a-a-ron

The club was the absolute last place Eddie wanted to find himself on a Friday night. Shitty disco music, expensive drinks, and people pretending to be someone they're not all for a night of fake flirting and (maybe) getting laid. 

When Club Skunk opened two towns over, Steve and Robin were practically foaming at the mouth to go. Nancy and Johnathan reluctantly agreed, solely on the principle that “Hawkins doesn’t have any nightlife.” 

Eddie, on the other hand, was heavily peer-pressured to attend. He hasn’t been out to a real club, like, ever, let alone one that is packed on a nightly basis, unlike the Hideout. But, with enough liquid courage to put down a pack of horses, here he is.

Okay, in his defense, he’s not that drunk. Just enough to where he doesn’t want to crawl out of his skin the second he crosses the threshold, and the overwhelming boom of the bass doesn’t make his heart rip out of his chest. 

When they walk in, Robin immediately pulls everyone to the bar, insisting she gets a Dirty Shirley “pronto.” 

Eddie hangs back a step, leaning against the sticky edge of the bar while the others crowd in around Robin like she’s about to perform open-heart surgery instead of ordering a drink.

“Make it two!” Steve calls over her shoulder.

“You don’t even know what’s in it,” Nancy says, already regretting her life choices.

“I don’t need to,” Steve shoots back. “It’s pink. That’s enough for me.”

Eddie snorts softly into his cup, taking another sip of whatever mystery liquor someone shoved into his hand five minutes ago.

It burns going down, sits heavy in his stomach, but it’s doing its job; taking the edge off just enough that the room feels less like it’s closing in on him.

The bass is still too loud. The lights are still too much. People are still people.

He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose as he scans the room. Mostly out of habit, partially out of boredom, and partially because if he focuses on something, anything, he won’t think about how out of place he feels.

That’s when he sees you. Or, no. He doesn’t see you at first; he sees movement.

A shift in the crowd. A ripple in the sea of bodies packed too close together, all grinding and laughing and shouting over music that no one’s really listening to anyway.

And then, you. It hits him all at once, like his brain short-circuits mid-thought.

You’re in the middle of it all, like you belong there in a way no one else does. Like the entire room rearranged itself just to make space for you. Dancing.

Not the awkward, forced kind everyone else is doing either, no. You’re actually dancing. Fluid, effortless, like the music is something you feel instead of just hear.

Your friends are around you, laughing, spinning, grabbing your hands, but you’re the center of it. The axis around which everything else spins.

Eddie forgets to breathe, like actually forgets. His fingers tighten around the cup in his hand, eyes narrowing just slightly, like that’ll somehow make you less real.

Because there’s no way. No way you’re here. No way he just randomly ends up in some overpriced club two towns over, and you’re...

And then it happens, like you can feel him looking. Your head turns, and your eyes lock with his.

It’s not surprise that crosses your face. It’s recognition, clear as day. Eddie’s heart kicks violently against his ribs, like it’s trying to get out, like it’s got somewhere else to be.

And you? You don’t stop dancing. If anything, you lean into it, just a little.

A subtle shift of your hips, a tilt of your head, your gaze still fixed on his like you’ve got him pinned in place from across the room.

Like you know exactly what you’re doing. Eddie swallows hard.

“…Dude?”

Steve’s voice cuts in from somewhere to his left, but it sounds far away. Muffled, like he’s underwater.

“Eddie,” Robin tries this time, snapping her fingers once in front of his face.

Nothing, he doesn’t even blink. Because you’re still looking at him. And then you smile.

Half happy, half evil, like you’re reveling in his torment. And then you turn back to your friends like nothing had happened.

Like you didn’t just flip his entire world on its head in the span of ten seconds.

“Earth to Munson,” Robin says, following his line of sight. “What are we—oh.”

A pause. 

“…oh.”

Steve leans in. “What? What—” Then he sees you too.

“…oh, shit.”

Eddie finally exhales, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying to pull himself back into his body.

“…I need another drink,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” Steve says immediately. “You actually might die if you don’t.”

Nancy crosses her arms, already smirking. “Who is she?”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away; he simply can’t.

He looks down at his drink, at the condensation dripping down the plastic cup, at the warped reflection of neon lights bleeding across the bar. Doesn’t work.

His eyes drag back to you like he’s got no say in it.

You’re still dancing, still laughing with your friends, but now that he’s seen you, he can’t unsee you. Your hair hits him first.

Jesus Christ.

It’s long. Longer than he thought from across the room. It spills down your back in thick waves, catching the colored lights every time you move, brushing just above your ass when you spin. It moves with you, not against you, like it’s part of the performance. 

Eddie swallows hard. Because then there’s the dress.

Red. Of fucking course it’s red. Not soft, not subtle, but red. 

The kind that demands attention, that makes it impossible to look anywhere else, even if you wanted to.

It clings in all the right places, dips low at the front in a loose cowl that shifts every time you move, giving just enough to make his brain short out completely.

He exhales slowly through his nose.

“…you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters under his breath.

It barely covers you, either.

Every turn, every step, every sway of your hips, it rides up just enough to be dangerous. Not enough to be obvious, just enough to make him aware of it. Hyperaware, really. 

Like you know exactly where the line is, and you’re dancing right on it. Eddie’s grip tightens around his drink again, knuckles going pale.

This is insane. He shouldn’t be staring. He knows he shouldn’t be staring. But you? You make it impossible not to.

There’s something about the way you carry yourself. The way you move, like you don’t need the room’s approval, like you’re not performing for anyone, and somehow that makes it feel like it’s only for him.

Which is ridiculous. Delusional, even.

But then, you glance over again. Quick this time, like a check-in. And your eyes land right back on him. Eddie’s stomach drops.

You don’t smile this time, don’t have to. There’s something else there instead.  Like you caught him looking and decided… you don’t mind. Maybe you even like it.

His breath stutters.

“…oh, he’s gone,” Robin says somewhere beside him.

“Fully gone,” Steve agrees.

Eddie doesn’t even react.

Because you turn back again. And this time, when your hands slide up your own arms as you move to the music, when your head tilts back just slightly, exposing the line of your throat…It feels intentional.

Not for the crowd. Not for your friends. For him.

After a while, your friend motions to the bar to get another drink, so you follow.

Eddie isn’t expecting this at all. He barely gets two steps off from the bar before the crowd shifts again, bodies pressing in, parting just enough, and suddenly, you’re there.

Not across the room. Not untouchable, but right at the bar. Eddie actually stalls mid-step, like someone hit pause on him.

You’re closer now. Close enough that the details hit harder, sharper. The red of your dress isn’t just eye-catching; it’s blinding. The low drape at your chest shifts as you lean forward slightly, resting your elbows against the bar, saying something to the bartender that gets lost under the music.

Your friend slides in beside you, loud, already trying to flag someone down.

Eddie forgets whatever plan he thought he had to try to talk to you. This is better. Wayy better.

He steps up beside you, casual in the way only slightly drunk confidence allows, forearms resting against the bar like he’s been there the whole time.

Up close, it’s worse. Or better.

Definitely worse.

Your hair falls down your back in waves, one strand slipping forward over your shoulder, catching on the curve of your collarbone.

The fabric of your dress shifts again when you move, and Eddie has to physically force his eyes back up before he makes an absolute idiot of himself.

“Y’know,” he starts, voice a little rough around the edges, “I was starting to think I imagined you.”

Your head turns slowly, and you take him in. From the rings on his fingers to the leather jacket, the messy hair, the fact that he’s very obviously been staring at you for the last however long.

Your lips curve, just slightly.

“Did you?” you say, voice smooth, just loud enough for him to hear. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Eddie huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, I get that a lot, actually.”

Your friend, however, is not impressed. She looks him up and down like she’s already decided he’s not worth the oxygen.

“Do you always walk up to girls and say weird shit, or is this a special occasion?” she cuts in, sharp.

Eddie glances at her, unfazed. “Only when they’re worth it.”

Your friend snorts. “Right.”

You don’t say anything right away, just watch him.

“Mm,” you hum, turning slightly toward the bar as the bartender finally comes over. “Two vodka cranberries.”

Your friend leans in closer to you, muttering something Eddie definitely isn’t supposed to hear, but absolutely does. “Seriously? Him?”

Eddie raises his brows, taking a sip of his drink like he’s got all the time in the world.

You don’t even look at her when you respond. “He’s entertaining.”

Eddie smirks. “I’ll take that,” he says.

Your drinks land on the bar, and your friend grabs hers immediately, still side-eyeing him like she’s seconds away from calling security herself.

“Yeah, well, enjoy your… entertainment,” she says, the word dripping with judgment.

Eddie lifts his cup slightly toward her. “Big fan already.”

She rolls her eyes hard. You finally glance over, nudging her arm lightly.

“Go find Jess,” you say, casual but pointed. “She said something about the dance floor.”

“Five minutes,” she warns you.

“Sure,” you say, already turning back to the bar.

She walks off, not without one last look over her shoulder. Eddie watches her go, then glances back at you.

“…your security detail’s intense.”

You take a sip of your drink, unfazed. “She means well.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure she’d tackle me if I made one wrong move.”

You tilt your head, finally giving him your full attention again.

“Would you?”

Eddie grins, slow and crooked. “Depends. Is this a trap?”

“Maybe.”

“Then yeah,” he says easily. “I’d still risk it.”

Eddie exhales, tapping his fingers against the bar before glancing at you again.

“…so,” he says, quieter now, “red, huh?”

Your brows lift slightly. “What about it?”

He shrugs, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth. “Just, never seen you wear it before.”

Your gaze flickers, just for a second. “People change.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “…I noticed.”

“Then why are you still looking at me like that?” you ask.

Eddie doesn’t even hesitate. “Like what?”

“Like you forgot how this ends.”

That hits different. But he just tilts his head, stepping a fraction closer. Close enough that his voice doesn’t have to compete with the music anymore.

“Maybe I didn’t forget,” he says. “Maybe I just don’t care.”

Your breath hitches.

Eddie shifts, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. He’s still close, closer than he probably has any right to be.

“…you look good,” he says finally.

It slips out before he can stop it. Your expression doesn’t change, but your grip tightens slightly around your drink.

“Don’t,” you say.

Eddie exhales a small breath through his nose, nodding once. “Yeah. Okay. Fair.”

He glances down at the bar, then back at you, like he’s trying to figure out where the hell to even start.

“…I didn’t think I’d see you here,” he admits.

You let out a soft, humorless huff. “Didn’t think you’d see me at all, actually.”

Ouch.

Eddie winces a little, but he doesn’t argue it.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s… also fair.”

You finally turn your body more toward him, leaning back against the bar, putting just enough space between you that it feels intentional.

“And yet,” you say, tilting your head slightly, “here you are.”

“And here you are,” he shoots back, softer.

Your jaw ticks. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like this is mutual.”

Eddie nods slowly, looking down for a second before meeting your eyes again.

“…it’s not,” he says.

You don’t respond. But you don’t look away, either.

“I know it’s not,” he continues, quieter now, less of the usual Eddie edge and more… something real. “I know I—” he cuts himself off, shakes his head, starts again. “I know I screwed that up.”

You let out a short laugh. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“What do you want me to say?” he asks, a little more bite creeping in. “You want the whole list? ‘Cause I got one.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” you snap.

Eddie stills for a second, then nods once. “…right.”

He should stop. He knows he should stop.

But you’re right here, and you’re looking at him like that, and it’s been what, months? Longer? And he never actually said it, not really.

“…I was an asshole,” he says, more firmly this time. “To you. Specifically. Like, impressively so.”

You roll your eyes, looking away as you take a sip of your drink.

“Congratulations,” you mutter. “You want a medal?”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, I just—”

He stops again, frustrated, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I didn’t know how to…” he huffs a breath. “I didn’t handle it right. At all. And yeah, I was mean. I said shit I shouldn’t have said, and I—” his jaw tightens slightly, “I shouldn’t have ended it like that.”

You go still, just for a second. But then you shake your head, pushing off the bar slightly like you need the movement.

“Ended it?” you repeat, incredulous. “That’s what you think you did?”

Eddie blinks. “What?”

“You didn’t end anything, Eddie,” you say, emotions starting to crack through. “You blindsided me. One second we were fine, and the next you were acting like I was—” you cut yourself off, shaking your head again. “Like I meant nothing.”

“I never said that—”

“You didn’t have to,” you snap. “I could fucking feel it.”

Eddie’s expression shifts, something heavier settling in.

“…you didn’t mean nothing,” he says, quieter now. “You still don’t.”

You let out another laugh, but it’s weaker this time, less convincing.

“Yeah, okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“Don’t,” you say again, looking back at him. “Don’t do that now. You don’t get to say that now.”

Eddie steps a fraction closer before he can stop himself.

“I should’ve said it then,” he admits. “I know that.”

“Yeah,” you say, your voice dropping just slightly. “You should have.”

Eddie studies your face for a second, like he’s trying to read something he used to know by heart.

“…I didn’t stop caring,” he says, softer now. “I just handled it like an idiot.”

“Good for you,” you say. “Really. Growth.” There’s bite there again.

Eddie almost smiles, because yeah, that’s familiar too.

“Yeah,” he says. “Workin’ on it.”

You shake your head, looking down into your drink.

“…you don’t get to just show up and say sorry and think that fixes it.”

“I’m not asking for that,” he adds.

You glance up at him again, searching his face.

“…then what are you asking for?”

Eddie holds your gaze. “…five minutes,” he says.

The words hang between you like a live wire. Five minutes. 

You stare at him, chest rising and falling a little faster under that sinful red dress, lips parted like you’re about to tell him to fuck off.

Instead, you finish your drink in one long swallow, set the empty glass on the bar with a decisive clink, and look him dead in the eye.

“Five minutes,” you say. “Then I’m done with you.”

Eddie doesn’t waste a second. He grabs your hand, your fingers still cool from the glass, and tugs you through the crowd before either of you can think better of it. 

The bass thumps against his ribs as he shoulders past bodies, your heels clicking fast behind him. His pulse is hammering.

He spots the elevator bank near the back hallway, the one that leads down to the main floor and the side exit. Perfect. Private enough.

He jams the button. The doors slide open immediately, thank fuck, and he pulls you inside. The second they close, he crowds you against the mirrored wall.

“Eddie—” you start, but he cuts you off with his mouth.

It’s not soft. It’s months of frustration and want crashing together. His hand fists in your long hair, tilting your head back so he can lick into your mouth like he owns it. 

You make this sharp, surprised sound that melts into a moan, and then you’re kissing him back just as hard, nails digging into his shoulders through his leather jacket.

Your tongues slide, teeth nip, breath hot and messy. The elevator starts its slow descent, and he presses his thigh between yours, grinding up against the heat of you through that tiny dress.

“Fuck, you taste the same,” he growls against your lips, biting the bottom one and tugging. “Missed this mouth. Missed how fucking greedy you get.”

Your hips roll against his thigh, chasing friction, and he laughs low and dark into the kiss; half moan, half triumph.

One of his hands drops to your ass, squeezing hard, yanking you tighter against him so you can feel exactly how hard he already is.

“Feel that?” he murmurs, dragging his mouth down your throat, sucking a mark right where your pulse is racing. “You missed this, dick, didn’t you, baby? Bet you’ve been thinking about it every time you touch yourself.”

You whimper, head tipping back against the mirror, and the sound goes straight to his cock. Your hand slides down his chest, palming him through his jeans, squeezing just right.

“Shut up,” you breathe, but there’s no heat in it, strictly want.

He grins against your neck. “Make me.”

The elevator dings, and the doors open. You’re both breathing hard, lips swollen, your hair wrecked from his fingers.

He doesn’t let you go, just grabs your hand again and pulls you down the dimly lit hallway toward the single-stall bathroom tucked away near the emergency exit. 

The sign says “Out of Order,” but the door opens when he tries it. Thank every god in existence.

He locks it behind you, and then he’s on you again.

This time there’s no pretense. He spins you around, pressing your front against the cool tile wall, chest to your back. One hand braces beside your head, the other yanks the hem of your dress up over your hips. No panties. Jesus Christ.

“Dirty girl,” he groans, sliding two fingers through your slick folds. “You came out tonight hoping someone would fuck you in a bathroom, huh? Or were you hoping it’d be me?”

You push back against his hand, desperate. “Eddie. Stop talking and fuck me.”

He chuckles, dark and mean, and unzips his jeans. “Nah. You’re gonna beg first.” He rubs the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing, coating himself in how wet you are. “Tell me you missed it. Tell me this pussy’s been empty without me.”

You’re panting, forehead against the tile, hips twitching back. “I hate you.”

“Yeah?” He pushes in just the tip, then stops. “Say it anyway.”

A broken sound leaves you. “I missed your dick, okay? Fuck—Eddie, please—”

He slams home in one thrust, burying himself to the hilt. You both moan loud enough that anyone outside probably heard. 

He doesn’t give you time to adjust; he just sets a brutal pace, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip harshly.

“That’s it,” he growls, lips at your ear. “Take it like you used to. Fuck, you’re still so tight. Still mine, aren’t you?”

You’re pushing back to meet every thrust, one hand reaching back to claw at his thigh. The slap of skin echoes off the bathroom walls, wet and filthy.

He angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your legs shake, and you cry out.

“Say it,” he demands, slowing just enough to torture you. “Say you’re still mine.”

“I’m—fuck—Eddie—” Your voice cracks as he grinds deep. “I’m yours. Don’t stop.”

He rewards you by fucking you harder, reaching around to rub tight circles over your clit. Your whole body tightens, thighs trembling, and he feels you start to flutter around him.

“Come on, baby. Come on my cock like the desperate little slut you are for me. Let me feel it.”

You shatter with a choked moan, clenching so hard he sees stars. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release, hips stuttering.

“Where do you want it?” he rasps.

“Inside,” you gasp. “Fill me up, Eddie—please—”

He buries himself deep and comes with a guttural groan, pulsing inside you, hips grinding like he can push it even deeper.

For a long moment, the only sounds are your ragged breathing and the muffled thump of bass from the club.

He stays inside you, forehead pressed to the back of your neck, arms caging you in.

“Five minutes are up,” he murmurs, voice rough.

You let out a shaky laugh, still catching your breath. “Yeah… they are.”

The bathroom is still spinning around you, your legs shaky, his come slowly dripping down your thighs.

Eddie’s chest is plastered to your back, both of you breathing like you just ran a marathon. He presses a surprisingly soft kiss to the side of your neck, then nips it.

“But I’m not done with you yet.”

Before you can answer, he spins you around, lifts you up, and sets your ass on the edge of the sink. 

Your dress is still bunched around your waist, heels dangling. He drops to his knees on the dirty tile like it’s nothing, spreading your thighs wide with both hands.

“Eddie—” you start, but he cuts you off by licking a long, filthy stripe up your soaked pussy, tasting both of you.

“Shh. This one’s for you,” he says against your cunt, eyes flicking up to yours. Dark, hungry, and focused. “Gonna make you come on my tongue until you forget every shitty thing I ever did.”

He doesn’t tease this time, just devours. Mouth hot and relentless, sucking your clit, fucking you with his tongue, two thick fingers curling deep inside you, and stroking that spot that makes your vision go white. 

Your hands fly to his hair, gripping tight, hips grinding against his face. He groans like he’s the one getting off on this, the vibration shooting straight through you.

“Fuck—Eddie, right there—” Your voice cracks.

He pulls back just enough to smirk, lips shiny with you. “Yeah? You gonna be a good girl and come for me again?” 

Then he dives back in, sucking harder, fingers pumping faster. His free hand slides up your body, shoving the cowl of your dress aside so he can pinch and roll your nipple.

It hits you fast and brutally. You come with a broken cry, thighs clamping around his head, hips jerking against his mouth while he licks you through every pulse. He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering, oversensitive, and trembling.

Only then does he stand up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like it’s the best meal he’s had in months.

His cock is hard again, flushed dark and leaking. He lines up and pushes back inside you in one smooth thrust, groaning at how wet and warm you still are.

This round is slower. Deeper. He fucks you like he’s trying to memorize every inch, hips rolling in these devastating circles that keep grinding against your clit. 

One arm is wrapped around your lower back, holding you tight against him. The other hand cradles the back of your neck so you’re forced to look at him; foreheads almost touching, breaths mingling.

“Look at me,” he rasps when your eyes flutter shut. “Want you to see who’s making you feel this good.”

You do, because you can’t look away. Every thrust drags a helpless moan out of you. He’s hitting so deep, so perfect, you’re already climbing again.

“That’s it, baby. One more. Give me one more,” he coaxes, voice low and filthy-sweet. “Want to feel this pretty pussy come all over my cock again. Missed making you fall apart like this.”

You shatter a third time, clenching around him so hard he curses, burying his face in your neck as he follows right after you, coming deep with a long, guttural groan, hips stuttering.

For a minute, there’s just heavy breathing and the distant thump of music. He stays inside you, arms wrapped around your waist, your legs locked behind his back.

You’re both a sweaty, wrecked mess.

Finally, Eddie pulls back just enough to look at you, a lazy, crooked grin spreading across his face.

“Well, shit,” he says, voice hoarse. “I think I just fucked us back into a relationship.”

You stare at him for half a second, then laugh, breathless and a little dazed.

You lean in and kiss him slowly, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“Yeah,” you murmur against his lips, smiling. “You kinda did.”

Eddie’s grin turns stupidly bright. He kisses you again, softer this time, thumbs brushing your jaw like he still can’t believe you’re letting him.

“Guess I owe you a real date now,” he says. “And a lot more of this.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re still smiling as you tighten your legs around him.

“Shut up and get me cleaned up before my friends send a search party, Munson.”

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Then he comes to the coffee table, the lone beer you nursed all night staring back at him. There’s a smudge on the can, a smear of sticky gloss he can smell when he picks it up. Something sweeter than just vanilla, it’s like…frosting, or cake batter.

His chest pangs and he flops down on the couch, burying his face in the throw pillow you hugged to your chest all night and then hid behind when the movie got too scary. Eddie’s whole body was on fire the whole time, his leg jiggling incessantly, fingers pulling loose threads in his jeans.

You kept brushing up against him and he couldn’t decide if you were trying to get him to put his arm around you, or if that was just his wishful thinking.

Now he’s smelling the ghost of your essence on the pillow and fuck—why does he keep doing this to himself? He keeps asking you out, only for him to panic invite the rest of your friends and turn it into a ‘group hang.’ God, he hates those words.

All he wants is to be alone with you, but how’s he supposed to know if you wanna be alone with him or if you think he’s just some fucking creep trying to get in your pants? Not that he’s not trying to get in your pants, but that’s not all he wants.

He makes that noise. That whine-grunt-huff-sigh that seems to encapsulate all his frustrations—with himself, with the situation, with his life.

The couch sags and creaks under his body as he rolls over and stares at the water-stained ceiling. He’s still got your scent in his nose and your drink in his hand. He brings it up to his lips and presses them to the sticky smudge you left behind.

Imagines warm, soft flesh instead of a cold metal rim. Imagines tasting your gloss straight from the source, letting his tongue glide into the cavern of your mouth and finding yours waiting for his. Imagines your hand cupping his hard—

A knock at the door makes him jump. He hurls the can he was just kissing across the room and bolts upright. His heart pounds in his burning ears and he curses Gareth or Jeff or Lloyd for being dumb enough to leave whatever it is they forgot.

He stomps to the door, ready to lay into whoever is on the other side, but when he flings it open all the air in the world vanishes without a trace.

Because it’s not Gareth or Jeff or Lloyd or even Ed McMahon with a big check. It’s you.

Smiling at him with the porch light reflecting off your freshly re-applied gloss.

“Hey, sorry,” you said, drumming your fingers on the side of the door. “I, um…forgot something.”

“O-oh? What uhm—”

He cleared his throat loudly. Goddamn, why did it feel like his words were made of sawdust?

“What’d you forget?” he finally managed to ask.

Your fingers drummed again and your eyes darted up and down Eddie’s form. He swore you looked like you were vibrating; like you were about to explode or launch straight into space.

And then, suddenly, you were kissing him.

The next thing he knew, you’d stepped across the threshold and your lips were on his. Your real lips, tasting better than anything he’d ever imagined.

Sweeter than vanilla.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t suck in, and doesn’t brace. He just looks down at you, mildly amused that you’ve seemingly taken a break from putting your own breakfast together. You couldn’t give less of a shit about breakfast if you’re honest – he could be your breakfast, and you’d be left just as satisfied.

He’s just being domestic, but looks indecent to your eyes. You wonder how you got so lucky.

“What?” he asks as one corner of his mouth curls up into a half smile.

“Nothing,” you say, already pressing your palms flat against him.

He’s warm. He’s always so warm. You touch the comfortable heaviness of his middle, fingers spread out, and it makes you feel small in the best way.

You let your fingers curl into his sides, testing his softness there, even though you already know it by heart.

“Are we in a mood?” he chuckles, says ‘we’ but means ‘you’.

“Mhm. Just… jus’ give me a minute.”

He huffs a quiet laugh at that. At how transfixed you look. At how wrecked you sound. There’s no novelty here, just appreciation.

You slide your hands up his stomach and over his chest, making his t-shirt ride up on your forearms and exposing his whole front. His body doesn’t resist your touch, it never has. It welcomes it instead, which is nice. His shoulders are also nice, wide under your palms. When you pull at him to face you a bit more so you can press your cheek against him, he follows easily. You feel the weight of him settle naturally against you as he leans in a bit more.

You know you’ve got him when you hear the butter knife he was still holding clatter on the counter.

He’s given in.

He’s giving you a minute.

You press a slow kiss right in the centre of his chest, then drag your mouth down over the curve of him. His stomach isn’t flat, but it isn’t meant to be. You give it sweet love, pressing kisses all over his soft, warm skin.

You can feel how his hands settle at your waist.

“What are we doing?” he murmurs, using ‘we’ again but definitely still meaning ‘you’. It’s cute.

“Mm. Nothing.” You ignore the faint scent of burning toast that’s starting to slowly fill your kitchen, and you hope Joe does too. “Just– let me appreciate this for a second.”

You press another kiss lower, then flatten your palm against his stomach again, spreading your fingers like you’re claiming territory you’ve already claimed a thousand times before.

You love this part of him.

Love the way he feels when he leans into you.

Love the way his weight pins you softly against the counter when he steps forward.

Love the way his body presses fully against yours, his chest, stomach, thighs.

You love all of it. Love all of him.

You step back deliberately and tug him with you until your back hits the counter. He easily follows you and lets his body settle into yours, but not before he’s leant down a bit to kiss you back. His lips find yours as he rests against you, as he lets you feel all of him.

Suddenly, the toaster ejects two slices of bread, darker than Joe meant them to be, demanding your attention, but before Joe can even so much as turn his head, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him even closer.

“Mmcareful,” he murmurs against your mouth, his stubble scratching at your cheek.

“Don’you dare move.”

He lets a throaty chuckle escape him softly, but he obeys, letting more of his weight sink into you. His stomach presses warm and firm against yours and his arms cage you in without effort.

You feel how he adjusts his grip on you a little, palms spreading a little wider over your hips as he flexes his forearms. His muscles shift underneath his skin, and the cotton of his shirt pulls a little tighter across his shoulders when he bends slightly at the knees. You tense your thighs automatically as your knees part just enough to make space for him.

There’s a tiny sound that escapes you, half laugh, half yelp, because no matter how many times Joe lifts you onto the counter, there’s always that split second of weightlessness that you can’t get used to.  

“Unfair,” you murmur, slightly breathless.

“Hm? What is?”

“You being this strong underneath all that.”

His mouth twitches as his eyes scan your face.

“All what?”

You slide your hands down his arms, squeezing deliberately. “This.”

You genuinely think it’s unfair. He’s got no business being all these things you like, and then also, for whatever reason, really fucking handsome as well.

You give him a good look, head tilted to the side as your eyes follow your hands that run down his sides, squeezing lightly.

“You’re staring again,” he says, squeezing his fingers into your thighs in response.

“Yea, well… you look nice. Let me look.”

Your fingers press into the comfortable curve at his waist before they slide back up. Your eyes find the pudge beneath his jaw, that faintest bit of softness that shows up extra when he tucks his chin in like he’s doing now. You linger there deliberately, kiss him there softly, and you can hear how he shudders on an exhale.

“You’re obsessed,” he murmurs softly.

“S’not my fault.”

Because you truly think it isn’t. There’s just something terribly intoxicating about a man who feels like this, all solid and substantial. Warm, not carved from marble, but built from muscle and softness and heat.

“All right, whilst you do that, let me just…” you feel movement as Joe reaches for his toast behind you. You’d complain about how he reaches for the butter knife he’d dropped next, but instead, you just enjoy the show of a body pressed into you even further whilst a big arm stretches out to grab it.

You press your forehead to his chest and try to steady your breathing. Joe’s not exactly making this any easier on you. Especially not when you can feel his muscles move beneath his skin as he tries his best to butter his toast whilst remaining in this position.

The scrape of a knife to toast fills the space as his weight settles over you, and it feels protective without being overwhelming. Like you’re being held. You could stay here all day. Set up camp here. Live here forever, even though that sounds a bit claustrophobic, you’d take it over anything else, no problem.

You can’t help but slide your hand between your bodies and drag your palm down his stomach again, slow and deliberate.

“I love you like this,” you say quietly, and you hope he doesn’t think you’re joking. That he’s not one to struggle with your compliments. You worry sometimes that he doesn’t understand that you really mean it.

He pauses, leans back a little and looks down at you, confused. “Like what?”

“Like you.”

That’s it.

Just Joe.

Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Soft stomach you can grab and kiss and hold without hesitation. A body that feels like something you can sink into and stay there.

You watch his face scrunch up under your affection before he leans in for a kiss that presses deeper, not without risk of getting butter in your hair. When he hums into it, you break to giggle and quickly let your mouth drop to his collarbone where you press kisses all the way out to his bicep.

“Love you like this.” Joe speaks into your hair, and you don’t ask what he means.

He leans back a bit and lets a terribly burnt piece of buttered toast hover in front of your face, offering you the first bite.

You don’t take it.

Instead, you do what you’ve wanted to do all morning and let your teeth sink into his arm.

“Ow, hey!” Joe laughs as he pushes at your forehead with his whole palm. “Are you done?”

You smile. Bite at the air to make him fight you off, getting butter into your hair for real this time. You don’t give a shit. Just want to grab onto his face to pull him in for more kisses. Want him to squish you into the cabinets until your spine clicks and pops and you feel completely rearranged by him.

Are you done? Who’s he kidding?

“No. Not even close.”

---

The Taglisted

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Somewhere in the back of his mind—before the three pints and the two shots—he recalls your hushed voice in his ear, outside the bar. It was low and sultry. Scratchy and strained, but not like how it gets after a long day of talking. No—

It was the type of strain that happens when you’ve spent too many hours screaming his name. When too many breaths have torn from your chest, ragged and pressed out by the strength of his hips.

That type of strain is his favorite…. But you had said something then—

You leaned close. The music from the bar was leaking out into the muggy, open air of the parking lot. There was noise from the road nearby. Fast cars, rubber peeling off of wet asphalt—

Wet asphalt emanating heat and earthy scents—

And there was you. He could smell you, too. His favorite scent. The perfume you always leave traces of, like love notes he finds well after you’re gone. Proof of your existence in his bed, near his clothes, on him. 

You leaned close. Yes, because of the noise—the music, the cars. 

And your mouth brushed the shell of his ear and he shuddered. You laughed. Sweet and teasing. You laughed. 

He shuddered again, or maybe he was just vibrating with excitement—he could never tell around you. Then he felt what you were saying before you even said it. Your kiss-bitten lips curved so delicately around every syllable. 

You called his name. 

His favorite shape your mouth makes…

Well, that, and the stretch of—

No. No, you said something. His name. That’s what you said.

That and something else.

What was it?

He closes his eyes, trying to relive the moment— Your mouth against his ear, your hot breath on his skin, his name on your lips…

Fuck, he can’t remember. And damn it, you won’t let him touch you.

You just took yet another shuffle-step to the right. He didn’t even realize he was leaning into you until you did that 

Come to think of it, what you said before probably had to do with why you’re not letting him touch you now. 

Usually you love it. You welcome his zealous exploration. He knows that, you tell him through the prettiest sighs—

And what you said—well, it felt important at the time. You dropped his hand to say it, so it must’ve been. 

But as the golden glow of the hanging light fixture shines down on you, your hair glinting with every movement, his patchy memory no longer seems all that significant.

The sound of dense resin knocking together draws his attention to the table, the green surface missing one less solid colored ball. 

“Yes!” Robin calls out, pumping her fist victoriously.

“Shit!” Steve curses at the same time, stamping the butt of his wooden cue on the floor. 

 “Oof, rough go, Steve.” You smirk, pretty as a picture.

Eddie wishes you’d look at him like that. 

Subtly, he brushes his arm against yours—the one that’s holding your beer. His eyes practically roll at the heat rippling across your soft skin.

But you move away at the first contact. That’s really starting to get on his nerves. Because what, is he radioactive or something? What’s so bad about him wanting to hold you?

You lean forward. “Maybe if you—” 

“No speak from the opposition!” Steve shouts stiltedly, sending an accusatory finger your way. His eyes flit from you to the table as he strategizes his next shot. “I will not let your womanly wiles corrupt me—”

“Mm, I would,” Eddie purrs lowly, floating into your orbit. His leisurely efforts are abruptly halted, though, when you jab a knuckle into his side.

Steve paces, wearing a chasm into the chipped, creaky floorboards of the old dive bar. “If you had bet on me like you should’ve, then maybe I’d hear you out. But since you’ve left me scorned, I’d like to keep my dignity intact, thank you.”

“For now,” Robin simpers, sending you a side-long glance. “Or wait, do we think he had any to begin with?” 

“Mmm, jury’s still out—” you shrug, lips curled like you’re trying not to laugh at the frazzled man’s brewing tantrum.

Eddie giggles, “Dignity…Steve.” The words feel heavy on his tongue, like he’s dragging each syllable out a second too long. 

Steve grumbles—something about trading. Or maybe ‘trait-or’? Eddie doesn’t know, he’s too busy weathering the turn of the earth now that you’re looking at him again. It’s been forever since he’s held your attention, and he was nearly at the point of begging. 

It’s not just your eyes on him, though. You’re smiling, too. It’s that knowing smirk he loves. The kind that makes his knees weak and his pants feel tight. 

But then your lips twitch, smile faltering as you peer down at his finger hooked in the waistline of your skirt. And suddenly, you turn to him, shifting your hip out of reach. He opens his mouth, a complaint on the tip of his tongue when you force a half-drank bottle of beer into his outstretched hand with a terse, “Hold this.”

Straightening up, he gathers himself, prepared to shoulder any task for you—no matter how trivial. His responding, “Okay, baby,” is drowned out by Steve’s loud cheer after finally pocketing a ball. 

You turn back to Robin and Steve, leaving Eddie chasing after your gaze. “I’ll get the next round.” And just like that, you’re gone. 

He jogs after you, the floor feeling uneven as he stumbles through groups of people. You’re leaning against the bar, waiting for the drinks when he arrives, looming over you with heaving breaths. 

“Oh, baby, y’look so pretty tonight,” he grunts, wrapping an arm around your waist, trailing his lips up your neck. 

You whip around, hand shoving against his chest until he stumbles back a few paces. His eyes widen, stinging from the pain of rejection, and he feels minuscule under your cold glare. 

When you swallow, glancing somewhere behind him, he has to stop himself from moving into your eyeline. Because damn it, if you’d just look at him longer than a second—

“You need to stop,” you hiss. 

His head jerks back, the burn of nausea twisting low in his gut. “Wha—”

“You said you’d be good, Eddie.”

He is being good! He’s being so good! All he’s done tonight is stare at you and touch you—you love when he does that!

He opens his mouth to argue, but you cut in before he gets the chance to start. 

“You said you’d behave! So you better start now, or we’ll have to leave,” you grit out, stepping back from him once more. 

Following your movement, his overheating body crowds you against the bar. “No, please, don’t make us leave, baby,” he hurries, grabbing at your hips. “‘M havin’ so much fun, don’t wanna go—”

Your shoulders drop, you lean into him, and he almost closes his eyes, certain your lips will find his.

“Okay, then be-have,” you admonish, then turn to collect the drinks left behind by the busy bartender. 

Eddie decides he’d much rather have gotten a kiss than a warning.

Sliding out of his embrace, you march back to your party, a grumbled, “Just friends, Eddie. You promised they wouldn’t know—” fading the further you flee. 

And he feels like he just stepped into the Twilight Zone because what the hell? Why would he say that? That doesn’t sound like him at all—

“Thank God, gimme that,” Steve swipes a bottle from your arms, chugging it. He jabs a finger in Robin’s direction. “This woman wants me dead.” 

She snorts, then looks at you with an unimpressed glint in her eyes.

“Missed another shot?” you ask, brow quirked. 

“Multiple,” Robin confirms. 

“It is just not your night, is it, Steve?”

Before the beleaguered man can answer, Robin cuts in, elbowing him. “It’s never his night. That’s basically his whole thing. He’s, like, the personification of a Monday.”

Steve snaps, “Okay, that’s enough outta you. Just take the damn shot.”  

A loud clack, then a muffled thump into leather, and Robin laughs manically. 

Eddie watches you lean over the table, passing the girl her drink. Inch by inch, your skirt rises the more you reach, and his head drops to the side, weighed down by curiosity. 

He thinks of the black panties you shimmied on before coming here. He watched you then, just like he watches you now. Watched the way you wiggled the flimsy fabric over your ass, how the material covered your freshly fucked cunt so delicately. 

The same black fabric peeks out from beneath the hem of your skirt, only now, there’s a wet splotch between your folds, and he knows exactly what soaked through.

You straighten up—too soon for his liking—but Eddie’s still staring. Still leering at that cursed skirt. It’s never done him any good—always hiding you away. Then again, maybe it’s done him a world of good. It’s been the catalyst to many a sweaty tryst, that’s for sure. But right now, it’s useless fabric obstructing his favorite view. 

In the back of his mind, he vaguely registers the bickering going on around him, the music blaring. But his focus is divided between the sight of your upper thighs and the stirring in his pants. 

He reaches down to adjust himself, then quickly remembers the beer in his hand. The condensation beading down the glass has seeped into his skin, pruning his fingers. He doesn’t remember why he’s even holding the thing to begin with. 

Setting the bottle on a nearby table, he shuffles closer to you. You’re talking to Steve, and he’s not quite sure what you’re saying, but he hears you choke on your words the moment he presses against you. There’s a hiss of breath that sounds like his name, but his mind goes blank as tingling pleasure prickles up his spine, almost a relief of pressure. Or the temptation of relief. 

The feeling is small, but it’s intoxicating. Even more than the alcohol in his bloodstream. Because now he’s drunk on you. On what could be if he just bent you over and—

You cough, clearing your throat as you take a step forward—right up to the Pool table. Eddie grunts, grabbing your hips and dragging you back against him, this time with a stronger, steadying grip. 

“No, that doesn’t count as a mulligan— Hey! Ed, what the hell are you doing?”

Steve’s question falls on deaf ears, and your elbow digging into his ribs does nothing to deter his mission. Because the heat is building. In his flushed cheeks, in his muscles. Even lower. Incendiary friction sparks something dizzying and all-consuming. 

“Dude, at least let her breathe. No need to hover—”

He’s laughing, but Eddie doesn’t think it’s funny. Not when you slip from his hold, yet again, now an arms-length away. Too far. 

Your palms are planted on the glossy, oak edge of the table as you huff out something that sounds like it would’ve been a chuckle if it hadn’t collapsed halfway up your throat. “Think he just gets weirdly clingy when he’s drunk. Don’t know why I’m the victim, though—”

There’s a sharpness to your tone. It’s dulled by his inebriated ears. Undeterred, he closes in on you. “You’re so pretty, baby.”

The words slip out easily. Your shocked reaction only makes Steve laugh harder. 

“Jesus Christ, you’re really three sheets to the wind, dude—” 

Eddie ignores him, but then watches as he turns to you.

 “Does he think you’re someone else?” 

The question makes Eddie’s chest rumble. As if you could be anyone else. As if he could want anyone else this badly—

Wrapping his arms around your rigid frame, he can feel your ribs expand on the breath you draw in. Before a response tumbles past your lips, he squeezes you. Quick and firm. It’s the only warning he can manage without ripping fabric or leaving teeth marks on your delicate skin.

Because he knows what you’d say. He’s starting to catch onto the lies. And he’s not in the mood to play pretend anymore.

“How many has he had?”

Robin’s voice sounds distant as Eddie finds himself beside you again—not far, this time, but shucked off all the same—monitored under your eagle eyed gaze. When she calls your name, stealing your attention for…something about going home or taking a home, he can’t find it in him to care. Not about Robin’s itch for theft or Steve’s quiet, regarding stare.

He can smell your perfume. It calls to him, whispers of heat and closeness. Of the subtle change in the chemical makeup when you begin to warm beneath him, when his sweat mixes with yours. The evil scent pulls him in until his nose is running along your neck. You don’t jump nearly as much as you have been. He’s breaking you down. All he has to do is persist.

You reach across your body, finding his chest and he almost giggles at the half-hearted shove you give. Like it’s just for show. Like you don’t really want him gone. Then your fingers curl around the flimsy material of his shirt and he’s certain you don’t want him gone. How could you push him away if you’ve got a hold on him? 

With a groan, he presses his straining length against the underside of your other wrist, your palm still planted firmly on the edge of the table. It’s a slow, focused grind; his knees nearly buckle. Pushing harder as his own hands slide down your arm, he keeps you in place.

“Fuck, Eddie, st—”

“Holy shit, he’s like a cat in heat,” Steve mutters, cutting you off in what Eddie deems a particularly grating tone. It does nothing to aid the coiling need he’s trying to sate. 

Tension bleeds from your muscles in a slow-burning drip as your form sways just the slightest bit in his direction. He can feel you fighting the urge to melt into him. He’s waiting. Patiently. As patiently as he can without compromising his own desires.

Then, your chin tips and you whisper a lackluster, “Eds, seriously, not here—” over your shoulder. 

“Okay, what the fuck, man.” 

A large hand lands on his bicep, pulling him away from you. His heartrate spikes. 

A calamitous anger rages inside, catching like a wildfire through his veins. It feels like integrity but tastes like possession.

Whipping around, he smacks the arm away, blindly knocking the culprit back. 

“Dude! Actually get the fuck off her—”

“Steve, it’s fine!”

Your sharp tone slices through the fog in his mind; it settles the devastation inside, canning it for another time. He stares at your back as you move between him and a very angry-looking Steve. Chest all puffed out, the ex-jock is the picture of chivalrous defense, and he can’t help but grin. 

If the good knight only knew the things you’ve let Eddie do to you…

“Yeah, Steve,” he drawls, his heavy-lidded gaze sliding from the incensed man to you, the one-woman garrison emboldened by altruism and bolstered by sweetness. He inches closer; a shadow encroaching on the light, a predator going in for the kill. “She said it’s fine.”

His palms hover over your skin, consuming and reveling in the heat. Up your arms, around your shoulders, and back, he maps out your body, admiring the winding curves he’s traversed many times before. The simmering rage of the man in front of you only encourages his quiet appreciation. 

Slowly, delicately, he leaves a chaste kiss where your neck meets your shoulder. 

You tremble, blinking like you mean to steel yourself. 

And his grin widens. “See? She likes it—”

Steve snaps into action, but Robin is quicker, throwing her arm out in front of him. At the same time, you grab Eddie’s wrist, yanking him after you. 

“That’s it, I’m taking you home.”

He lets you drag him away, tossing a smirk over his shoulder. Steve tries to ask if you’re sure and you only let out a clipped, “See you guys later,” in response.

Eddie can’t help but congratulate himself on yet another successful victory. You’re his. You’re choosing him, again. A room full of people and you’re taking him home. 

He somehow feels both stone-cold sober and wasted beyond belief, all from your fingers digging into his pulse. And the alcohol. There’s that, too. 

Weaving through meandering patrons, the exit sign comes into view. You’re talking, but he can’t hear you. The words float ahead, jostled and spliced by the whining guitar riff peeling from the surrounding speakers. He hears the anger, though. It doesn’t bother him.

Once the door closes behind him, the stuffy bar now in his rearview and the night air filling his lungs, he drops his weight back, no longer moving so willingly.

You grunt, but otherwise seem unfazed. Only tightening your grip and continuing your lecture—

“—at fault. I mean, seriously, we fucking agreed! It was mutual! We said we didn’t want the dynamic to change, then you down a few too many, and now all of a sudden, you’re measuring dicks with Steve. I mean, you might as well’ve just pissed on me—it was too fucking obv—”

Pebbles kick up beneath his skidding shoes as he finds his balance. 

“Oh, sure, make this harder than it has to be. You’re great at that—”

The last word catches in your throat as he pulls you the opposite way, back to the bar. You stumble, trying your best to resist, but he’s moving you easily.

“Eddie, what the fuck did I say? If you can’t behave, we’re leaving. We’re not going back— Agh—”

Pressed against the brick wall of the building, hidden in the alley beside it, your complaints fall to unintelligible nonsense as Eddie attacks your neck, lips ravaging any sliver of skin he can find. His body envelops yours, keeping you still with a force he can’t find it in him to tame, especially for the sake of propriety. Not now. Not after waiting so dreadfully long. 

“E-Eddie, slow d-down, Jesus—”

“Can’t,” he grunts, finding his way to your mouth, mumbling like a wanton man. “I need you, baby. Need you so fuckin’ bad—” His hips jut forward, searching for reprieve from the miserable strain of his jeans. 

When your back arches, he sinks his talons in, blunt nails biting and fingers digging as he clings onto you. Because in this moment, you’re the only thing keeping him from falling off the face of the earth; he feels it racing beneath his feet. Your eyes on his, the taste of your lips—it slows everything down. 

“Shit, you’re so pretty. So, so pretty—” 

Every word is mindless, slurred, but true. Inhibition has long-since died a silent, restful death inside him, buried somewhere low, near the hearth that never stops burning for you. 

His hands grope and grab at anything they can reach—your ass, your thighs, your arms, your breasts. Anything. All of it keeps him here for one second more. Grounded in your softness. Steady on your terrain. 

“Eds, we—we have to go,” you gasp, pliant beneath his roving touch. He closes the gap, tongue tangling with yours in a sloppy, searing kiss that makes his mind whir and his ears fill with a fizzing sound.

“Nuh-unh, wanna stay,” he pants, nipping at your pulse point, feeling your blood rush. “Wanna stay with you.”

His hands slip beneath your skirt as you hold onto his shoulders. You give a weak push when his fingers pull at the gusset of your panties, but it’s not nearly enough to deter him. 

“We can’t st—ay, fuck— You’re drunk, Eddie. I don’t even know how you’re hard right now.”

He hums, straightening to his full height and pressing you harder against the wall. His breath comes fast; he can’t seem to catch it as he watches you. 

How is it not obvious?

“‘S you,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your temple. “‘S all you. Makin’ me burn…. Makin’ me want you so damn bad it hurts.” 

You swallow, lashes fluttering as you lean into his gentle touch. “I’m sorry I hurt you…but we can’t do this. Not he—”

“You don’t want me?” His voice is brittle. Breaking. 

A night full of small rejections comes to a head as the weight of your words—sincerity and conviction threaded through every syllable—crashes into him, a frenzied tidal wave leaving wreckage in its wake. 

He only manages to retreat half a step before you’re pulling him back, arms wrapping around his neck. 

“I do want you,” you rush, pressing imploring kisses onto his rosy cheeks, tiny promises sealed with sticky lipgloss. “I always want you.”

His vision blurs as he peers down, frizzy curls hanging low in his eyeline. Confusion is a bitter thing as he finds the hem of your skirt. There’s mercy in the feeling of the grooved stitch beneath the rough pads of his fingers. 

“Even now?” he asks, low and timid for the first time tonight. 

Your arms release him, trailing down the sinewy plane of his chest. You lift his shirt only an inch—just enough for your nails to find his flushed skin, enough to feel him twitch as you explore so freely. 

“Always.”

He pauses, searching for something in your gaze. Or, maybe something in the silence. And it’s the silence that answers. 

With a hurried breath, he tears at your panties. It’s a quick, controlled rip, and he stuffs the fabric into his back pocket. 

You gasp, but he drops before you get the chance to scold him. His jeans do little to mitigate the sting of gravel as his knees hit the ground. He hikes your thigh over his shoulder, disappearing under your skirt. 

“Ed— Oh, God!”

His face drags through your folds, nose catching on your clit as his tongue sinks into you, plunging as deep as it’ll go. But the thundering ecstasy of finally tasting you—and himself—is cut short when you tug at his hair with a force far too sharp to be pleasurable. He groans, missing your heat as you haul him up to his feet. 

“Eddie! We can’t do that here,” you bite out, glancing behind him. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

The worry in your brow catches on something inside him, and if he had the right words, he’d make it go away. But there are no right words, only burrowing panic and gnawing desire so deep, it’s almost torture.

“Please, baby, I’ll be good,” he pants, pawing restlessly at your body. “I swear to God, I’ll be good. Just— Just let me— Ah, Jesus!” His forehead falls to your shoulder and he hangs onto you, a firm grip on your ass as he pulls you into him. The movement is meant to alleviate, to save his sanity, but all it does is remind him of your denial, of the space he can’t close, and the release he can’t reach.

Your fingers begin to soothe his scalp. He matches his breathing to yours; in and out, in and out, in and out. 

Curious and tender, you mutter, “It’s really that bad?” 

He shakes his head, lifting it to meet your concerned gaze. 

You don’t understand. You can’t possibly know what it feels like. This dull ache. Persistent, like a gnat in his ear, it’s been with him all night, made worse by you. Your perfume, your soft touch, the glimmer in your eyes. The distance, the act, the canyon between words and truth. 

It’s all a great pain. An infection that’s been festering for hours. You have the medicine and you won’t give it to him.

His voice cracks, “So bad. I’m achin’ for you, can’t you feel it?” His hips jerk forward as he waits for your response, but the silence is too loud. He can’t stand it. 

“You’re just so pretty…” Dazed, his eyes rove over your wrinkled top, fabric askew and showing more skin than you started the night showing. “‘N so soft.” Ducking closer, he rumbles out a drawling, “Mm, you smell so good.”

Again, you look behind him, somewhere just over his right shoulder and he sways, chasing your gaze. 

“And you can’t wait ten minutes to get to your apartment?” you ask, eyes narrowed. 

He sags against you, a whine crawling up from deep within his throat. “No…. No more. I’ve been waiting all night. I can’t— I—”

“Okay, okay, I get it. I hear you. Just— Hey, Eds, look at me—”

Your palms cradle his head and he can smell the lavender hand soap he put in his apartment just for you.

“Be quick,” you whisper, tipping your chin to hold his attention.

He perks up, swallowing harshly as he stares at you, trying to decode the two simple words. But you might as well have spoken another language because his mind is running circles around the meaning, never through. 

“Hey—” Your eyes dart downward, stall there, then you close the distance. 

It’s messy and wet and he can still taste you on his tongue—smell you smeared on his skin—but you don’t seem to mind as you deepen the kiss, your mouth parting around a moan. It’s over too soon, though. 

A delicate string of spit connects him to you as you pull back.  “Take what you need, ba—”

He’s moving before you even finish the endearment, hands racing across your body, tugging at fabric, kneading skin—anything he can touch. His jacket is around your shoulders in no time, protecting you from the rough brick. The cuffs on his belt clang as he unfastens the homemade contraption, the button of his jeans next.

“Oh, thank you, baby,” he breathes into your mouth, using his full weight to trap you against the wall. “Thank you, thank you—shit! You’re so good to me,” he whimpers, bucking his hips as he frees his length, wrapping a hand around the base until it throbs beneath his unyielding grip. “So fuckin’ good to me. Wanna be good to you, too.”

He fumbles a bit, struggling to move while still trying to maintain every point of contact he can. Once he manages to pick up your thigh, hitching it onto his hip, he guides the blunt tip of his cock through your slick folds. A soft mewl escapes you and the sound only makes him twitch, a stream of sticky precum dribbling from his slit. 

“Wanna be inside you. God, I always wanna be inside you—”

Your voice cuts him off, strained with a familiar need as your forehead falls to his. “Please, Eddie— Please just fuck me already, I can’t—”

His body responds before his mind even registers the plea, jerking forward until he’s buried deep inside you. A resounding groan echoes through the empty alleyway, drowning out your shrill cry. Though, you have enough sense to slam a hand over your open mouth, muffling the lewd noise

He, however, is too drunk to care. Drunk on the alcohol humming in his bloodstream. Drunk on the feeling of your walls squeezing him so tight, he could count your heart rate just from the pulse of your pussy alone. 

“Ohh, my—fuck! Jesus, fuck—you’re tryin’ to kill me, you’re tryin’ to kill me,” he babbles incessantly, squirming from the pressure. 

Your hand drops to his shoulder, holding onto him so tightly, your fingers pinch. “E—ddie, shh—ah!” 

Torturously slow, he pulls out. Your cunt clings to him, contracting—almost a proper plea to stay—and yet, you seem to revel in the drag of his length. He knows you feel it. The thrum of his veins, the curve that stretches you, the thick ridge that catches on your entrance. 

With just the tip inside, he shudders, his head hanging as he stares downward. The bright neon sign on the corner of the building beams, making his cock shine with your arousal.

He pauses. 

Then, his hips snap forward, marking the start of a suffocating rhythm as he forces the breath from your body with every thrust. He moves wildly, a frenzied pace with one intention, and one intention only. 

“Oh, God, oh, shit, baby! You feel s’good.… Takin’ such good care o’ me—thank you! Thank you— S’sweet to me—” he pants, slipping a large, heavy hand behind your neck until your gaze drops, joining him as he watches himself disappear inside of you. “Ah, look at that— Mmm, so pretty when you’re full o’ me.” 

The wiry hair at the base of his shaft begins to stick to his skin, weighed down by the mess he’s making out of you. Glimmering slick forming a milky ring, droplets splashing from the strength of his thrusts. A giddy chuckle rumbles through his chest, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he admires just how wet you are. How wet he makes you.

The sound of his leather jacket scratching against the brick fills his ears as he falls against you, muscles straining. Your eyelids droop low, but your gaze hasn’t moved from where he’s fucking into you. His mouth finds yours, lips gliding as he hungrily swallows your every moan. 

Sweat beads at his hairline, and his nails sink into your thigh, drawing you impossibly closer. Because he needs more. He needs all of you. Your walls are pried apart by his thick length and it’s still not enough. 

He lets go of your neck, pushing two fingers into your mouth. “Suck.”

His breath turns ragged and you finally look at him, your eyes dark and glossy as your lips reach his knuckles, your cheeks hollowing out in that way that always makes his knees buckle. His hips jerk, rhythm shifting at the memory.

He can feel the flames spreading, overtaking the hearth, but he’s not ready yet. He’s not done with you. 

His fingers fall from between your lips as he reaches below, pressing tight circles into your clit. You choke on your breath and the sharp sound makes him grin.

“Yeah, there you go, sweetheart. Fuck—you’re so tight! Squeezin’ the life outta me— God, I know you wan’ it—cum for me. Soak my fucking cock,” he grits out, watching your eyes roll with rapt attention. “Mark me, baby, drown me—”

“F-Fu— Eddie!” 

Your back arches and you go rigid; he knows you’re on the very edge. He knows you. He knows the exact high your voice reaches before you come undone, and even though you’re trying not to, he knows you’re losing yourself.

“Give it to me,” he drawls, practically purring at you. “Give in, baby. Please, I know you need it—”

“Shh, shh, we have to—b—e quiet! You have t—o keep it d— Oh, God!”

Your cunt clenches around him, tighter than he can handle after suffering from your denial for so long. You're moving against him now, convulsing and chasing after the pleasure like an ebbing wave. His body starts to curl inward, but he tries his best to keep a good enough pace. Your moans ring in his ear as he drives into you, shivering at the obscenely wet sounds.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! F-Feels so— God, ‘m g-gonna fill you up, baby. Hm? You wan’ it? Wanna feel full o’ me? Wanna hold it for me? You’re always so good at it—”

His breathless words seem to have no effect on you as you settle limply, held up by his frame and the wall at your back. You give no indication that you heard him, there’s only the flutter of your lashes and the lull of your head against the brick. His palm presses against your neck, just enough to keep you still, to hold your far-out gaze. 

“You listenin’? Hm?” he pants, landing a firm kiss on your slackened mouth. “Y’gonna empty my balls for me, baby? Know you love to feel me drippin’ outta you.”

Your cunt responds with a weak pulse. He chuckles, only to be cut off by his own sputtering groan as a particularly deep stroke shoots right through him. You whimper, and he knows he’s the only thing keeping you from buckling to the ground as your arms struggle to wrap around him.

“E-Eddie…”

Static buzzes in his mind as you mewl, soft gasps hiccuping in time with his pounding thrusts. His hand drops low, splaying just beneath your navel. Then, he presses, relishing the catch in your breath. 

“Ah, there I am,” he mutters, going dizzy at the feeling of his cock-head nudging his palm. “Here, right? Y’gonna keep me here, baby?”

You nod, letting out a frail, broken sound that tells him all he needs to hear. You want it. Need it, even.

His eyes roll, balls pulling taut as his rhythm falters. “Oh, f-fuck! Jesus Christ, you’re made f’me—you are,” he grunts, nosing against your neck. “Fit together so nicely. Hmm, made f’me, made to be full o’ me—”

Your face crumbles as you clench around him once more, another orgasm rolling in, quiet as a tide, and this time it’s softer. He can still feel you shake, but there’s a dragging sense of freedom. Of letting go.

And you drag him with you. Under the tide. Under the surface where everything sounds fuzzy and he feels weightless. 

“Jesus—fuck! Ah, shit!”

He gives one final, deep thrust, burying himself inside your heat as he spills into you. Waves of pleasure crash through him, so overwhelming, his hips stall. He shivers, almost violently, and his words tumble out, barely loud enough to be a whisper. “God, baby, thank you. T-Thank you. Shit—you’re so good to me.” 

He stays like that—arms wrapped around you, your fingers in his hair—for a while. It’s only when you shift, repositioning yourself against the wall, that he picks his head up. Indulging himself in your gentle kiss. His languid lips speak a sweetness far greater than his words could manage at the moment.

“I feel better now,” he mumbles, letting himself explore along your jaw, lazy and sated, but needing to taste you all the same. 

“Yeah, I bet,” you snort, tucking his hair behind his ear, then twisting a damp curl around your finger. 

With much reluctance, he finally pulls out, both of you wincing at the loss. He fixes himself quietly, buttoning his pants again and hiding his smile as he notices you squirm. You adjust his jacket over your shoulders and smooth your skirt. His eyes follow the movement and all he can think about is how much he wishes he could just sit on the ground beneath you and watch himself leak out of your pretty pussy. 

But then you clear your throat, motioning to the end of the alley and he offers his arm. You smirk, shaking your head as you accept his offer. As he passes under the neon sign that says, “Bar,” he stares at the entrance to the building.

“Mm, I wan’ a beer,” he hums wistfully, starting to veer off course.

“Unh-unh!” Both of your hands circle his bicep, yanking him back. “No, we’re leaving. I’m taking you home.”

“But—”

“No ‘but’s.” You continue to drag him further away from the bar, heading toward his van. “You’re going home, then you’re going to sleep. And tomorrow, you’re gonna call up Steve and apologize for trying to fight him.”

Eddie’s face twists up, a sharp scoff falling from his lips. “‘M not apologizing. He was trying to touch you—”

“No,” you utter pointedly, digging into his back pocket—ignoring his quiet, “Hey, buy me dinner first”—and pulling out his keys. “He was not, that was you. He was trying to stop you because he thought you were being a perv.”

“I was being a perv,” he grins, watching you unlock the van. You shove him into the passenger side and he gracefully complies, settling in a haphazard huff. His eyes follow you through the windshield as you speedwalk around to the driver side door, which he reaches across the console to open for you. 

“An unwelcome perv,” you amend, climbing into the seat. You check the mirrors first, then turn the key in the ignition. Eddie sighs contentedly as the van rumbles to life, the tape he mixed for you already filtering through the stereo. 

He leans close, looming over you. With exaggerated slowness—a test, a toeing of boundaries—he drags two fingers up your thigh, beneath your skirt, until he feels the sticky combination of his cum and your slick smeared against your skin. “Knew you liked it,” he purrs lowly, sucking the digits clean. 

Your breath comes quicker and shakier as you give him a sidelong glance. “You’re disgusting.”

His grin stretches into something wolfish, something predatory and ostensibly clear-headed, despite the glossy look in his eyes and the sway in his body. Quickly, he makes another swipe between your legs, this time relishing the hitch in your throat as he grazes your warm, puffy folds. He shrugs, admiring the milky gleam on his fingers before taking them into his mouth once more. “Chef’s gotta taste his own food.”

With that, your trembling hand lands on the gear shift and the van jolts into reverse. 

A/ N: Guys, is this anything? Let me know🧎‍♂️It’s been in the drafts since October🥀  Also, it's the one year anniversary of me writing fics :) One year ago (almost to the day), I posted this rambling drabble. Since then, my work has improved so much, and I’ve gotten to talk to so many of you about your Eddie thoughts which is all I ever wanted from this.  Thank you for reading my silly, not-so-little ramblings. Thank you for making this an enjoyable space to create in. Thank you for always showing up to my ‘Is anyone interested in…’ posts with 110% enthusiasm. And thank you for talking to me about my writing. I think that’s what I appreciate the most—how much I get to connect with y’all over what I’ve worked so hard on. I love reading your reactions to my fics, I cherish them so deeply. I’m also glad you feel comfortable with me and enjoy my writing enough to want to hear my thoughts on your Eddie ideas. I love this space and I’m glad you guys are always down for a little chitty-chat.  Thank you for sticking around and taking an interest in my work and especially me as a person <3 Love you guys <3

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And because the universe has a perverted sense of humour, his eyes flick up at the exact moment you pass behind someone’s shoulder before they land on you.

“Oh,” a slow grin unfurls on his face, surprised but absolutely delighted to run into you like this. The person he’d been talking to seems quickly forgotten as he turns his full attention to you now. “Look who’s crawled out of the past.”

You give your politest smile in greeting – you’re in public, other people can see you – and find a spot next to him at the bar, seeking eye-contact with bar staff to order yourself a drink. “Bold of you to assume I’d crawl anywhere for you.”

Joe watches you order a drink, eyes trailing down your arms as you find your phone in your bag.

“Oh, darling,” his low tone of voice gives you pause. Makes you freeze for just a moment, eyes flicking up as you process how the smugness hidden in his voice still has a huge effect on you. “We both know you’d at least consider it.”

God.

You’d forgotten how much you loathe him.

You don’t.

Unfortunately, you really don’t.

The side-eye you give him goes paired with a badly hidden smile just before you receive your drink. You look down for only a moment, opening your card on your phone, but then when you look back up, Joe’s already paid for it. He raises his drink to his mouth as he watches you, awaiting your reaction.

You nod to yourself, then frown and mutter your most unwilling and hesitant, “Thanks.” which makes Joe huff a breath of laugh into his glass.

He’s close enough now for you to smell him. His cologne, layered over the faint smell of smoke he’s carried in from outside and the warmth that’s always just been him. It’s the smell that used to surround you when you’d step into his flat, the smell that overwhelmed you in the best of ways when you’d climb into his bed. You swear you could recognise it anywhere, and the old familiarity drops onto your shoulders like a heavy, warm coat.

“So… what are you doing here?” you ask, because small talk feels mandatory now that he’s paid for your drink, and chatting about small nothings is safer than God, hi, I see your face all the time, it’s everywhere, but it’s so much nicer to see the way your mouth curves in person.

“Work,” he says, casual and vague. You know if you were to ask more about it, he’ll explain it all in great detail but it’s actually nicer to not know, lest you get sucked into his world again. “You?”

“Drinks with some colleagues,” you lift your phone with a shrug. “They bailed early.”

He gives you a look. A raise of his brows, a pull of his lip.

“What?” you try asking lightly, but it still comes out a little defensively.

“And so you decided to come into this hotel bar to have a drink on your own. Makes sense.” he says jokingly, something accusatory in his voice that he knows will piss you off. Joe’s purposefully trying to make it sound like you saw him before you’d decided to get yourself a drink, and, Joe’s right… it pisses you off immediately.

“Still fucking annoying, I see,” you bite back. “Makes sense.”

“Well…” he starts, eyes dropping to your mouth for approximately 0.3 seconds, “Some things just don’t change, do they?”

The air shifts.

You feel it before you think it.

There’s a subtle tightening of the world around you, like someone’s pulled a drawstring. You suddenly notice how the bar’s too warm. Suddenly notice the lines of the muscles in his neck above his collar. Suddenly think of a question that is one you absolutely shouldn’t ask.

So he beats you to it.

“Want to go sit down somewhere?” Joe nods towards a quieter corner. “Unless you’re in a hurry.”

He knows you’re not.

You know exactly what he’s doing. And you hate how well it works.

When you sit across from him, the old rhythm of the two of you, your way of being around each other, it snaps back into place like muscle memory. He leans back in his chair and spreads his legs just wide enough for it to annoy you. You sit upright and lean forward just enough to pretend this interaction will be a short one.

“So,” Joe says. “Should we do the polite ex thing and pretend we’re both totally over it?”

“Are you saying that you’re not?”

“Oh, I’m perfectly well-adjusted,” Joe deadpans. “Remarkably stable, cheers.”

You laugh and nod your head to the side, eyes wide as you remind him, “You’re also a fantastic liar.”

“Also a fantastic liar.” Joe echoes, finishing the sentence along with you, laughing now. It’s a low, throaty sound that you used to fucking die for. You remember how he used to laugh into your mouth sometimes. How you’d be able to feel how his laughter would get stuck in his throat before he’d release it in warm breaths.

Hey.

Stop.

Maybe let’s not think thoughts like those when staring right at him. Maybe let’s tie these thoughts up and shove them into a box and forget about where we store it, just to be safe, you know?

Safety first.

“You look good,” he says suddenly, softer.

Okay, so. You’re definitely not safe.

“Don’t start.”

“What? Can’t compliment an old friend?”

“An old friend?” you make a face at him. That’s just about the last thing you want to be called.

“What would you want me to call you instead?”

Mayday, mayday! Safety fucking last – the bastard’s dimples are showing.

“Ex-girlfriend feels very… definitive, doesn’t it?”

For a moment, you’re not sure where to rest your eyes. It’s silent between the two of you, and the weight of the past settles between you in this new space you’ve not shared before. It’s not heavy or bitter in any sense. It’s more like a bruise you’d forgotten about until Joe just poked at it and you were reminded, Oh. Right. That.   

You ignore the questions he’s asked you and instead decide to ask about his earlier mentioned work. It turns things normal for a moment. You know exactly which questions to ask to get him to tell you more than he’s probably allowed to share, and just when he’s about to spill something he’s definitely signed an NDA on, he changes the subject.  

You briefly wonder if Joe’s thinking what you’re thinking. You don’t have to wonder for long – you never had to with Joe. The conversation quickly slips sideways, something fun and electric humming underneath. It kicks up even more when Joe gets up to come sit next to you in a bid to hear each other over the music better.

You remember this.

You remember it too well.

“I forgot how expressive your face is. Stop doing that with your eyes.”

“I’m just looking.” You scan his features. His stubble is at the perfect length.

“Have I got something on–” Joe rubs a hand down his face.

“No.” You really were just looking.

“Just handsome, then?” Joe asks it like it’s a serious question, speaking right into your ear. He expects you to laugh, but catches you staring somewhere near his collarbone. Moving his hand to touch himself there, he feels how his shirt is unbuttoned enough for you to see into it right there.

“No. I know that look.” Joe smirks, boyish and confident.

“What look?” you sit up slightly, trying to sound as innocent as you can. “I was just looking, look, you’ve got– there’s about six buttons you forgot to do up.”

There’s two. Three if you count that extra one right at the top.

“Mhm,” Joe hums, his smile not wavering in the slightest. “Tell your pupils to dilate a little less next time.”

“Could you just–”

You don’t have to finish your sentence, because Joe leans away from you just enough to get both arms up to fiddle with his buttons. Instead of closing them though, his fingers move to open another one, just to fuck with you. Before you can even think about what you’re doing, your hands are moving to slap his out of the way.

You only get to close one of his buttons before his fingers wrap around both your wrists. And then, because Joe has never once passed up an opportunity to ruin you with a single line, he leans in a little bit to get his mouth right by your ear and says, “Come upstairs with me.”

You swallow. Hard. “Absolutely not.”

His smile is slow and devastating as his grip on your wrists tightens. “Absolutely yes.”

“You don’t get to decide–”

“Darlin’…”

It hits like a knee to the spine.

He says it the exact way he always used to in order to get what he wants, deep and coaxing, with an awful lot of confidence that comes with knowing how to get you to fold instantly.

He’d say it casually, and it’d be fine. But then he’d drop his voice and use the baritone in specific moments, like right before you’d get into the shower, or right before he’d drag you into his bedroom.

You hate that he uses it on you like this.

You hate yourself for reacting in the way that you do.

“That’s not fair,” you whisper too softly for Joe to hear, which isn’t a problem since he was already looking at your mouth anyway, and he can lipread just fine.

“No,” he agrees, letting go of your arms now. “But neither was you showing up here looking the way that you do.”

You take a breath so shaky you hope he doesn’t hear it.

He definitely hears it.

“So, we’ll call it even…” you try, sitting up a little.

“Not yet,” he frowns slightly through a head shake. “One night. Come on. If I remember correctly, we’ve got excellent…” Joe waits a moment for you to finish his sentence. You do, at the same time.

“Coordination.” Joe says when you say, “Chemistry? Oh. Coordination. Yea, sure.”

“Chemistry.” Joe squints his eyes and points a finger at you, picking your answer over his own. “That’s what I was gonna say. I was just… being coy.”

“You’re terrible at being coy.”

He bites his lip. “Yea, well. I’m decent at other things, so.”

You groan and close your eyes in agonized, frustrated, embarrassingly fond defeat.

When you open them again, his gaze is steady. You’re not moving away from him, and you’re still smiling. That’s all Joe needs.

“Let’s go,” he says, standing up, holding his hand out for you to grab.

And you hate that the answer is already yes, simmering under your skin, waiting for you to stop pretending. If you’re totally honest, it would’ve been yes back at the bar after saying hi, but he doesn’t need to know that.

You take hold of his hand, and Joe looks at you like he’s proud of you. A little surprised, amused that whatever he was trying has worked out, but it’s mostly pride.

“This doesn’t mean anything.” You can’t help but warn him, letting go of his hand after he’s helped you up.

He grins, “Of course not.”

Fucking liar.

The walk across the lobby, the wait for the lift, the ride up to his floor, it’s all torture.

Joe has slipped both his hands into his pockets and keeps them in there, not touching your back as he guides you, no fingers secretly trying to find a way to sneak under your top. You’re just following him like a dog, and the air between the two of you might as well be made of static electricity at this point. You can feel it crackling along your forearms, down the back of your neck, across your ribs…

And Joe’s just watching you.

In the lift he leans back against the side and watches you, like he’s remembering every single version of you he’s ever peeled out of an outfit.

“Stop staring…” you mutter.

“Can’t.”

“Well, try.”

“Don’t want to.”

The lift dings.

You accidentally inhale his exhale.

It’s a whole disaster.

You should’ve turned around right when you’d walked in and saw him pretending to listen to whoever that other person was.

Yet, here you are, being welcomed into Joe’s hotel room for the night.

His hotel room oozes old money. It’s too large, too patterned, every detail  around you curated to make you feel like royalty. It’s all meant to convey that the people staying here didn’t pay the amount they did for nothing, because look at the brass wall lights and the curves of the doorhandles.

Pretentious bullshit, is what it is.

Joe looks a little out of place, which you like, but he’s also got this ability to fill the room the way he always fills every space. It all sort of fits him just right, doesn’t matter where he is, and in here, he makes the room feel a little more casual, like it had been waiting for him to walk in and it can finally relax now.

You don’t even get your jacket off before he’s in front of you, one hand braced near your hip against the wall, not touching you, not yet, but close enough that the intention throbs between you.

“Still sure about this?” he checks.

“No,” you smile, which makes him move even closer. “I might need some extra convincing.”

He huffs a laugh, and you feel it warm against your cheek.

“What are you going to do about it?” you challenge, which results in a low throaty sound from Joe.

“God, I missed that mouth.”

And then he finally, finally kisses you. His wide palms find your sides to hold, warming your ribs as he breathes you in, and, shit, it’s terrible how good it still is.

It’s immediate, and greedy, and devastatingly present.

He doesn’t give you a chance to slip into nostalgia, into reliving something that you’ve lost. Before you can, he’s moving you, mouth warm and hands confident in ways that bypass your brain entirely.

You melt.

You try to fight it.

But you fail.

He tastes like the drink he had downstairs. That and old patterns. Patterns you’d grown bored of a while back, but that feel fun and exciting to be a part of again for a night. Joe still knows how to undo you with depressing efficiency, and he uses what he remembers of familiar gestures to make your ribs constrict.

This kiss is better than it has any right to be.

When he pulls back, both your breathing is uneven. Your half choking on air, embarrassed at how disheveled you feel already.

“Still nothing?” he asks, teasing softly.

“Shut up,” you breathe.

He laughs against your throat. “I’ll take that as a no.”

You shove him onto the bed.

He goes willingly, grinning wide, hands already reaching for you as you follow him there.  

You undress each other in a blur of heat and limbs and the specific type of instinct that Joe responds to on autopilot. There once was a time where you fit together as perfect puzzle pieces, and you’re surprised how easily you both fall back into your slots together. You remember every sound he makes, every place he likes to be touched, every button that he’s got hidden from view which your hands know by heart.

He remembers, too.

The familiarity of it all is infuriating, and the pleasure of it worse.

When you find yourself straddling him in nothing but your underwear, he looks up at you and the glint in his eye looks like he’s going to say something heartfelt. Something that he’ll likely regret later, you think. If not that, it’ll at least be something you’ll regret having heard him say whilst underneath you like this. He opens his mouth to speak, and to quickly shut him up, you undo the clasp of your bra behind your back.

It works.

You knew it would.

His hands are firm on your hips as he sits up a little, and instead of using words, Joe lets his mouth do the talking with slow tracing patterns down your chest.

“Still hate pet names?” he murmurs against your skin.

“With a passion,” you gasp with both your hands in his hair now.

“Good,” he whispers. “Darling.”

Your head drops back and you swear out loud.

All Joe can do is laugh, his breath warm on your sternum. This is stupid. It’s ridiculous. It’s perfect, and it’s so fucking doomed.

Joe lets a hand slip into your underwear as you sit up on your knees to give him more room. His other arm is hooked around your hips, holding you close to him, and you go a little quiet as you focus on where Joe’s fingers are going.

He looks up at you to study your face, then asks “Same spot as–”

Before he can even finish the question, Joe touches you just right and you jolt slightly as your breath hitches. “Oh yea, same spot as always.” he smirks, answering the question he didn’t even finish, too sure of himself, and you decide to just… let Joe be smug. Let him be his dickhead-self if it means he’s going to keep doing all the right things, because, honestly, you’d tell him off for it any other time, but right now, you’d rather just let him win. If he thinks he knows exactly how this is going to go just because he’s been here before and can predict every note you’ll hit, that’s okay. You will let him play at confidence until you decide to take it away from him.  

When Joe starts trying to pull at the last bit of fabric on your body, you sink your weight down onto him until his breath catches and both his hands grip onto your thighs.  

“Same spot as always?” you flip the script on him.

“W-why don’t... why don’t you find out?” he teases, though it comes out a little breathless, a little cracked around the edges.

You lean in close, ducking so your mouth’s near his ear. “That’s cute.”

He laughs, and you feel it, a pulse beneath his ribs, and his hands, predictably, move up to your waist. “Yea? You’re cute. Take this off.”

You do, and when you try to get back into the same position, Joe flips you over onto your back and grabs hold of both your legs, pushing them upward. He sways his hips forward and back a few times, testing the waters, letting his skin meet yours, watching your face.

He does it for just a second too long.

“Are you done showing off yet? Because this isn’t doing it for m–”

Joe sinks into you, cutting you off mid-sentence and turning it into a sharp gasp. When you look at him, he’s smiling, and you move a hand up to cover it.

There.

That’s better.

Joe can be a smug bastard all he likes, but that doesn’t mean you have to look at it.

You stay like that, hand over his mouth, as Joe starts to move, slow and measured, like he’s testing the limits of your patience. It’s not even been a fill minute and you can already feel him falter slightly. You can feel how the smile disappears behind your palm, smirk then gone and replaced by something darker, a little more helpless.

“Fuck,” he breathes through your fingers, and you almost smile, because there it is: the slip. The crack. The moment where Joe stops performing and starts feeling.

He picks up his pace.

Bites into the fleshy bit of one of your fingers and pushes your legs down, folding you in half.

When you moan a little louder, Joe bites down harder too. It makes you yelp and finally pull your hand away from his face, and with his mouth free, he takes his chance and bends down to kiss you.

It’s truly something to be kissed exactly how you want to be kissed during sex.

There’s no need to nudge your nose into his a certain way, no need to grab onto his neck to guide him. He’s doing what you want before you can think to tell him what to do, and it feels like coming home.

In your movement, your legs slink to the side, and Joe uses a stretched-out arm to hold them down there, finding the best angle to make this nice for you.

Idiot.

It’s been nice for you since downstairs.

Suddenly, he slows down. His breath stutters, and his throat works around your name, soft and desperate, as he leans down and lets your foreheads brush.

“What’s the matter, da–” your own giggles cut you off. You wanted to say it because you know he was going to if you didn’t, and you can see the exact millisecond the words you haven’t finished hit him. The flicker in his eyes. The way his mouth opens and closes like he can’t decide whether to groan, or laugh, or beg.

Joe looks absolutely ruined.

That’s when you move, switch places with him and get back on top of him like you were before.

“Are you warm enough?” Joe asks, just checking in, words he’s used hundreds of times before with you. It’s sort of cute how realizing how he still fits and still feels has turned him into absolute mush for you.

For a second, it’s almost too much.

All of it, way too much.

The closeness as you ride him, as you writhe in his lap, the heat coming from your bodies, the strong arms behind your back that press you firmly against his front, the sound of your name from his mouth like it means something again.

It’s why you press your forehead harder to his, grounding yourself and avoiding eye contact as you finish the job for the both of you.

You move until you feel him unravel beneath you, his breath catching on every half-word, his fingers twitching like he wants this, wants you, and doesn’t care about the past.

You move until he forgets himself entirely, until the confidence he had mountains of before is gone, and it’s just Joe and just you, raw and wordless, moving in a rhythm that makes you both feel good until it builds enough and you both feel great.

After that, it goes quiet.

The air settles.

Your heartbeat slows, and you let yourself breathe again.

You move like you’re about to get up, but Joe reaches for you instinctively and moves his arms around you, holding you in a way he used to, before. It’s like he’s remembering every single bit of vulnerability that ever existed between the two of you at once and needs a moment to come to terms with it all.

Joe’s thumb finds a spot below your collarbone to slowly rub, and for one dangerous heartbeat, you almost let it mean something.

Then, you pull away.

He looks a little dazed and soft-eyed, and you know he’s thinking of poetically sweet words to say that’ll make the moment special. You don’t let him, and instead get up to go and find your clothes, hoping you’ll also find your composure and your backbone on the carpet somewhere.

Joe gets the hint.

Just offers you his shower, if you want it.

You don’t answer. Just smile as you pull your top over your head. It makes Joe chuckle a little, and you can’t help but laugh yourself.

No other words are shared until you sling your arms back into your jacket and reach the door.

“This is never not going to happen when we run into each other,” Joe says, voice a little rough from the weight of what just happened. “You know that, right?”

You take the words in with your hand on the doorknob, then turn back and take a few steps back into the room so you can look at him, still in bed, hair a mess, his grin trying its hardest to make a comeback and almost making it.

“Take those words with you.”

You give him a knowing smile that grows wider when you think of what you’re going to say next.

“We’ll see, darling.”

And you leave him there, sprawled across now-damp hotel-white sheets, a ghost of a smirk on his lips.

“Never not!” he calls out when he hears you open the door.

You let it shut without saying goodbye.

You leave smug and satisfied, with a newfound confidence in your chest and words heavy in your pocket that you’ll never cash in.

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @beau-hawkins, @dailyobsession, @eddies-puppet, @everythinghasafacee, @gri959, @hazelenys, @iliwyshann, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia, @mandyjo8719, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles, @nunofurbusiness123, @overthinking-raccoon, @overtrred28, @readergf, @royale1803, @screaming-ontheinside, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson, @sunvick, @sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @xxladymjxx, @14ferluvr, @starry-swan

“This can’t keep fucking happening,” you whisper into the air, mostly to yourself, voice all wrecked and sleepy. It makes Joe stir behind you, murmuring something that sounds a lot like shut up and you can almost picture the face he’s making, half-buried in your hair, scrunching his nose because surely that must tickle, probably frowning because, stop fucking talking I’m trying to sleep over here.

And who are you to resist him?

You don’t.

Haven’t done yet, and probably never will.

Instead, you let yourself sink back into his warmth, eyes closed, body too heavy with sleep to fight any of it. Though, going back to sleep isn’t all that easy when your mind rewinds. Pretending that this recurring, accidental ritual of waking up tangled with one of your mates means absolutely nothing is becoming more and more difficult.

It’s only the third time, but for a pair of normal friends, of casual buddies, it’s not a place you should keep finding yourselves in. It’s gone past this being an accident now, you think. Yea, sure, you’ve been drunk each and every time, but…

The first time, you genuinely hadn’t meant for it to happen.

It was one of those night that had started small, and then went off the rails somewhere around the third round of shots.

You would’ve gotten angry at the person who even suggested doing shots in the first place, but you had an inkling you’d been the culprit yourself. Unfortunately.

Joe hadn’t, that much was absolutely clear. He’d decided, in his usual quiet but overconfident way, that he was definitely going to be the responsible one that night.

“Don’t worry, I-I’ll make sure she gets home all rright,” he’d said when your other mates all piled into an uber together. They’d all laughed, because he could barely stand upright himself, but he manage to get you home. Somehow.

You remember how he’d fumbled with your keys by the front door a long time, dropping them twice, bumping his head into the door when he bent to pick them up. Twice.

You remember the Uber driver that had dropped you off pulling back up again to hand-deliver you the phone someone (you) had left on the backseat.

You also remember him insisting on walking you all the way inside of your own flat, not just the building, because, “What if y-you trip on your own do- doormat? You’re a danger to public s-safety.”  

The next thing you remember, is the morning.

Head pounding.

Mouth dry.

Only one sock on, feet hot.

You blinked against the light streaming in through the blinds, and realised in slow, terribly hungover confusion, that Joe was beside you.

Fully dressed, though. That was good. Jeans half un-done and his T-shirt bunched halfway up his stomach, but, definitely fully dressed still.

He groaned awake when you’d sat up. “Oh, fuck me.” Joe sounded like the most hungover man on the planet, pained with the weight of dehydration, nausea and a poisoned liver.

“Don’t think we did.” you croaked dryly.

Joe had squinted at you then, said, “Yea thank God.” Followed by, “I think.”

After a good giggle, the kind of miserable laugh that hurts your head more than anything else, you’d made the unspoken agreement to never mention this again. Gave him a coffee, a tall glass of water and a paracetamol before you saw him out your door. It wasn’t as if you’d woken up tangled, or touching, or doing anything else that could be mistaken for something more, so it was no big deal.

Just two idiots too drunk to think any other thoughts besides ‘sleep’ when they laid their eyes upon a bed.

It was fine.

Absolutely not a problem.

Except maybe for how that side of your bed then smelled like him for days. You caught yourself getting a good whiff when you changed the sheets, and quickly told yourself it was nothing.

No big deal.

Men just smelled nice sometimes, that was hardly anyone’s fault, was it?

Just the drink maybe.

The drink was to blame for all of it at the end of the day.

And Joe told himself the same.

The second time you woke up next to Joe was barely a week later.

His place, this time.

A small gathering over at his flat that was supposed to be casual and chill had turned into something it hadn’t meant to turn into. Not too many people were invited, but some people brought along some other people and before Joe knew it, the living area was full of loud voices with half-finished drinks and the echo of music playing off of someone’s phone.

By midnight, people were peeling off, one by one, until it was just you and Joe in his living room. You helped tidy for a bit, until you got to the abandoned card game someone started and forgot to finish on his coffee table.

Before you got all playing cards into their packet, which was hard enough with the amount of alcohol in your system, Joe stopped you by handing you a drink to finish as he sat down beside you.

You vaguely remember laughing about something, something stupid most likely, your shoulder brushing Joe’s, and then… nothing. Just the gentle tilt of the room and the soft slide into unconsciousness.

You know for a fact that you fell asleep on Joe’s sofa.

You’d sat down on his sofa, drunk and tired, and that’s where the night had ended.

Which is why waking up in his bed was, quite frankly, a very confusing way to start your morning.

You woke up very slowly at first, the most comfortable you’d ever felt. Cocooned into sheets, protected by something heavy that hugged you into the mattress. Warm. Safe.

A sudden wave of nausea awoke you fully with a jolt. Suddenly the limbs across your frame made you feel trapped. Caught up in something. Stuck.

“Wha–”

Your sudden movements immediately woke Joe up too, and you learnt then that the trapped feeling came from Joe who’d wrapped himself all around you in the night.

“Huh?”

Joe untangled himself slowly, barely awake, hair flattened on one side like he’d laid down and not moved all night.

You stared at each other for a moment, both groggy and confused, waiting for your brains to piece together how this possibly could’ve happened. Again.

“How…” Joe carefully started, squinting around the room to check he really was where he thought he’d found himself.

“Exactly,” you said all accusatory, which made no sense. You were in his bed after all.

“I… I swear to God you were on my sofa?”

“I swear to God I still should be.”

Joe rubbed a hand down his face, inhaling deeply. “Maybe you…” he then rolled over, turning away from you, snuggling back up on his own. “Maybe you teleported?”

“Sure, yea. That’s probably what happened.” You sat up, growning. God, you felt awful.

“You can’t prove you didn’t.”

Jokes.

Denial.

Deep breaths.

Water.

Strong coffee next.

By afternoon, it was like nothing had happened.

But it had, and you both knew it.

When you got home, you noticed something on your arm. It looked like a faint indentation where his watch must have pressed against your skin whilst you slept. You stared at the mark for longer than you should have. Thought about the shape of his arm around you. The unintentional closeness of it all. How you ended up in his bed felt like a true mystery, but part of you feared that you might have sought it out yourself.

Embarrassing.

You shook it off after a while.

Told yourself it was nothing.

Again.

The third time had started with dinner. Out. Somewhere nice. A big, loud thing with friends, which eventually bled into drinks at a bar, and when that closed, the crowd thinned and the last of you found a club. Something open ‘til early, rather than late.

Eventually, it ended with just you and Joe there, clinging to each other in the mess of flashing lights and bad decisions.

You don’t remember leaving.

Don’t remember who decided to go where.

Don’t remember the full conversation you had on the backseat of a car.

There’s only fragments.

A hazy blur where everything felt a little funny. Joe’s hand warm on your knee, his head tipped back against the seat as he tried to stay awake but seemed so happy to be sat. There was too much truth serum in his system not to have the honesty spill out of him.

“So, remember that s-second time we woke up,” he slurred, eyes closed. “At my place?”

“Mmyea,” you hummed, trying your best to stay awake yourself. “Wwwhy?”

“I, um…” he exhaled. “You were. Right. You fell asleep. On the sofa. On my sofa. You slept there. B-but. I… I picked you up.”

“What?”

“I was going to leave you there, but… t-there wasn’t… there just wasn’t enough room for me to, sort of, cuddle you properly, you know?”

“You carried me?”

“I carried you.”

When you turned to look at him, he was already staring at you, head tipped back still, but resting to the side now.

“You carried me?” You repeated yourself louder this time, and you tried your best to sound sober but desperately failed.

 “Yea.” Joe sounded just as drunk though, so it was fine.

“And put me in… your be- bed?”

“Yea.”

“So you could cuddle me?”

He groaned at that. “I’m hearing it now, and it sounds b-bad. Never mind. I didn’t do any of that ac-shually. Forget I said anything. I never looked at you for like, fifteen minutes, and I never tried to fit myself in between you and the back of the sofa, and I never debated about–”

“You debated?”

“Shh, jus’ with myself. I thought about it for a while before I actually did it… I– ugh,” Joe dragged a hand down his face. “You looked so fucking cute, most adorable thing I’ve ever seen, all curled up, and I was– I was like, no, no, there’s no room for me here, what do I do now? And my bed’s right there, and–…” Joe broke off with another groan, tipping his head the other way, slumping against the window. “I sound insane.”

“You absolutely do.”

“Let me add my own address into this app.” Joe clicked his phone to life, but you used a sloppy hand to push it back down into his lap.

“No. I’m concerned for you, and also. For myself. But… don’t do that, okay? Okay? Hey. Okay?”

“No?”

“Were you drunk? W-when you carried me to your bed?”

Joe hesitated for a moment, squeezed his eyes shut tightly to think. “I don’t think I was.”

You mockingly gasped at that, and Joe immediately started backtracking. “I mean, yes. Yes, obviously. Super drunk. N-not like now. I’m super sober-…. Wow. Supersoaker. T-that sounds the same.”

Reduced to a heap of giggles, your slumped against the seat.

“M’sorry.” Joe suddenly murmured, squeezing your knee. “S-shouldn’t ‘ave done that.”

You slapped his hand to keep it there.

“S’all right. You’re nice to sleep next to, you know. You make good background noise.”

“Background nnnoise?”

“Yea, like… breathing and… occasional snoring. S’nice.”

Joe made a throaty sound then, low and warm. “Are we lonely?”

“Maybe.” You looked at your hands that both rested in your lap.

“Only a little, though, right?”

“Only a little.”

“S’risky though. Probably shouldn’t do it again.”

“No. Prrobally shouln…” Joe repeated, barely audible.

You turned your head to look at him, but his eyes were already closed again, smile still tugging at his lips.

And now, here you are.

The third morning.

Unable to pretend you hadn’t both wanted to end up where you had.

Your head’s throbbing.

Your mouth tastes like regret.

Joe is practically glued to your back, his chest pressed against you like he’s trying to merge the two of your together. You can feel his heartbeat at your spine, slow and steady, so familiar it almost feels like your own.

You shift, just slightly, trying to get a little more comfortable, and he makes a noise. A low, sleepy rumble.

“Joe,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

“Joe.”

“Shut up.”

You laugh silently as he tightens his grip, pulling you closer until his breath ghosts your neck again.

You could move. You probably should.

But you don’t.

The sunlight creeps slowly across the wall as you lie there, the weight of his arm holding you still in your own bed. It’s barely been two weeks, and you’re not quite sure when a habit becomes a real habit, isn’t that like, 21 days? That’s a lot more than just… three times. But still, this feels like an inescapable new one.

You don’t mind it.

Even now, hungover, thirsty, dirty, your make-up from last night still on your face… but with his hand splayed against your stomach, and with his nose buried in your hair, you don’t mind it.

You think maybe you should stop calling it an accident.

Stop doing this when you’re drunk, and just try it sober next time.

Next time.

You keep your eyes closed and let your head rest back against his shoulder. Into the quiet of the morning, you whisper, “This is the third time.”

Joe murmurs something unintelligible, half asleep, and then a little clearer, “I know.”

You smile, small and secret. Have a thought that you want to speak into the room, but are too afraid to. You don’t want to ruin it.

Unbeknownst to you, Joe has the exact same thought as he smiles into the skin of your neck, unable to even try to hide how much he enjoys waking up next to you like this.

Holding you like this.

Inhaling you like this.

Third time’s the charm.

“What’s the time?” you try to turn in his arms, but they only strengthen their grip on you.

“Shh. Stay still. You’re nice to sleep next to.”

It’s the third time you’ve woken up like this, but it’s the first time Joe knows that there’ll definitely be a fourth, a fifth, a sixth...

“Yea,” you sigh, knowing there’ll be a seventh, and an eighth and a ninth.

“You too.”

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @beau-hawkins, @dailyobsession, @eddies-puppet, @everythinghasafacee, @gri959, @hazelenys, @iliwyshann, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia, @mandyjo8719, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles, @nunofurbusiness123, @overthinking-raccoon, @overtrred28, @readergf, @royale1803, @screaming-les-bean, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson, @sunvick, @sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @xxladymjxx, @14ferluvr