baby

Tommy

It’s Thursday and you would be lying if you said your eyes weren’t flicking around the club at a rapid pace, trying and not trying all at the same time to see if Steve has come in.

“Why so antsy?” Lucy asks you, spinning the small black straw around her drink as you two lean against the counter of the bar.

Your foot can’t stop tapping. “I was sort of expecting someone tonight, but shift is already half over and it’s looking like he might not show,” You say. You try to let your shoulders fall, try to release some of the stress you’re holding in your body.

When you finally got home the other night and counted your money, your mouth had fallen open. Over $5k laid out on your bed, from just one night. And you knew that more than half of that was from just one man. “Holy fuck,” you mutter to yourself.

Your cat Lolita jumped on your bed, her small white and black paws messing up your piles of money as she meowed at you. “I know Lo,” you chuckle, petting her soft head. “Mama might have just made a very nice new friend.”

But he hasn’t shown up yet. And you’re starting to feel a little stupid at the fact that you had overthought how perfect your eyeliner should be, even pulled out your fancy baby blue and white lace outfit to hopefully impress him. You needed to make a lasting impression on him, make him want to keep coming back for more consistently. If you could pull in racks like that every week? Multiple times a week even?

You might be able to leave dancing a lot earlier than you thought you would be able to, pay off your debt, and move on.

Lucy bumps her thick hip into yours, nearly making you fall over as she catches you off balance. “So the rumors about Steve Harrington are true? He pays well?” Lucy asks, a devilish grin adorning her perfectly made up face. You nod slowly, not wanting to give too much information away. You trust her, you really do, but if someone told you that a man was coming in here and giving away thousands of dollars without even buying a dance? You would try and steal him too. It’s just business.

Your eyes stay transfixed on the entrance of the club, as if you could summon him here yourself the longer you stared.

A man walking up to the bar makes your eyes rip away from the door. “Hi Miss Lucyfer” the man says, walking up next to Lucy. He was nearly a foot shorter than her with her heels, and looked at her as if she put the fucking stars in the sky. You tried not to laugh as Lucy looked down at her victim.

“Michael, baby,” she says, turning on her evil dominatrix voice. Her long purple and black nails come to trace his jawline. “Haven’t seen you in here in a while.

He noticeably gulps at her touch. “I-I’m sorry Miss, I had some things going on but, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Lucy chuckles, turning her body and pushing out her hip so she’s facing him front on. “Oh really? Is that why you’re crawling back to me now?”

He nods quickly. “Can I please buy a dance - if if you’re not busy,” he adds, looking between you and Lucy. You smile at him and lift your hand. “She’s all yours big guy,” you say, trying not to make fun of him too hard (though he’d probably get off on it).

Lucy gives you a small wink before she saunters off to the private dance area of the club, Michael following her like a little puppy.

You chuckle to yourself. Sometimes this job almost feels too easy. There’s a man out there for any type of girl, everyone has their preferences, and if you can own your sexuality enough and appeal to what they like, you can make some really good fucking money.

Sure, you wish you had a regular sleeping schedule, and definitely hate when someone touches you unwarranted, and it’s definitely been hard to lie and keep your job a secret from 99% of people in your life, but at this point, the benefits outweigh the costs.

Your eyes scan the floor again, looking to see if anyone else has made their way into the club, or if anyone looks lonely and might want to buy another dance. And of course, your eyes snap toward the door again.

This time, someone does walk in. He may not be who you were hoping, but he’s a close second. One of your regulars - James. He’s a little older, average height, average build with blonde hair and blue eyes. He’s not necessarily your type, but he’s definitely your type when it comes to customers

He’s always charming, never asks you too many questions, generally just vents about work or his (soon to be) ex-wife. And you lend him a pretty listening ear, let him feel your hips when you grind on him, and he tips very, very well. He comes in either once a week or once every two weeks, and ever since you gave him that first dance and offered advice on how to deal with a wife who literally hasn’t given him a blowjob in 5 years…you easily became his favorite.

At this point in your stripping career, you consider yourself a therapist to most of these men that come in to talk to you regularly. The only difference is that you don’t have the title of Doctor and you aren’t wearing a whole lot of clothes.

You eye James from across the way as he slowly makes his way in, heading to the ATM immediately and withdrawing cash, which makes your face light up. His eyes scan the club as well, and immediately brighten when they find you standing at the bar by yourself.

You give him a little wave and a smile, and he returns the gesture before walking over to you.

“Hi doll,” he says, giving your shoulder a small squeeze before leaning over the bar and calling for Jaylyn to give him a drink. “You drinkin’ tonight or no?” He asks you. It always makes you feel better when he gives you an out and doesn’t force a drink down your throat. So many of the men here want you to get fucked up with them, and it’s just never on your agenda.

“Not tonight,” you say, giving him a small smile as you turn around and nudge your shoulder against his. He smiles down at you and checks you out. You stick your ass out just a little for show as he takes a sip of his drink.

He exhales, finally seeming to relax some as he sips. “You’re a sight for sore eyes every time Tommy,” he chuckles.

“Always for you J.”

“I don’t have a lot of time tonight, can I just take you straight back?” He asks, already almost finishing his drink.

You try to hide your nerves, wishing you could stay on the floor in case Steve comes in. But you also know you need to make money, not just wait around. And James always tips you well. “Of course,” you concede. “Thirty or an hour?” You ask. You try not to upsell too much with your regulars, not wanting to insult them by reminding them that you’re providing a service and not actually desiring to spend a long amount of time with them.

“Let’s start with 30,” he says, slamming his drink back and throwing cash on the counter. You smile at him and take his hand in yours, your ritual for customers, always wanting to establish first contact and guide the way.

But as you grab his hand and move forward, heading toward the back, you see someone enter the club.

Someone tall and commanding of the room the second he walks in.

Steve Harrington.

Your breath holds as you make eye contact with him. You see his eyes flick to yours and James’ hands interlocked behind you. He doesn’t react, and his stillness almost sends a shiver down your spine, but you try to keep it cool as you walk toward the privates area of the club.

“Let’s go,” you shoot a smile back at James, pulling him behind you as you ignore the feeling of two brown eyes burning into your back.

-

Your dance with James is tame. He typically likes to watch you start, always taking off your shoes and ending up shorter than him, which he likes to always comment on. He likes to watch you move your hips to the beat of whatever song is playing as he relaxes into the cushions, letting his legs spread wide as he watches your show.

You never mind how he interacts with you, which is part of the reason you keep letting him come back for more. James always starts timid, silent, just watching and checking out your body as it moves and sways. But the second you get closer, his hands starts to wander your sides, your hips, never gripping too hard. He’s tentative, regardless of how many times you been perched upon his lap.

Once you do sit with him, though, he starts talking. Whether you ask him about his day, or comment on his clothes, ask why he can’t stay longer, etc. He reveals whatever is bothering him. Typically, it’s his wife. She’s very vanilla, according to him, and he can’t stand it, which is why he comes to see you. Though he obviously is still traumatized by the times she’s insulted him, called him a freak for wanting to do things to her that she deems unholy, crude, and disgusting. It’s why you often have to guide his hands to squeeze your breasts, grip your hips a little tighter, guide you however he wants to, with your help. It’s sort of endearing, but also sad.

Eventually the dancing stills if he mentions his kids, he’ll just hold you, rubbing your legs or resting his head on your shoulder as you rub his back and arms a little as he vents and vents and vents.

And before he realizes (and you’ve probed him with enough questions to keep him talking), the time is up.

James is always respectful of your time, handing you a decent tip and walking out with you. He often will let you go wander around again, talking to other men or getting on stage, but eventually wants you to come back and talk to him again.

Tonight, he’s holding your hand and immediately pulling you toward a booth, much to your dismay, as it lands you directly across the club from Steve, who’s sitting in the same booth as last time - alone.

As you sit next to James he continues his vent, and you listen with open ears and fake, wide, sympathetic eyes. But your attention is immediately elsewhere. You try your best to be present with the man in front of you, not wanting to insult him or give away that you’re completely distracted, but it’s difficult. You also know that James often pays you for your time if you stay sitting with him. You’ve told him before that unless he’s buying a dance you can’t sit and talk long because you have to tend to other customers, lying and saying it makes your boss mad (when in reality it’s because if he’s not paying you, you can go make money elsewhere). So James has gotten into the habit of paying you every 10 -15 minutes you sit with him as he notices you getting shifty or trying to end the conversation.

Thus, you try to keep your attention on him. Try so very hard not to care about how your ass is tilted on the booth and giving Steve a fucking fantastic view. Trying to ignore the way your heart is pounding knowing that Steve is staring right at you, watching your every move.

But, James said he can’t stay long tonight, right? So you can keep this up, you can let him keep talking until he’s ready to leave and then you’ll go to Steve. Fuck, Steve didn’t even bother showing up until your shift was more than halfway over anyway, so he can wait a little longer.

“Tommy,” you hear a voice interrupting your conversation, a tall frame standing in front of you.

You nearly jump at the interruption. “I’m a little busy right now,” you smile at the security guard through gritted teeth, not wanting to insult your customer and make him think he’s doing something wrong.

“Yeah man, we’re all good here, right doll?” James says, smiling up at the security guard as he wraps his hand around your shoulder, his sweaty palm touching you. It takes everything in your body not to cringe at the feeling, but you resist.

The security guard looks between you and the man next to you, but he doesn’t move.

“Mmhmm,” you nod. “Now if you’ll let us get back to our conversation,” you say, turning your body back to James, trying to get the security guard off your back. But he’s not moving away.

You turn to James. “Ignore him, he’ll have to leave eventually,” you say, leaning forward some and trying your best not to let your tone shift into attitude.

Then the security guard drops a stack of money on the table.

A literal stack. Rubber band and all.

You stare at it, confused, and so does James. It’s not typical for guards to ever offer money for anything - shit you don’t even think they typically carry money on them. “What’s this?” James asks, voicing your own thoughts out loud.

He sits up a little taller as he eyes the stack in front of him. Greedy.

“There’s a request for Tommy,” the guard starts, his voice bland and unwavering. “So you’re encouraged to take the money and leave, Sir.”

Your mouth drops open. He wouldn’t.

Your eyes immediately try to find Steve’s again from across the room, but he’s blocked by the large body of the security guard.

James nearly spits out his drink. “So this is an offer for me?” He chuckles, his eyes flitting between yours and the stack and the security guard. His hand is quick to reach out for the money, but your hand lands on top of his.

You look up at the guard, eyes pleading. “There has to be some sort of misunderstanding-“

“No ma’am, Instructions were made very clear. The money is this gentleman’s if he is willing to leave for the night once he takes it.”

Shock is the only thing running through your system. No one has ever had the audacity to pay off a customer. Especially not one of your regulars. James isn’t as loaded as Steve, but he’s not a cheap man. He always takes care of you when he comes in, and he’s only had one dance so far.

Your eyes finally move to meet James, and the desperation must be evident because he immediately responds with, “Sorry doll, looks like someone else can make better use of your time.” The red on your lips falls open as you search for words, but are left speechless as James pockets the cash and kisses the top of your head before nodding at the security guard and heading out.

He looks around the club a little before making his exit, but he doesn’t even turn back to you once before making his run.

Seething. You are fucking seething.

“What the actual fuck was that?” You spit at the security guard, slamming your bag on the table as you look up at him with nothing short of fire in your eyes.

He shrugs. “Just taking orders.”

“Yeah and who the fuck are you taking bullshit orders like that from?” You ask, though you have a strong suspicion as to what the answer is already. The guard doesn’t answer, just starts to walk away back to wherever he’s supposed to actually be doing his job. His absence leaves you in the perfect line of sight to see him.

A smirking Steve Harrington.

You stomp, literally stomp, your way from your table to his. You stomp so hard you think your heels might actually break under the pressure.

You don’t even care that he’s in a white button up. You don’t care that you can see a little bit of chest hair poking through the top where he has a few buttons undone. And you sure as hell don’t care about how tight his stupid fucking navy pants look around his thighs that are spread out on the leather booth. No, those things definitely do not distract you as you make your way across the club.

You definitely aren’t distracted by the way his forearms flex under the rolled up sleeves of his shirt as you yell at him, either. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Something wrong honey?” He smirks at you, eyes trained on your face, which is burning with rage.

“Don’t ‘honey’ me,” you spit. You lean over on the table, planting your palms on the metal surface with a loud slap. “Why did you just pay off one of my regulars? Do you know how much money you just lost me?”

He picks up the glass in front of him, taking a small sip as he looks up at you through his eyebrows. “How much?” He asks, his voice calm and collected.

“A lot.”

“How much?” He repeats without hesitation.

“At least 2k,” you lie through gritted teeth, but your mind is starting to race. That number is definitely on the high end for James, but some nights he can be more generous than others, and tonight felt good. Until a certain brown-eyed rich demon decided to interfere with your game.

Steve scoffs lowly. “That’s it?”

“Fuck you,” you sneer before turning quickly to go toward the dressing room.

You’re stopped by Steve’s hand on your wrist, which you immediately retract from. “Don’t fucking touch me,” you threaten, eyes hard on him.

That seems to get to him, seeing you put up your defenses in such a way. You’ve yet to recoil from his touches. But you can’t help it. When your business is affected, it’s not a game worth playing to you anymore, he just turns into another man trying to take advantage of you.And you’ve dealt with more than enough assholes in your lifetime to know when to bare your teeth.

He immediately puts his hands up in defense. You don’t back down, your hands clenching into fists at your side. You’re ready to fight if you need to, be it by punching or screaming. Sometimes it comes with the territory of the job, and you are willing to do what you have to do to protect yourself. No one else will.

Steve’s eyes seem to soften toward you, looking at you like the wounded puppy he seems to see you as. “I’m sorry for touching you,” he apologizes, and though it’s quick, it seems moderately genuine. “Here, for running away the little boy toy,” he continues, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet. He begins to count bills and you wait expectantly. Your morality scale is at an absolute zero at this point, you could almost convince yourself that you are truly deserving of the money he’s about to hand you.

“It’s only $1000, but I can get the rest out of the ATM,” he says, extending a palm holding a stack of bills.

You take it from him without hesitation, blood still boiling at the fact that you even have to be doing this. You refuse to feel guilty for taking money from a man who essentially just stole your client for no reason, especially after you waited for him for half of the fucking night.

As you eye the bills, doing a quick count in your head, Steve watches you in silence. He leans forward some on the table, eyes never leaving your face as you stuff the cash into your money bag.

“Why’d you do it?” You already have a guess, but you want to hear it, want to confirm it.

He leans his elbows on the table, leaning forward as he looks up at you. “You know why,” he replies, his voice still calm and sure.

You refrain from responding immediately, biting the inside of your lip to keep your mouth shut as you look at him. You raise your eyebrows expectantly, as if to say Tell me. Steve sighs at your stubbornness and leans back into the couch, his hands behind his head, showing off the size of his biceps through the white shirt.

“I wanted to spend time with you,” he says, all too casually. His eyebrows lift with a smug shrug of his shoulders.

You roll your eyes. “And you couldn’t have waited until I made my money with him?” you ask him.

“No, you’d spent enough time with that loser,” he replies, taking another sip of his drink. You cross your arms over your chest, unintentionally squeeZIng your breasts together. You catch Steve’s eyes flit to your cleavage. Men are stupid.

“I just wanted you to myself,” he concedes with a shrug.

The blood fueling your anger turns to pang your heart at that sentence. It’s lame and impossible to fulfill - the idea that Steve could walk into the club at any time and “have you to himself”. That’s simply not how this job works. You have bills to pay, goals to meet, and it’s not going to happen by Steve, rarely buy a dance, Harrington dicking you around all night. You’d need him to prove a lot more to you than one night of heavy tipping if he wanted that type of attention at the club.

You try to control yourself and remember the game you’re playing. You have the control here, not him.

“You know what you can do if you want me to yourself?” You ask, your tone changing immediately as you try to sell him on buying a private dance with you.

Steve looks up at you with squinted eyes. He hates what you’re suggesting, because it turns him into another customer, another one of them. And that’s not what he wants to be.

You wait for him to bite, raising your eyebrows as you await his response. You do a small turn, making it so your ass was in view. “Fine, I guess I’ll have to go spend my time elsewhere,”you say, starting to turn around and walk away.

Steve stands immediately and you smirk.

He sighs as he takes your hand in his, pulling you forward roughly as he heads toward the private dance area. You can barely keep up with his strides as you trail behind him in your heels. He approaches the bouncer blocking the entrance to the back. “How much for the rest of the night?” Steve asks the bouncer, and your mouth clamps shut immediately, trying to hide your surprise. But your ego inflates at the thought.

The bouncer looks between you and Steve and you give him a small nod of consent before the man leans over and whispers something to Steve. Steve nods and hands him some money, you can’t tell in the dark how much it is, but you know it must be a lot.

Steve leads the way to the back most room. You’ve only ever danced back here once. There’s more space than usual, and the dim red lights are intoxicating. The room is lined with seats, as if it’s definitely reserved for larger parties.

But it was just you and Steve.

Steve drops your hand as he turns to finally face you. Your breath catches in your throat at the proximity he has between you. It’s dark and more intimidating than you imagined to be led back here by him, and you have to remind yourself that this is your territory, not his.

“Go sit down, Mister,” you whisper to him. He looks as though he’s going to respond, but just chuckles instead and takes a seat in the red velvet booth along the wall. The walls are lined with red LED lights, random curtains placed just for aesthetic, and velvet seats taking up the rest of the space.

You drop your money bag in the far corner, not wanting it to be a distraction. You move one of the stand alone chairs to be in front of Steve. He looks at you questioningly, but you just sit down in it and do your normal routine of taking off your shoes. You put your heel on his knee, your white painted toes exposed as you undo the straps of your shoes.

Steve watches you closely, and is the first to speak over the dull boom of the bass. “You didn’t buy new shoes yet?” He asks, referring to when you first met and he spilled his drink on you.

You unbuckle the small strap, releasing your foot from the agonizing pain of your heels, before lifting your other foot to do the same. “Not yet,” you say. Honestly, you had sights set on a pair of pink lace up boots, but felt too guilty buying them with Steve’s money. But that was a few days ago. Now? After the shit he’s pulled tonight? You’ll order them the second you get home.

You drop the two heels on the ground before you stand up and move the chair to the center of the room. You hear Steve exhale a small chuckle from behind you.

“What?” You ask, trying to refrain from letting your attitude slip through your voice.

Steve stands slowly, and you realize then why he laughed. “You’re so much littler than I thought,” he smirks, walking to he’s at his full height in front of you. The difference is ridiculous, honestly, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t turn you on.

“Is that a problem?” You toy with him, letting your finger dance up his chest.

But his hand is quick to grab your wrist, stopping your touches. “Not a problem at all honey,” He says, bringing your hand back to your side. “Makes me like you even more,” he mutters, before dropping your hand and stepping back to sit in his seat.

Your heart pounds in your chest.

The music is more dull in the room, but the bass is pronounced. It makes the air feel heavy, thick with tension as you face Steve and start to slowly move your hips, reminding yourself why you’re here in the first place.

He sits with his legs spread, his dark eyes watching you intently as his large hands rest in his lap. You try to keep your pace slow, considering he said he bought the room for the rest of your night, which was at least an hour.

You let yourself do your usual routine, sensually moving your hands over your body, moving your hips, turning around, bending over, etc. The idea is to give them a good picture of what they have in front of them before you get close up. Men often get lost once you’re on their lap.

But Steve is different. “Come here,” He mutters, his voice low.

You gulp at his words, and feel your confidence a little shaken. You never have men calling the shots in the room, it’s always you.

You walk to him slowly and are about to sit on his lap when he stops you. He puts his hands on your hips and stands you so you’re in between his legs, directly in front of him. “Just let me look at you,” he says. You don’t respond, just go along with his game, whatever fantasy this is fulfilling for him.

He keeps his hands squeezing your hips as his eyes rake up and down your body, making you feel more exposed than ever despite still having your lingerie on. His hands move upwards slowly, hugging your curves and then ghosting over your breasts. His fingers lightly brush over your peaked nipples, and you shiver, which makes him chuckle.

“Cute,” he mutters more to himself than to you, then drops his hands back into his lap.

You stay still in front of him, awaiting his next demand. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looks at you as you flex your hands at your sides.

“Are you nervous?” He asks.

You exhale a huff at that. “Honestly? A little,” you admit, letting your guard down slightly. It’s too easy to be candid with him in this environment, it scares you.

“Why are you nervous?” He questions, leaning forward a little as he looks at you. “Do I make you nervous?”

You inhale a shaky breath. “A little,” you confess. “I’m not used to men…directing me,” you say for lack of a better explanation. You resist fidgeting under his stare, though everything in you wants to start moving, start dancing, start doing something other than be questioned by him.

“You’re not used to men knowing what they want,” he corrects you.

You don’t respond. You ponder his statement. Is that what it is? Because you feel like a lot of the men that come in do know that they want a girl on their lap, want to touch, feel, be heard, or whatever it is that day. But you’re not used to a man being so…confident about it. So unapologetic.

“Maybe,” you say, not giving him the full satisfaction.

“Maybe,” he chuckles, calling your bluff.

You squint down at him. “Are you going to let me dance for you Mister?” You ask, trying to allow yourself the ability to move the nerves that are enrapturing your whole body rather than standing the stillness.

Steve’s gaze at you is unwavering, but he leans back in his seat, relaxing. “Go on, honey,” he says.

Your lips purse at his words. They feel patronizing, as if he is doing you a favor by having you dance for him. You’ll prove him wrong.

Stepping back, your gaze lowers. You look at him through softer, heavier eyes. It’s as if when you step back, create that distance, you let yourself slip into the character. You let the darkness of the room cover the doubt, the nerves. Your blood warms as you turn around and start to move your body slowly, slower than you ever have. He wants to make you feel like he has some sort of power over you?

This is your game. Your territory. Your place.

Your hips move slowly as you start to move one of the lacy straps down off your shoulder. You turn your head slightly, a peak over your bare skin to see Steve watching you intently. He’s biting his lip, but other than that, remains perfectly still. Your strap falls and you smile. It’s small, but you see a glint of a smile on his freckled face too.

You mimic your actions on your other shoulder, the strap coming off slowly, before you reach your arms behind you and expertly unclasp the gold hook holding you all together.

The flimsy blue material once covering your breasts drops to the floor, but you remain turned around. Your eyes peak again, and find Steve shifting some in his seat.

You move, ever so slowly, turning to face him on the tips of your toes despite being barefoot. But your arms are crossed in front of your chest. Extended, your hands intertwine front of you, pushing your breasts together but covering your nipples and part of your stomach. It’s a feign of innocence.

Heels finally meeting the floor, your head tilts to the side some, but your arms remain crossed.

He looks like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t.

Good.

You take a small step forward before slowly sinking to your knees. The floor is hard, but you’ve done this enough to have expected that, not letting the pain show on your face as you let yourself kneel, your hands landing in front of you.

Steve exhales loudly at the sight.

You look up at him, all wide-eyed, like a little minx. Sitting back on your heels, you let your arms finally uncross, exposing yourself fully before fondling your own breasts, letting a soft sigh escape your lips as your eyes flutter closed. Let yourself go, you remind yourself. This can be as much for yourself as it is for him.

You crawl toward him slowly, letting your hips sway a little extra, your eyes never leaving his face as you land by his feet. He doesn’t move, just watches as your eyes follow your hands that crawl up his legs and land just past his knees, lightly squeezing his thighs.

You’ve choreographed this move down to the eye movement. You look up slowly, very slowly, and take your perfectly painted lip between your teeth. Though, when you usually make eye contact with them, your victim isn’t so handsome. And you know that a blush coats your cheeks as you look at Steve.

“What’s your fantasy, Mister Harrington?” you smile, letting the words dance off your tongue.

He huffs. “Don’t call me that,” he says. The seriousness in his tone almost shakes you. Almost.

You hum. “Then what should I call you?”

There’s a pause. A thick tension in the air as you wait. As if you already know what he’s going to say. He looks down at you in a way that makes your stomach flip, but you keep your ground, staying perfectly in character, in the act. You decide to not ignore the feeling, but instead let it fuel you.

“What do you think you should call me, baby?” He asks. His voice has shifted, and you notice it immediately. He’s buying in, finally. Finally seeming to indulge in what this whole place is about, to release into the fantasy.

Your eyes follows your fingers as you trace a circle on his thigh, your long painted nails making his legs flex under your touch. “Hmmm,” you hum.

Your smile can’t help but creep on your face. You already know what the answer is. If you’re being honest, it’s what a lot of men who buy from you want to be called. It’s part of your game, part of what you sell, and it’s the type you typically get intrigued by you. But none have seemed to fit the title more than the man in front of you.

“Daddy,” you say, letting the letters fall off your tongue, the consonants heavier than the rest.

Steve’s hand comes under your chin, tilting your face so it’s facing his above you. “Say it again,” he tempts you.

“Daddy,” you smirk, this time with a not-so innocent glint in your eyes.

His smirk mimics yours, dark and powerful. “That’s better.”

You take the opportunity to stand slowly, continuing sensual movements as you stand between his thighs. Your breasts seem dangerously close to his face, but he pays them no particular mind as he watches the way your body moves.

You lean forward, your lips finding his ear. “You like to be in charge Daddy?” You ask, your voice fully in character, the lilt, the slightly mumbled speech, the small giggle coating your question…

His hands immediately find your hips, pulling you forward closer to him. “Careful,” you giggle. “I’m fragile.”

Steve chuckles at that. “I have a hard time believing that honey,” He says, moving your hair so it’s behind your shoulder, giving him a better view of your chest.

“Oh is that so?”

You raise your legs, your knees landing on either side of his hips so you’re straddling him, though you don’t let yourself drop onto his lap just yet.

His hands remain on your hips, a ghost of a touch that just reminds you that it’s there.

His dark eyes find your own, and they look at you so deeply you feel like your breathing stops completely. “You’re too good at this to be fragile,” he mutters, his voice low. His eyes flick from your own to your lips. It’s quick, but you notice it.

You hesitate, this is off script. You thought he was done with this, with breaking the image, breaking the wall.

Fine. If he doesn’t want fragile, you can show him how strong you really are.

“I’m starting to think you’re scared of me Mr. Harrington,” you say, an eyebrow quirked. He notices the way your voice seems to come back to it’s regular octave. He also notices the space you create between you two, leaning back so your chest isn’t close to his anymore.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why? Too much pressure?” You sass him. “Big bad Daddy can’t handle being referred to by his actual name?”

His jaw hardens. “I knew you were a little shit,” he says. Your mouth drops open at the insult. “Not sure why you keep trying to sell me on the idea that you’re some innocent little doll. Maybe those other losers buy it, but I don’t.”

You go to move off of him but his hands on your hips quickly tighten. Now your jaw is tight. If this is how he wants to play, then game fucking on.

You don’t think before you speak.“Maybe I figured you were too fragile for me. Too scared to let me go make money somewhere else so you have to chase my other men off with money. Yet you think you can actually handle me? Right,” you roll your eyes, but remain where you are above his lap.

You almost feel guilty for saying it, for breaking the illusion and being candid with him. But He pushed you to say it. He wanted this.

And it hits you -

He wanted this.

He smiles at you.

“You don’t think I can handle you?” He laughs. His hands immediately grip your hips and lift you off him before spinning you around and pulling you back down on his lap. Your ass is directly on his crotch and fuck you can feel how hard he is under you.

One of his hands moves to snake up your front, sliding between your breasts and up to your neck, hooking one finger around your choker and giving it a slight tug. You inhale sharply and your hips automatically back into him more.

You’ve been manhandled a little at work before, but never like this. And never did it turn you on so fucking much.

His voice comes to your ear. “Is this too much?” He asks. And the line between if he’s asking about it being too much for your work at the club, and too much for you in general is blurred. You swallow thickly.

“No,” you say through gritted teeth, all of your innocent school girl act gone as he holds you to him.

“No what?” He chuckles behind you.

You scoff, and he tugs at your choker, making you wince and whine slightly. “No Daddy,” you hiss.

He releases your choker and brings his hand to your waist, holding you strongly to where you two meet. You start to grind down on him, which makes him release a huff of a groan. You keep up your movements, dry humping him as your breathing starts to mingle. He starts to pull you down on him harsher, as if he’s bouncing you on his cock. And you swear you could actually feel it happening. Your stomach is twisting, your blood rushing as you let out small whines at each hard contact.

The line between work and pleasure is blurred. But, fuck, it only takes hearing the subtle voice of the DJ through the speakers to remind you that Steve is paying you to do this. He’s paying you to dry fuck him, and you’re not fucking complaining. Is it a little further past your usual boundary at work? Yes. But Steve isn’t your usual customer.

“When’s the last time you’ve been properly fucked?” Steve huffs from behind you. He keeps his cool, not giving away just how fucking turned on he is by having his hands on your body like this.

You lean your head back on his shoulder and bring his hands to your waist, guiding them up to your chest and letting him hold your breasts, squeezing lightly as you continue to grind on each other. “Too long,” you admit against your best judgment.

Feed into the fantasy. You reminds yourself.

“Too long Daddy,” you repeat, turning your head so it’s buried in his neck, letting your breath coat his skin, your small (but elevated) moans gliding past his ear.

He grunts, thrusting up into you hard. You can feel his cock through his pants fairly clearly, and it feels big. “A shame for a girl like you, you deserve to be treated right,” he says.

You plant a small kiss on his neck, which elicits a small groan from him. “Could you treat me right Daddy?” You ask, grinding your barely clothed cunt down on him. Fuck you could almost feel yourself starting to get pleasured from this.

“You know I could baby,” he says matter-of-factly. “You’d never have to worry about another man touching you again, never have to work ever again.”

You whine at the thought. If you had to have some sort of sugar daddy situation, the best possible relationship you could think of would be with someone who looked like Steve.

But you never sell sex. Ever.

Feed the Fantasy.

You slowly remove yourself before turning back around to face him and continue your grind, but at your pace, putting your hands on his shoulders. His exposed chest is gleaming with some sweat, his hair floppy, his lips puffy from the way he’s been biting them. His hands find your thighs and squeeze as you grind your hips onto his center. He adjusts himself so his dick is placed in just the right place for you to grind your cunt on, and you both moan at the feeling.

Your head falls forward, your forehead touching his as you exchange breaths. Your faces are close, so close, closer than you usually let anyone get to you.

“Can I kiss you?” He breathes.

You hesitate- not even sure if you heard the question correctly. You ignore it, trying to clear your head as your grinding starts to slow. Even if your time isn’t up yet, you might take a break just to relieve some of the tension that -

“Can I kiss you?” He repeats more firmly than before. You back your head up slightly, looking at him with questioning eyes. He awaits your answer, but as he looks at you you’re not sure if he’s seeing you or Tommy.

“Answer me.”

“No.”

Both of your hips start to slow, your grinding coming to a stop as you catch your breath and both regain your composure, starting to come back down to earth.

You’re about to apologize, but refrain. You have nothing to be sorry for.

He slowly rubs his hands up and down your sides, admiring your figure as you sit on his lap. “I should go,” he says, his eyes finally finding yours again.

They’re soft. And you feel your heart twist at the thought of him leaving. But it’s just business. “Okay,” you whisper, slowly starting to remove yourself from his lap. His hands linger as you move, but they don’t stop you, despite the fact that you want him to. You want him to pull you back down and keep the clock running, keep going even if the club was closed.

But that’s not how this works.

You walk back to where your flimsy bra sits on the floor, bending over slowly, hoping he’s looking at your ass as you do so. He is.

He brushes his hand through his hair and exhales, straightening out his pants and shirt. “Let me take you out,” he says.

You chuckle. “You know I can’t do that,” you say with a smile, clasping your bra back on, adjusting your tits to sit perfectly.

He waves his hand in a “come back” motion, asking for you to come back and sit with him. You do, but this time sit next to him instead, letting your legs fall over his lap.

His hands trace lines on your legs. “I don’t know that you can’t do that,” he says.

“It’s not personal, I just-“

“You’re smart, I understand,” he says. He leans over and grabs your shoes, and starts to put them on your feet for you. It’s as if there’s an unspoken conversation happening between the two of you in the silence. Like everything and nothing is being said.

He straps your feet in your heels, as if he’s done it before (he probably has), and you try not to let that fact bother you.

“Buy new shoes please,” he says, patting your feet before pushing them off of his lap. You laugh. “Any preferences?” You ask.

“I prefer you without them, honestly,” He says, standing up from the couch and smiling at you. He pulls his wallet out from his back pocket, and hands you a thick wad of folded up bills. You try not to gawk at the weight of it in your hand.

“C’mon,” he says, nodding his head toward the door. “Walk me out.”

He takes your hand and leads you through the club again, this time walking past the tables and to the door.

But you’re stopped before he can make his exit.

“I knew I’d catch you here!” A loud male voice exclaims, bursting past you and up to Steve. He claps a ringed hand, with chipped black nail polish, onto Steve’s shoulder. He’s about as tall as him, and his hair is even fucking wilder. “And with the most gorgeous girl in this place too,” he adds, acknowledging you with a smile.

You smile back at him. He’s definitely had a lot to drink, and his clothes are absolutely the opposite of Steve’s clean cut look. He looks oddly familiar…

“Eddie, this is Tommy. Tommy, this is Eddie,” Steve introduces you two. Eddie sticks his hand out to shake, which you find endearing, and you return the gesture.

“Wait,” you realize. “Eddie like-“

“Yeah, Eddie Munson in the flesh,” he laughs, doing a small spin in his leather jacket. “Just finished up a gig actually, that Harrington here was supposed to be at. But it seems he got a bit preoccupied,” Eddie says, wiggling his eyebrows at the two of you.

Of course Steve would be friends with Eddie Munson, only one of the biggest fucking names in the music industry right now. You wouldn’t expect anything less from him at this point. Steve looks a little bashful at the insinuation Eddie makes, and puts himself between you and Eddie.

“Hope you’re not too tired princess, I’d love to see what you’re made of,” Eddie says, biting his lip and checking you out.

You laugh at his brazen ways, but also see why Steve stepped in immediately. “Tommy is actually done for the night,” Steve says before you can respond.

“I am?” You ask incredulously.

“And so are you,” Steve says to Eddie, who immediately pouts. “Boooooooo,” Eddie says loudly in Steve’s face, which makes you laugh

“You should be more than taken care of - promise,” Steve says to you as he turns Eddie around. “Go home.”

“But-“ you start, wanting to find some way to tell him to come see you again without sounding like you were desperate for it. You know he liked the chase, he liked when you played hard ball, but you also wanted to keep him coming back, possibly for more reasons than just one.

“My number is slipped between some of the money, I’ll be around,” Steve says before pushing Eddie toward the door.

“I’LL BE AROUND FOR YOU TOO BABY GIRL,” Eddie yells over Steve.

“Goodnight,” Steve mouths before handling a very drunk Eddie Munson and pushing him out of the door.

You’re left standing speechless.

You have no idea how much money you have in your bag. But it’s not what you’re most curious about finding…

Steve Harrington gave you his number. And Eddie Munson says he wants to come around for you too. Maybe you can ignore the feelings, the glances, the almost there’s with Steve. Maybe you can see what lies outside of these doors with him if he runs in the same circles as rockstars as big as Eddie Munson.

You have rules you stick by, but you might have to start making a few exceptions.

-

An evening phone call with your little cousin had your shoulders nearly up to your ears, pacing with the landline crushed to your skull, looking like a lioness tethered only by a looped cord. 

“Tell Aunt Suze she has to take you.” Your voice is strung with enough tension to shoot an arrow. “You’re not missing another practice. The recital’s two weeks away, she can’t just-”

A low murmur of distress on the other line, and Eddie can hear your jaw creak with the force of your molars grinding. From his spot on the couch, he fishes a lighter from his jeans, then holds the flame to the joint between his lips. You’ll want a hit as soon as you hang up, he’s sure of it. 

“I know that, Max. I know.” Your footfalls are sporadic, trailing from one side of the hall to the other. “I’m sorry. It’s really not fair. Your mother should be available for shit like this. What if-”

You appear around the corner, cord stretching to its limits when you reach for a kitchen drawer that holds yours and Eddie’s shared address book. “-what if I call the Sinclairs for you? I’m sure Lucas’s mom would be happy to pick you up. Doesn’t he have basketball practice that night, anyways?”

Eddie smirks at the moan of teenaged angst heard clearly over the line, catches eyes with you through the haze of smoke, sees your sly grin and watches your mouth as you form the words.

“I’m sure you two have a lot to catch up on. Could be fun, y’know- dark roads of Hawkins, nothing but a violin case in between you both- oh-kay.”

You laugh around your last word, the sound disappearing with you around the corner again, promises to stop torturing your cousin and to call Mrs. Sinclair in the morning before the thunk of the phone against its hook.

“Christ.” The cushion next to Eddie sinks with your weight, knee knocking into his as he passes you the lit joint. “The one thing in the world this kid cares about anymore, and Aunt Susan can’t pull her shit together for twenty minutes round trip.”

Eddie puts his arm around the back of the couch, not touching you yet, just observing your pretty profile drawing in smoke. “That fucking blows, babe. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” You’re quick to dismiss his sympathy, letting the smoke curl outwards, brows pinching together to ward off the headache Eddie imagines is quickly brewing. 

It’s always like this, after dealing with your family. He knows you hate living so far away, just waiting for the day when Max and all the other hooligans are old enough to travel more, or better yet, move closer-

it’s the in-between, grey areas that make you itch. That carve a restlessness inside you so intense, Eddie feels like he can almost taste it buzzing against his lips on your skin, every time. 

While the glint in your eye is familiar, the way you move from Eddie’s touch still stings, just a bit. He knows it isn’t on purpose, and that something in you gets caught, won’t allow you to accept softness until the buzz of helplessness is erased.

He tries anyways. Reaches a thumb to smooth under the sleeve of your t-shirt, a tender part of your arm; Eddie feels the feedback instantly, the pull of your muscle, shoulders going taut, your spine arching from the couch like it’s second nature to deny yourself goodness. 

“Sorry,” Eddie says, at the same time as you start- 

“Wanna go drinking?”

The ember of the joint glows red as you suck in another hit, standing in front of Eddie now, arms crossed like you’re the Patron Saint of Reckless Choice. “Could go to Hank’s. Get smashed with the Friday night crowd.”

Eddie runs his same thumb over the arch of his brow, taking you in, noting the quietly manic spasms of your hands digging in above your elbows. “Sure. I’ll call up Steve, see if him and Robs are around to-”

“No.” You pluck the filter from your teeth to hand to Eddie, firm in your decision. “Just you and me.”

Eddie doesn’t care if it’s pathetic, the speed with which he agrees and snaps up the weed, already rising with plans to call a cab. “Have it your way, sweetheart.”

And you do. Eddie lets you have your way with the small things, because he knows from experience, some control is better than none at all.

In the dim light of the cab’s backseat, you sit straight up, bordering on prim, denim jacket wrapped tight with your arms like it pains you to still be breathing. 

Eddie chats mindlessly with the driver on the downtown route; at one point, he puts a hand on your shoulder and digs his thumb into the tense muscle of your neck. It’s firm, not coddling, so you allow it, even leaning slightly into his hand- Eddie thinks maybe you need the grounding just as much as him.

You have it your way at the bar, too- winding through the packed floor with ease, Eddie holding the tail of your coat to keep up. 

There’s a local band playing in the corner, people shuffling about to the music, but it’s all just noise to Eddie as he watches you down a shot and then another with barely a breath in between.

He’s about to tug at your sleeve and suggest the two of you snag a booth before it gets any more crowded when the point of someone’s shoulder drives into his upper back.

Eddie rebalances the drink in his hand before it spills, turning to shoot a glare at the tall, preppy asshole in loafers that knocked into him, a very unapologetic smirk on the guy’s face that makes Eddie’s skin crawl.

Eddie is opening his mouth to ask the law-school dropout what his deal is but you get there first, shoving your way in front, creating a barrier between Eddie and the asshole, bristling and loud above the music-

“Not even a fucking apology?”

Preppy sizes you up, eyes raking from the crown of your head to the tips of your boots. He takes a cool sip from his top shelf whiskey and clicks his tongue. “Didn’t think he really deserved one. A pretty thing like you, however-”

“Oh, shit,” Eddie says, reflexively, because my god is this guy dense, and has apparently never read a room in his life-

Your arms are a blur of motion as they dart forward, hands landing right in the middle of that stupid sweater vest, Preppy’s loafers scrambling to keep balanced from the vicious shove.

There’s a collective ooooh from the surrounding patrons, energy shifting hungrily towards a possible fight; Eddie takes exactly two seconds to appreciate the look of shock on the guy’s face before looping an arm around your waist and hauling you back.

“All right,” he shouts to be heard, pulling a handful of bills from his pocket with his free hand and smacking them on the bar, then pointing at Preppy’s beet-red face. “Me and Pretty Thing are going home before you get your ass handed to you.”

There’s some raucous booing as Eddie pulls the hissing and spitting source of entertainment backwards towards the exit door, bumping it open with his hip until the two of you are blissfully surrounded by the cool October night air. 

“I should’ve smacked that stupid smile off his face.” You’re gritting through your teeth, hot with adrenaline as Eddie continues to tug you by the middle towards the sidewalk. “I should’ve- he hurt you. Fuck him.”

“Fuck him,” Eddie agrees, sinking his cold nose into the soft skin just above your collar, laughing into your neck- “Jesus christ. I’m good, okay? Promise. You’re a goddamn spitfire tonight. How am I supposed to keep you out of trouble like this?”

”I’ll show you spitfire,” you say, tipsiness setting in, twisting in Eddie’s arms as if making for the bar door again. “Put me in, Coach.”

Eddie cackles. It’s only funny because he’s successfully gotten you to the curb, and the lights of a taxi like some sort of providence are sweeping into view. “Absolutely not. Even the best fighters need benching sometimes.”

The whole way home, Eddie knows the pressure valve of your mind is still in the red. The weed, the booze, the half-fight; none of it satisfied the itch, buzzing still in your veins like a livewire. 

You argue with him up the sets of apartment stairs, a familiar rhythm to the beats of your irritation even as Eddie reminds you of the early hour, and how all the neighbors probably won’t appreciate hearing your voice near as much as him. 

The microwave clock reads 1:23 in glowing red as Eddie hangs up both your coats, grinning as you talk a mile a minute about everything and nothing at all; he nods and hums at the appropriate times, guiding you by the elbow down the hall, distantly wondering how far he can get you in your shared bedtime routine before you realize-

the bathroom door, apparently, is the cutoff. You plant your sock feet on the carpet, pulling against the restraint of Eddie’s hand, squinting at him hard and accusingly. “Hey. I thought you were gonna stay up with me!”

“I am,” Eddie flounders for an excuse, “I just- you need to brush those pearls of yours. Startin’ to smell like a distillery in here.”

“Ugh.” Your elbow is promptly yanked from his grasp, but only so you can flounce past him into the bathroom, grabbing your toothbrush and sulkily applying a strip of paste on your own terms. “Gonna oversee every brushstroke, too, weirdo?”

Eddie realizes his gaze on you has gone tender, which has sent up your hackles; he sticks out his tongue at your reflection before ducking into his room to change. 

A fresh pair of sweats, an old Dio t-shirt- he spies one of your sleep shirts shoved in the back of his drawer and snags it, hoping to coax you into comfiness, too.

When he rounds the corner a minute later, there’s blood in the sink.

A fat drop around the rim, some lighter dots gone pink in the basin- you’re brushing your teeth so hard, it’s making your gums weep.

“Hey, whoa, holy shit-” Eddie reacts on instinct, dropping the shirt, breaking you from a dead-eyed trance when he goes for your wrists to stop the rough sawing of your movements. “Stop it. Sweetheart, you- you’re bleeding.”

It’s the wrong nickname, he realizes too late, stomach sinking when your jaw clamps down on the brush, defiant even with your wrists encircled. 

Rose-tinged foam leaks from the corner of your lips as your words slush around the mouthful- “I’m fine, ‘ish fine-”

“Spit,” Eddie instructs, harsher than he means, keeping your hands at hip-level, tilting his head to indicate the sink.

For once, you don’t argue, tipping forward to let all the saliva and foamed paste and a tendril of blood fall out. Your toothbrush clinks against the porcelain. 

Eddie lets go of you to turn on the tap, rinsing the mess away, watching carefully as you swipe the back of your hand across your mouth.

There’s a dot of blood still marring the edge of your lip. He has the overwhelming urge to lean forward and kiss it off of you, an urge so strong it takes a physical shake of his head to dispel.

“Don’t do that again,” he says instead, holding your toothbrush under the stream of water to wash the residue off before cutting the tap. “I’m serious.”

You’ve gone very still, hands cupped to elbows, eyes unfocused as Eddie reaches past you to grab a square of toilet paper. He blots the corner of your mouth, gently, which is apparently the kick you need to bring you back to the present.

Your eyes snap to Eddie’s, expression stormy, tilting your head away from his care- “Did you take your meds yet?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, fondly. Tosses the used tissue into the corner trash and bends to pick up the shirt he’d dropped, then holds it out in the space between your bodies. 

“No, and thanks for the reminder, but also, you wanna let me take of you for a minute? S’almost like you’re biting the hand that feeds just for kicks.”

The shirt gets snatched with a matching eye roll, and then you’re brushing past Eddie, voice trailing down the hall and from your open room. “I’ll kick you if you don’t take your medication at the scheduled hour, Edward.”

It’s about three hours past schedule, but Eddie doesn’t point this out. He sighs, loud enough for you to hear, tromping back into the kitchen for a glass of water.

You’re looking much cozier in that sleep shirt and a pair of flannel pajama bottoms when you round the corner, arms crossing again as you lean a hip against the kitchen counter. 

Eddie performs a theatrical rendition of taking his nighttime meds, which includes showing you the pill with flair, tossing it high enough to catch on his tongue, and gulping it down with an exaggerated “Ahh.”

Satisfied, you nod once, then turn on your heel for the living room. At the milk crate of records, you kneel, flipping through them with dogged determination.

Eddie gets close enough to see the tremble in your fingers and decides to meet you where you’re at, taking a knee at your side, keeping his voice calm but neutral- “I think you might feel better after some sleep.”

“I’m not tired yet.” Pixies, Nirvana, Alice Cooper, a flick of your fingers and the albums shutter and fall in line. 

“Me either,” Eddie replies. It’s the truth. He shifts slightly, knee bumping into yours, making it seem accidental- “But maybe we can just lie down for a bit, y’know, have some horizontal time-”

“Please don’t make me.” Your voice is hoarse, small, echoing with unshed tears. 

Everything in Eddie twitches at the noise. He wants to make it better, take all that swirling pain from your mind and give it a release, but he doesn’t reach for you yet, scared of making it worse-

the next album in the lineup freezes your movement. Kate Bush in royal purple, a hound at either side of her neck- Max’s favorite. She nearly wore the tracks out, last time she visited. 

There’s something like a sob that gets trapped partway up your throat. Eddie watches the side of your profile pinch, like you’re shoving back against a wall of emotion, chest stuttering as the dark, terrible truth is admitted-

“I can’t fix it.”

It’s terror, pure and unfiltered, that rises in you like a wave, pushes a frantic lilt into your limbs, hands gripping the corners of the crate- 

“I can’t fucking fix it, used to be so- so good at fixing, and now I’m just… so far away, and fucking useless-”

“You’re not.” Eddie puts a palm to the dip of your low back, and when you don’t recoil, puts his other hand on your upper arm, partway to holding you- “You’re not useless, and you’re great at fixing, it’s just- there are some things you can’t-”

“But I should.” You’re crying now, tears spilling from behind your closed lids, dripping onto the carpet. “I should be able to. And I can’t.”

Eddie knows you’re right there, on the brink of letting that sharp edge round out- your hand lifts suddenly from the crate, flat of your wrist tracking towards your temple, a gesture that Eddie himself has made a hundred times. 

Silly ol’ brain. Thunk thunk. Anyone home?

There’s nothing playful about this action, though. So for the third time tonight- first the bar fight, second the toothbrush, and now this- Eddie catches your wrist in his. Stops the harm before it happens.

When you look at him, finally, shoulder dipping into his space, Eddie sees the desperation in your teary eyes. The weed, the alcohol, the adrenaline, it’s all worn off, the blissful blurriness of your world back to sharp, painful focus.

“I get it,” Eddie says, because he does- “I know you’re in pain, but I can’t let you hurt yourself like that. Okay?”

Your breaths are rapid, quick as a rabbit, eyes still leaking even as they land on different parts of Eddie’s face- eyes, nose, mouth, forehead, mouth again- like you’re trying to memorialize the moment, cement it in your memory. 

“It’s okay,” Eddie murmurs, feeling the shakiness still in your system.

Your hands come to rest at the front of his shirt, fabric bunching under fists; Eddie widens his kneel to fit your knees in between.

His gaze drops to your lips- there’s still a tiny smudge of red. 

When you lean forward to put your mouth on Eddie’s, it’s a fucking mess. 

Less kissing and more just tongues sliding, pushing back into the other, drool mixing, your teeth stinging into his bottom lip until he’s not entirely sure whose blood is tangy like a licked penny against his tastebuds.

He doesn’t really have time to think fuck The Rules before you’re pulling back with a gasp, saying your apology over and over until it all bleeds together sorry sorrysorry’msosorry and Eddie shakes his head, pulls you closer, repeats himself- 

“It’s okay.”

“It hurts so bad,” you whisper, still close enough that he can feel your breath on his slicked lips, still clutching Eddie like he’s your lifeline in the storm. “Hurts so bad and I just- just want it to stop, want my brain off…”

When Eddie puts his hand on your cheek and you don’t flinch away, he knows this is it- as good as you rolling over and letting him stroke the soft downy belly of your emotions that no one else in the universe gets to see. 

“You need me to rough you up? Make it hurt, but- safe?”

You beg for it the whole way to the couch, as Eddie pulls you up, backs you into the cushions, pushes you down flat and lets his weight spread over you like a blanket.

“I can do that,” he huffs, sometime between pulling your shirt off with deft fingers and sucking a mark into the newly exposed skin of your collarbone. “I can help you out, sweetheart. Just need to get out of your head a bit, hm?”

You’re gasping and wriggling against the push of his body, both into and away, like your synapses are firing so fast they can’t decide. “Eddie...”

Coming from you, his name sounds like a craving- something seeking and wounded. 

It’s unnerving, the way Eddie’s knees buckle for the call, tips him forward so he can drag his mouth across more of your skin. 

Eddie lets himself get sharp with his teeth. Pins you down with his hips, hands at your wrists again, this time pinning them above your head to keep them out of the way. 

He’s intent with it, the biting, the pull of your flesh under his molars, vacuum-sealing bruises in ten different sizes and shapes before he even arrives at your breasts-

he’ll let you feel all his sharp edges. You don’t want it gentle? Fine. 

Eddie will take you apart himself.

Under his mouth, his torso, you’re panting, a keening whine with every new hickey bestowed; Eddie blows cool air over the freshest one just above your left breast, then pulls down the cups of your bra to latch onto your nipple.

Your spine arches from the couch, this time, to push your chest further into Eddie’s mouth. The tip of his tongue flicks over the stiff peak, and the broken moan that leaves you is very good.

So good that Eddie ruts into you, cock thick in his sweats, and even through all the layers he can feel the heat of your cunt. 

At your wrists, under his tongue, in your pressed-together stomachs, Eddie can sense your heartbeat. The thump of it is wild, luring him in further.

He pulls off with a wet pop, string of saliva stretching between his mouth and your breast, connecting the two of you until it breaks and leaves a wet trail down his chin. 

Eddie doesn’t wipe it off. He taps at your hip, leans back to give you room enough to flip over, then pulls your pajama bottoms and underwear off in one smooth, greedy motion.

The left side of your face is crushed against the cushion fabric as you pant, hands at the small of your back, wrists held in place by a firm grip, knees nudged apart with Eddie’s own until you’re laid bare and open for him.

Eddie pets down the length of your spine with his free hand, ruts into the back of your thigh, feels pleasure course through his whole being with the whiny noise you make. 

Briefly, he lifts his hand from the comfort of your skin to pull his shirt over his head, shaking his hair free from the confines of the collar. 

The space around your ribs bellow and hollow in equal measure. Eddie knows this position- hips in the air, arms restrained and on display- is particularly difficult for you. Exposing in a way he’s not had you before. 

His hand returns to the soft slope of your ass, kneading with his palm and fingers, then asks, “Color?” because he needs to be sure before he starts and can’t stop.

Your eye, the one he can see, pops open. There’s a shudder that runs through your body before you sigh out- “Green. Please, Eddie-”

Before you even finish asking Eddie’s leaning forward to get his mouth on you. Your cunt is wet, glistening, even without the help of his spit- Eddie spits anyways. Watches as your pretty hole clenches around nothing and then feels it clench around his tongue as he works it into you.

Your fingers caught under his grip go spastic, hips jerking despite your best efforts to stay still, a low-toned moan from the depths of your chest as Eddie consumes you. 

His tongue molds to your tight channel, your slick and his saliva dripping onto everything- his face, your legs, the cushions (which he’ll certainly get chewed out for. Later).

Eddie pulls out of you just far enough to seek out your clit with his lips, nose crushing in- it’s fine. He doesn’t actually need to breathe for this part. Doesn’t want to breathe unless it’s your scent coating his senses and nothing else.

“Eddie, Eddie, fuck- fuck!”

You sound more wrecked than he’s ever heard, expletives and his name fighting their way out of you. There’s a telltale tremble underneath his hand on your ass, in your legs, too- muscles clenching in preparation for that steep dive. 

There’s another tremble, too, distinctive, since Eddie’s so up-close and personal with every minute movement right now. The holding back sort of tremble, the kind that puts a strain on your calves, that makes your ankles twist at Eddie’s sides like you’re storing all your energy there. 

The sound of his mouth leaving you again is obscene; Eddie feels his cock physically jolt at the sight of all that wetness, coating your pussy, your thighs, shimmering in the lamplight of the living room.

“Hey,” he says, sounding rough even to himself. “Can feel you putting it off. Holding it back. Don’t do that shit.”

Your brow is tilted in a frown, lips parting around a line of drool to argue- Eddie’s not sure if you even know what you’re doing. What you do to him. 

Instead of letting you talk back, Eddie lifts the hand on your ass and brings it down, heavy. The sharp smack is loud, but not louder than the moan it punches out of your lungs.

He does it again, just to make that pretty pattern of sound, a succession- smack, moan. There are imprints of his rings left in your skin that’ll probably settle into welts by morning. 

It’s what you wanted- needed- anyways. And Eddie’s giving it to you in spades.

“Keep these here,” Eddie says of your wrists, pleased when you follow directions without the guidance of his hands that are moving now to spread you further apart for him.

Eddie draws loose circles around your entrance with his middle and ring finger, then pushes them in to the second knuckle, talking over your harsh exhale as he does- “You’re gonna come on my fingers. It’s no use putting it off, honey.”

He hears your teeth grit. The soft name was a test, and so far, you’re passing with flying colors. 

Eddie leans more of his weight on you, bare chest forming to the curve of your back, fingers curling up as he goes so he can whisper in your ear-

“That’s it. Bein’ so good.”

You hiss through your teeth as his fingers start thrusting in earnest. Your foot kicks out, all instinct, smacking the side of his thigh. Eddie grins wolfish against your neck.

At just the right angle, he uses small movements in his hips to drive his hand further into you, aiming for that sweet spot that always seems to white-out your vision.

He finds it, feels the spasms that ripple through you, switches to a sugary coo, knows that he’s riling you up with all the praise and doesn’t care- in fact, he thinks it should probably be prescription, at this point.

“That’s it, honey, doin’ so well- my good baby, my sweetheart- that’s it, that’s it, fuck yes-”

You come hard, everything in you tensing, shuddering, rolling, seeping out impossibly more wetness around Eddie’s knuckles as the channel of your cunt chokes around him, a drawn-out whine pushing through your still-clenched teeth.

Eddie pushes you right up to that edge of too-much, of overstimulation; his fingers keep plunging steadily until you’re gasping, shaking, words tight with feeling as they string together please please pleaseEddieEddieplease-

he pulls out of you with a rough exhale, sitting up to give the glistening of his hand a moment to be watched- your cum shines and webs between each finger before he’s pushing them into his mouth, sucking them clean with fervor, groaning at the earthy flavor of you. 

You really have been good, in an unlikely turn of events- even in your post-orgasm haze, you’re still where Eddie told you to be, fingers tangled into each other, waiting patiently even if your breathing pattern says otherwise.

“Look at you,” Eddie breathes, only because he knows it’ll make your face flare with heat. He presses one last kiss to your cunt, then pushes at your hip until you get the memo. 

On your back again, you make quick work of your bra (barely hanging on at this point), sliding it over and off your shoulders while Eddie kicks his sweats to the floor.

“Angel,” he says, once his nose is back in the hollow of your neck, his cock pulsing a life of its own against your tummy. “You’re so pretty. So good for me. Not gonna last.”

Your knees slot to his ribs, your hands to his hair, tugging on the roots in just the way he likes. “S’okay. S’okay, Eddie, please, just…”

Eddie does. Revels in the way your nails sting against his scalp as he slides into you, so wet and tight and velvety; he pants into your skin, budges his arms under your shoulders to really hold you as he starts up a rocking rhythm. 

“Fuck. Fuck, baby, fuck-”

“Eddie- Eddie, feels s’good, so good-”

This close to your face, Eddie hears it all- every whimper, every tiny noise that catches in your throat. He’s done for when he slips a hand between your bodies, thumb catching at your clit, and the circles that he rubs are enough to send you over the edge again. 

Your mouth is dropped open to Eddie’s cheek in a silent scream- his climax is not so quiet, rutting and spilling into you with a deep, reverberating groan, a combination of your name and curses as he draws pleasure out for as long as possible.

Both your chests pressed together heave, his buried cock still pulsing weakly as your fingers unwind themselves from his hair and trace light patterns on the tops of his shoulders instead. 

In an aftermath that feels more weighted than ever, you imbue it with some lightness- completely serious and deadpan as you tell more than ask- “Do you even know how hard it is to get cum out of this type of upholstery?”

Eddie laughs, shoulders shaking into you with the force of it. “You can’t just make up words to embarrass me.”

You’ve got enough energy to smack the broad side of his shoulder, playfully; he nips your jaw before making a great effort to sit up, pulling you into his lap as he goes, still connected, unwilling to part from you where it counts yet. 

“Really did a number on you.” He strokes over your back, down your thighs, feeling the spots where your skin raises to meet him.

“Needed it.” 

It’s an unexpected response. Eddie hugs you in agreement. 

He makes a dorky attempt at covering your eyes when you rise from the couch so you don’t see the damage, palm spanning from brow to brow as he steers you away while you giggle at him- “Don’t look, leave it for the maid to deal with in the morning!”

In the shower together, you take turns standing under the full stream, rinsing off the sweat and stickiness. Eddie rubs soap across your arms, down the welts on your ass and thighs, wanting to make sure they’re clean, needing to take care of you. 

You must feel the same, because as soon as he’s done with you he’s being pushed under the water, watching you with half-lidded eyes while you assess your own damage dealt. 

There’s a shallow line of scratches on his back from your nails, a few surface indents along his forearms where you’d held on. Nothing to fuss over, and certainly nothing compared to the marks on you- but Eddie lets you tend to him anyways. 

He’s quiet as the water rushes over his back, as you blink away the droplets and smooth soap down the length of his arms. Your brow is furrowed in concentration, and far be it from Eddie to interrupt your process. 

When you speak, it’s so soft that the whoosh of water through the pipes completely erases your voice.

“Huh?” Eddie asks, leaning in, dropping his forehead to yours. Channels of water trickle into each other, joining the path from his head to your neck. 

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess.”

There’s that sadness again, deep and insurmountable- Eddie doesn’t tease. Doesn’t make light of something that’s been so hard for you to come to terms with. He knows you hate messes. 

“You’re not.” He pulls you into himself, turning so the warmth of the water is flowing over you, too. Rests his chin to the crown of your head as he continues- “Plus, even if you were- y’know how many of my messes you’ve cleaned up in recent history? Check your logbook, sweetheart. Even steven s’far as I’m concerned.”

Your wet smile presses into his collarbone. He strokes down your upper back, trying to offer some steadiness. 

“You’re just… having a hard time right now, that’s all. It won’t be like this always. Not forever.”

“Not forever,” you murmur, an echo, like you’re trying to make it true for yourself.

After you’re both mostly dry and wrapped up in towels, Eddie repeats the same motions he went through earlier- a fresh change of clothes for the both of you, this time laid out on your bed.

He keeps the pressure of his gaze mostly off of you, just watching from the corner of his eye to make sure you aren’t too shaky or jelly-limbed to dress yourself. You manage fine, collapsing onto your duvet with a heaved sigh as soon as your last sock is on. 

“Okay,” Eddie starts, in a voice that was intended to be soothing but clearly has the opposite effect, because you’re sitting up and grabbing his arm before he can get any further.

“Wait, what? You’re not even gonna cuddle me after that?”

The look on your face is proper horror. Eddie feels your wanting like a warm glow, spreading wide as his bashful smile- “Aw. Kinda thought you’d be sick of me.”

Your eye roll is one for the ages, tugging Eddie down into the comfort of your sheets and warm body. 

He holds you, arm around your middle, legs tangled under the covers, breathing in the washed-clean smell of you. Still, even under the layer of soap, there’s that familiar scent- something heady and primal, like pheromones and sweat.

It has his eyes slipping shut. Lashes kissing behind your ear.

You hum, content, fingers lacing with Eddie’s over your stomach. He knows you’ll both probably fall asleep like this, and more than likely wake with a stiff neck from the act of sharing a pillow- but he doesn’t care about that right now.

There’s no more buzzing under your skin.