Just A Hopeless Romantic With A Dirty Mind

Eddie groaned dramatically and rolled onto his back. “I need a different book. The one with the red tabs. It’s on your bed, I think.”

Your stomach dropped.

Because yes, there was a book with red tabs on your bed.

But it was not the sociology textbook.

It was tucked half beneath your comforter, face-down, like it had tried to hide itself at the last second. Black cover. Embossed lettering. A very intentional ropework design worked into cover in a way that was… not subtle.

You opened your mouth.

“Wait—”

Too late.

Eddie was already on his feet, crossing the room in three lazy steps, reaching down to grab the book from your bed before you could physically launch yourself at him to stop it. His fingers curled around the spine, and he lifted it casually, flipping it over—

—and froze.

"This is... not your sociology textbook." He says, eyes wide as he flips through the pages.

Your blood ran cold. It was a specific, visceral feeling, like an ice cube sliding down your spine. 

Everything faded to a dull roar in your ears. The only thing that existed was Eddie, standing there, holding the single most damning object you owned.

He didn’t flip through it with shock or disgust. There was no theatrical recoil. Instead, his thumb brushed against the pages with a strange, focused curiosity. His eyes, wide and dark, weren't judging; they were reading. Absorbing.

He finally looked up, but not at you. His gaze landed on the open textbook on your desk, red tabs that marked actual academics and not fantasies. 

A slow, disarming smile started at the corner of his mouth, one that you’d seen a hundred times after a good roll of the D20.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice a low, conspiratorial rumble that felt like it vibrated right through the floorboards. “This… is a much more practical application of power dynamics than our textbooks.”

Your throat was dry.

"Thats not funny, Eddie." You turn, face red. "Give it back."

He tilted his head, studying your blush as intently as he'd studied the book. He didn't move to give it back. 

"I promise you, my porn stash is way more embarrassing than this." He waved the book around a little. "At least yours has literary merit."

"It's not porn!" you shot back, your voice a little too loud in the small space. "It's research!"

The excuse sounded flimsy even to your own ears.

Eddie's smile widened. "Research," he repeated, testing the word on his tongue. "For what? Your dissertation on rope burns?"

He was teasing you, but it wasn't cruel. It was… interested. He wasn't making fun of you. He was engaging. He held the book out, not quite close enough for you to snatch back.

"This shit isn't even accurate," he said, tapping a page. "This is all showmanship. They forgot the most important part."

You blinked, confusion warring with humiliation. "What part?"

"The conversation." His eyes met yours, and for a second, the teasing faded. There was something serious there. Something intense but inherently safe. 

"Well, the conversation isn't the sexy part." You mutter. 

"Oh so you're admitting it's porn now?"  He smirks and you narrow your eyes. "And also... the conversation is definitely the sexy part," he added, stepping closer. "It's the whole point."

You held your ground, even though every instinct screamed at you to snatch the book, throw him out, and crawl into a hole for the rest of eternity. Instead, you lifted your chin. "You think so?"

"I'm well versed, yeah."

He finally lowered the book, setting it down on your desk, on top of your sociology textbook. The juxtaposition was dizzying. Academia and anarchy. Theory and practice.

He took another step into your personal space. Close enough that you could smell the faint scent of the joint he smoked outside. 

"I'm going to guess you haven't put this into practice yet," he said softly.

You couldn't answer. The lie was stuck in your throat. Because he was right. The book, the fantasies—they'd always been in your head. A private world.

A world he had just stumbled into.

"So tell me," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, looking you directly in the eye. "Is it something you only like in fiction or would you like to learn it for real?"

He waited.

And the silence that followed was the loudest thing you'd ever heard.

His question hung in the air between you, shimmering and dangerous. 

Is it something you only like in fiction or would you like to learn it for real?

It was a test. A doorway. A chance to step out of the theory and into the practice.

"I mean, I don't exactly have a partner to, you know..." Your hands flew up in a vague, helpless gesture. "It's not like I can just walk into a bar and ask 'Hey, any of you guys into safe, effective, and nonjudgmental bondage?'"

The joke landed weakly, but Eddie didn't laugh. He just watched you, like a predator assessing prey. He leaned against your desk, crossing his arms, the casual posture doing nothing to hide the focus in his gaze. He picked up the book again, not to mock you this time, but to flip to a specific, dog-eared page.

"Okay," he said, tapping the pages of a sex scene you had clearly marked with interest. "This, for example. The rope work is all wrong for this position. It would cut off circulation after five minutes."

You blinked. "You... you know about ropes?"

He shrugged. "I have hobbies. Guitar isn't my only practical area of expertise." He met your eyes again. 

"I guess that makes sense for your whole... look." You gesture vaguely at him. 

That one does make him laugh a little. "Yeah sure the whole aesthetic probably doesn't hurt." He smirks at you, eyes scanning over you again. "But the look is just a bonus. Not a guarantee. I know people who are vanilla as hell who dress like me. And I know people who would put this whole book to shame who wear polo shirts."

You think about that for a second, mulling it over as he speaks again. 

"Do you like my 'look' or something? You getting off on the thought of me being the one tying you up?" He teases you, but it's not a joke, not really. It's a question.

The question hung there, an invitation wrapped in a dare. Your cheeks burned, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze.

"Okay, light teasing was fine but don't purposely be an ass about this." You warn him, the bite in your words making him raise an eyebrow. "And... yeah. The thought occurred once or twice. I'm not blind." The admission felt like ripping off a band-aid—painful, but necessary.

Something shifted in Eddie's expression. His smirk was softer, like he didn't expect you to admit it. He let it hang in the air for a beat, savoring the victory.

"Once or twice, huh?" he mused. "That's... nice."

He set the book down again, this time closing it. The conversation was moving on, past the fantasy and into reality.

He sits on your bed, not like he usually does where he's just sprawled out with no care in the world. This was different. He sat close to the edge, leaving a space between you, but the air crackled with new possibilities. He rested his hands on his knees, a position that was open, non-threatening, but still completely in control.

"I've thought about it like, way more than once or twice honestly. I've thought about what it would be like with you. So, like, if you want to try some things, or even just talk about them, I'm more than willing to be your partner in crime."

You couldn't speak, but he continued. 

"Unless, you know, you'd rather ask that guy from your history class. What's his name? Mark? The one who looks like he was grown in a lab to sell minivans."

"Mark is just my project partner." You roll your eyes. "He's literally been here once to study." 

"You laugh at his jokes a lot in the dining hall." He shoots back. "I've seen it."

You had no comeback for that. Because he'd noticed. And you had laughed. But Mark's jokes were safe. They were about midterms and dining hall food. Eddie's jokes were about things that made your stomach flip.

"Okay, that doesn't mean I want to jump his bones. And even if I did, which I don't, how is that even rele--" 

It hits you then

"You're jealous." You say it out loud, a statement, not a question.

Eddie didn't flinch. He didn't deny it.

He just shrugged again, that infuriatingly casual gesture that meant everything and nothing.

"I'm territorial about things that interest me," he said simply.

You were no longer just a study partner.

"Look. We've been friends for a while. You know me. You know I'm not a creep. We can just… talk. No touching, no ropes, nothin'. Just words. We lay it all out. Boundaries. What you're curious about. What's an absolute hard 'no'." He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering again. "Safe words. Pet names. the whole deal."

He was laying out a curriculum. A syllabus for your most private, secret class. And the professor was the guy who made fun of your D&D character for being too lawful good.

"This is insane," you whispered, the words feeling like bubbles in your chest.

"Is it?" He stood up and walked to your door, closing it and twisting the lock. 

"Eddie... what if I say yes?"

He paused, his back to you for a second, before turning around. He leaned against the door, hands in his pockets.

"Then the real research begins." He gave you a small, genuine smile. "But only if you say the word."

The choice was yours.

"Okay." The word was barely a whisper.

He pushed off the door and walked back toward you, gesturing at your bed. "Okay. Rule one. Sit."

You carefully moved from your desk chair and sat on the bed, your back ramrod straight, perched on the very edge of the comforter like it might give way beneath you.

He sat down, leaving a careful foot of space between you. The mattress dipped with his weight, pulling you closer.

"You're tense as all hell, princess. Relax." The pet name was new. It wasn't teasing. It was... grounding.

You tried to unclench your shoulders.

"Let's start easy. Your safe word. It needs to be something you'll remember even if your brain is all fuzzy. Not something you'd normally say during sex. 'No' and 'stop' can be part of the scene. Your safe word is what makes the scene stop. No questions asked."

"Scene? That's so formal. So..."

"It's practical," he corrected gently. "It keeps things from getting messy. So. What'll it be?"

You thought for a moment, your mind racing. "Dragonfruit." It was stupid, random. No one would ever shout it accidentally.

A slow grin spread across Eddie's face. "Dragonfruit. I love it. Okay. That's ours. If you say it, we stop. Everything."

He shifted a little closer, the warmth of him seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt.

"Is there anything you like to be called? Or don't like?" He says, more seriously now. "Some people like being called a slut or a whore. Some people like 'good girl'. Some people hate it. There is no right answer, it's all about you."

The directness of the question made your breath catch. "Good girl," you admitted, your cheeks flushing with heat. "I don't think I'm ready for degradation yet..."

Part of you was worried saying that like you'd dissapoint him or something. but he just nodded, like you'd given him a perfectly reasonable answer.

"Alright. 'Good girl' it is. We can save the other stuff for an advanced class." The wink he threw you was both a joke and a promise.

"What about you?" you found yourself asking.

He seemed surprised by the question for a second. "Oh, well, I guess I'm pretty fine with most things. I mean, you could probably call me an asshole and I'd still like it cause it was your voice."

He said it so casually, as if he were discussing his favorite brand of guitar strings, and not the thought of you moaning for him. 

"I liked when you called me princess..." You admit. "You could call me that."

"Princess," he repeated, the word soft on his tongue. "I can do that."

He was so close now. You could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.

"Okay, new question..." Those big eyes drag down your figure. "Can you come sit on my lap? I want you closer."

He wasn't just asking a question about a hypothetical scenario anymore. This was real. This was happening.

Your body obeyed before your brain could catch up. You slid across the small space between you, the comforter a whisper under your knees, and settled yourself onto his lap.

His big hands went to your waist automatically, steadying you. He was warm, solid. You could feel the worn denim of his jeans against the thin material of your leggings.

"Alright. First lesson." His breath was warm against your ear, making you shiver. "Power isn't about force. It's about control. My control, your surrender."

You nod, mentally taking notes and he smiles before leaning into to whisper in your ear. 

"You can always say no." He says gently. "Right now, to me. You can say 'no, Eddie, I don't want to sit on your lap' and I'll let you go, no questions asked. This is still a conversation."

"I know." You say, a little breathless.

"But you aren't going to say that, are you? No... you want this."

"I do."

"Good girl." The words were a low rumble you felt straight between your legs. "I'm going to put my hands on your thighs now. Just to hold you. Alright?"

You could only manage a small nod.

You could feel the weight of his rings through your leggings. 

"Looking so pretty, all for me." He whispers and you lean into him, your head falling to rest on his shoulder as your eyes flutter shut. You trusted him. You'd known him for years. He was safe.

This was what he meant, about the conversation. Every touch was a question. Every reaction, an answer.

"Are you going to be good for me?" He asks.

"Y-yeah," you manage. "I'll be good."

His grip on your thighs tightened just a fraction.

"I know you will." He nosed at your neck. "Now, hands behind your back. Let me hold them."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You swallowed, your throat tight, and slowly, deliberately, you moved your arms behind you, lacing your fingers together at the small of your back. The position pushed your chest out, making you feel incredibly vulnerable, incredibly exposed.

He made a soft, satisfied sound.

"Always like it when you wear a low cut top like this." He admits. His hands slid from your thighs to your back, covering your clasped hands with one of his own. The gesture was light, not restrictive, but it felt impossibly final.

His other hand came up to trace the neckline of your shirt, a single finger grazing your collarbone, then dipping lower, following the curve of your breast. He didn't grab, didn't grope. He just… explored. Mapping the territory.

"Your heart's beating so fast," he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I can feel it."

You couldn't answer. All your focus was on the path of his finger as it drifted to the peak of your breast, circling your nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt and bra.

"Responsive little thing, aren't you sweetheart?" He teases.

He circles it a few times, making you squirm on his lap and you can already feel the hard length of him through your layers of clothes. The evidence of his own desire.

His other hand still holds your wrists.

"You like your nipples played with? I know you're sensitive." He asks and you nod again. "Let's see more of these pretty tits."

He doesn't ask to take your shirt off. He just does.

He expertly pulls the shirt over your head in one fluid motion, momentarily freeing your hands before he catches them again, this time pressing them more firmly into the small of your back. He then goes for the clasp of your bra and he undoes that too, pulling it down your arms until you're topless for him.

"Look at that." He whispers and it's the most turned on you've ever heard him.

He runs his thumb over the pebbled flesh of your nipple, and your breath hitches. The calloused pad of his thumb created a delicious friction, a direct line of heat pooling in your core.

"I'm going to pinch," he warned, his voice a dark promise. "Just a little. To see how you like it."

You tensed in anticipation.

He didn't make you wait long. He rolled your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, applying a slow, deliberate pressure. A sharp, surprising jolt of pleasure-pain shot through you, pulling a soft gasp from your lips.

"Good," he rasped. "You like that."

It wasn't a question. He read your body as easily as he read the tabbed pages of your sociology textbook.

He keeps pinching and playing as he trails soft kisses from your collarbones and lower, purposefully avoiding where you want his mouth. He was kissing all around your breasts, teasing you with featherlight touches until you're squirming and whining.

"Shh, be patient." He whispers against the skin of your breast. "I'll get there."

He does it again to the other breast. The pinch, the pleasure, the feeling of being completely at his mercy. He was testing you, seeing what made you gasp, what made you squirm. And you were arching into his touch, a silent plea for more.

He finally lowered his head, taking one peaked nipple into the warm, wet heat of his mouth. He sucked gently, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub, before grazing it lightly with his teeth.

The whimper that left you was undignified. Needy.

He pulled back, releasing you with a soft 'pop'. He looked up at you, his eyes dark with an emotion you'd never seen directed at you before. Possessiveness. Pride. Awe.

"Look what you do to me," he murmured, one of his hands releasing yours to guide your own down, pressing it flat against the hard bulge straining against the denim of his jeans.

"You're going to have to take care of that later, aren't you?" He says, pushing your hips down a little, making you grind against him.

The friction was obscene, a delicious drag through the layers of clothing that sent sparks skittering up your spine. You did it again, a little more boldly, rocking yourself against the rigid length of him. A groan rumbled in his chest, a purely male, primal sound of appreciation.

"Not yet," he said, his grip on your waist tightening, stopping your movements. "That's a reward. And you haven't earned it yet."

He shifted you slightly, adjusting your position so you could feel him more acutely, a perfect, infuriating pressure against your clothed core. His free hand drifted down to the waistband of your leggings. His fingers toyed with the elastic, a casual touch that made your entire body clench with anticipation.

"You're soaked through already, aren't you, princess?" he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "I can feel it. All this fuss just from me playing with your pretty tits."

"Is that weird?" You ask, a little nervous now.

"Not at all. It's perfect." He says gently. "It means your body is honest. It tells the truth. And right now, your body is telling me how much you want this."

His fingers dipped below the waistband, not touching you where you craved it most, but just resting against the soft skin there. 

"We could stop right now," he offered, his tone maddeningly level. "We can stop anytime you want. We can just put your shirt back on, order a pizza, and fail our sociology midterm together. All you have to do is say one word. Do you remember our word?"

"Dragonfruit," you whispered, testing it on your tongue. It felt foreign, distant. Not what you wanted at all.

"Now, tell me what you do want."

You took a shaky breath. "I want you to touch me."

"Touch you where? You have to use your words."

Every nerve ending was on fire. "My... I want you to touch me between my legs."

"Good girl."

He finally moved, his hand sliding further down, past the damp cotton of your underwear, through your slick folds. He didn't rush, exploring you with a surgeon's precision.

"This pussy is so fucking wet for me, princess." He breathes out in awe.

He found your clit with an unnerving ease, a single finger circling the sensitive bundle of nerves. You jolted, a sharp inhale of pleasure.

"Right there?" he asked, feigning innocence.

You could only nod, your head falling back against his shoulder as he continued his slow, torturous circles. He was drawing it out, making you feel every spark, every tremor. You were wound so tight, a trembling knot of need.

Your hips began to move of their own accord, chasing the friction, the building pressure. But he stopped you again, holding you still with a firm grip.

"Uh-uh. My pace," he chided softly. "You don't get to finish until I say you can."

A whimper escaped your lips, a sound of pure frustration.

"Patience," he murmured, kissing your temple.

You notice now, that he hasn't kissed your lips, but you don't make a comment on it, too busy feeling everything else to care.

He was a master of this, a conductor of your pleasure. He varied the pressure, the speed, watching your every reaction, learning what made you gasp, what made you whine. He slipped a finger inside you, then a second, curling them upward to stroke that spot that made your vision blur.

"You think I should let you come soon?" he asked, his voice a dark, intimate rumble. "You've been so good for me. Sitting still. Taking what I give you."

"Please," you begged, the word ripped from you. "Eddie, please."

"Please what?"

"Please let me finish."

He chuckled, a low, wicked sound. "Since you asked so nicely."

He increased the pressure on your clit, the circles becoming faster, more demanding. His fingers inside you stroked with renewed purpose. The tension in your belly coiled tighter and tighter, a spring ready to snap.

"That's it, sweetheart. Let go. Soak my fucking hand." he commanded.

You were cumming by the time he said 'let go', your body convulsing in a blinding wave of pleasure. You cried out, your back arching, your hands still trapped behind you, leaving you nothing to hold onto but him. He held you through it, his movements slowing, gentling, as you shuddered and trembled.

When you were riding out the after shocks he released your hands, letting you decide where to put them. You immediately brought them around to his shoulders, clinging to him. Your face was buried in the crook of his neck, catching your breath. 

His hands came up to your back, stroking you slowly, grounding you. He whispered sweet nothings against your hair, words of praise and affection.

"I know that wasn't as extreme as what your little book had, but trust needs to be built up slowly for things like that." He says softly, kissing your shoulder. "We'll get there. 

You could feel the rapid, steady beat of his heart against your cheek. You could still feel the hard press of his arousal against you, a silent testament to his own restraint.

"Eddie..." you whispered, your voice hoarse. "You didn't..."

He shushed you, a finger gently tilting your chin up. "Hey. it's okay. Tonight was about you. About learning you."

You looked at him, really looked at him. His hair was a mess, his lips were swollen from where he'd been kissing your skin, and his eyes were dark and soft and full of an emotion that made your chest ache.

Without thinking, you leaned in and finally, finally kissed him.

He didn't move at first and you pulled back quickly, suddenly feeling stupid. 

Was kissing not okay in this arrangement?

Did he only want the physical part?

Did he even like you like that? 

Before you could speak, he did it first. 

"Hey you, don't look like that. It's not what you think." He says gently.

"I- I just thought..."

"I know what you thought. And it's okay. I wanted to kiss you. More than anything."

"So why didn't you?" You ask, not in an accusatory tone, but a genuinely curious one.

"Because if I kissed you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I wouldn't have been able to handle it if this was just a one-time thing. Or if this was just about sex. I wouldn't have been able to control myself, and we might not be here right now."

This confession was so raw, so vulnerable. It was more intimate than anything you'd done.

"So... what is this then?" You ask, your heart pounding.

"It's whatever you want it to be." He says honestly. "But I want it to be something. Something real."

You lean in again, slowly, giving him the chance to pull away.

He didn't.

He met you halfway, his lips finally claiming yours. It wasn't a kiss of frenzy or desperation. His hands cupped your face, holding you tenderly, as if you were something precious. His lips were soft, tasting faintly of you, of the cola he'd been drinking hours ago. He kissed you slowly, deeply, a conversation without words.

When you finally parted, you were both breathless.

"Do you still want me to do something about..." You trail off, letting your eyes flick down to the very prominent problem in his pants.

He groaned, pressing his forehead against yours. "Princess, you have no idea how much I want that. But I also want to do this right. So... right now, nothing too demanding, just let me fuck your brains out?"

You laughed, a real, genuine laugh that made your whole body feel lighter.

"You're an idiot."

"You know what?" He says with a teasing smile, before flipping you so he was hovering over you on the bed. "I like it better when you're on your back, anyway."

He made quick work of your leggings and underwear, tossing them aside. He stood up to strip off his own clothes, and you watched him, your gaze hungry. You'd seen him shirtless before, at the lake, at a party, but this was different.

The chain around his neck rested in the dip of his collarbone. His chest was lean, a smattering of dark hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his boxers. He was all sharp angles and wiry strength. And as he pulled down his boxers, your breath hitched.

"You want this huh? This is what you were grinding against earlier?" He smirks. He was long and thick, flushed with arousal, curving up towards his stomach.

He climbed back onto the bed, settling himself between your legs.

"Take what you want," he commanded, his voice a low growl.

Your hand trembled as you reached between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around him. He was hot and heavy in your palm as you guided him to your entrance, and he pushed forward, just the head breaching you.

A shared gasp. You were so wet, so ready for him, but the stretch was still intense, a delicious burn.

"Oh, good girl, you listen so fucking well," he praised, before sliding the rest of the way home with one slow, deep thrust.

He filled you completely, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

"Fuck," he breathed, burying his face in your neck. "You feel better than I ever imagined."

He started to move, a slow, deep rhythm that stole the air from your lungs. Every drag of his cock against your inner walls was a fresh wave of pleasure. This was different from the sharp, focused intensity from before. This was a deep, all-consuming fire.

"Look at me," he demanded, pulling back just enough to see your face. "Hold on to the headboard."

You obeyed, your hands finding the cool metal bars of your headboard, as he began to move again. This new angle let him hit that spot inside you with every thrust, making your toes curl. He wasn't just fucking you anymore. He was claiming you. Marking you from the inside out.

"Who's making you feel this good?" he grunted, his hips snapping a little faster.

"You are," you moaned, your knuckles white where you gripped the headboard.

"Whose cock makes you feel this good?" He asks, a dark look in his eyes.

"Yours," you gasped, the words torn from you. "Only yours, Eddie."

"Fuck yes, it does." He says, a smirk on his face. "Not some loser from the dining hall." He speeds up a little, getting cocky. "Not your project partner. You wanna know who knows exactly what to do with you? Me." He punctuates his words with a hard thrust and you can't help but arch your back.

"You're mine now, sweetheart. This pussy is mine to use." His voice is a rough possessive rasp as he leans down to whisper softly in your ear. "Gimme a color, princess. Are we green?"

You were so far gone, but you knew what he was asking. "Green," you moaned. "So green, Eddie."

He smiled, a triumphant, feral grin. "Good girl. You want me to keep talking like this, honey? You want me to tell you how I'm going to fuck you every day after our study sessions from now on? How I'm going to bend you over that desk until you're screaming my name?"

"Yes," you whined, a desperate, needy sound. "Please."

"Then I guess I'll have to do it." His hips began to piston faster, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady, rhythmic beat. "Would you like that, sweetheart? To be my good little girl? To cum whenever I say?"

"I would," you cried out. "God, I would."

He brought a hand between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again. He didn't circle it this time. He pressed down, hard, in direct counterpoint to his thrusts.

"Cum for me," he commanded. "All over my cock."

Your orgasm ripped through you, violent and overwhelming. You screamed his name, a raw, ragged sound, as you convulsed around him, your body spasming with the force of your release.

"Mmm, gonna wake up the whole dorm." He praised. "Such a good fucking girl." He kept thrusting through it, prolonging your pleasure until you were a sobbing, writhing mess beneath him.

He pulled out and kissed you softly, the kiss slow and deep as you shook under him. You could feel his erection against your thigh, hot and hard and insistent.

"You still haven't..." You begin, trailing off again as you try and catch your breath.

"I haven't bent you over the desk yet." He grins, before he pulls you up from your comfortable spot on your back.

His hands were on you instantly, guiding you to your feet and then turning you, walking you the few steps to your desk. He swept his arm across it, the textbook with the red tabs, a stack of flashcards—all of it clattering to the floor in a mess of academic debris.

His lips are kissing by your ear as he speaks, caging you in from behind. "You need me to get a condom?" He asks, and you are a little surprised by the question.

"I'm on the pill." You say quickly, and he makes a happy humming sound, kissing the back of your neck.

"Perfect." He whispers, before he's pressing your chest flat against the desk. The cool wood was a shock against your heated skin.

"Think you can handle a little more for me, baby?" He asked, his hands stroking over your ass.

You nod, your face turned to the side, your cheek pressed against the smooth wood.

"Use your words."

"Yes," you breathe out. "I can handle more."

He doesn't enter you right away. Instead, he kneels, spreading your cheeks, and you feel the hot, wet shock of his tongue against your pussy. He licks a long, slow stripe from your clit to your entrance, groaning at the taste.

"Fuck, you're delicious," he murmurs, before diving back in.

He was relentless, eating you out with a single-minded focus that left you trembling. He alternated between broad, flat strokes of his tongue and pointed, targeted flicks against your clit.

His hands grip at the fat of your ass as he eats you out like a man starved, and you can't help but push your hips back against him. He eats it until your legs are shaking and you're whining for him to stop. When he does, he stands up, his chest heaving.

He pauses and you furrow your eyebrows in confusion. You glance behind you to see him taking the rings off his right hand, leaning over your back to put them on the desk as he places small kisses on your back. 

"What are you..." 

Your whisper turns into a whine when a callous palm  hits your ass cheek. Not hard, but enough that you gasp at the suddenness.

He shushes you gently, rubbing the reddening mark. "Just a little color for my pretty girl." He murmurs. "You like that? Just a little sting?"

You nod, your mind fuzzy with pleasure and confusion.

"Words, baby." He reminds you.

"Y-yes. I like it."

He spanks you again, this one harder, and you feel the jolt of it deep in your core. He alternates between spanking you and rubbing the tender skin, until you're a quivering, whimpering mess.

Another smack and you don't even register when he lines himself up with your entrance, and glides in, slick and easy, bottoming out with a deep groan. The angle was different, deeper, and it made you feel utterly possessed.

He set a brutal pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the small room, mingling with your moans and his ragged breaths. One of his hands grabs your face as he leans over to kiss you. 

"Taste how fucking sweet you are?" He whispers against your lips. You're nodding dumbly as he continues to fuck you, tongue licking into your mouth.

His other hand slides around your body, finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles. It was too much, too intense, and you tried to squirm away.

"Uh-uh. You take it," he commanded, his voice a low growl.

"Take everything I give you, princess." He was praising you, his words stoking the fire in your belly. You were already so sensitive from your previous orgasms, every drag of his cock against your walls a fresh wave of pleasure.

"Please," you begged, not even sure what you were asking for.

More? Faster? For it to never end?

"I know, I know." He cooed at you. "Good girls like you need to be fucked until they can't think straight."

You clenched around him, and he grunted, his rhythm faltering for a second.

"Yeah, you like me saying that, don't you? You like being my good girl." He punctuates his words with a hard thrust that makes you see stars. 

Your clit was throbbing under his thumb, the pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. Your body was a live wire, humming with a frantic, desperate energy.

"Gonna cum," you sobbed, the words barely intelligible. "Eddie, I'm gonna cum."

He pressed you down more against the desk, his hips snapping faster, harder. He leans over your back so you can feel the sweat from his chest on your skin as he speaks right into your ear.

"Come on," he urged, his voice rough with strain. "Cum for me. One. More. Fucking. Time."

You whined out, needier than ever, as your body convulsed, your inner walls clamping down on him. Your legs gave out, and you would have collapsed to the floor if he hadn't been holding you up, pinning you to the desk.

He gathered your hair in one of his hands, pulling your head back slightly, the angle new and dizzying as he keeps fucking you through your orgasm. This let him see your face as he uses you for his own pleasure. He looked wild, untamed, his pupils blown wide with lust.

"That's it, baby. Milk my cock. Such a good fucking girl." He moans as he starts to lose the steady rhythm. You could feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming erratic, more desperate.

"Gonna fill you up," he growled, his grip on your hair tightening. "Mark this pretty little pussy as mine."

With a final, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt, and you felt the hot pulse of his release deep inside you. He stayed there for a long moment, his forehead resting against your back, both of you breathing heavily, trying to come back to earth.

His hand in your hair changed from a grip to soothing stokes

His fingers danced up your body from their ruthless attack of your clit, to splay across your stomach. You feel him press gently. He was still inside of you. Softening, but still present. 

"You okay?" he murmured against your spine, the words muffled by his soft kisses to your skin.

You managed a weak nod, not trusting your voice.

He laughed softly, the vibration traveling through you. "Good. Because I'm not done with you yet."

He slowly pulled out, and the emptiness you felt was acute. You could feel his release begin to trickle down your thigh, a sticky, intimate reminder of what you'd just done.

He helped you to the bed, tugging you back into his arms. You both were sweaty, sticky, and your room was a mess. You couldn't bring yourself to care.

You curled into his side, your head on his chest. The steady, reassuring beat of his heart was a comforting anchor in the haze of satiation.

His hands never stopped caressing through your hair.

He was quiet for a long time, just stroking your hair and pressing soft kisses to your forehead.

"So," he said, his voice quiet. "Is the reality better than the book?"

You thought about it for a second. The book was theory. This was practice. This was real.

"I thought you said you weren't done with me?" You manage, weakly. 

He just pulls his head back enough to get a proper look at your face, the most genuine smile accentuated by his dimples. 

"Yeah, the aftercare. The cuddles. The praise. That's all part of it." He said, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "Being the one who has to clean up our mess."

He sits up, leaning over the side of the bed to grab the t-shirt he'd been wearing earlier. He carefully, almost reverently, began to clean you up. The cotton was soft against your sensitive skin.

"You're so good at that," You say softly, referring to the entire night, but more specifically the way he was taking care of you.

"Yeah? Well I'm a man of many talents." He teases, but the way he's looking at you is soft.

He's gentle, methodical, as he wipes away the evidence of your night together. Once he's satisfied, he tosses the shirt aside and pulls the comforter over both of you, cocooning you in the warmth of the small bed.

You're quiet for a long time again. Just listening to each other breathe.

"Hey," he whispered.

"Hm?"

"About the kiss earlier..." he started, his voice a little hesitant. "When I said I didn't know if I could handle it if this was just a one-time thing... I meant it."

He shifts a little, so he's looking you in the eye. "This was never gonna be just a one-time thing for me. You have to know that. I've been wanting this for so long."

You are looking up at him in the dim light of your desk lamp. He's looking at you with a unguarded expression that you'd never seen from him before. 

"You really have? I thought... I thought this was just... you know, because of the book."

He let out a small, breathy laugh. "Sweetheart, the book was just a convenient excuse. A cosmic sign from the universe to finally do something about the massive, soul-crushing crush I've had on you since we were assigned as lab partners in freshman chemistry."

His signature smirk reappeared then.

"The fact that you're also into the same filthy shit I am? That's just a very, very lucky bonus."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest. It was a laugh of pure, unadulterated happiness.

"So, what now?" You ask, your voice barely a whisper.

"Now I get to enjoy this body being all soft in my arms." He says, kissing your forehead. "Now I get to wake up next to you and make you breakfast. Now I get to walk you to our sociology class and sit next to you knowing exactly what you sound like when you orgasm."

He pulls you closer. "And now I get to tell you that I want to be your boyfriend. If you'll have me."

You tilt your head up to look at him, a slow, genuine smile spreading across your face.

"I'll have you," you said simply.

"Oh, no enthusiasm for the man who made you cum three times in an hour?" He teases gently. You just lean up and kiss him, soft and sweet.

"I think you fucked all the enthusiasm out of me." You mumble against his lips.

He chuckles, satisfied and proud. 

"It's a skill." He smirks. "But don't worry. I'm a great teacher. We'll build up your stamina." He winks, and you feel a fresh wave of heat wash over you.

He pulls you to his chest, safe and warm. You could get used to this.

"Next time," he whispers against your hair. "Next time I'll bring my ropes."

You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "I'll hold you to that."

He held you tighter, a silent promise. The night wasn't over. Your time exploring each other, it seemed, had really just begun.

The first guy disappeared on you mid-date because he had seen his ex walk by the café you had chosen.

The second guy had asked ten minutes in whether you wanted to go back to his place or if the shady corner of the Hawkins park would do.

The third guy you had been supposed to meet tonight, on Valentine’s Day. At this point, after over a year of healing from a breakup and finally feeling ready to date only to be horribly disappointed and way too accompanied with the feeling of only your own hand ghosting down your body, you were close to a breaking point.

Two hours ago, the guy had called and stood you up, inventing some kind of weird excuse you couldn’t even recall in your head if you wanted to. Since the call had only come after you shaved every unwanted hair off your body, you were beyond frustrated.

“Doll, I beg of you.” Eddie tilted his head at you, his brown eyes giving you an unmistakingly look of don’t even go there because I will fight you. “He’s not worth your time if he stands you up like that. What did you say again was his name? I could-“

“No, you’re not going to commit murder to defend my honor, I just-“ You sighed, falling back against the comfy cushions of his bed and staring up to the ceiling. “I’m going to become a nun. I’ll abjure men for all eternity until my hair is grey and I can’t feel my screaming ovaries anymore.”

Above you, still walking up and down the length of his own bed as he had done for the last fifteen minutes while listening to you, Eddie chuckled, shaking his head at your silliness. “What a shame that would be, sweetheart.”

You sighed again, even more dramatic now. “Eddie, I’m serious. I feel like I’m going insane. I haven’t even pecked someone on the stupid cheek in the last twelve months, let alone let someone touch me and I fear it’s seriously doing brain damage to me.”

For only a moment, in the dimly lit bedroom of Eddie’s trailer, something foreign danced over his features, eyes darkening before he blinked and it was gone just as quickly as it had arrived. But then, your friend seemed to catch himself, shaking out his shoulders as he walked the short way to the kitchen and back, two glasses and a bottle of cheap wine in his hands.

“Want a drink now?” He asked, a familiar sparkle on his face that was always so contagious for you. Adding almost melodiously, he said: “Four dollar wine goes great with cheap take-out pizza.”

“Thank you.” You said, sitting up to accept a glass while smoothing your dress down your thighs once more. You looked way too dressed up to hang out with a friend, but things like that had never bothered Eddie. Not much bothered him when it came to you, actually. “Thank you for letting me come here…You didn’t have to, on Valentine’s Day too…”

Eddie snorted, flopping down on the mattress next to you and celebratorily clinking glasses with you. “Oh yeah, I had to send away at least twenty girls for you, doll. Don’t think too much about it, okay? You can always come to me, I didn’t have any fancy plans anyway. I actually…it’s been some time since I’ve seen anyone.”

Something in you softened at the almost shy smile he gave you, melting away the intrusive I’m a loser on Valentine’s Day thoughts. “That’s okay, Eddie. The right girl will come along.”

(You looked away, but Eddie’s eyes stayed on you, his mind screaming how on earth you couldn’t see that the only girl he wanted was sitting right in front of him!)

“And I’m having way much more fun with you than any of these guys. They’re boring, you’re…anything but boring.”

Who had been there for you at any time when you had nursed and healed your broken heart?

Who was the first one to make you laugh again and distract you from your sulking on bad days?

Who could you always count on, even on Valentine’s Day?

Eddie.

Your best friend who now gave you a half grin as he lit his lighter and nodded at the joint already ready between his lips. “Mind if I smoke?”

You shook your head and leaned your head on his shoulder, the two of you getting comfortable on his blanket as one of the gentler tunes in Eddie’s music collection drifted through the room.

“Red wine and weed on Valentine’s Day.” You mused, shaking your head. “What a match we’re making, Munson.”

Half an hour later and one joint and bottle of wine down, Eddie and you were in better spirits.

You were laughing about a story of his from Hellfire Club, a bubbly warm feeling in your chest as you happily watched him play out a scene in front of you. Maybe the next night you didn’t know what to do, you could simply go with Eddie instead of punishing yourself by going on miserable half-hearted dates…

“You know what, the last guy I went out with didn’t even know what D & D was, can you believe that?” You touched your flushed cheeks, feeling how warm they’d gotten from the wine. You were blabbering, your tongue quicker than your mind as you continued: “It’s so popular now because of you, Dustin and the others, you’ve got to live on the fucking moon to miss it. Maybe if we don’t find anyone in the next year, we should just date each other, we’re actually perfect for each…”

You faltered as Eddie gave you a tense smile, leaving for the living room and mumbling something about getting some water for you over his shoulder. Frowning, you scrambled out of his bed, the wires beneath the mattress squeaking in protest before you followed him out.

By the narrow kitchen counter, Eddie was still focused on rummaging around the small space, gnawing at his bottom lip and ignoring your searching stare.

“Hey…” You said softly, leaning your hip against the counter. “Is everything okay? Sorry, I know I’ve been talking about it a lot, but I can stop if you want? Hell, he clearly didn’t want me and here I am still talking about it, that’s so weird.”

Eddie straightened, his slightly taller frame hovering above yours as he took a deep breath. His eyes met yours, dark and a little blurry from his smoking, a simmering fire burning in them as he said one word that changed it all. “Don’t.”

You opened your mouth in slight surprise, shaking your head slowly. “I don't think I understand?”

Eddie let out an unsteady breath. “Don’t say that about us, about yourself.”

You didn’t trust your own words, asking quietly: “But why?”

You had no idea when it had happened, but Eddie was standing so close to you, you could’ve counted the links in his chains, the slight stubble on his jaw. You had always thought that Eddie was untraditionally handsome, rough around the edges just the right amount with a heart of gold and the biggest brownest eyes in all of Hawkins. (Sorry, Steve.)

Eddie took another step forward, now fully in your space as he shook his head and slowly raised one hand to rest it on your cheek. The cool silver of his rings nearly stole your breath as he mumbled: “Because in my mind, you ditching all those assholes who don’t know how to treat you right and being with me instead sounds like everything I ever wanted, sweetheart.”

The air in your lungs vanished, your heart fluttering dangerously as Eddie tucked a strand of your hair behind his ear and then drew his hand back like he burned you. But you were quicker, lacing yours and his together in the air, forbidding him to walk away again when all he wanted was to stay.

Now, it was your turn to step closer.

And suddenly, it was like an everlasting fog had dissolved in your mind and you saw clear.

“Since when?” You asked him.

“Since forever.” He answered instantly. Drawn to you, he cupped your blushing face in his hands, thumb brushing over the faint shimmer under your eyes. “But I knew that there was no going back that night you stood on my doorstep. That fucker had just broken up with you and you were crying and fuck sweetheart, I wanted to commit murder right then. I dried your tears and let you sleep in my bed and all I could think about until morning was that I want nothing more than to make you so much happier than any guy ever could.”

You remembered that night, how could you forget it?

But as you thought back on it, all you could think about was Eddie.

The way he had hugged you, resting his chin on top of your head and whispering soothing words into your ear, closing his eyes while you cried as if it was his own pain to carry and not yours.

A thousand little moments flashed through your mind as you looked at him.How you felt most like yourself when you were with him, how no one could make you laugh the way Eddie did. It all made sense.

How could you have been so blind?

“Eddie…” You brushed your thumb over the back of his hand, your lips impossibly close now. You could feel his stuttering breath ghosting over your bottom lip, saw how his throat bobbed as he waited for what you had to say. “I need you to know what I’m doing next is not because we’re both alone on Valentine’s Day, okay?”

You kissed him.

And Eddie melted into it like you’ve stolen all the air in his lungs.

A tiny vulnerable noise got stuck in his throat as your lips slowly moved against his.He tasted like tobacco and wine and you felt yourself come alive in his arms, accidently standing on his feet as you rested your hands on his shoulders and squeezed.

It was a careful first kiss at first, just feeling each other out and testing the waters, but Eddie had waited way too long for this. And when he tilted your head back and slipped his tongue into your mouth, making you release the sweetest sigh right into him, something inside of him gave out.

“Fuck, you have no idea how much I wanted you like this-“ He rushed out between kisses, feeling himself slipping on his grip of control as your kiss undid him.

“I know what’s been missing now.” You gasped as Eddie’s hand slid down your spine and touched your bum, bringing you closer until your chest pressed against his. Not close enough. “All these distractions…they weren’t you. You were missing, Eddie. It was supposed to be you all along.”

“Always been yours.” Eddie echoed back quietly, voice all raspy like he just finished a Corroded Coffin gig. He picked you up like you weighed nothing, a bright grin splitting his beautiful face and making you giggle as you held on to him. “Will you please let me treat you the way you deserve now?”

As soon as you whispered yes, Eddie stumbled back into his bedroom with you, peppering hectic kisses onto your neck and letting his teeth graze over you like he couldn’t wait to taste you. You were still a little lightheaded from the wine, giggling and running your fingers through his surprisingly soft hair.

Eddie sank down on his bed with you all snug in his lap, the seam of your dress sitting dangerously high on your thighs as he caressed your knee and cupped the back of your head. “I’m never going to let you go now, you know that? I can’t-“

“Don’t let me go.” You interrupted him breathlessly, shuffling closer until you were chest to chest and could almost feel his pounding heart. “Don’t ever let me go again.” Not on another date, not anywhere you are not.

Eddie’s eyes sparkled as you both bridged the distance once more, continuing the kiss from the kitchen way more heated than before. Kissing Eddie was like playing with fire, one second you were kissing and the next he was licking into your mouth like he was starving and only you could save him.

The minutes blurred together as your dress kept riding higher and higher and you felt one of Eddie’s thighs slipping between yours. Shifting forward, your core dragged over him and you couldn’t bite back the moan bubbling up, another gasp shortly following as Eddie drew back and began to relish your neck with wet, open-mouthed kisses.

“E-Eddie…” You bit your lip, any coherent thoughts seeping out of your brain and leaving only the warm feeling in your lower stomach, Eddie’s jeans against the thin fabric of your tights making you wetter than any self-care ever could. “I want- I need…”

“I got you.” Eddie told you, his hand sliding down your sides to rest firmly on your hips, eyes flickering down to where you were spread over his thigh. “I feel like I’m literally about to die and go to heaven, but I’m here. I’m gonna make you feel good now, okay?”

“Fuck yes.” You hissed, on a personal mission to decorate his neck with your lipstick, but you had not factored the dangerous cocktail of long suppressed feelings now unleashed and the floaty effect of the wine into the equation.

Only a few rubs against Eddie’s thigh in and you were already feeling impossibly close. It was all too much together, the intoxicating kisses on your neck, Eddie’s hands guiding you and helping you ride his thigh, his constant string of sweet praises against the sensitive shell of your ear…

Everything was heightened.

The sensual roll of your hips, the button of his jeans catching on your clit briefly.

Eddie’s kiss swollen lips ghosting appreciatively over your jaw.

A string of saliva connecting your mouth with his after you kissed him and had to break it for a whiny moan.

“I’m so close…” You whimpered into his neck, chasing the delicious friction the seam of your tights and the rough material of his jeans provided. You felt as you were about to snap, a guitar string Eddie could play expertly however he wanted to. “Fuuuck, feels so good…”

“I know, baby, I know…” Eddie cooed, entirely enchanted as he watched you closely, an angel in his lap. “Come on, just a little more and you’re right there, ‘m gonna hold you when you fall apart for me…”

You cried out when Eddie bounced his leg for you, jostling you forward as you slumped against his chest as your muscles locked tight, ready to go off like fireworks as you got closer and closer towards the edge. You surged forward and connected your lips in an uncoordinated, filthy kiss, licking into Eddie’s mouth with fervor as heat took over your entire body and set it aflame.

Eddie’s hand slipped down your body and underneath your dress, his thumb rubbing against the seam sticking to your soaked panties, applying just the right amount of pressure on your clit to make you moan unabashed.

“That’s it, doll…” Eddie bit back a whine feeling your clit throb against his touch, his other hand guiding your hips steadily. Looking down, he saw the mess you made on his jeans, a dark patch of wetness coating it and driving him insane. “So fucking pretty. Mine.”

That did it.

Your nails scraped over the back of Eddie’s neck as you fell against him and violently shuddered through your orgasm. It exploded through you like one of Eddie’s guitar solos, setting every nerve on fire as you rode through it and clung to him, your hips slowing to an exhausted stop as the muscles in your thighs shook.

You felt Eddie tense, his hips bucking up into your core, once, twice before everything in him relaxed and he fell back into his pillows with a groan and you in his arms.

For a while, you simply breathed heavily in the silence of his bedroom. The vinyl had long found its end and inside of you, the post-orgasm bliss was dancing around with the gravity of what just had happened with you and your best friend.

You laughed, nuzzling your face into Eddie’s neck and linking your fingers together while Eddie dragged you closer to rest against his side. You were staring at each other, in awe and maybe a little bit of fear of the unknown, your hearts beating wildly.

But, this was still Eddie.

There was no room for uncomfortable silence or doubt when he was the most wonderful guy you knew. Who had quietly fallen in love with you and could finally love you loud.

“That was really good.” You whispered.

Eddie hummed in deep agreement, playfully booping your nose in return.

“Let me take you on a date tomorrow.” Eddie said, wrapping a strand of your hair around his ringed finger as he smiled at you. “A real date. I want to do this right with you. This isn’t…some one-night-only thing for me…”

“It’s not for me either. I want to know what this means. I want it all with you…” You said quietly, bedding your cheek on his chest and drawing little hearts into his skin. “Where would you take me?”

Eddie wasn't even sure why he was here. Truly and honestly.

To him, these things were pointless. It was the worst possible place for a Munson man to be -- he didn't fit in. He didn't cheer. He didn't so much as smile for the first half of this torture.

Yes, he was being dramatic. A basketball game wasn't really torture. But it definitely wasn't his scene.

In truth, Dustin had dragged him there in hopes that he'd somewhat enjoy himself (that and Dustin didn't want to be alone with Mike and Lucas, who would just sit there and drool over multiple girls on the team, and Will who was silent). Steve sat across the gym, occasionally exchanging looks with Dustin about how the game was going. Dustin didn't really like sports either -- none of them did. But they all compromised with Steve, who wanted his best friends in the stands.

Plus, Steve's sister was on the court. That in itself had its own list of demands from Steve, who adored her.

"She needs more fans!" He'd exclaimed to the party.

Dustin hadn't been given much of a choice, not that he minded. He liked you anyways. That didn't mean that the rest of the party, however, had the chance to miss out on it either.

It was the Hawkins High Tigers versus the visiting team from Clint, and the energy in the gym was a thick, humid soup of popcorn grease, teenage sweat, and deafening squeaks of sneakers on polished wood. Eddie Munson felt like a black-clad inkblot on a page of beige and orange. He slumped in the bleachers, his denim vest adorned with patches of bands no one here had heard of, his expression one of profound, theatrical suffering.

Dustin, to his left, was explaining the finer points of a zone defense, which to Eddie sounded about as interesting as watching paint dry, but with more sweating. Mike and Lucas, a few rows down, were indeed engaged in their whispered, critical analysis of the cheerleading squad’s “aerodynamics.” Will just looked politely trapped.

Across the court, on the home team’s bench, sat Steve Harrington. King Steve. Former King Steve. Whatever. He was the assistant coach.. sort of.. More like after his game, he refused to leave the court because you'd be on it. Plus, the sports department loved him. He was out of his letterman jacket now, but he wore the posture of a captain still, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes laser-focused on the court. Not on the game, exactly, but on one player in particular.

Number 11. His twin sister.

The relationship between Steve and Y/N Harrington was Hawkins legend, a quieter, sweeter counterpart to the drama of Steve’s romantic escapades. Their parents were the classic ‘80s absentee type --successful, traveling, leaving their kids in a big, empty house with a pool and a stocked fridge. That emptiness had forged a bond between brother and sister that was unshakeable.

Steve, for all his past douchebaggery, had always been fiercely protective of you. He’d taught you to swim, to drive, to throw a punch (“Aim for the nose, it makes their eyes water, then you run like hell to me”). He’d scared off your first would-be boyfriend in seventh grade with nothing more than a slow, silent stare from across the cafeteria. He was your first call, your best friend, your unwavering defender.

And you, in turn, were his anchor. You’d seen through the “King” facade to the surprisingly dorky, deeply loyal guy underneath. You were the one who’d handed him ice packs after his fights with Jonathan Byers, who’d listened without judgment when he cried over Nancy, who’d helped him study for tests he was doomed to fail. You were smart, sharp-tongued in a way that could flay people but chose not to, and possessed a calm, steady kindness that was the exact opposite of Steve’s loud, performative charm.

On the court, you were a study in controlled motion. Basketball wasn't your passion, not like it had been Steve's, but you had a natural, fluid talent for it. Where Steve had played with a grinning, hair-flipping bravado, you played with a quiet, unsettling efficiency. You were the point guard, the team's strategist on the floor. You didn't waste energy on flashy crossovers or trash talk. You saw the play three steps ahead, your passes crisp and timely, your shots a high-arching, almost serene swish through the net. You led not by shouting, but by a sharp glance, a pointed finger, a nod that your teammates instinctively followed.

Steve didn't cheer. He observed. His jaw was tight, his body coiled as if he were on the court with you. When you got fouled hard by a Clint player a good foot taller, Steve was halfway out of his seat before the whistle even blew, a shout of "Hey!" escaping him. You just picked yourself up, brushed off your shorts, shot your brother a look that clearly said I'm fine, sit down, and calmly sank both free throws. Steve sank back, running a hand through his hair, the tension easing only slightly.

Eddie watched this whole exchange from his slouched position, his theatrical boredom momentarily forgotten. The protective ferocity from the brother was one thing -- predictable, almost primal. But your reaction… that was fascinating. The calm. The silent communication. The utter lack of fear or frustration. You’d taken the hit, assessed the situation, and converted it into points. It was… metal, in a weird, normie-sports kind of way. A silent, efficient vengeance.

Halftime buzzed. The teams filed off. Steve was instantly on his feet, maneuvering down the bleachers like a man on a mission. He met you at the sideline, handing you a water bottle. He was talking fast, gesturing at the Clint player who’d fouled you, his face animated with protective anger.

You listened, taking a long drink. Then you said something short. Steve paused, his bluster deflating. He scrubbed a hand over his face, nodded, and then -- in a gesture so brotherly it made something in Eddie’s chest twinge -- he reached out and carefully adjusted the sweaty, wayward strands of hair stuck to your temple. You offered him a small, tired smile and punched his arm lightly before turning back to your team.

“See?” Dustin said, as if this little drama proved his point. “He’s like a mother hen. It’s kinda sweet, in a terrifying way.”

“Hmm,” Eddie hummed noncommittally, his eyes tracking you as you walked away. He’d expected a Harrington through and through: polished, popular, probably a little bit vapid. But you… you had your brother’s fire, but it was banked, controlled. You had a stillness to you amidst the storm of the game and Steve’s hovering. It was compelling in a way Eddie couldn't explain, mostly because he was actively trying not to find a normie jock compelling.

It helped, at least, that you didn't look exactly like Steve. You had his eyes and his hair color, but you were gorgeous on your own. Put together, hair curled into ringlets that were pulled back into a neat ponytail. Your body had gentle curves and he could see how smooth your skin was from the bleachers. He felt like a creep. But he wasn't oogling. Just.. observing.

"Steve will kill you." Dustin snorted, eyeing Eddie's quiet staring.

Eddie jerked his gaze away, a scowl snapping onto his face to cover the heat he felt creeping up his neck. "Shut up, Henderson. I'm observing the socio-cultural rituals of the normie herd. It's anthropology."

"Right," Dustin drawled, not buying it for a second. "You're 'observing' her sweat patterns. Very scientific."

"I'm observing the fact that your babysitter has the emotional regulation of a startled badger," Eddie shot back, gesturing to where Steve was now pacing the sidelines, glaring at the Clint players as they warmed up for the second half. "One wrong move and he's gonna storm the court."

"Protective," Dustin corrected, but he was grinning. He’d seen the way Eddie’s eyes had followed you. This was more interesting than any zone defense.

"Pig-headed." Eddie muttered to himself.

The second half was unremarkable (besides your performance, of course). Your team swiftly and efficiently buried Clint in the dust, establishing a 30 point lead by the end of the game. As the final buzzer rang, Eddie grabbed his discarded jacket and started for the exit.

He felt his sleeve being pulled.

"Where the hell are you going? We have to tell her good game." Dustin said, as if it was completely obvious.

Eddie froze, a deer in the headlights of Dustin’s relentless social obligation. “No. No, we absolutely do not have to do that. The social contract states that we attended, we observed, we suffered. The obligation is fulfilled. Good game sentiments are for… for people in the same tax bracket.”

Dustin rolled his eyes so hard Eddie feared they’d get stuck. “It’s called being nice, Eddie. She’s Steve’s sister. She’s cool. It’s two words. ‘Good’ and ‘game’. You can manage it. I’ve heard you form more complex sentences when describing a gelatinous cube.”

“That’s different! That’s art!” Eddie protested, but he was already being towed through the thinning crowd by the determined fourteen-year-old, a human shield/liability.

They arrived at the edge of the court just as Steve was finishing his proud-brother recap. Eddie hovered awkwardly behind Dustin, wishing fervently that he was anywhere else -- preferably somewhere with more darkness and fewer fluorescent lights.

He saw you wipe your face with a towel, your expression one of amused tolerance for Steve’s theatrics. Then your eyes shifted. Past Steve. Past Dustin. They landed on him.

It was like being struck by a soft, quiet lightning bolt. Your gaze was so direct, so utterly lacking in the pretense or pity he was used to. It was just… acknowledgement. Soft, humane, and strangely calming.

"You were awesome! And I don't even like sports that much, but still." Dustin grinned, his face full of child-like excitement. He clearly looked up to you, just as he did Steve. It was clear for anyone to see.

You smiled back at him, a genuine, warm smile that transformed your face, making something in Eddie's stomach flip without his permission. You acknowledged Mike, Lucas, Will with a kindness that seemed effortless. Then, you turned back to respond to Dustin.

"It's just ball. But.. thank you." You said humbly, patting Dustin's shoulder.

"It's not just ball. You're the best on the team. Easily." Steve, ever your biggest fan, continued to gas you up just as he had before the other boys arrived.

You rolled your eyes, but the fondness was undeniable. “You’re biased.”

“I’m objective!” Steve insisted, slinging an arm around your sweaty shoulders, ignoring your half-hearted squawk of protest. “It’s a scientific fact. Anyone with eyes can see it.”

It was then, with Steve’s arm around you, that your gaze drifted back past his shoulder to Eddie. You were still smiling, that warm, post-game glow softening your features, but your eyes held a different question now. They flickered between Steve’s proud, oblivious face and Eddie’s carefully neutral one, as if you were observing a fascinating, unspoken dynamic. 

And then you spoke. Not to deflect, not to dismiss. You saw him. “Iron Maiden. Nice.”

Three words. That was all it took. Three words, and the carefully constructed wall between Eddie Munson and the world of Steve Harrington developed a hairline crack. He stared, his clever retorts dying on his tongue. You knew the band. You’d not only seen the patch, you’d recognized it. It was a tiny, inconsequential thing, but in the social ecosystem of Hawkins High, it felt like a secret handshake.

He managed to recover, his voice dropping into a tone of mock-appraisal. “You know your metal, Harrington?”

You smiled, a small blush dusting your cheeks. You were shy too. How fun.

"Sometimes." A simple, humble word that left everything open to interpretation. Sometimes I listen. Sometimes I like it. Sometimes I notice things.

His hand came up to rub the bottom of his chin, a small smirk curving onto his lips. He couldn't help it. The smirk was automatic, a way to channel the sudden, disorienting rush of triumph and vulnerability into something he knew how to wear.

"Sometimes," he repeated, letting the word roll around in his mouth like a new flavor. "Dangerous word, 'sometimes.' Leaves a guy guessing."

His eyes held yours, the playful challenge in them belying the frantic beat of his heart. He saw your blush deepen, just a shade, and it was the most thrilling thing he'd witnessed all night -- more than any three-pointer, more than any victory buzzer. He'd made the unflappable Y/N Harrington blush.

Steve, whose radar for any interaction involving his sister was finely tuned to a paranoid frequency, immediately picked up on the shift. The easy, proud-brother vibe hardened into something more alert. He stepped forward, his body subtly inserting itself into the space between your line of sight and Eddie.

"Alright," Steve said, his tone light but with a steel underneath. He put a guiding hand on your back. "You're still sweaty. Let's move out."

You allowed yourself to be steered, but not before you shot one last look over your shoulder. It wasn't the smile from before. It was a quick, bright glance, your eyes meeting Eddie's with a spark of curiosity, shyness, and interest. And then you were gone, swallowed by the hallway leading to the locker rooms.

He'd never felt so satisfied.

He'd expected you to have the same cocky bravado that your brother did, maybe even some of his goofy inability to shut up. But you were so different. You were quiet, humble, shy. A Harrington? Shy? Was it even possible for that to happen? It was the shyness that got him. That was the hook, sunk deep past his defenses. Steve Harrington was a lighthouse -- loud, obvious, impossible to miss. You were a carefully banked fire, warmth you had to get close to feel.

The following Monday, he saw you in the hallway. You were at your locker, head down as you swapped out books. Eddie, leaning against the lockers a dozen feet away with Gareth, pretended to be engrossed in a debate about the merits of a new dice set. But his eyes were on you.

He saw a guy from the basketball team -- a junior, broad-shouldered and grinning -- approach you. “Great game Friday, Harrington. You really showed ‘em.” The guy’s tone was friendly, but his posture was all swagger, leaning into your space.

You looked up, offered a small, polite smile that didn't reach your eyes. “Thanks, Mark.” Your voice was quiet. You turned back to your locker, a clear dismissal.

The guy, Mark, either didn't get the hint or chose to ignore it. He leaned closer. “A bunch of us are going to get pizza after practice tomorrow. You should come. Be nice to have the star player there.”

You stiffened, just a fraction. Your fingers tightened on the spine of your history book. Eddie saw it -- the subtle discomfort, the way you shrank ever so slightly. You weren't afraid; you were just… unwilling. And you didn't seem to have Steve’s loud, easy way of brushing people off.

Before Eddie could even think about moving, a voice cut through the hall.

“She’s got plans.”

Steve materialized from the crowd, his presence like a thunderclap. He didn't shove Mark, but he stepped smoothly between him and you, his smile wide and utterly devoid of warmth. “Family thing. Sorry, man.”

Mark backed off immediately, hands up in a ‘no problem’ gesture, his confidence evaporating under Steve’s pointed stare. “No worries, Harrington. Another time.”

Steve waited until Mark was gone before turning to you. His expression softened. “You okay?”

You nodded, that small, private smile returning. “I had plans?” you asked, a hint of amusement in your voice.

“You do now,” Steve said firmly, but he was smiling too. “My treat. I’m thinking… waffles.”

You laughed softly, and the tension left your shoulders. “Steve. I get out of practice at six. Waffles?”

“So? Waffles are a state of mind.” He slung an arm around you and steered you down the hall, throwing one last, sweeping glare around as if daring anyone else to try.

Eddie watched the whole scene, his blood humming. He’d been right. The shyness wasn't weakness. It was a preference for quiet. And you had a dragon for a brother, ready to breathe fire at the slightest hint of a threat. But you’d also handled it yourself, in your own quiet way, before Steve had even arrived. You’d been about to shut it down. Politely, firmly.

He wanted to hear you do it. He wanted to be the one you didn’t shut down. But he knew he couldn't do it the way Mark did. He had to sneak up on you, make you comfortable with his presence. Fond of him. Nudge you into a conversation rather than a full on push. And preferably without Steve punching him in the nose.

That afternoon, he skipped his usual haunt behind the bleachers. He went to the library. He found you at a corner table, head bent over a copy of The Catcher in the Rye, a highlighter in your hand. You were alone.

He slid into the chair across from you without a word.

You looked up, startled. Your eyes widened, and the blush -- god, that blush -- spread across your cheeks instantly. You glanced around, as if checking for Steve, then back at him.

“This is a study zone,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“I’m studying,” Eddie whispered back, leaning forward. He plucked the book from your hands, ignoring your gasp of protest. He glanced at the page. “Holden Caulfield. Phony-hating, melancholic rich kid. Overrated.”

You stared at him, shocked into silence for a moment. Then, a spark ignited in your eyes. Interest. “You’ve read it?”

“Everyone’s read it,” he said, handing it back. “It’s a rite of passage for disaffected youth. But if you want a real story about alienation and screaming into the void, you read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Or listen to Ride the Lightning.”

A soft smile that you tried to push down formed onto your face as you refocused onto the book.

"Maybe." Your attempt at dismissal was clear. A closed-ended response, intending to cut the conversation short.

Eddie didn't push. He saw the dismissal for what it was: not a rejection, but a test. A shy person’s wall, erected to see if he’d try to climb it clumsily or respect its boundaries. He chose the latter.

“Maybe,” he echoed, his tone thoughtful, as if considering the word itself. He leaned back in his chair, putting a little more space between them, a gesture of non-threat. “The patron saint of ‘maybe.’ That’s you, Harrington.” He tapped his own temple. “Keeps a guy on his toes, just like 'sometimes'. I respect it.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his canvas bag and pulled out a battered, dog-eared paperback. He slid it across the table toward you. The cover was a psychedelic explosion of colors, the title in loud, drippy letters: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson.

“A counter-offer,” he said, his voice still low. “No pressure. No due date. Consider it… supplementary material. A different perspective on the great American freak-out.”

You stared at the book, then at him, your earlier attempt at closure clearly thrown. Your fingers hovered over the cover, not touching it. “I…"

You didn't know what to say. Usually, boys didn't get this far with you. He could see it. The slight widening of your eyes, the way your breath hitched just a fraction. You were thrown. Off-balance. Most guys, he guessed, either backed off at your quiet maybe or tried to bulldoze through it with louder compliments, bigger gestures. He’d done neither. He’d offered a book. A piece of his own weird, wonderful chaos, handed over without demand.

It was the perfect move.

He gave you a lazy, knowing smile, the kind that said I see you, and it's okay. "It's not gonna bite," he said, nodding at the book. "Well. The prose might. It's a little rabid. But in a fun way."

He pushed his chair back and stood up, the movement slow and deliberate. He didn't loom over you. He just gathered his bag, letting the moment stretch, letting you sit with the choice he'd laid in front of you.

"I'll be seeing you, Harrington," he said, his voice a low murmur meant just for you. He didn't say around. It was a promise, or a prediction, or maybe both. Then he turned and ambled out of the library, the chains on his boots making the softest chink-chink sound against the quiet.

He replayed the interaction in his mind a few times before the excitement wore off.

About a week later, he caught up to you, just like he said he would. Outside Dustin's house. The party was meeting up to hang out. Usually, if it didn't involve D&D, Eddie didn't come. But.. he had new motivation. He had parked his van down the road on the curb, walking up to the front lawn. Steve's car was in the driveway, so he knew you'd both be there.

With Max and El, you sat in a lawn chair, reclined into the sun. It was a warm day in October, so your sleeves were rolled up and you wore shorts, exposing skin that hadn't yet paled from its summer tan. The sight of you stopped him in his tracks for a moment. You were bathed in the golden, late-afternoon light, looking relaxed in a way he’d never seen you at school. You were laughing at something Max said, your head thrown back slightly, the line of your throat elegant and exposed. The sun caught your hair, turning it golden brown. You looked soft. Approachable. Real.

It was dangerous.

He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his vest and forced his feet to move, the gravel of the Henderson driveway crunching under his boots. Dustin, who was trying to explain the rules of some complicated board game to a bewildered Will, spotted him first.

“Munson! You made it!” Dustin crowed, as if Eddie’s presence was a personal victory. Which, in a way, it was.

The chatter on the lawn paused. Mike and Lucas looked up from where they were attempting to fix Lucas’s bike chain. Steve, who had been leaning against his car with a Coke, straightened up, his smile remaining shockingly easy. Eddie was sure it wouldn't stay that way -- the more he tried to woo the unsuspecting man's sister.

And you. You stopped laughing. Your eyes found him, and that familiar, faint blush painted its way across your cheeks and the bridge of your nose. You sat up a little straighter in the lawn chair, pulling your knees to your chest -- a subtle, self-conscious gesture that sent a bolt of pure, possessive warmth straight through Eddie’s core. He knew it was because of him.

“Figured I’d see what the plebeians do for fun when they’re not rolling for initiative,” Eddie said, his voice carrying across the lawn with practiced nonchalance. He nodded at Steve. “Harrington.”

“Munson,” Steve replied, his tone neutral. The unspoken what are you doing here? hung in the air.

Eddie ignored it. His gaze slid back to you. “Harrington,” he said again, this time softer, the word just for you.

“Eddie,” you replied, your voice quiet but steady. You didn't look away.

Max, sharp as a tack, glanced between you and Steve, a slow, knowing grin spreading across her face. El just watched with serene curiosity.

“So, are you playing or what?” Dustin demanded, holding up a fistful of colorful game money.

“In a minute, Henderson. Let a man soak in the ambience.” Eddie’s eyes stayed on you. He took a few steps closer, stopping a polite distance away, leaning against the trunk of a large oak tree. “Burning the midnight oil with Thompson again, or have you recovered?”

You smiled, a small, private thing. “I’m recovering. I think I needed the sunshine.”

“Sunshine is overrated,” Eddie said, but he was smiling too. “All that… cheer. It’s suspicious.”

You actually laughed, a soft puff of air. “Suspicious?”

“Absolutely. Hides all the interesting shadows.” He let his gaze drift meaningfully around the sunny, suburban yard before bringing it back to you. “But I’ll allow it. For today.”

He was almost giddy at the genuine smile he'd managed to coax out of you. But he had to reign it in. He wasn't trying to get flattened by your brother today, especially not in front of you. It would be terribly embarrassing and detrimental to the metal brand. He saw the exact moment Steve decided to intervene. It was a subtle shift in the older Harrington’s posture -- the shoulders squaring, the easy slouch disappearing. Eddie felt the impending storm like a change in barometric pressure. He was skating on very thin ice over a lake of pure, protective, hairspray-scented rage.

Time for a tactical retreat.

“Well,” Eddie said, pushing off from the tree with a sigh that was only half-feigned. “Duty calls. Henderson’s about to bankrupt himself with poor property management, and someone’s gotta witness the carnage.” He gave you a small, conspiratorial wink. “Save the rest of the review for me, yeah? I want the director’s cut.”

When he turned around, he grinned at your brother.

"Easy, tiger. Just asking about a book. That's all. We both read."

Steve’s eyes narrowed, but the brotherly aggression bled out of his stance, replaced by skepticism. “You.. Read?”

“Shocking, I know,” Eddie said, spreading his hands in a gesture of mock innocence. “Words on pages. Sometimes they even have pictures. It’s wild.” He kept his tone light, teasing, but he made sure to meet Steve’s gaze head-on. No guilt. No backing down. Just two guys having a weird, tense standoff about literature in a backyard.

Steve glanced past him to where you were sitting with a mixture of apprehension and what looked like… salty amusement.

“Just keeping the intellectual currents flowing in this town, Harrington,” Eddie continued, slinging his thumbs through his belt loops. “Someone’s gotta do it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with Monopoly-induced despair.”

He gave Steve a final, easy nod -- a peace offering that was also a declaration of I’m not scared of you -- and sauntered over to the game board. He threw himself down on the grass next to Dustin, immediately launching into a dramatic critique of Mike’s decision to buy Baltic Avenue.

“A bold strategy, Wheeler! Let’s see how it plays out for you when I park a hotel on Boardwalk!”

For the rest of the afternoon, he was the loud, chaotic, perfectly normal Eddie Munson. But his awareness was split. One part was on the game, harassing the kids. The other part was a high-frequency sensor tuned exclusively to you. He noted when you sat back down with Max and El, when you got up to get a drink, the soft sound of your voice when you spoke. He didn't look over often, but he didn't need to. He could feel your presence like a low, warm hum in the background of everything.

When the gathering broke up, he walked back to his van, the cool October air doing nothing to dampen the fire in his chest. He was so close. So close to breaking completely into your walls. He got closer every time. Sitting in the driver’s seat, he finally let the full, triumphant grin break free. He cranked the engine and slammed in a tape. The opening riff of “Run to the Hills” exploded through the speakers, a perfect, pounding anthem for his victory.

But.. not everything proved to be so peachy.

That next Tuesday night, as he did every Tuesday night, he sauntered into the local diner to secure his favorite. A beer he wasn't ID'd for and a slice of blackberry pie. The familiar scent of grease, french fries, and pastries flooded into his nose as he pushed the door open. It was usually empty around this time. During the day, the jocks were there for their after-practice pizza or cheeseburger, which is why he only came at night. But the surprise he felt when he came upon you sitting in a booth, alone and all dolled up, could've caved his chest in.

Your hair was curled, gorgeous as usual. You wore a light but unfamiliar dusting of makeup (that your naturally lovely face didn't need), with a thin layer of pink gloss on your lips. You were clearly dressed for a date -- a cute little skirt, a floral top, and pretty buckled up shoes. What really alarmed him, though, was the fact that mascara blackened tears steadily traveled down your cheeks.

It was bad enough that you'd come here for a date that wasn't with him. But it was even worse that, clearly and evidently, you'd been stood up. How or why someone would stand you up, he wasn't sure. But it had happened.

Every instinct in Eddie’s body screamed to march over to that booth, to slide in across from you, to demand a name so he could go find the guy and introduce his face to the business end of a wrench. But the raw, vulnerable devastation on your face -- the kind that came from a quiet, private humiliation -- stopped him cold. This wasn't a scene for his usual brand of chaotic intervention.

He stood frozen just inside the door, the bell above it giving a final, pathetic ting. You didn't look up. You were staring into a milkshake you hadn't touched, a single, fat tear plopping into the whipped cream.

Eddie’s heart did a painful, complicated twist. It wasn't just jealousy, though that was a hot, green coil in his gut. It was a fierce, protective rage on your behalf, mixed with a crushing wave of empathy. He knew what it was like to be the one left waiting. To be deemed not good enough, too much, too other. But for you? For you to be treated like this? It was an obscenity. He was sure Steve was probably out plotting a murder, even though the explanation for you being stood up may have been that he'd already committed one.

He took a slow, deep breath. The Eddie who would make a scene, who would crack a joke to deflect, who would play the loud, uncaring freak, retreated. Someone else stepped forward.

He walked to the counter, not to his usual stool, but to where Marge, the perpetually tired waitress, was refilling the ketchup bottles. “Hey, Marge,” he said, his voice low. “Two slices of the blackberry pie. Two forks. And two coffees. Put it on my tab.”

Marge gave him a knowing look, her eyes flicking to your hunched form in the booth, then back to him. She nodded once. “Comin’ up, hon.”

Eddie didn't go straight to your booth. He went to the jukebox in the corner, fed it a few quarters, and made a selection. Not Iron Maiden. Not something loud. He chose something slow, something old -- a melancholy, bluesy track that wouldn't intrude, just sit in the background like a sympathetic hum.

Then, carrying the two plates of pie and two mugs of coffee balanced precariously, he approached. He didn't ask if he could sit. He just slid into the booth opposite you, setting the desserts and coffee down with a soft clink.

You looked up, startled. Your eyes, red-rimmed and swimming, widened in surprise and a flicker of embarrassment. You quickly swiped at your cheeks. “Eddie. You don’t have to--”

“I know I don’t have to,” he interrupted, his voice gentle, a tone he rarely used. He nudged one of the pie plates and a fork toward you. “Blackberry. Best in town And the coffee’s fresh. Might as well not let a good outfit go to waste.”

You stared at the pie, then back at him. A fresh tear escaped, but a wobbly, incredulous smile touched your lips. “You’re not going to ask?”

“Nope,” he said, picking up his own fork. He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. “Guy’s an idiot. That’s all the context I need. The ‘why’ is irrelevant. The facts are: you look beautiful, and he’s missing out on pie. His loss is my gain.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, with such complete, unwavering certainty, that it seemed to cut through the fog of your hurt. You let out a shaky breath, a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh, and picked up your own fork.

You didn't talk about the date. He didn't let you. He talked about the pie. He talked about Marge’s mysterious, possibly mob-connected husband. He talked about the time Gareth tried to use the diner’s grease trap in a questionable science experiment. He made you smile, then actually laugh -- a small, real one -- when he described Dustin’s attempt to order “the most protein-rich item on the menu” to fuel his brain.

He made the world small and safe, contained within the cracked vinyl of the booth. The jukebox played its sad, sweet song. The coffee steamed. The pie disappeared bite by bite.

When the tears had fully dried and your smile was a little steadier, he leaned back, studying you. “Feel like getting some air that doesn’t smell like fry oil?”

You nodded, looking relieved. “Yeah.”

He paid the tab, leaving a tip that made Marge raise her eyebrows. He held the door open for you, and you stepped out into the crisp night. He didn't try to take your hand. He just walked beside you, his hands in his pockets. Your skirt swished around your thighs, Mary Jane platforms crunching the gravel. You looked up at the moon, the light casting shadows. There was still mascara stuck to your cheeks, inky black.

He halted you for a moment, the touch on your wrist causing electricity to bolt up your arm. But the touch wasn't done yet.

Before he could stop himself, his hands came up to your face. Brown eyes bored into yours, a warm liquid sensation traveling down your spine, as he gently wiped the coal-colored makeup from your cheeks. The sensation was foreign, but not unpleasant. In fact, you were sure it was the most pleasant touch you'd ever felt. Eddie's fingers were rough from guitar strings, but gentle and soft in their ministrations.

He didn't just wipe; he cradled your face, his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.

The world shrank to the space between his palms. The distant hum of traffic, the rustle of the autumn leaves, the chill in the air -- it all faded into a blur. All that existed was the warmth of his hands, the quiet shush of his thumbs against your skin, and the dark, bottomless pools of his eyes watching you, watching for any sign of protest or pain.

"There," he murmured, his voice a low rasp that vibrated in the quiet space between you. He didn't pull his hands away immediately. They lingered, his thumbs making one final, sweeping pass along your cheekbones, as if committing the clean lines of your face to memory. "No more evidence that you were even sad about that asshole."

You couldn't speak. You could only stare, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The electricity from his initial touch had settled into a deep, resonant hum, a current that seemed to connect his skin to yours, buzzing with unspoken things.

Finally, slowly, he let his hands fall away, dropping back to his sides as if the action took great effort. The night air felt ten degrees colder where his touch had been. You missed it immediately. The loss was a physical ache. You stood there on the quiet street, the imprint of his hands still burning on your skin like a brand. You wanted to reach out, to pull them back, to feel that rough gentleness again. But you were frozen, held in place by the aftermath of his touch and the raw vulnerability still humming in your veins.

He saw it -- the want, the hesitation. A slow, understanding smile touched his lips, not smug, but profoundly tender.

"Steve would break my face right now." He said quietly.

The statement hung in the air, a stark, honest truth that somehow broke the tension without shattering the moment. It wasn't a complaint. It was an acknowledgment of the dangerous, delicious line they were walking.

A surprised, watery laugh escaped you. It was a small sound, but it felt like a release. "He would," you agreed, your voice still a little thick. "He'd use that nail bat he keeps in his trunk."

Eddie’s grin widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "See? You get it. The constant, looming threat of blunt force trauma. It's the foundation of any good courtship."

Courtship. The old-fashioned word, coming from him, sent another shiver through you. It felt deliberate. Chivalrous, even.

Eddie was a vision in the moonlight. Dark curls with almost a purple hue. Warm brown eyes, features pronounced in the shadows. The rings on his decorated hands glinted silver, chain bracelets hanging from a wrist. Since you'd first seen him, you'd acknowledged that no matter how odd people seemed to find him, no one could ever call him ugly. He was easy on the eyes, very much so. And it turned out that you didn't find him odd at all.

In fact, the yearning in your chest to kiss him was physically tangible. You'd never felt that way about a boy before. You'd hated most. But since Eddie had forced himself into your attention, you'd had thoughts of close to nothing but. The only thing that stopped you was hesitancy. Not even the threat of Steve. You could keep him at bay.

You felt Eddie coming closer now. You smelled his sharp, dark cologne, leather, and cigarettes. His intense stare mingled with yours.

"You okay?" He whispered.

His whisper was a soft vibration in the scant space between you. It wasn't just a question about the tears, or the diner, or the idiot who stood you up. It was a question about this. About him being this close, about the unspoken thing crackling in the air like static before a storm. It was a check-in, a last chance to retreat.

"Eddie?" You whispered, finally utilizing your voice.

"Hm?" He hummed, towering over you.

"Can I.. Can you.." You attempted, almost unable to get the question out. Your whisper quivered.

He understood. He saw the struggle in your eyes, the way your lips parted around a question you couldn't quite form. The yearning wasn't just in your chest; it was a live wire strung taut between you, vibrating with a need so palpable he could feel it in his own bones.

He didn't make you finish. He didn't tease. He simply bowed his head, bringing his face even closer, until his breath fanned warm against your lips. His voice dropped to a husk, a raw, intimate sound meant for you alone.

"Ask me," he murmured, his eyes holding yours captive. "Just ask me, sweetheart. I'm right here."

The permission, the gentle encouragement, was your undoing. It gave you the courage to voice the soft, burning words.

"Kiss me."

It wasn't a question by the end. It was a plea. A command. A revelation.

A slow, devastatingly tender smile touched his lips -- the last thing you saw before his eyes fluttered shut. "God, yes," he breathed, the words a prayer against your mouth.

And then he did.

His kiss was everything you'd dreamed and nothing you could have imagined. It was soft, at first -- a reverent press of his lips to yours, a silent thank you for asking, for wanting. Then it deepened, as his arms slid around you, pulling you flush against him. One hand splayed wide on your back, anchoring you; the other cradled the base of your skull, his fingers tangling gently in your hair.

He kissed you like he was learning you, like you were a map to a treasure he'd spent his whole life searching for. There was hunger there, a pent-up intensity that made your head spin, but it was tempered by a breathtaking sweetness, a care that left you utterly disarmed.

You melted into him, your own hands finding purchase on his shoulders, then sliding up to cup his jaw, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his skin. The world ceased to exist. There was only the scent of him, the taste of coffee and night, the solid warmth of his body against yours, and the exquisite, consuming rightness of his mouth on yours.

When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, you were trembling. He was too. He rested his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged, his eyes still closed.

"Okay," he whispered again, but this time it was a dazed, wondrous sound. He opened his eyes, and the look in them -- full of awe and a fierce, blazing joy -- made your knees weak. "Yeah. Now Steve's definitely gonna kill me."

You laughed, the sound bright and clear in the quiet night. You slid your hand from his cheek to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft curls at his nape. "Worth it," you murmured.

Then, you ran to his van with the promise of Eddie driving you home.

The drive to your house was a blur of murmured nothings and stolen glances, the silence between you now a comfortable, charged hum instead of an awkward void. Eddie’s hand found yours on the gearshift, his fingers lacing through yours, the cool metal of his rings pressing against your skin -- a tangible reminder of the ring already warming on your thumb. He didn’t let go until he had to put the van in park in front of your darkened house.

He killed the engine, and the sudden quiet felt immense. The only light came from the porch lamp and the faint glow of the dashboard, painting his profile in soft gold and deep shadow.

"Saturday," he said, his voice firm now, a vow. "It's a date. A real one. No shadows, unless they're on a movie screen. Just you and me."

"Just you and me," you echoed, the words a promise.

He kissed you once more, quick and sweet, a seal on the agreement. Then, with obvious reluctance, he took a step back, putting space between you again. The cold air rushed in, but you didn't feel it. You were burning from the inside out.

"Get inside," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Before I do something really stupid, like kiss you again and forget about your brother entirely."

You smiled, a real, full, unreserved smile that lit up your whole face. "Goodnight, Eddie."

"Goodnight, Y/N."

You turned and walked into your house, your steps light. You didn't look back, but you knew he was watching until the door closed. Leaning against it, you touched your lips, still tingling from his kiss.

The hesitation was gone.

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.

Taglist:

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You’re thinking about that as you all spill out of the diner, pleasantly full and lazily arguing about who has the worst music taste. There’s gentle noise, the kind that doesn’t rub at the edges of you. Steve throws an arm around Robin and she pretends to wrestle it off. Eddie tugs your sleeve so you fall in beside him, close enough for your arms to brush.

Everything feels balanced. Quiet. Yours.

Then you hear raised voices.

Eddie stiffens before you work out what’s happening. Two older guys, strangers, but the type Eddie still draws trouble from, drift out from behind a parked car. One of them says something too low for you to catch, but Eddie hears it; you see the way his jaw goes tight, how the easy grin falters. Steve steps half a pace forward like he’s instinctively gearing up to be the responsible one for once in his life.

You want to reach for Eddie’s sleeve again, tell him that it isn’t worth it, that you’re having a nice night and he deserves to keep it. You don’t get the words out quickly enough.

The bigger guy shoves Eddie in the shoulder. It’s not catastrophic, not even that hard, just rough and mocking. Eddie shoves back. You flinch at the sound of Robin muttering ‘oh god, Eddie, please don’t start’.

You’re not scared of fights as much as you’re scared of consequences. You’ve seen what happens when things get even a little out of hand in this town.

The second shove comes faster than you expect. Eddie isn’t ready for it. His boot catches on the kerb and he goes down hard, back first, then the back of his head smacking the concrete with a dull crack that seems to echo inside you.

The guys retreat at Steve’s furious bark, clearly deciding they’ve had enough fun. Robin darts after them just far enough to shout something biting, but you barely register it. You’re already dropping to your knees beside Eddie.

He’s not unconscious, you know that immediately because he’s making a thin noise, frustration mixed with pain. His eyes are open but hazy. He looks wrong. Unsettled. Eddie’s usually too bright, too alive, even when he’s being ridiculous. This version of him is loose around the edges, pupils blown wide, breath unsteady.

You try to speak. The words stick to your tongue. You have to push them out carefully so they don’t fall apart. “Eddie? Can you hear me?”

He blinks slowly, sluggish rather than soft, and you can’t tell if it’s because he’s dazed or trying to focus on your face. “’Course I hear you,” he mumbles, dragging the words into one another. “You’re… you’re loud.”

You’re not. You know you’re not. You sound like you’re made of cotton, shaking hands and thin worries.

Steve crouches beside you, eyes darting over Eddie in a frantic inventory of limbs and injuries. He reaches for Eddie’s shoulder and Eddie snaps at him, actually snaps, voice sharp and ragged, “Don’t touch me, Harrington. Just— just don’t.”

The shock of it makes your stomach twist. Eddie doesn’t snap at people. Even when he’s cross, he’s musical about it. This is raw, defensive, wrong.

Robin hovers behind you, wringing her hands. “He hit his head. It was a bad hit. We should, like, get him up slowly, or maybe we shouldn’t move him at all? I don’t— Steve, what do we do?”

You tune out their scramble because Eddie is looking at you. Not quite focusing, but trying. His lashes tremble. His bottom lip wobbles in a way he’d deny to his dying breath. He looks scared, which panics something deep and private in you. Eddie isn’t allowed to look scared. He’s the one who makes jokes in the middle of danger, who throws himself between monsters and teenagers just because he can’t bear the idea of someone else being hurt.

You touch his cheek without thinking. Your fingers come away warm, slightly clammy. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “You’re okay, Eddie. Just stay with me.”

He makes a noise like he wants to laugh but it comes out shaky. “Didn’t… didn’t mean to fall. That was stupid. I’m not stupid.” The words tumble fast, as if his brain can’t quite control the pace. “I didn’t mean to scare you. You look scared. Don’t be scared.”

Your chest pulls painfully tight. You want to tell him he didn’t scare you, but that would be a lie so poorly shaped it would crumble in your mouth. You try to breathe through the rising panic, through the sting behind your eyes. It feels like the world has narrowed down to the shaking breath Eddie keeps dragging through his teeth and the pressure of his fingers curling in the fabric of your sleeve like he’s terrified you’ll leave.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, voice cracking on the last word. “Eddie, look at me.”

He does, though his gaze keeps slipping away then finding you again as if the lights behind his eyes are flickering.

You want to cry but you shove it down because if you fall apart he absolutely will. Your heartbeat is loud enough that it feels like something punching at your ribs, desperate to break out. You’re aware of Robin whispering something to Steve, the shuffle of feet, the hum of distant traffic, but everything is fuzzing at the edges.

Eddie grips your wrist suddenly, too tight, like a frightened child. “Don’t let them touch me,” he mumbles. “Only you. You’re safe.”

The words hit you harder than the sight of him on the ground. You swallow against the surge of emotion rising in your throat. “No one’s touching you. Just me. You’re safe, Eddie. I promise.”

His breathing evens just a fraction, enough to stop the frantic rise of your own. But he’s still not right. Still too warm, too unfocused, too vulnerable in a way that makes your hands tremble.

Steve tries again, more cautious. “We need to sit him up slowly. Just to see if he can—”

Eddie snarls, sharp and unlike him. “I said don’t fucking touch me.”

You flinch even though it isn’t aimed at you. This isn’t Eddie. Not the Eddie who teases you gently, who waits for you to finish sentences even when you take your time, who tells you you’re ‘the calmest bastard in Indiana’ like it’s a compliment made for you alone.

Something twists inside you, fear for him, fear of losing him, fear of not being able to pull him back to himself, and you realise your hands are already moving without permission, reaching for him again.

“Eddie,” you say, quieter but steadier. “Look at me.”

He does, blinking slow, breath catching. And you hold his face in both trembling hands because if you don’t, you’ll fall apart.

You keep your hands on his cheeks even when your fingers threaten to shake themselves apart. Eddie leans into the touch like he trusts it blindly, head tilting a little, eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused. He looks as though he’s listening to something only he can hear. Or maybe he’s just listening to you breathe, which is embarrassingly uneven.

Steve backs up a little, palms raised, as if he’s trying not to spook a wild animal. “Alright,” he murmurs. “No touching. Got it. But we still need to figure out if he’s concussed.”

You nod without taking your eyes off Eddie. “I know.” Your voice comes out small but not fragile. Just tired. The kind of tired that builds up in the bones.

Robin crouches beside you, giving you as much space as she can. “Do you want me to call someone? Hospital, maybe? Or Wayne?”

The mention of Wayne makes Eddie whine under his breath, soft and miserable. You don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t want to worry the man or because the thought of anyone else near him feels threatening while he’s like this. Either way, your heart aches.

“Let’s… let’s just get him sitting up first,” you whisper. “Slowly.”

His shoulders tense the second you say it, as if his body understands the words before he does. You stroke your thumb across his cheekbone, trying to soothe him even though your stomach feels like it’s knotting itself into impossible shapes.

“I’ve got you,” you say, leaning closer so he doesn’t have to focus too hard. “I won’t let you fall again.”

Eddie’s fingers twitch against your sleeve. “Promise?”

The word breaks something open in your chest. “I promise.”

It takes a moment for him to accept it. His breath stutters once, then steadies, and he nods like he’s trusting you with something fragile. You guide him with gentle pressure, supporting the back of his neck while Steve and Robin hover anxiously but keep their distance. Eddie winces as he moves, a quiet sound that tears at you. His body feels heavier than it should, like gravity is playing favourites.

He slumps forward once he’s upright, forehead nearly bumping your shoulder. You catch him before he can fold in on himself. His breath ghosts across your collar, warm and shaky.

“Too bright,” he mutters.

You glance at the streetlamp overhead. “D’you want to move into the shade?”

He groans something that might be a yes.

Between the three of you, though only you are allowed to touch him, you shuffle him a few feet over until the lamplight isn’t glaring directly into his face. He settles against the wall, head tipped back, chest rising too quick. You kneel in front of him, hands hovering in case he needs them again.

Robin whispers to Steve, “I’ve never seen him like this.”

Steve nods, eyes flicking over Eddie with a strange mix of fear and protectiveness. “He’s scared. He’s covering it by being a dick.” Then, quieter, “He doesn’t snap at them though.”

You pretend you didn’t hear that. It would be too much, and you’re already too full.

Eddie shifts, trying to find you with his eyes again. They finally latch onto you and soften as if he’s relieved you haven’t vanished. “C’mere,” he mumbles.

Your breath catches. “I am here.”

“Closer.”

The word trembles in the air. You lean in until you’re close enough that your knees brush his boots and your fingers graze his. He latches onto your hand instantly, threading his fingers through yours like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing keeping him above water.

You can’t hide the way your breath stutters. You don’t even try.

Eddie squeezes your hand too tightly. “Don’t go quiet on me,” he whispers, voice fraying at the edges. “You always go quiet. Hate it.”

That hits you strange. You’ve always assumed your quiet made things easier. Softer. You didn’t think it could hurt him.

“I’m here,” you say again, barely breathing the words. “I’m not going quiet, Eddie. Not now.”

He relaxes a little at that, head tilting until his hair brushes your knuckles. His voice drops to something almost childlike. “Thought you were angry.”

“Angry?” The idea horrifies you. “Eddie, no. God, no.”

He shakes his head weakly, eyes squeezing shut. “You looked scared. And when you get scared you get quiet and when you get quiet I can’t tell if you’re—” He cuts off in a frustrated noise, like the rest of the sentence won’t form.

You swallow hard. Your heart feels too full, too raw. “I was scared you were hurt,” you admit. “Not scared of you. Just… scared for you.”

Eddie’s breath wavers, and for a moment you think he might cry. His grip on your hand loosens just slightly, like he’s ashamed of needing it.

You refuse to let go.

“It’s alright to be scared,” you whisper, leaning in until your forehead almost touches his. “You hit your head. Anyone would be shaken.”

He exhales shakily, your name dropping from his lips in a tone that feels like a confession. “You’re being too nice.”

“I’m not,” you say, though it comes out more tender than you mean it to. “You’re hurt, Eddie. You’re allowed to need someone.”

That gets a tiny laugh out of him, breathy and uneven. “Only want you.”

The words slip between you before he can stop them. Steve and Robin both freeze, eyes widening. You feel the heat rush to your face so fast it almost makes you dizzy. Eddie doesn’t seem to notice what he’s said, he just tugs at your hand, pulling it onto his knee like he needs the pressure there.

He’s drifting again, not unconscious, just overwhelmed, slipping in and out of focus. His rambling gets softer.

“You’re good,” he murmurs. “So good. Always calm. Keeps me steady. You don’t even know. You don’t—” Another frustrated breath. “Hurts. My head hurts. Don’t wanna be alone.”

“You’re not alone,” you breathe, fighting the thickening in your throat. “I’m staying right here.”

Robin whispers, “We should really get him home soon…”

You know she’s right, but the thought of moving him when he’s clinging to you like this makes your stomach twist. Eddie’s fingers tighten again, and his head dips forward until it rests against your shoulder.

He speaks into your collar, voice thick and unguarded: “If you leave, I’ll panic. Don’t leave. Don’t go quiet.”

Your heart nearly breaks at the fear threaded through the words. You wrap your free arm around him, holding him as tightly as you dare.

“I’m not leaving,” you tell him, steady but trembling. “Not until you’re on your feet. Not until you tell me to.”

Eddie nods into your shoulder. “Good.” His breath fans warm over your skin. “You’re the only one I trust when the world goes loud.”

It’s too much. You feel your chest tightening, tears threatening again. You bury your face briefly in his hair, breathing him in, inhaling the faint sweetness of milkshake.

Steve edges closer, voice low and careful. “We should walk him back to the van. Slowly. He can lean on me if—”

Eddie pulls back suddenly, eyes flashing with panic, and snaps, “No. Not you. Them.”

You jump slightly at the sudden intensity, and then the weight of it hits you all at once. He won’t let anyone but you help him.

Steve raises his hands in surrender, glancing at Robin, who winces sympathetically. “Alright. Them. Fine.”

Eddie sags against you again, exhausted from even that small burst of defiance.

You stroke a hand down his arm, heart aching. “I’ve got you,” you whisper.

And he believes you so completely it scares you.

Eddie keeps a death grip on your hand as you help him stand, his legs unsteady beneath him. You move slowly, guiding him with soft pressure and quiet words. He follows every cue like you’re the only solid thing in a world that won’t stop swaying.

Robin hovers behind you with her hands half-raised in case he stumbles, though she seems to know she won’t be allowed to catch him. Steve walks ahead a little, clearing a path even though the pavement is empty. Every few steps he glances back with a look that’s both tense and apologetic, as if he’s sorry for something he couldn’t control.

Eddie leans heavily into you as you walk. His shoulder presses against yours, his head tipped slightly in your direction, breath brushing the shell of your ear now and then. You hold him around the waist, supporting more of his weight than you realised you could. He smells of something like panic and warmth. It makes your chest tighten, not unpleasantly, just painfully aware of him.

Every so often he mutters under his breath, fragmented sentences, your name repeated like a mantra, swears directed at his own skull for being ‘a drama queen’. You squeeze his side gently each time he stumbles, and he quietens, almost purring at the touch.

“You’re doing well,” you tell him. “Nearly there.”

“’Course I’m doing well,” Eddie mumbles thickly. “Got you.”

The words hit you square in the chest. Robin throws you a look over Eddie’s shoulder, sympathetic, amused, surprised all at once. Steve’s eyebrows rise in a way that says ‘I told you so’, though he doesn’t say a thing out loud. Eddie is too vulnerable for teasing.

When you reach the van, Eddie stops abruptly. He sways slightly, eyes unfocused as he stares at the passenger door. You can feel the moment panic flickers through him again, the way his grip tightens on your waist.

“I can’t—” His breath stutters. “Don’t make me let go.”

“I won’t,” you promise instantly. “I’ll help you in. Just keep hold of me.”

Robin opens the door, stepping aside quickly when Eddie flinches at the movement. He looks at the seat like it’s some insurmountable obstacle. Your heart twists painfully at how small he seems in that moment.

You place a hand on his cheek, gently turning his face back to you. “Listen. I’m going to climb in first, alright? Then you follow. You’ll be right next to me the whole time.”

He nods, though the motion is shaky. When you pull away to climb into the passenger seat, he almost lurches forward, reaching for you like he thinks you might vanish. You catch his hand mid-air.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you remind him, squeezing gently.

Once you’re seated, you guide him up after you, and he collapses into the seat with a groan, immediately burrowing into your shoulder as if that’s where he belongs. His hair tickles your collarbone. His breath is hot against your neck.

Steve shuts the door quietly, then circles around to the driver’s seat. Robin climbs in the back, unusually silent. You can feel her eyes on the two of you, but you don’t have the space to care.

Eddie is all you can focus on. Eddie, trembling and warm against you, fingers curled in the hem of your shirt like he’s anchoring himself.

The van starts with a low rumble, and Eddie flinches at the sound. You stroke the back of his head, slow and cautious. “It’s just the engine,” you whisper. “You’re alright.”

“You say that a lot,” he murmurs, voice thick and clumsy.

“You need to hear it.”

His breath hitches. “Only believe it when you say it.”

You press your lips together, trying not to let the emotion crack you open. You know he isn’t fully aware, the head injury has him drifting, unfiltered, but the sincerity in his voice feels like something real.

Halfway to the trailer park, Eddie’s rambling starts again, soft and slurred. “Thought you’d be mad at me… for getting in trouble… for spoiling the night.”

“You didn’t spoil anything,” you whisper. “You scared me, but that’s not your fault.”

He turns his face into your shoulder. “Didn’t want to scare you.”

“I know.”

“Don’t like it when you’re scared. Makes everything feel wrong.”

You swallow hard. “Things feel wrong when you’re hurt.”

Eddie goes quiet for a moment, then sighs. “You’re so steady,” he breathes. “You walk like you don’t wanna bother anyone. Talk like every word matters. Makes me— I don’t know. Makes me want to be quiet too. So I don’t ruin it.”

The confession leaves you breathless. You run a hand down his arm, calming him even though your own pulse is racing. “You don’t ruin anything.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not,” you say softly. “You’re… you’re one of the best parts of my life, Eddie.”

He makes a small sound, choked, disbelieving, and nuzzles closer. “Say it again.”

The van feels too small, too warm, too charged. Your throat tightens, but you force yourself to speak. “You’re important to me,” you whisper. “A lot more than you know.”

He melts against you, and for a while, he’s quiet.

By the time Steve pulls up outside the trailer, Eddie seems a little more present. Still dazed, still exhausted, but less frantic. When Steve opens the door, Eddie tenses, then realises it’s him and relaxes again, not fully, but enough.

“We’re here,” you tell him gently.

Eddie lifts his head from your shoulder, eyes blinking heavily. “Don’t leave me now.”

Your chest twists. “I’m walking you inside.”

Steve and Robin help where they can without touching him. Eddie keeps one arm looped around your waist, leaning on you more than he admits. You guide him up the steps, heart pounding in your ears.

Wayne isn’t home, a detail that both relieves and worries you, but you push it aside. Eddie sinks onto the sofa with a groan, the cushions swallowing him. He looks exhausted, hair a mess, eyes soft and foggy.

You kneel in front of him again. “How’s your head?”

“Hurts,” he mutters, “but everything hurts less when you’re near.”

Your breath catches. “Eddie…”

He lifts a shaky hand to your face, cupping your jaw with unexpected gentleness. “I meant it,” he whispers. “All the stuff I said. I meant it even if it came out wrong.”

You cover his hand with yours. “I know.”

His eyes search your face, hazy but earnest. “D’you… like me? Even a bit?”

You laugh, a tiny breath of disbelief. “Eddie, I’m terrified by how much I like you.”

He smiles, small, crooked, and dazed. “Good. ’Cause I’m gone for you. Properly gone.”

Your heart feels too big for your ribs. You lean forward, pressing your forehead to his. “We can talk when you’re not concussed,” you whisper. “But yes. I like you.”

Eddie exhales, relieved. His thumb strokes your cheek. “Stay?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you tell him, sliding up onto the sofa beside him. He immediately curls into you, head on your chest, breath warm against your shirt.

For the first time all night, your heartbeat slows. He’ll be alright. He’s here. You’re here. And he trusts you, more than anyone, which feels like the beginning of something truly insane.

— COME AND JOIN MY TAGLISTS !

The hallway to it feels suddenly like a bridge over an abyss. He knows what waits on the other side: a chaotic, sacred collage of his entire being. The walls are a living mood board—guitar tabs scrawled on notebook paper in frantic, midnight inspiration, half-finished lyrics that bleed into crude monster sketches, layered like geological strata under posters of bands that promised salvation through distortion. His bed is a nest of rumpled band t-shirts and faded black sheets that smell faintly of smoke and the cheap sandalwood incense he burns to cover it. On his nightstand, a precarious ziggurat of fantasy paperbacks stands guard beside a three-headed die and a half-empty can of Coke, its contents long since flat.

This is where the noise in his head goes to live. Where the riffs are born and the campaigns are plotted. It’s also where he stares at the water-stained ceiling at 3 a.m., wondering if this is all there is. It is, without a single shred of irony, the most vulnerable square footage on planet Earth.

He looks at you—really looks—searching for any flicker of a joke, a dare, a hint of the pity he’s braced for. But all he finds is that same terrifying certainty, softened now by a question in your eyes. You’re waiting.

A slow, shaky breath escapes him, one he didn’t know he was holding. The panic doesn’t vanish, but it crystallises into a single, sharp point of clarity.

Fuck it.

If this is a dream, he’s going to ride it all the way to the wreck. If it’s a prank, let the humiliation be legendary. But the way you’re looking at him… it feels like being seen for the first time, not just looked at.

He runs a hand through his hair, the rings catching briefly in the tangles. A ghost of his usual grin, wobbly at the edges, touches his lips.

“Right this way, my lady,” he murmurs, his voice a low, intimate rasp that seems to vibrate in the scant, charged space between your bodies. It’s the voice he uses for rolling a natural twenty, for the quiet moments before a solo—a promise wrapped in gravel. He doesn’t move away, doesn’t break the magnetic pull of your closeness. Instead, he shifts, sliding one arm around your waist to guide you, his touch firm and more sure now, a brand of heat through the fabric of your sweater.

He leads you the short distance down the narrow, dim hallway—a journey that feels leagues long. Your shoulder brushes the wall papered in a faded, geometric pattern from a decade ago. You pass the bathroom door hanging slightly ajar, releasing a faint, clean scent of mint soap into the muskier air of the trailer. You pass a faded, curling poster for a movie that came out the year he was born, a relic that he’s never bothered to take down. The world narrows to the warmth of his hand at your back, the solid presence of him beside you, and the destination ahead.

His bedroom door is closed, a flimsy barrier of painted wood, scarred with what looks like old adhesive and a faint, childish pencil mark near the baseboard. With his free hand, he pushes it open. It swings inward without a sound, as if the hinges, too, are holding their breath.

It reveals exactly what he knew it would: a testament to glorious, beautiful chaos.

The overhead light is off, but the amber glow from a cheap, stained-glass-style lamp on his bedside table paints the room in warm, shadowy hues of honey and bourbon. It illuminates a galaxy of band posters plastered like holy icons across the wood-panelled walls—Metallica’s grim puppeteer, Black Sabbath’s stormy, monolithic logo, a particularly dramatic Dio poster where the dragon, upon closer inspection, looks suspiciously like a demogorgon with added scales and artistic flair. In the corner, his guitar—a scratched, beloved electric—is propped against an amplifier like a sleeping sentinel, a coiled cable snaking from its base like a resting viper.

A cluttered desk overflows with the artefacts of his dual kingdoms: spiral-bound notebooks splayed open to reveal frantic chord progressions and lyrical fragments, clusters of polyhedral dice gleaming like scattered jewels. The air here is different—thick with the scent of old paper and the faint, ghostly echo of his cologne on a leather jacket slung over the desk chair.

This isn't just a room. It's a living map of his mind. Every item is a coordinate, every poster a creed, every piece of clutter a thought he hasn't finished having. He has just handed you the legend.

He watches your face, his breath held captive in his lungs, as you take it in. His heart is a trapped thing, beating against his ribs as if trying to escape the verdict. He tracks the journey of your gaze like a cartographer mapping a new world—over the sacred mess that is his soul made tangible.

He sees your eyes linger on the leaning stack of well-loved paperbacks, their cracked spines bearing titles like The Silmarillion and Dragonlance Chronicles. He notes the flick of your attention to the ceramic ashtray on the desk, overflowing with the creative evidence of burned-down filters and nervous, midnight energy. He watches as you take in the plaid blanket, worn soft at the edges, bunched carelessly at the foot of his unmade bed like a rejected hug. He is braced, muscles coiled, for the inevitable: the flicker of judgment, the subtle tightening of the lips, the polite, distant mask to slip back into place and shatter this impossible dream.

It never does.

Instead, a soft, thoughtful hum escapes you—a sound of genuine consideration, not condemnation. You step fully into the room, not with hesitation, but with a deliberate grace, as if crossing a threshold into a new, uncharted country. Your eyes are not critical, but profoundly, disarmingly curious. Absorbing. They don't scan; they read. They drink in the hieroglyphics of his life as if they were a sacred text only you have been granted to interpret.

“It’s very you,” you say simply, your voice a quiet balm in the amber-lit stillness.

The words are not an insult, not a dismissal of the chaos. They are an acceptance so complete it feels like absolution. A revelation that stuns him more than any kiss: you see the chaos and you do not find it wanting. You see him, and you are still here.

Something vital unclenches inside his chest. A breath he didn't realize he was holding releases in a slow, shuddering sigh. Without breaking his gaze from you, he reaches back, his fingers finding the doorknob. He closes the door behind you both with a soft, definitive click.

The sound is a period at the end of a sentence, a seal on a pact. It seals you in this new, private universe—a cosmos contained within four walls of peeling paint and loud music, governed by the laws of cassette tapes and twenty-sided dice. The distant, judgmental world of Hawkins High dissolves. For this stolen moment, the universe contracts, then re-forms, belonging only to the two of you.

You turn back to him, the ambient light from the stained-glass lamp weaving threads of gold and copper through your hair and deepening the quiet, knowing pools of your eyes. The earlier nerves are still there, a faint, lovely tremor at the edge of your composure, but they’re now mingled with—subsumed by—a new, bold determination. It’s a look that says the reconnaissance is over. The map has been studied. Now, it's time to explore.

And you are looking squarely at him.

He swallows, the motion stark and audible in the quiet, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a ship on a stormy sea. He is so lost, so wonderfully, transparently flustered by you—a creature of pure, beautiful contradiction. And you find it unbearably endearing. This is the legendary rebel, the maestro of chaos who commands a dungeon of his own design with a flick of his wrist and a flash of silver, now reduced to a beautiful, trembling hesitation just because you’re sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, the epicentre of his world.

He’s frozen, a statue of coiled tension, caught between the primal instinct to flee and the gravitational pull to fall straight into your orbit. You can see the entire, silent war playing out in the dark, liquid pools of his eyes—the flicker of old fears, the blaze of raw want, the sheer, staggering disbelief that this moment is his to claim. It makes your heart squeeze, not with pity, but with a fierce, protective ache. You want to kiss that lost, vulnerable look right off his beautiful, nervous face. You want to replace it with certainty.

“Kiss me,” you breathe, the words a soft, clear command that hangs in the tense air like a struck chord. Not a question, but an invitation laid bare. “Not like you’re scared. Not like it’s a dare.” You hold his gaze, letting him see the truth in your own. “Kiss me like you’ve been thinking about it. Like you mean it.”

For a second, he just stares, drowning in you, the echo of your words seeming to rewrite the very code of his being. Then, something in him breaks—or perhaps, finally settles. It’s a visible shift, a softening of the rigid line of his shoulders, a quiet exhalation of the ghost he’s been holding in his lungs. A slow, dawning understanding, bright and terrifying as a sunrise, that this is real. That you are here, in his sanctuary, asking for him. Not the persona. Him.

He lets out a shaky breath, a puff of air that’s half-disbelieving laugh, half-total, breathtaking surrender. His hands, which have been hanging uselessly at his sides as if he didn’t dare trust them, finally rise. They come to frame your face, his touch astonishingly tender against the cool metal of his rings. His calloused thumbs, stained with ink and guitar string grit, trace the elegant arches of your cheekbones with a reverence that steals your breath, as if he is memorising the sacred cartography of a dream he never thought he’d get to touch.

“Okay,” he murmurs, the word a raw, husky vow whispered into the charged space between your mouths before it vanishes. It holds the weight of a thousand unspoken promises. He dips his head, his unruly hair brushing your forehead. “Okay.”

And then, he does.

To Eddie, kissing you feels like the final, triumphant chord of a song he’s been trying to write for years. It’s clumsy with want, sweet with disbelief. He kisses you with the fervour of a convert, his hands coming up to frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones like he’s confirming a sacred text. The quiet, desperate litany in his mind—oh god oh god oh god—is louder than the Sabbath tape whirring in the background.

When you push him back onto the bed and climb into his lap, his brain whites out. The theatrical confidence of the Hellfire Club DM evaporates, leaving only Eddie—all nervous hands and a heart beating a frantic rhythm against his ribs. His hands find your waist, fingers digging into the soft wool of your sweater, the last anchor to a world that is rapidly becoming myth. The urge to map the skin beneath is a screaming need, but he hesitates, terrified of presuming, of breaking the spell.

You feel it—the tremor in his touch, the almost-questioning pause. And it unravels something tender and fierce in your chest. He’s so beautifully, unexpectedly sweet. You slow the kiss, gentling it, letting your lips curve into a smile against his.

“Eddie,” you murmur, your voice a warm secret between you. His dark eyes flutter open, wide and a little dazed. “It’s okay.” You bring one of his hands to your lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, over the silver rings he wears like armor. You see the moment he understands—that his reverence isn’t hesitation, and his nervousness isn’t a flaw. It’s the most honest thing you’ve ever been offered.

A shaky, wonderful laugh escapes him, and he rests his forehead against yours, his curls tickling your skin. “Sorry,” he breathes, though he’s smiling now. “Just… making sure I’m not dreaming.”

“You’re not,” you assure him, and guide his hand beneath the hem of your sweater, letting his warm palm settle on the dip of your waist. His breath hitches, and you watch the last shred of doubt dissolve into pure, wonderstruck awe. The metalhead who commands armies of the mind is here, learning you by heart, and you wouldn’t have him any other way.

Then you move. A slow, deliberate roll of your hips that ignites every nerve ending he possesses. A ragged, broken sound is torn from his throat—a sound of pure, undiluted want he didn’t even know he could make. He’s hard and aching, the rough seam of his jeans a delicious torment against the sensitive flesh, a stark and perfect friction that makes him see stars behind his clenched eyelids. All thought vaporises into a static buzz of yes, yes, yes.

His body betrays his cool completely, his hips jerking up to meet yours in a rhythm that is instinctive, primal, and profoundly imperfect. He’s all sharp angles and eager urgency, chasing the warmth of you with a desperation that would embarrass him if he were capable of thought. He’s muttering against your lips, a wrecked stream of consciousness that pours out unchecked: “Jesus, you’re— fuck, I’ve thought— is this even—” Every half-formed syllable is a confession, a secret he’d whispered in the dark of his room now given voice against your skin.

The gap between the Eddie Munson the school sees—the loud, theatrical ringmaster of chaos—and the one trembling beneath you, laid bare and undone by a simple roll of your hips, has never been wider, or more beautiful. This is the truest version of him: unprotected, overwhelmed, and irrevocably yours.

And the way you smile into the kiss—a soft, radiant curve of your lips against his—as if his unravelling is not a flaw, but the sweetest, most precious thing you’ve ever witnessed, tells him everything. It tells him he is not just wanted, not merely tolerated in his fervor, but cherished. For all of it. For the noise and the quiet, the confidence and the doubt, the performance and the raw, honest boy behind it.

It’s a revelation that steals the last of his breath. The final barrier dissolves. His hands, which had been gripping your waist as an anchor, slide up your back, drawing you down into him until not a sliver of light exists between you. He kisses you then with a newfound focus, a surrender that tastes like freedom, pouring all that shattered, grateful wonder back into you—a silent vow against your mouth, a rhythm found in the shared, breathless dark.

But when your fingers find the button of his jeans, deft and sure, reality comes crashing back in with a cold, sobering tide. It’s not a thought, but a full-body flinch—a surge of panic that freezes the blood in his veins and locks his muscles. 

“Wait.”

His voice is strained, a cracked thing that tastes like copper and shame. The word hangs in the air, ugly and final, a guillotine blade severing the moment. The movement beneath you stills completely, his body going rigid as a plank beneath yours. 

You pull back just enough to look down at him, your eyes wide with concern, a beautiful flush still high on your cheeks. “What’s wrong?” Your hand retreats, hovering in the air between you like a wounded bird. The worry in your expression is so genuine it lances through him—you’re already scared you’ve crossed a line, when the terrifying, beautiful truth is he’d probably let you carve out his still-beating heart if you asked nicely. He’d hand you the knife himself.

And that’s the problem. The magnitude of his own want terrifies him. He’s not worthy of this—of you, here, in his dingy trailer, on his second-hand mattress, offering something he’s only ever sculpted from daydreams and loneliness. The ghost of every sneer ("Freak," "Munson the Menace," "You'll never be good enough for someone like her") echoes in the sudden, suffocating silence. This isn't a metal ballad; there's no heroic riff before the climax. What if he’s just a disappointing, fumbling epilogue? What if this perfect, fragile thing you're offering breaks the moment it meets the rough, unchosen edges of his reality?

He has to look away, his gaze fixing on the water stain on the ceiling panel that has suddenly morphed from a vague shape into a perfect, detailed map of his own shame. The words clot in his throat, a dense, painful lump. He feels sixteen again, fumbling behind the bleachers. He feels twelve, being told his hand-me-down jacket wasn't "the right kind of cool." He feels every version of himself that was ever deemed too much noise, too much weird, yet somehow not enough for something this quiet, this real.

“It’s just…”

He swallows, the sound obscenely loud in the fragile quiet he’s just shattered. His hands, which had been clutching your waist like a sacred promise, now lie open and helpless at his sides, palms upturned in a silent confession. All his rings feel suddenly heavy, like ceremonial weights for a ritual he’s unworthy to perform.

“The… logistics.” The word is too clinical, too stupid. He forces it out. “They’re, uh. They’re kinda new to me.”

He risks a glance back at you, a shaky, self-deprecating smile twisting his lips—a failed attempt to play it cool that only makes the honesty more stark. “Fourth base has been, you know. A strictly theoretical concept.” He gives a small, helpless shrug, the movement jostling you slightly in his lap. “Like… dragon anatomy. Or a balanced budget for the AV club. I’ve got the… theory down. The lore, even. The practical application?” He lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “That’s a whole other campaign module.”

“We can stop if you want,” you say immediately, your voice a soft harbor in the storm of his panic.

Stop? The word is a foreign, impossible concept. The thought of you leaving this bed, this room, this moment, is a physical ache sharper than any anxiety—a phantom limb he’d feel for the rest of his life.

“No,” he breathes, the word raw with need. His hands finally move from their helpless surrender, trembling as they settle back on your thighs, his touch a silent, desperate plea. “Please. Don’t.” He’s stranded on the shores of his own inexperience, but he’ll drown a thousand times before he asks you to leave.

You see it. You see him. And with a soft, knowing look that melts his bones and reforges his world, you take the lead.

The effect is instantaneous, catastrophic to his composure. Fuck. Watching you take control, the confident arch of your back, the shift of muscle beneath smooth skin as you lean over him—it’s the single hottest, most profound thing he’s ever witnessed. This isn’t just arousal; it’s a revelation that cracks him open. This is what trust looks like, feels like—a willing, breathless freefall.

Then, you slow. A deliberate, theatrical pause that has his heart hammering a frantic drum solo against his ribs. Your hands move to the hem of your top. His brain, usually a roaring command center of plans and references, whites out into pure, blissful static.

He watches, utterly captive, as you peel the fabric from your body. It’s not a striptease; it’s an unveiling. The lamplight paints you in gold and liquid shadow, and when you’re free of it, sitting above him, you are a vision that blots out the very concept of anything else. His mind, usually a riot of metaphors and music lyrics, goes utterly, reverently silent. There is only this sight, this feeling.

His gaze is glued, helpless, to your chest. Like a fly in a honey trap, he thinks, the analogy immediately feeling clumsy and insufficient. This isn’t sticky sweetness; it’s a supernova. He’s not trapped—he’s willingly consecrated. A shaky, overwhelmed breath leaves him, stirring the air between you.

“Christ,” he whispers, the word a barely-audible exhale of pure, undiluted awe. It’s a prayer, a curse, and the only coherent syllable left in his universe.

Needing to feel him, truly feel him, you slide your hands beneath the hem of his shirt. His breath hitches, a soft, shaky sound that makes your heart ache. He lets you peel the fabric up, his arms lifting with a clumsy, beautiful obedience, his wide, dark eyes never leaving your face.

The faded black cotton is pulled away, revealing the pale tapestry of his skin. Moonlight from the trailer window catches the delicate lines of his collarbones, the dark, inviting trail of hair that disappears into his waistband. He is all sharp angles and coiled, nervous energy—a live wire thrumming under your touch. He seems to hold his breath, his chest barely moving as your gaze travels over him, drinking him in. Eddie Munson. The loudmouth, the freak, the metalhead who hides this breathtaking vulnerability under a fortress of denim and noise.

You want to worship every inch of it.

Starting at the hollow of his throat, you begin to trail kisses down his torso. A soft, mapping press of your lips to the frantic pulse at his sternum, to the subtle ridges of his ribs, to the fluttering, sensitive plane of his stomach. Each kiss is a brand, a quiet claim, a whispered secret against his skin. You look up at his face every few seconds, your eyes a silent question in the dim light: Okay? Is this alright?

Words are beyond him. All he can manage is a jerky nod, a choked sound catching in his throat. His hands, usually so animated, are fisted in the bedsheets beside his hips, knuckles white as if anchoring himself to this moment, to this reality—you, choosing him. A tremor runs through him, but he doesn’t pull away; he simply unfolds, piece by fragile piece, under the patient certainty of your mouth.

Then, your hands move to the button of his jeans. He doesn’t flinch this time; he just watches, mesmerised, as your fingers work the metal free. He lifts his hips in a dazed cooperation, letting you peel the rough denim down his thighs, followed by the soft cotton of his boxers. The slide of fabric is a whisper against his skin, a surrender. The cool air of the trailer hits his feverish skin, and he twitches helplessly under the weight of your gaze—a gaze that holds not judgment, but a kind of wondrous, hungry focus. You look at him like he’s something rare, a secret melody only you can hear. You seem… enamoured. The realisation is a dizzying shot of courage straight to his heart, potent and terrifying.

But the ache is becoming a throbbing, urgent need. His patience, never his strong suit, is in tatters, frayed to a single, straining thread. Every nerve ending screams for contact, for the relief of your skin against his. His hips give a helpless, involuntary cant upward, seeking friction, seeking the warm cradle of your body, a silent, pleading prayer.

You see it—of course you do. A breath that’s almost a laugh escapes you, fond and a little wicked, a sound that sparks a new fire in his veins. You don’t make him wait. In one fluid, breathtaking motion, you rise up on your knees, the hem of your skirt brushing his thighs. His gaze, hazy with want, catches on the movement as your hand slips beneath the fabric he’s been desperately trying not to focus on. He sees the quiet concentration on your face, feels the gentle, sure pressure of your fingers as you guide him, and then—

Oh.

The world splits in two. There is the before—a lifetime of theoreticals and lonely fantasies etched into the dark corners of his mind. And there is the now.

The now is a silken, searing heat that sheathes him completely, a tight, perfect fit that steals his vision, whites out his thoughts, and rewrites his very DNA. It’s a shock of pleasure so profound it borders on pain, a homecoming he never dared to map out, even in his wildest daydreams. A broken, guttural groan is torn from the depths of his chest, his hands flying to your hips as if you are the only anchor in a dissolving world.

His fingers dig into the softness there, not to control, but to hold on, to tether himself as the universe violently, beautifully reconstructs itself around this single, perfect point of connection.

You. It’s all you.

He is utterly, completely yours.

Fuck.

The word detonates in his skull, pure and primitive. It’s not a thought; it’s a seismic event in the bedrock of his being. He doesn’t remember anything—anything—ever feeling this good, this right, this real. Not the first time he nailed a solo that made the hair on his arms stand up, not the heart-in-throat rush of a perfect dive off the quarry rocks. This is a different universe of sensation.

A faint, familiar tremor runs through him—the old anxiety, the ghost of the boy who believed he’d never get to have this. It manifests in the slight, hesitant shift of his thumbs against your skin, in the way his breath hitches, not just from pleasure, but from the terrifying, wonderful vulnerability of being so known.

You feel it. Of course you do. And where he might fear it would break the spell, you find it only draws you deeper. It’s in that moment of sweet, human hesitation that you cradle his face, your thumbs sweeping over the fevered skin of his cheeks. Your lips leave his just far enough to whisper against them, your voice a warm, honeyed balm to his rattled soul.

“Hey… it’s just me.”

The words sink into him, softer than any touch. Just you. As if you are simple, as if this is ordinary. It unlocks something. The last fragile cord of tension snaps, and a shuddering breath escapes him, his forehead falling to rest against yours. His eyes are wide, dark pools of stunned wonder, searching yours as if looking for the catch, the trick.

“I know,” he rasps, the words scraped raw. “That’s the… the goddamn miracle of it.”

And then he kisses you again, but this time it’s different. The frantic, hungry edge melts into something sweeter, more deliberate. It’s a kiss of discovery, of reverence. His hands slide from your hips, one skating up your spine to tangle gently in your hair, the other splaying wide and warm between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer not with desperate force, but with a sigh of surrender.

Time doesn’t just slow; it liquefies, then evaporates entirely. There is no before, no after, no trailer park, no Hellfire campaign, no looming specter of the Upside Down. The entire chaotic symphony of his life narrows to a single, devastating note: the perfect, drowning now of being inside you, surrounded by a heat that feels like primal truth and a tightness that feels like destiny finally snapping shut around him.

His world is a dark, sweat-slicked heaven, defined by your breath against his throat and the frantic rhythm you build together. Then, through the haze, you guide his hands.

Those clumsy, ring-adorned hands—tools for riffing, for rolling dice, for shredding air guitar solos in his lonely room. They feel alien to him now, all nerve-endings and trembling potential as you slide them up the trembling plane of your sides. Your fingers close over his, a gentle but undeniable pressure, and press his broad palms flat against the delicate, lace-covered swell of your breasts.

The contrast steals his breath: the cold, intricate metal of his rings against the fragile lace, the hard edges he presents to the world meeting the devastating softness he’s only dreamed of touching. He feels the frantic beat of your heart beneath his palm, a wild counter-rhythm to his own.

With a deft, patient twist, you don’t let him fumble. You help him. The clasp yields, and the garment falls away—a whisper of satin and lace against skin, a sound louder than any amplifier feedback in the silent, charged air.

And suddenly, his palms are filled with the living, breathing weight of you. Soft, impossibly warm, perfect. A choked sound escapes him, part groan, part prayer, the vibration strangled deep in his throat. It’s reverence. It’s disbelief.

He freezes, utterly stunned by the breathtaking reality of it. This isn’t a fantasy scratched into a notebook margin; this is flesh and blood and trust—a profound, sacred trust you’ve placed in his trembling, unworthy hands. For a heartbeat, he is paralysed by the magnitude of it, a sinner at an altar he never dared approach.

But then you move. You arch into his touch, a wordless offering, and a soft, wanton sigh ghosts past your lips, warming the skin of his shoulder. It’s all the permission, all the divine encouragement he needs.

A low, resonant growl rumbles in his chest, a sound far removed from the anxious boy of minutes before.

His touch transforms. The tentative stillness shatters into purposeful worship. His thumbs sweep over your peaked nipples, his calloused fingers learning the shape and heft of you with a starving devotion. He bends his head, his lips and tongue replacing where his hands had been, his movements no longer clumsy but guided by a deep, instinctual certainty.

In this moment, he is no longer just Eddie Munson, the freak. He is a man discovered, a map of your pleasure the only terrain he ever wants to navigate. The universe is no longer dissolving—it has crystallised, perfectly, around the two of you.

Emboldened, he lets his hands explore further—a tentative, reverent squeeze that makes his own head spin, a slow, deliberate stroke of his thumb across a peak that hardens eagerly under his touch. The sensation is a live wire, connecting the calloused pad of his thumb directly to the frantic pulse in his throat.

Your responding gasp is a drug, straight to his system, pure and potent. He chases it. He does it again, circling with newfound confidence, flicking lightly, learning by touch and sound the exact rhythm that makes your stomach muscles clench and a full-body shudder wrack your frame. When you moan, a low, honeyed sound that’s half his name, your head falls back in a surrender so beautiful it physically aches in his chest, a sweet, sharp pang behind his ribs.

That. He did that. Eddie Munson—with his nervous hands, his loud mouth that always says the wrong thing, his frantic, misfit heart that never quite figured out how to beat in time with the rest of the world—he is the one drawing that sound from you. He is the artist painting that expression of pure, unguarded pleasure onto your face, a masterpiece more stunning than any album cover he’s ever lost himself in.

A wild, giddy sense of power surges through the bedrock of his awe. It’s not a domineering force, not the kind he’s seen bruise and claim. This is a blooming, incredulous pride—tender and fierce all at once. The realisation cracks him open: he’s not just having sex. He is an explorer charting sacred, trembling geography. He is a linguist deciphering a lexicon written in shivers and sighs.

Every hitched breath is a poem. Every soft cry is a verse he commits to memory. He discovers that a particular twist of his wrist here makes your toes curl against his calf; that a certain pressure there makes your fingers clutch desperately at his shoulders, your nails etching half-moons of perfect need into his skin. These are his treasures, his secrets more precious than any clandestine deal in the school parking lot or hidden playlist of forbidden riffs. He hoards them in the vault of his soul, knowing that no matter what happens after this night, he will forever be the keeper of this map, the one who learned how to make you sing.

Drunk on this discovery, he lowers his mouth to your skin again, but this time his words are a warm, breathless prayer murmured against your collarbone. “So beautiful… Christ, listen to you. All for me.”

It’s a question and a statement, a worship and a claiming, all wrapped in the rasp of his voice. He’s no longer following your lead; he’s walking beside you, step for shuddering step, into the heart of the storm you’re building together.

He’s already teetering on the edge, a trembling mess of frayed restraint and raw, screaming need. His whole body is a bowstring pulled taut, every muscle—from the cords of his neck to the clench of his thighs—locked in a desperate, losing battle. Slow down, make it last, make it good for her— the noble mantra spins like a broken record in his head, instantly obliterated by the exquisite friction, the hot, velvet clutch of your body, the sight of you above him, haloed by the trailer's dim light, lost in the same dizzying current.

He’s trying, God, he’s trying to hold out, to prove he can be more than just this frantic, eager boy, to be something measured and worthy of you. But it’s a lost cause, and in some deep, honest part of him, he knows it. The surrender is already coiling, hot and inevitable, at the base of his spine, a gathering tsunami he has no hope of outrunning.

Then you lean down.

The world narrows. Your mouth finds the frantic, hammering pulse at the hollow of his throat, a wild rhythm that betrays his crumbling control. And you kiss the bruise blooming there—not a bite, not a mark of passion's violence, but a soft, deliberate, possessive press of lips against the very evidence of his ragged heartbeat. It’s an act of tenderness so profound, so specifically claiming amid the primal storm, that it slices through the last frayed wire of his resistance.

It’s that. That unravels him completely.

A shattered, broken gasp punches from his lungs, more plea than breath. His head falls back into the thin pillow, eyes squeezing shut against a sudden, stinging heat that has nothing to do with pleasure. His hips stutter up, a final, helpless surge, seeking deeper, chasing the peak you’ve just gently, ruthlessly, sent him hurtling over.

The world doesn't just dissolve; it atomizes into pure, white-hot sensation. He comes inside you with a choked-off cry that sounds like his own name and a prayer, a convulsive wave of pleasure so intense it borders on pain. It empties him—of every thought, every worry, every ghost of who he was before this night. It leaves him hollowed out and reborn, boneless and trembling in the sudden, ringing quiet.

For a long moment, there is only the thunderous echo of his own heartbeat in his ears, the slowing cadence of your shared breath, and the damp, salt-and-skin scent of the space between you. The aftershocks tremble through him, tiny ripples in the still pond of his exhaustion. He is utterly spent, gloriously ruined, and in the quiet devastation, he has never felt more found.

For a single, weightless moment, there is only the profound, echoing silence of the aftershock. The feel of your body, soft and pliant around his. The damp, salt-slick heat of your skin sealed against his chest, rising and falling in a staggered rhythm. In that fleeting peace, he is complete.

Then, as the blinding wave of pleasure recedes, the thought rushes into the vacuum it left behind, cold and clear as shattered glass: That was too fast.

The shame is instant, a leaden weight dropping through his gut, cold and sickening. The feeling had been so good, so world-endingly perfect, but it’s immediately poisoned by the desperate, clawing need to have given you more. To be better. For you. His hands, which had been gripping your hips like the only lifeline in a hurricane, go slack, then gentle—almost apologetic—as they slide to rest on the small of your back. He blinks up at you through the dark fringe of his lashes, his expression utterly laid bare. The ecstasy that had just transformed his face is already morphing, crumbling into a vulnerable, panicked apology.

He drops his head back onto the pillow with a groan that is pure, unadulterated mortification. "No, no, no," he mumbles into the stale air, his voice thick with disgust, as if he’s just broken something precious. "Fuck. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, I— I didn't mean to—"

You try to shift, to cradle his face, to wrap your arms around the tension now cording his shoulders, but he’s already recoiling into himself. He pulls back just an inch—a retreat that feels like a chasm—his face a mask of frustrated shame. "Eddie, hey," you soothe, your voice soft as you reach for him, your thumb aiming to brush the anxious line of his jaw. "It's okay. Really, it's—"

"It's not," he bites out, the words sharp, flinching from your touch as if it burns. His eyes are wild, skittering from your face to the wall, to the ceiling—anywhere but yours. The rejection of your comfort stings, but it’s eclipsed by the raw hurt you see beneath it: the bone-deep fear that he's failed the first real test, that he isn't enough, that he's just confirmed every unspoken rule about guys like him.

Before you can form another word of reassurance, his hands are on your hips again. Not with apology, but with a sudden, fierce determination. His grip is like iron, anchoring you. He’s still mostly hard, still buried within you, and the deliberate, tense roll of his hips—the sensation of him twitching, thick and insistent, inside your sensitive, overstimulated walls—knocks the air from your lungs in a sharp, startled gasp.

His eyes finally snap back to yours, dark and blazing with a new, stormy intensity. The apology is gone, burned away by a desperate, singular focus. "Let me... just let me make it right." He rasps, the words a low, rough vow.

"Eddie, you don't have to—" "I do." The words are a raw, guttural growl against your neck, vibrating through your skin. It’s not a request, not even a statement of fact. It’s a vow, ripped from a place of pure, stubborn determination.

And then he’s moving. In a surge of wiry strength that belies his trembling limbs, he flips you over underneath him, caging you with his body. The change in angle wrenches a sharp hiss from between his clenched teeth. He’s achingly, visibly overstimulated, every nerve-ending screaming in protest. You can see the war on his face—the beautiful, tortured conflict between residual, shuddering pleasure and the sharp bite of sensation. A fresh sheen of sweat gleams on his brow, his jaw is locked tight, a vein throbbing at his temple.

"Wanted to make it good for you," he pants, the words punched out in time with the renewed, deliberate roll of his hips. His thrusts are no longer frantic, but devastatingly focused. He finds that perfect, maddening angle with an unerring instinct, the one that makes you see supernovas behind your eyelids and steals the air from your lungs. "Wanted to... last... fucking ruined it..."

You try to form a word, to tell him he’s wrong, that it’s perfect, but all that escapes is a broken, sobbing moan of his name.

The sound acts like a lightning rod. His eyes, which had been screwed shut in concentration, snap open and lock onto yours. They’re dark, dilated pools, blazing with a fire that hasn't been there before. It’s not just lust—it’s a fierce, all-consuming focus. He’s watching you now, studying every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face, cataloguing every hitched breath and desperate whimper as if they are sacred texts. The last shadow of his earlier embarrassment is being incinerated, burned away in the furnace of this new understanding. It’s replaced by something deeper, more primal: the obsessive drive of a man who has found his purpose in your pleasure.

He feels the exact moment you begin to fracture. It’s not just your cry or the arch of your back—it’s a subtle, intimate telegraphing from within. Your internal muscles flutter around him, a gentle, involuntary pulse that seems to pull the air from his own chest. His rhythm falters for a single, staggering second, a low, awed "oh, fuck..." whispering from his lips as he registers the feeling. It’s revelation.

And that’s all it takes.

"Come on, sweetheart," he urges, his voice a hoarse rasp scraped raw, but suddenly, profoundly sure. He shifts, bracing himself, his movements becoming a relentless, perfect counterpoint to your building tension. "Let me feel it. I’m right here. Cum for me." A final, cracked whisper, equal parts command and desperate prayer: "Please."

It’s a command you are powerless to disobey, a final thread of tension he plucks that snaps the very core of you. Your climax crashes over you, not a wave but a riptide—blinding, white-hot, and absolute. It steals the air from your lungs, then rips a raw, unfettered scream from you, a sound torn from a place deeper than conscious thought.

Your body clamps around him in rhythmic, pleading pulses, drawing him deeper, milking him through the heart of your own ecstasy. And you feel him—the groan that tears from his chest, long and deep and reverent, vibrating through your joined bodies. You see it in the dark blaze of his eyes, fixed on you as if witnessing a miracle. He is not just watching; he is devouring every second of it—the flutter of your eyelids, the arch of your throat, the way you come utterly, helplessly apart in his arms.

When the last tremor subsides, leaving you hollowed and liquid, he doesn't pull away. He collapses atop you, a delicious, sweaty weight, but this time there is no trace of shame, no anxious withdrawal. He simply… melts. He nuzzles into the damp curve of your neck, his lips finding the frantic, hammering pulse there, placing a whisper of a kiss against your skin. He is still nestled within you, softened and spent, the most intimate of embraces as you both tremble in the warm, spent quiet.

"Holy shit," he breathes into your skin. The words are less a curse and more a sacrament, filled with a reverent, breathless awe. The silence that follows is thick and sacred, broken only by the slowing symphony of your breaths.

Then, he lifts his head. His eyes, dark and impossibly soft, find yours. In them, you don't see the nervous boy from before, nor the frantic lover of moments ago. You see a quiet, terrifying, wonderful possessiveness—not of ownership, but of profound, humbled discovery.

"I felt that," he murmurs, his voice a ragged husk. His thumb strokes your cheekbone with a tenderness that makes your heart clench. "I felt all of you. Every… fucking… ripple." He emphasises each word, as if still trying to comprehend it.

A slow, dazed grin spreads across his face, erasing the last shadow of hesitation. It’s a boyish, triumphant, utterly besotted smile.

"Okay," he declares, as if settling a monumental debate within himself. He dips his head to brush his nose against yours, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial, thrilled whisper. "New life's mission. Gonna have to figure out how to make you do that again. And again." He punctuates the promise with a soft, lingering kiss, tasting of salt and shared heat. 

Today should have been a quiet shift. Rain rattles against the windows, soft and steady. The kids cluster around a table like a very small, chaotic research team. Eddie wanders between the aisles, pretending he is not checking up on them every few minutes. He trails a finger along shelves, mouth shaped in a smile he hopes you do not notice. You do notice. You always notice him.

He comes to lean on your desk after a while. His rings tap the wood in a rhythm you recognise as nerves. “Your kingdom thrives,” he murmurs, glancing over at the kids. “No fires. No disasters. No black holes. A miracle, sweetheart.”

The nickname warms your skin. You try to look occupied by stamping the returns.

“They behave better for you than anyone else,” you say.

He pretends to inspect the ceiling to hide a grin. “They have taste.”

This is the ordinary pattern between you. Soft teasing, stolen looks, that impossible tension humming like a trapped moth. You have been trying not to name it. So has he.

The trouble begins with the arrival of three older teens. You know them in passing. They drift in sometimes, always loud, always careless with the books. You tell yourself to stay calm as they swagger through the entrance. One drops his umbrella without a care, water splashing in a careless arc over the floor you had just mopped.

Your shoulders stiffen. Eddie notices instantly.

He lowers his voice. “Want me to deal with them?”

“You’re banned from dealing with people,” you reply. “Last time you lectured someone about elbowing the comics shelf, you nearly got into a fist fight.”

“That was not a fist fight,” he says. “That was a spirited debate.”

“Eddie.”

“Fine. I will remain a gentle soul.” He tries to look saintly. It lasts three seconds.

The trio slouch towards the table where the kids are working. Dustin spots them, sits straighter, pushes his notebooks into a tidy stack. Lucas shoots a warning look at Mike. Max mutters something under her breath.

One of the older boys snorts. “Look at this little study group. How sweet.”

Dustin grips his pencil with painfully white knuckles. “We’re just revising.”

“Didn’t know babies had homework.”

You stand before you even realise you are moving.

The pulse of your library shifts. Something inside you bristles. You keep your hands steady as you approach, but the sweetness you are known for slips off you like a shed skin. Eddie watches from the corner, eyes widening with interest.

“Is there a problem?” You keep your voice low to protect the quiet, but steel edges every word.

The tallest boy shrugs. “Just talking.”

“It sounded like you were trying to intimidate my regulars.”

“Your kids can handle it.”

“They shouldn’t have to.”

One scoffs. “Relax.”

No one relaxes. Your patience shreds. The library heartbeat stays soft, but yours is electric. You step closer, close enough that the boy’s grin falters.

“You will not come into my library and belittle children who are doing absolutely nothing wrong,” you say. “You will not raise your voice. You will not mock them. You will not hover around them like you are spoiling for trouble. You will either sit down quietly or you will leave.”

The boy opens his mouth to argue.

“Now,” you add.

There is no shout, no flailing hands, no chaos. Only your tone. Sharp enough to cut the air. Sharp enough to send the boys stumbling back a step. They exchange looks, mutter something bitter, and retreat to a distant sofa where they promptly pretend they never intended to say anything at all.

Silence sweeps back through the library.

The kids stare at you as if you have single handedly slayed a dragon. Dustin mouths something that might be thank you. Max smirks like she always knew you had it in you. Mike relaxes so hard he nearly drops his book. Lucas sports a grin that borders on pride.

Eddie looks like he has stopped breathing.

You turn back to him, your heartbeat wild. His gaze drags over your face, your posture, the last sparks of fury still clinging to you like static. His mouth curves in a slow, hungry shape you have never seen directed at you with such clarity.

He leans close enough that you feel the warmth of him. “Sweetheart,” he whispers, “send the kids on an errand.”

“What?”

“Just trust me. Ask them to fetch something. Anything. I need a moment with you.”

The words melt into your spine. You blink, then tilt your head at the kids. “Could one of you check if the storeroom door is sticking again? It sounded odd this morning.”

The kids leap at the chance to help. Dustin takes charge, Max rolls her eyes but follows. They shuffle down the corridor in a flurry of whispered speculation.

Eddie grabs your hand the second they vanish.

“Come with me.”

Your pulse stutters as he tugs you between the shelves. He chooses the far back corner, pressed between history books and a dusty atlas no one has touched in years. The space feels small. His presence feels immense.

Eddie crowds you gently against the shelf, nowhere near rough, just close enough that his breath grazes your cheek.

“You,” he whispers, voice thick, “are unbelievable.”

Heat surges through you. “Eddie.”

He lifts your chin with careful fingers. “Do you have any idea what you look like when you’re protecting them? You went from sunshine to wildfire in five seconds.”

“That sounds dramatic.”

“You did something to me,” he says. “Still doing it.”

Your throat tightens. “We shouldn’t be hiding back here.”

“Tell me to stop and I will.” His eyes search yours. “Do you want me to?”

Every sensible thought dissolves. You shake your head.

Eddie kisses you before the breath fully leaves your lips. It is immediate, fierce, full of pent up longing that neither of you dared admit. His hand curls at your waist, yours clutch at his jacket. The kiss deepens with a hunger you did not know you kept inside you.

Your library heartbeat pounds in your ears. His mouth tastes warm and reckless. Your back thuds lightly against a shelf as he presses closer, though he is careful not to trap you. The kiss becomes slow after the first rush, almost reverent, as though he is savouring every fraction of you.

Eddie rests his forehead against yours when you part, breathless. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “I’m done pretending nothing is happening between us.”

Your stomach flips. “We need to talk.”

“We will. Just not right now.” He brushes his thumb across your cheek. “Right now I need to kiss you again before the kids come back.”

Eddie’s lips capture yours once more, gentler this time, though the intensity still coils beneath the surface.

Eddie finally pulls back, reluctantly, chest rising and falling against yours. “This conversation isn’t over,” he promises. You are not sure you want it to be.

The corridor echoes with approaching footsteps.

The kids return to the main room, laughing about some imagined struggle with the storeroom door. They talk over each other, hands waving, notebooks clattering. You straighten your cardigan, trying to appear entirely composed, though Eddie’s presence lingers like a flame in your chest. He walks beside you, casual, like nothing happened, but the heat from his hand brushing yours refuses to leave.

Dustin holds a stack of books triumphantly. “Fixed! Well, not really fixed. But—” He stops, noticing your calm expression and Eddie’s too, and shrinks slightly. Max raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by something in your expression. Mike shifts in his seat, glancing nervously at you, then Eddie. Lucas smirks, nudging Dustin.

“Excellent work, everyone,” you say softly, trying not to let the tight coil in your stomach spill over. “I’ll take a look at these.” You take the books, trying to mask the tremor in your hands.

Eddie leans close just long enough to murmur in your ear. “You are lethal when you’re sweet and furious at the same time.”

You can feel the smirk, the way his voice lowers deliberately. Something warms and pulses through your chest, something that has nothing to do with the storm outside. You bite back a soft laugh, because you know exactly the effect you have on him. The tiny surge of control, of watching him so completely captivated when he is supposed to be untouchable, and yet here he is, hooked entirely on you.

He pulls back and slides between the stacks with that smoothness of his, letting you follow. The kids are still absorbed in their chatter, flipping pages, debating plot twists. You resist the urge to check if they notice how ridiculously high your pulse is.

“Do you always make me like this?” Eddie asks suddenly. His tone is teasing but edged with something raw, unrestrained.

“Make you like what?” You force yourself to keep your voice even, even as your heartbeat betrays you.

“Like I’m fifteen again, sneaking out to steal a kiss when I shouldn’t. Like my chest is going to explode just because I’m near you.”

Your stomach twists. He knows you feel it too, and there’s no denying it now. You try to brush it off. “You’re dramatic. Even for you.”

“You love it.”

You pause, caught in the moment. It’s true. You do love it. You love the way he makes you feel seen, how he draws your fire and softness into one impossible tangle. You’re about to reply when the door rattles, letting in a sharp draft and a new tension. Another group of kids, younger this time, wander in, the chatter filling the room. Eddie’s attention shifts immediately, protective, just like yours.

You watch him with a fond ache. He doesn’t even notice you staring. He rounds the table, bending to help Max with a stubborn stack of graphic novels, or maybe distracting Lucas while he hunts down a missing pen. You follow, your gaze soft, heart squeezing.

“Eddie,” you murmur, barely above the hum of activity. He freezes for a split second before turning, eyebrow raised.

“Hmm?”

“I don’t… We shouldn’t… you know…” Your words tumble awkwardly.

“Shhh,” he says, sliding a finger along your lips, and somehow it makes your knees go weak. “I know. It’s library hours. We’re surrounded. But you’ve seen me get fired up before, right? You love it.”

You can’t argue with him. You’re too aware of the heat crawling along your spine, the way his proximity pulls at every corner of your composure. He grins, that wicked smile that always teeters between danger and charm, and it’s almost unfair how he does it so effortlessly.

“You’re incorrigible,” you say, shaking your head, though your lips twitch into the barest hint of a smile.

“Not even close,” he replies. “I’m only incorrigible with you.”

There’s something electric in the silence that follows. The kids are lost in their own worlds, and yet the air around you is charged, every exhalation between you both sparking small shivers. You almost forget the library exists outside this bubble of heat and tension. Almost.

Dustin nudges a chair, shoving it slightly too loudly, snapping the moment. Eddie steps back, and you blink, suddenly aware of the quiet murmurs of other visitors, the rain tapping against the windows. The tension doesn’t vanish, it coils tighter in the pit of your stomach.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, picking up a notebook, trying to reclaim some semblance of normality.

“Not nearly as ridiculous as you, sweetheart,” he whispers, and it’s low enough that only you hear it.

Eddie leans close again, closer than necessary, just a ghost of a touch against your shoulder. Your chest flutters, heat creeping into your cheeks. You’re aware of the ache, the rapid beat of your pulse, the way your hands clutch the notebook as if it could anchor you.

“Do you ever think about what it would be like,” he murmurs, “if we weren’t surrounded by books and kids and rain, and we could just… be?”

The question makes your stomach do a flip. You know the answer. You’ve imagined it countless times, the way he might press against you, the softness of his lips against yours when nobody was watching. The library has always been your sanctuary, but now it feels like it could become your hiding place, your confessional, your everything.

“I think about it,” you admit, whispering. The words hang in the air like smoke, thick and impossible to ignore.

“Good,” he says, voice low, and the heat in his tone sends a shiver down your spine. “Because I have.”

He steps back slightly, enough to give you breathing room, but his presence lingers. The library feels smaller now, every inch charged with possibility, every shadow a secret waiting to be touched. You return to your desk, trying to act normal, yet the echoes of what just passed linger in your veins, warm and insistent.

You glance at Eddie across the aisle. He’s watching you with that look again, one you’ve memorised without ever trying to. It’s dangerous and tender all at once, like he knows exactly the effect he has on you. You bite the inside of your cheek, resisting the urge to run across the room, press against him, and lose yourself entirely.

“Hey,” he calls softly, catching your attention. “Pay attention. Don’t act like you’re not thinking about it.”

You flush, heart thundering, and for a moment, the library disappears entirely. Just the two of you remain, suspended in a heat neither can deny.

The storm outside pounds harder against the windows, but inside, it feels quieter, closer, more intimate. Every glance, every brush of fingers, every half-word between you carries the weight of something unspoken yet undeniable.

Even if nothing is spoken aloud, the tension hums between you, a current ready to pull you both under at the first opportunity. You know the books are watching, the rain is watching, and yet none of it matters. Not really.

Eddie leans closer again, voice brushing against your ear. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispers, “but right now… you’re all mine, even if it’s just for a second.”

You close your eyes briefly, exhaling shakily, because it feels like the truth you’ve been holding in, the spark you’ve kept at bay, has finally been named. The library is no longer just a sanctuary for readers, it has become a sanctuary for you both, even if you’re pretending otherwise.

The library seems to hold its breath after the storm outside eases. Rain trickles down the windows in slow streams, and the soft light shifts across the rows of books like water pooling over pages. Eddie stays close, but the kids are occupied at the table, their laughter a faint echo in the back of your mind. Somehow, even with them around, it feels as though the world has narrowed to the space between you.

You catch him watching you again. That way he looks at you makes your chest tighten, the kind of look that is equal parts awe, mischief, and something deeper you’ve never named out loud. His eyes follow the tilt of your head as you thumb through a stack of returned books, resting lightly on the pages, pretending to be absorbed while knowing he’s watching every small movement.

“You’re unbearable,” you murmur softly, though your lips twitch in spite of yourself.

He leans closer, voice low, almost a growl that rumbles along your skin. “Not nearly as unbearable as you, sweetheart. You go from gentle to furious to untouchable in half a heartbeat, and I can’t—”

You glance up at him, caught somewhere between frustration and fascination. His expression softens just slightly, but the heat in his eyes doesn’t waver. “You can’t what?” you ask, voice steadier than you feel.

“Not think about you,” Eddie admits, dropping his hands casually to his sides, though the tension in his posture says otherwise. “Every look, every word, every time you scare some idiot for daring to mock my kids, you have me right here,” he taps his chest, “and I’m useless.”

Your pulse stutters. He steps closer, almost closing the small gap between you, and you feel the air thicken. The library hums softly around you, the quiet so complete that even the faint creak of the floorboards seems loud. You can feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint scent of his jacket and leather that has somehow become as familiar to you as your own favourite books.

“I—Eddie,” you start, but the words falter. He doesn’t need you to finish. He tilts his head, brushing a strand of hair from your face. Fingers linger longer than necessary against your cheek, soft enough to make you shiver.

“You’re mine right now,” he whispers, voice just above the level of the soft library murmur. “Even if it’s only a second.”

You try to resist, telling yourself the kids might notice, that the library is a place of rules, of calm, of order. But his presence makes your resolve melt. He leans closer, and the next moment his lips are on yours. Not soft, not tentative, but firm, consuming, claiming. The world outside the shelves disappears in the press of him, in the warmth of his body pressed against yours.

You respond instinctively, hands finding the sides of his face, the leather of his jacket rough beneath your fingers. The kiss deepens with an urgency that makes your knees weak. Every brush of his mouth against yours is electric, pulling at the tension you’ve held in for months, maybe years.

A sudden noise makes you break apart for a fraction of a second. A book falls from the shelf, the thud startling but somehow intimate, like the library itself is conspiring to keep this moment alive. Eddie doesn’t step back, just presses his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“You’re impossible,” you murmur, voice caught somewhere between laughter and exasperation.

“Only for you,” he says, cheek brushing yours, eyes dark and intense. “You think you’re calm and controlled, but I know better. I’ve seen you ignite. I’ve felt it.”

Your chest rises and falls quickly, matching his. Heat pools low in your stomach, warmth spreading into your limbs, a tether to something you’ve both denied for far too long. His hand slides to your waist, just a ghost of pressure, enough to anchor the moment without breaking the fragile tension.

The kids are a faint murmur in the background, Max flipping a page with exaggerated patience, Dustin nervously glancing up and down the aisles, Lucas smirking knowingly, Mike hovering near the edge of their group. None of them interrupt, none of them see, but that doesn’t matter. You only see Eddie, only feel him, only exist in this small charged space between the shelves.

He kisses you again, softer this time, almost reverent. His lips trace yours slowly, deliberately, like he’s memorising every inch of you, storing it away. His hand presses closer against your back, guiding, but not demanding, and the brush of his thumb across your skin sends a shiver down your spine.

You break away just enough to look into his eyes, breath mingling. The air between you vibrates with the unspoken, the things you cannot name out loud. Desire. Curiosity. Tenderness. The words hover, dangerous and soft, and you know that even without speaking, he understands every heartbeat, every fluttering nerve, every tremor in your chest.

“I can’t stop thinking about this,” he confesses, voice low, almost desperate. “Being near you, feeling you, the way you… I can’t. You’re all I think about.”

You bite your lip, heart hammering. “I feel it too,” you admit, barely a whisper. “Every time you’re here. Every time you…”

He silences you with a gentle kiss, pressing you against the shelf again, and this time there is no hesitation. Every nerve in your body responds instantly, heat crawling up your spine, warmth pooling in your stomach, fingers clutching his jacket, pulling him closer. The world condenses into the soft scrape of leather, the press of lips, the hum of the library around you.

Finally, he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. Your breaths mingle, heavy and uneven, hearts hammering in unison. There’s no shame in the intensity, no apology for the desire that has been simmering for months.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice rough and intimate, “how dangerous you are.”

“You’re not exactly safe either,” you tease, though your smile is shaky, lips still tingling from his.

He leans in for one last, slow kiss, a promise and a confession all in one. The heat lingers long after he steps back, a coil of tension that refuses to release, leaving you flushed, breathless, and entirely certain that neither of you are going to forget this day anytime soon.

The kids chatter softly, Max sighs dramatically over a particularly long sentence, Dustin rearranges pencils, and the storm outside finally quiets. But inside, the library is alive with a different kind of electricity, the kind that only exists when hearts refuse to stay quiet, when desire and affection and unspoken understanding collide.

Eddie slips an arm around your waist as you gather the returned books, fingers brushing gently, claiming without words. The moment is quiet, private, and charged. You press back just slightly, letting him know the feelings are mutual, undeniable, consuming, and perfectly timed for the sanctuary you’ve always created. Your library, your rules, and now, your secret.

Even with the kids around, the shelves between you, the ordinary routine of returns and checkouts, you know that nothing will ever be quite the same again. The world beyond this corner of the library can wait. For now, you exist in each other’s orbit, close, tangled in desire and warmth, and entirely unafraid.

And Eddie grins.

— COME AND JOIN MY TAGLISTS !

ALL STRANGER THINGS - @r6ven

Wayne looks unamused. “I’ve told you damn near a dozen times to get those pipes wrapped up, and they’re still not wrapped. If that weather guy from WSIL is right it’ll be dropping below freezing tonight, so—”

“So, you could say I’m getting to it not a moment too soon,” Eddie points out. 

You poke him again, and Eddie fakes a fall down onto the couch next to you. “What’s wrapping the pipes mean?” you ask them. 

“It’s just, like,” Eddie snuggles his shoulder up to yours, “swaddling the pipes under the trailer in blankets so they’re all warm and cozy.” 

“It’s so they don’t freeze,” Wayne corrects him severely. 

“I’ll get them done, okay? Promise.” Eddie touches two fingers to his brow. “Scout’s honor.” 

“That’s not even—” You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I’ll make sure we do them tonight, Mr. Munson.” 

Wayne’s weariness (he loves Eddie, really) softens some when he looks at you. “Alright, I’ll trust it to you. Thanks, kid.” 

You try to play it off with a shrug, but Eddie can see how happy his uncle’s esteem makes you. You’re practically preening. It’s ridiculous, but what’s more ridiculous is how insanely it makes Eddie want to kiss you. Wayne can’t leave for work soon enough.

When he does, Eddie pounces on you (a slow, romantic pounce, he swears), and you sigh into his mouth. 

He laughs. “What?” 

“I just,” you kiss his cupid’s bow, “love it here.”

“Yeah?” 

“Mhm. Did I tell you, I found one of your guitar picks in the couch earlier?” 

Eddie backs off. “No shit, really? What color was it?” 

“Red.” 

“I’ve been looking for that.” 

Your lips curve. “I thought it looked special. I put it on your nightstand.” 

“Thanks, beautiful.” Your lashes flutter closed as he kisses you again, but Eddie can’t shake the feeling that there’s something weird going on with you. You’re radiating this pleasure, this thick, syrupy content. He pulls away again, cupping the side of your neck. “That what’s making you so happy?” 

You make a soft hum like this could be more or less true. “I was just thinking about how nice it is here.” 

Eddie’s shoulders jump with a laugh. “Nice?” 

“Yeah.” 

He’d think you were making fun of him—of them, him and Wayne—if you didn’t sound so totally sincere. Eddie likes the trailer fine because it’s where they live, but he wouldn’t call it nice. The walls have stains from old leaks. His bedroom is so small he can’t fit more than a twin mattress. When it gets cold out, you have to crawl underneath the trailer and duct tape blankets around the pipes. 

“What’s nice about it?” he asks you. 

You shrug again, but your expression is earnest. “I like that there’s so much of you here. I mean, you and Wayne, but mostly you. Your posters and stuff. I like that you can leave a bowl in the sink without anyone getting pissed about it.” 

Eddie’s fingers tighten on you unconsciously. He doesn’t like the idea of you getting yelled at for something as simple as a bowl in the sink. But this isn’t a totally new revelation; you’d been shocked, when Eddie explained the concept of soaking a dish to make it easier to clean, that Wayne allowed it. He takes care to loosen his grip, thumb stroking across your jaw apologetically. “Yeah, well, give Wayne long enough. After a few days he’ll bitch me out just like he did about the pipes.” 

You smile. “That wasn’t bitching you out.” 

Eddie feigns pique, blowing air out the side of his mouth. “I sure feel bitched out.” 

“I think it’s nice that you guys can talk like that, and you know he’s not really mad at you.” You take Eddie’s thumb, bringing it to your lips for a kiss. The action is simple, thoughtless, and yet his whole wrist goes tingly anyway. “It’s cool that he lets you put your stuff everywhere, and then you find things like guitar picks in the couch—” 

“You know that’s not, like, an intentional amenity, right?” 

“I’m just saying, it’s part of it.” You look down at his thumb, like the truth in what you’re saying is suddenly too much. “It’s quiet here. It’s homey. It’s nice.” 

Eddie lets that settle. He looks at you for a while, and thinks about you feeling at home in his home. The idea has warmth unfurling in his chest. 

He moves his thumb from your mouth, sweeping it across your cheek as he treats himself to a slow, sweet kiss. “Wanna know something?” 

“Hm?” 

“I like it better when you’re here.” 

It’s one of Eddie’s most privately treasured feelings, the feeling of your smile blooming against his mouth. “Cheeseball.” 

You had been a part of the Drama Club ever since your freshman year of high school, and you had stuck with it. Now, as a senior, it felt appropriate that you take the lead of the school production. The club unanimously agreed.

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Wallace! I’m honored to play Sandy.” You state graciously.

“Perfect! Well everyone, rehearsals start tomorrow promptly after school in the auditorium! Make sure to bring your scripts as we’ll be doing a read-through of the play!” Mrs. Wallace announces to the club. “Y/N, will you stay back for a minute?” She adds directing her attention to you.

You nod promptly and start to pack your backpack whilst you wait for the club members to clear out of the classroom.

“Y/N I was wondering if I could get your help with something quickly? If you have the time, of course?”

“Sure, what do you need?” You reply sweetly.

“Great, follow me, dear. I just need help here in the prop room. It seems to be that the costumes I had anticipated on using for the play have been moved around. No doubt it's that Hellfire Club that’s causing chaos to our inventory.” She pauses. “Anyways, I need help locating outfits for the ensemble. Nice, casual outfits. Would you be able to make a pile for me?”

Having been Mrs. Wallace's right-hand girl throughout high school, you knew exactly the kinds of clothes she would deem appropriate. You had plans to meet up with your best friend, Nancy Wheeler, at the library to study for your first biology quiz of the year, but upon seeing the pleading look on the aging woman’s face you decided to help.

“Of course, Mrs. Wallace. It’s no problem.” You state kindly.

“Thank you, dear. Whatever you can get done tonight would be a tremendous help. I would do it myself but I must step out for an appointment, and I need this done by tomorrow’s rehearsal so I can see what else we might need for the production. You know, inventory.”

“Yes, I understand. I’ll pull out as many as I can find.”

“Lovely, dear. Thank you, again. I’ll see you tomorrow after school!” She waves before heading through the supply room door and leaving the building.

Well, let’s get started.

—————

It was just past 7 o’clock when you were on your second hour of pulling clothes from old boxes. At first you had started feeling motivated, still buzzing from receiving the coveted lead role. But after the initial buzz wore off, you crashed, and crashed hard.

You sat down on the floor of the prop room, leaning against a ceiling-high shelf. I just need a minute to breathe. Relax.

You started fading out of consciousness after a few quick minutes, allowing sleep to settle through your bones.

—————

You were sat in your 2nd period American History class staring at the clock.

30 more minutes.

20 more minutes.

19 and a half more minutes.

“Alright, class. That’s enough of that for today. You can close your textbooks.” Mr. Michaels drawled from the front of the classroom. “We’ll be moving on to a quick film about the harrowing experiences of war, as told by a World War II veteran. Now, this film contains some real footage from the actual war, so I want you to pay attention to the types of defense weapons we talked about. See if you can spot their use in the film.” Mr. Michaels then loads the tape into the VCR and hits play, taking a seat behind his desk.

17 more minutes

After a series of static and distorted images, the film plays.

“There’s someone here.”

“What? What do you mean there’s someone here. I don’t see anybody.”

“Hello?” A soldier calls out to an empty field.

“Hello?”

”Hello!”

“Hello! Wake up!”

“Dude, chill. There’s no need to yell in her face.”

Opening your eyes, you take in the scene before you. Not history class.

“Oh, uhm, sorry. I guess I fell asleep. I was doing inventory for the school musical.” You say quietly to the two guys before you. You recognize them from somewhere, but can’t place them. The guys turned to you, startled at your sudden words.

”That’s cool. Uhm, it’s a little past 8 and uhm, we sort of have this room reserved for our club. So…” the taller ones muttered.

“Right! Yeah, I’ll leave you guys to it then. Sorry for uhm, well, interrupting.” You reply timidly.

They back up from you, giving you space to collect yourself. It was then that you looked up across the room, quickly making direct eye contact with Eddie Munson.

“Well, well, well… what do we have here?” He asks whilst taking long strides across the room to you.

“Sorry, I was just, well- I’m leaving. Sorry to interrupt you guys.” You say before slinging your backpack over your shoulder and walking past Eddie.

“No need to be sorry, Princess. Just wondering to whom we owe the pleasure of your company.” He interjects smoothly, flashing a quick grin at your obviously flustered state.

You pause as you watch two other boys enter the room, one tall with shaggy black hair, the other short with curly brown hair. They eye you, seemingly confused by your presence, before returning their attention to each other. Feeling overwhelmed by the amount of strangers, you look up at Eddie, hoping to dismiss yourself from whatever you woke up to. “My name’s Y/N. I just lost track of time, I didn’t know anybody else used this room.”

“Oh, I know who you are. Y/N… Y/L/N, yeah? You do the drama stuff, right? I saw the play last year, you were pretty good.”

“Oh,” you state simply, “thank you. I didn’t know you went to those kinds of things.”

“Those kinds of things?” He prompts.

”Well, like school things. I’m glad you saw it though.”

“Yeah, well I guess I’m just full of surprises.” He winks at you before opening his satchel-style bag on the table, pulling out a scrappy piece of paper and a pen. He motions the objects towards you.

“Uhm, what’s this?” You ask confused.

“Well, obviously I want your autograph.” He states simply, looking into your eyes as he motions the pen and paper to you once more.

You giggle to yourself. “My autograph?” You question as you take the materials from his hand.

“Well, that and maybe your phone number.” He suggests, the last few words he added quieter than the rest.

You give him a quick once over. He was kind of cute, you had to admit.

“Okay, yeah.” You say before bending towards the table, writing your home phone number neatly on the paper before dramatically branding the paper with a large, cursive icon. “Call me whenever” you add.

“That I will.” He says before taking the paper from your hand, briefly observing it, then folding it into the front pocket of his denim jacket. “It was nice meeting you, Sandy.” He says politely before pulling out a throne-looking chair from a long table.

“Sandy? I’m not-“ you pause. Hadn’t the cast list just been announced? Surely it wasn’t posted to the school by now, you tell yourself.

“How did you-“

“-know? Let’s call it intuition” he muses. “Or the highlighted sheet music for Hopelessly Devoted To You.” He nudges his head towards the loose papers in your hand. Sure enough, he’s right.

You steal one last coy glance at him before turning on your heel.

If anyone had asked Eddie Munson to describe you, his answer would've been embarrassingly simple: quiet, pretty, funny when you actually spoke, and an absolute menace on rhythm guitar.

You'd been Gareth's best friend since elementary school, which automatically made you part of the group years before Eddie ever showed up. Somewhere between band practice in Gareth's garage and late-night drives to nowhere with cheap gas station snacks, you'd just... become one of them.

You usually sat with your combat boots kicked up on an amp, cigarette hanging lazily between your fingers while Jeff and Gareth argued over chords and Eddie rambled about whatever had caught his attention that week.

Sometimes horror movies. Sometimes a new Metallica album. Sometimes some insane campaign he'd spent six straight hours writing instead of doing homework.

You'd just listen, smile every now and then. Throw in the occasional dry comment that made everyone laugh harder than anything else said that evening. Then go back to quietly restringing your guitar.

As far as Eddie knew, that was the extent of it. He knew you liked metal. He knew you preferred your coffee black. He knew you kept a denim jacket covered in patches draped over the back of Gareth's couch because you were over there so often.

He knew you could play Iron Maiden riffs cleaner than half the guys he'd met. He knew he had the most pathetic schoolboy crush on you imaginable. He also knew Gareth would never let him live it down if he acted on it.

So he didn't.

He flirted just enough that everyone thought that's simply how Eddie talked to girls. He'd throw you a grin. Call you sweetheart. Offer you the first beer. Let your shoulder bump against his when everyone piled onto the couch.

Nothing serious, nothing obvious. Nothing that would risk screwing up something that already worked. Because having you around was better than making things awkward and losing you altogether.

You, meanwhile, had somehow convinced everyone you had absolutely zero hobbies beyond music, which was exactly how you preferred it.

Nobody knew about the stack of fantasy novels hidden underneath your bed. Nobody knew about the little notebook full of campaign ideas. Nobody knew about the afternoons you'd spent reading through Gareth's Player's Handbook after he'd accidentally left it at your house when you were fifteen. And absolutely nobody knew that after borrowing it once, you'd gone out and bought your own.

Then another, and then another. By now you owned enough books that your bookshelf looked suspiciously like a tiny game shop. Not because you actually played; you'd never had the courage.

You just liked learning about it. The stories. The worlds. The maps. The mythology. You found it fascinating. But somewhere along the line, quietly reading had turned into quietly memorizing.

Which was why, every time Hellfire met in the theatre room after school, you intentionally sat just far enough away that you couldn't hear very well.

Because if you could hear...You'd start correcting people, and nobody likes that person. So you kept your mouth shut. It worked for months.

Until one rainy Thursday when band practice got canceled because Gareth's parents wanted the garage cleaned out, leaving the entire group with nowhere to be. Hellfire happened to be meeting.

"You should just stay," Dustin insisted.

"You literally sit here anyway."

"I'm not playing."

"You don't have to."

Jeff chimed in from somewhere behind him. "Yeah, just hang out."

You looked toward Gareth; he shrugged, "Might as well."

So you settled into one of the empty chairs against the wall with a comic book you'd barely read a page of while Eddie started spinning another one of his ridiculously elaborate campaigns.

You weren't trying to pay attention; you really weren't. But you couldn't help overhearing bits and pieces. Names you recognized. Places you recognized. Monsters you recognized. And honestly? He was really good.

Animated. Creative. Completely invested. Watching him practically stand on top of the fake throne to voice an evil wizard was charming enough that you forgot to hide your smile.

Then it happened. "So naturally," Eddie declared dramatically, "the basilisk's gaze instantly petrifies all three of you permanently—"

You physically looked up, and your eyebrows pulled together, lips parting. No. No, no, no.

You looked back down at your comic. You could ignore it. You should ignore it. Dustin was already reacting. Mike was planning around it. Lucas looked mildly horrified.

You squeezed your eyes shut. Stay quiet. Stay quiet. Stay—

"...Actually..." The word slipped out before you could stop it.

Every single head turned toward you. You immediately wished the floor would open beneath your chair.

Eddie blinked. "Hm?"

You stared at your comic. "...Nothing."

He tilted his head. "No, c'mon."

You sighed through your nose. "...A basilisk's gaze doesn't permanently petrify you."

Silence. "It can," Eddie answered carefully.

"It can…but not instantly."

You paused, rethinking your life’s choices, but decided to follow through. "It requires you to fail the saving throw."

Dustin slowly looked between both of you like he was watching a tennis match.

Eddie folded his arms. "...Okay."

You already hated this.

"And how exactly do you know that?"

You mumbled the answer.

"What was that?"

"...Monster Manual."

"What?"

You looked up reluctantly. "The Monster Manual."

He stared, and you stared back.

"...Page seventy-three."

Absolute silence. Jeff's jaw slowly fell open. Gareth looked at you, a mix of suspicion and pride forming. "...Since when?"

You rubbed the back of your neck. "I don't know."

"You own a Monster Manual?"

"...Yeah."

Eddie's voice got quieter. "...Anything else?"

You made the mistake of answering honestly. "I've got most of them."

He blinked. "Most... of them."

"The books."

"The books."

"Yeah."

He looked genuinely speechless. Then, very carefully, "...Name five schools of magic."

You frowned. "There are eight."

His eyes got wider.

Without thinking, you started listing them. "Abjuration, Conjuration, Divination, Enchantment, Evocation, Illusion, Necromancy, Transmutation."

By the time you finished, Eddie was staring at you with an expression somewhere between existential crisis and complete infatuation.

He looked over at Gareth, looked back at you, then looked at Gareth again.

"You've been hiding this from me?"

You blinked. "I didn't think anybody cared."

"Cared?"

He sounded personally offended. "Cared?"

You shrugged helplessly. "I don't actually play."

"So?"

"I just read them."

"So?"

"I like lore."

"So?"

"I didn't think it mattered."

Eddie dragged both hands down his face, then looked at you again with something that almost looked pained. "I have spent three years desperately searching for people who voluntarily read sourcebooks."

You looked confused. "...Really?"

"And Gareth has apparently been gatekeeping the coolest girl in Hawkins."

Gareth immediately defended himself. "I DIDN'T KNOW EITHER."

Eddie looked back at you. Then, with complete sincerity, "Please join Hellfire."

You laughed.

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"No, seriously." He leaned across the table. "I am literally begging you."

You couldn't help smiling. He looked completely smitten, like something had clicked into place. Like the cute girl he'd been trying not to flirt with too much had suddenly started speaking his favorite language.

And judging by the ridiculous grin spreading across his face, you had absolutely no idea what you'd just done to him.

It started small: a little less space between you on Gareth's couch. Conversations that accidentally stretched long after everyone else had wandered into another room. The realization that if Eddie had a campaign idea, your opinion was one of the first he wanted.

At some point, it became completely normal for Gareth to call your house and ask if he could come over to work on music, only to show up twenty minutes later with Eddie in tow and an armful of graph paper, dice, and notebooks.

Band practice would last an hour; campaign brainstorming would last four.

You'd all end up around your bedroom floor or the dining room table with pencils scattered everywhere, Eddie pacing barefoot because he'd inevitably kicked his shoes off halfway through explaining something.

"No, okay, listen," he'd insist, waving his hands around wildly. "Imagine the town thinks they're cursed because people keep disappearing into the woods."

You'd be scribbling notes already. "They're not disappearing."

He'd stop. "No?"

"They're being taken."

"By what?"

You'd chew on your pencil for a second. "They think it's a monster."

"But?"

"It's not."

He'd grin. "But?"

"It's a druid."

His eyebrows would shoot up. "Oh?"

"They're taking people because something older is waking up underneath the forest and they're trying to keep them away from it."

"That's why you're my favorite."

Gareth, without missing a beat, would throw a crumpled piece of notebook paper at him. "You are so unbelievable."

"What?"

"You don't even hear yourself."

"Hear what?"

"'That's why you're my favorite.'" He mocked. 

Eddie would look genuinely confused. "I meant campaign-wise."

"Mhm."

"I did."

"Mhm."

Jeff would snort from wherever he happened to be sitting. You'd duck your head to hide a smile while pretending to be very invested in your notes.

Eventually Eddie would wander over anyway, leaning over your shoulder to look at whatever you'd been writing. His hair would brush yours.

His hands would be slightly closer to yours against the table. He'd smell faintly like cigarettes and weed and that cologne you complimented one time, and he refused to wear a different one since. 

"Holy shit."

You'd glance up. "What?"

"This is so much better than what I had."

He'd snatch your notebook. "Eddie."

"Nope."

"Eddie."

"This is mine now."

"You can't just steal my ideas."

"I absolutely can."

He'd flip another page. "You drew maps?"

You'd immediately reach for the notebook. "No."

He'd lift it over his head. "You drew maps."

"Eddie."

"You color-coded the districts."

"Eddie."

"You made economic systems."

"Oh my god, give it back."

He'd be laughing too hard to defend himself as you reached for it, nearly climbing over him in the process. Somewhere behind you, Gareth would let out the most exhausted sigh known to mankind.

"Jesus Christ."

Neither of you would even notice. You'd finally grab the notebook back, smoothing out the bent page with exaggerated offense.

"You suck."

"I know."

"You bent it."

"I'll buy you another."

"I don't want another."

"I'll buy you five."

"They won't have my notes."

He'd soften immediately. "...Good point."

Then, almost sheepishly, "I'm sorry."

You'd just smile. "It's okay."

And somehow that stupid little interaction would live in his head for days afterward.

The problem was that spending more time around Eddie wasn't making your crush go away; it was making it catastrophically worse.

It was one thing to think he was attractive from across Gareth's garage while he played guitar. It was another thing entirely to watch him get excited over stories.

To watch him grin when you challenged one of his ideas and immediately start building on yours instead. To watch him get genuinely delighted when you beat him to a fantasy reference. He really listened to you. Like, actually. 

Half your conversations started with him saying, "Wait, what do you think?"

Nobody had ever asked you that so often before. It made your chest hurt a little. Then there were the little things.

He always sat next to you. Always offered you the first slice of pizza. Always saved you the root beer because he'd noticed it was your favorite after seeing you pick it out exactly twice.

One afternoon, he disappeared for ten minutes while everyone argued over music. When he came back, he tossed something into your lap. You looked down: a little pewter dragon pin.  Nothing fancy, probably from the flea market. Its wing was chipped, and one eye had faded paint.

"I saw it and thought of you."

Your heart nearly stopped. "It's cool."

"I figured you'd put it on your jacket."

You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt. "I will."

He looked suspiciously pleased with himself. Across the room, Gareth watched the exchange happen in complete silence before rubbing both hands over his face.

Jeff noticed. "What?"

Gareth looked at him. "I can't do this anymore."

"Do what?"

He pointed between the two of you. "This."

Jeff looked over. "...They're talking."

"They're in love."

"They're discussing dragons."

"They're discussing dragons in love."

Jeff started laughing, then Gareth stood up dramatically. "Eddie."

"Hm?"

"You know you can just ask her out."

The room went completely still. Eddie looked genuinely horrified. "What?"

"You heard me."

"No?"

"Ask her out."

He immediately looked at you, then away again so quickly it almost gave you whiplash. "I am not asking her out."

"And why not?"

"Because she's your best friend."

"So?"

"What if she says no?"

You looked down at your hands, and Gareth threw both arms into the air. "And what if she says yes?"

Eddie looked personally offended by the suggestion. "Don't mess with me."

"I'm literally not."

Jeff had gone completely silent, clearly realizing something much larger was unfolding.

Gareth pointed at you now. "And you."

Your head snapped up.

"When are you gonna tell him?"

You nearly choked. "Tell him what?"

He stared. "Oh, don't even."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You look at him like he personally invented the damn game himself."

Your face instantly went hot. "I absolutely do not."

"You absolutely do."

"I don't."

"You do."

"I don't."

"You literally smile every time he walks into a room."

"I smile at everyone."

"You do not smile at Jeff."

Jeff looked mildly offended. "Hey!"

You buried your face in your hands. "This is awful."

Gareth groaned loud enough to shake the walls. "I swear to God, one of you has got to grow a spine."

Eddie looked over at you. You peeked at him through your fingers. The second your eyes met, both of you immediately looked somewhere else.

Gareth stood there for another few seconds before muttering to himself and grabbing his jacket. "I'm going outside."

Jeff followed. "Me too."

The door shut behind them. You were still looking at the floor while Eddie was rubbing the back of his neck.

Finally, after what felt like forever, he spoke. "...For what it's worth..."

You looked up.

"...I don't think he's completely wrong."

Your stomach did a complete somersault. He looked terrified; you probably looked exactly the same. Then, somehow, despite both of you being objectively hopeless at this sort of thing...

You both started laughing. The nervous, embarrassed kind that comes out when there's nothing else left to do.

"So..."

"So."

Then both of you started talking at exactly the same time.

"I'm sor—"

"I didn't mea—"

You stopped, he stopped, and you both laughed again. Eddie shook his head, looking down at the floor with the kind of smile that only appeared when he was genuinely embarrassed.

"I've fought people with knives, and somehow this is scarier."

That made you smile. "I don't think Gareth was supposed to say all that."

"He definitely wasn't."

"He looked like he was gonna explode."

"He has looked like that for weeks."

Your eyebrows pulled together. "Weeks?"

Eddie looked up, immediately realizing he'd said too much. "...Maybe."

You studied him for a second. "You knew?"

He let out a long sigh. "I knew he thought something."

"And?"

"And I kept telling him he was making it up."

"You did?"

"Mhm."

"And was he?"

He looked at you for a long moment before quietly admitting, "...No."

Your heart gave one heavy, impossible thud. He looked back down almost immediately.

"I just figured..." he started, picking at one of the rings on his fingers. "I don't know."

"You can tell me."

He laughed softly to himself. "I figured I was reading into things because I wanted to."

He shrugged. "You laugh at my jokes."

"They're funny."

"You always sit next to me."

"So do you."

"You remember everything I tell you."

"So do you."

"You still have that stupid dragon pin."

You instinctively looked down at your jacket hanging over the chair across the room. It was still there, pinned right over your heart.

You looked back at him. "...Of course I do."

His ears turned pink as he smiled to himself. "I kept thinking maybe you were just nice."

"And I kept thinking you flirted with everybody."

"I do flirt with everybody."

"I know."

"But not like that."

You looked at him. He was still staring at the floor. Quietly, almost too quietly to hear, he added, "Not like you."

He took another breath. "I didn't want to make things weird."

"I didn't either."

"I didn't want Gareth to think I was making band practice complicated."

"I didn't either."

"I didn't want to screw up the friend group."

"I didn't either."

That earned another little laugh from both of you. It was almost ridiculous, months of overthinking condensed into a handful of matching sentences.

He shifted a little closer on the couch. "...Can I ask you something?"

You nodded, but he hesitated anyway. "If Gareth comes back in here and starts laughing at me, I'm moving to Canada."

You couldn't help smiling. "I don't think you’d make it that far."

"I've got enough gas money to reach Ohio."

"Fair."

Then he just blurted it out. "...Would you maybe wanna go on a date with me?"

No dramatic speech, no rehearsed line, no confidence. Just Eddie, visibly terrified, trying to act like his entire future wasn't hanging on your answer.

Then your mouth betrayed you before your brain could. "...I thought you'd never ask."

His eyes got impossibly wide. "...Really?"

You laughed. "Eddie."

"No, seriously."

"I'm serious."

"You mean yes?"

"I mean yes."

"You actually mean yes?"

"I do."

He blinked twice. Then covered his face with both hands. "Oh, my God."

You could hear him laughing behind them. "Oh, my God."

He dragged his hands down slowly, looking somewhere between relieved and completely stunned. "I had a whole backup speech."

"You did?"

"It was terrible."

"I would've liked to hear it."

"No chance."

"Please?"

"It somehow involved dragons."

You laughed so hard your head dropped forward. "I absolutely believe that."

He looked at you for another second before another thought visibly crossed his mind. "Oh."

"What?"

"So..." He scratched at the back of his neck again. "This is kind of embarrassing."

"What is?"

"I didn't think you'd actually say yes."

"So you don't have a date planned."

"...Not exactly."

You bit back a smile.

"I had approximately seventy-three fantasies and zero logistics."

"I appreciate the honesty."

He thought for a second, then suddenly snapped his fingers. "Wait."

"What?"

"The open-air market."

"The one over by Main?"

"Yeah,” he smiled. "My uncle goes every few weeks."

"I've never actually been."

"You haven't?"

You shook your head. 

"They've got old records and books and weird antiques and flea market junk and people selling handmade jewelry and all kinds of random stuff."

He was getting animated now, talking with his hands the way he always did when he got excited. "And this old guy that always has boxes of fantasy novels for like fifty cents."

Your eyebrows lifted. "Oh?"

"And another booth with vintage band shirts."

"Oh?"

"And there's usually a food truck with cider donuts."

"...Eddie."

"What?"

"I already said yes."

"I know."

"I'm just making my case."

"You don't have to."

He grinned. "So..." His voice softened. "Tomorrow morning?"

You smiled. "I'd like that."

"You would?"

"I would."

"What time?"

"Whenever you pick me up."

His grin somehow grew even bigger. "Nine?"

"Nine."

For another second, neither of you moved, just smiled at each other like two complete idiots. Then the front door flew open. Gareth walked in carrying two sodas, took one look at the way you were looking at each other, and immediately stopped.

His eyes narrowed. "...No."

Neither of you said anything. He looked at Eddie, he looked at you, and then he looked back at Eddie once more.  "...No."

Jeff stepped around him. "What?"

Gareth pointed dramatically. "They're smiling."

Jeff looked. "...Yeah?"

"The weird smiling."

"They smile."

"No."

He pointed harder. "The smile."

Jeff watched for another second, then slowly grinned. "...Oh."

Gareth closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "...Did one of you finally grow a spine?"

Eddie looked over with a smile he couldn't suppress if he tried. "...Maybe."

Gareth stood perfectly still, then set both sodas on the coffee table. Then walked over and hugged you. Then hugged Eddie.

Then immediately pushed him away again. "If you break her heart, I'll kill you."

Eddie nodded solemnly. "Fair."

Gareth looked at you. "If you break his heart, I'll kill you too."

You nodded just as seriously. "Also fair."

He looked between the two of you one last time before throwing both hands into the air. "Jesus Christ."

Jeff laughed. "What?"

"I HAVE BEEN WATCHING THIS FOR SIX MONTHS."

He turned toward the ceiling. "THANK YOU."

And somewhere beside him, Eddie's hand quietly found yours for the very first time. He didn't make a joke. Didn't look at you. Didn't say anything at all.

He just laced his fingers with yours like he'd been wanting to for a very, very long time. You squeezed once, and he squeezed back.

The next morning, you were standing on your front porch at exactly 8:58 when you heard the familiar rattle of Eddie's van coming down the street. Not that you'd been waiting by the window or anything…definitely not.

The van pulled into the driveway, and before it had even fully stopped, you could see Eddie leaning across the passenger seat.

The door swung open. "Good morning."

You laughed. "It's nine in the morning."

"And?"

"You look entirely too excited."

He grinned. "I got a date."

Your stomach immediately betrayed you. The stupid thing was that you'd known Eddie for years now. You'd spent countless afternoons with him. Late-night band practices. Movie marathons. Campaign planning sessions.

Yet somehow, the word "date" made everything feel different.

You climbed into the passenger seat and immediately noticed the stack of cassette tapes scattered between the seats. "You cleaned."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I moved things."

"Eddie."

"The important garbage is still here."

Neither of you had to struggle for conversation. You talked about music, about the campaign you'd been helping him write. About the ridiculous argument Jeff and Dustin had gotten into over whether dragons or vampires were cooler. By the time the market came into view, you'd spent half the drive laughing. 

The open-air market occupied an old fairground lot just outside town. Rows of tents stretched across the grass. People wandered between booths carrying coffee cups and paper bags. Music drifted through the air from somewhere. The entire place smelled like baked goods, fresh grass, and sunlight.

"This is cute."

Eddie looked weirdly pleased by your approval. "Right?"

You followed him through the aisles, taking your time. Every booth seemed to have something different. Old records. Handmade jewelry. Vintage books. Antiques. Hand-painted signs. One tent was entirely dedicated to old movie posters. Another sold homemade candles.

A woman was knitting behind a table full of scarves despite the weather being far too warm for scarves.

"This place is amazing."

"I know."

"You come here often?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes with Wayne."

You stopped at a table full of records while Eddie flipped through another crate beside you. Every couple of seconds, one of you would hold something up.

"What about this?"

"No."

"This?"

"Absolutely not."

"This?"

"Now we're talking."

It felt easy, like everything else did with him. Eventually you reached a booth covered in old band shirts hanging from racks.

Your eyes immediately lit up. "Oh, my God."

You were already digging through them. Most were faded, some had holes, and a few were clearly older than both of you combined.

You found a Black Sabbath shirt and held it up. "Eddie."

His eyes widened. "No way."

"It's my size."

"That's illegal."

You immediately bought it. He found a faded Dio shirt twenty minutes later and looked just as excited.

"You are absolutely getting that."

"I don't know."

"Eddie."

"It's kinda expensive."

It was eight dollars. You stared. "Eddie."

"Okay, when you say it like that."

You rolled your eyes. He bought the shirt, and you continued wandering. At some point, your shoulder started brushing his when you walked. 

Then you found the books, a whole tent full of them. Secondhand fantasy novels stacked in crooked towers. Leather-bound collections. Old paperbacks. Forgotten adventures.

You immediately disappeared inside. Eddie smiled before you were even fully gone. Of course this would be your favorite booth. He watched you crouch beside a stack, completely absorbed within seconds.

Your fingers carefully turned pages. Your eyes scanned titles. You smiled when you found something interesting. And God, maybe it was pathetic. But he could've stood there all day watching you be happy.

Instead, he wandered a few booths down, and that's when he saw the flowers. A little elderly woman sat beneath a striped canopy surrounded by buckets overflowing with blooms. Sunflowers. Wildflowers. Daisies. Lavender. Tiny pink roses. The entire booth looked like something out of a storybook.

Eddie wasn't really a flower guy, at least he hadn't been. But then he spotted a small bouquet sitting in a glass jar. Nothing fancy, just a handful of wildflowers tied together with twine. It looked like something someone had picked during a walk.

For some reason, it immediately reminded him of you. The woman caught him staring.

"Got a girl?"

Eddie immediately looked away. "No."

She smiled knowingly. Then glanced toward the book tent where you stood.

"Honey."

He groaned.

The woman laughed. "That one's cute."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah."

"You should buy her flowers."

"What if she thinks it's weird?"

The woman gave him a look. "Son."

"Yeah?"

"She's here with you at the crack ass of dawn, isn’t she?"

Fair point.

Five minutes later, he was walking back with the bouquet hidden awkwardly behind his back. You still hadn't noticed him. You were standing in front of a shelf with three books pressed against your chest, completely focused.

"Find anything good?"

You looked up immediately. "Look."

You handed him one. Then another. Then another. By the end of your explanation, you were smiling so hard that he almost forgot what he'd been doing. 

"Oh."

"What?"

"I got you something."

Your eyebrows lifted. "You did?"

He suddenly felt sixteen years old. "Yeah."

Then he awkwardly revealed the bouquet, and immediately regretted every decision he'd ever made.

"I saw them and—"

You froze. "Oh."

His heart dropped. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe flowers were too much. Maybe—

"Oh, my God." You looked genuinely shocked. "Eddie."

Your expression softened into something so sweet it nearly killed him. "They're beautiful."

The relief that hit him was immediate. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You carefully took them from him.

"They reminded me of you." The words slipped out before he could stop them.

You looked up, and his face immediately turned red. "That sounded cooler in my head."

A laugh escaped you. "No."

You glanced down at the flowers again, then back at him. "It's actually really sweet.".

The crowd continued moving around you. People walked past. Music drifted through the air. Yet somehow it felt like the entire world had narrowed down to that tiny space between you. And somewhere in the distance, a vendor yelled that fresh cider donuts were ready.

Eddie immediately pointed. "Okay."

You laughed. "What?"

"Before I say something embarrassingly romantic and ruin my reputation—"

"You don't have a reputation."

"I absolutely do."

"You really don't."

He grinned. "Cider donuts?"

You looked down at the flowers in your hands. "Lead the way, Munson."

His smile was so bright it almost rivaled the morning sun. And for maybe the first time in his life, Eddie couldn't think of a single place he'd rather be

The funny thing was that absolutely nothing changed after you and Eddie started dating. And simultaneously, everything changed.

Band practice still happened in Gareth's garage. Hellfire still met every week. You still spent entirely too much time arguing over music and fantasy novels and campaign mechanics.

Eddie still stole your fries. You still stole his jackets. On the surface, very little was different.

Except now Eddie could kiss you whenever he wanted, which turned out to be a problem. Because Eddie Munson was possibly the most physically affectionate human being to ever walk the earth. You discovered this approximately forty-eight hours into the relationship.

It started innocently enough. A hand on your lower back. His arm around your shoulders. His knee pressed against yours whenever you sat together. Normal boyfriend things. Then it escalated…rapidly.

Somehow Eddie always needed to be touching you. Not in an overbearing way, just constantly. If you were sitting beside him, his hand would find yours without him even realizing it. If you were standing next to him, he'd hook a finger through your belt loop. If you were walking somewhere together, his arm would automatically settle over your shoulders.

Movie nights became nearly impossible because he'd slowly slide lower and lower until his head was in your lap. You'd look down halfway through a film to find him completely comfortable, stealing handfuls of popcorn and using your thigh as a pillow.

"Eddie."

"Hm?"

"You have your own seat."

"This is my seat."

"No, it isn't."

He'd just smile, close his eyes, and settle in deeper. Hopeless, absolutely hopeless. Then there were the kisses.

God. The kisses. Eddie kissed you constantly. Not because he was trying to be smooth. Mostly because he genuinely seemed incapable of stopping himself.

The top of your head. Your cheek. Your temple. Your shoulder. The back of your hand. Sometimes he'd walk into a room, kiss your forehead, and then continue whatever conversation he'd been having as though nothing had happened.

The first few weeks, it caught you off guard every single time. Months later, it still made your heart do stupid little flips. One afternoon you were helping him organize campaign notes at his trailer. You'd been focused on a map for nearly twenty minutes when suddenly—

Mwah.

You looked up. "What was that for?"

He blinked. "What?"

"You just kissed me."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

He looked genuinely confused. "You looked cute."

Then immediately went back to writing, as if that was a perfectly normal explanation. Which, for Eddie, it apparently was. Wayne found the whole thing hilarious.

"You know," Wayne had said one evening while watching Eddie practically drape himself across you on the couch, "for a fella who spent years actin' tough, you sure turned into a sap."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Wayne pointed; Eddie was literally entirely in your bubble. 

"And now?"

"I'm comfortable."

"You followed her into the kitchen earlier because she went to get some water."

"I was thirsty."

"You don't even like water."

Eddie opened his mouth, closed it, then looked at you.

"...That's not the point."

The truth was that Eddie had spent so long convincing himself not to cross the line that once he finally could, all that affection had nowhere to go except directly toward you.

And honestly? You loved it. Because underneath all the teasing and dramatics, he was impossibly sweet. He remembered everything, every little thing.

Your favorite candy. Your favorite records. The books you'd mentioned wanting but couldn't find. The exact coffee order you got at the diner. One time you casually mentioned liking a specific fantasy author. Two weeks later, he showed up with a battered secondhand copy he'd found three towns over.

Another time you'd complained that your hands were cold. The next day he brought you a pair of fingerless gloves he'd found at the market. They were hideous and completely ridiculous.

You wore them all winter.

Ironically, your first kiss had been nothing like what you’d expect.

It had happened a couple of weeks after the market, after band practice. Everyone else had left. Jeff had work. Gareth had dinner. You'd stayed behind to help pack up equipment while Eddie finished putting away cables.

The garage had been quiet, just music playing softly from an old radio. You'd been sitting on an amp while he rambled about a campaign idea. Something about dragons, obviously.

At some point, he'd stopped talking, and you'd looked up and realized he was already looking at you.

"Eddie?"

"Hm?"

"You stopped talking."

"I know."

You smiled. "That's unusual."

His laugh had been nervous, which should've tipped you off immediately. Then his eyes dropped to your mouth, only for a second. And suddenly your stomach was somewhere near your shoes. Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.

Then Eddie had done something completely out of character. He asked quietly, almost as if he wasn't sure he was allowed, "...Can I kiss you?"

You remembered the way your heart had nearly exploded. The way he'd looked terrified. The way he'd immediately started backtracking when you didn't answer fast enough.

"I mean—you don't have to—I was just—"

You kissed him before he could finish. Mostly because if you'd let him keep talking, he probably would've apologized and fled the state.

For a second, he froze, as if his brain needed a moment to process what was happening. Then one of his hands found your jaw, and suddenly he was kissing you back. Soft and careful, like he couldn’t quite believe it. 

Months later, Eddie still brought it up sometimes, usually when he wanted to annoy you.

"You know."

You immediately knew that tone. "What?"

"You kissed me first."

You rolled your eyes. "Here we go."

"I'm just saying."

"You literally asked."

"Technically."

"You were halfway through a panic attack."

"Technically."

"You would've talked yourself out of it."

"Possibly."

"Definitely."

He laughed, then leaned over and kissed your cheek. "Good thing you saved me, sweetheart."

By the time you and Eddie had been dating for about seven months, Hellfire had developed a new problem. Or, more specifically, Eddie had developed a problem. And that problem was you.

"Okay," Dustin said, pointing accusingly across the table. "This is bullshit."

The entire campaign immediately ground to a halt. Eddie looked up from behind his DM screen.

"What is?"

"This,” Dustin gestured wildly.

"Define this."

"You giving her special treatment."

You nearly choked on your soda.

Across the table, Mike immediately nodded. "Thank you."

Lucas pointed. "Finally somebody said it."

Eddie looked genuinely offended. "I do not."

"You absolutely do."

"I absolutely don't."

Jeff snorted. "You absolutely do."

Even Gareth joined in. "Dude."

Eddie looked around the room. "You guys are insane."

Then slowly looked toward you. "...Back me up."

You immediately betrayed him.

"Oh, no." His jaw dropped. "You too? Babe."

The entire table collectively groaned; even the nickname irritated them now.

"Babe?" Mike repeated. "You call her babe in-game too."

"It slipped out once."

"It happened three times last session."

"That's not important."

"It kind of is when you're talking to a barbarian."

Eddie pointed dramatically. "None of you have evidence."

The room exploded. "No evidence?"

"Dude!"

"You literally gave her a dragon."

"It was a baby dragon."

"It was still a dragon."

"It was injured!"

"You let her keep it."

"She nursed it back to health."

"You gave her a dragon."

"...Okay, maybe the dragon thing wasn't helping my case."

"THANK YOU." Dustin practically stood up.

The truth was that they weren't wrong. Eddie tried to be fair; he genuinely did. But every time he sat behind that DM screen, all logic immediately left his body.

You'd mention some random piece of backstory you'd thought of at two in the morning, and suddenly there was an entire side quest dedicated to it.

You'd casually mention that your ranger grew up near the ocean. Next thing everyone knew, there was a mysterious coastal kingdom appearing in the campaign.

One time you'd joked that your character liked collecting shiny rocks. Two sessions later, Eddie had created an entire magical gemstone subplot. The man had no self-control, and everyone knew it. 

Especially Gareth, who had spent months witnessing it firsthand. The latest offense had happened approximately twenty minutes earlier. The party had entered a ruined cathedral.

A dangerous encounter, lots of enemies, high stakes. Or at least it should've been. Unfortunately, Eddie had described a hooded traveler sitting alone by the fire.

A traveler who immediately recognized your character. A traveler who apparently knew your character's family. A traveler who had information specifically relevant to your backstory. A traveler who somehow only wanted to talk to you.

The entire table had immediately erupted. "NO."

"Dude."

"Again?"

"This is ridiculous."

Eddie had tried defending himself. "It makes sense narratively."

"No, it doesn't."

"It absolutely does."

"It absolutely doesn't."

Now, twenty minutes later, they were still arguing about it.

"I just think," Mike said, crossing his arms, "that maybe the rest of us deserve emotional character development too."

"You have emotional character development."

"When?"

"You got stabbed."

"THAT'S NOT CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT."

Jeff nearly fell out of his chair laughing. Meanwhile, you were actively trying not to laugh, which wasn't helping.

Eddie noticed immediately. "You think this is funny?"

"A little."

The rest of the session dissolved into more good-natured ribbing until the guys finally started packing up their dice and minis, trading complaints about favoritism all the way out the door. 

Gareth shot you both a knowing look as he left last, muttering something about "not wanting to know what happens next."

You started gathering scattered papers and pushing chairs back into place, the faint scent of dry-erase markers and lingering pizza still thick in the air.

Eddie watched you for a moment from the end of the table, that familiar wicked little smile tugging at his lips. Then he rounded the table, coming up behind you as you reached for a stray miniature.

His arms slid around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.

"You look like this," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear, "and they still act shocked I can't keep my hands off you." His voice dropped lower. 

"Can't really blame me though. Look at you, sitting there all session like you weren't thinking about what I’d do to you once they left."

You shivered as his mouth found the side of your neck. He kissed the sensitive spot just below your ear, then scraped his teeth gently over it, sucking lightly until your breath hitched.

One of his hands splayed across your stomach, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt to trace slow circles on your skin.

"Eddie," you warned, half-laughing, half-breathless. "We’re supposed to be cleaning up."

"Mm, we are," he said against your throat, kissing lower and more open-mouthed. "I’m just… multitasking."

His other hand slid down to grip your hip, pulling you back against the growing hardness in his jeans. 

"Been hard half the session thinking about bending you over this table. You know that?"

You turned in his arms, intending to tell him to behave, but his mouth crashed into yours before you could. The kiss was messy and eager, all tongue and teeth, the kind that always left your lips swollen. 

He backed you toward the edge of the massive wooden table, hands roaming under your shirt until he cupped your breasts, thumbs teasing your nipples through your bra.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned into your mouth. "Need you. Right here. Been dying to feel how wet you get for me after I’ve been staring at you all night."

You gasped as he lifted you onto the table, shoving aside papers and a few forgotten dice that clattered to the floor. He stepped between your spread thighs, grinding against you as he tugged your shirt up and off. 

His mouth returned to your neck, sucking marks you’d have to hide tomorrow, while his fingers worked your jeans open.

You reached down to palm him through his pants, earning a low, wrecked sound from deep in his chest. "Eddie…someone could come back."

"Let ‘em," he muttered, nipping at your collarbone as he pushed your jeans and panties down just enough. "Let ‘em see how fucking perfect you look when I’m buried inside you." 

He dropped to his knees briefly, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss between your legs that had your head falling back with a moan. One quick, filthy lick, then he was back up, freeing himself from his jeans and lining up.

He pushed in slow at first, savoring the stretch, eyes locked on your face. "That’s it," he breathed, voice strained. "Take me so good, like you were made for this." 

Once he was fully seated, he gave you barely a second before he started moving; deep, rolling thrusts that made the table creak beneath you.

Your hands fisted in his hair, legs wrapping tight around his waist as he fucked you harder, the drama room filled with the wet sounds of skin on skin and your shared, ragged breathing. He kept kissing your neck, your jaw, whispering filthy praise between thrusts.

"Love how you squeeze me… fuck, you’re dripping down my cock already. My perfect girl."

The angle had him hitting that spot inside you with every snap of his hips. You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt, chasing the building heat. Eddie’s rhythm faltered as he got close, one hand slipping between you to rub tight circles over your clit.

"Come on, baby," he panted against your mouth. "Want to feel you come on me. I’ve been so good to you all night."

The combination of his words, his fingers, and the relentless drag of him inside you sent you over the edge with a cry.

He followed right after, burying himself deep and groaning your name like a prayer as he spilled inside you, hips jerking through the aftershocks.

For a long moment, you stayed tangled together, foreheads pressed close, catching your breath in the quiet room. Eddie kissed you softly, peppering kisses all over your face, jaw, and neck. 

You laughed breathlessly, tugging lightly at his curls. "We’re never going to finish cleaning up at this rate."

"Worth it," he said, already leaning in for another kiss.

well, hey! hope you all enjoyed ;) i have an inquiry for you all. going forward with requests, would you prefer...

taglist:

@bitterestwillow @lnnn1n @youngbrokefab @ludachrissy @sisteramycatherine @izzycstairs @britttzy267 @eddiemunsonsimpp @powerpuffedbjtch @sariahs-stuff @cciessuzi @lilyquinnmunson @julxsxx @kozume-ko @obsessed-eddie @doomdabss @leelei1980 @hexqueensupreme @ches-86 @plaidamoosette @bobiverses @meadows-of-asphodel @whitakerstorm @brrrainst3w @serendipdipity01 @hypersexytoptobottom @m-art000 @walleloveseve @camsmunson101 @flavorfullsteve @peachpuffs25 @micheledawn1975 @whitakerstorm @cciessuzi @blackqueenie-18 @ggdawgg @velvetdimond @enne02  @ludachrissy @izzycstairs

@abbysleftbicepp @britttzy267 @ssculker @eddiemunsonsimpp @powerpuffedbjtch @kylorensbaby

You hadn’t called anyone ahead of time to tell them you’d be back home for the upcoming twelve weeks – not even Eddie – simply because you didn’t have the energy to make family plans and empty promises of catching up with old classmates you didn’t like just yet.

Tilting your head to the side far enough for it to crack loudly, you flicked the turn signal when the weather-tattered Forest Hills Trailer Park sign came into view. You exhaled softly as you slowed down enough to turn right, the crunching gravel and uneven ground beneath the tires rocking the car from side to side until you finally pulled up in front of the Munson trailer.

You turned off the engine and sank further into your seat as the last four hours of driving without stopping finally caught up to you. For a moment, you simply stared at the wooden porch, already dreading the aching trembles that would settle into your legs the second you got out of the car.

Eddie’s van sat parked beside the trailer, confirming he was home and that your surprise wouldn’t be ruined by him spotting your car.

You pulled the key from the ignition and pushed the door open before flicking through the abnormal amount of keys on your keychain until you found the copy he’d given you years ago – perks of being best friends for almost two decades.

Not bothering to grab your bag from the passenger seat – you’d probably make Eddie do it later – you pushed the car door shut with your hip and headed up the steps leading to the front door.

Eddie blew out the earthy smoke of his joint as he glanced at the kitchen clock with furrowed eyebrows when he heard the muffled noise of clinking keys followed by the soft click of the lock.

Wayne had left for work less than an hour ago. There was absolutely no reason for him to be coming back already.

You lazily pushed the door open as a tired sigh escaped your lips before crossing the threshold.

The joint between Eddie’s fingers nearly slipped from his grasp when he dragged his gaze away from the clock and towards the door, finding you instead of Wayne.

For a second, he genuinely wondered if the weed was making him imagine you.

His big brown eyes widened ever so slightly while his eyebrows disappeared behind the frizzy bangs that had escaped the messy bun he’d thrown his hair into hours ago.

“Fuck off,” he mumbled after a solid thirty seconds of staring at you like he’d just witnessed some kind of miracle. “What the hell?”

The cursed welcome-home greeting – so uniquely Eddie – made the corners of your mouth curl upwards as you kicked off your shoes.

“Surprise,” you murmured tiredly as you stepped over to the kitchen table, snatched the joint from his fingers, and dropped into the chair beside him.

The trailer hadn’t changed a bit since you’d last stepped foot inside nearly five months ago. The wallpaper was still ugly and yellowed from years of cigarette smoke, and the AC still made that annoying rumble as it struggled to cool down the place.

“The fuck do you mean surprise?” he asked, blinking a few times as he tried to process the fact you were sitting in his kitchen and not a whole state away.

“The meaning of surprise hasn’t changed as far as I know, Eddie.”

He leaned back in his chair like the extra distance was necessary for it all to sink in.

Then, slowly, the disbelieving chuckle escaping his lips turned into full-blown maniacal laughter as he shoved back his chair and practically launched himself at you.

“Holy shit, you are home!” he exclaimed as he wrapped his arms around you so fast you nearly choked on your drag.

“Yeah, yeah, I love you too,” you replied between coughs, forcing yourself to ignore how the weight of those words spread warmth along your chest.

“I’m ordering pizza to celebrate,” he mumbled against your hair before finally loosening his grip.

He was already halfway to the kitchen when you furrowed your eyebrows and took another drag of the joint.

“Do you even have money?”

Eddie grabbed the yellowed menu from the fridge and clicked his tongue as he shot you a look.

“For your information,” he deadpanned, pointing the menu at you, “I have been saving up money to come visit you.”

Your eyebrows shot up.

“You?” you scoffed out. “Saving money?”

“I can be a responsible adult,” he replied, sounding personally offended.

“Sure you can, buddy.”

Eddie rolled his eyes as he sat back in his chair and pushed the menu towards you.

“Pick what you want.”

“The fuck are you giving me this for?” you asked, immediately sliding it back across the table. “You know my order.”

Eddie looked at you for a moment longer than necessary before his gaze dropped to the joint resting in the ashtray. He picked it up, lit it, and took a long drag.

“You don’t wanna try something a little more socially acceptable?” he asked, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Margherita, maybe? Like a normal person?”

A groan escaped you as you sank lower into your chair.

“I’m not even home for ten fucking minutes, and you’re already torturing me.”

“You’re the one torturing me with those taste buds.”

That pulled a tired chuckle from your lips before a yawn overtook it instead. Your eyebrows furrowed slightly as you covered your mouth with the palm of your hand.

Eddie’s grin softened at that. His gaze drifted over your face, lingering on the faint bags beneath your eyes and the slow blinks that had far more to do with four hours of non-stop driving than the joint you’d stolen from him moments earlier.

Without a word, he stood up and disappeared down the short hallway towards his room.

You’d learned a long time ago to let Eddie do whatever weird thing he was about to do instead of wasting your breath asking questions.

A minute later, he reappeared carrying a clean towel and a chance of clothes. Holding them out to you with one hand, he brough the joint back to his lips with the other.

“Knowing you,” he started before slowly exhaling a stream of smoke, “you left all your shit in the car for me to deal with.”

Your gaze dropped to his ring-covered hand before lifting back to his face as a smile tugged at your lips.

“You’re the best, you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, echoing your words from earlier. “I love you too.”

You hesitated for a beat, something about the earnestness in his voice catching you off guard. Before you could dwell on it, you blinked once, then again, and reached for the clothes and towel in his hand.

“You better not mess up my order, Edward,” you muttered as you headed towards the bathroom.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, princess.”

Thankfully, Eddie had not, in fact, messed up your order.

The heart-attack-inducing pizza topped with double pepperoni, white mushrooms, extra red onions, and a generous drizzle of pesto – much to Eddie’s eternal horror, despite this having been your order for years – was absolute heaven after months of suffering through one-star college-town pizza.

The TV hummed quietly from the living room, forgotten somewhere between slices of pizza and the overwhelming exhaustion that came with four uninterrupted hours on the road. At some point, the two of you’d migrated to Eddie’s bedroom instead, trading the uncomfortable kitchen chairs for the familiar comfort of his unmade bed and cluttered floor.

Somewhere between yawns, giggles, and marijuana smoke, the simmering heat of Eddie’s body had slowly found its way towards your side of the bed while you relished in the comfort and familiarity of his old mattress.

You were in the middle of telling him about something stupid and annoying that had happened at college a few weeks ago when he reached up and gently smoothed a loose strand of hair away from your temple. His hand drifted lower until it found the ends of your hair, absentmindedly curling a strand around his finger like he always did. You shook your head as you tried to remember where you’d left off before the story abandoned you altogether.

Before you could come up with anything that remotely resembled a coherent thought, Eddie let go of your hair and allowed the strand to fall softly back against the pillow.

“You tired?” he mumbled after a while.

Propping his head up on the palm of his hand, he looked down at you.

“Kinda,” you admitted with a slow blink.

The warm glow of the nightstand lamp spilled through the room, painting amber streaks and dramatic shadows across the little things that made the space so uniquely Eddie. The guitar leaning against the wall. The cluttered dresser. The faded band posters that somehow still managed to hang on despite years of being held together by tape and stubbornness.

Its reflection danced in his eyes, though there was something else swimming beneath it – something you couldn’t quite place.

“It’s pretty late,” he said, flicking his gaze towards the red numbers of the alarm clock. “We can just sleep if you want.”

“Nah.” You shuffled closer onto your side and tucked your arm beneath the pillow. “Wanna talk. Missed this.”

For a moment, something softened in his expression.

As soon as it appeared, it was gone again.

“Of course you did,” he replied with a grin. “It’s impossible not to miss me.”

You rolled your eyes, absentmindedly fidgeting with the comforter beneath your fingers before another yawn escaped you.

“That’s it. Let’s get you some sleep,” Eddie mumbled as he pushed himself upright.

He tugged the comforter free from where it had become tangled under the two of you before giving it a quick shake and draping it back over your bodies. The bed creaked and groaned beneath his weight as he settled back against the mattress, fluffing his pillow before getting comfortable.

Then, without thinking anything of it, he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you closer until you were practically sprawled across his chest.

You ignored the small sigh that slipped from your lips when your cheek settled against the inked demon head stretched across his chest.

“You comfy?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Can you do that thing with my arm?”

A crooked grin tugged at Eddie’s lips as he looked down at you. “You’re spoiled, you know that?”

There was no bite to the words as his fingers found your forearm, lazily tracing soft spirals against your skin.

You hummed contentedly. “And whose fault is that, hm?”

Eddie knew damn well whose fault it was – his fingers always found their way into your hair whenever you were close enough, his wallet somehow opened a little easier whenever you tagged along to the arcade, and every piece of good news was shared with you before he’d even thought about telling Wayne.

Something tugged softly at his chest.

He ignored and chuckled under his breath instead.  

“What if I wanna be spoiled for once?”

“Then I’ll spoil you rotten,” you replied without hesitation.

Eddie fell quiet. His gaze lingered on the wall opposite of the bed while his finger continued tracing lazy circles along your arm.

Then, ever so quietly:

“Can you scratch my head?”

Sometime in the last few minutes, your eyes had drifted shut in the quiet stillness of the room. you blinked them open slowly, trying to adjust to the warm glow of the bedside lamp.

“Yeah, of course,” you mumbled, the corners of your mouth curling upwards. “C’mere, big boy.”

Eddie’s fingers stilled against your skin before he uncurled his arm around your frame.

You pushed yourself a little higher against the headboard and stretched out your arm for him. Eddie immediately shuffled closer and carefully rested the side of his head against your bicep.

“There he is,” you teased quietly, threading your finger through his hair.

He smelled like the cheap sandalwood and pine shampoo Wayne always bought from the dollar store, lingering traces marijuana smoke, and something else entirely – something that was uniquely Eddie. His curls were frizzy and probably held more knots than he’d ever willingly admit to, but you didn’t comment on any of it. You simply worked your hand through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp as quiet, content sighs slipped past his lips.

“Hm,” he hummed, practically melting beneath your touch. “Yeah, you’re definitely gonna have to spoil me more often.”

A low chuckle escaped you as you brought your free hand up to his curls, carefully teasing apart a few stubborn knots before they could snag.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Blinking slowly, he tilted his head just enough to find your gaze already fixed on him.

For a moment, Eddie was certain he’d never seen you look at anyone the way you were looking at him.

“Your future boyfriend’s gonna have a hard time competing with me if you keep looking at me like that.”

The words left Eddie’s mouth before his brain had the chance to catch them. An uncomfortable buzz immediately settled beneath his skin.

Your hand stilled for only a fraction of a second, but it was enough for him to notice.

Silence settled between you. The space separating your bodies was practically nonexistent, yet somehow it suddenly felt heavier than it had moments ago – not awkward, just… different.

Then, slowly, the smile that had slipped from your face returned, spreading a familiar warmth through his chest.

“There’s no competition, Eds.”

Your fingers resumed their gentle scratching, as though you hadn’t just ripped off a bandage neither of you had been brave enough to touch for years.

Eddie felt his pulse stumble. “What?”

“In fact,” you continued, completely ignoring the disbelief in his voice, “there never has been.”

He broke his gaze away from yours and furrowed his eyebrows as he swallowed.

“Stop…” he trailed off, trying to lean away before immediately giving up. “Don’t say stuff like that if you don’t mean it.”

You opened your mouth before closing it again. For a moment, you simply stared at him, his words hitting you like a punch to the chest.

“Of course I mean it,” you whispered.

You let go of his hair and dragged a hand through your own before flicking your gaze towards the yellowed stains on the ceiling.

“I always carry extra cetirizine whenever we hang out, just in case we run into a cat,” you continued quietly. “And I know the real story behind the scar on your chin even though you’ve never told me.”

Eddie’s frown deepened while his entire body went still beside you.

“I know you skipped an entire week of school when Cliff Burton died but told everyone it was because it was the anniversary of your mom’s death,” you continued. “You say you hate broccoli, but you always eat it when I make it.”

A soft sigh escaped you before you swallowed and finally looked back down at him.

“I was prepared to stay best friends forever and be miserable about it,” you admitted quietly. “I figured that was better than losing you.”

The room fell silent. Eddie stared at you. Not moving, not speaking – just staring.

His eyes darted across your face as if searching for the punchline. For the moment you’d laugh and tell him you were kidding. For the moment he’d wake up, for anything that made more sense than this.

But there wasn’t one – there was only you.

The faint bags beneath your eyes, your nervous smile, your shaking hands tangled in his curls.

The look in your eyes he’d been trying not to think about since you’d told him there was no competition.

“Jesus H. Christ,” he whispered.

Your breath caught. “Eddie–”

“I’ve been in love with you for fucking years.”

The words sounded almost pained as they left him – like he’d been holding them back for far too long.

For a second neither of you moved again. Then Eddie surged forward before he could lose his nerve.

One hand found your jaw, while the other buried itself in the comforter.

And then his lips were on yours.

They felt like silk, and his breath was warm against your skin as he let our a ragged exhale, spreading heat from your cheeks all the way down to your chest.

Your eyes drifted shut as you pulled him closer, unable to stop what he’d started.

A shiver ran down your spine as your senses became overwhelmed by everything Eddie – the shirt he’d loaned you hanging from your frame, the earthy scent of his shampoo, the familiar weight of his hand against your cheek, the nervous drumming of his fingers beneath it.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes slowly opened and found yours. They lingered on your face as though he was trying to memorize every detail while desperately attempting to get the fireworks in his chest under control.

“Fuck Springfield,” he mumbled after a few seconds, apparently incapable of surviving a vulnerable moment without cracking a joke. “I’m kidnapping you.”

A laugh escaped you. “Kidnapping isn’t very boyfriend material, Eddie.”

“Boyfriend, huh?” the words sounded almost disbelieving coming from him. “I like the sound of that.”

“Good,” you replied with a grin. “Because you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Obviously,” he scoffed. “Do you know how hard it is to kidnap a college student?”

You barked out another laugh, the ugly kind that made your stomach hurt and was reserved for him alone – and pulled him closer again, threading your fingers back through his curls. The frizzy strands felt soft against your fingers as you resumed scratching his scalp.

Eddie couldn’t seem to stop looking at you. Like he needed the constant visual confirmation that you were still there, still real. His gaze carried a quiet sort of electricity now, something warm and disbelieving all at once.

Slowly, he tilted his head forwards until his forehead rested against yours, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek.

Then he leaned in and kissed you again. He pulled you into his chest and rolled the both of you until his back laid flush against the mattress.

A sound that was half groan, half disbelieving laugh escaped him against your lips. His fingers tightened slightly against your cheek as he kissed you slowly, almost teasing at first, though there was something else underneath it now; something desperate, and that had been waiting for too long.

You hooked a finger around one of his curls and gave it a gentle tug when a quiet sigh slipped from his lips. All the frustration had been building between the two of you for years slowly found its way into the kiss.

Neither one of you seemed willing to be the first to pull away. But when you finally did, both of you were breathing a little harder than before.

Eddie’s eyes looked darker beneath the amber glow of the bedside lamp, his lips slightly swollen from kissing you. For a moment, he simply stared like he still couldn’t believe any of this was real.

“Please tell me you want this,” his words came out rough and breathless, his chest rose and fell unevenly beneath you as his eyes searched your face.

A soft, disbelieving scoff escaped you while you glanced away for a second before looking back at him – back at the man you’d spent years trying not to fall in love with.

“I’ve wanted this for years,” you whispered.

Eddie didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let your words settle between you while his eyes continued searching your face. The longer he looked, the more ridiculous he felt. The faint shadows beneath your eyes. Your messy hair. The unmistakable affection swimming in your gaze that, apparently, had been there all along. How the fuck had he missed it for all these years?

“Good,” he said after a moment. A mischievous grin was already spreading across his face before the word had fully left his mouth. “Because I really wanna eat you out.”

A loud, undignified snort escaped you. Your head tilted back as laughter burst from your chest.

“Jesus Christ, Eddie,” you wheezed.

“What?”

He tried to sound defensive, as though laughing at the words that had just left his mouth was the most offensive thing you’d ever done in all the years he’d known you. But the act lasted all of three seconds when his lips pulled into a pursed smile before giving way to a chuckle at your disbelieving expression.

“Just being honest here, sweetheart,” he replied quietly. His thumb brushed absentmindedly against your waist. “Since we’re confessing and all that.”

You were still trying to catch your breath from the kiss while his ridiculous words continued echoing in your ears.

You brushed a stray curl away from his eyes and made a mental note to trim his bangs the next chance you got.

Reaching for the back of his head, you gently pulled him closer. A soft sigh escaped you when your lips met once again.

Something in Eddie seemed to snap the moment you kissed him back. Slowly, he rolled the two of you over until your back met the mattress again, bracing himself with one arm while the other remained firmly around your waist. The bed creaked beneath the shift in weight as he settled between your legs.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he mumbled when he finally pulled back for air.

His thumb continued brushing softly against your cheek as he shook his head in disbelief, as though he didn’t quite trust himself with the affection spilling from his mouth.

“You have no idea how much I want you,” he admitted quietly, his eyes flickering between yours and your lips. “But you’re tired, and–”

“I want this, Eds,” you whispered, and slid your hand from the back of his head to his cheek, cradling his face gently.

Eddie’s gaze finally lifted from your lips to your eyes.

“Are you sure?” the question came out softer than before. “Because it’s okay if you don’t.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped you – sometimes he could be so ridiculously stubborn.

“How many times do I have to say it before you believe me?” You stole a quick kiss before he had the chance to answer. “I want this.”

Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped once and for all when he leaned in again, his lips finding yours like he needed your kiss to breathe.

His fingers twitched against your cheek before they slowly trailed down to the hem of your shirt. A warm breath escaped him when his fingers skimmed over the skin of your hips, leaving goosebumps in their wake. The gentle grip you had on his cheek faltered for a brief moment as he started tracing soft circles beneath your shirt, like he was trying to memorize every inch he could reach.

You parted your lips when you let go of his face entirely and brought your fingers back into his curls. Eddie stilled, and his thumb pressed a little harder into your hip when he felt you give his hair a tentative tug. A shiver ran through him at the touch, and he slowed the kiss just enough to catch his breath before he finally – almost hesitantly – pulled away.

“Can I…” the words died on his tongue as he swallowed hard and opened his eyes.

His fingers drifted back to the hem of your shirt, giving the fabric a small, uncertain tug. It took your brain a split second to catch up before you gave him a shaky nod. Eddie swallowed again and nodded back – though it seemed like he was doing it more for himself than for you.

Slowly, he pushed himself upright until he was kneeling between your legs. His hand slipped beneath the fabric and gently lifted your shirt over your head.

Heat instantly rushed to his cheeks, tainting his milky skin a bright pink, as you pulled your arms free from the sleeves, but he didn’t let his gaze wander. Instead, his eyes stayed fixed on yours, still searching for even the smallest hint of hesitation.

Eddie’s heart pounded wildly in his ears as he finally dared to let his eyes trace the delicate curves of your collarbone, down to the swell of your breasts. With shaking hands, he gently caressed your sides as he marveled at how you reacted to his touch. Goosebumps rise in the wake of his fingertips, your nipples hardening in the cool air.

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmured reverently, barely above a whisper.

His fingertips danced along your sternum, circling each breast with agonizing slowness. You arched into his touch, a soft gasp escaping your parted lips when he dipped his head and pressed feather-light kisses along the valley of your cleavage. Your fingers pulled at his hair, urging him closer.

Eddie cups your breast almost hesitantly, brushing his thumb over the sensitive peak. At the same time, he captured the other nipple between his lips, and flicked it teasingly with his tongue. Emboldened by the sharp gasps spilling from your mouth, your body arching off the bed and into his chest, he sucked harder and grazed the hard peaks with his teeth. He moaned against your skin, lavishing you with devoted attention as he switched between them, alternating between licks and nibbles until they glistened with his spit.

Your hips roll restlessly beneath him, seeking friction. He let go of your breasts and trailed open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, pausing to dip his tongue into your navel – the little shit shot you a little grin when he did so, always one for the dramatics. Lower he went, until he finally reached the waistband of the boxers hugging your hips. Slowly, almost torturously, he inched the fabric downwards, exposing more than he’d ever seen of you.

His breath hitched as something urgent and hot coiled in his core. Eddie curled his hands around your thighs, softly pushing them further apart until his gaze found your slick folds. The heady scent of your arousal filled his nostrils, making his cock throb almost painfully under his boxers.

“Gonna make you feel so fucking good,” he mumbled almost absentmindedly, and trailed one finger through your wet slit. “Fuck, can’t believe you’re letting me do this.”

Eddie then locked his eyes with yours as he lowered his head, holding your gaze. His plush lips grazed your clit, pulling a sharp exhale from you both. He lapped softly at your pussy, savouring the way you tasted and ingraining it into his tongue. You pressed him closer, nails scraping sharply against his scalp and fingers tugging harshly at the curly strands, desperate for more. The silent plea you gave him was more than enough, and he sealed his mouth over your slit and thrusted his tongue inside, fucking you steadily as he all but slurped at your essence.

“I– Fuck,” you breathed out as Eddie trailed a thick lick back to your clit, and softly pushed a finger into your pussy. “Y-yes, just like that.”

A groan escaped him when you fluttered around him, drawing him in deeper. He pumped his digit lazily, curling it to stroke that secret spot like he’d done it times and times before, making stars burst behind your eyelids. His tongue swirled mercilessly around your throbbing clit, lashing and flicking it with practiced precision.

He couldn’t remember when he’d closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, he found you with your head thrown back, your lips parted in a small circle as your chest heaved up and down. He added another finger, stretching you open deliciously slow as you writhed mindlessly underneath him.

Your legs trembled around his face, your feet accidentally brushing against him when your toes curled until suddenly, he withdrew completely, denying your release.

“No, no, no,” you whine out, your eyebrows pulled into a tight furrow. “Fucking hell, you’re such a fucking di–”

Eddie silenced you with a filthy kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You returned the heated kiss fervently, licking into his mouth and letting your slick tongues intertwine.

Pulling away again, Eddie gazed down at you with molten brown eyes, a grin spreading across his kiss-swollen lips.

“You taste even better than I imagined,” he murmured, ignoring the curses falling from your mouth.

Like he needed to make his point, he dove back between your thighs, and latched his lips onto your clit like a man starved. He suckled forcefully, flicking the swollen nub with rapid strokes of his tongue.

“Eds–” you whine, desperate to finally get the release he’d taken away from you moments ago. “Fuckfuckfuck.”

Just as the wave of ecstasy had found its way back to you, Eddie drove two fingers into your clenching slit, pumping vigorously as he kept sucking. Your juices gushed on his chin, back bowed clean off the bed as wave after wave of mind-melting bliss crashed over you until you collapsed bonelessly against the mattress.

Eddie watched raptly as you came undone, a broken groan slipping from his lips, completely transfixed by the picture in front of him – hair splayed wildly, skin gleaming with a sheen layer of sweat, mouth agape in ecstasy as a broken moan slipped from your lips. Pride surged through him knowing that he did that, that he unravelled you so thoroughly like he’d had wanted to do for so long.

He gave you a moment to come down, and placed a tender kiss on your inner thigh before crawling up your body. He settled between your limp legs, nestling his aching shaft against your slick entrance. Capturing your lips once more, he kissed you deeply, conveying without words every feeling he had ever pushed down over the years. You looped your arms around his neck, and pulled him impossibly closer as you ground up against him, frantic with need.

“Can’t believe you’re all mine,” he mumbled against your lips.

He reached between you, and tugged his boxers down just enough for his cock to slip out and gave himself a desperate tug, then another, and guided himself to your dripping opening. You felt hot and tight around his swollen tip as he prodded insistently at your slit until finally sinking into your slick pussy. A breathy encouragement of his name escaped you as he sank himself deeper into you, groans spilling from his own lips at the feeling of being fully sheathed within your walls.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he grunted sharply as you locked your legs behind him, and pulled him impossibly deeper until he was buried to the hilt. “You’re so… I don’t think I’ll last long, sweetheart. Fuck.”

Eddie hissed sharply when he felt your nails dig into his shoulder, and pressed his clammy forehead against yours as he took a moment to let you adjust – although he probably needed the moment more than you did.

Electricity zinged up his spine at the delicious pressure engulfing his aching cock, and he set a deep, driving rhythm as he rocked into you with purpose. Each slow, yet powerful thrust punched the breath from your lungs, his heavy balls slapping at your ass as he drew broken moans from your sweet lips. Eddie’s hand roamed greedily, squeezing and kneading every supple curve of your body as you met him stroke for stroke, clinging on for dear life as the knot deep in your stomach wounded tighter and tighter.

His ears twitched with every hitch in your breath, every shiver that ran down your spine, every time your nails dug a little deeper into his milky skin, like he desperately needed to memorise every little detail of how you reacted to him.

“Where do you want me, baby?” he pushed himself off of you just enough for his gaze to find your closed eyes, furrowed brows and mouth lulling open.

“Fuck, Ed-Eddie,” you moaned out as he gave you another hard thrust. “In– mhm! Inside, p-please.”

“Jesus,” his hips faltered when your words reached him, but he picked up the pace again just as quickly. Every roll of his lips was deliberate, insistent on drawing out every breathless whimper and broken moan you had to offer. “You can’t just say shit like that.”

“P-please, Eddie,” you breathed out, and opened your eyes, blinking a few times until his face came back into focus. “I want it, please.”

Eddie gave you three last hard thrusts before his hips halted, pulsing hot seed directly into your spasming core. You followed right after, clamping down on his spurting cock as you shattered around him. He collapsed on top of you, burying his face in your neck as he tried – and failed – to catch his breath. The two of you had become a tangled mess of limbs and heavy, ragged breathing.

“I don’t– Jesus,” he breathed out after a moment, the words muffled and low. “I don’t think I’ve ever came that hard.”

His breath steadied after a few more seconds, although his heart still pounded loudly in his ears as he pushed himself up just enough for his eyes to find your face. His gaze softened immediately at the sight in front of him – you licking your dry lips as you blinked lazily up at him.

But then he immediately groaned and cringed at himself.

“Ah, fuck,” he mumbled as he fell forwards again, nearly suffocating you.

You hummed softly in confusion as you let go of his shoulder and dove your fingers back into his messy locks. You pull a low, satisfied sigh from him as your nails scraped gently against his scalp.

“Can’t believe I came before you.”

A low chuckle escaped you before you could stop it. Shaking your head, you whispered something that sounded an awful lot like idiot under your breath.

“I couldn’t care less, Eds,” you managed to say after you’d finally gotten your laughter under control. “It’s not gonna make me love you any less.”

Eddie stilled above you, like your words had hit him square in the chest. His breath caught, and his fingers twitched against the sheets beneath you. For a moment, he kept his face hidden into the crook of your neck.

But the tension melted from his shoulders as quickly as it had appeared. He leaned back just enough for his lips to find yours again, slow and careful.

“I fucking love you too,” he mumbled against your lips.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes glimmered beneath the low amber light of the bedside lamp, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it.

“Yeah?” you asked with a bashful smile before something else crept into your gaze. “Even my dubious pizza order?”

Eddie snorted. “Yeah, even your dubious pizza order.”

“Good.” A grin spread across your face. “Because I could really use another slice after all of this.”

He stared at you for a long moment, blinking in disbelief.

“We just confessed our undying love, and you’re thinking about pizza?”

“Don’t pretend like you couldn’t go for another slice too,” you chuckled.

Eddie hissed lowly as you accidentally clenched around him, and softly pulled out his softening cock out of you. He shook his head, though the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth ruined any attempt at looking annoyed. He pulled his boxers up his hips and, without another word, pushed himself off the bed and disappeared down the hallway.

Not even ten seconds later, you heard the fridge open and close, followed by the soft sound of footsteps making their way back towards the bedroom. Eddie appeared in the doorway with the pizza box in one hand and two cans of beer balanced in the other. He dropped both at the foot of the bed before helping you sit up, trying his best – and failing – not to stare at your chest.

“You hate eating in bed,” you pointed out as he pulled his eyes away from your naked frame, and flicked open the pizza box.

“But I don’t hate you,” he mumbled in return, passing you a slice.

For a moment, all you could do was stare at him.

A soft smile slowly spread across your face as you took the slice from his hand.

“I don’t hate you either.”

Eddie groaned dramatically and rolled onto his back. “I need a different book. The one with the red tabs. It’s on your bed, I think.”

Your stomach dropped.

Because yes, there was a book with red tabs on your bed.

But it was not the sociology textbook.

It was tucked half beneath your comforter, face-down, like it had tried to hide itself at the last second. Black cover. Embossed lettering. A very intentional ropework design worked into cover in a way that was… not subtle.

You opened your mouth.

“Wait—”

Too late.

Eddie was already on his feet, crossing the room in three lazy steps, reaching down to grab the book from your bed before you could physically launch yourself at him to stop it. His fingers curled around the spine, and he lifted it casually, flipping it over—

—and froze.

"This is... not your sociology textbook." He says, eyes wide as he flips through the pages.

Your blood ran cold. It was a specific, visceral feeling, like an ice cube sliding down your spine. 

Everything faded to a dull roar in your ears. The only thing that existed was Eddie, standing there, holding the single most damning object you owned.

He didn’t flip through it with shock or disgust. There was no theatrical recoil. Instead, his thumb brushed against the pages with a strange, focused curiosity. His eyes, wide and dark, weren't judging; they were reading. Absorbing.

He finally looked up, but not at you. His gaze landed on the open textbook on your desk, red tabs that marked actual academics and not fantasies. 

A slow, disarming smile started at the corner of his mouth, one that you’d seen a hundred times after a good roll of the D20.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice a low, conspiratorial rumble that felt like it vibrated right through the floorboards. “This… is a much more practical application of power dynamics than our textbooks.”

Your throat was dry.

"Thats not funny, Eddie." You turn, face red. "Give it back."

He tilted his head, studying your blush as intently as he'd studied the book. He didn't move to give it back. 

"I promise you, my porn stash is way more embarrassing than this." He waved the book around a little. "At least yours has literary merit."

"It's not porn!" you shot back, your voice a little too loud in the small space. "It's research!"

The excuse sounded flimsy even to your own ears.

Eddie's smile widened. "Research," he repeated, testing the word on his tongue. "For what? Your dissertation on rope burns?"

He was teasing you, but it wasn't cruel. It was… interested. He wasn't making fun of you. He was engaging. He held the book out, not quite close enough for you to snatch back.

"This shit isn't even accurate," he said, tapping a page. "This is all showmanship. They forgot the most important part."

You blinked, confusion warring with humiliation. "What part?"

"The conversation." His eyes met yours, and for a second, the teasing faded. There was something serious there. Something intense but inherently safe. 

"Well, the conversation isn't the sexy part." You mutter. 

"Oh so you're admitting it's porn now?"  He smirks and you narrow your eyes. "And also... the conversation is definitely the sexy part," he added, stepping closer. "It's the whole point."

You held your ground, even though every instinct screamed at you to snatch the book, throw him out, and crawl into a hole for the rest of eternity. Instead, you lifted your chin. "You think so?"

"I'm well versed, yeah."

He finally lowered the book, setting it down on your desk, on top of your sociology textbook. The juxtaposition was dizzying. Academia and anarchy. Theory and practice.

He took another step into your personal space. Close enough that you could smell the faint scent of the joint he smoked outside. 

"I'm going to guess you haven't put this into practice yet," he said softly.

You couldn't answer. The lie was stuck in your throat. Because he was right. The book, the fantasies—they'd always been in your head. A private world.

A world he had just stumbled into.

"So tell me," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, looking you directly in the eye. "Is it something you only like in fiction or would you like to learn it for real?"

He waited.

And the silence that followed was the loudest thing you'd ever heard.

His question hung in the air between you, shimmering and dangerous. 

Is it something you only like in fiction or would you like to learn it for real?

It was a test. A doorway. A chance to step out of the theory and into the practice.

"I mean, I don't exactly have a partner to, you know..." Your hands flew up in a vague, helpless gesture. "It's not like I can just walk into a bar and ask 'Hey, any of you guys into safe, effective, and nonjudgmental bondage?'"

The joke landed weakly, but Eddie didn't laugh. He just watched you, like a predator assessing prey. He leaned against your desk, crossing his arms, the casual posture doing nothing to hide the focus in his gaze. He picked up the book again, not to mock you this time, but to flip to a specific, dog-eared page.

"Okay," he said, tapping the pages of a sex scene you had clearly marked with interest. "This, for example. The rope work is all wrong for this position. It would cut off circulation after five minutes."

You blinked. "You... you know about ropes?"

He shrugged. "I have hobbies. Guitar isn't my only practical area of expertise." He met your eyes again. 

"I guess that makes sense for your whole... look." You gesture vaguely at him. 

That one does make him laugh a little. "Yeah sure the whole aesthetic probably doesn't hurt." He smirks at you, eyes scanning over you again. "But the look is just a bonus. Not a guarantee. I know people who are vanilla as hell who dress like me. And I know people who would put this whole book to shame who wear polo shirts."

You think about that for a second, mulling it over as he speaks again. 

"Do you like my 'look' or something? You getting off on the thought of me being the one tying you up?" He teases you, but it's not a joke, not really. It's a question.

The question hung there, an invitation wrapped in a dare. Your cheeks burned, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze.

"Okay, light teasing was fine but don't purposely be an ass about this." You warn him, the bite in your words making him raise an eyebrow. "And... yeah. The thought occurred once or twice. I'm not blind." The admission felt like ripping off a band-aid—painful, but necessary.

Something shifted in Eddie's expression. His smirk was softer, like he didn't expect you to admit it. He let it hang in the air for a beat, savoring the victory.

"Once or twice, huh?" he mused. "That's... nice."

He set the book down again, this time closing it. The conversation was moving on, past the fantasy and into reality.

He sits on your bed, not like he usually does where he's just sprawled out with no care in the world. This was different. He sat close to the edge, leaving a space between you, but the air crackled with new possibilities. He rested his hands on his knees, a position that was open, non-threatening, but still completely in control.

"I've thought about it like, way more than once or twice honestly. I've thought about what it would be like with you. So, like, if you want to try some things, or even just talk about them, I'm more than willing to be your partner in crime."

You couldn't speak, but he continued. 

"Unless, you know, you'd rather ask that guy from your history class. What's his name? Mark? The one who looks like he was grown in a lab to sell minivans."

"Mark is just my project partner." You roll your eyes. "He's literally been here once to study." 

"You laugh at his jokes a lot in the dining hall." He shoots back. "I've seen it."

You had no comeback for that. Because he'd noticed. And you had laughed. But Mark's jokes were safe. They were about midterms and dining hall food. Eddie's jokes were about things that made your stomach flip.

"Okay, that doesn't mean I want to jump his bones. And even if I did, which I don't, how is that even rele--" 

It hits you then

"You're jealous." You say it out loud, a statement, not a question.

Eddie didn't flinch. He didn't deny it.

He just shrugged again, that infuriatingly casual gesture that meant everything and nothing.

"I'm territorial about things that interest me," he said simply.

You were no longer just a study partner.

"Look. We've been friends for a while. You know me. You know I'm not a creep. We can just… talk. No touching, no ropes, nothin'. Just words. We lay it all out. Boundaries. What you're curious about. What's an absolute hard 'no'." He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering again. "Safe words. Pet names. the whole deal."

He was laying out a curriculum. A syllabus for your most private, secret class. And the professor was the guy who made fun of your D&D character for being too lawful good.

"This is insane," you whispered, the words feeling like bubbles in your chest.

"Is it?" He stood up and walked to your door, closing it and twisting the lock. 

"Eddie... what if I say yes?"

He paused, his back to you for a second, before turning around. He leaned against the door, hands in his pockets.

"Then the real research begins." He gave you a small, genuine smile. "But only if you say the word."

The choice was yours.

"Okay." The word was barely a whisper.

He pushed off the door and walked back toward you, gesturing at your bed. "Okay. Rule one. Sit."

You carefully moved from your desk chair and sat on the bed, your back ramrod straight, perched on the very edge of the comforter like it might give way beneath you.

He sat down, leaving a careful foot of space between you. The mattress dipped with his weight, pulling you closer.

"You're tense as all hell, princess. Relax." The pet name was new. It wasn't teasing. It was... grounding.

You tried to unclench your shoulders.

"Let's start easy. Your safe word. It needs to be something you'll remember even if your brain is all fuzzy. Not something you'd normally say during sex. 'No' and 'stop' can be part of the scene. Your safe word is what makes the scene stop. No questions asked."

"Scene? That's so formal. So..."

"It's practical," he corrected gently. "It keeps things from getting messy. So. What'll it be?"

You thought for a moment, your mind racing. "Dragonfruit." It was stupid, random. No one would ever shout it accidentally.

A slow grin spread across Eddie's face. "Dragonfruit. I love it. Okay. That's ours. If you say it, we stop. Everything."

He shifted a little closer, the warmth of him seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt.

"Is there anything you like to be called? Or don't like?" He says, more seriously now. "Some people like being called a slut or a whore. Some people like 'good girl'. Some people hate it. There is no right answer, it's all about you."

The directness of the question made your breath catch. "Good girl," you admitted, your cheeks flushing with heat. "I don't think I'm ready for degradation yet..."

Part of you was worried saying that like you'd dissapoint him or something. but he just nodded, like you'd given him a perfectly reasonable answer.

"Alright. 'Good girl' it is. We can save the other stuff for an advanced class." The wink he threw you was both a joke and a promise.

"What about you?" you found yourself asking.

He seemed surprised by the question for a second. "Oh, well, I guess I'm pretty fine with most things. I mean, you could probably call me an asshole and I'd still like it cause it was your voice."

He said it so casually, as if he were discussing his favorite brand of guitar strings, and not the thought of you moaning for him. 

"I liked when you called me princess..." You admit. "You could call me that."

"Princess," he repeated, the word soft on his tongue. "I can do that."

He was so close now. You could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.

"Okay, new question..." Those big eyes drag down your figure. "Can you come sit on my lap? I want you closer."

He wasn't just asking a question about a hypothetical scenario anymore. This was real. This was happening.

Your body obeyed before your brain could catch up. You slid across the small space between you, the comforter a whisper under your knees, and settled yourself onto his lap.

His big hands went to your waist automatically, steadying you. He was warm, solid. You could feel the worn denim of his jeans against the thin material of your leggings.

"Alright. First lesson." His breath was warm against your ear, making you shiver. "Power isn't about force. It's about control. My control, your surrender."

You nod, mentally taking notes and he smiles before leaning into to whisper in your ear. 

"You can always say no." He says gently. "Right now, to me. You can say 'no, Eddie, I don't want to sit on your lap' and I'll let you go, no questions asked. This is still a conversation."

"I know." You say, a little breathless.

"But you aren't going to say that, are you? No... you want this."

"I do."

"Good girl." The words were a low rumble you felt straight between your legs. "I'm going to put my hands on your thighs now. Just to hold you. Alright?"

You could only manage a small nod.

You could feel the weight of his rings through your leggings. 

"Looking so pretty, all for me." He whispers and you lean into him, your head falling to rest on his shoulder as your eyes flutter shut. You trusted him. You'd known him for years. He was safe.

This was what he meant, about the conversation. Every touch was a question. Every reaction, an answer.

"Are you going to be good for me?" He asks.

"Y-yeah," you manage. "I'll be good."

His grip on your thighs tightened just a fraction.

"I know you will." He nosed at your neck. "Now, hands behind your back. Let me hold them."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You swallowed, your throat tight, and slowly, deliberately, you moved your arms behind you, lacing your fingers together at the small of your back. The position pushed your chest out, making you feel incredibly vulnerable, incredibly exposed.

He made a soft, satisfied sound.

"Always like it when you wear a low cut top like this." He admits. His hands slid from your thighs to your back, covering your clasped hands with one of his own. The gesture was light, not restrictive, but it felt impossibly final.

His other hand came up to trace the neckline of your shirt, a single finger grazing your collarbone, then dipping lower, following the curve of your breast. He didn't grab, didn't grope. He just… explored. Mapping the territory.

"Your heart's beating so fast," he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I can feel it."

You couldn't answer. All your focus was on the path of his finger as it drifted to the peak of your breast, circling your nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt and bra.

"Responsive little thing, aren't you sweetheart?" He teases.

He circles it a few times, making you squirm on his lap and you can already feel the hard length of him through your layers of clothes. The evidence of his own desire.

His other hand still holds your wrists.

"You like your nipples played with? I know you're sensitive." He asks and you nod again. "Let's see more of these pretty tits."

He doesn't ask to take your shirt off. He just does.

He expertly pulls the shirt over your head in one fluid motion, momentarily freeing your hands before he catches them again, this time pressing them more firmly into the small of your back. He then goes for the clasp of your bra and he undoes that too, pulling it down your arms until you're topless for him.

"Look at that." He whispers and it's the most turned on you've ever heard him.

He runs his thumb over the pebbled flesh of your nipple, and your breath hitches. The calloused pad of his thumb created a delicious friction, a direct line of heat pooling in your core.

"I'm going to pinch," he warned, his voice a dark promise. "Just a little. To see how you like it."

You tensed in anticipation.

He didn't make you wait long. He rolled your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, applying a slow, deliberate pressure. A sharp, surprising jolt of pleasure-pain shot through you, pulling a soft gasp from your lips.

"Good," he rasped. "You like that."

It wasn't a question. He read your body as easily as he read the tabbed pages of your sociology textbook.

He keeps pinching and playing as he trails soft kisses from your collarbones and lower, purposefully avoiding where you want his mouth. He was kissing all around your breasts, teasing you with featherlight touches until you're squirming and whining.

"Shh, be patient." He whispers against the skin of your breast. "I'll get there."

He does it again to the other breast. The pinch, the pleasure, the feeling of being completely at his mercy. He was testing you, seeing what made you gasp, what made you squirm. And you were arching into his touch, a silent plea for more.

He finally lowered his head, taking one peaked nipple into the warm, wet heat of his mouth. He sucked gently, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub, before grazing it lightly with his teeth.

The whimper that left you was undignified. Needy.

He pulled back, releasing you with a soft 'pop'. He looked up at you, his eyes dark with an emotion you'd never seen directed at you before. Possessiveness. Pride. Awe.

"Look what you do to me," he murmured, one of his hands releasing yours to guide your own down, pressing it flat against the hard bulge straining against the denim of his jeans.

"You're going to have to take care of that later, aren't you?" He says, pushing your hips down a little, making you grind against him.

The friction was obscene, a delicious drag through the layers of clothing that sent sparks skittering up your spine. You did it again, a little more boldly, rocking yourself against the rigid length of him. A groan rumbled in his chest, a purely male, primal sound of appreciation.

"Not yet," he said, his grip on your waist tightening, stopping your movements. "That's a reward. And you haven't earned it yet."

He shifted you slightly, adjusting your position so you could feel him more acutely, a perfect, infuriating pressure against your clothed core. His free hand drifted down to the waistband of your leggings. His fingers toyed with the elastic, a casual touch that made your entire body clench with anticipation.

"You're soaked through already, aren't you, princess?" he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "I can feel it. All this fuss just from me playing with your pretty tits."

"Is that weird?" You ask, a little nervous now.

"Not at all. It's perfect." He says gently. "It means your body is honest. It tells the truth. And right now, your body is telling me how much you want this."

His fingers dipped below the waistband, not touching you where you craved it most, but just resting against the soft skin there. 

"We could stop right now," he offered, his tone maddeningly level. "We can stop anytime you want. We can just put your shirt back on, order a pizza, and fail our sociology midterm together. All you have to do is say one word. Do you remember our word?"

"Dragonfruit," you whispered, testing it on your tongue. It felt foreign, distant. Not what you wanted at all.

"Now, tell me what you do want."

You took a shaky breath. "I want you to touch me."

"Touch you where? You have to use your words."

Every nerve ending was on fire. "My... I want you to touch me between my legs."

"Good girl."

He finally moved, his hand sliding further down, past the damp cotton of your underwear, through your slick folds. He didn't rush, exploring you with a surgeon's precision.

"This pussy is so fucking wet for me, princess." He breathes out in awe.

He found your clit with an unnerving ease, a single finger circling the sensitive bundle of nerves. You jolted, a sharp inhale of pleasure.

"Right there?" he asked, feigning innocence.

You could only nod, your head falling back against his shoulder as he continued his slow, torturous circles. He was drawing it out, making you feel every spark, every tremor. You were wound so tight, a trembling knot of need.

Your hips began to move of their own accord, chasing the friction, the building pressure. But he stopped you again, holding you still with a firm grip.

"Uh-uh. My pace," he chided softly. "You don't get to finish until I say you can."

A whimper escaped your lips, a sound of pure frustration.

"Patience," he murmured, kissing your temple.

You notice now, that he hasn't kissed your lips, but you don't make a comment on it, too busy feeling everything else to care.

He was a master of this, a conductor of your pleasure. He varied the pressure, the speed, watching your every reaction, learning what made you gasp, what made you whine. He slipped a finger inside you, then a second, curling them upward to stroke that spot that made your vision blur.

"You think I should let you come soon?" he asked, his voice a dark, intimate rumble. "You've been so good for me. Sitting still. Taking what I give you."

"Please," you begged, the word ripped from you. "Eddie, please."

"Please what?"

"Please let me finish."

He chuckled, a low, wicked sound. "Since you asked so nicely."

He increased the pressure on your clit, the circles becoming faster, more demanding. His fingers inside you stroked with renewed purpose. The tension in your belly coiled tighter and tighter, a spring ready to snap.

"That's it, sweetheart. Let go. Soak my fucking hand." he commanded.

You were cumming by the time he said 'let go', your body convulsing in a blinding wave of pleasure. You cried out, your back arching, your hands still trapped behind you, leaving you nothing to hold onto but him. He held you through it, his movements slowing, gentling, as you shuddered and trembled.

When you were riding out the after shocks he released your hands, letting you decide where to put them. You immediately brought them around to his shoulders, clinging to him. Your face was buried in the crook of his neck, catching your breath. 

His hands came up to your back, stroking you slowly, grounding you. He whispered sweet nothings against your hair, words of praise and affection.

"I know that wasn't as extreme as what your little book had, but trust needs to be built up slowly for things like that." He says softly, kissing your shoulder. "We'll get there. 

You could feel the rapid, steady beat of his heart against your cheek. You could still feel the hard press of his arousal against you, a silent testament to his own restraint.

"Eddie..." you whispered, your voice hoarse. "You didn't..."

He shushed you, a finger gently tilting your chin up. "Hey. it's okay. Tonight was about you. About learning you."

You looked at him, really looked at him. His hair was a mess, his lips were swollen from where he'd been kissing your skin, and his eyes were dark and soft and full of an emotion that made your chest ache.

Without thinking, you leaned in and finally, finally kissed him.

He didn't move at first and you pulled back quickly, suddenly feeling stupid. 

Was kissing not okay in this arrangement?

Did he only want the physical part?

Did he even like you like that? 

Before you could speak, he did it first. 

"Hey you, don't look like that. It's not what you think." He says gently.

"I- I just thought..."

"I know what you thought. And it's okay. I wanted to kiss you. More than anything."

"So why didn't you?" You ask, not in an accusatory tone, but a genuinely curious one.

"Because if I kissed you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I wouldn't have been able to handle it if this was just a one-time thing. Or if this was just about sex. I wouldn't have been able to control myself, and we might not be here right now."

This confession was so raw, so vulnerable. It was more intimate than anything you'd done.

"So... what is this then?" You ask, your heart pounding.

"It's whatever you want it to be." He says honestly. "But I want it to be something. Something real."

You lean in again, slowly, giving him the chance to pull away.

He didn't.

He met you halfway, his lips finally claiming yours. It wasn't a kiss of frenzy or desperation. His hands cupped your face, holding you tenderly, as if you were something precious. His lips were soft, tasting faintly of you, of the cola he'd been drinking hours ago. He kissed you slowly, deeply, a conversation without words.

When you finally parted, you were both breathless.

"Do you still want me to do something about..." You trail off, letting your eyes flick down to the very prominent problem in his pants.

He groaned, pressing his forehead against yours. "Princess, you have no idea how much I want that. But I also want to do this right. So... right now, nothing too demanding, just let me fuck your brains out?"

You laughed, a real, genuine laugh that made your whole body feel lighter.

"You're an idiot."

"You know what?" He says with a teasing smile, before flipping you so he was hovering over you on the bed. "I like it better when you're on your back, anyway."

He made quick work of your leggings and underwear, tossing them aside. He stood up to strip off his own clothes, and you watched him, your gaze hungry. You'd seen him shirtless before, at the lake, at a party, but this was different.

The chain around his neck rested in the dip of his collarbone. His chest was lean, a smattering of dark hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his boxers. He was all sharp angles and wiry strength. And as he pulled down his boxers, your breath hitched.

"You want this huh? This is what you were grinding against earlier?" He smirks. He was long and thick, flushed with arousal, curving up towards his stomach.

He climbed back onto the bed, settling himself between your legs.

"Take what you want," he commanded, his voice a low growl.

Your hand trembled as you reached between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around him. He was hot and heavy in your palm as you guided him to your entrance, and he pushed forward, just the head breaching you.

A shared gasp. You were so wet, so ready for him, but the stretch was still intense, a delicious burn.

"Oh, good girl, you listen so fucking well," he praised, before sliding the rest of the way home with one slow, deep thrust.

He filled you completely, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

"Fuck," he breathed, burying his face in your neck. "You feel better than I ever imagined."

He started to move, a slow, deep rhythm that stole the air from your lungs. Every drag of his cock against your inner walls was a fresh wave of pleasure. This was different from the sharp, focused intensity from before. This was a deep, all-consuming fire.

"Look at me," he demanded, pulling back just enough to see your face. "Hold on to the headboard."

You obeyed, your hands finding the cool metal bars of your headboard, as he began to move again. This new angle let him hit that spot inside you with every thrust, making your toes curl. He wasn't just fucking you anymore. He was claiming you. Marking you from the inside out.

"Who's making you feel this good?" he grunted, his hips snapping a little faster.

"You are," you moaned, your knuckles white where you gripped the headboard.

"Whose cock makes you feel this good?" He asks, a dark look in his eyes.

"Yours," you gasped, the words torn from you. "Only yours, Eddie."

"Fuck yes, it does." He says, a smirk on his face. "Not some loser from the dining hall." He speeds up a little, getting cocky. "Not your project partner. You wanna know who knows exactly what to do with you? Me." He punctuates his words with a hard thrust and you can't help but arch your back.

"You're mine now, sweetheart. This pussy is mine to use." His voice is a rough possessive rasp as he leans down to whisper softly in your ear. "Gimme a color, princess. Are we green?"

You were so far gone, but you knew what he was asking. "Green," you moaned. "So green, Eddie."

He smiled, a triumphant, feral grin. "Good girl. You want me to keep talking like this, honey? You want me to tell you how I'm going to fuck you every day after our study sessions from now on? How I'm going to bend you over that desk until you're screaming my name?"

"Yes," you whined, a desperate, needy sound. "Please."

"Then I guess I'll have to do it." His hips began to piston faster, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady, rhythmic beat. "Would you like that, sweetheart? To be my good little girl? To cum whenever I say?"

"I would," you cried out. "God, I would."

He brought a hand between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again. He didn't circle it this time. He pressed down, hard, in direct counterpoint to his thrusts.

"Cum for me," he commanded. "All over my cock."

Your orgasm ripped through you, violent and overwhelming. You screamed his name, a raw, ragged sound, as you convulsed around him, your body spasming with the force of your release.

"Mmm, gonna wake up the whole dorm." He praised. "Such a good fucking girl." He kept thrusting through it, prolonging your pleasure until you were a sobbing, writhing mess beneath him.

He pulled out and kissed you softly, the kiss slow and deep as you shook under him. You could feel his erection against your thigh, hot and hard and insistent.

"You still haven't..." You begin, trailing off again as you try and catch your breath.

"I haven't bent you over the desk yet." He grins, before he pulls you up from your comfortable spot on your back.

His hands were on you instantly, guiding you to your feet and then turning you, walking you the few steps to your desk. He swept his arm across it, the textbook with the red tabs, a stack of flashcards—all of it clattering to the floor in a mess of academic debris.

His lips are kissing by your ear as he speaks, caging you in from behind. "You need me to get a condom?" He asks, and you are a little surprised by the question.

"I'm on the pill." You say quickly, and he makes a happy humming sound, kissing the back of your neck.

"Perfect." He whispers, before he's pressing your chest flat against the desk. The cool wood was a shock against your heated skin.

"Think you can handle a little more for me, baby?" He asked, his hands stroking over your ass.

You nod, your face turned to the side, your cheek pressed against the smooth wood.

"Use your words."

"Yes," you breathe out. "I can handle more."

He doesn't enter you right away. Instead, he kneels, spreading your cheeks, and you feel the hot, wet shock of his tongue against your pussy. He licks a long, slow stripe from your clit to your entrance, groaning at the taste.

"Fuck, you're delicious," he murmurs, before diving back in.

He was relentless, eating you out with a single-minded focus that left you trembling. He alternated between broad, flat strokes of his tongue and pointed, targeted flicks against your clit.

His hands grip at the fat of your ass as he eats you out like a man starved, and you can't help but push your hips back against him. He eats it until your legs are shaking and you're whining for him to stop. When he does, he stands up, his chest heaving.

He pauses and you furrow your eyebrows in confusion. You glance behind you to see him taking the rings off his right hand, leaning over your back to put them on the desk as he places small kisses on your back. 

"What are you..." 

Your whisper turns into a whine when a callous palm  hits your ass cheek. Not hard, but enough that you gasp at the suddenness.

He shushes you gently, rubbing the reddening mark. "Just a little color for my pretty girl." He murmurs. "You like that? Just a little sting?"

You nod, your mind fuzzy with pleasure and confusion.

"Words, baby." He reminds you.

"Y-yes. I like it."

He spanks you again, this one harder, and you feel the jolt of it deep in your core. He alternates between spanking you and rubbing the tender skin, until you're a quivering, whimpering mess.

Another smack and you don't even register when he lines himself up with your entrance, and glides in, slick and easy, bottoming out with a deep groan. The angle was different, deeper, and it made you feel utterly possessed.

He set a brutal pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the small room, mingling with your moans and his ragged breaths. One of his hands grabs your face as he leans over to kiss you. 

"Taste how fucking sweet you are?" He whispers against your lips. You're nodding dumbly as he continues to fuck you, tongue licking into your mouth.

His other hand slides around your body, finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles. It was too much, too intense, and you tried to squirm away.

"Uh-uh. You take it," he commanded, his voice a low growl.

"Take everything I give you, princess." He was praising you, his words stoking the fire in your belly. You were already so sensitive from your previous orgasms, every drag of his cock against your walls a fresh wave of pleasure.

"Please," you begged, not even sure what you were asking for.

More? Faster? For it to never end?

"I know, I know." He cooed at you. "Good girls like you need to be fucked until they can't think straight."

You clenched around him, and he grunted, his rhythm faltering for a second.

"Yeah, you like me saying that, don't you? You like being my good girl." He punctuates his words with a hard thrust that makes you see stars. 

Your clit was throbbing under his thumb, the pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. Your body was a live wire, humming with a frantic, desperate energy.

"Gonna cum," you sobbed, the words barely intelligible. "Eddie, I'm gonna cum."

He pressed you down more against the desk, his hips snapping faster, harder. He leans over your back so you can feel the sweat from his chest on your skin as he speaks right into your ear.

"Come on," he urged, his voice rough with strain. "Cum for me. One. More. Fucking. Time."

You whined out, needier than ever, as your body convulsed, your inner walls clamping down on him. Your legs gave out, and you would have collapsed to the floor if he hadn't been holding you up, pinning you to the desk.

He gathered your hair in one of his hands, pulling your head back slightly, the angle new and dizzying as he keeps fucking you through your orgasm. This let him see your face as he uses you for his own pleasure. He looked wild, untamed, his pupils blown wide with lust.

"That's it, baby. Milk my cock. Such a good fucking girl." He moans as he starts to lose the steady rhythm. You could feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming erratic, more desperate.

"Gonna fill you up," he growled, his grip on your hair tightening. "Mark this pretty little pussy as mine."

With a final, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt, and you felt the hot pulse of his release deep inside you. He stayed there for a long moment, his forehead resting against your back, both of you breathing heavily, trying to come back to earth.

His hand in your hair changed from a grip to soothing stokes

His fingers danced up your body from their ruthless attack of your clit, to splay across your stomach. You feel him press gently. He was still inside of you. Softening, but still present. 

"You okay?" he murmured against your spine, the words muffled by his soft kisses to your skin.

You managed a weak nod, not trusting your voice.

He laughed softly, the vibration traveling through you. "Good. Because I'm not done with you yet."

He slowly pulled out, and the emptiness you felt was acute. You could feel his release begin to trickle down your thigh, a sticky, intimate reminder of what you'd just done.

He helped you to the bed, tugging you back into his arms. You both were sweaty, sticky, and your room was a mess. You couldn't bring yourself to care.

You curled into his side, your head on his chest. The steady, reassuring beat of his heart was a comforting anchor in the haze of satiation.

His hands never stopped caressing through your hair.

He was quiet for a long time, just stroking your hair and pressing soft kisses to your forehead.

"So," he said, his voice quiet. "Is the reality better than the book?"

You thought about it for a second. The book was theory. This was practice. This was real.

"I thought you said you weren't done with me?" You manage, weakly. 

He just pulls his head back enough to get a proper look at your face, the most genuine smile accentuated by his dimples. 

"Yeah, the aftercare. The cuddles. The praise. That's all part of it." He said, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "Being the one who has to clean up our mess."

He sits up, leaning over the side of the bed to grab the t-shirt he'd been wearing earlier. He carefully, almost reverently, began to clean you up. The cotton was soft against your sensitive skin.

"You're so good at that," You say softly, referring to the entire night, but more specifically the way he was taking care of you.

"Yeah? Well I'm a man of many talents." He teases, but the way he's looking at you is soft.

He's gentle, methodical, as he wipes away the evidence of your night together. Once he's satisfied, he tosses the shirt aside and pulls the comforter over both of you, cocooning you in the warmth of the small bed.

You're quiet for a long time again. Just listening to each other breathe.

"Hey," he whispered.

"Hm?"

"About the kiss earlier..." he started, his voice a little hesitant. "When I said I didn't know if I could handle it if this was just a one-time thing... I meant it."

He shifts a little, so he's looking you in the eye. "This was never gonna be just a one-time thing for me. You have to know that. I've been wanting this for so long."

You are looking up at him in the dim light of your desk lamp. He's looking at you with a unguarded expression that you'd never seen from him before. 

"You really have? I thought... I thought this was just... you know, because of the book."

He let out a small, breathy laugh. "Sweetheart, the book was just a convenient excuse. A cosmic sign from the universe to finally do something about the massive, soul-crushing crush I've had on you since we were assigned as lab partners in freshman chemistry."

His signature smirk reappeared then.

"The fact that you're also into the same filthy shit I am? That's just a very, very lucky bonus."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest. It was a laugh of pure, unadulterated happiness.

"So, what now?" You ask, your voice barely a whisper.

"Now I get to enjoy this body being all soft in my arms." He says, kissing your forehead. "Now I get to wake up next to you and make you breakfast. Now I get to walk you to our sociology class and sit next to you knowing exactly what you sound like when you orgasm."

He pulls you closer. "And now I get to tell you that I want to be your boyfriend. If you'll have me."

You tilt your head up to look at him, a slow, genuine smile spreading across your face.

"I'll have you," you said simply.

"Oh, no enthusiasm for the man who made you cum three times in an hour?" He teases gently. You just lean up and kiss him, soft and sweet.

"I think you fucked all the enthusiasm out of me." You mumble against his lips.

He chuckles, satisfied and proud. 

"It's a skill." He smirks. "But don't worry. I'm a great teacher. We'll build up your stamina." He winks, and you feel a fresh wave of heat wash over you.

He pulls you to his chest, safe and warm. You could get used to this.

"Next time," he whispers against your hair. "Next time I'll bring my ropes."

You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "I'll hold you to that."

He held you tighter, a silent promise. The night wasn't over. Your time exploring each other, it seemed, had really just begun.

The first guy disappeared on you mid-date because he had seen his ex walk by the café you had chosen.

The second guy had asked ten minutes in whether you wanted to go back to his place or if the shady corner of the Hawkins park would do.

The third guy you had been supposed to meet tonight, on Valentine’s Day. At this point, after over a year of healing from a breakup and finally feeling ready to date only to be horribly disappointed and way too accompanied with the feeling of only your own hand ghosting down your body, you were close to a breaking point.

Two hours ago, the guy had called and stood you up, inventing some kind of weird excuse you couldn’t even recall in your head if you wanted to. Since the call had only come after you shaved every unwanted hair off your body, you were beyond frustrated.

“Doll, I beg of you.” Eddie tilted his head at you, his brown eyes giving you an unmistakingly look of don’t even go there because I will fight you. “He’s not worth your time if he stands you up like that. What did you say again was his name? I could-“

“No, you’re not going to commit murder to defend my honor, I just-“ You sighed, falling back against the comfy cushions of his bed and staring up to the ceiling. “I’m going to become a nun. I’ll abjure men for all eternity until my hair is grey and I can’t feel my screaming ovaries anymore.”

Above you, still walking up and down the length of his own bed as he had done for the last fifteen minutes while listening to you, Eddie chuckled, shaking his head at your silliness. “What a shame that would be, sweetheart.”

You sighed again, even more dramatic now. “Eddie, I’m serious. I feel like I’m going insane. I haven’t even pecked someone on the stupid cheek in the last twelve months, let alone let someone touch me and I fear it’s seriously doing brain damage to me.”

For only a moment, in the dimly lit bedroom of Eddie’s trailer, something foreign danced over his features, eyes darkening before he blinked and it was gone just as quickly as it had arrived. But then, your friend seemed to catch himself, shaking out his shoulders as he walked the short way to the kitchen and back, two glasses and a bottle of cheap wine in his hands.

“Want a drink now?” He asked, a familiar sparkle on his face that was always so contagious for you. Adding almost melodiously, he said: “Four dollar wine goes great with cheap take-out pizza.”

“Thank you.” You said, sitting up to accept a glass while smoothing your dress down your thighs once more. You looked way too dressed up to hang out with a friend, but things like that had never bothered Eddie. Not much bothered him when it came to you, actually. “Thank you for letting me come here…You didn’t have to, on Valentine’s Day too…”

Eddie snorted, flopping down on the mattress next to you and celebratorily clinking glasses with you. “Oh yeah, I had to send away at least twenty girls for you, doll. Don’t think too much about it, okay? You can always come to me, I didn’t have any fancy plans anyway. I actually…it’s been some time since I’ve seen anyone.”

Something in you softened at the almost shy smile he gave you, melting away the intrusive I’m a loser on Valentine’s Day thoughts. “That’s okay, Eddie. The right girl will come along.”

(You looked away, but Eddie’s eyes stayed on you, his mind screaming how on earth you couldn’t see that the only girl he wanted was sitting right in front of him!)

“And I’m having way much more fun with you than any of these guys. They’re boring, you’re…anything but boring.”

Who had been there for you at any time when you had nursed and healed your broken heart?

Who was the first one to make you laugh again and distract you from your sulking on bad days?

Who could you always count on, even on Valentine’s Day?

Eddie.

Your best friend who now gave you a half grin as he lit his lighter and nodded at the joint already ready between his lips. “Mind if I smoke?”

You shook your head and leaned your head on his shoulder, the two of you getting comfortable on his blanket as one of the gentler tunes in Eddie’s music collection drifted through the room.

“Red wine and weed on Valentine’s Day.” You mused, shaking your head. “What a match we’re making, Munson.”

Half an hour later and one joint and bottle of wine down, Eddie and you were in better spirits.

You were laughing about a story of his from Hellfire Club, a bubbly warm feeling in your chest as you happily watched him play out a scene in front of you. Maybe the next night you didn’t know what to do, you could simply go with Eddie instead of punishing yourself by going on miserable half-hearted dates…

“You know what, the last guy I went out with didn’t even know what D & D was, can you believe that?” You touched your flushed cheeks, feeling how warm they’d gotten from the wine. You were blabbering, your tongue quicker than your mind as you continued: “It’s so popular now because of you, Dustin and the others, you’ve got to live on the fucking moon to miss it. Maybe if we don’t find anyone in the next year, we should just date each other, we’re actually perfect for each…”

You faltered as Eddie gave you a tense smile, leaving for the living room and mumbling something about getting some water for you over his shoulder. Frowning, you scrambled out of his bed, the wires beneath the mattress squeaking in protest before you followed him out.

By the narrow kitchen counter, Eddie was still focused on rummaging around the small space, gnawing at his bottom lip and ignoring your searching stare.

“Hey…” You said softly, leaning your hip against the counter. “Is everything okay? Sorry, I know I’ve been talking about it a lot, but I can stop if you want? Hell, he clearly didn’t want me and here I am still talking about it, that’s so weird.”

Eddie straightened, his slightly taller frame hovering above yours as he took a deep breath. His eyes met yours, dark and a little blurry from his smoking, a simmering fire burning in them as he said one word that changed it all. “Don’t.”

You opened your mouth in slight surprise, shaking your head slowly. “I don't think I understand?”

Eddie let out an unsteady breath. “Don’t say that about us, about yourself.”

You didn’t trust your own words, asking quietly: “But why?”

You had no idea when it had happened, but Eddie was standing so close to you, you could’ve counted the links in his chains, the slight stubble on his jaw. You had always thought that Eddie was untraditionally handsome, rough around the edges just the right amount with a heart of gold and the biggest brownest eyes in all of Hawkins. (Sorry, Steve.)

Eddie took another step forward, now fully in your space as he shook his head and slowly raised one hand to rest it on your cheek. The cool silver of his rings nearly stole your breath as he mumbled: “Because in my mind, you ditching all those assholes who don’t know how to treat you right and being with me instead sounds like everything I ever wanted, sweetheart.”

The air in your lungs vanished, your heart fluttering dangerously as Eddie tucked a strand of your hair behind his ear and then drew his hand back like he burned you. But you were quicker, lacing yours and his together in the air, forbidding him to walk away again when all he wanted was to stay.

Now, it was your turn to step closer.

And suddenly, it was like an everlasting fog had dissolved in your mind and you saw clear.

“Since when?” You asked him.

“Since forever.” He answered instantly. Drawn to you, he cupped your blushing face in his hands, thumb brushing over the faint shimmer under your eyes. “But I knew that there was no going back that night you stood on my doorstep. That fucker had just broken up with you and you were crying and fuck sweetheart, I wanted to commit murder right then. I dried your tears and let you sleep in my bed and all I could think about until morning was that I want nothing more than to make you so much happier than any guy ever could.”

You remembered that night, how could you forget it?

But as you thought back on it, all you could think about was Eddie.

The way he had hugged you, resting his chin on top of your head and whispering soothing words into your ear, closing his eyes while you cried as if it was his own pain to carry and not yours.

A thousand little moments flashed through your mind as you looked at him.How you felt most like yourself when you were with him, how no one could make you laugh the way Eddie did. It all made sense.

How could you have been so blind?

“Eddie…” You brushed your thumb over the back of his hand, your lips impossibly close now. You could feel his stuttering breath ghosting over your bottom lip, saw how his throat bobbed as he waited for what you had to say. “I need you to know what I’m doing next is not because we’re both alone on Valentine’s Day, okay?”

You kissed him.

And Eddie melted into it like you’ve stolen all the air in his lungs.

A tiny vulnerable noise got stuck in his throat as your lips slowly moved against his.He tasted like tobacco and wine and you felt yourself come alive in his arms, accidently standing on his feet as you rested your hands on his shoulders and squeezed.

It was a careful first kiss at first, just feeling each other out and testing the waters, but Eddie had waited way too long for this. And when he tilted your head back and slipped his tongue into your mouth, making you release the sweetest sigh right into him, something inside of him gave out.

“Fuck, you have no idea how much I wanted you like this-“ He rushed out between kisses, feeling himself slipping on his grip of control as your kiss undid him.

“I know what’s been missing now.” You gasped as Eddie’s hand slid down your spine and touched your bum, bringing you closer until your chest pressed against his. Not close enough. “All these distractions…they weren’t you. You were missing, Eddie. It was supposed to be you all along.”

“Always been yours.” Eddie echoed back quietly, voice all raspy like he just finished a Corroded Coffin gig. He picked you up like you weighed nothing, a bright grin splitting his beautiful face and making you giggle as you held on to him. “Will you please let me treat you the way you deserve now?”

As soon as you whispered yes, Eddie stumbled back into his bedroom with you, peppering hectic kisses onto your neck and letting his teeth graze over you like he couldn’t wait to taste you. You were still a little lightheaded from the wine, giggling and running your fingers through his surprisingly soft hair.

Eddie sank down on his bed with you all snug in his lap, the seam of your dress sitting dangerously high on your thighs as he caressed your knee and cupped the back of your head. “I’m never going to let you go now, you know that? I can’t-“

“Don’t let me go.” You interrupted him breathlessly, shuffling closer until you were chest to chest and could almost feel his pounding heart. “Don’t ever let me go again.” Not on another date, not anywhere you are not.

Eddie’s eyes sparkled as you both bridged the distance once more, continuing the kiss from the kitchen way more heated than before. Kissing Eddie was like playing with fire, one second you were kissing and the next he was licking into your mouth like he was starving and only you could save him.

The minutes blurred together as your dress kept riding higher and higher and you felt one of Eddie’s thighs slipping between yours. Shifting forward, your core dragged over him and you couldn’t bite back the moan bubbling up, another gasp shortly following as Eddie drew back and began to relish your neck with wet, open-mouthed kisses.

“E-Eddie…” You bit your lip, any coherent thoughts seeping out of your brain and leaving only the warm feeling in your lower stomach, Eddie’s jeans against the thin fabric of your tights making you wetter than any self-care ever could. “I want- I need…”

“I got you.” Eddie told you, his hand sliding down your sides to rest firmly on your hips, eyes flickering down to where you were spread over his thigh. “I feel like I’m literally about to die and go to heaven, but I’m here. I’m gonna make you feel good now, okay?”

“Fuck yes.” You hissed, on a personal mission to decorate his neck with your lipstick, but you had not factored the dangerous cocktail of long suppressed feelings now unleashed and the floaty effect of the wine into the equation.

Only a few rubs against Eddie’s thigh in and you were already feeling impossibly close. It was all too much together, the intoxicating kisses on your neck, Eddie’s hands guiding you and helping you ride his thigh, his constant string of sweet praises against the sensitive shell of your ear…

Everything was heightened.

The sensual roll of your hips, the button of his jeans catching on your clit briefly.

Eddie’s kiss swollen lips ghosting appreciatively over your jaw.

A string of saliva connecting your mouth with his after you kissed him and had to break it for a whiny moan.

“I’m so close…” You whimpered into his neck, chasing the delicious friction the seam of your tights and the rough material of his jeans provided. You felt as you were about to snap, a guitar string Eddie could play expertly however he wanted to. “Fuuuck, feels so good…”

“I know, baby, I know…” Eddie cooed, entirely enchanted as he watched you closely, an angel in his lap. “Come on, just a little more and you’re right there, ‘m gonna hold you when you fall apart for me…”

You cried out when Eddie bounced his leg for you, jostling you forward as you slumped against his chest as your muscles locked tight, ready to go off like fireworks as you got closer and closer towards the edge. You surged forward and connected your lips in an uncoordinated, filthy kiss, licking into Eddie’s mouth with fervor as heat took over your entire body and set it aflame.

Eddie’s hand slipped down your body and underneath your dress, his thumb rubbing against the seam sticking to your soaked panties, applying just the right amount of pressure on your clit to make you moan unabashed.

“That’s it, doll…” Eddie bit back a whine feeling your clit throb against his touch, his other hand guiding your hips steadily. Looking down, he saw the mess you made on his jeans, a dark patch of wetness coating it and driving him insane. “So fucking pretty. Mine.”

That did it.

Your nails scraped over the back of Eddie’s neck as you fell against him and violently shuddered through your orgasm. It exploded through you like one of Eddie’s guitar solos, setting every nerve on fire as you rode through it and clung to him, your hips slowing to an exhausted stop as the muscles in your thighs shook.

You felt Eddie tense, his hips bucking up into your core, once, twice before everything in him relaxed and he fell back into his pillows with a groan and you in his arms.

For a while, you simply breathed heavily in the silence of his bedroom. The vinyl had long found its end and inside of you, the post-orgasm bliss was dancing around with the gravity of what just had happened with you and your best friend.

You laughed, nuzzling your face into Eddie’s neck and linking your fingers together while Eddie dragged you closer to rest against his side. You were staring at each other, in awe and maybe a little bit of fear of the unknown, your hearts beating wildly.

But, this was still Eddie.

There was no room for uncomfortable silence or doubt when he was the most wonderful guy you knew. Who had quietly fallen in love with you and could finally love you loud.

“That was really good.” You whispered.

Eddie hummed in deep agreement, playfully booping your nose in return.

“Let me take you on a date tomorrow.” Eddie said, wrapping a strand of your hair around his ringed finger as he smiled at you. “A real date. I want to do this right with you. This isn’t…some one-night-only thing for me…”

“It’s not for me either. I want to know what this means. I want it all with you…” You said quietly, bedding your cheek on his chest and drawing little hearts into his skin. “Where would you take me?”

eddie huffed out a breath that almost counted as a laugh. he wasn’t sure why he suddenly felt nervous.

you checked the time, "well, i should let you two get to it. have fun with... whatever it is you guys do.” you ruffled your brothers hair, "see you later twerp."

eddie watched you walk back to your car. only for a second, he told himself. only long enough to make sure you didn’t slip on the ice.

dustin started walking toward the school entrance. “come on, we’re late.”

eddie snapped out of it. “right. yes. lateness. tragic.”

he followed dustin inside, trying to shake whatever strange feeling had settled between his ribs. it didn’t make sense. you were just dustin’s sister. someone normal. someone who belonged in bright hallways and perfect friend groups and warm houses that smelled like cinnamon.

still, as he walked through the doors, he found his mind drifting back to the way you said his name. casual. kind. unbothered. like knowing him wasn’t strange or surprising.

he hated how much that affected him.

he also loved it.

and for the rest of the night, even while he narrated dramatic battles and threw dice across the table, something in the back of his mind kept circling back to you standing in the cold, smiling at him like he was someone worth meeting.

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the next week, just when eddie had finally forced himself to get his 60 second conversation with you out of his head, he saw you again.

it was lunchtime, the cafeteria buzzing with the usual noise, fluorescent lights flickering just enough to be annoying. eddie was at the hellfire table, half-lounging in his seat while dustin argued with mike about some rule they absolutely did not need to be arguing about.

eddie wasn’t listening. he was stirring the lukewarm mac and cheese on his tray, trying not to think about anything that wasn’t dice or music or how many more months he had left in this place.

then the room shifted.

or maybe he did.

you walked in with nancy wheeler, robin buckley, and a couple of the effortlessly cool kids who floated from table to table like they had all the time in the world. you were laughing at something nancy said, your hand brushing lightly against her arm, your whole face bright in a way he hadn’t noticed outside the cold parking lot.

today you were wearing a soft sweater tucked into jeans that fit you perfectly, boots that clicked against the linoleum floor, and your hair looked like you actually did something to it this morning instead of just rolling out of bed. your cheeks were warm from the heat inside, your makeup subtle but intentional, and there was a shine in your eyes when you smiled.

you looked put together. you looked happy. you looked like someone who belonged in warm rooms and soft places.

you looked perfect.

eddie tried to tear his gaze away, but it was useless. he watched you ease into the crowd like you knew exactly where to exist, like the world made room for you without question. every gesture you made was gentle, warm, sure of itself. you listened when people spoke, nodding softly, leaning in. you laughed with your whole mouth, not the tight, polite smile he saw on so many others.

it was painfully clear that you lived in a universe he did not.

sitting at that chipped hellfire table, surrounded by dice and doodles and crumbs from dustin’s granola bar, eddie felt something in him sink a little. not jealousy. not sadness. just… reality.

there was no version of life where someone like you ended up in orbit with someone like him. the gap between your worlds wasn’t just big. it was fact.

he told himself it didn’t matter. he barely knew you. you probably didn’t remember his name.

and then you looked at him.

not in a fleeting way. not in a polite, accidental way.

your eyes searched the room, landed on him, and softened.

eddie’s heart stuttered.

dustin noticed him go oddly still. “what are you staring at? do you see a ghost? is that why you look like that?”

eddie didn’t answer. he couldn’t. you were already moving, weaving around tables and backpacks, walking straight toward them.

mike frowned. “why is she coming over here?”

lucas shrugged. “maybe dustin forgot something at home again.”

dustin lit up. “hey! my sister’s here.”

eddie swallowed hard. he tried to sit normally, but suddenly he had no idea what his hands were supposed to be doing. his ring caught on the corner of his notebook as he shoved it aside, and he forced his gaze downward like maybe, if he didn’t look directly at you, he wouldn’t humiliate himself.

you stopped at the edge of the table, your smile as warm as it had been across the room.

“hey, guys,” you said, then shifted your gaze to eddie. “hi, eddie.”

eddie felt the word hi hit somewhere low in his stomach.

“oh. uh. hey.” he cleared his throat. “you’re… here.”

smooth. perfect. excellent delivery, he thought miserably.

you laughed under your breath, the sound soft and kind, not mocking. “just grabbing lunch. saw you over here.”

dustin elbowed him without looking. “say hi back. you look like you just got hit by a bus.”

eddie kicked him under the table.

you didn’t notice their bickering. your attention stayed on him, which was enough to scramble his entire internal wiring.

“how was your meeting last week?” you asked.

for a moment, eddie forgot what meeting meant. then the cardboard dragon head flashed in his memory and he snapped back.

“oh. hellfire? yeah. good. the usual. chaos and violence.”

your smile widened. “sounds about right.”

eddie nodded too fast.

you didn’t linger long. just long enough to say hi. long enough to look at him in a way he wasn’t used to. long enough to make the room feel warmer for reasons he refused to think about.

“i’ll see you around,” you said lightly.

and then you walked back to your group, effortlessly slipping into conversation with nancy again.

eddie watched you go, even though he knew he shouldn’t.

the distance between your table and his suddenly felt larger than the whole school.

mike leaned over the table. “dude. are you okay? you look weird.”

eddie dragged a hand through his hair and reached for the nearest ridiculous distraction. “mike, everything about me looks weird.”

dustin added, “yeah, that’s just how he is.”

but eddie wasn’t listening anymore.

you remembered him. you sought him out. you said his name like it meant something to you.

and that was the moment eddie munson realized he had a much bigger problem than a d&d campaign to run.

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the next few weeks of eddie's life seemed to be that of a dream. he didn't know how or why, but you and him became friends.

real friends. not the kind where you wave in the hallway and forget each other exist. the kind where you gravitate toward each other without meaning to.

it started small.

a simple “hey eddie” in the hallway. a smile when you saw him at his locker. a conversation started in the cafeteria that made him choke on his soda because you were actually talking to him.

then the small things became normal.

you showed up early to pick up dustin and ended up talking to eddie for fifteen straight minutes about music. you asked him what songs he was working on with the band. you complimented a drawing in his notebook.

after that, everything shifted.

he didn’t say it out loud, but he started timing his walks between classes so he might run into you. and somehow, you did.

almost every day.

you’d catch him leaning against a column in the hallway, pretending to be interested in whatever mike was rambling about. but the second he saw you approaching, eddie’s whole posture changed. he straightened. tried to look casual. failed.

“morning, eddie,” you’d say.

two words. simple. soft.

they held him together for the rest of the day.

after school became its own ritual.

if you were around when dustin finished hellfire, you stayed for a bit. sometimes you sat on the steps with eddie while dustin ran inside to get something. sometimes you talked through the open door of his van while he packed up his things.

the first time you leaned into the passenger window to ask him how his day was, eddie had to grip the steering wheel with both hands to stay grounded. you smelled like vanilla and laundry detergent. clean. warm. safe.

nothing in eddie’s life had ever felt safe.

he didn’t understand why you made him feel that way.

and then there were the conversations.

you talked to him like he was normal. not like the freak. not like the strange metalhead who lived in a trailer. not like the kid who failed senior year twice.

you asked him things. real things. what he wanted to do after school. why he liked d&d so much. what his songs were about.

and every time he answered, you listened.

eddie wasn’t used to that.

he wasn’t used to being looked at the way you looked at him. like he had value. like he mattered.

he knew he shouldn’t get attached. he reminded himself constantly that people like you didn’t end up with people like him.

but he couldn’t stop soaking you in.

your smile became his favorite sight. your laugh became a sound he listened for. your presence became something his body reacted to before his brain caught up.

and the worst part, the part that hollowed him out a little more each day, was that you were just being friendly.

nothing more.

eddie knew that. he felt it in every second he spent beside you. you weren’t flirting. you weren’t hinting at anything. you weren’t like that.

you were just kind.

and kindness, for eddie munson, was the most dangerous thing of all.

he fell in love with the little things first.

the way you tucked your feet under you when you sat on the steps. the way you talked with your hands. the way you laughed with your whole chest when he said something stupid. the way you didn’t hesitate to touch his arm when you were getting his attention.

one afternoon, you reached up to brush away a curl that kept falling into his face while he was trying to explain a campaign idea.

eddie forgot what a sentence was. his brain simply shut down.

you didn’t notice. of course you didn’t.

the obsession arrived quietly, disguised as friendship.

he found himself thinking about you during math class. he replayed your conversations when he was alone in his trailer. he carried the sound of your voice with him into every room he went into.

he thought about you during hellfire. i mean, how insane was that?

and every single day, the same thought echoed through him:

he didn’t stand a chance.

you were bright and soft and hopeful. you were the kind of person whose future stretched wide and open. you belonged in a big house with good lighting and holiday dinners and framed photos on mantelpieces.

eddie belonged nowhere.

so he kept himself in check. he kept his hands to himself. he never said anything that could be taken the wrong way.

because having you as a friend was better than not having you at all. and he would take whatever scraps of your time he could get.

he wasn’t stupid enough to imagine more.

but late at night, staring at the ceiling of his room, he let himself ache.

just a little.

he let himself imagine what it would feel like to belong to someone like you. to touch your hand and not pull away. to sit beside you without feeling like he needed to hide half of himself.

dreams were safer than reality.

dreams couldn’t reject him.

so eddie dreamed. and during the day, he smiled when you smiled, laughed when you called his name, and convinced himself that friendship was enough.

even when he knew it wasn’t.

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eddie had never put this much effort into getting dressed. he would deny it if anyone asked, but he stood in front of his mirror for a solid ten minutes before leaving the trailer.

a clean black sweater. dark jeans without holes. actual product in his hair.

he told himself it was because it was a holiday gathering.

it wasn’t. it was because you would be there.

the wheelers’ house glowed like it had been dipped in gold. warmth, lights, garland, the works. eddie stepped inside and immediately felt out of place - not in the sad, familiar way, but in a new, startlingly vulnerable one.

then he saw you.

and everything in him went quiet.

you were wearing a deep red sweater that fit you perfectly, soft and warm looking. the lights caught the shine in your hair. your lips had a soft shine to them. your face glowed in a way that wasn’t even fair.

eddie forgot how to breathe.

“eddie,” you said, walking toward him, eyes lighting up when they landed on him. “you look really nice.”

eddit blinked. “oh. uh… yeah. you too. you look…” he swallowed, “…yeah.”

you laughed softly. not at him. never at him. just warm, easy laughter.

dustin was across the room, watching. staring. squinting.

eddie didn’t notice.

as the night went on, eddie found himself drifting in and out of conversations, never quite grounded. not when you kept moving through the rooms like sunlight. every time you laughed, he glanced up instinctively. every time he heard your voice, he felt his heart do a flip.

and every single time, dustin saw him.

he watched the way eddie angled his body when you were near. he watched the way eddie’s eyes softened around the edges. he watched the way eddie stopped talking mid-sentence when you came close. he watched the way eddie tried, badly, to pretend he wasn’t watching you.

dustin’s mouth slowly fell open.

oh. ohhhhhhhh.

how did he not see it sooner?

Eddie Munson was in love with his sister.

Dustin stared at him, stunned, as if he’d discovered some rare, tragic creature in the wild.

Eddie didn’t notice. He was too busy pretending not to stare at you.

when the crowd thinned and the music softened, you found him near the staircase, hands tucked in his pockets.

“can i steal you for a sec?” you asked.

eddie nodded immediately. “yeah. anything. I mean. not anything. just- yes, you can.”

dustin, from the couch, slapped a hand over his face.

you led him to a quiet spot near the tree, warm light spilling over both of you.

“i got you something,” you said softly, like you were nervous.

eddie blinked rapidly. “you did? why?”

“because you’re my friend. and it’s christmas. i hear that people give gifts around this time of year,” you joke, lightening the mood a little.

he grins, and his shoulders relax a little. “right, i’ve heard that too.”

you reached behind the couch and pulled a guitar case into view.

eddie froze.

“open it,” you said.

his hands shook slightly as he clicked open the latches.