d make a cute couple,” Robin finally broke the tense silence. Steve looked a bit regretful, but you both knew he was right, “Besides, touching is overrated.” 

To emphasize her point, she scooted away from Steve until she sat on the very edge of the vinyl seat they shared, a narrow air of separation between them. 

You smiled and laughed, and so did Steve, but the fact of the matter still remained.

Your roots have been there since the beginning of time. And maybe, they ran so deeply that you were a fool for thinking you could ever excavate them. 

“I need your help.” 

Robin looks up at you shocked. You’d never looked quite so determined, so one-track minded as you did in this moment, right in Steve Harrington’s kitchen. 

“You need my help?” she nearly yells, fumbling with the empty bowl she was about to fill with chips, “Are you sure you need my-“

“Positive,” you cut her off, “I need your help because you didn’t laugh in my face when I said I liked Eddie.” 

Her shock fades, an awful trace of pity in her eyes as she looks at you, “Oh, hon — Steve wasn’t laughing at you. He’s just a dingus, y’know? Doesn’t always think before he speaks, but he has the best of intentions-“

You wave a hand, physically dispersing her words into the air. That conversation at the diner last week didn’t phase you anymore. In fact, it fuels you the more you think about it.

“I know, I know,” you reassure her, walking closer so you can lower your voice, “But he was right. And I’ve been thinking a lot about it.”

“That sounds dangerous. Whatcha’ been thinkin’ about?” 

This is it. Now or never. Once you say it outloud, even to just Robin, it was cemented in fact.

“It’s not that I don’t like being touched,” you blurt out, heart racing at the admission, “I just… I don’t know. I’m not used to it. It wasn’t something normal growing up. And… okay, no, this is not meant to be a depressing deep dive into my childhood,” you pause and scowl at the way her face contorts with even more pity, “I’m fine. There’s nothing to be done to change what’s already passed. My point is, I don’t want to stay this way. I don’t want people treating me delicately. I’m tired of you guys not feeling like you can just- fuck, I don’t know, hug me. Like you can throw an arm around me while we joke around like you do Jonathan. Like you can’t take the seat beside me at the booth instead of Steve. Like you can’t be clingy and beg me to play with your hair like you do Argyle when everyone’s smoking.”

Throughout your speech, the pity transforms. With each word, you only grow more passionate, because it dawns on you just how much you miss out on. Your friends love you, you love them — that’s not up for debate. But sometimes, you see those small touches between them, and you feel like an outsider looking in. 

“I know I freeze up and I know I get awkward,” your voice finally chokes up, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to silently curse yourself for finally letting all these larger than life emotions wrap around you, “I know you guys think I’m better off if you leave it be. But I’m not. I’ll never get over it if you guys don’t push me. I’ll never get used to it if no one ever touches me.” 

“We know!” Robin starts enthusiastically, reassuredly, “We know that! And me and Gyle really do try, but we just don’t want to make you uncomfortable-“

“Do it,” you stop her in her tracks, eyes not wavering from hers, “Make me uncomfortable. Put your head on my shoulder, even if it makes my breathing stop for a couple seconds. Grab my hand when we cross a street, even if my palm’s clammy. I can’t grow without a little discomfort, Robs.”

There’s a standstill in the air. A realization settles deep in your bones — growth. That’s what you were craving. Eddie had opened up something entirely new for you, cracked open an age old wound in your chest you’d been unaware of. It left behind a hole, and you’d been so preoccupied with yearning to fill it, you hadn’t seen that the solution was the most obvious one: you had to outgrow the hole. Not fill it with others, but with yourself. You couldn’t live forever as nothing more than roots, buried deep beneath soil and always hiding in their solitude. Eventually, you had to bloom. 

“Okay,” Robin nods slowly, taking in your words and the deep breaths that are following. It’s obvious how much this means to you, how much it’s been bothering you, “You’re right. But… you’ve just gotta promise us, if we get overbearing, that you tell us-“

“Not just you and Argyle,” your mouth goes dry. Because this is where the road was leading the entire time, this was the end destination in mind for the entire drive of this conversation, “I want… everyone to do it. I know Nance, Jon, and Steve aren’t as big on the whole touchy thing as you and him but…” your voice finally breaks, and you can’t look her in the eyes now as you whisper, “Eddie is.” 

There’s a light behind Robin’s eyes that you’ve never seen before, but you can’t even bear witness to it, eyes zeroed in on the shiny packaging of the chips on the counter, “So this really is about Eddie?” 

You could keep denying it. Pretend like the boy hadn’t watered the first sprout that caused this entire revelation, like he hadn’t been the first to shine a light on all the things you’d ignored for years. But he was. He had built a fire inside of you without even realizing it, just by tending his own embers. 

You take a deep breath, “It’s like it burns him to touch me. Even just shuffling past me. I don’t think he’s ever sat beside me when we all hang out. I don’t… I don’t even know what he really smells like, Rob. Besides the weed and cigarettes when he smokes with you guys. How fucked is that? I’ve known him for a year and I couldn’t even tell you what kind of cologne he wears. Isn’t that… that’s weird, right?” 

“You know the things that matter, though, don’t you?” 

It hadn’t occurred to you, that perspective on the matter. “I… guess?”

“Tell me about him. Tell me about Eddie.” 

The others will be worrying about how long you two are taking in here soon. Eddie will probably be arriving with Argyle soon. But Robin waits patiently until your eyes finally find hers again, and she lifts her brows, encouraging you to tell her about your mutual friend as if she’s never met him. 

And so you do.

Once you start rattling off the minute things you noticed, they pour out of you, watering away at that once withered crush. You tell her about his favorite music, an easy thing to know about Eddie when he’s so loud and passionate about it. You tell her the first song he ever learned on guitar, Little Things by Willie Nelson. It had been encouraged by how much his Uncle Wayne enjoyed the singer. And he’d learned it on a worn acoustic guitar from his uncle. He’d never even performed it in front of the man, always either too choked up or too embarrassed for an audience. You tell her how his favorite subject in school was history, because it always gave him ideas for his DnD campaigns. His favorite color is red, deep and pulsing and eye-catching. The same shade of his electric guitar, lovingly nicknamed Sweetheart, but actually named Elvira. He’s a picky eater, probably the pickiest of your group, and yet also will eat just about anything the moment you propose it as a dare. He knows what he should do to take care of his curls, he just doesn’t, probably due to preferring to take his showers at night. He’s complained of falling asleep with wet hair more times than you can count. He had a lisp as a little kid. He buys a new mug for Wayne every Christmas, and the man acts surprised every year, as if he never saw it coming. He likes sour candy best. He hates movies where the dog dies. He loves musicals, and he would sooner die than admit that to the rest of the group. 

All devilish details that Eddie had revealed to you at some point or another, over drinks and over quick cigarettes. Over random bursts of trust and rare moments alone.

By the time you’re done with your rant, Robin is just smiling.

“God, you really like him,” she murmurs, looking across your forlorn face, as if each piece of him that you’d handed over willingly had actually been forcibly torn from you. As if it hurt to share him. 

You take another deep breath, and you can breathe a little bit easier, but you still feel the wisps of your roots still dug stubbornly into surrounding ground, “Yeah. I really like him.” 

A plan is devised. It turns out Robin was the perfect person to approach about this, because she has no shame — she’s willing to seem like a ‘bad friend’ for the sake of helping you reach your goal.

The first step is to guarantee that no matter what, Eddie sits next to you during the movie. 

The best way to accomplish this is to not make it a seat only beside you as you had that first time he’d rejected you, but between you and another person. Because then, if Eddie was still adamant on not indulging you, he’d have someone else to cling to. For now.

The second step would be for you to leave for the bathroom right before you all started the movie. Leave the room, leave all your friends to be gathered without you so that Robin could make an executive call with them all. She would bring up the fact that they all should try to push you a bit more with the entire notion of physical touch, that it’d be good for you, that you’d brought it up casually rather than as dramatically as you really had. 

During her explaining of this part of the plan, you discovered the conversations already had behind closed doors about this topic and you. 

You couldn’t even blame your friends. You were irritated, but it would pass. They couldn’t change it now, but Robin could help undo what those seemingly beneficial conversations had done. The distance it had created between you and Eddie.

“Who should be on the other side of Eddie?” you ask once you two have your plan and full bowls of snacks. 

“Me,” Robin declares, “I have a plan there, too. We’ll sit side by side at first, take up enough space on the couch so that Eddie thinks he doesn’t have a seat. Just trust me and play along when the time comes, yeah?” 

You nod.

There’s a knock at the door, perfect timing as you and Robin sat down the bowls of snacks on the table, ignoring Steve’s expected complaint of how long you two took. He runs off, going to let Eddie and Argyle in, as Robin takes her seat on the couch. 

Nancy and Jonathan are curled up on the loveseat. Steve had been sitting at the end of the couch that normally could easily seat four. Argyle’s favorite recliner was wide open, and you both knew he’d be jumping into it once he came to the basement. Everything was set perfectly.

Robin manspreads, an entertaining sight but one that forces you to try and do the same, lounging across the remaining space of the couch as casually as possible to make it seem as though another person could absolutely not fit.

You pray to God her plan works.

“Hello, brochachos!” Argyle yells as a greeting when he bounds down the stairs, immediately tossing a box of snow caps in Nancy and Jonathan’s directions before doing exactly as you and Robin had predicted, “Oh, fuck yeah! You guys saved my favorite chair for me!”

He specifically winks your way, as if you had been the one to do so. And you had, technically, but you appreciated that small effort to greet you specifically. 

You smile at him, shaking your head lightly as he throws himself down roughly. You can only imagine how on board he’ll be with Robin’s suggestion.

Argyle’s energy had you wondering if the boys had even smoked as they usually did before arriving, his eyes hardly pink rimmed and his smile not quite as dopey as usual. It became clear that they had smoked, but one of them had likely babysat their shared joints, when Eddie descends into the doorway behind Steve.

He’s all half-lidded eyes, lazy grin, comfort wrapped up in a worn band shirt and sweats. 

Yes, you wanted to break this stubborn boundary of yours with all your friends, but as you earned your first glance from Eddie, you knew that he would be the greatest reward. You don’t even care if the crush aspect of the entire ordeal never comes to fruition; you’d just like to imagine burying your face into his warm chest like you are now, and not feel weird about it. Not worry if he’ll push you away or be uncomfortable, or taken off guard, by it.

“Hey, losers,” he greets in a rough voice, no doubt gravelly from how much he might have smoked. 

You share a quick look with Robin, worried. High Eddie was always extra affectionate, but wouldn’t it be wrong to use that against him? Maybe you two should try another night, postpone the plan for another movie nigh-

You hadn’t even noticed that Steve had taken his original seat back and Eddie was glancing around the seating arrangement, seemingly lost, until Robin was suddenly shoving at you, “Babe, I love you, but scooch. C’mere, Eds. I’m in a cuddly mood.” 

And oh, that hurt. Which is why you suppose she didn’t tell you what exactly this part of the plan was. That hurt needed to break through your face, even if only for a moment, so that when you left the room, it made sense to discuss. 

Argyle catches that micro-expression the moment it graces your features. Even furrows his brows in response. Eddie even opens his mouth to argue, but you move too quickly for anyone else to comment.

You fumble with pulling up your body, scooting over as she requested until there was an Eddie-sized space left between the two of you. When Robin opens her arms wide, Eddie has no room to argue. 

“Well, if you insist, Buckley,” he teases, stepping carefully, hesitating for a second as he glances back down at you. Even through pink tinged eyes, you catch a flash of concern. “I’m always down for some cuddles with my favorite girl.”

And that also stings, reverberates like a slap to the face that had landed just a little too harshly. 

Robin scoffs, muttering a stern correction of, “Platonic cuddles, dipshit,” just as Nancy also laughs from where she’s tangled with Jonathan.

“Didn’t you say I was your favorite when I bought you a coke last week?” 

He probably did. He constantly made those jokes with Robin and Nancy. He never made those jokes with you. 

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t about respecting boundaries for Eddie. Maybe he just didn’t like you-

“You both wound me,” he sighs out as his body lands directly in that space you and Robin had organized, clearly favoring being close to Robin so that his thigh wouldn’t rub against yours, “I’ve officially changed my mind.” 

It almost happens in slow motion. Slowly, carefully, he lazily turns his head towards you, lips half lilted as his eyes sparkle in your direction, tongue darting out between his teeth before he drawls, “You’re my favorite, now.” 

For the first time in a year, you’re very clearly smelling his cologne, and the look in his eyes is setting you ablaze. The softness you are so used to bargaining out is being returned, an expression so delicate being aimed at you that you don’t know what to do with it. Senses overwhelmed with something woodsy, something musky, and something yearning. 

“How charming,” Nancy muses, leveling you with a soft and amused look. Not nearly as gooey as the look Eddie had given you, but still adoring, “Don’t listen to him. Clearly, he says that to everyone.”

“Yeah, but I mean it this time,” he argues. 

“Sure, you do,” Steve laughs from his end of the couch, “She’s not gonna go grab you a soda just because you’re kissing ass.” 

“Hey, you know what?” Argyle sits up in his chair, leaning towards you and pointing his finger in your direction, “You really are my favorite, and I’m a man of my word.” 

“I’m not getting you a soda, either, Gyle,” you flatly joke, narrowing your eyes.

He pours briefly, but shrugs, “Fair enough. I meant it, but fair enough.” 

On a limb, you stretch out a hand, and deliver a gentle smack at his hand still hanging limply in the air between you two. Robin is watching on proudly as Argyle looks taken back.

“Shut up,” you giggle, shimmying in your seat to get more comfortable. 

Eddie looks wildly around the room, completely stunned, wearing a look of betrayal, “What, you guys don’t believe me? She really is my favorite!” 

Lord only knows you were melting into the cushion of that couch. You weren’t used to this amount of attention, certainly not from Eddie, and certainly not so clearly in front of your friends.

If you could hardly handle his words of affection, how would you handle his touches of affection? 

“I believe you,” you finally say. Something in your mind screams at you, tells you now is your chance. All you’d have to do is shift your knee, and you could bump it to his in a joking manner. The perfect excuse. The perfect guise. You stare at your two knees for an eternity, though, and before you know it, the moment has passed. 

The ache echoes out across the hollow of every bone inside your body as he smiles, satisfied with your response before everyone moves forward with conversation.

You hate yourself. You should have bumped your knee to his. 

You don’t hear a single word exchanged amongst your friends. All you can hear is the roar in your ears that scorns you for another missed opportunity. 

Now is as good as ever to enact the second phase of the plan. 

“I’m gonna head to the bathroom before we start the movie,” you announce, standing a bit suddenly but trying to keep your voice even so it doesn’t seem to Eddie that his words had made you uncomfortable. They didn’t. They’d only fed that hunger, making you suddenly need more. It was your own stupid indecisiveness, what you didn’t do, that was upsetting you. 

Robin looks up knowingly, “Sounds good. Don’t miss me too much, babe.” 

Babe. Another thing your friends sometimes didn’t include you in — all the pet names, all the terms of endearment. It makes you smile. 

If anyone thought you might be rushing out due to the entire conversation that had just taken place, that smile would erase all their fears.

“I always miss you, baby,” you cockily reply, making a joking kissy face in her direction to seal the flirtatious manner of the interaction. 

Steve looks pleasantly surprised, Argyle is clearly mentally cheering you on, and Nancy looks plainly proud. 

But Eddie is looking up at you, doe eyes almost… sad. 

You try not to think of it too hard. 

You try to take your time once you reach the top of the stairs, rushing up but slowing as you walk to the bathroom.

You didn’t really need it, obviously, and you highly doubt anyone will be listening in on your footsteps above once Robin proposes the entire debate of it treating you so fragile anymore. In the middle of the hallway, your mind is made up. Instead of continuing on to that bathroom, instead of hiding away and feeding into the panic attack currently brewing despite your full faith in Robin, you retract to the kitchen.

This is what you wanted. You want more than to just offer soft words and soft motivation, you want more than to be seen as the friend with a heart of gold, as the pedestal Argyle constantly puts you up on so eloquently. You want to be felt as it, too. 

To give Nancy well-deserved hugs when another one of her publications receive recognition, to give Steve’s hand a firm squeeze when he’s confiding in you about his home situation and the loneliness that follows. You want Robin to hide her face in your shoulder for safety during jumpscares and you want to occupy that recliner with Argyle when you both decide to succumb to snacking while your friends endlessly debate where you should all have dinner, making whispers of commentary jokes before Jonathan would decide to sit on the arm and join you two in the audience as he gave up the battle for Nancy’s sake.

You want Eddie to touch you. You don’t even care how at this point. You want brushing shoulders and knocking knees, you want knuckles bumping into each other on the street and you want him to cling to you when it gets late and he’s tired, but not too tired to keep himself surrounded with his favorite people. You want to truly be his favorite. Favorite person, favorite hug, favorite conversation. 

God, you want it so bad that your seams nearly burst. Your composure nearly breaks. 

What if he doesn’t want that? 

The moment your footsteps on the stairs have vanished, Robin springs into action.

“Okay, group meeting,” she says, clapping to garner everyone’s attention. Eddie jumps slightly at her side, Steve offers her a side-eye, and Nancy shifts her entire body in Jonathan’s arms to look at her fully, “We need to talk about her.” 

She doesn’t even have to say your name.

Unfortunately, Argyle takes it the wrong way, nearly leaping out of his chair, “Her? Nah, dude, we need to talk about you. Why would you shove her around like that? I bet if you had just asked politely, she would have cuddled yo-“ 

“Oh, I know she would have.” 

Everyone’s attention is now sharper on Robin.

“Yeah? Then why did you just toss her to the side for Ed-“ Argyle starts up again, and once more, Robin is quick to interject.

“Because she needs the push,” a slight lie, but small enough in the grand scheme of things, “We’ve gotta stop treating her like she’ll shatter if we touch her.”

Nancy finally moves to full sit up, face full of concern, “Robin, I get what you’re saying, but she’s never been the touchy type. And that’s okay. We’ve never minded.”

“What if she minds?” Robin persists. She hasn’t failed to notice Eddie’s silence, and turns to him, focusing her attack and determination, “Have you ever even sat beside her before tonight?” 

Eddie’s eyes widen, “You guys told me to take it easy at first! And I did, but I- it would just be weird now to change, wouldn’t it?” 

It’s in the way he says it. Not just as if he’s keeping your best interests in mind, but as if it pains him to say it. As if the worst possible thing would be to admit that things should stay the same.

It’s Robin’s in. A falter in his cool guy exterior he only seems to care about maintaining for you.

“She wants it to change,” Robin quietly confesses. Another half-truth, “Me and Argyle never fully got through to it, but we also… we just gave up on it. Like he was saying, if I pushed tonight, she would have said yes. But Eddie has never pushed her.”

“Where are you going with this, Robs?” the one person who could blow this speaks up. Steve, the man who had been there at the diner and heard your practical confession to liking Eddie.

Don’t blow this, Dingus.

“I think we take the leash off of wolf boy, here,” she jabs a thumb in Eddie’s direction, “Lay him on her.”

“I don’t want to make her uncomf-“

“You won’t. And if you do,” Robin remembers your speech from earlier. Those wet eyes and the way your voice cracked at the prospect of growth, “It’ll be good for her.”

He’s not convinced.

So Robin pushes, because she made a promise to you to aid in this self-gardening journey, and damn it she was going to keep her promise, “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. You being the dog in this metaphor might be the wrong choice, considering how she looks like a kicked puppy every time you don’t sit next to her.” 

A bit harsh, but the truth. You were always brimming with such hope when Eddie entered the room, only to wilt when he kept up the same exhausting routine of avoiding you. 

“She does?” he’s clueless, a goddamn blinded fool, “I- Gyle, does she really?” 

Eddie looks to his friend for backup, but Argyle only shrugs from his seat, “If you don’t give the poor dudette a hug tonight, I am. If Birdie here is being honest, and she wants it, then I’m first in line. She’s way gentler on my scalp than all of you.” 

“You just want your hair braided by her again,” Jonathan pipes up finally.

“So?” Argyle defends, “That shit stayed. My little skittish friend does not come to play when it has to do with hair.” 

They all fall silent, holding their breaths and listening for a moment if you’re heading back down to them. 

The house is a ghost town from above.

“I’m just saying,” Robin finally whispers, keeping her tone low and gentle, almost defeated, “We can’t put her in a box. She told me she’d like the change, so I’m changing. She’s a big girl. She can handle it. Besides, she smells really good.” 

Robin gives Eddie a pointed look at that, and sees the pink that rushes over the bridge of his nose and up his neck.

You had no idea. No fucking idea. But she did. She’d watched Eddie withhold himself, she’d caught the longing glances, and she’d listened to his endless rambles about you. 

“Okay,” is his quiet reply just before your footsteps sound on the stairs. 

When you appear in the doorway, you’re holding three cans of coke.

“I bring gifts for taking so long,” you offer, holding up one of the cans as you cradle the other two in the ditch of your arm, extending it to Argyle as you pass by him.

He takes it greedily, appreciation loud and unfiltered, “Thank you dudette! At least someone here loves me.” 

You turn your eyes wide as moons, almost comical, fighting back a smile, “Oh? Were they being jerks while I was gone?” 

“You have no clue.”

A warning glare comes from Robin.

Even if you were in on the plan, it was dangerous territory. 

When you approach the couch, Robin sees the first sign of the plan working when Eddie doesn’t shift out of the comfortable position he’d sunk into. He isn’t jumping to leave an entire cavern for you. He’s leaving just enough space for you, enough that when you sit, you’re closer to him than you were before the bathroom.

Baby steps. Silently, she is screaming at him to keep it up, all while your brain bursts into flames.

He didn’t flinch away. He didn’t shift to be further from me.

Whatever Robin had said was working.

“Movie time?” you ask as you settle into that comfortable space, the unfamiliar yet indulgent warmth of Eddie’s body heat now wrapping around you. 

Your roots stretch, apprehensive, but desperate for that sunlight. 

It’s one of your group’s usual scary movies. You enjoyed horror, and could handle your own pretty well. If you ever got too scared, you’d usually cling to pillows or blankets that you were left with rather than another person as the rest of the group would. But there were no pillows, no blankets, no security cushions aside from the boy sitting between you and Robin. 

When you hand him his coke, his fingers brush yours, and you don’t pull back immediately. Baby steps.

When the first tense moment appears on screen, Eddie mutters a soft “shit” and jumps a little, leaning more into your space rather than Robin’s, lifting some of his curls to curtain his eyes.

You glance at him rather than the screen, narrowing your eyes in the dark, “Does that really work?” 

Eddie looks at you quickly at your whisper. Normally, everyone scolded him to be quiet during movies, never entertaining his small comments.

You weren’t the only one taking baby steps tonight.

Tentatively, he drops the curl blocking his vision, before grabbing a thicker one, boyish grin as he offers it to you shyly, “Wanna find out?” 

“She’s here!” Argyle shouts as he opens the front door to you, hardly giving you warning before he’s leaping forward and gathering you into his arms, nearly crushing you into a hug.

Warmth. Tender. Softness.

Argyle’s hugs are always bone-crushing, and always welcome. And they always linger as he leaves his arm around your shoulder to guide you into the foyer and shut the door behind you two.

“She is?” another voice shouts as she comes barreling out into the entryway, greeting you with an excited squeal as she rushes forward to pull you out of Argyle’s arm.

Robin. 

She’s dressed up for the night — an impressively well put together Robin outfit, complete with yellow spanx and a black mask across her eyes.

“Jesus, Robs,” you laugh as she tightens her arms around you, almost as if she was trying to crush any bones that survived Argyle, “I can’t breathe.” 

“Don’t care,” she mumbles into your shoulder before pulling back, “Nice costume.” 

A bat onesie. Cheesy, but comfortable, and warm enough to battle against Hawkin’s autumn chill. It’s even complete with a headband that has two small, perky ears attached to it, peeking out between tufts of your hair atop the crown of your head. 

“Thanks. Wait till you see the killer fake teeth I packed.” 

“Eds will be pissed if your fangs are better than his,” Argyle notes as he starts to walk into the living room. You follow, Robin close behind, to find the rest of your friends all waiting.

A scary movie is already on the TV, a classic slasher revealed by the high pitched scream that rings out into the room from it. There’s a few indoor decorations about — plastic jack-o-laterns and fake webs that will no doubt give Steve hell when he tries to take them back down — and you can see a punch bowl on the counter by where Nancy and Jonathan reside. 

And the man of the hour is lounging on the couch, a high mountain of pile already in front of him on the table as he munches on a family pack of candy corn. 

“Eddie, isn’t the candy supposed to be for trick or treaters?” you question teasingly as you make a beeline for him. His previous focus on the movie vanishes, full attention now on you.

He’s dressed like a vampire. If the cape didn’t give it away, that small blood line marked from his lower lip in a shade of lipstick you would guess he borrowed from Nancy does.

“I am a trick or treater, sweetheart,” he retorts, popping more candy into his mouth for emphasis, “Besides, Harrington has full-sized candy bars.” 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

He snaps his jaw closed jokingly, the clicking of his teeth making you huff out a laugh as you collapse next to him. 

That woodsy cologne is there, one you’re so happily familiar with these days. 

Unlike Argyle and Robin, he doesn’t greet you with an overwhelming hug, or palpable excitement. His way of greeting is more subtle. His arm slowly lifts, going to rest on the back of the couch behind you, but quickly falling to your shoulders when you waste no time scooting closer into the space he’s opened up in his side.

You fit kind of perfectly. Like a void always meant to be filled. 

“So, Dracula,” you hum, warning your beating heart to slow from its racing when his palm cradles your shoulder farthest from him, “What are we watching?” 

Baby steps were a thing of the past for most of the group. They had become great leaps of faith after that fateful movie night. The way Argyle and Robin had crushed you was normal now. Passing touches and flirtatious jokes were regular between you and your friends. They had seen your boundary for what it really was, a roadblock, and bit by bit, they had broken it down. 

Eddie’s hesitation isn’t because he can no longer touch you. His hesitation whispered of something more, something different, something still delicate. Just as delicate as the fragile wings of the butterflies in his stomach that fluttered to life every time you entered a room. 

They weren’t new. And you still didn’t know they existed — that they had always existed. From the first moment he’d met you.

“One of the Halloween movies,” he tells you, leaning down to keep the conversation more private.

You felt his breath on your ear.  A new touch that happened more frequently now. One you sought after almost as vehemently as you had those first few points of contact. 

“Oh?” you play along, staying hushed, “How fitting.” 

“Very.” 

“I’m surprised you didn’t make them put on a vampire movie. You know,” you cut off, and motion to his costume. You bump your knee to his as you do it, “Given your attire.” 

“Zee night iz ztill young,” he puts on an obnoxious accent meant to mimic Dracula himself, pronouncing all his ‘s’s as ‘z’s.

You only smile, wide and generous and soft and tender, before you lift a hand to punch at the flared collar of his cape. You don’t even hesitate, not even when your knuckles brush the side of his neck.

“Pretty killer, right?” he jokes, trying to ignore the warmth flooding his cheeks.

“Very,” you hum in approval, hand dropping as you lean back into the heavy warmth of his arm around you. You almost reach the hand up to his bottom lip to trace that makeup there, slightly smeared and edges rugged already from his snacking, but you do withhold yourself at that line, “I like the makeup.” 

“Yeah?” he lights up with pride, “You know, I did the eyeliner all by myself.” 

You squint pointedly, leaning in just an inch closer to inspect the feathered charcoal on his waterline, “Really? Very impressive, Eds.” 

“Stop flirting,” Steve demands as he leaves the kitchen, “You’re going to give him a bigger head than he needs.” 

You both break apart slowly, letting space settle between you two and slowly fading back into the real world and out of that little bubble between you two. Eddie’s arm remains — his palm never leaves you, going so far as to give you a playful squeeze as his finger trails down your bicep.

A pathway of spring roses feels as though they bloom along that trail. Vibrant, full of life, open to possibility. When it came to you, Eddie had one Hell of a green thumb. 

“Stop ruining the fun, big boy,” Eddie looks up at your friend, poking his tongue out as his nose scrunches. Adorable. Painfully so.

Steve is dressed as Batman. His mask is discarded somewhere on the counter beside the punch bowl.

“We have plenty of time for fun,” Steve waves off the comment, coming to stand in front of the TV with his hands on his hips, “Am I forgetting anything? I have candy for any kids that come knocking, we’ve got punch thanks to Nance, I ordered our pizza-“

“You better have ordered one with pineapple,” Eddie interrupts, tilting his head sideways in your direction, temple brushing against one of your fake ears, signaling how it was your favorite. You burrow yourself deeper into his touch.

Steve subtly ignores him, “-I have the big speakers set up if we wanna listen to any music in the backyard. Am I missing anything?”

Predictably, he wasn’t. Steve always thought of everything.

The last few months had been nice. Finally getting to enjoy Eddie’s touch had been more than you ever planned for, reveling in the way the boy was so gentle with you even as he finally gave in. Once he started, it was as if you both could finally breathe. A weight had lifted from Eddie’s shoulders just from the simple adjustment of now getting to sit beside you at every function, his bouncing knee always pressing into yours. It had become a silly tradition for him to offer to share that wild head of hair during scary movies, demanding if someone else tried to sit beside you during horror movies in particular that you needed him and his curls to protect you. 

You had gone from yearning for touches, yearning for that contact, to your friends arguing over who would be indulged that night. 

They had taken it slower than you thought you wanted (save for Robin), but in the end, it had all worked out. You didn’t freeze anymore. Your aversion to touch had slowly, slowly, withered away with each hug, with each clasp of their hands on you, with each casual cuddle session they pulled from you. You no longer felt like an anomaly. And it wasn’t that your friends had ever meant to make you feel like an outsider, but it felt like finally being let into a club you’d mourned being left out of for years.

The day that Eddie had grabbed your hand during a casual conversation amongst everyone while out for lunch, letting his thumb trail back and forth over your knuckles in a soothing motion, you’d nearly cried.

Something so delicate yet so telling. A quiet action of affection you’d spent so long telling yourself you couldn’t have. Back rubs during hugs, letting Argyle braid your hair in return, resting your head onto Robin’s shoulder instead of only vice versa. They were all things you’d denied yourself of for so long. You regret it, but you couldn’t change anything in the past, only the now.

And now, you had the boy who had first sprouted such affectionate want within you wrapped up against you, leaning into you for comfort as he started to ignore Steve again.

“Wanna go out back and smoke while he mother hens?” 

He doesn’t have to ask you twice. 

You both slip away out the back door unnoticed, a new banter sparking up between Robin and Steve being enough distraction to allow it. Eddie wastes no time digging into his jean pockets once he’s outside, throwing the cape out widely before he pulls out his pack of cigarettes. 

“Want one?” he offers, flipping it open in your direction.

You just smile, shaking your head, “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.” 

You’d never really said that before to anyone in your group, only politely declining up until now. A small detail, but Eddie looks pleased to learn it all the same.

“Huh,” he curiously hums, pulling his own cigarette from the carton before tucking it back away, “I never knew that.” 

“I’ve never really told anyone,” you shrug.

“It is some big secret?”

“Nope.”

“Hmph.” 

This hum is muffled by the tip of the filter in his mouth, his hands now busy patting down his body for his lighter. 

“What?” 

His lips struggle to stretch around the tip of the cigarette without dropping it, solely from how wide his smile is, “I like learning new things about you.” 

For every thing you had once spewed at Robin that night, Eddie had learned of you tenfold. 

It was far past learning how your fingers fit between his or the smell of your perfume. He’d wanted it all; to know the inside workings of your mind, to be privy to all of your beautiful thoughts. The softness set in stone inside of you bled far past what could be felt in your fingertips or the care that shook your hand when you’d brush back stray curls out of his eyes. It fed deeper into you, into parts of you that Eddie could spend hours exploring without once growing bored. 

“You say that like I’m interesting,” you murmur half-heartedly, suddenly reaching out beneath his cape and tucking into his back pocket he could have sworn he already checked. His breath is the one that catches at your arm brushing against his waist from the reach, his body is the one that freezes up entirely just from proximity. A change of roles that you had never seen coming, but he’d always figured existed. You never understood the effect you had on him, and that was in part his fault. 

You produce his lighter like magic.

“You are interesting,” he insists as he plucks the lighter from you, flicking it three times to get a steady flame to burn the tip of his cigarette to life, “Don’t sell yourself so short, batty.” 

“Batty?” you snort, not moving away from him, even as he blows a thin and ghostly stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

He can only shrug, wrinkling his nose, “Yeah, I didn’t like it either. Had to give it a chance, though.” 

In the quiet solitude of Eddie nursing his cigarette and you watching the trees rustle with the last remnants of daylight, something sharper invades the soft space you two seem to brew whenever together. Between your innards that are gentle by nature, and Eddie’s silken attitude not only in actions but attitude towards you, the spaces occasionally left between you two were always something dulcet. Calm. Welcoming. You’d come to discover that maybe, that’s why you’d always yearned to burrow yourself so deeply into those spaces. It was a feeling of comfort and a feeling of home that you had always seemed out, but never found that fit quite as right as these moments.

“Hey Eddie?” you ask aloud as he finishes off the cigarette, stomping it out on the ground with his boot.

“What’s up?” he answers, making no move to go back inside.

You always liked these moments alone best. From the very beginning. Even before he felt comfortable enough to step closer to you, shoulder to shoulder with you now. He’s trying to squint and see what you’re finding so interesting in the array of colorful leaves in the distance, slowly being covered in blue shadows rather than golden light, without asking. 

You liked that. You liked it a lot; the way he always seemed to seek out your perspective on things. “Can I ask you something?”

“You just did-“

“Fuck off,” your hand flies up, and smacks his shoulder. You never would have done that before. But you do now, relishing that contact even in the briefest of moments. The freedom to reach out and touch.

Once he stops laughing, clearly amused with himself, he turns to face you. Whatever he had been searching for in the trees is long gone, and your focus has moved onto him now, so it’s futile.

“Ask away, sweetheart.”

A deep breath for bravery, and you’re blurting out, “Did you really only avoid touching me when we met because... the others… they told you not to?” 

He wasn’t expecting that question. The crease between his brows makes that clear. You almost take your thumb to it, try to smooth out the worry. But you’re not quite there yet. Maybe one day you would be. 

It’s not as loaded of a question as he thinks it is. It’s cute to watch him assume it is, though. 

“I mean,” he starts his words slowly, carefully, “I guess.”

“You guess?” 

“I guess,” he repeats.

Your smile is sending him into a tornado of emotion. He almost curls his hands into fist, just as you used to do. 

When you broke down your boundary, it had split a crack through his dam. He knows he can reach out and touch you. He knows you’ll accept his physicality without complaint now. It doesn’t make it any less scary. 

For the same reason you don’t press your thumb into his eyebrow crease — having a crush just makes you hesitate like that. 

“I’m obviously a touchy guy,” he throws his arms out, aimlessly, and when they return his side, they almost nick yours. You wish they would brush yours, “But… between you and me, I always get nervous around pretty girls.”

The world slows. It doesn’t stop, it can’t stop for two youths who are trying to explore new and giddy feelings — but my God, can it slow to an absolute crawl, if only for the two of you.

“You think I’m pretty?” you tease, swallowing down just how much those words mean. You always have to remind yourself it’s worth it; being just friends is worth it now that you’ve learned the exact brand of cologne he wears and recognize the weight of his arm around you. 

“The absolute prettiest,” he breathes out, “I always have. Even if they hadn’t told me to hold back, I would have- Hell, I still do,” the Autumn air makes him honest, makes him brave, “I am- I would be- I just- It’s terrifying, the thought of fucking it up because you turn my brain to… mush.” 

Your eyes lift up to his forehead blanketed in his bangs, squinty and entertained, “You’re telling me it’s all just soup in there right now?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

Your friends are inside. There is candy to eat until your stomachs ache, and hugs to partake in until your bones have been crushed and pieced back together by threads of platonic affection.

Right now is anything but platonic. And it is time for something else to break, not your bones and not your boundaries. Something more. 

“I’m pretty sure your hand on my shoulder when we first met would have ended my entire world,” he confesses, starting the first crack.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. If you had hugged me every time you saw me, I don’t know if I would have ever found the nerve to leave my house.”

Another crack.

“And if I sat next to you every time we went out for dinner?”

“Wouldn’t have been able to eat a bite, I’m afraid.”

A spiderweb of cracks, all widening.

“And if I had laid my head on your shoulder during movie nights?”

“What the Hell is a movie?” he jokes, chuckling a bit nervously now, “Who knows? Certainly not me, certainly not when my favorite girl is curled up next to me.” 

One more crack, and the entire thing will finally shatter. You’re begging it to shatter. 

You bite your tongue on any remark about still being his favorite, because since that goddamn night, he’d never said Robin or Nancy were his favorites again. Never. He’d meant it. You were his favorite. 

“And if I just…” you pause as you step forward, leaning in slowly, and it takes everything in Eddie not to turn and run as your lips brush over his cheek as you whisper, “Kissed your cheek? Right here, right now?” 

He doesn’t respond, your lips press together and then press down. 

It shatters with a resounding snap that must be heard across Hawkins. Across Indiana. 

One moment, your lips are on his cheek, and the next, they’re on his lips. He turns his head quickly before any doubt or nerves or roots can interrupt the moment. 

Endless. Endearing. Warmth. Tenderness. Soft.

His lips are soft. So goddamn soft.

His hands are foreign things for a second, as if he’s in shock that he’d actually done it and kissed you. But they come back to life when your own lift to his neck, wrapping behind his neck and beneath the collar of that cape, pulling him in even closer to you. 

He kisses you. And kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Till you’re both dizzy and it doesn’t matter that the earth won’t stop spinning long enough for you two to live in this moment. 

It should be unfamiliar, especially to you, but it isn’t. It’s as if the two of you have done this dance before. In another life, in another world, on another Earth far away from here. Your lips know his in this lifetime, and they will know his in the next — this first meeting only allows for a sigh of relief in the Universe, and in you. 

He paused the kisses briefly, palms cradling your face with care and intention, “Do you know,” he places his lips onto yours one more time, as if fearful that spending too much time apart will let you vanish, “how often,” another kiss, deeper this time, “I’ve wanted to do this?” 

A final peck. A period to the end of a sentence that the two of you had taken your time writing.

“No,” you laugh earnestly, fingers digging into the soft skin at his nape, reveling in the slip of his curls between your knuckles, “Maybe you should tell me about it.” 

“Tell you about all the times?” he’s leaning back in, lips brushing against yours. Just a touch, but it shakes you to your core, “All the times I wanted to touch you, hold you, kiss you?” 

You capture his lips in yours, unable to resist anymore. You’ve spent months resisting — his lips and kisses, his touches and brushes, his warmth and sunshine. You’re done resisting.

“Every,” you pull back and catch the glint in his eyes. He’s done, too, the rubble of the shatter, “Single,” you peck one cheek, “Last,” you peck the other, now rosey, “One.” 

You finally kiss his lips again. Your fingers tug harshly on his curls, and his mouth falls open at the unexpected sensation. Instead of taking this any further and starting something you’d never want to end, you do the adult thing — you nip at his bottom lip, a bite of adoration that leaves him with a sting to remember. 

“Fuck,” he sighs out, chasing after you, but your hands press into his chest to keep him into place, “I- Sorry, was that too much?” 

“Too much?” you laugh breathlessly, shaking your head immediately. Once upon a time, it might have been too much. But now, it wasn’t enough. “No such thing, not with you.” 

“Careful,” his hands came up to cover your fists balled into the front of his shirt, moving so that his cape brushes against your sides now, “I’m known to be quite a handful, sweetheart.” 

You snort and grip his shirt even harder. “God, I sure hope so. You’ve been holding out on me, dracula.” 

“Oh, have I?”

His smirk and your smirk are perfect mirror images of each other. 

“Eds, does this sweater look good for where we’re going? I don’t wanna get cold,” you ask, brushing off some pieces of lint from the sleeves. 

To be fair, Eddie thinks even a sack of potatoes would look hot as hell on you, but he settles for just nodding and smiling at you with all his adoration. 

“It’s lovely, sweetheart,” he says, delighting in the way you beam at the compliment. “Not like I wouldn’t keep you warm if you need it, you know, boyfriend privileges and all…” he adds, shrugging nonchalantly but already wearing that smug grin that drives you mad. 

“Imagine my relief,” you laugh, shaking your head, turning your back to him again to spritz some perfume. 

He’s about to say something else, when something on your bookshelf catches his attention. A Rubik’s cube. Unsolved. Just sitting pretty on the shelf and practically calling for his name. 

Eddie brushes past you to grab it. “Didn’t know you had one of these, babe,” he says, lifting it up in the air like he finally found something more interesting than the way your hair looks tonight. 

You glance at him sideways. “Oh, yeah, I’ve been trying to practice with it, but…my brother won’t share his secrets. Guess I’ve given up on it,” you chuckle, more focused on choosing your accessories than the cheeky grin growing on his face. 

Ah, a challenge.

“Just give me a few seconds, angel,” he drawls giddily, walking away and plopping onto your bed dramatically, fingers already working the color blocks. 

The confidence in his voice makes you stop only for a moment from adjusting your necklace, but you don’t turn around as you shrug with a chuckle, “Sure. Knock yourself out, rockstar.” 

The teasing tone and the way you don’t even look at him as you keep focused on your reflection only makes it better. God, it makes it so much better. 

Oh, sweetheart. Do you not know who you’re talking to? He thinks. A Rubik's cube? Please. 

Eddie’s been doing this for long enough–before he even picked up a guitar–that he’s already halfway through and his fingers practically vibrate from anticipation. He can’t wait to see your face. 

Twist. Solved another color. Twist. 

And when he clicks the final move that finishes the cube–30 seconds in mind you, but who’s counting?–he rises from the bed, quietly but triumphant, and places it on top of your vanity when you turn around to grab a bracelet. 

You almost crash onto him, as he leans all smug against the wood. But this time is not his smile that knocks the air out of your chest, but the solved stupid little cube between you. 

“Eddie…How–what??” You stammer in disbelief, as your eyes dart from the cube to his face multiple times, and he has to keep himself from laughing. 

“The secret, sweetheart, is when people underestimate you,” he says, leaning closer to you. “Now would you close that pretty mouth so we can go?”

He expects a giggle. Maybe a playful shove to the shoulder. A “God, you’re annoying” or even a “Teach me, baby.” Which, he would’ve delighted to do of course.

But what he doesn’t expect is the way your eyes darken, and the flirty little smile that takes over your dumbfounded expression. 

You drop the bracelet you were holding next to the cube, and Eddie barely has time to register anything before you’re dragging him by the collar of his leather jacket toward your bed. He lets out a surprised, cocky little laugh as you guide him to sit on the mattress.

“That’s all it takes, sweetheart?” He teases, already clocking your intentions as you climb onto his lap with enthusiasm. “A little plastic toy and you’re all worked up?”

You hum, unashamed. “Let’s say I have a thing for skilled hands,” you whisper, dragging your palms up his chest, batting your eyelashes at him. “We might be a little late...” 

His grin widens when you roll your hips teasingly, feeling he’s just as worked up as you under his jeans. “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he chuckles, hands landing tightly on your hips, anchoring you to his lap. 

You shrug playfully, already melting under his touch. “I just want to know what else you are secretly amazing at…” 

“Oh, angel…” 

Thump. One second you are straddling him. The next, your back hits the bed as he flips you over before you can blink. Eddie hovers over you, his curly hair tickling your chin as he drags his fingers up your thigh teasingly. 

“We won’t be late at all,” Eddie grins, oh he grins like the little devil he is. “I can get you there under a minute too.”

Wink.