EDDIE MUNSON LOVE BOT°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Earlier today, Wayne greeted him when he got home from the garage. Not unusual, but what was unusual was the box on the table in front of him. As Eddie got closer, he noticed a large, brick-like item in his uncle’s hand. 

“Holy shit, is that—”

“Yeah,” Wayne croaked, cutting him off gruffly. “‘Least it would be if I could figure out how t’work the damn thing.”

Eddie’s eyes were wide, his mind racing with a million thoughts as he watched the man glance from the cellphone to the manual nearby. 

“How the fuck did—”

“Ed!”

Heeding the sharp warning, he rephrased. 

“Sorry. How the shit did you get that? Aren’t they like four thousand bucks?” he asked, sliding into the seat across from the older man. 

Wayne rolled his eyes at his nephew’s correction, but passed the phone into his waiting hand nonetheless. “Won it in a raffle at work. City-Suits won’t give the line a raise, but apparently, they’ll blow thousands of dollars on useless shit,” he muttered angrily. 

An evil grin curled at Eddie’s lips as he eyed the expensive prize. “Oh, I don’t think it’s totally useless…”

As Eddie pulls himself up onto the roof, just outside your bedroom window, he giddily thinks of all the prank calls you and he are going to make. No one in the town is safe tonight.

But his fist freezes in mid-air, just a few inches short of the glass. His whole body goes rigid, and his heartrate spikes so high, he’s surprised he’s not keeling over from cardiac arrest. Then, he remembers himself.

“Shit!” he hisses, ducking beneath the sill. When he doesn’t hear a scream or a string of shocked expletives, he rises slowly to take a peek. 

There, in the dimly lit room, you lay on your bed in what has got to be the most compromising position he’s ever seen you in. And he was there at the pool a few summers ago, when you did a massive cannonball into the water, sending your top flying off on impact. That was the last time you ever wore a bikini—he’s been cursing the day ever since. Due to one stupid knot, the rest of his summers were frighteningly dull. 

But this moment might top that—

Because only five feet and one glass window away, you’re half-naked from the waist down and writhing with your hand shoved into your thin, purple underwear.

Eddie’s breathing turns shallow, and his jaw feels incapable of shutting as he ogles you stupidly. Practically frozen in place, he observes the way you squirm on untucked sheets, the way sweat beads at your hairline—small droplets glinting in the low lamplight. 

And just like that, his cock twitches to life, hardening faster than he’s ever felt it; leaking and throbbing furiously beneath the restrictive denim. But despite the discomfort, his trance remains unshaken. 

Your bare legs tremble with every bulging movement of your hand beneath your panties, and he licks his lips, imagining the cause. The way your fingers are probably catching your clit at the exact right angle, sending shockwaves through your limbs. 

The closer he gets, the more the window fogs from the warmth of his breath. Any urgency to hide is zapped from him the moment your mouth opens. He strains to hear the sighs you let out—the moans. But the glass is too thick. Or you’re too quiet. Either way, he feels like he’s going insane, not being able to listen to the noises you make. 

Blunt nails dig into his jean-clad thighs as he refrains from losing himself. This all feels so wrong, but he doesn't know what to do. He can’t knock on the window now, he can’t embarrass you like that. Because he knows you. He knows you’d be humiliated. He knows you probably wouldn’t talk to him for a month out of sheer mortification. And he can’t go a month without you.

But he also doesn’t think he has enough willpower to drag himself away from this damn window. To work his way down that damn trellis. And act like he didn’t see a damn thing when you come into the garage tomorrow, excited to greet him like you always are. You, perfectly innocent and none the wiser. Him, wrecked and changed forever. 

He’s pulled from his thoughts when he sees your back arch into the mattress, hips lifting in a messy, gyrating rhythm, like you’re meeting imaginary thrusts. Like you’re desperate for more. When your lips curve around a familiar shape, a singular word he recognizes but can’t, for the life of him, make out, he loses the fight. 

About to yank the window up, he freezes, then decides to set the heavy cellphone down on the roof. 

After all, Wayne will have his ass if he breaks the device. He can just imagine it slipping from his grip as he struggles to climb through your window. It’d go tumbling down the shingles, bouncing off the gutters, and plummeting to the ground below. He’s heard that these things are supposed to be sturdy, but he doesn’t know how sturdy. 

As he looks around for a safe spot to hide the phone, a thought occurs to him. And surprisingly, it’s not motivated by the throbbing ache in his pants. Well, not fully. 

Instead of charging in, guns blazing and risking a years-long friendship, he figures he should call first. It’s only polite.

Pulse thrumming in his throat, he dials your number—the one he knows by heart. Shrill ringing pierces the air—even permeating the thick glass—spooking you. He watches as you wrench your hand from beneath your panties and glance at the bedside table, to the source of the interruption. He ducks low again, making sure he’s not in your peripheral view. 

With the cellphone waiting in his hands, he studies you, sees the cogs turning in your brain as you hastily consider your options—the same ones he ran through seconds earlier:

You need to pick up the phone, because, despite your vulnerable, frazzled state, it’s late, and you can’t have your parents waking up to the ringing of every landline in the house. 

It’s the perfect catch-22. 

And people say he’s stupid. 

You fail senior year three times and it’s a thing. You pass it once and everyone forgets. Whatever—

When you pick up the handset, Eddie grins. Gotcha.

He watches you inhale deeply, attempting to calm yourself. Then you press the phone to your ear and he does the same, mirroring your movements. 

A soft sigh floats through the receiver, and the sound burrows deep into his mind, sending fractured signals down his body that leave his cock flexing. And he almost cheers at the frailness of the breath—the way he gets to watch its birth from your lust-bitten lips, the way he reaps the benefits so intimately. 

Your voice is strained and scratchy from all the open-mouthed gasps, but sweet all the same. “H-Hello?” 

Eddie grinds his teeth, biting back the eagerness creeping up his throat. “Hey, sweetheart,” he mutters, tone low and husky. 

He nearly cracks a tooth when your thighs clench. Waves of filthy thoughts race through his mind, but he has to play it cool. He has to act normal. He has to act like he’s not right outside your window, painfully hard from watching you finger-fuck yourself. 

“Eddie?” you half-whisper, brows pinching tight in confusion. “What’re you calling this late for?”

A shiver wracks through his body at the sound of his name on your lips so soon after your wandering hands went exploring. Shifting his focus from your face, he slides his gaze down your figure, zeroing in on your glistening fingers. 

Suddenly, he feels parched. 

With a gulp, he ignores your question, opting instead to spend his energy fighting the wolfish grin from seeping into his voice, and replacing it with remorseful innocence. “Sorry, did I wake you? Didn’t mean to interrupt your beauty sleep…” 

It takes everything in him not to laugh when a look of panic sparks at your features. 

“N-No! No, um, I was just—” You lift your head up, looking around the room until your gaze fixes on something just out of his view. “Painting my nails,” you hurry, but it comes out more like a question than a statement. “So, what did you—”

“What color?” Eddie rasps curiously, biting his lip.

Your face drops, and your stuttering breaths get louder as they crackle through the receiver. “Sorry?” 

As if it has a mind of its own, his free hand hovers over the bulge in his pants, giving an experimental squeeze. He inhales sharply, quietly. His eyes close in ecstasy, but only for a split-second, before opening once more. Because he needs to see you. 

“What color are you painting your nails?” he purrs, tone dripping in a smoky desire. Though to you, it probably just sounds like dreary sleep, stuck in his throat. 

Sliding along the length of his shaft, he palms himself with precise pressure as he watches you shudder.

Your fingers toy with the waistband of your pretty panties, all frilly lace and deep violet. 

“Purple,” you sigh with a slow blink, letting your hand slip beneath the thin fabric. 

“Hm. Cute.” His hips twitch, jerking from the pleasure coiling tight in his gut. He watches as your knuckles stretch the material of your underwear once more, moving up and down a few times before starting a repetitive, concentric motion. 

The sight of you actively touching yourself to his voice has a steady stream of precum pumping out of his tip, thoroughly soaking a splotch into his boxers. Soon, he’s sure his jeans will bleed a darker shade of black. All for you. He’ll become a sticky mess, all for you.

It doesn’t help that he finds himself ruminating on how wet you must’ve gotten your fingers just now, dipping them low into your entrance and spreading the arousal up to your clit. 

Fuck, you’re going to be the death of him. 

A tiny voice in his mind bellows, belligerent and questioning how he’s going to come back from this. How he’s going to look you in the eye tomorrow, now knowing what you sound like when you fall victim to your basest desires. 

But then a pitchy hum dances through the line, and he can no longer hear the voice. He watches your legs spasm as you squirm helplessly, like your hands are not enough. 

God, Eddie wishes he could help you. He nearly draws blood, biting his lip, wishing on every star in the sky that he could open this damn window. That he could enter your room and you’d only cry out for him, begging him to touch you. That you wouldn’t yell, wouldn’t scream for him to leave.

He wishes you’d moan his name right to his face. Wishes you’d peel your panties off and open your legs like a wordless invitation. You’d send that famous pout of yours his way, the one you do so well, the one that drives him crazy. The one he can’t resist. 

He’d give you exactly what you need. He’d fill you up and devour every last mewling whimper right from your parted lips. And once you let him in, he wouldn’t abandon your warm cunt for all the money in the world. At least not until he got to leave your velvety walls dripping in his cum. Leave you with a piece of him. A promise of more. A pledge of devotion. 

Eddie’s shoulders hunch, matching your convulsing movements as you struggle to remain quiet. 

“‘S it light purple or dark purple?” he questions gruffly, eager to hear your voice—to hear the strain. 

You throw your head back against the soft pillow behind you, your face crumbling in pleasure, like the right amount of lightning has struck the sensitive little bundle of nerves between your quivering thighs. “D-Dark.”

He bites back a groan, surprised his laser-focused stare hasn’t burned a hole through the glass yet. 

“Like violet?” he huffs out, his gaze refusing to leave your delicate panties, or the actions happening underneath. 

“Mhm,” you mewl, trapping your lower lip between your teeth. 

His jaw drops in awe as the spasms seem harder to control, and the silence more difficult to hold onto, with lewd moans fighting their way up your throat, crawling agonizingly slowly from deep inside you.

“Y’alright, sweets? Y’sound a little breathless,” he utters, steady and calculating—a stark contrast to the harsh, hurried grip he has on his cock. 

You nod your head fervently before remembering the phone pressed to your blazing cheek. Humming a few seconds too long, you’re unable to stop the vibrato from guiding your voice into the pits of desperation.

“Y-Yeah, ‘m fine. Just— I’m, mm-painting my toes.” Your tone jumps an octave on the last word, matching the full-body jerk that leaves you quaking. “Can’t fuckin’ breathe with my knee in my chest,” you pant, forced anger saturating every last syllable as your back arches. 

He chuckles, amused by all your fabrications. For someone who’s squirming in bed like they’re running from their own fingers, you lie surprisingly well. 

It takes everything in him not to let the moan breach his lips when he watches your hand rip from your panties, reach for the decorative throw pillow beside you, and shove it between your thighs, aiding your grinding hips. 

Quickly losing rhythm, he clings to the last shred of sanity he can find, hoping to stave off the fiery heat just a bit longer. He’s not done with you yet. 

But apparently you’re done with him, because your mouth falls open in a silent scream, your body convulses rapidly before stopping suddenly, every part of you stiffening like a marble statue depicting the bowing ascent into pleasure-filled ecstasy. 

Though you’re still, it looks like calamity is bubbling just beneath the surface. One, two, three more weak ruts of your hips against the pillow seems to officially send you hurling over the edge, dragging Eddie along with you. 

Warmth blooms low in his gut and spreads across the front of his pants as his cock throbs angrily, shooting ropes of cum that are immediately stifled by the limitations of the tight fabric. His body jerks, matching your movements. Like you, his pleasure boils over, freeing him of any inhibitions. A groan tears from his chest, but you don’t hear it. Your cries drown out his noises.

“S-Shit, unh, Eddie!” 

He shudders at the way his name rides on the back of your moans, but you quickly cover for yourself.

“Sorry—fuck, I,” your hurried, huffing breaths interrupt your words, “I spilled the polish. I’m— I gotta go, Eds.”

Inhaling sharply, Eddie allows himself just a bit more teasing. “Can’t wait to see your pretty nails tomorrow, sweetheart.” 

Your responding whimper is cut short when you quickly hang up the phone and flop back onto your bed, pillow still hugged tightly between your trembling thighs. For a while, you just lay there with your arm draped over your face.

Outside the window, Eddie watches your rapidly moving chest eventually even out into soft, controlled breaths. He’s about to leave—the cooling mess in his pants starting to give him the bad shivers—but right as he begins inching backward, you sit up and swing your legs over the side of the bed. 

His eyes go wide when he sees the dark patch on your panties. As you stand and make your way to the middle of the room, his eyes then practically pop out of his head when you shimmy the underwear down your legs, carelessly tossing it in the direction of your laundry basket. 

He gulps at the sight of your bare ass, vibrations rippling through flesh as you walk toward your bedroom door. But before you exit the room, you swipe a pair of panties from the top drawer of your dresser. 

Once you disappear into the dark hallway, leaving your door closed—presumably to stop any light from filtering through—Eddie snaps into action, yanking the window upward and throwing himself through. 

Tumbling to the floor with a quiet thud, his head pops up, looking over the edge of the bed, across the way at the still-shut door. With the cellphone safe in hand, he scrambles up to his feet, trying desperately to ignore the scent of you in the air. It’s partly your perfume lingering on every item in the room, partly the sweet smell of your arousal permeating the stillness of the night. 

Glancing down at the wet spot on the throw pillow, he bounces slightly, frowning in agony—it’s taking incredible restraint not to steal the stupid thing. Because fuck, he could do so much with that. He could rest his head on it, sleep peacefully to the scent of you. He could bury his face in the stain while he ruts his hips into his lumpy mattress. Hell, he could even grind his bare cock on the pillow itself.

But it’s too big of an item to steal. You’d notice. Especially because you were just using it, and for all he knows, this is a regular occurrence. This might be your special humping pillow. He doesn’t judge—he’s got his special jack-off hoodie. Actually, it’s your hoodie that you ‘lost’ a few months ago. It just barely smells like you anymore, but it still does the trick.  

Sighing, Eddie shakes his head, deciding to stick to his original plan. He hurries over toward the basket in your closet but stops short just before he arrives. There, on the ground, is the pair of panties you were wearing only moments ago. He plucks the still-warm material off the ground, holding it up to the light. 

Your juices have thoroughly soaked the fabric, and he looks inside at the gusset, nearly moaning at the glimmer of slick shining up at him. 

“Fuck yeah,” he mutters, pumping his fist. However, right as he moves to greedily sift through more of your dirty laundry, he hears the flush of a toilet from down the hall, then the click of a door. 

His adrenaline spikes, and he speeds back across the room, cursing himself for not just blindly grabbing whatever he could get his hands on from the full basket. Slipping out the window with ease, Eddie shoves the waistband of your panties into his mouth to free one of his hands, allowing him to softly, but swiftly, shut it behind him. 

He makes quick work of descending the trellis before ever witnessing you re-enter the room. As he jogs down the street to his van, he grins victoriously. 

He may not have been able to hang out with you tonight, but he definitely got something far better. A win is a win.

A/N: Pls lmk if you liked this fic!!!! Y’all’s reactions let me know what I should do more of. Also, I’m like a dog and if you guys give me snausages (compliments), I’ll do tricks (post fics) for you. 

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without warning, he slammed back into you, setting a brutal pace. his hand stayed locked on your shoulder, keeping you right where he wanted you as he railed you from behind.

the fullness was overwhelming. every drag of his thick cock against your walls, every precise stroke against that sweet spot, every filthy word that fell from his mouth pushed you closer to the edge.

“taking my dick so well, baby… you want more? wanna feel me for days?” he grinned, voice dark with satisfaction. “aww, look at you. all drooly. am i fucking you dumb, baby? my dumb little slut?”

you were a complete mess beneath him. spit had pooled at the corner of your mouth and was now dripping in slow, shiny strands onto the sheets. your eyes had gone glassy and unfocused, lashes fluttering as they tried and failed to stay open. every brutal snap of his hips punched another broken, breathy sound out of you, your mind so blissed-out that coherent thoughts had long since dissolved. you could barely remember your own name — all that existed was the thick drag of eddie’s cock stretching you open, the relentless press against that perfect spot inside you, and the overwhelming heat coiling tighter and tighter in your belly. your thighs trembled violently, and your fingers twisted uselessly in the sheets as another thick bead of drool slipped from your parted lips.

your elbows eventually gave out, chest collapsing fully onto the mattress, cheek pressed into the damp spot your own spit had created. eddie grabbed your hips and lifted them higher, the new angle letting him sink even deeper. “fuck yes,” he growled, punctuating each word with a punishing thrust. “so good, babe. pussy's so. fucking. good.”

he reached around and found your clit, rubbing fast, tight circles over the swollen bud. your moans grew louder, mixing with the wet, obscene sounds of him fucking into your soaked cunt and the heavy slap of his balls against your ass.

as much as he loved hearing you scream for him, he knew you couldn’t afford to be loud tonight.

“shhh,” eddie leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back. his thumb brushed tenderly across the corner of your mouth, wiping away the drool there. the gentle touch was a sharp contrast to the ruthless way he was still fucking you. “you don’t wanna wake up your roommate, do you?”

you shook your head quickly, glancing back at him over your shoulder. his bangs were stuck to his sweaty forehead, tattoos gleaming under the low light of your lamp. he looked beautiful — unfairly beautiful — and the sight made you clench hard around him.

“then keep it quiet for me,” he murmured, almost sweetly. “can you do that, baby?”

he didn’t wait for an answer. he simply picked up that same merciless rhythm again, smirking as he watched you struggle.

you tried. you really did. but the pressure was building too fast, every nerve in your body lit up and oversensitive. a moan clawed its way up your throat. you slapped a hand over your mouth and bit down hard on the back of it, muffling the sound.

it worked for a minute.

then eddie’s fingers returned to your clit, faster and more insistent.

“e-eddie…” you mewled, the sound still slipping through your fingers.

“aww, what’s the matter, baby?” he mocked, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “hm? tell daddy.”

he gave a particularly sharp, deep thrust that punched the air out of you. your hand slipped from your mouth as a loud, broken moan tore free and echoed through the room.

eddie tsked.

“since you can’t seem to keep that pretty mouth shut…” he reached over, grabbed his discarded jeans, and pulled the black bandana from the back pocket. “i’ll just have to do it for you.”

“Steve.”

“What?” he smiled, innocently dragging his nose up the column of your neck. He was grinning like he wasn’t aware that his hand was sliding over your inner thigh, lazily teasing at the edge of your cotton nightgown.

Your skin was still dewy. You’d hardly caught your breath. His legs were still tangled with yours. That’s what. 

“You want one more?” he asked, lowering his tone into something warm and gravelly in your ear, “I’ll give you another one, baby.”

His voice was slightly slurred with the effort he’d already expended, almost like he was well and truly drunk on you tonight. His weight pressed against your side, lying exactly where he’d collapsed just minutes ago.

“You just gave me one,” you reminded him, lithly tracing your fingers over his freckled arm. You felt him shiver against you at the delicate swirls of your fingernails. 

It would be hard to forget the climax he’d just given you, actually. In case he needed his memory refreshed, you touched your fingertips to the aggravated, red marks you’d raked down the expanse of his back with your nails.

Steve paused, pressing his lips to the junction of your neck and your shoulder, letting his mouth linger there. You felt him inhale you deeply before humming, the sound rumbling low in his throat. 

“I mean, yeah… but that’s not what I asked you.”

You sighed, shaking your head softly before pressing a kiss to his hair, burying your nose into the tousled strands that were perfumed with product. Your bodies felt weighed down to the mattress, both of you too lazy to pull up the sheets that had been shoved to the foot of his bed in a heap.

“What? You tired?” he grinned, picking his head up to look at you with his hazy, shining eyes, “Don’t tell me I wore you out.”

Steve shifted his weight, pressing the tip of his nose to yours. You watched his eyes flicker over your face, struggling to fully focus when you were this close, but desperate to admire the flush of your cheeks. 

“A little,” you admitted, unable to help the smile that broke out on your face in return.

“Yeah?” he cooed, tilting his head at you playfully, “I can go nice and slow, just give me the word.”

“I dunno,” you murmured, now carding your hand through his tufts of chest hair.

“What’s the matter?” he asked gently, bringing his fingers to the side of your face to caress your cheek. 

He stared at you for the few moments you took to respond, his gaze unwavering as he watched you avoid his lidded eyes. You could feel his curiosity simmering, his urge to draw the unspoken words out of you bit by bit.

“You know it takes longer the second time,” you whispered, “And I don’t wanna make you work too hard for it.”

“Oh,” he breathed, letting out a soft laugh of adoration.

Steve gathered your hand in his, bringing it to his lips as his eyes danced between yours.

“That’s what you’re worried about? C’mon,” he teased fondly, kissing your knuckles, “Honestly, I’m a little offended that you don’t trust in my stamina.”

You rolled your eyes at him, relishing his pout when you gently flicked his shoulder.

“It’s late! You have work in the morning!” you defended, your tone much less convincing when a giggle burst through your attempt to be stern. 

“Is it?” he answered sarcastically, widening his bleary eyes at you. Without breaking eye contact, Steve reached over to his nightstand, turning his alarm clock face down. “‘Cause… I don’t even know what time it is. I can go allll night long, baby.”

Steve’s hand slipped down the side of your neck, sliding his fingers under the thin, cotton strap of your nightgown. Soothingly, he lowered it, letting the fabric cascade down your arm. You exhaled slowly as he leaned in, his breath warm against your bare shoulder.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, “And I don’t wanna hear anything about my poor fingers getting tired or some bullshit like that.”

You imagine that being resurrected feels something similar to this. A tingling sensation that suddenly spreads under the thin fabric of your pajamas, an instant spike in body temperature. You let your eyes flutter shut, focusing on the slow kisses he generously peppered across your skin, leaving no inch unbranded. Your head lolled to the side against the pillow, never more pleased to be left defenseless.

“Want you,” you whispered, unable to deny yourself for another second longer.

Steve groaned softly, giving your hip a slow squeeze that could only be understood as “thank god”.  With practiced ease, he lazily lifted your nightgown up and out of the way.

“I know,” he murmured, “I know. Gonna take care of it.”

He took his time, languidly reaching his hand down your stomach, then between your legs. His large hand urged you to inch your thighs apart, allowing him to spread his fingers out over your mound. You bit your lip, eyes cracking open to watch as he totally engulfed you with his palm. You could feel his boyish smile against your neck as your hips twitched lightly into his hand, undeniably just as enthralled as you.

Steve sighed heavily with satisfaction. You felt his nose nudge your temple as he settled in, shifting his body closer to yours. He moved slowly, rubbing his whole hand back and forth, the heel of his palm grinding over your clit. He knew better than to show off his usual dexterity when you’re still so sensitive to touch. You could tell he was paying close attention to your body, ready to adjust at the sign of a single flinch. It wasn't about making you see stars or waking up the neighbors this time around. It was a precious, stolen moment, moonlit and only for you.

“Feels good? Not too much?” he checked quietly.

You could feel his chest rise and fall deeply at your side, warm breaths fanning across your cheek. It was one of your favorite feelings, being completely surrounded by him, and only him.

“Mm. Not too much,” you murmured, your back arching lightly into his touch.

Steve nodded, gently pressing a delicate kiss to the column of your neck. 

“You can move, baby. Make yourself feel good, hon.”

Unhurriedly, you rocked yourself against his hand. You sighed softly at the soothing friction, the large surface of his palm causing a subtle current of pleasure deep inside of you. Despite the heaviness of your eyelids, you chased the warm sensation, listening to the low creaking of the bedframe in time with your hips. You were still slick from earlier, your silky arousal gathering at his upper palm and aiding the leisurely slide of Steve’s hand. 

“Steve,” you breathed, smiling hazily as you reached out for him.

“Right here, baby,” he murmured, catching your wandering hand. He threaded your fingers together, bringing your linked hands to rest on your stomach, anchoring you to him.

The minutes dragged on, gauzy and honey-like in sweetness and pace. It was mostly quiet besides your breathing, and Steve’s sugary whispers meant only for his girl. “Love taking my time with you,” he’d murmured, his voice husky with slight drowsiness as his hand worked between your legs.

Eventually, you felt the heat begin to bloom, simmering and tightening at your abdomen in a slow crescendo. You squeezed his hand as a silent signal, a little secret message in the quiet of your bedroom.

“More,” you whispered, turning your head until the bridge of your nose grazed his. Steve responded with a soft, husky hum, always ready to please.

“Little more?” 

“Mhm.”

He pressed a lingering kiss to your lips, massaging his hand against your pussy with a little more pressure this time, the muscles in his bicep flexing subtly with his ministrations. He echoed your pleasure, groaning quietly into your mouth as you began to pant. Your fingers knotted into his hair, keeping him so, so close, like you couldn’t bear him being even an inch further.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he muttered between dreamy kisses.

It felt like a gentle undoing. Subtle sparks of pleasure that washed over you as opposed to the usual commotion of firework-like bursts. You could almost feel Steve’s heart swell as you unraveled for him, letting you ride out the waves against his palm without overwhelming you. 

Breaking the kiss, you buried your face against his neck, breathing him in deeply while his arms encircled you. Lazy contentment practically radiated from you both as you nestled in the quiet, fuzzy afterglow.

“Good?” he muttered, his voice slightly muffled by your unruly hair.

“Mmm…” you mumbled back, your fingers curling around his shoulder. Steve chuckled, willing to accept that as an answer. No words were needed when he could feel your satisfaction right down to your bones. 

The van smells faintly like weed, leather, and something warmer that’s just simply, Eddie.

It’s parked crooked near the edge of Lovers Lake, tires half in the dirt, half on gravel, like he didn’t have the patience to line it up right before pulling you into whatever this night was supposed to be.

Fairy lights glow softly along the inside ceiling, tangled a little unevenly where you insisted they’d look “better imperfect,” and now they cast this golden, hazy light that feels like it belongs to a different world entirely.

Blankets are piled in the back, mismatched and soft, a couple of pillows shoved into the corner like an afterthought. It’s not fancy or polished, just something that is yours, together. 

You’re cross-legged on one side, knees brushing his thigh, passing the joint back and forth between slow conversation that doesn’t really have a direction.

The lake outside is dark and still, just a faint shimmer under the moonlight, and the only sounds are distant crickets and the quiet crackle of the lighter when Eddie relights the tip.

He exhales toward the ceiling, watching the smoke curl into the fairy lights. “Y’know,” he murmurs, voice a little slower now, a little softer, “this is... kinda perfect.”

You smile, leaning your head back against the van wall. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He turns his head, eyes lingering on you longer than necessary, like he’s studying something he’s not quite over yet.

“Got the lake, got the van… got you.” Then, quieter, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud, “Best part.”

There’s a warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with the joint.

You take another drag, slower this time, feeling it settle behind your eyes, everything going just slightly floaty.

The world softens at the edges, and the lights blur a little. Eddie’s voice feels closer than it should, even though he hasn’t moved.

“You’re staring,” you tease, passing it back.

“Can you blame me?” he says immediately, like it’s obvious. His fingers brush yours when he takes it, and even that small contact makes your heart skip a beat. 

You laugh softly, but it fades into something quieter when he doesn’t look away.

There’s this moment where neither of you says anything. Just the hum of the night, the slow rhythm of breathing, the weightless feeling settling deeper into your limbs.

And then Eddie nudges your knee with his. “C’mon.”

“Where?”

He grins, a little crooked, a little mischievous. “Trust me.”

He hops out of the van first, nearly tripping over the door frame, which makes you laugh harder than it deserves. 

“Shut up,” he mutters, reaching back to help you down anyway, hands steadying your waist for just a second too long.

The air is cooler outside, brushing against your skin, grounding you just enough. The lake stretches out in front of you, quiet and inviting, the surface barely rippling.

Eddie gestures dramatically. “Your chariot awaits.”

You squint at the water. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious.”

“It’s freezing.”

“Only for, like, a second,” he insists, already tugging off his jacket. “Then you go numb. Which is basically the same as warm if you don’t think about it too hard.”

“That is the worst logic I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, but it’s convincing, right?”

You hesitate for maybe half a second before laughing, shaking your head. “You’re insane.”

“And you love it.”

He’s already stepping out of his shoes, then his shirt, not in a show-off way, just… comfortable. The moonlight catches against his skin, all soft edges and familiar lines, and for a second, you just watch him.

“C’mon,” he says again, gentler this time.

There’s a brief pause where you consider your life choices, and then you follow.

The water is cold. You gasp the second it hits your ankles, grabbing onto his arm instinctively as you wade in, the chill climbing higher and higher until you’re half-laughing, half-protesting.

“Oh my god, Eddie—”

“I told you! One second!” he laughs, holding onto you as you adjust, his hands steady at your sides.

And then it levels out, somewhat. Not warm, but manageable. The kind of cold that wakes you up, that makes everything feel sharper and brighter.

You move deeper together, until the water laps at your shoulders, until the world feels distant and quiet, and just the two of you exist in it.

Eddie watches you, softer now. “You okay?”

You nod, pushing wet hair back from your face. “Yeah… yeah, I am.”

He smiles, something gentle and real.

For a while, you just float there, close enough that your arms brush, and your legs tangle under the surface. The lake carries you slowly, lazily, and the high wraps everything in this dreamy, almost surreal haze.

Then his hand finds yours. You turn toward him, and he’s already looking at you like that again. Like you’re something he’s trying to memorize.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

You laugh softly. “Hi.”

The kiss starts slowly and carefully, like he’s asking without saying it out loud. And you answer the same way.

It deepens gradually, naturally, his hand sliding from yours to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. The water shifts around you, rippling softly with every movement, every breath.

There’s nothing rushed about it, nothing demanding. Just warmth, despite the cold water. Just the quiet certainty of being wanted.

His forehead presses against yours when you finally pull back, both of you a little breathless, a little dazed.

“Still think it was a bad idea?” he whispers.

You shake your head, smiling. “No. I think you might’ve been right.”

He grins, soft and proud, and leans in again, slower this time.

The kiss lingers for a moment after you pull back, like neither of you is fully ready to let it end. Your foreheads stay pressed together, his breath against your lips, your hands still resting at his sides beneath the water.

And then his expression shifts. Not away from you, just his usual look, mischief creeping back in.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, thumb brushing along your waist, “for someone who was so against this idea…”

You narrow your eyes, already suspicious. “Eddie—”

He dunks you.

One second you’re looking at him, the next you’re gasping as cold water rushes over your shoulders and hair, your laughter bursting out before you can even be mad.

“Oh my god!” you sputter, shoving at his chest when you resurface. “You did not just—”

He’s already backing up, hands raised in surrender, grin wide and unapologetic. “Hey, hey! Scientific proof! Fully acclimated now!”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, smug, “but you’re smiling, so—”

You lunge for him. This time, he’s the one caught off guard, your hands pushing against his shoulders as you try to dunk him back, and he yelps, stumbling as the water splashes up around both of you.

“Whoa—okay—hey—!”

“Payback!” you laugh, clinging to him as he tries to twist away, both of you slipping and half-floating, half-tripping through the water.

He grabs your wrists, steadying you before you can both go under again, and suddenly you’re pressed close, laughing breathlessly, water dripping from your hair and down your face.

“You’re evil,” he says, shaking his head, but there’s no heat in it, just pure affection. “Absolute menace.”

“You started it.”

“And I regret nothing.”

You squint at him, trying to look serious, but it breaks the second he flicks water at your face with his fingers.

“Oh, it’s on,” you warn.

“Bring it.”

What follows is less of a fight and more of a disaster. Splashing, slipping, grabbing onto each other just to stay upright, both of you laughing so hard it’s impossible to keep track of who’s winning.

At one point, you manage to actually dunk him halfway, his hair going under and popping back up in messy curls, and the look on his face is so dramatically offended that you lose it completely.

“That was a low blow,” he says, pushing his hair back. “I trusted you.”

“You dunked me first!”

“Details.”

He reaches for you again, but this time it’s slower, less chaotic. His hands settle at your waist, steadying you as the laughter fades into something softer again.

You’re still smiling when you look at him. He’s already looking at you.

There’s a quiet shift, like the world narrows back down to just this space between you, the water gently moving around your bodies, your breathing slowly evening out.

His thumb traces along your side absentmindedly. “You’re… really pretty like this, y’know.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Cold? Wet? Probably look like a drowned rat?"

“Nah,” he shakes his head, a little softer now. "Happy.”

You don’t have a comeback for that. Instead, you step a little closer, your hands finding his shoulders again, but this time there’s no attempt to push him under.

He leans in, brushing his nose against yours, a quiet, almost-kiss that lingers longer than necessary.

“You still freezing?” he murmurs.

“A little.”

“C’mon, then.”

This time, when he takes your hand, it’s not to pull you deeper. It’s to guide you back toward shore, fingers laced with yours, steady and warm despite everything.

You stumble a little getting out, both of you laughing again as the night air hits your skin, colder now in contrast.

Eddie’s quick to grab one of the blankets from the van, wrapping it around your shoulders before even thinking about himself.

“Here, here—sit,” he says, ushering you into the back like it’s second nature.

“And you?” you ask, watching him.

He shrugs, reaching for another blanket. “I’ll survive. Rock and roll, baby.”

You roll your eyes, but tug him down next to you anyway, wrapping part of yours around his shoulders so you’re both tucked in together.

“That’s cheating,” he mutters, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Shut up.”

He grins, settling in closer, arm sliding around you like it belongs there. Outside, the lake goes quiet again. Inside, under the fairy lights and the lingering buzz from the joint, everything feels warm.

The blankets are soft and a little scratchy in that well-loved way, but they hold the heat between your bodies quickly. Eddie’s arm stays looped around your shoulders, his fingers tracing lazy little circles against your damp skin through the fabric. 

The soft light overhead paints everything in warm gold and faint pink, turning the water droplets still clinging to your collarbones into tiny sparkling stars.

You’re both quiet for a minute, just breathing together, the high making every small touch feel electric and cushioned at the same time. His thumb brushes the edge of your jaw.

“You’re shivering,” he murmurs, voice low and a little raspy from the cold and the smoke.

“I’m okay,” you whisper back, but he’s already shifting, pulling you more fully into his lap so your chest presses against his. The blanket wraps around both of you like a cocoon.

Eddie’s free hand slides up your back, slow and careful, warming you with the broad heat of his palm. “C’mere, sweetheart. Let me fix that.”

He kisses you again: soft at first, then deeper, unhurried. His lips are still cool from the lake but warm quickly against yours.

There’s no rush in it, just the quiet sound of the kiss, the faint rustle of blankets, and the distant lap of water against the shore.

When he pulls back just enough to speak, his forehead rests against yours.

“Can I take care of you?” he asks, so gently it makes your chest ache.

His eyes are dark and warm, pupils blown wide. “Wanna make you feel good. That okay?”

You nod, biting your lip around a smile. “Yeah, Eddie. Please.”

He lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh, like he can’t believe how lucky he is. “That’s my girl.”

His hands move with deliberate care, peeling the damp blanket down just enough to expose your shoulders, your chest.

He kisses every new inch of skin he reveals: your collarbone, the center of your sternum, the soft swell of one breast, slow, open-mouthed presses that leave warmth blooming in their wake.

“Tell me if it’s too much or if you want me to stop, okay?” he murmurs against your skin. “We’ve got all night. No rush.”

You thread your fingers into his damp curls, nodding again. The weed and the cold have left you floaty and hypersensitive; every brush of his mouth feels like sparks.

Eddie shifts you both until you’re lying back on the pile of blankets, him hovering over you on his elbows so he doesn’t put too much weight on you.

He kisses down your stomach, slow and reverent, pausing to nuzzle his cheek against the soft skin just below your navel. “You’re so fucking pretty,” he whispers. “Every part of you. Drives me crazy how much I love looking at you.”

When he reaches the top of your hib, he looks up at you through his lashes, curls falling messily around his face.

“Can I?” he asks, fingers already hooked gently at your skin.

“Yes,” you breathe.

He moves down with the same patience, kissing every new stretch of thigh he uncovers: inner knee, the sensitive skin just above it, higher, until he’s settled between your legs, broad shoulders keeping you open for him.

Eddie presses a soft kiss to the crease of your thigh, then another, like he’s savoring the moment. His breath is warm against your core when he finally speaks again, voice low and soothing.

“Just relax for me, okay? I’ve got you.”

The first slow lick makes your back arch, and a soft sound slips from your throat. Eddie hums in approval, the vibration traveling straight through you.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

He doesn’t dive in; he explores. Gentle, broad strokes of his tongue, learning exactly how you react to each motion. Every time your hips twitch, or your fingers tighten in his hair, he adjusts, listening.

“Right there?” he asks softly when he finds the spot that makes your breath hitch. “Yeah? Good. Gonna stay right here then.”

He’s relentless in the gentlest way; sucking softly, licking slow circles, occasionally pressing open-mouthed kisses like he’s making out with you. Between every few strokes, he talks you through it, voice muffled and warm against your skin.

“You’re doing so good for me… so fucking sweet… let me hear you, baby, don’t hold back.”

One of his hands slides up to lace his fingers with yours, squeezing gently. The other rests on your lower belly, thumb stroking soothing arcs, keeping you grounded while his mouth works you higher and higher.

When your thighs start to tremble around his ears, he doesn’t speed up. He stays steady, with perfect pressure and perfect rhythm.

“Close?” he whispers, lips brushing against you. You hum and nod, taking in one sharp inhale. "Yes."

“It’s okay. You can let go, I’m right here. I’ve got you. Come for me, sweetheart.”

The orgasm rolls through you slow and deep, like warm honey spreading through your veins.

Eddie keeps licking you through it, gentle and praising, murmuring soft little “that’s it… good girl… so pretty when you come” until you’re boneless and panting.

He kisses his way back up your body, slow and lazy, until he’s hovering over you again, lips shiny and smiling.

“Hi,” he says, the same way he did in the water.

You laugh breathlessly, pulling him down into a kiss so you can taste yourself on his tongue.

“Hi.”

Eddie settles between your thighs, not pressing in yet, just letting his weight rest warm and safe against you. His cock is hard and hot against your hip, but he makes no move to rush.

“You still with me?” he asks, brushing damp hair back from your forehead. “We can stop here if you want, sweetheart."

You shake your head no, wrapping your arms around his neck. "More. Please, Eddie."

He groans softly, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second. “God, I love when you say please like that.”

He reaches down between you, guiding himself to your entrance with one hand while the other cradles the back of your head.

The head of his cock nudges against you, warm and slick from how wet he’s made you.

“Deep breath, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Gonna go slow, tell me if it’s too much.”

He pushes in inch by careful inch, eyes locked on your face the whole time, watching every flicker of expression.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice shaky with restraint. “You feel incredible. You're taking me so well, sweetheart.”

When he bottoms out, he stills, buried deep, holding you close while you both adjust. His lips brush your temple, your cheek, your mouth; soft, scattered kisses.

“Okay?” he whispers.

“Perfect,” you sigh.

Only then does he start moving, slow, rolling thrusts that feel more like rocking together than fucking. Every stroke drags deliciously, deep and intimate. He keeps his weight on his forearms so he can look at you, foreheads almost touching.

“Love you like this,” he murmurs between kisses. “My pretty girl… feels so good, baby. You’re taking me so good.”

His hand slides down to where you’re joined, thumb finding your clit in gentle circles that match the rhythm of his hips.

“Gonna make you come again,” he promises, voice low and sweet. “Want to feel it around me this time. Can you do that for me?”

You nod, already climbing again under his patient care. He never speeds up, never gets rough; just steady, deep, loving thrusts and that perfect pressure from his thumb.

When you come the second time, it’s even softer, a slow wave that pulls a quiet, broken moan from your throat. Eddie follows right after, burying his face in your neck as he spills inside you with a shaky groan of your name.

For a long time afterward, you just stay tangled together under the blankets, his weight a comforting blanket of its own.

He presses lazy kisses to your shoulder, your neck, wherever he can reach without moving too much.

“You okay?” he asks eventually, voice muffled and sleepy-satisfied.

“Better than okay,” you whisper, carding your fingers through his drying curls.

Eddie lifts his head just enough to smile at you: crooked, warm, completely in love. He then lets out a quiet huff of a laugh, like he’s still a little overwhelmed by you, by this, by everything that just happened.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, softer now.

He shifts just enough to pull the blanket back up over both of you properly, tucking it around your shoulders before settling back down, this time on his side so he can face you.

One arm stays draped over your waist, keeping you close, like he’s not fully convinced you won’t disappear if he lets go. You nuzzle yourself in more, head completely rested on his chest.

For a minute, neither of you says anything. Just the quiet hum of the lake outside and the faint buzz still lingering in your limbs.

“Think we killed the joint,” you mumble, voice lazy, words a little slower than usual.

Eddie snorts softly. “Tragic. Moment of silence.”

You huff a quiet laugh against his chest. “You’re so stupid.”

“Yeah,” he says easily, brushing his nose against yours, “but you’re still here.”

Your fingers drift up his arm, tracing along his tattoos absentmindedly. The lines blur a little under your touch, the lights making everything look softer, warmer.

“Best date ever?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t even hesitate.

“Best everything ever.”

You smile, pressing a small kiss to the corner of his mouth. He chases it, turning his head just enough to catch your lips properly, but this time it’s slow. Sleepy. Gentle in a completely different way than before.

His hand slides up your back again, slower now, fingertips barely grazing your skin in a way that makes you melt further into him.

“Y’know…” he murmurs, lips still brushing yours between words, “we should, like… do this again.”

You hum, amused. “Skinny dipping at midnight?”

“Yeah,” he says. “But next time, I bring towels. And, like actual snacks. Maybe a boombox. Really elevate the experience.”

You laugh softly. “Wow. So romantic.”

“I’m serious,” he insists, though he’s smiling. “Gonna make this a whole thing. Freezing our naked asses off in Lovers Lake? That’s us now.”

You tilt your head, studying him in the low light. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His thumb brushes along your cheek. “Got a good thing goin’. Not letting it go.”

You just lean in and kiss him again. He sighs into it, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

When you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded, curls falling into his face.

“Stay with me a little longer?” he asks, voice softer now, almost shy underneath everything else.

You smile, nudging your nose against his.

“Wasn’t planning on leaving.”

“Good,” he whispers.

gah i hope you all enjoyed:)

requests are open!

beasbuggies:

Because he was. 

Steve Harrington, Mr. Perfect Hair himself, asshole turned part time hero, was the guy who got to hold your hand in public. Eddie didn’t hate him. Not really. He wanted to, wanted it bad sometimes, when the jealousy itched too deep to scratch. 

He’d hated him at some point, when Dustin wouldn't shut up about how incredible his friend was. But alas, after everything they’d been through last year and Steve being the one who got him out of that hellhole, he really couldn’t hate him anymore. 

So, he hated the sun. Because he couldn't have it.

Eddie also hated himself for not speaking up sooner. For watching you fall in love with someone else while he sat in the background. And maybe that was his punishment. Maybe that was the price for every time he chickened out, every time he saw you in the hallway in that little cherry red jacket and panicked, ducking behind his locker like a coward.

Maybe if he hadn’t been, you would be wearing his jacket now. 

“Dude, wipe your face. You’re one drool away from filling the bucket,” came a voice from beside him, and undoubtedly by the tone–it had to be Henderson’s. 

Eddie snapped out of his trance by the sharp nudge of Dustin’s elbow. Shit. He hadn’t even realized he was watching. 

“I’m not,” he lied, even as he tilted his head just enough to catch another glimpse of you, this time laughing as Steve tried to sneak a kiss and Robin dramatically fake gagged next to you.

Jesus, Eddie was about to gag for real. 

“You’re staring again,” Dustin chuckled, walking away after patting him condescendingly on the back. 

Eddie shot him a glare but didn’t argue back. Because what was the point? 

All he could do was fantasize when it came to you. You would never look at him the same way you look at Steve. 

You just looked at him like he was funny. Your metalhead friend. And Eddie? Eddie looked at you like you hung the goddamn stars.

Things were finally looking up for Eddie. For once. 

Aside from his not so little crush situation, everything else seemed to be getting better. 

After almost dying being devoured by supernatural creatures–which, in his opinion would’ve been a very metal death–his uncle’s trailer had gotten split in half, and he’d gotten piles and piles of medical bills from his long recovery. Which led to him having to find a part time job as a mechanic besides his little dealing business. 

Oh! And how could he forget? The police department was still investigating him about the murders from last year. 

Between that, his job, the incessant crawls every week, and his therapy–both physical and psychological–he had absolutely no time to host hellfire anymore. Dustin had tried to keep it alive, but bless his soul, no one compares to Eddie Munson when it comes to being DM. 

But last week, by some miracle, he’d finally, finally been cleared as “innocent” due to lack of evidence and was able to start living a normal life again. His therapy sessions had been reduced to once every two weeks, and he’d also repaired a few fancy cars that earned him a pretty juicy commission. 

So yeah. Things were finally looking up for him after whatever the hell ‘86 was. 

So, with a pep in his step, he walked through the doors of the WSQK headquarters holding a cardboard box with all his stuff for that day’s campaign. Robin had told him they had a spare room on the back, and Steve said he could go earlier to set everything up. He even whistled as he strolled through the empty hallways of the radio station.

He saw two doors at the end, figuring he’d open both and find out which one he was supposed to settle in. 

But as all Munsons tend to run out of luck at some point, it seems like the curse finally hit him again when he opened the wrong one and changed the course of his entire fucking life. 

Because what he didn’t expect, what absolutely no one warned him about, was that you and Steve liked to use the storage closet to fuck like bunnies before anyone arrived at the station. 

He froze at the door, the box in his hand hanging on for dear life as he took in the scene in front of him. 

There you were. 

Propped up on a stack of cardboard boxes with Steve between your legs, your skirt was bunched around your hips, and your knees high on his waist. Your face was flushed, hair a mess and you were letting out choked little gasps because you couldn’t form words anymore.

Eddie’s heart stopped. He might’ve as well died for real this time. 

You let out a startled sound, grabbing Steve’s shoulders to hide yourself the second you saw Eddie standing there. Steve just glanced back over his shoulder, not even bothering to stop. 

“Dude. Do you mind?” 

Eddie slammed the door shut.

He walked out of WSQK like he’d seen a ghost. Didn’t even say a word to Dustin, who was just pulling up on his bike. 

He just got in his van, and drove straight into the woods far enough to be alone. And for the next ten minutes, the only sound in that van was the furious pumping of his hard cock into his hand and his broken, desperate moans repeating something.

Your name. Again. And again.

And again.

Then, after going back and giving a poor excuse to his boys as to why he couldn’t host that day and had to leave immediately (one that actually meant sorry guys! Gotta jerk off like 10 more times!) He went to repeat the same routine back at the small place Wayne managed to rent after the “earthquakes” had destroyed his trailer. 

He turned off the lights of the room he called his now. Lit a blunt just for something to do with his free hand. Threw on a loud tape to drown out the grunts and the pathetic moaning, and his fist went to town–again–to the memory of you.

The way you looked in that closet.

The arch of your back against the boxes. The sound of your voice breaking as you moaned his name–not Eddie’s, no, the one you belonged to. Steve. The way your fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer, as if he wasn’t deep enough. And your face…

God. Your fucking face.

Blissed out and flushed, swollen lips parted, eyes half-lidded and completely lost in it. No cheap porn film he’d ever watched compared to that. No–you were the most obscene thing Eddie had ever seen in his life and it was burned into him now. Engraved into the insides of his lids. No amount of blinking could unsee it. 

No amount of jerking off could erase it. 

(He tried. Many times.)

People had sex all the time. This shouldn’t be on his head 24/7. But…Eddie couldn’t believe that was you. 

He’d always seen you as soft. As the sweet girl giggling at Steve’s dumb jokes while playing with his stupid perfect hair. As the one who would mediate when a crawl meeting got too heated when someone didn’t agree with the plan. As the one who always listened to everyone…even him. 

You even called him Eds once, so softly, that he’d walked around with chest pain for a full day like a goddamn lovesick teenager. 

But now?

Now he couldn’t stop imagining how your voice sounded when it wasn't innocent. Couldn’t stop remembering how your legs looked parted open, how your thighs shook as Steve thrusted harshly into you. 

He should’ve known better though, that was on him. He should’ve known that someone who once held the title of “King Steve” would be the one to corrupt a girl like you. 

Who wouldn’t want to? 

He couldn’t stop wondering what it’d feel like to be the one between your legs. To have you whimpering like that. To see you fall apart and know he did that. That he got you that high, that far gone…that wrecked.

He was fucking haunted by the fantasy. And it wasn’t lust, it was worse than that. It was curiosity, obsession, need.

The need to be the one who fucks the sweetness out of you. 

But now you were probably curled up in Steve’s bed, fast asleep on his hairy chest, wearing one of his shirts and dreaming about getting fucked by him, while Eddie dreamt of you after he didn’t have anything left to milk out.

He dreamt of your hand in his curls. Your thighs around his waist. Your voice in his ear breaking with his name over and over and…over. 

Eddie tried to be normal after that. God, he tried. 

At least you seemed to be normal. You walked into Thursday movie night at Nancy’s like nothing had happened, dropping onto the couch next to Steve with a bag of popcorn, listening to whatever Robin said, still sweet and smiley and wearing one of Steve’s jackets. 

He told himself not to stare. Repeated it like a goddamn mantra.

Don’t look, Munson. Don’t fucking look. You’ll just embarrass yourself. You’ll make it weird. 

But then your eyes met, and you smiled at him, and…Eddie forgot his own name.

His mouth opened, but no words came out. Just a squeak that could’ve been the start of a sentence, or a heart attack. He pretended to cough into his fist and buried himself deeper into the armchair. 

And Steve? Oh he noticed. 

Not just Eddie’s reaction, but all of it. The way Eddie’s eyes had locked onto you from the moment you walked in. The way they dropped lower every time you shifted. The way his fingers gripped the armrest. 

And the weird part? Steve didn’t get mad. He just smirked, knowingly, even amused by the whole thing. 

The next time something altered Eddie’s brain chemistry, was at the diner. 

He’d arrived late, mainly because he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to go in the first place, but the thought of seeing your smile was enough to convince him to walk through that door, and soon it was just him, Robin, and the perfect couple. 

Eddie looked at you from across the booth, wearing an outfit that he was sure would ruin his life later when he was alone back in his room. You were sipping from your milkshake, the pink straw pressed between your lips, as you let out a hum of contempt at the sweet taste. All Eddie could think was that could be something else.

Thank God for Robin’s need to ramble about everything that happened on her date with Vicky that weekend, that you and Steve were focused on her and not on Eddie’s anxious leg bouncing under the table. 

Or at least that’s what he thought. 

“Eds, take some fries,” you offered sweetly when Robin ran out of air, pushing the plate you’d been eating from with Steve toward him. 

Eddie hadn’t ordered anything, he wasn’t hungry–at least not for actual food–and of course you’d noticed and offered him some of your own. 

“Yeah man, go ahead,” Steve chimed in with a smile that was enough to freak him out. “I don’t mind sharing,” he added with a shrug, placing an arm around your shoulders, hazel eyes piercing into Eddie’s with a devilish glint. 

The implication left Eddie frozen in place, hand hovering over the fries as you began talking with Robin again, unaware of the way your boyfriend’s comment had left Eddie stunned. 

Steve didn’t say anything else. Just kept looking at him, head tilted, like he knew something. Like he felt it now. 

The shift. 

Eddie almost got up and left, but then he caught Steve’s eyes, and the bastard just winked.

Jesus Christ. 

You’re still breathless when Steve flips you onto your back again, mind stuck somewhere between heaven and passing out as your sore body still feels every inch of him buried deep inside you. 

He drapes you across his chest knowing you can’t hold yourself up anymore, bare skin sticky with sweat, your cheek pressed over his heartbeat. Steve's hand goes to your thigh, fingers brushing softly where he’d held you down minutes ago. 

You don’t want to move. You never want to after he’s done with you. So you just cling tightly to him, letting out a dreamy sigh and nuzzling closer, planting a soft kiss over his racing heart.

Steve smiles, shifting just enough to see your blissed out face. “You okay over there?”

“Mmhm,” you hum. “Can’t feel my soul. Congratulations, Harrington.”

That makes him chuckle. He kisses the top of your head. “Anytime, baby.” 

As his room settles into silence and you begin drifting off in his arms before he can drag you into taking a shower, Steve’s chest vibrates against your skin when he speaks again. 

“Hey,” he whispers, absentmindedly playing with your hair which doesn’t help your heavy eyelids closing. 

“Hmm?” 

“Do you ever notice the way Eddie looks at you?”

Your eyes blink open immediately. 

You don’t say anything at first. Just start tracing lazy little circles on a particular scar on his ribs, pretending to think about it, but you already know the answer. 

“Yeah,” you smile, “I’ve noticed.”

Steve hums, hand still resting on your thigh.

“It’s probably just a silly little crush,” you add, as if you didn’t know how Eddie’s voice breaks every time you spare a glance at him. Or the way his hands shake when you ask him to hand you a drink on movie night. “He’s just… traumatized from the time he caught us back at the station,” you chuckle. 

“Oh, baby. You should’ve seen his face in that closet.” Steve snorts. “You were extra loud that day, you really put on a show for him–the lucky bastard.” 

“What?” You ask, straightening up on his chest. “You knew he was going to get there earlier?”

“I was hoping he got there earlier."

You smack his arm with your mouth wide open, but a smile tugs at your lips. He grins like the bastard he is, shifting to ease you again into his embrace. 

“Don’t worry baby, I might have a way to fix him right back up,” he says smugly, those impossible hazel eyes glinting with mischief. “…Remember that talk we had a while back? Couple months ago. About maybe…bringing in a third?”

Your heart thumps so fast against your chest that you’re sure Steve can feel it on his. 

“…Yeah,” you say. “I remember.”

“What if…it was him?” He shrugs, like he’s discussing what movie to watch. “I’m just saying, we’ve both noticed. And maybe…” His hand drifts lower down your thigh, finding that place where you’re still sensitive. “Maybe it’s fun to imagine what he’d do if we invited him.”

His fingers press against your wet folds, easily sliding in and drawing a gasp out of you. His eyebrows shoot up, like he’d managed exactly what he wanted. 

“See? Don't you want to show him again how pretty you sound?”

Maybe it’s the overstimulation of Steve fingers pumping in and out of your pussy like he hadn’t absolutely wrecked it minutes prior, that the word comes out of your mouth before you can stop it. 

“Yes,” you exhale in a shaky moan. 

The thought alone thrills you. Because the truth is, you’ve been feeling it as much as Steve has. You've been wanting it as much as Steve has. 

The forbidden. 

Because it is fun to imagine. You guiding Eddie’s hand. Steve watching and telling you what to do. You crying out between the two of them.

God. 

“So…Eddie?” You pant, unsure if you’re asking or you're moaning out his name just to try it out on your lips. 

Steve just smirks. 

“Yeah,” he says, pumping faster. “Eddie.”

The moment that sealed Eddie’s fate was a random Thursday. 

He should’ve known better. 

The second you said movie night was at your place, he should’ve backed out. Should’ve faked a headache or a gig or even a freak accident involving his uncle.

Anything.

But–like the fucking idiot he was–he’d walked right through your front door that night. 

You’d picked a shitty movie on purpose. Something slow without any action scenes, full of long silences and artistic shots that made Robin snore into the couch cushion, with Nancy and Jonathan falling right behind. 

Steve sat beside you the whole time, like always, hand on your thigh, like always. Looking casual, almost innocent.

Eddie was on the floor, sitting too close to the TV just so he wouldn’t look at you. 

He’d been too busy picking at the skin of his thumb and lost into the mazes of his head, that he didn’t notice you’d disappeared with Steve until he glanced over to the couches and only found the girls and Jonathan dead to the world. 

He sat there for a few more minutes pretending to care about the stupid movie, but then–like a fucking idiot, again–he decided to get up, quietly leaving the room like he was going to the kitchen.

He took a hard left to the stairs instead. 

Eddie knew where your bedroom was. He’d been there before when you’d asked him to bring more blankets on movie night a few months ago. He still remembers the cute little nightlight plugged into the wall. 

As he tiptoed to the top of the stairs like a freak, the hall was dark, but a sliver of light came out of your room through the slightly open door. 

Eddie dragged his feet on the carpet, guided by shushing voices and a noise of what he was sure was the creak of a bed. Once he reached, he braced himself for the scene he was about to encounter as he peeked through the door, but no amount of breathing techniques could have ever prepared him for the image before his eyes. 

Oh, fuck.

You were on your stomach, face pressed into the mattress, Steve standing behind you with both hands gripping your hips. Your ass–god, your ass–lifted high to meet every thrust. 

Your skirt was bunched around your waist, panties pushed to the side, but nothing really hid you from the pervert on the door. Not even Steve’s body blocked the view of him disappearing into your dripping pussy, filling you so deep Eddie could see it, see the way your walls opened for him. 

The nightlight glowed behind you, casting just enough light to make it worse. 

Pink and soft and obscene.

Eddie’s eyes went over the curve of your spine. The shake of your thighs. Your fingers twisting in the floral sheets, holding on for dear life as your body kept being pushed forward. 

And the sounds. Jesus Christ, the sounds.

“Steve,” you gasped, “please–more–don’t stop.”

“Shhh baby, I know,” Steve cooed behind you, doing the exact opposite of what you asked and stopped. “But you gotta keep it down, don’t want to wake up your guests do you?” 

The fucking hypocrite then slammed back into you so hard the headboard bumped the wall. You moaned–no, cried out, trying to muffle it against the sheets as Eddie bit down his fist just to keep himself from making a sound. 

“Oh baby, you wanna be loud?” Steve chuckled, as he kept thrusting hard. “Go on then, I want to hear you.” 

“I–fuck–I love your cock, Steve” you choked the words out. “‘S–s’ so deep.”

Eddie froze at the crack of the door, heart pounding out of his chest as he watched you getting fucked within an inch of your life. 

The sweet girl. The sun. The angel he thought he knew. Gripping her sheets like a sinner. Moaning filth like she wanted the guests to hear.

Maybe you wanted him to hear. 

Eddie’s hand slipped inside his jeans, he couldn't stop himself. Not after that. He stroked himself fast and hard and desperate, watching your body take it, and your mouth beg for it. 

It didn’t take long for Eddie to come harder than he’d ever had in his life. He made a mess in his hand, his pants, and he was sure some of his cum dripped onto the carpet below, but he was too high and too far gone to care. 

He nearly collapsed against the stairs wall as he rushed back down, panting, already half hard again within seconds. 

The movie was still rolling, the guys were still fast asleep, but he had been changed forever–once again. 

Seriously, who the hell leaves the door open? Or unlocked? For two people who seemed to fuck like bunnies none of it made sense. 

Unless…you’d wanted him to watch. 

Eddie was in the middle of jerking off when someone started pounding on his front door. 

Of course.

He’d found his rhythm, music blasting, hips grinding into his palm, eyes squeezed shut and in his head, his filthy, freaky little head, you kept running your dirty mouth over and over. 

He’d been at it for twenty minutes. Maybe more. His dick was red and raw but he didn’t care because the only thing worse than jerking off to the memory of you was not jerking off to it.

Bang, bang, bang.

“Jesus–fuck,” he curses, pulling up his briefs with a groan, finding a pair of jeans from the floor as the knocking continues.

“EDDIE!!” A familiar voice calls over the music. 

Oh no. 

Eddie walks out of his room shirtless, crosses the hall in dragged strides, and opens the door wide enough to peek out, and yeah, there he is.

Steve fucking Harrington.

The absolute last person on earth he wanted to catch him red handed with his dick in his hand fantasizing about his girlfriend.

“Hey, man,” Eddie manages, clearing his throat when his voice cracks a little. “Uh…what’s up?” 

“Hey!” Steve beams, that preppy boy smile spreading wide on his face. “Mind if I come in?”

Eddie hesitates only for a second, then opens the door wider and steps back. Steve walks in, glances around, his gaze landing on Eddie’s bedroom. More specifically, on the bottle of lotion on his nightstand and the constellation of crumpled paper tissues on the floor next to his bed. 

Steve chuckles. “Sorry man, didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

“Wh–what?”

“You know. That thing you were doing.” Steve smirks, nodding his head toward the room. “Thinking about my girl?”

Eddie’s whole face goes red. “Dude, what the fuck–”

“You like her,” Steve says plainly, not as a question, not mad, not teasing. Just a matter of fact. “I know you’ve always liked her. But now you’ve seen her like I have. And now you can’t stop thinking about her.”

Eddie stands frozen in the middle of the living room, unsure of what he’s supposed to say to save his case. Although, given the evidence, there isn’t much to hope for. 

“Is this the part where you punch me?” Eddie asks, almost bracing for the impact. 

But Steve just laughs in his face. 

“No, man. No punches.” He shakes his head, amused. “You know…she likes it when you stare.”

You like it when he stares? You know he stares? 

“Alright Harrington, if you wanna hit me, just do it. Don’t fuck with me.” Eddie chuckles bitterly, already wishing he could just go back to his little twisted fantasies instead of hearing this bullshit. 

“Don’t you get what I’m saying Eddie?”

Eddie narrows his eyes. “No…?”

Steve sighs, then steps closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m saying…she wants you to fuck her.”

There’s a moment of deafening silence where Eddie questions if he actually speaks the English language, because there’s no fucking way in the world he heard that right. 

“...What??” 

“She does,” Steve repeats, then chuckles again, “Hell, even I want you to fuck her.”

“You’re not being serious,” Eddie accuses, backing off from Steve’s grasp to pace in circles with his hands on his hips. 

“Fucking hell man,” Steve groans. “Look–I’ve seen the way you look at her. And I get it, okay? She’s a dream, I know.” He laughs, but Eddie keeps pacing like a madman, shaking his head. “Dude–you ever wonder what she tastes like when she’s already come twice?”

That makes him stop right in his tracks. He turns to Steve in disbelief, but once again he doesn’t see anger, or teasing. He’s genuinely asking him if he fantasizes about his girlfriend. 

“Man, I wonder about everything,” Eddie finally blurts out, exhaling like he just lifted a weight off his chest that’s been dragging him down for weeks. 

Steve grins. 

“I wouldn’t offer you this if I didn’t trust you with her.” 

He walks closer to Eddie–again–but this time he doesn’t place his hand on his shoulder, just looks at him dead in the eye as his grin turns darker. 

“You’d be gentle with her, wouldn’t you, Eddie?” He asks, pupils taking over the hazel of his eyes. “You wouldn’t fuck her too hard the first time, right? She’s too sensitive after–and trust me, you’re gonna want her to keep going.”

Eddie is speechless for the 124378th time in that month. Which should be an achievement, considering he likes to talk as much as Robin does. 

“I’m not gonna say it twice, Munson.” Steve lifts a hand to clap him on the shoulder. “But she really wants it. So are you in?”

Eddie doesn’t even think anymore. He just nods frantically. 

Oh, he’s so in.

Oh, he’s so having a full blown existential crisis. 

He hadn’t slept the night before. Who could sleep after that conversation? Steve, poster boy for everything Eddie is not, just casually walked into his place, dropping that line like it was no big deal: 

She wants you to fuck her.

Which is how he ended up now, standing outside your goddamn house, sweating through his jacket and wondering if he’d actually never woken up from the demobats attack and this was all a coma dream. 

Because now you apparently wanted him.

In your house. In your bed.

On those stupidly adorable floral sheets he couldn’t stop thinking about. That’s what he came thinking about. That’s what he dreamed about every night. 

Steve’d said to just “roll by tonight.” Well, tonight is here, and Eddie stands outside the door contemplating his options. 

Does he knock? Does he just open it and walk into a fucking orgy?

Jesus. 

He adjusts his jacket, runs a hand through his curly hair, and tells himself it’s going to be fine. He’s already been through things someone his age should never have to in their entire lifetime. Strange things. He can handle a little threesome.

Right?

He rings the doorbell before he chickens out like he’s done his whole life. 

Eddie hears footsteps approaching the front door. He expects you, for some reason, but instead it’s Steve who opens it, shirtless, barefoot, only wearing some sweatpants, and smiling bright as if he’d just invited Eddie over to watch some sports game.

“Hey, dude! Glad you made it,” he beams, stepping aside.

Eddie walks through the threshold, and stops in the middle of the entrance hall pressing his lips tight. 

“You want water or something?” Steve offers casually, noticing Eddie’s looking around nervously. “She’s upstairs. All ready.”

“She’s what?”

“All ready,” Steve repeats with a grin. “You know, for you.”

Steve laughs at Eddie’s loss for words, claps him reassuringly on the back, and gestures toward the stairs.

 “Come on, man. Don’t leave her waiting.”

He walks up the stairs with Steve trailing behind. Eddie’s already hard under his ripped jeans, stopping right outside your door thinking what on earth does ready for me mean?

Are you naked? Are you touching yourself? Do you know how hard he is? Can you feel him on the other side of the door?

He can even see the damn nightlight is on behind it. His hand hovers over the doorknob, but for one second, the doubt comes crawling back in.

What if this is a joke? What if he opens the door and all your friends are inside pointing at him and laughing like “Look who actually believed it! You’re a pervert, Eddie!”

Wouldn’t be the first time someone pulls a cruel prank on him–or calls him that. Wouldn’t even be the worst. But–

“You gonna open it, Eddie? Or are you too scared of my girl?” Steve’s teasing voice cuts off his spiraling thoughts. 

Eddie takes a deep breath, finally twists the knob, and he swears time slows down when he sees you there. 

You’re sitting–no, half kneeling on the bed in the center of the room. Those floral sheets are bunched under your knees. And you’re wearing a little dainty lace set. The fabric is barely there, but the little bows on the straps make it sweet enough for Eddie’s mouth to go dry. Your exposed skin looks soft under the warm pink glow the nightlight casts against the walls. 

You’re all ready for him. 

Eddie nearly fucking dies. Again. 

You smile when you see him. It’s soft and warm and welcoming, like always. Except–nearly naked. Not like he hadn’t seen your guts getting rearranged about two times too much these past weeks anyways. 

“Hi, Eds,” you say, waving your hand as if you aren’t currently rewiring his entire nervous system.

He stands frozen in the doorway as Steve brushes past him, casual as hell. He walks straight up to you, bends down just enough to pet your chin with two fingers, making you laugh softly. 

“Hi again, baby,” Steve whispers sweetly. “Let’s give him a warm welcome, hm?”

You hum in agreement, watching Steve walk away and drop onto the puff in the corner of the room, manspreading like a king waiting for his entertainment to start. 

But Eddie…Eddie’s still standing by the door like 🧍🏻

“So uh…what–what are the rules?” He stammers. “Or, like boundaries? Or–fuck, I don’t know, a safe word?”

He means it for him, of course. 

You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh. “Oh my god. Eddie, you're adorable.”

Steve is not as delicate as you, “Dude,” he snorts. “You can’t be serious. Relax. No one's handing out instructions.” 

Eddie shifts anxiously on his feet. “I–there should be instructions.”

When the hell has ever cared about those? 

“You’re here to make her feel good, that’s it.” Steve says quite harshly, crossing his arms over his chest, then looks at you and everything in him softens. “You decide how far he goes, baby.” 

You melt. Right there on the bed. Blow him a kiss and then turn your full attention to the very shy boy at your doorstep. 

“It’s okay, Eddie. Can you come closer?” You ask, extending your arm and gesturing toward the bed. 

Eddie gives one step, that’s all he manages.

You smile wider, just enough to coax him. “Closer, Eddie. Please.”

Fuck.

He takes another step, then another, until he’s right by the edge of the bed, so close he can see the pattern of the fine lace of your lingerie, the way your chest rises when you breathe, the way you’re giving him the most deadly case of bedroom eyes he’s ever seen in his entire life. 

You don’t look shy, or unsure, you look…eager. 

Before he can overthink it, you slide off the bed to round him, and gently push his chest to sit down. Eddie falls easily, his body already knowing it’s not in charge anymore. The mattress dips under his weight, bouncing softly along with the curls in his head. 

“Kick those shoes off,” you say. 

He obeys. Oh–he obeys. A little clumsily, but they’re off in less than three seconds.

Only then you climb onto his lap. Eddie’s breath comes out in a shaky exhale when your ass lands on his thighs. His hands hover uselessly at his sides. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t really dare yet. He doesn’t even know where to look. His eyes dart from your shoulder to the wall to Steve, who has now thrown his arms behind his head like he’s watching his favorite movie.

“Well, don’t mind me,” he says. “Just enjoying the show.”

You cradle Eddie’s face to get his attention back to you. All he can think is your hands are warm, and too soft for his own good. Your thumbs brush his cheeks in such a normal, easy way, that still feels deeply intimate. 

“Pretty boy,” you whisper, smiling at him. “Such pretty eyes.”

Eddie’s heart does an entire somersault routine. He can feel the little feet of the people inside his head running around to process the compliment. 

We’re starting already???

He doesn’t even finish that line of thought when you lean in and kiss him. The kiss is slow and unrushed, but so so passionate. Your soft lips move against his, showing him you know exactly what you’re doing. Eddie melts into it instantly. He kisses you back desperately, starving, because he’d been feeling withdrawal for something he never had, and now–holy shit now he’s finally getting his fix.

Still, he doesn’t touch. Not until you take his wrists and guide them yourself, first on your waist, but then trailing down, lower, to where the lace sits and barely covers anything. His hands pinch your skin when he realizes what he’s touching. 

You.

“Oh,” he breathes in to the kiss, and had you known Eddie let out those pretty little sounds, you'd have brought him in sooner. 

You smile against his mouth and roll your hips, just a little, just to get more out. Grabbing him by the collar of his jacket, you grind down on him. Slow at first, just gentle little moves that made Eddie’s head tip back, and a symphony of broken sounds left his throat. Every grind of your body made his cock throb harder against his jeans. His eyes went between your chest, your mouth and the way your lashes fluttered when you finally found the spot. 

“Jesus–fuck yes, use me angel.” 

He didn’t even realize he’d said it out loud until you let out a little whimper at the pet name, and picked up the pace. 

You are used to terms of endearment from Steve, he’s the sweetest with you, but never in the years of your relationship has he ever called you something so divine as angel.  

Alas, your boyfriend still knows you better than anyone. You keep moving on top of Eddie, and even though his hard cock under the jeans is already making you see stars, there’s something…missing. By this point Steve’s fingers would already be deep inside you without even having to ask. 

Across the room, he watches your frantic moves and hears your moans getting needier. Eddie doesn't notice at first, but he does.

“Hey man,” he calls casually. “Play with her.”

Eddie, too lost in the way you keep rolling your hips, blinks like he misheard. “–What?”

Steve chuckles, “She’s used to it. Go on, don’t make her wait.”

Eddie turns back to you, but you don’t say anything, just look at him, chest rising faster, lips parted, a thin sheen of sweat starting to gather at your temples. And when his eyes search yours for permission, you nod.

That’s all it takes. Eddie’s hand slides down your stomach, dipping lower and lower, until he finds the paradise between your legs.

Oh fuck. 

“Baby–you’re soaking through my jeans,” he groans, trailing the wet patch seeping through your panties. 

You giggle, but the second his fingers go past the lace and brush over your clit, you let out the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. A little gasp of surprise, hips bucking slightly since you've been waiting for him to touch you right there all night.

Eddie almost comes in his pants. “Jesus–you’re perfect.”

He doesn't slide his fingers in yet, he doesn't need to, your slick is already dripping onto his jeans, smearing over his rings. You just grind into his hand, chasing your high. Every sound you make goes straight to his dick, every breath, every flutter of your lashes, every soft whimper of his name. He’s about to put a finger in when–

“Stop.”

Eddie freezes at your firm voice, his hand stills as panic takes over his chest. “Did I–did I do something wrong?”

Steve’s already standing from the couch, ready to lift you off Eddie’s lap if you need him to. But you just let out a sweet little laugh and shake your head. 

“No, you’re perfect. I want you to take your shirt off first,” you shrug, as if you hadn't caused both men a near heart attack. 

Steve exhales, muttering something about “always testing him” as he plops back onto the puff. You smile at him apologetically, he just shakes his head pretending to be annoyed but you see the smile tugging at his lips. 

“Oh,” Eddie says, blinking a few times before actually breathing again. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that, sweetheart.”

He fumbles a little, taking off his vest first, then his jacket, then–he hesitates for a second. It’s not that he’s insecure about his chest, but his tattoos now have fresh new roommates in the shape of multiple scars scattered across his skin from where he’d been attacked. And he doesn’t know how you’ll react to them.

You notice the doubt flashing across his eyes as his hands stop reaching for the shirt. “Are you okay, Eddie?” You ask, and now you’re the one wondering if you did something wrong.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, trying to not sound too pathetic. “It’s just–my…my scars,” he says, avoiding your gaze. 

You hum softly, “Steve has them too.”

Eddie’s head perks up at that, and his eyes go to the shirtless man on the couch. 

“Yeah man,” Steve breathes, straightening up, pointing at the lovely little bite marks the bats had left on his skin. 

Eddie squints and sees them washed in the glow of the nightlamp. He’d been so busy freaking the hell out when he arrived that he hadn’t even noticed that Steve’s chest indeed had marks. But not as many as him, and at least the hair around it makes up for it, he’s not sure his pale chest–

“Eddie…” You cup his face to gently guide it towards you. “You can keep your shirt on if you feel more comfortable that way, but know that I don’t care about what’s under there. I just want to feel your skin closer,” you reassure.

Eddie almost proposes right there and then. 

Okay–maybe he’s getting ahead of himself. But shit. He decides it’s wiser to just nod, and peels off his shirt in one rough pull. You look him in the eyes before looking down, and he nods again. Your eyes go down his bare chest, pale as you expected, not as filled out as Steve’s, and not nearly as hairy–but the tattoos and the scars make him the most badass rockstar you’d ever seen.

Eddie’s breath stills as you look at him like you like what you see. Like he’s the prettiest thing in the room. And then you make sure he hears it. 

“You’re so pretty, Eddie,” you smile, pulling him in for another kiss. Your hands smooth over his skin, fingers tracing the tattoos on his chest, the scars down his sides, the happy trail leading to a happier place. “So hot.”

You whine into the kiss, hips rolling again making him forget about the fact that he’s shirtless in front of you and instead he remembers–right. His fingers.

Eddie reaches for you, pulling your panties to the side again. He slides two fingers between your folds, slow enough to drink every second of the way your jaw drops when you feel his rings deep inside you, the way your eyes flutter shut, how you let out a desperate little sound that goes straight to his cock.

“Eds…” you moan, walls clenching around fingers and metal.

“You feel–fuck, baby, you feel so good…so tight…” 

He finds his rhythm easily, all insecurities set aside by how fast you’re falling apart on his fingers.  

Eddie knows what he’s doing. Those hands–those guitarist fingers don’t play. They move with instinct, with intention. His fingers curl, dragging quickly through your walls before pressing back in. The rings are a plus, cold metal against heat, and you gasp when one of them hits the spot. 

“Oh–Eddie–”

“That’s it angel, keep dripping all over me,” he coos, pumping harder. “Can feel you clenching when I talk like this. You like being a good girl for me?”

You nod, it’s all you can do. Steve just watches. Watches the way your body moves. The way your face twists with pleasure. The way your mouth drops open with every stroke. 

But he catches something else. He always does. 

Your head tips forward, forehead pressing into Eddie’s shoulder, breaths coming out in little broken sounds against Eddie’s skin as he works every inch of you. You keep grinding your hips, chasing more even as it starts to overwhelm you. A sudden wave makes your moan turn into a whimper, and your nails dig on his shoulder instinctively pushing him away. 

You cry out, that’s when Steve speaks.

“Hey–easy, Munson,” he calls out, not angry, but still firm enough that it makes Eddie slow down. “Remember what I said about going easy the first time? You go too rough too soon and she’s gonna be shaking for the rest of the night.”

“Sorry–” Eddie says immediately, but you cut him off. 

“It’s okay, Eds. We’re still learning each other,” you reassure, still giving him that dazed, happy look. He exhales in relief. “Just…a little slower, that’s all. I’m not really used to the rings.” You say it so sweetly, that he just nods like a little puppy eager to please. 

“You’ll get used to them soon, sweetheart. Promise.”

He pulls his fingers back in slower, watching your face the whole time, memorizing every reaction. It doesn't take long before you’re grinding his hand again and letting out soft moans of pleasure as you find a more comfortable rhythm. 

“There you go,,” Steve chuckles, approving. “She’s squeezing you, isn’t she?”

Eddie chuckles back, because he can feel how close you are. Your forehead presses into his shoulder again, mouth brushing his skin as you let out a sound that’s half gasp, half moan. 

“Hmm, that sound,” Steve hums, leaning further into the puff, stroking over his crotch. “She sounds like that when she’s about to come.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, curling his fingers just right. “Are you close, angel?”

You whimper, hiding your face knowing exactly what they are talking about, but it only makes it hotter for both men to see you like that. 

“Don’t you wanna tell him, baby?” Steve asks from his spot, but all that comes out of your mouth is another moan against Eddie’s shoulder. “Hey–eyes on me.”

You obey, turning to meet those wide, hazel eyes. You’re barely holding it together, already breathless. A literal mess on Eddie’s fingers.

But Steve just smiles, wide and bright when you look at him. “Now tell him what you need, sweetheart.”

Your eyes keep locked on your boyfriend as you whisper, “I–I wanna come, Eds…please.”

“Then come, baby. Drench my fucking rings,” he groans in your ear. His raw voice and another curl of his fingers is what gets you there. 

Your whole body tenses when the orgasm hits. You let out a broken moan that vibrates in Eddie’s chest and your walls clench around his fingers so tight he thinks you might break them. Your wetness coats his rings, soaks into your panties, his jeans, everywhere. 

You collapse, arms flailing to hold on to him, but before Eddie can catch you, you’re already falling back.

“Whoa, hey–” Eddie’s arms scramble to hold you, but Steve is faster.

He’s behind you instantly, steadying you with one hand on your back, the other cupping the back of your head easing you back into Eddie’s lap. 

“She goes all soft after,” Steve says, with that fondness he always uses when referring to you. “You gotta hold her up for a second.”

Eddie’s arms wrap around you immediately, as you curl into him still trying to catch your breath. Steve leans to see you, brushing your hair back. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead that makes you smile. 

“Hey,” he whispers, eyes scanning your flushed face. “You okay?”

You nod against Eddie’s chest.

“You wanna keep going?” 

You nod again.

“Words, baby,” Steve coaxes, and you let out a little breathless giggle when he pinches your side.

“I do,” you whisper, loud enough for both to hear. Then you turn to him. “Thank you.”

For catching me. For checking on me. For letting another man fuck me while you watch.

You don’t even have to say it out loud for Steve to know what you’re thinking. He just brushes your cheek, with an amused smile on his face. “Anytime, baby.”

You shift on Eddie’s lap, turning back to him, lips brushing his cheek before placing your hands on his chest to look at those pretty brown eyes. “Thank you too, Eds. You made me feel so good.”

“Y-Yeah?”

You hum, patting the spider tattoo on his left peck. Once you feel like you regained your strength back again, you slide off his lap and drop to your knees in front of him.

“That’s my girl.” Steve praises. So pretty on her knees.” 

He rounds the bed to grab a small pillow, then drops it to the floor next to your knees, nudging it with his foot until you shift just enough to be on top of it. You lean to kiss the back of his hand as a silent thank you. 

Eddie is too busy remembering how to breathe for the 100th time to say anything. 

You settle between Eddie’s legs, hands resting on his thighs, your lashes fluttering as you look up with all your attention back on him. “I wanna thank you properly.”

Eddie laughs nervously, then whistles low. “Shit–then go ahead, sweetheart.”

Your fingers go to his belt–because of course he wore a fucking belt–and Steve chuckles from your side, one judging eyebrow raised. “Why did you even wear a belt, dude?”

“I thought I was coming over to watch, not to get fucking blessed,” Eddie shakes his head in disbelief, pushing himself up to help you lower his pants. 

His ass barely touches the mattress when your hands are already tugging his briefs. He laughs, out of sheer nerves and excitement, lifting again to take off the last piece covering him. 

He springs out.

And just as you thought. Just as you dreamed, he’s big. Eddie fucking Munson is packing a thick, flushed pink, already leaking cock just inches away from your face. 

Pretty boy with pretty eyes and an even prettier dick. 

You let out a sweet, pleased little dreamy sigh, when you feel his heaviness in your hand. “So pretty,” you praise, then lean in and press a soft kiss to the tip of his cock.

You reach out, eager, hand wrapping around him to guide him toward your mouth like a lollipop. Eddie makes a noise no one in that room knew he was capable of.

Eddie sees heaven. Sees the clouds, hears all the symphonies and shit. 

“Jesus fuck–”

Steve steps behind you again, crouching down. He runs his fingers over your spine, drawing delicate circles that don’t match the words that come out of his mouth. 

“You think you can take another, baby?” He asks, kissing the back of your neck. “Getting bored of just watching…”

You glance back at him, hand still wrapped around Eddie’s cock, and look down to see the fabric of his pants barely containing his. 

“Let me take care of you too, babe,” you chuckle, lifting your free hand to reach sideways, tugging Steve’s sweats and briefs down in one pull. He steps forward, letting you take him in your hand like you’ve done a hundred times. 

Now you have two, very hard, very beautiful, very yours, dicks in your hands. 

You give Steve one long, wet stroke with your tongue that makes him drop his head back and groan. Then, with a little giggle, you turn and give Eddie the same treatment. 

“Fucking hell, Harrington,” he gasps.

Steve smiles, watching you go from one the other, teasing both. “Oh, I know.” He cups the back of your head, stroking your hair. “Show him, baby. Show him how good you are.”

You hum with Eddie in your mouth, the sound vibrating just enough to make him curse under his breath.

You begin taking turns. Your lips are glossy and warm and full, as you switch between them. 

Steve. Then back to Eddie. Then back to Steve again.

Your hand stroking one while your lips wrap around the other. Back and forth. Eddie’s thighs start shaking with the effort of not coming in the first thirty seconds of this glorious torture. 

He’d never seen anything like it. 

He has both hands fisted in the floral sheets, barely keeping himself together as you take him halfway down and then pull away with a soft, wet pop that makes his vision go white, only to switch to the one who’s supposed to be your man. 

And if it wasn’t enough, Steve hands reach behind your back when you put him in your mouth, bending over you with his cock so going deep it makes you gag, to unclasp your bra, freeing your titties for both of them. 

He’s fighting for his soul at this point. 

You split apart from Steve, taking a deep breath to recover from his dick touching the back of your throat, and wipe your mouth before looking up at Eddie with a smile. 

“Hey Steve?” You call, eyes fixed on Eddie’s to catch his reaction. “Why don’t you get the camera?”

The…camera???

“Wait–what?”

“Don’t you want a little souvenir?” You tease, titling your head. 

“What the fuck–what–do I want a–?”

“Steve likes it,” you shrug. 

“Oh yeah,” Steve chuckles, already crossing to the bookshelf in the corner of your room. “I like it–but she loves it, man,” he adds smugly, 

“You have photos…doing it?”

“Whooole collection.” Steve drawls, finding what he was looking for. “You’d go crazy.” 

He is going crazy. 

Steve walks back over holding a black Polaroid camera, and hands it directly to Eddie, who’s still gripping onto the sheets for dear life. 

“I–” He stammers, looking at you. 

You shrug. “My hands are busy,” you smile apologetically, too damn sweet for the situation. 

Eddie finally takes the camera after a deep exhale, and leans back to lift it. He frames your pretty face between his thighs, lips parted open, spit shining on his cock. Then your mouth wraps around his tip again, and Eddie moans, loud and shaky, nearly dropping the camera.

He captures the grip of your lips, the way your tongue flicks over his slit, the stretch of your mouth when you sink deeper. Then you pull away and take Steve into your mouth instead, and Eddie moves the camera closer, watching your throat move, your hand still stroking him at the base.

It’s a miracle you are alternating, because if it had been just him, he would’ve busted in your mouth in under a minute.

You feel flash after flash after flash. Picture falling one after another, scattering on Eddie’s thighs. 

“Holy shit,” Eddie chuckles. “This is filthy. God, you look so fucking good like that.” 

Another flash. Another picture falling next to his balls. 

You pop off of him with a messy sound and a smile at the compliment, licking your lips as you turn to Steve.

“Your turn, baby,” you whisper.

Steve steps closer, and you feel the way he starts twitching in your mouth. It doesn’t take long before he grabs your hair, and starts thrusting to get himself off.

Eddie’s eyes widen, pulling the camera aside to enjoy the view. The way Steve holds you there. The way he fucks into your mouth, chasing his release, his fist tangled in your hair, his chest rising hard and fast as you take all of him. 

Steve finally comes in a few strangled moans, making sure he stays inside until you swallow every drop of his cum. He strokes your cheek with one hand, pulling out, reaching down to wipe the corner of your mouth. “There you go, baby,” he praises, still breathless. “So good for us.”

You don’t take more than a few seconds when you turn to Eddie, chest heaving, but before you can lean down again his hand comes up, stopping you. 

“Wait!” He says, coming off a little louder than he means to.

Your brows furrow. “Are you–are you not enjoying it?” 

“No no, Jesus–no,” he rushes, “You’re–you’re perfect. You’re actually heaven. I swear. It’s just…if you keep going like that…I won’t last.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, immediately understanding where he’s coming from. 

Eddie wants to save his cum for when he gets lucky to actually fuck you. 

Steve steps forward, helping you get to your feet. “Well,” he says, amused, “you’re a lucky bastard, Munson. I’m a man of my word, so I’m gonna let you fuck her properly now.”  

Eddie gulps. Your eyes light up. 

“That’ll get you going just fine.” Steve adds. 

He takes the camera from Eddie’s side, then walks back to settle onto the puff in the corner again, naked, angling the Polaroid camera like a professional. 

You take a moment to get rid of your panties, before pushing Eddie back onto the bed, making him crawl back until he’s in the center on the mattress, his curly hair draping over your multiple pillows. You climb over the pictures and his body until you’re hovering over him. 

Eddie doesn’t expect you to turn around, but there you are, moving away to straddle him in reverse, giving him a perfect view of your ass. His heart is racing so hard he can hear it in his ears, yet a devilish chuckle still comes out before he can stop it. 

“You want Steve to see your face while you bounce on my cock, sweetheart?” 

You nod, biting your lip even if he can’t see you–because Steve sure can–lifting yourself up with your hands on his thighs. “God, yes.”

You reach to line him up beneath you, teasing the tip only for a second because you can’t wait any longer than that to feel him inside. 

You sink down without giving him any warning. 

“Holy–fuck,” Eddie groans, throwing his head back onto the pillows. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re so tight–”

He only shuts up when he hears the moans you let out as he stretches your walls so painfully good. He feels as huge as he looks, he fills you as well as you thought he would. He’s balls deep inside you. Your knees are on either side of his hips, ass to his stomach, fingers digging into his thighs as you begin to fuck yourself on him. 

From the corner, Steve lets out a low hum of approval as you bounce harder on Eddie’s cock, chasing your second orgasm. He strokes himself with one hand, the other snapping shots of the way your tits bounce, the way your face twists every time you sink down, the way you never stop looking at him.

Flash. Flash. Flash. Tug. Tug. Tug. 

“Fuck yes, baby–look at you. You look like a fucking porn star.”

You smile at him, then turn over your shoulder, just a little to see how your other boy is doing. 

Eddie’s falling apart. 

His eyes are glued to where your bodies meet. To his cock disappearing inside your folds. And if the sounds were obscene before–they’re so much worse now. Between Eddie’s grunts, your moans as you ride him, and the clicking sound of Steve’s camera, this was a full blown production. 

A priceless one. 

And then you make that sound again. 

The same sound you made the second time Eddie saw you fall apart on Steve’s cock. The sound you made with his fingers deep inside you. The sound that haunted his fucking dreams.

“You’re getting her there, man,” Steve says, stroking himself faster to the next series of whimpers you let out. “Make her feel good, then cum inside her. She loves that shit.”

Eddie nods. “That okay, angel? Want me to fill you up?” 

You can't even speak. You just nod frantically, gasping as your rhythm begins to falter, and your thighs start shaking.

“You gotta come again first, sweetheart,” Eddie says through gritted teeth, grabbing your hips to push himself up into you. He can feel you pulsing around him. 

“Steve–fuck–I’m gonna–”

“Then do it, baby,” he growls. “Come on his cock.”

You come harder than the first time. Your mouth drops open in a choked moan as your orgasm tears through you. Eddie nearly comes from how tight you clench around him.

But no. He still wants more from you. Needs it like he needs oxygen. 

This time he does catch you when you slump forward, sitting up still buried inside you, placing a kiss on your shoulder as you both catch your breath. But the quiet doesn’t last long. He’s still hard inside you, and the devil on his shoulder tells him to finish what he started. 

He earns a sudden yelp from you when he flips you, pushing you onto your stomach, pulling your hips back, and lining himself up again from behind…just like he’d seen you that day. Face in the sheets. Ass up. Wet pussy glowing under the nightlight. Floral sheets wrinkled under your body. 

Deja vu.

But this time, it’s not Steve–no, he’s just watching. Eddie is the one pushing his cock deep inside you with a harsh thrust that makes your whole body rock forward. 

He’s not that gentle anymore. Not in a mean way. Never in a mean way, but in a I-need-to-come-inside-you-now way. His hands are gripping your skin, knuckles going pale, holding you down as you become a mess under him. 

He looks up to the couch, and he expects to see at least an ounce of the jealousy he’d felt the day he saw you with him, but all he sees is Steve’s fist going up and down furiously on his cock. The camera had been dropped as soon as your cheek had hit the mattress.

He wanted to see it. See you fall apart. 

“…Holy shit, dude, go for it,” Steve whistles low in approval, chuckling when he hears your strangled gasps every time Eddie slammed into you. “Let him, baby,” he coos. “Be a good girl and take all of it.”

He really gives you all of it. 

Eddie’s sure he only survived ‘86 just to see the way your tight little asshole contracts with every thrust he drills into your swollen pussy. 

“Eds–Eddie–”

“I know I know. Almost there, angel. Gonna fill you up real good,” he coaxes over your small whines, “wanna see you dripping with my cum.”

Eddie slams into you once more, then groans so loud it echoes across the wallpaper walls, and finally spills inside you with a cry. 

Steve comes in his own hand as Eddie pulls out of you, slapping your ass a few times with his cock before you collapse onto the bedsheets. Eddie falls right behind you, blinking up at the ceiling, coming down from his high.

In the middle of all the panting, your chests rising up and down, he doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do next. Part of him expects to be handed his clothes and a polite “thanks for coming.” But instead, you instinctively roll over to him, wrapping your arms around his body and burying your face against his chest. 

Steve just chuckles, finding his briefs on the floor and throwing them on, then finally walking over to where you’re cuddling Eddie, running his hand through your hair with a little smile.

“She gets kinda clingy after.”

You don’t even lift your head. “Don’t be rude.”

Steve grins wider. “Sorry, baby. Cute is the word. She gets cute after.”

You hum again, approving this time. Then, you let out a sigh of exhaustion, voice muffled in Eddie’s chest, “you guys are fucking crazy.”

Steve snorts. “We are crazy?”

“I didn’t exactly suggest a threesome, sweetheart,” Eddie chuckles, hugging you tighter. 

“Whatever,” you giggle. “Just…don’t let me fall asleep like this.”

Steve kneels beside the bed and rubs your back gently. “Want a shower, baby?”

You shake your head. “Bath.”

“Bath it is.”

He places a kiss on your shoulder, then stands and walks to your bathroom. A few moments later, Eddie hears the water running.

He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With you curled into his arms, naked with his seed still inside you, surrounded by the filthy pictures he’d taken of you. His hand comes up hesitantly, brushing your hair back with the same tenderness he always sees Steve do it. 

Where does this leave him though? Is this a one time thing? A hit and run? How can he go back to his normal life after this? 

He’d already been losing his mind over you for weeks. He’s never getting over this.

“Are you okay?” You ask, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

“Me?” 

“Yeah, your heart is beating really fast,” you say, hand resting lightly on his chest, right over it.

Eddie laughs under his breath. “Uh. Yeah. I’m just…kinda expecting for someone to tell me to get up and leave?”

You hum softly, nuzzling closer to him. “I don’t want you to leave, Eds…” 

He doesn’t get to say anything before Steve returns, a pink towel slung over his bare shoulder as he stands on the bathroom door. 

“Well, dude,” he says. “You bringing her or what?”

Eddie looks down at you, all cozied up in his arms. You don’t say anything, but you smile, soft and sweet and welcoming as always. 

The sun in his arms. 

He's not sure what the hell is next for him now. But at least for tonight, he’s staying. 

And I ain't gotta tell him, I think he knows

Thank you so much for reading! hope you enjoyed 👀🤭

“I am not.”

“You are,” he insisted, turning his head toward you. “You’ve been smiling since the encore.”

You rolled onto your side to face him, the thin motel blanket shifting between you. “That was a good encore.”

Eddie huffed a soft laugh. “It was an amazing encore.”

For a moment neither of you spoke. The muffled sound of a car passing on the highway filled the silence, headlights briefly sweeping across the ceiling through the gap in the curtains.

You became very aware of how close he was.

Close enough that you could see the faint crease between his brows when he squinted at you. Close enough that if either of you moved even a little, your knees would bump under the blanket.

“You know,” Eddie said after a second, voice quieter now, “most people after a concert like that would be out cold.”

“And miss the post-show analysis?” you said. “Never.”

“This is why you’re my favorute,” he murmured.

But he didn’t look away.

The quiet stretched between you, the small motel room seemed to shrink around the bed, until it felt like the rest of the world had slipped somewhere down the highway and left the two of you stranded in the middle of it.

"Well," you finally broke the silence. "As much as I hate that Gareth fractured his ankle, there would have been no way we'd all be able to sleep in this motel room together. So I guess it worked out money wise."

It was supposed to be the three of you on this little weekend road trip, but Gareth had gotten drunk and hopped on a picnic table one too many times before the show and had spent the evening in an emergency room getting a cast. You and Eddie had still gone.

"Yeah well, I came close to getting my own bones broken when he fell on top of me the second time." Eddie rolled his eyes with a huff of laughter. 

"Almost had to go all by myself and deal with my metal-induced euphoria alone."

"Perish the thought," Eddie said, a smile touching his lips. "I'm a vital part of your euphoria management system."

You watched the slow way he blinked, the way his lashes swept down against his cheek. 

"Eddie," you said, and you didn't know what you were going to say after that, only that you were going to say something.

But he was already moving, shifting onto his side too, facing you fully. The motion sent the mattress dipping again, bringing you even closer. The worn denim of your jeans brushed against the worn denim of his.

“Yeah?” he breathed out.

You opened your mouth to speak but pushed the thought aside and instead blurted out:

"I don't have pajamas." 

He gave you a confused look at the weird way you said it but then nodded slowly.

"Me neither."

You shifted your legs a bit, pulling your knees up closer to your body.

"I don't want to sleep in my jeans." 

"Yeah, I wasn't planning on that either." 

You raise an eyebrow and he goes on. "So...we could sleep in our underwear. I could look away for a second so you can get under the covers first. 

You think about the black thong you have on.

"Eddie?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not really wearing underwear underwear."

"Uh... what?" He looked lost.

You took a breath.

"I'm wearing a thong."

He didn't say anything at all. Just kind of stared at you like you'd just announced you could fly. Then a slow flush started creeping up his neck.

"Oh," he managed after a solid ten seconds of silence.

"I could use my shirt to cover the top half. But still..." you trailed off. "My ass would be out." 

"Yeah... I uh, know how a thong works," he managed.

You just blinked at him. You hadn't meant for the conversation to go in this direction but now it was here and you didn't know how to get it back.

He swallowed, and you watched the movement of his throat in the dim light.

"Okay," he said, after a beat that felt longer than the entire opening act. "I mean, I'm not going to make you sleep in your jeans. That's a special kind of torture. So we can... you know. Do the underwear thing. I'll face the wall. And I swear on all my Judas Priest records I won't turn around."

You searched his face, the earnestness you found there making your chest feel tight.

"Right. Okay." 

You each get up from your respective sides and undress. Eddie kept true to his word, but you still felt the heat of knowing he was just a few feet away.

You slip under the thin covers and wait.

"Okay, done. You're good."

He turned around and got in. His briefs were black too, and hung low on his hips. He had also taken his makeshift tank top off and was only in his boxers.

"You're shirtless." You say as he pauses, halfway into the bed. 

"Uh... yeah? I don't usually wear a shirt to bed..." He trails off like he's just realized what you'd said. "Is that... is that okay?"

You just nodded.

He slid the rest of the way in and pulled the covers up.

There was a lot less space between you now. You could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, could see the way the dim light caught the tattoos scattered across his chest.

"You've seen me shirtless before, sweetheart. It's not some revolutionary event," he said, a note of humor in his voice.

"I've never been in a bed with you while you were shirtless. Different experience entirely."

"Right," he said, and then softer, "Well I've never been in bed with a girl and her ass cheeks were out, so I think we're even." 

"I told you not to look!" You shrieked, hitting him with a pillow.

"Hey! I said I didn't!" he laughed, raising his hands in surrender. "I'm a virgin not a monk, I can visualize what a thong entails." 

He says it so casually that you almost don't catch it. 

"...What?" 

"Okay..." he tries to backtrack. "I don't mean I'm visualizing your ass in the thong. Just an ass. Like a generic woman ass in--" 

"You're a virgin?" You cut him off.

The pillow fell from your grasp as you stared at him.

His whole body went tense.

The laugh had vanished from his face. He looked away from you, staring at the water-stained patch on the ceiling. He swallowed hard enough that you could see the muscles in his throat work.

"Uh... yeah." It comes out as a resigned whisper almost. Like, for once, he has nothing in his wordsmith arsenal to deflect.

You were too quiet.

And then your face did a weird thing that you couldn't quite control. Your eyebrows shot up and your lips parted and it wasn't bad. It wasn't mocking or judgmental.

It was just... shocked.

"Really?"

And for some reason, the simple, unadorned disbelief in your voice seemed to be exactly the wrong thing to say.

"Jesus, what, is that so hard to believe?" The words came out sharp, stung. He pushed himself up on one elbow, creating a sudden, unwelcome distance between you. "The freak, the dungeon master, the guy who sells drugs to kids isn't exactly a girl's fantasy. Don't tell me you're surprised."

"No! Eddie that's not what I meant at all!" You quickly try to sit up, while still keeping covered as well, but the blanket bunches weirdly around your waist and you feel even more exposed than before. "It's just... you're so..."

"So what?" He was genuinely agitated now, the vulnerable admission curdling into something defensive and angry.

"So... confident," you finished quietly. "You're always so... loud. And you command a room. And you're funny. And... I don't know. I just assumed..."

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling a little too fast. The anger seemed to drain out of him as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a deep-seated exhaustion.

"Being able to work a room doesn't mean you know what the hell to do when you're alone in a dark one with someone," he said, the words barely audible.

Silence crashed back into the room. This was heavier, weighted with things unsaid. You reached out, your fingers hovering just above the space between you, unsure if touching him would make it better or worse.

"And, let's be honest, if a girl is alone with me in a dark room, she's more likely to piss herself with the worry I'm going to sacrifice her to Satan, than be wet in any other way."

You scrunch your nose up at his verbiage. 

"Okay, one: ew. Two? Not true. Three?" You took a breath, deciding to throw caution to the wind. "I'm alone with you in a dark room. Piss free."

He blinked. "Thats different. You're not like, a girl." 

It was, in fact, now his turn to say the exact wrong thing. The tension that had just begun to dissolve returned twofold.

Your jaw set. "Right. I'm not. My mistake."

He scrambled, his words tripping over each other. "No, that's not what I-- Fuck. I mean, you're you. You're my friend. It's not... it's not like that. It's safe."

"Wow. Safe. That's every girl's dream. To be the safe, unfuckable friend."

You flopped back onto the pillow, turning your back to him with a huff. You pulled the blanket up to your chin, a thin, flimsy shield. You could feel the heat of anger and embarrassment prickling at your skin.

"Woah, woah, that's not what I meant either! I'm just... bad at this," he pleaded, his voice a strained whisper. The mattress shifted as he moved closer, a careful, hesitant movement. You could feel the warmth of his hand hovering over your shoulder, not quite touching. "I've never talked about this before. I mean, you know damn well none of the Hellfire guys are getting any. And I'm pretty sure they think I'm some kind of dark lord of getting laid. It's just... a lie. A story I tell. It's easier than the truth."

You stayed silent, staring at the ugly floral pattern on the wall. You could hear his breathing, ragged and uneven.

"And you're not... you're not unfuckable," he said, the words so quiet you almost had to strain to hear them. "You're... very fucka- I mean, you're... you know. You're great."

The clumsy, earnest correction almost made you smile. Almost.

"Look at me," he murmured. "Please?"

Slowly, you rolled back over.

His face was a mess of conflicting emotions in the dim light. The defensive sneer was gone, replaced by something more vulnerable.

"'Great' is what a teacher puts on your paper when you get a B+." You say, your voice small.

He let out a shaky breath, a sound that was half-laugh, half-despair. "Okay. You're right. You're not 'great' like a B+." He searched for the right words, his gaze flicking between your eyes. "You're... you're the solo in 'Master of Puppets'. You're the part of a song that's so good it makes you pull the car over. You're... the kind of thing that makes a guy want to learn guitar in the first place."

Your breath caught. That was not what you were expecting.

"Eddie..."

"No, I mean it," he pushed on, a desperate urgency in his tone now. "And being around you is... it's easy. Too easy. And then I get in my head about it. About saying the wrong thing. About being a disappointment. So I deflect. I make stupid jokes. I turn myself into the D&D nerd or the Satanist freak or--" 

"I'm a virgin too." The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them, a quiet confession that hung in the air between you.

The torrent of words from Eddie stopped. His jaw went slack. He stared at you, wide-eyed, as if you'd just confessed to being a secret agent.

"What?" he finally managed to breathe out. "I thought you lost it to that guy from the photography club."

"Tyler?" You couldn't help the small, humorless laugh that escaped. "No. We went on, like, three dates. He tried to stick his tongue down my throat in the back of the movie theater and then practically begged for a handjob in the parking lot. It was... underwhelming."

Eddie was still just staring, processing.

"Shit. Well, now I can tell you that I really hated that guy. For more reasons than just his terrible haircut."

A real smile finally touched your lips at that. "His haircut was pretty bad."

The silence that followed was different. It wasn't heavy or awkward. It was... quiet. A shared space.

"I didn't tell you because I was embarrassed," you admitted, your gaze fixed on a loose thread on the pillowcase. "I figured you like... I don't know, banged girls in your van after shows or something. I felt... left behind. Like everyone was growing up and doing all this stuff and I was just... still me."

"Sweetheart," he said, his voice soft. "I'm far from the van-banging king. I'm the guy who is currently panicking because he's shirtless in a bed with a girl in a thong and doesn't know the social protocol for what to do with his hands."

"So you admit I'm a girl now?" you teased, a glimmer of your usual self returning.

His eyes softened, and a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. It was the kind of smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. "I've unfortunately been way too aware of that distinction for a while now."

"Unfortunately?" You raise a playful eyebrow.

"Because it was a lot easier to think of you as just... you. My friend. My partner in crime. The person I could talk to about whether Kirk Hammett was a better guitarist than Slash without getting a blank stare. Thinking of you as a girl? A girl I'm in bed with? That's... terrifying."

You feel a warmth spread through your chest that has nothing to do with the flimsy blanket. "Why terrifying?"

"Because I'm bad at this!" he exclaimed, gesturing vaguely between you. "This entire conversation is a testament to that! I say 'safe' and you hear 'unfuckable.' I say 'girl' and I sound like a caveman. The margin for error here is huge. And the thought of messing this up... with you..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"Messing what up?" you whispered.

His gaze dropped from your eyes to your lips, and back again. The room suddenly felt a thousand degrees hotter. He swallowed, and the motion was so deliberate, so loaded with unspoken meaning, it made your breath hitch.

"You know what. Don't make me say it," he murmured, his voice raspy.

He was so close now. The dip in the mattress had eliminated all but the slimmest of gaps between you. You could feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek.

"I think I want you to say it," you breathed back. 

"Not going to." His smile was back, but it was different now. Shyer. More hesitant. But no less real. "I've said enough stupid things for one night."

Instead of explaining more, he started to lean in.

Slowly. Giving you every opportunity to pull away, to turn back to the wall, to put a stop to it.

But you didn't stop it. 

Not when his hand came up to cradle your face. 

Not when he used his thumb to gently trace your jawline, the rough callus on his finger a pleasant rasp against your skin.

Not when he finally, finally closed the last remaining distance between you and his lips met yours.

It wasn't a perfect kiss. It was a little clumsy at first, a misalignment of angles that ended in a soft, wet press against the corner of your mouth.

You giggled a little, ready to say something cheeky, but he didn't give you the chance. He tilted his head and tried again.

And the second one was perfect.

It was soft and tentative, the taste of a gas station slushie. The sigh he let out against your lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, settled right in your core. 

His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. The kiss deepened, a slow, gentle exploration that sent shivers down your spine.

You found your own courage then, your hand coming up to rest on the warm skin of his chest. He let out a soft hum of encouragement, and you let your fingers trail over the lines of his tattoos, the dark ink a stark contrast to his skin.

"Touch all you want." He murmurs against your lips before pressing another quick kiss to your lips and pulling back just enough to look at you.

His eyes were dark in the dim light, pupils blown wide. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matched your own.

"Okay." You say quietly, letting your hand wander.

"Okay," he repeated, a dazed sort of smile on his face. "Okay."

He was still looking at you, a deep searching look that seemed to be trying to memorize every detail of your face.

"You're staring."

"Can't help it," he murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. Your hands are all over him now, touching anything they can reach. His shoulders, his biceps, the small of his back. And he was doing the same. His hands were everywhere, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the soft skin of your thighs above the line of the thong.

He froze for a second when his fingers brushed against the string of your underwear.

You hold back a small laugh as your hand travels to grab his ass a little, the soft cotton of his briefs giving way to the firm muscle beneath.

"Hey!" He yelped, jumping a little.

"You said I could touch all I wanted." You say with a sly grin. "Don't be shy."

He stared at you for a second before a slow grin spread across his face. "Yeah, okay. Fair's fair."

His hands grew bolder then, sliding down to cup the fat of your ass, pulling you flush against him. The thin fabric of your thong and his briefs was the only thing separating you.

He kisses you harder this time, a hungry, desperate kiss that stole the air from your lungs. His hips rocked against yours, a slow, deliberate friction that had you gasping into his mouth.

He was hard. You could feel him. 

"Eddie," you breathed out, his name a plea on your lips.

"That okay?" His voice soft as his lips travel over your jaw and down your neck. "How I'm touching you?"

You could only nod, words failing you. He seemed to take that as an invitation to continue. He nipped at the sensitive skin of your throat, making you whimper. His hands were still on your ass, kneading the flesh, pulling you closer as he rolls his hips against yours.

You were the one to reach for the hem of your shirt.

He pulls away, breathless.

"Wait. You sure?" He's searching your face again, looking for any sign of hesitation. "You don't have to."

You could feel the heat rise to your cheeks. "Do you... not want to see me?" The words were small, laced with an insecurity you hated.

He looked like you'd just slapped him.

"No! God, no." He shook his head, a look of pure panic on his face. "That's not... I mean, I do. I really, really do. I just... I don't want you to think you have to. Because of... all this."

He gestures to his erection and then to the two of you in the bed. "He's kind of an idiot, and he has terrible ideas about timing."

"I kinda like his timing." You said, your hands back on his chest. "And I want to." You slowly lift the shirt over your head and toss it onto the floor with your jeans.

Eddie went completely still, his eyes wide, fixed on your chest.

"I knew you didn't wear a bra. I could tell," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "When you were jumping during the concert."

"Really?" You couldn't help but feel a little pleased.

"Oh yeah." He reached out a hesitant hand, like he was afraid you might disappear. "I was trying very hard to be a gentleman and not stare. But I failed. Miserably."

You let out a soft laugh as his fingers finally made contact, tracing the curve of your breast. His thumb was quick to find your nipple, brushing over it in a way that sent a jolt of pure pleasure straight to your core.

"Look at these pretty things." He murmured as he leaned down to take one in his mouth.

The feel of his tongue, hot and wet, against your sensitive skin was enough to make you arch your back, a gasp torn from your lips. He used his free hand to grip you ass hard, pulling you on top of him while his lips still wrapped around your nipple.

You were straddling him now, your knees on either side of his hips. The thin fabric of your thong and his briefs was soaked, the friction of him against you, even through the layers of clothes, was intoxicating.

You couldn't help the way your hips started to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that had you both gasping for breath.

"Can't believe you're wet for me," he said, his voice laced with a kind of awestruck disbelief. He lifted you up and adjusted you to where he could feel you better, a small moan leaving his lips at the contact.

"Can't believe you're this big," you shot back, more of a sigh than a statement. 

"Yeah? You like that?" The words were a low growl against your skin as he lavished your other nipple with attention.

"Mhm..." You could only manage a small hum, your mind going hazy with pleasure.

He's so hard. So hard that it's almost painful. You needed to feel him. All of him. You started to reach for the waistband of his briefs, but he stopped you, his hand covering yours.

"Hey, no." His breath hitched. "Not yet. Let me... let me do something for you first."

Before you could ask what he meant, he was shifting you, maneuvering you until you were on your back and he was settled between your thighs. He pushed your legs apart with a gentle pressure of his hands. And then he was leaning down, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his breath warm against your skin.

You could only nod, your throat too tight to speak. He moved higher, pressing a trail of open-mouthed kisses up your inner thigh, stopping just short of where you desperately wanted him.

"You really want to?" Your own surprise at the question was evident.

"I've been dreaming about this," he admitted, his voice a raw, honest confession. "For a long, long time."

And then he was there, his tongue sliding against the fabric of your thong. The wet heat of him through the thin lace was almost enough to send you over the edge.

"Oh god... no wonder girls like this in pornos." Your legs start to shake a little as your hands find their way into his hair.

"You watch pornos?" He looks up at you from between your legs, a slow grin spreading across his face. "My dirty girl."

He didn't wait for an answer, just hooked his fingers into the sides of your thong and pulled it down your legs. He tossed it over his shoulder, and it landed somewhere in the vicinity of your discarded shirt.

"I feel like I'm supposed to pray to this," he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Like a holy relic."

You let out a shaky laugh. "D&D references aren't exactly what I'm looking for right now, Eddie."

"No? So you don't like my DM voice? 'You enter a beautiful, damp cavern... the walls are slick with moisture...'" He was  on you then, his tongue finally, finally making contact with your pussy. The feeling was so intense, so overwhelming, you couldn't help but cry out.

His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open for him as he explored you with a desperate, hungry curiosity.

"Guide me," he mumbled against your folds. "I don't know what you like. Tell me."

"Your... your tongue," you gasped out. "On my clit. When I... touch myself I just focus there... "

He hummed in acknowledgement, and then he was following your directions, his tongue finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it with a slow, deliberate pressure. He was a quick study, and it wasn't long before you were writhing beneath him, your hands fisted in his hair, your hips bucking against his face.

"Mmm, feels so much better than my fingers." You whined, the pleasure coiling tight in your belly. He was good. So, so good. Better than you had ever imagined. And you had imagined this. A lot.

He pulled back for a second, his chin shining with your arousal. "Show me how you do it," he said, his voice thick with desire. "Show me what you like."

You hesitated for a beat, the vulnerability of the request hitting you. But then you looked at him, at the open, eager expression on his face, and you couldn't deny him anything.

You reached down between your legs, your fingers finding your clit easily. You started to rub slow circles, the motion practiced, familiar.

"God..." He groans. "You ever think about me? When you do this?"

Your fingers stutter. You look down at him, at the hope and the lust warring in his eyes.

"Only since last year," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "When you wore that ripped t-shirt to the fair. I could see your... happy trail..." 

He just stared, completely floored.

"Fucking Christ..." He pinched his eyes shut as he palmed himself through his boxers before he dived back in with a new enthusiasm.

He watched you for a moment, and then he joined in, his tongue prodding your entrance and licking at your fingers as you pleasured yourself. It was a messy, clumsy, and incredibly erotic sight.

"Fuck, Eddie, I'm so close," you moaned, your hips moving in a frantic rhythm against his tongue and your own hand.

He redoubled his efforts, nudging your hands away with his nose and sucking your clit into his mouth and flicking it with his tongue. It was the final push you needed, and you came with a cry, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm.

He didn't stop, not right away. He kept licking you, his tongue gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. It was as if he just loved your taste, greedy for more. Finally, he pulled back, a look of pure, unadulterated pride on his face.

He crawled up your body and kissed you then, a messy kiss that tasted of your release.

"Damn, I'm gonna get addicted to that," he murmured against your lips.

You just hummed in response, your body still buzzing with pleasure. You could feel his erection pressing against your thigh, a demanding presence.

"Let me..." you started, your hands trailing down his chest to the waistband of his briefs. "Let me return the favor."

"Yeah?" His eyebrows raise.

You answered by tugging the briefs down, freeing him. He kicked them off the rest of the way, and then he was completely naked, the dim light of the motel room casting him in a warm glow. He was beautiful.

He knelt between your legs, giving you a perfect view. He was long and thick, the head flushed a dark pink, a bead of precum glistening at the tip.

"I've never seen a real one in person," you confessed, your voice filled with awe.

He flushed a little, a rosy blush spreading across his chest. "Well, it's not going to win any awards. It's pretty standard issue."

"It's bigger than my dildo," you blurted out, then immediately regretted it.

Eddie's head tilted, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. "You have a dildo?" He leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm learning a lot about your sexy habits tonight."

"I'm a virgin, not a nun." You said defensively, a call back to his confession earlier.

"I know. I'm not judging. I'm celebrating." He kissed you again, a quick, hard press of his lips. "Now, were you about to do something?"

You reached out and wrapped your hand around him. He was hot and hard, the smooth skin a stark contrast to how rigid he was. He let out a sharp hiss of breath, his hips jerking forward.

You started to stroke him, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, the way you'd read about in a magazine.

"Jesus, that's... yeah," he groaned, his head falling back. "Just like that."

You watched him, mesmerized by the way his face contorted with pleasure. The way he was so open and unashamed of it.

"You know, when you said the thing about your... toy," he said, his breath hitching as you ran your thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. "Am I really bigger?"

You smiled, a genuine, sly smile. "Considerably."

"Fuck." He seemed genuinely pleased by this information. "That's... good to know. For my ego."

He watched you for a few more moments, your hand working him with a steady rhythm. Then he reached down, stilling your movements.

"Okay, stop," he breathed, his voice strained. "I'm not going to last if you keep doing that."

You looked up at him, a question in your eyes.

"I want..." He swallowed hard. "I wanna be inside you."

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning.

"We won't be virgins anymore." You say, soft and immediately feeling stupid for it. Of course he knew that.

His expression softened. He leaned down and kissed your forehead. "I know." He was so close, you could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your chest.

"I want that," you said, your voice firm. "With you."

He let out a long, shuddering breath, as if he'd been holding it for an eternity.

"Is it weird I'm nervous? I feel like that's weird for a guy." He admitted.

"It's not weird." You promised. "I don't think nerves are gendered."

He kissed you then, a slow, deep kiss that was full of all the things he couldn't seem to say. All the want and the hope and the fear. He only broke the kiss, to reach over the other side of the bed and fumbled in the pocket of his discarded jeans.

"I swear I keep this in my wallet all the time. Not because I was expecting... well this." He said as he pulled out a little foil square.

The crinkle of the wrapper was the only sound in the room. He tore it open with shaky fingers and rolled the condom on with an efficiency that belied his earlier fumbling.

He settled back over you, his elbows on either side of your head, caging you in.

"I can't believe I'm going to have sex with you." You whisper, looking into those consuming brown eyes, your fingers tracing the dimples that start to form when he smiles down at you. 

"Me either," he said, and there was such a raw, honest wonder in his voice that it made your chest ache. "If I'm being totally honest? I'm pretty sure this is a lucid dream I'm having after eating all that bad gas station pizza."

You laughed, a bright, happy sound that filled the small room.

"It's real." You promised.

"Okay." He takes a deep breath. "Okay."

He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your wet folds. He paused, looking at you one last time, giving you a final chance to change your mind.

You answered by wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

He pushed a little inside you with a slow, steady pressure.

It was a strange, unfamiliar sensation. A stretching, aching fullness that bordered on pain. You couldn't help the small whimper that escaped your lips.

He stopped immediately, his whole body tensing. "You okay? Am I hurting you?"

"Are you all the way in?" You asked, your breath hitching.

He shook his head. "Not even close. You okay?"

You nod. "It's a lot. Keep going."

He pushed a little deeper, a slow, inch-by-inch invasion that made you feel like your body was being remade to fit him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and he kissed up your neck and over your face. Each new press of his lips a welcome distraction from the dull ache between your legs.

He finally was all the way in, his hips flush against yours. He stilled, giving you a moment to adjust.

"Okay." You breathe out.

"You okay?" He repeated against your lips, breathless from his own pleasure. 

"Yeah just... don't move too much yet."

"You feel so... incredible. It's..." He trails off as he shifts a bit, pulling just out a little and pushing back in.

You both groan. The pain started to fade then, replaced by a different kind of ache. A deep, throbbing need.

"Okay," you breathed, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Okay, you can move."

He started to move then, a slow, gentle rocking motion that was worlds away from the frantic rutting from earlier. Each thrust was a hesitant exploration.

You moved with him, your hips rising to meet his, your body learning the rhythm of his.

"Sweetheart..." It came out as a mix of a groan and a whine, you've never heard him sound sexier.

He started to move faster, a little harder, his control starting to fray. He was panting against your neck, his breath hot and damp. His hands were everywhere, on your breasts, your hips, your ass. 

"Eddie... talk to me..." You whine as he hits a spot deep inside you that made you see stars.

"What do you want me to say?" he gasped, his hips snapping against yours.

"Anything... dirty talk... something... my ears..."

He let out a shaky laugh, a sound that was half-arousal, half-nervousness before leaning down into your ear. "You feel so good. So tight. All I've thought about for the last year is what it would feel like to be inside you."

You moaned. You felt your pussy clench around him, your body responding to the dirty words. He pulled back to watch your face, a look of pure, unadulterated lust on his face.

"Yeah? Want me to keep going? Tell you how I've jacked off to the thought of your tits?"

You could only nod, your words lost in a haze of pleasure.

"Or maybe it was your ass. In those tight jeans you wear. God, the things I wanted to do to you." He punctuated the words with a particularly hard thrust that made you cry out. "Wanna kiss you until you're dripping for me. And I did tonight. Dripping all over my tongue."

His words were filthier than you ever would have imagined, and it was pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"You're so wet for me. You're taking my cock so well." He groans, his forehead resting against yours. "You're all I want. Just... you."

The last words were a raw, honest confession that went straight to your heart. You were the one to kiss him then, a desperate, messy kiss that was all teeth and tongue and need.

"Touch yourself again," he practically begged against your lips. "Please, I love seeing it." He didn't want to finish before you did. And he also liked watching.

You didn't hesitate, your hand snaking down between your bodies to find your clit. You started to rub in tight, fast circles, the dual stimulation of him inside you and your fingers on your clit almost too much to bear.

"Its too good, Eddie." You whine, a high pitched desperate sound he's never heard you make.

"Let go," he commanded, his voice rough and hoarse. "Let me feel your pussy wreck me."

His words were the final push you needed. You came with a strangled cry, your body arching off the bed, your inner walls clamping down on him. The force of your orgasm was enough to send him over the edge too, and with a hoarse shout of your name, he came, his hips pistoning into you as he emptied himself into the condom.

He collapsed next to you, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat. The room was silent, save for the sound of your ragged breaths and the ancient motel air conditioner.

After a long moment, he propped himself up on an elbow and looked at you, a slow, dazed smile spreading across his face.

"If you don't want to be my girlfriend after this, I think I might actually die."

You laugh, reaching up to push a damp curl away from his forehead. "Well, we can't have that."

He leaned down and kissed you, a soft, sweet kiss that was a world away from the frantic, hungry kisses from before.

"So... is that a yes?" he asked, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Are you going to go easier on me during Hellfire?" You counter.

"Never." He grins. "You have to earn your honor just like everyone else."

"Then yes," you said, and the word felt like a promise. "Yes, I'll be your girlfriend."

He looked so happy you thought your heart might burst. He kissed you again, and again, and again, as if he couldn't get enough of you.

"Gonna 'kiss me till I'm dripping'?" You tease, your fingers tracing the lines of his collarbones.

"Very funny. Give me ten minutes and another slice of that gas station pizza," he mumbled against your skin, making you laugh.

He eventually got up to dispose of the condom, and you took the opportunity to look at him. Really look at him. The long, lean lines of his body, the scattering of tattoos, the way his hair curled in all directions. He was yours.

He came back to the bed and pulled you into his arms, your head resting on his chest. You could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.

"I'm never going to get tired of this," he said, his voice a soft rumble in his chest. "Of you."

You tilted your head up to look at him. "Me neither."

You lay like that for a while, a comfortable, easy silence settling over you. The events of the night replayed in your mind, not just the concert or the sex, but everything beautiful that had happened in this small, ugly motel room.

You had spent most of your day doing yard work, trying to ensure the home you two shared did not look overgrown for your snooty neighbors. They already hated that there was an unmarried couple living next to them. Even worse they were not even a couple. 

Eddie and you had been friends for over a decade. When you two could not find someone to settle down with once you both turned 30, you decided to rent a house together. You were sick of living at home with your parents and everyone else around you was in love. Steve had Kira, Robin had Vicki, and well… you had Eddie. Eddie had you. But not in a romantic sense. 

That’s what you two told yourselves, at least. 

Made crystal clear years ago, you and Eddie knew your friendship meant more than some knee jerk desires. You had kissed once, and you would be lying if you said you did not enjoy it. He was tentative, kissing you like he was trying to melt all your worries away. At the time, it was a desperate attempt to distract your mind from a shitty break up and Eddie had gotten a bit too high. 

That next morning, you sat down with him and discussed boundaries. No kissing, no sex. That was the hard line, and for years, you two had kept that promise to yourselves. 

There had been moments. An evening out with friends where you two would dance all night together and when you parted to go to your separate rooms, you would linger in the hallway just staring at each other. No one ever caved because you both knew you would regret it in the morning. Or the tense nights where one of you said something to rub the other person the wrong way. Sometimes it would turn into you two apologizing in the dimly lit kitchen, hugging and swaying near the flickering oven lightbulb. 

Today was going to be one of those days for sure. Everything he did rubbed you the wrong way.

He had not done the dishes last night, deciding to stay up late and drink himself into a deep slumber. When you woke up, wrapped in your falling-apart-at-the-seams robe and saw the dishes, you wanted to throw an empty beer bottle at him. But you didn’t. You just did them and didn’t say a word.

Then there was leaving his wet clothes in the washing machine. The moment your nose got a whiff of the despicable scent of molding clothes, you slammed the top down and groaned his name. He was not even in the house, deciding as soon as he woke up that he needed to go get a pack of cigarettes from the gas station. 

Then there was him being adamant about washing his van with the hose you were trying to use to water the dying plants in the flower beds surrounding your front door. You just grit your teeth, jerking your head into a nod when he asked for it. 

Now here he is, making you mad again as you sweat all of your body weight over some weeds. 

“I’m having some of the guys over tonight for some burgers-” “No.”

He narrows his eyes at you, swatting a gnat away from his face as you place your hands on your hips. 

“Why not?”

You had a list. A big long list. The house was a disaster. The neighbors called a noise complaint last time. The grill needed propane.

This was the tipping point. “Eddie, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you in our front yard,” You blow up, throwing off your gardening gloves, “You haven’t done shit for this house in months. I am like your own little personal housewife. I am the only person in this house that keeps it nice and clean. I haven’t had a night out in months because I am using my weekends to keep up with this shithole. I haven’t had a guy over in over a year, for fucks sake! No guy wants to fuck a girl who lives with a shitty roommate who can’t even clean. I need… I need your help.” 

His demeanor shifts, his shoulders slumping a bit. You did not mean for the word vomit to come out like that. You sounded vicious, but all of it needed to come out at sometime.

“Sweetheart-” But you do not want his excuses. You wave him off, storming towards the front door and swinging open the glass door, letting it shut behind you. You needed cold A/C on your face. You were about to pass out from anger and heatstroke. Damn Indiana summers. 

Eddie launches the door open, practically chasing you down to the kitchen. You stand under a vent, tilting your face directly towards the line of air. 

“What do you need my help with?” He asks, a slight arrogance in his tone. 

You don’t even look at him. You just hum as the cold air caresses your face. “The dishes. The laundry. Fuckin’ clean a toilet-”

“And what about guys not coming over?”

You finally tilt your head over at him, confused. “Huh?”

He looks at you with this fire in his eyes that you have almost never seen before. Maybe once or twice when one of his ex girlfriend’s said something based. He did not seem angry, per se, but he seemed agitated.

He crosses his arms over his chest, covering the Metallica logo on the front of his black tank top. His arms are toned and sprawling with randomly harsh lined tattoos. You had to thank Steve for the toned muscles as he was forcing Eddie to lift weights with him twice a week. You are definitely seeing the results. 

“You said no guy wants to fuck a girl who lives with a shitty roommate,” He states plainly, leaning against the kitchen island, “How am I supposed to help you with that?”

It’s like he’s trying to hint at something. Eddie was notorious for not saying what he really wanted to say, just simply talking around the subject. 

“Let me have a night off where I’m not cleaning up after you. Maybe I can bring a guy home.”

He cocks his head to the side, pursing his lips as his eyes take you in your sweaty clothing. You had sweat dripping into places you never knew you even had. You felt better being in the air conditioning, but that did not disguise the already stained areas of the front of your oversized t-shirt and biker shorts. 

“You don’t need me to… do anything else?”

Will this be fifth time Eddie Munson pisses you off today?

“Say what you need to say, Munson,” You warn, annoyed by the creeping smile on his face. 

You watch as he uncrosses his arms, leaning forward towards you. “Do you need me to fuck you, princess? Is that what this is?”

Your jaw hits the floor at his offer.

“What? H-how are you getting that from this-” “You just need a good fuck to release all this tension. It’s written all over you.”

He has never been this bold before. It’s blowing your mind. He has never propositioned sex to you, ever. Maybe jokingly. Wait, last week he did suggest it to get rid of your period cramps-

“You have to be kiddin’ me, Munson.”

He shakes his head, dipping his head down to meet your eyes, “I’m deadly serious, princess.”

“You’re just sayin’ this to piss me off even more-”

He presses his pointer finger to your lips, shushing you immediately, “All this talk and I’m not hearing a no.”

You swat his hand away, groaning in annoyance. You gave Eddie props, he was very convincing when he wanted to be. But you knew better.

But then again, it had been a year since a guy pleased you. 

“Eddie, you know the promise we made all those years ago. No kissing. No sex,” You lean further away, your back arching over the counter. “You can’t just propose this because I am angry at you and want you to take some accountability.”

“I’m not proposing this because I wanna weasel my way out of trouble. I’m doing it because you have been so tense these last couple months, I feel like I am walking on eggshells,” He explains, tossing his hands in the air dramatically, “Just let me get it out of your system. I know it’s been a year or so.”

“How do you know?”

You were trying to find a way out. The deepest darkest secret you held in the very depths of your heart was that you did have feelings for Eddie. You have since high school. But Eddie was occupied in every place in life and you got the permanent label as friend before you even had a chance. He dated around and you were stuck secretly obsessing over him, which- whatever. It was fine. 

All his passes at you were just normal at this point. You never gave them a second thought. You were idle in the idea that it was just jokes and that he never meant it. Even when he said he would give you head to make you feel better when the last guy you dated broke up with you. Or when he told you that he liked the way your hands felt pressed against his bare chest when you helped him apply sunscreen. Or when-

Wait... Did friends usually say that to each other?

“How do I know what?” He asks, his voice wavering a bit.

You huff, “How do you know it’s been a year?”

A mischievous smile spreads across his lips, “Because the last time I heard you through the wall moaning and begging, was about March of last year. It’s currently June.”

The heat rises back to your cheeks as you stare at him wide eyed. You did not realize he was even home when you last had someone over, let alone knew he heard it all.

“Eddie! You sick bastard! You listened?!”

You go to smack his chest but he snatches your hand away, the darkness in his eyes only hinting at his intentions. 

“How can I not? You were so loud for that guy,” He almost looks jealous. Almost. 

“I-“

“Just begging for him to let you cum. Did you, sweetheart? Did you cum for that slimeball?”

Your mouth opens slightly, realizing his hand is still wrapped around your wrist. No ease in the tension around it, just white-knuckling it. 

“I don’t remember-“

“Those moans sounded too good to be true, princess. But what do I know,” He sits back against the counter again, pulling your body closer as he does, “You’ve never cum for me. Maybe you actually do sound like that.”

You really should not. You should just yank your arm away from him and mark this down as Eddie just being a perv again. But something inside you, the tension, the annoyance, the desire, is starting to burn a pit in your stomach.

“I can.”

He raises his eyebrows, pulling your wrist and hand up to his shoulder so you rest it there. You grip onto his bare shoulder, while his arm snakes around your waist. 

“You can what?”

Your mouth goes dry, unsure if you can actually mutter the words. You usually had no filter with Eddie, but right now you felt like your voice completely cut out. He looks down at you, his head tilted in curiosity. “Say it, sweetheart. You can what?”

You grit your teeth, finally submitting. 

“I could cum for you.”

He arrogantly smirks, his fingers sneaking up under your shirt, “Yeah, princess? You wanna cum for me?”

Coming from his lips, it’s like melted butter. It seems so natural, his voice dropping as he speaks such absurd things to you. You smack your lips together, almost like you are contemplating giving in. But your mind is already made up. 

Before you can even give him a taste of his own medicine, your mind slips.

“If only you make me scream like those other girls.”

Fuck. Why did you say that?

His mouth only widens, shocked at the statement. “So you were listening to me, huh? You called me a sick bastard mere moments ago when you were doing the same thing!”

Your fingers pinch his earlobe, making him flinch a bit. “Eddie, you cannot help but be loud! Neither can they!”

Your defense is weak, but you try to sound convincing. 

“Well they are screaming for a reason, sweetheart.”

You dismiss the comment for a minute, really trying to mull this idea over. Would this cost you his friendship? Was it all really worth it? 

Your nails trail down and dig into his shoulder blade, warningly. “Do you seriously want to do this?”

He shrugs, casually, like this is the most normal conversation you two have ever had. “I’ve been trying to figure out a way to get you in my bed for years. Seems like I just gotta get you all angry and hot for you to even think about it.”

The revelation deflates you a bit. You mentally slap yourself, thinking back to all the times Eddie has offered you ‘time’ with him in bed. You always took his passes as jokes, because that’s just Eddie. He’s never been serious a day in his life. 

You press your body into him more, your nose getting closer to his, “You’ve wanted this for years?”

He nudges your nose with his, playfully, “Don’t act all surprised.”

The tension is at an all time high. The moment your eyes drop to his lips, you cannot peel them away from them. You have been close to him like this before, but never with explicit intentions. Maybe just to tease him or pester him. One time to inspect a possible bug that flew into his eye. 

Eddie was your friend. Best friend. 

Why was he looking different?

He notes the way you are silent, observing the way his lips curl upward into a toothless grin. 

He shifts down, capturing your lips in a hesitant kiss, testing the waters. When the softness of his lips makes impact on your slightly dry lips, you feel self-conscious for a beat. 

That was until you felt Eddie’s other hand sneak around your waist and pull you even closer. It’s the quiet reassurance you did not even know you needed. 

You lean into it, practically falling into his chest completely. The kiss only progresses from there. Your hand cradles his neck as his hands sneak down from your waist to your ass. You had seen Eddie kiss before, but having it be done to you is a completely different experience. He’s hungry for it, but he’s also so tender and calculated with the movements. 

The groping turns into him leveraging you upward onto the countertop. He slots himself between your legs, feeling up your thighs as his tongue slips past your lips. He’s good at stimulating you in every way, your body riddled with goosebumps. You cannot help the groans leaving your throat.

“God, you’re so hot,” He grumbles between kisses. You giggle into his mouth which makes him shake his head and pull away. 

You hold his face close to yours, smiling up at his lust-blown eyes. “Never thought I’d hear you say that. Well… in this situation at least.”

“Can you just shush and let me make you feel good?” His lips trail down from your cheek peppering wet kisses to your neck, “Lemme make it up to you, sweetheart. Been a bad friend. Bad roommate.”

You roll your eyes for two reasons. One, he’s a dork. Two, his lips feel way too good on your throat.

“Make it up to me by being a good lover.”

He barks a laugh, almost too loud for the joke. “Oh, you want me to make love to you?”

“Can you just keep kissin’-”

His lips touch your collarbones and suddenly your body stiffens. You look down at his sinful expression, his lips dragging lower over your chest. His hand returns to the hem of your shirt, slowly tugging it over your head. Your ratty old sports bra was the least sexy thing you could be wearing, but Eddie eyes you like you are in lacey red lingerie with his name stitched into it. You take it upon yourself to peel the sweaty bra off, luckily the only scent you smell when you lift your arms is your antiperspirant.

“You are more perfect than I imagined,” Eddie mumbles, his hands reaching out to cup your boobs. His hands still adorned with his gaudy rings. Makes the sight even more breathtaking. 

You roll your eyes, not believing him, “You’ve seen me in a bathing-”

His head dips down, catching your nipple in his mouth. The action silences you and instead of continuing your nervous babbling, you moan out his name. He rolls your pebbled nipple between his teeth while hissing in satisfaction. You can not stop yourself from raking your fingers through his curls. 

He pulls away from your chest, pressing a quick kiss to your other tit, “I can’t do this if you continue to give me grief.”

The dig makes you blush. You were always awful when it came to dirty talk. Making it awkward was, unfortunately, your specialty. You nod sheepishly, untangling your fingers from his deep chocolate brown hair.

“I’ll shut up.”

He shakes his head, his lips finding the spot right below your ear. You can feel the smirk on his face, "No, don’t shut up. Just keep making those other pretty sounds for me, sweetheart.”

His thumbs hook around the elastic waistband of your shorts, tugging them down. You lift your hips, using his shoulders to balance yourself. You don’t expect him to have you completely naked on your kitchen counter, but the moment your underwear peel away from your cunt, you realize that the wetness between your legs is not just sweat. 

He pulls away from your neck to look at your bare body before him and the groan he lets out makes your pussy clench around nothing. His hand skips down your body, eventually groping your hips. 

“Eddie,” You hum, tilting his chin up so his eyes meet yours, “I’m very naked and you are not.”

He smiles wickedly, shaking his head, “‘Cause I ain’t fuckin’ you here, sweetheart. This is just a really good place for me to get on my knees and devour you.”

You swallow hard, watching him drop to one knee, making him eye level with your glistening cunt, “And look at how beautiful and wet she is for me. This all for me, sweet girl?”

“You’re not the only one who’s been wanting this for a while,” You admit, your eyes drooping to watch his mouth move across your inner thighs. You are a bit self-conscious, not having prepared your pussy for this kind of activity, but Eddie does not seem to mind. He admires you like a piece of art at a museum.

He flicks his tongue out of his mouth, unhurriedly moving up your slit. Once he has his first taste, that smile returns, “Mmm, there’s that confession I’ve been waiting for.”

Your mind draws a blank as he dives back in, pressing his tongue between your pussy lips. He has never looked so happy doing a task in his life, his beautifully straight teeth bared as his tongue swirls around your clit. His grip only tightens on your thighs ensuring you do not move them together. He needs you nice and wide open while he tongue fucks you. 

He becomes more eager with his movements the moment you try to brace yourself on the edge of the counter. His fingers hook down into your flesh, dragging you to the edge of the surface. He does not miss a beat while he suckles on your clit, wrapping his plump pink lips around it and slurping it like a straw. 

The knot in your stomach is tightening as you study his actions. Somehow it is like he knows your body better than you do. 

The instant he sinks his pointer and middle finger into your soaked cunt, it is game over. Your body reacts before your mind does, vibrating against his mouth and fingers. He does not slow down when you clench around him, instead, he increases his speed and ministrations. 

“Jesus, fuck, Eddie,” you whimper, surrendering to the climax. You squeeze your eyes shut, letting your mouth hang ajar as random moans escape you. Your nerve endings have never felt so electrified in your life. 

Once you feel a slight come down, Eddie comes back up for air. His lips are shiny with his own saliva and whatever escaped you when you came. 

You drop your head back, hitting the upper cabinet. 

“You didn’t even have to beg for the first one,” He grunts, getting back to his feet. He locks his arm around your knees and drags your upper half into his other arm, “But the second one, you have to ask for permission, ‘kay?”

His lips are pressed to your temple, kissing you gingerly. 

“You want me to beg, Eds?”

He chuckles darkly, carrying you princess-style across the house and to the living room. He could take you to bed, but he is not sure if that feels too intimate. You just want him inside you, not caring much where he decides to do it. 

You bounce on the worn-down couch as he drops you down, your bare ass immediately sticking to the leather. His discards his tank top and practically jumps on top of you, his hips resting between your legs. You greedily tug at his basketball shorts, begging to reveal the length behind the tented fabric. 

“Mmm, eager, are we?”

You had seen Eddie’s ass plenty of times. His shirtless frame. But never his dick. His tight pants left little to the imagination most times. But up close, pressed against your palm, you cannot help but gasp about how big he is. 

He grabs your wrist firmly, his curls dropping down his shoulders as he shakes his head, “Wanna hear you beg.”

It spills right out of your desperate mouth. “Please, Eddie.”

“Please what?”

“Let me see your cock,” Your eyes reflecting faux innocence, “Please?”

He cannot help but giggle, assisting you in getting his shorts down his tattooed legs. You had been next to him for the big one on his right thigh, an ode to his favorite Metallica album. You did not completely understand the concept, but the black ink littering his body only added to his appeal. 

His cock is even better than your mind had mocked up before. Long, slightly curved to the left, and not too thick that he may split you in half. 

You truly cannot fathom the fact that this is happening. He is willingly showing you his dick and smiling at you while you gawk. 

He is naked above you, and God is he breathtaking. The mop of curls, the broadness of his shoulders, his very slight tummy from all the beer he drinks, the works of art littering his pale skin.

Your eyes finally make their way back up to his, only to note the serious look he’s giving you. 

“What?”

His lips twitch, “Just can’t believe I finally get to do this. And that it’s real and it’s not all in my head.”

Your heart stutters. 

You lick your lips, searching every crevice of your mind for a response. He realizes that you are trying to muddle up a reply and that he has broken your brain temporarily. So instead of letting you counter his statement, he captures your lips in a bruising kiss. 

He wastes no time after that, grabbing his dick and pushing it between your slick folds. You groan into his mouth, your pussy still very sensitive from the first orgasm he gave you. Your hand snakes around the back of his neck, holding his face close to yours. 

“Eddie-“

He pushes into you before you can say anything else, a hiss whistling between his clenched teeth. 

“God damn,” He throws his head back, shaking your hand away from his neck, “You’re fuckin’ tight, princess.”

The moan that leaves your throat is a whole octave lower than your actual voice. Eddie looks down at you, the widest smile painted across his face. You feel his hips inch closer and closer to you and you realize he is not fully inside you yet. 

You take a breath, trying to relax your muscles, “Please, please, please.”

He snaps his hips forward, a dark guttural chuckle taunting you. “There she is. Beggin’.”

Eddie had changed into a completely different person. Sure, he was always picking on you, but this was a stark contrast from your silly best friend. The man above you, slowly rocking his hips inside you, was feral. His confidence only burning brighter the more you whimper for him. 

“Please, faster.”

The wet squelching noise that emits between your bodies is borderline embarrassing. You had never heard such a sound with any other man. Eddie loves it, though. The idea that you were just gushing for him is enough to send him into overdrive. 

“Yeah? You want me to go faster,” He pushes your thighs apart, spreading you wider. He wants to look at how beautiful your pussy looks stuffed full of him. “Look at that.”

You shift yourself up on your elbows, looking down at the sight he cannot peel his eyes away from. “Jesus, I cannot believe…”

You drift off, watching Eddie slowly retreat back only to sharply snap forward. Your jaw goes slack as he drives himself into you, disappearing over and over again. 

Eddie‘s eyes are now on you, watching your tits jiggle every time his cock pierces your squishy walls. 

“You really needed this, huh, princess?”

You watch as he reaches down between your bodies, swiping your clit with his thumb.

Your eyes roll back, unable to hold yourself together, “I really did, oh my god.”

Your legs stiffen and Eddie’s hands loosen up, letting you squirm and adjust yourself. Your hips burn and your mind is mush. Eddie’s erratic movements against your swollen bud and his rapidly moving hips are overstimulating, you cannot help but lock your legs around him. 

“Yeah, I can fucking feel you clenching around me,” He babbles, licking his lips, “You just take my cock so well, don’t you? Just fuckin’ made for me.”

He does not stop talking as you grunt your response. You have never seen the man so driven to get something done in your life. He wants to cum, but he wants to feel you fall apart on him even more. His words are just pouring out of him.

“Yeah? You want me to make you mine, huh? Gonna make this pussy somethin’ only I can have.“

Your eyes fly open in shock, his words ringing in your ears. You feel his dick twitch inside you, hitting the same perfect spot over and over again. “Please, please.”

“Fuck, say it, baby. Say that you’re mine.”

He is so desperate, his usual calm, cool, collected voice faltering. 

“I’m yours, Eddie.”

His thumb presses hard down on your clit, causing your hips to shift upward. The nerve endings that were ablaze before are now imploding. 

The vibration of your body catches him off guard at first, so he locks his hands on your hips. You lurch your body into a crescent shape as he continues to chase his high. A final scream rips through your body, chanting his name. 

Every snap forward was another word slipping from his practically drooling mouth. He fucked his cum deep inside you, his words bouncing off the walls.

“Yes.” “The.” “Fuck.” “You.” “Are.”

Your body goes completely limp under him the moment your high dissipates. He is panting like he just ran 10 miles as he slowly drifts to his side, positioning his nude body between your body and the back couch cushions. When his cock leaves your cunt, he dribbles cum over your mound and lower tummy. You glance down at your body, completely blissed out. 

You have never felt more appreciated in your life.

He lays his head right on your shoulder, fanning your sweaty body with his warm breath. He does not say anything, just settles next you, throwing his arm over your midsection.

You swallow, trying to regain your composure. You thought after doing something like this with Eddie, you would feel some guilt. Regret, maybe. But none of those emotions spring up.

You felt relaxed and at peace. Like you walked off the edge of a cliff and instead of landing on a rocky bottom, you landed on a sea of fluffy pillows. It was a relief. 

Your eyes fall onto his lazily smirking face, “I did really need that.”

He hums his response at first, before clearing his throat. “Yeah, I could tell. I can read you pretty well, huh?”

That’s the understatement of the century. He can read you perfectly. 

You start to reflect on every word that spilled from his lips during the entire interaction, and suddenly your stomach is in knots. You start to wonder if he really did feel those things, or if he was just lost in the moment. You almost don’t ask in fear that he will tell you something you didn’t want to hear. 

“Did you mean everything you said,” You press, your hand absentmindedly tucking some of his hair behind of his ear. His fingers dance across your flesh, eventually swirling around your collarbones.

“Yeah, ‘course.”

He says it so simply. You wanted to believe it was that easy, but there is logistical things that needed to be discussed. Feelings and thoughts that needed further explanation. 

Eddie can see that your mind is racing. Your expression gives you away every time. His mouth slowly opens to further elaborate on his response, but before he can get out a word, there’s a pounding at your front door. 

It is so sudden and loud, you both sit up from the couch. 

“Mr. Munson! You left your hose on! There’s a drought-”

You tune out the rest of the rant from your elderly neighbor because Eddie starts chuckling and rubbing his eyes. He looks down at you as the rant starts to get louder, pressing a chaste kiss on your lips before grabbing his boxers off the floor. 

“You stay there, beautiful. I’ll deal with this.”

You do as he says, the bliss he left you in after the kiss enough to hold you over until he comes crawling back on top of you. He stumbles back into his boxers, going to the front door and cracking it so he can get eyes on your neighbor. 

“Yeah, my fault, Mr. O’Connell. Had to comfort my lady because she cut herself on the shovel. I’ll be right out to shut off that hose and save the rainforest or whatever.”

You hear a scoff from behind the door, the older gentleman taken off guard. “Oh, so she’s your lady now?”

She grabs a cushion and hugs it to her chest, watching you settle into the armchair across from her. Her eyes have that glint you recognise — the one that says she is about to pitch you something she has already decided you are going to do.

"Come work with me," she says.

"Work with you where? The video store?"

"Family Video, yes. It's perfect. They're hiring. I already talked to my manager. Well, I talked to my manager's manager, because Keith — that's my manager — is useless, but the regional guy said we could use another person. And you need money. And I need someone to talk to who isn't Steve Harrington."

You have heard about Steve Harrington. You have heard a lot about Steve Harrington. Robin says he's funny when he's not being a total grump, which is maybe 5% of the time. 

You feel like you know him, really. "I don't know that much about movies," you say.

"You don't need to know anything about movies. You need to know the alphabet and basic movie genres. That's it. That's the job."

"What if someone asks me for a recommendation?"

"Then you say, 'I don't know, I'm new,' and then you find me."

"What if you're not there?"

"Then you find Steve. And if Steve's not there, you make something up. Tell them Steel Magnolias is great. Everyone loves Steel Magnolias."

"I've never seen Steel Magnolias."

Robin throws her hands up. "That's not the point! The point is you need money and I need a friend and Family Video needs someone who can alphabetise without complaining."

You laugh despite yourself. "Okay. Fine. I'll come in for an interview. But if your manager is weird, I'm blaming you."

Robin grins. "Oh, Keith is definitely weird. But he's funny, you might like him. A little oddball."

The interview is scheduled for Thursday at 3 PM.

You walk to Family Video because you haven't saved enough for a car yet — which is, you remind yourself, exactly why you are doing this.

The heat is oppressive, the kind of humidity that makes your hair curl in directions you did not know it could curl, and by the time you push open the door of Family Video, you are flushed and slightly out of breath and pretty sure your outfit was a mistake.

The store is cool. Air-conditioned, so you sigh happily as you step inside. Rows of VHS tapes line the walls, new releases on the back, older movies toward the front.

There is a counter at the front, cluttered with candy and tapes and a cash register that looks older than you. Behind the counter, a guy is leaning against the wall, reading a magazine. He has a Family Video vest on, the name tag reading "KEITH" in block letters, and he does not look up when you walk in.

You stand there for a moment. Clear your throat. Still no reply, so you say, "I'm here for an interview?"

Keith looks up. His face is completely blank. Not annoyed, not surprised, not anything. Just — blank. Yeah, he's definitely weird. "You're the friend," he says. It is not a question.

"Robin's friend, yeah. She said you were hiring?"

Keith nods slowly, like this is information he is processing one word at a time. He stops in front of you. Looks you up and down. You resist the urge to smooth down your jeans. 

"Three favourite movies," he says.

You blink. "What?"

"Three favourite movies. Everyone who works here has to tell me their three favourite movies. It's the interview."

"Um." You try to think. You have watched a lot of movies. You have watched movies with Robin, with your roommate, with your mom when you were home for break. But now that someone is asking, your mind is completely blank. "I like — I like The Princess Bride."

Keith nods. Writes something on a clipboard you did not notice he was holding.

"And?"

You scramble. "And — Back to the Future. I saw it three times in theatres."

"And the third one?"

You open your mouth. Close it. You can feel your face heating up. Behind Keith, through the staff room window, you see some guy with really nice hair turn around. 

He is holding a box of tapes, and he is looking at you through the glass, and even from here you can see that he is — well. He is very pretty. Which is annoying, because you are trying to remember a movie and he is standing there being pretty and it is distracting.

"Um," you say again. "When Harry Met Sally," you say finally. You have not seen When Harry Met Sally. But Robin told you about it, and it seems like the kind of movie someone should say in an interview, and you need to say something.

Keith writes it down and then looks up. "You're hired."

You stare at him. "What?"

"You said three movies. That's the interview." He turns and walks back behind the counter, picks up his fishing magazine. "Robin will show you the schedule. You start Monday."

You stand in the middle of Family Video, trying to process what just happened. You have been here maybe three minutes. You have not filled out an application. You have not given him your resume. You said three movie titles and you have a job.

The staff room door opens. The pretty guy with the hair emerges, still holding the box of tapes, and up close he is even more distracting. Sharp jaw, big brown eyes, big hands — god, he has nice hands, you notice absently — and a mouth that is currently pressed into a thin line like he's trying very hard to look unimpressed.

He is wearing the same vest as Keith, his name tag reading "STEVE" in slightly crooked letters, and he is looking at you like you are a problem he did not ask for. "You're the new girl," he says.

You smile at him. You cannot help it. He is very pretty and you just got a job and the air conditioning is still blowing cold air on your overheated skin and everything feels a little bit like a dream. "I'm the new girl!"

His expression flickers. Something passes over his face — surprise, maybe, or confusion. Like he was expecting something else. Someone else, maybe. 

"So," you say, because you are good at filling silences and this one feels like it needs filling. "You're Steve."

He raises an eyebrow. "You've heard of me?"

"Robin talks about you all the time."

His expression flickers again — something that might be pleased, quickly suppressed. "Good things, I hope."

"Robin says you're grumpy." 

Both of his eyebrows go up this time. "Robin says a lot of things."

"She says you're funny, too. But only sometimes. Like five percent of the time."

"Five percent?"

"That's what she said. I don't know if it's accurate. I haven't known you long enough to do the math."

He makes a sound. It's not quite a laugh, but it's close. Something caught in his throat that wants to be a laugh and is being wrestled into something else. "You're doing the math?"

"I'm a math major. I do math all the time. It's kind of my whole thing."

He blinks. Something shifts in his expression — recalibration, maybe. Like he had you filed under a certain category and now has to move you somewhere else. "Math major."

"Was that not what you expected?"

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His eyes do that thing again, flicking from your face to somewhere else and then back. "I don't know what I expected."

"You expected something," you say, because you can see it in the way he's standing, the way he keeps looking at you like he's confused. "Robin told you about me, didn't she?"

"I didn't ask."

"You didn't have to ask. She just talks."

"She does talk," he admits. His mouth twitches. "A lot."

"That's why she's your best friend. "

"I'm not—" He stops. His jaw works. "Not best friends. We work together. That's different."

"You work together and you're best friends. I can tell."

"How can you tell? You've known me for three minutes."

"Because you're standing here talking to me when you could be doing anything else. Shelving tapes. Alphabetising. Whatever it is you do back there." You nod toward the staff room. "But you're here. Talking to me."

He looks at you for a long moment. His arms are still crossed, the box of tapes still pressed against his chest, but something in his posture has shifted. Softened. Just a little. "Maybe I'm just being polite."

"Are you?"

"No."

You laugh.

He looks at you. His eyes are very brown. Very warm. The grumpiness has slipped, just for a moment, and underneath it is something else. Something softer. Something that makes your chest feel tight. "How come you're working here, when you're a hotshot math major?"

You grin, amused. "My landlord raised my rent. And my scholarship only covers so much. And differential equations don't pay the bills, at least not yet, unfortunately, so I had to apply for this job that I'm totally unqualified for, and... here I am."

"Here you are," Steve echoes, and he looks like he's trying very hard not to smile. "You have to be qualified if you passed Keith's interview, though," he teases. 

"I said When Harry Met Sally. I've never seen it."

He blinks. "Why did you say it, then?"

You hesitate. You could lie. You could make something up, something normal, something that doesn't reveal the embarrassing truth. But he's looking at you with those eyes, and you've never been good at lying, and something about the quiet of the store, the late afternoon light, the way he's standing there with his nice hands and his hair and his brown eyes — it makes you want to tell him.

"Because I was distracted," you say.

Steve frowns. "By what?"

You point at him. "By you."

He stares at you. His mouth opens. Closes. His ears are very red now. "By me."

"You were in the window. With your hair. And your—" You gesture vaguely at his face. His whole face. "You know."

"I don't know."

"You were being very—" You search for the right word. "Visible. In the window. Where I could see you."

He is quiet for a moment. His hand is in his hair again, messing it up more, and he doesn't seem to notice. His eyes are fixed on your face, and there's something in them that you can't quite name.

"You picked When Harry Met Sally," he says slowly, "because I was distracting you."

"My brain stopped working. You were the reason my brain stopped working. So technically, yes. You're responsible for that answer."

He stares at you. For a long moment, he just stares, and you think — you think maybe you have said too much. You have only known this person for five minutes. You do not get to tell him that he made your brain stop working. That is not a normal thing to say.

But then he smiles. A real one. Wide and surprised and a little disbelieving, like he can't help it, like the smile is happening to him without permission. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," he says.

"Hey!" you protest. "I told you the truth, and you're being mean."

"You told me the truth," Steve says, and his voice is doing something strange. It's softer now, amused. "You told me I made your brain stop working. In a job interview."

"Are you going to hold that against me forever?"

"Probably."

"You are the worst."

"You sound like Robin."

"Yeah, well, she's a good teacher," you cross your arms, but you're smiling, you can't stop smiling, and he's smiling too, and the two of you are standing in the middle of Family Video grinning at each other like idiots. "I'm going to be so very good at this job. You'll see. I'm going to learn everything about everything. I'm going to alphabetise so hard."

"Alphabetise so hard," he repeats, a grin tugging at his mouth. "You're a weirdo." 

"Keith is a weirdo," you correct. 

He shakes his head, but he's still smiling. 

"I have to go finish a paper," you say, and you're surprised to find that you don't want to. You want to stay here, in this cool, quiet store, with this grumpy boy who keeps smiling at you like he can't help it. "Twelve pages. Differential equations. The Heun function."

"That's—" He stops. "That sounds like a lot."

"It's a lot of math." You sigh dramatically. "I'm going to be up all night."

"You should go, then."

"I should."

You don't move. He doesn't move. The afternoon light is shifting, turning gold, catching in his hair. It's very nice hair. You've noticed. You're noticing now.

"Steve," you say.

"What?"

"Are you always here? Or just on Thursdays?"

He frowns. "I'm here most days. Why?"

You shrug, aiming for casual and missing entirely. "No reason. Just — for when I start. So I know who to bother when Robin's not around."

"You're going to bother me?"

"Duh." 

He sighs, long and heavy, but his eyes say he doesn't really mind. "You're going to be a problem, aren't you?"

You beam at him. "A good problem, I hope."

Steve looks at you for a long moment, something in his eyes that you can't quite identify. "Go write your paper," he says.

"I'm going."

"You're not going. You're standing here."

"Well sorry, Mr. Technical. I'll leave now." You gather your bag, sling it over your shoulder. You're at the door when you stop, turn back. He's still standing there, watching you. "See you Monday, Steve."

"See you, sunshine." 

You freeze at the door. Sunshine. He called you sunshine.

You turn back, but Steve has already turned away, his ears very pink, his hand very busy rearranging the candy display. You push open the door and walk out into the heat, and the word follows you like a warmth under your skin.

Sunshine.

You go to sleep smiling. You wake up smiling. Your roommate asks if you're okay. You tell her you've never been better, and you mean it.

The weekend passes in a blur of differential equations and daydreaming. You finish your paper — barely — and turn it in on Monday morning with dark circles under your eyes and a smile that won't go away.

You walk to Family Video faster than necessary. Your heart is already beating too fast when you push open the door, the bell jingling overhead, the cool air washing over you.

The store is quiet. The afternoon light slants through the windows, gold and soft, catching on the dust motes floating in the air. And there he is.

Steve is behind the counter, counting the till, his brow furrowed in concentration. He's wearing the same vest, the same jeans. His hair looks incredibly soft today. 

He looks up when the bell rings. Sees you. His eyes crinkle at the corners, his mouth softens, and his shoulders drop. "Hey, sunshine."

Your heart feels like it's in your throat. "Hey."

Robin appears from the back room, a stack of tapes in her arms. "There she is! My favourite brand new Family Video employee!" She sets the tapes down, comes around the counter, pulls you into a hug. "I'm so glad you're here."

"Uh, excuse me?" Steve chimes in grumpily from the cashier. "What are you trying to say, Buckley, that I'm not good company?"

"That's exactly what I'm trying to say, Dingus," she replies, but she's grinning, wide and amused, and you know she doesn't mean it. Steve is definitely her best friend. 

"Your words wound me," Steve says, pressing a hand to his chest like he's been shot. His eyes, though, are still on you. You can't seem to look away. 

"You don't have wounds, Steve. You have feelings. There's a difference." Robin pats his cheek twice, firm. "And your feelings are going to be fine because you have someone to train today. Someone who will actually listen to you."

She's looking at you when she says this. You feel your face warm.

Steve straightens, smooths down his vest. "Right. Training. The register first. It's not complicated."

He rounds the counter, and you follow him, your bag sliding off your shoulder. Robin is already disappearing into the back, humming something under her breath, and then it's just you and Steve behind the counter. 

"So," Steve says. He's standing close, close enough that your shoulder bumps his, close enough that his arm brushes yours when he reaches for the register. "This is the cash drawer. This button opens it. Don't press it when there's no sale or Keith gets weird."

"Weird how?"

"He doesn't say anything. He just looks at you. For a really long time, like you're stupid."

You laugh. Steve glances at you, brown eyes soft and less guarded. 

"So you open the drawer," he continues, clearing his throat. "You take the money. You make change. The computer tells you how much change to make, so it's easy."

You nod, watching his hands as he moves through the motions. His fingers are long, his movements sure. You wonder what it would be like to have those hands around yours. You wonder what it would be like to have him teach you something else, something slower, something where he stood closer and—

"Are you listening?" Steve's voice cuts through your thoughts.

"Yes," you say quickly. Too quickly. "Change. Computer. Easy."

He narrows his eyes. "What did I just say about the five-dollar bill?"

Your mind blanks. "It's... green?"

Steve stares at you. His mouth twitches in amusement. "That's not—" He stops, running a hand through his hair. "You're not listening."

"I'm listening. I'm just — it's really hot. The heat. From outside. It makes my brain slow." You stop. He's looking at you. "I'm not making a good first impression, am I?"

He leans against the counter, arms crossed. His shoulder is very close to yours. "Your first impression was telling me I made your brain stop working. This is actually an improvement."

You feel your face go hot. "I'm really never going to live that down, am I?"

He grins. "Nope."

You groan, letting your head fall forward. Your forehead nearly hits the counter, but Steve's hand shoots out, his palm flat against your forehead, stopping you.

And he's got good reflexes. Damn it. You are screwed.

"Easy," he says. His hand is warm, his fingers spread wide, and you're suddenly very aware of how close he is, how his palm fits against your skin, how his thumb is almost at your temple. "You'll give yourself a concussion like that. Then I'd get fired, 'cos you're under my watch, and Keith would have to do your training. And trust me, you don't want that."

You look up at him through your lashes. His hand is still on your face. He doesn't seem to realise he hasn't moved it.

"Keith's training would be worse than yours?" You ask, smiling.

"Ha ha," Steve deadpans. "Hilarious. Depends on your definition of worse. Keith's training is sitting in the back room reading his fishing magazine while you figure it out yourself." His thumb moves, just a fraction, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "I had to learn the register alone. Took me three days to figure out the cash drawer."

You blink at him. "You didn't know how to open the cash drawer?"

"I couldn't find the button." His ears are pink. "It was a learning experience."

You laugh, because you can't help it, because he's funny and you didn't expect him to be funny and because you can't believe you're working at a video store with Steve "The Hair" Harrington who couldn't figure out how to work the cash drawer. He's a little adorable. 

Steve's hand drops from your face, but he's smiling, that soft smile, the one that makes your stomach flip. "I'm glad my suffering is amusing to you," he says.

"You suffered?"

"I suffered," he affirms, leaning against the counter, watching you double over to laugh. 

"Okay," you manage, through a giggle. "Okay. Show me the register again. I promise I'll listen this time."

He raises an eyebrow. "Really? You promise?"

You nod seriously. "Very professional, I promise."

He doesn't look convinced, but he turns back to the register anyway. His hand brushes yours as he reaches for the drawer, and he doesn't pull away.

"The five-dollar bill," he says, and his voice is lower now, softer, "goes here. In this slot. The tens go here. The twenties here. The coins go in the little cups. Don't mix them up."

You nod, eyes fixed on the register, even though they ache to flit towards where his hand is so close to yours. 

"The computer tells you how much change to give," he continues. "You count it back to the customer. Slowly. Out loud. So they know you're not cheating them."

"People think you're cheating them?"

"People think everyone's cheating them. It's the American way." He glances at you. "You want to try?"

You nod. He steps back, just enough to give you room, and you slide into the space he was occupying. You go through the motions. Open the drawer. Pull out the bills. Count them back. Your hands are steady, your movements sure. You can feel him watching you, his eyes on your hands, your face, your hair.

"Good," he says, and his voice is strange. Thicker. "You're a natural."

"Thanks," you hum softly, looking back at him over your shoulder. 

He stares for a long moment, then clears his throat. "Okay. Next thing. Returns."

You spend the next hour learning returns. Steve shows you the system, explains the difference between damaged tapes and returned tapes, shows you where to put the ones that need to be rewound. He's patient, clearer than you expected, and he doesn't laugh when you put a tape in the wrong pile.

"Returns go in this bin," he says, pointing. "Damaged tapes go in this one. Tapes that need rewinding go in the back room. On the shelf. The one that says REWIND."

"That makes things easier," you note, "wouldn't peg Keith for the type of guy to make things easier for his employees."

"I made the sign myself."

You look up at him. "You made a sign that says REWIND?"

"It was necessary," he protests, but his cheeks are a little pink. "People, Robin included, kept putting them in the wrong place, so. It's a good sign. Very helpful."

"I'm sure it's a great sign."

"It's a great sign. Stunning, really."

You laugh. He glares at you, but there's no real heat in it. "Show me the sign," you find yourself saying.

He leads you to the back room. It's small, cramped, filled with boxes of tapes and a little desk with a lamp and a stack of schedules. On the wall, above a shelf lined with tapes, is a piece of cardboard with REWIND written in black marker.

Steve is watching you. "Well?"

"It's beautiful," you say.

He blinks. "What?"

"It's beautiful. The—" You gesture. "The craftsmanship. The attention to detail. You can really see the—" You wave your hand vaguely. "The heart. I might cry, really. So much effort for such a helpful act of kindness."

He stares at you, his mouth opening, then closing. "You're making fun of me."

"I'm not making fun of you. I'm appreciating the sign. The sign you made. With your own hands."

"It's cardboard."

"It's heartfelt cardboard."

He laughs, bends down a little to look at the sign closer. "It is heartfelt cardboard," he agrees, and you can't breathe, because his lips are right next to your ear, and he's impossibly close, and suddenly there's no space at all in this tiny backroom, and—

The bell over the door jingles. You both jump. Steve scrambles to his feet, nearly knocking over a stack of tapes.

You follow him to the front. You don't say anything about the moment you just had in the backroom, and he doesn't either. But when you shelve tapes together for the rest of the shift, he stands a little closer. His hand brushes yours when he hands you a tape. He calls you sunshine, and his voice is softer than it was before.

At the end of your shift, you're standing by the door, your bag over your shoulder. Steve is behind the counter, counting the till.

"Same time tomorrow?" you ask.

He looks up. His eyes are warm. "Same time."

You should go. You definitely should go. But you don't want to. You want to stay here, in this store, with this grumpy boy who made a sign that says REWIND and couldn't figure out a cash machine for three days.

"Goodnight, Steve," you murmur as you leave. 

"Goodnight, sunshine."

You push open the door and walk out into the evening air, and you don't feel the heat at all. You're too busy smiling, too busy thinking about pink ears and brown eyes and pretty hair.

You're thinking about tomorrow.

You wake up on Tuesday with a smile already on your face.

It's ridiculous. You know it's ridiculous. You've known Steve Harrington for exactly one shift — one shift and an interview, which barely counts — and already you're smiling before your eyes are even open. Your roommate is still drumming somewhere in the apartment, a steady thump-thump-thump that usually makes you want to throw something at the wall. Today it sounds like music.

You pick out your outfit carefully. Jeans, a soft sweater, your hair loose around your shoulders. You check the mirror twice. Not because you're worried — you're not, you tell yourself — but because you want to look nice. For yourself. Definitely just for yourself.

There's something different in your reflection, something you can't quite name. A brightness, maybe. A lightness. You look happy. You realize you are happy. You're happy because you have a job, because you finished your paper, because the sun is out and your roommate's drumming doesn't bother you today. 

That's all. It has nothing to do with a boy with nice hair and pink ears who called you sunshine and made a sign that says REWIND.

Nothing at all.

When you reach Family Video, Steve is behind the counter, his back to you, rearranging the candy display. He doesn't turn around.

You stand there for a moment, watching him. His hair is soft today, falling across his forehead. He's wearing his vest over a plain white t-shirt, and you can see the shape of his shoulders, the line of his back. He's humming something under his breath, something you don't recognise.

You clear your throat.

He turns. His hands are full of Milk Duds, his expression distracted, and then he sees you. His whole face changes. The distraction clears. His eyes crinkle at the corners, his mouth curves into something soft and surprised and warm.

"Hey," he says. "Hey, sunshine."

You beam at him, too happy to stop the way your mouth curves upwards. “Hi, Steve.”

He sets the Milk Duds down, rounds the counter. He's wearing jeans that fit him well, a belt, the same vest. His eyes are on your face, traveling, cataloguing. "You're early," he says.

"I wanted to—" You stop. You were going to say ‘I wanted to see you’, but that's too much, too soon, too honest. "I wanted to get here before Robin. So I could learn more. Before the rush."

He nods, but he's still looking at you, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach flip. "Okay. Come on," he says. "Rom-com section needs organising. Robin's been messing with it again."

You follow him through the store, past the new releases, past the horror section, past the drama. The rom-com section is in the back corner, tucked between the classics and the kids' movies, and it's a disaster. Tapes are shoved in the wrong places, some upside down, some facing the wrong way.

A copy of When Harry Met Sally is somehow on the floor next to Ghostbusters.

Steve picks it up, holds it out to you. "Look what someone did to your favorite movie,” he teases softly, and it makes you laugh. “You should actually watch it though, sometime. It’s a good film.”

"Maybe I will."

He nods. "Maybe you should."

Steve drops down to the floor, cross-legged, and starts pulling tapes off the shelf.

"Come on," he says. "If we're going to fix this, we're going to fix it right."

You drop down across from him, a stack of tapes between you. The floor is cold through your jeans, the carpet worn and scratchy, but you don't care. You're sitting on the floor of Family Video with Steve Harrington, surrounded by romantic comedies, and you've never been happier.

He hands you a tape. "This one goes in the B section. Under 'B' for 'Runaway Bride.'"

You blink at him. “You realise that makes no sense, right? It should go under ‘R.’”

"It's a movie about a bride who runs away. B is for ‘bride’. It makes sense."

"That's not how alphabetising works."

"My system isn't about letters. It's about vibes."

"Vibes," you repeat.

"Vibes. Energy. The feeling of the movie. You can't put Sleepless in Seattle next to Steel Magnolias. They have different energies."

You stare at him. He's holding a copy of Sleepless in Seattle, his face serious, his brow furrowed. He's not joking. "You're weird," you say.

He looks up. "You're weird."

“You’re the one organising by your so-called ‘vibes’. What would Keith say?”

“You know, Keith actually agrees with me on this one,” Steve grins, eyes meeting yours. “It’s the one thing me and that oddball have in common. Plus, vibes are important. You can't put a movie about a woman dying next to a movie about a woman finding love. It's disrespectful."

"You're ridiculous," you reply through a laugh.

"You like it."

You do. You really do.

You spend the next hour on the floor, sorting tapes, arguing about where things belong. Steve has opinions. Strong opinions, but you find yourself not really minding. You like listening to him. He tells you about the kid who tried to rent an R-rated movie and argued with him for twenty minutes about the rating system.

“His name is Dustin,” Steve says, slotting a tape into place. “He’s like, sixteen. Funny kid, though, I have to admit. Don’t tell him that.”

“I won’t,” you murmur, smiling at your lap. 

The bell over the door jingles, and Steve is already moving, pushing himself up, reaching for the tapes. "Coming!" he calls, and then he's gone, rounding the corner, heading toward the front.

You follow him. You’re still thinking about his smile, the look in his eyes, when you round the corner and see him.

You stop. Your hands tighten on the action tapes in your hands. Your feet won't move. Your voice won't come.

Mark. It's Mark. Your ex. The one who didn't like when things didn't go his way. The one who called your apartment for months, who left messages you didn't answer, who showed up at your classes until you changed your schedule. "I've been looking for you," he says. "You haven't been answering my calls."

You can't speak. You can't move. Your hands are shaking, and the tapes are slipping, and you can feel yourself shrinking, becoming smaller, becoming the person you were when you were with him.

Steve moves.

You don't see him cross the space between you. You don't see him step in front of you. But suddenly he's there, his body between you and Mark, his hand finding your arm, pulling you close. You go without thinking, your feet moving, your body pressing against his side.

His arm slides around your waist, pulls you tighter, and you tuck yourself under his arm, your face against his shoulder, your hands finding his shirt.

You can feel his heart beating. Fast. Angry.

"You okay?" His voice is low, meant only for you.

You nod. You can't speak. His arm is solid around your waist, his hand splayed across your hip, and it makes you feel safe. 

Mark's eyes are on Steve now, narrowed, assessing. "Who's this?"

Steve's arm tightens. His hand is warm through your shirt, his fingers spread wide. "I'm her boyfriend," he says. Boyfriend. The thought makes your heart squeeze. "Who are you?"

Mark's smile flickers. His eyes go from Steve to you, to the way you're pressed against him, to the way his arm is wrapped around you. "Boyfriend," he repeats. "Since when?"

Steve's hand moves on your hip, pulling you closer. "Since she stopped picking up calls from guys who can't take a hint."

Mark's jaw tightens. He looks at you, and there's something in his expression that makes you press closer to Steve. "Come on," Mark says. "I just want to talk. We have things to work out."

Steve steps forward. Just one step, but it's enough. He's taller than Mark, broader, and he's standing between you like a wall. "She doesn't want to talk to you."

Mark's eyes flick to Steve. "I wasn't asking you."

Steve's hand moves from your hip to your waist, pulling you against his side. His body is tense, coiled. "She's my girlfriend. You're making her uncomfortable. You need to leave."

Mark stares at him. Steve stares back. The store is quiet, the afternoon light gold, and you can feel the anger rolling off Steve, can feel the way his muscles are tight under your hands.

"This isn't over," Mark says finally. His voice is low, dangerous.

Steve's arm is a band of iron around you. "Yeah, it is."

Mark looks at you one more time. Something passes over his face — frustration, maybe, or anger — and then he turns and walks out, the door slamming shut behind him.

You're shaking. You didn't realize you were shaking until Steve's other hand comes up, cups your face, turns you toward him. His eyes are dark, worried, scanning your face.

"Hey," he says softly. "Hey, sunshine. He's gone. You're okay."

You nod. Your hands have grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, and you can’t seem to let go. 

"Was that—" He stops. His jaw works. "Was that your ex?"

You nod again. Your voice comes out small. "We broke up six months ago. He doesn't — he doesn't like when things don't go his way."

Steve's hand tightens on your waist. His face is hard, his eyes dark. "If he comes back—"

"He won't." You take a breath. Let it out. "Not now. Not with you here."

He looks at you for a long moment. His thumb is moving against your cheek, slow and steady, and you realize he's still holding your face, still holding you close. His arm is still around your waist. You're still pressed against him.

"Good," he says. "That's good."

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't mean to — I didn't want you to have to—"

"Don't." His voice is firm. "Don't apologise. You didn't do anything wrong."

You look at him. His eyes are brown and warm and so close you can see the gold flecks. His hand is still on your chin, still steady, still gentle. His arm is still around your waist, still holding you close. And you realise you don't want him to let go. You don't want to step away. You want to stay here, in his arms, with his hand on your face and his heart beating against yours.

"Thank you," you whisper. "For — for pretending. For being my—"

"Boyfriend?" His voice is soft. "Yeah, well." He shrugs, but his hand doesn't move. "It wasn't really pretending. I mean—" He stops. His ears go pink. "I mean, he didn't know that. He thought — I was convincing. That's what matters."

You nod. Your heart is beating too fast. "Right. Convincing."

He drops his hand. Steps back. The space between you feels sudden, cold. "I should — we should get back. Robin's going to wonder where we are."

"Yeah." You smooth your shirt, tuck your hair behind your ear. "Yeah, we should."

You walk back to the front together. You don't touch, but you walk close, your shoulder almost brushing his arm. Robin is behind the counter, counting the till, and she looks up when you come in, her eyes sharp.

"You okay?" she asks. Her voice is careful.

You nod. "Fine. Just — someone I didn't want to see."

She looks at Steve. Something passes between them, something you don't understand. "Okay," she says. "Well, I'm here if you need me."

You smile. It's small, but it's real. "Thanks."

The rest of the shift passes quietly. Steve doesn't mention Mark. You don't mention Mark. But he stays close, closer than before, his hand brushing yours when he hands you tapes, his shoulder bumping yours when you walk. 

At the end of the shift, Robin leaves early. Something about band practice, something about not wanting to be here for Steve's closing routine. You're packing your bag when Steve comes up beside you.

"Hey," he says.

You look up. "Hey."

He's standing close, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders tight. He looks nervous, you realise. He looks like he's trying to figure out how to say something.

"That thing earlier," he says. "With your ex."

You tense. "You don't have to—"

"Let me finish." He takes a breath. "I was thinking. About the boyfriend thing. The pretending." He looks at you, and his ears are pink. "It could be useful. For both of us."

You blink. "What do you mean?"

He shifts his weight. "Robin's been trying to set me up with people. For months. She thinks I need a girlfriend. And Nancy — you don't know Nancy, but she's my friend, and she's been looking at me with this look, like she feels bad about us breaking up, and I just—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "It would be nice. To have someone. To pretend with. So people stop asking."

You stare at him. "You want us to pretend to be dating. Regularly."

He nods. "It could help you too. With your ex. If he comes back. If he sees you're with someone, maybe he'll back off."

You think about Mark. The way he looked at you. The way he said this isn't over. Your stomach turns.

"It could help," you say slowly.

Steve's face lights up. Just a little. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You pause. "But we need rules."

He nods. "Rules. Right. Good. Rules." He holds up one finger. "Rule number one is that you can't fall in love with me."

“You are so cocky,” you roll your eyes, but you’re grinning.

He smiles back, and he shrugs, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. "I'm not cocky. I'm realistic. It's a very real risk."

"You're the one who should be worried about falling in love with me," you say, crossing your arms. "I'm very charming."

He laughs. "You're very something."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He tilts his head, looking at you with something warm in his eyes. "It means you're a lot. In a good way. I'm just saying — you should be careful. I'm very charming too."

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling so hard your face hurts. "Okay, Harrington. What's rule number two?"

He thinks for a moment, tapping his chin. "Rule number two: we have to be convincing. No one can know it's fake. That means—" He pauses. His ears go pink. "That means we have to act like a real couple. In public. When people are watching."

Your heart skips. "What does that mean, exactly?"

He shrugs, aiming for casual and missing entirely. "You know. Hand holding. Arm around the shoulder. The occasional—" He gestures vaguely. "The occasional affectionate gesture."

"Affectionate gesture," you repeat.

"Nothing weird. Nothing—" His ears are very pink now. "Just convincing. That's all."

You nod slowly. "Okay. That's fine. I can do that."

He lets out a breath. "Good. Good. Rule number three: we have to actually hang out. Outside of work. So it looks real."

"So we're going on dates."

"They're not dates. They're—" He waves his hand. "Public appearances. Strategic outings."

"Strategic outings," you echo.

"Very strategic. We need to be seen together. By the right people."

You bite your lip. "And who are the right people?"

He ticks them off on his fingers. "Robin, obviously. Nancy and Jonathan. Your ex, if he shows up again. That's probably enough."

Your chest feels warm. "Okay," you say. "Okay. I'm in."

His face lights up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You hold out your hand. "Partners?"

He takes it. His hand is warm, his fingers wrapping around yours. "Partners."

You stand there for a moment, your hand in his, the store quiet around you. His thumb is moving against your knuckles, slow and steady, and you don't pull away.

"So," he says. "We should probably figure out our story. For when people ask."

"Our story?"

"How we met. How long we've been together. All that stuff." He leans against the counter, his hand still in yours. "We need to be consistent. So we don't slip up."

You think about it. "We met at work. That's easy. Everyone knows that."

He nods. "Okay. Good. And how long have we been together?"

“Recently,” you nod. “Because I only just started working here. So. It would have to be really recent.”

He nods slowly, thinking. "Right. So we've been together... a few days? That's not very convincing."

You shrug. "It's new. New relationships are exciting. People won't question it if we're—" You wave your hand. "Enthusiastic."

"Enthusiastic," he repeats, a grin tugging at his mouth.

"Affectionate. You know.”

"That's what you said."

"I know what I said." He's still holding your hand. His thumb hasn't stopped moving. "So we're a new couple. Very new. So new that we're still in the—" He stops.

"The what?"

"The honeymoon phase," he finishes, and his ears are pink. "Where you can't keep your hands off each other."

“Yeah,” you murmur, cheeks warm. “I guess so.”

Steve clears his throat. "So," he says. "We have a story. Now we just need to practice."

"Practice what?"

He looks down at your joined hands. "Being convincing."

You're still holding hands. Neither of you has moved to let go. His thumb is still tracing patterns on your knuckles, slow and absent, like he doesn't even know he's doing it.

"So," he says, and his voice is lower now, quieter. "So who asked who out?"

You don't hesitate. "You asked me."

He raises an eyebrow. "Why do I have to be the one who asked?"

"Because you need this more than me. I'm doing you a favour."

"A favour," he repeats, and there's something in his voice that makes your stomach flip.

"A very generous favour. You should be thanking me."

He laughs. "Thank you for pretending to be my girlfriend so my friends stop feeling sorry for me."

"You're welcome." You squeeze his hand. "And because you said you were very charming. So charm me. How did you do it?"

He grins. "Okay. I saw you across the counter. Thought you were cute. Asked you out."

"That's your story?"

"It's romantic."

"It's a line."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"Okay," you say. "So you asked me out. Where did you take me?"

He thinks for a moment. "Somewhere casual. Coffee? Drinks?"

"Coffee," you decide. "That's safer. Less pressure."

He nods. "Coffee. And we talked. For hours."

"Hours?"

Steve smiles. “Hours. That’s not really stretching the truth, is it? I mean, we have talked for hours,” his voice drops, and you feel your face warm. "You told me about your math classes. About the Heun function. I pretended to understand."

You smile. "And you told me about your organising system. I pretended to think it made sense."

"It does make sense."

“Sure it does, Harrington.”

The next few days fall into a rhythm. 

You work shifts with Steve, with Robin, sometimes with Keith when he emerges from the back room like a bear coming out of hibernation. You learn the store, the customers, the rhythm of things. You stop opening the cash drawer by accident. You stop putting horror movies in comedy. You stop being the new girl.

But you don't stop thinking about Steve. You don't stop noticing the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not looking. You don't stop noticing the way he stands a little closer than he needs to when you're shelving tapes together, the way his hand brushes yours when he hands you something, the way his voice gets softer when he says your name.

The fake dating thing is... going. You've been on three "strategic outings" now — coffee, a walk through the park, a trip to the diner you mentioned once, weeks ago. Each time, Steve picks you up at your apartment. Each time, he brings flowers. Each time, he puts his arm around you when you walk, his hand warm on your shoulder, and your heart beats too fast. 

You haven’t told anyone, not yet, because it has to feel real before you do. 

It's supposed to be fake. You know it's supposed to be fake. But when he looks at you like that, when his thumb traces patterns on your hand, when he says your name like it's something precious — you forget, sometimes. You forget it's not real.

You're in the comedy section one afternoon, shelving returns, when Steve appears beside you. The store is quiet — Robin is in the back, Keith is nowhere to be seen.

"You're doing it wrong," he says.

You turn. He's leaning against the shelf, arms crossed, the picture of casual annoyance. But his eyes are warm.

“Yeah, I’m not following your system, Steve,” you say, biting your cheek to keep from smiling. "Someone has to put these tapes in the right place."

"My system is the right place."

You laugh, turning back to the shelf, slotting a tape into place. You can feel him watching you, the weight of his gaze, the warmth of it. Your hands are steady, but your heart is not.

"Hey," he says.

You glance back. He's not leaning anymore. He's standing closer, his hands in his pockets, his head tilted. "Come take a break."

"A break?"

"You've been alphabetising for an hour. That's a lot of alphabetising. You need to rest your brain."

"My brain is fine.”

“Just come here.” He drops down to the floor, cross-legged, and pats the carpet beside him. "Come on. Take five."

You hesitate. The store is quiet. Robin is in the back. Keith is nowhere. It's just you and Steve and the afternoon light.

You sit.

You leave a space between you, a careful distance, your knees tucked up, your hands in your lap. It's professional. It's friendly. It's—

Steve's hand reaches out. His fingers hook into your belt loop, tugging gently, pulling you closer. You slide across the carpet, your hip bumping his, your shoulder pressing against his arm.

"There," he says, and his voice is lower now, softer. "That's better."

You can't breathe. He's close—so close you can see the gold flecks in his eyes, the faint freckles across his nose, the way his lashes catch the light. His hand is still hooked in your belt loop, his fingers warm through the denim.

"You're very bossy," you manage.

"I'm meant to be. I’m your trainer, remember?”

"Yes, I remember, which means you're supposed to be training me. Not dragging me across the floor."

He grins. "This is training. Important training. Learning how to take breaks is a crucial skill." His arm comes up, sliding around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. You go easily, your body relaxing into him, your head finding its natural place against his shoulder.

You tilt your head, looking up at him. His face is close, his eyes soft, his mouth curved. "There's no one here to see us."

His smile flickers, just for a moment. "I know."

You look at him. He looks at you. The store is quiet, the afternoon light gold through the windows, and his arm is around you, and his hand is warm on your shoulder, and you think — you think maybe this isn't fake. Maybe it hasn't been for a while.

"Steve," you say.

"What?"

You open your mouth. You don't know what you're going to say. Something honest, maybe. Something true.

The bell over the door jingles.

You both freeze. Footsteps, quick and light, coming toward the back. Robin's voice, bright and curious. "Steve? You back here?"

Steve's arm tightens around you. His hand is warm on your shoulder, his fingers curled over the edge of your sweater. You're pressed against his side, your face close to his, your heart pounding.

Robin rounds the corner. Stops.

Her eyes go wide. Her mouth opens. Her hands, full of tapes, fall to her sides.

Steve's arm doesn't move. His hand doesn't move. You don't move. You're frozen there, pressed against him, his arm around you, your face tilted up toward his.

"Uh," Robin says. "I — I was looking for — I didn't—"

Steve clears his throat. His cheeks are very pink. His arm doesn't move. "We were just—"

"Taking a break," you finish. Your voice comes out higher than you meant it to. "He was making me take a break."

"A break," Robin says. Her eyes flick to Steve's arm around your shoulders. To the way you're pressed against his side. To the way neither of you has moved.

"A break," she repeats slowly. Her mouth is doing something dangerous. It's threatening to become a grin. "In the comedy section. On the floor."

"The floor is comfortable," Steve says, and his voice is strangled. "Good for the back."

Robin's eyes are very bright. She's not buying it. Neither of you has moved. Steve's arm is still around you. Your shoulder is still pressed against his chest. Your face is still tilted up toward his like you were about to say something, something you can't remember now.

Steve's hand is still on your shoulder. His thumb is moving, just a little, like he's forgotten it's there. You can feel the warmth of it through your shirt, the steady pressure of his fingers.

Robin sets her tapes down on a shelf. Very slowly. Very deliberately. Her eyes don't leave the two of you. "You know, Nancy was asking about you the other day."

Steve's hand tightens on your shoulder. Just a fraction. "Nancy?"

"She wanted to know if you were seeing anyone. I told her you were very busy with work. Very focused on your career." Robin's grin widens. "I didn't realize your career involved so much... close consultation."

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. His arm is still around you. You're still pressed against his side. You should move. You should definitely move. But Steve's hand is warm, and his shoulder is solid, and you don't want to. You don't want to at all.

Robin picks up her tapes. She's backing away now, her eyes still on you, her grin still wide. "I'm going to go. To the front. To do returns. Very important returns. Very busy. Lots of work."

"Robin—" Steve starts.

She holds up a hand. "Don't let me interrupt.” She rounds the corner. Her voice floats back, sing-song: "I'll just be up front! Doing my job! Not telling anyone anything!"

Steve's arm is still around you.

The store is very quiet.

"She's gone," you say.

"Yeah." His voice is low. "She's gone."

"We should probably—" you start.

"Yeah," he says again. "Probably."

You don't move. He doesn't move. The afternoon light is gold through the windows, catching in his hair, making everything soft. His face is close. His eyes are very brown.

"She's going to tell Nancy," you say.

Steve exhales. "Yeah. She is."

"And Nancy is going to want to meet me. Properly. After hearing about—" You gesture vaguely at the two of you, pressed together on the floor of the comedy section. "This."

Steve's hand tightens on your shoulder. "Is that okay?"

You look at him. His face is open, earnest, a little nervous. His hair is falling across his forehead.

"Yeah," you say. "It's okay."

The next day, Steve is behind the counter when you walk in, counting the till. He looks up when the bell rings.

"Nancy called," he says.

Your stomach flips. "What?"

"This morning. She wants to do a double date. This weekend. With me and you and her and Jonathan." He comes around the counter, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders tight. "I told her we'd think about it."

You stare at him. "A double date."

"A double date. She said she wants to meet you. Properly. After Robin told her about—" He gestures vaguely. "About us."

You think about yesterday. Robin finding you on the floor, Steve's arm around you, your face tilted up toward his. The way she grinned. The way she backed away. The way she was definitely, absolutely, telling Nancy everything.

"She thinks we're together," you say.

Steve nods. "She thinks we're together."

You take a breath. "So we go on the double date. We act convincing. We—" You stop. He's looking at you. "We do what we said we'd do."

He nods slowly. "Yeah. We do what we said we'd do."

You stand there for a moment, the counter between you, the afternoon light gold through the windows. His hands are in his pockets. Your hands are at your sides.

"We should practice," you say.

He blinks. "Practice what?"

You step closer. Your hand finds his, pulls it out of his pocket. His fingers are warm, his palm rough. You lace your fingers through his, the way you've done a dozen times on your strategic outings. The way that feels less like practice every time.

"This," you say. "Being convincing. So we're ready. For the double date."

He looks down at your joined hands. His thumb finds your knuckles, starts that slow pattern. "Okay."

You step closer. His arm comes up, slides around your waist. His hand settles on your hip, warm and steady. You lean into him, your shoulder against his chest, your face tilted up toward his.

"This is convincing," you say.

He nods. His eyes are very brown. "Yeah."

Your free hand comes up, touches his face. His skin is warm, his jaw rough with the shadow of stubble. His breath catches.

"This?"

He doesn't answer. He doesn't move. His arm is tight around your waist. His hand is warm on your hip. His eyes are fixed on your face.

You should say something. You should pull away. You should remember that this is practice, that this is fake, that this is supposed to be convincing for other people, not for you.

But his face is close, and his eyes are soft, and his hand is warm, and you don't want to pull away. You don't want to remember.

"Steve," you whisper.

"What?"

You open your mouth. You don't know what you're going to say. The bell over the door jingles, and you jump apart. 

His arm drops from your waist. You take a step back, smooth your shirt, tuck your hair behind your ear. Robin appears from the back, a stack of tapes in her arms. "Hey," she says, her eyes sharp, grinning. "Did I interrupt something?"

"No," you say, too quickly.

"Yes," Steve says, at the same time.

Robin looks at you. Looks at Steve. Her grin is wide now. “Sure,” she drawls, amused. “Have fun doing… whatever you were doing.” She backs away like a cheshire cat, clearly about to call Nancy and spill everything. 

You don’t know what to think about this anymore. 

The double date is scheduled for Saturday. 

The days between Tuesday and Saturday pass in a blur of shifts and stolen moments. Steve's hand finds yours more often now, under the counter, behind the returns cart, in the back room even when Robin isn't looking, even when you don’t have to pretend. His arm settles around your waist like it belongs there. His thumb finds your knuckles, your hip, the small of your back.

You tell yourself it's practice. You tell yourself it's for the double date. You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything.

You're getting very good at lying.

Saturday arrives faster than you expect.

You spend the afternoon in front of your mirror, changing your outfit three times, checking your hair, telling yourself it's just a double date, it's just acting, it's just one night of pretending to be someone's girlfriend.

The doorbell rings. You take a breath. Open it.

Steve is standing on your doorstep, his hands in his pockets, his hair soft, his face open. He's wearing a clean shirt, dark jeans, and he's holding a small bouquet of flowers.

"Hey, sunshine," he says.

Your heart does something complicated. "Hey."

“You look nice,” he murmurs, holding out the flowers. "For you. These are your favourites, right? I, um, I think Robin mentioned it. Offhand, a while ago.”

You blink down at the flowers, fight the urge to squeal like an excited toddler. “They are my favourites. Thank you. I’ll just — give me a second, I want to put them in a vase.”

He nods, and you step aside to let him in, closing the front door to head into the kitchen. 

“So this is your place,” he murmurs. 

“This is my place,” you affirm. “My roommate’s infamous drum set,” you say, nodding your chin towards the back of the living room. 

He grins. “I see.”

You find a vase under the sink, one your mom gave you when you moved in, the one you never use because you never have flowers. You fill it with water, arrange the bouquet carefully, your fingers trembling just a little. Steve is in your living room. 

Steve Harrington is in your living room, looking at your bookshelf, your puzzle on the coffee table, the photos on the wall.

You watch him for a moment. He's standing with his back to you, his hands in his pockets, his head tilted. He's looking at the picture of you and your mom from graduation, the one where you're laughing, your cap almost falling off, her arms around you.

"Is that your mom?" he asks.

You come up beside him, the vase in your hands. "Yeah. That was last year.”

He smiles. "You look happy."

"I was. I am." You set the vase on the coffee table, step back. He's still looking at the photo, his expression soft.

"You look like her," he says. "You have the same smile."

You feel your face warm. "I get that a lot.”

He turns to look at you. His eyes are warm. "I like your apartment. It's very—" He gestures vaguely. "You."

You look around. The puzzle on the coffee table, half-finished. The stack of textbooks on the floor. The blanket your grandma made you, draped over the couch. The photos on the wall, the plants on the windowsill, the mug from your favorite coffee shop.

"It's a mess," you say.

"It's not a mess. It's—" He stops. His eyes land on the stack of tapes by the TV. "Is that When Harry Met Sally?"

Your face goes hot. "I told you I was going to watch it."

He crosses to the TV, picks up the tape. His grin is wide. "You watched it."

"Twice."

He looks at you. "Twice?"

"I wanted to be prepared. For when people ask. About my favourite movies. I didn't want to slip up."

He's still holding the tape. His eyes are very bright. "And? What did you think?"

You cross your arms, lean against the back of the couch. "I cried."

He laughs. "You cried?"

"At the end. When he's running through the city. I knew what was going to happen, Robin told me the whole plot, but I still—" You stop. He's looking at you. "It's a good movie."

He sets the tape down carefully, like it's something precious. "Yeah," he says. "It is."

You stand there for a moment, the coffee table between you, the afternoon light gold through your windows. His hands are in his pockets. Your arms are crossed. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears.

"We should probably go," you say. "The restaurant. Nancy and Jonathan. We don't want to be late."

He nods. "Yeah. We should go."

Neither of you moves.

The apartment is quiet. The puzzle pieces are scattered on the coffee table. Your flowers are bright in their vase. Steve is standing in your living room, wearing a clean shirt, his hair soft, his face open.

"Steve," you say.

"What?"

You don't know what you're going to say. Something honest, maybe. Something true. "I'm glad it's you."

He tilts his head. "Glad it's me what?"

You take a breath. "Pretending. With. I'm glad it's you."

He looks at you for a long moment. His hands come out of his pockets. He steps around the coffee table, crosses the space between you. He's close now, close enough that you can smell something clean and warm, close enough that you can see the gold flecks in his eyes.

"Me too," he says. His voice is low.

Your hands are at your sides. His are at his. You're not touching. You're not pretending. There's no one here to see.

"Sunshine," he murmurs.

Your heart skips. "Yeah?"

He reaches out. His hand touches your face, his fingers light on your cheek. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, slow and gentle. "You look nice."

Your breath catches. "You said that already."

"I'm saying it again."

He's so close. His hand is warm on your face. His eyes are soft. His lips are parted. You can see the shape of his mouth, the curve of it, the way he's looking at you like you're something he's been waiting for.

You lean in. Just a little. Just enough.

His hand slides from your cheek to your jaw, tilts your face up. His thumb brushes your lower lip. "I've been wanting to do this," he says. "For weeks. Since the first day. Since you walked in with your messy hair and your terrible taste in movies."

You laugh, soft, breathless. "I told you. I've seen it now. Twice."

"Doesn't matter." His face is very close. 

"Steve."

"What?"

You don't answer. You can't. His hand is on your face. His eyes are on your mouth. He's going to kiss you. He's going to kiss you and it's not going to be practice, it's not going to be for anyone else, it's going to be real.

He leans in. You lean in. Your eyes close. His breath is warm on your lips.

The phone rings.

You both jump apart. Your hand flies to your chest. Steve's hand drops from your face. The phone rings again, loud and insistent, and you stare at it like it's a traitor.

"That's—" you start.

"I should—" he says.

The phone rings again. You cross to it, pick it up. "Hello?"

Robin's voice, bright and impatient: "Are you two on your way? Nancy's asking. She's very excited. She wants to know what you're wearing."

You look at Steve. He's standing in the middle of your living room, his hands in his pockets, his ears pink. He looks like he's trying very hard not to laugh.

"We're on our way," you say. "We'll be there soon."

"Okay, okay. Don't be late. Nancy's very punctual. It's a whole thing." She hangs up before you can respond.

You set the phone down. Steve is looking at you. His ears are still pink.

"We should go," you say.

He nods. "Yeah. We should go."

Neither of you moves. You stand there, the coffee table between you, the afternoon light gold, the flowers bright in their vase.

"Steve," you say.

"What?"

You smile. It's small, shy, real. "Later."

His face softens. "Later."

He crosses to the door, holds it open for you. You grab your bag, your jacket, follow him out. He locks the door behind you, his hand brushing yours as he hands you the keys.

You walk to his car together, your shoulders almost touching, your hands swinging at your sides. The afternoon air is warm, the sun is low, and you're thinking about the way his hand felt on your face, the way his eyes looked when he almost kissed you.

He opens the car door for you. You slide in. He closes it, walks around to the driver's side, gets in. His hands are on the steering wheel. He's not starting the car.

You look at him. He's looking at the windshield, his jaw working.

"Steve?"

He turns to you. His eyes are very brown. "I'm going to kiss you. Later. After the double date. When we don't have to pretend anymore."

Your heart is beating too fast. "Okay."

He nods. Starts the car. Pulls out of the driveway. His hand is on the gear shift. Your hand is on your knee. You want to reach out. You want to touch him. You want to close the space between you.

He looks at you. His hand moves. His fingers find yours. He laces them together, his thumb on your knuckles, and he doesn't let go.

You drive to the restaurant like that, his hand in yours, the afternoon light gold through the windows. He doesn't let go when he parks. He doesn't let go when he helps you out of the car. He doesn't let go when you walk toward the door, your shoulders pressed together, your hands swinging between you.

Inside, Nancy and Jonathan are already at a table. Nancy's face lights up when she sees you. Steve's hand tightens on yours.

"Ready?" he murmurs.

You squeeze his hand. "Ready."

You walk in together, his hand in yours, your shoulder against his arm. Nancy is watching, her eyes bright, her smile warm. Jonathan raises his hand in a wave.

Steve pulls out your chair for you. You sit. He sits beside you, his thigh pressed against yours, his hand finding your knee under the table.

"You must be the girlfriend," Nancy says.

You smile. "I must be."

She laughs. Jonathan laughs. Steve's hand is warm on your knee. His thumb is moving, slow and steady, and you think about later. You think about his hand on your face, his breath on your lips, the way he said I'm going to kiss you.

Later, you think. Later.

You smile at Nancy, at Jonathan, at Steve. You let your hand find his under the table. You lace your fingers together.

"Tell me everything," Nancy says. "How did you two meet?"

Steve's thumb moves against your knuckles. "She came in for an interview," he says. "She told Keith her favorite movies."

You look at him. His eyes are warm. "I was distracted," you say. "He was in the window. With his hair."

Nancy laughs. "His hair?"

"It's very distracting hair."

Steve's hand tightens on yours. "She told me her brain stopped working. Because of me.”

Jonathan grins. "She told you her brain stopped working?"

“I did,” you say, smiling, cheeks flushed as you hide your face in Steve’s shoulder. “I’m never going to live it down, I think.”

Nancy and Jonathan exchange a look. Something passes between them, something you don't understand. Jonathan's hand finds Nancy's under the table.

The dinner is easy. Easier than you expected. Steve keeps his hand on your knee, his thumb moving against your jeans. You lean into him when you laugh, your hand on his chest. You look up at him when he talks, your eyes wide, your smile soft. You call him Steve in a voice that's just for him.

It's not acting. It's not pretending. It's real. It's been real for weeks, maybe, since the first day, since he called you sunshine, since you told him he made your brain stop working.

Nancy is watching you both. Her smile is warm. "I'm glad he found you," she says.

You look at Steve. He's looking at you. "I'm glad he found me too."

After dinner, you walk out together, Steve's arm around your waist, your hand in his. Nancy hugs you, quick and warm. "We should do this again," she says. "Soon."

Steve nods. "Definitely."

Nancy and Jonathan get in their car, drive away. The parking lot is quiet, the streetlights gold. Steve's arm is still around you. His hand is warm on your hip.

You look up at him. "That was good."

He nods. "We're good at this."

You're not talking about pretending anymore. You both know it.

He pulls you closer. His hand comes up, touches your face. His fingers are warm, his palm rough. His thumb brushes your cheek.

He leans in. His forehead touches yours. His breath is warm on your face. His eyes are closed.

"Steve," you whisper.

He opens his eyes. They're brown and warm and so close you can see the gold flecks. "What?"

You don't answer. You can't. His hand is on your face. His arm is around your waist. He's going to kiss you. He's going to kiss you and it's not going to be practice, it's not going to be for anyone else, it's going to be real.

He leans in. You lean in. Your eyes close.

"Hey."

You freeze. Steve's arm tightens around you. His body tenses. You know that voice. You know it too well.

Mark is standing across the parking lot, his hands in his pockets, his mouth curved into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He's leaning against a car, casual, easy, like he's been waiting.

Steve steps in front of you. His hand is flat against your hip, pressing you behind him. "Not now," he says. His voice is hard.

Mark's eyes flick to Steve, then back to you. "I just want to talk."

"She doesn't want to talk to you." Steve's hand is steady on your hip. His body is a wall between you and Mark.

Mark's smile doesn't waver. "I'm not talking to you."

You press closer to Steve. Your hands find his shirt, curl into the fabric. You can feel his heart beating, fast, steady.

He takes a step forward. Steve's hand tightens on your hip, his fingers pressing into the denim, holding you in place behind him. You can feel the tension in his body, the coiled readiness, the way his shoulders have gone broad and immovable.

"She said she doesn't want to talk to you," Steve says. His voice is low, calm, dangerous. "That means you leave."

Mark's eyes slide past Steve, fix on you. "Come on," he says, and his voice is soft now, the old voice, the one that used to make you believe him. "You don't have to do this. You don't have to pretend with him. I know you. I know what you really want."

Your hands are shaking. You press closer to Steve, your face against his back, your fingers curling into his shirt. His heartbeat is steady under your palm, fast but steady.

"She doesn't want anything from you." Steve's voice hasn't changed. "You need to leave. Now."

Mark takes another step. He's closer now, close enough that you can see his face, the tightness around his mouth, the way his eyes haven't left you. "I'm not talking to you," he says again. "I'm talking to her."

"She's not listening."

"She will." Mark's hand shoots out, grabs your wrist. His fingers are cold, tight, familiar in the worst way. "Just come here. Let's talk. We can work this out."

You gasp. Your body jerks forward, pulled by the force of his grip, and Steve moves.

It's fast. You don't see it happen. One moment Mark's hand is around your wrist, cold and tight, and the next there's a crack, a sharp sound that echoes across the parking lot, and Mark is on the ground. His hand is gone from your wrist. His face is turned to the side, his mouth open, his hand pressed to his jaw.

Steve's hand is a fist at his side. His knuckles are red. His chest is rising and falling, fast and hard. His eyes are on Mark, dark and burning.

"Don't," Steve says. His voice is low, rough. "Don't ever touch her again."

Mark looks up at him. There's blood on his lip, a dark smear across his chin. His eyes are wide, shocked, and for a moment — just a moment — you see something in them you've never seen before. Fear.

Steve steps forward. His body is still between you and Mark, his hand still a fist, his shoulders still broad. "If you come near her again," he says, "if you call her, if you even look at her, I will find you. Do you understand me?"

Mark scrambles backward, his hands flat on the pavement, his eyes flicking between Steve and you. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving, his face pale. He looks smaller somehow. Smaller than you've ever seen him.

"Get up," Steve says. "Get up and get out of here."

Mark gets up. His legs are unsteady, his hand still pressed to his jaw. He looks at you one more time, something flickering in his eyes—frustration, maybe, or rage, or something else you don't want to name—and then he turns. He walks away, fast, his footsteps sharp on the pavement, and then he's gone. The parking lot is quiet again.

Steve doesn't move. His back is to you, his shoulders still tight, his hand still a fist at his side. You can see his knuckles, red and raw, the skin split across two of them.

"Steve," you whisper.

He turns. His face is hard, his jaw tight, his eyes dark. And then he sees you — sees your face, your shaking hands, the tears you didn't know were falling — and everything in him softens. The hardness drains out of his shoulders. His hand uncurls. His eyes go from dark to warm in the space of a breath.

"Hey," he says softly. "Hey, sweetheart." His hands come up, cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears. His hands are shaking, you realize. He's shaking. "He's gone. You're okay. You're safe."

You nod. You can't speak. Your hands find his shirt, curl into the fabric, hold on. His heart is pounding under your palm, fast and hard, and you hold on to the rhythm of it, let it anchor you.

"I'm sorry," he says. His voice is rough. "I should have — I should have moved faster. I should have—"

"You stopped him." Your voice comes out small, cracked. "You stopped him."

His hands tighten on your face. His forehead drops to yours. His breath is warm on your lips. "I should have stopped him sooner. I should have seen him coming. I should have—"

"Steve." You pull back, just enough to look at him. His eyes are wet. His hands are shaking. His knuckles are bleeding. "You stopped him. You stopped him."

He stares at you for a long moment. His thumb moves against your cheek, slow and steady. "I'm not going to let him hurt you," he says. "I'm never going to let him hurt you again."

You lean into his hands. His palms are warm, rough, steady. "I know."

He pulls you against his chest, his arms around you, his face in your hair. His heart is still pounding, but slower now, steadier. You press your ear to his chest, listen to the rhythm of it, let it fill you up.

"I've got you," he murmurs. "I've got you, sunshine."

You stay like that for a long time. The parking lot is quiet, the streetlights gold, and you're wrapped up in him, his arms around you, his heart beating against yours.

"Your hand," you say finally, pulling back. "You're bleeding."

He looks down at his knuckles like he's forgotten they exist. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing." You take his hand, turn it over. The skin is split across two knuckles, red and raw, but the bleeding has stopped. You run your thumb over the edge of his palm, careful, light. "We should clean this."

He looks at you. His eyes are soft. "Okay."

He drives you home with one hand on the wheel and the other holding yours. He doesn't let go. He doesn't let go when he parks, when he walks you to your door, when you fumble with your keys and your hands are still shaking.

Inside, you lead him to the kitchen, sit him down at the table, find the first aid kit under the sink. He watches you, his eyes soft, his good hand flat on the table, his injured hand resting in his lap.

You sit beside him, take his hand, lay it palm-up on the table. His fingers are long, his palm rough, his knuckles split and raw. You clean the cuts with antiseptic, your touch light, careful. He doesn't flinch. He watches your face.

"You don't have to do this," he says quietly.

You look up at him. "Do what?"

"Take care of me. I'm supposed to be taking care of you."

You laugh. It's small, wet, surprised. "You punched my ex in the face. I think I can clean your hand."

He smiles. It's the smile you've been waiting for, the one that makes your chest warm. "He deserved it."

"He deserved worse."

Steve's hand turns under yours, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. His thumb finds your pulse, presses lightly. "Next time," he says, "I'll do worse."

You look at him. His eyes are brown and warm and so close you can see the gold flecks. His hand is around your wrist, gentle, steady. His knuckles are red and raw and he's looking at you like you're something precious.

"Steve," you whisper.

"What?"

You don't answer. You can't. His hand is around your wrist. His eyes are on your face. He's going to kiss you. He's going to kiss you and it's not going to be practice, it's not going to be for anyone else, it's going to be real.

He leans in. You lean in. Your eyes close. His breath is warm on your lips.

His lips touch yours. Soft, gentle, barely there. His hand slides from your wrist to your face, cups your cheek, tilts your face up. His thumb brushes your cheekbone. His lips move against yours, slow and soft and real.

When he pulls back, you're both breathing hard. His forehead is against yours. His eyes are closed.

"Okay," he says, breathless. "Okay."

You laugh. It's soft, surprised. "Okay?"

He opens his eyes. They're brown and warm and so close you can see yourself reflected in them. "That's all I've got right now. My brain's not working."

You smile. "My brain's never working. Around you."

He grins. It's the grin you've been waiting for, the one that transforms his whole face. "Good. That's good."

He kisses you again. It's longer this time, deeper, his hand in your hair, his mouth soft and warm. When he pulls back, you're both smiling.

"I'm going to take you on a real date," he says. His voice is low, rough, his forehead still pressed against yours. "Tomorrow. A real one. Dinner. A walk. Whatever you want."

You smile. "Okay."

"And then the day after that. And the day after that." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "Every day. I want to take you on a date every day."

You laugh. "That's a lot of dates."

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are soft, warm, a little nervous. "Is that okay?"

Your chest is full. "Yeah," you say. "That's okay."

He exhales, long and slow, like he's been holding his breath. His hands are still on your face, his palms warm, his fingers gentle. "Come here," he says, and he pulls you forward, guiding you into his lap. You go easily, your legs folding, your body curling against his chest. His arms come around you, hold you close, and you press your face into his neck, breathe him in.

His hand finds your hair, strokes it back from your face. "You're tired," he says.

You nod against his shoulder. You are tired. The adrenaline has drained out of you, left you hollow and heavy, and his arms are warm, his chest is steady, and you don't want to move. You don't want to think. You don't want to remember Mark's voice, his hand around your wrist, the cold press of his fingers.

"Don't think about it," Steve says softly. His hand moves in your hair, slow and soothing. "Don't think about him. He's gone. He's not going to bother you again."

You press closer. "How do you know?"

His arms tighten. "Because I'm not going to let him." His voice is quiet, fierce. "I'm going to be there. Every time. I'm going to be right there."

You close your eyes. His heartbeat is steady under your ear, slow and sure. You let it anchor you, let it pull you away from the cold, from the fear, from the way Mark's voice still echoes in your head.

"Steve," you whisper.

"Steve," you whisper.

"What?"

"Talk to me. About anything. Just — talk."

He's quiet for a moment. His hand doesn't stop moving in your hair. His chest rises and falls under your cheek.

"Okay," he says. His voice is low, soft. "Okay. Did I ever tell you about the time Robin put a porno in the kids' section?"

You laugh. It's small, surprised. "What?"

"It was my first week," he says. "I was still learning the system. Robin was supposed to be training me, but she thought it would be funny to test me. So she took a tape from the adult section and put it in with the Disney movies. Right between The Little Mermaid and The Fox and the Hound."

You lift your head, look at him. "She didn't."

"She did. And then she waited. She didn't tell me. She just — waited." He's smiling, a small, fond smile. "This woman comes in with her kid. Maybe five years old. And she picks up the tape, and she looks at it, and she looks at me, and her face just—" He shakes his head. "I thought she was going to kill me."

You're laughing now, your face pressed into his chest, your shoulders shaking. "What did you do?"

"I panicked. I told her it was a mis-shelving error. I said someone must have put it there by accident. I apologized like twenty times. She was so mad." He laughs, the sound rumbling in his chest.

You giggle into his chest. “Robin’s terrible,” you say, face tucked under his chin. 

"She's my best friend, though," he says quietly. "She's annoying and she talks too much and she put a porno in the kids' section, but she's my best friend. She was there when I didn't have anyone else. She—" He stops. His hand stills in your hair.

You open your eyes, look up at him. His face is soft, his eyes far away. "She what?"

He looks at you. His expression clears. "She's the reason I have this job. The reason I'm not—" He stops again. His jaw works. "The reason I'm not somewhere else. Someone else."

You reach up, touch his face. His skin is warm, his jaw rough. "I'm glad she did," you say. "I'm glad you're here."

He turns his head, presses a kiss to your palm. His lips are soft. "Me too."

You stay like that for a while, curled in his lap, his arms around you, his voice low and steady in your ear. He tells you about the regulars—Mrs. Patterson, who always rents Audrey Hepburn movies and cries at the end; Mr. Chen, who comes in every Friday for a western and brings his own popcorn; the kids who try to sneak into the R-rated section and jump at every sound.

You listen to his voice, let it wash over you. You're not thinking about Mark. You're thinking about Steve's hands, warm and gentle in your hair. You're thinking about his voice, low and soft, telling you about the time he couldn't figure out the cash drawer. 

You're thinking about the way he looks at you, like you're something precious, something worth protecting.

"Steve," you say.

His hand stills. "What?"

You close your eyes. "Don't stop talking."

He's quiet for a moment. His hand resumes its slow movement in your hair. "Okay," he says. "Okay, sunshine."

He talks until your eyes are heavy, until your breathing slows, until your body is loose and warm against his. He talks about the first time he saw you, through the glass in the staff room door, the way you were flushed from the heat, your hair curling around your face, your smile bright and open and real.

"I thought," he says, and his voice is lower now, softer, "I thought, I want to know her. I want to know everything about her."

You smile against his chest. "You know everything about me."

"I don't," he says. "I don't know your favorite color. I don't know what you wanted to be when you grew up. I don't know what makes you cry, what makes you laugh, what makes you stay up late at night when you can't sleep." His hand moves to your face, tilts it up. "I want to know. I want to know everything."

You look at him. His eyes are brown and warm and so close. "Yellow," you say. "My favorite color is yellow. I wanted to be an astronaut when I was little. I cry at commercials with dogs in them. I laugh at your terrible alphabetising system. I stay up late thinking about integration and whether I'm ever going to figure out what I want to do with my life." You reach up, touch his face. "And you. Lately, I stay up late thinking about you."

His breath catches. His hand tightens on your face. "Yeah?"

You smile. "Yeah."

He kisses you. It's soft, slow, his lips warm against yours. His hand slides into your hair, cradles your head. His mouth moves against yours like he's learning you, memorizing you, and you let him, you give yourself to it, to him.

When he pulls back, you're both breathing hard. His forehead is against yours. His eyes are closed.

"I want to do this for real," he says. His voice is low, rough. "I don't want to pretend anymore. I don't want to practice. I want to take you on dates. Real dates. I want to hold your hand in public and argue about alphabetizing and bring you flowers that are your favorite color. I want to be your boyfriend. Your real boyfriend."

You open your eyes. He's looking at you, his face open, earnest, a little scared.

"Okay," you say.

He blinks. "Okay?"

You smile. "Okay. Be my real boyfriend."

His face breaks into a grin. It's the grin you've been waiting for, the one that transforms his whole face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."