Mothman

The rumors about you come in layers.

Not the loud, cafeteria-table kind, not the careless whispers traded between lockers. Yours are heavier, the kind that stick.

The kind people lower their voices for without even realizing it, witchy, bitchy, strange. “Don’t look her in the eye too long.” 

Something about the way you smile, like you know something no one else does.

Eddie has heard all of them. And still, he watches you.

It starts small. A glance across the parking lot, your boots crunching gravel like you own the place, headphones slung around your neck, rings glinting when you push your hair back. Then it becomes a habit.

He notices what bands are scribbled across your notebooks, how you tap your pen in rhythm to something only you can hear, how you never rush, never fidget, never fill silence unless you want to.

You don’t orbit Hawkins High; it orbits you.

And that’s the problem. Because Eddie Munson, resident freak, king of Hellfire, professional loudmouth, suddenly finds himself very, very quiet whenever you’re around. He tells himself it’s your reputation, because that’s easier than admitting the truth.

“Alright, Munson and…” the teacher drones, barely glancing up from her clipboard. Even your teacher hesitates over your name, like it might bite.

Eddie’s stomach drops. Of course, of course it’s you.

You don’t react right away. You just close your notebook slowly, like you’ve known this was coming all along.

When you finally look at him, it’s not shy; you’re simply just assessing him for what he’s worth. 

Eddie nearly forgets how to breathe. He lugs his chair over, trying to act like this is normal, like he hasn’t spent the last month watching you like you’re some kind of cryptid sighting.

“Uh,” he starts, then stops. Great. Smooth.

You tilt your head slightly, eyes dragging over him in a way that feels almost physical.

“You’re staring,” you say.

Your voice is softer than he expected.

“I—what? No, I’m—this is my natural face,” he deflects, gesturing vaguely to himself. “Very stare-y. It’s a condition.”

You pause for a second, then smile. Not big or warm, but just enough. Eddie’s heart does something stupid in his chest.

“Relax, Munson,” you murmur, pulling the lab sheet toward you. “I don’t bite.”

Your fingers tap once against the paper.

“Unless you give me a reason to.”

Oh. Oh, he’s done for. Working with you is disorienting, to say the least. 

You don’t rush through the assignment like everyone else. You take your time, reading each step carefully, jotting notes in the margins that Eddie can’t help but lean over to read.

Your handwriting is sharp, deliberate, with little symbols and sketches mixed in with the chemistry, like it all connects somehow.

“Are you always this intense?” he asks at one point, trying to keep his voice casual.

You glance up at him. “Are you always this distracting?”

He chokes on air.

“Jesus, okay. Sorry, I’ll just—” he mimes zipping his lips, then immediately fails at it. “No, wait, that’s worse, I’m not a quiet person, this is not sustainable—”

“You talk a lot when you’re nervous,” you observe.

“I’m not nervous.”

You raise a brow.

He exhales. “Okay, I might be a little nervous.”

“Why?”

Eddie hesitates because the real answer is ridiculous.

Because you’re terrifying in a way he doesn’t understand, in a way he kind of likes. Because you look at him like you can see right through him, and instead of running, he wants to step closer.

“Reputation,” he settles on, weaker than he’d like.

“People say a lot of things,” you reply, turning back to the experiment. “Most of them are boring.”

“Yeah?” he says, watching you carefully. “What do you say?”

“I say,” you murmur, “that most people decide what they’re afraid of before they ever actually look at it.”

Eddie swallows.

“Lucky for you,” you add, almost as an afterthought, “you don’t seem very afraid.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “That’s because I’ve been watching you for like a month.”

Shit.

He freezes. “I, uh, okay, that sounded—wow, that sounded so much worse out loud—”

You don’t interrupt. You just watch him spiral.

“You have,” you say. Not a question.

Eddie blinks. “You… knew?”

You shrug slightly. “You’re not subtle.”

“And?” he asks, cautiously.

“And,” you echo, eyes dropping briefly to his hands before meeting his gaze again, “I didn’t stop you.”

Something electric snaps into place. Eddie leans in without realizing it, elbows on the lab table, grin creeping back despite himself.

“Yeah?” he says, voice low now. “Why’s that?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you reach for his wrist. Your rings press cool against his skin as you turn his hand over, examining it like it’s part of the experiment.

Eddie forgets every coherent thought he’s ever had.

“Because,” you say softly, tracing the curve of his palm with your thumb, “you look at me like you’re trying to figure me out.”

Your gaze flicks up to his. “And most people don’t bother trying.”

Eddie exhales slowly.

“Maybe I like puzzles,” he murmurs.

Your lips twitch.

“Careful,” you say, finally letting go. “You might not like what you find.”

He leans back, heart still racing, but something steadier settling underneath it now.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough but sure. “I think I will.”

By the time the bell rings, neither of you has finished the lab, and neither of you seems to care.

As everyone files out, you take your time packing up, slipping your notebook into your bag. Eddie lingers, suddenly unwilling to let the moment end.

“So,” he starts, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly, “same time next class, partner?”

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Maybe,” you say.

Then, just before you turn away, “If you’re lucky.”

Eddie watches you leave, a little dazed, a little thrilled, and entirely screwed.

Lunch is loud in the way only a cafeteria can be. Trays clatter, chairs scrape, conversations overlap into a steady, shapeless hum that fills every inch of the room. It’s the kind of noise most people get swallowed by.

You don’t.

You sit at the far end of one of the tables near the windows, your friends scattered around you in loose, shifting positions, half-paying attention to whatever story is being told. You’re there, but not fully. 

One leg crossed over the other, elbow resting against the table, fingers idly tracing the rim of your drink like you’re following a thought only you can hear.

Every so often, you hum under your breath, barely audible, like a song that hasn’t decided to exist yet.

People notice you, they just don’t approach.

Across the room, Hellfire has claimed their usual table. Loud, chaotic, a mess of half-finished lunches and overlapping voices.

Eddie sits at the center of it, where he always does, all restless energy and sharp edges, talking with his hands as he launches into some dramatic retelling of last night’s campaign.

But he’s not really there. Because every few seconds, his gaze drifts. It pulls, like gravity, back to you.

At first, it’s subtle. A flicker between sentences. A glance when someone else starts talking. But it builds, becomes harder to hide, until he’s fully turning his head, attention slipping clean out of whatever Gareth is saying about a botched spell roll.

And then you look up. It’s not immediate or reactive. It’s like you feel it before you see it, your gaze lifting slowly, deliberately, until it lands on him across the crowded room. There’s no surprise in your expression, just recognition.

Eddie freezes mid-sentence.

For a second, everything else drops away. The noise, the movement, the people. It’s just that look, steady and knowing, holding his in place like a hand at the back of his neck.

Then, you tilt your head slightly. Barely anything, but it’s enough. Enough that Eddie’s mouth goes dry.

“—and then the demogorgon just, like, absolutely wrecked—” Dustin stops mid-rant, frowning. “Dude. Eddie.” No response.

“Eddie.”

Gareth leans over, following the direction of Eddie’s stare, and immediately groans under his breath. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

That does it. Eddie snaps back, blinking hard, like he’s been caught coming up for air.

“What?” he says, a little too quickly.

Gareth doesn’t even bother being subtle. He jerks his chin across the cafeteria. “You’re staring.”

“I am not staring,” Eddie shoots back automatically, grabbing his soda like that proves something.

“You are absolutely staring,” Mike chimes in, twisting around in his seat to look. “At—oh. Oh, dude.”

Dustin’s eyes widen. “No way.”

Eddie follows their line of sight, sees exactly where they’ve landed, and immediately tries to play it off, leaning back in his chair with exaggerated ease.

“Okay, first of all,” he says, pointing at them like he’s about to make a solid legal argument, “I can look wherever I want. It’s a free country.”

“Yeah,” Gareth mutters, “and you chose her.”

“Dude, you know she’s like… resident bitch number one, right?”

“She’s not—” he starts, then stops himself. Because how the hell would he even know that?

He drags a hand through his hair instead, shrugging like it’s nothing. “People say a lot of things.”

“Yeah, and in this case, they’re right,” Mike says, a little too confidently for someone who has definitely never spoken to you. “My cousin had a class with her. Said she, like, made a kid cry just by looking at him.”

Dustin snorts. “That’s kind of impressive.”

Eddie huffs a quiet laugh despite himself, shaking his head. “Or maybe the kid was just weak.”

Gareth squints at him. “Why do you sound defensive?”

“I don’t sound defensive,” Eddie says, immediately defensive.

“You do,” Dustin and Mike say at the same time.

Eddie opens his mouth to argue, and then he looks again. He can’t help it. Across the cafeteria, you’re already watching him, like you knew he would.

This time, you don’t look away. You just hold his gaze, slow and steady, like you’re waiting to see what he’ll do with it.

Eddie exhales, something low and amused curling in his chest despite the attention on him. He leans back further in his chair, dragging his thumb along the edge of his cup, and—very deliberately—keeps looking.

“Holy shit,” Gareth mutters. “He’s doubling down.”

“Abort, man,” Dustin whispers urgently. “Abort mission.”

Eddie doesn’t. Instead, he lifts his brows slightly, almost like a challenge.

Across the room, your lips twitch. Not a full smile, not even close. But it’s there. And then, just to make it worse, you drag your gaze down him. Slow and unhurried, like you’re taking inventory.

Eddie’s brain short-circuits.

“OH MY GOD, SHE SAW YOU,” Mike hisses, ducking like that’s going to save him from the situation somehow.

“No shit she saw me,” Eddie murmurs, voice lower now, something steadier settling in.

Gareth is staring at him like he’s lost his mind. “You’re enjoying this.”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away. Because across the room, you finally look away, but not before tapping your fingers twice against the table, a small, deliberate rhythm. The same one from chemistry.

Eddie’s lips curl, slow and certain.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, eyes still on you even as you turn back to your friends. “Yeah, I think I am.”

“Dude,” Dustin says, equal parts horrified and impressed, “you’re gonna get cursed.”

Eddie huffs a laugh under his breath, shaking his head. “Worth it.”

The last note lingers longer than it should.

It hangs in the air, vibrating through the low ceiling of The Hideout, through the sticky floors and half-empty glasses, through the crowd that’s already half turned toward the bar before the sound even fully dies. 

Corroded Coffin finishes the set rough and loud, the way they always do, Eddie’s fingers still buzzing from the strings as he pulls back from the mic, breath uneven, curls damp at his temples.

There’s a smattering of applause, some whistles, and a few half-interested cheers.

Eddie barely registers any of it. The second he steps off that stage and heads toward the bar, he sees you.

And everything else just stops.

You’re leaning against the counter, like you belong there more than anyone else in the room. Like the dim lights were built for you.

The black long-sleeve clings to you clean and sharp, the corset pulling everything into a silhouette that feels almost unfair, structured and deliberate, like armor. 

The skirt sits just right, layered and soft against the harder lines, fishnets catching the low light in fractured patterns every time you shift your weight.

And the boots; heavy, grounded, unapologetic, plant you firmly in place like you’re not going anywhere unless you decide to.

Your wrist moves as you lift your drink, rings glinting, dark and intentional, every detail curated without looking like you tried.

Eddie forgets how to walk. Like, genuinely forgets. He slows mid-step, eyes locked, brain completely short-circuiting in real time.

“Dude,” Jeff mutters behind him, nearly walking straight into his back. “Why did you just—oh.”

Gareth follows his gaze. “…oh, shit.”

Eddie doesn’t answer. Because you choose that exact moment to glance over, and catch him.

There’s no confusion in your expression. Just that same slow recognition from earlier, like you’ve been aware of him the entire time.

Your lips tilt slightly around the rim of your glass. Eddie’s heart slams against his ribs.

“Okay,” Gareth says under his breath, grabbing Eddie’s shoulder like he’s trying to physically ground him. “We can still turn around. We can still not do this.”

Eddie exhales once, sharp, dragging a hand down his face before straightening slightly.

“Shut up,” he murmurs.

Then he walks over.

Each step feels louder than it should. He’s aware of everything in a way that’s almost irritating: the press of the room, the hum of conversation, the fact that Jeff and Gareth are absolutely trailing behind him like backup he did not ask for.

You don’t move, you just watch him approach. When he finally stops in front of you, there’s a beat. A quiet stretch of space where neither of you speaks, the tension sitting thick and steady between you.

Up close, it’s worse. Or better, he hasn’t decided just yet.

“Hey,” Eddie says finally, voice rougher than he intended.

You tilt your head slightly. “Hi, Eddie.”

There’s something in the way you say his name, like you’ve been waiting to use it.

Eddie lets out a soft breath, half a laugh. “You came.”

Your gaze flicks briefly toward the stage, then back to him. “You played.”

That shouldn’t sound as loaded as it does. Behind him, Jeff shifts. Gareth makes a quiet noise that sounds suspiciously like panic.

You notice, naturally. 

Your eyes slide past Eddie, landing on them both, taking in the way they hover just slightly behind him, unsure, wary, like they’ve accidentally walked into something they don’t understand.

Your expression doesn’t change, but something in it sharpens.

“…you brought friends,” you say lightly.

Eddie glances back over his shoulder. “Oh—uh, yeah, these are—”

“Gareth,” Gareth blurts, immediately, like introducing himself might save him.

“Jeff,” Jeff adds, nodding once.

You look at them for a moment longer than necessary. Then, you lean in just a fraction. 

And softly, “Boo.”

Gareth physically flinches. Jeff nearly chokes on nothing.

Eddie stares at you for half a second, then lets out a surprised laugh, head dropping as he drags a hand through his hair.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, grinning despite himself.

You sit back again, completely unbothered, lifting your drink like nothing just happened.

“They scare easily,” you remark.

“I can see that,” Eddie says, still laughing under his breath. “Don’t worry, they’ll recover. Eventually.”

“Debatable,” Gareth mutters.

You ignore him. Your attention settles back on Eddie.

“You’re better than I expected,” you say.

Eddie raises a brow. “Oh yeah? That a compliment?”

“It depends,” you reply. “Do you want it to be?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, stepping a little closer without fully realizing he’s doing it. “I’ll take what I can get.”

Your gaze drops briefly, dragging down his chest, his hands, the remnants of the performance still clinging to him, then back up.

“You don’t seem like the type who settles,” you murmur.

Eddie’s grin softens, just slightly.

“Funny,” he says, voice lower now, “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

The noise of the bar fades again, not completely, but enough that it feels like the two of you are standing just outside of it.

You shift your weight, one boot sliding slightly against the floor, close enough now that he can catch the faint scent of whatever you’re wearing, something dark and subtle and impossible to ignore.

“Chemistry went unfinished,” you say, almost casually.

Eddie’s breath hitches.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Tragic, really.”

“Maybe we should fix that.”

His eyes flicker. “Yeah?” he says, quieter now.

Your lips curve, just a little sharper this time.

“Unless,” you add, glancing briefly past him again, “your friends are too scared to let you.”

Eddie doesn’t even look back this time. “Trust me,” he says, holding your gaze steady, “they’re not stopping anything.”

Behind him, Gareth makes a small, distressed noise.

You smile. Not nice, not soft, but just enough. And Eddie? Eddie is absolutely, completely done for.

The corner of your mouth lifts just slightly, like you’ve already decided something he hasn’t caught up to yet.

“Good. Swing around my place tomorrow afternoon, then, partner.” You say, placing your drink down on the counter. It lands with a soft, deliberate clink.

Eddie blinks; once, twice.

“Your place?” he echoes, like the words need a second to fully process.

You nod, already reaching for your jacket, as if this conversation is simply concluded. “We never finished the lab.”

“That feels like a very loose interpretation of academic responsibility,” he says, but there’s no real argument in it, just a crooked smile starting to pull at his mouth.

“Maybe,” you reply, shrugging one shoulder as you slip your arm through the sleeve. “Or maybe I don’t like unfinished things.”

Eddie exhales through his nose, something almost like a laugh caught in his chest.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’m starting to get that.”

There’s a second where neither of you moves, where it feels like something else could be said, something that tips this from flirting into something neither of you can easily step back from.

You don’t let it. Instead, you turn slightly, brushing past him just close enough that your shoulder grazes his arm, the contact brief but very, very deliberate.

“Don’t be late, Munson,” you add, voice softer now, meant just for him.

Then you’re gone, just like that.

Eddie stands there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the space you just left behind, like he’s trying to replay it in real time.

Behind him: “…you’re going to her place?” Gareth says, somewhere between disbelief and concern.

Jeff lets out a low whistle. “Man.”

Eddie drags a hand over his face, then drops it, a slow grin spreading whether he tries to stop it or not.

“Yeah,” he says, almost to himself.

Gareth groans. “You’re not coming back alive.”

Eddie huffs a quiet laugh, already turning toward the door, like staying here any longer suddenly feels pointless.

“Worth it,” he tosses over his shoulder.

The next afternoon settles over the trailer park in that quiet, sun-warmed way that makes everything feel slower than it actually is.

The gravel crunches under Eddie’s boots as he cuts across the lot, past familiar doors, familiar windows, familiar lives he’s never really questioned.

Until now. Because he’s heading somewhere he’s never been before.

He knew you lived here. Hawkins is small, and rumors travel faster than anything else. He’d heard it in passing, half-formed conversations, someone mentioning “the girl on the other side of Forest Hills,” always said with that same tone people use when they don’t quite understand something.

But knowing it and seeing it are two very different things.

Eddie slows a little as he reaches the end of the park. It’s quieter over here. Less traffic, fewer people lingering outside. The air feels still, like even the place itself knows better than to be loud around you.

He finds your trailer easily. Something about it just fits.

Not in an obvious way. There’s nothing over the top, nothing screaming for attention. But it feels intentional.

A few small details that don’t match the rest of the park, a sense of quiet control, like everything is exactly where it’s supposed to be.

He notices the absence before anything else. No extra car, no voices, no movement behind the curtains. You’re home alone.

Eddie exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck before knocking twice against the door.

There’s a pause, and then the handle turns. And, Jesus, you look different. Not less, never less.

Just softer, in a way that somehow makes everything else worse. Better. Dangerous in a quieter way. 

The structured edge from last night is gone, traded for something more relaxed, more effortless, like you’ve peeled back a layer but kept the core exactly the same. Your clothes sit easier on you now, less armor, more you.

And somehow, still breathtaking. Eddie forgets whatever he was going to say.

“Hi,” you say, like you haven’t just short-circuited his entire brain.

“Hey,” he manages, a second too late.

Your gaze flicks over him once, quick but thorough, before you step back and gesture him inside. “You made it on time.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, clearing his throat as he steps past you, acutely aware of the space between your bodies, “I was told not to be late. Felt threatening.”

The corner of your mouth lifts as you shut the door behind him. “Good.”

The inside of your place is exactly what he expected, and also not at all. 

There’s that same sense of intention where nothing feels accidental. Books stacked in uneven but purposeful piles, little objects scattered that look like they have stories attached to them, things he can’t quite place but feels like he should.

It’s quieter in here; the outside world muffled just enough that it feels separate, private.

Eddie turns slowly, taking it in.

“You’ve never been over here before,” you note, moving past him like you already know the answer.

“No,” he admits, watching you. “Guess I never had a reason.”

You hum softly, pulling your notebook from the table and flipping it open. “And now you do.”

“Yeah,” he says, a little quieter.

You glance up at him briefly, something unreadable flickering in your expression, before tapping the open page. “Come on, partner. We have very important academic work to finish.”

Eddie snorts, dragging a chair over and dropping into it across from you. “Right. Science.”

“Try to keep up.”

For about five minutes, it almost works.

You walk him through the steps, your voice focused, explaining something about reactions and measurements that Eddie is absolutely pretending to follow.

He leans in, watching your hands more than anything else, the way you write, the way you underline certain things like they matter more.

He tries, he really does.

But then: “You’re not listening,” you say, without looking up.

Eddie leans back, caught, but not even a little ashamed. “I am listening.”

“Mm,” you hum, finally glancing up. “Then repeat what I just said.”

He opens his mouth, closes it. “…something about chemicals?”

Your lips twitch. “Very impressive.”

“Hey, I never claimed to be a science guy,” he defends, leaning forward again, elbows on the table. “I’m more of a… vibes-based learner.”

You raise a brow. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

“You were staring at me last night,” you say, like you’re picking up a conversation that never really ended.

Eddie exhales, a quiet laugh slipping out. “Yeah, well. You made it kinda hard not to.”

Your gaze drifts over him slowly, mirroring what you did at the bar, unhurried, deliberate.

“And now?” you ask.

He doesn’t look away. “Still hard,” he says.

Another pause, the kind that stretches. The kind that says this isn’t about chemistry anymore. Your fingers tap once against the table, that same rhythm, softer this time.

“Careful, Munson,” you murmur.

He tilts his head slightly, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You keep saying that.”

“Maybe you should start listening.”

“Or,” he counters, leaning just a little closer, “maybe I like not knowing what happens.”

Your eyes flicker. Something sharper, more interested.

“Yeah?” you say.

“Yeah.”

The space between you isn’t very big now. It would be easy, too easy. The air shifts first.

It’s subtle, but unmistakable. Whatever thin line had been keeping this in the realm of just flirting dissolves the second you lean back in your chair, eyes dragging over him with a little less restraint than before.

Eddie feels it immediately.

“Y’know,” you say, voice softer now, edged, “for someone who talks so much, you get real quiet when you’re being watched.”

He huffs a breath, trying to keep his composure, but his fingers twitch against the table. “Depends who’s doing the watching.”

Your head tilts. “And what if it’s me?”

Eddie swallows. “Then I’m probably in trouble.”

That earns you a real smile this time. Not big, not warm, but sharper, more amused. Like you like that answer.

“Good,” you murmur.

You don’t rush it, that’s the thing about you. Everything you do feels intentional, like you’re deciding each movement before it happens.

You stand slowly, the chair scraping faintly against the floor, and Eddie’s eyes follow you without thinking. He doesn’t even try to pretend he’s focused on anything else now.

You circle the table. Not fast or hesitant, just sure.

Eddie leans back slightly in his chair, like he’s giving you space, but really he’s just bracing, watching you approach with that same steady focus he’s been trying to maintain since yesterday.

“You said you like puzzles,” you remind him quietly.

“I did,” he replies, voice a little rough.

You stop right in front of him. Close. Close enough that he has to tilt his head back just slightly to keep your gaze.

“And you still do?” you ask.

There’s something in your tone. Not challenging. Not quite teasing. Testing.

Eddie’s mouth curves despite the tension coiling low in his chest. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

“Good.”

And before he can overthink it, you move. It’s smooth, deliberate, like you’ve already decided the outcome.

Your hands find his shoulders as you step in, and then you’re there, settling into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Eddie’s brain completely shuts off.

“Holy—” he breathes, hands hovering for half a second like he’s not sure where they’re allowed to go.

“Relax,” you murmur, leaning in just enough that your voice brushes against him. “I told you. I don’t bite.”

A pause. Then, quieter, “Unless you give me a reason to.”

His hands finally land, tentative at first, then a little more certain at your waist, grounding himself in something real because everything else feels like it’s slipping.

“You’re, uh,” he starts, then huffs a quiet laugh at himself. “You’re not exactly helping the whole ‘not nervous’ thing.”

Your lips curve again, closer now, your gaze flicking between his eyes and his mouth like you’re deciding something. “Good,” you say.

And then you close the distance. The kiss isn’t rushed. It’s slow and intentional, like everything else you do.

You give him just enough to react before you deepen it, one hand sliding from his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers curling lightly in his hair.

Eddie exhales into it, something soft and surprised slipping through as he finally gives in, leaning into you, hands tightening slightly at your waist.

It’s not messy, not frantic. The kind of kiss that feels like it’s building something rather than burning it out all at once.

When you pull back, it’s only by a fraction. Close enough that your breath still mixes with his.

Eddie blinks up at you, a little dazed, a little wrecked, a grin already threatening to break through.

“…so,” he murmurs, voice low, “we definitely didn’t finish the lab.”

Your thumb traces lightly along his jaw, almost absentminded. “No,” you agree. “Do you want to?”

He keeps your gaze, immediately and frantically shaking his head ‘no’. 

You don’t answer with words.

Instead, you roll your hips once, slow and deliberate, grinding down against the obvious bulge already straining in his jeans.

 Eddie’s breath catches hard in his throat, his fingers flexing against your waist like he’s fighting the urge to pull you closer and the even stronger urge to let you do whatever the hell you want.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes wide and dark, pupils blown. “You’re really… shit, you’re on me.”

You smile, small and sharp, and lean in until your lips brush the shell of his ear. “I am. And you’re going to stay right here, Munson. Hands on my hips unless I move them. Understand?”

He nods so fast it’s almost embarrassing. “Yeah. Yeah, I—Jesus Christ, whatever you want.”

You reward him with another slow roll of your hips, dragging your core along the thick line of his cock through too many layers of fabric. 

Eddie groans, head tipping back against the chair, curls spilling over the back of it like a dark halo. His throat bobs when he swallows, and you can’t resist leaning down to drag your teeth lightly along that exposed skin.

“You’ve been watching me for weeks,” you murmur against his pulse point, sucking just hard enough to leave a faint mark. “Staring in the cafeteria. At the bar. Like you couldn’t look away even if you tried.”

“I couldn’t,” he rasps, voice wrecked already.

You sit back just enough to look at him. His cheeks are flushed, lips parted, eyes glassy with pure want. Obsession looks good on him.

You slide one hand into his hair, gripping a fistful of curls and tugging his head back further so he has to look up at you.

“Good,” you say softly.

Eddie’s hips jerk up involuntarily at the praise, a broken little sound escaping him. You press down harder, pinning him in place.

“Stay still. This is my project now.”

You reach between you and pop the button on his jeans, dragging the zipper down with deliberate slowness.

When you palm him through his boxers, he’s so hard it has to hurt, the fabric already damp at the tip. You squeeze once, firm, and watch his mouth fall open on a silent moan.

“Look at you,” you coo, stroking him lazily. “So worked up just from sitting here. Have you been hard for me since chemistry class, Eddie? Since the bar? Since you knocked on my door?”

“Since the first time I saw you,” he admits, voice cracking. “I might have jerked off thinking about this more times than I want to admit.”

The honesty makes the heat pool low in your belly. You slip your hand inside his boxers and wrap your fingers around his cock, skin hot and velvet-soft over steel.

He’s thick, throbbing in your grip, and when you give him one long, slow stroke from base to leaking tip, his whole body shudders.

“Fuck—your hand,” he breathes, eyes fluttering shut for a second before he forces them open again, desperate not to miss a moment of you. “Feels so much better than I imagined. Please don’t stop. Please.”

You stroke him again, twisting your wrist at the head the way you already know will drive him crazy. His hips twitch, but he catches himself and stills, obeying. The effort makes his arms tremble where his hands grip your thighs.

You lean in and kiss him again, deep and filthy this time, tongue sliding against his while you keep working his cock in steady, relentless strokes. When you pull back, a thin string of spit connects your mouths for a second.

“Take my shirt off,” you tell him.

His hands fly up immediately, tugging your shirt over your head. The second your breasts are bare, he stares like he’s been given something sacred.

You guide one of his hands to your chest, and he cups you reverently, thumb brushing your nipple until it tightens.

“So fucking perfect,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re gonna ruin me. Use me. Whatever you want, it’s yours, I don’t fucking care.”

You push his jeans and boxers down just enough to free him completely, then stand long enough to slide your own shorts and panties down your legs. Eddie watches with open hunger, chest heaving.

When you settle back onto his lap, this time with nothing between you, the slick heat of your cunt slides along his length. He chokes on a moan.

“Condom?” you ask, even though you already know the answer from the way he’s looking at you.

“Fuck, I have one in my wallet,” he stammers, “but I swear I’m clean, I haven’t…”

You reach down, line him up, and sink down onto his cock in one smooth, relentless motion.

Eddie’s head slams back against the chair again, a guttural groan tearing out of him as your tight, wet heat swallows every inch. “Oh my god—oh fuck, you feel—holy shit—”

You don’t give him time to adjust. You start moving immediately, riding him hard and steady, hands braced on his shoulders for leverage. Every downward thrust takes him deep, grinding your clit against his pelvis on every pass.

“Look at me,” you command.

His eyes snap to yours, wide and worshipful, mouth slack with pleasure. One of his hands stays on your hip, the other slides up your back like he needs to touch as much of you as possible.

“You’re obsessed with me,” you say, voice low and steady even as pleasure coils tighter inside you. “Say it.”

“I’m obsessed,” he pants, meeting every roll of your hips like he was made for this. “Completely fucking obsessed.”

You clench around him at his words, and he whimpers, the sound so needy it sends a fresh rush of heat through you.

Faster now. The kitchen table creaks faintly beneath you. The chemistry notes are long-forgotten, scattered beneath your discarded shirt. You ride him as if you own him, because right now, you do.

Eddie’s close already, you can feel it in the way he throbs inside you, the desperate little thrusts he can’t quite hold back.

“Don’t come yet,” you tell him, slowing just enough to torture him. “Not until I do.”

He nods frantically, biting his lip hard enough to leave marks. “Yes—fuck, yes. Come on my cock, baby, I need to feel it.”

You reach between you and rub tight circles over your clit while you keep riding him, chasing your own peak. When it hits, it crashes through you hard, walls fluttering and clenching around him as you moan low and long, hips stuttering.

Eddie watches you fall apart with something close to awe, lips parted, eyes glassy. The second you start to come down, you lean in, bite his bottom lip, and whisper against his mouth:

“Come for me, Eddie.”

He breaks with a shattered groan, burying himself deep as he pulses hot and endless inside you. His arms wrap around your waist, holding you down on him like he never wants to let go, face pressed into your neck as he rides out the aftershocks.

For a long moment, the only sounds are your breathing and the faint creak of the chair.

Then Eddie pulls back just enough to look at you, flushed, dazed, and still so fucking gone for you.

“We're never finishing that chemistry project,” he says hoarsely.

You smile, slow and satisfied, rolling your hips once more just to hear him gasp.

Eddie’s head tips back again, a weak, wrecked laugh leaving him, like he doesn’t even have the strength to pretend he’s okay anymore.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, dragging a hand down his face before it settles back on your waist, grounding himself in you. “You’re—fuck—you’re gonna kill me.”

You tilt your head, studying him like you’re deciding if that’s a real concern. “Maybe,” you murmur.

But there’s no bite to it now, not really.

The sunlight has shifted just enough to creep further across the table, catching the mess you made of your “work,” the open notebook, the pen rolling lazily toward the edge.

Neither of you moves to fix it. Eddie’s hands stay where they are, warm and firm at your waist. His chest is still rising a little too fast, eyes softer now, but no less locked on you.

“You’re trouble,” he says, quieter this time.

You hum, considering that, your fingers tracing absent shapes along his shoulder.

“I told you that already.”

“Yeah,” he exhales, a small smile pulling at his mouth despite everything. “I just didn’t listen.”

“Are you going to now?”

Eddie looks at you like he’s standing on the edge of something, something he knows he shouldn’t step into, and stepping anyway.

“No,” he says.

Something flickers in your expression at that. Not surprised, not quite approval. Something more dangerous than both.

“Good,” you reply softly.

Eddie lets out a quiet breath, shaking his head once like he’s trying to come back to himself and failing.

“So,” he murmurs, glancing briefly at the abandoned lab sheet before looking back at you, “this was… educational.”

Your lips curve again. “Very.”

He laughs under his breath, then leans in just slightly, like he’s testing the space between you again. “Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

“We’ll see,” you say, voice low, deliberate. And then, softer, “If you’re lucky.”

Eddie huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head, already gone for you in a way he probably won’t recover from. And the thing is, you know, he definitely won't. 

I HOPE U ALL LOVED IT UGHHHH!!!

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