A

You tried not to audibly groan as your feet found the floor. The body asleep next to you was lying on his front, his face buried into one of your pillows, his arms wrapped around it like it tried to run away in the night. He was tanned and dotted with freckles, a summer scene across the skin on his back, broad and taut with muscle. You frowned as you looked over your shoulder at him, trying to place a name, a face, any memory of the last few hours.

The only things that came to mind were bare skin and a lot of touching. Teeth and lips and hands and calloused fingers that dug into your hips as you rode him. You rubbed your face, clearing the sleep from your eyes, the tequila and the taste of sex from your lips.

You tried really hard to walk quietly to your bathroom, padding softly across the wooden floors, avoiding the sweater that lay there and the board that you knew squeaked like it held a disease in its whorls and knots. The bathroom door shut with a squeak and a click and you held your breath, forehead braced against the cool wood but you heard nothing, no sheets rustling, no feet on the floorboards.

Your reflection stared back at you from above the sink with disdain and disappointment and you weren't in a position to disagree with her. Your hair was a mess and there was leftover lipstick on your neck of all places, like you’d gifted it to someone who’d pressed it right back onto your skin. There was the beginning of a hickey on your chest, purple and pink and blooming under the bright fluorescent light that hummed above you.

The shower started with a groan and a hiss, the pressure battering the floor of the tub and you shed what little clothes you had on before clambering into it, skin prickling at the chill before it rocketed to almost too hot. You hit the temperature dial with an annoyed indifference, hiding under the cool spray until your hair stuck to your head and it didn't hurt as much as it did when you first opened your eyes.

You thought back to the night before, eyes closed, your stomach starting to turn with tequila and vodka and cheap beer. You remembered the sticky floors of the new bar you’d been dragged to, nothing more than a basement room filled with sweaty bodies and with brick walls covered in band posters and beer mats from places around the world. There were more people than tables and an oversized disco ball turned slowly overhead, entirely out of place as some indie sleaze song leaked out from the speakers in every corner.

You’d danced with your friends, nothing more than your hips moving in the crush of bodies, skin on skin as you tried to take shots without it spilling over your fingers. You remembered licking raspberry syrup from your thumb, your eyes on a guy who stood across the room from you, his brows raised when you grinned.

You remembered a song passing, maybe two, before he came over. There hadn’t been any bravado, no cheesy lines, no faux nonchalance. He’d bent down to your ear, a large warm hand hovering over the small of your back as he leaned into you. Someone had bumped him, his lips brushing your ear and he’d told you that you were pretty.

You’d grinned, shyness disappearing under the taste of tequila and when he’d asked you to dance you’d handed your empty glass to your friend and took his hand. It got blurry then, his hips against your ass as he moved to the music, moved against you. His hands, warm and big, laying on your hips, fingers settling into the crease of your upper thigh until you were too warm and the only answer was to pull him outside for some air.

He’d tasted like beer when he kissed you, your back against the rough brick outside of the bar. But his hand had cupped the back of your head to save it from becoming sore and that alone had you arching into him, his free hand around the back of your thigh as you hitched your leg to his hip. There must’ve been a taxi ride to yours and there was a fuzzy memory of your couch, the man pressed into it as you shed your shirt and straddled him, his lips dancing across your throat, your sternum.

You stayed under the spray until the water turned too cold and your head felt less like someone had jumped on it. Your hair was clean and your face had been scrubbed, your toes minty fresh as you spat leftover toothpaste down the tub drain and when you got out, wrapped in a too small towel, your bed was empty.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

You didn’t think too much of the man. You tried not to. But when you’d finally gotten dressed and shuffled along the sidewalk in the town that’s finally waking up, you found yourself thinking about the night before more often than you wanted to.

You told yourself it was a good thing he left when he did. The perfect way to avoid the awkward morning after, the stilted conversation of if they wanted coffee and exchanging numbers no one was ever really planning on calling.

Right?

Right.

The subway was packed, uncomfortable and sticky hot, like honey on your skin. There was a woman pressed too close to your side, both of you clinging on to the same handrail, her gum snapping too sharp and obnoxious by your ear. There was a kid crying about a broken toy two carriage’s down and every time the doors opened, the shrill noise of it all cut you in two. You were way more hungover than you’d let yourself believe, hiding shamelessly behind a pair of oversized sunglasses that turned the bright morning sun and the flickering overhead fluorescents into a shade of grey that was much more manageable.

It suited your mood. It dulled the flavour of tequila that sat at the back of your tongue. But it didn’t dampen the memories of last night that were coming back to you, persistently stronger and less blurry than before.

You could remember getting out of the cab, the air still heavy and hot despite the early morning hour, the only way a night could be in Chicago during summer. There were memories of you dragging the boy behind you, your hand clasped in his as you fumbled at the door of your apartment building, pressing the wrong numbers for your key code, eyes fluttering closed as the stranger pushed his nose to your neck, his lips following the path he made. Then there was the stairwell, blessedly empty, the air much cooler and the brick wall rough as you were pressed against it on the first landing. More kissing, the dirty kind with all tongues and teeth, breaths panted into open mouths, hands tugging at the fronts of belts, sneaking under skirts, fingers pressed to cotton and lace.

The train jerked on the tracks and you stumbled, so unlike yourself and the thoughts of your late night guest gave way to the packed train once more. You didn’t think about him between your legs, you didn’t think about your hands in his hair - brown and messy and almost too long - and you definitely didn’t think about the way he moaned as loud as you did when you came on his tongue.

Elbows pressed into your sides as you pushed your way off the carriage, the train doors beeping, humid subway air giving way to something only a little fresher as you climbed the concrete steps and out into the street. Chicago was louder here, closer to The Loop now, you had to dodge others on the sidewalk, everyone with some form of earphones in, their heads down, their eyes low. Trucks were parked too close to the sidewalk, men with cigarettes hanging out their mouths yelled at each other as they passed crates of vegetables and fruit to each other, corner store owners filling their shelves and somehow, the streets smelled like freshly baked bread, roasted coffee and sewers all at the same time.

It did nothing to help your hangover. Neither did the ache in your hips that had you remembering how you’d been pressed into your mattress only hours before, skin slapping skin, gasps and moans floating in the air.

Your face burned with it.

It only cooled when you made a sharp left, narrowly avoiding a young couple trying to manipulate a too large couch from the back of a moving van into their narrow doorway. The alleyway turned the sky duller, the sun hidden from view as you walked between the two tall buildings, avoiding leftover puddles and rat traps before you raised your fist to an old fire door and knocked.

Knock was perhaps too polite. You let your palm slam down on the rust covered surface, the tiny pane of glass that acted as a window rattling at your efforts. The sound reverberated through the alley, loud enough to piss off the neighbours in the apartments above you and someone leaned out their window, half asleep and swearing viciously.

But the door was kicked open and the smell of cinnamon and bacon greeted you. The air was hotter than ever, the hum of the ovens adding to the warmth and the too loud sound of the back kitchen. Everything was silver and white and coated in a fine layer of icing sugar and flour and god, ew, a little bit of fryer grease. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker was blasting music that was too loud but it still didn’t drown out the drone of the extractor fans, the bubble and pop of the bagels in an enormous vat of boiling water.

The Gate was something of a hole in the wall, not quite a cafe, not quite a restaurant and not a place you usually saw tourists. It was on the right line of cheap, a little rough around the edges but the food was the best you could find this side of the Chicago River. It was all brick walls and a huge glass front, neon lights shining out of it every hour of the day and night. Chipped green and white tiles on the floor, wobbly legged tables and chairs that didn’t quite match anymore, The Gate was owned by a man called Jim Hopper but it was run by the rest of the staff he’d hired.

A group of people who were all in the middle of that age bracket between teenagers and adults, a bunch of somewhat misfits who were collectively in the stage of life where no one knew what the fuck they were doing and smoke breaks took precedence over bussing tables.

A guy called Eddie manned one of the grills you passed by, a cig tucked behind his ear and his dark curls pulled high into a bun atop his head. A sketch pad of tattoos peeked out from his chef whites and he merely lifted a spatula at you in greeting, a pair of headphones covering his ears as he flipped pancakes on the griddle and blocked out the pop song that came from the speaker by the prep zone.

There were Robin and Argyle, both sitting haphazardly on stools that had been dragged from the bar, peeling a variety of vegetables as they both shared details of the night before, both nursing the same kind of hangover you suffered from. The front of house looked quiet, no other staff at work just yet. The doors were still closed and the neon sign on the front flickered a garish pink as it told the rest of the city The Gate was still closed for now. The small bar in the corner was wiped clean, no sticky leftover gin or rum staining the wooden worktop and the various glass bottles on the glass shelves behind it were glinting in the morning light. There were crystals on the windowsills, more hanging in the corners of the room from wicker baskets and mosaic pots, all of them holding bundles of green, leafy plants. They scattered rainbows of all sizes around the restaurant, painted little rectangular sponges of colours on the tables, the brick walls, your arms and the tiled floor.

You sighed as you hung up your bag, swapping it for an apron that you tied around your waist. Breakfast shift was never your favourite, but you hoped that everyone decided the day was too warm and everyone was too hungover to bother venturing out this early. You looked at the clock, twelve minutes to seven. Seventy two minutes until the doors and you still didn’t deem that enough time to feel human.

You stuffed a new order pad into your apron pocket, reminding yourself to hunt for a pen as soon as you managed to snag some pancakes or a bagel from the kitchen first. Jim said he didn’t believe in technology, not to the point of tablets replacing a good old pad and pen for taking orders, but you were pretty certain that the man was just fucking cheap.

Minutes passed as you stood in the middle of the tables, your head tipped back as you closed your eyes and took a breath. And another. And another. Kaleidoscopes of colours painted your cheeks, your eyelids and you could hear the speaker from the kitchen playing faintly through the closed door. Suddenly it was five hours ago and you were on the edge of a dance floor you’d never been on before, a body pressed against the back of your own as you both swayed and rocked to the music. The cab drive to yours became clearer now, your head tipped against the window as you let your dance partner kiss down your neck, his hand skating up the fabric of your skirt as he gripped your hip. You remembered the cab driver's eyes in the rear view mirror, the sharp cough he let out when you grabbed your new friend’s jaw in your hand and licked into his mouth.

“Get ‘em while they’re hot.” The clatter of a plate and Eddie’s too loud voice broke you from your thoughts.

Cheeks burning and heart thumping a little too wildly, you spun, eyes flying open as you found a stack of pancakes waiting on the bartop for you. They’re dusted with sugar and dripping with maple syrup, a handful of freshly washed berries on the side. You moaned, the man who shared your bed momentarily forgotten about, and you contemplated giving Eddie a fat kiss on the cheek.

“You’re an angel,” you told him instead, forgoing cutlery as you bit straight into a pancake, eyes fluttering at the sweetness and warmth. “A real life angel.”

The chef snorted, already walking back into the kitchen. “Call my high school principal and tell him that, would ya?”

You managed two whole bites before the phone rang and Robin answered it, her voice bored and tired and muffled under the noise of music and hissing grills. Then the door flew open and she handed the receiver to you, eyes rolling. She pinched a strawberry and poked at your bare skin, where your blooming hickey bruised the space between the top of your shirt and your exposed collar bones.

You batted at her hand, frowning when she smirks and your lips were sticky with maple syrup when you tried to form a professional greeting. “Good morning, thanks for calling The Gate, this is— oh, it’s you.”

Hopper scoffed on the other end of the line. “Hello to you too, kid. Listen, there’s a new start coming today for the linecook position. Should be ‘round seven thirty and he’s more than qualified so just get him some spare whites and show him where the trash goes. Eddie’ll handle the rest.”

Your hangover pulsed in annoyance. “Can’t Joyce get him sorted?” You speared another raspberry and popped it into your mouth, eyes rolling when your boss sighed in return.

“Joyce is on vacation. With me. We told you this on Monday, you never lis— look, just get the guy sorted alright? He’s a good kid, he’s not gonna cause any hassle.”

“Whatever, sure,” you mumbled. You needed to find some tylenol, your eyes felt like they were going to fall out of their sockets. “Enjoy Cabo, or wherever it is you guys are.”

“We’re in Colorado, but close enough,” Hopper grunted. “Just don’t burn the place down, alright? See you in two weeks.”

You were frowning when the dial tone buzzed in your ear. It was three minutes past seven and you were left with a sticky, sugary mess on your empty plate and thirty three tables to set before the doors opened. And a new start to get set up.

You found a tylenol in Nancy’s open locker and a set of new chef whites in Hopper’s abandoned office. You set them by the side of the bar before you gathered cutlery and new napkins, splitting them with Robin as you both wove in and out of tables and booths, the kitchen getting noisier as Argyle and Eddie started prepping for lunch. The glass cabinets by the cash desk were filled finally with fresh pastries, the front of house smelled like freshly squeezed oranges and you had made yourself busy by misting an oversized fern when someone knocked on the front door.

There was a man standing behind the glass. He was tall and dressed in denim jeans that had faded knees, a white T-shirt with rolled sleeves and he had a pair of black Ray-Ban’s perched on his nose. Despite that, you recognised him. His hair looked ruffled, like someone had been pulling on it all night, dishevelled and messy in a way that would’ve made your mother’s cheeks burn. Any mother’s, actually.

Fuck.

No? No.

You unlocked the door and the click of it was too loud, too jarring. You stared at the stranger who didn’t seem all that strange and your stomach turned as you recognised the sweater he had clutched in his right hand. A forest green thing with a yellow patch on the chest. You knew that sweater. It had been on your bedroom floor when you’d made your quiet escape to the bathroom.

Fuck.

You looked at the man and he looked at you, the customer service smile he’d plastered on his face wilting at the same time his extended hand did, the professional greeting slipping from every fibre of him.

“You.”

Right before Thanksgiving you'd gotten a promotion that you'd been waiting to get for a better half of two years. And that December had thrown you for a loop, January a worse one. If Ed wasn't at the garage then you were at the office, a tug of time in both of your hands. Each night spent together in quiet murmurs, in TV dinners, in meet ups at the Hideout after a set. And every time he saw you, you seemed a little less you.

“Hi baby,” he calls out from the bedroom, making his way down the hall to the kitchen.

“Hey, honey,” he hears from the door. He swallows, heart swelling with a knowing sadness. Not that you sound sad, he knows what your voice sounds like when you were sad. This was something more. Distant, despondent, downtrodden. When he gets to the entry way you're leaned over the counter, elbows on the linoleum, your head in your hands. Face covered by your cold fingers. He makes his way over, feeling bad to see you in your work slacks and patterned blouse while he's already cozied up in a pair of old sweats and a failed merch tee. Can you believe Gareth couldn't spelled 'Corroded'?

“There's my girl," he says to no one under his breath, he knows you hear is by the way your shoulders roll slightly. He reachs out to run a hand over your back, the satin of your shirt glowing a green-y yellow back at him in reflection of the oven light, "You just standing here in the dark?" You nod into your hands, he can feel the tension rolling off you in waves. At least at the bar you'd have a drink in you, or you'd have eaten lunch, or you'd have had some time to decompress. But tonight you came straight from work, a hunk of papers still left to review in the black leather satchel you bought from Mrs. Hollis down the street -- Forest Hills' very own Avon lady. "You okay?" he asks tentatively, ringed hand running in firm soothing circles between your shoulder blades. Selfishly, he just likes the way the fabric feels, he likes the way his calluses catch on the fibers.

You shrug, taking your face out of your hands and pressing up from the counter to full height, “It was just — whew!”

A yawn pours out of you before you can finish, hand reaching up to cover your mouth.

“Was just really long day.”

“I see that,” Ed smiles when he sees your face in front of his, hand reaching up to hold your cheek in his palm. He admires you for a minute, the mascara flakes on your cheeks, the darkness under your eyes. Still so beautiful after 'a really long day'. But you don't really feel there with him. "I was bummed I didn't hear from you at the shop today," he confesses, letting his fingers run behind your ear before making his way to the other end of the counter to grab the bottle of red he bought the night before, "I love when you call me on your lunch."

“I know, babe, I’m sorry,” you offer, your apology coming out flustered. He catches the defeated fall in your posture, chastising himself for saying anything. He pours himself a glass and then yours, two Joe Smooth collectible cups that Wayne won in a card game. It only seemed fitting for Ed to have them since was the one who smoked Camels. "I wanted to but, we were supposed to have a later afternoon meeting with a new client and then my boss wanted to take them out to lunch," you start, rambling and hurried like you're still on the clock, "But then they didn't know when the client's flight was landing and first is was eleven and I would've had to call a car, and then it was maybe noon and I had to hold the reservation and then we h--"

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he puts his hand up to shush you, voice light and soothing. His curls bounce when he shakes his head, "I'm not mad, doll. I just missed hearing from you."

“I didn't think you were mad at me, I was just trying to explain why I didn't call,” you explain. You don't say it mean, but it does take Eddie by surprise, his head pulling back when he takes your glass in his hand. "Before I give this Cabernet to you," his face inquisitive, "Did you go to lunch with that client?" "My boss did," you answer, this time your tone is clipped. "Are you hungry?" he asks with a hint of loving exasperation, putting the cups back on the counter, arms crossing in front of him. He purposefully tucks his hands under his biceps to push them forward. Those extra hours under countless hoods and carborators were definitely starting to show. He tilts his head when he looks at you, leaning back against the counter, "Is that why you're talking to me like that?" You look at him and he holds your gaze. His eyes don't harden, his voice still steady and soft. It's not an accusation, just a question. Are you hungry? Did you eat today? You let out a frustrated sigh and nod, "Yeah, I'll just...I'll make something, I'll figure it out..." You go to the fridge, your work heels still on and clicking on the plastic tile. He beats you to it, getting in front of you quickly enough to catch the glassy start of a cry in your eyes. "Hey," he says, both hands coming up now to take your cheeks in them. His brows pull together in concern, brown eyes searching for you in the reflection of your irises, "Hey, look, you don't have to make anything, sweetheart. I have food on the way, it's gonna be here in like, ten minutes." "What did you get?" "Chinese," he smiles, hoping to get a smile out of you back, "Remember a couple weeks ago when you were saying it had been so long since you had crab rangoon fr--" "From Lucky House, yeah," you finish his sentence, your lips in a tight smile. You're quiet for a moment, looking back at him. His shoulders sink when your lower lip pulls up into your top lip, quivering as your eye scrunch up with a spill of tears on your cheeks. "I'm sorry," you cry at him, "I'm being such a bitch. That's so nice; and I'm being so awful."

"Don't cry, you're not being a bitch," he half laughs, half assures. Eddie pulls you into him, one arm around your back the other on the back of your head while he tucks your wet face into his shoulder. "M'just so tired," you complain into his t-shirt, "I'm so tired." "I know you are," he soothes, leaning against the fridge while you relax your weight on him, "I know you are, baby. But that's okay, you can be tired here, you can be tired around me." "I know, I just," you lift your head up, albeit snottily, "I'm tired in my whole body. Like, everywhere. My insides are tired – my soul it's like, it's like rotten." He frowns but then considers your sentence, "That's a great lyric actually, you should write that one down for me." You laugh, it's muffled and wet, but it's enough for him. "Don't be stupid," you giggle, moving his hands to wipe your eyes. "I dunno, I failed senior year twice so it's kind of baked in," he shrugs, leaning in to kiss your forehead. "Come 'ere," he mumbles down your nose bridge to your lips, "Didn't even give me a kiss hello." "I forgot," you whisper before his lips meet yours, you can feel the remainder of your mascara drying in streaks on your cheeks. Eddie kisses with intention, his arms wrapping around your middle to keep you close but more importantly to keep you standing. It's not even a kiss for him, and you can feel it in the way he holds you. All the words you hadn't said in the past few weeks merging through the pathways on the cells of your lips. Neurons telling secrets to each other in the green yellow glow of the oven light. When he breaks away he looks at you, "I would love it if you took these heels off and put some pajamas on while I get the kitchen ready for the food." "You don't have to take care of me," you sigh, looking at him through eyelids that are heavy with sleep. "Girl," he tuts, grin pulling up his cheeks, "I love taking care of you." 

 Half empty boxes litter the coffee table, noodles and rice scattered on the peeling varnish. He'll deal with it later, for now you were half asleep, or maybe full asleep, with your head on his lap. One hand flicks through channels on the TV to find a new movie to land on, the other massaging the shoulder not buried under his thigh. Despite your sleepiness, you're still holding so much tension he's afraid you'll break your teeth. You shift and yawn, turning to look up at him. "Did I fall asleep?" you ask. "A little bit," he says, tone quiet while he swipes a chili flake off your lower lip, "You weren't out for long." "Hm," you nod, sitting up, "I'm gonna pee, you want anything from the kitchen while I'm up?" "I'm okay, sweetheart," his eyes follow you while you stand, watching you stretch and the wince you make when you do, "Why don't you go pee and then meet me in the bedroom." Your face scrunches, "I don't really wanna go to bed yet." "No, no, I'm not saying to go to bed," he explains, meeting you to standing, "You got a lot of knots in your shoulders. I wanted to see if I could smooth some of them out for ya.""I mean, if you're offering," you shrug with a smile half way to the bathroom, "I won't say no to that."

Eddie cleans up while you relieve yourself, hurrying the boxes closed and bringing them to the fridge all at once. Sort of proud of himself that nothing made it to the floor, he sets aside two fortune cookies on the side table by the couch. A little end of the night surprise before you both tuck in to sleep. He hopes your fortune is better than his, you could use it.

When he meets you in the bedroom he looks at you fondly, used to seeing you in here in your worn in pajamas now. It had been a few months since either of you had participated in anything kinky. No rules, no restraints, no monikers. In fact, it had even been a few weeks since you had, what Eddie would call, 'full length sex'. Managing quickies every now and again that left him just wanting more of you.

In your busy life overhaul you'd lost track of time, missed meals, ordered take out, and despite that you'd been convinced you put on weight. Even if you had, Ed hadn't noticed, still his girl wrapped up in his sheets in the morning. But you'd been less likely to undress, less likely to want the lights on. He wants the lights on, he wants to see all of you.

"Just relax," he encourages softly, running a hand over your soft cotton shoulder, "You wanna take this off?"

"Not really," you step into him so his hand falls on the back of your arm, "Can you just do it over my shirt?"

"You can't hide from me forever, doll," he teases, "It's nothing I haven't seen before."

"I know but," you huff, looking in the mirror perched on his dresser, "I just feel like I look different."

He looks in the mirror with you, "I think you look perfect, babe. I'm not seeing what you're seeing."

"Yeah, yeah," you roll your eyes, catching yourself before experiencing a moment of more vulnerability, "You just wanna see my tits."

"And you'd be right," he laughs while you pull your shirt over your head. He doesn't touch, or even look, but he does fold your t-shirt when you toss it on the bed, "Get comfy."

When you lay on your stomach he lets himself stare, the curve of your waist down to your hips, the flare to your rib cage up to your shoulders. Every part of you had always felt made for him, even from the beginning. Made for him like he wished for it, not made for him like he owned it. Blessed with it, offered it; you. What a gift.

He pulls a hair tie from the top of the dresser to pull his hair back, stripping his own shirt to keep from getting any oil on it. Perks of having a lot of weird sex, plenty of lube around for a back massage.

He warms it up in his hands first, pressing his finger tips up your spine to add slip to your skin. He hears you let out a breath, your body sinks down further onto the comforter with every glide of his hands.

"Is that nice?" he asks, he only half knows what it's doing and he's pretty sure you can tell.

"Yeah," you say into the covers, "It's really nice, babe."

Babe. God, you're so cute and you don't even know it sometimes. He keeps his focus up by your shoulder blades and your mid-back at first, thumbs digging deep into the tissue to push away any tightness in the muscles. He's gentle at the back of your neck, fore finger and thumb working on either side to glide over your traps all the way up to the base of your skull.

"Hmm," you hum, turning your head to the side, "You're gettin' good at this, Ed." "You think so?" he asks, starting now from your mid back down to your low back. You let out a low groan, face immediately pressing back to the pillow. "Mmhmm," you hardly reply, "Wow." If you were tense up top, it was worse down here. The muscles were fighting back, every push down or out had more resistance than the last. Eddie gently tugs your pajama pants down to get to the base of your back right before your butt, straddling your thighs to get right to your sacrum. By this time you've flattened significantly into the mattress, your body more languid than he's seen it in weeks. "You gotta stretch more," he mumbles, letting his hands slide gently up and down your back, over the back of your arms, "Are your hips tight?" "Probably," your voice coated in a dreamy haziness, "Sometimes I'm just tight all over." 

"Hm," he smirks to himself, holding back the innuendo. He brings his hands back down, pressing into the meat of your hips where your cheeks round out, thumbs rolling into the muscle. 

"Ow," you complain, "That doesn't feel great." 

"Yeah, your hips probably just need a stretch,"  Eddie nods, "I get it, I'm always in weird positions at the shop, you know how my back gets. You wanna flip over so I can help a little?" 

He moves and you flip over, fabric from your pajama pants getting caught on the comforter. You shimmy them off, tossing them haphazardly off the bed. 

"They just feel in the way of what you're trying to do," you explain. He laughs, shifting himself to sit between your knees. 

"Whatever you say," he says through a breath, lifting one of your legs up by the knee. His eyes settle for a second on the red and pink strawberry pattern on your panties, cotton and bright; new-ish. You snagged them in a pack at Melvald's after an unfortunate bleed through incident where Eddie got to show off his skills on getting blood out of clothes again. He likes that they're just a little too small, your cheeks filling out the polyblend just right. 

Your knee goes forward toward your collar bone but your face says it all, this stretch hurts. 

"Too far?" he asks, tattooed hand sliding to the outside of your knee to guide your leg inward. 

"It's a good hurt," you answer, resting your forearm over your face to block out the light.

"Well that's not helpful," he chuckles through a grin, "Not when you like getting hurt. I mean is it too far to the side? Am I hurting you?"

Your nose scrunches again when you feel the side of your hip and your lower back tug at each ease of him pressing on your knee, "No it's good, it doesn't hurt like that. It's a nice stretch, I -- yeah, I definitely needed this." 

He knows. Dynamic or not, he's been intuitive to your needs for so long that they feel second nature to his own, "Glad to hear it." 

Your knee goes outward now and he moves up to reach the back of your thigh, rolling the joint in slow circles. Ed's not totally sure if this is what he's supposed to do but it feels good for him, so it should feel good for you. He's slow with the other leg, watching the twitches in your lips to let him know if this is helping, if your hips feel less tense or more, if your brain is still going, going, going. 

"Show me that face," he says quietly, tapping your forearm.

You peek out from behind the limb, smiling, the sparkle coming back to your eyes. Shyly, you peer up at him, "Hi." 

"Hey," he replies, becoming equally bashful, "Nice to see you again." 

"Good to see you, too," you joke back. He puts both of your legs down, letting his hands skim over the skin of your thighs and resting on the front of your hips. 

"How was that?” he asks, “How you feeling?” “Good,” you nod, “Loose.” “Loose,” he repeats, leaning forward to press a kiss to your cheek, “You’re funny.” He feels you adjust on the mattress, hips shifting to meet up with his. Eddie presses another kiss to your cheek before coming back to center, nose brushing yours, “Look, that’s…that’s not what the point of this was, doll. That’s not why I did this, you know that.” “I know,” your hand reaches up to push back the curtain of his dark waves, your gentle touch making his heart race. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hard, but he definitely didn’t have sex in mind when you walked in the door. “Can you kiss me again, though? Like you did in the kitchen?” you ask it so sweetly that he can’t imagine saying no. Without a response he leans in, fingers threading over your ear while his thumb rests on your cheek. Your lips respond to his with the same depth that he offers you, humming with satisfaction when he breaks away. “Can I have another one?” you ask in a whisper, eyes closed. “Yeah,” he replies, voice low and heady now, “Gimme a sec.” Eddie gets up to turn off the big light, leaving the side table lamp on. He dims it slightly to set the mood, feeling proud of himself for learning how to install the new wiring to get them working. “It’s okay?” he asks. “You can leave it on,” you smile back at him, the golden light catching on the back of his hair like a halo. His heart thumps, he loves that he can leave it on. You stretch out on the mattress as he makes his way back to his spot between your thighs, sweatpants forgotten on the way back to bed. His desire apparent in his boxer briefs as he presses himself against you, chest to chest. Eddie gives you another kiss, and another, each one more needy and desperate than the last. “I love kissing you,” he mumbles against your lips, pushing up on his hands to look down at you with a regulating breath, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty, jesus.” You watch him while he looks you over, like he can’t believe he gets to have you like this or have you at all. For you, it had felt like months since you felt pretty, even with Ed telling you every time he saw you – but tonight it felt true. Tonight it felt like he massaged all of the bad mood out of your bones, all the running thoughts out of your skin. He scoots up a little further, your eyes drifting down to his hands when he pulls you by the hips closer to him. You raise yourself up to meet his touch, trying to coerce one of his hands between your thighs. He obliges, ringed hand splaying out over your strawberry cotton covered pubis, thumb pressing over your panties to rub in slow circles over your hood. He watches your eyes flutter closed, your body fully relax.

“You sure?” he asks again, “I’m fine with just making you feel good, sweetheart. I want to.” “I’m sure,” you nod up at him, breaths quickening while your body acclimates to the touch. His movements slow enough that pin pricks of excitement spark between your legs and through your belly to your limbs, “It’s been forever since we had time, y’know? To like, to do it like this.” “Yeah,” he replies, tugging your underwear down, “I miss you.” You frown back up at him, he wishes you wouldn’t, “I miss you, too.” Ed lets his fingers tease, his hair tickling your chest while his lips dip down to your neck. You feel the tip of his tongue trace lines and hearts over your skin, his mouth opening to leave kisses down to your collar bone. Your legs open up further to invite him to explore you more, his fingertips sliding down to your entrance with practiced ease. Already slick, he slides his middle finger down to dip past your walls, but they give him a resistance he wasn’t expecting. “You’re in your head,” he murmurs, you turn to look at him at the call out, “What’s on your mind?” “Nothing,” you shrug, “I dunno. I’m trying.” He gives you a sympathetic smile, “It’s okay if you don’t want to.” “Ed, I want to,” you remind him, “I just told you I want to.” He considers it, and he knows you’re not lying, but he doesn’t want you to think he just wants to have sex and then call it a night. It had felt like after every quickie you’d both just call it a night. Even your last couple of scenes had felt wrapped up too quick by the end: some aftercare, a few kisses, and then going to bed. He feared that maybe things were getting boring; or worse; you both has just gotten too disconnected. “Lay back, hm?” he suggests, maneuvering over you. He presses one last kiss to your forehead, “Just turn your brain off for me.”  “Yeah, just turn it off?” you tease back, “Is there a button I should look for?” 

“I know a few,” he winks with a confident smirk, “Now shut up. Let me work.” 

Neither of you speak while he starts, the romantic flare of his actions permeating the room. Not assuming a dominant role by any means, but letting you know that he’ll be the one guiding you though whatever happens tonight. Whatever it is, you’re not complaining, arching up slightly into his hands while they start a slow caress over your chest. Rough hands expanding and smoothing over your breasts, down to your soft stomach. His lips huff warm breath in the crease of your neck, moving upwards slowly to your ear so you can hear him. He doesn’t make much noise, just his steady breathing, words ghosting in the air coming from his mouth – wraiths of ‘baby’, ‘perfect’, ‘pretty’, ‘gorgeous’. Barely audible, indiscernible from the hums of his throat. You let him explore you, eyes closed now, but you can see the glow of the light coming in from the side table behind your eyelids. They open and your body reacts, pushing his hand further down while you feel yourself get wetter with every skim of his lips on your skin. “Shh, shh,” he whispers – still so quiet, you might even be dreaming, “Don’t think. Just me.” You nod, eye closing again while you let yourself get consumed by the sound of his breath. Feeling his hand glide over your hip, over your thigh before hooking under your knee to spread your legs slightly. His fingers casually run slowly over your lips, down the length of your opening – not pressing down, just gentle back and forth strokes over you. You huff a breath, brows furrowing, eyes opening half way to look at him. His nose presses into your cheek, nuzzling you while he keeps at his slow pace. He didn’t want to work you up, just touch you, feel you. Appreciate you the way you need it. No expectations, no thoughts. Just him, just Eddie. 

He blows warm air against your skin, his lower lip barely brushing the skin before skipping over it to give the other side of your neck some attention. Your whine is soft and he grins at the feeling of your heat pushing against his gentle fingers. Your movements are as slow as his, not too much pressure. Despite this being so far from a scene, you still know better than to chase your own pleasure. He takes a moment to slowly remove his boxers, still finding ways to keep his hands and lips on you while he travels down your body. Pressing open mouthed kisses over your chest, plush pink lips slipping over your nipples without landing. He shifts down to your ribs, to the dip in your waist, to your hips, looking up at you from your thighs. “You deserve to feel this good, baby,” he murmurs, his middle finger pressing in again with much less resistance than before. You let out a quiet gasp, one he’s been wanting to hear for a while. “There she is,” he coos, pulsing in and out slowly while his ring finger joins with his middle. Eddie loved taking his time, watching your head fall back, your legs raise and spread for him, your hands up by your head; completely opened up, completely vulnerable. If he finally gets to take his time he wants to make it worth it, he wants you to feel how bad he’s been wanting you. But God is it difficult to take his time when evidence of his desire is so hard he can barely see straight. His hair surrounds your face again, fingers slipping out of you and returning back to rubbing slow circles over your clit to keep you stimulated, “You want me?” “Yeah,” you huff, leaning your head up to kiss him, “So bad.” “So bad,” he repeats back between kisses,skin to skin when you wrap your fingers in his curls to keep his head in place. A shiver runs down his spine when you tug just enough to pull his face closer; breathing into each other's mouths for oxygen.  “All of it?” he mumbles, kissing down your jaw, “All’a me?”

“All’a you,” you breathe back, head pressing back into the pillow while he sucks a mark into your neck. He hums, sitting up between your legs, pulling you down by your hips to meet him. Carefully he presses your legs back and open, easier to manipulate now that he’s stretched your hips out. Moving forward on his knees he guides himself from just under your clit to your entrance, soaking his tip in the process. He grits his teeth, trying to bite back the groan at just the feel of you already starting to suck him in. 

He thrusts slightly, feeling you open up for him; your little whimpers making him run his hand over his face to keep him focused. Once he’s pushed in a little more, he looks at you to gauge how you’re feeling, watching while your eyes bliss out below him. Jesus Christ, he thinks, Jesus H. Christ. With one final tentative thrust he pushes himself in to the hilt, pressing your thighs back so that your knees can get closer to your shoulder. “Fuck,” he strains when he bottoms out, voice cracking, “H-holy shit.” Your brows pull together when he leans over you, a slow roll of his hips pushing a yelp out of your mouth. “Yeah?” he asks, brown eyes rounding in the awe of how you look below him, how you look when he makes love to you. To be honest, he’d been fantasizing about this more than just about anything else these days. Palm gliding over his cock in the shower with this exact face in mind; more than how you look over his lap, how you look on your knees. He’d give all that up to make you look like this every night. “Yeah, sweetheart? That feels good, huh?” he asks, a gentle lilt to his tone. “S-so good, fuck,” you let out in a huff, “God, juss like that.” “Am I hittin’ one of those buttons?” he asks with a breathy giggle. You giggle back, hand making its way back to his face, thumb dragging over the stubble on his chin. “You’re hittin’ all my buttons, Munson,” you kiss him so eagerly he loses his breath. His hips pick up speed just enough to make little moans punch out of you at every thrust. He grunts, reaching down to push your hips up so that your knees come up over his shoulders. “Oh my fucking god,” you squeak out through gritted teeth. At this angle, every inch him fills you up; enough to make your eyes roll, “God, don’ stop, don’t stop.” Eddie loves being this deep, feeling like there’s no space for him to end or for you to begin. He groans when your arms wrap up and around his shoulders; nails pressing in on pale skin yet to be covered in ink. He groans, face falling against your cheek while one of his arms gives out holding him up over you. Lost in the pleasure of how you pull him in; snug and warm around his length. He keeps his pace steady and controlled, hot puffs of breath against your face while your hips roll with his rhythm. “Jesus, doll, I’m –” he nearly wines, ducking into your neck, “You feel so good, fuck.” “Hmm,” you smirk, turning your head to encourage him to look at you. Forehead to forehead now, your lips ghost over each other, each thrust sending you both closer to the edge. Ed reaches to the side to lace fingers with his free hand, the other occupied keeping him up by his forearm that’s also on its way to giving up. “You’re so perfect,” he whispers. “You think so?” you ask back between breaths. “I think so,” he nods, pulling your skin with his. “Hey,” you call for his attention, seeing his eyes flick up to meet yours, “I love you.” He whimpers, hips slowing to firm languid strokes, “F-fuck, babe.” You giggle again at his reaction, nails digging into his shoulder when the firmness turns slightly harder, “Oh shit.” 

He unlaces fingers to guide your face back to his, “I love you, too.” He holds your cheek while his hips speed up again, chasing your rapidly approaching orgasm as he feels you start to clench over him. Like his previous praise you can hear it like a dream, murmurs of I love you, I love you, I love you over and over again whispered against your skin, through your lips, into your hair. Each phrase falling on you, like a piece of glitter that will never come off, that you’ll find on the back of your knee in three weeks, that’ll get stuck in the carpet for the next twenty years. 

When you come it crashes over him, your eyes glassy when you drag your nails down his back.

"That's it, sweetheart," he mumbles against your ear, "Come for me, come just for me." He feels you gush in waves over his cock, soaking his pelvis from the position he has you in. He can’t help but start pistoning into you when you’re this wet, this open. He snarls and grunts, keeping your forehead against his with his eyes closed. You shake and pulse in the after shocks, enough to make him twitch with each sensitive pull on the head of his shaft. The unpredictable squeezes make it better; but in so many ways it feels like he knows the pattern. He knows you.

With a final few thrusts he quickly pulls out to spill over you, coating your thighs and stomach in a week of held back need.

“Hold on,” he sighs, leaning down to kiss you, “I’ll clean you up, just – whew – just give me a sec.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” you smirk through another heaving exhale.

“I…Babe, it feels like I don’t have bones,” he laughs into the comforter, slowly moving off of you and back onto the bed. With a harsh inhale through his nose and a shake of his shoulders he hypes himself enough to go to the bathroom. He returns soon after with another glass of cabernet and a warm wet wash cloth.

“Here,” he hands it off to you while he starts the gentle process of getting you washed up.

You sip delicately while he works, savoring each soft kiss he places on you after each swipe. His curls dance over your thighs, hips, ribs, and breasts while he makes his way back up to your cheek, pulling you in again to capture your lips in his.

“You feeling a little better?” he asks, “More relaxed?”

You nod at him, “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Eddie’s head tilts, “It’s not a thank you thing.”

“But I want you to know that I appreciate it,” you assure, slowly making your way off the bed, balancing the wine in your hand.

“I’m glad,” he reaches for his sweats on the ground, snapping the band low on his hips, “You deserve it.” 

He knows you like to hear that, watching you put your own pajamas back on while you smile to yourself. So bashful, his favorite girl. 

“Maybe we could stay up and watch a movie or something,” he offers, “Cuddle up and like, have some ice cream. I don’t wanna just go to bed after all that.” “I would like that,” you pull a face, not sad, but an affectionate frown, “You’re so sweet.” “I am,” he nods to himself with his hands on his hips, “Damn, I really am sweet.”