Hannah

The bell jingles softly overhead, drawing your attention from the carafe you were filling to the front door. Your usual regular comes in every day at the same time: 7 a.m. sharp, yet you have never once caught his name. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t care; you always remembered people's names when they introduced themselves. But this customer, in particular, always made you feel a certain way. 

Tall, broad shoulders, dark curly hair, tattoos, big dark-amber doe eyes, and always adorned in various band tees and metal accessories; you couldn’t help but be awestruck whenever he came in.

Asking for his name was difficult when you could barely peel your eyes off of him to make his coffee or give him his change. 

And, not to mention, he always greeted you the same way, which even after four months of seeing him made your stomach flutter all the same. 

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he said casually, gliding over to the counter and resting his elbows on the glass. 

“Hey, you,” you replied. ‘Hey you?’ What am I, a fucking idiot? “What can I do ya for?”

He pointed across the counter. "Didn't pin you for a Kappa Delta girl."

Your eyes followed his hand down to the faded green letters stretched across your chest, and you groaned dramatically.

"Oh, God, don't remind me."

"So you are?"

"Unfortunately."

A laugh rumbled out of him. "Unfortunately?"

"My grandmother was one. My mom was one. My older sister was one. Legacy status and all that." You shrugged. "Plus they have alumni connections that could basically hand me internships after graduation, so..."

"So you sold your soul."

"I leased it," you corrected. "There's a difference."

He barked another laugh, head tipping back just enough for the silver chain around his neck to catch the morning light. "I knew there had to be a catch."

You folded your arms across the counter, narrowing your eyes playfully. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

He looked at you for a second. Not glanced, looked.

"I don't know," he admitted. "You don't exactly scream sorority girl."

Your lips twitched. "What do I scream?"

His eyes wandered for a moment, taking in the long black nails, the silver hoops decorating your nose, the tiny bat charm hanging from your necklace, and the faint outline of tattoos disappearing beneath your sleeves.

"You look like you'd bully frat boys for fun."

"I do."

"I believe it."

"I've made three cry."

His grin got even bigger. "I definitely believe it."

You busied yourself finishing his drink, trying very hard not to think about the fact that he'd apparently been paying enough attention to have an opinion about you at all.

You slid the cup onto the counter. "That'll be four eighty-six."

His hand instinctively went to his back pocket, then his front, then his jacket. The smile slowly disappeared from his face.

"...You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

"What?"

"My wallet."

He patted himself down again like it might magically appear. "I left it at home."

He let out a breath through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm sorry. I can run back and—"

You waved him off before he could finish. "It's fine."

"No, it's not."

"It is."

He looked unconvinced. You leaned your elbows on the counter.

"The owner of this place is some rich schmuck who spends six months out of the year in the Bahamas and has never once noticed if inventory's off by a cup of coffee."

"I still don't want you getting in trouble."

"I won't."

"You sure?"

You smiled.

"I've accidentally made the wrong drink three times this week."

"You?"

"I'm shockingly incompetent."

"I don't buy that for a second."

"You shouldn't."

A quiet laugh escaped him as you nudged the cup another inch toward him. "Take it."

For a second, he just looked at you. Then he picked it up carefully. "Thanks... sweetheart."

You pretended that didn't make your stomach flip. As he turned to leave, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. "You know..."

"What?"

"I've been coming here every morning for four months."

"Mhm."

"You've never asked my name."

You blinked. "...Huh."

"And I just realized I've never asked yours, either."

A sheepish smile spread across your face. "I guess we're both terrible at introductions."

"I guess we are."

You reached across the counter and plucked the cup back out of his hand before he could protest.

"What're you doing?"

"Fixing it."

You uncapped your Sharpie and quickly wrote something on the side before handing it back. He looked down. Instead of his order, there was your first name, and underneath it, your phone number.

His eyes flicked back up to yours. You suddenly became very interested in the espresso machine behind you.

"So..." you mumbled. "Now you know mine."

A slow smile spread across his face, softer than the cocky little grin he'd walked in with. He looked back down at the cup one more time before meeting your eyes again.

"Eddie."

"What?"

"My name."

You couldn't help smiling. "It's nice to finally meet you, Eddie."

He wrapped one hand around the warm cup, still looking at the writing on the side.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I think it is."

The common room smelled faintly of vanilla candles and expensive perfume, with a hint of whatever pumpkin spice disaster someone had burned in the kitchen that afternoon.

You were tucked into the corner of the oversized sectional with your legs folded beneath you, a dog-eared paperback resting comfortably in your lap. It was one of the only quiet places on campus, at least in theory.

In reality, there were six girls gathered around the coffee table barely ten feet away, and they had absolutely no concept of indoor voices.

"Oh my God, did you see his face?" one of them laughed, nearly spilling her drink. "I genuinely thought he was gonna cry."

Another girl snorted. "He looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole."

Your eyes stayed fixed on the page. You'd gotten remarkably good at pretending not to listen.

"I still can't believe we made him stand outside with that sign."

"And then nobody even talked to him."

"I did."

The group collectively turned toward Madison, who looked far too pleased with herself.

"You did not."

"I swear."

"What'd you say?"

She took a sip from her cup with a little smirk. "He asked me if I wanted to get coffee sometime."

Someone immediately burst out laughing. "No, he didn't."

"He absolutely did."

"And?"

"I said yes."

A chorus of dramatic gasps erupted around the room. "You are such a liar."

"I'm serious."

"So you're actually going?"

Madison's smile widened into something that made your stomach turn. "Oh, absolutely."

You looked up from your book for the first time. She continued casually, like she was discussing the weather.

"I'm gonna tell him to meet me at Romano's Friday night."

Someone else caught on instantly. "Oh, my God."

"And then?"

"I'm not showing up."

Another girl laughed.

"No, no. Better." Madison leaned forward conspiratorially. "I'm gonna have Tyler and Jake there recording him waiting."

The room exploded into laughter. "We'll post it."

"That's so evil."

"It's hilarious."

"He seriously thought he had a chance."

Someone chimed in from the armchair. "Didn't you guys dump a trash can on him during hazing?"

"That was different."

"We also shaved his eyebrows."

"You did not."

"Just one."

More laughter.

You slowly closed your book. The sound wasn't loud, but it was enough to draw a few eyes toward you.

"What?" Madison asked.

You looked at her for a second before speaking. "Don't do that."

She blinked.

"...Do what?"

"The date."

Her expression immediately soured with amusement.

"It's just a joke."

"No, it's not."

"He'll get over it."

You slipped your bookmark between the pages. "He asked because he likes you."

"No," Madison scoffed. "He asked because I'm hot."

"And he thinks you're nice."

That earned another round of laughter. "Oh, sweetheart."

You ignored it. "If you don't want to go, don't go."

"I don't."

"Then tell him no."

Madison rolled her eyes. "Where's the fun in that?"

You looked at her for another long second. "I don't know."

Your voice stayed perfectly calm. "I've just never thought humiliating someone for liking me sounded particularly entertaining."

Another girl shrugged. "You're too nice."

"I don't think that's what this is."

Madison leaned back against the couch. "God, you're such a grandma."

You smiled faintly. "I've been called worse."

Someone changed the subject almost immediately, conversation moving on to parties and outfits and football games, but your attention had already drifted, and you looked back down at your book.

The words blurred together. You couldn't stop thinking about the poor freshman with one eyebrow, standing outside some restaurant waiting for a girl who was never planning on showing up.

By the time you came downstairs that afternoon, the entire house was buzzing. Not with excitement, but with gossip.

The television mounted above the fireplace was muted, some reality show flickering silently across the screen while half a dozen girls occupied every available couch and armchair, coffees in hand and phones practically glued to their palms.

You'd barely made it three steps into the common room before you heard Madison's name.

"...I'm telling you, he actually waited almost forty minutes."

Another girl burst into laughter. "No, he did not."

"He absolutely did."

You quietly crossed toward the kitchen, hoping to escape unnoticed. No such luck.

"Did you hear about that freshman?" someone asked from behind you.

You looked over your shoulder. "No."

"The one Madison was talking to."

"Oh."

You already had a bad feeling. A blonde sitting cross-legged on the sofa practically bounced with excitement. "So apparently she texted him to meet her at Romano's last night."

You didn't say anything.

"Poor idiot actually showed up with flowers."

Your stomach sank while another voice chimed in. "Not flowers."

"A single rose."

"Oh my God, that's even worse."

The room dissolved into giggles while You stayed quiet.

"He waited forever," another girl continued. "Then his pledge masters showed up."

"They told him Madison was waiting downstairs."

"In the basement."

You slowly lowered the mug you'd been reaching for. "...Romano's has a basement?"

"It rents out the lower level for parties."

Someone snorted. "They took him down there and made him chug like half a bottle of vodka."

"No, it was whiskey."

"I heard it was tequila."

"They made him eat dog food."

"They shaved his head."

"They wrote all over him with Sharpie."

"I heard they made him call his mom drunk and then run across the freeway."

The details changed with every person who spoke, each version somehow becoming more ridiculous than the last, but the laughter never stopped.

The point wasn't what had happened; the point was that everyone thought it was funny.

One girl looked up from her phone. "I heard his name's Gareth."

Another shrugged. "Whatever it is, he's definitely dropping."

Madison herself wandered into the room a moment later, completely unfazed, grabbing a yogurt from the refrigerator as if they were discussing the weather instead of another human being.

The second she sat down, someone asked, "Did he actually bring you flowers?"

She grinned. "Apparently."

The room erupted again.

You stared at her, and she noticed, staring right back. "What?"

"You knew he was going to."

"So?"

"So you still sent him there."

Madison looked genuinely confused by your expression. "It was a joke."

"No," you said quietly. "It wasn't."

She rolled her eyes. "He's a frat pledge. They'll haze him either way."

"That doesn't mean you had to help."

"Oh, my God." She laughed through the words. "Are you actually feeling bad for him?"

You looked around the room; nobody else seemed bothered. Some of them were still laughing. One girl was already recounting the story over FaceTime to somebody else.

Finally, you looked back at Madison. "I just think if someone asks you on a date and you're not interested..." You shrugged, "...you could just say no."

For a brief second, nobody said anything. Then Madison smirked. "You are so weird."

Another girl nodded. "Seriously."

You looked down at your coffee for a moment before forcing a small grin onto your face, one that had become second nature over the years.

"Whatever," you said with a little shrug. "I won't be “weird” once I bring you all free pastries after work."

That immediately changed the mood. Madison gasped dramatically. "Are we talking muffins or those chocolate croissants?"

"The croissants."

"I take everything back."

Another girl pointed at you from across the room. "See? This is why we keep you around."

"For my sparkling personality?"

"No."

"The day-old baked goods."

A couple of them laughed, the conversation effortlessly drifting away from Gareth and onto weekend plans, football games, and who was wearing what to Saturday night's mixer. You let them; it was easier.

You'd long since figured out that there wasn't much point in arguing. They'd laugh, call you sensitive, tell you to lighten up, and move on without giving it another thought.

So instead, you simply grabbed your bag from beside the stairs, waved over your shoulder, and headed for work. The walk into town did little to shake the conversation from your head.

You found yourself thinking about the boy you'd never met, sitting alone at Romano's with flowers in his hand, probably checking the door every few minutes with that tiny flicker of hope that somebody was actually going to show up.

The image lingered even as you unlocked the café and tied your apron around your waist.

Your afternoon shifts were usually uneventful.

A handful of students hiding behind laptops, professors grading papers over americanos, the occasional frazzled parent trying to wrangle a screaming toddler with a blueberry scone.

Which was exactly why, barely an hour into your shift, the familiar jingle above the front door made your head snap up.

You blinked. For a second, you genuinely thought you'd imagined him.

Eddie stood just inside the entrance, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, curls a little windblown from outside.

He looked around the café until his eyes landed on yours; a slow smile spread across his face.

"Well, this is new."

You couldn't help smiling back. "It is."

He wandered over to the counter, looking around theatrically. "I was beginning to think they kept you in a little cabinet overnight and only took you out at seven in the morning."

You laughed. "Nope."

"So you're actually a real person."

"Allegedly."

"Huh."

He rested his elbows on the counter. "I kinda liked the mysterious coffee cryptid theory better."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be."

He glanced up at the menu before looking right back at you. "So... this is your afternoon shift?"

You nodded. "Covering for somebody."

"I almost didn't come in."

"No?"

"Nah."

He smiled to himself. "Glad I did now."

You leaned against the espresso machine, folding your arms as he dug around in his pockets for cash. "So."

"So?" he echoed.

You gave him a pointed look. "You never called."

His hand froze for a fraction of a second before he let out a quiet, guilty laugh. "...Yeah."

"'Yeah?'"

"I know."

"I gave you my number and everything."

"I noticed."

"And then?"

"And then..." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking genuinely apologetic. "I had a really long night."

You raised an eyebrow. "That's the excuse we're going with?"

"No, that's the truth."

The teasing smile faded just enough that you immediately felt bad for pushing.

He looked down at the countertop, absentmindedly tracing one of the little scratches in the laminate with his thumb.

"One of my friends ended up in the hospital."

Your expression softened. "Oh."

"Some asshole fraternity hazing."

You didn't say anything.

"He got hurt pretty bad."

The words landed in your chest like a stone.

You'd spent all afternoon trying not to think about Gareth, trying to convince yourself that maybe the stories had been exaggerated through the campus rumor mill. Suddenly you weren't so sure.

Eddie exhaled through his nose. "I was there until like three in the morning."

"Is he okay?"

"He will be." His jaw tightened. "He's tough."

You nodded quietly. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged, but it wasn't convincing. "It sucks."

For a second, neither of you spoke. Then he shook himself out of it with a tired smile. "On the bright side, he's done with all that now."

"What do you mean?"

"He's dropping."

"Dropping?"

"The fraternity."

You nodded once. "Oh."

"He was only doing it because he thought that's what college was supposed to be."

"And now?"

Eddie smiled, though this one looked considerably more genuine. "Now he's transferring over to ours."

You blinked. "You have a fraternity?"

He looked almost offended. "I know. Shocking."

"I definitely didn't pin you for that type."

He laughed. "That's exactly what I said about your sorority."

"Touché."

"Ours isn't..." He searched for the right word. "One of the big campus ones."

"The terrifying Greek Row mansions?"

He nodded. "Yeah, definitely not that."

"So what is it?"

He shrugged. "A couple of guys living in a run-down house that desperately needs a new roof."

"Very prestigious."

"Extremely."

"I'm assuming there are matching sweaters."

"Oh, absolutely not."

"No little hand signs?"

"The only sign we’ll have is Gareth flipping everybody off when they make him do dishes."

You couldn't help laughing. "And people voluntarily join this organization?"

"Barely."

"What do you even do?"

He smiled. "Band practice in the basement. Movie nights. Cookouts when we can afford burgers instead of hot dogs. Other…stuff."

"So..."

"So?"

"It isn't really a fraternity."

His grin spread wider. "No."

"It sounds like a bunch of guys who accidentally signed a lease together."

"You’d be correct."

"I knew it."

He leaned against the counter, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "We've got a house, we've got letters on the front, we've got paperwork with the university."

"And?"

"And mostly we just look after each other."

Something about the way he said it made your heart ache. Your thoughts drifted back to Gareth, to whispered conversations and laughter echoing through the sorority house that afternoon.

Without thinking, you smiled softly. "I think I like yours better."

Then, with impeccable timing, the espresso machine behind you let out a deafening hiss that made both of you jump. You burst into laughter, and Eddie looked at the machine.

"I think it disagrees."

"I think it's jealous."

"Of me?"

"No."

"The hot dogs."

He looked deeply offended. "They're actually pretty good."

"I don't believe that for a second."

"Come over sometime and find out."

The words came out so naturally that neither of you acknowledged them for a beat. Then his eyes widened ever so slightly, as did your own.

He cleared his throat. "I mean..."

You smiled despite yourself. "I know what you meant."

The next week settled into something dangerously close to a routine.

Every morning at seven on the dot, the bell above the café door would jingle, and Eddie would stroll in with his curls still a little messy from sleep and some new band shirt you'd inevitably spend the next five minutes trying not to stare at.

Some mornings he'd stay for all of three minutes, grabbing his coffee before rushing off to class.

Other mornings he'd linger against the counter while you cleaned the espresso machine or restocked cups, making conversation about whatever happened to cross his mind.

Professors he couldn't stand, the guitar amp that had decided to die on him over the weekend, a stray cat that had apparently moved into the back porch of his fraternity house and now refused to leave.

You learned he always picked the marshmallows out of Lucky Charms first. He learned you read at the counter whenever business was slow. You discovered he couldn't pronounce the name of the French pastry on the menu to save his life and would instead point at it with complete confidence until you handed it over.

And every single morning, without fail, he'd greet you exactly the same.

"Mornin', sweetheart."

By Friday, you had unfortunately reached the point where hearing it from anybody else would probably feel wrong.

He still hadn't asked you on a date, and you still hadn't asked him. Neither of you seemed particularly interested in rushing whatever this was.

It was comfortable, easy. Enough so that you found yourself smiling whenever you looked up and saw him walking through the door.

Which was exactly why, hours later, sitting barefoot on one of the stools in the sorority kitchen with a mug of tea and a textbook open in front of you, the sharp ring of the landline nearly made you spill it.

The house phone almost never rang; everyone had cell phones. For a second, nobody moved.

Then one of the girls shouted from upstairs, "Can somebody get that?"

You sighed, slid off the stool, and wandered over. "Hello?"

Nothing, just soft static. You frowned. "...Hello?"

Then a man's voice, low and calm. "Madison there?"

You glanced toward the staircase. "Yeah. Hold on."

"Thanks."

Something about it felt...odd. Not threatening, just strange.

His voice was too even, too measured, almost like he was deliberately trying not to sound recognizable.

You covered the receiver with your hand. "Madison!"

A moment later she came clattering downstairs in fuzzy slippers and an oversized sweatshirt. "For me?"

"So he says."

She rolled her eyes dramatically. "If it's Tyler, tell him I'm busy."

You handed her the phone anyway. She tucked it between her shoulder and ear and wandered toward the hallway, disappearing around the corner.

You could still hear the occasional muffled sound of her voice, but not enough to make out words.

You returned to your tea. Barely thirty seconds passed.

Then, "What the fuck?"

Her voice echoed down the hallway. A moment later, Madison stormed back into the kitchen, looking thoroughly annoyed, hanging up the receiver hard enough that it rattled against the wall.

"What happened?" another girl asked from the doorway.

Madison crossed her arms. "Some creep."

"What creep?"

"I don't know."

She looked genuinely irritated. "He kept asking what I was wearing."

A chorus of disgust immediately followed. "Ew."

"What a freak."

"He knew my name."

One of the girls frowned. "Maybe it was Tyler messing with you."

"It wasn't Tyler."

"How do you know?"

"I know Tyler's voice."

Another girl leaned against the counter. "So what'd he say?"

Madison mimicked a deeper voice. "'What color shirt are you wearing, Madison?'" She rolled her eyes dramatically. "I told him to fuck off."

Someone laughed nervously. "Probably just some drunk guy."

"Probably."

Madison grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. "But seriously,” she shivered, "It was creepy."

The conversation moved on almost as quickly as it'd started. By the time everyone drifted back upstairs, the phone call had already become another funny little story to tell over drinks.

You looked over at the silent receiver still hanging on the kitchen wall. For reasons you couldn't explain, you couldn't shake the feeling that the voice on the other end hadn't sounded drunk at all.

If anything, it had sounded patient.

By ten-thirty, the house had emptied almost completely. Doors had slammed, music had drifted down the front steps, and the collective cloud of perfume and hairspray had finally dissipated enough for the place to feel like it could breathe again.

You'd declined the mixer without much thought. 

The excuse had been homework. The reality was that spending your Friday night curled up on the couch with tea and a book sounded infinitely more appealing than making awkward conversation with finance majors wearing pastel polos.

The old grandfather clock in the foyer chimed once, then silence settled back over the house. You turned another page before the landline rang. The sound made you jump hard enough to nearly drop your mug.

You glanced toward the hallway. Once. Twice. Three rings. With nobody else home, you finally stood and crossed the hardwood floor.

"Hello?"

A brief pause of staticky silence. Then, "Hi."

The same voice. Low, calm, almost pleasant. You frowned ever so slightly.

"...Hi."

"I was hoping somebody would answer."

"You've got somebody."

A quiet chuckle. "I guess I do."

You rested your shoulder against the wall. "Can I help you?"

"I was looking for Madison."

"They're all out."

"Oh." The disappointment sounded almost genuine. "When will they be back?"

You hesitated. "I'm... not really sure."

"That's okay." Another brief silence. "You stayed home?"

You blinked. "Yeah."

"Homework?"

"...Something like that."

"You don't seem like the mixer type."

A tiny smile tugged at your mouth despite yourself. "I guess not."

"You'd rather read."

Your smile vanished as you looked down at the paperback still sitting open on the couch.

"...Lucky guess."

"I suppose." His voice remained perfectly even. Comfortable, like talking to somebody over late-night radio.

"What're you reading?"

You glanced toward the cover. "'Rebecca.'"

"I've always liked that one."

"You've read it?"

"I've read lots of things."

"Hm."

"You sound surprised."

"A little."

"I disappoint you?"

"No."

You laughed softly. "I just wasn't expecting literary recommendations from mysterious men calling sorority houses."

Another quiet laugh. "Fair enough."

The conversation drifted for another minute. Movies. Coffee. The weather. Nothing strange, nothing threatening.

And yet something about it continued to make the hairs on your arms stand up. You couldn't have explained why.

Headlights suddenly swept across the front windows. Outside came the unmistakable sound of half a dozen girls talking over one another before the front door burst open.

Laughter. Music still playing from somebody's phone. Someone yelling that they'd lost a shoe.

You looked toward the foyer. "They're back."

"Already?"

"Looks like it."

The voice was quiet for a moment. Then, "Madison came home in the black heels, right?"

Your stomach tightened as you slowly turned toward the front windows. You couldn't see anyone outside. "...Yeah."

"The silver dress looked nice on her."

Your grip on the receiver tightened almost painfully. How...

The girls continued piling into the foyer, completely oblivious.

Madison stumbled in near the back of the group, kicking off exactly the pair of black heels he'd just described.

Your pulse began to climb, while the voice remained calm. "Could you hand her the phone?"

For one impossible second, you just stood there, your brain trying desperately to make sense of it.

Maybe he'd seen them leave. Maybe he'd driven by. Maybe...

Madison noticed you standing there. "For me?"

You looked from her... to the receiver in your hand... then nodded slowly. "I think so."

She rolled her eyes dramatically and took it. "Hello?"

You watched her expression change almost instantly; the smug annoyance disappeared. "What?"

Silence. Her face lost color. "No, that's not funny." Another pause. 

The room around her was still loud with drunken conversation, nobody paying much attention, but Madison wasn't listening to any of it anymore. Her fingers tightened around the receiver.

"Who is this?"

Silence. Then whatever was said next made her visibly stiffen. "No."

Another pause. "I said no." Her voice had become quieter. Not angry anymore, but scared. You took an unconscious step toward her.

Madison swallowed. "...How do you know that?"

Nothing. Her breathing changed, and the color drained completely from her face. "Stop it."

Another pause. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, "Please stop."

The laughter in the foyer had finally begun to die down as people were starting to notice. One of the girls frowned.

"Mads?"

Madison didn't answer. She was staring at the floor now, eyes wide and unfocused.

Then, without another word, she slowly lowered the receiver back onto its cradle and the line clicked dead.

Nobody spoke for several seconds. Finally, someone forced a laugh. "...Who was it?"

Madison didn't look up; her voice came out barely audible. "I..."

She swallowed hard. "I don't know."

Then she looked at you. Not annoyed, not embarrassed, but terrified. And for the first time since you'd met her, there wasn't a trace of arrogance left on her face.

Madison was still staring at the phone like it had personally offended her, one hand wrapped tightly around the edge of the kitchen counter.

Ashley was the first to break the silence. "...Madison?"

She didn't answer. "Madison, what did he say?"

Another girl laughed uneasily, the sound forced and far too loud. "Please don't tell me you actually got freaked out by some loser prank caller."

Madison slowly looked up. "He..." She swallowed. "He knew what I was wearing."

The room went quiet.

Ashley frowned. "What?"

"He described my dress."

Someone scoffed immediately. "He probably saw you leave."

"No." Madison shook her head. "He described it after I got home."

Another girl chimed in. "Maybe somebody from the mixer followed you guys back."

Madison wasn't listening anymore. "He knew I changed my shoes."

"What?"

"The heels."

Her breathing had become noticeably uneven. "He told me I came home in the black heels. The ones I kept in my purse to walk home in.”

A couple of girls exchanged uncertain looks. Still, nobody seemed genuinely concerned, until Madison spoke again.

"He asked me if I liked my room."

Your stomach sank. "What do you mean?"

Madison looked toward the staircase without realizing she'd done it. "He asked if I liked the poster over my bed. He asked if I still slept with my closet door open."

Nobody laughed this time. Madison's voice was barely audible now. "And then..."

She looked like she didn't even want to repeat it. "He said the window sticks when you try to close it all the way."

You felt every hair on the back of your neck stand up.

Madison suddenly lurched toward the front door, fumbling with the deadbolt before checking it once. Twice. Three times. Then she checked the handle anyway.

Ashley followed after her. "Madison—"

She was already moving toward the kitchen windows, yanking the curtains shut before checking those locks too. Then the back door. Then another window.

One of the girls nervously laughed. "Jesus Christ."

Madison ignored her completely. She was already halfway toward the foyer windows.

Ashley finally caught her wrist. "Hey."

Madison looked at her with genuinely panicked eyes. "What if somebody was watching us?"

Ashley glanced around at everyone else before lowering her voice. "Mads... think about it."

She didn't answer.

"The Pi Kap boys."

Madison frowned. "What?"

"They're messing with you."

Another girl immediately nodded. "Oh my God, obviously."

Ashley crossed her arms. "You dumped that drink on that guy tonight."

"So?"

"So now his buddies are probably trying to freak you out."

Someone else chimed in. "They probably had somebody parked outside the house."

"They know where you live."

"They've all been here for parties."

"And your room's literally been on your Instagram."

"They know what your room looks like."

"They know your outfits."

"They know what shoes you wear."

"They probably saw you come home."

The explanation settled over the room almost instantly; relief was contagious. Another girl laughed.

"Honestly? That's kind of a good prank."

Madison didn't laugh, but Ashley squeezed her shoulder. "It's just some pissed-off frat guys."

"They're trying to scare you because of it."

"They're assholes."

"But that's all it is."

For a long moment, Madison stood perfectly still. Then, slowly...

"...You think so?"

Ashley smiled. "I know so."

Another girl chimed in from the couch. "They're just trying to get in your head."

"And judging by this little performance..." She gestured vaguely toward the six different locks Madison had just checked. "...it's working."

A couple of people laughed again, tentatively this time. Madison finally managed a weak smile.

"Yeah."

Ashley nudged her toward the stairs. "Go to bed."

"I'm serious. Sleep it off. Tomorrow you'll realize it was some sophomore with too much time on his hands."

Eventually, Madison nodded and headed upstairs. The conversations slowly resumed. Music started playing from somebody's phone again.

Someone ordered late-night pizza. Within ten minutes, the atmosphere had almost completely recovered.

You lingered in the kitchen a little longer than everyone else, and your eyes drifted to the front window.

The curtains were drawn, and you couldn't see outside. For some reason...

You couldn't shake the feeling that someone might still be looking in anyway.

Sleep never really settled in after the phone call.

You'd drifted off eventually, more from exhaustion than anything else, but it wasn't restful.

Every creak of the old house seemed louder than usual, every shifting pipe enough to tug you halfway back to consciousness.

By the time you finally opened your eyes again, the room was dark enough that you had to squint to make out the red numbers glowing on your alarm clock.

2:43 a.m.

You let out a quiet sigh, pushed your blankets aside, and shuffled toward the door, still half asleep. The hallway was almost completely dark.

Only the tiny stained-glass lamp at the end of the corridor cast enough light to keep you from bumping into the walls, throwing patches of muted color across the hardwood floor.

You rubbed at your eyes and headed toward the bathroom as the floorboards creaked softly beneath your feet.

Halfway there, another one answered. Not yours.

You stopped. Silence.

You frowned, listening. Nothing, probably one of the girls getting water.

You took another cautious step. And suddenly a figure dressed entirely in black stepped out from the darkness at the opposite end of the hallway, and you froze.

Your brain didn't even have time to process what you were looking at.

A black hood. Long robe. The pale, impossibly familiar ghost mask catching just enough light to make the empty eyes seem alive. Every instinct in your body screamed.

The figure moved, fast.

A gloved hand shot toward you. You stumbled backward on pure instinct, your shoulder striking the wall as a strangled gasp caught in your throat before it could become a scream.

Then, another black-clad figure appeared seemingly out of nowhere. It caught the first one by the shoulder and shoved him sideways with surprising force.

Not enough to knock him over, but just enough to stop him.

The two stood there for the briefest second. The taller one turned his masked face toward the other and made one sharp, impatient motion with his hand.

Not at you, but past you, toward the end of the hallway. Toward Madison's room.

The second figure hesitated, and the first one pointed again, harder this time. Even through the costume, there was something unmistakably authoritative in the gesture.

The shorter figure looked back at you one last time before reluctantly turning away.

Without a word, he disappeared down the hall.

The taller figure lingered just long enough for his mask to turn toward you. You couldn't see his face. Couldn't see his eyes.

But for one impossible second, you had the overwhelming sensation that he was studying you.

Then he reached back and quietly pushed your bedroom door farther open behind you, almost expectantly. Your legs moved before your mind did, and you stumbled backward into your room.

The second your heel crossed the threshold, the masked figure swung the door shut behind them, leaving the two of you alone in your bedroom. 

The room suddenly felt impossibly small, illuminated only by the pale wash of moonlight slipping through the curtains.

Your pulse hammered so violently in your ears that it almost drowned out everything else, but not quite.

Downstairs, something crashed. A scream, another one, then running, then silence.

You stared at the figure standing only a few feet away from you, every instinct screaming at you to run, to fight, to do something, but your feet wouldn't cooperate.

The black robe barely moved as they shifted their weight. The knife in their hand remained pointed toward the floor.

Not raised, not threatening, but just... there.

You swallowed hard. "What... what do you want?"

The white mask stared back at you without expression. When the voice finally came, it wasn't a voice at all.

It crackled through an electronic distortion, flattened into something mechanical and impossible to place, every trace of age or identity stripped away.

"I'm sorry."

The words were so unexpected that they almost didn't register.

You blinked. "...What?"

Another scream echoed somewhere else in the house, farther away this time. The figure didn't so much as flinch.

"I'm sorry," the altered voice repeated quietly. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this."

Your hand found the edge of your desk behind you. "What are you talking about?"

Then the mask tilted ever so slightly. "You're the last one."

Your blood ran cold. "No..."

"You are."

"No."

"I'm sorry."

You shook your head before you even realized you were doing it. "No, they're all here. They're upstairs. They're—"

"They're gone."

The electronic filter couldn't hide the strange heaviness behind the words.

There was no laughter. No theatrical gloating. No excitement. Just something that sounded dangerously close to regret.

You stared at him, unable to breathe. "No..."

The figure remained perfectly still. "I didn't want you to find out this way."

Your voice came out barely above a whisper. "...Who are you?"

Silence. The only answer was another distant bang somewhere in the house, followed by complete stillness.

Your eyes filled before you could stop them.

"Please."

The masked figure lowered their head for just a second. "I can't."

"You know me."

Another silence. Then, softly, "Yeah."

The admission hit harder than any threat could have.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. "...Do I know you?"

The mask didn't move. The voice changer crackled faintly before the reply came.

"You do."

Every instinct begged you to ask another question. To demand a name. To make them pull the mask off. Instead, all that came out was a trembling—

"...Why me?"

The figure looked at you for what felt like an eternity. When they finally spoke, the words were almost gentle. "Because you were never supposed to be part of this."

The apology hung in the room between you. Outside, somewhere beyond your bedroom walls, the old house sat in perfect silence.

He stood perfectly still. The knife remained pointed toward the floor, hanging loosely from his gloved hand, as if he'd forgotten it was even there.

Your voice came out barely above a whisper. "...You keep saying you're sorry."

The mask tilted. "I am."

"Then why are you here?"

The distorted speaker crackled softly before he answered. "I don't know."

It wasn't the response you expected. "I thought I did."

Another pause.

"I had a plan."

He gave a quiet, humorless laugh that sounded even stranger through the electronic filter.

"A really good one."

Your fingers were still gripping the edge of your desk so tightly they hurt. "What plan?"

"You weren't supposed to matter."

The words were matter-of-fact, almost clinical.

"You were supposed to be..." He searched for the word. "Adjacent."

The mask turned toward your bookshelf. "Pretty girl."

Toward your desk. "Good grades."

Toward the discarded sorority sweatshirt hanging over your chair. "Legacy."

"I figured I'd have you all figured out in a week."

You couldn't bring yourself to respond. Instead, he continued talking almost to himself.

"But then you were kind. You let me walk away without paying."

Your stomach sank. Wait…

"You looked at me like there wasn't something wrong with me."

The voice changer hid his real voice, but not the strange sincerity underneath it.

"You laughed at my jokes."

"You remembered my order."

It can’t be…

"You started setting aside the blueberry muffins before I even asked."

Realization hit you like a freight train. 

Your mouth went dry. "I was just being nice."

"I know." Another quiet laugh. "That was the problem."

He took one slow step across the room. Not toward you, just... wandering.

Looking at your shelves, your records, the dog-eared paperbacks stacked on your dresser.

"I kept waiting."

"For what?"

"For you to disappoint me."

His head tilted slightly. "You never did."

Your pulse hammered painfully against your ribs.

"So then I started wondering if maybe I was wrong."

"About what?"

"About people."

The silence that followed felt heavier than anything he'd said so far.

"When Madison humiliated Gareth..." He stopped. "...you told her not to."

You stared. "...How do you know that?"

Another tiny crackle from the speaker. "I know lots of things."

"You sat in the corner pretending to read while everybody laughed."

"You left early."

"You looked guilty."

"You always look down when you're upset."

Your breathing became noticeably shallower.

He wasn't speaking like someone who'd watched you once; he was speaking like someone who'd watched you a hundred times. A thousand.

"You don't understand," he continued quietly. "I had everything figured out."

"The people who thought they could hurt whoever they wanted."

"The people who laughed."

"The people who'd never had anyone tell them no."

"They made sense."

"You..." Another soft laugh. "...you didn't."

You could hear your own heartbeat.

"So I started paying attention."

"You read in the park on Tuesdays."

"You always buy the same black pens because you hate blue ink."

"You leave the ends of your sandwiches."

"You hum when you mop the café floors."

You felt physically ill. He wasn't bragging; that was somehow the most terrifying part. He sounded fond, as if he were reminiscing.

"I kept telling myself I'd stop."

"I didn't."

"I kept telling myself you weren't real."

"I'd go home and think, she's pretending."

"Nobody's actually like that."

He looked directly at you. "And then you were."

Your eyes stung. "Please stop."

He ignored the plea. "I thought it would make this easier."

"This?"

"Killing you." The words landed with horrifying simplicity.

"I told myself if I watched long enough I'd find something."

"Something fake."

"Something ugly."

"Something selfish."

Another pause.

"I couldn't."

He lowered his head ever so slightly. "You were supposed to be easy."

His grip tightened almost imperceptibly around the knife at his side. "You were supposed to fit with the rest."

"You were supposed to laugh with them."

"You were supposed to become one of them."

"You weren't."

The electronic distortion crackled again. "And now you're making this so much harder than it was supposed to be."

You couldn't stop the tears now. "I don’t even know you that well.”

"No."

"But I know you." His head lifted again. "And that's the really unfair part."

Then, so quietly you almost didn't hear it, "I think if we'd met differently..."

The sentence never finished. Instead, he looked away, almost angry with himself for saying it at all.

When he spoke again, the softness was gone; only something fractured remained.

"I spent weeks trying to convince myself obsession isn't the same thing as caring." The mask turned back toward you. "I still don't know if I believe that."

He stood there in the moonlight, impossibly still. The voice changer hid his identity. The mask hid his face. But you knew who it was, mask on or not. Eddie. 

His name echoed in your mind, heavy and final, twisting something deep in your gut. You should have screamed. You should have lunged for the window, the phone, anything.

Instead, your body stayed rooted, trembling against the desk as the Ghostface figure, Eddie, some broken part of you already whispered—stood bathed in the thin moonlight slicing through your curtains.

He took another slow step.

The knife still dangled from his gloved fingers like an afterthought, but his head tilted with that unnerving curiosity, like he was memorizing the way your chest heaved with every shallow breath.

"You keep saying you're sorry," you whispered again, voice cracking.

"I am." The distortion made it sound almost gentle. "But I can't stop now. Not when you're looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you see me." He was closer now.

Close enough that the black fabric of his robe brushed your bare knee where your sleep shorts had ridden up. "Like maybe you could want this too. Even if you shouldn't."

Your pulse roared in your ears. Fear coiled tight in your stomach, but underneath it—god, underneath it—something hotter flickered.

The way he'd watched you. The way he knew you. The confession of weeks, months, of him orbiting your life like a shadow you never noticed.

It should have repulsed you. It did. But it also made your skin prickle, your thighs press together without thinking.

"I don't—" The lie died on your tongue as his free hand rose, gloved fingers ghosting along your jaw.

Not gripping, not yet. Just tracing, reverent, like you were something sacred he was about to defile.

"You do," he murmured, echoing his earlier words. The knife lifted slowly, the flat of the blade pressing cool against the side of your neck. Not cutting. Just resting there, a promise.

Your breath hitched sharply. 

"I can see it. That little shake in your voice. The way your nipples are hard under that shirt even though you're scared shitless."

A low, distorted chuckle. "Pretty girl... always so fucking kind. Always pretending you don't feel it."

He stepped fully into your space, the mask inches from your face.

You could smell him—faint leather, weed, that metallic tang of whatever madness drove him. His body heat bled through the robe, solid and real against you.

"Tell me to leave," he said suddenly, voice dropping. The knife traced lower, down your collarbone, catching on the thin strap of your tank top. "Say it. Say 'get out,' and I'll try. I'll really fucking try."

Your lips parted, but no sound came. His gloved thumb brushed your bottom lip, pressing just enough to part them further.

"That's what I thought." The knife slipped under the strap and flicked; sharp, precise. The fabric gave way with a whisper. 

Cool air hit your skin as one breast spilled free. He groaned, the sound raw even through the mask. "Fuck... look at you."

You gasped as his hand cupped you roughly, thumb circling your nipple in a way that made your back arch despite yourself. Terror and heat twisted together, impossible to separate. "Please..."

"Please what?" He leaned in, the mask's nose brushing your cheek. The knife dragged lightly down your sternum, not breaking skin, just teasing the panic that made you clench. 

"Please stop? Or please keep going? Be honest, sweetheart. I've watched you long enough to know when you're lying."

His other hand slid down your body, shoving between your thighs without warning. Two thick fingers pressed against the damp seam of your shorts, rubbing slow and firm.

You whimpered, hips jerking forward involuntarily. Shame burned your face even as slick heat flooded you.

"See?" That fractured laugh again. "You're soaking for the monster who came to kill you. My sweet, perfect girl... always surprising me."

He pushed you back onto the desk with sudden force, scattering papers and pens. The knife clattered beside you as he used both hands to yank your shorts down your legs, leaving you bare from the waist down. 

You tried to close your thighs; he forced them open wider, dropping to his knees between them like a man at prayer.

The mask stayed on (of course it did). But you felt his breath hot through the fabric as he leaned in, inhaling you like a drug. It lifted slightly, not enough to see his face, but enough to assist him.

"Been dreaming about this," he rasped. His tongue, warm, real, and eager, dragged up your slit in one long, filthy stroke.

You cried out, fingers scrambling for purchase on the desk. He didn't tease; he devoured. Licking and sucking at your clit with desperate hunger, his now un-gloved hands pinning your thighs apart as you squirmed and moaned.

Every flick of his tongue pulled another broken sound from you. Fear made everything sharper—the edge of the knife still within reach, the threat of who he was—but the pleasure was drowning it, wave after wave as he ate you like a man starved. Like he'd been waiting lifetimes for the taste of you.

"That's it," he growled against your cunt, voice rough and filthy. "Ride my face, baby. Use me. I killed for less. I'd die for this."

Your hands tangled in the hood of his robe, pulling him closer despite everything. Your hips rolled, chasing the building pressure.

He moaned into you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. One finger pushed inside you, then two, curling just right while his mouth worked your clit without mercy.

You came hard, thighs shaking around his masked head, a sob tearing from your throat as pleasure crashed through the terror. He didn't stop. He licked you through it, gentler now, almost worshipful, until you were twitching and oversensitive.

When he finally rose, he towered over you, unzipping the robe with one hand while the other picked up the knife again. His cock sprang free, heavy, flushed, already leaking.

He fisted himself slowly, stroking as he looked down at you spread out and ruined on your desk.

"Still scared?" he asked, almost tenderly.

The tip of the knife traced your inner thigh, leaving faint red lines that didn't quite break skin.

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks even as your pussy fluttered around nothing, aching for more.

"Good." He stepped between your legs, rubbing his cock through your folds. "Because I'm not done with you. Not even close."

He pushed in with one slow, relentless thrust, stretching you open around his thickness. The mask hovered above you as he bottomed out, a broken groan leaving his mouth.

"Fuck... so tight. So fucking good." He started moving, deep and punishing, one hand braced beside your head with the knife still clutched tight. "You're mine now. Say it."

You gasped with every thrust, the desk creaking beneath you. "I’m yours—"

"Louder." His hips snapped harder, dragging perfectly inside you. "Tell the man who you’re scared of that you're dripping for his cock anyway."

"I'm yours," you moaned louder, legs wrapping around his waist despite the fear still clawing at your chest.

The blade pressed to your throat again as he fucked you harder, the danger and the pleasure twisting into something addictive, something insane.

He laughed wild and unhinged, something almost Eddie, and leaned down until the mask was pressed to your ear.

"Good girl. Now cum on my cock while I decide if I'm still gonna kill you after... or if I'm keeping you forever."

The choice, you realized through the haze of overwhelming sensation, had never really been yours to begin with.

And some shattered part of you didn't want it to be.

....part 2? or am i crazy? ._.

anywayssss, hope you all enjoyed pookies!

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

Your eyes immediately drop to the little cardboard box of screws that had apparently slipped from your arm, scattering across the concrete. Before you can bend down, he's already crouched, gathering them one by one.

"Oh my God, thank you," you mutter, already embarrassed. "Today's just... one of those days."

He stands, holding the box out to you. "Trust me, I have a lot of those."

Before you can answer, the tiny voice from your shopping cart pipes up.

"Mama forgot apples."

You look over at your daughter, whose legs are happily swinging from the front of the cart as if the world isn't actively trying to kick your ass.

"We're not at the grocery store, bug."

"I know."

"So..."

"I still wanted apples."

The man snorts, trying to hide it behind his hand, and you can't help smiling despite yourself. He glances at the collection of fittings in your cart before looking back at you.

"So... you remodeling your house or planning on flooding it?"

You hold up the wrinkled list. "My kitchen sink won't stop leaking."

He nods once. "And you got sent here with that list?"

"My landlord told me it'd be an 'easy fix.'"

His face immediately says everything. "Oh..."

"What?"

He scratches the back of his neck. "I mean... no offense to your landlord, but he's either lazy or doesn't know what he's talking about."

You laugh, genuinely this time. "Could be both."

"Probably both."

He steps beside your cart and gently picks up one of the connectors you'd grabbed. "You don't actually need this one."

"No?"

"Nope."

He swaps it for another. "And this thread tape is garbage."

"It is?"

"It's the cheapest stuff they make."

"I picked it because it was the cheapest stuff they make."

He smiles. "Fair enough."

For the next ten minutes, he walks beside you through the aisle, explaining everything in terms that actually make sense instead of sounding like a repair manual. He never talks down to you, never makes you feel stupid, just casually points things out with an easy patience that surprises you.

Your daughter has apparently decided he's the most fascinating person she's ever seen.

She leans over the cart. "Mister."

He looks over. "Yeah?"

"I like your hair."

He instinctively reaches up to touch it. "Thanks."

"You look like a lion."

You slap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing.

He pauses for a second before grinning. "I've been called worse."

She nods thoughtfully. "I have a unicorn."

"That's awesome."

"It's pink."

"My favorite color."

Her eyes widen. "No way."

"Way."

She gasps dramatically and immediately begins digging through the pile of toys she'd somehow accumulated in the shopping cart.

You rub your forehead. "I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

"She adopts people."

He glances down at the little girl now proudly presenting him with a stuffed dinosaur that has clearly seen better days. "I'm being recruited?"

"I'm afraid so."

He accepts the dinosaur with complete seriousness. "An honor."

Your daughter beams. Mission accomplished.

After another few minutes, he places the final item into your cart. "There."

You stare at the contents. "So... this should actually fix it?"

"Should."

You hesitate, then smile sheepishly. "You don't happen to know how to install it too, right?"

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, and you immediately regret them.

"Oh my God, forget I said that."

He laughs. "No, actually..." He rubs the back of his neck. "I do."

"You do?"

"Spent enough years fixing my uncle's trailer. Not licensed or anything, but I know what I'm doing."

You study him for another second. "And what's the catch?"

"The catch?"

"Nobody just offers to fix a complete stranger's sink."

His eyebrows lift. "I wasn't exactly offering."

"No?"

"I was kind of waiting to see if you'd ask."

You laugh. "So now that I have?"

He pretends to think. "Hmm..."

Your daughter kicks her feet again. "Mama makes yummy grilled cheese."

He looks at her. "She does?"

She nods emphatically. "And tomato soup."

You cover your face. "Honey..."

She points at him. "He can come over."

He immediately raises both hands. "For the record, I support stranger danger."

"He doesn't look dangerous."

"I appreciate that very much."

She studies him another second. "You got nice eyes."

His ears actually turn pink. "Thank you."

Then she sticks out one tiny hand. "I'm Rosie."

He shakes it with complete sincerity. "I'm Eddie."

She smiles like she's known him forever.

You don't know what possesses you to trust him. Maybe it's the way he talks to your daughter like she's a real person instead of a nuisance. Maybe it's because he's spent the last fifteen minutes helping you without expecting anything in return.

Or maybe it's because, for the first time in what feels like years, someone looked at you and didn't see a burden. He just saw you. 

"So..." you say carefully. "If you're sure..."

He shrugs. "I'll fix your sink."

"And if it turns out to be a bigger problem?"

"Then I'll tell you honestly."

"And if you can't fix it?"

"We'll order pizza and pretend we never touched it."

A laugh slips out before you can stop it. "That's a terrible plan."

"It's worked for me before."

Rosie is already nodding enthusiastically. "I like pizza."

He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I think she's on my side."

You smile. "I think she’s usually on the opposite of mine."

Neither of you could've known then that the sink would be fixed in under twenty minutes. Or that he'd stay another three hours because Rosie insisted on showing him every stuffed animal she owned.

Or that he'd come back the next weekend because she'd proudly announced she wanted to show him her coloring book.

Or that months later she'd accidentally call him "Dad," clap both hands over her mouth in horror, and burst into tears because she thought she'd hurt his feelings.

And years after that, if anyone ever asked Eddie Munson when he met the love of his life, he'd grin and tell them it happened in the plumbing aisle because a stubborn little girl needed apples and her exhausted mother didn't know the difference between a pipe coupling and a garden hose.

2 years later…

By the time you pull into the driveway, your shoulders are aching from wrestling grocery bags in and out of the trunk, and your patience has been thoroughly tested by the woman in front of you at the checkout who insisted on writing a check in the year 1998.

You manage to hook three bags over one arm, another two over the other, and nudge the front door closed behind you with your hip.

The house is quiet for approximately three seconds, then you hear it: a tiny burst of giggling. Then another. Then Eddie's voice, dramatically lowered into what can only be described as a very serious royal accent.

"I'm terribly sorry, Your Majesty, but Sir Teddy Bear has informed me that the strawberry scones have been stolen by dragons."

Rosie's gasp is so loud you hear it from the foyer. "No!"

"I'm afraid so."

"The pink dragons or the green ones?"

"The pink ones."

She sighs dramatically. "They're always doing that."

You quietly set the grocery bags on the kitchen counter before peeking around the corner into the living room, and your heart almost physically stops.

The coffee table has been pushed against the wall, a floral blanket spread neatly across the rug with every stuffed animal Rosie owns arranged in a perfect little circle. Tiny plastic teacups are balanced precariously in front of each guest, alongside mismatched toy plates covered in invisible desserts.

And sitting right in the middle of it all...is Eddie. 

He's cross-legged on the floor, his long curls pulled into two horribly uneven pigtails secured with glittery pink scrunchies. Rosie has somehow convinced him to wear a feather boa, an oversized plastic pearl necklace, and a paper crown that's hanging halfway off his head.

He still has a black band tee and jeans on, of course. The tiara somehow makes it look even cooler.

Rosie notices you first. "Mama!"

She jumps up and nearly spills an imaginary cup of tea all over herself before sprinting toward you, wrapping herself around your legs.

"Eddie's having tea with us."

"I can see that."

She beams proudly. "He knows all the rules."

You glance over at him as he lifts the tiny plastic teacup with absolute dignity. "I've been informed that my pinky needs to stay out."

Rosie immediately corrects him. "It stays up."

"My apologies."

He raises it another inch. "Better?"

She nods approvingly. "Much."

You can't stop smiling. "What exactly am I looking at here?"

Rosie grabs your hand and starts dragging you toward the blanket. "We're princesses."

Eddie quietly adds, "I'm Princess Sparkles."

You bite your lip so hard it almost hurts. "Princess Sparkles?"

He nods solemnly. "I wasn't given a choice."

Rosie immediately spins around. "You picked that one."

He freezes. "...I was given a choice."

She points a tiny accusing finger at him. "You said it was the coolest one."

"It was."

"You said sparkles make everything better."

"They do."

"So you wanted it."

He looks over at you with complete resignation. "I have no defense."

Rosie climbs right back onto the blanket before patting the empty spot beside her. "Mama, sit."

You carefully lower yourself onto the floor, smoothing your jeans beneath you. Immediately, Rosie starts pouring from an empty plastic teapot into your equally empty cup.

"This one's raspberry."

You take a sip with complete seriousness. "Oh my goodness."

She smiles. "It's yummy."

"It's delicious."

Eddie clears his throat. "If I may..."

Rosie nods graciously. "You may."

He lifts his cup. "I detect notes of raspberry with... perhaps a hint of gasoline."

Rosie frowns. "No."

"No?"

"No gasoline."

"My mistake."

She leans over and whispers loudly enough for everyone to hear. "It's strawberries."

He nods in understanding. "Ah. An excellent vintage."

She looks unbelievably proud of herself.

The tea party continues for another twenty minutes, complete with imaginary cookies, a lengthy debate between Bunny and Mr. Dinosaur over proper table manners, and Rosie insisting everyone sing happy birthday to a stuffed giraffe whose birthday appears to have been invented on the spot.

Eventually, she crawls into Eddie's lap without thinking, settling there like it's the most natural place in the world. He absentmindedly smooths a hand over her hair while continuing an entirely serious conversation with the stuffed giraffe.

"And how old are you turning today?"

Rosie answers for it. "Six."

"Oh wow."

"But not really."

"Oh."

"It's pretend."

"Right."

"You're bad at pretending."

"I'm learning."

She reaches up and gently fixes one of his crooked pigtails. "There."

He smiles. "Thanks, sweetheart."

Your chest aches. Not because of anything dramatic. Not because of all the nights you sat awake wondering if Rosie would grow up wondering why she wasn't enough for someone to stay. It aches because she no longer wonders.

She has Eddie. The man currently accepting fake tea from a five-year-old with the same reverence most people reserve for expensive wine. The man wearing a plastic tiara without a single complaint. The man who never once made her feel like she wasn't his.

He catches your eye from across the blanket, so you smile at him softly. He smiles back.

Then Rosie reaches up and shoves another glittery necklace over his curls. "There."

He looks down. "What does this one make me?"

She grins so wide her cheeks puff out. "My daddy."

Silence settles over the room for just a heartbeat. Eddie doesn't hesitate; he just looks up at her with the gentlest expression you've ever seen and presses a kiss against the top of her head.

"My favorite title I've ever had."

Rosie simply nods like that was the obvious answer all along before returning to her tea.

By the time Rosie is tucked into bed, complete with three stuffed animals, one bedtime story, a glass of water she absolutely won't drink, and a solemn promise that you'll check for monsters under the bed even though she's well aware monsters don't exist, the house has settled into that quiet only late evenings seem capable of producing.

The dishwasher hums softly in the kitchen. The television is on low volume, neither of you really paying attention to whatever old movie is playing.

You've long since changed into one of Eddie's old shirts, sleeves swallowing your hands, and he's stretched out on the couch with his legs kicked over the coffee table, one arm lazily draped around your shoulders while the other balances a bottle of beer against his knee.

You're tucked comfortably against his side, your own beer untouched for the last fifteen minutes because somehow you've become completely distracted tracing absentminded circles against his forearm.

Neither of you says much; you never really have to. Comfortable silence had become one of your favorite languages together. After almost two years, it isn't awkward anymore; it's simply home.

Eddie presses a kiss against your temple before taking another sip of his beer. "Can I ask you something?"

You tilt your head up. "When have you ever waited for permission?"

He grins. "Fair."

He looks back toward the television for another moment before his expression softens. "You don't have to answer."

Your fingers stop moving.

"But..." He shrugs. "I realized the other day I don't actually know what happened."

You don't have to ask; you know exactly what he means.

He keeps his voice careful. "Rosie's dad."

For a second, all you do is stare at the condensation rolling down your bottle. It's funny. People assume single mothers talk about it all the time. In reality...you spend most of your life trying not to.

After a quiet moment, you let out a slow breath. "I was married."

You feel Eddie's arm tighten ever so slightly around your shoulders, but he doesn't interrupt.

"We got married young."

You smile faintly, though there's no humor in it. "I thought that was what you were supposed to do."

He stays quiet.

"So we got married, got an apartment together, talked about vacations we'd never actually take because money was always tight."

You laugh softly. "We used to argue over whose turn it was to buy toilet paper."

Eddie smiles. "The truly romantic stuff."

"The glamorous side of marriage."

Your smile fades. "When I found out I was pregnant... I was terrified."

You look down at your hands. "I remember sitting in the bathroom, staring at the test, thinking there had to be a mistake."

"And then?"

"And then I got excited."

Your voice comes out almost embarrassingly quiet. "I started making lists. I looked at baby names. I started clipping little nursery ideas out of magazines. I remember standing in the grocery store crying because I walked past baby socks."

A tiny laugh escapes you. "They were so little."

Eddie reaches over and quietly intertwines his fingers with yours, and you squeeze them.

"I couldn't wait to tell him."

You stare at the floor.

"He didn't cry. He didn't smile. He just looked at me."

The silence stretches.

"I remember asking him if he was okay. He just stood and told me he'd be back later."

You swallow. "He wasn't."

You blink a couple times before continuing. "He started coming home less. He worked late. He stopped touching me. Hell, he stopped looking at me."

Your voice remains remarkably calm. "I found lipstick on one of his shirts."

Eddie's jaw clenches.

"I asked him about it." You laugh quietly. "He told me I was hormonal."

"A month later, he asked for a divorce."

Eddie finally looks down at you. You don't look angry anymore; you just look tired.

"He actually used the words..." You smile bitterly. "'I think we've grown into different people.'"

He says nothing.

"So I signed." Your thumb rubs absentmindedly over the bottle label. "A week later he moved in with someone else."

"A girl barely old enough to drink." You let out another humorless little laugh. "My mother called it trading in for a younger model."

You look toward the ceiling. "I think she was trying to make me laugh."

"Did it?"

"A little."

Your eyes drift toward the hallway leading to Rosie's room.

"He never came to appointments. He wasn't there when she was born. He didn't call. He didn't write. He never met her."

Eddie's entire face has gone still. "He knows about her?"

You nod once. "He just... didn't want her."

The words hang in the room. Simple, matter-of-fact. Far crueler because of it.

You shrug one shoulder. "It took me a long time not to think there was something wrong with me."

Your voice cracks for the first time. "Then I worried there was something wrong with her."

Eddie turns immediately. "There isn't."

"I know that now."

"But at three in the morning with a newborn who won't stop crying and bills stacked on the counter..."

You smile through watery eyes. "You start asking yourself questions you know aren't true."

Without saying a word, Eddie reaches over and gently takes your beer from your hand before setting both bottles on the coffee table. Then he wraps both arms around you, like he's trying to hold every broken piece anyone else ever left behind.

You bury your face into his shirt, and he presses his cheek against your hair. After a minute, he quietly says, "Can I tell you something?"

You nod.

"The first day I met Rosie..."

You smile despite yourself. "The hardware store?"

"The hardware store."

He chuckles softly. "When she held out that stuffed dinosaur and told me his name was Mr. Pickles..."

You laugh through your sniffle. "It was Mr. Sprinkles."

"Oh." He grins. "See? I wasn't listening."

"You absolutely were."

"I wasn't."

"You were."

"I was busy because this tiny little person had just informed me that dinosaurs eat grilled cheese."

"They do."

"They absolutely do." He kisses your forehead. "I remember thinking..."

"...that if I ever got lucky enough to have a kid someday..." His voice lowers. "I hoped they'd look at me the way she did."

You close your eyes.

"And then I kept coming over." Another kiss against your temple. "And somewhere along the way..."

He shrugs against you. "...I stopped imagining some hypothetical kid."

"It was just Rosie."

You feel your throat tighten and he smiles into your hair. "I don't know the first thing about biology. I don't care whose eyes she has. I don't care whose nose she has. I don't care who signed what paper or what his last name was."

He gently tips your chin up until you're looking at him. "I've been hers since she handed me that beat-up stuffed dinosaur."

You can't stop the tears anymore, and he wipes one away with his thumb.

"And for the record..." His voice is impossibly soft. "The biggest idiot in Indiana walked away from you."

He gives you that crooked little grin that still makes your heart flutter after all this time. "Worked out pretty great for me, though."

You laugh, sniffling. "Yeah?"

"Oh, absolutely."

He starts counting on his fingers. "I got the prettiest girl I've ever met."

You roll your eyes. "Mm-hmm."

"I got a kid who thinks dinosaurs eat grilled cheese."

"They do."

"They absolutely do."

"And..." He leans over to steal a quick kiss. "I got invited to tea parties."

"A real privilege."

"The highest honor."

You smile into another kiss. Then he rests his forehead against yours and murmurs so quietly you're not sure he even meant to say it out loud.

"I didn't step up because someone else stepped out." His thumb brushes your cheek. "I stepped up because I fell in love with you."

"And somewhere along the way..." His smile softens into something almost impossibly gentle. "...I fell in love with her too."

You don't answer; you just lean into him until he's practically swallowing you whole with one of his hugs.

The familiar rumble of Eddie's van pulls into the driveway just as Rosie finishes painting approximately half of your thumbnail and almost all of your finger.

She leans back with a look of absolute pride. "There."

You hold your hand up to admire the aggressively uneven layer of bright pink polish coating your nail and cuticle alike. "It's beautiful, bug."

"I know."

She nods very matter-of-factly before dipping the tiny brush back into the bottle with all the confidence of a seasoned professional and absolutely none of the precision. The front door creaks open a second later.

"I'm home!" Eddie calls.

Rosie's head whips toward the foyer so quickly she nearly launches the polish across the living room. "Daddy!"

She abandons your half-finished manicure entirely and hops off the couch, bare feet slapping against the hardwood as she sprints toward him. You hear him laugh before you even see him.

"Whoa, whoa, easy there."

You round the corner just in time to see Rosie wrap herself around one of his legs. Eddie looks exactly like he always does after work at the shop.

His curls are tied back in a loose bun that's already halfway fallen out; there's grease smeared across his cheekbone and forearms, his old band shirt is stained with oil, and his jeans look like they've survived some kind of explosion underneath a car.

He crouches down anyway. "Hi, sweetheart."

She immediately wrinkles her nose. "You're dirty."

He looks down at himself. "...Little bit."

"A lot bit."

"Maybe a lot bit."

She reaches up and pokes a streak of grease on his arm with one tiny finger. "Ew."

He gasps dramatically. "Excuse me? This is artisan-grade mechanic seasoning."

"It looks yucky."

"It probably is."

He scoops her up anyway, careful to keep his hands away from her clothes as much as possible before carrying her over to where you're standing. His tired eyes immediately soften the second they land on you.

"Hi, pretty girl."

You smile. "Hi yourself."

He leans down, stopping just short of kissing you. "I'm gross."

"I noticed."

"You sure?"

You grab the front of his shirt and kiss him anyway, grease and all. When you pull away, he looks almost offended. "I literally smell like motor oil."

"And?"

"And you kissed me."

"I happen to like motor oil."

He grins. "Liar."

Rosie wedges herself between the two of you. "You both smell funny."

You snort. "Thanks, Rosie."

"You're welcome."

Eddie presses a quick kiss to the top of her head. "I'm gonna go shower before I contaminate the entire house."

She watches him head toward the hallway before suddenly remembering something incredibly important. "Wait!"

He turns. "Yeah?"

"I'm painting nails."

His eyebrows lift. "Are you now?"

She proudly holds up the tiny bottle. "And after Mommy's..."

She points directly at him. "...I'm doing yours."

He looks at you, and you very helpfully shrug. "I don't make the rules."

He presses a hand dramatically to his chest. "I've been selected?"

"You have."

He smiles at Rosie. "You got black?"

She blinks. "What?"

"Black nail polish."

She looks down into the little plastic basket of colors before digging through every bottle with increasing concern. "No..."

He sighs dramatically. "Of course."

She brightens. "I have sparkles."

He looks at you, and you bite your lip. He already knows he's doomed. "Well..."

He says carefully. "...dealer's choice."

Rosie gasps like she's just been entrusted with the nuclear launch codes. "Really?"

"Mhm."

She nods once with complete seriousness. "I know exactly what to do."

You exchange a look with Eddie. He mouths, Help. You smile sweetly. Absolutely not.

Twenty minutes later, he's freshly showered, hair still damp around his shoulders, wearing an old pair of gray sweatpants and one of your favorite oversized Sabbath shirts. He sits obediently on the living room floor while Rosie carefully arranges her entire nail polish collection around him. You curl up on the couch behind them, pretending to read while secretly watching everything.

Rosie picks up one bottle, sets it down. Another, sets it down. Then…she finds it. The brightest, loudest, most offensively glitter-infested neon purple imaginable. You physically have to cover your mouth.

Eddie eyes it suspiciously. "...That's the one?"

She nods enthusiastically. "It's princess purple."

"Oh."

"And sparkles."

"I see."

"And hearts."

"I can... also see that."

"And glitter."

"I definitely see that."

She beams. "It's pretty."

He looks at her, then at the bottle, then back at her. Without another word, he extends both hands. "Do your worst."

Rosie giggles so hard she almost falls over. For the next half hour, she paints with absolute artistic freedom. The polish ends up on his fingers, his knuckles. One suspicious streak somehow appears halfway up his thumb.

She pauses every few minutes to inspect her work before adding another layer. When she's finally done, she grabs both of his hands and holds them up proudly. "There."

Eddie examines them with complete sincerity. "...Rosie."

She waits expectantly. 

"I think these are the coolest nails I've ever had."

Her entire face lights up. "Really?"

"Oh yeah." He wiggles his fingers dramatically. "I've never looked more fabulous."

She immediately launches herself into his lap for a hug. He catches her without hesitation, wrapping one arm around her while being careful not to smudge his fresh manicure. You watch them from the couch, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

Rosie pulls back just enough to admire his nails again. "I made you pretty."

He gently tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. "You always do, sweetheart."

She yawns a huge, sleepy little yawn, the kind that scrunches up her whole face. Eddie notices instantly.

"You getting tired?"

She shakes her head, then yawns again. "No."

"Mhm."

"I'm not." Another yawn.

He smiles knowingly. "Sure."

She curls herself against his chest anyway. Within maybe three minutes, she's completely asleep. Eddie looks over at you, careful not to move too much.

His hands are still decorated in violently purple glitter polish. His stepdaughter is slightly drooling on his shirt. His hair is still damp. He looks happier than you've ever seen another human being.

You quietly reach over and lace your fingers with his. He glances down, then back at you.

"So..." You whisper. "You gonna keep the nails for work tomorrow?"

He looks at his hands, looks at Rosie, looks back at you, and smiles. "Absolutely."

"You know the guys are gonna make fun of you."

He shrugs. "They can."

You raise an eyebrow. "They won't bother you?"

He looks down at the little girl asleep against his chest and gently kisses the top of her head.

"I'd let this kid paint my entire face green if it made her smile."

He glances back at his sparkly purple fingertips. "As far as I'm concerned..."

He wiggles them proudly. "...these are the coolest damn mechanic hands in Hawkins."

The house has long since gone quiet.

The dishes are done, the lights downstairs are off, and somewhere outside, rain taps softly against the bedroom window. The fan hums overhead, filling the room with the kind of gentle white noise that always seems to lull everyone to sleep.

Rosie had insisted on one extra story tonight. Then one extra hug. Then one extra glass of water. Then one extra kiss for Mr. Sprinkles. Then another for herself. If you give a mouse a cookie, or whatever they say. 

By the time you'd finally pulled her bedroom door closed, she'd already been halfway asleep.

Now you're curled beneath the blankets with your head resting on Eddie's chest, absentmindedly tracing lazy circles against his side while he combs his fingers through your hair. Neither of you is talking anymore, the exhaustion of the day settling comfortably over both of you.

His lips brush the top of your head. "You asleep?"

"Almost."

"Liar."

"Mhm."

"You drooled on my shirt."

"I absolutely did not."

"You absolutely did."

You smile into his chest. "I think you're making things up."

"I would never."

"You literally convinced Rosie last week there were raccoons that delivered pizza."

"There could be."

"There aren't."

"You don't know that."

You laugh quietly, the sound muffled against him. "I love you."

He doesn't even pause. "I love you more."

"You can't prove that."

"I can."

"How?"

"I made you grilled cheese with the crusts cut off yesterday."

"I didn't ask you to."

"You didn't have to."

You shake your head, smiling to yourself. You don't know how much time passes before a tiny knock sounds against the bedroom door. Three little taps, then another.

Then the knob slowly turns. The door opens only wide enough for a small face to peek through. Rosie's eyes are watery; her little bottom lip trembles when she spots the two of you.

"Mama?"

Your heart immediately softens. You sit up before she's even finished speaking. "What is it, bug?"

She clutches Mr. Sprinkles tighter against her chest. "I had a bad dream." Her voice is so quiet you almost don't hear it.

You hold your hand out. "C'mere."

She doesn't hesitate. Bare feet shuffle across the hardwood before she climbs onto the bed, crawling right between the two of you without so much as asking permission, as though she'd done it a hundred times before.

Maybe she has. You immediately pull the blankets over her little shoulders while Eddie scoots closer from the other side, making sure she's tucked safely between you.

Rosie simply curls into your side, one hand reaching across until it finds Eddie's sleeve. She hangs onto it tightly. You smooth her hair back from her forehead.

"Wanna tell us about it?" 

She shakes her head. "It was scary."

"I know."

"There was a loud noise."

You gently rub circles against her back. "But you're here now."

She nods once, then another sniffle. "You guys are here."

"We are."

"And we're not going anywhere."

She wiggles a little closer until she's practically glued to both of you at once. Eddie quietly reaches over and tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

"You know what's nice about bad dreams?"

She looks up at him with sleepy, curious eyes. "What?"

"They end."

She thinks about that. "They do?"

"They always do."

"And then you wake up."

She nods slowly. "I woke up."

"You did."

"And then I came here."

"You did."

"And now you're with us."

Rosie looks down at Mr. Sprinkles before whispering, "He got scared too."

Eddie leans over to inspect the stuffed dinosaur with complete seriousness. "He seems pretty brave to me."

"He was pretending."

"Oh."

"He didn't want me to be scared."

Eddie smiles softly. "I think he did a pretty good job."

Rosie considers that before giving the dinosaur a little kiss on the nose. After another quiet minute, she yawns. One of those enormous little yawns that seems far too big for someone so tiny.

You can't help smiling. "Tired?"

She immediately shakes her head, then yawns again. "No."

"Mhm."

"No."

She curls up even smaller anyway, one hand still tangled in your pajama sleeve now, the other resting against Eddie's arm.

You feel Eddie's hand find yours over the blankets, his fingers lacing through yours without a word. Rosie's eyes are already drifting closed. Just before she falls asleep, she mumbles something so quietly you almost miss it.

"I'm happy."

You glance across at Eddie, and he's already looking at her.

"What made you think of that, sweetheart?" he asks softly.

Her eyes never open. "I like when we're all together."

Your throat tightens instantly.

She nestles deeper beneath the blankets. "I like my home."

A few seconds later, she's asleep; completely, peacefully asleep.

You and Eddie don't move; you don't dare. He looks over at you in the darkness, and there's something in his expression that says everything words can't.

You reach over the little lump of blankets between you and rest your hand against his cheek. He turns just enough to press a kiss into your palm.

this shit actually made me ugly cry from pure content

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The drama room was actually cozy. Six pairs of eyes glared when you sauntered in wearing your tightest jeans and a cropped cashmere sweater.

Dustin Henderson actually stood up. “No. Absolutely not. Outsiders ruin campaigns.”

Mike Wheeler: “She’s one of Carver’s people.”

Eddie, sprawled in his throne like a metal king, just smirked. He flung himself back dramatically, arms draped over the armrests.

“Dungeon Master’s ruling,” he announced, voice booming with exaggerated flair. “She stays. Sit down, your highness. Let’s see if the city girl can handle a little fantasy.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Besides… I’ve already got the perfect role for you.” His grin was pure chaos.

He slid a fresh character sheet across the table: half-elf sorceress named Vespera Nightshade.

Eddie’s smile turned wicked.

“She’s a virgin sacrifice in tonight’s plot. The cult needs pure blood to open the gate. She’s the offering.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Subtle.”

Eddie spread his hands over the table.

“Just trying to match your expectations." He leaned in, voice dropping to that velvet DM timbre. “So tonight? You get to be the pure, untouched victim who dies beautifully because she thought she was too good for the table. The party tries to save you… but the dice decide.” He tapped the table twice with his pencil like a wand. “Roll, princess. Try not to die immediately. It’s bad for morale.”

The room went quiet.

You stared at him and for the first time since you’d arrived in Hawkins, something shifted under your skin.

You picked up the d20. The die felt heavier than it should in your palm.

Eddie watches you from across the table.

“Roll initiative, princess.”

You roll.

The die clatters across the scarred wood.

Everyone leans in.

It settles.

Eddie’s grin spreads slowly. He leans back in his throne, clearly loving this.

“Eighteen,” he announces. “Not bad for a first roll. The cultists drag you toward the altar…”

Every roll became a performance. Every description dripped with theatrical venom wrapped in velvet.

When Vespera tried to persuade the cult leader, you rolled a natural 3.

Eddie threw his head back with a dramatic laugh, then leaned forward, eyes locked on yours.

“The high priest laughs in your face—ha!” He slammed a hand on the table for emphasis. “Your sharp tongue means nothing here, little sorceress. Your blood is the key.” He twirled the pencil like a blade. “The chains tighten around your wrists. You feel the cold stone altar against your back…”

You leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “I cast Fireball.”

Eddie’s grin widened, clearly loving every second.

“Roll for concentration. The chains are enchanted. DC fifteen—which, for the record, is generous.”

You roll.

The die bounces once… twice…

Dustin cranes his neck.

It settles.

Eight.

Eddie studies the die for a moment, then leans back slowly.

“Eight,” he says, mocking. “That’s… tragically not enough.”

The spell fizzles. The cultists chant louder. The blade hovers over your throat.

He keeps going, voice dropping to a whisper that fills the room.

“Roll a constitution save to stay conscious through the pain.”

You roll again. 14.

“You feel the first cut—shallow, teasing. Blood trickles down your collarbone.” Eddie leans even closer. “The high priest leans in… ‘Beg, Vespera. Beg for your life.’”

Your cheeks burn. You slam your palms on the table.

“I don’t beg.”

Eddie’s eyes glitter with pure delight.

“Then you die.”

He describes it in excruciating, beautiful detail—the blade sliding in, blood pooling on the stone, Vespera’s last breath, the gate roaring open.

Your stomach drops. Actual tears prick your eyes before you can stop them.

“Whatever,” you mutter, grabbing your bag. “This is stupid.”

You bolt before the session ends, not looking back.

The weekend was a slow-motion car crash. You spent Saturday at the quarry with Jason and the crew, nursing a warm can of beer and wearing your most expensive sunglasses to hide the lack of sleep. When Jason laughed about "Munson’s little freak club," you joined in, but your voice sounded weak and fake even to your own ears.

You’d tossed and turned in your grandparents' guest bed until the sheets were a tangled mess, your hand sliding down your stomach, hovering at the waistband of your silk shorts as you heard Eddie’s voice in your head, the velvet rasp he used when Vespera was on the altar.

“Beg, Vespera. Beg for your life.”

Monday morning the clique cornered you by the lockers.

“So? How was the virgin sacrifice club?” one girl cackled.

You forced a laugh. “Kids playing pretend. Eddie Munson narrates fantasy stories. Total loser.”

Dustin heard every word.

You’d spent the morning laughing too loud with the cheer-adjacent mean girls, tossing your glossy hair, dropping barbs about “small-town losers” and “pathetic dice-rolling virgins.” But every time your eyes met Eddie in the hall, you looked away first. Fast.

He knew why.

After the final bell, he didn’t bother with subtlety. He waited until you slipped into the narrow side corridor behind the gym—shortcut to the parking lot where your fancy black car waited. The hallway was empty, lights flickering overhead menacingly, the distant thump of basketball practice muffled through the walls.

Eddie stepped out from the shadows of the vending machines, blocking your path.

You froze mid-stride, chin lifting on instinct. “Move, Munson.”

He didn’t.

Instead he closed the distance in two lazy steps, backing you up until your shoulders hit the cold cinderblock wall. You sucked in a breath but didn’t push him away. Eddie planted one hand beside your head, caging you without quite touching, then caught both your wrists in his free hand and pinned them above your head. The metal of his rings was cool against your pulse points; your heartbeat kicked hard enough that he could feel it.

“Still think it’s just ‘kids playing pretend’?” he asked, voice low, rough around the edges. “Still gonna stand there and tell everyone Hellfire’s a joke?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out at first. You tried for defiance. “Sure it is. You couldn’t run a cult if Satan himself gave you the starter kit.”

Eddie’s mouth curved—slow, dangerous. “Funny. Last night you cried when your character died. Actual tears, princess. I watched them roll down those perfect cheekbones while you pretended it didn’t matter.”

Your face flushed scarlet. “You killed her on purpose, made it impossible to win.”

“Did I?” He leaned in until his mouth was a whisper from yours, voice dropping to that velvet DM timbre. “Yes. And you enjoyed the game. You liked sitting at my table. Eagerly rolling those dice. Liked the way my voice got when I described the blade hovering over Vespera’s throat. Loved being my virgin sacrifice in the center of the story.”

Your thighs pressed together involuntarily. Eddie noticed. Of course he did.

He let his free hand slide down—slow, deliberate—over the curve of your hip, along the edge of your too-short skirt, until his palm cupped you. You jolted.

“Eddie—”

“Shh.” He pressed the heel of his hand right against your clit, firm enough to make you gasp. “Let’s see how much you hated it.”

He rubbed once—slow circle—and felt the heat of you even through the fabric. Another pass, and the lace was already damp.

Your head thunked back against the wall. “Stop—”

“You’re soaked, princess.” His voice dropped to gravel. “All because I called you pure. Virgin. Sacrifice. You clenched every time I said it. Don’t lie to me—I can feel how much you want this.”

You were breathing hard now, chest rising and falling, nipples tight against your thin sweater. Your wrists flexed in his grip but you didn’t pull away.

“Admit it,” he murmured, rubbing again, watching your eyes flutter. “You loved the game. You love that I know exactly what gets under your skin. And you’re still a virgin because no one’s ever made you feel like this—like you’re the main fucking quest.”

Your lips trembled. “Fine,” you whispered, the word cracking. “I liked it. I liked the stupid game. Happy?”

“Not yet.” Eddie slid his fingers under your underwear, teasing, not entering. “I’m offering to lift the curse, princess. Right now the demon’s still got his claws in you—making you ache, making you wet just thinking about it. I can fix that.”

You swallowed. “How?”

He released your wrists—slowly, giving you every chance to shove him off. You didn’t.

Instead Eddie brought his hand up between you, the two fingers that had just been gliding through your folds shining with your arousal. He held your gaze, lifted them to his mouth, and licked them clean with slow, deliberate drags of his tongue, tasting you like you were dessert.

You made a broken little sound in your throat.

Eddie leaned in and kissed you hungrily, with teeth and tongue, sharing the taste of your slick with you, letting you feel exactly how much he wanted this too. When he pulled back, your lips were swollen, eyes glassy.

“Trailer,” he rasped against your mouth. “Tonight. After dark. No games, no audience. Just you, me, and the best damn campaign of your life.”

You laughed, but it came out shaky. “You think I’d let you—”

“I think you’re dying to.” He brushed a thumb along your jaw, barely there. “Come on, brat. Tell me to fuck off and I walk away. Or tell me yes… and I’ll make you scream my name louder than you screamed those spells last night.”

You stared at him for a long heartbeat—chest heaving, cheeks flaming, thighs still trembling.

Then you grabbed the front of his Hellfire shirt, yanked him back down, and kissed him harder than before.

“Yes,” you breathed when you broke apart. “But if you’re not as good as you talk, Munson, I’ll ruin you.”

Eddie grinned against your lips, feral and triumphant.

“Challenge accepted, princess.”

He stepped back, letting you breathe, letting you feel the empty space where his body had been.

“Eight o’clock. Don’t be late.”

You smoothed your sweater with shaking hands, trying to reclaim some composure. But the damp lace and the taste of him on your tongue made that impossible.

You walked past him on unsteady legs, toward the parking lot.

Eddie watched you go, already counting the hours.

imagine a nice divider here

Eight o’clock sharp.

The sun had dipped below the treeline, painting Forest Hills trailer park in that bruised purple twilight Hawkins did so well. You sat in a fancy car two streets over, knees pressed tight, manicured nails carving half-moons into your palms. You’d parked a couple of blocks away and forced yourself to walk the last stretch, high heels clicking too loud on cracked asphalt.

All afternoon you’d psyched yourself up in your grandparents’ guest bathroom mirror—lipstick reapplied three times, hair flipped until it looked artfully tousled. The outfit: black skinny jeans hugging every curve, cropped black tank under an oversized leather jacket “borrowed” from your dad’s old closet pre-divorce fallout. Expensive. Untouchable.

But inside? Your stomach was staging a full rebellion.

You’d told the mean-girl clique after school, casual as anything, that you weren’t hitting the mall with them cause you were heading to the freak’s trailer tonight.

“To buy weed,” you’d said, rolling your eyes when one arched a perfect brow. “What else would I want with Eddie Munson? Guy’s basically a walking dispensary. I need something to make it through the week.”

They’d laughed. Called you brave. Told you to pack pepper spray if he tried anything weird. You smiled like you were in on the joke, but the second the bell rang you bolted to the bathroom and dry-heaved acid and nerves.

Now here you were.

Eddie’s trailer crouched at the end of the row, porch light flickering like it was auditioning for its last scene. The van sat crooked in the gravel, side door still sporting that faded Corroded Coffin sticker. Heavy, slow bass leaked through the thin walls—throbbing like a heartbeat.

You stopped at the top step. Your hand hovered over the screen door. You could still bolt. Pretend this never happened.

The door flew open before you could knock.

Eddie leaned in the frame, shirtless, jeans slung dangerously low, hair wild like he’d been raking his fingers through it for an hour. A joint dangled unlit from his lips. The black ink of his tattoos stood out stark against pale skin in the low light, the demon head on his forearm snarling at you. He dragged his gaze over you, slow and shameless, then smirked around the paper.

“Thought you might chicken out, princess.”

You crossed your arms, summoning every ounce of ice-queen energy you’d worn all week. “Please. I’m here, aren’t I? You gonna let me in or make me stand in the mosquito buffet?”

He stepped aside with exaggerated gallantry, sweeping an arm wide like a game-show host. “Mi casa es su casa, your highness. Watch the amp cords—don’t want you snapping an ankle in those death-trap heels.”

Inside it smelled like incense, weed, and him: leather, smoke, faint patchouli sweetness. The place was controlled chaos—a guitar leaning against the couch, vinyl stacks on the floor, a half-finished D&D map sprawled across the coffee table like battle plans. A single lamp cast warm gold over everything.

Eddie shut the door. The click felt final.

You stood frozen just inside, jacket still zipped like armor.

He didn’t crowd you yet. Instead he sauntered to the tiny kitchenette, grabbed two beers from the fridge, popped the caps with his lighter in one fluid flick, and offered you one.

“Liquid courage?” His voice softened, just a notch quieter than the hallway bravado.

You took the bottle, fingers brushing his. Cold glass. Hot skin. The cool metal of his rings pressed against your knuckles for a second. You didn’t drink yet.

“I told them I was buying weed,” you admitted, staring at the label like it held cosmic answers. “My… friends. The ones who dared me to your stupid club in the first place. Figured it was the only excuse that wouldn’t get me roasted for the next month.”

Eddie leaned back against the counter, watching you with those too-knowing puppy eyes, drumming tattooed fingers on the bottle. “And is that all this is? A little rich-girl rebellion to spice up the country-club monotony?” He tilted his head. “With a perfect alibi?”

Your throat worked. You set the beer down untouched.

“No,” you whispered. Surrender.

Eddie pushed off the counter, closing the distance slowly until he was right there. Not touching. Just close enough that his heat reached you.

“Then tell me why you’re shaking, sorcerer.”

You laughed, short and nervous. “I’m not shaking.”

“Liar.” He reached out slow, caught one trembling hand, and turned it palm-up. He traced your lifeline with his thumb. “Right here.”

Your breath caught.

“I’ve never…” You swallowed. “Gone this far. And you… you talk like you’ve got everything figured out. Like you already know how this ends.”

Eddie’s grin softened, almost gentle. He lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to the center of your palm, lips brushing over the spot his thumb had just traced.

“I know how I want it to end,” he said quietly. “With you on my bed, legs spread, saying my name like a prayer instead of a curse. But only if you want it too, princess.”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a second.

When they opened, the brat flickered back.

“Fine,” you said, steadier. “But if you suck at this, Munson, I’ll ruin you.”

Eddie laughed, low and delighted, finally closing the last inch.

“Deal.”

Eddie kissed you slow, exploratory, letting you set the pace. One hand cupped the back of your neck while the other slid under your leather jacket to your waist, rings grazing bare skin. You melted faster than you’d admit, fingers curling into his bare shoulders, tracing the edge of the dragon tattoo.

When you broke apart, both breathing hard, Eddie rested his forehead against yours.

“Still nervous?”

“A little,” you admitted.

“Good.” He nipped your bottom lip. “Means it matters.”

He took your hand again and tugged you gently toward the short hallway.

“Come on, princess. Let’s lift that curse properly this time.”

Eddie didn’t rush. He let you walk ahead, his hand resting light at the small of your back, over the bare skin where your cropped tank rode up. Shivers ran down your spine.

The bedroom door was cracked, dim amber light spilling out. His boot nudged it wider. Messy bed, black sheets half-tucked. Guitar picks scattered like confetti on the nightstand. Silver handcuffs dangling casually from the headboard like decoration.

Your step faltered.

Eddie pressed up behind you, the warm skin of his chest against your back, lips grazing your ear.

“See something you like, princess?”

You swallowed. “You’re really leaning into the ‘satanic freak’ aesthetic, huh?”

“Only when it makes pretty girls nervous.” He slid both hands to your hips, fingers hooking belt loops, rings pressing into denim as he tugged you back so you felt exactly how hard he was. “You’re shaking again.”

“I’m not.”

“Perhaps” He nuzzled your neck, breathing you in—expensive perfume and nervous sweat. “Bet if I slid my hand down those fancy jeans right now, you’d be dripping. Just from walking into my lair.”

You tried to scoff, but it came out a gasp when his fingers dipped under the waistband, teasing the elastic of your panties.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he murmured. “Tell me you didn’t spend all weekend thinking about my fingers circling your clit while you pretended to hate it.”

“Shut up,” you whispered, hips rocking back instinctively.

Eddie chuckled—low, dark, the sound vibrating through you. “That’s what I thought.”

He walked you forward until your thighs hit the mattress, then spun you to face him. His hands slid under your jacket, pushing it off, then found the cropped tank, dragging the fabric up slow over peaked nipples.

“Look at these,” he said, voice rough with appreciation. He thumbed one gently, silver ring catching your skin. “So fucking sensitive.”

Your head fell back on a shaky exhale. “You talk too much.”

“And you love it.” He leaned down and flicked his tongue over one nipple—quickly, gone before you could arch. “Admit it.”

You grabbed fistfuls of his hair, yanking his head back to glare. “You’re so cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrected, grinning wide. “And right.”

He kissed you harder—tongue claiming, one hand kneading your breast, the other popping your jeans button and dragging the zipper down torturously slow. When his hand slipped inside, still over your panties, he groaned against your mouth.

“Soaked through already.” His finger pressed your clit through lace, rubbing slow circles. “Is this all from teasing? Or were you wet the whole walk over, replaying what I said about lifting your curse?”

“Both,” you moaned, hips chasing his hand. “Fuck… Eddie.”

“There she is.” He pulled his hand free just as your thighs trembled, ignoring your whimper. “Not yet, princess.”

He pushed you gently onto the bed. You bounced softly, legs slightly parted, chest heaving.

He dropped to his knees, hooked his fingers into your jeans and panties, and dragged them down. He stopped to take off your heels Cinderella-style, until you were bare, trembling, and glistening.

“Spread wider,” he ordered, voice dropping into full Dungeon Master velvet. “Let me see how desperate my little virgin sacrifice is.”

You hesitated—pride versus want—then slid your thighs apart slowly.

He purred. “Now… tell your DM what you want first. Fingers? Mouth? Or should I edge you until you’re begging me to break that curse with my cock?”

You stared up at him, lips parted, flushed.

Quiet, almost shy: “Your mouth. Please.”

Eddie’s grin turned sinful.

“That’s my sorcerer.”

He didn’t dive in. He kissed the inside of one knee… higher… planted deliberate open-mouthed bites that skirted everywhere except where you ached.

Your hands fisted the sheets. “Eddie… please…”

“Shh.” He nipped your thigh crease. “The demon doesn’t rush. He savors.”

He dragged one slow lick along your seam, not parting you yet.

You whimpered.

“Tell me how bad you want it, Vespera,” he murmured. “Beg your Dungeon Master to taste how wet you are for him.”

Your resolve cracked.

“Please,” you gasped. “Please lick me… fuck, Eddie, I need your tongue… please…”

He groaned like victory.

He spread you with his thumbs and dragged his tongue from your entrance to your clit in one long, devastating stroke.

Your back arched with a cry.

Eddie flattened his tongue, broad and hot, lapping slow before sealing his lips around your clit with a gentle suck, then harder. Your hands flew to his hair, yanking; he groaned into you, the vibration shooting through your whole body.

“Fuck… Eddie… right there…”

He pulled back just enough, lips shiny. “That’s it, princess. Let me hear you. No one’s around. Scream if you want. Let the whole park know the city brat’s getting devoured by the freak.”

He dove back in, tongue flicking fast while two fingers slid inside slow, stretching, curling against that spot. His rings were still on as he pumped lazily.

“You’re clenching so fucking hard already,” he murmured against your folds. “Been waiting for someone to spread you open and worship you properly, haven’t you?”

Your thighs shook. You tried to close them, but he hooked his arm under one knee and pinned you wide.

“No hiding.” He thrust his fingers harder, faster—curling ruthlessly while sucking your clit like he’d pull your soul out. Your back bowed, a broken sob tearing free.

“Come,” he commanded. “Break for me. Let me taste how much you needed this.”

You shattered—thighs clamping his head, hips bucking, his name ripping out of you raw and endless. Eddie licked slower, gentler, drawing out every aftershock until you whimpered, oversensitive.

He crawled up, the predator victorious. You were boneless, chest heaving, cheeks streaked with tears you hadn’t noticed.

Eddie kissed them away and got back to your mouth so you tasted yourself. You moaned, nails digging into his back.

He rolled on a condom, twirling the packet like a prop.

“Ready to lose that V-card, princess?”

You wrapped your legs around his waist. “If you don’t hurry I’ll sacrifice you instead.”

“Good.” He murmured. “Because the campaign isn’t over.”

He grabbed your wrists and guided them above your head to the headboard slats

“Hold that,” he ordered, full DM timbre with low, commanding menace. “Tonight you’re not a spoiled city brat. You’re Vespera Nightshade, half-elf sorceress, freshly resurrected by dark magic… still bound by the demon’s curse.”

Your breath hitched. You could play.

“And what curse is that, oh mighty Dungeon Master?”

Eddie leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “The curse of unrelenting need. Your body betrays you. Every resistance makes the heat worse. You’re dripping for the one who holds your leash.” His fingertip dragged down your center—sternum, navel, stopping just above your mound. “Tonight… the demon demands tribute again.”

You arched at the barest touch.

“Roll for willpower, Vespera.” He nipped your earlobe. “DC 18. Fail, and you beg.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “I don’t beg.”

Eddie’s grin went feral. He slid down, kissing and biting a path—collarbone, underside of your breast, lower—till he settled between your thighs. He blew cool air over your clit.

“Roll. Or I edge you until you cry real tears.”

You squirmed. “Fine… fuck, no dice.”

“Use your imagination, baby. What’d you get?”

Your hips jerked. “Nineteen.”

He crawled back up, caging you, his cock brushing your inner thigh.

“The demon appears before you,” he growled in character, rough with want. “Towering. Horned. Hung like sin. One chance to break the curse: surrender completely. Spread your legs. Let him claim what’s his. Or ache eternally, untouched, denied.”

Your thighs trembled. You hooked a leg around his waist and pulled. “You’re such a dramatic asshole.”

“Say the words, Vespera.” He notched himself at your entrance, teasing—hot and thick. “Beg your Dungeon Master to fuck the curse out of you.”

You glared, defiant, your hips rolling for more. “Make me.”

Eddie laughed, delighted, and pushed in slow, inch by inch, groaning. “Holy shit—you’re so tight.”

The brief sting melted to liquid heat.

“That’s it,” he hissed, finding a slow, steady rhythm. “Still pretending you don’t love being split open on demon cock?”

“Eddie…”

He snapped his hips deeper, the bed creaking beneath you. You were close already, shaking. “Eddie… fuck… move…”

“Wouldn’t stop for anything.”

He fucked you deep, careful but strong.

“Come for me, Vespera. Break the curse. Scream for your Dungeon Master.”

You shattered—thighs clamping, his name ripping out of you raw. Eddie followed, burying deep, spilling with a guttural curse, hips jerking.

You collapsed together, tangled, panting, sweaty.

After a long minute, Eddie lifted his head, grinning like he’d rolled a natural 20.

“So… best campaign ever?”

You smacked his chest weakly, breathless. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah.” He kissed your forehead, soft. “But you’re coming to the game next time. I’ve got a whole new module planned. I'll have you resurrected. Never done it for anyone.”

Afterward, you lay tangled, your head on his chest. You glanced down and felt your cheeks burn. “Eddie, your sheets—”

He followed your gaze, then looked back at you, completely unbothered. “Princess. They’re black. Your secret is safe”

The annual start-of-summer lake day was apparently sacred in Hawkins. You discovered this at exactly eight-thirteen in the morning when a bikini top smacked you directly in the face. You jolted awake with a startled noise, immediately sitting upright as Violet stood in your doorway looking entirely too awake for a college student on summer break.

"Rise and shine."

You squinted at her through messy hair. "What time is it?"

"Lake day time."

"That's not a real time."

"It is in this house."

You groaned and flopped backward into the mattress. Unfortunately for you, Violet Munson had never been known for mercy. An hour later, you were sitting cross-legged on a kitchen stool nursing a cup of coffee while Violet packed enough snacks to survive a small apocalypse.

The house was quiet in Eddie's absence. He'd left for work before either of you woke up, disappearing sometime around six in the morning after leaving a note on the counter reminding Violet, "be there around four. please try not to drown anybody."

You'd stared at that note for far longer than necessary. Not because his handwriting was attractive, that would be ridiculous.

The front door opened dramatically, snapping you out of your lovestruck focus on Eddie’s chicken scratch. A blonde girl walked inside without knocking, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, and a set of car keys dangling from one finger.

"Please tell me somebody made coffee."

"Kitchen," Violet called.

The girl immediately rounded the corner before stopping when she saw you. For a second, she simply stared, then she looked at Violet. Then back at you.

"Huh."

"What?" Violet asked.

The girl pointed. "This is the roommate?"

"Yep."

"Huh."

"What does that mean?"

The girl shrugged. "Nothing. Just expected someone different."

She extended a hand toward you. "Harper Harrington."

You shook it. "The Harrington?"

She sighed dramatically. "Unfortunately."

The rest of the group filtered in over the next half hour, the same way Harper had; no knocking, no warning, just casually wandering into the Munson house like they owned part of it. By the time everyone finally piled into their respective cars, you'd met enough people to completely lose track of who belonged to who. 

Apparently, that was another Hawkins thing. Everybody's parents knew everybody else's parents, everyone had grown up together, and somehow half the town seemed related through friendship if not blood. It was oddly comforting in a way you weren't used to, a kind of community that only seemed possible in places where people stayed.

The lake itself ended up being far prettier than you'd expected. Hawkins might've been small, but the water stretched wide beneath the summer sun, sparkling between the trees while boats drifted lazily across the surface. 

The group immediately claimed a familiar patch of shoreline, unloading coolers and folding chairs with the efficiency of people who'd been doing this every summer since birth.

Before you'd even finished laying your towel out, somebody had already started music, somebody else had started a volleyball game, and Harper was loudly accusing one of the others of cheating at something.

Hours slipped by surprisingly fast after that. You swam, floated on your back in the lake, got dragged into a game of beach volleyball despite repeatedly insisting you sucked at sports, and somehow ended up sharing a giant bag of chips with Harper while she filled you in on years of Hawkins gossip. 

By mid-afternoon, your skin was warm from the sun, your hair was damp from swimming, and for the first time since arriving in Indiana, you weren't really thinking about anything at all. Well, almost anything.

"Your eyes keep going to the parking lot."

You looked over at Harper. "What?"

She smirked. "Nothing."

Immediately suspicious, you narrowed your eyes. "Harper."

Before she could answer, a familiar roar of an engine echoed through the trees. And suddenly, half the group perked up. "Oh, they're here."

You turned instinctively toward the parking area, a big mistake. Huge mistake, actually. Because there, climbing out of the old van with a cooler balanced against one hip, was Eddie.

For a second, your brain didn't quite process what it was seeing. Then it did, and unfortunately, that made things significantly worse. Gone was the grease-stained work shirt you'd seen him leave in every morning. 

Instead, he'd changed into a pair of faded black swim trunks hanging low on his hips and absolutely nothing else. His curls had been pulled back into a messy bun at the nape of his neck, exposing the tattoos crawling across his shoulders and chest, and the late afternoon sunlight caught against every silver ring still decorating his fingers.

Sweet fucking Jesus. You suddenly understood every poor decision women had ever made throughout history.

"Wow." The word escaped before you could stop it.

Harper followed your line of sight, then she looked at you, then back at Eddie. Then at you again. "Oh."

Your stomach dropped. "Oh no."

"Oh," Harper repeated, sounding somewhere between inquiry and suspicion.

Across the beach, Steve appeared from the passenger side, carrying enough bags to feed a football team. Beside him was a woman with dark hair and oversized sunglasses, effortlessly beautiful in the way that made you immediately understand why Steve Harrington had spent years getting himself into trouble. 

"That's my mom," Harper informed you.

"She's gorgeous."

"I know. It's annoying."

Steve immediately spotted the group and lifted a hand. "Alright, move. Important people are here."

"Nobody asked you to come!" one of the kids yelled back.

Steve looked genuinely offended. "That's a terrible thing to say to the guy carrying burgers."

The entire group immediately changed sides.

"Welcome, Steve."

"Great to see you, Steve."

"We love you, Steve."

His wife snorted. "You people are shameless."

Meanwhile, you were doing your absolute best not to stare at Eddie. Unfortunately, Eddie wasn't making that particularly easy.

He'd abandoned the cooler near the picnic tables and was helping Steve unload supplies, muscles flexing every time he lifted something. The man wasn't even showing off. He looked completely unaware of the fact that he was walking around looking like every romance novel cover come to life.

Or maybe he was aware, because halfway through carrying a folding table, he glanced up. And immediately caught you staring. Fuck.

His eyebrows lifted, and the corner of his mouth twitched. Then, the bastard winked. You nearly swallowed your own tongue.

You snapped your head back to the lake, Harper immediately tilting her head. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you replied on impulse. She hummed in response, but it didn’t quite sound convinced. 

Before you could formulate a solid response to her lack of one, Eddie finally started walking toward the group. The closer he got, the worse the situation became. 

Up close, you could see the faint tan lines across his shoulders, the tattoos wrapping around his arms, the way a few escaped curls had fallen loose around his face despite the bun. It should've been illegal for a forty-year-old father to look like that.

Thirty-nine. Not that you knew that, or thought about it. Or remembered constantly.

"Hey, sweetheart." His voice alone was enough to make your stomach flip.

You looked up and immediately regretted it. Because now he was standing directly in front of you, still shirtless, still damp from whatever shower he'd apparently taken after work, and still looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Hey."

Eddie's eyes drifted over you slowly, taking in your swimsuit, your sun-kissed skin, and your damp hair. The look lingered just long enough to make heat crawl up your neck before he finally grinned.

"Looks like you're surviving Hawkins."

"Barely."

"Mhm."

Eventually, Steve decided he'd had enough of everyone picking at chips and snacks.

"Alright, listen up!" he shouted from beside the grills. "Food's done, and if you little gremlins don't come eat now, I'm not reheating anything later."

A chorus of complaints immediately followed.

"We're literally walking over!"

"Relax, dad!"

"You're not my dad!"

Steve pointed a spatula threateningly. "I could've been."

His wife rolled her eyes from where she was arranging burger toppings. "Ignore him. Everybody grab a plate."

The entire group migrated toward the picnic tables in a noisy mass of towels, sunscreen, half-finished conversations, and dripping lake water. Harper immediately stole a burger before Steve could finish serving everyone, earning a dramatic gasp from her father that she completely ignored.

You found yourself settling onto the end of one of the benches while everyone else naturally fell into conversations that had clearly been going on for years.

Maya and the twins were arguing about something that happened last summer. Harper was making fun of a guy she'd apparently gone to school with. Logan was telling some story that required absolutely zero context for everybody except you.

You smiled when appropriate and laughed when everyone else laughed. But after a while, you started feeling it, that subtle little distance.

Nobody was being unkind. Quite the opposite, actually. Everyone had gone out of their way to include you throughout the day. But there was still a difference between being welcomed into a group and having years of inside jokes and memories with them.

You were still catching up. Still learning names, stories, histories...still the new person.

For a moment, your thoughts drifted back home. To being the odd one out at family dinners. To sitting quietly while everyone else talked around you. To feeling like there wasn't really a place carved out for you anywhere, so you picked at your food.

The feeling only lasted a minute, maybe less. Because suddenly a shadow fell across the table, then Eddie slid onto the bench beside you.

"Hey."

You glanced over. "Hey."

He balanced a paper plate on one knee and took a bite of his burger before speaking again.

"You look like you're plotting something."

You snorted. "I promise I'm not."

"Mhm."

"What?"

Eddie tilted his head slightly. "You got quiet."

"I'm okay."

"I know."

His voice was soft enough that nobody else would've heard it over the surrounding conversations.

Then he nodded toward the group, "They can be a lot."

You laughed quietly. "That's one way to put it."

"Trust me, sweetheart. I've known most of these idiots since before they could drive."

"Feels like everybody here has known each other forever."

"Pretty much."

Eddie picked at the label on his beer bottle. "Harper was born when Vi was little. Maya's parents live three streets over. Logan practically grew up at my garage. Steve's wife still makes fun of me for a haircut I got in nineteen ninety-three."

You laughed. "What was wrong with the haircut?"

"Oh, it was terrible."

"Really?"

"It was magnificent."

"Those are two different answers."

"Both can be true." His shoulder bumped yours lightly, and you couldn't help smiling.

The conversations around you continued, but somehow they felt less overwhelming now. Maybe because Eddie wasn't trying to force you into them. He wasn't doing the awkward introduction thing or drawing attention to the fact that you were newer than everyone else.

"You know," he said after a minute, looking out toward the water, "when I first moved into Wayne's, I barely spoke for an entire summer."

You blinked. "You?"

"Hard to believe, I know."

"Impossible, actually."

Eddie grinned. "Seriously. I was awkward as hell."

"No way."

"Way."

You studied him skeptically. Just before this, the man had an entire picnic table laughing at half of what he said. "You're lying."

"I'm not."

"You expect me to believe you were shy?"

His grin softened slightly. "Not shy."

He looked down at his beer. "Just didn't think people wanted me around."

The admission surprised you enough that you didn't answer right away. Because for a second, you caught a glimpse of something underneath all the confidence and sarcasm; something younger.

Eddie glanced over and immediately noticed your expression. "Hey."

"Hm?"

"Don't get all sad on me."

You laughed. "I'm not sad."

"Good."

Then he reached over and stole one of your fries, again.

"Hey!"

"Occupational hazard. Gotta make sure it’s not poison."

"That's not what that means."

"It does if I say it does."

The Hideout was somehow even more charming now than it had been in all the stories Violet told. Maybe it was the nostalgia baked into the place. The old wooden bar, the dim lighting, the neon beer signs buzzing softly against the walls. 

Maybe it was because half the people inside seemed to know Eddie by name. Or maybe it was because every few minutes someone would stop by your table to greet either Steve, Eddie, or both, and you'd get to watch them slip so naturally into the lives they'd built here.

You, Harper, and Violet had claimed a booth near the back while Steve and Eddie wandered over toward the dart boards with beers in hand. A local band was setting up in the corner, tuning guitars and testing microphones while conversations drifted through the crowded room.

Meanwhile, across the room, Steve lined up a shot at the dart board while Eddie leaned against the wall beside him. The dart landed with a satisfying thunk.

"Ha."

"Congratulations," Eddie deadpanned. "You're winning against a mechanic."

Steve ignored him. For a minute, they stood there in comfortable silence, watching the girls at the booth. Harper was talking animatedly about something while Violet argued with her. You sat between them, laughing at whatever ridiculous story was being told.

Then Steve glanced sideways. "So."

Eddie sighed immediately. "No."

"I didn't even say anything."

"You were about to."

Steve threw another dart. "You gonna tell me what's going on there?"

Eddie looked offended. "Nothing's going on."

"Bullshit."

"Steve."

"Eddie."

The older man took a sip of his beer, and Steve pointed subtly toward your booth.

"You talked to her almost the entire barbecue."

"We were talking."

"You were talking."

"That's what I said."

Steve stared, and Eddie stared back. Neither moved, then finally Steve sighed.

"I feel like I'm watching a train derail in slow motion."

"Jesus Christ."

"Eddie."

"What?"

"That's your daughter's best friend."

"I know who she is."

Steve rubbed his face. "I liked you better when your bad decisions only affected you."

Eddie barked out a laugh despite himself. "Nothing's happening."

Steve looked like he wanted to believe him, then his expression changed when his eyes drifted toward the bar. Eddie followed his gaze and immediately wished he hadn't.

Because sometime during the conversation, Violet and Harper had wandered over to grab another round of drinks. You'd stayed behind at the booth, scrolling through the jukebox selections alone.

Unfortunately, somebody else had noticed. A guy. Young, mid-twenties maybe. Definitely closer to your age than Eddie's. The guy leaned casually against the edge of your booth and said something.

You smiled politely, and the guy smiled wider. Eddie's jaw tightened instantly. Steve saw it happen in real time. 

"Oh no."

"I'm fine."

"You are absolutely not fine."

"I'm completely fine."

The guy sat down at your booth, across from you, knee brushing yours slightly under the table. Steve physically winced.

"Oh, that's bad."

"I'm gonna go say hi."

"You don't know him."

"I know enough."

"Eddie."

But Eddie was already moving. Across the room, you were only half paying attention to whatever the guy was saying.

Something about being from Indianapolis. Something about visiting family. Something about your tattoos. Honestly, he seemed perfectly nice.

Then suddenly his expression changed, and you frowned.

"What?"

The guy glanced up and immediately looked nervous. A familiar tattooed arm draped itself across the back of your booth, then another appeared on the opposite side, boxing you in completely.

"Oh," Eddie said pleasantly. "There you are, sweetheart."

The guy looked between the two of you. "Oh."

Eddie smiled, but not his real smile. The dangerous one. The one you'd already learned meant trouble. "Sorry, man. Didn't realize somebody was sitting here."

The guy stood up so fast he nearly knocked his drink over. "No, no, you're good."

"Mhm." Eddie never stopped smiling.

The guy made a very quick decision. "Well. Nice meeting you." Then he practically disappeared into the crowd.

The second he was gone, you looked up at Eddie.

"Eddie."

"What?"

"What was that?"

He looked genuinely confused. "I came to say hi."

You stared, and he stared back, for approximately three seconds. Then you started laughing, because somehow that was even less convincing than whatever excuse he'd intended to use.

"You are ridiculous."

"Maybe." His grin softened, then he brushed his fingers briefly against your shoulder. "Just checking on you."

The warmth in his voice immediately ruined any chance of staying annoyed.

"You're impossible."

"Been told that."

A few minutes later, after you'd disappeared toward the restroom, Eddie eventually wandered back to the dart boards, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Steve was waiting with a beer in hand and a flat expression.

Eddie immediately knew. "No."

"Seriously?"

"What?"

"Seriously?"

Eddie grabbed another dart while Steve pointed toward the booth.

"The kid practically evacuated."

"He left."

"You ran him off."

"I didn't run him off."

"Eddie."

"He made his own choices."

Steve laughed in disbelief. "You are forty years old."

"Thirty-nine."

"That somehow makes this worse."

Eddie threw his dart. Bullseye. "Don't."

Steve stared at him for a second, then looked toward the bathroom where you'd disappeared, then back toward Eddie. Then finally sighed. "You're screwed."

The second you came back from the bathroom, Eddie was waiting. Not in an obvious way, not standing outside the door like some lovesick teenager. Just leaning casually against the dart board wall with a beer in one hand and entirely too much amusement in his eyes.

The second he spotted you weaving through the crowd, his face brightened ever so slightly. A tiny thing, small enough that most people wouldn't notice it.

"Sweetheart."

You rolled your eyes as you approached. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Whatever this is."

Eddie grinned. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

"Liar."

"Prove it."

You opened your mouth, then closed it, because annoyingly enough, you couldn't. Which only made his smile wider.

"That's what I thought."

"You're insufferable."

"And yet."

"And yet nothing."

"And yet you're still standing here." You hated when he had a point, especially when he looked so pleased about it.

The dart board behind him sat abandoned now, Steve having wandered off to join his wife and Harper near the booths. A few empty lanes sat open, and before you could stop him, Eddie was already pulling a set of darts from the board.

"You ever play?"

You eyed them suspiciously. "Not really."

"Oh."

The grin returned, the dangerous one. "Perfect."

Immediately, you groaned. "No."

"Yes."

"Eddie."

"C'mon."

The next thing you knew, a dart had been pressed into your hand. Five minutes later, you were learning very quickly that Eddie Munson was the most distracting teacher alive. Because at first, he genuinely tried, for all of about thirty seconds.

"You wanna hold it like this."

His hand settled over yours; warm, calloused, and large enough to completely engulf your grip. Your stomach betrayed you immediately, then he stepped behind you, which was somehow worse.

"Oh, my god."

"What?"

"You know exactly what."

"I am literally teaching you darts."

His voice was directly beside your ear, maybe lower, and definitely rougher. You hated him.

"You stand like this."

His hands settled briefly on your hips, “adjusting”, supposedly. The problem was that neither of you seemed particularly focused on darts anymore.

Your heart was pounding loud enough that you were worried somebody else would hear it while Eddie leaned slightly closer.

"Relax."

"I am relaxed."

"You just missed the board entirely."

You looked, and the dart was currently embedded in the wall. "...Okay."

Eddie barked out a laugh, the sound vibrating straight through your chest. "See?"

"Shut up."

"Can't."

His hand slid down your arm, adjusting your grip again. You were beginning to suspect the lesson wasn't real.

Across the room, Steve looked up from his booth and immediately regretted it. "Oh, for the love of God." His wife followed his gaze, then immediately started laughing.

Meanwhile, Harper and Violet were sitting across from one another sharing fries. Harper watched the dart situation unfold for approximately thirty seconds, then another thirty. Then finally turned toward her friend.

"Can I ask you something?"

Violet didn't even look up from her food. "You already are."

"Does this not bother you?"

For the first time all night, Violet's attention shifted toward the dart boards. Toward you. Toward her father. You were laughing at something Eddie had said. Head tipped back, smile huge, the kind of laugh that made your entire face light up.

Violet's expression softened immediately, and the sarcasm disappeared for a second. "Honestly?"

Harper nodded. Violet watched you for another moment before speaking. "No."

Harper looked surprised. "Really?"

"Nope."

Her fingers traced the rim of her drink absentmindedly. "That's probably the happiest she's looked in years."

Something in her tone made Harper pause. "What do you mean?"

Violet was quiet for a second. "Freshman year."

Harper waited.

"There was this guy."

Immediately Harper winced. "Oh."

"Yeah."

The response alone said enough. "Bad?"

"Not physically." Violet sighed. "But he spent two years making her feel like everything about her was too much."

Her eyes drifted back toward you, toward the smile currently plastered across your face.

"He hated her music,” she laughed softly. "Hated her clothes. Hated her tattoos. Thought she was dramatic every time she had feelings."

Harper frowned. "What a dick."

"Exactly."

The relationship had ended almost two years ago now, yet Harper noticed something sad in Violet's expression anyway.

"She hasn't dated since."

Across the room, Eddie was currently saying something that had you doubled over laughing. Whatever it was made him grin too. The look on his face wasn't subtle, not even a little.

And for some reason, instead of making Violet uncomfortable, it made her chest feel warm.

Because she remembered crying with you in your dorm room, remembered helping you pick up the pieces afterward. Remembered all the nights you'd insisted nobody would ever actually want all of you.

Not the loud parts. Not the messy parts. Not the emotional parts. All of it. Yet there you were, laughing, flirting, happy, for the first time in forever.

Harper followed her gaze, then smiled. "Oh."

"Yeah."

Violet grinned into her drink. "Besides."

"What?"

She looked back toward her father, then toward you and smirked that usual Munson smirk. "My dad's obsessed with her."

Across the room, Eddie's hand settled briefly against the small of your back as he helped you line up another throw.

Harper burst out laughing. "Obsessed is an understatement."

A couple hours later, the Hideout had gotten significantly louder.

The local band had long since started playing, conversations were being shouted over music, and somehow your group had managed to push three tables together into one giant mess of empty baskets, beer bottles, and half-finished stories. Steve's wife had eventually given up trying to keep everyone organized, settling instead into laughing at the chaos from a safe distance.

You, unfortunately, were drunk. Not blackout drunk, not Violet-at-the-lake drunk, but definitely drunk enough that everything felt pleasantly fuzzy around the edges.

Unfortunately, Eddie seemed to be in exactly the same boat, which was proving dangerous for everyone involved, especially you. Because sober Eddie at least attempted restraint. Drunk Eddie apparently thought personal space was a government conspiracy.

By ten-thirty, his arm had somehow become permanently draped across the back of your chair. Every time he laughed, he leaned into you. Every time he told a story, his hand found your shoulder, your arm, the small of your back. The man seemed physically incapable of existing more than six inches away from you.

And the worst part? You weren't exactly discouraging it.

"You are so full of shit."

Eddie pressed a hand dramatically over his heart. "That hurts, sweetheart."

"You're lying."

"I'm embellishing."

"That's just lying with confidence."

Steve nearly choked on his drink. "Jesus Christ, she's got your number."

"I don't like this," Eddie muttered.

"You love it."

"Maybe."

The answer came so fast that the entire table immediately started laughing. Harper physically dropped her head onto the table. "Oh, my god."

"What?" Eddie asked.

"Nothing."

"It was definitely something."

Across from you, Violet was grinning into her drink like this was the greatest show she'd ever witnessed. "He's not even trying anymore."

"I'm sitting right here."

"I know." The grin only got bigger.

By eleven-thirty, Steve had finally announced that he was taking his wife home before Harper somehow got herself banned from the establishment.

"I've done nothing wrong."

Steve pointed. "You started three separate arguments."

"I won all three."

"Goodnight, Harper."

The group slowly began breaking apart after that. Goodbyes were exchanged. Tabs were closed. Chairs scraped across the floor as people gathered their things. You stood up and immediately regretted it as the room tilted slightly.

"Oh."

Eddie looked over. "Oh no."

"I'm fine."

"You almost walked into a table."

"The table moved."

"The table did not move."

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously at the furniture, and Eddie started laughing so hard he nearly doubled over. Ten minutes later, you were outside in the warm summer air waiting while Steve finished saying goodbye to someone.

The night was quiet compared to the noise of the bar. Crickets chirped in the distance while streetlights cast soft yellow pools across the pavement. You were halfway through explaining a very important theory about why raccoons probably conversed through telekinesis when Eddie suddenly crouched in front of you.

"What're you doing?"

He pointed at your shoes. "You can't walk."

"I can absolutely walk."

To prove your point, you immediately stumbled. Eddie looked at Violet, and Violet looked at Eddie. The two of them started laughing.

"I hate everybody."

"No, you don't."

Then, before you could argue, Eddie hooked an arm behind your knees. You squeaked as the ground beneath you disappeared. "Oh, my god."

"There we go."

"Eddie!"

Suddenly you were being carried like it was nothing. One arm beneath your legs, the other supporting your back. You stared at him, and he stared back.

"What?"

"You picked me up."

"Congratulations."

"You're carrying me."

"Mhm."

"Why?"

"Because you're drunk."

You considered this. "Fair."

Violet made a choking noise behind you. When you looked over, she was laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes.

"What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

"You look insane."

She pointed. "No, you look insane."

The walk home wasn't particularly long, but apparently that didn't matter. Because every time you suggested being put down, Eddie refused, every single time.

At one point, you wrapped your arms around his neck and rested your cheek against his shoulder. The man practically preened.

"Look at him," Violet whispered.

"Oh my god," Harper whispered back.

"He loves this."

"He absolutely loves this."

Eddie ignored both of them, or pretended to. The smile he was trying to hide said otherwise. By the time the Munson house came into view, you'd gone completely boneless against him, warm and sleepy from the alcohol and the summer air.

"Comfortable?"

"Mhm."

"Good."

You hummed contentedly. Behind you, Violet immediately gagged.

"Dad."

"What?"

"You're gross."

"Am not."

"Are so. You carried her two miles."

"It was half a mile."

"You know that's not the point."

Eddie just laughed, then adjusted his grip slightly and carried you up the front steps anyway. By the time you got inside, Harper was heading toward her own car parked down the street. She paused halfway down the driveway, pointing between you and Eddie.

"I'm not saying anything."

"Good," Eddie called.

"But I'm thinking a lot."

"Harper."

She grinned. "Night, lovebirds."

Then she disappeared before either of you could throw something at her. The second the front door opened, Violet immediately announced, "I am going to bed before one of you says or does something that permanently changes my brain chemistry."

You barked out a laugh. "You are so dramatic."

Violet looked toward the ceiling as if she were asking God for patience. "Goodnight." Without another word, she disappeared down the hall, and a few seconds later, her bedroom door slammed.

Eddie finally set you down on the couch like you were something fragile, which was ridiculous. You immediately sank into the cushions with a satisfied sigh.

"Oh."

His mouth twitched. "What?"

"This couch is amazing."

"It's literally a couch."

"It's a really good couch."

"You're drunk."

You pointed at him. "So are you."

"Yeah." At least he was honest.

Eddie snorted softly and dropped down onto the floor in front of you, resting his arms across his knees. The position put him directly between your legs. Not touching, but close enough that your foot bumped his shoulder.

The soft yellow kitchen light caught the amber in his eyes while he looked up at you. God, the man was unfair. His curls had mostly fallen out of the bun by now, loose strands hanging around his face. His cheeks were flushed from alcohol and laughter, eyes warm and heavy-lidded.

You were in trouble.

"So."

You narrowed your eyes. "So."

Eddie grinned. "You're drunk."

You gasped dramatically. "The audacity."

Eddie laughed, head tipping back slightly, and suddenly you understood why everybody in Hawkins liked him so much.

It wasn't just that he was funny. It was that he laughed with his entire body, like he genuinely enjoyed existing, like he enjoyed being around you. The thought made your stomach flutter.

"You know," you said after a moment.

"Oh boy."

"You scared that guy away."

Eddie immediately looked innocent. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Liar."

"I'm serious."

"You practically chased him out of the Hideout."

His grin widened. "He left on his own accord."

"Mmhm."

"He did."

"Eddie."

The man actually had the nerve to shrug. "He seemed like a smart kid."

You laughed. "Oh, my god."

"What?"

"You were jealous."

His eyebrows shot upward. "Jealous?"

"Very."

"Of a twenty-something wearing boat shoes?"

You burst out laughing since the immediate answer told you everything. "Aha."

"No."

"That's not a denial."

"It is."

"It was a terrible denial."

Eddie rubbed a hand over his face, trying and failing to hide a smile. "You are exhausting."

"Because I'm right."

"You're not."

"You totally are."

The two of you stared at each other, then Eddie sighed dramatically. "Maybe I didn't love him talking to you."

Victory. You pointed immediately. "I knew it."

"Oh, don't look so proud of yourself."

"I am."

"You shouldn't be."

But he was smiling again, the soft kind this time, the one that made your chest feel warm. His eyes drifted across your face for a second before he spoke again.

"You know what my problem is?"

"What?"

Eddie leaned back slightly against the couch. "I forget how old you are."

You blinked. "What?"

"I spend all day talking to you and hanging out with you, and it feels normal." His voice had gotten quieter. "Then some guy your age walks over, and suddenly I remember you're twenty-one."

You stared at him, because there wasn't really a joke hidden inside that one. Eddie looked away first, shaking his head. "Forget I said that."

"No."

His eyes returned to yours. "No?"

"No."

"I like talking to you." The confession left your mouth before you could stop it.

Eddie's expression softened instantly. "Yeah?"

You nodded. "Yeah."

Something warm flashed across his face, like you'd handed him something precious.

"Good." The word came out almost embarrassingly gentle.

For a second neither of you spoke, neither of you seemed particularly interested in breaking whatever this was. Then Eddie glanced upward, down the hall towards Violet’s room. And a mischievous grin slowly appeared.

"Oh."

You immediately recognized that look. "What?"

"I just realized something."

"Eddie."

"If you become my girlfriend—"

"Oh, my god."

"—Vi is gonna be so annoying about it."

You laughed so hard you nearly fell sideways off the couch. 

You were still smiling when you looked down at Eddie. He was resting his arms on the couch cushion beside your legs now, chin tilted upward as he watched you.

"You know," you said quietly, "I think Harper's gonna make fun of me tomorrow."

Eddie snorted. "Harper's gonna make fun of me tomorrow."

"Fair."

"Steve definitely is."

"Oh, absolutely."

The thought made you laugh again, and Eddie smiled immediately at the sound. God. There it was; that damn look again. The one he'd been giving you all summer. The one that always felt like he was seeing something in you that nobody else quite did.

Neither of you spoke, just slowly drifted closer until the distance between you felt ridiculous. Then Eddie's hand settled lightly against your knee. A question, not a demand, just an invitation.

You answered by leaning forward first. The kiss was soft, almost embarrassingly sweet compared to the way you'd started things the first night. Just Eddie smiling against your mouth halfway through it because apparently he couldn't help himself.

"Hi," he murmured.

You laughed. "Hi."

"Thought about doing that all night."

"You're impossible."

"Been told."

His thumb traced absentminded circles against your leg while he looked up at you. For a second, neither of you spoke. Then the thought slipped out before you could stop it.

"Would you actually want that?"

Eddie's brows knit together slightly. "What?"

You suddenly felt nervous, which was stupid, but there it was anyway. "The girlfriend thing."

"What?"

You shrugged awkwardly. "Earlier."

When realization dawned, something softened in his face. "Sweetheart."

The nickname came out quieter than usual. You looked away first, which only made him smile.

"Yeah."

Your eyes snapped back to his. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." There wasn't even a second of hesitation.

His hand slid over yours. "I wouldn't joke about that."

Your stomach did an embarrassing little flip. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh."

You laughed softly, and Eddie squeezed your hand once. "So?"

"So?"

He grinned. "Would you?"

You immediately narrowed your eyes. "Oh, now who's asking questions?"

"Me."

"You can't just reverse it."

"I absolutely can."

You laughed despite yourself, then looked down at your intertwined fingers. At the rings on his hand. At the way he was watching you.

"I'd think about it."

Eddie barked out a laugh. "You'd think about it?"

"I would."

"That's cold."

You nudged his shoulder with your foot. "Shut up."

"I'm serious."

"You should be grateful I'm considering it at all."

His grin widened. "Considering it."

"Mhm."

"Well."

The look that crossed his face immediately made you suspicious. "What?"

Eddie stood slowly, still holding your hand, still smiling. "I might have a way to improve my chances."

"Oh, do you?"

"Mhm." Eddie’s grin turns wicked as he tugs you up from the couch by your hand, pulling you flush against his chest.

“You’ve been teasing me all damn night in this little skirt,” he murmurs, voice dropping low. “Then some college prick thinks he can talk to you at the bar? Nah. I think it’s time I remind you exactly who this pussy belongs to.”

He doesn’t give you time to respond. Instead, he walks you backward down the hallway, kissing you hard, tongue claiming your mouth while his hands slide under your skirt and grab two handfuls of your ass. The second his bedroom door shuts, the switch flips completely.

“Clothes off. Now.”

You move fast, but apparently not fast enough. Eddie spins you around, bends you over the edge of his bed, and yanks your skirt and panties down in one rough motion. He kicks your legs wider, drops to his knees, and buries his face in your cunt from behind without warning.

“Fuck— Eddie!”

He eats you like a man starved. Messy, loud, and filthy. Long drags of his tongue, sucking hard on your clit, then fucking his tongue into you while his grip on your hips keeps you pinned exactly where he wants you. You’re already shaking by the time he pulls back, lips shiny.

“Think that little boy at the bar could eat this pussy like that?” he growls, standing up and shoving two thick fingers into you. “You think any of those college boys could make you drip down their chin the way you do for me?”

You moan helplessly, pushing back on his fingers. He curls them perfectly, stroking that spot that makes your knees buckle. He flips you onto your back on the bed, strips his shirt off, then yanks his belt open. His cock springs out, hard and leaking, but he doesn’t fuck you yet.

Instead, he reaches into the nightstand and pulls out the black vibrator.

“Eddie—”

“Yeah, baby?” His smile is dark, predatory. “Gonna make you so fucking sensitive you forget any other man exists.”

He clicks it on and presses the buzzing head directly against your swollen clit. At the same time, he pushes his cock into you in one slow, deep thrust. You cry out, back arching hard.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, bottoming out. “So goddamn tight. This pussy was made for me.”

He starts fucking you in hard, steady strokes while the vibrator stays glued to your clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming — his thick cock stretching you open, dragging against your walls, and the relentless buzz making your thighs tremble violently.

“Look at you,” he taunts, voice rough as he leans over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other keeping the vibrator exactly where he wants it. “Taking my cock so fucking well. You’d never go back to some twenty-one-year-old loser after this, would you?”

You shake your head frantically, moaning loudly.

“Say it.”

“I—I wouldn’t,” you gasp. “Never— fuck, Eddie—”

He clicks the vibrator up a setting, and your eyes roll back.

“That’s right. Because no college boy is ever gonna fuck you like I do. None of them are gonna make you come so many times you can’t even speak. None of them know how to ruin this pretty cunt the way I do.”

He fucks you harder, hips snapping, the wet sound of you obscene in the room. The vibrator never leaves your clit, and you come the first time with a broken cry, clenching around his cock so hard he curses.

But he doesn’t stop. He keeps the vibrator pressed tight, keeps thrusting deep, drawing out every aftershock until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and twitching.

“Too much— Eddie, please—”

“You can take it,” he growls, leaning down to bite at your neck. “You’re gonna come again. Gonna soak my cock while you’re crying for me.”

He angles his hips just right and turns the vibrator even higher, and the overstimulation hits like a freight train. You’re sobbing his name, nails raking down his back, legs shaking uncontrollably as another brutal orgasm rips through you.

Only then does he pull the vibrator away, toss it aside, and fuck you like he’s trying to claim you completely. Deep, punishing strokes. His hand wraps around your throat tight, and high enough to hold you there while he stares into your eyes.

“Say you’re mine,” he demands, voice wrecked. “Say you’ll be mine. Let me take care of you all fucking summer. Hell, however long you’ll let me.”

“I’m yours,” you moan, voice hoarse. “I’ll be your girlfriend, whatever you want—fuck, I’m yours, Eddie—”

He kisses you filthy and deep, then buries himself to the hilt and comes hard, groaning your name against your mouth as he fills you. For a minute, the only sounds are your ragged breathing.

Eddie pulls out gently, then collapses beside you and immediately pulls you into his arms. His hands are soft now, stroking down your back, pressing kisses to your sweaty forehead, your cheeks, your lips.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice gentle again.

You nod, still trembling. “Yeah… Jesus Christ.”

He chuckles lowly, tucking your hair behind your ear. “Good. Because I meant every word. I want you to be mine, not just for the summer.”

You smile against his chest, pressing a kiss over one of his tattoos.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think I want that too.”

Eddie’s arms tighten around you, and for the first time all night, his smile is soft.

“That’s my girl.”

hope you guys liked it ;)

taglist:

@bitterestwillow@kozume-ko, @obsessed-eddie, @doomdabss, @julxsxx, @leelei1980@hexqueensupreme @ches-86 @plaidamoosette @bobiverses@meadows-of-asphodel @whitakerstorm @dreamerjj @sariahs-stuff @brrrainst3w @serendipdipity01 @hypersexytoptobottom @m-art000 @sisteramycatherine @walleloveseve @camsmunson101 @flavorfullstevepeachpuffs25 @abirdinthehouse @m-art000 @micheledawn1975  @whitakerstorm @cciessuzi @blackqueenie-18 @ggdawgg @velvetdimond @enne02     @ludachrissy @izzycstairs@abbysleftbicepp @britttzy267 @ssculker @eddiemunsonsimpp @powerpuffedbjtch @lilyquinnmunson

“You’re going to absolutely hate it here.” Your roommate, Violet, says, nodding towards the Welcome to Hawkins Hell sign. 

“You’re such a delight, y’know that?” You retort, taking a puff of your cigarette.

“I’m just saying! Why you agreed to spend the summer with my dad and I is beyond me. Hawkins is literally the most boring town on the entire planet.”

“‘On the entire planet’ is a stretch, Vi. I’m sure it can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, it so is. I mean, look at that,” she motions towards the line of storefronts. “This town is stuck in the 70’s, terminally. We have to drive 20 minutes to get decent coffee. It’s deplorable.” 

You roll your eyes and shake your head, exhaling a plume of smoke out of the window. Was spending your entire summer break in small town Indiana your idea of a perfect summer? No, not by a long shot. 

But it was by all means better than going back to your house, dealing with your dad, and that witch of a step-mom. So, summer break in Hawkins with Violet and her dad seemed like the lesser of two evils. 

Besides, Violet was your best friend. You two met eachother freshman year due to random roommate assignments, and clicked off the jump. The second she started hanging Dio and Iron Maiden posters up, you knew you’d be thick as thieves. 

Not just because of the music, either. Violet looked like she’d crawled straight out of a metal magazine and into your dorm room. Dark curly hair always messy in an intentional sort of way, tattoos peeking out from under shredded band tees and leather jackets, no matter the weather. 

And somehow, you matched her freak perfectly.

The two of you moved through campus like a matched set; all dark clothes, tattoos, cigarette smoke, chunky silver jewelry, and enough attitude to make frat boys cross the street.

People always assumed you’d known each other forever. Maybe because you looked like alternate universe versions of the same girl.

Or maybe because Violet Munson was so painfully, undeniably her father’s daughter. And here you are, the summer into your senior year, and you’re closer than ever, living together for all four years.

“Alright, here we are. Home sweet shithole,” she mutters, pulling into her driveway.

Her house was not a shithole by any standard. It was a quaint, brick bi-level house with a dark blue door and bushes lining the sides. Sure, the lawn was a little overgrown, but that’s to be expected of a single dad who works long hours as a mechanic.

The driveway’s littered with evidence of him, too. A toolbox near the garage. Empty beer bottles sitting on the porch railing. A faded Corroded Coffin bumper sticker slapped crookedly onto an old cooler.

You snort softly as you climb out of the passenger seat. “Yeah, this is devastatingly awful, Vi. I may never recover.”

“Shut up,” she laughs, popping the trunk.

The summer air is thick and humid, wrapping around your skin instantly. Cicadas scream somewhere in the trees while Violet digs through her bag before triumphantly holding up a joint between two black-painted nails.

“Oh, thank God,” you sigh dramatically.

“Priorities.”

You lean against the hood while she lights it, the flame briefly illuminating the silver hoop through her nose. She takes the first hit before passing it over to you without a word.

It was easy with Violet, always had been.

You inhale slowly, letting your shoulders finally relax for what feels like the first time in months.

“Y’know,” Violet says, exhaling smoke toward the sky, “my dad’s gonna love you.”

You bark out a laugh. “You say that now.”

“No, seriously. You’re literally his exact type.”

You nearly choke. “Vi?”

“What?” she grins. “Hot goth women with emotional issues and nicotine addictions. That’s basically his demographic.”

“Ew, Vi!”

“I’m just being honest!”

Before you can respond, the low growl of an engine cuts through the quiet, and Violet immediately glances toward the street. A black-and-white van pulls into the driveway beside you both. Older model, and loud as hell.

“Speaking of the devil,” Violet mutters.

Your eyes widen slightly. “Shit, should we put this out?”

Violet looks genuinely confused. “Why?”

The driver’s side door swings open before you can answer. And oh, okay.

You expected an older guy, maybe tired-looking. Greasy coveralls. Generic middle-aged dad energy.

Not…him.

Not Eddie stepping out of the van in a black sleeveless Metallica shirt, grease smeared along his tattooed forearms, dark curls sticking to his forehead from the heat.

Late thirties, maybe early forties, sure. Still, unfairly hot.

“Hey, hon,” he calls toward Violet before his eyes land on you. They pause, just for a second too long.

Violet smirks immediately, clocking it. “Dad, this is the roommate I’ve been telling you about. Y’know, the one with functioning brain cells?”

“Mm.” His gaze flicks over you again, amused. “Heard a lot about you.”

You open your mouth to respond, suddenly very aware of the joint between your fingers.

Eddie notices too. Without missing a beat, he steps forward, plucks it right from your hand, and takes a drag like it belongs to him.

“Gotta make sure it’s not poison,” he says casually, smoke curling from his grin.

Up close, he smells faintly like motor oil, cigarette smoke, and something woodsy underneath it all. Cologne, maybe. Or just him. Unfortunately for you, it works.

“So,” he says, handing the joint back to you this time instead of Violet, “you’re the famous roommate.”

You snort softly. “Famous feels generous.”

“Nah, trust me. I’ve heard plenty.” He points toward Violet with his chin. “This one calls me every other day bitching about classes, professors, existential crises—”

“Okay, wow.”

“—and somehow your name always comes up.”

Violet flips him off immediately. “You’re obsessed with me.”

“You’re my kid. Kinda legally obligated.”

He grins when she groans dramatically, and for a second, it clicks so clearly it’s almost stupid.

The resemblance. Not necessarily in exact features, though they definitely share the same eyes and dark curls. It’s the energy. The sarcasm. The loud personality packed into black clothes and silver jewelry.

Violet really is just a female version of him, which suddenly explains a lot.

Eddie turns his attention back toward you.

“But seriously.” He gestures vaguely around the neighborhood. “Why the hell’d you agree to spend your summer in Hawkins? If Vi didn’t already mention, sweetheart, this town sucks.”

You take another drag to buy yourself a second.

Because going home meant screaming matches and slammed doors. Because your dad somehow always found a way to make you feel seventeen again in the worst possible sense. Because your stepmother looked at you like something inconvenient she accidentally stepped in.

Instead, you shrug one shoulder casually. “Figured I’d switch it up this summer.”

“Mm.” That’s all Eddie says, just that soft little hum.

But his eyes linger on you for a second too long, like he hears the thing you’re not saying anyway.

Thankfully, Violet cuts in before the moment can settle too heavily. “Dad, tell her who’s coming over later.”

“Oh, right.” Eddie pushes off the van slightly. “Gruncle Wayne’s coming for dinner.”

You blink. “...Gruncle?”

Eddie immediately looks offended. “You never heard of a gruncle?”

“No sane person says gruncle.”

“It’s efficient!”

Violet laughs around her next hit before explaining, “Wayne’s technically my great uncle, but he’s basically my grandpa, so. Gruncle.”

“And he practically raised me,” Eddie adds, softer this time. “My uncle Wayne’s a good guy.”

There’s something fond in his expression when he says it. 

You smile slightly. “Okay, gruncle’s actually kinda cute with context.”

“Thank you,” Eddie says dramatically, pointing at you. “See? She gets it.”

“Oh my god,” Violet mutters. “You found one person willing to entertain you, and now you’re never gonna shut up.”

“Correct.”

Eddie takes the joint from your fingers again before you can protest, bumping your shoulder lightly with his own as he does it. Still enough to make your stomach do something embarrassingly stupid.

“C’mon,” Violet says eventually, nudging off the van. “Before my dad starts his old man routine and lectures us about unloading the car.”

“I heard that,” Eddie calls behind you both.

“Good.”

You laugh quietly, grabbing one of your bags from the trunk while Eddie takes the heavier suitcase before you can argue. “Oh, I can—”

“Nope.” He shuts the trunk with one hand. “Guest privilege.”

“You say that now.”

“Sweetheart, I survived raising her.” He jerks his head toward Violet. “Nothing scares me anymore.”

“Wow.” Violet dramatically places a hand over her heart. “And in front of company.”

The inside of the house feels exactly like you expected, somehow. Warm lighting. Faint smell of coffee and cigarettes lingering in the air. Records stacked beside the stereo. Band posters framed on the walls like actual art pieces.

The kind of house where people actually exist in it instead of just passing through. Which weirdly makes something in your chest ache a little.

Violet leads you down the hallway while Eddie disappears toward the kitchen, already calling out something about beer and Wayne coming over “starving as usual.”

Then Violet swings open a door dramatically. “And here,” she announces, “is your luxurious guest suite.”

You step inside and immediately laugh. The “guest room” is really just a room someone shoved a bed into and hoped for the best.

There’s a full-length mirror leaning against the wall, an old wooden chair covered in clothes, and approximately six guitars scattered around the room alongside amps and tangled cords. Cases were shoved beneath the bed, and picks littered the nightstand.

You turn slowly. “...Jesus Christ.”

“I told you,” Violet grins. “My dad has a guitar hoarding problem.”

A voice pipes up from behind you instantly. “They are lovingly curated.”

You glance back to find Eddie leaning against the doorway now, beer bottle in hand. His eyes flick toward the guitar case slung over your shoulder, then back to you.

“Wait,” he says, straightening slightly. “You play?”

Something about how immediately excited he sounds makes you smile. “A little.”

“A little,” Violet repeats mockingly. “She’s being humble. She’s good.”

“Oh shit.” Eddie points at you like this is groundbreaking information. “You didn't tell me that!”

“You literally met me twenty minutes ago.”

“And you decided to withhold that valuable piece of information.”

Violet gestures vaguely around the room. “Unfortunately, there’s no space left for your guitar because my father and I are addicts.”

“Hey,” Eddie says defensively. “Half this stuff is yours.”

“Yeah, because you fed into my addiction.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

Violet snorts while Eddie grins into his beer bottle, and again, that warmth settles over the entire house so naturally that it almost catches you off guard. Like this is just what they’re like.

Loud, sarcastic, comfortable with each other; a real family. It makes your chest feel weird in a way you don’t want to unpack right now.

“Well,” Eddie says after another second, pushing off the doorway. “Make yourself at home, sweetheart. Wayne’ll be here in an hour, and if Vi didn’t warn you already, he’s gonna interrogate you lovingly.”

“I’ll prepare myself emotionally.”

“Good plan.”

His eyes flick toward you one last time before he disappears down the hallway. And the second he’s gone, Violet whips and pulls you toward her room so fast it’s genuinely alarming.

“Oh my god.”

You narrow your eyes immediately. “Don’t.”

“You think my dad’s hot.”

“I do not—”

“You absolutely do.”

“Violet.”

“He stole the joint from you, and you let him.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” She throws herself dramatically onto her bed. “Honestly? Respect.”

You scoff, sitting beside her. “Your father is like forty.”

“Thirty-nine.”

“That does not help your case.”

“It kinda does.”

You grab one of her throw pillows and smack her with it immediately while she cackles. “You’re insane.”

“And you wanna fuck my dad.”

“Oh, my god.”

“I’m just saying—”

“It’s all fun and games until I become your stepmom or something.” The words leave your mouth entirely on instinct.

Then Violet sits bolt upright so fast it’s horrifying, and her eyes widen. Then slowly, slowly, a grin spreads across her face so evil it should honestly be studied professionally.

“Oh,” she says. “Oh, this summer is about to be so interesting.”

“You’re a sick individual, y'know that?” 

About forty-five minutes later, the house smells like takeout pizza, cigarette smoke drifting in from the open kitchen window, and whatever cologne Eddie sprayed on himself after his shower.

Not that you noticed, at all. Heh. 

You’re perched on the counter beside Violet, nursing a beer while she digs through the fridge for ranch. Eddie’s leaning against the opposite counter in a fresh shirt now, curls still damp at the ends from his shower, tattoos on full display beneath pushed-up sleeves.

Which feels targeted, honestly.

Then the front door swings open. “Hellooo!” a voice calls.

“Kitchen!” Violet yells back instantly.

Heavy footsteps echo through the house before an older man appears around the corner carrying a twelve-pack under one arm.

Wayne looks exactly how you imagined he would, somehow. Weathered Carhartt jacket despite the heat, graying beard, tired kind eyes. The sort of face that looks permanently worn in from years of hard work and little sleep.

The second Violet sees him, she hops off the counter. “Gruncle!”

“There’s my girl.” Wayne smiles immediately, opening one arm for her to hug him. “Missed me already?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Brat.”

He presses a kiss to the top of her head anyway before finally noticing you standing there beside Eddie.

Wayne pauses, looks between you and Violet once, then twice.

“What are you two, siamese twins?”

You burst out laughing instantly. Because honestly? Fair.

You and Violet are both standing there in shorts and oversized band tees, tattoos exposed, silver jewelry glinting beneath the kitchen lights like matching warning labels.

“Basically,” Violet says proudly.

Wayne shakes his head fondly before stepping toward you. “Wayne Munson.” He offers his hand. “Nice to finally put a face to the name. Heard about you for years now.”

You shake his hand, smiling. “That bad, huh?”

“Nah.” He jerks a thumb toward Violet. “If she keeps somebody around longer than a semester, they’re usually alright.”

“Wow,” Violet says flatly. “Love the faith in me.”

“You ate glue in second grade.”

“That was one time.”

Wayne ignores her completely, attention turning back toward you. “Where you from, sweetheart?”

“Chicago.”

“Oh, big city girl,” he nods knowingly. “What’d Hawkins ever do to deserve that?”

“She lost a bet,” Eddie says from beside you.

You snort into your beer. “I’m starting to think everyone in this town’s contractually obligated to insult Hawkins at least once an hour.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Eddie says seriously. “It’s tradition.”

The kitchen settles into easy conversation after that. Wayne telling stories about Eddie as a teenager while Violet heckles both of them relentlessly from the counter.

Eddie threatening to expose childhood stories in retaliation. Beer bottles clinking against countertops while some old metal album plays low through the speakers in the living room.

And it’s strange how quickly you settle into it. Like you’ve been in this kitchen before. Like, there’s already a place carved out for you between all their sarcasm and noise.

At one point, Wayne glances toward you while Eddie and Violet argue over music in the other room.

Then he leans slightly closer. Quietly, conspiratorially, he says, “Good luck surviving those two.”

You grin into your beer. “Think I’ll manage.”

By midnight, Violet is fully unconscious. Not dead, despite Eddie checking twice. Just absolutely obliterated by the combination of beer, pizza, and insisting she could “totally outdrink” both you and her father.

Which apparently she could not.

“She gets that from you, by the way,” you whisper as Eddie throws a blanket over her sleeping form, sprawled diagonally across the bed.

“Absolutely not.”

“She literally fell asleep holding a breadstick.”

“That’s called efficiency.”

You laugh quietly while Eddie shakes his head fondly at his daughter before shutting her bedroom door most of the way behind you both.

Wayne headed home an hour ago after dramatically claiming he was “too old for this shit.” The TV’s off. The kitchen cleaned up except for a couple of empty beer bottles sitting beside the sink.

You linger awkwardly for a second in the hallway, then reach into your pocket for your cigarettes.

“I’m gonna go outside for a minute.”

Eddie glances toward the pack in your hand and nods knowingly. “Yeah, me too.”

Of course he is.

The night air is cooler now, wrapping around your bare arms and legs as you step out onto the front porch. Crickets hum loudly in the grass while somewhere down the street, a dog barks once before going quiet again.

Small town silence, the kind you’re still not used to.

You sit on the porch steps while Eddie leans against the railing beside you, flicking his lighter open. The flame briefly catches across his rings and tattoos before he cups it toward your cigarette first.

A gentleman, unfortunately.

“You know,” he says after a second, smoke curling from his mouth, “you’re handling Hawkins suspiciously well so far.”

“I’ve only been here like six hours.”

“And yet you haven’t tried to flee.”

“Maybe I’m waiting until tomorrow.”

“Smart.”

You grin faintly, staring out toward the dark street ahead of you. For a minute, neither of you says anything. Just smoke quietly beside each other while the porch light buzzes overhead.

“So what’s the real reason you came here?”

You glance toward him automatically. “Hm?”

“The real reason.” He gestures vaguely with his cigarette. “Because no offense, sweetheart, but no twenty-one-year-old voluntarily spends their summer in Hawkins unless they’re hiding from something or recovering from something.”

You try to cover it with a laugh. “You always interrogate your daughter’s friends like this?”

“Nah.” His eyes meet yours then. “Just you.”

Your stomach does something deeply irritating. You look away first, exhaling smoke slowly. “My family’s just… a lot.”

Eddie stays quiet, not the impatient kind of silence either. The kind that waits.

You shrug one shoulder eventually. “My dad remarried a couple of years ago. She hates me, I hate her, my dad pretends none of it’s happening.”

“That sucks.”

You glance toward him again. “Yeah. It does.”

He nods once like he understands something you didn’t fully say out loud. Then, because apparently he can sense when you’re getting too vulnerable, the corner of his mouth tugs upward.

“Well.” He takes another drag. “Good news is you’re safe here.”

Your brows lift slightly. “Safe?”

“Yeah.” He gestures toward the house behind you. “Vi likes you, Wayne likes you, and I already decided you’re tolerable.”

You laugh softly. “That so?”

“Mhm.”

“You decide that before or after stealing my joint?”

“That was actually the deciding factor.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. Eddie watches you for another second before speaking again.

“Plus,” he adds casually, “you’re pretty.” 

You cough once, glaring immediately while Eddie grins outright now.

“Oh my god,” you mutter. “You flirt like a divorced dad.”

“I am a divorced dad.”

“Were you ever even married?”

“Details.”

You laugh again before you can stop yourself, and Eddie’s expression shifts slightly when he hears it. Like he enjoys making you laugh a little too much already.

Which feels dangerously good. Especially when he looks at you like that beneath the dim porch light, cigarette between his fingers, curls falling into his face while the entire town sleeps around you both.

“For real, though,” he says quietly. “Thanks for being good to my kid.”

The sincerity catches you off guard enough that you blink at him.

Eddie shrugs one shoulder, eyes drifting toward the house behind you. “Vi acts tough, but she’s always had a hard time letting people in. Most people don’t really… stick around.”

“She’s my best friend,” you say simply. “I don’t know where I’d be without her.”

Eddie looks back at you then, and whatever he sees makes something warm settle into his expression.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I can tell.”

Then Eddie clears his throat slightly, the teasing glint returning to his eyes before the moment can get too heavy.

“Still think you’re trouble, though.”

You scoff immediately. “Me?”

“Mhm.” He points at you with his cigarette. “You walked into my house lookin’ like… And now my daughter’s already smoking weed and passed out drunk.”

“She was smoking weed before I got here.”

“Yeah, but now she has an audience.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” Eddie says, stepping closer just enough for his shoulder to brush yours lightly again, “you’re still out here talking to me.”

Your stomach flips in the most humiliating way imaginable, especially when he smiles afterward.

You should probably move away; that feels like the smart thing to do here.

Instead, you stay exactly where you are, cigarette dangling loosely between your fingers while Eddie sits close enough now that you can feel the heat coming off him in the cool night air.

Which is maybe a problem. A huge one, actually.

Because he’s your best friend’s dad. Because you’re living in his house all summer. Because Violet would absolutely lose her mind if she knew the way her father was currently looking at you.

And worst of all, because you really, really want him to keep doing it. You exhale slowly, trying to gather at least one coherent thought.

“I dunno if we should do this,” you admit quietly.

Eddie’s brows lift slightly. “Do what?”

“You know what.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Sweetheart, all I’ve done is compliment you and steal your weed.”

“You’re flirting with me.”

“Guilty.”

You groan softly, rubbing a hand over your face. “Eddie.”

The way his name sounds coming out of your mouth makes his expression shift for half a second.

Then, casually, as anything, he says: “What, you worried about becoming Vi’s stepmom?”

Your eyes widen so fast it’s honestly embarrassing. Eddie immediately breaks into a grin.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “She told you?”

“Nope.”

“Then how do you—”

“The walls in this house are paper-thin, sweetheart.” He takes another drag from his cigarette, clearly enjoying your horror. “And you two were not exactly quiet.”

You physically cover your face with both hands. “Oh my fucking god.”

From somewhere behind your palms, you hear Eddie laugh. Entirely too pretty sounding for a man his age, honestly.

“I’m gonna die,” you mumble.

“Nah.”

“I need Violet to actually kill me with her bare hands immediately.”

“She’d probably just ask if she needed to leave the house for us.”

You lower your hands just enough to glare at him. “That is not helping.”

“Sorry,” Eddie says, still visibly amused. “Just tryin’ to make you feel better.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“A little.”

The porch light catches the silver in his rings when he reaches over and gently pulls your cigarette from your fingers before it burns too close to your skin.

The gesture is so absentmindedly caring that it almost does you in completely. Then he hands his back, and your fingers brush his.

And suddenly neither of you are smiling quite as much anymore. Eddie looks at you for a long second before speaking again, quieter this time.

“Listen,” he says. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable.”

You shake your head immediately. “You’re not.”

That answer comes out a little too fast. His eyes flick down to your mouth for the briefest second before back up again.

“Good,” he murmurs.

Your heart stumbles over itself. Because there’s something almost unfair about the way he looks at you right now. Like he’s trying very hard to behave himself, and failing a little.

“You’re trouble,” you whisper.

Eddie smiles slowly.

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, “you walked into my house looking like that. We’re way past figuring out who the trouble is.”

The porch conversation lingers for a couple more minutes. Eddie’s looking at you like he’s already decided how the rest of the night is going to go, and you’re pretending your thighs aren’t pressed together under the thin fabric of your sleep shorts.

You don’t remember who moved first. Just that one second you’re both standing there, the next his mouth is on yours; slow at first, like he’s giving you an out, then deeper when you grab the front of his shirt and pull him closer.

He tastes like smoke and mint and something that makes your head spin. His hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw, rings cool against your flushed skin.

“Inside,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough. “Before I bend you over these steps like a fucking animal.”

You laugh breathlessly, but your pulse is hammering. He walks you backward through the quiet house, one hand on your waist, the other pushing open the door to his bedroom at the end of the hall.

The second it clicks shut behind you, the restraint snaps.

Eddie kisses you like he’s starving; tongue, teeth, hands everywhere. He peels your tank top off, groans low when he sees you’re not wearing a bra. His mouth is on your tits immediately, sucking hard enough to make you gasp, one hand kneading the other while he backs you toward his bed.

“Been thinking about this since you stepped out of that car,” he admits, voice gravelly. He pushes you down onto the mattress and drops to his knees between your spread thighs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Look at you. Fuck.”

He doesn’t tease. He yanks your shorts and panties down in one rough tug, spreads your legs wider, and buries his face in your center like a man on a mission.

You choke on a moan.

He eats you like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else, long, filthy licks from your entrance to your clit, sucking your clit into his mouth with obscene wet sounds, tongue fucking into you while his hands pin your hips down.

His curls tickle your thighs, nails digging into your skin, and when he groans against you, the vibration shoots straight up your spine.

“Eddie...fuck—”

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny, eyes dark. “Taste so fucking good, sweetheart. College boys ever eat this pretty pussy like this?” 

He dives back in before you can answer, two thick fingers sliding into you, curling just right.

You swear under your breath, hips grinding against his face. He doesn’t let up. Not when your thighs start shaking. Not when you’re whimpering his name like a prayer.

He sucks your clit hard and curls his fingers again, and you come so suddenly it punches the air out of your lungs, back arching off the bed.

He keeps licking you through it, gentler now, until you’re twitching and oversensitive.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is glistening. He wipes it with the back of his hand like it’s nothing, then stands up and strips his shirt off. The sight of him, tattoos, scars, that happy trail leading down into his jeans, makes your mouth water.

He grabs something from the nightstand drawer. A sleek black vibrator. Your eyebrows shoot up.

Eddie smirks, climbing over you. “Not competition, baby. Just gonna make you feel even better.” He kisses you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, while he works his jeans open. His cock is thick, flushed, and beyond what you had imagined. He strokes himself once, twice, watching your face.

“You sure?” he asks, suddenly serious for half a second.

You nod, pulling him down. “Yes. Please.”

He lines himself up, then presses the vibrator against your clit on the lowest setting, the buzz making you jolt.

He pushes in slow, inch by inch, until he’s buried to the hilt, stretching you open in the best way.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “So fucking wet for me.”

He starts moving. Deep, rolling thrusts that make your toes curl. The vibrator stays pressed to your center the whole time, buzzing steadily while he fucks you.

Every stroke grinds it harder against you. You’re moaning loud enough that you’re glad Violet’s passed out cold down the hall.

Eddie’s experienced; there’s no other way to say it. He knows exactly how to angle his hips, when to speed up, and when to grind deep. He watches your face the entire time, drinking in every reaction.

“Nobodies fucked you like this, huh?” he rasps, voice wrecked as he snaps his hips harder. “Don’t eat you like this? Don’t make this pretty pussy cream all over their cock?”

You shake your head, nails digging into his back. “N-no, Eddie, fuck—”

He clicks the vibrator up a setting, and you nearly scream. The combination is devastating; his thick cock dragging against your walls, the relentless buzz on your clit, the way he’s looking at you like he wants to devour you whole.

He leans down, mouth against your ear. “Gonna make you come again. Want to feel you squeezing me when you do.”

You do, hard. The orgasm crashes over you so intensely that your vision whites out for a second. Eddie fucks you through it, cursing under his breath, pace turning punishing.

He pulls the vibrator away only when you’re whimpering, then flips you over onto your stomach like you weigh nothing. He pulls your hips up and sinks back into you in one smooth thrust, hand reaching around to circle your oversensitive clit with his fingers.

“Again,” he growls. “One more, sweetheart. Give it to me.”

You’re a mess. Face buried in his pillow, ass up, drooling and moaning while he rails you from behind. The wet slap of skin, his low groans, the way he keeps telling you how good you feel, how perfect you are, it all sends you spiraling again.

When you come the third time, clenching around him like a vice, Eddie finally lets go. He buries himself deep and comes with a broken groan of your name, hips stuttering, body shuddering against yours.

For a long minute, the only sounds are both of you trying to catch your breath.

Eddie pulls out carefully, then collapses beside you and pulls you into his chest. His hand strokes down your back, lazy and soothing.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead. “You’re gonna kill me this summer.”

You laugh weakly, still floating. “Good thing you’re experienced.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Damn right.”

You wake slowly to warmth and the faint smell of cigarettes. For a second, you’re disoriented. Heavy blankets. Morning light spilling gold through half-open blinds. A tattooed arm wrapped loosely around your waist.

Then everything from last night comes rushing back at once.

Oh. Oh, fuck.

Before you can spiral too hard, lips press softly against your shoulder, then your neck.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.” Eddie’s voice is rough with sleep.

You turn your head slightly to find him propped up on one elbow beside you, curls an absolute disaster, dark tattoos disappearing beneath the sheets pooled low on his hips. It’s deeply unfair that he still looks this good at six in the morning.

“You have work,” you mumble sleepily.

“I know.” He kisses you once more, quick and lazy this time. “Tryin’ very hard to be responsible about it.”

“Mm. Don’t.”

Eddie laughs softly under his breath like he can’t help it. “Dangerous thing to say to a man already running late.”

You grin against the pillow while he leans down to kiss you properly this time. Slow enough to make your stomach flip all over again. When he pulls back, he brushes his thumb along your cheek once before sighing dramatically.

“Unfortunately,” he says, “car engines wait for no man.”

“Tragic.”

“I know. I’m devastated too.”

You watch him drag himself out of bed, immediately mourning the loss of warmth while he pulls on jeans and a black work shirt.

He catches you staring when he turns around. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You were checking me out.”

“I absolutely was not.”

“Sweetheart, I’m forty, not blind.”

“Thirty-nine,” you correct automatically.

Eddie points at you immediately. “See? You know the number now. That’s intimacy.”

Eventually, you force yourself out of bed too, tugging your pajamas back on while Eddie disappears into the kitchen. By the time you walk out there, he’s pouring coffee into two mugs.

The domesticity of it hits you like a truck.

Eddie, standing in his kitchen in work boots and rolled sleeves, making you coffee like this is normal. Like this happens all the time.

He glances over when he hears you, then visibly pauses.

“What?” you ask suspiciously.

His mouth twitches. “Nothin’.”

“Eddie.”

“You put your shirt on inside out.”

You look down immediately. Fuck.

“You could’ve told me sooner!”

“Nah.” He slides a mug toward you, smirking into his own coffee. “This is way funnier.”

You flip him off while fixing it properly, and Eddie just laughs again before checking the clock.

“Shit. Okay, I really gotta go.”

He downs the rest of his coffee, grabs his keys off the counter, then pauses beside you on his way to the door. For a second, he just looks at you.

Then he leans down and kisses you once, quick but warm enough to make your face heat immediately afterward.

“Behave while I’m gone,” he says.

“You first.”

Eddie grins. “Impossible.”

Then he’s gone.

You linger in the kitchen for a while after, nursing your coffee and trying very hard not to think too deeply about the fact that you just spent the night in your best friend’s dad’s bed. Which works for approximately twelve minutes.

An hour later, Violet finally shuffles into the kitchen looking half-dead.

“Morning,” she rasps.

“Morning.”

She grabs orange juice from the fridge before narrowing her eyes at you suspiciously over the carton. 

You immediately tense. “What?”

“…Nothin’.”

“Violet.”

She squints harder, then her eyes slowly widen. “Oh, my god.”

Your stomach drops instantly. “What?”

“You fucked my dad.”

You nearly choke on your coffee. “I did not—”

“Your shirt’s on backwards, genius.”

You look down. Again?!

“Oh my fucking god.”

Violet bursts out laughing so hard she physically has to lean against the counter.

“You’re an idiot,” she wheezes.

“I hate this house.”

“No, you don’t.”

You bury your face in your hands while Violet continues cackling like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to her.

Finally, muffled through your fingers, you groan: “Why are you being so weirdly okay about this?”

Violet shrugs, still grinning. “Because I genuinely don’t care.”

“You should care!”

“Why?”

“Because that’s your father!”

“And you’re my best friend.” She takes a casual sip of juice. “Honestly, this is kinda ideal. Now, if you marry him, you legally can’t move out of my life.”

You stare at her in horror.

Violet points at you immediately. “Also, to be clear? I called this the second he stole your joint.”

“I’m leaving.”

“No, you’re not.”

“…Probably not.”

“Exactly.” She grins wickedly. “Besides, this is funny as hell for me personally.”

“You are a sick individual, Violet Munson!”

“Yeah, yeah. Take a number.”

personally? i am HERE for this fic. lawd knows i love me a good older man, and an older eddie? phew.

taglist is open!

beasbugs:

He shakes his head with careful subtlty—like any sudden movement will scare you into actually committing to this plan. 

Disbelief clouds his features, heavy and foreboding like the sky before a summer squall— 

The nerve. The gumption. The audacity so potent on such an unassuming young woman. 

You want to lose your virginity to a stranger and you’re, what, warning him first? 

It’s like you want him to disrupt your plans. 

He watches you roll your eyes, all pursed lips and impudence. 

“Oh, seriously?” you sass. “Calm down. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

Eddie practically chokes on his scoff, and the strangled sound ripples over your body, drawing out the look he knows well. Annoyance—it forces you to sit up straight. 

You squirm in your seat for a moment, like a million tiny ants are marching up your spine, dancing over the tension in your shoulders. And he knows…the argument is imminent, but not before he speaks his piece—

“Not that big of a deal? Sweetheart, stubbing your toe is not that big of a deal. Forgetting to check the mail is not that big of a deal,” his voice raises as he gestures wildly, feeling like a Bible Belt preacher wailing about temptation of the flesh. “Losing your virginity? To a stranger? That’s a pretty big-fuckin’-deal!”

Again, you roll your eyes—blatantly disregarding the way his head cocks and his own eyes narrow in warning. He hates when you do that. When you brush him off so easily, like he’s dust on your pristine shoulder—

A quiet chuckle leaves your lips as you avert your gaze, suddenly finding the speckled laminate far more interesting. 

Like a puppy hearing an unfamiliar noise, Eddie’s head cocks back the other way, trying to figure out what exactly he said that has you laughing. Usually he loves the sound, but he doesn’t like the tone of this one. There’s something deeply derisive buried beneath the nonchalant surface. 

“I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the joke there, sweets. Care to clue me in?” he rasps, goading you.

A jeering smirk pulls at your lips, like you’re finding his simmering temper and deepening voice increasingly amusing. 

After another soft huff—a sound that could almost be mistaken for a scoff—you level him with a penetrating look, your smirk slowly splitting into an incredulous grin. 

“Sorry,” you start, but a chuckle bubbles up your throat, catching on the clearly insincere apology. “Sorry, I just find this whole thing very funny.”

Eddie sucks his teeth as he watches you shrug dismissively—no longer backing down, no longer avoiding his darkening gaze. He lets your words sit in the air, hoping their stuffy bitterness will suffocate you into surrender, but instead, they seem to brandish your skin like armor. 

And just like that, out comes your most dangerous weapon: your self-satisfaction. 

From all his years with you, he knows, when your complacency reaches an all-time high, there’s almost no way to change your mind. You’ve already doubled down once, and you’re about to batten down the hatches. Because more than anything, he knows you hate being wrong and hate it even more when you’re told you’re wrong. 

And through festering nerves and itchy discomfort, Eddie realizes he just shot your idea down and danced on its grave. 

Of course, he wouldn’t have had such a strong reaction if it weren’t such a sensitive topic. But you don’t know that. All you’ve heard so far is you’re wrong, and I know more than you. 

It’s moments like these where Eddie curses his motormouth—his almost comical inability to shut up, or, god forbid, consider what he means before he opens his trap. And until he finally learns his lesson, he figures he’s doomed to live with his foot in his mouth for all eternity.

With you shifting in your seat, and time ticking against him, he knows this bomb is going to need an extra delicate defusal. But he’s not certain he can remain level-headed about this subject matter. 

Not when it’s you. 

Not when damned images of a faceless man caressing you plays in technicolor through his mind. Because sometime ago, somewhere along the night drives and the lazy days, his wires got crossed. And now those wires are sparking, threatening to burn him through and through.

Maybe you’re not the bomb, after all. 

“Oh, you find it funny, do you?” he questions, nodding his head. 

“Well, yeah. You’re sitting here trying to tell me that, what, losing your virginity is supposed to be special?” you mockingly ask, your features alight with mirth. It’s like you’re a bloodhound catching a scent—the scent of sweet, sweet hypocrisy. 

Eddie opens his mouth to answer your rhetorical question, because…yes. 

For you? 

Yes, it should be special—

“You know what? I want you to go look in a mirror and say what you just said to me, and see if you don’t laugh too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he argues, jerking his head back. Your words might as well have physically manifested themselves into a slap because that’s how they feel, acidic and seeping into his skin with a sting.

“Please! You remember telling me about your first time? You came to school the next day bragging to me and the Hellfire guys about hooking up with some older chick in the bathroom at the Hideout! Remember that? You wore it like a badge of honor!”

He had taken you in as a freshman, just like he did every lost soul. Battling off the stifling monotony of high school together, it was no surprise you developed a crush on him. He was—is—so sweet. So funny. So unlike anyone you had ever met. 

He would play the fool just to make you laugh, but he’d defend your honor in an instant. Your very own protection against the venomous cheerleaders and mouth-breathing jocks.

When he would get himself going about something or other, marching along the tops of the lunch tables, it was like staring straight into the sun. You bloomed under his gleaming rays, flowering and reaching toward his warmth with every wild grin, every silly headshake, every teasing joke.

He was addicting, and you would come bounding into lunch every day itching for a fix. 

Then you were a sophomore and Eddie was a senior—for the first time. 

One day, he came in with a new story to tell, and no amount of sunshine could restore your wilting leaves, your shriveling flowers. No amount of water could satisfy the buds that never got to grow and now never would—

Every prideful sentence—every dirty detail boasting the changed man he had become—acted like a rain of pesticide on your delicate ecosystem.

It was a level of desecration you couldn’t undo if you wanted to. 

And you weren’t sure you were even strong enough to try.

Because it became clear that day, he wasn’t yours. He wouldn’t be yours. 

You couldn’t see him the same after that. The chemicals contaminated the image, degrading and defacing the likeness. 

He wasn’t the man you used to dream about every night. 

He didn’t look like he once had—so soft, so sweet. A man able to rot your teeth right out of your skull if you allowed him the honor.

A man so saccharine and delicate, like candy floss. 

But maybe it was the image of him that was delicate—not truly him. 

After all, your tears melted the wisps pretty easily. 

All that was left was piles of sugar—too wet for consumption, and not in the right form—and a crash unrivaled by any confectionery you’d ever had. 

White, hot anger seeps from every pore in Eddie’s skin, replaced by the shocking chill of a memory he’s tried very hard to forget.

He feels like throwing up—

This. This, right here, is why he’s vehemently opposing your plan. This feeling constricting his chest, like not enough fresh air in the world could inflate his lungs—

He thought the experience was cool at first. He thought he was being totally “metal.” 

But he was just being used. 

The woman never asked his name, and when he tried to talk to her, she crudely told him to focus less on talking and more on fucking. It was a mortifying experience. He almost wasn’t able to finish from the sheer embarrassment of it all, but eighteen year old hormones were a thing to behold.

And despite what he would have everyone around him believe, he still cared way too much about what people thought of him. So he strutted into lunch the next day, hopping up on his soapbox to spread the good word of his monumental conquest. High from the excitement of the boys, he embellished most of the story. 

And now, here you are, sitting in front of him, smug as can be, thinking you’re proving your point with his own hypocrisy. 

But he’s not a hypocrite. 

He’s just a liar. 

He has lied to you about a lot of things and, funnily enough, all those things seem to be crawling out of their grassy graves, hungry to take a chunk out of him. 

Because as much as you may think you’ve cornered him with a “gotcha” moment, your reminder of his past transgressions only makes him all the more passionate about how you should spend your first time. 

He can’t let you feel how he felt. 

Not you. 

You deserve better than empty touches and unfeeling words. 

“You wore it like a badge of honor!”

Your voice echoing in his mind has a sentiment never meant to be revealed tumbling past his lips with frightening ease—

“Yeah, and I lied!” 

Slowly, your self-satisfied smile falls off your face. Confusion overtakes your confidence. 

Capitalizing on your stunned silence, Eddie continues—

“That first time was fucking awful! I felt like shit. I only acted like it was good because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do…. Because I was stupid and young.” He utters the words with disdain, mortification and frustration mixing low in his gut until he feels more flammable than ever.

“It wasn’t good,” he repeats, a frown etched tightly into his features. “It just made me feel…empty.”

Your silence weighs heavy on his shoulders; selfishly, he steals a glance at you, at the crease in your brows and the way you seem to be reflecting. He can almost see you reliving that day in your head, searching for any twitch of an eye, any too-quick-to-fall smiles. 

But he’s a good liar. Always has been. Even when it comes to you.

The idle hum of electricity coursing into the yellow bulb above him acts as the soundtrack to your response.

“Well, I don’t plan on doing it in the Hideout bathroom, so I think we’re good there,” you shrug.

Eddie purses his lips; he knows it’s deliberate. What you’re doing, it’s purposeful, and you’re doing it to piss him off. Because you’re pissed off. 

Your eyes narrow at his, challenging him in the silence of the trailer.

A huff of air escapes through flared nostrils—he’s refraining.

But you’re killing him. 

Sometimes you can be so difficult, but he wouldn’t stick around if he wasn’t addicted to the agony of trying to figure you out.

That’s half the fun of every conversation he’s had with you. 

You push his buttons more than any woman he’s ever met, but you’ve twisted him up so bad, the only time he feels normal is when you’re looking at him. Doesn’t matter if it’s with anger or fondness or humor. 

You’re a paradox he can’t sort out because you’ve made him like this—wires crossed and incendiary feelings—but you also have a way of fixing him. Though, it’s usually just to mangle him all over again.

And he’d like to be your only victim. He’d like to burn in only your pyre, if given the chance. 

If given the chance.

If given the chance, he’d like to put a stop to this. And with the quasi-warning you’ve granted him, he feels this is as good a time as any to poke as many holes in your plan as he can—

“What’s the rush? Why now?”

He can see in your eyes, you’re taken aback by his question as your challenging gaze turns suspicious. “What do you mean, ‘Why now?’ Because I want to, that’s why.” 

Your argument is slipping; petulance curls off you in plumes as thick as smoke. And the scent is sweet to him.

Eddie settles back in his chair, sliding his hips down—looking the epitome of leisure and apathy, he hopes. Though, unable to fully transform while walking the repressive tightrope, his left hand fiddles with the rings on his right—a nervous tick he hopes you’re too annoyed to notice. 

“Well, yeah, but why not yesterday? Why not a month from now?” He shrugs, feeling flinty resentment sharpen his edges as he continues the onslaught of questions, now bordering on antagonistic. “Why not prom night a few years ago? Isn’t that where all the girls go to lose it? You went, you had a date. You could’ve.”

Your eye twitches.

“Because I didn’t want to, jackass. I’m ready now. I want to now…”

Instead of responding, Eddie just raises his brows, feeling unimpressed. Your words sit in the air, floating in between you both as they grow stale. 

The soft whistle of the A/C unit and the ticking of the old clock on the wall make him feel like he’s trapped in this liminal space where conversations never truly end because nobody’s point ever actually gets made. Like he’s just meant to sit here, staring at you, both waiting for the other shoe to drop, but nothing comes. Because that’s not how the game is played. 

Unfettered, Eddie continues to look at you, as though you’re something to be watched—consumed. A separate entity he can’t touch, but he can play the part of an onlooker, waiting for disaster to hit. 

You squirm and shuffle in your seat. He observes. Waits. Gives you the space to tell on yourself because he knows you’re not strong enough to resist it.

Your eyes sporadically flit from his to random places in the trailer as you avoid his patient gaze. 

After a few seconds, it appears the opened cereal box and empty beer cans across the room become a bore to you. 

Slowly, your far-out gaze drops down the kitchen counter, landing on the floor, sliding to the side, and back up the table until it rests on his joined hands, fingers threaded, rings bulky and glinting in the dull glow of the humming bulb. 

He sees the exact moment you buckle under his unyielding attention—the moment you give up. Your shoulders deflate the smallest amount, free of tension and low from submission. Your chest collapses under the expression of a deep, silent sigh. 

 “I’m tired of being a virgin,” you mutter, shame darkening every syllable. “I just want it over with, I don’t care anymore.”

Eddie purses his lips again, nodding, because he understands the feeling. He remembers the pressure. “And you don’t wanna wait to lose it to someone you love?” 

You don’t respond. Don’t look at him. All you do is laugh. Just a quiet, humorless chuckle. A few notes of melody that tell him you’ve got a well of emotions, thoughts, and opinions on the subject that you’ll have to spare him for time’s sake. 

But Eddie’s not in the business of letting you off easy. As much as you can be difficult sometimes, he can be far worse. 

He can talk, and talk, and talk for hours. Stall forever if he needs to.

Suddenly, he sits up, hunching his shoulders forward, determined. “I think you should wait…. For someone you love,” he implores.

You roll your eyes again, as though he’s spinning you an opulent fantasy and swearing it’s true.

He crosses his arms, mirroring your own movement—

“Thank you for your input, I’ll take it into consideration.” You shoot him an insincere smile before looking up at the ceiling of the trailer, as if thinking, only to return your gaze to him seconds later. “Okay. I’ve considered it. And I’m choosing to ignore it.” 

Eddie bristles, sucking in a quick breath to bolster his impending rebuttal, but you don’t even let him—

“I don’t know if you've noticed, Eddie, but there’s a distinct lack of guys lining down the block, waiting to woo me. And that’s fine, it’s whatever,” you shrug, shaking your head like you couldn’t be less bothered. “I can’t make someone love me. But this, I can control…” 

You snort, mordacious words spewing from your perfect lips. “One thing I know about men is they may not be quick to love, but they’re certainly easy to seduce.” 

Eddie shifts angrily in his seat. Not quick to love? 

As if that could be true. Who in their right mind—

Part of him wants to yell at any guy who’s ever rejected you, but the other part—the dark, untamable ego—wants to jump up in celebration, in smug satisfaction that he’s not having to duel for your devotion. 

But he doesn’t do either because love is awful. 

It’s like staring into a mirror and all his worst flaws are staring back. 

Right now, his selfishness is glaring at him, and yet, he can’t seem to care. That’s the worst part. 

He should be good. He should be better for you. Should want to be better for you. It’s what you deserve. But you’ve done something irreversible to him. 

And love is fickle. 

Because, unfortunately, he can relate to you on one thing—the woes of not being able to make someone love you. 

The pain of wanting it and not getting it. 

If he could…. 

If he could get it… 

If he could make someone love him—if it were possible—he wouldn’t be stuck here listening to you plot how you’re going to lose your virginity to some guy. Instead, he’d be half-way to the bedroom by now, your hand in his, and a million sweet kisses waiting for you. 

But love is fickle. 

“Okay, fine. Yeah, guys are easy, but you can’t lose it to a stranger. That’s probably the worst way to go about it,” he complains, regarding you with almost-pleading eyes.

You pause for a moment, your eyes narrow at the earnest display of caution on his face. But then you must remember this is the face of a liar, because—

“I mean…people hook up with people all the time. Some even after they’ve just met at a bar,” you pointedly argue, pinning Eddie to the spot with a time-hardened gaze. 

His lip curls as he regrets ever opening his mouth that day in ‘84.

If he had known it would give you the perfect shield, allowing every argument he lobs at you to bounce off and hit him square in the chest, he would have never said a word. In fact, he has half a mind to create time travel just to go back and kick eighteen year old Eddie’s ass—

“And besides, I’m not doing it with a stranger. I was thinking of asking Jimmy Royston,” you shrug, focusing on the chipped nail polish you can’t seem to stop picking at. “I sat next to him in Chemistry, like, all of junior year.” 

For the first time in what feels like forever—well, at least since you told him your plans for later—Eddie laughs. A boisterous, belly laugh that echoes around the trailer, the sound bouncing off the smoke-stained wallpaper and hitting every surface in sight. 

Too busy wiping tears from his eyes, Eddie misses the way your face sours, your lips curling into a dangerous sneer.

He starts a few sentences that immediately devolve into gibberish and giggles when he pictures you and Jimmy Royston so much as speaking. God, his stomach hurts— He always did sat you were the funnier one out of you and him. 

A terse ahem draws his attention back, and he tries to stop his body from shaking with heaving laughter.

“Oh, sorry. Phew! I needed that, I needed that.” He wipes some escaped tears off his cheeks. “Ohh, thank you, sweetheart, that was very funny. Thank you,” he says with a breathless grin, smoothing his shirt and rubbing his sore abdomen. 

Staring at him with a heavy brow, your expression remains still—

When your facade doesn’t crack—when you don’t smirk and revel in how hard you made him break, like you usually do—Eddie’s smile drops off his face, replaced by unabashed incredulity. 

You’re serious. You truly mean to tell him…Jimmy Royston is your man of choice? The guy who vomited all over himself in ninth grade when he had to dissect a frog in biology is the one you want to lose your virginity to? Jimmy ‘Puke-y’ Royston?  

What’s more, your choice is based on a year of being lab partners? Really? Eddie has known you since freshman year—known of you since elementary school—and you’re choosing an acquaintance over him? 

Not even an acquaintance—an obligatory desk-mate. How romantic. Touching, really—

He can’t help but imagine how that conversation would go. “Hey, Jimmy, remember me from Chem? Stoichiometry, am I right? That shit sucked. Anyway, do you wanna fuck me?”

All of a sudden, he starts considering whether he could win in a fight against the short, slim guy. 

Who knows? It may come to that if he fucks this up and fails to convince you never to leave his trailer—especially not for Jimmy Royston. 

“Sorry, you wanna have your first time with your eleventh grade chem partner? Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Eddie wails, a crazed, bemused look in his eyes as he leans forward over the table that separates you two. 

You groan loudly, rolling your eyes so hard your head lolls back. “Oh, what now? You don’t want it to be a stranger, I said it’s not gonna be. Now you don’t want it to be someone I know? Seriously, Eddie, you’re grasping at straws here.”

“Someone you know? Jimmy is someone you know?” he scoffs, his brows lift so high they disappear into the messy curls of his bangs. 

When you don’t say anything else, only pursing your lips and avoiding his fiery gaze, he nods fervently, his frizzy locks swaying softly with the movement. 

“Yeah, well, of course. You guys go way back,” he mocks. “You know what, while you’re at it, why don’t you call up Chris Trilcek? You were paired up for that final presentation in world history freshman year. Bet he’d be a hoot-and-a-half in the sack, and I’m sure he’s free!” 

“Oh, do you think I should?” you ask, staring off to the side of his frazzled face like you’re actually considering his teasing suggestion. “I mean it’d be nice to have options in case Jimmy isn’t up for it…”

Before Eddie has a chance to figure out if you’re being deliberately obtuse again, you’re up, leaving him to stare at the empty space across the table as you rifle through the junk-drawer in his kitchen. 

Inside the deep drawer, stray batteries and an impressive rubber band ball roll about as you dig through a shocking amount of take-out menus. Once you find what you’re looking for, you make your way back to Eddie, plopping onto your chair, letting the item drop from your hands and onto the table with a loud thump. 

Quickly, you split the phone book open, flipping through the flimsy pages to get to the ‘R’ section. 

“What the f—” 

Eddie shakes his head wildly, slamming his hand down on the binding of the book before he drags it to him and away from you—away from your deft, searching fingers. 

“Hey!” 

You reach across the table to pull the White Pages back, but before you can get your hands on it, he shoves the book off the surface like an attention-seeking cat. It goes flying, falling to the floor of the trailer with a loud, hollow thud. 

“Hey! I need that, asshole!” you yell, vexation turning your tone shrill.

You stare into his eyes for a moment, annoyance cooking your insides like a stew as you’re met with utter indifference and what looks to be a hint of smugness. You’re going to kill him. 

Stuck in another stand-off, neither of you move until you make the mistake of glancing at the ground, noting the landing spot of the heavy book, splayed out—frail pages folding under the weight of itself in haphazard creases. Eddie follows your gaze and that’s all it took to give away your next move.

In a flash, you turn, bending down, and reaching to the floor. Eddie matches your hasty movements as you both tumble out of your seats, trying to beat the other to the book. The very tips of your fingers brush the laminated cover when he lurches forward, pushing the book out of your grasp once more. 

“Ugh!” you shriek as you scramble toward it, at an advantage because, though he got it away from you in that split-second, he still pushed it to your side of the room—further away from him. You feel a brush of wind against your bare skin as he swipes at your ankle, trying to catch the limb to drag you back to him, but you’re too quick. You get a hold of the book and stand up, rushing over to the yellow landline by the door.

“Fuck!” he shouts, clambering after you. The noises of you vigorously flipping through the pages and the click of the phone coming off the hook only seem to add to his panicked fervor. 

Eddie comes to an abrupt stop behind you, his body nudging you closer to the wall with his nearly-uncontrolled speed. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, his chest warms your back as he breathes heavy. 

Right as you’re about to start typing in the number you found for the Roystons, the phone lodged between your ear and shoulder disappears—yanked free, and slammed back onto the hook by a large, ringed hand. 

Another annoyed groan tears from your throat as you feel his body loom ever-closer behind you. Hunching your shoulders, you turn away from his right hand—the one that guards the phone—to protect your precious White Pages. But it doesn’t work— 

His left hand—the one you hadn’t noticed was resting on your hip—ambushes you from the other side. 

Quickly, Eddie firmly presses the pads of his spread fingers onto the thin page you were reading from, and balls his hand into a tight fist, effectively ripping the delicate paper from the book, trapping it beneath his iron grip. In a fit of rage, you whirl around, leveling him with a sharp glare.

He backs away from you, fist still closed around the paper, shielding it from your inevitable reach. Slamming the book onto the side table beneath the phone, you march toward him. 

“Eddie, what the fuck?” you yell, matching his retreating steps with your confident stride. When he runs out of space, you corner him against the far wall and the couch, zeroing in on his fist. 

Eddie lifts his hand high above his head, fully aware of how silly this game of life-or-death keep-away is. But he’ll be damned if you get that fucking phone number. 

As you reach for the crumpled paper, he uses his body to block you—leaning back when you lean forward, stretching and giving you more of his body to reach over. You grunt and mutter obscenities at him, balancing on your tip-toes, but nothing helps. You can’t reach it. He’s never been more overjoyed at his lanky stature than in this moment—

Giggles freely escape his grinning mouth while he watches laser-sharp focus and irritation mar your face as you shove him, trying to get him to break and finally give you the page. He’d never admit it to you because you’d probably junk-punch him—especially right now—but he’s loving the way you’re all over him. 

Your touch is everywhere as you reach and pry for the bane of his existence. Not to mention you smell amazing. He has to stop himself from curling into your roving hands, but he must remain sturdy. For both of your sakes. 

“Sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t think you’re tall enough to ride this ride,” he goads, utterly drunk on you.

You let out the loudest groan he’s ever heard from you, leading him to snicker some more. But he soon regrets his overconfident teasing when you give up on aiming directly for his hand and instead start pawing at his arm. 

A sharp chop to the inside of his elbow sends shockwaves of dull pain through his nervous system as you use your full body weight to pull down on his raised arm, now partially crumpled from your assault to his joint. 

In a moment of desperation—your body hanging from his flexing bicep, slowly but surely bringing it to your level—Eddie shoves the ball of paper into his mouth and releases the tension in his arm, dropping it to his side. The sudden slack causes you to nearly fall over, but before you do, he wraps his arms around your waist, catching you. 

Your irate features melt into a look of disgust as you squirm out of his arms. 

“Ew! Egh! That’s so gross, Eddie!” 

“Mmm, phone book,” he taunts through a mouthful of White Pages. 

“You know, that was your phone book, right? You just lost yourself a whole two pages of R’s,” you say, raising a brow. 

“Don’t care.” 

His petulance is muffled by the crumpled paper in his mouth, and he can’t help but cringe at the taste. Paper. It just tastes like paper. But old. 

Suddenly, he sidesteps your body and crosses the room, heading back to the kitchen to throw the page away. He can feel the thin material softening from his saliva and it’s making him want to scrub his mouth out. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you watching him as he spits the wet slop into the garbage, sees the way you carefully step toward the phone again. 

“Ugh, you’re a child.” 

He pauses from scrubbing a towel over his tongue—attempting to clean any remaining pieces of paper from his mouth. “And you’re a brat.” 

You huff at his declaration. “Am not!” 

“Are too!” he rebuts, dropping the towel and coming out from around the counter. 

“I’m just trying to tell you you’re gonna regret it! I’m on board with the ‘virginity is a concept’ train—hell, I’m the conductor! My point is, sure, it’s a concept, but it’s a concept with feelings attached to it. And feelings get all confusing and…feelings-y,” he rushes out, frustrated at how he can never find the right words when you’re around. “You might not believe it now, but if you go through with this, you’re gonna feel pretty shitty afterwards.” 

He ends his spiel by crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the counter, staring at you. He’s said his piece.

You watch him for a moment, then—

“Great. Thank you for the wisdom, Gandalf. But how ‘bout you go share that with someone who cares? I’ve got a ‘T’ name to call.” 

You turn around, pick up the phonebook once more, and flip through a few chunks of pages to get to the right section. 

Eddie lets out a loud, defeated sigh as he lets his arms drop to his sides. “You’re really not gonna give this up?” 

Scoffing, you shoot him a glare from across the room before looking back down at the list of names. “Exactly which part of ‘I’m gonna lose my virginity tonight’ did you not understand?”

He sucks his teeth as he watches your finger find Chris’s last name, your hand already reaching for the phone. 

Fuck it—

“Fine. If you really wanna lose it to someone, and you don’t care who, then lose it to me,” he shrugs, crossing his arms again. 

He glances away from your now-still figure, your shoulders so high, they’re nearly up to your ears. 

Forcing a level of indifference he’s never quite been capable of—especially not when it comes to you—he stares downward, as if the well-worn carpet beneath his feet could ever be more interesting than the woman whose second home is his subconscious.

You’re pretty sure you can hear the fibers unfurling beneath his shifting feet. Or maybe it’s your feet. Maybe it’s your heartbeat in your ears, not his. Everything is a little confusing and you can’t seem to look away from the wall. It feels like a safe place to rest your unseeing eyes. 

Your arm aches and you retract it from where you were reaching for the phone—you hadn’t made it, you were half-way there when he said it. 

Carefully, you turn your head to him, trying to figure out if this is some shitty joke he’s spouting just to piss you off or if he has well and truly lost it. But his face is devoid of any humor and he looks as sane as he ever did—which was never a lot, but no different to now. 

More than anything, he looks almost vulnerable as he avoids your shocked gaze. 

“What? Eddie—” you start, already exasperated because you’ve decided that, even though he appears to be completely serious, he must be joking, “if this is another way for you to try and–”

“It’s not.” He shrugs his shoulders again, finally meeting your eyes while shoving his hands into the back pockets of his ripped jeans. “You win. I capitulate to her majesty.” 

You raise a brow at the medieval lilt and his waving bow to you, but before you get to reprimand him for the joke, he continues— 

“If you’re gonna go have sex with someone you feel nothing for, then why not feel nothing for me?”

You almost want to laugh at his “foolproof” logic, but the familiar pain in your chest is accompanied by something else. Something almost warm. Like rays of sun fighting through cumulonimbus clouds.

Damp dirt, new leaves, and fertilizer.

He’s offering something you only ever dreamed of like it never crossed your mind. 

Like it would mean nothing.

An agreement. A one-time deal. No strings attached; an easy fix to your problem.

But what if you want strings? 

Does he want strings? 

Strings do get messy when left untied. All the criss-cross feelings and knotted touches. 

But it’s him—

“Eds—”

Like he’s been burned by your solemn tone, Eddie cuts you off in a hurry. “At least it’d be with someone you know. Like really know…. Someone who cares about you—about your experience.”

The fragility in his eyes makes you want to console him. To tell him you believe every word. That you’re sure he would be good to you. 

Because he looks like him—

The soft, sweet man you saw all those years ago. The one you prayed to at night like a deity, asking for a few more seconds of his hand on your lower back, or more moments of just you and him. More laughter, more affection, more time. More, more, more. 

All the little things that molded you into a reverent devotee in the first place. 

Asking for every small thing to bolster your faith.

And now, he’s finally offering something much larger. 

Reaching for you with a divine gift.

How could you possibly say no?

Criss-cross feelings, you remind yourself.

Strings to tie your heart down, could be useful—

Fuck it. 

Slowly, you set the phone book down and make your way over to his spot against the kitchen counter. Stopping right in front of him, you look up with hesitant curiosity. 

You’ve never really been this close to him. Not with this much on the table. 

Mindlessly—shamelessly—you glance at his lips before succumbing to the cloudy glint in his eyes, the darkness that falls like a veil over his once-lively irises. 

There’s something there, you find. 

Something else that swirls deep in the molten shade of brown. 

Something you want to know more about. 

Your hands hang uselessly below you, resting against your body as you nervously fiddle with your fingers. The pointed tip of your tongue glides along the soft skin of your lips, leaving your mouth parted—like a siren call to his. 

You couldn’t be any closer to him. Butterflies flutter in your stomach as you feel the soft puffs of air from his wanton mouth. But you won’t move anymore. 

You leave yourself for him. He can have you if he wants. 

A sacrifice.

Eddie’s eyes rove over your face, looking down at the way you’re almost reaching for him, but it’s as if you won’t allow the touch. Won’t allow the crossing of some imaginary barrier you’ve built. 

Steadily, he lifts his hands—crosses the line—trailing his fingers up your neck like a ghost of a touch, until he settles his gentle grip on either side of your head. Stealing a moment from Time itself—just a second, a blip, like he’s plucking a ripe berry to savor in the thousand milliseconds he’s stolen—he smooths his thumbs over your temples, granting himself the selfish gift of feeling you.

His eyes consume all, admiring the dainty flutter of your mascara-blackened lashes, the softness of your skin—he marvels at the feeling.

Simmering from the heat of your body, he tries to memorize all your prettiest features, seen through an advantage he’s never had before. To be this close. To never be again. 

He’s going to make it worth his while. He has to.

A lowly victim to your gravitational pull, he finds himself leaning toward you, like light toward a collapsing star. And there’s no escaping you, not when you so easily warp the fabric of his being with frightening ease.

Loud in his straining ears, he hears the slight hitch in your breath when he nearly brushes his lips with yours, but he loses himself before he can truly feel you. Instead, he plants a cowardly, chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Simply not enough, but more than he could have ever dreamed of getting. Another bittersweet paradox.

“D’you want this?”

He’s so quiet, but he can feel the way you shudder against him. The way you feel him, his words mumbled devoutly into your skin.

“I wanna lose my virginity,” you whisper confidently, like it’s the only thing you're absolutely certain of.

Eddie tries to fight the way his face falls, but he can’t seem to manage it when your words serve as a reminder of how little this all matters to you. Or, at least, how little you care who you lose it to. 

But, ever-observant, you notice, and he catches the worry as soon as it draws your brows together. 

“T-To you…” you amend. “Can I?”

The frail uncertainty in your voice feeds the fire deep in Eddie’s gut, like bone-dry wood being thrown into the hearth on a years-long winter night. 

The flames, once dim and hopeless, time-weathered and starving, roar back to life. 

Subtly, he nods, relishing the way you relax. Bound to your request, he allows his palms to glide down your form, taking his time to explore the new terrain until he grabs ahold of your soft hands. 

Side stepping your body, he gently pulls you to his room. His backwards strides are confident—a sign of comfortability in the home he’d call yours, just the same as he’d call it his. After all, these walls have seen nearly every iteration of his care for you. From acquaintances to friends to—

Neither of you speak as he guides you around his frame—you, now in front of him, and him, leaning his weight against the bedroom door until it clicks shut. 

Wayne is on a fishing trip for the weekend with some buddies from the plant, but he’s not particularly known for remembering to pack everything, and Eddie is keen on protecting your modesty and ensuring your comfort. Like you deserve. Like he knows he can—better than anyone.

He drops one hand from yours only to lock the door. Once he’s certain there will be no interruptions, he walks you back toward the bed until you’re standing right in front of it. 

Dropping your other hand, he reaches up and gently smooths the hair near your temple again, addicted to the way your eyes flutter. His hands slide down your figure until he’s toying with the hem of your t-shirt—his t-shirt, the one you stole in tenth grade and never gave back. 

His selfishness befriends the possessive fiend he fights back daily, because you’re moving through the world marked by him. And in this moment, Eddie wonders if you really could have let another man touch you in the shirt that whispers his name against your soft skin.

Heat thrums just below your surface, boiling and bubbling, nearly spilling over when you feel him tugging at your shirt, silently asking for permission. His hands wait patiently.

You don’t respond. Don’t know how to speak. Nerves rattle against your ribcage. Or maybe it’s your heart testing its prison, looking for a way out as it pounds and pounds and pounds—

“Can I take this off?” 

His low mutter—almost a monosyllabic slur of sound—registers a second later in your hazy brain. You nod, forcing your lungs to expand, but nearly choke at the faint scent of his cologne. 

It’s familiar. Piercing, clean, and rich—

You remember the day he got it. When he dragged you to the mall, forcing you to smell every option. He bought the one you liked the most. Even when he wasn’t too sure about it. You remember warning him about the price tag, about how he should pick one he really likes if he’s going to splurge on it. But he wouldn’t hear it—

“Words.”

A confused hum creeps up your throat as you greedily bask in his scent, feeling the world move in slow motion around you. His unending touch carves canyon-like ripples into the tissue of your mind.

When you manage to focus on his eyes, there’s a level of fondness in them that has you grabbing onto his wrist for support.

“Wanna hear your words, sweetheart. Y’gotta tell me what you want.”

Understanding washes over you like cool hose water on a hot summer day. Quickly, you open your mouth to ask him—no, beg him—to undress you, but before a single word can crawl out from between your parted lips, you feel his warm fingers dancing along the delicate skin of your waist, leaving a wave of goosebumps in their wake. 

Your breath catches, and you shudder because he’s both hot and cold—

His attention warms you; his touch leaves you shivering from a chill that is so frigid it begins to manipulate your frayed nerves, tricking you into feeling the burn as if it were born from the bluest flame and not the calloused hands of your best friend—

“I— I, um…”

You shake your head as you try to remember what you were about to say before the words ran away from you and into his arms, stealing whatever desperate sentiment you meant to express. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to figure it out, to fill in the blanks—like a cipher missing its key. 

His thumbs are drawing little shapes into the soft skin beneath your shirt, aiding and abetting the thieving words. The unfamiliar affection makes your abdomen twitch and your core pulse with need.

Before you get the chance to draw up some semblance of sanity, Eddie leans into you, effectively shrinking your entire world to just him. He’s everything you feel, everything you smell, everything you see, everything you touch, everything you…want to taste.

You so desperately want to know what flavor his kisses are—

Bitter smoke from the habit he can never quite kick? Malt sweetness from the beer he loves to drink? Cool mint from the gum he always carries around?

Would you grow ravenous at the first hint of Marlboro Reds? Would you crumble under the eager pressure of his lager-soaked tongue? Would your mouth water at the lingering scent of menthol on his breath?

You’re trapped in his thrall the second he closes in on your space. His head tips to the side, running his lips along your warm cheeks, your jaw. You shiver at the soft brush of his mouth—an action you’re painfully aware is not meant to be shared among friends. No, this kind of touch is reserved for lovers only— 

“What do you want, sweetheart? Want me to touch you? Want me to hold you?” he murmurs, heavy gaze locked on the way your lips part, and you quietly pant. Your head bobs toward his mouth, body leaning into his arms, drawn to the heat of him. 

You hear the sharp intake of breath, feel his nose nuzzling your hair. Then, as if fighting for control, his hands flex, only to grab onto your hips and drag you tight against him, like he lost the battle. Or maybe he surrendered. The way he hangs over you, almost relieved at the closeness leads you to believe it’s the latter.

Emboldened by his body against yours—all growing hardness and twitching muscles—your hands paw at his abdomen, his waist, kneading and pulling him impossibly closer.

“What do you want, baby?” 

You bite back a whimper at the new endearment. 

Because that’s reserved for lovers too—

“I want…W-Wan’ you. I wanna be…be with you,” you mumble breathlessly, mindlessly.

In a huff of impatience, he pulls your top over your head. You hear the way he swallows back a groan and you wish he wouldn’t have. 

With expert dexterity, he removes your bra, and this time, he doesn’t hold back. You practically bloom under his attention—his wide, hungry eyes, his almost pained rasp of humming appreciation. 

His hands slide up the sides of your body, featherlight fingers following the length of your ribs, brushing inward as he traces the skin just below the curve of your breasts. 

Your wandering hands fiddle with the hem of his shirt before slipping under the material, flexing and groping at his toned abdomen. You pull at his narrow waist, a wordless plea for him to touch you more. 

But he seems uninterested in your needy silence and you remember his instructions—

“Eddie, please. Please, touch me. I need you…. Wanna feel you.”

“Whatever you want,” he agrees, nodding.

Electricity prickles and dances across your skin like invisible lightning as he finally slides his hands over your sensitive breasts. Gently kneading the weight, he smooths his thumbs over your pebbled nipples. You gasp at the sensation, the way it directly triggers the heat twisting and turning low in your core with a quickness you’re not accustomed to. 

Leaning down, Eddie attacks your jaw and neck with greedy, open-mouthed kisses. His nose nudges you zealously, like he’s devouring your delicate flesh and still aching for more, so you tilt your head away, eager to provide. 

You tug his shirt up his body, but quickly realize you’ll need him to break away from your neck to get the material over his head. You lightly push on his abdomen, and he begrudgingly stops his assault, understanding what you’re looking for.

With a level of speed you’ve never once seen him use, he peels his shirt off, balls it up, and blindly tosses it somewhere in the corner of the room. 

Unabashedly, you ogle his body in a way you’ve never allowed yourself before. Your heavy-lidded gaze is first drawn to the pick hanging just below his collarbones, sitting perfectly against his pale skin. Then, your eyes drop, admiring the tattoos that litter the expanse of his chest. 

You’ve only ever seen them a few times—mostly at the Hawkins pool on hot summer days, and once when you walked in on him changing. You remember how you couldn’t get the image out of your mind. The contrast, the searing visage of inky-black against milky-white, pressed into skin like a pretty decoration meant to be admired. 

And like a set path guided by nothing but desire, your eyes track down, down, down his body—all heat and hardness. Your mouth waters when you catch sight of the tuft of coarse hair trailing from his navel to whatever lies beyond the waistband of his jeans. 

Whatever lies—

But you already have an idea; you feel him pulsing against your stomach, you felt him twitch when you whimpered moments ago.

All heat and hardness.

Drawing you from your trance, Eddie’s deft fingers fiddle with the button on your jean shorts, making quick work of the fastenings and dragging the material down your legs. He drops to his knees, peering up at you with something in his eyes so…raw that it has you grabbing onto him, your balance escaping you. 

With your hands on his strong shoulders, you watch with rapt attention as he removes your shoes and socks, then he gently cups one ankle, lifting it and helping you out of the leg of your shorts before doing the same to the other. His touch is so soft—so gentle—you think you might cry.

Barely anything has happened yet and he’s taking such good care of you. You shudder to think how this would have gone had you called up Jimmy or Chris. 

Nobody could compare to Eddie. 

Feeling weightless, heavy, high, and stone-cold sober all at once, you meet his eyes. 

“You look…” he pauses, swallowing harshly, “you’re so beautiful.”

Your ears ring at the hidden sentiment between those three words. A million extra meanings you can’t catch, but you heard them like a whisper in the wind—real and slipping through your fingers the moment his hungry lips grace your skin once more.

Large hands squeeze the backs of your thighs, and you feel the tickling brush of his frizzy curls against your bare legs. 

Wet, searing kisses travel upward, his hands slide in tandem with the needy affection. He holds you with a type of reverence you couldn’t have foreseen—as if you could have ever foreseen this. He moves along your body like you’re allowing him, not like he’s the one doing you a favor. 

You sigh when you feel the heat of his breath over the place you need him most. He’s stopped at the apex of your thighs, panting like a desperate man, blocked by a flimsy slip of fabric that you’re certain he could shred to pieces with the way his eyes have darkened. 

“C-Can I?” His strained voice breaks through the music in the room, disrupting the melody of syncopating gasps and pants. 

It feels like the world is moving as you stay perfectly still, staring down at him, his arms wrapped around your legs, fingers greedily curling in the waistband of your panties. You find yourself thankful for his steady, obedient grip. 

Underneath his wanton gaze, you feel the weight of roles reversed. It’s like it’s his first time, the way he’s looking up at you like your permission will fix him. Your touch will mend something broken. 

With wide eyes and parted lips, you nod. “Y-Yes. Please, Eddie.”

A sound torn from deep within his chest rumbles out, reverberating around the room, bouncing off of every wall and hitting you like a spell. Low, where his breaths warm you, a fiery enchantment unfurls in volant tendrils like ink in water.

Suddenly, Eddie drags the thin material down from around your hips, another appreciative groan rips from his throat as he watches the gusset of your panties fall last, stuck to your wet folds. A delicate string of arousal clings to the fabric, unable to part from it. 

You watch his efforts slow, his lids grow heavy like he can’t control the need. Then, he presses his face between your thighs, the very faint graze of his tongue leaves you trembling. 

With one targeted swipe, Eddie’s tongue snaps the silky string, catching what he can with overwhelming zeal.

“Want more,” he mumbles into your heat. “Sweets…”

“Yes,” you interrupt, already drowning in desperation. “Need you—”

He growls and pulls your panties the rest of the way down your legs before his large hand lifts one of your thighs to sit on his shoulder, allowing him easier access to your soaked core. He hums brokenly—a lewd sound of appreciation. 

The second he drags the flat of his tongue through your dripping folds, your gasps devolve into messy moans, but the sound only seems to encourage him more. With foreign ferocity, he devours you. 

“Oh, god, Eddie,” you mewl, hips twitching against his face, hands threading through his fluffy hair for balance. 

Vibrations from his responding groan move through you, tearing you apart until you’re nothing but wanton shreds. Your knees almost buckle beneath you, but he presses into you. Harder. More persistent. The force sends you falling backward onto the bed, your hands hurry to break your soft descent.

Your hips hang off the edge of the mattress—one foot still planted on the ground, the other dangling over Eddie’s right shoulder. His hands grope and knead the fat of your thighs as his tongue eagerly laps up your arousal like a man starved. Your arms give out from under you, sending your back barreling down to the untucked sheets on his mattress. 

You’re panting and burning up; the heat of his breath meets the warmth of your folds, creating a smoldering furnace where his mouth dances over you. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, and one you think no other man could ever replicate. 

Your hips react ardently to every twist and flick of his tongue, the talented muscle toying with you until you’re shaking and whining and bucking against his mouth for more. 

The moment you feel the tip of his tongue draw tight circles around your swollen clit, your head flies back in ecstasy. Your hands wander the space around you for something to grab, first, trailing over your breasts with a teasing squeeze before reaching for the sheets beside you. But it’s not enough. The material is so thin, you can’t get the grip you need. 

Like he can sense the desperate energy rolling off of you in tidal waves—like he knows the feeling—Eddie grabs your hands, momentarily sacrificing his fragile skin to your clawing, pressing, sinking, crushing—

Your thoughts are plucked from somewhere high in the ether and placed back into your head the moment you feel his dragging touch, then, softness. Peering down the winding, curving terrain of your body, you meet his dark eyes, see the way he’s moved your restless hands into his hair.

The whine falling past your lips is drowned out by his aching growl deep within your wet folds. He tightens his grip around your hands before letting go, encouraging you to hold onto him—to use him.

And you do.

You tug him closer, grinding your core against his mouth until you arch at the dull pressure of his tongue breaching your entrance, pressing into you powerfully, exploring untouched territory you wish could be marred by his ministrations. Like a token to memorialize this moment in time. Something that says you’re his—

Quickly, your hips start to lose their rhythm against his face, recklessly twitching and squirming with every break he takes from fucking you to flicking your clit with searing precision. 

“Eddie, Eddie, I’m gonna— Please, Eds, I—”

Not even bothering to pull away, he moans his pleas right into your pussy. “Give it to me, baby. Mmmph, give it to me, sweets. Taste so fuckin’ good—” 

The tone he’s using, the way he pauses after every other word to slurp and lap at your quivering folds, almost makes it feel like he’s not even talking to you. Or maybe not just you. But it’s like he’s speaking directly to your weeping cunt, pleading for more—more arousal to devour, more fluttering pulses to tickle his tongue.

Your brows contort in pleasure as tears prick at your waterline—almost there, almost there.

Suddenly, you miss the pressure of his mouth for a split-second while you hear a sucking sound, then your chest wracks with desperate sobs as you feel him slip a single finger inside you. 

“Oh, god! Oh, fuck!”

His other hand holds your hips down, blunt nails sinking deeper into the surface of your skin as electricity speeds along a high-strung coil—crackling and tight—just below his large palm. But the coil soon snaps when he starts to drag his long, thick finger against your velvety walls, thrusting in and out—gentle yet firm in his actions. 

“Eddie, Eddie, oh, fuck!” 

Unmade and raw, all you can do is babble incoherent whines and pleas as he teases you even past your orgasm, his tongue working your clit until it throbs to the beat of your racing heart.

When your legs start shaking from overstimulation, you finally gather enough strength to push on his head—appealing for mercy.

Like he’s not ready to part from you just yet, Eddie doesn’t yield to your push, though he does begrudgingly grant you reprieve. But he stays between your legs, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s not just breathing deeply to catch his breath. The way he inches infinitesimally closer, the way he won’t let your thighs close—it’s like he’s reveling in your heady scent—

“Fuck, you’re so pretty when you cum. Squeezin’ my finger so hard. God, this was just one, baby,” he boasts, utter glee defiling his already dirty words.

You whimper. One finger, and you felt so full.

In response, he garnishes your twitching pelvis with wet, sloppy kisses, like he’s searing a promise into your skin—

His hands do their best to hold your hips down, allowing him to take a tour of the tops of your thighs, the divot where your folds meet your legs, your mound—soaked and slobbered on by his overzealous mouth. 

Peering down your body, open-mouthed and desperate, you nearly mewl at the way his eyes are glazed over. He looks drunk on the taste of you. Completely and utterly wasted. What’s more, his face is covered in you. 

All the way up to his nose, his skin shimmers in the light, glistening with your juices. But he doesn’t seem ashamed of the indecent display. Instead, he seems proud. Proud to wear you on him—like a badge of honor.

“Eddie, please. I want more,” you whine, breathless from the come-down. 

“Pretty girl,” he purrs, nuzzling your thigh, “so desperate. Am I turning you to the dark side already?”

You shudder at his smug grin, but you can’t find it in yourself to care about his overly-inflated ego. Your mind is mush, and all you can think is his name prefaced by the dangerous word “my.”

“Please,” you mewl. 

His grin widens, and you note the hunger no longer hidden in the dark brown of his irises. Because he’s not aiming for decency anymore. Not in the way he’s eyeing you like you’re a meal and he’s famished, and not in the way his words are rife with untapped desire. 

“Alright, pretty.” He pats your thigh before backing away from you. “Up on the bed.”

It’s a soft order. A gentle command as he grabs your forearms and helps you scoot your hips all the way onto the mattress before letting go, allowing you to shuffle to the top of the bed. 

Once your head hits the pillow, he watches you settle into place, shoving the untucked sheets out from beneath you and off to the side. Without taking his eyes off of your movements, he works to remove his jeans, shoving them down his legs, along with his boxers. 

Now that your moans have ceased, the room is so quiet, he can hear your sharp intake of breath when his hard cock bobs free from its constraints. He bites his lip at the subtle shock shifting across your face. It’s flattering, but more than anything, he’s leaking at the thought of fitting inside you. 

“That’s— You’re—” 

Every one of your sentences seems to die on the first word, and he watches your thighs clench as your focus stays on his thick length. 

Heat warms Eddie’s cheeks as he tries to stop the smile from overtaking his face. He shouldn’t be like this—he should be calm, cool, and collected, but clearly exceeding your expectations has him feeling a myriad of things. Giddy, confident, smug…eager. 

Mindlessly, he wipes a hand down the lower half of his face, gathering your slick arousal on his palm, then collects the precum pouring from his ruddy tip, and spreads the combination of juices over the expanse of his thick cock. He grants himself a firm, teasing squeeze as he steps toward you, but quickly detours to the bedside table to rifle through the top drawer. 

“I’ll make sure it feels good, don’t worry. You’re gonna help me with that,” he says lowly, then stills his searching hands as he looks to you for a nod of agreement. When you give it to him, he smiles fondly. “Good girl.”

A quiet huff of amusement escapes him when he hears your strained whimper—the way you so obviously try to keep yourself quiet, but can’t help it. 

He’s starting to catch onto what you like. How you like to be spoken to. And your responses are addicting. The clench of your thighs, the pulse of your walls. The need that crawls up your throat like it’s fighting its way out of you.

He desperately wants to know what else his words can elicit. Or maybe even try something more than his words—

His body warms as he wonders what you’ll sound like when you’re wrapped around him. His mind conjures its best guess at the noises you’ll make when his thrusts knock the air out of you, like sweet rasping melodies meant to torture him. 

He wants to know just how shrill your cries will get when you’re nearly there, searching for just a little bit more. 

But most of all he wants to hear the sweet words that will slip past your loose lips, your mind too cockdrunk to stop the affection you’ll share. The secrets you’ll spill. God, he’s aching to hear you.

If he could, he’d lock you in his room and run experiments on you for a week straight—just to find out what makes you tick. He’d take you apart piece-by-pretty-piece, just to put you back together again. He’d hold you tight and play with you passionately, like you were his favorite toy. 

His.

Drawn from his thoughts by your shifting body, his attention diverts to the box of condoms he manages to find deep in his bedside drawer. He tears at the paperboard and pulls one out, showing you the foil packet before ripping it open—

“Safe sex,” he declares, sliding the oily-feeling latex out of the wrapper. 

His wry smile widens to a goofy grin when you giggle at his words, easing the tension. 

“Stupid,” you mutter, knocking your shin against the side of his thigh as he hovers near the head of the bed, putting the condom on. 

Once he’s done, he crumples the wrapper in his hand, glancing over at you before throwing it on the cluttered surface of the nightstand. “You sure you wanna do this?”

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Yes, Eddie. You already ate me out.”

That leaves him frowning—

“Sweetheart, just because we did that doesn’t mean you have to continue. We can be done. Nothing more needs to happen if you don’t want it to.”

You remain silent, only staring up at him with so much…something…in your gaze, it makes him want to fold in on himself like the discarded foil. And he thought the ease with which you crossed his wires was bad— 

“I know,” you mutter softly. “But I want to. With you. Will you…. Will you take care of me?”

Eddie’s breath hitches, and there’s a stinging feeling behind his eyes—one he knows all too well. 

You sound so small, so nervous. As if he could ever deny you something that was meant to be yours. His care. His devotion. 

“‘Course I will.” 

He nods one too many times, entranced by the way you seem so delicate under his watchful eyes. 

Delicate because you’re asking him to take care. In the way he’ll touch you. The way he’ll guide you. The way he’ll—

Slowly, he steps closer. You scoot to the side, making room for him to knee his way onto the bed. 

His hands brush your ankles, featherlight affection smoothing up your legs, stopping at your knees. With the utmost reverence, he gently parts them, settling between your thighs. 

“You look so pretty like this. I mean…you look— Well, you look…pretty all the time,” he nervously amends, eyes flitting over your face, but never any lower. 

He wants you to know he means you. You’re pretty. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Not because you have a gorgeous body, but because you are gorgeous. 

You shift beneath him, avoiding his gaze and, instead, focusing on pulling him to you. Softly. Needily.

He follows your guidance, leaning over you until his hands land beside your head. And just like before, he’s memorizing the moment. Every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every quiet breath from your pleasure-bitten lips. 

Below, you glance to the side, find his wrists, and wrap your hands around each one, as if grounding yourself in his touch. Only then—when his pulse beats wildly against your fingers—do you meet his eyes.

Wandering palms—soft and unfamiliar in their affection—travel the length of his arms, pausing over black ink, then continuing up until they reach his biceps. He shivers as you hum, squeezing the corded muscles that lay twitching restlessly beneath heated flesh. 

“You’re pretty, too,” you murmur, sliding your palms back down and rubbing at his wrists. 

Eddie chuckles, then swallows. “No, I’m not.”

The subtle twitch of your brows, the split-second peek at the budding frown that says you disagree has him beating you to your rebuttal—

“Not like you.”

His heart leaps in his chest as your hands suddenly drag his face to yours, like you’re about to kiss him with overwhelming need. But you don’t complete the motion.

And neither does he.

Because he’s not sure he can come back from all of this if he kisses you. 

If you allow him to have you in that way—

He’s not sure he’s strong enough. Not enough to feel you like that, to close his eyes and claim your lips like they belong to him, and then go about his life like he never felt it. The beat of your heart against his, pounding in nerves and want. The truthful desire dancing from your mouth to his. 

He couldn’t go back to living a lie. To live like he doesn’t think about you every single day. Like he doesn’t wonder what you’re doing when you’re not with him. Like he doesn’t do the most mundane shit and spends the whole time thinking about how much better it would be to do it with you. 

So he doesn’t kiss you. He can’t. Not when you’re not his to keep. 

Instead, he leaves a delicate, chaste brush of an almost-kiss to the corner of your mouth. Again.

Another cop-out from a coward. 

You struggle to contain your disappointment, resigning yourself to the fantasy in your head. The imagined taste of his tongue tangling with yours. And with wanton hands, you reach for his hips, subtly pulling him closer. 

“Need you,” you mutter, hearing the hitch of his breath as you whisper the plea against his mouth. 

“Fuck— Okay.” 

You watch as he reaches for his length. Taking a strong grip, he guides the thick tip along your slick folds, gathering your wetness. 

The raw combination of moan and a sigh leaves your lips—an accidental slip portraying just how much you’re aching for him. 

“It’s gonna feel a little weird, like…pressure. Okay? But you gotta let me know if it hurts, sweets, you hear me?” 

Your fluttering eyes, panting mouth, and rolling hips aren’t enough of a response, apparently, because his voice grows firm. 

“Hey, pretty girl, you with me?” 

“Mhm,” you whine, nodding your head. 

“What did I tell you?” he asks, smoothing a thumb down your temple before tapping three times. 

“Um, you— you said, um, if it hurts, I'll tell you.” 

“Good girl.” 

His muttered praise leaves you mewling, inching your hips closer to him, looking for more—yearning for it. 

Your mind devolves into pure static as he presses his thick tip into you slowly. Through bleary eyes, you see his teeth sinking deep into his lower lip, like he’s fighting to maintain his composure. For a moment, you wonder what it must look like from his point of view—the way your folds open up to him, welcoming the intrusion, ready to wrap around him in a vice grip.

“Oh, god. Mmm.” 

Your features crumble at the sensation of dull pressure—exactly what he warned you about. It doesn’t hurt, it just leaves you wanting more, like you’ll find reprieve once he’s fully inside you. 

“How you doin’, baby? Need a break?” he rasps, kneading your thigh gently.

“Need more.”

“Fuck, y’want more? Wanna feel more o’ me?” 

You whimper and nod, your heart racing as his slurred words drag you down into the flaming pit of desire.

Your mouth parts in a silent gasp when you feel him press deeper inside of you, his stiff length sliding past your walls. Your ribs contract and expand in raucous breaths the moment you see just how much of him is left. He’s just barely got the tip in—

As your gaze creeps up his body, you realize Eddie hasn’t looked down once, not to where you’re connected. You wonder if it’s self-preservation or if maybe it’s part of his care for you. The way he watches your face intently, like he’s monitoring every slight change in expression leads you to believe it’s the latter. Probably both, really.

But you’re thankful he’s looking, because he immediately notices when the pinch in your brows shifts from pleasure to a wince of discomfort. 

His hand is on your face in a second, smoothing the crease between your brows and petting your hair soothingly.

“Baby, you okay? Is it too much? You feelin’ pain?” 

You shake your head stubbornly, sucking in a deep breath, leaving your mouth open and panting as your gaze stays glued to the sight of him inside of you. You notice it’s not just the tip, he also gets impossibly thicker through the middle of his length, and you’re sure that’s what you’re feeling now—

“Hey, look at me.” His thumb catches your chin, guiding your eyes to meet his. “I can make you feel good, but I need you to help me out. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

Something flashes in the molten color of his irises and he leans down, brushing his lips against your cheek. You practically preen as he grants you a sweet kiss, and part of you—the rotted, selfish part—wonders if feigning pain would allow you to finally taste him properly, all smoky mint and dancing tongues—

“Let me make you feel good, baby,” he implores.

“‘S just a pinch, ‘s just— It’s fine,” you placate, rubbing your hands gingerly down his sides. 

“Alright, we’re gonna wait here, and you tell me when I can move, or if you wanna stop. But in the meantime, try to relax all your muscles. Sometimes we get all tense, even when we don’t mean to.”

You nod hesitantly, taking a few more deep breaths, making a conscious effort to drop your shoulders and let your muscles rest. After a full minute of breathing, resting, and leaning into his soft palm on your warm cheek, you nod again. 

“Okay, you…you can move now.” 

But he doesn’t. Not yet. As if trying to discern the truth, Eddie just studies you for a moment. Then he moves, inching further into you.

When your jaw goes slack at the feeling of fullness, you hear a rumble of sound, like a groan that’s been cut off too early, and you have half a mind to ask him if he needs a break. But before you get the chance, your words catch in your throat as he rests lower on you.

“Pretty girl,” he coos, his hot breath tickling your ear, leaving your cunt pulsing with need.

Then a hiss—the kind that sounds like it’s bordering on pain, but is only one degree away from pleasure—escapes his lips, and you realize just how tightly you were squeezing him.

Then, suddenly, he bottoms out, the firm, jolting movement forcing all air from your lungs. 

“Oh, good girl,” he huffs out, voice strained. “You’re doin’ so good for me, taking me so well. How’s it feel, sweets? Think you like it? Wan’ more?”

Struggling to turn pitiful mewls into actual words, you nod your head fervently, reaching down to press your palms against his hips. “Mmm, wan’ more. Please, Eddie.” 

For the first time, he glances down, and you hear him choke at the sight. Electricity prickles across your delicate skin, and the sting of your teeth sinking into your lip does nothing to disrupt your giddy hum as you try to push him away.

In the dark shade of his eyes, you can tell he recognizes your movement as a very desperate, unsuccessful attempt at getting him to pull out—to chamber a thrust. And he seems utterly amused—

“Oh, baby, did you want something? You wanna do the work? Help me out like a good girl?” 

Something deeply raw and needy peels from your throat in response, and you silently rejoice when he pulls back, aiding your efforts. Unfortunately, it’s only a couple inches because—to your burgeoning frustration—he’s following your guidance, and your arms don’t reach nearly as far as you need. 

But you’ll take anything right now; desperation is cooking your nerves and boiling your insides. 

So you sink your nails into his hips and pull him back to you with a sudden yank.

Your mouth drops open at his shallow thrust, unintelligible noises of debauched need tumble past your parted lips. 

Clawing at his soft skin, you struggle to set up another thrust. “Please, please— I need more.”

“More? But you’re doin’ so well all by yourself,” he condescends, eyes twinkling with hunger as he lets you push and pull him. “Look at you go, pretty girl. Makin’ yourself feel so good. What an independent little woman.”

His teasing shakes you to your core because it’s so him. It’s your best friend, just in a new scenario with unfettered access to your body and pleasure. God, you’ve allowed him too much power— 

“Eddie! Please! I’m— I need it. I need you…”

Amusement washes from his face and you pout as he pauses, as if admiring a view. Then he ducks down.

“Whatever the princess wishes,” he murmurs lowly, lips brushing against the heated skin of your cheek, syrupy sweet affection dripping from every word. Gently, he pulls out, nearly all the way. 

The mewl that was halfway out of your mouth catches like a lock clicking into place. A loud, desperate cry comes out in its stead—a reckless, candid response to the deep gut-punching thrusts barreling into you. They’re not hard, not rough, but firm. Controlled. Resolute. 

Like he wants you to feel it. Feel him.

You chase your breath in his rutting hips, surrendering to the affection he’s searing into you with every pass of his stiff length against your pulsing walls.

Red streaks paint his milky-white skin, blooming beneath your hurried hands like a casualty of your desire. Curses, groans, and harsh gasps fall from his slackened jaw. Heat bubbles deep in your core, rivaling the warmth of the salacious words he whispers into your flesh. 

“Shit, you feel so good, sweets— Oh, god, wan’ you to be— Fuck!”

Tears flood your waterline as you stare at the ceiling, features permanently fixed in shattered pleasure. Your mind struggles to hold onto the hitch in his breath, the unfinished sentence you’re dying to hear. But the sensations are overwhelming. Every nerve in your body is sparking—all livewires itching to explode.

All you can say is his name, all you can feel is him, and yet, it’s still not enough—

“Eddie, n-need m-more, ple—aseee!”

“Ah, fuck, baby, I know. I got you—”

Eddie glides his tongue over the pad of his thumb before reaching between your legs and circling your swollen clit. 

And suddenly, it’s like lightning has struck the furnace deep in your core, shooting high voltage shocks up your body until you grow so hot you’re almost cold. A sensation of fullness takes over, like you’re mere seconds from bursting. 

Delirious with passion, your hand flies down to stop his movements—to stop what you know is coming.

“H-Hold on, I— Eddie, I need to— I wanna feel you! Please, please, let me—”

Your needy sobs have him slowing down until he stills inside of you, chest heaving and damp with sweat.

“What— You can feel me. Aren’t you feelin’ me, sweets?” He reaches his hand up to the space just below your navel, pressing in only slightly.

You whine from the pressure, and your cunt flutters around him in rhythmic pulses like it’s trying to entice him back into movement. 

And, God, you can feel him— 

He’s burrowed his way deep inside you, but it’s still not enough—

“No— Yes, I— Oh, god, I c-can feel you. I just—” Your words melt into a whimper as you squeeze your eyes shut. The feeling of warm wetness slides down your cheek.

You’re vaguely aware of a dip in the bed on either side of your head, and as you blink away the blur, you realize Eddie has dropped to his elbows over you, caging you in. 

His lips trace the track of the tear in reverse, starting first beneath your jaw, then up the expanse of your face. But his mouth doesn’t open—it’s not a trail of kisses. Just a soothing glide of soft pink, collecting salt water. 

“What do you wanna feel?” he asks patiently, like he’s ready to bring your deepest desires to fruition. 

When you don’t respond, he brushes his lips against the thin skin of your eyelids in short, delicate kisses. 

“I’ll do anything for you, baby. Just tell me what you want—”

The raw truth of his statement rings in your ears along with a prayer in the shape of your name—reverent, impassioned, desperate. The tone has you questioning when the god became the devotee. 

Your eyes flutter open as you peer up at him. 

“Wanna feel you. All of you. I don’t want— I don’t want anything in between,” you whisper, your gaze flitting between his earnest attention and his glistening lips, wet with your tears.

Eddie’s mouth parts slightly, a look of quiet shock mixing with curious disbelief as he tilts his head, like he’s observing you for any lapse in conviction. But there’s none to be found. You’re certain you want this. So he gives a single nod, yielding to you.

Before he can even shift his weight, you’re already pushing at his hips again. He lets you move him until he slips out, then your eager hands reach for his hard cock, sheathed in thin latex. 

The calm Eddie found since ceasing his thrusts starts to dissipate as he watches your movements with rapt attention. 

Acutely aware of the expansion of his ribs on every breath in, the scent of sex and your perfume permeating his olfactory receptors has any semblance of control quickly leaving his body. 

The sensation is like a loss of inhibitions. Like he’s gorged himself on you and now he’s utterly wasted. And he knows from personal experience, he doesn’t make the best decisions when inebriated—

The reminder that he’s here for you—that he’s supposed to be the one guiding you—is hard to hold onto when you’re expertly drawing him back into you, teasing yourself with the thick, ruddy tip of his cock, painting your folds with dribbling precum. 

He shudders at your wrecked moan, your eyes smoked out with hunger and desire and nothing else as you leer at his flexing length.

“F-Fuck, sweetheart, are you sure about this?”

You only hum in response, deep in focus.

“Unh, unh, look at me.”

Eddie’s thumb catches just beneath your chin, drawing your attention to his hardened features. The moment your far-out gaze focuses on him, he struggles to ignore the way your pupils have almost eclipsed any trace of color in the iris. 

But then your attention falters, your eyes slowly glide down to his mouth, your lips parting like a call to him—

He adjusts his grip, his thumb and fingers digging into your cheeks.

“No, up here, pretty girl.”

Tipping your chin up, he manually fixes your gaze to his.

“Are you sure you want this?”

As if words are too difficult to drum up, you whimper imploringly. 

And all it takes is one warning tilt to his head and you’re righting yourself. Forcing the words to come— 

“Yes! God, please. I need you…”

Satisfied, Eddie nods, taking a moment to revel in just how gone you are for him. 

“Okay.”

Another pitiful whimper escapes your closed mouth as you push harder into his grip—wanting, asking.

Knowing exactly what you’re missing—a quick learner in the language of your desperation—a smirk curls at his lips. “Good girl—”

Then he sinks into you in one quick, deep thrust that carves a half-scream, half-gasp from your chest. 

His shoulders drop at the feeling of your wet heat, your greedy walls, hugging every square inch of his cock, gripping onto him like a lifeline.

“Oh, fuck, baby. Shit, y’gotta stop squeezin’ me like that. You’re not gonna give me enough time to pull out,” he mutters, dragging his hips back and slamming into you, starting a brutal pace. 

Tears flood your waterline once more as you cry out for him, your hands touching, groping, and grabbing every bit of muscle you can get ahold of. 

“P-Please, please, E-Eddie! Oh, god, oh—oh god! Feels s-so g-good!” 

Your knees drop open as your hands blindly reach for his hips, pulling him in for impossibly deeper strokes. 

“I’m— E-Eddie, I—”

“I know, baby. I know,” he chants, holding on desperately to the last shred of his sanity.

Ducking lower onto you, he shifts his weight to reach between your thighs and circle your clit. With an open-mouthed pant, he watches as your eyes roll back, your loud moans drowning out the vulgar sound of skin slapping. 

His gaze flits across your face, memorizing your pleasure-shocked features like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to see this particular crease in your brows, this heavy-lidded trance. Panic fills his bloodstream as he realizes it might very well be the last time—

And if it’s the last time, maybe he’s allowed to be selfish. One time. Just this once—

“Fuck it,” he breathes out, dipping down until his mouth capture yours, swallowing every last moan.

Your palms fly to the sides of his head, dragging him further onto you until the range of motion in his hand severely shrinks under his own rutting hips. You lick into his mouth like you’re trying to taste yourself. Overwhelmed with desire, he begins to lav his tongue into you the same way he devoured your cunt earlier. 

Your responding mewls leave him trembling, and he worries over the tightening in his abdomen, the coiling heat deep in his gut. He starts to pull away, but he feels pressure at his hips. You’ve wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles, leaving him no way of escaping your hold. Fuck, you’re going to be the death of him—

“Baby, we can’t— I gotta— I need’ta pull out,” he slurs against your mouth. 

“Please don’t,” you whine, spit-slick lips haphazardly forming around the pitiful plea.

Eddie feels his chest crack open with raw, tortuous longing. Hips faltering to a grinding rhythm, he lets his shoulders sag under the pressure of wanting—the weight of possession. All it would take to claim you, all it would take… is just to let go. To make you his.

He’s not strong enough—

“Please don’t,” you repeat, gliding your hands down his damp skin until you still at his lower back. With a foggy mind driven by the most basic desire to claim—or rather, be claimed—you muster all your strength and press your palms hard into his spine, dragging him to you. 

Following a groan that sounds suspiciously like a surrendering cry, Eddie pulls his hips back just enough to shallowly thrust into you. They’re firm, breathtaking strokes that feel like he’s trying to permanently burrow beneath your flesh, and his mouth glides over yours in a messy, blind display of drunken need. It’s a thorough loss of all space and you revel in it.

“Fuck, sweets. I— I—”

“E-Eddie! Ed—die, I’m— I’m c-cl— Please, don’t— Don’t—”

Eddie’s thumb starts circling your clit with renewed vigor, sending spasms shooting down your legs so strong that your ankles unhook. Like two magnets repelling each other, they go flying to the bed, twitching and convulsing. 

Deep in your core, you feel a magmatic pressure that just builds, and builds, and builds, until something snaps—

Arching into him, you cry out as your body goes weightless, and your mind floats into the ether once more. 

His groans, his grunts, the smacking of skin on skin—every sound echoes as you move further away from your mind. Vaguely, you’re aware of his faltering thrusts, his hungry lips devouring. Your mouth might be moving in tandem with his, or maybe you’re babbling incoherently, it’s unclear—all your senses are fried.

All you’re certain of is the sinking of your body. Deeper than the mattress, deeper than the floor. Down, down, down—you’re dragged into the pit of sated desire while your soul soars high above you. 

“Ah, s-shit, baby— I—”

By the time you find your way out of the depths—crawling back to him—you register the tail end of shivers wracking his entire being. His arms haven’t loosened around you and his softening cock is still twitching and flexing inside of you, goaded by every pulsing constriction of your warm walls. 

Nosing into your cheek, Eddie pulls back for a second, just to get a look at you—to memorize. 

What he sees is exactly what he expected—

Something he could never forget.

Something he could never be normal about.

In your eyes, in soft pants, in the flutter of lashes over mascara smudged skin—he sees you.

Just you.

A glutton for punishment, he licks his lips, savoring the taste of you before dipping down for more. One more.

Like he’ll never live long enough to see you walk out of his room—his sweat staining your skin, his spend safe inside you—he kisses you, slow and rottingly sweet. Swallowing every sigh, stealing every breath—he prays to you with selfishness in his heart. 

“I felt something,” you mumble against his mouth, pressing your hands to his shoulders.

Ignoring the ache in his chest—the kind that blooms when space starts to grow between his body and yours, like a weed whose roots never truly die—he forces a laugh that crumbles to dust in his throat. 

“Well, yeah…. God, I hope so,” he huffs, all strained amusement and bitter jokes.

A small smile pulls at your lips. “No, I mean.… I mean— You said, um, earlier, you said…”

While you struggle to find the words, his touch seems to act as a hindrance to your search. Your breath hitches and your eyes flutter as he smooths his thumb over your sweat-soaked hairline. 

“You said if I was gonna sleep with— If I was gonna f-feel nothing with a stranger, then I should…feel nothing with you.”

Realization dawns on him, almost at the same time he decides this conversation shouldn’t take place with him inside of you—

“Maybe we should—”

“No!” You stop his movements, pressing your fingers into his hips before he can slip away. “Please, don’t! Don’t— Don’t go.”

Eddie watches your features soften from panic into an amalgamation of nerves and reserved urgency. The mess of emotions darkening your once-twinkling eyes are enough to stop his movements, but he still wishes every square inch of him could liquify and seep through the floor of the trailer until he reaches the earth. Maybe then he could be free of your dominance over his heart—

“Okay. Okay.” He nods, placating. 

Shifting above you, his attention oscillates between your wide-eyed stare and the space on your neck he kissed like he owned it. Then, as if he suddenly forgot how to behave like a human, he sucks his teeth and fumbles to respond—

 “What, uh, what did you feel?”

Your nails sink into him with a pinch, but by the way you seem lost in your own head, he doesn’t think you’re aware. Then—

“W-What— Um, did you…feel…anything?”

He stares for a moment, considering your evasion of the question, but then he looks to your neck once more.

A million thoughts zoom through his mind like advertisements on big city buses. He can’t discern all of them, but one has YOU written in what he’s certain is your handwriting. Another says everything in posh, looping cursive. A third one is void of any advertisements, and unfortunately, that’s the one that stops for him—

“I don’t think it matters,” he mutters, avoiding your frown. “It’s— I’m not the one who lost their virginity.”

You cock your head to the side, the kind of movement he knows means you’re not letting him slip by. “Yes, it does.” 

Your tone bites at him, scrambling the illusion until he’s a clear picture of vulnerability, bare under your hardened gaze. 

“I just mean, it matters more how you felt. If you— If I made you comfortable. Doesn’t matter how I felt,” he tries, wondering how likely it is that he could be struck by lightning indoors, on a sunny day—

Because you’re looking at him like he’s eighteen again. Like he’s stupid and boyish and easily breakable. But there’s something else in your eyes—

Something that makes him feel almost mendable. 

“No, but it does matter how you felt. How you feel. It matters. I care how you feel. I wanna hear what you think,” you implore, holding onto his wrists beside your head. You press the pads of your fingers into his pulse and he worries you’ll feel it before he says it—

“But did you—”

“Yes, I felt good. Yes, you did a good job taking care of me. Yes, I felt safe. Now how did you feel?”

“I feel like— I don’t want you…to…” He closes his eyes, hanging his head. “I feel like I wish you were mine,” he says, letting a humorless chuckle float out of his mouth and electrocute the air with tension. “And I feel like calling up Jimmy and Chris just to curse them out for being the ones you thought of first.”

In the loll of his admission, something shifts in your features, and every molecule of air leaves his chest like you just rolled a grenade at his feet, unpinned and already three seconds deep into the fuse delay. 

As if you have nothing better to say, you pluck the lowest hanging fruit—

“Well, technically you suggested Chris,” you half shrug.

Charged silence fills the room like rushing water until he blinks at you.

“Okay.” He begins to back away, ignoring your grasping hands.

Your face falls. “No, I’m sorry! I— That was a joke! ‘M sorry, it was stupid—”

“Okay,” he repeats flatly, peeling your fingers from his bicep. He pulls out of you smoothly, pretending not to hear the low whine deep in your throat—

“Eddie, no! Don’t— I love you!” you utter quickly, as if the words will act as a balm upon his burning skin—the skin that broils under your touch. And for a moment, he almost accepts it. He’s so selfish with you—

But when your eyes grow wide, like you hadn’t meant to let something so damning slip past your lips, he realizes the truth—

He was right.

He doesn’t leave you to explain yourself—doesn’t wait for you to quantify the secret.

“It’s okay,” he answers your worried gaze. “I told you, sex has weird feelings attached to it. Things get said in the heat of the moment, it’s all good.” 

Hopefully, if he repeats the sentiment enough, he’ll start to believe it too.

But instead of appreciation, he sees indignation warp your face. 

“I’m sorry, where have you been? The heat of the moment was five minutes ago,” you huff, eyeing him like you can’t even begin to comprehend his level of delusion. “True, I didn’t mean to say it just then. But I felt it. I have felt it. For…” you laugh, a humorless sound that grates Eddie’s heart, “years.” 

And suddenly, he feels like he got his wish—

Every muscle in his body has turned to mush, every nerve is frayed, every wire is uncrossed—

“I’ve—” you pause, then scoff. “Like, Jesus Christ, Eddie! Do you know how long—” 

He melts into you, his lips on yours, his hands on your face, holding you right where he needs you most—

Swallowing your surprised moan, he takes your needy grip in stride—every bite of painted nails against pale burning flesh, every tug and drag, seeking a closeness he craves to sate.

“I don’t care,” he slurs against your mouth, too intoxicated to hear how much time he’s missed out on. Then he pulls back a fraction of an inch, instead deciding he wants to know every single detail—even the painful bits—

Even if just to hear you talk—

“Well, I do care,” he amends. “I just—”

You peer up at him through heavy lids and a teasing grin, and he feels too far from you.

“Not right now,” he drawls, unable to think past ‘I love you, too.’

A/N: Please say nice things about this, it took so fucking long lmao. 

Want more emotional smut? 😈

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