cherry bomb

The bell above the garage door jingled as Mrs. Patterson dug through her purse for her checkbook, glasses sliding halfway down her nose, while you leaned against the counter with a rag tucked into your back pocket.

“So,” you said, tapping the invoice with your pen, “the rattling sound was your serpentine belt. Thing was practically shredded.”

The elderly woman gasped softly. “Oh, dear.”

“Yeah, but you caught it before it snapped completely, which is good. We replaced the belt, topped off your coolant, changed the oil, and Eddie patched that little leak underneath your radiator.” You smiled reassuringly. “She’s good as new now.”

Beside her, Mr. Patterson squinted out toward the garage floor where the familiar sound of classic rock echoed through the open bays. “Which one’s Eddie again?”

Almost on cue, Eddie emerged from beneath a lifted pickup truck with grease smeared across his cheek and curls shoved back with a bandana. 

Sweat darkened the collar of his black tank top, coveralls hanging around his hips, while he carried over a sweating tray of lemonade cups.

“There you are,” he said, setting them carefully on the counter. “It’s too damn hot outside not to hydrate.”

Mrs. Patterson practically lit up. “Well, aren’t you sweet?”

“Tell her that more often,” Eddie said, jerking his thumb toward you. “She’s mean to me.”

You rolled your eyes. “I told you to stop using the good shop towels to wipe down your van.”

“They’re towels.”

“They are expensive towels.”

Mr. Patterson laughed under his breath while Eddie handed them their drinks with an exaggerated flourish.

“Anything for my favorite customers.”

Mrs. Patterson smiled fondly at him before looking back toward you. “That husband of yours is such a gentleman.”

You nearly choked on your own spit.

Eddie froze for exactly one second before slowly turning toward you with the most insufferable grin imaginable.

“Oh?” he said. “You hear that, sweetheart?”

“Oh my God,” you muttered immediately.

The poor woman looked horrified. “Oh! I’m sorry, I just assumed—”

“No, no,” Eddie cut in smoothly, leaning against the counter. “Please continue. This is the best day of my life.”

You shot him a glare while he looked seconds away from laughing himself unconscious.

Mrs. Patterson pointed knowingly between the two of you. “You’ve got the look.”

“What look?” you asked suspiciously.

“The ‘been in love for years’ look.”

Eddie outright cackled. You grabbed the invoice and shoved it toward them. “Okay! Your total is—.”

The elderly couple left smiling to themselves while Eddie leaned against the counter, watching you with entirely too much amusement. The second the door shut behind them, he pushed off the counter and followed you toward the office.

“Husband, huh?” he mused.

“Don’t start.”

“I personally think it has a nice ring to it.”

You dropped into the squeaky office chair with a dramatic groan. “You’re unbearable.”

Eddie leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest. “And yet you keep having me back every morning.”

“You work here.”

“Semantics.”

“Hey,” Eddie said suddenly.

You looked up, and he tossed something shiny toward you, and you barely caught it before it hit your face. Your keys, the little keychain Dustin made you years ago, swung between your fingers.

“You left ‘em by the toolbox again.”

“Oh.” You blinked. “Thanks.”

“Mmhm,” he hummed smugly. “Good thing your husband’s lookin’ out for you.”

You pointed toward the door. “Get out.”

Instead of leaving, Eddie just grinned wider, sunlight pouring in behind him from the open garage bays.

“Say it once.”

“No.”

“C’mon, sweetheart. Just one little ‘thank you, my husband.’”

You threw a balled-up receipt at his head while his laughter rang through the entire garage.

By noon, the July heat had turned the garage into a furnace.

Every bay door was rolled open, old fans rattling uselessly in the corners while the smell of motor oil, hot pavement, and cigarette smoke clung heavily in the air.

Foreigner blasted low from the radio perched near Eddie’s toolbox, occasionally cutting out whenever someone used the compressor.

You were bent over the hood of a Mustang, wiping grease from your hands while talking to a customer, your laugh carrying across the shop floor. And across said shop floor, Eddie was staring. Not subtly, either.

Steve had noticed immediately, mostly because Eddie had been holding the exact same wrench for nearly three minutes without moving.

Steve slowly lowered his sandwich. “Jesus Christ.”

“Hm?” Eddie hummed absently.

“You are down catastrophically bad.”

That got Eddie to blink. “What?”

Steve pointed dramatically across the garage where you were explaining something with animated hand gestures, sunlight catching the sheen of sweat on your skin.

“You’ve been staring at her this entire time.”

Eddie scoffed, finally looking away. “I have not.”

“You absolutely have.”

“I’m working.”

“You’ve been holding that wrench upside down.”

Eddie glanced down, and sure enough, he was.

“Shut up.”

Steve barked out a laugh and leaned back in the lawn chair they’d dragged outside for Eddie's lunch break. It was honestly kind of ridiculous to witness at this point.

Everyone in Hawkins knew something was going on between the two of you, except apparently the two of you.

The lingering touches, the teasing, the way Eddie always magically appeared beside you whenever some asshole customer got too flirty.

The way you unconsciously reached for his cigarettes to steal one straight from his mouth…and the constant staring, especially the staring.

Steve watched Eddie’s eyes drift right back over toward you again.

“Oh my God,” he groaned. “There he goes again.”

Eddie ignored him completely. You’d just looked up from the engine bay, pushing hair from your forehead with the back of your wrist, and the second your eyes met Eddie’s from across the garage, you smiled.

It was quick, maybe two milliseconds, but enough to make Eddie smile back immediately without even realizing it. Steve made a loud fake gagging noise.

Eddie finally tore his eyes away. “What is your problem?”

Steve stared at him incredulously. “Dude. I genuinely thought you two would be married by now.”

Eddie choked on his drink. “What?”

“I’m serious,” Steve continued. “Like three years ago, I would've put money on it.”

Eddie rubbed the back of his neck, trying very hard to act unaffected while heat crept up beneath the grease on his cheeks.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “Hasn’t happened.”

“Why not?”

Eddie began to argue, but froze up.  Because honestly? He didn’t fucking know.

Somewhere along the way, the flirting had become second nature. So had the late nights at the garage together. So had sharing fries at the diner after closing. So, had you climbing into the passenger seat of his van without asking. So had you wearing his flannels whenever the shop got cold in winter.

It had all become so normal that crossing the line felt weirdly terrifying. Steve watched the gears turning in Eddie’s head and sighed dramatically.

“You’re both idiots.”

“Says you.”

“I’m serious.” Steve pointed between him and you across the garage. “She might as well have personally invented beer by the way you stare at her. It’s honestly kinda sad, man.”

Eddie snorted. “That’s dramatic.”

Steve deadpanned, “You literally stopped mid-cigarette yesterday because she walked by in shorts.”

“That is such a lie!”

“It is the truth.”

Before Eddie could argue, your voice cut across the garage.

“Munson!” Both men looked over.

You stood beside the Mustang with your hands on your hips. “You gonna come help me, or are you too busy staring at me again?”

Steve immediately burst into obnoxious laughter while Eddie nearly dropped his beer. And from the way you smirked before ducking back under the hood, you absolutely knew what you were doing.

The next morning was somehow even hotter.

By ten a.m., the air inside the garage already felt thick enough to chew through, every fan working overtime while the sun beat down through the open bay doors. You had your coveralls tied around your waist, a cropped tank clinging to your skin with sweat, as you worked under the hood of a Jeep.

And Eddie was being an absolute menace. It started innocent enough; he’d complained dramatically about the heat for twenty minutes straight before finally yanking his shirt over his head with a frustrated, “I’m gonna die in this godforsaken town.”

You had looked up at exactly the wrong moment. Because suddenly there was just, Eddie. Shirtless. Hair tied back messily at the nape of his neck. Grease streaked across his stomach and chest. Dog tag and guitar pic hanging against tan skin. His jeans slung low on his hips while he wiped sweat from the back of his neck with a rag.

And the worst part? The asshole noticed immediately. You looked away so fast you nearly smacked your head against the underside of the hood. From somewhere across the garage, you heard another mechanic whistle loudly.

“Ohhhh,” he sang. “How the tables have turned.”

“Shut up, Mark,” you muttered.

Eddie, meanwhile, looked entirely too pleased with himself. For the next hour, he became absolutely insufferable. Needlessly stretching, standing too close, asking you to hand him tools he absolutely could’ve reached himself.

At one point, he bent over the engine bay beside you, and you caught the smell of gasoline, cigarette smoke, and his cologne and nearly forgot your own name.

“Wrench?” he asked casually, but you evidently handed him the wrong one.

Eddie bit back a grin. “Sweetheart, this is a screwdriver.”

Heat flooded your face. From behind him, Mark made an obnoxious gagging noise, and you narrowed your eyes.

Fine. If Eddie wanted to play this game? Two could absolutely play. Play a stupid game, win a stupid prize, right?

About twenty minutes later, Eddie was halfway underneath a truck when he heard your laugh ring across the garage.

That’s not unusual. However, what was unusual was the guy you were laughing with. Some customer leaned against the front counter while you smiled up at him, twirling a socket wrench lazily between your fingers.

Eddie immediately rolled himself out from under the truck on the creeper.

“What’s that?” Mark asked innocently from nearby.

“Nothing,” Eddie muttered.

“Looks like jealousy.”

“Not jealous.”

“Mhm.”

The customer laughed at something you said, briefly touching your arm, which caused Eddie to sit up straighter. Then the asshole smiled.

“Oh,” Mark murmured. “He’s flirting.”

Eddie stood immediately.

Mark burst out laughing. “THERE he is.”

Before Eddie could storm over there and make an idiot of himself, the rumble of an engine pulled into the lot. All three of you looked over automatically, and then Eddie froze.

“No fucking way.”

The car rolling slowly into the garage was gorgeous: black paint gleaming beneath the sunlight, chrome shining, low growl of the engine unmistakable.

A 1967 Chevy Impala. The entire garage seemed to pause.

Even you looked impressed. “Well,” you said softly. “Would you look at that?”

The driver climbed out, explaining something about rough idling and overheating, but Eddie barely heard a word. Because holy shit, it was pristine.

You walked slowly around the car, fingertips dragging lightly over the hood appreciatively. “She’s beautiful.”

And unfortunately for Eddie? The way you said it sounded dangerously similar to the tone you sometimes used with him. Mark caught the look on Eddie’s face and immediately started grinning.

“You alright there, big guy?”

Eddie ignored him entirely, stepping beside you near the Impala. “Think it’s the thermostat,” he murmured, eyes flicking toward you instead of the car.

You glanced up, and there it was again: that stupid tension. Especially when your gaze dipped briefly down his bare chest before snapping back up. A smug little grin tugged at his mouth.

“Oh, now who’s staring?” he asked quietly.

You held his gaze for a long second before reaching forward and grabbing the grease rag tucked into the back of his jeans. Eddie blinked, then watched you slowly wipe your grease-covered hands on it while maintaining eye contact.

Mark made a strangled noise somewhere behind him while the customer looked wildly confused. And Eddie? Eddie looked like he was about two seconds away from losing his mind entirely.

By the time the sun finally started setting, the garage had gone quiet.

The OPEN sign in the front window buzzed faintly before Eddie reached up and flicked it off with grease-stained fingers, plunging the office into dim golden light. Outside, cicadas screamed into the warm Indiana night while the last of the heat clung stubbornly to the concrete floors.

Most nights ended like this lately. Just you and Eddie lingering hours after closing, claiming there was still work to finish when really neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave.

The Impala sat in the center bay now, hood propped open while you leaned halfway into the engine compartment with a flashlight between your teeth. From the radio near Eddie’s toolbox, a slow rock song crackled softly through static.

And across the garage, Eddie was still shirtless, still. All damn day.

You tightened something with your ratchet a little harder than necessary before finally glancing over toward him. He was bent over the workbench this time, curls falling loose from his hair tie while sweat gleamed across his shoulders under the overhead lights.

Honestly, it was getting ridiculous.

“You know shirts exist for a reason, right?” you called.

Eddie didn’t even look up. “Do they?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

You rolled your eyes, ducking back under the hood. “Pretty sure OSHA would have a field day with you.”

That finally made him laugh. Then you heard the scrape of his boots as they crossed the garage floor. A second later, Eddie appeared beside you, leaning against the Impala with crossed arms.

Still shirtless, and still oh-so-very smug. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he asked innocently. “You don’t like what you see?”

You made the mistake of looking at him fully then. Big mistake, because up close was somehow worse.

Grease streaked across his stomach, forearms flexing where they crossed over each other, and his stupid hair half falling out of the tie from working all day.

Your eyes dipped for half a second too long, and Eddie caught it immediately with a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Oh my God,” he murmured. “You do.”

You snapped your gaze back to the engine. “Shut up.”

“Nah.” He leaned closer. “C’mon, tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Mhm.”

“You’re sweaty.”

“Thought girls liked that.”

“I don’t.”

“Liar.”

Heat crawled up your neck as you tried very hard to focus on the engine instead of the fact that Eddie was standing close enough for his knee to brush yours every few seconds.

“You’ve been staring at me all day,” he said softly.

You scoffed. “You wish.”

“You handed me a screwdriver this morning because you were too busy looking at my chest.”

“That happened one time.”

“And then you wiped your hands on my jeans while making eye contact with me like a psychopath.”

A smile tugged at your mouth despite yourself. “That was funny.”

“It was hot.”

Your ratchet slipped loudly against the engine, then silence. Then Eddie laughed quietly under his breath. You pointed the flashlight at him threateningly. “Don’t.”

But Eddie just leaned further over the hood beside you until your shoulders bumped.

“You know,” he said casually, “if this is your way of admitting you’re into me, there are easier methods.”

You snorted. “Into you? Please.”

“Sweetheart, half this town thinks we’re married already.”

“That’s because old people are nosy.”

“That’s because you look at me like that.”

You frowned. “Like what?”

Eddie’s eyes flicked slowly over your face, enough to make your stomach flip and your face burn pink. “Like you want to kiss me every time I open my mouth.”

Eddie’s grin faltered just slightly when you stepped closer instead of backing away.

“Oh yeah?” you asked lightly.

His eyes flicked over your face. “Yeah.”

You crossed your arms, leaning against the Impala beside him now, shoulder brushing his bare arm. “What about you, huh?”

Eddie blinked once. “What about me?”

“You think I don’t notice?” you continued, voice quieter now. “The staring. Following me around the shop all day?”

“That is not—”

“You literally almost dropped a transmission last month because I called you pretty.”

“That was one time.”

A smile tugged at your mouth. “Mhm.”

Eddie opened his mouth to argue again, but you stepped even closer first, close enough now that he had to tilt his head down to look at you properly. And suddenly, he wasn’t smirking anymore.

Interesting.

“You wanna know what I think?” you murmured.

Eddie swallowed visibly. “What?”

You reached up slowly, fingers hooking around the chain of his dog tags. The sharp inhale he took was immediate.

“Oh, you like this way more than I do.”

His eyes went dark instantly. “Careful,” he said softly.

“Or what?”

Eddie laughed once under his breath, disbelieving almost, like he couldn’t decide if you were trying to kill him on purpose. Then, the tension snapped like a fan belt under too much strain.

You tugged harder on Eddie’s dog tags, pulling him down until his mouth crashed into yours. He groaned into the kiss; raw, needy, and immediately pliant.

His hands hovered at your waist like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch, even after years of circling this exact moment. You solved that for him by grabbing his wrists and planting his grease-streaked palms firmly on your ass.

“Kiss me like you mean it, Munson,” you growled against his lips.

Eddie melted. His mouth opened for you instantly, tongue sliding hot and desperate against yours while you backed him up against the Impala’s fender.

He tasted like cigarettes and the beer he definitely should not have had earlier, and he whimpered, actually whimpered, when you bit his bottom lip and sucked it between your teeth.

“Fuck… sweetheart,” he panted when you finally let him breathe. His cock was already straining against the front of his coveralls, obvious and aching. You shoved a hand between you and palmed him roughly through the fabric. Eddie’s hips jerked forward into your grip with a broken sound.

“Close the hood,” you ordered, voice low.

Eddie blinked, dazed. “Wh—”

“Now.”

He scrambled to obey, reaching over and slamming the heavy hood of the Impala shut with a solid thunk that echoed through the empty garage. The second it latched, you pushed him back, hopped up onto the glossy black hood, and spread your legs in invitation. 

Your coveralls were already half-off, tank top shoved up, work jeans unbuttoned, and yanked down your thighs along with your underwear in one impatient motion. Eddie’s eyes went wide and dark, pupils blown as he stared at your exposed pussy glistening under the overhead lights.

“On your knees,” you said, hooking a boot behind his shoulder to drag him forward.

He dropped so fast his knees probably bruised on the concrete. The first drag of his tongue was tentative, almost reverent—then you grabbed a fistful of his messy curls and ground against his face, and Eddie moaned like he’d been waiting his whole life for this.

He licked broad and sloppy, sucking your clit between his lips exactly how you liked it once you told him, “Higher—there, fuck, just like that.”

His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, but he never tried to take control. Every time you tugged his hair or rolled your hips, he whimpered gratefully into your cunt and doubled down, tongue fucking into you while his nose rubbed perfect circles against your clit. 

Sweat and grease streaked his bare chest; his cock was leaking a wet spot through his coveralls. You came hard on his tongue, thighs clamping around his head as you rode his face through it, moaning his name loud enough that it probably carried out the open bay doors. 

Eddie kept licking you through the aftershocks like he couldn’t bear to stop. When you finally pushed his head back, his chin was shiny with your slick, lips swollen, eyes glassy and adoring.

For a second, you thought he was going to stay soft, sweet, and submissive, but then he grabbed your hips, spun you around, and bent you over the warm hood in one rough motion.

“Eddie—” you started, but he was already kicking your feet apart.

“Please,” he whined, voice cracked and needy as he shoved his coveralls and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It slapped heavily against your ass, dripping wet. “Need to be inside you—fuck, I can’t wait anymore.”

He didn’t give you time to answer. He lined up and pushed in with one desperate thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The broken whimper that tore out of him was pure filth.

“Oh my god—oh fuck, you’re so tight,” he gasped, forehead dropping between your shoulder blades. His hips jerked forward again, shallow and frantic. “Feels so good… so fucking good—”

You gripped the edge of the hood, moaning as he started fucking you harder. He was still whimpering and panting with every thrust, but he had you pinned now; big hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, cock driving deep and relentless.

“Eddie—shit—”

“I’m sorry, I just—fuck—” He sounded wrecked, voice cracking as he slammed into you again, the car rocking under the force. One hand slid around to rub messy circles over your clit, too desperate to be coordinated, but perfect anyway. “Can’t stop…wanted this for so fucking long—”

You pushed back against him, and he sobbed a moan, pace turning sloppy and needy.

“Please—please let me come inside you,” he begged right in your ear, hips snapping faster. “I’ll be good—I'll be so good for you, just—fuck, I’m so close already—”

You clenched around him on purpose, and his rhythm stuttered, another broken moan spilling out as his cock throbbed inside you. 

He came with a loud, shattered moan, hips jerking as he pumped deep inside you, shuddering and whimpering through every pulse. Even after he finished, he stayed buried in you, breathing hard against your neck, cock still twitching.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, voice hoarse. “I think I just died.”

You laughed breathlessly and gently tugged his hair. “Good,” you murmured.

You sat on the edge of the workbench, now wrapped loosely in Eddie’s discarded flannel, while he rummaged through one of the lockers near the tiny office bathroom.

“You alive over there?” he called.

“Mhm.”

“Liar. You sound deceased.”

You laughed tiredly, resting your cheek against your shoulder as you watched him move around the shop, half-dressed and still unfairly attractive. Honestly, it should’ve annoyed you more. Instead, your chest felt warm.

Eddie finally turned around, holding a towel triumphantly over his head. “Ha! Told you I left one here.”

“You keep towels at the shop?”

“Sweetheart, sometimes engines explode on me.”

He crossed back over toward you, hair falling loose around his face again now that the tie had disappeared somewhere in the chaos.

Up close, you noticed how pink his cheeks still were, how his lips looked swollen from the relentless eating and hungry kisses.

“C’mon,” he said gently, nudging your knee apart so he could stand between them. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

The bathroom attached to the office was tiny and honestly kind of terrible. Half the lightbulbs buzzed, the water pressure sucked, and the shower curtain had little motor oil stains near the bottom from years of mechanics rinsing off after long shifts. Still, with Eddie in there with you somehow, it felt strangely intimate.

You stood beneath the spray, rinsing soap from your arms while Eddie sat on the little built-in ledge beside you, lazily rubbing shampoo through your hair with surprising gentleness.

“There’s no way you know how to do this,” you mumbled.

“I’m multi-talented.”

“You use dish soap on your hair sometimes.”

“That is slander.”

You snorted softly while he carefully worked his fingers through the ends of your hair. His touch slowed after a minute, fingertips brushing lightly along the back of your neck.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

The softness in his voice caught you off guard, and you turned slightly to look at him. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

Then he reached forward, wiping a little mascara smudge from beneath your eye with his thumb. “Pretty girl,” he murmured.

You leaned against the tile wall while Eddie stood close enough for the warm water to run down both of you at once. Then, after a long, quiet moment, he grinned suddenly.

“So.”

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “What?”

“You think fucking on an Impala counts as our first date?”

anywayy... hope you all enjoyed ;) dean winchester fic coming later today if you're interested MUAHAHAHA

The circulation desk sat in the center of the second floor, and every row of bookshelves looked as if they were placed intentionally to herd patrons towards the circular counter that probably hadn’t changed much since the seventies. Raising the mug to your lips, you took a sip as you stepped around the opening and made your way behind the large desk. A long, slow morning stretched ahead of you now, and you’d certainly need the caffeine to help you survive until noon when things briefly picked up.

Lowering yourself into your chair with a contented sigh, you placed your mug onto the desk before leaning forward, reaching a hand down beneath the counter where you stored a few of your personal items during the day. You grabbed the thick paperback book you’d brought with you from its place beside your purple water bottle before sitting back more comfortably in your chair.

There was always a lull on weekday mornings on the second floor of the library. Most of Charming’s citizens were at work right now, and usually the elderly patrons who trickled in either for your company or to find something to read came closer to lunch time. It was the main floor of the library that stayed busy in the mornings because that was where the children's section was located. On Tuesday and Thursday mornings, the aging Mrs. Walters hosted a storytime for toddlers, which you could hear just about to begin on the floor below. The muted noise of Charming’s stay at home mothers trying to wrangle their young kids onto the rug to sit steadily became background noise as you focused your attention on the book in your hands.

Charming Public Library wasn’t a very big library since the city itself didn’t boast a large population. Only the two floors made up the building, which meant there was only so much work to accomplish on a normal weekday. Because of that, you often were left with periods of time throughout your shifts in which you had nothing to do but read. Not that you minded because you were getting paid to enjoy your hobby.

Opening your book to where you'd left off, you plucked the bookmark out from between the pages before setting it down on the counter beside your coffee cup. Resting your elbows along the worn armrest of your chair, you held the book eagerly in front of yourself as your eyes quickly found the place where you’d left off in the series you’d been reading. Which just so happened to be right in the middle of a very steamy sequence of smut that you'd been wanting to get back to. 

It wasn't long before you were engrossed within the story. With the book held up between your hands, you'd grown so unaware of your surroundings that you hadn’t caught the sound of heavy footsteps as they'd ascended the stairs to the second floor of the library. Too focused on the intimate scene unfolding in your hands, you hadn’t realized that someone else had joined you at the circulation desk. It wasn’t until they spoke and scared the absolute hell out of you that you realized you weren’t alone anymore.

“Voyager?” a deep voice drawled out curiously.

You startled in your chair at the title of your book being read aloud, your heart giving a sharp jolt against your ribcage as you nearly jumped out of your skin. Still clutching the book in front of yourself, you couldn’t see who was there, but you’d heard the soft, amused chuckle that followed at your reaction.

“So is this what librarians actually do all day? Sit around readin’ smut?” he asked, intrigued. “‘Cause I think my mom must've missed her calling. She should've worked here instead.”

Taken entirely off guard by the patron and his comment, you abruptly lowered the book from in front of your face and down towards your lap. If you hadn’t already felt heat creeping up your neck at being so brazenly called out like that, you were certainly feeling your face flame at the sight of one of the most unlikely library patrons standing on the opposite side of your desk.

Jax Teller was leaning casually against the circulation desk with his shaggy blonde hair hanging messily above his shoulders and a black baseball cap sitting on his head. He had a lazy grin drawn across his face, but his eyes were curiously scanning you over in return now that your face wasn't hidden by your book.  You doubted he recognized you, or that you'd ever catch the notorious playboy's eye for longer than a second. But that didn’t matter to you because you much preferred the idea of a man like James Fraser from the book you'd been reading–gallant, loyal, and gentlemanly. None of those things exactly described the man standing across from you, at least not when it came to how he interacted with women from everything you’d heard.

“It isn't smut,” you countered, trying to sound firm but not quite succeeding. You’d always been rather soft spoken, and that wasn’t about to change with a Son standing in front of you. “It's historical fiction with a romantic plot.”

Jax's smirk widened as he leaned further over the desk, moving close enough that you couldn’t help but become hyper-aware of his proximity. His fingers drummed lazily against the countertop as he stood there like this wasn't the first time he'd ever stepped foot in this library. He seemed rather unconvinced at your correction, though.

"Historical fiction, huh?" he repeated. He hummed a noise in the back of his throat as he gave a single, slow nod. “That’s cute, darlin'. I might not read much, but I can still see that that–" he pointed a finger at the book in your hands, “–is smut.”

His eyes flicked down pointedly to the cover of your book and your fingers curled along the pages. When you didn’t try to argue with him again, Jax’s gaze dragged painfully slowly back up to meet yours. The deliberateness in which he was cornering you with just his stare alone unsettled you in more ways than one. But you attempted to appear unbothered by him, trying to hide the way your hand trembled as you reached out and grabbed your bookmark from beside your coffee.

"So what’s this historical guy doin’ for you?” Jax asked, his tone mocking. “Readin' poetry by candlelight? Fightin' duels for some girl's honor? Ridin’ shirtless and sweaty on a horse?" 

Swallowing thickly as he continued to tease you, you attempted to maintain an air of composure where you sat behind the desk. But that was hard to do with your cheeks growing warm from embarrassment as you slipped the bookmark back into place inside of your book. You closed it carefully, taking a deep breath before you set it down on the counter. When you looked back up at him, wanting to try to figure out why Jax was even here, you caught the lopsided, amused grin still spread across his handsome face.

You knew far better than to melt under Jax Teller's charm. But you were currently and unfortunately finding out that you weren’t entirely immune to it, either. At least his teasing was helping to keep any attraction you felt for him in check.

“Is there something I can do for you?” you asked politely, trying to change the topic.

Amusement flickered behind his blue eyes as he stared down at where you sat behind the desk, his tongue gradually slipping out and running along the length of his lower lip. One corner of his mouth twitched higher when you shifted in your chair, as if he could tell that you were affected by him, but then he pushed himself back a bit so that he was no longer invading your personal space. His ringed hands rested on the counter beside your coffee mug and the book you'd been reading as he straightened up, the grin on his face fading marginally. 

Trying to avoid holding his gaze for too long, you glanced down at his hand beside your book, catching sight of the two rings that spelled out the word “Sons” on his fingers. Black grease stained his blunt nails, no doubt something he'd acquired from his time working at Teller-Morrow Automotive. The thought of Jax sweating out in the California heat in a garage, his shirtless form bent over the hood of a car, flashed through your mind before you could figure out why it’d even appeared. But you abruptly shoved it aside because that wasn't a thought you needed to have.

“Just need some information on a property lien, darlin’,” he answered. 

When he spoke, your attention snapped back to his face, but your lips pressed firmly together at the way his smile had grown back into something a bit smug. He'd clearly caught you checking out his hands from that simple, lingering look you’d given them. That only added to the way you'd begun to heat beneath your blouse, your chest feeling a bit tight from his attention.

“Gotta few minutes to help me with that?” he asked, quirking a blonde brow. “Or am I interrupting somethin’ with you and the redhead?”

He tipped his chin at the book beside his hand, and your own gaze followed to the cover of it. You'd intentionally bought the television show tie-in books because you enjoyed the view of the actor who played Jamie printed on all of the books, but Jax’s outright teasing was making you feel as if he'd just transported you back to being the awkward teenager you'd been in high school.

“I can look that up for you if have the information–”

Before you could finish your sentence, Jax had slipped his hand into the front pocket of his jeans and fished something out of it. His fingers slid a slip of folded paper across the circulation desk towards you, and your eyes narrowed warily at it. You knew the Sons had a reputation in Charming–you'd lived here your whole life knowing they really weren't just a group of motorcycle enthusiasts. The last thing you wanted to do was be involved with something that wasn’t legal.

Extending a cautious hand, you reached over and took the paper he'd set down and carefully began unfolding it. Scanning the information written in black ink, you thought it seemed an innocent enough request. It was a basic search of information that existed within public records, and you figured there was no possibility that you were about to be caught up in something illegal yourself just by searching for it.

“It'll take me a few minutes to look this up,” you informed him.

He shifted his body against the opposite side of the desk so that he was facing you more fully, his forearms draped over the counter as if he belonged there. In response, you abruptly turned your chair away from him and towards your computer, beginning to pull up the database you'd need to search for the lien information. But you could feel his eyes lingering distractedly along your profile.

“Take all the time you need,” he replied easily. “I ain’t in a rush, sweetheart.”

A frown settled onto your face as you began keying in the information that Jax had provided you with. While you typed, Jax continued openly observing you, not being the slightest bit subtle in his staring. You felt self-conscious and a bit on edge to the point that you found yourself backspacing a few errors you'd accidentally typed in. It was difficult to concentrate with his mere presence distracting you just feet away, and it didn't help that you swore you could feel his eyes roaming over you and lingering in very distinct places.

A heavy silence had fallen between you both while you worked, one filled with a tension that felt like the ghost of his fingers trailing over your skin. You wondered if he was doing it on purpose or if this was just how women felt when they found themselves in Jax Teller’s orbit. As you continued to search the database, the only noise in the library came from the soft click of your fingers typing on your keyboard, and Mrs. Walters' animated voice coming muffled from downstairs as she read aloud to the group of toddlers that came every Tuesday morning. 

“I know you, don't I?” Jax asked, eventually shattering the silence on the second floor. “You look familiar, darlin’.”

Your fingers hesitated over your keyboard before you shot Jax a sidelong look. His expression had temporarily grown serious instead of playful, his eyes narrowing a fraction as he studied you even closer. Ignoring the flutter of your stomach at the intensity on his face, you returned your attention to the computer screen.

“We were in the same graduating class,” you answered quietly. “Before you, well…”

You trailed off as you continued to work, clearing your throat awkwardly. Jax and Opie had dropped out of school before their senior year, and neither of them had graduated in the end with your class. They'd become prospects for the Sons of Anarchy instead, focusing on their future within the club and not on an education. You'd always seen it as wasted potential, but you knew that wasn’t your business.

“Shit, that's right,” he said slowly, nodding his head as if it had just dawned on him. “I remember you. Always sat with those two other girls at lunch. Never talkin’, always reading, right?”

Your answer came in the form of a soft hum of acknowledgement as you kept your eyes on the computer screen. High school hadn't been the same experience for you as it had been for Jax. You'd focused on your studies and made sure never to break your curfew, and Jax was known to skip class, go to parties, and wind up with more in school suspension than you'd thought was humanly possible for one person to achieve without expulsion. 

“Guess that hasn't changed, huh?” he asked, the teasing tone returning.

With your attention fixed on the screen, you hadn’t noticed that Jax had grabbed the third installment from the Outlander series off of the circulation desk beside your coffee that was steadily growing cold. He'd flipped it open to the place where your bookmark sat, his eyes scanning over the page as a smirk gradually began to draw itself over his lips again.

"Now this is historical fiction, huh?" he questioned, his blonde brows rising onto his forehead. "Cause damn, darlin’. I had no idea you were into such scholarly pursuits." 

His tone was coated with teasing sarcasm as he kept scanning over the page, but his voice had broken through your concentration. Turning to look over your shoulder, you saw him standing there with your copy of Voyager in his hands, his eyes running over where you'd left off–the reunion sex scene at the brothel. Your mouth fell open as your eyes widened in absolute mortification.

You must have made some startled noise because Jax's smirk only grew before his eyes drifted over the top of the book with an agonizing casualness. His blue eyes were alight with mischief as he stood there shamelessly reading your book.

"Thought you said this wasn't smut,” Jax teased. “Cause I gotta say, sweetheart, this looks pretty naughty to me.”

Jax looked back down at the book in his hands as you sat in utter horror, embarrassment flooding you the more he kept reading. You couldn't even find your voice to tell him to stop being an asshole and put your book down, your mouth suddenly dry and your tongue as heavy as lead.

"You learnin’ anything useful from all this shit?” he asked. 

His brows furrowed as he continued reading over a particular passage in front of him, and you had a feeling you knew which one. Sitting there in silent embarrassment, you'd temporarily forgotten all about the lien you'd been researching on the database for him. Your mouth opened and closed a few times while you struggled to find the words to tell him off, and your face felt like it’d been set on fire.

When his eyes caught yours again, he seemed to notice your growing discomfort. Snapping the book shut with a loud thwack in his hands, he leaned forward and tossed it back onto the desk in front of you with ease. 

"Aww, I see," he said. He rested both of his hands on the countertop and leaned forward so that his face was level with yours. "Did I ruin your little fantasy session by stopping in here, darlin'? ‘Cause I didn’t mean to interrupt." 

His tone was filled with playful condescension as his eyes flicked pointedly at where your book had landed between you both on the counter. Your gaze followed his back down to the paperback as your fingers curled around the armrests of your chair. You were half tempted to pick up the heavy paperback and slap him across the face with it, but knowing better than to do that to someone–especially the Son's vice president–kept you still.

"Are you really out here gettin' worked up over an Irish guy who’s not even real?” Jax asked curiously.  

"He's Scottish, not Irish.” 

The second the correction was out of your mouth, your lips snapped shut. Why had you even just made that minor clarification to him? It didn't matter what nationality Jamie was, certainly not in the grand scheme of this entire conversation. The words had just slipped out of you as if you’d needed something to say to him.

Jax’s teasing just had you feeling so embarrassed in a way that you hadn't felt in years. You felt judged and exposed in front of a stranger, because that's what Jax was. You knew him less now than when you'd gone to school with him, and here he was teasing you because he'd interrupted a rather spicy part of the book you'd been reading.

“Look, I ain't judging ‘bout what you're into,” Jax continued as if he could hear your thoughts. He was still leaning over the circulation desk and looking far too comfortable there. “Not like the Sons don't co-own a porn studio. But I don't see the appeal in–” He tapped two fingers against the worn cover of your paperback next to him and made a face. “I mean it's just words on a page, how is that doin’ it for you? Or do you really like the redhead that much?”

“Don't think that's a question I am required to answer as part of my job description,” you replied, finding your voice and managing to add a little bite to your words. “If you want that information on the property lien, I'd appreciate it if you let me work.”

You snatched your book from off the counter and away from his reach, not wanting him to pick it up and start skimming through it some more. His hands shot up in the air in a placating gesture, but that smug smile remained spread over his lips between the scruffy blonde facial hair. You tossed the thick book back under the counter before turning and focusing on retrieving the information he'd come here for on your computer, a frustrated huff falling out of you.

“I assume you'd like a printed copy of that information?” you asked, not looking back at him.

"I can take the hint, sweetheart," he said, the smile slowly falling from his lips. "I'll back off your fictional man. But yeah, gimme a printed copy of that." 

He folded his arms over his chest, still lingering near the desk as he watched you push a few more keys on your computer. But just as you pushed the button to print, scooting your chair back so that you could get up and head to the room with the printers and copy machines nearby, Jax spoke again.

"You know, if you're lookin’ for something a little more hands on,” Jax began, his tone lowering to something that made goosebumps ripple across your forearms, “you could come by the clubhouse.”

A slow, flirtatious grin curled the corner of Jax's mouth as you stood there dumbfounded, hesitating beneath the weight of his stare. He took a moment to run his eyes over you again, this time appraising you from head to toe now that you'd finally stood up from your chair. His teeth caught his bottom lip as if he was fighting back saying something more before that dangerous and sultry gaze met yours again.

"Come out tonight," he practically demanded. “I promise I could show a girl like you more fun than you'd find in a book.”

Your pulse pounded like a drum in your throat, but you refused to let Jax Teller work his charm on you, especially not with how he'd just been relentlessly teasing you. Besides, you knew more than well enough to know that he did this with girls on a daily basis. By lunchtime he’d have probably moved on to someone else. 

“I'll go get your documents,” you said, side-stepping the offer.

Without another glance in his direction, you walked around the circulation desk and headed straight for the small room nearby. You could already hear the printer inside slowly churning out the few pages you'd sent to it, the outdated machine noisy and loud as it worked 

You were grateful that Jax didn't follow after you, giving you a minute to collect yourself without him staring at you and making more comments. As the printer chugged along, you grabbed the collar of your blouse and gave it a few sharp tugs in the hopes of cooling yourself down. There was the faintest bit of sweat beading along the back of your neck from Jax’s odd way of oscillating between teasing and flirting.

You hated to admit it, but Jax had an effect on you. He'd never once acknowledged you growing up or in the years since you'd returned to Charming after you'd graduated from college, but now that you'd really seen him up close all these years later, you couldn't deny that his offer wasn't tempting. Jax was incredibly attractive–hotter than the guys you generally went on awkward dates with–but you refused to be some story he told the guys in his club. So as attracted to him as you were, you weren't about to step a single toe into one of their clubhouse parties.

When his documents had finished printing, you picked them up and stacked them neatly together before leaving the small room. Heading back towards the main desk, you found Jax still standing there casually leaning against it with one arm, waiting for you like he really wasn't in a rush to leave. A large smile returned to his face when you reappeared, and there was something almost knowing in those blue eyes when they found yours, as if he knew you wanted to take him up on that offer.

“Here,” you said, extending the papers to him when you neared him. “Everything we have on record in the database for what you wanted.”

There was a brief moment where Jax just stood there staring at you, taking you in. You shifted awkwardly on your feet before he finally straightened up and reached his hand out, accepting the few pages from your own. He took a few seconds to flip through them, nodding to himself about something.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Have a good day, Mr. Teller,” you replied, a finality to your words.

Turning around, you made your way back behind the circulation desk and over to your chair. You had just begun to settle back down into your seat when Jax reappeared in your peripheral. He rested the newly printed stack of papers along the counter and leaned over it again, catching your eye. 

“You sure you don't wanna come out tonight?” he asked, tilting his head curiously to the side. “I'd personally make sure you had a good time.”

It was obvious what Jax was implying, and your tongue nervously darted out to wet your lips at the thought. But there was absolutely no way you would ever find yourself at a Sons’ party. Ever.

“I don't think I'm the type you'd find there,” you diplomatically declined.

Jax pushed back from the counter slowly, his grin faltering briefly. His eyes dipped down towards where your book sat beneath the counter next to your water bottle, the slightest scowl flashing across his face before it disappeared.

“Then I guess I'll just be seein’ you around Charming,” he said.

The words sounded like a promise, one that simultaneously sent a wave of confusion and heat through you. His left eye closed in a flirtatious wink before he lightly tapped the desk with a few fingers. He turned around and began swaggering his way through the second floor of Charming Public Library looking exceptionally out of place in his leather kutte. You hadn't realized you'd been staring at him until he stopped just at the top of the stairs and looked over his shoulder back at you, one hand resting on the railing. 

“Enjoy your book, darlin’,” he called out to you. “But I guarantee it's not that satisfying.”

Jax disappeared down the steps without another word, presumably headed back out into Charming to most likely get involved with things you certainly wanted no part in. Shaking your head in an attempt to shake that whole unexpected encounter from your mind, you tried to snap yourself out of the oddity of that conversation. 

You leaned over and retrieved your book again from beneath the counter and tried to settle in for the boring morning lull. But as the morning continued to drag on, you'd be lying if you said you didn't have a hard time focusing on the story now. Your mind kept picturing blonde hair instead of red, and leather kuttes instead of tartan kilts.

The thing about Eddie Munson was that he could flirt with everyone except you, seriously.

The guy could lean over a lunch table and make some poor sophomore nearly pass out with one wink, could sweet-talk bartenders into free fries at The Hideout, could stand on stage with a guitar slung low on his hips and command an entire room without even trying.

But the second you walked into the room? Gone. Reduced to a fidgety, chain-fiddling idiot who forgot how sentences worked. And honestly? You weren’t much better.

It had been like that for months now, maybe longer. Ever since Steve accidentally invited you into the weird little orbit of his friend group one summer night after work, things with Eddie had been weird. Not bad weird, but worse. Tense weird, full of pent-up energy. 

The kind of weird where everyone else noticed before you did. The kind where Eddie always saved you a seat without asking. Where his hand would land on your lower back in crowded rooms. Where he’d light your cigarette for you before lighting his own. Where he looked at you like you’d hung the goddamn moon and then immediately panicked the second you caught him doing it.

Robin called it painful to witness. Nancy called it emotionally constipated. Steve called it “like watching two idiots repeatedly miss a stop sign.” Because apparently, everyone knew Eddie Munson was in love with you, except Eddie Munson. And apparently, everyone knew you were in love with Eddie, except you.

Or— no. You knew, you just refused to do anything about it because the possibility of rejection made your stomach hurt. So instead, you and Eddie existed in this endless cycle of longing glances and almosts.

Almost touching, almost kissing, almost saying something real, then immediately chickening out. Which was exactly how you ended up five tequila shots deep at girls’ night, squished into a booth between Robin and Nancy while aggressively denying the obvious.

“He does not like me,” you insisted for maybe the fifteenth time, words slightly slurred as you pointed your straw accusingly at them. “You guys are projecting.”

Robin barked out a laugh so loud the table next to you looked over. “Oh my God,” she said, clutching her chest dramatically. “Nancy, I can’t do this anymore. They’re actually stupid.”

Nancy looked equally exhausted. “Eddie nearly walked into traffic last week because you waved at him.”

“That is not true.”

“It absolutely is true,” Robin said immediately. “Steve had to physically yank him back onto the sidewalk.”

You snorted into your drink. “That’s dramatic.”

Nancy leaned forward, expression deadly serious. “He watches you like a starving animal.”

“No, he does not!”

“He does,” Robin insisted. “It’s honestly embarrassing. You say his name, and he sits up like someone rang a little bell.”

Nancy nodded calmly. “And you’re not any better, by the way.”

You scoffed, offended. “I am incredibly chill.”

The two of them stared at you, then burst out laughing.

“Bullshit!” Nancy retorts. 

“Oh my God,” Robin wheezed. “You wore his leather jacket home once and slept in it for like three days.”

“It smelled good!”

Nancy took a sip of her drink. “Case closed.”

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands while alcohol buzzed warm through your body. Maybe they were right, maybe Eddie did like you. 

Robin suddenly narrowed her eyes at you over the rim of her beer. “You know what your problem is?”

“I’m scared of vulnerability?”

“You’re both cowards,” she corrected.

Nancy nodded. “Severely.”

“Thank you, Captain Wheeler.”

Robin grabbed your wrist dramatically. “One of you needs to make a move before I lose my mind.”

Your cheeks felt hot now from the alcohol. Definitely the alcohol, and not from imagining Eddie’s hands or his mouth or the way he looked at you whenever you wore short skirts. Absolutely, 100% not that.

“You know what?” you announced suddenly, sitting up straighter. “Fine.”

Nancy immediately looked wary. “That tone concerns me.”

“I can make moves.”

Robin’s eyes widened in delight. “Oh no.”

You were already digging through your purse for your phone. Nancy reached for you immediately. “Wait— hold on, maybe let’s think first—”

“No thinking,” you declared. “Thinking is what got me here.”

Robin looked thrilled. “I support women’s rights and women’s wrongs.”

Your phone nearly slipped from your hands as you unlocked it, tequila confidence making you reckless.

“What are you doing?” Nancy asked cautiously.

You grinned, then wobily stood up, sashaying your way to the bathroom. Robin immediately grabbed Nancy’s arm. “Should we stop her?”

Nancy sighed into her drink. “There’s no point.”

You flipped them both off over your shoulder, nearly tripping over your own boots in the process, before disappearing into the tiny neon-lit bathroom. The second the door shut behind you, you stared at yourself in the mirror and burst into drunk laughter.

Your eyeliner was slightly smudged, your cheeks warm and flushed from alcohol, and your lips shiny from the cherry gloss Nancy insisted you borrow earlier. Cute, dangerously cute, at that. 

“This is insane,” you whispered to yourself, then immediately unlocked your phone anyway.

Because maybe it was the tequila. Maybe it was the way Eddie looked at you like he wanted to devour you whole every time you wore a low-cut top. Maybe it was the fact that he’d spent months touching you like he was terrified of wanting too much.

Whatever it was, it made your pulse flutter wildly as you adjusted your top just slightly and angled your phone. Not fully nude, but just enough to make him weak in the knees. Enough cleavage, thigh, and pouty face to absolutely destroy him. You stared at the picture for a long moment afterward, chewing your lip.

Then typed:

you: girls night has me making bad decisions apparently

you: don’t let this go to your head munson

[image attached]

Across town, Eddie was lying across his bed pretending to watch some shitty late-night horror movie, pretending being the key word. Because really, he’d spent the last hour thinking about you. Again.

Your laugh earlier this week. The way your hand lingered on his arm yesterday. That tiny skirt you wore last Friday that nearly made him drive his van into a mailbox. Pathetic behavior, honestly.

He was halfway through wondering if maybe he should finally grow a pair and ask you out properly when his personalized ringtone for you shattered through the room.

Eddie tried to play it cool, giving it some time before he opened the messages, but failed instantly. Then he opened the message and short-circuited.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed.

Eddie bolted upright so fast he smacked his knee against his bedside table, hard, but didn’t even feel it. Because there you were on his screen, all flushed cheeks and glossy lips and soft skin, looking pretty and teasing and so unfairly gorgeous he thought he might actually die.

Not fully exposed, but enough. Enough to make his brain completely stop functioning and send every coherent thought directly out the window.

“Oh, my god,” Eddie sighed instantly, closing his eyes and clutching the phone to his chest like he was protecting a sacred artifact.

His face was burning, his heart was pounding, and embarrassingly enough, his first thought wasn’t even 'holy shit she sent me a dirty picture.' It was:

She thought of me. Out of everyone, she thought of me.

Then his eyes drifted back to the photo, and okay. Maybe a few less gentlemanly thoughts immediately followed. Because Jesus Christ. The angle, the look on your face. The fact he knew you were probably drunk and giggling somewhere while simultaneously ruining his entire life.

Eddie scrubbed a hand down his face, already feeling warm all over as his imagination immediately started betraying him in vivid detail.

What you’d look like sitting in his lap. What that top would look like on his bedroom floor. What noises you’d make if he finally kissed you the way he’d been wanting to for months.

You hit call before the liquid courage could wear off, heart slamming against your ribs as you leaned back against the cool bathroom wall. 

“…Hello?” Eddie’s voice was rough with sleep and surprise, like he’d been halfway to dozing and your name on the screen jump-started his wake. “Sweetheart? You okay? It’s late, you’re—”

You smiled at your reflection, cheeks flushed, top still pulled just low enough. “I’m fine, Munson. Better than fine, actually.”

You could picture him sitting up in bed, hair a mess, eyes wide. “Did you… uh… did you mean to send that picture? To me?”

God, he sounded so shy. The same guy who could flirt with half of Hawkins but turned into a nervous wreck the second you looked at him too long.

You let out a soft laugh. “Yeah, I meant to. Girls’ night got a little… dangerous. Tequila made me bold. And I’ve been thinking about you all night.”

A stunned little pause, then a shaky breath left his mouth. “You… yeah? Fuck. I don’t even know what to say. You look insane in that photo. Like, stupidly hot. I can’t even formulate a coherent thought.”

You smiled, leaning back against the tiled wall. “Good. I want you stupid for me.”

Eddie swallowed hard enough for you to hear it. “Jesus Christ. You’re really doing this?”

“Mhm.” Your voice dropped. “I keep picturing you pushing me up against this wall. Kissing my neck all sloppy while your hand slides up under my skirt. You’d find out real quick how wet I am just from thinking about you.”

A rough exhale. “Fuck… yeah? You’re wet right now?”

“Soaked,” you whispered. “Can you help me, Eddie?”

You swore you could hear his eyes rolling back. “Help you with what, sweetheart?”

“Tell me what you’d do to me. I need to know.”

He groans, “That little mouth? I keep imagining those lips stretched around my cock, looking up at me with those pretty eyes while I fuck your throat slowly. You’d take it so good for me, wouldn’t you?”

You let out a soft, needy sound. “Yes. I’d be so good.”

Eddie’s breathing was getting heavier. “Shit, sweetheart… I’ve thought about that so many times. You in my van, skirt flipped up, riding me in the backseat while the windows fog up. Or bending you over the hood, fucking you stupid.”

Your thighs pressed together. “Eddie—”

“I’d take my time with you first,” he continued, voice rougher now, confidence growing with every word. “Eat you out until your legs shake. I wanna feel you come on my face before I even think about fucking you.”

Your mind begins to race, flashes of what were mere fantasies coming to fruition every second he speaks. The thought of him actually pounding you against the van causes an audible whimper to leave your throat.

“Fuck,” he growled. “I’ve wanted you for so long. Every time you smile at me, I get stupid. Every time you wear something short, I go home and lose my mind imagining exactly this. Pinning you down in my bed, legs over my shoulders, pounding into you until you’re crying and begging and coming so hard you see stars.”

Fuck is right, Eddie. You were breathing fast now, flushed and aching. “Then stop imagining. Come get me. Right now. I’m done waiting. I want your hands on me tonight. I want you inside me now.”

There was a long, charged pause. You heard him shift, probably sitting up fast.

“You—,” he pauses, taking a deep breath. “I’m coming to get you. Fifteen minutes, tops. You stay right there in that bar. Don’t you dare leave with anyone else. You’re mine tonight, sweetheart.

Then, the line clicked dead. You stared at your phone, cheeks burning, and a giddy smile spreading across your face.

Mission accomplished. 

well well well

anyways.... hope you all enjoyed ;)

general taglist is open!!

taglist:

@aareyouquotingbeachesatme @bluebirdonafencepost

Dustin said the binder would be in Eddie’s room. Just sitting on the desk. In and out.

But as you reach for the doorknob, you hear it.

A low sound. A thud. Something shuffling.

Your hand freezes.

You strain your ears, leaning closer. There it is again. Floor creaking. The scrape of something heavy being dragged. A muffled curse.

The voice sounds familiar in a way that punches you in the chest.

You shake it off.

That’s impossible.

You look around, heart thudding. There’s nothing even remotely useful nearby. You double back to the kitchen and grab the first thing with any heft.

A metal spatula.

You hold it up like a knife and immediately feel ridiculous, but your grip tightens anyway. You don’t say anything this time. Just open the door.

And what you see is impossible.

There’s someone in the room, back turned, shirtless and damp, hair plastered to bare shoulders in wet tangles. His jeans are filthy. The floor is soaked around him. His boots are kicked off in the corner. He’s pulling off what looks like a bloodstained vest with shaking hands.

He smells like rain and copper and something else, something almost burned.

You freeze. Your mouth opens. No sound comes out.

And then, without turning around, he mutters, “I swear to God, if you—”

You whisper his name. Not even meaning to.

"Eddie?"

He whirls.

His face is pale. Eyes sunken and rimmed in red. There’s blood on his chest, drying in jagged rivers. His mouth parts like he’s about to say something, but you don’t hear it.

Because you’re already screaming.

He screams too, loud and high and startled.

Your hand flies forward on instinct and you smack him across the chest with the spatula.

It clangs and he flinches.

“Ow! What the—?”

And then the world goes a little fuzzy and you barely register when your body hits the floor.

You wake up to the feeling of someone watching you.

Not in the normal way. Not like a teacher checking if you’re asleep at your desk or a friend hovering over your shoulder. This feels like laser beams. Like x-ray vision. Like whoever is watching you has been doing it for a while and isn’t sure if you’re real.

You blink hard against the low light, trying to remember where you are, and why your shoulder feels like you got dropped on it.

The first thing you see is the ceiling. Yellowed. A faint water stain in the corner shaped like Florida. You’re in a bedroom. Someone’s bedroom. The air smells like damp fabric, ash, and something vaguely metallic.

And then there’s a voice.

“Finally.”

Your head jerks toward it.

He’s sitting in the desk chair. Hair still wet. Wearing a clean shirt now, a less blood-covered one. Arms crossed over his chest like he’s not sure whether to laugh or run.

Eddie Munson.

Alive. Or something close enough to it.

You stare at him.

“You,” you say flatly, because your brain hasn’t caught up yet. “I hit you with a spatula.”

“You did,” he nods. “Hard. Impressive form, actually. I thought I was being robbed by someone’s grandma.”

You sit up too fast and immediately regret it. Your vision swims.

He’s standing before you can say anything, hovering with the weird hesitancy of someone who’s not sure if he should help or keep six feet of distance like you’re radioactive.

“You fainted,” he says. “Which was kind of fair, considering the whole… me being not dead thing.”

Your eyes settle on him fully this time. The bruising beneath his eyes. The bloodless skin. The eyes that were now too bright, too sharp. The veins at his neck stand out more than they should. He still looks like himself, mostly, but carved out and shadowed. Less living. More... something else.

“I’m sorry,” you say slowly, “but are you a vampire?”

He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again.

“I mean… maybe? I don’t know. Nobody gave me a manual.”

You squint at him. “Do you have a reflection?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Unfortunately. Still got this mug.” He gestures to his face and smirks, but there’s something fragile in the way he says it.

You hesitate, then ask, “Have you, like… wanted to bite anyone?”

“No more than the usual amount.”

You level a look at him.

He sighs. “It’s not like I want to kill people. I’m just… hungry. All the time. But not for food. I tried eating a can of ravioli earlier and it tasted like wet dog.”

You glance at the corner of the room where a dented can is still sitting, unopened.

Then you ask, “Have you read any Anne Rice?”

He freezes. “What?”

You clear your throat, already regretting it. “Just wondering. Because the symptoms sound sort of… vampire–adjacent.”

He blinks at you.

You look away, cheeks warm. “I like vampire books, okay?”

He stares for a second, and then, unexpectedly, he grins.

“You? You read that stuff?”

“Yes,” you say, tone clipped.

“Let me guess,” he says. “Silk bookmarks. Paperbacks with shirtless dudes on the cover. A secret stash of garlic and forbidden romances.”

Your face heats. “It’s not weird. And it's research now, technically.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he says. But there’s no venom in it. Just surprise. Something soft curling at the edge of his voice. “You. Out of everybody.”

You look at him again.

“Why are you here anyway? I thought you hated me.”

“I didn’t hate you,” you say. “We just didn’t… run in the same circles.”

Eddie snorts. “Yeah. You had your sparkly little cloud of popular friends before you got wrapped up in whatever… all that was.”

You smile a little despite yourself.

And he sees it. Sees that you’re not running. Not screaming. That you’re holding his gaze like you’re not afraid of what’s behind it.

The tension drops a notch. Still tight, but less ready-to-snap. He settles back in the chair, arms resting loosely on his knees.

You exhale slowly, the humor in your voice fading as you say, “Everyone thought you were dead.”

“I was,” he says quietly.

You don’t respond to that right away.

Outside, the wind shifts. A tree branch scratches against the window. Neither of you moves.

He watches you like he’s trying to solve a riddle. And maybe he is. You, of all people, showing up at his door. Seeing him like this. Not running.

“You okay?” he asks after a long moment.

You nod, but your eyes flick toward the bloodstained clothes still piled in the corner.

He follows your gaze. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Same.”

He already knows why you came. That part’s out of the way.

Eddie, for his part, just muttered something like “that little shit better not mess up my campaigns,” and then looked away too fast, like maybe if he didn’t hold your gaze too long he’d fall apart in it.

That was a few minutes ago.

Now you’re still sitting on his bed, legs pulled up under yourself, and he’s back in the chair, spinning it a little as he talks. He doesn’t know why he’s still here. Doesn’t know how long he was in the Upside Down. Just knows he woke up near the lake and stumbled through the woods with blood dried in his ears and mud in his teeth. Found his way back to the trailer, crawled inside through the bedroom window, and hasn’t left since.

He hasn’t told Wayne. Doesn’t plan to.

“That would go over real smooth,” he says, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. “Hey, Uncle Wayne, it’s me, your dead nephew, back from the grave. Let’s catch the Sunday game and pretend I don’t have a blood craving.”

You don’t laugh. Not this time.

“Does he think you’re dead-dead?” you ask.

Eddie nods. “Yeah. They told him I didn’t make it.”

The silence lingers a little too long.

“I thought about leaving a note,” he adds, voice quieter. “But what do you say, really? ‘Hey, sorry I’m not corpse enough to stay buried?’”

You glance at him. “You should tell him eventually.”

“Eventually’s not a plan.”

You don’t argue with that.

Instead, your fingers toy with the blanket as you say, “People still talk about you, you know.”

He snorts. “Yeah, I bet. I was a murderer, remember?”

“You weren’t,” you say quickly.

“Didn’t matter,” he replies. “They said it enough, it stuck.”

You look at him again, really look. His eyes aren’t glowing anymore, not like before, but there’s a strange glassy depth to them, like something inside got left out in the cold too long and never quite thawed.

“They already thought I was a freak,” he says. “Now I actually am one.”

You shake your head, then pause.

“I never thought that.”

That gets his attention. He looks over at you.

“But,” you add, quieter now, “not saying anything is just as bad. I didn’t stand up for you. I didn’t stop anyone else either.”

He watches you, something unreadable in his face. You expect him to say it doesn’t matter. Or maybe crack a joke. But he doesn’t. He just lets the silence sit there, heavy and honest.

You break it first.

“I knew Chrissy,” you say, not quite looking at him. “We weren’t best friends or anything, but we were close enough. And then I got wrapped up in everything else and... I didn’t know where to put it. What to do with all of it.”

“I didn’t kill her,” he says, voice like gravel.

“Well yeah. I definitely know that.”

The quiet returns, but it’s softer now. Less barbed. More raw.

“If anything,” he says after a long beat, “getting to know Chrissy taught me not all of you were terrible.”

You blink, startled.

“‘You’?”

“You know. You.” He gestures vaguely toward your shoes. “Normal people. Shiny hair. Clean sneakers. Lives. That kind of thing.”

You arch a brow. “You think I’m normal?”

“Compared to me?” he says. “Please. You’re practically a prom queen.”

You make a face. “I wasn’t even on the ballot.”

He shrugs. “Still.”

You start to say something, but he cuts in again, a smirk forming. “Besides, if Steve fucking Harrington is actually a decent guy now, then maybe the whole world’s upside down.”

You snort. “It kind of is.”

He huffs out a laugh, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes this time. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor.

“So what now?” you ask. “What are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Stay dead, I guess.”

“You can’t hide forever.”

“Why not? I’m halfway to vampire shut-in as it is.”

You tilt your head. “Because you’ll rot in here. Because Wayne deserves to know. Because—” You stop. Swallow. “Because you don’t have to.”

When he doesn’t respond, you take a breath.

“You can come with me.”

He lifts his head slowly, eyes locking on yours. “What?”

“It’s not like my parents are ever home. They probably wouldn’t even notice you were there. They barely notice when I am.”

He’s still staring.

“Look,” you add, standing up before you can think too hard about it. “You’ll have to lie low in the backseat. Wear a hoodie. Maybe a blanket. But I’ll get you there. You shouldn’t be alone.”

His expression flickers, something cracking just beneath the surface.

“You’re serious?”

You nod.

He stands too, not quite steady, but close. Closer than before.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” he says, voice rough. “You were supposed to be a background character in my weird little movie. One of those people who lives their life and never gets pulled into this kind of shit.”

You give him a look. “Well. I read a lot of vampire books. So right now, I might be your best bet.”

He laughs once, low and surprised.

Then you pick up the stupid spatula from where it still lies on the floor, hand it to him like it’s a peace offering, and say, “But if you mock me for it again, next time I’ll bring a stake.”

It’s gotten easier.

Or maybe you’ve just stopped caring.

You don’t flinch anymore when people glance at you funny in town. At the butcher shop, the guy behind the counter doesn’t ask questions. Not anymore. He wraps the containers quickly, seals them tight, slides them across the counter without meeting your eyes. Maybe he doesn’t want to know why someone your age keeps showing up asking for sealed animal blood “for a project,” or maybe he already knows and just wants no part of it. Either way, you pay in cash, thank him politely, and walk out like you’ve done nothing wrong.

You haven’t, technically.

You’re just feeding the vampire boy you’re hiding in your basement.

Totally normal.

“—seriously thinks I'm practicing witchcraft or something, the way he looks at me every time I pick it up, which to be fair isn’t totally far off but… ” you say as you round the corner of the stairs into the basement, voice trailing off the second your eyes land on the couch.

You stop walking.

Eddie doesn’t notice you at first. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. He’s half-reclined, stretched across the far end of the couch like a cat who’s taken over a sunlit windowsill. The light in the basement is weak, but it’s enough to see the full picture: bare legs, damp curls, and your bathrobe. The pink one. The soft one with the stitched-on daisies at the shoulder and the belt you always double-knot because it slips otherwise.

“Is that my robe?” you ask, flatly.

Eddie looks up from the book in his lap without a single ounce of shame.

You narrow your eyes. “You were in my room.”

He shrugs. “You left the door open.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

You’re still staring, mostly at the robe, but also at his chest where it gapes slightly. The top of the robe has slouched open, exposing the sharp line of his collarbone and just enough skin below it to be distracting.

Then you see the book he’s holding.

It’s familiar. The bent spine. The ripped corner of the cover. And then the awful, creeping realization hits you.

“Oh my god.”

He turns the book slightly, his face bright with mock surprise, like he’s posing with it. “Yours?”

You say nothing and Eddie grins.

“I was looking for something to do. You’ve got a surprising amount of these in that little box under your bed.”

“You snooped under my bed?!”

“Not for long,” he says casually. “Just long enough to find this masterpiece.”

He clears his throat and starts to read out loud, his voice sliding into something too slow, too amused.

“She whimpered against his mouth as his hand slid lower, his fangs ghosting over her neck like a promise. Her thighs parted of their own accord, desperate and trembling, begging to be—”

You move fast.

He yelps as you launch yourself over the back of the couch, trying to grab the book from his hands, but he holds it out of reach, twisting onto his side and pulling you off balance.

“You’re into this?”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried.”

He’s laughing and ducking, holding the book over his head as you climb fully onto the couch and reach for it again. His arm goes out. You scramble to follow. The robe slips farther off one shoulder. You grab the lapel for leverage without thinking, and he yanks away at the same time.

The motion pulls you forward.

Suddenly you're not kneeling anymore. You're straddling him.

The book hits the floor and the laughter dies in his throat.

It takes a beat for either of you to realize what just happened. Your hand is still on his chest, fingers splayed. The robe has fallen almost completely open, his skin cool under your palm.

His eyes flick up to meet yours, and everything else just... stalls.

There’s heat here, but it’s not just from the mess you’ve made. There’s something else, something wired tight and aching beneath the surface. His eyes catch the light strangely, a flicker of red that isn’t normal. He swallows. You do too.

Neither of you moves.

“You’re stronger than you look,” he says quietly, voice rough.

“You’re dumber than I thought.”

His mouth quirks like he might say something else, something worse, something closer to the thing neither of you will admit out loud, but you push off of him before he can. Not gently. You retreat two steps like it might protect you.

“I brought your dinner,” you say, voice stiff.

He sits up slowly, eyes still on you, but some of the teasing has faded. The robe slips back into place. He still doesn’t bother tying it.

You place the package on the coffee table and move to leave, fast, before he says something else.

He props himself up on one elbow, but doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you.

“Thanks,” he says finally. “For the groceries. And the porn.”

You roll your eyes and turn to go. Your pulse is still pounding in your ears.

“Aww you warmed it up,” he calls after you, his voice lighter now, trying to pull the tension back into something else. Something easier.

You don’t look at him when you say, “Don’t get it on the robe.”

You turn, ready to put this whole moment behind you, but just before you reach the top of the stairs, you pause.

You could go back and take the book with you.

You don’t.

“Okay, that one definitely wasn’t realistic,” Eddie says, gesturing toward the screen as the credits roll. “That guy got staked through the stomach and exploded like a firecracker. I’m pretty sure I still have a stomach.”

You shake your head and toss another handful of popcorn into your mouth. “You say that like you’ve confirmed it.”

He taps his chest lightly. “Still squishy. Still gurgles when I lie down too fast. I think I’d know if I were full of smoke and bats.”

The VHS whirs softly in the background as Eddie slouches deeper into the couch, legs stretched long, arms loose at his sides. He’s not touching the popcorn bowl between you. Hasn’t touched any of it all night, but he still keeps it within reach like he wants to pretend.

This is the third movie you’ve watched tonight. The first two were corny—cheap blood, bad wigs, women in billowy nightgowns. You laughed more than anything. But the third one is different. You didn’t pick it. Eddie did. He mentioned it like it was the crown jewel of the stack you rented, then shrugged like he didn’t care that much.

But he does. You can tell by the way he stopped talking halfway through.

The room is quiet now, dim. Just the glow of the TV and the occasional creak from the floor above.

Onscreen, the movie slips into a scene that’s… not subtle. Not pornographic, but sensual. Lingering. Hungry in ways that have nothing to do with blood. A woman’s hand sliding down another’s bare side. A flash of sharp teeth. The quiet gasp before skin meets skin.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

You shift in your seat and try not to be obvious about it. The popcorn bowl feels like a stupid barrier now.

Then, casually, like it’s not a trap, he says, “I read the rest of that book.”

You glance at him, wary. “Really. You’re bringing that up now?”

His eyes stay on the screen, but the corner of his mouth lifts. “Seemed topical.”

You don’t respond. You can feel the heat rise in your face and know he sees it, even if he’s pretending not to.

Another quiet moment. Another breathless sound from the screen. You steal a glance at him.

He’s closer than he was an hour ago.

You don’t remember moving. Don’t remember if he did either. But your knee is almost touching his now. His arm is relaxed on the back of the couch, not around you, not even brushing you, but close. Just enough to be noticed.

“You really like that stuff?” he asks, voice lower. Not teasing now. Something closer to genuine.

You blink at him. “What stuff?”

“The books. The... whatever this is.” He nods toward the screen. “You know. Like, in that way.”

You raise a brow. “In what way?”

He doesn’t take the bait.

“I don’t know. You just don’t seem like someone who would be into that kind of thing. Like, how you look. You were... popular.”

Your mouth presses into a line. Not angry. Just tired of the assumption.

“Looks can be deceiving,” you say.

He turns to you. Really looks.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “They can.”

You don’t say anything after that. Neither does he. But the moment stays, long and strange and full of something unnamed.

When you shift again, you don’t realize how close your thigh is to his until the backs of your knees touch. You start to move away, but he doesn’t, and somehow that feels like permission.

So you stay.

The next scene starts, but you don’t really watch it.

You’re not sure he does either.

"So..." He says, clearing his throat.

Does he even need to do that anymore? He speaks before you can really think about the answer.

"Is it like...the teeth that do it for you or like... the cold skin? Cause even I gotta admit that would be weird. If it was the second one. Cause thats too close to--"

"Oh my god, will you let it go!"

"I'm just asking!"

"It's none of your business."

"I mean, if I'm staying in your house, and reading your secret book porn, and stealing your clothes..."

"Eddie, seriously."

"I'm just saying, we're at least in the realm of personal questions here."

"It's the... taboo of it all." You mumble, not looking at him. The bowl of popcorn is suddenly very fascinating.

"Huh. So the cold skin thing."

"No, It's..." You sigh, feeling yourself blushing. "I'm not that much of a freak."

"That's not what I was saying."

"I just... It's not the cold. Or the blood. It's the... the fantasy."

"And the teeth?"

"The fangs are part of the fantasy, yeah."

He runs his tongue over his canines when you say that, mouth shut (for once), with a twisted up look on his face. 

"What are you doing?" You ask, trying not to laugh at him.

He looks at you then. "They're not like... super sharp. I mean, not like, during everyday activities."

"Oh my god, would you stop?"

He grins at that, and then the credits are rolling. The tape stops, the TV goes black. It's late. You have no idea when, exactly, but late enough that the light coming in the window has shifted. That thick silence comes back, more suffocating than before.

"They get sharper when I'm like, hungry or whatever." He says, leaning back against the counch, arms still spread wide along the back. He says it with so much nonchalance you can't help but laugh.

"How can you possibly be so comfortable with this? You're a vampire and you're talking about it like you're telling me about a bad hair day."

He smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes, but it's not totally fake. "Okay we technically don't know what I am exactly. Henderson is still trying to like, take weird DNA samples from me and Harrington wore a rosary the last time he was here."

It was true, once you confided in the party about Eddie, and the shock wore off, they'd been trying to get answers. They'd tried to sneak a crucifix past you one day and Dustin had been wearing garlic around him for the last week. You're pretty sure it wasn't even an actual rosary Steve had, just some beaded cross necklace he'd picked up at the thrift store.

"But, the way I see it," Eddie continued, "If I'm not dead, or like, going to kill someone, there's not much reason to freak out about it."

"You're a lot calmer than I thought you'd be." You said, and he chuckled.

"I'm just trying not to lose my mind, honestly."

You were quiet, and his smile faded.

"You can't keep doing this forever, right?" You say after a long pause.

"Are you saying you don't want to be secret roomies anymore?" He said with mock offense, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

"Eddie."

"It's cause it turns you on too much right?" He lets out an extra dramatic sigh, leaning his head back. "It's okay, I can tell when a girl is attracted to me."

You swat at him, and he ducks away, laughing.

"I'm just saying!" He raises his hands slightly ofs the couch back defensively. "It's understandable, and it's not my fault that--"

You grab the pillow from the corner of the couch and swing at him again, and this time he catches it, grinning at you like an idiot.

"You're so annoying." 

"And you're cute when you're flustered."

You open your mouth, ready to make some scathing retort, but his smile drops, just a fraction. He's looking at you now, not teasing. Not trying to get a rise. You can feel the change in the air. Something thick and charged.

"What?"

He doesn't say anything. He just sits, eyes fixed on yours.

And then he moves, faster than you expect. He's still holding the pillow. You reach out to snatch it back, but the angle is all wrong. You end up grabbing the pillow case instead. He doesn't let go.

"What?"

You're closer now. Too close.

He leans in.

You freeze.

Your heart is pounding, so loud it almost drowns out the sound of him. Of the rustle of his clothes, the soft sigh of breath. The whisper of something unspoken.

And then his nose is at your neck, and he breathes in, letting the pillow drop on the floor.

"This isn't funny..." You say, barely above a whisper.

He makes a noise, like a hum. He's so close you can feel his lips move when he says, "I know."

His fingers brush the edge of your collar. Your breath hitches.

"You smell like flowers."

"What?"

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye. His own are bright, feverish. The pupils are blown.

"The soap. It smells good. Like flowers."

His fingers trail down the side of your neck, then lower, tracing the line of your collarbone.

"I showered last night, you can't possibly..."

He smirks a little and taps his nose with his free hand. "Vampire senses."

You're about to scoff, but his expression changes. He looks almost shy.

"I like it. When you come home from work. Can always tell it’s you by the way you smell. I'd know it anywhere at this point."

His voice is soft. He's looking at you like you're not real, and his hand is still on your neck. Your heartbeat kicks up. His gaze flicks down.

"You're nervous."

"I'm not."

He laughs quietly, a huff of breath. His fingers move up your throat, along the edge of your jaw. His thumb brushes your cheek. Before you can tell him to stop, he's speaking again, softly.

"There's a vein here. Right beneath the skin. And if I did this..." He moves his fingers along the side of your throat, his thumb resting in the hollow where the carotid artery pulses.

Your breath stutters. He tilts his head slightly, like he's listening to something. A strange look passes over his face. His mouth twitches.

"And what," you say, voice cracking slightly, "you'd bite me there?"

"Uh, no... that would kill you." He says it so calmly, as if the thought of hurting you is the most absurd thing he's ever heard. "It's a lot less sexy in reality, believe me."

"How do you know?"

"Well, for one, anatomy was like, one of the classes I didn't totally suck at." He presses his fingers lightly against the pulse point, just enough for you to feel the pressure. Your breath hitches. "And for two, I can feel it."

"Feel what?"

"The way the blood moves under your skin. It's like... a little drumbeat. Right here." He presses a little harder, just enough for you to feel the pressure. His voice drops. "Fast."

Your hand goes to his wrist. Not pushing him away, not yet. But he notices the contact. His eyes flick down, then up.

"Are you afraid of me?"

"Should I be?"

"Come on. I'm an undead, possible vampire guy that you've hidden in your basement. You wouldn't have given me the time of day before this whole Vecna shit. Why start now?"

You hold his gaze.

"You're not the only freak in the room, Munson."

He smiles at that, crooked and real. "Sweetheart, you wanting a little sexy monster roleplay in the bedroom is one thing. Me not having a pulse is a whole other beast. Two entirely different types of freak."

You actually frown at him then, having had enough of his self deprecating bullshit tonight. "You're not even close to the scariest thing I've faced from the Upside Down."

He looks down, then away.

"Don't you think that if I thought you were dangerous, or some kind of threat, I would have run by now?" You add.

His gaze returns to you. "I guess."

"Well I didn't. And neither have the others. So.... yeah."

"Yeah."

Neither of you speak. Neither of you move. The moment drags on, a strange, fragile thing. He swallows. You hear it. Feel the way his fingers shift on your skin.

"So, uh, are we gonna talk about this, or just... keep staring at each other like weirdos?"

You raise a brow. "What's there to talk about?"

He blinks. "Look, I'm not like the most experienced guy out there, I know, hard to believe-"

You stare him down, daring him to keep going.

"Hey, put your dagger eyes away for a second, Miss Congeniality."

You snort, despite yourself, and he continues.

"My point is, you haven't moved my hand for the entirety of this conversation."

You realize, too late, that he's right. His palm is pressed flush against your skin. Fingers curled lightly around the side of your neck. Cold, but not uncomfortably so. Just different. Strange. Intimate.

"And, unless I'm crazy, which, who knows, maybe I am, you've got a vein in your neck beating fast enough that it's distracting, and I'm the one who can hear it. So I'm just going to ask. Once."

You swallow. His thumb shifts with the movement.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why haven't you shoved me off you yet? Because I'm not gonna lie, I'm a little worried that if I move too fast, I'll get another spatula to the chest."

"Well, the spatula was justified. We've been over this. It was the first thing I grabbed."

"Right. Of course. And right now you're grabbing at anything to deflect with."

"No, I'm not."

"Oh cool. Totally. Cool cool cool..."

He moves faster than you expect and his lips are on your neck agin, firmer this time and- oh. Okay.

His lips move along the column of your throat, slow and deliberate. Then you feel his teeth, just grazing the skin of your neck. They're definitely sharper than they were a few moments ago.

He kisses the underside of your jaw. Then the spot just below. Your pulse jumps.

"See, right there." He whispers.

You don't say anything. You can't. Your heart is hammering.

"That's the vein I was talking about." He says. "Carotid. Carries the blood straight to the brain."

"What are you doing?"

"Well," he says, his breath hot on your skin, "you're the one who said we shouldn't just stare at each other. And if the staring is getting too weird for you, this seems like a much more interesting alternative."

He leans in again, and your hand flies up. Not to stop him. Just to catch him, brace yourself, hold him, something. But that isn’t how he takes it.

"Hey..." He says, pulling back a fraction. "I wouldn't actually- I just thought, you know, you're doing all this stuff, helping me. And I can't really give much else in return, but you seemed to be into all that vampire stuff... forget it. I didn't mean to like, freak you out, or-"

He moves his hand from your neck to run through his hair. The absence of his touch is like ice water, a jolt back to reality. You miss it immediately.

"I don't need you to repay me."

"Yeah, no, I know, I just- it's hard, knowing that someone's doing all this and I can't really, like, reciprocate in the traditional sense, but I could at least..."

He's rambling. The words are spilling out of him, and it takes you a second to realize it's because he's nervous. Because he's worried he did something wrong.

"It's late." You say, firm but quiet, cutting off any more rambling.

"Yeah."

You stand, brushing off your jeans like the motion will make your hands stop shaking. The pillow is still on the floor. The popcorn bowl sits abandoned on the table, only a few half-popped kernels left. You can feel him watching you, waiting for something else to fall out of your mouth, another joke to break the weight of what almost happened.

You don’t give him one.

The stairs creak under your first step, then your second. You’re almost out of sight when you stop, hand pressed flat to the wall.

“You know,” you say, not looking back, “if you wanted to… whatever that was… it kind of sucks to hear it framed like some kind of repayment. Like I’d only want it because you don’t think you’ve got anything else to give me.”

The words hang in the air, heavier than you meant them to be.

Behind you, he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t make another crack. The silence is long enough that you finally glance over your shoulder. He’s still sitting on the couch, hair wild, robe half-tied again, looking at you like he’s not sure if you’re real.

“You don’t owe me anything, Eddie,” you add, softer now. “Not that. Not anything.”

His throat works like he wants to say something, but nothing comes. He just nods once, slow.

You turn and head upstairs. The door clicks shut behind you.

Down in the basement, he exhales, low and rough, and stretches out on the couch. The springs creak under his weight as he stares at the ceiling. For a while, he doesn’t move at all.

You toss the book across the room. It hits the wall with a dull thud and slides to the floor, the pages bending beneath its own weight. Normally you’d cringe at the thought of creased covers, of bent spines, but tonight you don’t care. You can’t read about love that feels dangerous without thinking about the monster in your basement, the boy who jokes about fangs and veins and yet looks at you like you’re the one that isn’t real.

A few days had passed since…whatever that was… happened in the basement. Since then it's been business as usual. You've even resorted to having Dustin bring him dinner sometimes so you didn't have to.

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling. The paint is chipped above the window. A crack runs like a fault line near the corner. You trace it with your eyes until your chest feels too heavy, then sigh and turn to face the glass. The night outside is quiet in a way your head could never be.

You reach over and switch off the little light on your nightstand. Darkness softens the room.

That’s when you hear it.

A faint scuff of feet in the doorway. The hinge creaks.

“You know,” Eddie says, voice low and rough in the quiet, “I thought you’d treat your books with more care than that.”

Your eyes snap open. You don’t turn to look at him. You sigh instead, dragging the sound out of your lungs. “What are you doing up here?”

He’s never been in your room before. Not when you were in it, anyway.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says.

You push up on your elbows, finally turning your head. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms loose at his sides, shadows painting him taller than he is. His hair is a tangled curtain around his face, his eyes shining faintly in the dark.

“I haven’t—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in. His mouth curls, but there’s no real humor in it. “I know when someone doesn’t want to see me. Believe me, I’m kind of an expert in that department.”

“You shouldn’t be up here,” you say, sharper than you mean.

His shoulders lift in a small shrug. “I know your parents aren’t here.”

Your heart kicks at your ribs. You sit up fully, legs crossed under you, and watch him step into the room.

He takes a few slow steps forward, and his gaze fixes on you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he looks away. “I know you’re lonely,” he says.

You don’t answer. You don’t even breathe for a second.

He comes closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that you can see the exhaustion carved into his face, the strange stillness that clings to him now. “And I know it’s not just the kind of lonely you can shake off with music or friends or keeping busy. It’s the kind that sits under your skin.”

You feel it, heavy and familiar, like he’s naming something you thought you’d hidden well.

His voice softens. “It’s the kind that goes deeper than you can ever really say out loud.”

You swallow. The silence presses in around you, thick and quiet, but it doesn’t feel empty anymore.

You don’t tell him he’s wrong. You don’t tell him to leave. You just sit there on your bed, watching him, and realize that maybe you’re not the only one who’s been carrying it alone.

"I understand lonely." He says, so quiet it's almost a whisper.

The admission hangs there between you, fragile and strange and full of things unspoken.

Neither of you speak for a long moment. You don't break eye contact. He doesn't move closer. The ball is in your court now.

"Do you want to sit?" You ask, patting the edge of the mattress.

He hesitates for a split second, then slowly steps closer, as if any sudden movements might make you run. The bed creaks as he sits, the springs adjusting to his weight. He doesn't look at you.

"Look," he says, and there's an edge to his voice, a hint of fear. "What I said the other day... about owing you..."

"Eddie-"

"I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

You pause. You've been thinking about this too, trying to figure out what you wanted to say when the time came.

"Then how did you mean it?"

"I just..." he sighs. "Okay, let me be a total cliche for a second here?"

He turns to face you now. You nod.

"You're like... this pretty girl who's been nice to me. And not because of any obligation, or some fucked up guilt, or anything. You're just... nice. For no reason. You let me stay here. You talk to me, and I don't mean, like, 'oh she talks to the local freak' but like, you actually listen to what I have to say. You could have easily had one of the others deal with me. Hell, even Steve, but you're the one who's always come through."

"It's the decent thing to do."

"Yeah, I know, but most people don't really care about that kind of thing, and... god, I'm bad at this."

He drags a hand down his face, the rings on his fingers catching the light.

"Okay. What I'm trying to say is, you're pretty and nice. And you're into some... sexy monster shit. Which, yeah, I've really made fun of you for, but you have to know its because I think it's hot--"

You can't help but smile, a little, and he pauses.

"Okay, fuck. I'm gonna say something stupid. If it makes you uncomfortable, just like, slap me or something."

You blink. "Okay...?"

"You're the kind of person that makes a guy wish he had a pulse again, just so his heart would beat faster every time you walked in the room. The kind of person who's worth fighting for, who makes the risk seem less terrifying. Who's worth the risk. The kind of girl that..."

He trails off, before speaking more quietly:

"The kind of girl a guy like me doesn't deserve."

You stare at him, unsure what to say. You're not sure if it's the lack of sleep or the shock, but your brain isn't coming up with the right words.

"And the last thing I wanted to do was make it seem like I was just trying to repay you. I just wanted to show you... something. That I liked you. In case it wasn't clear. But I guess the whole thing was kind of weird, and maybe it's been too long since I've actually touched someone like that, or maybe--"

"Sleep with me tonight."

The words tumble out of your mouth, unbidden, and the room goes dead silent.

His eyes widen, just a fraction. "What?"

"Uh... that was- I didn't mean, uh, the sex kind. Like, the, uh, sleeping kind. The, um... sleeping. Together."

The corner of his mouth twitches, just a bit. "Are you asking me to have sex with you or not?"

"No!"

He's smirking now.

"No. Just sleep. Next to each other."

"In your bed."

"Yes."

"In your room."

"Eddie."

"Right next to you."

"Jesus, would you quit it?"

"And we would just..."

"Just... sleep."

"And nothing else."

"Right."

"Like, no funny business."

"Oh my god, if you make me change my mind, I swear--"

"So there is a chance for funny business?"

"You're insufferable."

He moves to lay next to you in the bed, you under the covers, him still on top of them. You both lay there, looking at the ceiling.

"You can get under the covers. You don't have to stay on top. It's cold."

"I'm pretty cold too. Might not help."

"Try anyway."

He shuffles down, and the blankets rustle. Your knees are almost touching. His hair is still a mess, the strands catching the moonlight. He glances at you, and something flickers across his expression.

"I've never slept in a girl's bed before. Kinda exciting."

"We're just sleeping."

"Still. It's a milestone. I can brag about this tomorrow."

You can't help but laugh, the sound soft and low. "To who? Dustin? My dad?"

"Shit, no. Definitely not your dad."

You're both quiet for a second. Then he speaks again.

"This is the part where we kiss."

"What?"

"Like, in the movies. The big romantic climax. They're laying next to each other, staring into each other's eyes, and then they lean in, and--"

"Eddie. Go to sleep."

"I don't really sleep, remember?"

"Well then lay there and shut up."

"Fine."

You close your eyes, and you can feel his gaze on the side of your face. You try to ignore him. But its hard. The earlier conversations is still playing in your head...

"You're overthinking. I can feel it."

You open your eyes and look at him, propping yourself up on your elbow. "What makes you say that?"

"Your breathing got a little faster. Plus you're doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"The scrunchy, thinking-too-hard thing. Right here." He reaches out and runs his thumb across the space between your eyebrows. The touch is so soft you almost gasp. "Don't worry, I can't read your mind, y'know. The movies also got that one wrong."

"Can you even have sex?" You blurt out.

"What?"

"The whole... vampire thing. Can you, like, have sex?"

His brows shoot up and he looks like he's considering the answer, his expression going distant. "I'm not entirely sure, actually."

"Do you have like, a penis still, or--"

His head whipped around to face you, looking both shocked and slightly offended, before you could finish the sentence. 

"Why would I not have a penis anymore?!" He practically yelped, voice going a little higher than usual. "Where would it have gone?!"

"No that's not how I meant it--" You take a big huff of a breath, stealing yourself to talk about this calmly. "Look, you said you were good in anatomy? So you would know that in order for someone to get an erection there needs to be blood flow, which vampires lack, so logically, it would stand to reason that you couldn't have sex if you don't have a penis that works that way anymore. Unless there's some kind of supernatural, vampire dick magic or something that I don't know about, but even then, like, there has to be a lot of blood, right? Or like, the equivalent?"

"Vampire dick magic," he says, a little incredulously.

"You know what I mean."

He sighs and scrubs his hands over his face, laughing a little, though it sounds forced. "I honestly don't know. It's not exactly something I can just, like, look up or whatever."

You frown.

"Why the sudden curiosity about my junk, anyway?"

"You're the one who brought up 'funny business'," you say, making air quotes with your fingers.

"Okay, fair. But that doesn't mean we're gonna start talking about my dick like its a science experiment."

"Fine."

"Fine."

You're both silent again for a moment.

"You never actually said anything you know." Eddie says, softer. "To my whole, Mr. Darcy-esque confession. Just asked me to sleep in your bed."

"Oh." You say, feeling the blush spread across your cheeks. "Right."

You don’t answer him right away. The words linger in the space between you, heavier than either of you intended. You’re still staring at the ceiling, but the weight of his gaze pulls you sideways until you find yourself shifting onto your side. He notices. He always notices. His body follows yours, slow and hesitant, until you’re both turned toward each other in the half-dark.

The room feels smaller like this. The quiet is louder. His hair falls across his cheek, shadowing his eyes, but you can still see the flicker there, bright and uncertain.

“Maybe tonight,” he says softly, “we can just pretend I’m… some guy. Not a monster. Not a freak. Just… me.”

Your chest tightens. You shake your head before he can look away. “You’re not a monster, Eddie.”

He exhales, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. His hand lifts slowly, carefully, like he’s giving you time to stop him. When you don’t, his fingers brush into your hair, light as a whisper, settling just behind your ear.

His thumb traces the curve of your temple, and he leans in, close enough that you feel the cool of his breath. “Does ‘no funny business’ mean I can’t kiss you?” he murmurs.

Your heart lurches. You should say something clever, but the words stick in your throat.

So instead, you tilt forward, closing the last inch between you.

His lips meet yours, soft and tentative, as though he’s afraid the whole moment might shatter if he presses too hard. It’s sweet, almost shy, and it feels more like a question than a claim.

You pull back, just far enough to catch his eye. Your hand finds his cheek, and you trace his jaw, the line of his neck, until you feel where his pulse should be. You hold it there, your thumb against his skin.

"Sometimes it feels like a phantom pain," he whispers.

"What does?"

"My heartbeat. Sometimes I swear I can feel it."

The words settle, heavy and strange. You move closer. Your fingers slip down, past the hollow of his throat, over the ridge of his collarbone. He holds his breath, watching. Waiting.

"Especially when you're around," he says, voice low.

You kiss him again, a little harder now. He leans into it, his palm still cupping your cheek. When you feel his tongue, hot and insistent against the seam of your mouth, you let him in, letting him deepen the kiss. It's not frantic, but it is hungry. Like he wants to crawl inside you and stay.

It's both everything you fantasized about and nothing like you imagined.

He rolls you onto your back and kisses down the column of your throat, his lips finding the spot his thumb had brushed earlier.

"Eddie..."

He nips at the skin and you shiver. His teeth are sharper, somehow, but not so much that it hurts. Just different.

Then he pauses, and you look up at him, confused. He's hovering over you, one arm propped next to your head, the other on your waist.

"What is it?" You ask, eyebrows knit together.

"I'm going to respect your 'no funny business' rule. Just know that." He says, his grin already on full display for reasons you're unclear of.

You stare at him, mouth falling open slightly. "Uh... thanks?"

"I'm not a guy who rushes these things, okay? I'm a gentleman."

"Uh huh."

He leans in and kisses you again. And it's softer, sweeter. Still hungry, but in a different way. Like he's trying to savor you.

"I just want you to know..." he speaks in between kisses. "For your scientific curiosity, or whatever..." he smirks. "I'm, like, rock hard right now."

"You're an idiot."

"An idiot with a fully functioning dick." He leans his forehead against yours, his smile bright and crooked.

You laugh, loud and unexpected. The sound echoes off the walls. It's the happiest he's seen you since this all began.

"And if we were going to have sex," he says, grinning. "Which we aren't. Not tonight. But if we were... I think my junk would probably still work. And if it didn't, I'd find another way to make you happy. I'm nothing if not a giver."

"Shut up," you say, shaking your head.

"But I think we'll be fine. I have it on very good authority right now that everything's in working order. So, you know. Yay."

You swat him lightly, and he laughs, rolling off you and onto his back. You lay side by side again, but this time you're closer, your bodies pressed together, the heat of him radiating into your side. He turns his head, and you turn yours, and he looks at you like you're something precious.

You shift onto your side, curling toward him without even thinking about it. His arm slides beneath you naturally, pulling you closer until your cheek is against his chest. He smells faintly like smoke and clean cotton, something familiar threaded with something new and strange.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. The rise and fall of his chest is steady, but too deliberate to be real breathing. You realize he’s doing it for your sake, to make it feel normal, and somehow that makes your throat ache more than if he hadn’t.

“Eddie?” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

You smile into the fabric of his shirt. “You’re fine as you are.”

His arm tightens around you, fingers curling gently against your shoulder. He tilts his head so his lips brush your hairline when he speaks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For making me feel like I’m still… me.”

You look up at him then, but his eyes are already closed, his expression softer than you’ve ever seen it. He doesn’t need an answer, so you don’t give one. You just tuck yourself closer, sliding your hand to rest against his chest where his heartbeat should be.

He covers your hand with his own, holding it there. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

"And what 'part' is that, exactly?"

He gestured vaguely at you, at your pastel outfit and the little floral purse you had tucked behind the counter. "The Melody Records part. John's got a thing for lost causes, I guess."

You straightened up, pulling your shoulders back. The soft cashmere of your cardigan suddenly felt like armor. "Oh that is hilarious."

You let out an actual laugh at that as he stood there, eyebrow quirked and arms crossed. "Yeah? How so?"

"Eddie Munson. King of nonconforming, judging someone on their aesthetic." The words came out sharp, precise, each one a tiny pinprick. "My musical knowledge is just as deep as yours, I guarantee it. The fact that I like skirts doesn't mean I can't tell you the difference between black metal and death metal."

Eddie's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he recovered. He leaned against the counter, the worn wood creaking under his weight, and watched you, a new, more assessing light in his gaze.

"So the princess has bite," he mused, the nickname an experiment. "Alright, then. Go help him."

He nodded over to a man who had just walked in, leather vest creaking as he browsed the punk section. You recognized the patch on his back from a local band, The Flesh Riot. He looked lost.

"I could be wrong," you said, not moving an inch, "but something tells me he's looking for early UK anarcho-punk. I'd start him with a little Crass, maybe some Conflict. If he wants something more American, MDC's a safe bet."

You turned back to Eddie, raising an eyebrow in perfect, challenging symmetry to his earlier gesture. "Or I could just point him to the Taylor Swift section. Since I'm probably only qualified to sell that, right?"

A choked, surprised laugh escaped Eddie's lips. It was rough, unused, but it was real. He looked at the man, then back at you, and for the first time, the condescending amusement was gone, replaced by something grudgingly impressed.

"Let's just get you trained on the register system. It's older than dirt." Eddie sounded almost... subdued.

It had been three weeks. Three weeks of shared shifts, bickering over the correct way to file compilations, and the slow, steady erosion of Eddie's initial assumptions.

You were here together after close, doing your first Sunday night inventory together. The usual music was shut off, and instead some low folk you could both agree on played distantly on your phone.

That's when you heard the sound again. Skittering above you, like something was running across the floor upstairs.

"Oh my god, what is that sound? It's driving me insane." You groaned.

Eddie looked up from his clipboard, pausing for a moment. "There's an apartment upstairs."

"Okay. Who lives there? A bunch of rowdy gnomes?"

He shakes his head and looks back to his list, hiding a smile. "Nah, John used to back in the day before he married Marie and they had kids. Now he rents it out to some lowlife with a cat."

"There's been a random guy living above our workplace that I don't know, and you just... didn't tell me?" You stared at him, aghast. "For three weeks? You let me walk into the store alone for three weeks, knowing there's a stranger upstairs?" 

You slapped him on the arm, half-joking, half-serious.

He rubbed the spot where you'd hit him, feigning injury. "Hey! What was that for?"

"For being a terrible coworker! What if he's a creep?"

"Oh he's definitely a creep. The creepiest. Hear he worships Satan and sacrifices bunnies in the upstairs bathroom." He's looking dead at you as he says this, and you don't believe it for a second.

You roll your eyes and go back to tallying the 7-inch singles, but you can't shake the image of some pale, gaunt figure performing a dark ritual in the bathroom while you were stocking shelves downstairs.

An hour or so goes by and you're finally finished. Eddie walks you to the front door but doesn't head out with you.

"Uh, is there more to do? If you're going to stay and take all the extra hours that's kind of ass, Munson. I need money too." You said, half-joking, but still confused.

He just smirked and gestured upstairs. "I'm going up."

"To the devil worshipping, bunny sacrificialist's apartment?"

"Hey, he's also a really good cat owner and guitarist. Don't put people in a box." He says with a wink.

"Wait, you live here?" The question comes out as a choked whisper, a flurry of realizations hitting you all at once.

"Surprise," he says, but there's no malice in it now, just a weird sort of gentleness you haven't heard before. "Told you. Total creep up there."

He doesn't wait for you to process, just gives you a two-fingered salute and shuts the door behind you, locking it from the inside. You watch him head upstairs.

Another month goes by and you're early for your shift. Shivering from the cold, you hold a tray with two hot coffees in one hand, unlocking the door with the other. 

You and Eddie have built up a bond of sorts. You talk about music, of course, debating the merits of '80s goth versus '90s grunge until your voices are hoarse. He's learned you have a soft spot for sad, twee indie pop, and you've discovered his surprisingly encyclopedic knowledge of folk singer-songwriters.

The bickering is still there, but it's morphed. It's less barbed, more like a well-rehearsed routine. It's comfortable. Sometimes even bordering on flirting.

"It is like, freezing out there dude." You say to the store, assuming he's already downstairs. "I swear I am not built for the cold." 

You set the coffee tray down, shrugging off your pink peacoat and unwrapping your scarf. "Brought you coffee. But, don’t worry, it's black. Because I know you're too good for sugar and cream like a normal person." You're talking to the empty store, the words echoing slightly in the quiet space.

A floorboard by the back creaks and you turn, expecting to see Eddie. 

What does greet you is a woman, slightly disheveled in a way that screams 'I just had a very good night'. Her dark hair is a mess, and she's wearing what is unmistakably one of Eddie's sweatshirts over a tight black dress. She pauses, shoes in one hand and she looks just as surprised to see you.

"Oh!" You both say at the same time.

The awkwardness hangs in the air, thick and suffocating.

"Um... Eddie said the exit was down here but... I think I picked the wrong door."

"Yeah, the one on the left... goes out to the alley," you manage, your throat suddenly tight. "Easy mistake." 

As if on cue, you hear fast footsteps coming down the stairs, and Eddie appears, pulling on a t-shirt, hair a chaotic mess. He freezes when he sees you, then sees the woman, then looks back at you.

"Shit. Hey. Morning."

"Morning," you parrot back, trying very hard to look anywhere but at them.

This is fine. This is totally fine.

Why do you care what he does? It's his home, technically. He can have whoever he wants over.

But the image of her, in his sweatshirt, flashes in your mind. A hot, acidic feeling bubbles in your stomach.

She's pretty, in a way that is very different to you. Sharp, defined angles, a confident smirk. She's one of the sleek black cats to your fluffy pink kitten.

"So, this is awkward," she says with a small, breathy laugh, breaking the tension.

"Hey, no worries sweetheart, I'll walk you out. Left door, okay?" Eddie says, all charm and confidence. The nickname, the one he'd used on you that first day, now lands differently when directed at someone else. It feels cheap. Transactional.

The girl and Eddie disappear through the back door, her giving you an awkward wave. The silence that follows is heavy, loaded with unspoken things. You busy yourself with getting the register ready, the movements stiff and robotic. The back door opens and the shuts a few minutes later. You don't look up.

"Listen," Eddie's voice is low, careful. "About that."

"Don't," you cut him off, your own voice surprisingly steady. "You don't owe me an explanation. It's your... apartment. Your life." 

"Yeah, sure," he starts heading toward you and pulling his hair into a low ponytail. His neck had faint marks you pretended not to notice. "But it's also our workplace. And that was... not my most professional moment. I'm sorry."

You risk a glance at him. He looks genuine, which only makes it worse. You force a smile that feels brittle on your face.

"You're fine. I brought coffee." You point at the tray, changing the subject with all the subtlety of a foghorn.

He looks at the two cups, then at you. He picks up the one you designated as his, his name on it in your bubbly handwriting with a little heart, and takes a long sip. A small, genuine smile touches his lips.

"Thanks, princess," he says, the nickname falling between you, heavy with new, complicated layers. "This might just save my life."

"Speaking of... professional…" You finish counting the money. "I think you should probably stop calling me that."

He pauses mid-sip, raising an eyebrow. "Princess?"

"Yes. We're coworkers. Equals. It feels... demeaning. Now."

"Now?" A smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. You want to wipe it off with your own hands.

"Yes. Now," you snap, your carefully constructed composure cracking. "Maybe when I started I was your 'rookie', but I've earned my spot here. I'm not your princess."

For a long moment, he just looks at you.

Something flashes on his face that looks a lot like hurt, which is ridiculous. He nods, slowly.

"Okay. Fair enough."

"Good."

"Good."

The morning proceeds in a tense, quiet efficiency. The usual banter is gone, replaced by the sterile sound of tape guns sealing boxes and the rustle of plastic sleeves. You're pointedly not looking at him, and he's pointedly not talking to you.

"I don't, like, have women over every night or something." He says at one point, when there's a lull in customers. 

You pause. "I really didn't ask."

"I know, I know. I just... wanted to clarify that I'm not some... man-whore." He looks so awkward saying the words it almost makes you smile.

Almost. 

"Your neck says otherwise, Eddie." You retort, the words laced with a venom you didn't know you possessed. The instant it leaves your mouth, you regret it. It's none of your business.

"Jesus," he breathes out, running a hand over the faint purple marks. "I'm sorry you had to see that. It was... a one-time thing. She liked my band's set. We had a few drinks. It wasn't anything."

He looks so genuinely distressed, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, that your anger dissolves into a confusing, hollow ache.

"You really don't need to explain," you say, your tone softer now. "Who you bring home is your business. It was just... awkward."

"Yeah, no shit," he agrees, a little of his usual swagger returning. "I'll try not to bring anyone home who doesn't know their left and right from now on. Scout's honor." He holds up three fingers, a mock-promise.

You don't laugh. You just nod and go back to your work, the silence stretching on.

Eddie is fucked. 

It's been only a week since the awkward encounter with his one night stand. 

One week since you'd asked him to stop calling you princess. One week of being acutely aware of your presence, the scent of your fruity perfume, the gentle click of your heeled boots on the wooden floorboards, the way you'd hum along to whatever was playing on the store's speakers, a soft, off-key counter-melody that he found himself straining to hear over the actual music.

He is, as they say, completely and utterly fucked.

Because you weren't talking to him. Not full silent treatment, but not the easy bickering he'd come to rely on. The silence was a new form of torture.

It all came to a head when he'd been helping a customer find an obscure post-punk record, and when he'd turned to ask you a question about the stockroom inventory, he'd found you with your phone in your hand, a brilliant, genuine smile lighting up your face as you texted someone back.

The hot, possessive surge of jealousy was so potent it almost knocked him backward. He'd wanted to smash the phone.

It hit him like a ton of bricks that maybe he wanted you to be his. His princess. An honorific you’ve recently denied him from using.

"You're being really brooding right now." 

Gareth's voice, muffled by his mouthful of fries, pulled Eddie from his thoughts. 

"Yeah, man. You're doing more staring at that beer than actually drinking it." Jeff raised an eyebrow. 

It was Friday night at the Hideout and Corroded Coffin had just played a gig for a crowd of at least ten drunks. 

"I'm not brooding," Eddie grumbled, taking a large swallow of his beer.

He was thinking about the way your nose crinkled when you laughed. He was thinking about how he'd accidentally overheard you on the phone with your mom, your voice soft and sweet as you reassured her you were eating enough.

That. That right there was the problem.

"You're thinking about the new girl, aren't you?" Gareth grinned, a knowing look on his face.

"Her name is not 'the new girl'," Eddie snapped, a little too quickly. "And no, I'm not."

"Liar," Jeff chimed in. "You only get this constipated look when you're thinking about a girl."

Eddie's mind flashed back to that morning. The look on your face. The venom in your tone when you'd said, ‘Your neck says otherwise, Eddie.’ He hadn't been able to get it out of his head.

"She's not even your type, man," Gareth continued, oblivious to the inner turmoil he was stoking. "Isn't she like, all... pink and fluffy?"

"And she asked him to stop calling her 'princess'," Jeff added with a smirk. "That's gotta hurt the ego."

"It does," Eddie mumbled into his beer. "It really, really does."

He just shook his head and signaled the bartender for another round.

"She caught one of my... groupie conquests, trying to escape through the store," Eddie admitted, finally giving in.

Jeff and Gareth's laughter was loud and obnoxious.

"You're an idiot, Munson," Jeff said, clapping him on the back. "An absolute idiot."

"Yeah, well, tell me something I don't know," Eddie grumbled.

"So what's the plan?" Gareth asked, suddenly serious. "Are you going to, you know, talk to her? Like a normal human being?"

"And say what? 'Hey, sorry you saw me with another woman, but I'm actually hopelessly in love with the way you organize the vinyl'?" Eddie scoffed. "Yeah, that'll go over well."

"Just... talk to her, man," Jeff urged. "You guys have a lot in common, despite the... aesthetic differences. You're both nerds about music. Start there."

That night, lying in bed, the sounds of the sleeping city filtering through his window, Eddie couldn't stop thinking about you. 

The way you hairbow bounces a little when you danced behind the counter to some obscure power pop song he'd put on.

The way your face lit up when a customer would ask you for a recommendation you were passionate about.

Your perfect pink pout when he annoyed you.

Yeah. He was so fucked.

The next day you walked into the store and the air immediately felt different. Eddie was already behind the counter, furiously scribbling something in a notebook.

It was starting to snow, the weather app on your phone saying it was going to be a bad one, so you were grateful for the warmth of the store. You hung your coat and went to the counter.

"Morning."

He looked up, and for a second, you saw panic flash across his face before he slammed the notebook shut.

"Hey pri-" Eddie caught himself, jaw tightening. "Hey. Morning." The correction landed awkwardly between you, a placeholder for something more familiar.

You simply nod, and the silence stretches, filling the space with a thousand unsaid things.

"I'm surprised we're open. I doubt we're going to get a lot of customers in this blizzard." You said, trying to make small talk, anything to fill the void.

"You could have called out. I could handle it on my own. Not like I have a far commute. Just up the stairs." The tone was casual, but the offer was clear. A peace offering.

"No. I like the snow." You said, looking out the big front window. And it was true. You did. The way it muffled the world, turned everything into a soft, hazy dream. "Makes the whole city quiet."

Eddie watched you for a long moment.

Your nose was a little red from the cold, and you'd tucked your hair behind your ears. You looked so... soft. A stark contrast to the jagged, noisy feeling inside him.

You were right. There was barely any foot traffic all day. 

By the time the storm got pretty bad, John called, saying you two could close up early and get home safe. The problem was your car was buried, and Eddie knew even if you tried you wouldn't get far in it.

"You can, uh, wait it out at my place if you want," Eddie said, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly. "It's better than freezing in your car."

"My knight in shining armor." You deadpanned. "It's fine. I can walk." 

"You live across town. You'll be a human popsicle by the time you get to the main road." He said, locking the front door and flipping the open sign to closed. "C’mon. I'll make us some hot cocoa. With tiny marshmallows and everything. And you can meet Ozzy."

The promise of cocoa, with tiny marshmallows, was apparently your undoing. You hesitated for a moment, then nodded, a slow, reluctant bob of your head.

"Ozzy?" You asked, a small smile finally breaking through your defenses.

"My cat. The real ruler of the apartment, Prince of Darkness himself."

You followed him up the narrow, creaking staircase, your heart thumping a strange, uneven rhythm against your ribs.

The idea of being in his space, the space he shared with other women, sent a confusing mix of anticipation and dread through you.

His apartment was exactly what you expected, and nothing like it. It was chaotic, but a lived-in, comfortable chaos.

Guitars hung on the walls, surrounded by posters of bands you both loved and loathed.

A vintage leather couch was covered in mismatched pillows and a black fuzzy blanket.

It was a studio, so the bed was just there, half made and partially hidden behind a privacy screen. 

It was messy, but clean. And it smelled like him— incense, old wood, and something warm, like sandalwood and clean laundry.

Then, a sleek black cat with one enormous green eye padded out from behind the couch, the other eye a milky, cloudy white.

It made him look perpetually unimpressed with the world.

"And this is Ozzy," Eddie said, scooping the cat up with practiced ease. Ozzy tolerated the affection, purring a deep, rumbling engine against Eddie's chest. "Don't mind him. He's judging us all."

You reached out a hesitant hand, letting Ozzy sniff your knuckles.

"He's blind in that eye," Eddie said softly. "Found him in a dumpster behind the store. Someone, uh, wasn't very nice to him."

Your heart did a painful little lurch.

You looked from the scarred, one-eyed cat to the man holding him. The 'devil-worshipping' freak of Hawkins who rescued hurt animals. The contradictions piled up, making your head spin.

"He's beautiful." You say it softly, unsure which of the boys you were actually talking about.

Eddie's gaze caught yours, and for a moment, the air crackled. The unspoken things between you felt heavier than the storm raging outside.

"Yeah, well," he cleared his throat, carefully placing Ozzy back on the floor. "Cocoa. Right."

He busied himself in the small kitchenette, pulling out two mismatched mugs and a carton of milk.

You sat on the edge of the worn leather couch, hands clasped in your lap, feeling like an intruder in a life you were suddenly desperate to know.

A few minutes later, he came back with two steaming mugs, topped with a generous handful of tiny marshmallows, exactly as promised.

"Careful, it's hot." He set yours down on the cluttered coffee table.

You took a cautious sip. The chocolate was rich and dark, and the tiny marshmallows melted into a sweet, sugary foam on your tongue.

"Thank you." You murmur, wrapping your hands around the warm ceramic.

"It's no problem." He sat down on the opposite end of the couch, a careful distance between you. "So, uh, this is the place. Palace of sin, as John calls it."

You cough a little as he says that, almost choking on your marshmallow.

"He's joking, mostly." He adds quickly, misinterpreting your reaction. "He knows I'm not really sacrificing bunnies."

"I don't think that's why he calls it the palace of sin." You say quietly into your mug, and then you look at him. You look him directly in the eye, and it's the first real, sustained eye contact you've had since the morning with the girl in the sweatshirt.

"You really think I'm some kind of slut, don't you?"

The question hangs in the air, raw and unfiltered. It's not an accusation, not really. It's a genuine inquiry, and the vulnerability in it catches you completely off guard.

"No... I just..."

You what? Why did you care so much what he did or who he did it with? Why did you feel a heat pooling lower when his shirt would ride up or when he would stick his tongue out just slightly while concentrating?

You try to search for the words, to articulate the tangled mess of your feelings.

"I'm not judging you. I don't care who you sleep with. It's..." You trailed off, gesturing vaguely between you, the storm, the empty apartment. "I don't know what it is."

"Then what was that comment about my neck? That sounded a lot like judging." He's not angry, just… confused. A deep furrow of confusion between his brows.

"Because I was jealous, Eddie!" The confession bursts out of you, loud and uncontrolled. "I saw her. In your sweatshirt. And I hated it. Because she was... she looked like she made sense next to you. And I don't. And that makes me feel insane!"

The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the howl of the wind outside and the frantic thumping of your own heart.

Eddie's big brown eyes seemed even bigger now, wide and a little glazed. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

"You... what?" He finally manages to say.

"I was jealous!" You repeat, the admission now free, terrifying and liberating all at once.

"You were... jealous. Of... her." He's processing it, the words slowly arranging themselves into a coherent thought in his head. A slow smile spreads across his face, but it's not his usual smirk. It's something softer, a little dazed.

"Can we not? Look, I know I'm not your usual type. I'm not some cool, effortless rocker chick in black jeans and a band tee. I'm wearing a sweater with little embroidered daisies on it, for fuck’s sake. I just... I didn't expect it to bother me so much. Seeing you with... someone more your type." You finally look at him, and the vulnerability in your expression is raw, an open wound.

Eddie leans forward, closing the distance between you on the couch.

"You're an idiot," he says, and there's no venom in it. It's a mirror of what you'd said to him what felt like a lifetime ago, but this time it's gentle, almost fond. "A complete, beautiful, floral clad idiot."

You blink. "Beautiful?"

"Yes, beautiful," he says, his gaze unwavering. "And you think she's my type? Did you not hear a single word I said? She was a one-time thing. A... mistake. I was trying to get over this... girl I work with."

He takes your cocoa mug from your trembling hands and sets it on the table. Then he takes one of your hands, his calloused guitarist's fingers wrapping gently around yours.

"You're like, my dream girl. All pretty and soft but with this fire inside you. You know more about music than half the dicks who come in here trying to flex on me. You laugh at my stupid jokes. And for whatever reason, you seem to tolerate my general presence." He takes a shaky breath. "Honestly, I can't imagine why you'd ever give me a second look, but I am so glad you do."

The tears you were fighting back finally escape, tracing hot paths down your cold cheeks.

"I thought you were making fun of me," you whisper. "When you call me princess."

"I am, but it's affectionate! I think you're a princess, but like, a warrior princess. The kind who would totally behead her enemies but then cry at a sad movie." He's so close now you can feel the warmth radiating from him. "I like your little cardigans. And the bows in your hair. I like them so much."

You can't take it anymore. The tension, the longing, the weeks of misunderstanding, it all snaps.

You close the final inch of space between you, pressing your lips to his.

It's not a gentle kiss. It's messy and desperate, a collision of months of unspoken feelings. He tastes like cheap cigarettes and expensive cocoa, a combination that is somehow fitting. His hands come up to cup your face, thumbs stroking away your tears as the kiss deepens, becoming softer, more exploratory.

"Don't cry, princess," he murmurs against your lips, the nickname a caress now, a secret shared only between you two.

You shift, swinging a leg over his lap to straddle him, the worn leather against your knees and the seam of his jeans rough against the soft fabric of your tights.

He lets out a surprised laugh, hands moving to the soft curve of your hips. "Well, shit," he breathes, looking up at you with wide, adoring eyes. "Okay."

His hands grip your hips, and you can feel the hard press of him through his jeans.

"You're so pretty," he says, the words a low rasp against your skin. You lean down to kiss him again, a slow, deliberate press of your lips. This time, it's less desperate, more sure. His hands slide from your hips, up your back, tracing the line of your spine through the delicate embroidery on your cardigan. He's touching you like you're something precious, something he's afraid of breaking.

"I want this," you whisper, the confession a puff of air against his jaw. "I want you."

"You have me," he answers, his hands stilling on your back. "Eager girl."

With newfound confidence, your lips find the sensitive skin just below his ear, and you're rewarded with a sharp inhale.

"Let's," you start, a little breathless, "move this to somewhere not the couch."

"Right. The bed. Yes."

The journey is clumsy, a mess of tangled limbs and quiet laughter. He backs you towards the bed, and the backs of your knees hit the mattress, sending you falling back with a soft bounce.

He looms over you, blocking out the dim light of the single lamp in the corner, a shadow made of ink and want. He hooks a finger into your sweater, tugging it up and over your head.

You had layers on, a tank over your bra, a skirt, tights, leg warmers. You blush a little at how many items of clothing he'd have to work through.

"Aren't you a present," he mutters, his eyes raking over you. "Gonna let me unwrap you, sweet girl?"

All you can do is nod, a frantic little bob of your head.

His knuckles brush against your skin as he unbuttons your skirt, slowly pulling it down your legs. His eyes follow the path of the fabric, a dark, hungry look in them. He tosses it aside, leaving you in your tights and tank top.

"These have to go." He says, hooking a finger in the waistband of your tights. "I'll be good and not ruin them. This time."

He's careful as he peels them down, the fabric whispering against your skin. The cool air of the apartment hits your bare legs, and you shiver.

"Shhh, I've got you," he murmurs, leaning down to press a warm kiss to your knee, then another a little higher, on your inner thigh. "Gonna keep you warm."

His hands trail up your legs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin where your thighs meet your hips. The touch is feather-light, maddeningly teasing, and you can't help but arch into it, a silent plea for more.

"Let's see if we're on the same page." he whispers, as if he can read your mind. His fingers continue their slow, deliberate journey upward, and you feel a breath catch in your throat as he traces the edge of your underwear. He hooks a finger under the damp fabric, and your whole body tenses in anticipation. "Oh, yeah. We are definitely on the same page."

With a low groan, he kneels on the floor at the foot of the bed, pulling you flush against the edge. He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your clothed core, and the heat of his breath through the thin cotton is enough to make you gasp.

"Eddie..."

"Wet little thing already," he murmurs, his voice vibrating against you. "All for me? Just from a few kisses and some sweet talk?"

You can only manage a weak, desperate nod in response.

"Gonna treat you so good, princess." The nickname is a worshipful murmur now. "Gonna make you forget all about being jealous."

He finally slides your underwear down your legs, the cool air a shocking but welcome sensation against your slick heat. His hands gently spread your thighs, and you feel utterly exposed, completely vulnerable under the intensity of his gaze.

"Fuck," he breathes, the word a reverent whisper. "Look at you."

He leans in, and the first touch of his tongue is a revelation. It's slow, deliberate, a thorough exploration that has you writhing on the bed. He's not in a hurry. He's savoring every second, every sigh and whimper that escapes your lips.

"Mmm... this is my favorite flavor," he hums against you, the vibrations sending shivers through your entire body. "Wet, sweet, and all mine."

He focuses on your clit, drawing lazy circles with the flat of his tongue before switching to quick, precise flicks. Your hands find their way into his hair, the strands tangled between your fingers as you guide him, your hips bucking against his face in a desperate, needy rhythm.

"That's my girl," he praises, pulling back for a second to look at you. "So needy for me. Look at you, trying to fuck my face."

He's smiling, a smug, entirely too pleased smile, and you want to be annoyed, but all you can feel is a white-hot pleasure coiling tight in your belly.

"More, please, Eddie," you beg, your voice breathy and high.

"Anything for you, princess," he whispers, diving back in with renewed fervor.

He slides a long finger inside you, then another, the stretch perfect as he curls them just right, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. His tongue is relentless at your clit. His eyes are on you, so dark with lust they're almost black. 

He looks like the most handsome devil and you understand why this is a den of sin as your back arches off the bed, a silent scream caught in your throat. The orgasm crashes through you, a wave of blinding pleasure that leaves you shaking and breathless.

He doesn't stop, working you through it until you're whimpering, oversensitive and boneless.

"Please," you gasp, pushing weakly at his head. "Too much."

"Too much?" He grins, pressing a final, soft kiss to your oversensitive clit before crawling up your body to loom over you. "We're just starting."

His lips crash against yours, and you taste yourself on his tongue. The intimate flavor makes your head spin. You kiss him back with a desperate hunger, your hands roaming over the familiar planes of his back, feeling the muscles tense and shift under your touch.

He lifts his shirt off and then reaches for the hem of your tank top. You raise your arms, letting him pull it over your head, revealing the simple, lacy pink bra you wore.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of you. "Hiding these from me, were you?"

He reaches behind you to unclasp your bra with a practiced flick of his wrist, tossing it aside. His hands are on you then, cupping the weight of your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your already hardened nipples.

"God, I'm gonna worship these." He says, before leaning down to take one into his mouth.

He sucks and licks and nips, each tug sending a jolt straight to your core. Your back arches, pressing yourself closer, seeking more friction, more of him.

"Sensitive little thing," he murmurs against your skin before switching to the other, giving it the same, thorough attention. "Could probably make you come just from this, couldn't I?"

The thought alone is enough to make you moan.

"Yeah.. I bet I could. Maybe next time." He pulls away, a string of spit connecting his lips to your nipple. "Right now, I need to be inside you." 

He stands up, making quick work of his own belt and jeans, shoving them down his legs along with his boxers. He kicks them away, and your breath catches in your throat.

It's the prettiest cock, dark curls at the base, flushed and already beading with precum at the tip. You watch, transfixed, as he gives himself a few slow, deliberate strokes.

"Yeah?" His smirk is sinful. "You like it? Like knowing you did this to me?"

"Come here," you demand, your voice thick with want.

He moves over you again, settling between your thighs. He takes himself in hand, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal.

"I'm on the pill," you breathe out, a desperate last-ditch effort at coherent thought.

"Thank fuck," he groans, and then he's pushing inside you.

The stretch is a steady burn as he fills you inch by inch.

"Oh, fuck," he chokes out, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "Feel so... you feel so good."

You wrap your legs around his waist, your heels digging into his back, pulling him deeper.

"Dirty girl," he chuckles, the sound of a low rumble in your ear. "Want it deep, huh?"

His hips begin to move, a slow, rocking rhythm that has you seeing stars.

"Does the pretty, soft princess like to be fucked deep and hard?" The question is a taunt, a dare, and you answer with a sharp buck of your hips, taking him even deeper. "Yeah she fucking does." 

He rears up, grabbing your hands and pinning them above your head with one of his, lacing your fingers together. The other hand grips your hip, holding you steady as he picks up the pace.

"Perfect for me, aren't you?" He breathes, his eyes locked on yours. "Soft and sweet on the outside, but underneath, you're a dirty little thing. My dirty little thing."

"Just for you..." It comes out a whiny moan as he starts to pound into you, the headboard of his bed starting to tap against the wall.

"My good girl." He claims. The rhythm is punishing, a driving beat that pushes you toward the edge again. "Letting a monster like me defile your pretty little body."

The coil in your belly is winding up again, tighter and hotter than before.

"I'm close," you gasp, your nails digging into the back of his hand. "I'm so close."

"Mm yeah, baby. Can feel it. But you're gonna give me a few aren't you?" He coos. His pace changes to deep, grinding thrusts, the coarse hair at the base of his cock grinding deliciously against your clit. "Gonna soak my dick again and again before I'm done with you."

You whine his name as your orgasm washes over you, the pleasure so intense it borders on pain. Your walls flutter around him, gripping him tight, and he groans, a long, deep sound of satisfaction.

"Oh yeah... I'm going to make you do that again," he pants. "Look at you, can't even stop shaking."

Before you've even come down, he's flipping you over. He pulls your hips up, guiding you to your hands and knees.

"This okay?" He whispers in your ear, checking in even now, the consideration a stark contrast to the raw, primal fucking.

You nod, pushing back against him, a wordless plea for more. He eases back in, the new angle hitting even deeper.

"Jesus... look at that," he breathes, his hands gripping your ass, spreading you wide so he can watch himself disappear inside you.

He starts moving again, a faster, harder rhythm that has the headboard slamming against the wall all over again. 

"Wish you could see the way this pretty pussy swallows me," he growls, punctuating his words with sharp, deep thrusts. "So greedy for me. Taking my cock so well."

His words are filthy, a string of praise and degradation that makes your head spin.

"I'm gonna have you on every surface in this apartment. The couch. The kitchen counter. Up against the window where anyone could see."

The image flashes in your mind, and a fresh wave of arousal gushes around him. "Oh you filthy fucking thing. You'd like that wouldn't you? Want someone to see what we do? See how good you take me?"

You're reduced to a series of desperate sobs and whimpers, your brain too foggy with pleasure to form a coherent response. "S'good... f-feels so..."

"Yeah, I know, princess," he pants, one of his hands snaking around to find your clit. "Got you stupid on my cock, don't I? Just a pretty, brainless mess for me."

He circles your clit with a rough thumb, and that's all it takes. The next orgasm rips through you, violent and overwhelming.

He leans over, kissing your shoulder as your body trembles. "There we go... I want one more."

"Eddie..." you protest, the word a weak puff of air. "Can't..."

"You can," he insists, his voice low and demanding. "You will."

And he proves it.

He pulls out, turning you onto your back once more. The sheets beneath you are damp, a testament to your pleasure. He looks at you with such awe, a reverence that makes your heart ache.

"My messy girl," he murmurs, spreading your legs wide. "Fucking perfect."

He slides back in, the sensation of him filling you again almost too much, and yet exactly what you crave.

Your thighs are pressed against your chest, a position that has him impossibly deep. He moves slowly this time, deep, grinding thrusts that stoke the fire in your belly all over again.

"Yeah... gonna give it to you nice and slow," he breathes, his forehead pressed against yours. "Make you feel it."

"Feel you everywhere," you whimper, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. "Everywhere..." 

"You're so beautiful like this," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "All fucked out and begging. Never seen anything prettier."

The praise is your undoing. You can feel another orgasm building, a slow, deep wave that promises to be the most intense of all.

He keeps kissing you as your thighs begin to shake. It's a slow, deep, bone melting thing. You're not even making loud noises anymore, just a constant mewl into his mouth.

Then you feel him start to lose rhythm, you pussy clenching him like you never want to let him go.

"M'close... fuck... princess, you're gonna make me... make me cum... " He grunts, burying his face in your neck, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a long, shuddering groan.

His release is warm and there's so much of it that it leaks out around him, but he doesn't pull out right away.

He stays there, a heavy, comforting weight on top of you, as you both catch your breath.

"Please don't pull out," you beg, clinging to him. "Not yet."

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound in your ear. He rolls over, taking you with him, so you're sprawled across his chest, still connected.

"I'd never pull out if I didn't have to eventually," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. He was still buried deep, softening slowly inside you. "We can stay like this as long as you want."

He shifts slightly, and you can feel a little more of him slip out. You try to clench around him to keep him in place, a futile, desperate gesture.

"Sweetheart... easy," he soothes. "We've got all night. And tomorrow. And every day after that, if you'll have me."

He pulls a blanket over your tangled, sweat-slick bodies, cocooning you in warmth.

"Like... dating?" you ask, your voice muffled against his chest.

He laughs. "No, like I'm planning on keeping you as my sex prisoner in my den of sin." He says sarcastically, then his tone gets serious. "Yes, like dating. Fucking obviously. I've been pining over you for months. You think I'm just gonna let you walk away after I finally got you into my bed?"

The idea of him pining, of Eddie Munson being just as wrecked by this quiet, aching tension as you were, makes your heart swell.

"I'd like that," you whisper. "The dating thing. Not the sex prisoner thing."

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your hair. "Good to know. Glad we got that cleared up. But I mean... if we're talking roleplay..."

You swat at his chest, but it's a weak, lazy motion. You feel him soften completely, finally slipping out of you. You whimper at the loss, a sudden, hollow ache.

He kisses your forehead, murmuring against your skin. "Let's get you cleaned up, princess."

He's gentle, so surprisingly gentle. He disappears into the small bathroom and returns with a warm, wet washcloth. You expected him to just toss it to you, but instead, he kneels on the bed beside you and carefully, meticulously wipes you clean.

"Really did a number on you, huh?" A soft, proud smile on his face as he looks at the mess between your thighs. "All full and swollen. Perfect."

You hide your face in your hands, a fresh wave of heat flooding your cheeks.

"No, no. Don't hide from me." He gently pulls your hands away, leaning down to kiss you, a slow, deep, claiming kiss. "Come on... shower and pee time. Maybe round two if we're lucky."

He pulls you to your feet, and your legs tremble, almost giving out from under you.

"Woah there." He catches you, scooping you up into his arms with a grunt. "I've got you. And the princess gets carried to her throne, apparently."

You can't help but laugh as he carries you into the tiny bathroom.

After you've both showered, the hot water a welcome ease to your sore muscles, he leads you back to the bed, pulling on a fresh pair of boxers before handing you a t-shirt of his, an old Metallica one that's been washed so many times it's soft and worn.

You pull it on, getting into bed next to him. Ozzy jumps up to join you, curling into a ball against your stomach with a deep, rumbling purr.

"See? He approves," Eddie murmurs, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close. "And Ozzy is a very good judge of character."

You snuggle into his side, your head on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heart.

The storm has passed, and outside, the world is quiet, blanketed in a fresh layer of snow.

Inside, you're warm and safe in your own private palace of sin, the world outside melting away until there's only the two of you, and the comforting weight of a one-eyed cat, and the promise of every tomorrow.

'this IS music!' [eddie taglist]

“I am not.”

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

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

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

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

You became very aware of how close he was.

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

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

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

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

But he didn’t look away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” he breathed out.

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

"I don't have pajamas." 

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

"Me neither."

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

"I don't want to sleep in my jeans." 

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

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

You think about the black thong you have on.

"Eddie?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not really wearing underwear underwear."

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

You took a breath.

"I'm wearing a thong."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Right. Okay." 

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

You slip under the thin covers and wait.

"Okay, done. You're good."

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

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

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

You just nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"...What?" 

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

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

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

His whole body went tense.

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

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

You were too quiet.

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

It was just... shocked.

"Really?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scrunch your nose up at his verbiage. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slowly, you rolled back over.

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

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

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

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

"Eddie..."

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

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

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

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

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

Eddie was still just staring, processing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Unfortunately?" You raise a playful eyebrow.

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

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

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

"Messing what up?" you whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

Instead of explaining more, he started to lean in.

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

But you didn't stop it. 

Not when his hand came up to cradle your face. 

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

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

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

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

And the second one was perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're staring."

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

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

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

"Hey!" He yelped, jumping a little.

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

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

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

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

He was hard. You could feel him. 

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

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

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

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

He pulls away, breathless.

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

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

He looked like you'd just slapped him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn't help the way your hips started to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that had you both gasping for breath.

"Can't believe you're wet for me," he said, his voice laced with a kind of awestruck disbelief. He lifted you up and adjusted you to where he could feel you better, a small moan leaving his lips at the contact.

"Can't believe you're this big," you shot back, more of a sigh than a statement. 

"Yeah? You like that?" The words were a low growl against your skin as he lavished your other nipple with attention.

"Mhm..." You could only manage a small hum, your mind going hazy with pleasure.

He's so hard. So hard that it's almost painful. You needed to feel him. All of him. You started to reach for the waistband of his briefs, but he stopped you, his hand covering yours.

"Hey, no." His breath hitched. "Not yet. Let me... let me do something for you first."

Before you could ask what he meant, he was shifting you, maneuvering you until you were on your back and he was settled between your thighs. He pushed your legs apart with a gentle pressure of his hands. And then he was leaning down, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his breath warm against your skin.

You could only nod, your throat too tight to speak. He moved higher, pressing a trail of open-mouthed kisses up your inner thigh, stopping just short of where you desperately wanted him.

"You really want to?" Your own surprise at the question was evident.

"I've been dreaming about this," he admitted, his voice a raw, honest confession. "For a long, long time."

And then he was there, his tongue sliding against the fabric of your thong. The wet heat of him through the thin lace was almost enough to send you over the edge.

"Oh god... no wonder girls like this in pornos." Your legs start to shake a little as your hands find their way into his hair.

"You watch pornos?" He looks up at you from between your legs, a slow grin spreading across his face. "My dirty girl."

He didn't wait for an answer, just hooked his fingers into the sides of your thong and pulled it down your legs. He tossed it over his shoulder, and it landed somewhere in the vicinity of your discarded shirt.

"I feel like I'm supposed to pray to this," he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Like a holy relic."

You let out a shaky laugh. "D&D references aren't exactly what I'm looking for right now, Eddie."

"No? So you don't like my DM voice? 'You enter a beautiful, damp cavern... the walls are slick with moisture...'" He was  on you then, his tongue finally, finally making contact with your pussy. The feeling was so intense, so overwhelming, you couldn't help but cry out.

His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open for him as he explored you with a desperate, hungry curiosity.

"Guide me," he mumbled against your folds. "I don't know what you like. Tell me."

"Your... your tongue," you gasped out. "On my clit. When I... touch myself I just focus there... "

He hummed in acknowledgement, and then he was following your directions, his tongue finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it with a slow, deliberate pressure. He was a quick study, and it wasn't long before you were writhing beneath him, your hands fisted in his hair, your hips bucking against his face.

"Mmm, feels so much better than my fingers." You whined, the pleasure coiling tight in your belly. He was good. So, so good. Better than you had ever imagined. And you had imagined this. A lot.

He pulled back for a second, his chin shining with your arousal. "Show me how you do it," he said, his voice thick with desire. "Show me what you like."

You hesitated for a beat, the vulnerability of the request hitting you. But then you looked at him, at the open, eager expression on his face, and you couldn't deny him anything.

You reached down between your legs, your fingers finding your clit easily. You started to rub slow circles, the motion practiced, familiar.

"God..." He groans. "You ever think about me? When you do this?"

Your fingers stutter. You look down at him, at the hope and the lust warring in his eyes.

"Only since last year," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "When you wore that ripped t-shirt to the fair. I could see your... happy trail..." 

He just stared, completely floored.

"Fucking Christ..." He pinched his eyes shut as he palmed himself through his boxers before he dived back in with a new enthusiasm.

He watched you for a moment, and then he joined in, his tongue prodding your entrance and licking at your fingers as you pleasured yourself. It was a messy, clumsy, and incredibly erotic sight.

"Fuck, Eddie, I'm so close," you moaned, your hips moving in a frantic rhythm against his tongue and your own hand.

He redoubled his efforts, nudging your hands away with his nose and sucking your clit into his mouth and flicking it with his tongue. It was the final push you needed, and you came with a cry, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm.

He didn't stop, not right away. He kept licking you, his tongue gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. It was as if he just loved your taste, greedy for more. Finally, he pulled back, a look of pure, unadulterated pride on his face.

He crawled up your body and kissed you then, a messy kiss that tasted of your release.

"Damn, I'm gonna get addicted to that," he murmured against your lips.

You just hummed in response, your body still buzzing with pleasure. You could feel his erection pressing against your thigh, a demanding presence.

"Let me..." you started, your hands trailing down his chest to the waistband of his briefs. "Let me return the favor."

"Yeah?" His eyebrows raise.

You answered by tugging the briefs down, freeing him. He kicked them off the rest of the way, and then he was completely naked, the dim light of the motel room casting him in a warm glow. He was beautiful.

He knelt between your legs, giving you a perfect view. He was long and thick, the head flushed a dark pink, a bead of precum glistening at the tip.

"I've never seen a real one in person," you confessed, your voice filled with awe.

He flushed a little, a rosy blush spreading across his chest. "Well, it's not going to win any awards. It's pretty standard issue."

"It's bigger than my dildo," you blurted out, then immediately regretted it.

Eddie's head tilted, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. "You have a dildo?" He leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm learning a lot about your sexy habits tonight."

"I'm a virgin, not a nun." You said defensively, a call back to his confession earlier.

"I know. I'm not judging. I'm celebrating." He kissed you again, a quick, hard press of his lips. "Now, were you about to do something?"

You reached out and wrapped your hand around him. He was hot and hard, the smooth skin a stark contrast to how rigid he was. He let out a sharp hiss of breath, his hips jerking forward.

You started to stroke him, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, the way you'd read about in a magazine.

"Jesus, that's... yeah," he groaned, his head falling back. "Just like that."

You watched him, mesmerized by the way his face contorted with pleasure. The way he was so open and unashamed of it.

"You know, when you said the thing about your... toy," he said, his breath hitching as you ran your thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. "Am I really bigger?"

You smiled, a genuine, sly smile. "Considerably."

"Fuck." He seemed genuinely pleased by this information. "That's... good to know. For my ego."

He watched you for a few more moments, your hand working him with a steady rhythm. Then he reached down, stilling your movements.

"Okay, stop," he breathed, his voice strained. "I'm not going to last if you keep doing that."

You looked up at him, a question in your eyes.

"I want..." He swallowed hard. "I wanna be inside you."

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning.

"We won't be virgins anymore." You say, soft and immediately feeling stupid for it. Of course he knew that.

His expression softened. He leaned down and kissed your forehead. "I know." He was so close, you could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your chest.

"I want that," you said, your voice firm. "With you."

He let out a long, shuddering breath, as if he'd been holding it for an eternity.

"Is it weird I'm nervous? I feel like that's weird for a guy." He admitted.

"It's not weird." You promised. "I don't think nerves are gendered."

He kissed you then, a slow, deep kiss that was full of all the things he couldn't seem to say. All the want and the hope and the fear. He only broke the kiss, to reach over the other side of the bed and fumbled in the pocket of his discarded jeans.

"I swear I keep this in my wallet all the time. Not because I was expecting... well this." He said as he pulled out a little foil square.

The crinkle of the wrapper was the only sound in the room. He tore it open with shaky fingers and rolled the condom on with an efficiency that belied his earlier fumbling.

He settled back over you, his elbows on either side of your head, caging you in.

"I can't believe I'm going to have sex with you." You whisper, looking into those consuming brown eyes, your fingers tracing the dimples that start to form when he smiles down at you. 

"Me either," he said, and there was such a raw, honest wonder in his voice that it made your chest ache. "If I'm being totally honest? I'm pretty sure this is a lucid dream I'm having after eating all that bad gas station pizza."

You laughed, a bright, happy sound that filled the small room.

"It's real." You promised.

"Okay." He takes a deep breath. "Okay."

He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your wet folds. He paused, looking at you one last time, giving you a final chance to change your mind.

You answered by wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

He pushed a little inside you with a slow, steady pressure.

It was a strange, unfamiliar sensation. A stretching, aching fullness that bordered on pain. You couldn't help the small whimper that escaped your lips.

He stopped immediately, his whole body tensing. "You okay? Am I hurting you?"

"Are you all the way in?" You asked, your breath hitching.

He shook his head. "Not even close. You okay?"

You nod. "It's a lot. Keep going."

He pushed a little deeper, a slow, inch-by-inch invasion that made you feel like your body was being remade to fit him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and he kissed up your neck and over your face. Each new press of his lips a welcome distraction from the dull ache between your legs.

He finally was all the way in, his hips flush against yours. He stilled, giving you a moment to adjust.

"Okay." You breathe out.

"You okay?" He repeated against your lips, breathless from his own pleasure. 

"Yeah just... don't move too much yet."

"You feel so... incredible. It's..." He trails off as he shifts a bit, pulling just out a little and pushing back in.

You both groan. The pain started to fade then, replaced by a different kind of ache. A deep, throbbing need.

"Okay," you breathed, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Okay, you can move."

He started to move then, a slow, gentle rocking motion that was worlds away from the frantic rutting from earlier. Each thrust was a hesitant exploration.

You moved with him, your hips rising to meet his, your body learning the rhythm of his.

"Sweetheart..." It came out as a mix of a groan and a whine, you've never heard him sound sexier.

He started to move faster, a little harder, his control starting to fray. He was panting against your neck, his breath hot and damp. His hands were everywhere, on your breasts, your hips, your ass. 

"Eddie... talk to me..." You whine as he hits a spot deep inside you that made you see stars.

"What do you want me to say?" he gasped, his hips snapping against yours.

"Anything... dirty talk... something... my ears..."

He let out a shaky laugh, a sound that was half-arousal, half-nervousness before leaning down into your ear. "You feel so good. So tight. All I've thought about for the last year is what it would feel like to be inside you."

You moaned. You felt your pussy clench around him, your body responding to the dirty words. He pulled back to watch your face, a look of pure, unadulterated lust on his face.

"Yeah? Want me to keep going? Tell you how I've jacked off to the thought of your tits?"

You could only nod, your words lost in a haze of pleasure.

"Or maybe it was your ass. In those tight jeans you wear. God, the things I wanted to do to you." He punctuated the words with a particularly hard thrust that made you cry out. "Wanna kiss you until you're dripping for me. And I did tonight. Dripping all over my tongue."

His words were filthier than you ever would have imagined, and it was pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"You're so wet for me. You're taking my cock so well." He groans, his forehead resting against yours. "You're all I want. Just... you."

The last words were a raw, honest confession that went straight to your heart. You were the one to kiss him then, a desperate, messy kiss that was all teeth and tongue and need.

"Touch yourself again," he practically begged against your lips. "Please, I love seeing it." He didn't want to finish before you did. And he also liked watching.

You didn't hesitate, your hand snaking down between your bodies to find your clit. You started to rub in tight, fast circles, the dual stimulation of him inside you and your fingers on your clit almost too much to bear.

"Its too good, Eddie." You whine, a high pitched desperate sound he's never heard you make.

"Let go," he commanded, his voice rough and hoarse. "Let me feel your pussy wreck me."

His words were the final push you needed. You came with a strangled cry, your body arching off the bed, your inner walls clamping down on him. The force of your orgasm was enough to send him over the edge too, and with a hoarse shout of your name, he came, his hips pistoning into you as he emptied himself into the condom.

He collapsed next to you, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat. The room was silent, save for the sound of your ragged breaths and the ancient motel air conditioner.

After a long moment, he propped himself up on an elbow and looked at you, a slow, dazed smile spreading across his face.

"If you don't want to be my girlfriend after this, I think I might actually die."

You laugh, reaching up to push a damp curl away from his forehead. "Well, we can't have that."

He leaned down and kissed you, a soft, sweet kiss that was a world away from the frantic, hungry kisses from before.

"So... is that a yes?" he asked, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Are you going to go easier on me during Hellfire?" You counter.

"Never." He grins. "You have to earn your honor just like everyone else."

"Then yes," you said, and the word felt like a promise. "Yes, I'll be your girlfriend."

He looked so happy you thought your heart might burst. He kissed you again, and again, and again, as if he couldn't get enough of you.

"Gonna 'kiss me till I'm dripping'?" You tease, your fingers tracing the lines of his collarbones.

"Very funny. Give me ten minutes and another slice of that gas station pizza," he mumbled against your skin, making you laugh.

He eventually got up to dispose of the condom, and you took the opportunity to look at him. Really look at him. The long, lean lines of his body, the scattering of tattoos, the way his hair curled in all directions. He was yours.

He came back to the bed and pulled you into his arms, your head resting on his chest. You could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.

"I'm never going to get tired of this," he said, his voice a soft rumble in his chest. "Of you."

You tilted your head up to look at him. "Me neither."

You lay like that for a while, a comfortable, easy silence settling over you. The events of the night replayed in your mind, not just the concert or the sex, but everything beautiful that had happened in this small, ugly motel room.

eddie stands in front of you, teeth picking at his loose skin around his thumb as you're seated in the center of his bed. it's not a new occurrence, it's routine at this point (wayne was kind enough to let you in when hellfire dragged on a little too long tonight) — what's new is the crumpled piece of paper in your hand, the one you had found beneath his pillowcase.

"say something, sweetheart, you're killing me here—"

your eyes flick up from the page to his antsy expression. he's never seen you so unreadable before. it's been a good amount of time since he's officially asked you to be his girl, neither of you are strangers to having sex either. his mind is racing as he tries to gauge your reaction.

"i'm not mad, babe—" he releases a breath he's been holding since he walked into his room to see you holding that goddamn list, "—i just wanted to ask. did you write this before you and i got together or after?"

the worries he's been holding disappear, a shit-eating grin on his face when he catches a hint of that jealousy that burns bright. it's a rare thing, your little green monster; you're most definitely out of his league and opportunities of you getting jealous is least likely to happen than him getting jealous. so he likes to milk it for as long as he can.

"before." he relishes in the way your pretty eyes flare but he makes sure to reassure you immediately, kneeling by the bed with his big hands on your thighs. "before we got together but not before i knew i had to make you mine, princess."

your jealousy slowly ebbs away before rolling your eyes lightly. "nice save, munson."

he chuckles and darts in to steal a kiss, sighing softly when he tastes that cherry lip gloss you've taken to wearing around him. his hands are warm when they slide up your jeans, fiddling with a belt loop as he deepens the kiss. "so... what'd you think about the list?"

"i think..." your lips never part too long from eddie's, your arms wrapped loosely around his neck. "... we should get started on them. i plan on fulfilling each one with you."

he groans dramatically and steals a searing, wet, open-mouthed kiss from you. "i'm gonna make you mrs. munson one day, i swear."

“I just… forgot my stuff from Friday,” he said, softer now, hovering near the door.

You adjusted your costume, pulling the cloak from the rack and over your shoulders, so the generous swell of your breasts or softness of your arms wasn't as visible.

You turned to the table he was gesturing at, the one you assumed he used for his game, large throne at the end of it.

"Oh. Yeah, you can go grab it. I was just... trying on my costume for the play." You say it as casual as you can, but you can see the wetness in your eyes in your reflection.

He nods and takes a tentative step inside, then another, moving quietly as if afraid to disturb the dust dancing in the slanted light. He doesnt't grab for anything at the table, just stopped a few feet away.

You both look at each other in the mirror. You, in your half-finished, half-realized costume.

"Are those tears of joy because you got the lead?" He asks, lopsided grin making one of his dimples deepen. "I saw the cast list. Knew it would be you."

The directness of it, of him, is what does it. One perfect, hot tear escapes, sliding down your cheek.

“Something like that, yeah.” You whispered, your voice cracking.

You see his expression change immediate in the reflection. It softens around the edges. He steps closer, the worn toes of his boots stopping just a pace or to behind you.

You've always thought Eddie was way less scary than some of the girls would say. Maybe because you were a 'freak' of a different kind, drama club not exactly in high social ranks for Hawkins High.

You two were friendly, orbiting the same social circles. He was always kind to you, but you'd never been close.

“Hey.” The grin is gone. “What’s wrong? Isn't theater like, your whole thing?"

You wipe at your eyes a little.

"Yeah... it's just..." you wave a hand vaguely at your body, now mostly covered by the cloak. "Not really sure I fit the role."

This takes Eddie by absolute surprise, evident by his big brown eyes somehow widening even bigger.

"Um, you literally do every show? Every year? You're like... the best actress in this whole shithole school. I've seen your monologues, you're like... really fucking good." He gestures with his hands when he talks, big, dramatic motions. "And I know about monologuing, let me tell you."

That does get a small wet laugh from you. "I meant more like... the costume."

It comes out softer, and you don't really know why you're admitting this to him.

Eddie clears his throat, hands in his vest pockets as he rocks on his heels a bit. "No. Right. Yeah. That... that fits you really fucking good too."

Internally he's cringing at his own words, but in his defense, the idea of you thinking it doesn't work for your body is insane to him.

He had to actively make sure to keep his eyes on your face when he first walked in. The cloak around you now made him both thankful and annoyed.

You're not sure if it's the tears making your vision blurry or just him, but Eddie Munson looks... different. He's always loud, animated in the halls or lunchroom, a whirlwind of wild hair and dramatic gestures. Here, in the quiet half-light, he feels less performative.

Here, he makes you feel safer than the rest of your drama club. So you take the cloak off and hang it back up.

He visibly tries not to stare anywhere too long in the mirror. The corset over the short sleeve shift dress pushes your breasts up and together, the deep scoop of the neckline showing your cleavage.

His eyes linger, but then he's looking at your face again, your flushed face and watery eyes.

He clears his throat again and nods at the laces you've been wrestling with.

"Stacey B. told me the corset would make my body look like the meat you get at a butcher shop, like when it's wrapped in twine?" You can hear your own waver in your throat as you say it.

The comment was made in the hallway, and you'd pretended not to hear. "So, you know, not really... queen of the fairies material."

Eddie's face, which had been open and surprised, closed off. His jaw tightened.

"Stacey B is jealous because you beat her for the lead and because she has no tits." He says bluntly before wincing at his own words. "Sorry, I didn't meant to comment on your... assets. Or hers. That wasn't my point."

His point is made clear a second later.

"My point is," he continued, stepping forward, "that the only thing you look like is enchanting. Like you stepped right out of the woods to bewitch some poor mortal bastard."

You turn to face him, neither of you realizing how close he actually is until that moment.

"You an expert on enchantment, Eddie Munson?" You ask, a watery smile gracing your lips.

A genuine, easy grin returned to his face, and it reached his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. "Oh, absolutely. It's kind of my whole deal."

Ever so softly, slow enough that you could swat him away if you wanted, he adjusts the short sleeve of your underdress.

"And, truth be told, I'm also a poor mortal bastard."

Your breath catches.

His fingers linger for a second longer than necessary on the fabric of your dress, then drop away. The space between you is charged with something new, something that has nothing to do with drama club costumes or cruel hallway comments.

The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable.

"I thought you said you forgot something in here..."

He runs a hand down his face with a scoff of a laugh. "Yeah, uh, my brain cells apparently. Sorry, didn't mean to... this is weird."

"What's weird?"

"Me. Flirting with you in the drama room."

You can't help but laugh, a real laugh this one, wiping away the rest of your tears.

"Were you flirting with me? I couldn't tell." You tease. "Your whole deal is enchantment, remember? I thought this was just you practicing your craft."

A slow, delighted smile graces his face again. You decide you like making him smile like that.

"Alright, fair enough. My mistake." He takes a small, theatrical bow. "Allow me to be clearer. I think you look incredible, and I think Stacey B. is a talentless hag who wouldn't know real beauty if it bit her on the ass."

You're still laughing as he straightens up.

“Now, about those laces…” he says, his gaze dropping for a split second, then back to your eyes. “Do you... want some help? Or would that make this even weirder?”

You open your mouth to say something and then close it. Instead you turn around, no words. You see him behind you in the mirror, closer now, his hands reaching for the ribbons at your back. His knuckles brush against the fabric of your dress as he takes the ends, and you feel a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold room.

He begins to try and tighten the laces, but you put a hand back on his to stop him.

"No looser. Actually... can you loosen it a bit?" You ask, looking at your reflection. Seeing your body shift and bulge in the garment.

His hands stilled. In the mirror, you watched his brow furrow. "Loosen it? Won't it... I don't know, fall down?"

Your eyes meet his in the mirror.

"Maybe."

A silent understanding passes between you, something deep and unspoken. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and began to work the knots. His movements deliberate, as he carefully loosened the laces. You felt the corset’s grip ease, a slow release of pressure that allowed you to take a full, deep breath for the first time since you’d put it on.

Once it's loosened, his hands ever so slowly snake around your waist. Your neck seems to tip of its own volition as he speaks low into your ear.

"Am I reading this right?" His lips graze your lobe.

Your nod is barely a tilt of your head, a movement so small it’s almost lost in the dim light. But he feels it. You feel him feel it, a quiet intake of breath against your ear.

His fingers splay across your waist, wide and sure, pressing gently into the soft fabric of your dress.

"Always thought you were so pretty on stage." His voice is low, almost a whisper now. "But you’re even prettier like this. When no one’s supposed to be looking."

One of his hands slides up, tracing the line of your ribcage until it rests just below the swell of your breast.

His lips brush the sensitive skin just below your ear, a soft, questioning touch.

"Can I kiss you?"

Your answer is a soft sigh, a silent invitation. He tilts your head gently to the side with his free hand, and then his lips are on yours. It’s not a fierce or demanding kiss. It’s slow, gentle, and exploratory. You lean back into him, your body fitting against his as if it was made to be there.

The room around you fades away. The costumes on their rack, the forgotten binders on the table, the ghosts of high school drama.

It all dissolves into the background.

"Loosen it more?" he whispers against your lips.

You nod.

He deftly unties the laces the rest of the way, and the corset sags, held in place only by the pressure of your bodies pressed together.

When you pull away, you're breathing heavily, and you turn to face him. You shrug off the corset, letting it fall to the floor. The light cream fabric of the shift dress does little to hide the shape of your breasts, nipples pebbling against the thin material in the cool room air. You don't shy away from his gaze this time.

Eddie's eyes widen slightly, a flicker of raw, unguarded admiration in their depths. He reaches out, not with intent, but with a kind of reverence, his fingers just barely grazing the fabric covering your stomach.

"Fair maiden," he leans in to your ear, using a voice you're probably sure he uses in his campaigns. "Have you come to bewitch this poor dungeon master?"

You laugh, bright and real. "I thought you said you were a poor mortal bastard?"

"That too." He grins, and it’s a genuine, unguarded thing that transforms his entire face. "But if we're going to role play, at least let me use my cooler title."

You loop your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

"Alright, Dungeon Master. What are your commands?"

He leans down to kiss you soft. "No commands. Those can wait for another time."

Another time, you think to yourself. You like the thought.

"Right now, I'm going to give this queen a throne." He whispers against your lips, before guiding you to the head of the table.

He gestures for you to sit in his large, throne-like chair. It’s surprisingly comfortable, worn smooth by countless hours of him presiding over his games. You sit, looking up at him, the fabric of your shift dress pooling around your thighs.

"Oh, uh... thank you?" You say, soft but confused.

His close lipped smile gives way to a chuckle as he shrugs off his vest and jacket.

He leans over, hands on either arm of the chairs, kissing you once before he's sinking to his knees in front of you. He looks up at you from under his lashes, the dim lights of the room catching the soft curls that frame his face.

"Now... may I worship at a fair maiden's altar?" he asks, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare knees.

You nod, words failing you.

His hands slide up your thighs, slowly, pushing the hem of your dress with them.

He taps your wrist, the one with the hair scrunchie on it. You tilt your head and he takes the scrunchie off, using it to pull some hair back.

"You're... very serious about this..."

You're surprised you even get the words out with how aroused you are in this moment.

Once he's done tying his hair back he smiles up at you. "I take my craft very seriously."

Before you can even reply, he pushes your dress all the way to your waist, revealing your plush thighs.

The width of your hips fills the rather narrow seat of the chair, making your thighs squish together. You begin to feel a familiar embarrassment about your body, but Eddie's groan brings you back.

"It's gonna feel so good being between these." He murmurs as he pulls your panties down.

Once you're bare for him, Eddie puts his hands under your knees and looks at you as he lifts your legs. He's helping you shift forward and hooking them over the arms of the chair before you even realize what's happening.

Its an obscene position that has you so spread open for him, on full display.

The cool air of the room is a shock against your heated skin, but it's the look on Eddie's face that truly takes your breath away. He looks starved. Reverent.

"Fuck," he breathes out, the word a puff of warm air against your most sensitive skin. "Probably shouldn't swear at such a pretty altar, but I've never been one for decorum."

Then he leans in and you lose all train of thought.

His first touch is a slow, deliberate lick, a broad stroke that has you gasping. His hands grip the backs of your thighs, holding you open for him. He’s not rushing. He’s exploring.

"You gonna hit some of those pretty notes for me, your highness?" He murmurs against you, the vibration of his words sending shivers up your spine.

You answer with a soft moan, one of your hands finding its way into his hair. The makeshift ponytail is already starting to come loose, soft strands wrapping around your fingers.

"Mmm..." His tongue circles your clit, a feather-light touch that is almost maddening. He’s teasing you, testing your reactions, learning your body with an artist's focus. "Of course you got the lead part when you sound that pretty."

Eddie continues to take his time, tasting you, discovering what makes you gasp and what makes you arch your back. The world narrows to this chair, to the feel of his mouth on you, to the sound of his own soft groans of appreciation.

His hands grip your thighs a little tighter as his tongue become more bold, spurred on from your moans. The soft licks turn to pointed flicks against your clit, making you buck your hips against him. He doesn't stop you. He encourages it, meeting your movements with an enthusiasm that is both overwhelming and intoxicating.

"Your majesty is quite demanding," he says, pulling back for a breath.

"You're... so good at that..." You manage to breathe out. You want to say something clever, something to match his energy, but your brain feels like it's melting.

And with that, he redoubles his efforts, but he does it with a purpose. He wants more of those sounds from you.

"Can you play with this needy clit for me? Put your fingers here." He says, tapping the back of your hand. "Please."

You whine in protest at the loss of his tongue, but you do as he asks. Your fingers are clumsy as you find the sensitive nub, the touch alien after being so used to someone else's.

He watches you rub it, eyes still hungry. "Mmm... perfect, sweetheart. Look so damn good when you're being nice to yourself. No more being mean to this body. Now let's see..."

He licks a flat stripe from your entrance to your fingers, making you cry out. He moans at the taste of you mixed with the faint salt from your own skin.

You watch as he takes two of his fingers and puts them in his own mouth, coating them in his own saliva. The sheer, unadulterated act of it has you moaning, rubbing your clit faster.

He uses his now slick fingers to press at your entrance, circling. It’s a question without words.

"Yes," you breathe out, the single word a broken, desperate plea.

Your back arches as his fingers fill you, the slow, deliberate stretch is more than enough to make your toes curl. He curves them just right, babbling sweet nothings, searching until he finds that spot inside you that makes you see stars.

"There it is," he whispers, a note of triumph in his voice. "Found her treasure."

His name falls from your lips in a choked moan.

His thumb replaces your fingers on your clit as he sets a devastating rhythm with his hand, fucking you with a steady, relentless pressure. His tongue returns to play, swirling around the sensitive bundle of nerves where his thumb is pressing.

"I need you... please... I want...." You cant even form a coherent sentence, your head thrashing to the side. You're so close.

"Tell me," he says, a command wrapped in a plea. "I'm here to serve my queen. Use your words."

You try, you really do, but all that comes out is a string of high, breathy moans. You're a live wire, every nerve ending alight with pleasure, teetering on the very edge of oblivion.

He understands, though. He always seems to.

"Shhh, it's okay. I've got you. Let go." And then he sucks your clit into his mouth, a firm, possessive pressure that sends you flying.

The world shatters. A choked gasp tears from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you, his name a prayer on your lips. Your thighs clamp around his head, your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him to you as the waves of pleasure wrack your body.

He doesn't stop. He works you through it, his tongue and fingers drawing out every last tremor, every last shudder, until you're a boneless, spent mess in his throne.

When he finally pulls back, his face is slick with your arousal, a look of profound, utter satisfaction on his face. He looks up at you, his eyes dark with an emotion that looks suspiciously like worship he teased earlier.

You look down at him, your chest heaving, a lazy, contented smile spreading across your face.

He moves to get up, helping you move your thighs off the arms of the throne, soothing the red marks where the wood dug into your skin.

You'll feel it later but right now it doesn't matter.

He helps you stand, your legs a little shaky, and holds you against him. Your arms wrap around his middle, burying your face in his chest, breathing in the scent of him—faded cigarettes, clean laundry.

He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, then leans down to whisper in your ear.

"See?" he murmurs, his voice a low, contented rumble against your ear. "Enchanting."

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands resting on his chest.

"Your Highness is feeling a bit weak in the knees, Dungeon Master," you whisper, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "Your worship was... thorough."

A wide, proud grin splits his face. "I aim to please." He glances down at the state of you—your dress askew, your hair a mess, your lips swollen from his kisses. "But I think my queen is in need of her royal garments."

He keeps a hand steady on your hip as he takes your panties off the floor, handing them to you.

You shake your head. "A gift for my most loyal subject."

He laughs and shoves them in the back pocket of his jeans, a casual, possessive gesture that makes your stomach flutter.

"You ever play D&D? Like, a real campaign?" He asks, a little out of nowhere.

You shake your head and he continues.

"Think you'd be good at it. All the theater training is actually pretty great for it. The whole, you know, using your words thing. Not a lot of my players can do that." He gestures with his hands, back to being animated. "Mostly it's just 'I hit him with my axe'. I could teach you the other stuff."

"Is this your very clever way of asking to hang out with me? " You tease, grabbing your shift dress to pull it back down.

Eddie's cheeks flush a little. "Was I being clever? I was trying to be smooth."

"It was working." You admit, stepping closer to him. "So in this story, are we at the part where the fair maiden and the Dungeon Master ride off into the sunset on his... van?"

He scoffs and you giggle.

"The van is not a horse. But yes. That's where we are. As long as your highness is alright with the humble accommodations of said steed."

"Is the back empty?"

He cocks his head at your question. "Uh... pretty much, minus some blankets and an amp..."

You smile, going on your tip toes to kiss him quickly. "Great, perfect for a little role reversal."

You move to go change into your normal clothes behind a dressing screen.

You don't see him smiling but you hear it in his voice:

"Role reversal?" he calls out. "What, is the queen going to worship me now?"

You emerge a few minutes later, back in your jeans and t-shirt, the drama club costume forgotten on the floor. You pick up your backpack and walk over to him.

"Thoroughly." You grab his hand and he practically stumbles with how eager he is to follow you.

Although, he hadn’t expected to be here with you, at all, as a matter of fact. 

Not in the woods behind the school.

And definitely not alone. 

It’s unnatural.

You, laid out on top of the picnic table. Him, hunched on the seat below, straddling the old plank of wood. Too close. 

Closer than he’s ever been. 

It’s aberrant, really.

But maybe, just for today, everything is topsy-turvy. 

Maybe it will go back to normal soon. You in your bubble, him in his. Two separate worlds. Two separate planets orbiting the same rust-bucket town. The same miserable high school. At least for a few more months. 

Then he’ll get the hell out of this place. Just drive and drive and drive until the scent of manure no longer singes his nose hairs. Until the cornfields turn into beaches. Or mountains. Or shit, even swamp lands. He’s not picky. 

And you’ll be off at some college, probably. 

Find a braincell-deficient jock and pop out a couple of kids. He’s picturing a picket fence somewhere there, too. Possibly a station wagon with that dumb wooden interior. He hates that wooden interior. 

And you’ll forget he ever existed. 

And he’ll—

“So pretty.” 

It’s lower this time. A whisper. Like it was only meant to stay inside your head. Like you weren’t even aware you said it. 

And maybe you aren’t aware. Maybe the weed is hitting you hard. Too hard. It’s only your first time. 

So maybe he should pretend like he didn’t hear. Just continue to act like the metal box in front of him needs reorganizing. 

Re-reorganizing, even. 

Whatever it takes to not notice the way your pleated skirt has ridden up, bunched at the tops of your thighs. 

Because he hasn’t noticed. 

No, he’s not aware of how smooth your skin looks, or how the cherry blossom scent of your lotion seems to intoxicate him more than the shared joint, now forgotten, smoldering between your fingers. 

He has no idea what color panties you’re wearing, and absolutely no clue what powder blue fabric looks like when it darkens. 

Baggies to the left. Try to prop them up against each other. Bottles to the right. Line them up. Shit, the baggies won’t sit upright. Maybe lay them flat? Then, if he moves the tin—

“Do you think I’m pretty, too?” 

Fuck. 

Your heavy-lidded gaze is directed at him now, and he finally feels the high. Or maybe it’s just your effect; the kind of haze that leaves him wondering what new strain has him seeing a real life angel. The kind of feeling that sends his heart away at a dead sprint and his mind swimming in a tank of molasses.

Everything is muffled. And there’s only you. And those eyes. Waiting.

“Y-Yeah,” he chokes, hoping you don’t see the heat blooming beneath his cheeks. “You’re pretty. ‘S kinda your thing.” He shrugs. “Popular and pretty.”

It’s a deflection. It’s bitter. It’s crashing through the bubble with an unceremonious pop. 

Because yes, you’re pretty. Everyone knows it. Everyone.

Him noticing isn’t any different. 

You blink. “But do you think I’m pretty? Just pretty.”

He pauses, wondering, for only a split second, if this was all some kind of elaborate rouse to incriminate him. If, any minute now, Andy and Jason are going to step out from behind one of these trees, itching for a fight. Because Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson is tainting the precious queen of Hawkins High. His no-good, low-life, burn-out presence might as well stain your skin like black tar.

But he nods, nonetheless. A calculated risk; it’s shaky, not insincere. 

And that seems to be enough because your painted lips twitch into a small smile. It’s a breath of fresh air. If only his heart would stop pounding against his ribs like it’s trying to get out. To get to you.

“I told my friends, once, and they didn’t talk to me for a day and a half.”

Your smile is gone now. And your gaze is empty as you turn back to the tree tops. 

Eddie shifts in his seat, feeling more and more like he’s fallen through the looking glass. 

“T-Told them what?” 

He’s not sure he wants the clarification. Not sure he wants to understand. Because it doesn’t seem like it’ll work. Like he’ll never truly understand if you say what he—

“That I think you’re pretty,” you mutter, turning to him again, a simple pout weighing your features down.

Fuck.

“We were talking about crushes, and they said theirs. And they were so…excited…. And Heather was trying to convince Jackie S. to tell Patrick how she felt. And I wanted to feel it too.”

He can barely breathe, so he stays silent, just letting you speak to no one in particular. Because he’s not here. 

Not now. 

Not on this planet. 

Not in the same reality as the girl he’s pretended not to watch since the middle school talent show. The girl whose perfume somehow lives in his mind, though he’s never bathed in it longer than a shoulder brush through the halls. Not that girl, not in this reality. 

Not you. Telling him he’s pretty. No way—

“—wanted to hear what they’d say. Like if they would tell me we’d look cute together, or they’d say they’ve seen you looking at me, or something, and maybe there’s a chance.” 

Fuck, he’s low on E. 

And these damn baggies don’t organize well—he should really label them. And Reefer Rick has probably laced this new, stupid supply with something because there’s simply no conceivable way—

“But they just looked at me like I said something insane. Asked me if I was joking. They didn’t believe me at first—” 

He snorts, twisting the skull ring around his finger until the skin underneath starts to heat. You’re silent now, and he almost doesn’t want to look. But he has to. So he does.

Your polished nails, the lipstick stained joint, thousands of wool fibers bending and yielding to the curves of your body. Then that pout, your eyes. A frown.

The baggies of pills, the weathered wood; carved initials giving way to new grain.

“You don’t believe me, either?”

It’s so broken sounding, he has half a mind to lie and say of course he does. Of course he believes you, resident queen of Hawkins High—the girl who prances through school with five guys, minimum, trailing after her, lovesick and delusionally hormonal—are telling the God’s-honest truth. That you have somehow taken a liking to the town pariah. 

The people’s princess has woken up this day and decided she’d like to bestow upon him, of all people, the greatest charity he could never repay, nor even begin to deserve. 

And you’d say this exact thing stone-cold sober. Sure.

He could say that. 

“Um—” he clears his throat, repeatedly dragging a dirty Reebok on the ground until a pile of curled leaves starts to grow, “I believe…uh, we’ve probably had enough.”

Before you can make a move to stop him, he plucks the joint from between your fingers, ignoring the shock of your touch. 

The faint sizzle of embers being extinguished on old wood is the only sound that fills the air. That, and the rustle of wind through the trees. 

He can feel your eyes on him as he licks his fingers and pinches the end of the roll. It may very well be laced, but he’s not the wasteful type. 

And anyway, he’s got plans later. A date with his right hand and the well-loved porno mag he’s made some…changes…to. All while he pretends not to remember how your lips wrapped around the very same joint he hopes will last him long enough. 

You sit up suddenly, swinging your legs over the edge of the picnic table. He nearly knocks his metal lunchbox off the seat, scrambling to avoid the brush of your skin. 

“Do you not like me?” 

The words are filled with accusation, woven by insecurity, and Eddie feels insane. Clinically. Terminally, even. That’s not a thing, but given his luck, he could be the first man, ever, to die from a hot chick coming onto him. 

Because what the actual fuck? You’re looking at him like his very existence is a puzzle to you. As if you can’t imagine why in the world he’d be second-guessing your confession. 

He clears his throat, again, but chokes on his breath the second you slide down next to him, your skirt creeping impossibly higher before settling properly. And he’s up in a flash, like only the heat of you near him is all it takes to burn. And God, does it burn.

“N-No! No, I, um, I—I just don’t know you.” He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “Basically just met you today, really.”

He could almost kick himself, the way his voice jumps an octave he’s certain only liars can reach. And you seem to hold the same belief, your eyes all but say as much as you stand to follow him. 

Leaves crunch under his shuffling footsteps, and you pause, as if realizing the space between is carefully set. 

It’s a choice he’s fighting to make, just as he’s fighting not to look at you. Though, one is admittedly easier than the other.

“I mean, not really. We’ve been going to the same school since, like, sixth grade—”

He shakes his head, correcting, “Your sixth; my eighth.”

Bewilderment overtakes your frown, and he understands the semantics appear meaningless to you, but they keep him up at night. When the hours tick by and delusion creeps into the edges of his foggy mind, thoughts of fate start to sound more and more sane. 

 “My mom even made you that casserole when your uncle was sick.”

Oh, yeah. 

That. 

He remembers that day. Thinks about it when the delusion turns sour and his conscience wants to remind him what an embarrassment he is. 

He remembers perfectly how he heard your heels clicking from down the hall. How he took one look through the small hospital window, saw you in your Sunday best and booked it to the en suite bathroom. 

How he left Wayne to fend for himself in a state of utter confusion, never having seen his nephew move so fast. How he hid in the small space, surrounded by porcelain and that chemical smell that still makes his skin crawl. Just so he wouldn’t have to face you. 

So he wouldn’t have to watch you charm his uncle, lift his spirits like you do everyone. 

No, he only had to listen and imagine what shade of lipstick you chose to match with your outfit. Because that was way easier than seeing the cruel fluorescent lights fail to hollow you out like it did everyone who entered that godforsaken room. 

Yeah, hearing the raspy laugh of his uncle, followed by your airy giggles through the surprisingly thin walls was a cakewalk compared to what it would have been had he been forced to smile and nod along. 

Act as if you and he lived the same kind of life. As if one wasn’t a plunder and the other a jaunt through the daisies.

Eddie paces, unable to let his twitching muscles rest. “Yeah, but what does it really mean to know someone, you know? Uh oh! I’m gettin’ philosophical now!” He chuckles, but it’s strained, and your frown comes back, unmovable this time. “Probably the weed.”

His words are stilted, and you seem too aware of this performance, but he will press on with forced amusement until you believe him. Or at least until you let him be; go on back to your bubble. Leave him to suffocate in his. 

“Are you high? I’m high. I think we’re both really high. It’s so funny, it’s like I don’t even know what I’m saying— Blah!” He flails about, already planning on checking himself into Pennhurst after this. “This is so crazy! We probably make no sense right now.”

You cross your arms, trudging back to the picnic table. The breeze lifts your skirt as you plop down, and Eddie turns away. Because he has to.

“I’m not that high and neither are you.”

 It’s that damn pout that’s going to do him in. 

Curls twist around his fingers as he tries to hide behind his hair. “No…no, I’m pretty high.” He nods. “‘Miss Hawkins 1982’ is sitting here, tellin’ me she’s got, like, what—a crush on me?”

“‘S more than a crush,” you mumble petulantly, but for his sanity, he elects to ignore it. 

“I mean, shit! I didn’t think weed had hallucinogenic properties, but you know.” His shoulders shrug in defeat, and he still can’t look at you. “Learn somethin’ new every day!”

Your head cocks to the side. “So you don’t believe me?”

Eyes wide as saucers, he wonders if this is what it would feel like to explain the sky to a mole. 

“Of course I don’t believe you! You sound crazy! I mean you’re…” He searches for the words, but how does one sum up almost a decade of watching? Of wanting— “You. …And I’m me.”

It’s softer. Lower. Just where he should be. Because really, you’re the sky. And he’s just a burrower. Too afraid to leave the caverns he’s carved in his mind, even for warmth. For light. For a smile that doesn’t shine—

“Right…” Your mouth pulls, dim, and the huff of breath sounds derisive, like you can’t possibly pass it for a laugh, but still, you try. “You’re you, and I’m me—”

He nods along, internalizing the sound of his own words on your lips. If you believe it, that will be enough. It will be enough.

“Just boring…me—”

The sentence drips with resignation. As if it’s a truth you’ve cuddled up to long enough for the feelings to subside. Roommates with your own distaste. A years-long relationship molded into resentment. He feels sick.

“What?”

You resituate yourself, pulling inward, and if you could transform the atoms in the air, Eddie thinks there’d be a wall already reaching above the highest branches. 

“No, I just— It makes sense.” You tug at your sweater until your hands are almost hidden, and regret nips at his bare skin, colder than the breeze. “It’s totally true; you’re so cool—”

He swallows the words, but they catch in his throat. Unusual and untrue. And despite his quiet, “Cool?” that slips out, coated in disbelief, you carry on, adding brick after brick.

“You’ve got your band, and that game you love to play—”

Now that’s just strange. 

“D&D?” he mutters, blanching at the sentiment. Because, yeah, he thinks it’s cool. But he can count on one hand how many other Hawkins residents think the same. 

You perk up a bit, and he feasts on the split-second of sunlight. “Yeah! That’s the one. And you literally run a club for it. That’s, like, the definition of cool.” 

It’s the high. It’s the marijauna in your system. Either that, or you and he have vastly different definitions of cool—

“And your music taste! I hear you drive up to school all the time; you’re always blasting that metal stuff! It’s so…” your eyes wander, as if searching for the right word and his mind fills in the usual blanks: loud, shitty, annoying, satanic. “unique!”

You’re too good. He’s decided it. Not because of the popularity, like he had chalked it up to before. This is different. It’s pure. 

And he’s tar. 

“You know, if I had a nickel for every time someone told me my music taste was…unique, I’d be broke,” he huffs, crossing his arms like the act will protect against your budding smile, growing back like the first bloom of May flowers.

“Well, I’m sure they just haven’t tried it yet.” And you’re so sure. He can hear the optimism in your voice and it’s deafening. 

But then, it’s like time reverses, and in comes the April shower to drown the delicate bud; you retreat into yourself, again. Smile fading, insecurity rearing. 

“I’ve never… I mean— I’ve never really tried it before, either.” 

Now you won’t look at him, and the insinuation of your words alone is enough to haunt him. 

With a sigh, he closes the distance, sitting beside you on the bench. For a moment, he only listens to his own pulse. The rushing in his ears. He waits for the confidence to speak, unaware it’s a bus that will never come. 

But impatience gets the best of him, and he decides to walk it.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel— It’s just— I just—” He groans, watching the thoughts pass him by while he fails to hang onto even one. His skin feels too tight and he’s certain the only solution is to peel it off his miserable bones. “I don’t know why I am the way that I am.”

The admission rings out like a shot in the autumn air, and the silence that follows lands like an atom bomb, breaking the sound barrier in a mushroom cloud of mortifying truth.

He doesn’t know why he said it. 

Why he thought cutting himself down while you’re bleeding makes some sort of difference. How it could possibly count as some kind of balm to your wounds. 

But you wear your wounds well. And truth leaks from you without loss. It pools without inhibition. Not yielding, but seeping. Filling the cracks in him—the tunnels that quake—with something malleable and pure. Not viscous and sticky. Not like tar. 

His head hangs low, eyes following the way your thumb smooths over your wool skirt. Then his gaze tracks downward, and he wishes it wouldn’t. But your skin looks so soft, and he traces the curving terrain until he sees your pearly-white Keds digging into the dirt. 

You could probably make it to China before he finds the right words to fix this.

“You know, I’ve never had to convince a girl not to like me.” The quirk of his lips doesn’t change the tone, despite his best efforts. 

You cross your ankles, old wood creaking under you. “No?”

It’s simple. Gentle. You’re humoring him. And it’s a kindness he can’t afford, but you give it to him anyway, charity case that he is.

“No.” He huffs, something like a snicker but without the joke. “Usually, it’s the opposite.”

More atomic silence. And he starts to wonder if he ever actually learned how to behave properly. If he fundamentally misunderstands how to have a conversation. 

Or maybe he was just swapped at birth with an alien whose sole purpose is to elicit discomfort. And maybe there’s a human version of him out there, travelling among the stars, charming and suave, dripping with bravado. Yeah, that’s probably it. That’s what he’ll—

“What’s the argument then?”

His brows furrow, and he swings his head to look at you. But the second his eyes meet yours, he has to force himself not to flee. Not to make a coward’s retreat. 

“What?”

“The argument,” you respond coolly. “How are you gonna persuade me not to like you?”

God, he wishes you’d stop saying it. Maybe it’d be easier to hear if it didn’t sound so earnest. If it didn’t sound like it came from a well of truth.

His foot taps on the ground as he thinks, hands flexing restlessly. “Well…I guess I kind of thought the everything about me was argument enough.”

You stare silently, and his flesh might as well be made of a cellophane the way your gaze seems to expertly track the gears turning in his mind. 

“But clearly not,” he murmurs.

Your lips quirk. “Nope.” 

The glint in your eyes should scare him. Should shake him to his core. Because there’s something about this particular glimmer… 

With the determination of a predator poised to attack, or a vulture itching to pick him apart, you watch. Quietly. Waiting. It’s the kind of look only the helpless are on the other side of. He should be terrified. 

But he’s not. His hands aren’t shaking out of fear, and his stomach doesn’t flip out of nerves. 

No, it’s something else entirely.

Your chin tips, and your smile curls around the words. “To ensure a fair hearing, the court must consider all evidence; Mr. Munson, you may proceed.” 

His grin stretches, and he turns his body the slightest bit towards you. 

“Okay,” he nods, pondering the laundry list of reasons he has locked and loaded, ready to go. Who’s the lucky winner? What’s the bare minimum he can share without mortally wounding his pride—well, more than it already is. “Alright, well, sometimes I forget to wear deodorant, and I end up smelling really bad.” 

Before he has a chance to regret his choice, your laugh drowns out every doubt. It cracks through him with an unbearable weight, leaving behind splintered shards of bone instead of prison bars. His heartbeat sounds louder now.

And for a moment—only a moment—he forgets why he said anything at all. He forgets the point. He forgets that the melody floating from your lips doesn’t belong in his dysfunctional orchestra. 

But the urge is there. To hear it again. To be the cause. 

Your eyes squint from the size of your smile. “Shut up.” 

Locked in your gravitational pull, he moves closer—minutely, and he wouldn’t if he could help it. 

“No, I’m serious! It’s bad! That’s why I gotta leave school early sometimes, I start to smell like vegetable soup by 2 p.m.”

His grin is stuck as he watches your head fall back, the melody growing stronger, lodging somewhere deep in his brain. Between cobwebs and old, out-of-tune earworms. He imagines bottling the sound and building a shelf just to hold it.

“You’re an idiot,” you huff breathlessly, the word not carrying the same sting it usually would if it came from anyone else. Because there’s no bite to it. No teeth, even.

He leans in before he can stop himself. “Ah, see, that’s a good one, too! I’m an idiot!”

But the melody quiets, and the violins screech a nasty response as your smile starts to fall.

“No, you’re not.”

It’s firm and final, like you truly believed it even before it slipped from your lips.

“Yes, I am,” he says, soft yet steadfast. “I’m a three-time super senior army crawling my way to a ‘D’ in Mrs. O’Donnell’s class. And I’ve had two full tries at it.” 

You cock your head, eyeing him closely. Then—

“Well, practice makes perfect. Plus, I think it’s totally your year.”

Your smile is back and so is the warmth in Eddie’s body. If he had any sense, he’d steer the conversation elsewhere, because somehow, you’ve managed to flirt with him over his tragic academic history. You’re too powerful. You and your honeyed words, so sweet and thick, he could choke if he’s not careful.

He shifts, but can’t bring himself to move away. “Okay…what about this—I wanna do music.”

Your brows raise and he can tell you see through his pitiful attempt. 

“Well…you’re in a band,” you shrug. “I kind of already knew that—”

“No, like, professionally. That’s what I wanna do. I wanna go to L.A. and, I don’t know, like, get a record deal and shit, and just make music.” The light still shines in your eyes and he knows you’re not getting it. “No college for me, no office job, no suburbs—no picket fence kind of life.”

Your gaze never strays from his. “Eddie, that’s not a bad thing. That’s—that’s inspiring.”

God, you’re making this hard. Especially when you look at him like that—like he’s something to be enamored by. Something worth looking at. Something pretty… 

“No,” he shakes his head, clinging to the reality where you aren’t leaning closer to him, where your soft, perfumed skin doesn’t brush against his rough, bargain-bin jeans. “No, it’s a pipedream. It’s basically me begging to live in a van for the rest of my life because you and I both know it will never—”

“Eddie,” you cut in, grabbing his hand, “let me save you the energy. There’s nothing you can say that will stop how I feel. This isn’t a new thing. I’m not going through a phase. It’s not just a blip or a crush— I like you, Eddie Munson.”

His heartbeat slows, skipping every third thud like an old record, and he now knows the weight of your hand in his. 

And for the first time since his fingers brushed yours while passing the joint, he can’t look away. No amount of self-control or misplaced willpower can drag him up from the depths of your imploring gaze. 

“I like you a lot. You’re sweet,” and his face must’ve twitched because you grin and add, “When you’re not trying to act all tough and broody.”

Cellophane. He’s complete cellophane around you. Weak and pliant and see-through. His posturing means nothing, and he wonders if you always knew that. 

If every snide comment to the jocks came with a footnote in the smallest print only you could read: I’m jealous they get your time. They don’t deserve it. 

If every breezy look elsewhere gave him away as you’d walk past his table in the lunchroom, swaying skirt billowing in the winds of his repression.

“—and you make me laugh, and you’re honest.” Your hand squeezes his and he can’t quite bring himself to hold it yet. To open up. To keel over and admit defeat. “I just feel like everyone here…pretends to live the life they think they should live. But you don’t do that. You just live. And I think that’s beautiful.” 

Your chin tips low and he has a near physical reaction from losing the heat of your attention. 

“I think you’re beautiful.”

His mind whirs, sirens blare, but they’re silent. Unhelpful. Useless. Exactly what he feels like in the wake of your confession. And the only thought he can hold onto long enough to realize it’s just as useless is: he should buy a lottery ticket, or something. 

“I—” 

He watches you shift, doesn’t hear you breathe. 

“I…think you stole my line…”

The pitiful excuse for a chuckle comes too late. Too weak to sound genuine, but just strong enough to deflect. Because that’s what he’s good at, right? Deflecting? Distracting? 

Rejecting, apparently. At least that’s how you seem to take it, the way your hand slips from his so easily. The way your shoulders hunch and your legs squeeze together. 

Small. You’re making yourself small for him. 

And he’s just too unsteady. He’s not firing on all cylinders, not since you clipped his wires a ways back. Somewhere around you’re pretty and I like you. Just left of I told my friends and down the street from you’re cool. 

“Sorry. That was…a lot. God.” Your frown is back and you turn to say something, then give up before you even start. A beat. Then, “I—I’m sorry if I scared you off with all of that.”

You say it as if the moment’s done. As if he’s not still clinging to your words with a white-knuckled grip. 

And you retreat. 

Not in any real way. 

No, you’re still sitting next to him, still closer than ever before, but now, chipping away at your nail polish seems to be far more interesting than anything he could offer. 

“Well…I’m still here…” he tries, unsure.

“Yeah…. You’re still here,” you echo quietly.  

Showing mercy to your manicure, you shove your hands into your lap, twisting your fingers up. He recognizes the movement. The attempt to banish the need. The need to touch. He’s felt it too. Feels it now. 

The bricks stack higher as your wall grows; a structure never meant to be scaled. 

But he’s a burrower. 

“You know…” he ponders, forcing the humor from his tone. “I’m starting to think maybe it’s not the weed…”

That gets you. 

He hears the melody again, sees your wry smile.

“Shut up,” you whine, shoving his chest.

He moves fast and with grace as he traps your hand with his, holding your palm just over where your first laugh torpedoed his ribcage. Where the prisoner waits. 

“Your heart’s beating so fast,” you whisper, voice full of awe—the kind that quickly begins to carve away at his weakened flesh. 

He huffs, low and earnest. “Yeah…. The prettiest girl in Hawkins just told me she likes me and there’s nothing I can do about it. You’re lucky I haven’t gone into cardiac arrest over this.”

You smirk, and he thinks it might just kill him. Like actually. 

“Hm, well, now I feel like I’m kind of missing out on that…”

He snorts, his grin stretching wide. “Oh, yeah? You want me to keel over right here, right now?”

Your smile turns demure and he knows it’s a lie. Then, you give an innocent shrug that can’t even fool him. 

“I mean, I’m not saying I wouldn’t be extremely flattered—”

He jolts suddenly, grunting and groaning, curling his fingers tighter around your hand as he falls back against the edge of the wooden picnic top. 

You gasp, turning to prop a knee on the bench as you lean over his stiff body. “Oh my God, medic!” Your empty call echoes in the air, amusement bubbling just beneath the surface. Then, your voice falls to a low mutter. “Ohh, what do I do, what do I do? Damnit, I should’ve paid more attention in First Aid.”

Eddie convulses some, really driving the near Oscar-worthy performance home. Then he peeks an eye open, choking out, “M-Mmm-mouth.”

Your mask slips as you smirk, leaning closer. “Sorry, what was that? I didn’t quite catch it over all the dying.”

He slumps even more, the table digging beneath his shoulderblades as he sputters, “Mmm-mouth-to-mouth—”

You sit back, chewing the inside of your cheek and leveling him with an assessing stare as he twitches. “No…that can’t be it…”

Both eyes open as he brokenly utters, “No, it definitely is— With tongue! The tongue helps—” 

You snicker, “Oh, yeah? It’s a necessity?”

He squeezes your hand. “Yeah, big—big necessity.”

You lean in, so close, and his mind turns to static as your perfume invades his senses. 

This is it. It’s going to happen. Almost a decade of dreams that left him waking up in sticky discomfort, and he’s going to know the taste of—

“See, I just don’t remember that in the course,” you shrug, pulling away abruptly. “Mouth-to-mouth, sure, but adding tongue?”

One last shot, he reaches into the sky dramatically, convulses, then slackens in a lifeless heap, accented by his best death rattle.

He hears you call out, some half-assed plea that wouldn’t convince a soul, but then everything stops. Your lips slot against his, soft and plush and timid, and you might as well have used the paddles, the way his system shocks into action.

His hand finally releases yours, but you don’t move it, and he settles a gentle grip on the back of your head. Heavy enough to beg for more, soft enough to leave room for an escape, if you so choose. 

But you don’t. Instead, your tongue glides along his top lip—a teasing kind of sweetness he accepts gladly, thankfully. He responds in kind—in hunger.

He can taste your cherry lip gloss, hear your surprised hum. It’s a tiny sort of sound he swallows with a groan of his own. 

Then the pressure is gone. The taste, the noises—all gone. The music has stopped and the dizzying dance comes to an end with a blinding grin.

“Oh my God, it’s a miracle,” you pant, smoothing your palm up his chest until you reach skin.

He sits up, dazed, and you don’t move away, just letting him hover close like the proximity isn’t debilitating.

His next words slur out before he has a chance to think of a smoother line— “Have you ever considered becoming a doctor?”

And you laugh. And he’s learning that maybe you don’t want smooth. Because if you did, he certainly wouldn’t be your first call, and you wouldn’t be so quick to serenade every dumb comment of his.

So he thanks whoever rents the big house in the sky that you have a thing for burnouts and tries not to choke as you slide onto his lap, your pretty skirt splaying out across worn fabric. 

Your lips find his again, your fingers get lost in his hair, you don’t bother hovering, and he starts writing a mental Last Will and Testament. 

Jeff will get his Sweetheart, Mike will get his D&D manuals, Dustin will get his cassette tapes, and Gareth will finally get those twenty bucks he’s been whining about since last summer. He’ll leave it to Grant to dispose of his stash, and in payment, he can have the stack of porno mags under his bed. 

Though, he might just give them away whether he dies or not, because he’s pretty sure, with the way you’re pressing down on him, they’ll soon be rendered useless. 

Goosebumps rise along heated skin and something prickles up his spine as your nails rake through his curls. His mouth works against yours, a mind of its own as its aim widens, and he’s suddenly nipping down your jaw, tasting the tang of perfume on your neck. 

Your chest racks with heavy, panting breaths and noises that sound like earnest attempts at his name. It’s intoxicating. His lips swell from struggling to keep up with his greed, but he can’t stop. There’s a burning kind of ache deep within him, and it’s growing. 

His hands find their way to your hips, and he can’t tell if it’s you who moves freely, grinding down like you’re searching for something, or if it’s him and the ravenous need he’s not certain can be controlled. 

“Fuck—”

“Eddie,” you call, tightening the grip on his hair until he groans. His cock flexes, straining against the oppressive zipper of his jeans and missing a kind of warmth he’s itching to know.

“Hm?” he grunts into your neck, barely aware. He’s pretty sure he could devour you whole. But then again, he’d much rather savor you, pick you apart and feast on your supple flesh for ages. The smallest little bites until your sweet noises grow louder and louder; scratchy and desperate like the mindless roll of your hips against denim.

“E-Eddie—”

Your voice pitches up, his name breaking on the crest of your movements, and you hunch toward him like the pleasure is a weight your shoulders can’t possibly bear. 

And something twists in his gut then, something raw and hungry. 

He wants to hear that again. Hear his name shatter on your tongue as his hands explore beneath your dainty skirt. He wants to feel the vibrations of your moans as he kisses every inch of you. 

“Mm, yeah, baby?”

“I want— Want you,” you grit out, like the words take effort you can barely muster. 

“Fuck— I know, I wan’ you, too. So bad. So fuckin’ bad.” 

If it were any other time, he might feign control. Might deepen his voice with a confidence he doesn’t have. But this is not just any other time. It’s you, in his lap, whispering needy little pleas into the air like it’s obvious. Simple necessity. Like he’s not just a warm body and you’re not picturing someone else. 

His fingers curl into the waistband of your skirt, and it’s as if you remembered there was more to be said because your hips stall and you press against his chest. 

He swallows the disgruntled whine, and accepts your direction. Doubt creeps into the fog of his mind, but you don’t leave him time to get lost when your thumbs smooth over the stubble on his jaw, the worry in your eyes outweighing his.

“Eddie, I, um, I want—you,” you finish stiltedly, looking at him like you’re waiting for the penny to drop. “But, I, uh, I’ve ne—” It spins. “I don’t really—” And spins. “I mean, not that I’m, like—” And spins. “I’ve just never really—”

It drops, a metallic clang bouncing off the walls of his skull, and suddenly he feels like he shouldn’t touch you at all. His hands hover over your hips and the something-molten deep in his gut turns out to be much more familiar than he thought. Hot, bubbling, careless and incessant in its need to stain. To contaminate. 

“Never?” His brows furrow, trying to decipher the discomfort on your face. If it’s him—if it’s the tar—he might just leave town now. Screw graduation. Screw a diploma— “Like never ever?”

Stupid question. At this rate, he should look into surgically removing his foot from his mouth before he tries to speak next—

“Guess I was just…waiting,” you shrug, thumbing the hem of his shirt. Then your movements become less innocent as your nails trail against his skin. So light, if he weren’t acutely aware of everything you do, if his stomach didn’t twitch in time with his restless cock, he wouldn’t have caught it. 

“Sweetheart,” he almost warns, feeling like he misconstrued this moment for something serious, when clearly, you’re toying with him, spreading your palms along his waistband like you can’t see him shiver. Like you can’t feel his length straining beneath you, flexing against its jean prison, reaching for the warmth of your core. 

“S-Sweetheart,” he repeats, the endearment sounding more and more like a plea as you rake your nails through the wiry curls just below his navel. 

You go on, apparently undeterred by his fraying control. “I’ve been on dates—” 

He doesn’t care. His eyes track yours and the glide of your tongue along kiss-bitten lips. 

“Guys have tried—”

Okay, he cares. What? 

“I’ve just never really—wanted to.”

Fuck. 

You grind down, passing the motion off as adjusting your position, but Eddie doesn’t trust that gleam in your eyes. And you confirm it in the way your palms smooth down his arms until you press his hands to your hips. Making him touch you. Contaminate you. You encourage it, even. Wrapping your grip around his wrists as you guide his hands beneath your wool top. 

“But it’s different with you.”

He shudders. 

“Sweetheart.” 

It’s certainly a plea, now. A cry for mercy as your fingers return to the sensitive skin just above his waistband, travelling up, up, up until he’s entirely covered in goosebumps, and he worries you can feel the pitiful call of the convict in his chest. 

“I don’t want to. That’s not what it feels like—”

God damnit, he’s so confused and all the blood rushed from his brain long ago. There’s nothing up there anymore.

“‘S not like that. ‘S like,” you lean in close, letting him feel the words against his lips before he ever hears them, “a need. Like there’s something missing right now.” You roll your hips and he chokes on the breath he was holding. “And I think— No, I know, if I could just—feel you…inside me—I would be okay again. Better.”

“Oh, f-fuck,” he groans, thrusting up with the coordination of a muscle spasm. He lets his forehead fall against yours in an attempt to gather control. “You—you can’t just say shit like that.”

You peck his lips and he chases the small affection. “But it’s true. I don’t wan’ anyone else. Just want you. Inside me.”

“Jesus Christ,” he grits out, trapping you in a kiss that borders on consumption more than anything sweet. 

He can feel you everywhere: on top of him, in his hair, under his shirt, sinking claws into his sides; your touch is kindling to the fire raging low inside him. 

Suddenly, he’s reminded of the foiled condom he removed from his wallet just the other day. The old thing was practically useless, worn down and crumpled from years of sitting idle in between the folds of cracked leather. But something is better than nothing, and now he’s cursing his past-self for his terminal case of realism. 

The clink of metal draws his attention back, and he hadn’t noticed your lips leave his or how your hands have grown eager, already past his belt and now fiddling with the button on his jeans. 

“Wanna feel you, Eddie. I need to,” your honeyed whines wash over his body, sending a buzz through his veins. But then the purring sound of his zipper sliding open reminds him—

“Shit,” his hand wraps around your wrist. “Wait, I don’t— I don’t have anything,” he admits lowly, miserably. 

You smile, kissing around his mouth like you’re drawing the shame out, and him in. “It’s okay…. I just want you,” you repeat, firmer this time. “All of you.”

And something inside him rumbles, something sick and starving. Once-weak, but now growing in strength. It’s mean and sharp, with teeth that can cut through steel and an appetite that can devour innocence whole.

It’s not unfamiliar, this beast. He’s known it for ages. It’s an old friend. A confidant. Something to speak to in the darkest moments, but never to trust. Something to surrender to during the sweatiest nights, when his hand cramps but the need still aches. Still hungers. 

It’s got an imagination, too. Twisted as can be, it preens at the thought of possession, of staying. Of skin stretching and bones shifting, of curly-haired children that have your eyes and his smile. Soccer practice between label meetings, the sun beating down on hot sand as little feet kick at his back. A ring with weight and a necklace to match.

It’s like a plague on his thoughts. But it’s not. Not really. Because he doesn’t have to fear the lies anymore. The want. The bubbles are melding, his world is clashing with yours. And the beast tells the truth, now.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters against your lips, the words sounding more like a warning than anything.

“Mmm,” you hum, trailing your affection down his neck. “Been there, done that. I’d rather keep you alive for this.”

And you’ve crossed his wires so expertly, he’s practically sparking beneath your touch. 

Imbued with a new kind of power, he slides you from his lap before shucking his leather jacket off and swinging it onto the table’s surface. His shirt follows with, finding a strategic home among the layers. 

You seem to catch on because you climb onto the table, laying yourself out just like before. He grins, helping you out of your top, only to fold it up and leave it where your head can rest. 

Both of you pause, taking just a moment to stare. Openly. 

He tracks your gaze as it trails across his chest, noting each tattoo. Then his eyes widen as you distractedly remove your bra like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t fucked his fist to the thought of this very moment. 

The material slides down your arms and you settle back, pretty as a picture, laid out all for him. 

“Jesus…Christ, sweetheart, fuck.” 

You smirk, and there’s that gleam again. Evil and conniving and he’s a willing victim, first in line, and hopefully last.

“See anything you like?”

He gulps, kneeling on the bench below, itching to touch you, but holding onto manners with a white-knuckled grip. “Yeah. See a whole lot.” 

“Then what are you waiting for?” You grab his hand, guiding it to your breast with a squeeze. “This isn’t a museum, you can touch.” 

“Oh, s-shit,” he stutters, losing all decorum as his other hand joins in, kneading the supple skin. Your sighs possess him, and before he can overthink it, his mouth closes around your nipple, tongue circling and laving at the tightening peak. 

“E-Eddie!” Your hand flies to his curls and he groans, parting his lips wider, needing to feel more of you in his mouth. 

You writhe beneath him, a victim of a fiendish kind of gluttony as he moves to your other breast, tweaking the wet peak he left behind. 

He explores your body zealously, taking his time tasting and nipping every bit he can reach until you start tugging at the roots of his hair, forcing him up. 

“Need you,” you huff breathlessly, yanking at his jeans. “Now.”

“W-Wait—” his hands land on yours, slowing your movements.

Your mouth parts as you look up at him, wide-eyed and completely desperate, and he feels his control unspooling like flimsy yarn. 

“No, Eddie, I already told you—”

“It’s not that,” he shakes his head, kissing you quiet. “I just— We can’t just…”

You watch him patiently, clinging onto every half-thought he struggles to produce. 

“I gotta— No, I—want to make this good for you…obviously,” he grunts, cringing at the lack of suavity. “And to do that, um, we can’t just…”

You nod, encouraging him as his face grows hot. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell he’ll be able to explain the concept of foreplay to you right now. Not when you’re looking at him like that, bare and ready for him.

So he sighs and kisses you once more, this time slow and careful. Full of things he can’t quite say, but he hopes you understand. 

“You trust me, right?” 

“Of course,” you respond instantly, eyes shining so bright.

He swallows, rubbing a thumb along your cheek. “And you’ll let me take care o’ you?”

You lean into his touch, almost shy as you nod. “Yeah. Yes…please.”

And a piece of him breaks off, then. 

Splintered by your soft words, the plea that landed like a hammer on his scuffed lacquer.

One single chip in the barrier, and the beast rises in a crashing escape. 

His lips find yours—messy, needy. 

Wanton greed curls around every cracked rib, reaching out like smoke unfurling. Searching for something to envelop, to take. To take and take and take. Your breath, your taste, you. It wants it all. 

He wants it all. 

The words tumble out too easily. “Such pretty manners, huh?” 

You shudder, hiding your face in the curve of his jaw. 

“Pretty manners in a pretty girl,” he practically purrs, letting his hands slip down your body until his fingers invade the waistband of your pleated skirt. “Gonna let me take care o’ you, hm? Gonna let me get you all nice and ready?”

Your breathy sigh warms his neck as he shimmies the fabric down your legs, laying you back, gently. 

You squirm beneath his gaze, squeezing your thighs together. “Eddie…”

“Shh, patience, pretty,” he murmurs, trailing a finger along your curving terrain until he’s toying with the powder blue fabric. “Gotta be good for me. Think you can do that?”

“Mhm,” you hum, choking on the note as he softly pushes your legs apart. 

“Ohh, look at you…” His eyes darken and he thinks he could get used to this. To seeing you all laid out for him like a meal. A feast that could last him forty days and forty nights. 

You shift, almost imperceptibly, as he drags your panties down, but he noticed. He always does with you. “Be good,” he warns lowly.

“I’m trying.”

Your whine falls to static as he watches a single string of arousal cling to the blue gusset with a fragile strength he aches to snap. 

The trees rustle overhead and the sun peeks through, lending a perfect spotlight to your wet folds, and he groans, pocketing your underwear with little consideration. 

“Fuck, you’re so god damn gorgeous, baby, think I’m losin’ my mind,” he mutters, kneading the fat of your thighs. 

“Eddie,” you call, wiggling into his grip, and he’s never been more certain that you’re a temptress put on this earth to destroy him and everything that he tries to be. Controlled. Polite. Genetlemanly. 

Every stuttering breath, every twitch of your hips, every slow blink—you’re chiseling away at the lacquer, unaware of all that lies beneath.

“Eddie, pl—ease!” 

His middle and ring fingers glide through your folds while his opposite hand holds your hips down as you try to grind onto him. 

“Knew you’d make the prettiest sounds. …Pretty sounds, pretty manners, pretty girl,” he chants the words like a mantra, entranced as he raises his fingers up to watch your arousal glisten in the evening light. “Pretty.”

You whimper, and suddenly it feels like he’s been pulled from the depths as he stares down at your face, pinched in pleasure. You’re waiting as patiently as you can and he has to reward that.

He spreads your folds once more, listening intently as he slips a finger inside. Your broken moan speaks almost directly to his cock, and he can feel a stream of precum soaking his boxers.

You call his name again, your chest moving in perfect time with the pulse of your warm walls. He responds to your plea for more with a second finger, and your nails sink into his wrist. 

“Doin’ so good for me, baby. So good,” he utters restlessly, leaning closer to your soaked cunt. He glances up, notes your closed eyes, and decides to feed the beast. 

With one stolen moment, he breathes deep, cataloguing the scent. Your perfume, your cherry lotion, and now you. The most intimate of all. And he can’t stop now. 

He knows your touch, your heady scent; he wants to know your taste, too. The real thing. Not just your lip gloss or your languid tongue in his mouth. He needs to know you deeply, fervently.

His fingers drag inside you, a slight curl every time you buck your hips. He hears your whines, sees you dripping down his hand, shimmery and inviting. 

Then he pulls out, much to your loud chagrin. And before he can scrounge up any last attempt at control, his fingers are in his mouth and he’s groaning at the taste—so sweet, he could choke. 

“Oh, fuck,” he grumbles, mouth full as you stare at him. He almost feels the need to apologize. He robbed you of the friction you were so desperately seeking just so he could be selfish. Though, he feels like he might never stop being selfish around you, so maybe he’ll allow the precedent.

He’ll blame the beast. It’s not really him. 

It’s not him who wants to drown in you, force you to ride his face until he passes out. It’s not him who wants to leave bite marks along your quivering thighs until salt coats your cheeks and you beg him just to fuck you. 

It’s not him who wants to live in your sweltering heat, carve out a place for himself. Make your walls know the shape of his cock, feel you milk him dry until something takes and you’re his and a part of him is yours.

It’s not him, it’s the rotted want. 

The need that grows hot, like a wound that has festered long enough. A gash you cut into him sometime ago. 

Bleeding for years and he never even knew it. 

The infection has driven him mad. 

But he’s beginning to think maybe you’re suffering just the same. Fevered skin and heavy limbs, weak from the wait. Like him. Withered and hungry. So long watching the have’s, resolved to be a have not— 

“Eddie, please, I need you.” Your hips search for him, for pleasure, for friction, and he drops lower, his breath spreading over your fluttering folds.

“I know, sweets, I know. But I gotta get you all ready, gotta make it good for you,” he whispers, staring as fresh arousal glints in the golden rays. It’s like you’re trying to entice, to coax. 

“‘S already good,” you slur, and it sounds like the words are burning to ash on your tongue. He can feel you overheating. “‘S so good, please, just—”

“Said you trust me, right?” He smooths a hand up your body until he finds your breast, kneading it some more. 

“Yes,” you huff, scooting closer to him. 

He licks his lips, and the lie comes quicker than he’d like. “Just a little bit more. Wanna make sure you’re all re—”

His voice becomes muffled as he presses his face against your cunt like a starved, rabid thing. Your fingers thread deep through his curls—a knee-jerk reaction—and he laps at you with open-mouthed kisses and agonizingly precise flicks of his tongue. 

You squeal and your thighs threaten to close around his head, but his fingers sink into the supple flesh, prying you open as his tongue breaches your slit with pointed thrusts. 

Your back bows, arching high off the table and he pulls you closer to him, finally satisfying what has felt like an insatiable ache. 

Because it’s different with you. He’s never felt this…full. Every pulse, every lewd slurp, fills him; he gorges himself on you. On your taste, on the way your moans crash over themselves like waves trying to drag you both under. 

His fingers slip in once more and your body goes rigid—the perfect picture of marbleized ecstasy. His tongue circles your clit and pleasure carves into your every curve, sculpting a release that courses through you like rolling thunder.

His name dies a thousand times on your parted lips, and your hips begin to flee. 

“O-Oh, God!”

He slows to a stop, smoothing a thumb over your twitching muscles. “Fuck, you taste so good— Knew you would,” he pants, sucking his fingers clean. He settles over you, whispering against your mouth. “Knew you would—”

“Tell me I’m yours.”

It’s sudden. An order.

Every syllable hammers into him, shattering something fragile. Shards of control—of disbelief, of belonging—bite at his skin. He’s paralyzed by it, a nerve punctured somewhere deep inside.

And you look worried, like that simple sentence wasn’t meant to land so heavy, but you don’t take it back. Instead, “Tell me I can be yours.”

He swallows hard, nearly choking on nothing.

He has wanted. Longer than you, he thinks.

But it’s all been in vain. 

Then you show up, move mountains and shift worlds with only your audacious honesty and a quarter of a joint for courage. He could really learn a thing or two from you—

“Yeah,” he whispers, staring into eyes he never thought he’d see this close. “You’re mine.” 

With a shuddering breath and a kiss so gentle, he’s almost certain reality falls away, his mind latches onto the moment your hands blindly find his jeans, urging the material down his thighs. 

He helps you, watching intently as you take him in—all of him—his cock weeping and flexing, reaching for something he never imagined asking for. 

You don’t speak, but he sees a reflection in the shine of your iris. It’s familiar. It commands. It guides as you drag your fingers along corded muscle with a level of reverence that leaves him dizzy. 

Peering down, he holds back every sound, his chest heaving from the marathon of your touch. 

You’re pacing yourself. Exploring—testing, in a way, like you’re figuring out what makes him tick. 

Confidently kneading here, a delicate brush there. 

Sinew twitching, his length jumping, stomach flipping. 

Your nails rake through the dark curls at his navel and you follow the trail until it grows coarse, an observant hum at his body’s reaction. 

“Pretty,” you mutter lowly. 

His frame trembles, the single word falling from your lips like a ton of bricks. 

As your hands wander, you don’t bother with permission and that almost makes him double over. 

There’s no question of can I? There’s only the surety of being yours, like an apodictic artifact you’ve excavated from a shallow grave. 

Because he did lay it to rest. 

So many times. 

Every morning his head lifted from his pillow, he buried it again. Every time your skirt caressed his desk, he threw roses. Every laugh he never caused, he said a prayer. 

But he could not abide an eternity of peace. 

Darkness would fall and he’d dig and dig and dig, the dirt already loose and the trees whispering their greetings. He’d drag up old ghosts—truths only meant for the moon—and dance with them all night. 

Then, like clockwork, golden light would send him reaching for the shovel; the sun would rise and he was resolved to live without. 

Now it’s you who has disturbed the holy ground and it’s freeing. To be exposed. To be known.

Your gaze settles on his face, and he wishes he could understand the thoughts in your mind, the ramblings behind your eyes. 

For a second, he thinks he recognizes the quiet curve of your lips, but—

“So pretty.”

He chokes, his body jerking as your hand circles his cock, firm, yet gentle. Possessive. 

Your unwavering attention and innocent smile turns the blood in his veins molten. His hips buck into your grip, unintentionally coating your soft palm in the sticky precum dribbling from his tip.

“S-Shit, sweetheart—” 

He hunches over, weathered wood scratching against his knees as he tries to warn, to caution you on just how easy he is. How little effort it’d take him to lose it, to let himself fuck your hand like a poor, desperate slip of a thing. 

“I’m ready,” you say, leading him down. “Please.”

He allows your thighs to hitch onto his hips, allows you to hold him, and he allows himself to be this close. To find purchase between your legs, to indulge in the heat of your core. 

He memorizes your features—the determined furrow of your brow, the flutter of your lashes. The version of you before him. 

He so badly wants to tell you what he sees.  

“God, you’re— Fuck!”

Your breath hitches as you press his cock to your folds, and he tries for coherence, but it all falls away when he feels you. Soft and wet and so inviting; you’re killing him slowly. 

“Please, Eddie,” you huff, your hips rolling like you mean to catch him. “Need to feel you, I swear to—”

The sentence shatters on a sharp moan the moment he takes control, letting his length glide against your slit. He’s coated in no time, practically drowning in you, but he doesn’t stop. 

It’s like a trance, the way he moves, watching fresh drops of precum mix with your arousal. He wants to taste that, too. You and him, together. He wants to know. 

You don’t seem to notice his paralysis, instead focusing on bucking your hips just right, and when his tip catches on your entrance, something shocks him into motion. 

Your body wraps around him shallowly, sucking the blunt edge of him in. He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t ignore your babbled pleas for more. 

For once in his life, he allows himself to take. It’s not begrudging permission, not shameful resignation to his more selfish nature. It’s enthusiastic, it’s encouraged, it’s accepted.

He pushes into you slowly, meeting your parted lips with ragged breaths, and your walls cling to him in a joyous welcome. Your pulse drums against his length, squeezing him in a sudden clench; he thinks he mutters advice, something about relaxing, but he’s not sure. 

Reality is bending and he’s thought about this so much, imagined this very moment countless times, and yet, nothing could have prepared him for how your nails take a chunk out of him, how you’re trying with all your might to pull his hips closer, huffing in impatience and cracking under the need.

You’re just like him. 

He hadn’t realized it until now. 

He saw shadows, heard the strain of your voice. 

But he hadn’t looked in your eyes, hadn’t been near enough to hear the call. 

The call of the hungry and withered. Of the wanton and greedy. 

He hears it now. Loud and clear.

Responding in a bellowing groan, he sinks into you fully. His lips flutter over your face, savoring your once-delicate features as they warp in pleasure. 

“F-Fuck! Ed— Eddie, more,” you cry, squirming for friction. 

“More,” he echoes mindlessly, latching onto the order. A real kiss, sweet and loaded like a gun soon to go off, then, “More. The pretty girl wants more— Gets what she wants.”

The words fall from his tongue with little thought—little care. Static whirs in his brain, blocking out everything but you. 

Drawing back steadily, he steals one more glance at you—checking in—then drops down in a sudden snap, guided by your fingers digging into the taut muscle of his ass. 

Sweat beads at his spine as his skin sticks to yours on every impact. His arms hook under your knees, changing the angle just to hear that shrill whine he’s quickly growing addicted to. 

All you manage to say is his name, over and over again like his thrusts are evicting every syllable from your chest. 

The shadows rise, spreading rapidly, and it feels much like possession coursing through him. 

He shudders, his stuttered breaths syncopating with the pulse of your cunt, choking him on every shove in. Your eyes have rolled back now, and your body moves with him, pliant, as if his to mold—to inflict upon, however he sees fit. 

A malleable offering of sheer innocence, laid at his altar. 

And it was your idea. 

The lamb’s idea to come to slaughter. 

“F-Feels good, huh?” he grits, watching you surrender to him so beautifully. 

Your response catches, snagged halfway up your throat, clawed back by a resounding whimper as you nod. 

“Yeah, it feels good,” he parrots, fighting back the raging fire deep in his gut—the one that threatens to engulf you, too. Because he’s not done yet. Not nearly. 

His hips pound into you, cock dragging along your walls at a punishing pace. The beast hums and he smirks as you try to form sentences.

“S-So— Agh! I— Mmmph!”

He nods like he understands every unspoken word. “Now you see why I had to get you all ready? Hm? You were so cute, thinkin’ you could just take it. So brave, comin’ here, all sweet on the freak.”

“Eddie!” 

You have the audacity to paw at him, to pull, to try to meet his strokes in crumbling desperation. He drops your legs, shoving your hands above your head as he presses down onto you, pinning you against the picnic table, the structure rocking with the movement. 

His long, rhythmic thrusts dwindle to swift, sharp ruts, the action bordering on animalistic.

“But now look at you. All mine,” he huffs, dark eyes roving over your trembling body. Then his gaze travels lower, where his cock burrows into you—where you take him so easily, opening up like he said the magic word a thousand times over. “Practically made f’me, fuckin’ look at you. Stretched full and so damn pretty, too. We fit real nice together, don’t we, baby?”

You whine and he maneuvers your wrists into one hand, helping to prop your head up with the other. 

“Look at you,” he repeats, firmer this time. “So wet, you’re drownin’ me, sweetheart.”

Something splinters on your face and he follows your eyeline, notices it fixed on the milky ring that circles the base of his thick shaft and the matted down curls you couldn’t stop admiring earlier. 

“Oh,” he drawls, a wicked, wolfish grin stretching his lips. “You like that?”

You nod and he practically preens. You are just like him. 

“Like seein’ me covered in you? Marked?” 

Your response is nothing more than a brittle whimper and he can feel you clench around him, already so close to falling into the after—the space in time where you will know what it feels like to be thoroughly picked apart, to be undone. By him.

“You’re markin’ me,” he growls into your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses along your jugular, trying not to bite. “Think it’s only fair you let me do the same, hm? What do you say, pretty girl? Gonna let me really fill you up?”

“P-Please! Oh, God, please, Eddie—”

His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight, practiced circles on the swollen bud and you freeze, arching into his chest, searing your sweat-soaked flesh to his. Your cries fall silent as you gape, convulsing at every third swipe he makes. 

Your walls trap him in a vice grip, fluttering and milking rope after rope of cum from his flexing length. He shivers uncontrollably, feeling his warm spend flood the tight space until it leaks, shoveled out by his now-pitiful ruts. 

He tries to prolong it. Tries to steal the moment from time itself and live in it; play house with the present. But then his body finally gives out, muscles slackening, and your arms are there to catch him, welcoming the iron hold he traps you in.

Raspy whispers are muttered into your neck, tattooed by the heat of his breath; quiet sentiments he’s not certain you hear over the noise of two settling souls. And maybe it’s better that way. Maybe they’re things to hoard—at least for a little while longer. 

He trails kisses up your jaw, blindly searching for your lips, only to find them unresponsive. Worry fills him immediately. 

Maybe he was too rough. He did notice the half-moon marks scattered along your thighs. 

Maybe he was too mouthy. He can never think straight when it comes to you.

Maybe he was just too much— 

“Eddie,” you call gently, pulling him from somewhere deep and dark.

He meets your eyes, surprised to see them wide and wanting, shining with that honest gleam that makes him feel so exposed.

“You are mine.”

So you heard.

He wasn’t cautious and he said the words meant for an empty bedroom out loud. And you heard. 

Your fingers thread through his curls, dragging his wavering attention back to you.

“You are mine,” you repeat, softer but no less confident. 

He wonders how something so delicate could detonate something so sturdy. Years and years of denial, blown to smithereens in three words. 

And you make it look easy. 

Make it sound plausible. 

That he could be yours, just as much as you want to be his.

He nods, hanging onto you like a lifesaver as debris from the wreckage floats by. He swallows and his voice barely forms around the letters, breaking under the weight of it all.

“O-Okay.”

And he surrenders. 

He believes you. 

A/N: For the love of god, please be sweet and talk to me about this fic. I think I looked at it for too long and now I don’t know if it’s maybe the worst thing I’ve ever written or if I’m just too close to it rn, I’m being so for real.

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They decided, and paid a lot of money, to send you to a conversion camp. Your parents told you it would be better this way, but it was eight weeks of torture for you.

It was also torture for Eddie, who didn't know what to do with himself without you. Getting high just wasn't the same without his favorite weed bunny. Practicing his guitar wasn't the same without his favorite audience member. You being gone made him realize how much time you truly spend together, and Eddie was losing his mind without you.

After eight long and torturous weeks, you were finally back home. When Eddie heard the news, he stuffed blunts in his pockets, hopped in his van, and sped down to your place. He pulled into the driveway, not caring about his crooked parking job. Eddie practically pounded on the front door with excitement. Your dad, who always treated him like a son, answered the door.

"Hey, son. She just got home, up in her room," your dad tells him, stepping aside. Eddie bolts up the stairs without a second thought, bursting through your door without knocking, because he never did anyway. And there you were, looking like a little church mouse. Eddie could barely believe his eyes, the flowery sundress that came down to your mid-calf, the ribbon in your hair. "Holy shit," he mumbles.

You turned around, and that smile of yours nearly took his breath away. "You... you're still you, right? You're not like some secret incredibly hot evil twin you never told me about, right?" Eddie questions.

A laugh leaves your lips at his exasperation. It was that wonderful, heart-tugging laugh that Eddie had waited two whole months to hear again. "Yeah, I'm still me," you wipe a joyful tear from the corner of your eye, "still the same person I was before I left." You sit down on the edge of your bed, and Eddie wastes no time plopping down beside you. "So you're not like, some totally straight Christian girl now, right? Because you totally look like one," he says.

You shrug, "My parents think that, might as well play the part, so they don't lose their minds again. But, I'm still me. Forever horny and desperate for weed."

"I can satisfy both of those needs, sweetheart," Eddie winks, and you shove him lightly with your shoulder. "You look good, though, real good," he compliments. You roll your eyes, tugging loosely at the fabric resting on your thighs. "You think so? I mean, they made us wear the most uncomfortable uniforms ever. It made it feel more like a boarding school rather than a summer camp. So maybe this is a step-up."

Eddie brushes his thumb against your thigh, "Oh, absolutely." He continues to brush his thumb against your thigh absentmindedly, before he realizes something. "Wait..." he squints at you, "forever horny, huh? Should I be concerned about the camp's extracurriculars?" You gasp dramatically, leaning away from him, "Ew! Gross."

"What?" Eddie puts his hands up in defense, "You put a bunch of sexually repressed teenagers in one place, something is bound to happen." You shake your head at his antics, "Yeah, but like, no, you know?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he shoves his hands into his pockets. Eddie's mouth turns up into a smirk as he digs out some joints from his pocket. "Luckily," he says, waving a blunt between them like sacred evidence, "someone left me their emergency stash before they shipped off." The unspoken 'I saved this for you' hangs in the air as he nudges your foot with his boot. "Do you want the first hit?" he pulls out his lighter from the other pocket.

"Fuck," you nearly whine, feeling that familiar headache tighten behind your eyes. "Yeah, but we can't do it here," you answer.

Eddie shrugs, already rising to his feet and nodding towards the window, "Of course, we can't. This is a respectable house. We'll just have to sneak out." You shake your head, rubbing your temple, "You know the last time I snuck out I got in serious shit, right?"

But Eddie is already opening the window, sticking one leg out, and feeling for the roof. "You're insane, Eddie," you huff, reluctantly getting up as well. He grins back at you, "What's new, baby? You should know me by now."

You click your tongue, getting closer to him, "I do know you, but this is on a whole new level." Eddie rolls his shoulders, half shrugging, half getting ready to scale the side of your house and run to his van. "Look, are you coming or not, hot stuff?" He asks with a slight head tilt.

"Fine," you grumble, though you both know damn well that you would never give up the opportunity to get high. Eddie's grin turns feral all the same as he hauls himself out the window, boots scraping against the siding. He turns just enough to catch your hand when you follow, fingers tightening for half a second before letting go. "Watch your step," he warns, "I would hate to have to explain to your dad how you fell off your roof."

You shoot him a glare, "I've done this a million times, I won't fall." With that spark of confidence, the two of you descend from the roof, using the route that you always used to sneak out. When you landed on the front lawn, you bolted for Eddie's van, and he followed after. You breathe a sigh of relief as you sink into the passenger seat.

Eddie starts the engine and pulls out of your parents' driveway. As he drives, he sneaks glances at you, taking in all the things he didn't realize he would miss. "It's good to have you back," he says, almost without meaning to. The words are too sincere, too raw for a moment like this. "Anyway," he clears his throat awkwardly, "where to?"

"Your place?" you suggest, and the corner of his mouth tugs up. "You know it."

Eddie drums absently on the wheel as they drive, fingers tapping to the beat of whatever song just started playing, because he's never been good at keeping his hands still. The air in the van is warm; the air conditioning never worked, but you don't bother rolling down the windows. "Hey," he breaks the silence between the two of you, "can I ask you something?"

You nod your head, and he's quiet for a moment, eyes narrowed as the sun slips through the treetops in streaks. It feels like he's gathering his words carefully. "The whole time you were gone..." He flicks a look at you, then away again. "I kept thinking about something you said. That last night. You remember what that was?" You blink, as if the memory would suddenly pop back into your head, "kinda.. um.. refresh my memory?" You don't remember at all.

The van slows as they turn onto a more secluded road, old gravel beneath the tires. "You said..." He hesitates, gaze fixed unwaveringly on the road. "You said I was your favorite person." His jaw clicks shut. He's not looking at you on purpose now. "Did you actually mean that or were you just saying it cause we were shitfaced?"

You look over at him, scanning over all the perfect ringlets of his curls, "You are my favorite person."

The answer hangs between you like something fragile. Eddie swallows around a sudden tightness in his throat, trying to play it off with a laugh that almost comes out normal. He shifts in his seat, "Don't say shit like that." His knuckles flex against the steering wheel as he forces the conversation elsewhere, away from how much that felt like a confession. Eddie's good at deflection. He's better at running.

You run your tongue over your teeth, then shrug, "Too bad." Eddie groans theatrically, finally looking at you again. "You're supposed to cooperate," he complains, "not be annoyingly wholesome and sweet and..." His eyes flick up and down, taking in her dress. "...all the other things I shouldn't be thinking about."

You chew on your bottom lip, looking down at the worn floor of the van. Eddie exhales through his nose, shaking his head like he can physically dislodge whatever thought just popped into his mind. "You're doing that thing," he accuses, voice dropping an octave. "The- the lip thing," his free hand gestures vaguely at her mouth before immediately regretting it and retreating back to strangle the gearshift instead. "We should probably not talk about this when I'm driving."

"Right," you agree half-heartedly. Then you glance at him out of the corner of your eye and mumble, "Wouldn't want to tempt you with my sexy body."

The van swerves just enough to make Eddie curse under his breath. "Oh my god-" He slaps a hand over his eyes for half a second before remembering he's supposed to be looking at the road. "You can't just say shit like that," he groans, dragging the same hand down his face hard enough to leave red marks behind. His voice pitches higher than usual, "Are you trying to kill us? Is this how we die?" He peeks through his fingers at you, but you still have that stupid smirk on your face. The one where you know exactly what you're doing.

"I hate you so much right now," Eddie mutters weakly. You shake your head, leaning back in your seat tauntingly, "Nah, you love me."

Eddie makes a strangled noise, somewhere between a laugh and pure, unfiltered panic. His ears go pink as he jerks the van to the side of the road with way more force than necessary. Gravel sprays against the undercarriage. "Okay," he announces, turning fully in his seat to face you like this is some kind of standoff. "New rule: you don't get to say that shit and tease the hell out of me while I'm driving." He jabs an accusing finger at your chest without actually touching it; he’s not that brave.

"You’re lucky I-” Eddie cuts himself off mid-sentence because finishing it could be dangerous for both of you. He deflates all at once with another groan into his hands, "This is why I always made a better warlock than a bard." You lean towards him slightly, "Because you're a hopeless romantic?"

Eddie's head snaps up so fast his curls bounce. "What?" His voice cracks spectacularly on the word. "No- I mean, no, that’s not-"

He points at you again, as if you personally offended him. Which you definitely did. "You can’t just drop shit like that when I’m defenseless in my own van!" He kills the engine aggressively as he drags both hands down his face again. After an agonized pause, where Metallica plays in the background, he finally speaks. "Maybe," Eddie mumbles into his palms, utterly defeated, "But only if you were too." It comes out more like a plea before he immediately regrets every life choice leading to this moment and reaches blindly for whatever he can find lying around his constantly messy van. A crushed bag of chips? A lighter? Absolutely nothing helpful.

You tilt your head slowly, considering it for a moment, "Really? Why?" Eddie glares at you for a second, "Because..." he says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "If I'm gonna be stupidly romantic, then you have to be stupidly romantic. That's how the trope works. Mutual pining. Equal levels of bullshit." You blink like someone just electrocuted you, "Mutual pining? Like... between us?"

He freezes mid-reach, his brain stutters and screams at the same time as it scrambles frantically to backtrack. Eddie Munson, the smooth talker, the unshakeable charisma, the guy literally famous for making things up on the goddamn spot, just sat there like a dumbass, staring at you like a deer in headlights. Then a very quiet, very panicked: "...Yes?" falls out into the space between you before Eddie can stop it.

"Huh..." you lean back against your seat again, "pass me a blunt." Eddie exhales so hard his shoulders drop like he's been holding that breath for years. "Christ," he mutters, digging into his pocket with renewed desperation. He fishes out a slightly crushed joint and lighter like they’re lifelines. He fumbles with lighting it before passing it over, knuckles brushing yours just enough to be noticeable. The smoke hangs between you as Eddie stares resolutely at the dashboard while Metallica still plays from the speakers. "So," Eddie says after too long a pause, voice deliberately casual despite how fast his pulse is hammering against his ribs. "We're just gonna... not talk about that?"

"We will, but I need a buzz to do it," you answer, taking another hit off the blunt. Eddie watches the way your shoulders relax as you exhale, the subtle way the tension starts to bleed from between you like the smoke drifting toward the ceiling. He shifts uncomfortably next to you, taking his own hit. It’s easier to talk when his head feels a little less tethered to the ground.

"You know," he mutters, half-laughing as the sound bounces off the windshield. "This is a really cliché setting for a heart-to-heart, right? The weed. The van. The side of a road, in the middle of nowhere." You look out the window, the empty road along the treeline, "Holy shit, you're right."

Eddie barks out a laugh, sharp and startled. "Oh, now you notice!" He gestures wildly at the surroundings. "We might as well have dramatic music playing in the background like some tragic teen movie." The joint passes back between you with an unspoken rhythm now. Eddie watches you through sidelong glances as you burn holes in silence, and maybe each other. He’s quiet for too long before blurting, "You were gonna kiss me that night? Before camp?" The question hangs there, raw and stupidly hopeful despite how much he wishes it didn't sound so obvious when he says it out loud. You sigh, closing your eyes, "You remember that?"

Like it was yesterday, Eddie's brain supplies while traitorous parts of his memory replay that night like a shitty highlight reel. He nods wordlessly, inhaling deeply to buy himself time. "Yeah." He can’t bring himself to look at you for more than half a breath at a time. "Yeah, I remember." Eddie takes another hit, holding the smoke just long enough for it to burn. "Why didn't you?" He finally drags his gaze over, catching your half-lidded eyes in the low light.

"Because I..." you struggle to find the right words to explain your unnecessarily complicated emotions, "We've been friends for so long."

Eddie curls his finger into the fabric of his jeans. "Yeah," he says softly. "We have."

That word, that stupid, safe label, looms over you guys like a guillotine. "We're just friends," you'd say to everyone who bothered to ask about the freak attached to your hip. Just friends. It's safe. It's simple. It’s not supposed to feel like a knife twisting in his stomach every time you say it. He takes a breath. "Can I ask you a question? A kind of stupid one?"

Eddie looks away, scratching absently at the side of his neck. "What if..." He hesitates so long that he has to force the next words out with a burst of air. "What if I didn't want to be just friends?" The summer breeze brushing against the window, the faint sound of birds chirping, and cicadas buzzing all seem too loud for this moment. But maybe that's the weed talking. Maybe it's the fact that the air feels too thin between them. Maybe...

But Eddie looks at you, and it is very much not just the weed talking.

You tilt your head back against the headrest, and the corner of your eyes is slightly bloodshot now. "I'd let you fuck me in the backseat," you mumble. Eddie makes a sound like his soul just left his body. The joint slips from his fingers, landing in the footwell as he whips around to stare at you, wide-eyed and gaping. For once in his life, he's completely speechless. His mouth opens and closes uselessly for several seconds before he manages to say, "I—what? That's your answer? Just straight-up sex?" He rubs his temple slightly, "Jesus Christ, I miss when we were awkward about this."

You run your fingers along the dashboard, feeling all the little bumps and grooves. "But, also," you glance at him, "I don't want us to be just friends."

This whole conversation feels like some kind of fever dream to Eddie, like he's going to wake up back at the trailer with a hangover and the worst case of blue balls in the history of man. His pulse is hammering painfully by the time his brain processes all of what you said. "What? You..." He sounds like he's been punched. "You don't?"

You shake your head in response, "I want you. God, I want you. I've always wanted you."

And oh, if that doesn't send a sharp little shock through his whole body.

Eddie slumps against the seat, staring in open, half-shocked disbelief. "If we're doing confessions right now," he says roughly, "I've been in love with you for five goddamn years." He runs a hand through his hair, tugging a little so he can feel something outside of this dizzy feeling that he might just be hallucinating. "Five years," he mumbles, "Jesus Christ." A slight smirk tugs at the corner of your lips, "So, we could have been dating since, what? Freshman year?"

He tugs on his hair with more force. "What were we doing this whole time?!" It comes out half-hysterical, half-awed, like he can't believe you wasted so much time when you could've been kissing or fighting or anything but this. His voice cracks, "I am gonna need so many hits to process that." You nod your head in agreement, "Roll out the blunts."

Eddie laughs and sighs at the same time, pulling out every roll he had and letting them fall onto the center console. "Christ, okay," he mutters, "We're gonna need all of these." His fingers fumble as he clumsily lights one up again, passing it over to you. He’s never been good at this kind of thing when his head is spinning. "So what now?" he questions. You take a long hit, letting the smoke curl out of your lips for a good minute, "Fuck, I don't know."

He watches the way your chest rises and falls, how you exhale slowly like you're trying to steady yourself. It makes his own breath hitch in response, something raw flickering behind his ribs at just seeing you like this. He reaches out without thinking, calloused fingers brushing against yours where they cradle the joint. "We could..." Eddie starts before trailing off with a weak laugh, because he totally doesn't have a plan either. His thumb traces idle circles over your knuckles, testing, tentative. "...Figure it out?" He finally offers quietly, gaze locked on your hands instead of meeting your eyes yet, because that would be too much right now. You follow his gaze to where your hands meet, "Though what?"

Eddie's breath stutters. "Everything," he says, voice rough like gravel under tires. His fingers tighten around yours just enough to be noticeable, as if he doesn't hold on, this whole moment might dissolve into smoke between them. He risks a glance up through his lashes and fuck if that doesn’t wreck him all over again. Your face lit up by the high-noon sun that pours in through the window. Looking like an absolute goddess.

"We're not gonna know unless we... y'know." He swallows hard before blurting, "Try stuff? Like kissing or whatever." The van feels ten degrees hotter suddenly, or maybe it’s just him. "Oh, like fucking me in the backseat?" you tease once more.

He chokes on his own spit, having to place a hand on his chest to catch his breath. "You're killing me, you know you're killing me," he groans. A sharp little spike of something dangerous sparks in his chest when you look like that. Teasing him like you're not driving him to the edge of his sanity. "I can't tell if you're joking," he mutters weakly. "But you're still totally into it," you wink.

Eddie rubs his mouth with his palm, "Fuck," he mumbles into his skin. He glares at you again, but you can tell he's not mad at all. He gestures wildly between them like it can physically encompass all the terrible choices leading up to this moment. "You know I am! You're sitting there looking-" He cuts himself off with another strangled noise when you grin. "I hate you," Eddie lies, voice pitching higher as he yanks open the driver’s side door like an escape route. "I'm gonna walk home," but he doesn't move.

"And miss this?" You pull the fabric that covers your leg up, just enough to leave him wanting more.

Eddie freezes, his mouth goes dry in record time as he stares at the strip of skin now visible above your knee. He swallows twice, rough enough for it to be noticeable, before yanking himself back and slamming the door shut with a thump. His gaze slowly trails up to your face. "That's playing dirty," he says hoarsely. "I'm just saying, we can talk about our feelings later. But we both know we have way too many pent-up emotions to just simply talk," you point out.

"I hate that you're making sense," he gripes, shifting so he's facing you more directly. "I was all prepped for a dramatic sulking exit and everything." His gaze drops to your skirt again. He reaches over just to brush his fingers against the fabric, careful and reverent like you're a porcelain doll. You place your hand on top of his, pushing it against her thigh. Eddie sucks in a sharp breath, thumb tracing slow circles against your inner thigh. He's careful about how heavy he presses, but his palm is sweaty and a little rough, calloused over from years of guitar playing and other things.

He looks up through his eyelashes, eyes a little darker than before. There's a wildness there that feels hungry, like you're something to be adored and devoured all at once. "We should probably still talk."

"Why not both?" you reply.

Eddie's laugh comes out breathless. "Shit," he mutters, his fingers flexing against your thigh like he's already imagining other places they could go. His free hand rakes through his hair, messy curls sticking up in every direction now from how many times he’s tugged at them just sitting in this van with you. "You're gonna be the death of me," Eddie warns, his voice lowering. He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away if you want to, but there's no hesitation when your lips finally meet for the first time after five years of pining. All heat and clumsy hunger.

He leans over the center console as he deepens the kiss, grabbing the back of your head. You taste so much like weed, chapstick and you that he's lost when your tongue slips into his mouth. Eddie groans against your mouth, hands scrambling to grip the fabric of your dress like he's trying not to completely lose it right then and there.

The kiss turns filthy fast, all teeth and tongue, and heavy breathing. He pulls back just far enough for their lips still brush when he rasps, "Backseat. Now."

You don't have to be told twice before you're already scrambling to get back there. Eddie follows you like a man possessed, hands already tugging impatiently at the fabric of her dress the moment his ass lands on the seat. He lifts you into his lap, breath ragged and gaze dark as his hands move under the skirt of your dress. "I still hate you," he tells you, fingers tracing the line of your underwear like a question. "So goddamn much."

"I love you too," you whisper, placing your hands on his chest.

Eddie looks like he's just been punched, then his head thumps against the seat, and he laughs helplessly. He drags your hips forward until you're pressed flush against him. His breath hitches when he feels the heat of your mound on the bulge in his jeans. "Say it again," he sounds strangled, "please."

You press your nose against his, "I. Love. You."

He shudders, hands flying up to cradle your face so he can kiss you again, slow and deep this time. It feels less like desperation now and more like something sacred. When you break apart for air, Eddie presses his forehead against yours with a shaky exhale. "I love you too," he admits in a voice so raw it barely sounds like his own. His thumbs trace the apples of your cheeks as if memorizing every inch of this moment before it slips away.

A few beats pass before he mumbles quieter, almost shy despite everything. "Can I take your dress off now?"

"God, please do," you respond, and his fingers are already at the zipper of your dress. He gets halfway down before the zipper gets stuck, and he gives up entirely. Manhandling it up over your head because he needs your bare against his. He can't look away as the fabric pools on the floor behind you, and he's left staring at you in nothing but a lace bra and panties. "Jesus," he rasps, eyes roving over every inch of you like he's starving. "You're… so goddamn perfect." Your cheeks warm even more, like you can feel the path his eyes take to look you up and down, "Eddie..."

"Shhh," he mutters as his mouth trails down the line of your neck. His hands slide up along your sides, large palms spanning the width of your ribcage. He presses a kiss just under your jaw, his fingers tracing the edge of your bra like a question. "You're wearing lace." The words come out as a strangled whisper against your skin. "Yes, and?" you raise an eyebrow at him.

"And I have a thing for lace," he admits before biting at the soft skin of your shoulder like a half-wild animal. He sucks at the spot like an afterthought, fingers skimming down your spine just to feel you shiver. His voice is rough against the shell of your ear when he whispers, "You planned this." Eddie presses his mouth against the sensitive spot below your earlobe, biting softly before soothing the mark with his tongue. "Teased me with the skirt and the lace, and you knew."

"I didn't know shit," you jab his chest with your finger, "I had no idea we would end up like this." Eddie snorts. "Bullshit," he accuses. His hand slides up to wrap lightly around your throat, fingers pressing against your pulse until they can feel how fast your heart is beating for him. "You're a smart girl, sweetheart. You knew what you were doing." He drags his mouth along the line of your collarbone, leaving a trail of marks in his wake. "Admit it."

You huff, biting on your tongue before the words tumble out of you. "I've been wearing lace sets every day for years in the hope that you'd see it one day."

Eddie's grip tightens instinctively around your throat before he forces himself to ease up. "You can't just- fuck. You're gonna kill me." He drags your hips flush against him with one hand while the other slips under the lace of your panties, his fingers brushing over your slick folds. His voice cracks, "Tell me what you want."

"You," a gasp leaves your throat as his fingers nudge against your clit, "I want you, Eddie."

His hands work faster than his brain, and he's pulling your panties down. He’s too far gone for slow and sweet, but he has plenty of time to make up for that later. His belt buckle clinks as he fumbles with it one-handed while the other gropes your ass. "Me?" Eddie repeats like he can't believe you're serious. He then swallows thickly when you nod in confirmation. "You're incredible," he says, rubbing his nose along your cheek, "I want you all to myself."

Eddie pulls down his jeans with you still perched on his lap. You can now clearly see the bulge in his blue plaid boxers, and it makes your mouth water a little. "Ah," he catches your chin and makes you look at him. "Another time," he mutters, "you can put that hot mouth all over my dick. But I need to feel that wet pussy on me right now."

He tugs down his boxers, letting his dick free. The tip is all flushed and throbbing, leaking enough pre-cum to make it glisten slightly. His balls are tense and heavy, just waiting for release. A thick thatch of dark curly hair rested just above the base of his dick. You would have never thought your best friend would have such a pretty cock. With veins running along the length and the slight curve of it, you realized how bad you needed him. You always knew that Eddie got around; hell, he'd always told you about his latest drunken hookup. But now all you wanted was for you to be the one he fucked, and your hole clenched around nothing at the thought.

Eddie positions you above his cock, his tip nudging your entrance. You were about to ask him if he had a condom, but he shoves you down on him, knocking the words right out of you with a moan. "Fuck- fuck, you feel…" his voice gives out halfway through because you feel better than anything he's ever felt his entire life. You grasp his shoulders at the stretch, "Oh my god..." Even though you were very much not a virgin, Eddie filled you up in a way you had only dreamed of before.

"Yeah, Jesus…" he groans, gripping onto your hips harshly so he doesn't just start pounding into you. He looks ruined, like there's nothing else that matters to him now but this. "You're everything," he breathes, "You're my everything."

You bite your lip, but a small moan still slips out as he grinds his hips against yours. Eddie's thrusts are small and short at first, and that was mostly because he physically couldn't stop himself from needing to feel the friction of your tight heat. He bites hard on his tongue to keep from finishing prematurely. "I'm trying to be good," he rasps. "You're so much more than I thought I'd ever get… anything of you."

You try to understand what that means, but the feeling of his cock inside you is just too much, and takes over every part of your thought power. "That doesn't make sense, but okay," you mumble. Eddie laughs, dropping his head down to your neck. "I'm not sure anything makes sense right now, doll," he admits.

He lifts his face from her neck and looks at you, all messy and flushed and beautiful in a way that's almost painful now. Eddie swallows hard before adding, "You're perfect. And I'm completely, utterly in love with you."

You smile softly, leaning down to whisper in his ear, "You're such a freak, you know that, right?"

"Mhm, I know." Eddie's breath hitches when you place a gentle kiss on the side of his neck. He leans his head back to give her better access to the sensitive skin of his throat. "Your freak," he amends breathlessly. "All yours."

You nip at his throat, and he bucks up into you, a sound that was almost like a whimper leaves his mouth. "I'm so desperate for you," he whispers, "can I please move?" All you have to do is nod, and Eddie is moving you up and down on his cock. You arch your back, pressing your bra-clad chest into his. He traces your curves like a madman, touching every inch of skin he can get his hands on. Eddie's hand eventually lands back on your hips, using them as leverage as he fucks up into you.

"Fuck, you feel... like heaven or some shit," he rubs circles into your skin when you match his pace with the snap of your hips. He kisses your shoulder, mumbling praises, "That's it. Just like that… You're so damn perfect, sweetheart. You know that?" His palms slide up to cup your face, and Eddie kisses you roughly until you're both groaning against each other. "Tell me you're mine," he whispers, "please, just say it. Just once, please."

"I'm yours," you say without hesitation, "I've always been yours."

Eddie's thrusts speed up at that notion; they start becoming more desperate every minute that passes. "Can I just… say something selfish?" he asks. "Go for it," you answer.

He lifts you up until just the tip is inside, and then he lets you fall back down in one rough motion. Eddie looks up at you as if nothing else could possibly matter right now. "I want you pregnant."

The words hang between you for half a second before Eddie's face burns red with realization, and he backpedals fast, stammering, "Shit, not- not right now obviously, but like… someday? Maybe?" He looks equal parts terrified of your reaction and way too turned on by it. Your eyes are wide, and you look startled, "Fuck, you sure aren't subtle."

Eddie tilts his head back, "I'm not subtle at all," he echoes. Though his hips still jerk into your heat despite himself, "You got me thinking about you in my bed for the rest of our lives." He presses a rough kiss to your lips before adding, "We should probably use protection next time, though."

You give him a 'no shit' look and sigh, "Yeah, can we wait until I can move out of my overbearing parents' house?" Eddie chuckles, nodding his head along, "We should probably wait 'til I can actually graduate, honestly." He places two fingers under your chin and tilts it down so he can see how the sunlight pours onto your face, "Doesn't mean I can't think about it, right?"

"I'm honestly surprised you want kids," you mumble. With the lifestyle Eddie Munson lived, you would have never thought that children would be in his deck of cards. "Of course, I do," he says, and he has this look in his eye that leaves no room for doubt. "Christ, doll, you have no idea how badly I want to see you… All soft, y'know? Carrying my kid?" His hands slide down to trace the curve of your stomach, already picturing it. "I know I got this whole badass rock star thing or whatever, but I'll be honest, I just really want someone to call me dad."

You raise an eyebrow, "Oh? Really?" This was your first time seeing this side of Eddie, ironic that it was happening while he was literally inside you. He smiles, almost shy, before he admits, "I think I'd be a damn good dad. I'll spoil 'em rotten, show them all the best music, and teach 'em all the best tricks, and I… I'll teach them not to take any bullshit from the world. I'll teach them that the world's theirs as long as they're willing to fight for it. I want to give them everything I wish I had growing up…" He pauses, searching your face for any kind of sign that he's crazy or stupid. "And I… I really, really feel like I could do it if you-"

You shut him up with a kiss, and that's all it takes, really. His hands are everywhere again, desperate for more of you as he pulls you impossibly close to press into his body. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps when he finally manages to pull away long enough for air. "You're the love of my life, aren't you?"

"You'd better hope so," you tease. Eddie smiles into your shoulder, "I hope so too, or we're both fuuucked."

He presses a kiss to your collarbone, all messy and desperate. His voice cracks a little bit as he mumbles against your skin, like he's still not sure if what he's saying is real. "You're gonna be my wife one day. I'll marry you one day, and it'll be the best and worst day of my goddamn life."

"Worst?" you question, tilting your head to the side. "The best because… I mean, duh, I'm marrying a literal goddess," he laughs at how that sounds before going on. "But the worst too, y'know? Knowing me and my shitty luck, I'm gonna say or do something stupid to ruin it." He gives your hips a small squeeze, "You're gonna get tired of me, sweetheart. Everyone does."

"I haven't gotten tired of you yet, and we've been best friends since we were kids, so..." you shrug, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

Eddie's hands drop from her hips like they forgot how to work for a second before he drags them back up to cradle your face. "Yeah?" he sounds stupidly hopeful, and maybe a little scared. "You're not gonna wake up one day and be all, 'Wow, I could've done so much better than this dude'?" He searches your eyes for any sign of hesitation, but his voice is already softening around the edges, like you've already won him over completely. "Shit, you really do love me."

You roll your eyes, "Just shut up and fuck me."

"Gladly," he grins, flipping you onto your back with a roughness that's more need than force. His mouth crashes into yours; it's messy and desperate, just like him. His hips snap forward without warning because he’s done with waiting. The whine that comes out of him when you take every inch of his cock is borderline embarrassing. "Fuck, you feel like home," he mumbles, as if that was even possible. Eddie buries himself deep just to hear the way you gasp for him again, because the sound is like music to his ears.

"You wanna get me pregnant?" you whisper in his ear, and Eddie's hips stutter. "You can't just ask me that while I'm balls-deep in you," he's nearly losing it. "Yes? Maybe? Fuck- I don't know, but I want it if it's with you," he presses his thumb into your hipbone.

"Do whatever you want. Cum in me, don't, I don't care about the consequences anymore," you slowly lift your hips up to get a better angle of his cock. "You've lost it," he comments, as if Eddie wasn't losing his mind too, or if he was ever sane to begin with. "If I do it- if I get you pregnant, you're stuck with me forever," he kisses your jaw, down to your neck. "Are you sure, sweetheart? I'm a goddamn wreck. I'm… I'm messy, stupid, and a lost cause."

"There's always the morning-after pill, right?" you respond. He nods his head, "Yeah, okay. But I'm still putting a baby in you one day." Then his voice drops lower, quieter, almost shy, "Please let me come inside, though."

"As long as you make me cum, sure," you reply, his hair tickles your chest as he kisses between your breasts. "Thank you," he says as he yanks your thighs higher around his waist, drawing you closer. Then his fingers dip between the two of you, finding your clit and rubbing it in tight circles. His hips snap forward in time with each stroke of his fingers. "You wanna cum all over my cock like a good girl?" he watches every flicker of pleasure that passes over your face.

You nod your head frantically, and Eddie takes that as a sign to speed up his thrusts. His free hand cups your chin, and he tips your head back so he's looking you dead in the eye. "I want you to look at me the whole time, you understand?"

A hum passes your lips as he presses his against yours. He grips the backs of your thighs hard enough to bruise. He barely pulls away from your mouth when he says, "You like that, baby? Like the way I make you feel good?"

"Yeah. Don't stop," you moan. "Wasn't planning on it," he replies, his hips snapping forward harder now just to hear the way you gasp for him. His hand flies from your thigh to tangle in your hair instead, so he can watch every flicker of pleasure cross your face when he really gives it to you. Eddie presses his forehead against yours as his pace turns downright punishing, trying to push both of you to the edge.

"Fuck," you grab onto his bicep, "I'm gonna cum."

Eddie nearly breaks when you say those words, but his thrusts don't stop. It's instinct at this point; he can't stop rutting into you. "Cum for me. Please," his voice cracks from the pleasure that shoots up his cock in waves. This is the best thing he's ever experienced, even over DnD, weed, or play for Corroded Coffin.

You cry out his name, your back arching as your walls spasm around his length. The sight of you coming undone for him causes Eddie to lose it. His hips jerk into you in a downright animalistic way, pressing his face into your neck as he buries to the hilt inside you and spills over the edge with desperate moans. "Fuck, sweetheart... I'm coming inside your pretty cunt," he stifles a whine. Eddie presses sloppy kisses along whatever skin he can reach while riding out every last wave of pleasure between the two of you. When his hips finally still, he's panting against sweat-slicked skin while muttering hoarsely, "We're definitely doing this again tomorrow."

"Okay," your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, "But can we do it on a bed? With more weed involved?" He laughs, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, "Anything for you. And a bed would be good, considering you've basically destroyed my spine right now." His hand brushes over your hair lightly, "You're so perfect, y'know. I swear I'm the luckiest dumbfuck ever to have you."

You smile softly to yourself before leaning up and kissing him. He kisses back slowly and sweetly now, murmuring against your lips, "Love you… love you so much, sweetheart."

"Love you too," you whisper, and Eddie melts.

"Bed soon. More weed soon," he announces, nipping at your bottom lip playfully. Then he adds, like it's some grand revelation, "We should probably go home before someone catches us in here." You nod your head, "Yeah... we probably should. I've been missing the sound of your sweet guitar, you know?"

"Yeah?" he's not ready to let go of you just yet, "Well, I've been missing the sound of your voice in the audience when I'm up on stage. Don't think the guys realize that I actually play better when you're there." His hands move gently over your skin now, "But maybe you can let me give you a private show when we get home. Just you and me and my guitar. She's been missing you just as much as I have."

"I would absolutely love a private show," you reply a bit slyly. "Good," Eddie grins, pressing one last soft kiss to her mouth before reluctantly pulling away. "C'mon. I don't know about you, but I wanna be in our bed like five minutes ago."

He finally eases himself off of you, sliding his softening cock out of your well-fucked hole. His fingers linger in her hair as he moves off you, reluctant to break that point of contact. Eddie reaches for their abandoned clothes in the cramped floor of his van, tossing your dress and underwear to you as he tugs his pants and boxers back on. When the two of you are dressed, you climb back into the front seats. He starts the engine again and continues making the drive to his trailer, this time with his hand on your thigh. Who knew that an hour after arriving home from a conversion camp, you'd be getting high, getting fucked, and getting a boyfriend? You guess the day just turns around wildly like that sometimes.

Star's notes -> Starting off 2026 fics with a bang! 7.5k omg... 4k of that isn't even smut as well. Anyway, I'm still not over Eddie or that finale... And also finals are coming up, and I'm scared, but yk I'll be here.

(Requests are open!)